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Presented  to 

Zbc  Xtbrarv 

ottbc 

lanivereitv  ot  ^Toronto 


iiir  J.  Ueynuids,  i'.U.A.j  .MUS.  blUDUSS  A3  THE  "TRAGIC  MUSE." 


[Pinxit. 


LONDON  AND  NEW  YORK:    VIRTUE  &   CO. 


LONDON  :  VIRTUE  AND  CO.,  CITY  ROAD  AND  IVY  LANE. 


1/  7 


1 


CONTENTS. 


TRAGEDIES. 

PAQK 

MACBETH i 

TROILUS  AND  CRES3IDA 69 

CORIOLANUS 145 

JULIUS  C^SAR 215 

ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA 275 

SUPPLEMENTARY   NOTICE  TO   THE  THREE  ROItlAN   PLAYS S33 

POEMS. 

VENUS  AND  ADONIS 365 

THE  RAPE  OF   LUCRECE 389 

SONNETS rn 

A  LOVER'S  COMPLAINT 4SD 

THE  PASSIONATE   PILGRI-M,   &c 497 

VERSES     AMONG    THE     ADDITIONAL    POEMS     TO    CHESTER'S    JOVE'S 

MARTYR,    1601 ,     .    - 504 

SUPPLEMENTARY    NOTICE  TO   THE  POEMS 509 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


TO 


TRAGEDIES,   VOL.  IL,  AND   POEMS. 


TITLE-PAGE  TO  VOLUME. 
Mrs.  Siddons  as  the  Tragic  Muse,  from  the  Picture  by  Sir  Josliua  Reynolds. 


MACBETH. 


Title-page.    Dickes ~ 

•  And  Duncan's  horses,  (a  thing  most  strange  and 
certain,) 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung 

out, 
Contending  'gainst  obedience. 

INTBODUCTOEr  >'OTICE. 

Inverness.    T.  Creswick 


PAGE 
1 


EBAMATIS  PEHSONvE. 

Border. — Banners  and  Arms 

ACT  I. 

View  from  the  site  of  Macbeth  s  Castle,  Inverness. 

T.  Creswick ^ 

Distant  View  of  the  Heath.    T.  Creswick 17 


H-LUSTBATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


St.  Colmes'  Inch.  T.  Creswick  . 
Glamis  Castle  T.  Cbeswick  .... 
Cawdor  Castle.    T.  Creswick  .... 


19 

20 
21 


PAOB 


ACT  II. 


Scone.    T.  Creswick. 
lona.    T.  Creswick.... 


ILLUSTEATIOXS  OF  ACT  II. 

Coronation  Chair 


ACT  III. 

Forres.   T.  Creswick 

Forres ;  Eminence  at  the  AVes'.eni  Estremity.     T. 
Creswick 


ACT  IV. 

The  Harmuir.    T.  Creswick., 
ACT  r. 


25 
26 


SO 

32 
S9 

42 

52 


Dunkeld.     T.  Cbeswick 

The  Dunsinane  Range.    T.  Creswick 58 


ILLUSTBATIOKS  OF  ACT  V. 

In  Birnam  Wood 


60 


ILLUSTRATIONS  ' 

TROILUS 

p 

Title-page. — PanJarus,  Troilus,  and  Cressida.    W. 
Harvey 

ro 

ANL 

AOK 

C9 

71 

77 
77 
78 

79 
80 

31 
91 

92 
93 

94 
101 

VOL  11.— TRAGEDIES. 
)  CRESSIDA. 

PAOB 
ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 

Plirvcian  Sliields.  Quivers   and  Baltle-axes 102 

niTRODUCTOBY  NOTICE. 

Chaucer.— From  T.  Occlcve 

A  Trojan. — From  an  Antique  in  Hope's  'Costume 
of  the   Ancieiita* 

Head  of  Paris. — From  an  Antique  in  Hope's  'Cos 

tume '    103 

ACT  ni. 

Scene  I.— Helan  unarming  Hector.     W.  Harvey  .  104 
Achilles. — From  a  Statue  in  Borghese  Collection  ..112 

ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.— jEneas  meeting  Paris.     W.  Haiivey 114 

iEneas.    From  a  fictile  Vase  in  Hope's  '  Costume  '  123 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 

Plirygian  attired  in  a  Coat  of  Mail. — From  an  an- 
tique Bronze  in  Hope's  '  Costume'  124 

Hector. — From  a  Gem  engraved  in  Winkelmann  ...  125 

ACT  V. 

Scene  IX.— Death  of  Hector.     W.  Harvey 126 

Diomedes. — From  a  fictile  Vase  in  Hope's  '  Costume'  135 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 

Parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache.— From  Flax- 
man 13G 

SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

PlainsofTroy.— From  Sir  W.  Cell    139 

Hector's  Body  dragged  at  the  Car  of  Achilles. — From 

Phrygian  Helmets.— From  Hope*s  'Costume' 

DBAMVTia  PEKSON.E. 

Border.    Grecian  Htrald  and  Squire. — From  An- 
tinue  Vases  and  Hone's  *  Costume  '  

PROLOGUE. 
View  of  Tenedos.-^From  d'Ohssoii    

ACT  1. 
Scene  III.— Before  Agamemnon's  Tent.     W.  Har- 

YEY  

Ulysses. — From  a  Gem  in  Wosleyan  Museum 

nXUSTBATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 
Phrj-gian  Lady  with  Casket.— From  a  Greek  Vase 

Phrygian  Tunic,  Bipeiines,  Bow,  Quiver,  Helmets, 
&c.     FromHopc's  'Costume' 

ACT   II. 

Scene  II.— 'Enter  Cassandra,  raving.'  W.  Ha'.ivf.y 

COR 
Title-page.— Act  II.  Scene  III.     W.  Harvey  

INTBODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Roman  Eagle.— From  a  Painting  on  a  Roman  Vase 

DKAMATI8  PEESONyE. 

Border. — Roman   Weapons  and   View    of  Rome. 
W.  Hartey 

lOLi 
145 

147 

150 

151 
163 

164 

168 
178 

179 

iNUS. 

ACT  III. 
Old  "Walls  of  Rome.    Melville 180 

Tarpeian  Rock.— From  an  Italian  print    189 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 

ACT    IV. 

Roman  Highway  on  the  hanks  of  the  Tiber.— From 
Piranesi 191 

Ancient  Arcli  on  Road  leading  into  Rome.— From 

pjnelli 200 

ACT  I. 

Bite  of  Rome  :  Tiburtine  Chain  in  the  distance — 
From  B  print  by  Harding  

The  Tiber:  Mount  Aventine  in  the  distance. 

DiCKES 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 
Old  Roman  Willow  Wood      Mecheau    201 

ILLUBTKATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 
Isola  Tiberiana. — From  an  Italian  print  

ACT  V. 

Public  Place  in  Rome.    Dickes. — From  the  Prce- 

nestine  Pavement  203 

Roman  Tomb  and  Fragments.     Anelay 211 

ACT  II. 

Roman  VictcTry. — From  Montfaueon 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 

Scene  III. — 'Pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach.'  Dickes  212 
Kemble  as  Coriolanus. — After  Sir  T.  Lawrence 21 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT   11. 

Augur's  Staff. — From  an  antique  Specimen 

vi 

IXLUSTEATIOIsTS  TO  VOL.  II.— TRAGEDIES. 


JULIUS   C^SAR. 


Title-page.— Act  III.,  Scene  I.    W.Harvey 215 

IXTRODTJCTORy   NOTICE. 

Roman  Standard-Bearers.    J.  R.  Plakch£ 217 

Roman  Soldiers.    J.  R.  Planchb  219 

Plebeians.    J.  R.  Planche  223 


DEAMJTIS    PEESON.-E. 

Border  of  Characters   


226 


ACT   I. 


A  Restoration  from  the  Remains  known  as  the 
Temple  of  Pallas,  supposed  to  be  a  portion  of 
the  Forum  of  Nerva.  A.  Potnter 22/ 

Statue  of  Cffisar 234 


ILLIJSTBATIOXS  OF  ACT  I. 

Roman  Augur.    J.  R.  Plakche 

ACT    II. 


2.13 


Atrium  of  a  Roman  House. — It  is  of  that  species 
called  by  Vitruvius  the  tetrastjle  Atrium.     A. 

POYNTER  237 

Brutus'  Orchard. — This  style  of  garden,  universal 
in  Italy,  is  indisputably  of  great  antiquity.  A. 
PoVXTER  244 


ILLUSTHATI0N8  OF  ACT  II. 
Roman  Matron.  J.  R.  Planch^ 243 

ACT  ui. 

Street  leading  to  the  Capitol.  A.  Poynter 247 

The  Forum.  A.  Poynter 255 


IlLUSTBATIONS    OF  ACT  III. 
Roman  Consul.   J.  R.  PlanchS 


,  256 


ACT  IV. 

A  Room  in  Antony's    House. — A  Restoration  from 

Pompeii.  A.  Poynter 258 

ACT  V. 

Plains  of  Philippi 2G6 

Medal  of  Brutus 271 

ILLUSTBATIOXS  OF  ACT  V. 

Statue  of  Pompey. — From  an  engraving  by  Fono- 
tana  after  a  pictureby  Camucciniof  the  '  Death 
ofCEBsar.'  This  is  the  statue  beneath  which 
Caesar  fell,  and  which  is  still  preserved  at  Rome  274 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


Title-page. — Act  III.,  Scene  VI.    W.Harvey 275 

BRA3IATIS  PEESON.i:. 

Border  of  Characters.    Egyptian  and  Roman  Orna- 
ments   278 


Room  in   Cleopatra's  Palace —Scene  I      Fairholt  279 
Atrium  of  Caesar's  House. — A   Restoration   from 
Pompeii.     A.  Poynter 287 

ILLirSTBATIOJrS   OF  ACT  I. 

Antony  and   Cleopatra. — From  a  Silver  Coin  in  the 

British  Museum 288 

ACT   II. 

Room  in  Pompey's   House.— A   Restoration  from 

Pompeii.    A.  Poynter 289 

'The barge  she  satin.'— Scene  II.    Fairholt 299 

ACT  III. 

Promontory  of  Aetium 302 

Prow  of  a  Roman  Gallery.— From  a  Basso  Relievo, 
forming  a  portion  of  a  frieze  found  at  Pales- 
trina.  the  ancient  Preneste.    The  turret  on  the 


forecastle  indicates  a  galley  of  large  size  ;  and 
two  tiers  of  oars  are  distinctly  visible,  with 
leathers  fixed  on  the  oars,  and  nailed  over  the 
oar-ports,  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  the  water. 
A  Poynter 314 

ILLUSTBATIOXS  OF  ACT  UI. 

Cleopatra's  Needle.    AV.  Harvey 315 

ACT  IV. 

Ancient  Egyptian  Palace.— From  a  Sketch  made  at 
Medinet  Abou,  part  of  the  ancient  Thebes. 
Arundale  318 

Pompey's  Pillar     W.   Harvey 327 


IIXUSTEATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 
Pyramid  and  Sphynx.    W.   Harvey  .... 


323 


ACT  V. 

Interior  of  an  Egyptian  Monument.    A.  Poynter  330 
Alexandria.— From  an  original  Sketch.    W.   Har- 
vey   338 

illustbatioif  s  of  act  v. 

Augustus. — From  a  Gold  Coin  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum      337 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE  TO  THE  THREE  ROMAN  PLAYS. 
Head     Roman  Symbols.     W.  Harvet 


.*.  339 


VU 


ILLUSTILVTIONS   TO   POEMS. 
POEMS. 

'All  toe  Illcstratioks  from  Original  Designs  by  W.  Harvet.) 
tliilc-r)age      Portrait  of  Shakspere,  from  the  Portrait  prefixed  to  his  Works,  page  3C1 

VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


PAGE 

Title  to  Venus  and  Adonis  365 

Poruait  of  II.  Wriothesley.  Earl  of  Sjutliampton..  307 

Meeting  of  Venus  and  Adonis    3C9 

The  Horse  of  Adonis 373 

Venus  in  a  Swoon  376 


PAGE 

Herd  of  Deer  380 

Boar  and  Dogs  S8S 

Lamentation  of  Venus  over  Adonis  dead 386 

The  Anemone  387 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Title  to  the  Rape  of  Luerece  389 

Coat  of  Arms  of  the  Earl  of  Southampton 391 

View  of  Ardea  393 

Tarquin  approaching  the  Chamber  of  I.ucrece  3% 

Lucrece's  Bedchamber 399 


Flight  of  Tarquin  <(H 

Night  and  Morning  408 

lucrece  despatching  the  Messenger 412 

Death  of  Lucrece 419 


SONNETS. 


Title  to  the  Sonnets 421 

Narcissus 423 

Pompe>-'8  Remains  burned  by  his  Freedman 428 

'Broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry' 433 

'  Proud-pied  April    441 


'Love'  448 

Nymphs 452 

Nymphs  stealing  Cupid's  Torch  453 

Tail-piece  488 


A  LOVER'S  COMPL-UNT,  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM,  &c. 


Title  to  Lover's  Complaint  489 

Head.— 'And  down   I   laid  to  list  the  sad-tun'd 

tale.'  _ ^91 

Tailpiece 496 

Cytherea  and  Adonis 497 


Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made'     503 

Love's  Monuii.ent  504 

Funeral  Urn 505 

Head.— Altar 509 


.u> 


'^{ 


.;  r»; 

"-V<^'i^> 


3^^: 


'.  ->r,is^  .- 


1 


IKTRODUCTORY   NOTICE- 


State  or  the  Text,  and  CnRONOLOGi',  of  Macbeth. 

'TflflTragedie  of  Macbeth'  was  first  published  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  Its  place  in  that 
edition  is  between  Julius  Ccesar  and  Hamlet.  In  the  entry  on  the  Stationers'  register,  imme- 
diately previous  to  the  publication  of  the  edition  of  1623,  it  is  also  classed  amongst  the  Tragedies. 
And  yet,  in  many  modern  reprints  of  the  text  of  Shakspere,  Macbeth  is  placed  the  first  amongst  the 
Histories.  This  is  to  convey  a  wrong  notion  of  the  character  of  this  great  drama.  Shakspere's 
Chronicle-histories  are  essentially  conducted  upon  a  different  principle.  The  interest  of  Macbeth 
is  jiot  an  historical  interest.  It  matters  not  whether  the  action  is  true,  or  has  been  related  as  true '. 
it  belongs  to  the  realms  of  poetry  altogether.  We  might  as  well  call  Lear  or  Hamlet  historical 
piaye,  because  the  outlines  of  the  story  of  each  are  to  be  foiuid  in  old  records  of  the  past.  Oar  text 
ia,  with  very  few  exceptions,  a  restoration  of  the  test  of  the  original  folio. 

Malone  and  Chalmera  agree  in  assigning  this  tragedy  to  the  year  1606.  Their  proofs,  as  we  ap- 
prehend, are  entirely  frivolous  and  unsatisfactory.  The  Porter  says,  "  Here 's  a  farmer  that  hanged 
himself  on  the  expectation  of  plenty  :  "  the  year  1606  was  a  year  of  plenty,  and  therefore  Macbeth 
was  written  in  1606.  Again,  the  same  character  says,  "Here's  an  equivocator,  that  could  swear 
in  both  the  scales,  against  either  scale."  This  passage  Malone  most  solemnly  tells  us,  "  without 
doubt,  had  a  direct  reference  to  the  doctrine  of  equivocation  avowed  and  maintained  by  Heury 
Garnet,  superior  of  the  order  of  the  Jesuits  in  England,  on  his  trial  for  the  Gunpowder  Treason,  on 

B  2  3 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

the  28th  of  March,  1600,  aud  to  hia  detestable  perjury."  There  is  more  of  this  sort  of  reasoning,  iu 
the  examination  of  which  it  appears  to  us  quite  unnecessary  to  occupy  the  time  of  our  readers.  We 
have  two  facts  as  to  the  chronology  of  this  play  which  are  indisputable  : — the  first  is,  that  it  must 
have  been  written  after  the  crowns  of  England  and  Scotland  were  united  in  one  monarch,  who  waB 
a  descendant  of  Bauquo  ; — 

"  Some  I  see 
That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry." 

The  second  is,  that  Dr.  Forman  has  most  minutely  described  the  representation  of  this  tragedy  in 
the  year  1610.  The  following  extract  from  his  'Book  of  Plays,  and  Notes  thereof,  for  common 
Policy,'  is  copied  by  Mr.  Collier  from  the  manuscript  in  the  Bodleian  Library  : — 

"III  Mtcbcth.  at  the  Globe,  1610,  the  20th  of  April,  Saturday,  there  was  to  be  observed,  first,  how  Macbeth  and  Banquo, 
two  noblemen  of  Scotland,  riding  through  a  wood,  there  stood  before  them  three  women,  fairies,  or  nymphs,  and  saluted 
Macbeth,  saying  three  times  unto  him,  Hail,  Macbeth,  King  of  Coudor,  for  thou  shalt  be  a  king,  but  shalt  beget  no  kings, 
&c.  Then,  »aid  Banquo,  What,  all  to  Macbeth  and  nothing  to  mef  Yes,  said  tlie  nymphs,  Hail  to  thee.  Banquo;  thou 
shalt  beget  kings,  yet  be  no  king.  And  so  they  departed,  and  came  to  the  court  of  Scotland,  to  Duncan  King  of  Scots, 
and  it  was  in  the  days  of  Edward  the  Confessor.  And  Duncan  bade  them  both  kindly  welcome,  and  made  Macbeth  forth- 
with Prince  of  Northumberland  ;  and  sent  him  home  to  his  own  castle,  and  appointed  Macbeth  to  provide  for  him,  for  he 
would  sup  with  him  the  next  day  at  night,  and  did  so. 

"  And  Macbeth  contrived  to  kill  Duncan,  and  through  the  persuasion  of  his  wife  did  that  night  murder  the  king  in  his 
own  castle,  being  his  guest.  And  there  were  many  prodigies  seen  that  night  and  thf  day  before.  And  when  Macbeth  had 
murdered  the  king,  the  blood  on  his  hands  could  not  be  washed  off  by  any  means,  no»  from  his  wife's  hands,  which  handled 
the  bloody  daggers  in  hiding  them,  by  which  means  they  became  both  much  amazed  and  affronted. 

"  The  murder  being  known,  Duncan's  two  sons  fled,  the  one  to  England,  the  other  to  Wales,  to  save  themselves ;  they, 
being  fled,  were  supposed  guilty  of  the  murder  of  their  father,  which  was  nothing  so. 

"  Then  was  Macbeth  crowned  king,  and  then  he,  for  fear  of  Banquo,  his  old  companion,  that  he  should  beget  kings  but  be 
no  king  himself,  he  contrived  tlie  death  of  Banquo,  and  causeS  him  to  be  murdered  on  the  way  that  he  rode.  The  night, 
being  at  supper  with  his  noblemen,  whom  he  had  bid  to  a  feast  (to  the  which  also  Banquo  should  have  come),  he  began  to 
speak  of  noble  Banquo,  and  to  wish  that  he  were  there.  And  as  he  thus  did,  standing  up  to  drink  a  carouse  to  him,  the 
ghost  of  Banquo  came  and  sat  down  in  his  chair  behind  him.  And  he,  turning  about  to  sit  down  again,  saw  the  ghost  of 
Banquo,  which  fronted  him,  so  that  he  fell  in  a  great  passion  of  fear  and  fury,  uttering  many  words  about  his  murder,  by 
which,  when  they  heard  that  Banquo  was  murdered,  they  suspected  Macbeth. 

"  Then  .Macduff  fled  to  England  to  the  king's  son,  and  so  they  raised  an  army,  and  came  into  Scotland,  and  at  Dunston 
Anyse  overthrew  >fecbeth.  In  the  mean  time,  while  Macduff  was  in  England,  Macbeth  slew  Macduff's  wife  and  children, 
and  after,  in  the  battle,  Macduff  slew  Macbeth. 

"  Observe,  also,  how  Macbeth's  queen  did  rise  in  the  night  in  her  sleep  and  walk,  and  talked  and  confessed  all,  and  the 
doctor  noted  her  words." 

Here,  then,  the  date  of  this  tragedj-  must  be  fixed  after  the  accession  of  James  I.  in  1603,  and 
before  the  representation  at  which  Forman  was  present  in  1610.  Mr.  Collier  is  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  play  was  a  new  one  when  Forman  saw  it  acted.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  can  have  no  doubt 
that  it  belonged  to  the  last  ten  years  of  Sliakspere's  life. 


Supposed  Souboes  op  the  Plot. 


That  Shakspere  found  sufficient  materials  for  this  great  drama  in  Holinshed's  'History  of  Scot- 
land '  is  a  fact  that  renders  it  quite  unnecessary  for  us  to  enter  into  any  discussion  as  to  the  truth  of 
this  portion  of  the  history,  or  to  point  out  the  authorities  upon  which  the  narrative  of  Holinshed 
was  founded.  Better  authorities  than  Holinshed  had  access  to  have  shown  that  the  contest  for  the 
crown  of  Scotland  between  Duncan  and  Macbeth  was  a  contest  of  factions,  and  that  Macbeth  was 
raised  to  the  throne  by  his  Norwegian  allies  after  a  battle  in  which  Duncan  fell :  in  the  same  way 
after  a  long  rule  was  he  vanquished  and  killed  by  the  son  of  Duncan,  supported  by  his  English 
allies.*  But,  with  the  difieiences  between  the  real  and  apocryphal  history,  it  is  manifest  that  we 
can  here  have  no  concern.  In  the  Illustrations  of  the  several  acts  we  have  reprinted  the  passages 
in  Holinshed  with  which  Shakspere  was  manifestly  familiar.  His  deviations  from  the  chronicler 
vill   be   rep.dily  traced.     There  is  another  storj',  however,  told   also  in  the  same  narrative,  which 


See  Skene's  'Highlanders  of  Scotland,'  vol. !.,  p.  116. 


MACBETH 

Shakspere  with  cousummate  skill  has  bleuded  with  the  story  of  Macbeth, 
of  King  Duff  by  Donwald  and  his  wife  in  Donwald's  castle  of  Forres  :— 


It  is  that  of  the  murder 


"The  king  got  him  into  his  privy  chamber,  only  with  two  of  his  chamberlains,  who,  having  brought  him  to  bed,  came 
forth  again,  and  then  fell  to  banqueting  with  Donwald  and  his  wife,  who  had  prepared  divers  delicate  dishes  and  sundry 
sorts  of  drinks  for  their  rear-supper  or  collation,  whereat  they  sat  up  so  long,  till  they  had  charged  their  stomachs  with  such 
full  gorges,  that  their  heads  were  no  sooner  got  to  the  pillow  but  asleep  they  were  so  fast  that  a  man  might  have  removed 
the  chamber  over  them  sooner  than  to  have  awaked  them  out  ol  their  drunken  sleep. 

"  Then  Donwald,  though  he  abhorred  the  act  greatly  in  heart,  yet  through  instigation  of  his  wife  he  called  four  of  bis 
servants  unto  him  (whom  he  had  made  privy  to  his  wicked  intent  before,  and  framed  to  his  purpose  with  large  gifts),  and 
now  declaring  unto  them  after  what  sort  they  should  work  the  feat,  they  gladly  obeyed  his  instructions,  and,  speedily  going 
about  the  murder,  they  enter  the  chamber  (in  which  the  king  lay)  a  little  before  cock's  crow,  where  they  secretly  cut  his 
throat  as  he  lay  sleeping,  without  any  bustling  at  all :  and  immediately  by  a  postern  gate  they  carried  forth  the  dead  body 
into  the  fields.  *«*««»»» 
Donwald,  abont  the  time  that  the  murder  was  in  doing,  got  him  amongst  them  that  kept  the  watch,  and  so  continued  in 
company  with  them  all  the  residue  of  the  night.  But  in  the  morning,  when  the  noise  was  raised  in  the  king's  chamber  how 
the  king  was  slain,  his  body  conveyed  away,  and  the  bed  all  beraid  with  blood,  he  with  the  watch  ran  thither,  as  though 
he  had  known  nothing  of  the  matter,  and  breaking  into  the  chamber,  and  finding  cakes  of  blood  in  the  bed  and  on  the  floor 
about  the  sides  of  it,  he  forthwith  slew  the  chamberlains  as  guilty  of  that  heinous  murder.  *  «  *  • 

For  the  space  of  six  months  together,  after  this  heinous  murder  thus  committed,  there  appeared  no  sun  by  day,  nor  moon 
by  night,  in  any  part  of  the  realm,  but  still  was  the  sky  covered  with  continual  clouds,  and  sometimes  such  outrageous  winds 
arose,  with  lightnings  and  tempests,  that  the  people  were  in  great  fear  of  present  destruction." 

It  was  originally  the  opinion  of  Steevens  and  Malone  that  a  jslay  by  Thomas  Middleton,  entitled 
'  The  Witch,'  had  preceded  Macbeth,  and  that  Shakspere  was  consequently  indebted  to  Jliddletou 
for  the  general  idea  of  the  witch  incantations.  Malone  subsequently  changed  his  opinion ;  for  in 
a  posthumous  edition  of  his  '  Essay  on  the  Chronological  Order,'  he  has  maintained  that  '  The 
Witch '  was  a  later  production  than  Macbeth.  We  shall  refer  to  this  question  in  our  Supplementary 
Notice. 

For  the  Local  Illustrations  affixed  to  each  Act  we  have  the  gratification  of  acknowledging  our 
obligation  to  Miss  Martineau,  who  in  1838  visited  jill  the  locahties  to  which  this  tragedy  refers. 
^Ir.  Creswick's  sketches,  which  also  adorn  our  pages,  were  made  on  the  several  spots  in  1839. 


Costume. 

The  rudely  sculptured  monuments  and  crosses  which  time  has  spai-ed  upon  the  hills  and  heaths  ol 
Scotland,  however  interesting  to  the  antiquary  in  other  respects,  afford  but  very  slender  and  uncer- 
tain information  respecting  the  dress  and  arms  of  the  Scotch  Highlanders  in  the  11th  century; 
and,  attempt  how  we  will  to  decide  from  written  documents,  a  hundred  pens  will  instantly  be 
flourished  against  us.  Our  own  opinion,  however,  formed  long  ago,  has  within  these  few  years  been 
confirmed  by  that  of  a  most  intelligent  modern  historian,*  who  says  "it  would  be  too  much  perhaps 
to  affirm  that  the  dress,  as  at  present  worn,  in  all  its  minute  details,  is  ancient ;  but  it  is  very  certain 
that  it  is  compounded  of  three  varieties  in  the  form  of  dress  which  were  separately  worn  by  the 
Highlanders  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  that  each  of  these  may  be  traced  back  to  the  remotest 
antiquity."  These  are  :— 1st,  The  belted  plaid;  2nd,  The  short  coat  or  jacket;  3rd,  The  truis 
With  each  of  these,  or,  at  any  rate,  with  the  two  first,  was  worn,  from  the  earliest  periods  to  the 
seventeenth  century,  the  long-sleeved,  saffron-stained  shirt,  of  Irish  origin,  called  the  Leni-croich.t 
Pitscottie,  in  1573,  says,  "they  (the  Scotch  Highlanders)  be  cloathed  with  ane  mantle,  with  ane 
schirt,  saffroned  after  the  Irish  manner,  going  bare-legged  to  the  knee."  And  Nicolay  d'Arfeville, 
cosmographer  to  the  King  of  France,  who  published  at  Paris,  in  1583,  a  volume  entitled  'La 
Navigation  du  Roy  d'Escosse  Jacques,  cinquiesme  du  nom,  autour  de  son  Royaume  et  Isle8  Hebrides 


♦  '  The  Highlanders  of  Scotland,'  by  W.  J.  Skene,  F.S.A.  Scot.  2  vols.  12mo.,  London,  Murray.  lS37.-Mr.  Skene  in 
this  excellent  work  has  also  thrown  great  light  upon  the  real  history  of  Macbeth,  from  a  careful  investigation  and  corapar- 
son  of  the  Irish  annals  and  the  Norse  Sagas. 

t  "  From  the  Irish  words  leni,  shirt,  and  crotch,  saffron."— Uaxtin'a  Western  Isles  of  Scotland. 

o 


A 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Pt  Orchadea,  soutz  In  conduito  d' Alexandre  Lindsay,  excellent  Pilote  Escossois,'  says,  "they 
wear,  like  the  Irish,  a  'ai-ge  full  shirt,  coloured  with  fiaflron,  and  over  this  a  garment  hanging  to 
the  knee,  of  thick  wool,  after  the  manner  of  a  cassock  (soutane).  They  go  with  bare  heads,  and 
allow  their  hair  to  grow  very  long,  and  they  wear  neither  stockings  nor  shoes,  except  some  who 
have  buskins  (botines)  made  in  a  very  old  fashion,  which  come  as  high  as  the  knees."  Lesley  in 
1 578  says,  "  all,  both  nobles  and  common  people,  wore  mantles  of  one  sort  (except  that  the  noKles 
preferred  those  of  different  colours) ;  these  were  long  and  flowing,  but  capable  of  being  gathered  up 

at  pleasure  into  folds They  had  also  shaggy  rugs,  such  as  the   Irish  use  at  the  present 

day The  rest  of  their  garments  consisted  of  a  short  woollen  jacket,  with  the  sleeves  open 

below,  for  the  convenience  of  throwing  their  darts,  and  a  covering  for  the  thighs  of  the  simplest 
kind,  more  for  decency  than  for  show  or  defence  against  cold.  They  made  also  of  linen  very  large 
shirts,  with  numerous  folds  and  very  large  sleeves,  which  flowed  abroad  loosely  on  their  knees. 
These  the  rich  coloured  with  saffron,  and  others  smeared  with  some  grease  to  preserve  them  longer 
clean  amoDg  the  toils  and  exercises  of  a  camp,  &c." »  Here  we  have  the  second  variety — that  of 
the  short  woollen  jacket  with  the  open  sleeves ;  and  this  confirms  most  curiously  the  identity  of  the 
ancient  Scottish  with  the  ancient  Irish  dress,  as  the  Irish  chieftains  who  appeared  at  court  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth  were  clad  in  these  long  shii-ts,  short  open-sleeved  jackets,  and  long  shaggy 
mantles,  the  exact  form  of  which  may  be  seen  in  the  woodcut  representing  them  engraved  in  the 
'  History  of  British  Costume,'  p.  369,  from  a  rare  print  of  that  period  in  the  collection  of  the  late 
Francis  Douce,  Esq.  The  third  variety  is  the  truis,  or  trowse,  "  the  breeches  and  stockings  of  one 
piece,"  of  the  Irish  in  the  time  of  Giraldus  Cambreusis,  and  the  bracchai  of  the  Belgic  Gauls  and 
Southern  Britons  in  that  of  Caesar.  The  truis  has  hitherto  been  traced  in  Scotland  only  as  far  back 
as  the  year  153S;  and  there  are  many  who  deny  its  having  formed  a  portion  of  the  more  ancient 
Scottish  dress  :  but  independently  that  the  document  of  the  date  above  mentioned  recognises  it  as 
an  established  "  Hi  [/hi  and"  garment  at  that  time,  thereby  giving  one  a  right  to  infer  its  having  long 
previously  existed,  the  incontrovertible  fact  of  a  similar  article  of  apparel  having  been  worn  by  all 
the  chiefs  of  the  other  tribes  of  the  great  Celtic  or  Gaelic  family  is  sufficient,  in  our  minds,  to  give 
probability  to  the  belief  that  it  was  also  worn  by  those  of  the  ancient  Scotch  Highlanders.  Mr. 
Skene,  after  remarking  that  it  was  from  the  very  earliest  period  the  dress  of  the  gentry  of  Ireland, 
adds  that  he  is  therefore  inclined  to  think  it  was  introduced  from  that  country ;  but  hints  at  no 
particular  period,  and  leaves  us  at  liberty  to  presume  such  introduction  to  have  taken  place  even 
centuries  prior  to  the  birth  of  Macbeth.  With  regard  to  another  hotly  disputed  point  of  Scottish 
costume,  the  colours  of  the  chequered  cloth,  commonly  called  tartan  and  plaid  (neither  of  which 
names,  however,  originally  signified  its  variegated  appearance,  the  former  being  merely  the  name 
of  the  woollen  stuff  of  which  it  was  made,  and  the  latter  that  of  the  garment  into  which  it  was 
shaped),  the  most  general  belief  is,  that  the  distinction  of  the  clans  by  a  peculiar  pattern  is  of  com- 
paratively a  recent  date :  but  those  who  deny  "  a  coat  cf  many  coloure  "  to  the  ancient  Scottish 
Highlanders  altogether  must  as  tmceremoniously  strip  the  Celtic  Britou  or  Belgic  Gaul  of  his 
tunic,  "  flowered  with  various  colours  in  divisions,"  in  which  he  has  been  specifically  arrayed  by 
Diodorus  Siculus.  The  chequered  cloth  was  termed  in  Celtic,  hreacan,  and  the  Highlanders,  we 
are  informed  by  Mr.  Logan, f  give  it  also  the  poetical  appellation  of  "cath-dafh"  signifying  "the 
strife"  or  "war  of  colours."  In  Major's  time  (1512)  the  plaids  or  cloaks  of  the  higher  classes 
^one  were  variegated.  The  common  people  appear  to  have  worn  them  generally  of  a  brown 
colour,  "most  near,"  says  Moniepennie,  "to  the  colour  of  the  hadder"  (heather).  Martin,  in 
1716,  speaking  of  the  female  attire  in  the  Western  Isles,  says  the  ancient  dress,  which  is  yet  worn 
by  some  of  the  vxiigar,  called  arisad,  is  a  white  plaid,  having  a  few  small  stripes  of  black,  blue,  and 
red.  The  plain  black  and  white  stuff,  now  generally  known  in  London  by  the  name  of  "  Shepherd's 
plaid,"  is  evidently,  from  its  simplicity,  of  great  antiquity,  and  could  have  been  most  easily  manu- 
factured, as  it  required  no  process  of  dyeing,  being  composed  of  the  two  natural  colours  of  the  fleece. 
Defoe,  in  his  'Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,'  describes  the  plaid  worn  in  1639  as  "striped  across,  red  and 
yellow;"  and  the  portrait  of  Lacy  the  actor,  painted  in  Charles  II. 's  time,  represents  him  dressed 
for  Sawney  the  Scot  in  a  red,  yellow,  and  black  truis  and  belted  plaid,  or,  at  any  rate,  in  stuff  of 
the  natural  yellowish  tint  of  the  wool,  striped  across  with  black  and  red. 


•  Jean  dc  Beaufnit,  who  accompanied  the  French  auxiliaries  to  Scotland  in  15<8,  in  like  manner  describes  "  les  sauvages,' 
as  he  calls  the  Highlanders,  naked  except  theirstained  shirts  (chrmitei  lainlcn)  and  a  certain  light  covering  made  of  wool  of 
various  colours,  carrjing  large  bovrt  and  similar  swords  and  bucklers  to  the  others.  «  *.  the  Lowlanders. 

t  '  History  of  the  Gael.'    2  vols.  8vo.    London. 

6 


MACBETH. 


For  the  armour  and  weapons  of  the  Scotch  of  the  11th  century  we  have  rather  more  «Ji«tinc*. 
authority.  The  sovereign  and  his  Lowland  chiefs  appear  early  to  have  assumed  the  shirt  of  riii^ 
mail  of  the  Saxon ;  or,  perhaps,  the  quilted  panzar  of  their  Norwegian  and  Danish  invaders  :  but 
that  some  of  the  Highland  chieftains  disdained  such  defence  must  be  admitted  from  the  well-known 
boast  of  the  Earl  Strathearne,  as  late  as  1138,  at  the  Battle  of  the  Standard  :— "  I  wear  no 
armour,"  exclaimed  the  heroic  Gael,  "yet  those  who  do  will  not  advance  beyond  me  this  day." 
It  was  indeed  the  old  Celtic  fashion  for  soldiers  to  divest  themselves  of  almost  every  portion  of 
covering  on  the  eve  of  combat,  and  to  rush  into  battle  nearly,  if  not  entirely,  naked. 

The  ancient  Scottish  weapons  were  the  bow,  the  spear,  the  claymore  (cledheamh-more),  the 
battle-axe,  and  the  dirk,  or  bidag,  with  round  targets,  covered  with  buU's-hide,  and  studded  with 
nails  and  bosses  of  brass  or  iron.  For  the  dress  and  arms  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  auxiliaries  of 
Malcolm  the  Bayeux  tapestry  furnishes  perhaps  the  nearest  authority. 

The  Scottish  female  habit  seems  to  have  consisted,  like  that  of  the  Saxon,  Norman,  and  Danish 
women — nay,  we  may  even  add  the  ancient  British — of  a  long  robe,  girdled  round  the  waist,  and  a 
full  and  flowing  mantle,  fastened  on  the  breast  by  a  large  buckle  or  brooch  of  brass,  silver,  or  gold, 
and  set  with  common  crystals,  or  precious  gems,  according  to  the  rank  of  the  wearer.  Dio 
describes  Boadicea  as  wearing  a  variegated  robe;  and  the  ancient  mantle  worn  by  Scotchwomen, 
denominated  the  arisad,  which  we  have  already  mentioned,  is  described  by  Martin  as  chequered. 


Tin'.  Ghoit  of  Banquo,  and  other  Appariliont. 

SCENE,— in  the  end  of  the  Fourth  Act,  lies  in  En  ;■ 
LAND  ;  through  the  rest  of  the  Play,  in  Scotlan:) 
and,  chi^y,  at  Macbftii'*  Cnillt. 


H'iew  frcm  the  Site  of  Macbeth's  Castle,  Inverness.- 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.- 


-Ah   open  Place. 
Lightning. 


Thunder  and 


Enter  three  Witches. 

1  Witch.  When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain?* 

2  Witch.  When  the  hm-lyburly  's  ^  done, 
When  the  battle 's  lost  and  won  : 

3  Witch.  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  suu.''' 


^  Hanmer  proposed  to  read  "  and  In  rain,"  to  prevent 
that  misconception  of  the  question  which  might  arise  from 
the  use  of  or.  The  Witches  invariably  meet  under  a  dis- 
turbance of  the  elements;  and  this  is  clear  enough  without 
any  change  of  the  original  text. 

b  HurUihurly.  In  Peacham's  '  Garden  of  Eloquence,' 
1577,  this  word  is  given  as  an  ex^ample  of  that  ornament  of 
language  which  consists  in  "a  name  intimating  the  sound 
of  that  it  signifietli,  as  hurlijburly ,  for  an  uproar  and 
tumultuous  stir."  Todd  finds  the  word  in  a  collection  of 
Scottish  proverbs,  and  therefore  decides  upon  the  propriety 
of  its  use  by  the  Scottish  witch.  This  is  unnecessary;  for, 
although 'it  might  belong  to. both  languages,  Spenser  had 
used  it  in  our  own ;  and  it  had  the  peculiar  recommendation 
of  the  quality  described  by  Peacham  for  its  introduction  in 
a  Ivrical  composition. 

0  We  have  here  the  commencement  of  that  system  of 


1  Witch.  Wliere  the  place  ? 

2  Witch. 


Upon  the  heath ; 


tampering  with  the  metre  of  Shakspere  In  this  great  tragedy, 
which  universally  prevailed  till  the  reign  of  the  variorum 
critics  had  ceased  to  be  considered  as  firmly  established  and 
beyond  the  reach  of  assault.     When  we  saw  an  edition  of 
Shakspere  bearing  the  name  of  Tlmmas  Campbell  as  editor, 
and  found  that  the  text  of  that  edition  was  a  literal  reprint 
from  the  textofSteevens.and  that  consequently  theloppings- 
oflT  and  patchingson,  the  transpositions,  the  substitutions 
of  a  man  without  an   ear  were  circulated  with   the  im- 
primatur of  one  of  the  most  elegant  of  our  poets,  we  could 
not  but  see  what  a  fearful  weed  bad  taste  is. — how  prolific 
in  its  growth,  how  difficult  to  be  eradicated.  These  remarks 
apply  not  so  much  to  the  particular  instance  before  us  a':  to 
the  whole  principle  upon  which  the  metre  of  this  play  has 
been  regulated.     We  admit  that  it  will  not  do  servilely  to 
follow  the  original  in  every  instance  where  the  commence- 
ment and  close  of  a  line  are  so  arranged  that  it  becomes 
prosaic;  but  on  the  other  hand  we  contend  that  the  desire 
to  get  rid  of  hemistichs,  without  regard  to  the  nature  of 
the  dialogue,  and  so  to  alter  the  metrical  arrangement  of  a 
series  of  lines,  is  to  disfigure,  instead  of  to  amend,  the  poet. 
It  is  a  matter  of  sincere  gratification  to  the  present  editor, 
that  five-and-twenty  years  have  produced  a  marked  altera- 
tion  in  the  principles  of   criticism  applied  to  the  teit  of 
Shakspere.    The  line  before  us  reads,  in  the  original, 

"  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun." 

Steevens  strikes  out  the  as  harsh  and  unnecessary.    \n\  one 

0 


Act  L] 


MACBETH. 


[Sczv:i  II. 


3  Jf'i/cA.  There  to  meet  with  Macbetli. 

1  Jf'i/cA.  I  come,  Graymalkia !  • 

AH.  Paddock  calls : — Anon. — 
Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair : 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

[Witches  vanish. 

SCENE    II. — ./    Camp  near  Forres.     Alarum 
within. 

Enter  King  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Dona.lbain, 
Lenox,  icith  Attendants,  meeting  a  bleeding 
Soldier. 

Dun.  Wliat  bloody  man  is  that?     He  can  re- 
port. 
As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Mai.  This  is  the  sergeant. 

Who,  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier,  fought 
'Gainst  my  capti\aty : — ^Hail,  brave  friend! 
Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil, 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sold.  Doubtful''  it  stood ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together, 
And    choke    their    art.    Tiie    merciless    Mac- 

donwald 
(AVorthy  to  be  a  rebel ;  for,  to  that. 
The  multiplying  villainies  of  natiu-e 
Do  swarm  upon  him,)  from  the  western  isles 
Of'=  kernes  and  gallowglasscs  is  supplied;' 
And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarry"*  smiling, 
Show'd  like  a  rebel's  whore :  But  all 's  too  weak  • 


who  has  an  ear  for  the  fine  lyrical  movement  of  the  whole 
scene  will  see  what  an  exquisite  variety  of  pause  theie  is  in 
the  ten  lines  of  which  it  consists.  Take,  for  example,  the 
line 

"  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth ; " 
and  contr-st  its  solemn  movement  with  what  has  preceded 
it.     But  tampering  editors  must  have  «t)en  syllables ;  anil 
so  some  read 

"  There  I  go  to  meet  Jfacbeth  :  " 
others, 

"  There  to  meet  with  great  Macbeth  : " 
and  others, 

"  There  to  meet  with — irAom.'— Macbeth." 
Malone  has,  howe\er,  here  succeeded  in  retaining  the  ori- 
ffinal  line,  by  persuading  himself  and  others  that  there  is  a 
dissyllable. 
«  Graymnlkin  is  a  cat;  Paddock,  a  toad. 
^  Z)ou4//«/.— So  the  original.  The  common  reading,  dottfc.'- 
fnlly     "  My  addition,"  says  Stcevens,  "consists  but  of  .1 
single  letter." 
c  0/  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  tvilh. 
•1  Quarry. — So  the  (jriBinal.     The  common  reading,  on  the 
emendation  of  Hanmer,  is  quarrel.    We  conceive  tliat  the 
original  word  is  that  used  by  Shakspere.     In  Coriolanus  we 
have, 

" I  'd  make  a  quarry 

With  thousands  of  these  quarter'd  slaves,  as  high 
.'Vs  1  could  pick  my  lance." 
It  is  ill  the  same  sense,  we  believe,  that  the  soldier  uses 
the  word  quarry:  the  "  damned  quarry"  being  the  doomed 
army  of  kerne*  and  gallowglasscs,  who,  although  fortune 
deceitfully  smile'!  on  them,  fled  before  the  sword  of  Macbeth, 
and  became  his  quarry— his  prey. 
10 


For  brave  Macbeth,  (well  lie  deserves  that  name,) 

Disdaining  fortune,  wilh  liis  brandish'd  steel, 

Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution. 

Like  valour's  minion,  carv'd  out  his  passage. 

Till  he  faced  the  slave  ;* 

"Wliich  ne'er  shook  huuds,  nor  bade  farewell  to 

him. 
Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to   the 

chaps. 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 
Dnn.  0,  vahant  cousin !  worthy  gentleman ! 
Sold.  As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection 
Shipwi-acking    storms     and     direful    thunders 

break ;  •» 
So  from  that  spring,  whence  comfort  seem'd  to 

come. 
Discomfort   swells.     Mark,  king  of  Scotland, 

mark: 
No  .sooner  j ustice  had,  with  valour  aim'd, 
CompelTd  these  skipping  kernes  to  trust  their 

heels. 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage, 
With  fiu-bish'd  arms,  and  new  supplies  of  men. 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Dun.  Dismay'd  not  this  our  captains,  Macbeth 

and  Banquo?" 
Sold.  Yes :  As  sparrows,  eagles ;  or  the  hare, 

the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharg'd  with  double  cracks ; 
So  they  doubly  redoubled    strokes   upon  th-.:; 

foe: 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds. 
Or  memorize  another  Golgotha, 
I  cannot  tell : 

But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 
Dun.  So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy 

wounds ; 
They  smack  of  honour  both  : — Go,  get  him  sur- 
geons. [^Exit  Soldier,  attended. 

Enter  RossE. 

Who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  The  worthy  thane  of  Rosse. 

Zen.  What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes ! 


»  We  follow  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original. 
Stcevens  changes  the  hemistich  thus  : — 

"  Like  valour's  minion, 
Carv'd  out  his  passage,  till  he  fac'd  the  slave." 

b  The  work  break  is  not  in  the  original.  The  second 
folio  adds  frrenArini;.  Some  verb  is  wanting;  and  the  read- 
ing of  the  second  folio  is  some  sort  of  authority  for  the  in- 
troduction of  break,  which  word  was  added  by  Pope. 

c  We  print  this  line  according  to  the  original  as  an 
A'exandrine  — a  verse  constantly  introduced  by  Shakspere 
for  the  production  of  variety. 


Act  I.J 


MACBETH. 


ISCBSZlIt. 


So  should  he  look  that  seems  to  speak  things 
strange. 

Rosse.  God  save  the  king ! 

Dun.  Whence  cani'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Rosse.  From  Fife,  great  king, 
Wtere  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky, 
And  fan  our  people  cold. 
Norway  himself,  with  terrible  numbers. 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  thane  of  Ca\vdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict : 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,'  lapp'd  in  proof, 
Confronted  him  Math  self-comparisons, 
Point  against  point,  rebellious  arm  'gainst  arm,h 
Curbing  his  lavish  spuit :  And,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us ; — 

Dun.  Great  happiness ! 

Basse.  That  now 
Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition ; 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men, 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  Saint  Colmes'  inch. 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Diot.  No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall 
deceive 
Our  bosom  interest: — Go,  pronounce  his  pre- 
sent <=  death. 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Rosse.  I  '11  see  it  done. 

Dun.  What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  liath 
■won.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  111.— A  Heath.     Thunder. 
Enter  the  three  Witches. 

1  Witch,  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister  ? 

2  IFitch.  Killing  swine. 

3  Witch.  Sister,  where  thou  ? 

1  Witch.  A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her 

lap, 
A.nd  mounch'd,  and  mouuch'd,  and  mouuch'd : 

— '  Give  me,'  quoth  I : 
'Ai-oint  theCj-^  witch!'    the  rump-fed  ronyon'' 

cries. 
Her  husband 's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the 

Tiger : 
But  in  a  sieve  I  'U  thither  sail,^ 
And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 
I  '11  do,  I  '11  do,  and  I  '11  do. 

.1  Bellona's  brideoroom  is  here  undoubtedly  Macbeth ;  but 
Henley  and  Steevens,  fancying  that  the  God  of  War  -n  as 
meant,  chuckle  over  Shakspere's  ignorance  in  not  knowing 
that  Mars  was  not  the  husband  of  Bellona. 

b  This  is  the  original  punctuation,  which  we  think,  with 
Tieck,  is  better  than 

"  Point  against  point  rebellious,  arm  'gainst  arm." 

c  Without  the  slightest  ceremony  Steevens  omits  the  em- 
phatic word  present,  as  "  injurious  to  metre." 

i  Aroint  /Aee.- See  King  Lear;  Illustration  of  Act  in., 

e  fionyoB.— SeeAsYouLikelt;  >fotc on  Act  ii..  Scene  ii. 


2  Witch.  I  '11  give  thee  a  wind. 
1  Witch.  Th'  art  kmd. 

3  Witch.  And  I  another. 

1  Witch.  I  myscK  have  all  the  other ; 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow, 

AH  the  quarters  that  they  know 
r  the  shipman's  card. 
I  'U  drain  him  dry  as  hay  :  * 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid ; 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid  : 
Weary  sev'n-nights,  nine  times  nine. 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine : 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-toss'd. 
Look  what  I  have. 

2  Witch.  Show  me,  show  me. 

1  Witch.  Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thu.nb, 
Wrack' d,  as  homeward  he  did  come. 

[Drum  within. 

3  Witch.  A  dram,  a  drum : 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

J II.  The  weird''  sisters,  hand  in  hand. 
Posters  of  the  sea  and  land. 


a  Steevens  says,  "  As  I  cannot  help  supposing  this  scene 
to  have  been  uniformly  metrical  when  our  author  wrote  it, 
in  its  present  state  I  suspect  it  to  be  clogged  with  inierpola- 
tions,  or  mutilated  by  omissions."  There  really  appears  no 
foundation  for  the  supposition  that  the  scene  was  uniformly 
metrical.  It  is  a  mixture  of  blank-verse  with  the  seven- 
syllable  rhyme,  producing,  from  its  variety,  a  wild  and 
solemn  effect  which  no  regularity  could  have  achieved. 

"  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister! 

Killing  swine;' 

is  a  line  of  blank  verse : 

"  Sister,  where  thou?" 
a  dramatic  hemistich.     We  have  then  four  lines  of  blank 
verse,  before  the  lyrical  movement.  "  But  in  a  sieve,"  &c. 

"  I  '11  give  thee  a  wind. 

Th*  art  kind. 

And  I  another," 

is  a  ten-syllable  line,  rhyming  with  the  following  octo-syl- 
labic  line.    So,  in  the  same  manner, 

"  I'  the  shipman's  card. 

I  '11  drain  him  dry  as  hay, 

is  a  ten-syllable  line,  rhj-ming  with  the  following  one  of 
seven  syllables.  Some  editors  have  destroyed  this  metrical 
arrangement  by  changing  "  Th'  art  kind"  into  '■  Thou  art 
kind;"  and  "I'll  drain  him  dry  as  hay"  into  "/  vill 
drain  him  dry  as  hay."  CapeU's  "  thou  'rt "  is  an  improve- 
ment. ,  ,  .  ■  J  •  I 
b  ll'eird.  —There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  tenn  is  derived 
from  the  Anglo-Saxon  wi/rd,  word  spoken  ;  and  in  the  same 
way  that  the  word/o/f  is  anything  spoken,  weird  and  fatal 
are  synonymous,  and  equallv  applicable  to  such  mysterious 
beings  as  Macbeth's  witches.  We  cannot  therefore  agree 
with  Tieck  that  the  word  is  tC7»/«'arrf— wilful.  He  says  that 
it  is  written  uai/ward  in  the  original;  but  this  is  not  so:  it 
is  written  iceijwnrd,  which  Steevens  says  is  a  blunder  of  the 
transcriber  or  printer.  We  doubt  this;  for  the  word  is  thus 
written  wei/ward,  to  mark  that  it  consists  of  two  syllables. 
For  example,  in  the  second  act,  Banquo  says— 

"I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weytcard  sisters." 
But  it  is  also  written  weijard:— 

"  As  the  weyard  women  promis'd,  and  I  fear." 
Here  the  word  is  one  syllable,  by  elision,     When  the  poet 
uses  the  w<ird  wmiward  in  the  sense  of  wilful,  the  editors  ol 
the  original  do  not  confound  the  words.    Thus,  in  the  third 
act,  Hecate  says — 

"  And  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son." 


ACTl.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCENS  III 


Thus  do  go  about,  about ; 
Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine : 
Peace ! — the  charm  's  wound  up. 

Enter  Macbeth  and  Ba>'quo. 

Macb.  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Ban.  How  far  is 't  call'd  to  Forres  ?— What 
are  these, 
So  wither'd  and  so  wild  in  their  attire ; 
That  look  not  like  tlie  inhabitants  o'  the  earth. 
And  yet  arc  on  't?  Live  you?  or  arc  yoa  aught 
That  man  may  question?     You  sccin  to  under- 
stand me, 
By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips : — You  should  be  women, 
And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macb.  Speak,  if  you  can ; — "What  are  you  ? 

1  Witch.  All  hail,   Macbeth!    hail  to    thee, 

thauc  of  Glamis ! 

2  Witch.  All  haU,  Macbeth!    hail  to    thee, 

thane  of  Cawdor ! 

3  Witch.  All  hail,  Macbeth!    that   shalt   be 

king  hereafter. 
Ban.  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start;  and  seem 
to  fear 

Things  that  do  sound  so  fair? — I'  the  name  of 
truth, 

Are  ye  fantastical,*  or  that  indeed 

■\71iich  outwardly  ye  show  ?    My  noble  partner 

You  greet  with  present  grace,  and  great  predic- 
tion 

Of  noble  having,  and  of  royal  hope. 

That  he  seems  rapt  withal;  to  me  you  speak 
not: 

If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time. 

And  say,  which  grain  will  grow,  and  wluch  wLU 
not. 

Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg,  nor  feai". 

Your  favours  nor  your  hate. 

1  Witch.  HaU! 

2  intch.  Had! 

3  Witch.  HaU! 

1  Witch.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

2  Witch.  Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

3  Witch.  Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  th(ju 

be  none : 
So  all  hail,  IMacbeth  and  Banquo  ! 

1  Witch.  Banquo,  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 
Macb.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me 
more : 
By  Sinel's  death  I  know  I  am  thane  of  Glamis  ; 

»  Faii<<7J/ico/— bclotipinR  to  fantaiiy  -imaginary. 
n 


But  how  of  Cawdor?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  lives 
A  prosperous  gentleman ;  and,  to  l)e  king, 
Stands  not  \vithin  the  prospect  of  belief. 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say,  from  whence 
You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ?  or  why 
Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting  ? — Speak,  I  charge 
you.  [Witches  vanish. 

Ban.  The  earth  halh  bubbles,  as  the  watci 
has. 
And  these   are   of    them :     Whither  are  thcv 
vauish'd  ? 
Macb.  Lito  the  air :    and  what  secm'cl  cor- 
poral, melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind. — 'Would  they   had 
staid ! 
Ban.  Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak 
about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  on*  the  insane  root,"^" 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 
Macb.  Your  childi'cn  shall  be  kings. 
Ban.  You  shall  be  king. 

Macb.  And  thane  of  Cawdor  too ;  went  it  not 

so? 
Ban.  To  the  self-same  tune  and  words.  Who 's 
here  ? 

Enter  Kxjsse  and  Angus. 

Rosse.  The  king  hath  happily  receiv'd,  Mac- 
beth, 
The  news  of  thy  success  :  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend, 
■WTiich  should  be  thine,  or  his :  Silenc'd  with  that. 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  self-same  day. 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks. 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  hail 
Came  post  with  post ; '  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Ang.  We  are  sent, 

To  give  thee,  from  our  royal  master,  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight,  not  pay  thee. 


0-  On.— The  modern  editors  substitute  of;  but  why  should 
ve  reject  an  ancient  idiom  in  our  rage  for  modernising? 

I'  Henbane  is  called  in^nna  in  an  old  book  of  medJcinCi 
which  Shakspere  might  have  consulted. 
c  The  passage  stands  thus  in  the  origin.il :  — 

"  He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afraid  of  what  thyself  did  make, 
Strange  images  of  death,  as  thick  as  Tale 
Can  post  witlj  post." 
We  venture  to  adopt  the  reading  of  Howe;  principally  be- 
cause the  expression   "as  thick  as   hail"  was  rendered 
familiar  by  poelica'i  use  :  Spenser  has 

"  As  thick  as  hail  forth  poured  from  the  sky." 
And  Drayton, 

"  Out  of  the  town  come  quarries  thick  as  hail." 


Act  I.] 


MACBETH. 


[scEVB  n. 


Rosse.  And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 
He    bade  me,   fiom  hini,   call  thee    thane    of 

Cawdor : 
In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Ban.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macb.  The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives  :    "Why  do 
you  dress  me 
[n  borrow'd  robes  ? 

Ang.  Who  was  the  thane,  lives  yet ; 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 
Which  he  deserves  to  lose. 
Whether  he  was  combin'd  with  those  of  Nor- 
way; 
Or  did  line  the  rebel  with  hidden  help 
And  vantage ;  or  that  with  both  he  labom-'d 
In  his  country's  wrack,  I  know  not;"* 
But  treasons  capital,  confess' d,  and  proVd, 
Have  overthrown  him. 

Macb.  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor ; 

The    greatest    is    behiad. — Thanks    for    your 

pains. — 
Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings, 
"When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me, 
Promis'd  no  less  to  them  ? 

Ban.  That,  trusted  home, 

IVIight  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown, 
Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.    But 't  is  strange : 
And  oftentimes,  to  wiu  us  to  our  hai-m. 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  tiiiths ; 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequence. — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macb.  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme. — ^I  thank  you,  gentle- 
men.— 
This  supernatural  soliciting 
Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good : — If  ill. 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success. 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?   I  am  thane  of  Cawdor : 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair. 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginmgs : 
My  thought,  whose  murther  yet  is  but  fantas- 
tical. 
Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man,  that  fimction 
Is  smother'd  in  surmise;  and  nothing  is 
But  what  is  not. 

;Ban.  Look,  how  our  partner  's  rapt. 


ft  We  follow  the  •metrical  arrangement  of  the  oricri'':^  ;— 
not  a  perfect  one,  certainly. 


Macb.  If   chance  will  have  me  king,   why 
chance  may  crown  me. 
Without  my  stir. 

Ban.  New  honours  come  upon  him 

Like  our  strange  garments ;  cleave  not  to  their 

mould. 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macb.  Come  what  come  may. 

Time  and  the  hour  iiins  through  the  roughest  day. 

Ban.  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your 

leisure. 
Macb.  Give  me  your  favour : — 
My  didl  brain  was  wrought  with  things  forgotten. 
Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains  are  register'd 
Where  every  day  I  turn  the  leaf  to  read  them. — 
Let  us  toward  the  king. — * 
Think  upon  what  hath  chanc'd;  and,  at  more 

time. 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Ban.  Very  gladly. 

Macb.  Tin  then,  enough. — Come,  friends. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Forres.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Floui-isli.     Enter  Dtjnca^t,  Malcolm,  Donal- 
BALN,  Lenox,  and  Attendants. 

Bun.  Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor  ?   Ai-e  not 
Those  in  commission  yet  return'd  ? 

Mai.  My  Uege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that  saw  hun  die :  who  did  report. 
That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons ; 
Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon ;  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance :  nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  hke  the  leaving  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death. 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  ow'd. 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle.'' 

Bun.  There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face : 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  bmlt 
An  absolute  trust. — 0  worthiest  cousin ! 

Enter  Macbeth,  Ban  quo,  Rosse,  and  ksGVS,. 

The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 
Was  heavy  on  me :  Thou  art  so  far  before. 
That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 
To  ovei-take  thee.     'Would    thou   hadst    less 
deserv'd ; 

a  To  get  rid  of  the  two  heinistichs  these  five  lines  an- 
made  four  in  modern  edition;-. 

b  The  metrical  arrangement  of  this  speech  is  deciaedly 
improved  in  the  modem  text:  but  the  improvement  I4 
not,  as  in  the  cases  where  we  have  rejected  changes,  pro- 
duced by  the  determination  to  effect  an  absurd  uniformity. 
The  same  remark  applies  to  Macbeth's  answer  to  the  kinj. 


Act  I.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEXB  V, 


There  if  I  grow, 


That  the  proportiou  both  of  thanks  aud  payment 
Might  have  been  mine !  only  I  have  left  to  say. 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 
Macb.  The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe. 
In  doing  it,  pays  itself.     Your  highness*  part 
Is  to  receive  our  duties :  and  our  duties 
Are  to  your  tlirone  and  state,  children  and  ser- 
vants; 
Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  every- 
thing 
Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour.* 

Dun.  Welcome  hither : 

I  have  begun  to  plaut  thee,  aud  will  labour 
To  make  tliec  full  of  growing. — Xoble  Bauquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserv'd,  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  enfold  thee. 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Ban. 
The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Dun.  My  plenteous  joys. 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow. — Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes. 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know. 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm ;  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  prince  of  Cumberland :  which  honour  must 
Not,  unaccompanied,  invest  him  only. 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers. — From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you. 
Macb.  The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  us'd 
for  you : 
I  '11  be  myself  the  harbinger,  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach ; 
So  humbly  take  ray  leave. 
Dun.  My  worthy  Cawdor ! 

Macb.  The  priuce  of  Cimiberland ! — That  is  a 
step 
On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'er-leap, 

\Aiide. 
For  in  my  way  it  lies.     Stars,  hide  your  fires ! 
Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires : 
The  eye  wink  at  the  hand !  yet  let  that  be. 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see. 

{Exit. 


»  Sir  William  Blackstone  interprets  the  wordin/easjarira", 
conceiving  that  the  whole  »peech  is  an  allusion  to  feudal 
homage:  "The  oath  of  allegiance,  or  liege  homage,  to  the 
king,  was  absolute,  and  without  any  exception  ;  but  timtile 
homage,  when  done  to  a  subject  for  lands  holden  of  him. 
was  always  with  a  taring  of  the  allegiance  (the  lore  and 
honour)  due  to  the  sovereign.  '  Sauf  la  foy  que  jej  doy  a 
nostre  seignor  le  roy,' as  it  is  in  Littleton"  According  to 
this  interpretation,  then,  Macbeth  only  professes  a  qualified 
homage  to  the  king's  throne  and  state,  as  if  the  kinfr's  love 
and  honour  were  something  higher  than  his  power  and 
dignity.  We  cannot  understand  this.  Surely  it  is  easier  to 
receive  the  words  in  their  plain  acceptation — our  duties  are 
called  upon  to  do  everylhinc  which  they  can  do  tafely, 
r.t  regards  the  love  and  bonoui  vie  b.-ar  you. 


Dun.  True,    worthy   Banquo;    he  is  full  so 
valiant ; 
And  in  liis  commendations  I  am  fed ; 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let  's  after  him, 
Wliose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome : 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.        {^Flourish.    Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Inverness.    A  lioom  in  Macbeth'* 
Ccfsile. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  M.  ■  They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success  ;  and  1 
have  learned  by  the  perfectest  report,  they  have  more  in 
them  than  mortal  knowledge.  When  I  burned  in  desire  to 
question  them  f'lrther,  they  made  themselves  air,  into  which 
they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the  wonder  of  it, 
came  missives  from  the  king,  who  all-hailedme,  "Thane  of 
Cawdor;"  by  which  title,  before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted 
me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming  on  of  time,  with,  "  Hail, 
king  that  shalt  be ! "  This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver 
thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness ;  that  thou  mightest 
not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  what 
greatness  is  promised  thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  fare- 
well.' 
I 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor  ;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promis'd : — Yet  do  I  fear  thy  na- 
ture; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
I  To  catch  the  nearest  way:  Thou  wouldst  be 
'  great ; 

;   Art  not  without  ambition ;  but  without 
The  illness  should  attend  it.  AYhat  thou  wouldst 

highly. 
That  wouldst  thou  holily;   wouldst  not  play 

false. 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win;  thou 'dst  have, 

great  Glamis, 
That  which  cries,  '  Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou 

have  it : 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.'     Hie    thee 

hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  tliine  ear ; 
And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round. 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical*  aid  doth  seem 

To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. "Wliat  is  your 

tidings? 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alten.  The  king  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Thou  'rt  mad  to  say  it  : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  wer  't  so. 
Would  have  iuform'd  for  preparation. 

Atten.  So  please  you,  it  is  true ;  our  thane  is 
coming  J 

*  .If fta/zAyiicdl— supernatural. 


ACTI. 


MACBETH. 


[SCESE  VI 


Oue  of  iny  feiiows  liad  the  speed  of  him ; 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  M.  Give  him  tending, 

He  brings  great  news.     The  raven  himself  is 
hoarse  [Exit  Attendant. 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.     Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here ; 
And  fill  me,  from  the  erown  to  the  toe,  top-fidl 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood. 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse ; 
That  no  compimctious  visitings  of  natm-e 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The   effect    and    it!      Come    to   my    woman's 

breasts, 
Ajid  take  my  milk  for  gall,   you   murthering 

ministers, 
Wlierever  in  your  sightless  substances 
.''ou  wait  on  uatui-e's  mischief!'   Come,  thick 

night. 
And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes ; 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  tlic 

dark,* 
To  cry,  'Hold,  hold!'-'' Great  Glamis,  wor- 
thy Cawdor ! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-had  hereafter ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
The  futiu-e  in  the  instant. 

]\facb.  ^y  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Ladi/  M.  And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macb.  To-morrow,— as  he  pm-poses. 

Lady  M.  0'  ^ever 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  !  ^ 
Your    face,  my   thane,   is    as    a  book,   whore 

men 
May  read    strange  matters :— To   beguile  the 

time. 
Look    like   the   time;    bear   welcome   in  your 

eye, 
Your  hand,  your  tougue  :  look  like  the  innocent 

flower. 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it.     He  tliat  's  coming 


a  The  "  blanket  of  the  dark"  has  become  a  famil  ar 
phrase,  and  we  are  now  to  change  it,  under  the  autnorUy 
of  Mr.  Collier's  corrected  folio,  to  "  *'«*'f/ f^*''^/^"':;,, 
The  phrase  in  Cymbeline,  "  If  Casar  could  l'«le/he  su„ 
from  us  with  a  biuuket,"  gives  the  key  to  Lady  Macheth  , 
metaphor.  The  light  of  "heaven"  was  to  be  shut  out  b> 
the  "  blanket  of  the  dark."     So  Drayton  :— 

"  The  sullen  night  in  misty  rug  is  wrapt." 


Must  be  provided  for :  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macb.  We  will  speak  further. 

Ladi/  M.  Only  look  up  clear ; 

To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear : 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  rae.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  yi.—T/ie  same.    Before  the  Castle. 

Hautboys.     Servants  of  Macbeth  attending. 
Enter  Duncan,  !^Lllcolm,  Donalbain,  Ban- 
quo,  Lenox,  ^M^cduef,  Bosse,  Angus,  and 
Attendants. 

Lnn.  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  aii 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
"Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Ban.  This  guest  of  summer. 

The  temple-haunt mg  martlet,  does  approve. 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here :  no  jutty,  frieze. 
Buttress,  nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bu'd 
Hath   made    his    pendent  bed    and    procreaut 

cradle : 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  ob- 

serv'd, 
The  air  is  dthcatc' 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Bun.  See,  see !  our  honour'd  hostess ! 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  is  our  trouble. 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.     Herein  I  teach 

yoi' 
How  you  shall  bid  God-eyld  us  for  your  pams, 

And  thank  ns  for  your  trouble.'' 

Lady  M.  All  our  service 

Li  every  point   twice    done,   and    then   done 

double. 


a  TVe  request  our  readers  to  repeat  these  celebrated  lines 
as  we  have  printed  them.  Our  test  is  a  literal  copy  of  the 
original.  Is  not  the  harmony  perfect?  Would  tliey  venture 
to  displace  a  syllable?  And  yet  it  was  thus  remodelled  by 
the  master-hand  of  Steevens,  without  the  sli-htest  expUna- 
lion  or  apology  : — 

"  This  guest  of  summer, 
The  temple  haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven  s  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty,  frieze,  buttress, 
Nor  coigne  of  vantage,  but  this  bird  hath  made 
His  pendent  bed,  and  procreaut  cradle:  where  tuev 
Most  breed  and  haunt.  I  have  observ'd,  the  air 
Is  delicate." 

b  We  have  restored  the  old  familiar  expression  God-tyM, 
as  suiting  better  with  the  playfulness  of  I>"""" ',  *I"^;;^ 
than  the  Gorf  yidd  im  of  Johnson's  text.  Malone  ana 
Steevens  each  ghe  a  very  long  paraphr..se  °[  '"^^f  ^^ 
There  is  ereat  refinement  in  the  sentiment,  but  the  niian 
Jn^Z  iolerfbly  clear.  The  love  wh.cb  fo'lo- "^,'^,^°;"/j 
times  troublesome;  so  we  give  you  "°"^'^'  '"'  ^^^^^nk 
only  at  the  love  we  bear  to  you.  and  so  bless  lu  ant  tiwinK 

us.  J5 


Aci  I.] 


MACBETH. 


[Scene  VI L 


Were  poor  and  single  business,  to  contend 

Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad,  where- 
with 

Your  majesty  loads  our  house :  For  those  of  old, 

And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 

We  rest  your  hermits." 

Dun.  Where  's  the  thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 

To  be  his  purveyor  :  but  he  rides  well ; 

And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  liatli  holp 
him 

To  his  home  before  us :  Fair  and  noble  hostess, 

We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  M.  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in 
compt. 

To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasui-e. 

Still  to  retui-n  youi-  own. 
Bull.  Give  me  your  hand : 

Conduct  me  to  mme  host ;  we  love  him  highly, 

And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  liim. 

By  your  leave,  hostess.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  ^11.— The  same.   A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.  Enter,  and  pass  over  the 
stage,  a  Sewer,  and  dicers  Servants  with  dishes 
and  service.     Then  enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  If  it  were  done,  when  't  is  done,  then 
't  were  well 
It  were  done  quickly :  If  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch, 
With  his  surcease,  success ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal *•  of  time. 
We  'd  jump  the  life  to  come. — But  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here ;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor :  This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.'^    He 's  here  in  double  trust : 

»  Hermits — beadsmen — bound  to  pray  for  a  benefactor. 

b  Shoal— in  the  original,  *o//oo/p.  Theo!)ald  corrected  the 
word  to  ihoal. 

e  The  entire  passage,  from  the  beginning  of  the  speech 
to  this  point,  is  obscure.  Without  venturing  to  alter  the 
common  punctuation,  we  would  recommend  an  attentive 
consideration  of  the  reading  of  the  first  line,  as  given  by 
Mr.  Macready;  and  then  carry  on  the  soliloquy,  as  suggested 
by  that  alteration  : — 

"  If  it  were  done  when  't  is  done,  then  't  were  well. 
It  were  done  quickly,  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch. 
With  his  surcease,  success,  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  th»  be-all  and  the  end-all.     Here, — 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time. 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come,  but  in  these  cases 
We  still  have-judgment  here,  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  l>eing  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor:  This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.' 

16 


First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject. 
Strong  both  against  the  deed  ;  then,  as  his  host. 
Who  shoidd  against  his  mui-therer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.  Besides,  tliis  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  ofiBcc,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-ofif : 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-bora  babe. 
Striding  the  bkst,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  hois'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air. 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye. 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.— I  have  no 

spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself," 
And  falls  on  the  other"" — How  now,  what  news  ? 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  He  has  almost  supp'd :  Why  have 
you  left  the  chamber  ? 

Macb.  Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Know  you  not  he  has  ? 

Macb.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this 
business  : 
He  hath  honour'd  me  of  late ;  and  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Nor  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  M.  Was  the  hope  drank. 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yoiirself?   hath  it  slept 

since? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?    From  this  time. 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valoui". 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  thai 
"Wliich  thou  esteem' st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem ; 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would. 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ?<" 

»  It  has  been  proposed  (by  Singleton,  say  the  Cambridge 
editors)  to  read,  instead  of  itself,  its  sell,  its  saddle.  How- 
ever clever  may  be  the  notion,  we  can  scarcely  admit  the 
necessity  for  the  change  of  the  original.  A  person  (aii6 
vaulting  ambition  is  personified)  might  be  said  to  overleap 
himself,  as  well  as  overbalance  himself,  or  overcharge  him- 
self, or  overlabour  himself,  or  overmeasure  himself,  or  over- 
reach himself.  There  is  a  parallel  u>e  of  the  word  over  in 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  "  Prove  it  again,  sir;  it  may  be 
your  sense  was  set  too  high,  and  so  overtcrought  itself."  The 
word  orer  in  all  these  cases  is  used  in  the  sense  of  too  much. 

b  After  other  Hanmer  introduced  side.  The  addition  is 
held  to  be  unnecessarj-,  inasmuch  as  the  plural  noun, 
*ides,  occurs  just  before.  But  surely  this  notion  is  to 
produce  a  jumble  of  the  metaphor.  Macbeth  compares  his 
intent  to  a  courser :  I  have  no  spur  to  urge  him  on.  Unpre- 
pared I  am  about  to  vault  into  my  seat,  but  I  overleap  my. 
self  and  fall.  It  appears  to  us  that  the  sentence  is  brokec 
by  the  entrance  of  the  messenger ;  that  it  is  not  complete  ic 
itself;  and  would  not  have  been  completed  with  side. 

c  We  find  the  adage  in  Heywood's  Proverbs,  1566:—"  Tht 
cat  would  eat  fish  and  would  not  wet  her  feet." 


Act  1.1 


MACBETH. 


[SCKSF.  VII. 


Macb .  Prithee,  peace  : 

1  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more,  is  none. 

Lady  M.  What  beast  was  't  tlien. 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  dui'st  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time,   nor 

place. 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  then-  fit- 
ness now 
Does  uimmke  you,    I  have   given  suck;   and 

know 
How  tender 't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn, 
As  you  have  done  to  tliis. 

diucb.  If  we  should  fail, ■ 

Lady  31.  We  fail.-* 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place. 
And  we  '11  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, 
(Wliereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him,)  his  two  chamberlains 

a  We  fail.  This  is  generally  pointed  We  fail!— The 
quiet  self-possession  of  the  punctuation  -vv-e  have  adopted 
appears  preferable  to  the  original  "  We  fail?" 


Will  I  with  wme  and  wassel  so  convince, 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain. 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 
A  limbeck ''  only :   When  in  s\vinish  sleei) 
Their  drenched  natures  lie,  as  in  a  death. 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers ;  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  oui"  great  quell  ?  '^ 

Macb.  Bring  forth  men-children  only. 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Notliing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  receiv'd, 
Wlien  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy 

two 
Of  his  o^vn  chamber,  and  us'd  then-  veij  daggers. 
That  they  have  done 't  ? 

Lady  31.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

3Iacb.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  Avith  fairest  show : 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth 
know.  \Exeunt. 


a  Convince — overpower. 

b  iimiecA:— alembic.  Shakspere  understood  the  construc- 
tion of  a  still,  in  this  happy  comparison  of  the  brain  to  tliat 
part  of  a  vessel  through  whicli  a  distilled  liquor  pr.sses 

e  Quu'W— murder. 


[Distant  View  of  the  Heatli.] 


Tragedies. — Vol.  11. 


C 


n 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  L 


'  Scene  TI.— "  Of  iernes  and  gallowglasscs  is 
supplied." 

Is  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.  we  have  this 
passage : — 

"  The  Duke  of  York  is  newly  come  from  Ireland  : 
And  with  a  puissant  and  a  mighty  power, 
Of  gallowglasses  and  stout  kernes, 
Is  marching  hitherward  in  proud  array." 

Bamaby  Rich  describes  the  gallowf/lass  as  a  foot- 
soldier  armed  with  a  skull,  a  shirt  of  mail,  and  a 
gallowglass  axe.  The  kernes  he  denounces  as  the 
very  dross  and  scum  of  the  country,  ready  to  run 
out  with  every  rebel. 

'  Scene  III. — "  But  in  a  sieve  I  'II  thither  sail." 

In  a  pamphlet  called  '  News  from  Scotland,' 
1591,  it  is  shown  how  certain  Avitches,  who  pre- 
tended to  bewitch  and  drown  his  majesty  (our 
James  I.)  in  the  sea  coming  from  Denmark, 
"together  went  to  sea,  each  one  in  a  riddle  or 
cive,  and  went  in  the  same  very  substantially  with 
flagons  of  wine,  making  merry  and  drinking  by 
the  way  in  the  same  riddles  or  cives." 


'  Scene  V. — " Come,  thick  night"  kc 

This  celebrated  passage  has  given  rise  to  much 
discussion,  particularly  with  reference  to  the  word 
blanket.  This,  Malone  says,  was  certainly  the 
poet's  word,  and  "perhaps  was  suggested  to  him 
by  the  coarse  icoollen  curtain  of  his  own  theatre, 
through  which,  probably,  while  the  house  was  yet 
but  half  lighted,  he  had  himself  often  peeped."  But 
Whiter  has  very  ingeniously  illustrated  the  passage 
by  another  view  of  the  subject.  The  internal  roof 
of  the  stage  was  anciently  called  the  heavens. 
This  was  its  known  and  familiar  name,  as  we  have 
previously  had  occasion  to  mention.  (See  Henry 
VI.,  Part  I.  Illustration  of  Act  i.)  But  when 
tragedies  were  represented,  the  back  of  the  stage, 
according  to  Malone,  was  hung  with  black.  Whiter 
is  persuaded  that,  on  these  occasions,  the  deco- 
rations about  the  roof,  which  were  designed  to  re- 
present the  appearance  of  the  heavens,  were  also 
covered  with  black.  This,  then,  was  the  "  blanket 
of  the  dark  "  through  which  "  heaven  "  was  not  to 
"peep."  This  is  certainly  ingenious;  but  is  it 
necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  passage  ? 
Drayton,  ■without  any  stago  associations,  has  this 
line  in  an  eai'ly  poem  : — 

"  The  sullen  night  in  misty  rug  is  wrapp'd." 


HISTORICAL  ILLUSTRATION. 


It  is  not  our  intention  to  conduct  our  readers 
through  the  obscure  and  contradictory  traditions 
that  belong  to  the  history  of  Macbeth.  Shakspere 
found  this  history,  apocrj'phal  as  it  may  be, 
graphically  told  in  Holinshed;  and  it  will  be 
BuflBcient  for  us  to  select  such  passages  as  must 
necessarily  have  passed  under  the  poet's  eye  in  the 
construction  of  this  great  tragedy. 

"  It  fortuned  as  Mxicbeth  and  Banquo  journeyed 
towards  Forres,  where  the  king  then  lay,  they  went 
sporting  by  the  way  together,  without  other  com- 
pany save  only  themselves,  passing  through  the 
woods  and  fields,  when  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of 
a  laund,*  there  met  them  three  women  in  strange 
and  wild  apparel,  resembling  creatures  of  elder 
world,  whom  when  they  attentively  beheld, 
wondering  much  at  the  sight,  the  first  of  them 


A  plain  unongit  trees. 


spake  and  said.  All  hail,  Jfacbeth.  thane  of  Glara- 
niis  !  (for  he  had  lately  entered  into  that  dignity 
and  oflSce  by  the  death  of  his  father  Sinell).  The 
second  of  them  said,  Hail,  Macbeth,  thane  of 
Cawder  !  But  the  third  said,  All  hail,  Macbeth, 
that  liereafter  shalt  be  king  of  Scotland  1 

"  Then  Banquo  :  What  manner  of  women  (saith 
he)  are  you,  that  seem  so  little  favourable  unto 
me,  whereas  to  my  fellow  here,  besides  high  of- 
fices, ye  assign  also  the  kingdom,  appointing  forth 
nothing  for  me  at  all  ?  Yes  (saith  the  first  of  them), 
we  promise  greater  benefits  unto  thee  than  unto 
him,  for  he  shall  reign  indeed,  but  with  an  un- 
lucky end ;  neither  shall  he  leave  any  issue  behind 
him  to  succeed  in  his  place,  where  contrarily  thou 
indeed  shalt  not  reign  at  all ;  but  of  thee  shall  be 
bom  which  shall  govern  the  Scottish  kingdom  by 
long  order  of  continual  descent.  Herewith  the 
foresaid  women  vanished  immediately  out  of  their 


18 


MACBETH. 


sight.  This  was  reputed  at  the  first  but  some  vaiu 
fantastical  illusion  by  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  inso- 
much that  Banquo  would  call  Macbeth  in  jest  King 
of  Scotland ;  and  Macbeth  again  would  caU.  him  in 
sport  likewise  the  father  of  many  kings.  But 
afterwards  the  common  opinion  was,  that  these 
women  were  either  the  weird  sisters,  that  is  (as  ye 
would  say)  the  goddesses  of  destiny,  or  else  some 
nymphs  or  fairies,  endued  with  knowledge  of 
prophecy  by  their  necromantical  science,  because 
everything  came  to  pass  as  they  had  spoken. 
For,  shortly  after,  the  Thane  of  Cawder  being 
condemned  at  Forres  of  treason  against  the  king 
committed,  his  lands,  livings,  and  offices  were 
given  of  the  king's  liberality  to  Macbeth. 

"  The  same  night  after,  at  supper,  Banquo  jested 
with  him,  and  said,  Now,  Macbeth,  thou  hast  ob- 
tained those  things  which  the  two  former  sisters 
prophesied,  there  remaineth  only  for  thee  to  pur- 
chase that  which  the  third  said  should  come  to 
pass.  Whereupon  Macbeth,  revolving  the  thing 
in  his  mind,  began  even  then  to  devise  how  he 
might  attain  to  the  kingdom ;  but  yet  he  thought 
with  himself  that  he  must  tarry  a  time,  which 
should  advance  him  thereto  (by  the  Divine  Pro- 
vidence) as  it  had  come  to  pass  in  his  former 
preferment.  But  shortly  after  it  chanced  that 
King  Duncan,  having  two  sons  by  his  wife,  which 
was  the  daughter  of  Siward  Earl  of  Northumber- 
land, he  made  the  elder  of  them,  called  Malcolm, 


Prince  of  Cumberland,  as  it  were  thereby  to  ap- 
point him  his  successor  in  the  kingdom  imme- 
diately after  his  decease.  Macbeth,  sore  troubled 
herewith,  for  that  he  saw  by  this  means  his  hope 
sore  hindered,  (where,  by  the  old  laws  of  the  realm, 
the  ordinance  was,  that,  if  he  that  should  succeed 
were  not  of  able  age  to  take  the  charge  upon  him- 
self, he  that  was  nest  of  blood  unto  him  should  be 
admitted.)  he  began  to  take  counsel  how  he  might 
usurp  the  kingdom  by  force,  having  a  just  quarrel 
so  to  do  (as  he  took  the  matter),  for  that  Duncan 
did  what  in  him  lay  to  defraud  him  of  all  manner 
of  title  and  claim  which  he  might  in  time  to  come 
pretend  unto  the  crown. 

"  The  words  of  the  three  weird  sisters  also  (of 
whom  before  ye  have  heard)  greatly  encouraged 
him  hereunto,  but  specially  his  wife  lay  sore  upon 
him  to  attempt  the  thing,  as  she  that  was  very  am- 
bitious, burning  in  unquenchable  desire  to  bear 
the  name  of  a  queen.  At  length,  therefore,  com- 
municating his  purposed  intent  with  his  trusty 
friends,  amongst  whom  Banquo  was  the  chiefest 
upon  confidence  of  their  promised  aid  he  slew  the 
king  at  Envems,  or  (as  some  say)  at  Botgosvane. 
in  the  first  year  of  his  reign.  Then,  having  a  com 
pany  about  him  of  such  as  he  bad  made  privy  to 
his  enterprise,  he  caused  himself  to  be  proclaimed 
king,  and  forthwith  went  unto  Scone,  where  (by 
common  content)  he  received  the  investure  of  the 
kingdom  according  to  the  accustomed  manner." 


[St.  Colmes"  Inch.] 

LOCAL  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Scene  II. — "A  camp  near  Forres." 
Probably  situated  in  the  moors  to  the  south  of  the 
town,  so  as  to  intercept  the  march  of  the  invaders 
from  Fife  to  the  royal  residences  of  the  north. 
Wide  and  almost  level  tracts  of  heath  extend 
southwards  from  Forres,  amidst  which  the  march 
of  an  army  might  be  discerned  from  a  great 
distance.     It  must  be  mentioned  that  the  stage 

C  2 


direction,  "  Camp  near  Forres,"  does  not  occur  in 

the  original ;  although  it  is  clear  in  the  third  scene 

that    Macbeth    and    Banquo   are    on  their  way 

thither :  — 

"  How  far  is 't  called  to  Forres  ?" 

Scene  11.— "  St.  Colmes"  inch." 
Inch;  Island.    St.  Colmes' ;  St.  Columba's.—Th^a 
island  of  St.  Columba  lies  in  the  Fii-th  of  Forth,  oO" 

IP 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


*( 


the  coast  of  l  ife,  a  little  to  the  cast  of  North  Queens- 
ferry.  Alexander  1.  was  WTecked  on  this  island, 
and  entertained  by  a  hermit.  In  memory  of  his 
preservation  Alexander  founded  a  monastery,  to 
which  great  sanctity  attached  for  many  centuries, 
and  the  remains  of  which  are  still  conspicuous.  It 
wa«  ofli^u  plundered  by  English  m:irauders;  but  it 
WM  BO  generally  believed  that  the  8;unt  iuvaiiably 
avenged  himself  on  the  pirates,  that  the  sacredness 
of  the  place,  as  the  scene  of  conferences  and  con 
tracts,  remained  xmimpaired.  The  "  Norweyan 
king"  was  probably  compelled  to  disburse  his  "ten 
thousand  dollars  "  on  this  spot  before  burying  his 
men  on  the  soil  of  Fife,  in  order  to  make  his 
humiliation  as  solemn  and  emphatic  as  possible. 

Scene  III.—'-  A  Hcathr 

Common  superstition  assigns  the  Harmuir,  on 
the  borders  of  Elgin  and  Nairn,  as  the  place  of  the 
interview  between  Macbeth  and  the  weird  sisters. 
A  more  dreary  piece  of  moorland  is  not  to  be  found 
in  all  Scotland.  Its  eastern  limit  is  about  six  miles 
from  Forres,  and  its  western  four  from  Nairn,  and 
the  high  road  from  these  places  intersects  it.  This 
"  blasted  heath"  is  without  tree  or  shrub.  A  few 
patches  of  oata  are  visible  here  and  there,  and  the 
eye  reposes  on  a  fir-plantation  at  one  extremity  ; 
but  all  around  is  bleak  and  brown,  made  up  of  peat 
and  bog-water,  white  stones  and  bushes  of  furze. 
Sand-hills  and  a  line  of  blue  sea,  beyond  which  are 
the  distant  hills  of  Ross  and  Caithness,  bound  it  to 
the  north ;  a  farmstead  or  two  may  be  seen  afar  off; 
and  the  ruins  of  a  castle  rise  from  amidst  a  few  trees 
on  the  estate  of  Brodie  of  Brodie  on  the  north-west. 
There  is  something  startling  to  a  stranger  in  seeing 
the  solitary  figure  of  the  peat-digger  or  rush- 
gatherer  moving  amidst  the  waste  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  calm  autumn  day;  but  the  desolation  of  the 
scene  in  stormy  weather,  or  when  the  twilight  fogs 
are  trailing  over  the  pathless  heath  or  settling  down 
ui">n  the  pools,  must  be  indescribable. 


Boece  naiTates  the  intei-view  of  Macbeth  and 
Bauquo  with  the  weird  sisters  as  an  actual  occur- 
rence ;  and  he  is  repeated  by  Holinshed.  Bucha- 
nan, whose  mind  was  averse  from  admitting  more 
superstitions  than  were  necessary  to  historical 
fidelity,  relates  the  whole  scene  as  a  dream  of 
Macbeth's.  It  is  now  scarcely  possible  even  for 
the  imagination  of  the  historical  student  to  make 
its  choice  between  the  scene  of  the  generals,  mounted 
and  attended  by  their  troops,  meeting  the  witches 
in  actual  presence  on  the  waste  of  the  Harmuir, 
and  the  encounter  of  the  aspiring  spirit  of  Macbeth 
with  the  prophets  of  its  fate  amid  the  wilder 
scenei-y  of  the  laud  of  dreams.  As  far  as  the 
superstition  is  concerned  with  the  real  history, 
the  poet  has  boitnd  us  in  his  mightier  spells.  The 
Witches  of  Shakspere  have  become  realities. 

Scene  III. — ''  Thane  of  Glamis." 

Glamis  Castle,  five  miles  from  Forfar,  is  one  of 
the  four  or  five  castles  in  which  the  murder  of  Dun- 
can is  erroneously  declared  to  have  been  perpe- 
trated. Previous  to  1372  a  small  castle,  two  stories 
high,  stood  on  this  spot,  commanding  a  wide  extent 
of  level  country,  bounded  in  one  direction  by  the 
range  of  Dunsinaue  hills,  and  within  view  of  Birnam 
hill.  Tradition  assigns  this  old  stronghold  as  the 
occasional  residence  of  Macbeth ;  who,  how  ever,  as 
will  be  seen  elsewhere,  could  never  have  dwelt  within 
stone  walls.  The  present  magnificent  edifice  is  above 
a  hundred  feet  in  height,  and  contains  a  hundi'ed 
rooms;  and  the  walls  of  the  oldest  part  of  the  build- 
ing are  fifteen  feet  thick.  An  ancient  bedstead  is  pre- 
served in  it,  on  which  it  is  pretended  that  Duncan 
was  murdered.  Glamis  Castle  is  made  by  tradition 
the  scene  of  another  murder — that  of  Malcolm  II., 
in  1034.  The  property  passed  into  the  hands  of 
the  Strathmore  family  (to  whom  it  still  belongs)  in 
1372,  on  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  John  Lyon, 
ancestor  of  the  family,  with  a  daughter  of  Robert 
II.,  from  whom  the  estate  was  received  as  a  gift. 


i 


iUlMUiia  CVwtle.] 


MACBETH. 


Scene  [II.—"  Thane  of  Cawdor." 

Cawdor  Castle  is  another  supposed  scene  of  the 
murder  of  Duncan.  A  portion  of  Duncan's  coat- 
of-mail  is  pretended  to  be  shown  there ;  and  also 
the  chamber  in  which  he  was  murdered,  with  the 
recess,  cut  out  of  the  thickness  of  the  walls,  in  which 
the  king's  valet  hid  himself  during  the  perpetration 
of  the  deed.  Cawdor  Castle  is  about  six  miles  from 
Nairn,  and  stands  on  a  rising  ground  above  the 
windings  of  the  Calder,  overlooking  a  wide  tract  of 
woodland,  bounded  on  the  north  by  the  Moray  Fii'th. 
It  has  a  moat  and  drawbridge ;  and  a  part  of  it, 
without  date,  shows  marks  of  very  high  antiquity. 
The  more  modern  part  bears  the  date  of  1510.  Tra- 


dition says  that  the  original  builder  of  this  cas^tle 
was  desired  to  load  an  ass  with  the  gold  he  could 
afford  for  his  edifice,  to  follow  where  the  ass  should 
lead,  and  build  where  it  should  stop.  The  ass 
stopped  at  a  hawthorn  in  the  wood,  and  this  haw- 
thorn was  built  into  the  centre  chamber  of  the 
ground-floor  of  the  castle.  There  it  is  still,  worn 
and  cut  away  till  it  is  a  slender  wooden  pillar  in  the 
midst  of  the  antique  apartment.  Beside  it  stands 
the  chest  which  contained  the  gold ;  and  here,  it  is 
supposed,  did  the  train  of  Duncan  mingle  in  revel 
with  the  servants  of  Macbeth  on  the  night  of  the 
murder.  The  stranger  who  stands  in  the  low,  dim 
vault,  regi-ets  that  history  and  tradition  cannot  be 
made  to  agree. 


[Cawdor  Castle.] 


Scene  IV. — "  Forres.    A  Room  in  the  Palace." 

Forres  is  a  town  of  great  antiquity.  At  its  west- 
em  extremity  there  is  an  eminence  commanding 
the  river,  the  level  country  to  the  coast  of  Moray 
Firth,  and  the  town.  On  this  spot,  advantageous 
for  strength  and  survey,  stand  the  ruins  of  an  an- 
cient castle,  the  walls  of  which  are  very  massive, 
and  the  architecture  Saxon.  Tradition  declares 
that  before  this  castle  was  built  the  fort  stood  there 
in  which  King  Duffus  was  murdered  in  965  or  966. 
It  is  probable  that  this  fort  was  the  residence  of 


Duncan,  and  afterwards  of  Macbeth,  when  the 
court  or  royal  army  was  at  Forres.  The  imagina- 
tion of  the  student  of  the  chroniclers  or  of  Shak- 
spere  fixes  on  this  green  mound  as  the  spot  where 
Macbeth  bent  the  knee  to  his  sovereign,  while 
internally  occupied  with  the  greetmgs  which  had 
just  met  him  on  the  Harmuir. 

Scene  V. — "  Inverness.     A  Room  in  Macbeth's 
Castle." 

Boece  declares  that  Macbeth's  castle,  in  which 
Duncan  was  murdered,  was  that  which  stood  on  an 

21 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


r^aiti'  '   iMAt  of  the  U-'wn  of  liivor- 

CMM.  the  huiliiiug,  calleil  A  castle, 

which  ■tood  therr,  wu.i  rnzt^i  to  the  ground  by  Mal- 
colm Ckiii  toil  of  DiuiCAD,  who  built  an- 
other on  ■>  '-  i>iu-t  of  tho  hill.  It  \vaa  this 
Utt,  diaiuAnUod  in  tho  war  of  1745,  which  Dr.  John- 
•<>M  Mid  I'  .t*rwl  in  1773,  aiiparently  with- 
out an  J  »\:  ,  .  :iat  it  was  not  tho  identical  place 
in  which  Duncan  was  rcceired  by  I^idy  Macbeth. 
Ilo«w«ll  not  only  recoguiBea  tho  "  pleasant  scat "  of 
th«  building,  but  lookj  up  with  ronci-atiou  tu  the 
battlemonta  on  which  the  raven  croaked.  He  de- 
rlarM— "I  had  a  roniMjtic  satisfaction  in  seeing 
Dr.  Johnaon  actually  in  it."  It  appears,  however, 
from  the  ro6«arches  of  antiquarians,  that  the  castles 
of  Macbeth's  days  wen-  not  built  of  stone  and  mor- 
tar at  alL  The  "vitridcd  forts,"  whose  vestiges  are 
found  scattered  over  Scotland,  and  which  are  con- 
jectured to  bo  the  work  of  the  primitive  Celtic  in- 
habitants, remain  a  mystery,  both  as  to  theii-  con- 
struction and  purposes ;  but,  with  the  exception  of 
theae,  there  are  no  traces  of  erections  of  stone  of 
ao  early  a  date  as  tho  reign  of  Duncan.  T)  < 
forta  and  castles  of  those  days  appeitr  to  have 
I- ■  :>8ed  of  timber  and  soils,  which  crumbled 
»'  .ved  away  ages  ago,  leaving  only  a  faint 
circle  upon  the  soil,  to  mark  the  place  where 
t*  *  1.  It  is  thus  that  the  site  of  Luufanan 
1  supposed  scene  of  Macbeth 's  death)  has 
be«n  ascertaiucd.     ThL-  fact  about  the  mofcUod  of 


building  in  that  age  settles  thequestion  of  Duncan's 
murder  at  Cawdor  Castle,  or  Qlamis,  or  any  other 
to  which  that  event  has  been  assigned.  It  could 
not  have  taken  place  in  any  building  now  in 
existence. 

It  is  now  believed  by  some  that  Duncan  was  not 
assassinated  at  all,  but  slain  in  battle.  Later  his- 
torians follow  Boece  in  bis  declaration  that  the  king 
was  murdered  in  Macbeth's  castle  at  Inverness  ; 
but  the  register  of  the  Priory  of  St.  Andrew's  says, 
'■  Doucath  iuterfectus  est  in  Bothgonanan."  For- 
dun  says  that,  being  wounded,  he  was  conveyed  to 
Elgin,  and  died  there.  The  meaning  of  Bothgona- 
nan being  "the  smith's  dwelling,"  it  has  been  con- 
jectured that  the  king  was  murdered  by  ambushed 
assassins,  at  or  near  a  smith's  dwelling,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Elgin. 

Supposing  the  murder  to  have  taken  place, 
however,  at  Macbeth's  castle  at  Inverness,  the 
abode  might  well  be  said  to  have  "a  pleasant 
seat."  The  hill  overhangs  the  river  Ness,  and 
commands  a  fine  view  of  the  iovnx,  the  surrounding 
levels,  and  the  mountains  which  enclose  Loch  Ness 
to  the  west.  The  eminence  is  at  present  crowned 
with  the  new  castle,  which  contains  the  courts 
and  the  ofiices  connected  with  them.  No  vestiges 
remain  of  Malcolm's  castle,  visited  by  Dr.  John.son 
and  Roswell  as  the  Macbeth's  castle  of  Boece  ano' 
Shakupere. 


O.) 


[Scone.] 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  l.—The  same.     Court  within  the  Castle. 

'Enter  Baijquo  and  Eleance  with  a  torch. 

Ban.  How  goes  the  uight,  boy  ? 

IHe.  Tlie  moon  is  dov/a;   I  have  not  heard 

the  clock. 
Ban.  And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 
pig_  I  take  't,  't  is  later,  sir. 

Ban.  Hold,  take  my   sword.— There 's  hus- 
bandry* in  heaven, 
Their  candles   are  all  out.— Take    thee   that 

too. 
A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me. 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep :  Merciful  powers  ! 

a  i/Ksfcn;!(i;-(/— frvgality. 


Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose !— Give  me  my  sword;— 

Enter  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 

Who  's  there  ? 

Macb.  A  friend.  . 

Ban.  What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest  ?    The  king  s 
a-bed : 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offices  :" 
This  diamond  he  greets  youi-  wife  withal. 
By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess ;  and  shut  :ip 
In  measureless  content. 

a  Offices.-TV.s  is  the  original  word.  Malone  ^^ould^ read 
omcc^;  but  it  is  of  little  ^""sequence  jrhe  her  the  lar^e^s 
was  sent  to  the  servants  or  the  servants  hall. 


I 


Acr  M.) 


MACBETH. 


[SCEKK  II. 


.ViirA.  Btinii;  uuprcparM, 

Our  will  became  the  scn-aut  to  defect ; 
^Vhich  else  should  free  have  wrought. 

BiiH.  All 's  \\  ell. 

I  dreamt  last  nipht  of  the  three  weird  sisters : 
To  you  thev  have  show'd  some  truth. 

}facb.  I  think  not  of  them : 

Yet,  when  we  cm  entreat  an  hour  to  serve. 
We  would  spend  it  in  sonic  words  upon  that 

business, 
If  Tou  would  grant  the  time. 
Ban.  At  vour  kind'st  leisure. 

Miicb.  If  Tou  shall  cleave  to  my  consent," — 
when  't  is, 
It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 

lian.  So  I  lose  none, 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd,  and  allegiance  clear; 
I  sh.all  be  counsell'd. 
Macb.  Good  repose,  the  while  ! 

Ban.  Thanks,  sir ;  the  like  to  you ! 

[EriV  Banquo  and  Fleauce. 
^f(leb.  Go,  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  di-iuk 
is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Is  thii  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 
The  Lindle  toward  my  hand?     Come,  let  me 

clutch  thee : 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  sec  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  pialpablc 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going, 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  arc  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses. 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  ^  gouts  of  blood. 
Which   was   not  so   before. — There  's  no  such 

thing. 
It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 
I'h  ;    *  yes. — Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

N»  l<ad,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain'd  sleep:*  witchcraft  celebrates 


*  C»mt*mt'—t%nian. 


Ur 
t'  ■■ 


Ir. 
»r 

In 


MvhHh 

covrrHy 

/•Tf.il  .-.1 

^.-'Vd, 

If 

you 
<  to 

■    Uj>C 

wi;i 

read 

•  i    >TH 

"■  of  Uic 

II 

s  an 

1  ■-.♦ 

.e  Iwr.^  i.4ui«  u>  *UU  tu  llic  tuieiiiiiity  oi  llio 


P:Uc  Hecate's  offerings ;  and  wither'd  murther, 

Alaruin'u  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

\Vliosc  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy 

pace. 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,"  towai-ds  his 

design 
Moves  like  a  ghost. Thou  sure''  and  firm-set 

earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk','=  for  fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
TMiich  now  suits  with  it. — Wliilcs  I  threat  he 

lives: 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

{_A  bell  rings. 
I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me. 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell.   [E-vit. 


SCENE  II.  — The  same. 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  That  which  hath  made  them  drunk 

hath  made  me  bold  : 
What  hath  qucnch'd  them  hath  given  rae  fire : — 
Hark !     Peace !     It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd, 
The  fatal  bellman  which  gives  the  stern'st  good 

night. 
He  is  about  it:^  The  doors  are  open; 

a  Strides.  Sides  is  the  word  of  the  old  copies ;  but  Pope 
changed  it  to  strides.  A  doubt  then  arises  whether  this  word 
is  compatible  with  "  stealthy  pace."  Johnson  says  that  a 
ravishing  stridi.-  is  an  action  of  violence,  impetuosity,  and 
tumult.  This  is  denied ;  and  we  have  examples  given  of  a 
"leisurable  stride"  and  "  an  easy  stride."  The  word,  in  its 
usual  acceptation,  and  looking  at  its  etymology,  does  not 
convey  the  motion  of  stealthy  and  silent  movement.  We 
receive  it  as  Milton  uses  it : — 

"  Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides,  hell  trembled  as  he  strode." 
Can  we  reconcile  then  the  word  sides  with  the  context  ? 
Tieck  contends  that  sides  has  been  received  as  the  seat  of 
the  passions,  and   is   so  here  poetically  used.     We  have 
some  doubt  of  this  ;  although  we  do  not  reject  the  opinion. 
Might  we  not  receive  sides  as  a  verb,  and  read  the  passage 
thus  ?— 

"  Wither'd  murther, 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
■\\Tiose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus,  with  his  stealthy  pace 
(Which  Tarquin's  ravishing  sides)  towards  his  design, 
Moves  like  a  ghost." 
To  side  is  to  m.itch,  to  balance,  to  be  in  collateral  position 
Thus,  in  Ben  Jonson's  '  Scjanus," 

"  Whom  he,  upon  our  low  and  suffering  necks, 
Hath  rais'd  from  excrement  to  side  the  gods?" 
In  the  passage  before  us,  "murther"  "with  his  stealthy 
pace,"  which  pace  sides,  matches,  "  Tarquin's  ravishing," 
'raiistiinq  a  noun.)  moves  like  a  ghost  towards  his  design. 
Thi».  conjecture  has  been  noticed  by  the  Cambridge  editors, 
but  they  adopt  strides,  as  do  most  other  recent  commentators. 
Although   a  conjectural  emendation,  strides  gives  a  clear 
meaning,  however  imperfect. 
0  Sure. — The  original  has  snwre. 

t  The  original  has  "which  they  may  walk."  Tii'ck  de- 
fends the  niiginal  reading,  as  ungrammatical,  singular,  and 
perfectly  dream-like.  Is  not  this  to  refine  somewhat  over- 
much f 

•1  Here  we  follow  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original, 
with  a  slight  deviation  in  the  subsequent  lines. 


Act  II.] 


MACBETH. 


[SuF.sB  ir. 


And  the  suiieited  grooms  do  mock  their  charge 
vdth.  snores : 

I  have  di'ugg'd  their  possets. 

That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 

Whether  they  live,  or  die. 
Macb.  \_7FMtfi.']  Who's  there?— what,  hoal^ 
Lad^  M.    Alack  !    I    am    afraid  they  have 
awak'd. 

And  'tis  not  done: — the  attempt,  and  not  the 
deed. 

Confounds  us:— Hark!— I  laid  then-  daggers 
ready. 

He  could  not  miss  them. — Had  he  not  resembled 

My  father  as  he  slept  I  had  done 't— My  hus- 
band! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  I  have  done  the  deed :— Didst  thou  not 

hear  a  noise  ? 
Ladi/  M.  I  heai-d  the  owl  scream,  and  the 
crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 
Macb.  When? 

Ladj/  M.  Now. 

Macb.  ^  I  descended  ? 

Lad)/  II.  Ay. 
Macb.  Hark!— 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 
Ladi/  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  This  is  a  soiTy  sight. 

\Lookinfj  on  his  hands. 
Lady  M.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry 

sight. 
Macb.  There 's  one  did  laugh  in  his  sleep, 
And  one  cried,  'mui-ther!'  that  they  did  wake 

each  other ; 
I  stood  and  heard  them :  but  they  did  say  their 

prayers, 
And  address'd  them  again  to  sleep.* 
Lady  M.  There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 
Macb.  One  cried, '  Gk)d  bless  us!'  and  'Ameu,' 
the  other ; 
As  they  had  seen  me,  with  these  hangiuau's 

hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say,  amen. 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 
Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronomice, 
amen? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  3L        These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  maie  us  mad. 


liaes. 


Here  again  ^e  follow  the  original  regulation  of   the 


Macb.   Methought,  I  heard  a  voice  cry, '  Sleep 
no  more ! 
Macbeth    does   murtlier  sleep,' — the    iunocent 

sleep  ; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravell'd  sleavc  *  of  care, 
The    death  of   each    day's  life,  sore    labour's 

bath. 
Balm  of   hm-t    miads,  great    natui'e's    second 

coui'se. 
Chief  nourisher  iii  life's  feast.'' 

Lady  M.  TYhat  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  'Sleep  no  more!'  to  all 
the  house : 
'  Glamis  hath  murther'd  sleep  :   and  therefore 

Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more,  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no 
more ! ' 
Lady  M.  Wbo  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?    Why, 
worthy  thane. 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  thuik 
So  brainsickly  of  things :— Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand.— 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers   from  the 

place  ? 
They  must    lie  there:    Go,  carry  thera;    and 

smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I  'il  go  no  more ; 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on 't  again  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infii'^  of  purpose ! 

Give  me  the  daggers:  The  sleeping,  and  the 

dead, 
Ai-e  but  as  pictiu-es :  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.    If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
Por  it  mxist  seem  their  guilt. 

[Exit.     Knocking  within. 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is  't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals 

me? 
^\Tiat  hands  ai-e  here  ?    Ha !  they  pluck  out 

mine  eyes ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  fi-om  my  hand?  No;  this  my  hand  wiU 

rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incamardine 
Making  the  green,  one  red.' 

a  SJ^ai-e-unwrought  snk-thejyr.V«=a  of  the  Italians^ 
b  There  are  differences  of  op.n.on  as  \o^^"l'^l    V*^^" 
er.ds.     Hanmer  carried  it  to  the  end  of  ^•"^'^'J' ^Xr  of 
Johnson  made  it  stop  at  'murther  sleep;   the  remainder 
the  speech  being  Macbeth's  comment. 
c  Heywood  has  this  passage : 

"  The  multitudes  of  seas  dyed  red  with  blood." 
This  gives  us,  we  think,  the  meaning  of  muttUudinou. 

25 


Act  II.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEHE  III. 


B^^mier  Lady  Macbetu. 


I^Jy  .V.  My  hands  arc  of  your  colour ;  but 

I  ahame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  wlutc.     [Knock:'\     I  hoar  a 

knock  iu(; 
At  the  south  entry  :— retire  wc  to  our  chamber: 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  ea*y  i.«*  it  then!     Your  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unattended.— [A'worXiwy.]    Hark  ! 

more  \       '      ' : 
Get  on  your  nij;:.  _       ,  lest  occasion  call  us, 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers :— Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts, 

Macb'.  To  know  my  deed,  't  were  best  not 

know  myself.  [Knock. 

Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking ;  I»  would  thou 

coiddst !       '  lExeunt. 

SCENE  \\\.— The  same. 

Enter  a  Porter.     [Knocking  within. 

Porter.  Here  's  a  knocking,  indeed!  If  a 
man  were  porter  of  hell-gate,  he  should  have  old 
turning  the  key.  [Knocking.']  Knock,  knock, 
knock  :  "\Mio  's'thcre,  i'  the  name  of  Belzcbub? 
Here  's  a  fanner,  that  hanged  himself  on  the  ex- 
jicctation  of  plenty :  Come  in  time ;  have  nap- 
kins enough  about  you ;  here  you  '11  sweat  for 't. 
[Knocking.']  Knock,  knock:  "Who  's  there, 
i'  the  other  devil's  name  ?  'Faith,  here's  an  equi- 
vocator,  that  could  swear  in  both  the  scales 
against  cither  scale;  who  committed  treason 
enough  for  God's  sake,  yet  could  not  equivocate 
to  heaven:  0,  come  in,  cquivocator.  [Knocking!] 
Knock,  knock,  knock:  Who's  there?  'Faith, 
here  's  an  T  '  '  tailor  come  hither,  for  steal- 
ing out  of  ,  i  ii  hose :  Come  in,  tailor  •,  here 
you  may  roast  your  goose,  [Knocking.]  Knock, 
knock :  N«Tcr  at  quiet !  What  arcyou  ?— But  tliis 
place  b  too  eold  for  hell.  1  '11  devil-porter  it  no 
further :  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some  of  all 
profcssionii,  tliat  go  the  primrose  way  to  the  cver- 


I  ; 


Tt.ii  M».   •  ' 


■  tig  line  the  commcn- 
it  ttandi 
1  one, red." 

■1,  one  red," 
■r;riv'«  Inn  Jnumril."  anil 


■dopt' 
brod. 

nf  »n  the  »lr." 

Ut."    He  U  pro 
(  ^n  the  old  cop; 

\ -.1  the  y,-:vj-u:\  »;>iiC4r«  1"  '.;>  in''>c  cii.j.;i»lic. 
26 


lasting  bonfire.     [Knocking.]     Anon,  anon;    I 
pray  you,  remember  the  porter.   [Opens  the  gate. 

Enter  Macdupf  and  Lenox. 

Macd.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to 
bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 

Port.  'Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the 
second  cock :  and  drink,  sir,  is  a  great  provoker 
of  three  things. 

Mdcd.  What  three  things  does  drink  espe- 
cially provoke  ? 

Port.  Marry,  sir,  nose-painting,  sleep,  and 
urine.  Lechery,  sir,  it  provokes,  and  unpro- 
vokes  :  it  provokes  the  desire,  but  it  takes  away 
toe  performance :  Therefore,  much  drink  may  he 
said  to  be  au  equivocator  with  lechery  :  it  makes 
him,  and  it  mars  liim ;  it  sets  him  on,  and  it 
takes  him  off ;  it  persuades  him,  and  disheartens 
him  ;  makes  him  stand  to,  and  not  stand  to :  in 
conclusion,  equivocates  him  in  a  sleep,  and, 
giving  him  the  lie,  leaves  him. 

Macd.  I  believe,  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last 
night. 

Port.  That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  o'  me : 
But  I  requited  him  for  his  lie;  and,  T  think, 
being  too  strong  for  him,  though  he  took  up  my 
legs  sometunc,  yet  I  made  a  shift  to  cast  him. 

3facd.  Is  thy  master  stirring  ? — 
Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Macbetu. 

Len.  Good  morrow,  noble  sir  ! 
Macb.  Good-morrow,  both ! 

Macd.  Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 
Macb.  Not  yet. 

Macd.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on 
him; 
I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

Macb.  I  '11  bring  you  to  him. 

Macd.  I   know  this   is   a  joyful  trouble  to 
you; 
But  yet 't  is  one. 

Macb.  The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macd.         ■       I  '11  make  so  bold  to  call, 
For  'tis  my  limited*  service.      [E.dt  Macduff. 
Len.  Goes  the  king  hence  to-day  ? 
Macb.  He  does  : — he  did  appoint  so.'' 


K  Limited — appointed. 

b  Stccvcns  writes  the  passage  thus  :  — 

"Goes  the  king 
From  hence  to-day  f 
Afacb.  He  does  :— he  did  appoint  so." 

We  rrjecl  mch  forced  attempts  to  get  rid  of  tl]C  hemistich 
&nd  the  Alexandrine. 


Act  II.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCBME  III 


Len.  The  night  has  been  unruly :  Where  we 

lay. 

Our  chimneys  were  blown  down :  and,  as  they 

say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air ;  strange  screams  of 

death : 
And,  prophesying  with  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confus'd  events. 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time, 
The  obscure  bird  clamour'd  the  live-long  night : 
Some  say  the  earth  was  feverous  and  did  shake* 
Macb.  'T  was  a  rough  night. 
Len.    My    young   remembrance    cannot    pa- 
rallel 
A  feUow  to  it. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  O  horror !  horror  1  horror  ! 
Tong-ue,  nor  heart,  cannot  conceive,  nor  name 
thee! 
Mach.  Len.  What 's  the  matter  ? 
Macd.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master- 
piece ! 
Most  sacrilegious  murther  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anomted  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building. 

Macb.  What  is 't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Len.  Mean  you  his  majesty  ? 
Macd.  Approach  the   chamber,  and  destroy 
your  sight 
With  a  new  Gorgon :— Do  not  bid  me  speak ; 
See,    and    then    speak   yourselves.  —  Awake  ! 
awake ! — 

\E.Teimt  Macbeth  and  Lenox. 
Eing    the   alai-um-bell :  — Murther !    and   trea- 
son! 
Banquo,  and  Donalbain !  Malcolm  !  awake ! 
Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's   counter- 
feit, 
And  look  on  death  itself !— up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image Malcolm !  Banquo ! 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like 

sprites. 
To  countenance  this  horror !  Ring  the  bell.'' 

{Bell  rings. 

Unter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  M.  What 's  the  business, 

a  W^e  here  follow  the  regulation  of  the  original.  But  we 
have  adopted  a  punctuation  suggested  by  a  friend,  which 
connects  "the  obscure  bird"  with  "prophesying."  _ 

b  The  words  "  riny  the  bell"  form  part  of  the  original 
text;  and  the  stage  direction,  "bell  rings,"  immediately 
follows.  Theobald  and  other  conimentatois  strike  out 
"  ring  the  bell,"  contending  that  these  words  also  were  a 
stage  direction.  But  how  natural  is  it  that  Macdutl,  having 
previously  cried  "ring  the  alarum-bell,"  should  repeat  the 
order  1 


That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  the  house  ?  speak,  speak ! 

Macd.  0,  gentle  lady, 

'T  is  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak : 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  car, 
Would  murther  as  it  fell. 

Enter  Banquo. 

0  Banquo!  Banquo!  our  royal  m?.ster's  mur- 

ther'd ! 

Lady  M.  Woe,  alas  !  what,  in  our  house  ? 

Ban.  Too  cruel,  anywhere. 

Dear  Duff,  I  prithee  coutradict  thyself, 
And  say,  it  is  not  so. 

Re-enter  Macbeth  and  Lenox. 

Macb.  Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this 
chance, 

1  had  liv'd  a  blessed  time ;  for,  from  this  in- 

stant. 
There 's  nothing  serious  in  mortality : 
AH  is  but  toys :  renown,  and  grace,  is  dead ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 
Is  left  this  vaidt  to  brag  of. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 

Don.  What  is  amiss  ? 

Macb.  You  are,  and  do  not  know 't. 

The  spring,  the  head:  the  fountain  of   your 

blood 
Is  stopp'd ;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 
Macd.  Your  roval  father 's  murther'd. 
Mai.  -"  0,  by  whom? 

Len.  Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had 
done't: 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badg'd  with 

blood, 
So    were    their    daggers,  which,  unwip'd,  we 

found 
Upon  their  pillows:  they  star'd,  and  were  dis- 

tracted ; 
No  man's  life  was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 
Macb.  0,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury. 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macd.  Wterefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macb.  Wlio  can  be  wise,  amaz'd,  temperate, 
and  fiu-ious,  _ 

Loyal,  and  neuti-al,  in  a  moment?  No  man: 
The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Outran  the  pauser  reason.-Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood  ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach 

nature 

27 


Act!:.] 


MACBETH. 


[Scene  IV. 


tar  ruin's  wasteful  entrance:  there,  the  niur- 

thercrs, 
Slcep'd    in    the    colours  of   their  trade,  their 

daggers 
Uunumnerlv   brt-cch'd   with  gore:   AMio  coidd 

refrain 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  hC'irt 
Courage,  to  make  his  love  known  ? 

Lady  .V.  Help  me  hence,  hoa  ! 

3faed.  Look  to  the  lady. 

Mai  Why  do  wc  hi)kl  our  tongues, 

T!.-.t  n.-='  '  um  this  argument  for  ours  ? 

/     .  W  ill  be  spoken  here, 

^\^lc^c  our  fate,  hid  in  an  auger-hole, 
May  rush,   and  seize   us  ?    Let 's  away ;  our 

tears 
Are  not  vet  lm;w'J. 


.V</.' 


Nor  our  strong  sorrow 


Ui>on  the  loot  of  motion. 
Ban.  Look  to  the  lady : — 

{_Lady  !Macbeth  is  carried  out. 
And  when  wc  have  our  naked  frailties  hid, 
That  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet. 
And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work, 
To  know  it  further.    Fears  and  scruples  shake 

us : 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand ;  and,  lliencc. 
Against  the  undivulg'd  pretence  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macd.  And  so  do  L* 

All.  So  aU. 

Macb.  Let 's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 
And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 
■^11.  Well  contented. 

{Exeunt  all  but  ^Mjul.  and  Don. 
Mai.  What  -will  you  do  ?    Let 's  not  consort 
with  them : 
To  show  an  unfclt  sorrow  is  an  ofBcc 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy :   I  '11  to  Eng- 
land. 
Thn.  To  telanil,  1  ;  our  separated  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer:  where  we  are. 
There 's  d,iggcrs  in  men's  smiles :  the  near  in 

blood, 
T'     r  arer  bloody. 

■'  '.  This  murthcrous  shaft  tliat's  shot 

Hath  not  yet  lighted ;  and  our  safest  way 
Is  to  avoid  the  aim.     Tliercfore,  to  horse  ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking. 
But  shift  away :  There 's  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself,  when  there 's  no  mercy  left. 

[Exeunt. 


•  Thi»  »p««ch  la  the  crif  inal  belonir*  to  itaeduff;  but, 
vhhoQt  tnr  rtptaiMlion,  it  in  (firen  by  the  variorun: 
r<lilor(  to  MarNth. 

'2S 


SCENE  Vf.— Without  the  Castle. 

Enter  BossE  and  an  old  Man. 
Old  M.  Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember 


w 


eU: 


Within  the  volume  of  which  time,  I  have  seen 
Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange ;  but  tlus 

sore  niglit 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Rosse.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  see'st,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's 

act, 
Tlu-eaten  his  bloody  stage :  by  the  clock,  't  is 

day. 
And   yet  dark  night  strangles   the  travelling 

lamp  : 
Is 't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame. 
That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  intomb. 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  ? 

OldM.  'T  is  unnatural, 

Even  like  the  deed  that's  done.     On  Tuesday 

last, 
A  falcon,  tow'riug  in  her  pride  of  place, 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kiU'd. 
Rosse.  And  Duncan's  horses,  (a  thing  most 
strange  and  certain,) 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  ^vild  in  natui-e,  broke  their  stalls,  flung 

out. 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would 
Make  war  with  mankiad. 

Old  M.              'Tis  said,  they  eat  each  other. 
Rosse.  They  did  so;   to  the  amazement  of 
mine  eves. 
That   look'd  upon  't.      Here   comes  the  good 
Macduff : 

Enter  Macduff. 

How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now  ? 

Macd.  Wliy,  see  you  not  ? 

Rosse.  Is't  known  who  did  this  more  than 
bloody  deed  ? 

Macd.  Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 

Rosse.  Alas,  the  day ! 

"Wliat  good  could  they  pretend  ?• 

Macd.  They  were  subom'd : 

Malcolm,  and  Donalbaiu,  the  king's  two  sons. 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled ;  which  puts  upon  thenj 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Rosse.  'Gainst  nature  stdl : 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  ravin  u^) 
Thine  owi^  life's  means  ! — Then't  is  most  like 
The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth. 

*  Pretend — propose. 


ACT  II.] 


MACBETH. 


[ScEKE  rv. 


Macd.  He  is   already  nain'd ;    and   ^one  to 
Scone, 
To  be  invested. 

Rosse.  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

Macd.  Carried  to  Cohne-kill ; 
The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors. 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Eosse.  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

3fard.  No  cousin,  I  '11  to  Fife. 


House.  Well,  I  will  thitlier. 

Macd.  Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done 
there  : — adieu  ! 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new ! 
Rosse.  Farewell,  father. 
Old  M.  God's  benison  go  wth  you,  and  with 
those 
That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of 


foes ! 


{Ete'.irJ.. 


[lona.] 


TLLrSTRATIOXS  OF  ACT  IT. 


»  Scene  II.—"  Who's  there  f—irhat,  hoa/" 

ArrKB"Th«t  mimnions  thco  to  heaven  or  to  hell," 
Tieck  in»«rt«— "  *<•  asccndi.''—o.nA  snys,  "  we  Icaiii 
•A«nrmni.«  tb«t  ho  drs-nids.  I  hnvo  inserted  tiiifl 
■Ug«  direction  that  th-  rvader  may  the  liuttcr  uu- 
deraUnd  the  constnution  of  the  old  theatre." 
Agkln.  when  Macbeth  mIU  out  "Who's  there?"  lie 
inwrlA,  Wforo  the  oxcliimation,  " he  apptars  above," 
and  aft«r  it,  "  he  a^ain  vithdraici."  Tieck  says, 
"  I  '  '.'1  added  the^e  directions  for  the  sake  of 

I>.  :  , .     The  eilitora  make  him  say  this  with- 

out being  seen — 'tfiVA  in,'— which  is  an  impossibility. 
T'  ■  '  y^hould  he  m.ake  this  inquiry  within  the 
c!.  '.vhere  all  are  sleeping  ?     The  king,  be- 

eidca,  doea  not  sleep  in  the  first,  but  in  the  second 
chamber ;  how  loud  then  must  be  the  call  to  be 
heard  from  within  the  &ccond  ch.amber  in  the  court- 


yard bolow '  The  original  at  this  passage  has  'Enter 
Mavhclh.'  1  explain  this  peculiar  direction  thus : — 
Macbeth  lingers  yet  a  moment  within :  his  unquiet 
mind  imagines  it  heai-s  a  noise  in  the  court  below, 
and  thoughtlessly,  bewildered,  and  crazed,  he 
rashes  back  to  the  balcony,  and  calls  beneath, 
'  Who's  there  ?'  in  his  agony,  however,  he  waits  for 
no  answer,  but  rushes  back  into  the  chambers  to 
execute  the  murder.  Had  Fleance,  or  Banquo,  or 
even  any  of  the  servants  of  the  house,  whom  he 
had  but  just  sent  away,  been  beneath,  the  whole 
secret  deed  would  have  been  betrayed.  I  consider 
this  return,  which  appears  but  a  mere  trifle,  as  a 
striking  beauty  in  Shakspere's  drama.  He  delights 
(because  he  always  sets  tragedy  in  activitj'  through 
passion  as  well  as  through  intrigue)  in  suspending 
success  and  failure  on  a  needle's  point." 


[Coronation  Chair.] 
LOC.\L  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ScEXi  IV.—  "And  gone  to  Scone, 

To  he  intetltd." 

Tnt  MtricDt  r>-)yal  city  of  Scouo,  supposed  to  have 
\<Ma  tbfl  capital  of  the  Pictinh  kingdom,  Liy  two 
mdcj  D'lrthwApl  from  the  ]>rcscDt  town  of  Perth. 
It  WM  the  residence  of  tho  .Scottish  monarchs  as 
••riy  M  the  reign  of  Kenneth  M'Aljin,  an<l  there 
80 


was  a  long  scries  of  kings  crowned  on  the  cele- 
brated stone  enclosed  in  a  chair,  now  used  as  the 
scatof  our  sovereigns  at  coronations  in  Westminster 
Abbey.  This  stone  was  removed  to  Scone  from 
Dunstaffnage,  the  yet  earlier  residence  of  the  Scot- 
tish kin;,'s,by  Kenneth  IL,  soon  after  the  founding 
of  the  abbey  of  Scone  by  tho  Culdees  in  S38,  and 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


was  transferred  by  Edward  I.  to  Westminster 
Abbey  in  1296.  This  remarkable  stone  is  repoi-ted 
to  have  found  its  way  to  DunstafFnage  from  the 
plain  of  Luz,  where  it  was  the  pillow  of  the 
patriarch  Jacob  while  he  dreamed  his  dream. 

An  aisle  of  the  abbey  of  Scone  remains.  A  few 
poor  habitations  alone  exist  on  the  site  of  the 
ancient  royal  city. 

Scene  IV. —  "  W/tere  is  Duncan's  lodi/? 

Carried  to  Oolme-Jcill." 

Colme-hill  (St.  Columba's  Cell).  Icolm-Tcill. 
Hyona.  lona. — The  island  of  lona,  separated  only 
by  a  narrow  channel  from  the  island  of  Mull,  off 
the  western  coast  of  Argyle,  was  the  place  of  sepul- 
ture of  many  Scottish  kings;  and,  according  to  tra- 
dition, of  several  Irish  and  Norwegian  monarchs. 
This  little  island,  only  three  miles  long  and  one 
and  a  half  broad,  was  once  the  most  impoi-taut  spot 
of  the  whole  cluster  of  British  Islea.  It  was  inha- 
bited by  Di-uids  previous  to  the  year  563,  when 
Colum  M'Felim  M'Fergns,  afterwards  called  St. 
Columba,  lauded  with  twelve  companions,  and  be- 
gan to  preach  Christianity.  A  monastery  was  soon 
established  on  the  spot,  and  others  afterwards  arose 
in  the  neighbouring  isles,  and  on  the  mainland.  A 
noble  cathedral  was  built,  aad  a  nunnery  at  a  short 
distance  from  it,  the  ruins  of  both  of  which  still 
remain.  The  reputation  of  the  learning,  doctrine, 
and  discipline  of  these  establishments  extended  over 
the  whole  Christian  world  for  some  centuries ;  de- 
votees of  rank  or  other  eminence  strove  for  admis- 
sion into  them ;  missionaries  of  the  highest  quali- 
fications issued  from  them;  the  records  of  royal 
deeds  were  preserved  there ;  and  there  the  bones 
of  kings  reposed.  Historians  seem  to  agi-ee  that  all 
the  monarchs  of  Scotland,  from  Kenneth  III.  to 
Macbeth,  inclusive— that  is,  from  973  to  1040— were 
buried  at  lona ;  and  some  suppose  that  the  cathe- 
dral was  a  place  of  royal  sepulture  from  the  time  of 
its  erection.  The  island  was  several  times  laid  waste 
by  the  Danes  and  by  pirates ;  and  the  records  which 
were  saved  were  removed  to  Ireland  in  consequence 


of  the  perpetual  peril ;  but  the  monastic  est-iblish 
ments  survived  every  such  attack,  and  remained  in 
honour  till  the  year  1561,  when  the  Act  of  the 
Convention  of  Estates  was  passed,  by  which  all 
monasteries  were  doomed  to  demolition.  Such 
books  and  records  as  could  be  found  in  lona  were 
burnt,  the  tombs  were  broken  open,  and  the 
gi-eater  number  of  its  host  of  crosses  thrown 
down  or  carried  away. 

The  cathedral  of  lona,  as  seen  afar  off  from  the 
outside  of  Fingal's  Cave  in  StaSa,  standing  out 
against  the  western  sky,  is  a  singular  object  in  the 
midst  of  some  of  the  wildest  scenery  of  the  ocean, 
— the  only  token  of  high  civilization — the  solitary 
record  of  an  intellectual  world  which  has  passed 
away.  It  presides  over  a  wide  extent  of  stormy 
waters,  with  their  scattered  isles ;  and  the  stone 
crosses  of  its  cemetery,  and  the  lofty  walls  and 
Saxon  and  Gothic  arches  of  its  venerable  build- 
ings, form  a  strange  contrast  with  the  hovels  of 
the  fishermen  which  stand  upon  the  shore. 

In  the  cemetery,  among  the  monuments  of  the 
fouudcrs  and  of  many  subsequent  abbots,  are 
three  rows  of  tombs,  said  to  be  those  of  the 
Scottish,  Irish,  and  Norwegian  kings,  in  number 
reported  to  be  forty-eight.  For  Etateraents  like 
these,  however,  there  is  no  authority  but  tradition. 
Tradition  itself  does  not  pretend  to  individualize 
these  tombs ;  so  that  the  stranger  must  be  satisfied 
with  the  knowledge  that  within  the  enclosure 
where  he  stands  lie  Duncan  and  Macbeth. 

Corpach,  two  miles  from  Fort  William,  retains 
some  distinction  from  being  the  place  whence  the 
bodies  of  the  Scottish  monai'chs  were  embai'ked 
for  the  sacred  island.  While  traversing  the  stormy 
waters  which  surround  these  gloomy  western  isles, 
the  imagination  naturally  reverts  to  the  ancient 
days  when  the  funeral  train  of  barks  was  tossing 
amidst  the  waves,  and  the  chant  of  the  monks 
might  be  heard  from  afar  welcoming  the  remains 
of  the  monarch  to  their  consecrated  soil. 

Some  of  the  Irish  and  Noi-wegian  kings  buried  in 
lona  were  pilgrims,  or  had  abdicated  their  thrones 
and  retired  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Columba. 


31 


r*ftft**' 


[Forrei.] 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — Forres.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Entfr  Baxquo. 

Ban.  Thou  liast  it  now,  king,  Cawdor,  Glamis, 
all, 
As  the  weird  women  promis'd ;  and  I  fear 
T  '     ■''        -t  foully  for 't:  yet  it  was  said, 

j  rl  in  thy  posterity  ; 

Bat  that  myself  should  be  the  root,  and  father 
Of  rnany  kinps.    If  there  come  truth  from  them, 
{Ks  upon  thee,  MaclK'th,  their  speeches  shine,) 
Wiy,  by  tlw  verities  on  thee  made  good, 
May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well. 
And  set  me  up  in  hope  ?     But,  hush ;  no  more. 

S^Hft  Bounded.  Entrr  MAfiiKTlI,  an  King;  I^dy 
Macbeth,  a*  Cluten ,-  Lenox,  Rosse,  Lords, 
Ladies,  and  Attendants. 

Maeb.  Here 's  our  chief  guest. 
Jjad^  "St.  If  lie  hwl  been  forgotten 

82 


It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  om*  great  feast, 
And  all-tiling »  unbecoming. 

Mach.  To-ui^ht  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir. 
And  I  '11  request  your  presence. 

Ban.  Let  your  highness 

Command  upon  me  ;  to  the  which,  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
For  ever  knit. 

Mach.  Ride  you  tliis  afternoon  ? 

Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Mach.  We  should  have  else  desir'd  your  good 
advice 
(Wliich  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  pros- 
perous,) 
In  this  day's  council;  but  we'll  take*"  to-morrow. 
Is 't  far  you  ride  ? 


»  A  lllhinff.— So  the  original— not  all  things,  as  sometimes 
printed. 

b  Take. — Tliis  is  the  word  of  the  original,  which  Stecvens 
liaa  very  properly  retained ;  although  Malone  changes  it  to 


Act  III.] 


MACBETU. 


[SCEHZ  L 


Ban.  As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 
'Twixt  this  and  supper:  go  not  my  horse  the 

better, 
I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night, 
"For  a  dark  hour,  or  twain. 

Macb.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Ban.  My  lord,  I  will  not. 
Much,  We  hear,  our  bloody  cousins  are  be- 
stow'd 
In  England,  and  in  Ireland ;  not  confessing 
Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention :  But  of  that  to-morrow; 
When,  therewithal,  we  shall  have  cause  of  state. 
Craving  us  jointly.     Hie  you  to  horse :  Adieu, 
Till  you  return  at  night.     Goes  Pleance  with 
you? 
Ban.  Ay,  my  good  lord:  our  time  does  call 

upon  us. 
Mach.  I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of 
foot; 
And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 
Farewell.  \_Exit  BANqxro. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 
Till  seven  at  night ;  to  make  society 
The  sweeter  welcome,  we  wiU  keep  ourself 
Till  supper-time  alone :  while  then,  God  be  with 
you. 
[Exeunt  Lady  Macbeth,  Lords,  Ladies,  &c. 
Sirrah,  a  word  with  you  :  Attend  those  meu  our 
pleasure  ? 
Attend.  They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace 

gate. 
Much.  Bring  them  before  us. — {Exit  Atten.] 
To  be  thus,  is  nothing ; 
But  to  be  safely  thus : — Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Beigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd :  't  is  much 

he  dares ; 
And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind. 
He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valoui- 
To  act  in  safety.     There  is  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear :  and  under  him 
My  genius  is  rebuk'd ;  as,  it  is  said, 
Mark^  Antony's  was  by  Csesar.    He  chid  the 

sisters, 
When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon 
me, 


talk.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  more  unnecessary  cliange. 
Who  could  doubt  our  meaning  if  we  were  to  say,  '  Well, 
sir,  if  you  cannot  come  tliis  afternoon,  we  will  take  to- 
morrow 1."  „  ^  1  0 
a  Steevens  proposed  to  omit  Mark,  "  tor  the  sake  or 
metre."  Johnson  would  have  gone  farther,  and  would  have 
omitted  the  whole  allusion  to  Mark  Antony,  writing  the 
passage  thus : — 

He  chid  the  sisters." 


"  My  genius  is  rebuk'd. 

Tii.vGEDiiis. — Vol.  II. 


D 


And  bade  them  speak  to  him;  then,  prophet- 

Uke, 
They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings  : 
Upon  my  head  they  plac'd  a  fruitless  crown, 
And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe. 
Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  imUneal  hand, 
No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If  it  be  so. 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  fil'd"  my  miiid ; 
For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murther'd : 
Pat  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace, 
Only  for  them ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 
Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man, 
To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings  ! 
Bather  than  so,  come,  fate,  into  the  Hst, 
And  champion  me  to  the  utterance ! '' — "Who  's 

there  ? — 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  two  Murderers. 

Now  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

\Bxit  Attendant. 
Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 
1  Mur.  It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 
Macb.  Well  then,  now 

Have  you  consider'd  of  my  speeches  ?  Know, 
That  it  was  he,  in  the  times  past,  which  held  you 
So  under  fortune ;  which,  you  thought,  had  been 
Our  innocent  self :  this  I  made  good  to  you 
In  our  last  conference ;  pass'd  in  probation  with 

you. 
How  you  were  borne  in  hand;    how  cross'd;  the 

instruments ; 
Who  wrought  with  them;  and  all  things  else, 

that  might. 
To  half  a  soul,  and  to  a  notion  craz'd. 
Say,  Thus  did  Banquo. 

1  Mur.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

Macb.  I  did  so;  and  went  further,  which  is  now 
Our  point  of  second  meeting.     Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature, 
That  you  can  let  this  go  ?  Are  you  so  gospell'd. 
To  pray  for  this  good  man,  and  for  his  issue. 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bo\v'd  you  to  the  grave, 
And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever  ? 

1  Mur.  We  are  men,  my  liege. 

Macb.  Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men ; 
As  hounds,  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels, 

curs, 
Shoughs,     water-rugs,    and    demi-wolves,    are 

cleped 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs :  the  valued  file 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 

a  T^iVW— defiled. 

b  Xrti^.raJtce. — TheViench combat-i-cutrance.  SefcCymbo- 
line,  Act  iii..  Scene  i. 
c  Borne  in  hand — encouraged  by  false  hopes. 

33 


ACTilLJ 


MACBETH. 


[SCKKE  II. 


The  housekeeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
Acoorviing  to  tlic  gift  wliich  bouulcoiis  nature 
llath  iu  him  clos'd ;  whereby  he  doc^  receive 
Farticuhir  addition,  from  the  bill 
Tliat  writes  them  all  alike :  and  so  of  lueu. 
Kow,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  lUc, 
Not  in  the  worst  rank  •  of  manhood,  say  it ; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms 
AVhose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off; 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 
Mliich  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

2  Mur.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 

Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  inccns'd,  that  I  am  reckless  what 
I  do,  to  spite  the  world. 

1  M\  •  And  I  another. 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune. 
That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on  't. 

Macb.  Both  of  you 

Know,  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

2  Mur.  True,  my  lord. 
Macb.  So  is  he  mine ;  and  iu  such  bloody  dis- 
tance. 

That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life :    Ajid  though  I  could 
^\  ith  bare-fac'd  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight. 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not, 
For*"  certain  friends  that  ai-e  both  his  and  mine, 
Wliose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  Ids  fall 
Whom  I  myself  struck  down :  and  thence  it  is 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love ; 
Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye, 
Fur  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

2  Mur.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

1  Mur.  Though  our  lives 

Macb.  Your  spirits  shine  through  you.     With- 
in this  hour,  at  most, 
I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves. 
Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'  the  time, 
The  moment  on  't ;  for  't  must  be  done  to-night," 


•  In  the  prcccalng  p.-irt  of  this  speech  a  distinction  is 
rtrawn  »w«wr<-Ti  thr  ralalogue  and  the  valued  file.  The  cata- 
'  "nc«  of  all;  the  valued  aie select  names. 

■"  '«  may  l«;  a  "  station  in  the  file"  above 

l..al.  .    l.c      w.,r,i  rank."     The  ronA,  then,  is  the  row,— 
XhrfiU  thoH;  »tt  aj.art  from  the  row,  for  superior  qualities 
It  not  Ihl.  '.h.  .i.r,„ing  of  the  tnUitar>-  tenn,  rank  and  file", 
wbich  u  •  7 

b  Pot-  \  of — bcctusc  of. 

'We  onitritinil  thU  puiage  as  follows.  Macbeth  bos 
•aid, 

"  I  will  adrUe  you  where  to  jdant  yourselves  :" 
hethrna-!^.    "Acquaint  you  "—inform  yourselves— "  witir 
•■'*■  -*t»h  amo»t  careful  inquiry— "o*  the  time" 

— '!■  liaie  of  Banquo't  return  ; — 

'•lUe  moiacnl  on't ;  for  'l  must  be  done  to  night." 
34 


And  somctliing  from  the  palace ;  always  thouglit 
Tliat  I  require  a  clearness  :  And  with  him, 
(To  leave  no  rubs,  nor  botches,  in  the  work,) 
Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company, 
Whose  absence  is  no  less  materitd  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 
Of  that  dai-k  hour.     Kesolve  yourselves  apart ; 
I  '11  come  to  you  anon. 

2  Mur.  We  are  resolv'd,  my  lord. 

Macb.  I  'U  call   upon  you    straight ;    abide 
witliin. 
It  is  concluded : — Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight, 
If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night. 

[Exeuiit, 

SCENE  H.—The  same.     Another  Room. 

Enter  La(h/  AIacbeth  and  a  Servant. 

Ladi/  31.  Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Ladt/  31.  Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend  his 
leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

iServ.  Madam,  I  will.  Exit. 

Lady  M.  Nought 's  had,  all 's  spent, 

■\\Tiere  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Thau,  by  destruction,  dwell  m  doubtful  joy. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

How  now,  my  lord  ?  why  do  you  keep  alone. 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making  ? 
Using  those  thoughts  whicb  should  indeed  have 

died 
With  them  they  think  on  ?    Things  without  all" 

remedy. 
Should  be  without  regard :  what's  done  is  done. 
Macb.  We  have  scotcli'd  the  snake,  not  kiU'd 

it: 
She  '11  close,  and  be  herself;  whilst  our  poor 

malice 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let  the  frame  of  tilings  disjoint,  both  the 

worlds  suffer. 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep      ~ 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  di-eams. 
That  shake  us  nightly :  Better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gam  our  peace,''  have  sent  to  peace, 


»  Sfeevcns  omits  all. 

b  Peace. — For  this  word  of  the  original  the  editor  of  the 
second  folio  substituted  place.  The  repetition  of  the  word 
peace  seems  very  much  in  Shakspere's  manner ;  and  as  every 
one  who  commits  a  crime  such  as  that  of  Macbeth  proposes 
to  himself,  in  the  result,  ha|)pine3s,  which  is  another  word 
for  peace, — as  the  very  promptings  to  the  crime  disturb  his 
peace, — we  think  there  is  something  much  higher  in  the 


Act  III.] 


MACBETH. 


Than  ou  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 

In  restless  ecstacy.     Duncan  is  in  his  grave ; 

After  life 's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well ; 

Treason  has  done  his  worst:    nor  steel,   nor 

poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing. 
Can  touch  him  further ! 

Lacli/  M.  Come  on ; 
Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  among  your  guests  to- 
night. 
Macb.  So  shall  I,  love;  and  so,  I  pray,  be 
you: 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo ; 
Present    him   eminence,    both    with    eye    and 

tongue : 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 
Must  lave  our  honours  in  these  flattering  streama; 
And  make  oui-  faces  vizards  to  our  heartsj 
Disguismg  what  they  are. 
Ladi/  M.  You  must  leave  this. 

Macb.  0,  full  of  scoi-pions  is  my  mhid,  dear 
wife! 
Thou  know'st  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance, 
lives. 
Lady  M.  But  in  them  nature's   copy's*  not 

eterne. 
Macb.  There  's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assail- 
able; 
Then  be  thou  jocund :  Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloister'd  flight ;  ere,  to  black  Hecate's  sum- 
mons. 
The  shard-borne  beetle, '^  with  his  drowsy  hums. 
Hath  rung  night's  ya^vniug  peal. 
There  shall  be  done  a  deed  of  dreadful  note.": 
Ladi/  M.  What 's  to  be  done  ? 
Mac.  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest 
chuck. 


sentiment  conveyed  by  the  original  word  than  in  that  ot 
iHace.  In  the  very  contemplation  of  the  murder  of  Banquo, 
Macbeth  is  vainly  seeking  for  peace.  Banquo  is  the  object 
that  makes  him  eat  his  meal  in  fear  and  sleep  in  terrible 
dreams.  His  death,  therefore,  is  determined;  and  then 
comes  the  fearful  lesson, 

"  Better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  peace,  have  sent  to  peace, 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstacy." 

There  is  no  peace  with  the  wicked. 

■I  Nature's  co/ij/.— Johnson  explains  this  as  the  copr/,  the 
lease,  by  which  they  hold  their  lives  from  nature ;  and  Rit- 
son  says  it  is  the  copy  of  court  roll.  Is  not  this  very  forced? 
Although  the  expression  may  be  somewhat  obscure,  does 
not  every  one  feel  that  the  copy  means  the  individual, — the 
particular  cast  from  nature's  mould, — a  perishable  copy  of 
the  prototype  of  man  ? 

b  Shard-borne  beetle — the  beetle  borne  on  its  shards,  or 
scaly  wing-cases.  See  Cymheline;  Illustration  of  Act  in,, 
Scene  in. 

c  We  print  these  lines  as  in  the  original.  In  modern 
editions  they  are  "regulated"  thus: — 

"  Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note." 

D"2 


ISCENE  lU. 

TiU  thou  applaud  the  deed.     Come,  seeling" 

night, 
Skarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day ; 
And,  with  thy  bloody  and  mvisible  hand, 
Cancel,  and  tear  to  pieces,  that  great  bond 
Which  keeps  me  pale !— Light  thickens ;  and  the 

crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood ; 
Good  thmgs  of  day  begin  to  di-oop  and  drowse ; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  prey  do 

rouse. 
Thou  marvell'st  at  my  words:  but  hold  thee 

stiU; 
Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill : 
So,  prithee,  go  with  me.  [JExeuiit. 

SCENE    IIL—The  same.    A  Park  or  Laivn, 
with  a  Gate  leading  to  the  Falace. 

Enter  three  Murderers. 

1  Mur.  But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us  ? 

3  Mur.  Macbeth. 

2  Mur.  He  needs  not  our  mistrust;  since  ho 

delivers 
Our  offices,  and  what  we  have  to  do. 
To  the  dii-ection  just. 

1  Mur.  Then  stand  with  us. 
The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day  : 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace, 

To  gam  the  timely  inn;  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

3  Mur.  Hark !  I  hear  horses. 
Ban.  [Within.]  Give  us  a  light  there,  hoa ! 

2  Mur.  Then  't  is  he ;  the  rest 
That  are  withm  the  note  of  expectation, 
Already  are  i'  the  court. 

1  Mur.  His  horses  go  about, 

3  Mur.  Almost  a  mile;  but  he  does  usually. 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

Enter  Banquo  and  Flkance  with  a  torch. 

2  Mur.  A  light,  a  liglit ! 

3  Mm:  'T  is  he, 
1  Mtcr.  Stand  to  't. 

Ban.  It  will  be  rain  to-niglit. 
1  Mur.  Let  it  come  down. 

\_Assaulls  Bakquo. 
Ban.  0,   treachery !   Ely,  good  Fleance,  flv, 

fly,  fly; 

Thou  mayst  revenge. — O  slave  ! 

[Dies.     EiEANCE  escapes. 

^  Seeling^-hYmdiins.    The  expression  is  taken  from  the 
practice  of  closing  the  eyelids  of  hawks. 

35 


Act  HI.] 


MACBETH. 


ISCEKB  IV 


Wlio  did  strike  out  the  liRhtP 


3  .V«r. 

1  ,v„r.  Was  't  uot  the  wa.T  P 
8  }[ur.  Then-  's  but  cue  down ;  the  sou  is  fled. 

2  Mur.  We  liave  lost  best  half  of  our  affair. 

1  Mur.  Well,  let's  away,  and  say  how  much 
is  done.  [Rreuni. 

SCENE  IV.— J  Boom  of  Slate  in  the  Palace. 
A  Banquet  prepared. 

Enter  Macbetu,  Lady  Macbetu,  Rosse,  Lenox, 
Lords,  and  Attcuduuts. 
Macb.  You  know  your  own  degrees,  sit  down : 
at  first 
And  last,  the  hearty  vrelconic. 

Lord4.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Macb.  Ourself  will  mingle  with  society. 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state ;  but,  in  best  time. 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Lady  M.  Prouounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our 
friends ; 
For  my  heart  speaks,  they  are  welcome. 

Enter  first  Murderer,  to  the  door. 

Macb.  See,  they  encounter  thee  -with  their 
hearts'  thanks : 
l^oth  sides  are  even :  llere  I  '11  sit  i'  the  midst : 
Be  large  in  mirth ;  anon,  we  '11  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round.  [Approaching  the  door.']  There's 
blood  upon  thy  face. 
Mur.  'T  is  Banquo's  then. 
Macb.  'T  is    better    thee  without,   than    he 
within.  /- 

Is  he  dispatch'd? 

Mur.  My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  1  did 

for  him. 
Macb.  Thou  art  the  best  o'  the   cut-throats : 
Yet  he 's  good. 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance :  if  thou  didst  it. 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 

Mur.  Most  royal  sir, 

FlcaiKC  is  'scap'd. 
Macb.  Then  comes  my  fit  again:  I  had  else 
been  perfect ; 
Wliolc  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock  : 
As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air : 
But  now,  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound 

in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.     Hut  Banquo's  safe  P 
Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  safe  in  a  ditch  he 
bides. 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head ; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macb.  Thanks  for  that : 

M 


There  the  grown  serpent  lies ;  the  worn,  that 's 

fled, 
llath  natuic  that  in  time  will  venom  breed, 
No  teeth  for  the  present.— Get  thee  gone;  to- 
morrow 
We  '11  hear,  ourselves  again.       [E.rit  Murderer. 

Lady  M.  My  royal  lord. 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer ;  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  uot  often  vouch 'd,  while  't  is  a  making, 
'T  is  given  with  welcome  :*  To  feed,  were  best  at 

home ; 
From  thence,  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony. 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macb.  Sweet  remembrancer ! — 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite. 
And  health  on  both ! 

Led.  May  it  please  your  highness  sit  ? 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  Banquo,  and  sits  in  Mac- 
beth'* placc.^ 
Macb.  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour 

roof'd, 
Were  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 
"VVho  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Thau  pity  for  mischance ! 

Jtosse.  His  absence,  sir. 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.    Please  it  your 

highness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company  ? 
Macb.  The  table  's  fuU. 
Len.  Here  is  a  place  reserv'd,  sir. 
Macb.  Where? 
Zen.  Here,  my  good  lord.     What 

is  't  that  moves  your  highness  ? 
Macb.  Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 
Lords.  Wliat,  my  good  lord  P 

Macb.  Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it :  never 
shake 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Rosse.  Gentlemen,  rise;  Ws  highness  is  not 

weU. 
Lady3f.  Sit,   worthy    friends :— my  lord  is 
often  thus, 
And   hath  been    from  liis  youth:  'pray  you, 

keep  seat ; 
The  fit  is  momentary ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  weU :  If  much  you  note  him. 
You  shall  offend  him,  and  extend  his  passior.; 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not.— Are  you  a  mauP 
Macb.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on 
that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 
LadyM.  O  proper  stuff! 

»  We  understand,  thai  'tis  given  with  welcome. 


Act  III.] 


MACBETH. 


[Scene  IV. 


This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which,  you  said, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     0,  these  flaws,  and  starts, 
(Impostors  to  true  fear,)  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story,  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?  When  all 's  done. 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macb.  Prithee,  see  there !   behold !  look !  lo  ! 
how  say  you  ? 
Why,  what  care  I?   If  thou  canst  nod,  speak 

too. — • 
K  charnel-houses,  and  our  graves,  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury,  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.      [Ghost  dlmppears. 

Lady  M.         What !  quite  unmann'd  in  foUy  ? 

Macb.  If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  M.  Fie,  for  shame ! 

Macb.  Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  the 
olden  time. 
Ere  human  statute  pui'g'd  the  gentle  weal ; 
Ay,  and  since  too,  murthers  have  been  perform'd 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear :  the  times  have  been, 
That  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would 

die, 
And  there  an  end :  but  now,  they  rise  again. 
With  twenty  mortal  mui'thers  on  their  crowns. 
And  push  us  from  oui*  stools :     This  is  more 

strange 
Than  such  a  murther  is. 

Lady  M.  My  worthy  lord. 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macb.  I  do  forget : — 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  fi-iends ; 
I  have  a  strange  iafirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.     Come,  love  and  health 

to  aU; 
Then  I  '11  sit  down : — Give  me  some  wine,  fill 
full:- 

Re-enfer  Ghost. 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  of  the  whole  table. 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss ; 
Would  he  were  here !  to  all,  and  him,  we  thu'st. 
And  all  to  aU. 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge, 

Macb.  Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  Let  the 
earth  hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  maiTowless,  thy  blood  is  cold ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with ! 

Lady  31.  Think  of  this,  good  peers. 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom :  't  is  no  other ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macb.  What  man  dare,  I  dare : 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear. 


The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger, 
Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 
Shall  never  tremble  :  Or,  be  alive  again. 
And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword ; 
If  trembling  I  inhabit  then,"  protest  me 
The  baby  of  a  girl.     Hence,  horrible  shadow ! 

\_Ghost  disappears. 
Unreal    mockery,    herce! — Why,    so; — being 

gone, 
I  am  a  man  again. — ^Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  M.  You  have  displac'd  the  mirth,  broke 
the  good  meeting, 
With  most  admir'd  disorder. 

Macb.  Can  such  things  be. 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud. 
Without   our  special  wonder  ?   You  make  me 

straiige 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe. 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights. 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks. 
When  mine  are  blanch' d  with  fear. 

Rosse.  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  M.  I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he   grows 
worse  and  worse ; 
Question  em-ages  him :  at  once,  good  night : — 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going. 
But  go  at  once. 

Len.  Good  night,  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty ! 

Lady  M.  A  kind  good  night  to  aU ! 

[Exeunt  Lords  and  Attendants. 
Macb.  It  will  have  blood;  they  say,   blood 
win  have  blood : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move,  and  trees  to 

speak ; 
Augurs,  aud  understood  relations,  have 
By  magot-pies,  and  choughs,  and  rooks,  brought 

forth 
The  secret' st  man  of  blood. — What  is  the  night? 
Lady  M.  Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which 

is  which, 
Macb.  How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies 
his  person. 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  M.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macb.  I  hear  it  by  the  way ;  but  I  will  send : 
There 's  not  a  one  of  them,  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  wQl  to-moiTOw 
(And  betimes  I  wiU)  to  the  weird  sisters  : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to 
know, 

a  Inhabit  <//<?«.— This  is  the  original  reading,  -vrhich  has 
been  changed  into  inhibit  thee.  Home  Tooke  was  ttie  first 
to  denounce  this  alteration ;  contending  that  the  true  mean- 
ing is,  that  if  he  were  dared  to  the  desert  he  would  not  skulk 
within  his  house. 

37 


Tz} 


ACT  III.) 


MACBETH. 


[Scenes  V.,  VI, 


Hy  f)i>  wofbt  inean5,  the  worst:  for  mine  o\ni 

gOOil, 

All  cau5C5  shall  give  way ;  I  am  in  blood 
Stopp'd    in    so    far,    tliat,   should   I   wade  no 

moro, 
Rctuniing  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er  : 
Strange   tliiniis   I   have   in  head,  that  will   (o 

hand  ; 
AMiich  must  \)c  acted,  ere  they  may  be  scann'd. 
Lady  }f.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures, 

sleep. 
Macb.  Come,  wo  '11  to  sleep :  My  strange  and 

self-abuse 
Is  tlie  initiate  fear,  that  wants  hard  use : — 
V!^c  arc  yet  but  young  in  deed.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \.—Tf,e  Heath.     Thunder. 

Enter  Hecate,  meeting  the  three  "Witches, 

1  Witch.  Why,  how  now,  Hecate  ?  you  look 
angcrly. 

Hec.  Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are. 
Saucy,  and  over-bold  ?  How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth, 
In  riddles,  and  affairs  of  death  ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  cliamis. 
The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 
Was  never  eall'd  to  bear  my  part. 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done. 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son. 
Spiteful,  and  wrathful ;  who,  as  others  do. 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now :  Get  you  gone. 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron 
Meet  me  i'  the  morning  ;  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny. 
Your  vesseb,  and  your  spells,  provide. 
Your  cliarms,  and  everything  beside : 
I  am  for  the  air ;  this  night  I  '11  spend 
Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end.* 
Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon  : 
Upon  the  comer  of  the  moon 
There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop,  profound ; 
I  '11  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground : 
And  that,  di-still'd  by  magic  slights. 
Shall  ri'  \  artificial  sprites. 

As,  by  1  •^\\  of  their  illusion. 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion : 
He  slifill  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  boar 
His  hopes  'Ixjvc  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear : 


•  So  (be  orijfin*!.    ThU  noble  line,  by  which  the  mclri. 
to  M  beanUfttlfy  T.rircl.  bu  been  changc.l  to- 

"  Unto  •  (liim&l— fatal  end." 

38 


And  you  all  know,  security 
Is  mortal's  cliiefest  enemy. 

Song.  [Within.']  'Come  away,  come  away,'  &c. 

Hark,  I  am  eall'd ;  my  little  spirit,  see. 
Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.      [E.rit. 
1  Witch.  Come,  let 's  make  haste :  she  '11  soon 
be  back  again.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— Eorres.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Lenox,  and  another  Lord. 

Len.  My  former  speeclies  have  but  hit  your 
thoughts, 
Wtich  can  intepret  farther :  only,  I  say. 
Things  have  been  strangely  borne :  The  graciou'' 

Duncan 
Waa  pitied  of  Macbetli : — marry,  he  was  dead : — 
And  the  right-valiant  Banquo  walked  too  late  j 
"Whom,  you  may  say,  if 't  please  you,  Fleance 

kill'd. 
For  Eleance  fled.    Meu  must  not  walk  too  late. 
Who  cannot  want  the  thought  how  monstrous 
It  was  for  Malcolm,  and  for  Donalbain, 
To  kill  their  gracious  father  ?  damned  fact ! 
How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth !  did  he  not  straight, 
lu  pious  rage,  the  two  delinquents  tear, 
That  were  the  slaves  of  di-ink,  and  thralls  of 

sleep : 
Was  not  that  nobly  done  ?  Ay,  and  wisely  too  ; 
For  't  would  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive 
To  hear  the  meu  deny  it.     So  that,  I  say, 
He  has  borne  all  things  weU :  and  I  do  think. 
That,  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key, 
(As,   an  't  please  heaven,  he  shall  not,)   they 

should  find 
What  'i  were  to  kill  a  father ;  so  should  Fleance, 
But,  peace ! — for  from  broad  words,  and  'cause 

he  fail'd 
Hjs  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear, 
Macduff  lives  in  disgrace :  Sir,  can  you  teU 
Wliere  he  bestows  himself? 

Lord.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  bii-th. 
Lives  in  the  English  coui't ;  and  is  received 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  gi-a<Je, 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect :  Thither  Macduff 
Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  upon  his  aid 
To  wake  Northumberland,  and  warlike  Siward : 
That,  by  the  help  of  these,  (with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work,)  we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights ; 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives ; 
Do  faithful  homage,  and  receive  free  honours ;— 


Act  III.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCESS  M 


All  wliich  we  pine  for  now :  And  this  report 
Hatli  so  exasperate  the  king,  that  he 
Preparea  for  some  attempt  of  vrar. 

ten.  Sent  he  to  Macduff? 

Lord.  He  did :  and  vrith  an  absolute,  '  Sir, 
not  I,' 
The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  his  back. 
And  hums;  as  who  should  say,  'You'll  rue  the  time 
That  clogs  me  witli  this  answer.' 


Len.  And  that  well  might 

Advise  nim  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.    Some  holy  angel 
Fly  to  the  court  of  England,  and  unfold 
His  message  ere  he  come ;  that  a  swift  blessbg 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accurs'd ! 

Lord.  I  'II  send  my  prayers  with  him ! 

\Exeunt. 


[Forres— Eminence  at  the  Wes'.ern  Extremity.] 


I 


ILLUSTllATIONS  OF  ACT  TIL 


'  ScEXB  IV. — "  Enter  the  Ghost  of  Banquo  and  »its 
in  Machtth's  place." 

This  is  the  Ftnge  direction  of  the  original ;  and  no- 
thing can  bo  nioro  precise.  It  presents  the  strongest 
evidenco  that,  in  the  roprcsontation  of  this  tragedy 
within  8ixt<>en  years  of  its  original  production,  and 
only  seven  years  after  the  death  of  its  author,  the 
ghost  of  Banquo  Wiis  exhibited  to  the  audience.* 
It  has  been  uiaint-aiued,  however,  and  the  opinion 
was  acted  upon  by  John  Kemble,  that  the  ghost  of 
Banquo  ought  not  to  be  visible  to  the  audience ; 
&nd  that,  as  it  was  visible  only  to  Macbeth  of  all  the 
company  assembled  at  the  solemn  supper,  it  can 
only  be  regarded  as 

"  A  false  creation 
Proceeding  (Vom  the  heat-oppressed  brain," 

like  the  dagger  which  he  saw  previous  to  the  murder 
of  Duncan.  This  opinion  is,  of  course,  supported 
by  the  argument  that  the  visible  introduction  of  the 
ghost  is  to  be  ascribed  to  an  injudicious  stage  di- 
rection of  the  players,  and  was  not  intended  by  the 
poet.  Tieek,  in  his  translation  of  this  tragedy,  re- 
ceives, though  unwillingly, the  stage  direction;  and 
he  explains  that  the  banquet  takes  place  on  the 
eecondary  stage  (see  Othello,  Illustration  of  Act  v.), 
and  that  the  ghost  enters  from  behind  the  curtain 
of  that  stage.  I'here  cannot,  we  think,  be  any  he- 
sitation about  the  acceptance  of  the  stage  direction 
as  evidence  how  the  play  was  acted  by  Shakspere's 
"fellows;"  and  this  is  the  best  evidence  we  can 
have  of  Shakspere's  own  conception  of  the  thing. 
But  there  is  another  point,  to  which  our  attention 
has  been  drawn  by  the  communication  of  a  gentle- 
man personally  unknown  to  us,  which  cannot  be 
dismissed  with  such  certainty.  This  gentleman 
states  that,  having  recently  attended  a  meeting  of 
a  Society  for  Literary  Discussion,  one,  who  called 
himself  an  actor,  "  among  other  dramatic  criticLsms 
boldly  propounded  the  following,  somewhat  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  audience,  viz.  that  the  first 
apparition  which  Macbeth  beholds  in  the  celebrated 
banquet  scone  is  that  of  Duncan — the  second  only 
that  of  Banquo."  Our  correspondent  favours  us 
with  some  of  the  ar^raents  by  which  this  proposi- 
tion was  si:  -  "'•••rary  meeting;  and  ho 
adds  somi'  ii  appear  to  us  equally 
ingenioua.  But  wo  arc  met  on  the  threshold  of  the 
arguni'  •  '  •'  .'[jal  stage  direction.  Wc 
ahou,  1  i  Kemble,  and  CiipcU  LofTt, 
and  Tiock,  to  rojoct  any  visible  ghost  adlogethcr,  but 

*  Forman'a  account  conflnni  thl*.     (See  Introductory 
Nonce.) 

40 


for  this  stage  direction;  and  it  equally  compels  us 
to  admit  in  this  place  the  ghost  of  Banquo.  Is  there 
anything,  then,  in  the  text  inconsistent  with  the 
stage  direction  ?  When  Macbeth  has  hypocritically 
said,  in  his  consciousness  of  the  murder, — 
"  Were  thegrac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present," 

it  is  a  piece  of  consummate  art  that  he  should  see 
the  table  full,  and  his  own  chair  occupied  by  the 
vision  of  him  whose  presence  he  has  just  affected 
to  desire.     His  first  exclamation  is 

"  Thou  canst  not  say  /  did  it." 

The  hired  murderers  had  done  it, — the  common 
evasion  of  one  perpetrating  a  crime  through  the 
instrumentality  of  another.  If  it  be  Duncans  ghost 
we  must  read, 

"  Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it." 

But  we  have  afterwards  the  expression, — 

"  If  clianiel-houses,  and  our  graves,  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury,  back,  our  monuments 
Sliall  be  the  maws  of  kites." 

This  must  apply,  it  is  said,  to  Duncan : — "  Dun- 
can is  iu  his  grave."  Of  Banquo,  Macbeth  has 
just  heard,  "safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides."  But  the 
same  species  of  argument  is  equally  strong  against 
the  proposed  change.  If  the  second  ghost  is  to  be 
the  ghost  of  Banquo,  how  can  it  be  said  of  him, — 
"Thy  bonea  are  marrmcless" ?  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  these  terms,  throughout  the  scene,  must 
be  received  as  general  expressions  of  the  condition 
of  death  as  opposed  to  that  of  life ;  and  have  no 
more  dii-ect  reference  to  Duncan  than  to  Banquo. 
There  is  a  coincidence  of  passages  pointed  out  by 
our  correspondent  which  strongly  makes,  as  ad- 
mitted by  him,  against  the  opinion  which  he  com- 
municates to  us.     The  murderer  has  said, — 

"  Safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head; 
The  least  a  death  to  nature." 

The  idea  seized  upon  Macbeth's  mind ;  and  it 
embodied  itself  iu  this  echo  : — 

"  The  times  have  been, 
That  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end  :  but  now,  they  rise  again, 
With  tweniy  mortal  murlheri  on  Iheir  crowns, 
And  p\ish  us  from  our  stools:  This  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murther  is." 

We  have  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  the  original 
t-'age  direction. 

But  there  is  no  direction  in  the  original  copy  for 
the  disappearance  of  the  ghost  before  Macbeth  ex- 
claims "  If  I  stand  here  I  saw  him."     The  diiec- 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IIL 


tion  Wiiich  we  find  is  modem ;  but  tlie  ghost  is 
unquestionably  gone,  as  far  as  Macbeth  is  con- 
scious of  its  presence.  Macbeth  recovers  his  self- 
possession.  After  "  Give  me  some  wine,  fill  full," 
we  have  in  the  original  the  stage  direction, 

Enter  Ghost. 
Now,  then,  arises  the  question.  Is  this  the  ghost  of 
Banquo  ?  To  make  the  ghost  of  Banquo  return  a 
second  time  at  the  moment  when  Macbeth  wishes 
for  the  presence  of  Banquo  is  not  in  the  highest 
style  of  art.  The  stage  direction  does  not  prevent 
us  arguing  that  here  it  maybe  the  ghost  of  Duncan. 
The  terror  of  Macbeth  is  now  more  intense  than  on 
the  first  appearance ;  it  becomes  desperate  and  de- 
fying. In  the  presence  of  the  ghost  of  Banquo, 
when  he  is  asked,  "  Are  you  a  man,"  he  repUes,  — 

"  Ay,  and  a  1)01(1  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
%Vhich  might  appal  the  devil." 


Upon  the  second  apparition  it  is,  "Avaunf  and 
quit  my  sight,' —" Take  any  shape  but  that"— 
"  Hence,  horrible  shadow  ! "  Are  not  these  words 
■applied  to  some  object  of  greater  terror  than 
the  former?  Have  there  not  been  two  spectral 
appearances,  as  implied  in  the  expressions 


"  Can  such  thint/s  be  I " 


and 


"  You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights  "f 

"We  of  course  placelittle  confidence  in  this  opinion, 
though  we  confess  to  a  strong  inclination  towards  it. 
At  aoiy  rate  we  have  discharged  a  duty  which  we 
owed  to  our  kind  con-espondent,  in  examining  the 
question  somewhat  fully. 


HISTORICAL  ILLUSTRATION. 


The  murder  of  Banquo  is  thus  told  by  Holin- 
shed : — 

"  These  and  the  like  commendable  laws  Macbeth 
caused  to  be  put  as  then  in  use,  governing  the  realm 
for  the  space  of  ten  years  in  equal  justice.  But 
this  was  but  a  counterfeit  zeal  of  equity  showed  by 
him,  partly  against  his  natural  inclination,  to  pur- 
chase thereby  the  favour  of  the  people.  Shortly 
after,  he  began  to  show  what  he  was, — instead  of 
equity,  practising  cruelty :  for  the  prick  of  con- 
science (as  it  chanceth  ever  in  tyrants,  and  such  as 
attain  to  any  estate  by  unrighteous  means)  caused 
him  ever  to  fear  lest  he  should  be  served  of  the 
same  cup  as  he  had  ministered  to  his  predeces- 
sor. The  words  also  of  the  thi-ee  wekd  sisters  would 
not  out  of  his  mind,  which,  as  they  promised  him 
the  kingdom,  so  likewise  did  they  promise  it  at  the 
same  time  unto  the  posterity  of  Banquo.  He  wUled 
therefore  the  same  Banquo,  with  his  son,  named 
Fieance,  to  come  to  a  supper  that  he  had  prepared 


for  them,  which  was  indeed,  as  he  had  devised,  pre- 
sent death  at  the  hands  of  certain  murderers  whom 
he  hired  to  execute  that  deed,  appointing  them  to 
meet  with  the  same  Banquo  and  his  son  without 
the  palace  as  they  returned  to  their  lodgings,  and 
there  to  slay  them,  so  that  he  would  not  have  his 
house  slandered,  but  that  in  time  to  come  he  might 
clear  himself  if  anything  were  laid  to  his  charge 
upon  any  siispicion  that  might  arise. 

"  It  chanced  yet  by  the  benefit  of  the  dark  night 
that,  though  the  father  were  slain,  the  son,  yet  by 
the  help  of  Almighty  God,  reserving  him  to  better 
fortune,  escaped  that  danger;  and  afterwards  having 
some  inkling  (by  the  admonition  of  some  friends 
which  he  had  in  the  court)  how  his  life  was  sought 
no  less  than  his  father's,  who  was  slain  not  by  chance- 
medley  (as  by  the  handling  of  the  matter  Macbeth 
would  have  had  it  to  appear),  but  even  upon  a 
devise ;  whereupon,  to  avoid  further  peril,  he  fled 
into  Wales." 


41 


--* 


{Tlie  Harmuii.] 


<3 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  dark  Cave.    In  the  middle,  a 
Caldron  boiling.     Thunder. 


Enter  the  three  Witches. 


IS 


1  Witch.  Thnce  the  brinded  cat  hath  raew'd. 

2  Witch.  Thrice;   and   once    the    hedge-pig 

whin'd. 

3  Witch.  Hai^jier  cries :  —  'T  is  time,  't 

time. 
L  Witch.  Round  about  the  caldron  go ; 

In  the  poison' d  entrails  throw. 

Toad,  that  under  cold"  stone, 

Days  and  nights  hast  thirty-one 

Swelter' d  venom  sleeping  got, 

BoU  thou  first  i'  the  channed  pot ! 
All.  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire  bum,  and  caldron  bubble. 
2  Witch.  Fillet  of  a  fcimy  snake. 

In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake : 

Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog. 

Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog. 


»  This  Is  the  reading  of  the  original — cold.  The  line  is 
certainly  defective  in  rhythm,  for  a  pause  hero  cannot  take 
the  place  of  a  syllable,  unless  we  pronounce  cold — co-old. 
There  is  no  natural  retardation.  We  do  not,  however,  alter 
the  text.     The  emendation  of  Stecvens  is 

"Toad,  that  under  coldett  stone.' 

Rowe  has, 

"  Toad,  that  under  the  cold  stone." 
42 


Adder's  fork,  and  blind-wonn's  stinr;, 

Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing. 

For  a  chanu  of  powerful  trouble ; 

Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 
All.  Double,  double,  toil  aud  trouble ; 

Fire  burn,  aud  caldron  bubble. 
3  Witch.  Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf; 

Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 

Of  the  raviu'd  salt-sea  shark ; 

Hoot  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  the  dark  ; 

Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew ; 

Gall  of  goat,  and  shps  of  yew, 

Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse ; 

Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartai-'s  lips ; 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe, 

Diteh-deliver'd  by  a  ch-ab. 

Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab ; 

Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron,'' 

For  the  ingredients  of  our  caldron. 
All.  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble ; 

Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 
2  Witch.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 

Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 

Enter  liECATE. 

Ilee.  0,  well  done !     I  commend  your  pains ; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gams, 

«  CAai/rfroB^ntrails. 


Act  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEHE  I 


Ajid  now  about  the  caldi-on  sing, 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

[Music  and  a  Song,  'Black  spirits/  Sfc?-'^ 
2  Witch.  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes : — 
Open,  locks,  whoever  knocks. 

Enter  !Macbeth. 

Macb.  How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  mid- 
night hags. 
What  is  't  you  do  ? 
All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macb.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  pro- 
fess, 
(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it,)  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  chui'ches  :  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up ; 
Though  bladed  com  be  lodg'd,  and  trees  blown 

down; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads  7" 
Though  palaces,  and  pyramids,  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations;  though  the 

treasure 
Of  nature's  germins^  tumble  aU  together. 
Even  till  destruction  sicken,  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 

1  Witch.  Speak, 

2  Witch.  Demand. 

3  Witch.  We  'U  answer. 
1  Witch.  Say,  if  thou  'dst  rather  hear  it  from 

our  mouths. 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 
Macb.  CaU  them,  let  me  see  them, 

1  Witch.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow ;  grease,  that 's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame.  ~ 

All.  Come,  high,  or  low ; 

Thyself,  and  office,  deftly  show. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  an.  armed  Head 
rises. 

Macb.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, — 


ft  This  is  the  original  stage-direction.  The  variorum  editors 
Inserted  four  lines  of  a  song,  which  thev  found  in  Middle 
ton's  '  Witch,'  but  without  anyauthority  for  their  introduc- 
tion here,  beyond  the  stage-durection.  In  the  Witch  scene  of 
Act  lit.  we  have  mention  of  a  song,  "  Come  away.''  These 
words  are  also  in  Middleton.  If  the  song  of  the  fourth  act 
should  be  inserted  in  the  text,  why  not  that  of  the  third  act  t 
See  Illustration. 

b  Gerrains— the  original  is  germaine,  which  Tieck  would 
retain.  Germins  are  seeds;  germaine,  kindred,  something 
closely  related  to  another.  We  cannot  see  whence  he  derives 
his  opinion  that  "natures  germaine "  means  the  sun  and 
moon. 


bewaif 


me: — 


1  Witch.  He  knows  thy  thought ; 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  nought. 
App.  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  Macbeth! 
Macduff; 
Beware  the    thane    of    Fife.— Dismiss 

Enough.  [Descends. 

Macb.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution, 
thanks ; 
Thou  hast  harp'd  my  fear  aright : — But  ouc  word 
more : — 
1  Witch.  He  will  not  be  commanded:  Here's 
another. 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  bloody  Child 
rises. 

App.  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  Macbeth!— 

Macb.  Had  I  three  ears,  I  'd  hear  thee. 

App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute ;  laugh  to 
scorn 
The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  bom 
Shall  harm  Macbeth.^  [Descends. 

Macb.  Then  live,  Macduff :  What  need  I  fear 
of  thee  ? 
But  yet  I  'U  make  assurance  double  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate :  thou  shalt  not  live ; 
That  I  may  tell,  pale-hearted  fear  it  Hes, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. — What  is  this. 

Thunder.    An  Apparition  of  a  Child  crowned., 
with  a  Tree  in  his  Hand,  rises. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king ; 
And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to  't. 

App.  Be  Uon-mettled,  proud ;   and  take  no 
care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspii-ers  are : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 
Great  Bimam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him.  [Descends. 

Macb.  That  wiU  never  be ; 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root  ?  sweet  bodements ! 

good! 
BebeUious  head,''  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Bimam  i-isc,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 

a  In  the  desire  to  make  their  own  metrical  arrangement, 
the  variorum  editors  shut  their  eyes  to  the  fact  that  we 
have  here  a  rhyming  couplet.    They  write, 

"  Be  bloody,  bold, 
And  resolute;  laugh  to  scorn  the  power  of  man, 
For  none  of  woman  born  shall  harm  Macbeth." 
b  Head. — The  old  copy  has  rf^arf.   The  correction  of  Artirf, 
which  is  evidently  required,  was  made  by  Theobald.     Han- 
mer  reads  Rebellion's  head. 

43 


Act  IV.] 


MACRKTII. 


[SrBNS  II. 


To  time,  and  mortal  custom. — Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  tliinp :  Tell  me,  (if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much,)  sliall  IJanquo's  issue  ever 
llcign  in  this  kingdom? 

AIL  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macb.  I  will  be  satisfied :  deny  me  this, 
And  an  elernal   curse  full   on  you!     Let   iiu; 

know : — 
Wliy  sinks  that  caldron?  and  what  noise"  is 
this?  [Uauthop. 

I  Witch.  Show  !     2  IVitch.  Show  !     3  Witch. 

Sliow ! 
All.  Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. 

Eight  Kings  appear,  and  pass  over  (he  Stage  in 
order;  the  last  trith  a  Gla.ss  in  his  hand; 
^Aiiq,vo/ultoioing. 

Macb.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo ; 

down ! 
Tliy  crown  does  sear  mine  eyeballs : — And  thy 

hair,'' 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first : — 
A  third  is  like  the  former : — Filthy  hags ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this? — A  fonrlli  ? — Start, 

eyes  I 
■\Vliat !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of 

doom  ? 
Another  yet  ?— A  seventh  ? — I  '11  see  no  more : — 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  mc  many  more ;  and  some  I  see, 
Tliat  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry : 
Horrible  sight ! — Now,  I  see,  't  is  true  ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'd''  Banquo  smiles  \q)on  lue, 
And  points  at  them  for  his. — What,  is  tliis  so  ? 

1  Witch.  Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so : — But  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly? 
Come,  sisters,  eheer  wc  \ip  his  sprites. 
And  show  the  best  of  our  delights ; 
I  '11  charui  the  air  to  give  a  sound. 
While  you  perform  your  antique  round : 
That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

\_Music.     The  AVitchcs  dance,  and  vanish. 
Maclj.  Where  are  they?     Gone?— Let   this 

pernicious  hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  ! — 
Come  in,  without  there ! 

•  Aroi».\— This  is  tlic  mutic  of  llic  hnutboys,  tho  word 
niiitr  bcinu  synoiiyiiiouii  wllli  tlie  sound  of  instrimiciits.  It 
Wns  io  little  uii<l<T»l(iO(l,  even  by  John  Kemblo,  that  under 
his  mnnngcmcnt  tiihrick  w.i«  liere  heard. 

t> //fl/r.— This  U  the  orljiinnl  word,  which  Wnrburtoii 
:hBnf(cd  to  air.  Monck  Mason  neiilely  defemU  the  old 
reading:  "It  implies  that  their  hair  was  ol  the  ituiuc  colour. 
»hieh  is  nioru  likely  to  mark  a  rauiily  likeness  than  thu  uir, 
which  depemls  on  habit." 

0  Blooii-bolter'd.  Jlotter'd  is  n  word  of  the  midland  coun- 
ties, nieaninu  bCRrlmed,  besmeared. 

44 


Fnter  Lenox, 

/>w.  Wliat  's  your  grace's  will  F 

Macb.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

//<?».  No,  my  lord. 

Macb.  Came  they  noi  by  you  ? 

Jyffn.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

flfacb.  Infected  bo  the  air  whereon  they  ride  ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them ! — I  did 

hear 
The  gallo])ing  of  horse :  Wlio  was  't  came  by  P 

Z(V/.  'T  is  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring 
you  word, 
MncdiilT  is  tied  to  lOngland. 

Macb.  Fled  to  England  ? 

Len.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  Time,  thou  aiiti('ij)at'st  my  dread  ex- 
ploits : 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook. 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  From  this  moment. 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now, 
To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought 

and  done : 
The  castle  of  Maeduff  I  will  surprise; 
Seize  upon  Fife ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  liiin  in"  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a 

fool ; 
This  deed  I  '11  do  before  this  purpose  cool : 
But  no  more  sights ! — Where  arc  these  gentle- 
men? 
Come,  bring  mc  where  they  are.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Fife.     A  Room  in  Macduff's 
Castle. 

Enter  Lady  Macduff,  her  Son,  and  Rosse, 

Ladi/  Macd.  What  had  he  done  to  make  liim 
fly  the  land  ? 

Rosse.  You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

J  J.  Macd.  He  had  none: 

His  flight  was  madness :  Wiien  o>ir  actions  do 

not. 
Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 

Rosse.  You  know  not 

Wliether  it  WJis  his  wisdom,  or  his  fear. 

//.  Macd.  Wisdom  !  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave 
his  babes, 
Hi.s  mansion,  and  his  titles,  in  a  place 
From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?    He  loves  us  not ; 
He  wants  tlie  natural  touch :  for  tiie  poor  wren, 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight, 
Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  tho  owl. 

•  Stcoveni  omits  him  in. 


Act  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEMS  III. 


All  is  the  fear,  and  notliing  is  the  love  ; 
As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

Rosse.  My  dearest  coz, 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself:     But,  for  your  hus- 
band, 
He  is  noble,  wise,  judieious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'  the  season.    I  dare  not  speak  much 

f  ui-ther : 
But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors, 
And  do  not  know  ourselves;   wlien  we   hold 

rumour 
From  what  we  fear ;  yet  know  not  what  we  fear ; 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  set'.. 
Each  way,   and  move.  —  I  take  my  leave  of 

you: 
Shall  not  be  long  but  I  '11  be  here  again : 
Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  cUmb 

upward 
To  what  they  were  before. — My  pretty  cousin, 
Blessing  upon  you  ! 

L.  Macd.  Tather'd  he  is,  and  yet  he  's  father- 
less. 
Rosse.  I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay 
longer. 
It  would  be  my  disgrace,  and  your  discomfort : 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  \ExU  Rosse. 

L.  Macd.  Sirrah,  your  father  's  dead ; 
And  what  will  you  do  now  ?  How  will  you  live  ? 
Son.  As  birds  do,  motlier. 
L.  Macd.  What,  with  worms  and  flies  ? 

Son.  With  what  I  get,  I  mean;  and  so  do 

they. 
Z.  Macd.  Poor  bird !  thou  'dst  never  fear  the 
net,  nor  lime. 
The  pit-fall,  nor  the  gin. 

Son.  Why  should  I,  mother  ?  Poor  birrls  they 
arc  not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 
L.  Macd.  Yes,  he  is  dead ;  liow  wilt  thou  do 

for  a  father? 
Son.  Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 
L.  Macd.  Wliy,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at  any 

market. 
Son.  Then  you  '11  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 
L.  Macd.  Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit ;  aud 
yet,  i'  faith. 
With  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son.  Was  my  fatlier  a  traitor,  mother  ? 
L.  Macd.  Ay,  that  he  was. 
Son.  What  is  a  traitor? 
I.  Macd.  Wliy,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 
Son.  And  be  all  traitors  that  do  so  ? 
L.  Macd.  Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor, 
and  must  be  hanged. 


Son.  And  must  they  all  be  hanged  that  swear 
and  lie  ? 

L.  Macd.  Every  one. 

Son.  Who  must  hang  them  ? 

Jj.  Macd.  Why,  the  honest  men. 

Son.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools: 
for  there  are  liars  and  swearers  enow  to  beat 
the  honest  men,  and  liang  up  ihcm. 

L.  Macd.  Now  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey ' 
But  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ? 

Son.  If  he  were  dead,  you  'd  weep  for  liim : 
if  you  would  not,  it  were  a  good  sign  that  I 
should  quickly  have  a  new  father. 

L.  Macd.  Poor  prattler !  how  thou  talkest. 
Unter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Bless  you,  fair  dame  !    I  am  not  to  you 
known. 
Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect. 
I  doubt,  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly  : 
If  you  win  take  a  homely  man's  advice. 
Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 
To  fright  you  thus,  metliinks,  I  am  too  savage ; 
To  do  worse  to  you  were  fell  cruelty. 
Which  b  too  nigh  your  persoiu     Heaven  pre- 
serve you ! 
I  dare  abide  no  longer.  SJlxit  Messenger. 

L.  Macd.  Wliither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm.     But  x  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthly  world ;  where,  to  do  harm. 
Is  often  laudable ;  to  do  good,  sometime. 
Accounted  dangerous  folly :  Why,  then,  alas  ! . 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence. 
To  say,  I  have  done  no  harm  ?    What  are  these 
faces? 

Unter  Murderers. 

Mur.  Where  is  your  husband  ? 

L.  Macd.  I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified, 
"NA^icre  such  as  thou  mayst  find  him. 

j/^;._  He 's  a  traitor 

Son.  Thou  liest,  thou  shag-ear'd'  villain. 

Mur.  What,  you  egg !     {Stabbing  him. 

Young  fry  of  treachery ! 

Son.  He  has  kill'd  me,  mother : 

Bun  away,  I  pray  you.  [Dus.^ 

[Exit  Lady  Macduff,  crying  'Murder,' 
and  pursued  by  the  Murderers. 

SCENE  III.— England.     A  Room  in  the  King'* 
Palace. 
Enter  Maxcolm  and  Macduff. 
Mai.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade, 
and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

.  5/<a<7-<:«r'<l.-Thi8  should  be  probably  Maj^-Aafr*./,  a  form 
of  abuse  found  in  old  plays,  and  even  in  Uw  rcporU. 

45 


Act  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCENB   III. 


Macd.  Let  us  ruther, 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword ;  aud,  like  good  men, 
Bestride   our  do\m-fall'u  birtlidom:   Each  new 

morn. 
New  widows  howl ;  new  orphans  cry ;  new  sor- 
rows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  \\\i\\  Seotlaud,  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolour. 

Mai.  "Wliat  I  believe  I  '11  wail ; 

Wliat  know,  believe ;  and,  what  I  ean  redress. 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will. 
Wliat  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so,  perchance. 
This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  bUstcrs  our  tongues, 
Was  once  thought  honest;  you  have  lov'd  him 

well; 
He  liath  not  touch'd  you  yet.     I  am  young,  but 

something 
You  may  deserve'  of  hini  through  me ;  and  wisdom 
To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  imioccnt  lamb, 
To  appease  an  angry  God. 
Macd.  I  am  not  treacherous. 
Mai.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil, 
Li  an  imperial  charge.    But  I  shall''  crave  your 

pardon ; 
That  wliich  you  are  my  thoughts  cannot  trans- 
pose: 
Angels  arc  briglit  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of 

grace. 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 

Macd.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Mai.  Perchance,  even  there,  where  I  did  find 
my  doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife  and  child, 
(Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of 

love,) 
Without  leave-taking  ? — I  pray  you, 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours, 
But  mine  own  safeties: — You  may  be   rightly 

just, 
^\^latcver  1  shall  think. 

Mard.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ! 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 
For  goodness  dare  not  cheek  thee !  wear  thou 

thy  wrongs, 
The  title  is  affeer'd.'' — Fare  thee  well,  lord : 


■  Deterre. — The  original  reads  diMcernc. 

b  I  ihall. — Stcevcns  omits  these  words,  for  the  old  reason. 

t  The   cripinal    reads,   Ihe   Title   is  itffvar  d.     A   r"odem 

readiiiK  i^  "'!/  TilU  is  ajfeer'd.     We  li.ive  first  to  consider 

how  Shakspcrcuscs  tlic  word  title.  In  asubsc(|ucnt  passage 

of  this  play,  An(;u3,  speaking  of  Macbeth,  says, 

"  Now  does  he  feci  his  title 
Hang  loose  about  liim,  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief." 
In  each  of  these  passages  title  it  printed  with  a  capitnl  T. 


46 


I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  sj)ace  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp. 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Mul.  Be  not  offended ; 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think,  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  joke ; 
It  wc(^)s,  it  bleeds :  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wounds :  I  thiuk,  withal. 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here,  from  gracious  England,  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  tiiousands :  But,  for  all  tliis, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet,  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before ; 
More  suffer,  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macd.  What  should  he  be  ? 

Mai.  It  is  myself  I  mean :  in  whom  I  know 
iUl  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted, 
That,  when  they  shall  be  opcn'd,  black  Macbeth 
WiU  seem  as  pure  as  suow ;  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compared 
With  my  confhielcss  harms. 

Macd.  Not  in  the  legions 

Of  horrid  hell,  can  come  a  devil  more  damn'd 
In  evils,  to  top  Macbeth. 

Mai.  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden,  maUcious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name :  But  there  's  no  bottom,  none. 
In  my  voluptuousness :  your  wives,  your  daugh- 
ters. 
Your  matrons,  and  your  maids,  could  not  fill  up 
The  cistern  of  my  lust ;  and  my  desire 
All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear, 
Tliat  did  oppose  my  will :  Better  Macbeth, 
Than  such  a  one  to  reign. 

Macd.  Bomidless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny ;  it  hath  been 
The  \intimcly  emptying  of  the  happy  tlu-ouc, 
And  fall  of  many  Idugs.     But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours :  you  may 
Convey  your  pleasiu-es  in  a  spacious  plenty. 
And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hood- 
wink. 
Wo   have  willing  dames   enough;    there  can- 
not be 
That  vulture  in  you,  to  devour  so  many 


Does  Macduff  then  mean  to  say,  liurt  and  indignant  at  the 
doubts  of  Malcolm,  the  title  (personifying  the  regal  title) 
hafear'd — frighted  ; — and  therefore,  "poor country,"  "  wear 
thou  thy  wrongs:"  or,  continuing  to  apostrophise  "  great 
tyranny,"  "  wear  thou  thy  wrongs  "—  enjoy  thy  usurpation  ; 
UTongs  being  lierc  opposed  to  rights:  the  title  is  affi'cr'd 
— confinned — admitted — as  atfeerors  decide  upon  a  claim, 
ond  terminate  a  dispute?  We  hold  to  the  latter  inlerpreta- 
tiun. 


A  CT  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


[Scemj:  [II. 


As  will  to  greatness  dedicate  themselves, 
Finding  it  so  inclin'd. 

Mai.  With  this  there  gi-ows, 

In  my  most  iU-compos'd  affection,  such 
A  stanchless  avarice,  that,  were  I  king, 
I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands ; 
Desire  his  jewels,  and  this  other's  house : 
And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more ;  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good,  and  loyal. 
Destroying  them  for  wealth. 

Ilaccl.  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper ;  grows  with  more  pernicious  root 
Than  summer-seeming  lust ;  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings :  Yet  do  not  fear ; 
Scotland  hath  foysons "  to  fill  up  your  will 
Of  your  mere  own :  All  these  are  portable,'' 
With  other  graces  weigh'd. 

Mai.  But  I  have  none :  The  king-becoming 
graces. 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness. 
Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness. 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them ;  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime. 
Acting  it  many  ways.    Nay,  had  I  power,  I 

should 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell. 
Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macd.  0  Scotland !  Scotland ! 

Mai.  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
1  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macd.  Fit  to  govern ! 

No,  not  to  live. — 0  nation  miserable. 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-sceptre' d. 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again? 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 
By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accurs'd. 
And   does    blaspheme  his  breed?— Thy  royal 

father 
Was  a  most  sainted  king :  the  queen,  that  bor« 

thee, 
Oft'ner  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet. 
Died  every  day  she  lived.    Fare  thee  well ! 
These  evils  thou  repeat' st  upon  thyself 
Have  banish' a  me  from  Scotland,— 0,  my  breast. 
Thy  hope  ends  here ! 

Mai.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion. 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  "^scruples,  reconcil'dmy  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.  Devilish  Macbeth 

»  Foi/sons— abundant  provision. 

b  Portable.— The  -svord  is  used  in  tlie  same  sense  in  Lear  : 
"How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now." 


By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  ynn  mc 
Into  his  power ;  and  modest  ^visdom  plucks  me 
From  over-credulous  haste :  But  God  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction;  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself. 
For  strangers  to  my  nature.    I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman ;  never  was  forsworn ; 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own  ; 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith ;  would  not  betray 
The  devil  to  his  fellow ;  and  delight 
No  less  iu  truth,  than  life :  my  first  false  speaking 
Was  this  upon  myself :  What  I  am  truly. 
Is  thine,  and  my  poor  country's,  to  command : 
"Whither,  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach. 
Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 
Already  at  a  point,*  was  setting  forth  : 
Now  we  '11  together :  And  the  chance,  of  good- 
ness. 
Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel !    AYhy  are  you 
silent  ? 
3Iacd.  Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things 
at  once, 
'T  is  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  a  Doctor. 

Mai.  Well;   more  anon.  — Comes  the  king 

forth,  I  pray  you  ? 
Dod.  Ay,  sir :  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched 
souls 
That  stay  his  cure :  their  makdy  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art ;  but,  at  his  touch. 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand. 
They  presently  amend. 

Mai,  I  thank  you,  doctor. 

[fo(V  Doctor. 
"  Macd.  What 's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Mai.  'T  is  called  the  evil ; 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king : 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.     How  he  soUcits  heaven. 
Himself  best  knows :  but  strangely-visited  people, 
All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 
The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures ; 
Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks,^ 
Put  on  with  holy  prayers :  and  't  is  spoken, 
To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 
The  healing  benediction.     With  this    strange 
virtue, 

a  So  the  original.  Some  read  "all  ready,"  and  it  is  held 
that  "at  a  point"  means  fully  equipped,  as  in  Hamlet, 
"armed  at  point."  This  we  know  is  point-device;  nut  we 
have  no  example  of  the  use  of  the  word  with  the  ar"clf- 
Is  it  not  that  the  "  ten  thousand  warlike  men  "  were  alre-idy 
assembled  "at  a  point?"— at  a  particular  spot  where  tUey 
had  collected— a  point  of  space. 

47 


Act  IV.J 


MACBETH. 


[Scene  IIL 


lie  halli  a  hcavenlj  gift  of  prophecy; 

And  sundry  blessmgs  hang  about  Jiis  throne, 

That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 

Enter  E.OSSE. 

Mavd.  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Mai.  My  countryman;  but  yet  I  know  him 

not. 

Macd.  My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Mai.  I  know  him  now:  Grood  God,  betimes 

remove 

The  means  that  make  us  strangers ! 

Rosse.  Sir,  Amen. 

Macd.  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Rosse.  Alas,  poor  country ; 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself !    It  cannot 

Be  caU'd  our  mother,  but  our  grave:   where 

nothing, 

But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 

Where  sighs,  and  groans,  and  shrieks  that  rend 

the  air, 

Aie  made,   not  mark'd;  where  violent  sorrow 

seems 

A  modem  ecstasy ;  the  dead  man's  kneU 

Is  there  scarce  ask'd,  for  who ;  and  good  men's 

lives 

Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps. 

Dying,  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macd.  0,  relation, 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true ! 

Mai.  What 's  the  newest  giief  ? 

Bosse.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the 

speaker ; 

Each  minute  teems  a  new  one, 

Macd,  How  does  my  wife  ? 

Rosse.  Why,  well. 

Macd.  And  all  my  children  ? 

Rosse.  Well  too. 

Macd.  The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their 

peace  ? 

Tiosse.  No ;  they  were  well  at  peace,  when  I 

did  leave  them. 

Macd.  Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech :  How 

goes  it? 

Rosse.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the 

tidings, 

Wliich  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 

Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ; 

"Which  was  to  my  belief  mtncss'd  the  rather, 

For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot : 

Now  is  the  time  of  help ;  your  eye  in  Scotknd 

Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight 

To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 

Mai.  Be  't  their  comfort. 

We  are  coming  thither :  gracious  England  hath 
48 


Lent  us  good  Si  ward,  and  ten  thousand  men; 
An  older,  and  a  better  soldier,  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Rosse.  'Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like  f    But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air, 
^Yherc  hearing  should  not  latch  them.' 

Macd.  What  concern  they  ? 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief. 
Due  to  some  single  breast? 

Rosse.  No  mmd  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe;  though  the  main 

part 
Pertains  to  vou  alone. 

Macd.  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  hare  it. 
Rosse.  Let  not  youi-  ears  despise  my  tongue 
for  ever. 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest 

sound. 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 
Macd.  Humph  !  I  guess  at  it. 

Rosse.  Youi"  castle  is   surpris'd;  youi-  wife, 
and  babes, 
Savagely  slaughter'd :  to  relate  the  manner,  . 
AVere,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murder'd  deer. 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Mai.  Merciful  heaven ! — 

What,  man!    ne'er  puU  your  hat  upon  yoixr 

brows, 
Give  soiTow  words :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers   the    o'erfraught  heart,   and  bids  it 
break. 
Macd.  My  children  too  ? 
Rosse.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all  that  could 

be  found. 
Macd.  And  I  must  be  from  thence  !    My  wife 

kill'dtoo? 
Rosse.  I  have  said. 

Mai.  Be  comforted : 

Let 's  make  us  med'cincs    of   our    great   re- 
venge. 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macd.  He  has  no  children.^ — All  my  pretty 
ones? 
Did  you  say,  all  ?— 0,  heli-kitc !— All  ? 


*  Latch  them — lay  hold  of  llicm. 

b  One  would  ima^-inc  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
whom  Macduff  was  thinking  when  he  says,  "lie  has  no 
children  :"  but  variorum  commentators  enter  into  a  dis- 
cussion whether  Macbeth  had  any  children,  or  not;  and 
upon  the  whole  they  consider  that  Macduff  points  at  Mal- 
colm, reprcachiuR  him  for  sayinj;  "  Be  comforted."  Look 
at  the  whole  course  of  the  luart-btricken  man's  sorrow.  He 
is  first  speechless;  he  then  ejaculates  "  my  children  too?  " 
then  "my  wife  kill'd  too.'"  And  then,  utterly  insensible 
to  the  words  addressed  to  him, 

"  He  Las  no  children. — All  my  pretty  ones  f  " 


Act  IV.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEKR  III. 


What,  all  my  pretty  chickens,  and  their  dam, 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 
Mai.  Dispute  it  like  a  man. 
Macd.  I  shall  do  so ; 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. — Did  heaven 

look  on. 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?  Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee  1  naught  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine. 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls :  Heaven  rest  them 
now! 
Mai.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword: 
let  grief 
Convert  to  auger;  blunt  not  the  heart,  em-age  it. 
Macd.  0,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine 
eyes, 


And  braggart  with  my  tongue! — But  gentle 

heavens, 
Cut  short  all  intermission ;  front  to  front, 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland,  and  myself ; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape, 
Heaven  forgive  him  too ! 

Mai.  This  time*  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave :  Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  iustruments.     Receive  what  cheer 

you  may ; 
The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day. 

[Exeimt. 


a  Time. — Ilowe  changed  tins  to  tunc.  Giflbrd  has  shown, 
in  a  note  on  Massinger,  that  the  two  words  were  once 
synonymous  in  a  musical  acceptation ;  and  that  iime  wa» 
the  more  ancient  and  common  term. 


TiiAGEDiEs. — Vol.  IT.        E. 


-fn 


ILLUSTIUTIONS  OF  ACT  lY. 


'  Scene  I.—"  Black  spirits,"  &c. 

In  Act  III.  Scene  v.  we  have  the  stage-direction, 
"  Siiig  within,  Conic  aicaij,  come  away,  tLc."  In 
the  same  manner  we  have  iu  this  scene  "Music  and 
a  song,  Black .•'jiirits,d-c."  In  Middleton's  'Witch' 
we  find  two  songs,  each  of  which  begins  according 
to  the  stage-direction.     The  first  ia, 

"  Come  away,  come  away  ;       \.    ,, 
Hecate,  Hecate,  come  away.i'"    '"  '"'^' 
//ic.    I  come,  I  conic,  I  come, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may." 

The   second   is   called  'A  Charm   Song  about  a 

Vessel : ' — 

''Black  spirits  and  white,  red  spirits  and  gray; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 
Titty,  Tiffin,  keep  it  stiff  in; 
Firedrake,  Puckey,  make  it  lucky; 
Liard,  Rohin,  you  must  bob  in. 


Round,  around,  around,  about,  about ; 
All  ill  come  running  in,  all  good  keep  out !  " 

-  Scene  III.—"  Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their 
necks." 

Iloliushed  thus  describes  the  gift  of  curing  the 
evil  which  was  alleged  to  exist  in  the  person  of 
Edward  the  Confessor  :— "  As  it  has  been  thought, 
he  was  inspired  with  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and  also 
to  have  the  gift  of  healing  infirmities  and  diseases. 
He  used  to  help  those  that  were  vexed  with  the 
disease  commonly  called  the  king's  evil,  and  left 
that  virtue  as  it  were  a  portion  of  inheritance  unto 
his  successors,  the  kings  of  this  realm."  The 
golden  stamp  is  stated  to  be  the  coin  called  an 
angel ;  for  the  origin  of  which  raniC.  as  given  by 
Verstegan,  see  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  Illustra- 
tions of  Act  ir. 


HISTORICAL  ILLUSTRATION. 


We  continue  our  extracts  from  Holinshed  : — 
"  Neither  could  he  afterwards  abide  to  look 
upon  the  said  Macduff,  either  for  that  he  thought 
his  puissance  over  great ;  either  else  for  that  ho 
had  learned  of  certain  wizards,  in  whose  words  he 
put  great  confidence,  (for  that  the  prophecy  had 
happened  so  right  which  the  three  fairies  or  weird 
sisters  had  declared  unto  him,)  how  that  he  ought 
to  take  heed  of  Macduff,  who  in  time  to  conie 
should  seek  to  destroy  him. 

"  And  surely  hereupon  had  ho  put  Macduff  to 
death,  but  that  a  certain  witch,  whom  he  had  in 
great  trust,  had  told  that  he  should  never  be  slain 
with  man  bom  of  any  woman,  nor  vanquished  till 
the  wood  of  Bernaue  came  to  the  castle  of  Dunsi- 
nane.  By  this  prophecy  Macbeth  put  all  fear  out 
of  his  heart,  supposing  he  might  do  what  he  would 
without  any  fear  to  be  punished  for  the  same;  for 
by  the  one  prophecy  he  believed  it  was  impossible 
for  any  man  to  vanquish  him,  and  by  the  other  im- 
possible to  slay  him.  This  vain  hope  caused  him  to 
do  many  outrageous  things,  to  the  grievous  oppres- 
sion of  his  subjects.  At  length  Macduff,  to  avoid 
peril  of  life,  purposed  with  himself  to  pass  into 
England,  to  procure  Malcolm  Cammore  to  claim 
the  crown  of  Scotland.  But  this  was  not  so  secretly 
devised  by  Macduff  but  that  Macbeth  had  know- 
ledge given  him  thereof;  for  kings  (as  is  said)  have 
sharp  sight  like  nnto  Lynx,  and  long  ears  like  unto 
Midas:  for  Macbeth  had  iu  every  nobleman's  house 
one  sly /ellow  or  other  in  fee  with  him,  to  reveal  all 
.SO 


that  was  said  or  done  within  the  same,  by  which 
flight  he  oppressed  the  most  part  of  the  nobles  of 
his  I'ealm. 

"  Immediately  then,  being  advertised  whereabout 
Macduff  went,  he  came  hastily  with  a  great  power 
into  Fife,  and  forthwith  besieged  the  castle  where 
Macduff  d  welled,  trusting  to  have  found  him  therein. 
They  that  kept  the  house,  without  any  resistance 
opened  the  gates,  and  suffered  him  to  eut«r,  mis- 
trusting none  evU.  But  nevertheless  Macbeth  most 
cruelly  caused  the  wife  and  children  of  Macduff, 
with  all  other  whom  he  found  in  that  castle,  to  be 
slain.  Also  he  confiscated  the  goods  of  Macduff, 
proclaimed  him  traitor,  and  confined  him  out  of  all 
the  parts  of  his  realm ;  but  Macduff  was  already 
escaped  out  of  danger,  and  gotten  into  England 
unto  Malcolm  Cammore,  to  try  what  purchase  he 
might  make  by  means  of  his  support  to  revenge 
the  slaughter  so  cruelly  executed  on  his  wife,  his 
children,  and  other  friends. 

"  Though  Malcolm  was  very  sorrowful  for  the 
oppression  of  his  countrymen  the  Scots,  in  manner 
as  Macduff  had  declared ;  yet,  doubting  whether 
he  were  come  as  one  that  came  unfeignedly  as  he 
spake,  or  else  as  sent  from  Macbeth  to  betray  him, 
lie  thought  to  have  some  further  trial ;  and  there- 
upon, dissembling  his  mind  at  the  first,  he  answered 
as  foUoweth :  — 

"  I  am  truly  very  sorry  for  the  misery  chanced 
to  my  country  of  Scotland,  but,  though  I  have  never 
so  great  affection  to  relieve  the  same,  yet  by  reason 


MACBETH. 


of  certain  incurable  vices  which  reign  in  me,  I  am 
nothing  meet  thereto.  First,  such  immoderate  lust 
and  voluptuous  sensuality  (the  abominable  foun- 
tain of  all  vices)  follow  eth  me,  that,  if  I  were  made 
king  of  Scots,  I  should  seek  to  destroy  your  maids 
and  matrons,  in  such  wise  that  mine  intemperancy 
should  be  more  importable  unto  you  than  the  bloody 
tyranny  of  Macbeth  now  is.  Hereunto  Macdufi* 
answered.  This  surely  is  a  very  evil  fault,  for  many 
noble  princes  and  kings  have  lost  both  lives  and 
kingdoms  for  the  same;  nevertheless  there  are 
women  enough  in  Scotland,  and  therefoi-e  follow 
my  counsel :  make  thyself  king,  and  I  shall  con 
the  matter  so  wisely,  that  thou  shalt  be  so  satisfied 
at  thy  pleasure  in  such  secret  wise  that  no  man 
shall  be  aware  thereof. 

"  Then  said  Malcolm,  I  am  also  the  most  avari- 
cious creature  on  the  earth,  so  that  if  I  were  king  I 
should  seek  so  mauy  ways  to  get  lands  and  goods 
that  I  would  slay  the  most  part  of  all  the  nobles  of 
Scotland  by  furnished  accusations,  to  the  end  I 
might  enjoy  their  lands,  goods,  and  possessions; 
and  therefore,  to  show  you  what  mischief  may  ensue 
on  you  through  my  unsatiable  covetousness,  I  will 
rehearse  unto  you  a  fable.  There  was  a  fox  having 
a  sore  place  on  him  overset  with  a  swarm  of  flies 
that  continually  sucked  out  his  blood  :  and  when 
one  that  came  by,  and  saw  this  manner,  demanded 
whether  he  would  have  the  flies  driven  beside  him, 
he  answered.  No ;  for  if  these  flies  that  are  already 
full,  and  by  reason  thereof  suck  not  very  eagerly, 
should  be  chased  away,  other  that  are  empty  and 
an  hungered  should  light  in  their  places,  and  suck 
out  the  residue  of  my  blood,  far  more  to  my  griev- 
ance than  these,  which  now  being  satisfied,  do  not 
much  annoy  me.  Therefore,  said  Malcolm,  suffer 
me  to  remain  where  I  am,  lest,  if  I  attain  to  the 
regiment  of  your  realm,  mine  unquenchable  ava- 
rice may  prove  such  that  ye  would  think  the  dis- 
pleasures which  now  grieve  you  should  seem  easy 
in  re"spect  of  the  unmeasurable  outrage  which  might 
ensue  through  my  coming  amongst  you. 

"  Macduff  to  this  made  answer,  how  it  was  a  far 
worse  fa\ilt  than  the  other ;  for  avarice  is  the  root 
of  all  mischief,  and  for  that  crime  the  most  part  of 
our  kings  have  been  slain  and  brought  to  their  final 
end.  Yet,  notwithstanding,  follow  my  counsel,  and 
take  upon  thee  the  crown.   There  is  gold  and  riches 


enough  in  Scotland  to  satisfy  thy  greedy  desire. 
Then  said  Malcolm  again,  I  am  furthermore  in- 
clined to  dissimulation,  telling  of  leasinga,  and  all 
other  kind  of  deceit,  so  that  I  naturally  rejoice  in 
nothing  so  much  as  to  betray  and  deceive  such  as 
put  any  trust  and  coufidence  in  my  words.  Then, 
sith  there  is  nothing  that  more  becometh  a  prince 
than  constancy,  verity,  tiiith,  and  justice,  with  the 
other  laudable  fellowship  of  those  fair  <.nd  noble 
virtues  which  are  comprehended  only  in  soothfa-st- 
ness,  and  that  lying  utterly  overthroweth  the  same, 
you  see  how  unable  I  am  to  govern  any  province  or 
regiment ;  and,  therefore,  sith  you  have  remedies 
to  cloak  and  hide  all  the  rest  of  my  other  vices,  I 
pray  you  find  shift  to  cloak  this  vice  amongst  the 
residue. 

"  Then  said  Macduff,  This  yet  is  the  worst  of 
all,  and  there  I  leave  thee,  and  therefore  say,  Oh 
ye  unhappy  and  miserable  Scotchmen,  which  are 
thus  scourged  with  so  many  and  sundry  calamities, 
each  one  above  other  !  Ye  have  one  cursed  and 
wicked  tyrant  that  now  reigneth  over  you  without 
any  right  or  title,  oppressing  you  with  his  most 
bloody  cruelty.  This  other,  that  hath  the  right  to 
the  crown,  is  so  replete  with  the  inconstant  be- 
haviour and  manifest  vices  of  Englishmen,  that  he 
is  nothing  worthy  to  enjoy  it;  for,  by  his  own  con- 
fession, he  is  not  only  avaricious  and  given  to  un- 
satiable lust,  but  so  false  a  traitor  withal,  that  no 
trust  is  to  be  had  imto  any  word  he  speaketh. 
Adieu,  Scotland  !  for  now  I  account  myself  a  ba- 
nished man  for  ever,  without  comfort  or  consola- 
tion. And  with  those  words  the  brackish  tears 
trickled  down  his  cheeks  very  abundantly. 

"  At  the  last,  when  he  was  ready  to  depart,  Mal- 
colm took  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  said,  Be  of  good 
comfort,  Macduff,  for  I  have  none  of  these  vices 
before  remembered,  buthave  jested  with  thee  in  this 
manner  only  to  prove  thy  mmd  :  for  divei-se  times 
heretofore  hath  Macbeth  sought  by  this  manner  of 
means  to  bring  me  into  his  hands ;  but  the  more 
slow  I  have  showed  myself  to  condescend  to  thy 
motion  and  request,  the  more  diligence  shall  I  use 
in  accomplishing  the  same.  Incontinently  here- 
upon they  embraced  each  other,  and,  promising  to 
be  faithful  the  one  to  the  other,  they  fell  in  con- 
sultation how  they  might  best  provide  for  all  their 
business,  to  bring  the  same  to  good  effect." 


LOCAL  ILLUSTRATION. 


Scene  11.— "  Fife.  A  Room  in  Macduff's  Castle." 
On  the  Fifeshire  coast,  about  three  miles  from 
Dysart,  stand  two  quadrangular  towers,  supposed 
to  be  the  ruins  of  Macduff's  castle.    These  are  not 


the  only  remains  in  Scotland,  however,  which 
claim  to  have  been  the  abode  of  Macduff's  wife 
and  children  when  they  were  surprised  and 
slaughtered  by  Macbeth. 


E  2 


5i 


r.:vc«  SC.;- 


[Dr.rkcul.l 


ACT  V. 


SCENE   I. 


Dunsinauc. 
Cdstle. 


A  Room  m  the 


Unlet  a  Doctor  of  Phi/sic^  atid  a  wailing 
Gentlewoman. 

Docl.  I  have  two  nights  watched  ^vith  you, 
but  cau  perceive  no  truth  in  your  report.  When 
was  it  she  last  walked  ? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,"  I 
have  seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  tlirow  her  night- 
gown upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth 
paper,  fold  it,  write  upon  't,  read  it,  afterwards 
seal  it,  and  again  return  to  bed;  yet  all  this 
while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 


»  Steevens  tay*,  "  this  is  one  of  Shakspere's  oversights: 
he  forRot  tliat  he  had  >hul  up  Macbeih  in  Dunsinanc,  and 
«urrounded  him  willi  btsicRcrs."  We  may  reply,  this  is  one 
of  Slctvens's  ]>resumptiiou»  assertions.  In  the  next  scene 
the  Scotchmen  say  "  the  Engli-.h  power  is  near."  When  an 
enemy  is  advancm);  from  another  country  it  it  not  likely 
that  the  commander  about  to  be  attacked  would  first  f;o 
*•  into  the  field  "  before  he  finallv  resolved  to  trust  to  his 
"  castle's  strength  ?" 

52 


DocL  A  great  perturbation  in  natm-e !  to  re- 
ceive at  once  the  benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the 
effects  of  watching. — In  this  slumbery  agita- 
tion, besides  her  walking  and  other  actual  per- 
formances, what,  at  any  time,  have  you  heard 
her  say  ? 

Gent.  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after 
her. 

Docl.  You  may,  to  me ;  and  't  is  most  meet 
you  should. 

Genl.  Neither  to  you,  nor  any  one ;  having  no 
witness  to  confirm  my  speech. 

Unlet  Lady  MACBEin,  with  a  taper. 

Lo  you,  here  she  comes !  Tliis  is  her  very  guise; 
and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.  Observe  her : 
stand  close. 

Bod.  How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gent.  Why,  it  stood  by  her :  she  has  light  by 
her  continually ;  't  is  her  command. 

Docl.  Yon  6ec,  her  eyes  are  open. 


\ 


Act  V.l 


MACBETH. 


[ScEsa  II. 


Gent.  Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 
Doct.  Wliat  is  it  she  does  now  ?    Look  how 
she  rubs  her  hands. 

Gent.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to 
seem  thus  washing  her  hands.  I  have  known 
her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Ladi/  M.  Yet  here 's  a  spot. 
JDoct.  Hark,  she  speaks :  I  will  set  down  what 
comes  from  her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the 
more  strongly. 

Lad^  M.  Out,  damned  spot !  out,  I  say ! — 
One;  Two:  Why,  then 'tis  time  to  do 't:— Hell 
is  murky! — Pie,  my  lord,  fie!  a  soldier,  and 
afeard !  What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when 
none  can  call  our  power  to  account  ? — Yet  who 
woidd  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so 
much  blood  in  him ! 
Doct.  Do  you  mark  that  ? 
Ladi/  M.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife ;  Where 
is  she  now  ? — "What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be 
clean  ? — No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more 
o'  that :  you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doct.  Go  to,  go  to;  you  have  known  what 
you  should  not. 

Gent.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I 
am  sure  of  that :  Heaven  knows  what  slie  has 
known. 

Ladi/  31.  Here 's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still : 
aU  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this 
little  hand.     Oh!  oh!  oh! 

Doct.  What  a  sigh  is  there  !  The  heart  is  sorely 
charged. 

Gent.  I  woidd  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my 
bosom,  for  the  dignity  of  the  whole  body. 
Doct.  Well,  well,  well,— 
Gent.  'Pray  God,  it  be,  sir. 
Doct.  This   disease   is   beyond  my  practice : 
Yet  I  have  known  those  wliich  have  walked  in 
their  sleep  who  have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 

Lady  M.    Wash  your    hands,   put   on  your 
night-gown ;  look  not  so  pale : — I  teU  you  yet 
again,  Banquo  's  buried ;   he   cannot  come  out 
on 's  grave. 
Doct.  Even  so  ? 

Lady  M.  To  bed,  to  bed ;   there  's  knocking 

at  the  gate.     Come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me 

your  hand.  Wliat  's  done  cannot  be  undone ;  To 

bed,  to  bed,  to  bed.  [J^xit  Lady  Macbeth. 

Doct.  Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Gent.  Directly. 

Doct.  Foul  whisperings  are  abroad :  Unnatui'al 
deeds 
Do  breed  \mnatural  troubles  :   Infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. 


God,  God,  forgive  us  all !     Look  after  her ; 
Remove  from  lier  the  means  of  all  annoyance. 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her :— So,  good  night : 
My  mind  she  has  mated,"  and  amaz'd  my  sight : 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gent.  Good  night,  good  doctor. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Country  near  Dunsinane. 

F/nter,  tcith  drum  and  colours,  Menteth,  Catu- 
NEss,  Angus,  Lenox,  and  Soldiers. 

3Ient.  The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by 
Malcolm, 
His  uncle  Siward,  and  the  good  Macduff. 
Revenges  burn  in  them :  for  their  dear  causes 
Would,  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm. 
Excite  the  mortified  man.*" 

-^"ff-  Near  Birnam  wood 

Shall  we  well  meet  them;  that  way  are  they 


Cath. 


Who  knows  if  Doualbaiu  be  with  his 
brother  ? 

Len.  For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not :   I  have  a  file 
Of  all  the  gentry :  there  is  Siward's  son, 
x\nd  many  unrough  youths,  that  even  now 
Protest  their  first  of  manhood. 

Ment.  Wliat  does  the  tyrant  ? 

Caifi.  Great  Dunsinane  he  strongly  fortifies : 
Some  say  he  's   mad ;   others,  that  lesser  hate 

him. 
Do  call  it  valiant  fury :  but,  for  certain. 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause 
Within  the  belt  of  rule. 

J.nff.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murthers  sticking  on  liis  hands ; 
Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach  ; 
Those  he  commands  move  only  in  command. 
Nothing  in  love :  now  does  he  feel  his  title 
Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant 's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Ment.  Who  then  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil,  and  start, 
When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself,  for  being  there  ? 

Cath.  Well,  march  we  on. 

To  give  obedience  where 't  is  truly  ow'd : 
Meet  we  the  medicine  of  the  sickly  weal ; 
And  with  him  pour  wc,  in  our  country's  purge, 
Each  drop  of  us. 


»  Mated — amated— dismayed. 

b  Mortified  man.— We  think,  with  Warburton,  that  fhs 
poet  here  means  a  hermit  or  religious  ascetic,  — one  indif- 
ferent to  the  concerns  of  the  world,  but  who  would  be 
excited  to  fight  by  such  "causes"  of  revenge  as  Sfacduff 
comes  with. 


C3 


Act  v.] 


MACBETH. 


[ScnsBlIl. 


'  Len.  Or  so  much  as  it  needs, 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower,  and  drown  the 

weeds. 
Make  we  oiir  march  towards  Bimam. 

[Ereutit,  marching. 


SCENE  III.- 


-Dmisiuane. 
Castle. 


A  Boom  in  the 


Enter  Macbeth,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 

Matb.  Bring  me  no  more  reports ;  let  them 

fly  all: 
Till  Biniain  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 
I  cannot  taint  with  feai-.     What 's  the  boy  Mal- 

cohn  ? 
Was  he  not  bom  of  woman  ?    The  spirits  that 

know 
AH  mortal  consequences  have  pronounc'd  me 

thus : 
'  Fear  not,  Macbeth ;   no  man  that 's   born  of 

woman 
Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee.'     Then  fly, 

false  thanes. 
And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by,  and  the  heart  I  bear, 
Shall  never  sagg"  with  doubt,  nor  shake  with 

fear. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-fac'd 

loon; 
Where  gott'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Serv.  There  is  ten  thousand — 

Macb.  Geese,  villain  ? 

Serv.  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macb.  Go,  prick  tiiy  face,  and  over-red  thy  feaj, 
Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ? 
Death  of  thy  soul !  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counsellors  to  fear.  What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Serv.  The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macb.  Take  thy  face  hence. — Seytou ! — I  am 
sick  at  heart, 
When  I  behold — Seyton,  I  say  ! — This  push 
Will  cheer "'  me  ever,  or  dis-seat  me  now. 
I  have  liv'd  long  enough :  my  way  of  life  *^ 


*  Sagg  is  to  droop  or  sink  down ;  probably  from  ic  tlge, 
the  firsl  person  present  of  the  irregular  Anglo-Saxon  verb, 
tigitn,  to  Call,  or  sink  down  ;  to  fail. 

b  Cheer  is  the  word  of  tli;  original  folio,  but  Percy  sug- 
gested chair,  vrhich  is  alto  the  reading  of  Mr.  Collier's  MS. 
Corrector. 

c  Dr.  Johnson  proposed  to  read  ".Ifny  of  life."  If  the 
t>oet  intended  to  represent  Macbeth  a-s  a  young  man, — one 
in  the 

"May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustyhood," — 
who  had  by  his  crimes  and  their  consequent  anxieties 
"  Fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf," — 

the  emendation  would  be  Just  and  beautiful.    But  we  doubt 
if  the  poet  had  any  such  intention.    The  expression  "way 


Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf : 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age. 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead. 
Curses  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath, 
Whioli   the  poor  heart  would  fain    deny,  and 

dare  not. 
Seyton ! — 

Enter  Seyton. 

Sey.  What 's  your  gracious  pleasmc  ? 

Macb.  Wliat  news  more  ? 

Sey.  AH   is  confinn'd,   my  lord,   which  was 
reported. 

Macb.  I  'II  fight,  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh 
be  back'd. 
Give  me  my  armour. 

Set/.  'T  is  not  needed  yet. 

Macb.  I  'U  put  it  on. 
Send  out 'more  horses,  skir''  the  country  round  ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear. — Give  me  mine 

armour : — 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Boct.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies. 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macb.  Cui-e  her  of  that : 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to'  a  mind  diseas'd  : 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain ; 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  peiilous  stuff, 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Loct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macb.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I  '11  none  of 
it.— 
Come,  put  mine  armour  on;  give  me  my  staff: — 
Seyton,  send  out. — Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from 

me: — 
Come,  sir,  dispatch : — If  thou  couldst,  doctor, 

cast 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease. 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again. — Pull 't  off,  I  say  — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,''  or  what  purgative  drug, 

of  life  "  appears  to  us  equivalent  with  "  time  of  year,"  in 
the  seventy-third  Sonnet  :— 

"  That  time  of  year  thou  niay'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang." 
Giffbrd  says,  "  tcny  of  life  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
simple  periphrasis  for  life." 
"■  Skir—tcuT — scour. 

b  Senna. —  This  Is  the  reading  of  the  fourth  folio.     The 
original  reads  cyme. 


I 


Act  v.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEKE8   IV.,  V. 


Would  scour  these  English  hence? — Hearest 
thou  of  them  ? 
Bod.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  your  royal  prepara- 
tion 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Much.  Bring  it  after  me. — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 

Till  Bimam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.       \Jixit. 

Bod.  Were    I    from    Dunsinane    away  and 

clear. 

Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here.   \Ilxit. 

SCENE   ]  ^.—Country  near  Dunsinane  :   A 
Wood  ill  view. 

Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  ^Malcolm,  old 
SiWA'RD  a7id  Ms  Son,  Macdtjff,  IVIenteth, 
Catsness,  Angus,  Lexox,  Bosse,  and  Sol- 
diers, marching. 

JtTal.  Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at 
hand, 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

2£e)it.  "We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siw.  Wliat  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

jlgiii.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Ilal.  Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough. 
And  bear  't  before  him ;  thereby  shall  we  sha- 
dow 
The  numbers  of  oui-  host,  and  make  discovery 
EiT  in  report  of  us. 

Sold.  It  shall  be  done. 

Sire.  We   learn  no   other,  but  the  confident 
tyrant 
Keeps  stm  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  settiug  down  before  't. 

jjj;^l  'T  is  his  main  hope  ; 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 
Both  more  and  less''  have  given  him  the  revolt ; 
And   none    serve    with    him    but    constrained 

things, 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

jjjacd.  Let  °^^  P^*'  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership. 

Sl^c,  The  time  approaches. 

That  will  wath  due  decision  make  us  know 
.  What  we  shaU  say  we  have,  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts   speculative  their    unsui-e    hopes  re- 
late ; 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate : 
Towards  which  advance  the  war. 

[Exeimt,  vmrcUng. 

.  More  and  Ze.s.-Shdkspere  uses  these  words,  as  Chaucer 
5r.e  spenser  use  them,  for  greater  and  less. 


SCENE  v.— Dunsinane.     Wifhin  the  Castle. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colours,  Macseth, 
Seyton,  and  Soldiers. 

Macb.  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward 
walls; 
The  cry  is  still,   'They  come:'     Our  castle's 

strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn :  here  let  them  lie, 
Tni  famine,  and  the  ague,  eat  them  up : 
Were  they  not  forc'd  with  those  that  should  be 

ours. 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.     Wliat  is  that 
noise  ?  [^A  cry  within,  of  women. 

Sey.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 
Macl.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 
As  life  were  in  't:    I  have  supp'd  full  with 

horrors ; 
Direuess,  familiar  to  my  slaughf  rous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me.— Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 
Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 
Mach.  She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 
To-moiTOW,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty '^  death.   Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life 's  but  a  waUdng  shadow ;  a  poor  player, 
That  struts  and  frets  hi.s  hour  upon  the  stage. 
And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing. — 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue ;  thy  story  qiuckly. 

Mess.  Gracious  my  lord, 
I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw. 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Mach.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Bimam,  and,  anon,  raefhought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Mach.  Liai".  ^^  slave ! 

{Striking  him. 

a  D„s/«.-^Varburton  ^rould  read  dusky.  In  Troilus  and 
Cressida  we  have  "dusty  nothing."  Douce  has  the  foUow- 
in 'valuaWe  illustration  of  the  passage :  "  Perhaps  no  qu^ 
afion  can  be  better  calculated  to  show  the  Propnety  oHh^ 
epithet  than  the  following  P^»»d  lines  in  -The  ^  mon  of 
Pierce  Plowman,'  a  work  which  Shakspeare  might  have 

'^""''Death  came  drivynge  after,  and  all  to  rfurt  pashed 
Kynges  and  kaysers.  knightes  and  popes. 


Act  v.] 


MACBETH. 


[SCEKES  VI.,  VII 


Mess.  Let  me  endure  jour  wrath  if 't  be  not  so ; 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macb.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive. 
Till  famine  cling  thee  :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. — 
I  pull  in  resolution;*  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend, 
That  lies  like  truth :  *  Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane ;' — and  now  a  wood 
Comes     toward    Dunsinane.— Arm,    arm,    and 

out  !— 
If  this  wliich  he  avouches  does  appear. 
There  is  nor  Hying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 
T  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 
A.nd  wish  the  estate  o'  the   world  were  now 

undone. — 
Ring  the  alarum-bell : — Blow  wind !  come  ^v^ack  ! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back. 

[Eaetenl. 

SCENE  VI.— .77/<?  same.    A  Plain  be/ore  the 
Castle. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colours,  [Malcolm,  old 
SiWARD,  Macduff,  §-c.,  and  their  Amy,  with 
boughs. 

Mai.  Now,  near  enough ;  your  leavy  screens 
throw  down, 
And  show   like  those  you  are: — You,  worthy 

uncle. 
Shall,  \vith  my  consul,  your  I'ight-noblc  son, 
Lead  our  fu-st  battle :  worthy  Macduff,  and  wc, 
Shall  take  upon  us  what  else  remains  to  do. 
According  to  our  order. 

Siw.  Fare  you  well. — 

Do  we  but  Gnd  the  tyrant's  power  to-night. 
Let  us  be  beaten  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macd.  Make  all  our  trumpets  speak;   give 
them  all  breath. 
Those  clamorous  liarbingers  of  blood  and  death. 
[^Exeunt.     Alarums  continued. 

SCENE  \U.~The  same.     Another  part  oj  the 
Plain. 

Enter  Macbetu. 

Zrar.b.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake ;  I  can- 
not fly, 

a  Monck  M.ison  gives  an  illustration  from  Fletclier,  which 
explains  the  use  of  pull  in  : — 

"  All  mv  spirits 
>*8  if  they  had  (leard  my  passing  bell  po  for  nic, 
Pull  in  their  powers,  an'l  give  nie  up  to  destiny." 
56 


But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course. — ^Wliat  's 

he 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  P     Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none.' 

Enter  Young  Siward. 

Yo.  Siw.  What  is  thy  name  ?, 
Macb.  Thou  'It  be  afraid  to  licar  it. 

To.  Siw.  No ;   though  thou  call'st  thyself  a 
hotter  name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 

Macb.  My  name 's  Macbeth. 

To.  Siw.  The   devil  himself   coidd    not  pro- 
nounce a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macb.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Fo.  Siw.  Thou  liest,  , abhorred  tyrant;   with 
my  sword 
I  '11  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st. 

{They  fight,  and  young  SrwARD  is  slain. 
Macb.  Thou  wast  bom  of  woman. — 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 
Braudish'd  by  man  that 's  of  a  woinuu  bom. 

[TLxit. 

Alarums.    Enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  That  way  the  noise  is : — Tyrant,  show 
thy  face : 
If  thou  be'st  slain,  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine. 
My  wife  and  chilch-eu's  ghosts  wiU  haunt  me 

still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kernes,  whose  amis 
Are  hir'd  to  bear  their  staves ;  either  thou,  Mac- 
beth, 
Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbatter'd  edge, 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded.     There  thou  shouldst 

be; 
By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  gi-eatcst  note 
Seems  bmited.    Let  me  find  him,  fortune ! 
And  more  I  beg  not.  [Exit.     Alarum. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  old  Sfward. 

Siw.  This  way,  my  lord ; — the  castle  's  gently 
rcndcr'd : 
The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight ; 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war ; 

a  We  have  again  the  small  critics  discovering  oversights 
in  Shakspcre.  Mrs.  Lenox,  the  queen  of  fault-finders,  says, 
"  Shakspeare  seems  to  have  committed  a  great  oversight  in 
making  Macheth,  after  he  found  himself  deceived  in  the 
prophecy  relating  to  Birnam  wood,  so  absolutely  rely  on  the 
other,  which  he  had  pood  reason  to  foar  might  be  equally 
fallacious."  If  Mrs.  Lenox  had  known  as  much  of  human 
nature  as  Shakspcre  knew,  she  would  have  understood  that 
one  hope  destroyed  does  not  necessarily  banish  all  hope; — 
Ih.at  the  gambler  wlio  has  lost  thousands  still  believes  that 
liis  last  guinea  will  redeem  them;— and  that  the  last  of  a 
long  series  of  perishing  delusions  is  as  firmly  trusted  as  if 
the  great  teacher.  Time,  had  taught  nothing. 


Act  V 


MACBETH. 


The  daj  almost  itself  professes  yours. 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Mai.  We  have  met  witli  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

^^^'  Enter,  sir,  the  castle. 

[Exeuiit.     Alarum. 

Re-enter  ^Macbeth. 
Macb.     Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool, 
and  die 
On  mine  own  sword?   whiles  I  see  lives,  the 

gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Re-enter  Macduff. 

Macd.  Turn,  hell-hoimd,  tui-n. 

Macb.  Of  aU  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee  : 
But  get  thee  back,  my  soul  is  too  much  charg'd 
With  blood  of  tliine  already. 

M.acd.  I  Iiave  no  words. 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword;  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out !  {They  fight. 

^acb.  Thou  loscst  laboiu- : 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air 
With  thy  keen  sword   impress,   as  make  me 

bleed : 
Let  faU  thy  blade  on  \Tibierable  crests ; 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  wliich  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

^lacd.  Despair-  thy  charm ; 

And  let  the  angel  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd 
TeU  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd. 

Macb.     Accm-sed  be  that   tongue  that   tells 
me  so. 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believ'd. 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope.— 1  '11  not  fight  with 
thee. 

Macd.  Then  yield  thee,  coward, 
And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time. 
We  'IL  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 
Pamted  upon  a  pole ;  and  underwrit, 
'  Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant.' 

^acj).  I  will  not  yield,  a 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcohn's 

feet. 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Bimam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane, 
And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  born. 
Yet  I  wiU  try  the  last :     Before  my  body 


a  I  will  not  »/icW.— This  is  sometimes  nuiiced  Into 

not  yield." 


J  11 


[SCEKE  VII. 

I  throw  my  warlike  shield :  lay  on,  Macduff; 
And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries,  'Hold, 
enough.'  [Exeunt, fighting. 

Retreat.  Flourish.  Re-enter,  with  drum  and 
colours,  M.\LCOi,M,  old  Siward,  Kosse, 
Lenox,  Angus,  Cathness,  MENizxif,  and 
Soldiers. 

Mai.  I  would  tlie  friends  we  miss  were  safe 

arriv'd. 
Siw.  Some  must  go  off;  and  yet,  by  these 
I  see. 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  clieaply  bought. 
Mai.  Macduff   is   missing,   and    your    noble 

son. 
Rosse.  Your  son,  mv  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's 
debt : 
He  only  liv'd  but  till  he  was  a  man ; 
The  which   no  sooner   had  his   prowess  con- 

firm'd, 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought. 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 
Siw.  Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Rosse.  Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field:   your 
cause  of  sorrow 
Must  not  be  measur'd  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 
Siw.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Rosse.  Ay,  on  the  front. 
Siw.  Why,  then,  God's  soldier  be  he ! 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death : 
And  so  his  knell  is  knoU'd. 

Mai.  He 's  worth  more  sorrow. 

And  that  I  '11  spend  for  hun. 

Siw.  He 's  worth  no  more ; 

They  say,  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score : 
And  so,  God  be  with  him  1 — Here  comes  newer 
comfort. 

Re-enter  IVLvcduff,  with  Macbeth'*  head. 
Macd.  Hail,  king!  for  so  thou  art:  Behold, 
where  stands 
The  usurper's  cursed  head :  the  tune  is  free : 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl. 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds ; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine, — 
Hail,  king  of  Scotland  ! 

^11-  Hail,  king  of  Scotland ! 

[Flourish. 
Mai.  We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of 
time. 
Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves. 
And  make  us  even  with  you.    My  thanes  and 
kinsmen, 

67 


Act  v.] 


MACBETH. 


[Scene  VII 


Ilenceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honour  nani'd.    What 's  more  to  do, 
"\Much  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time; — 
As  calling  home  our  cxJl'd  friends  abroad 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny ; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butclier,  and  his  ficnd-likc  queen. 


Who,  as  't  is  thoiight,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life  ; — tliis,  and  what  needful  else 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  and  place  : 
So  thanks  to  all  at  once,  and  to  each  one, 
"\yhom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

\_Flourish.     Exeunt 


^..t''.<'''a-j- 


[The  Dnnsinane  Range. 


ILLITSTEATIONS   OP  ACT   Y. 


HISTORICAL  ILLUSTRATION. 


HoLiNSHED  thus  naiTates  the  catastrophe  : — 

"  He  had  such  confidence  in  his  prophecies,  that 
he  believed  he  should  never  be  vanquished  till  Ber- 
nane  wood  were  brought  to  Dunsinane ;  nor  yet  to 
be  slain  with  any  man  that  should  be  or  was  boi-n 
of  any  woman. 

"  Malcolm,  following  hastily  after  Macbeth,  came 
the  night  before  the  battle  unto  Bernane  wood,  and, 
when  his  army  had  rested  awhile  there  to  refresh 
them,  he  commanded  every  man  to  get  a  bough  of 
some  tree  or  other  of  that  wood  in  his  hand,  as  big 
as  he  might  bear,  and  to  march  forth  therewith  in 
such  wise  that  on  the  next  morrow  they  might  come 
closely  and  without  sight  in  this  manner  within 
view  of  his  enemies.  On  the  morrow,  when  Mac- 
beth beheld  them  coming  in  this  sort,  he  first  mar- 
velled what  the  matter  meant,  but  in  the  end  re- 
membered himself  that  the  prophecy  which  he  had 
heard  long  before  that  time,  of  the  coming  of  Ber- 
nane wood  to  Dunsinane  Castle,  was  likely  to  be 
now  fulfilled.  Nevertheless,  he  brought  his  men  in 
order  of  battle,  and  exhoi-ted  them  to  do  valiantly ; 
howbeit,  his  enemies  had  scarcely  cast  from  them 
their  boughs  when  Macbeth,  perceiving  their  num- 
bers, betook  him  straight  to  flight,  whom  Macduff 
pursued  with  gi-eat  hatred,  even  till  he  came  unto 
Lunfannaine,  where  Macbeth,  perceiving  that  Mac- 


duff was  hard  at  his  back,  leaped  beside  his  horse, 
saying,  Thou  traitor,  what  meaneth  it  that  thou 
shouldst  thus  in  vain  follow  me,  that  am  not  ap- 
pointed to  be  slain  by  any  creature  that  is  born  of 
a  woman  ?  Come  on,  therefore,  and  receive  thy  re- 
ward, which  thou  hast  deserved  for  thy  pains  :  and 
therewithal  he  lifted  up  his  sword,  thinking  to  have 
slain  him. 

"  But  Macduff,  qu  ickly  avoiding  from  his  horse  ere 
he  came  at  him,  answered  (with  his  naked  sword  in 
his  hand),  saying,  It  is  true,  Macbeth,  and  now  shall 
thine  insatiable  cruelty  have  an  end,  forlamevenhe 
that  thy  wizards  have  told  thee  of;  who  was  never 
born  of  my  mother,  but  ripped  out  of  her  womb  : 
therewithal  he  stepped  unto  him,  and  slew  him 
in  the  place.  Then  cutting  his  head  from  his 
shoulders,  he  set  it  upon  a  pole,  and  brought  it  unto 
Malcolm.  This  was  the  end  of  jNIacbeth,  after  he  had 
reigned  seventeen  years  over  the  Scottishmen.  In 
the  beginning  of  his  reign  he  accomplished  many 
worthy  acts,  very  profitable  to  the  commonwealth 
(as  ye  have  heard) ;  but  afterwards,  by  illusion  of  the 
devil,  he  defamed  the  same  with  most  terrible 
cruelty.  He  was  slain  in  the  year  of  the  Incar- 
nation 1057,  and  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  King 
Edward's  reign  over  the  Englishmen." 


LOCAL  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Scene  IV. —      "  What  wood  is  this  before  its  ? 

The  wood  of  Bh-nam." 
BiRXAM  Hill  is  distant  about  a  mile  from  Dunkeld; 
and  the  two  old  trees,  which  are  believed  to  be  the 
last  remains  of  Birnam  Wood,  grow  by  the  river- 
side, half  a  mile  from  the  foot  of  the  hill.  The  hills 
of  Birnam  and  Dunsinane  must  have  been  excellent 
posts  of  observation  in  time  of  war,  both  command- 
ing the  level  country  which  lies  between  them,  and 
various  passes,  lochs,  roads,  and  rivers  in  other  di- 
rections. Birnam  Hill,  no  longer  clothed  with  forest, 
but  belted  with  plantations  of  young  larch,  rises  to 
the  height  of  1040  feet,  and  exhibits,  amidst  the 
heath,  ferns,  and  mosses,  which  clothe  its  sides,  dis- 


tinct traces  of  an  ancient  fort,  which  is  called  Dun- 
can's Court.  Tradition  says  that  Duncan  held  his 
court  there.  The  Dunsmane  hills  are  visible,  at  the 
distance  of  twelve  miles,  from  every  part  of  its 
northern  side.  Birnam  Hill  is  precisely  the  point 
where  a  general,  in  full  march  towards  Dunsinane, 
would  be  likely  to  pause,  to  survey  the  plain  which 
he  must  cross ;  and  from  this  spot  would  the  "  leavy 
screen"  devised  by  Malcolm  become  necessary  to 
conceal  the  amount  of  the  hostUe  force  from  the 
watch  on  the  Dunsinane  heights  :— 

"  Thereby  ehall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us." 

59 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


Scene  V.—  "At  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill." 

It  ia  not  ascertained  on  which  hill  of  the  Dun- 
Binane  range,  in  Perthshire,  Macbeth'3  forces  were 
posted.  Behind  Dunsinane  House  there  ia  a  green 
hill,  on  the  summit  of  which  are  vestiges  of  a  vitri- 
fied fort,  whicli  tradition  has  declared  to  be  the 
remains  of  Macbeth "s  castle. 

The  coimtry  between  Bimam  and  Dunsinane  is 
level  and  fertile,  and  from  several  parts  of  the  Dun- 


sinane range  the  outline  of  Birnam  Hill  is  visible ; 
but,  as  the  distance  is  twelve  miles  in  a  direct  line, 
no  sentinel  on  the  Dunsinane  hills  could  see  the 
wood  at  Birnam  begin  to  move,  or  even  that  there 
was  a  wood.  We  must  suppose  either  that  the 
distance  was  contracted  for  the  poet's  purposes,  or 
that  the  wood  called  Biniam  extended  from  the  hill 
for  some  miles  into  the  plain  : — 

"  Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming." 


—-'•t''-. 


[In  Birnam  Wood.] 


SUPPLEMENTARY    NOTICE. 


In  Coleridge's  early  sonnet 'to  the  Author  of  tha  Robbers,'  his  imagination  is  euchainod  to  the 
most  terrible  scene  of  that  play ;  disregarding,  as  it  were,  all  the  accessaries  by  which  its  horrors 
are  mitigated  and  rendered  endurable  :— 

"  Schiller  I  that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  father's  cry — 
Lest  in  some  after-moment  aught  more  mean 
Might  stamp  me  mortal !     A  triumphant  shout 
Black  Horror  scream'd,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
Diminish'd  shrunk  from  the  more  withering  scene !" 

It  was  in  a  somewhat  similar  manner  that  Shakspere's  representation  of  the  mrxder  of  Duncan 
affected  the  imagination  of  Mrs.  Siddons : — "  It  was  my  custom  to  study  my  characters  at  night, 
when  all  the  domestic  cares  and  business  of  the  day  were  over.     On  the  night  preceding  that  on 
which  I  was  to  appear  in  this  part  for  the  first  time,  I  shut  myself  up,  as  usual,  when  all  the  family 
were  retired,  and  commenced  my  study  of  Lady  Macbeth.     As  the  character  is  very  short,  I  thought 
I  should  soon  accomplish  it.     Being  then  only  twenty  years  of  age,  I  believed,  as  many  others  do 
believe,  that  little  more  was  necessary  than  to  get  the  words  into  my  head ;  for  the  necessity  of  dis- 
crimination, and  the  development  of  character,  at  that  time  of  my  life,  had  scarcely  entered  into 
my  imagination.     But,  to  proceed.     I  went  on  with  tolerable  composure,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
(a  night  I  can  never  forget,)  till  I  came  to  the  assassination  scene,  when  the  horrors  of  the  scene 
rose  to  a  degree  that  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  get  farther.     I  snatched  up  my  candle,  and  hurried 
out  of  the  room  in  a  paroxysm  of  terror.     My  dress  was  of  silk,  and  the  rustling  of  it,  as  I  ascended 
the  stairs  to  go  to  bed,  seemed  to  my  panic-struck  fancy  like  the  movement  of  a  spectre  pursuing  me. 
At  last  I  reached  my  chamber,  where  I  found  my  husband  fast  asleep.     I  clapped  my  candlestick 
.down  upon  the  table,  without  the  power  of  putting  it  out;  and  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed,  without 
daring  to  stay  even  to  take  off  my  clothes."  *     This  most  interesting  passage  appears  to  us  to  involve 
the  consideration  of  the  principles  upon  which  the  examination  of  such  a  work  of  art  as  Macbeth  can 
alone  be  attempted.     To  analyse  the  conduct  of  the   plot,  to  exhibit  the  obvious  and  the  latent 
features  of  the  characters,  to  point  out  the  proprieties  and  the  splendours  of  the  poetical  language, — 
these  are  duties  which,  however  agreeable  they  may  be  to  ourselves,  are  scarcely  demanded  by  the 
nature  of  the  subject ;  and  they  have  been  so  often  attempted,  that  there  is  manifest  danger  of  being 
trite  and  wearisome  if  we  should  enter  into  this  wide  field.     We  shall,  therefore,  apply  ourselves  ae 
strictly  as  possible  to  an  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  that  poetical  Art  by  which  the  horrors  of  this 
groat  tragec^y  are  confined  within  the  limits  of  ple;isurable  emotion. 


•  Memoranda  by  Mrs.  Siddons,  inserted  in  her  '  Life'  by  Mr.  Campbell. 


61 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

If  the  drama  of  Macbeth  wero  to  produce  the  same  effect  upon  the  mind  of  an  imaginative  reader  ae 
that  described  by  Mrs.  Siddons,  it  would  not  be  the  great  work  of  art  which  it  really  is.  If  our  poet 
had  resolved,  using  the  words  of  his  own  Othello,  to 

"  ab.indon  all  remorse, 
On  horror's  head  horrors  accumulate," 

the  midnight  lerrora,  such  as  Mrs.  Siddons  has  described,  would  have  indeed  'been  a  tribute  to 
iwiccr, — but  not  to  the  power  which  has  produced  Macbeth.  The  paroxysm  of  fear,  the  panic, 
struck  fancy,  the  prostrated  senses,  so  beautifully  described  by  this  impassioned  actress,  were  the 
result  of  the  intensity  with  which  she  had  fixed  her  mind  upon  that  part  of  the  play  which  she  was 
herself  to  act.  In  the  endeavour  to  get  the  words  into  her  head,  her  own  fine  genius  was  naturally 
kindled  to  behold  a  complete  vision  of  the  wonderful  scene.  Again  and  again  were  the  words 
repeated,  on  that  night  which  she  could  never  forget, — in  the  silence  of  that  night  when  all  about 
her  were  sleeping.  And  then  she  heard  the  owl  shriek,  amidst  the  hurried  steps  in  the  fatal  chamber, 
—  and  she  taw  the  bloody  hands  of  the  assassin,— and,  personifying  the  murderess,  she  rushed  to 
dip  her  own  hands  in  the  gore  of  Duncan.  It  is  perfectly  evident  that  this  intensity  of  conception 
has  carried  the  horrors  far  beyond  the  limits  of  pleasurable  emotion,  and  has  produced  all  the  terrors 
of  a  real  murder.  No  reader  of  the  play,  and  no  spectator,  can  regard  this  play  as  Mrs.  Siddons 
regarded  it.  On  that  night  she,  probably  for  the  first  time,  had  a  strong  though  imperfect  vision  of 
the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth,  such  as  she  afterwards  delineated  it ;  and  in  that  case,  what  to  all  of 
us  must,  under  any  circumstances,  be  a  work  of  art,  however  glorious,  was  to  her  almost  a  reality. 
It  was  the  isolation  of  the  scene,  demanded  by  her  own  attempt  to  conceive  the  character  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  which  made  it  so  terrible  to  Mrs.  Siddons.  We  have  to  regard  it  as  a  part  of  a  great  whole, 
which  combines  and  harmonizes  with  all  around  it;  for  which  we  are  adequately  prepared  by  what  ha.s 
gone  before ;  and  which, — even  if  we  look  at  it  as  a  picture  which  represents  only  that  one  portion  of 
the  action,  has  still  its  own  repose,  its  own  harmony  of  colouring,  its  own  chiai-o-'scuro, — is  to  be  seen 
under  a  natural  light.  There  was  a  preternatural  light  upon  it  when  Mrs.  Siddons  saw  it  as  she  has 
described. 

The  assassination  scene  of  the  second  act  is  dimly  shadowed  out  in  the  first  liues  of  the  drama, 
when  those  mysterious  beings, — 

"  So  withcr'd,  and  so  wild  in  their  attire ; 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 
And  yet  are  on  't," — 


have  resolved  to  go 


"  Upon  the  heath  ; 
There  to  meet  with  Macbeth." 


We  know  there  is  to  be  evil.  One  of  the  critics  of  the  last  age  has  obseiTed,  "  The  Witches  here 
seem  to  be  introduced  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  tell  us  they  are  to  meet  again."  If  the  Witches 
had  not  been  introduced  in  the  first  scene, — if  we  had  not  known  that  they  were  about  "to  meet 
with  Macbeth,"  —  the  narrative  of  Macbeth's  prowess  in  the  second  scene,  and  the  resolution  of 
Duncan  to  create  him  Thane  of  Cawdor,  would  have  been  comparatively  pointless.  The  ten  lines 
of  the  first  Witch-scene  give  the  key-note  of  the  tragedy.  They  take  us  out  of  the  course  of  ordi- 
nary life;  they  tell  us  there  is  to  be  a  "supernatural  soliciting;"  they  show  us  that  we  are  entering 
into  the  empu-e  of  the  unreal,  and  that  the  circle  of  the  magician  is  to  be  drawn  about  us.  When 
the  Witches  "meet  again"  their  agency  becomes  more  clear.  There  they  are,  again  muttering  of 
their  uncouth  spells,  in  language  which  sounds  neither  of  earth  nor  heaven.  Fortunate  are  those 
who  have  never  seen  the  stage-witches  of  Macbeth,  hag-like  forms,  with  beards  and  brooms,  singing 
D'Avenant's  travestic  of  Shakspere's  lyrics  to  music,  fine  aud  solemn  indeed,  but  which  is  utterly 
inadequate  to  express  the  Shaksperian  idea,  as  it  does  not  follow  the  Shaksperian  words.  Fortunate 
are  they ;  for,  without  the  stage  recollections,  they  may  picture  to  themselves  beings  whoso 
"  character  consists  in  the  imaginative  disconnected  from  the  good ;  the  shadowy  obscure  and 
fearfully  anomalous  of  physical  nature,  the  lawless  of  human  nature, — elemental  avengers  without 
62 


MACBETH. 

aex  or  kiu."  *  TLe  stage-Vfitches  of  Macbeth  are  not  much  elevated  above  the  •  Witch  of  Edmonton, 
of  Kowley  and  Dekker — "  the  plain  traditional  old-woman  witch  of  our  ancestors ;  poor,  defonned' 
and  ignorant;  the  terror  of  villages,  herself  amenable  to  a  justice."  Charlea  Lamb  (from  whom 
we  quote  these  words)  has,  with  his  accustomed  discrimination,  also  shown  the  essential  differences 
between  the  witches  of  Shakspere  and  the  witches  of  Middleton :  "  These  (Middleton's)  are  creatures 
to  whom  man  or  woman  plotting  some  dire  mischief  might  resort  for  occaaional  consultation. 
Those  originate  deeds  of  blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  moment  that  their  eyes 
first  meet  with  Macbeth,  he  is  spell-bound.  That  meeting  sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break 
the  fascination.  These  witches  hurt  the  body;  those  have  power  over  the  soul."f  But  the  witches 
of  the  stage  Macbeth  are  Middleton's  witches,  and  not  Shakspere's ;  and  they  sing  Middleton's  lyricp, 
as  stolen  by  D'Avenant,  but  they  are  not  Shakspere's  lyrics.  The  witches  of  Shakspere  essentially 
belong  to  the  action.     From  the  moment  they  exclaim 

"  A  drum,  a  drum; 
Macbeth  doth  come, 

all  their  powers  are  bent  up  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  ruin.     Shakspere  gives  us  no  choruses  of 


and 


"  We  dance  to  the  echoes  of  our  feet; 

"  We  fly  by  night  'mongst  troops  of  spirits." 


He  makes  the  superstition  tell  upon  the  action  of  the  tragedy,  and  not  a  jot  farther;  and  thus  he 
makes  the  superstition  harmonize  with  the  action,  and  prepare  us  for  its  fatal  progress  and  consum- 
mation. It  was  an  effect  of  his  consummate  skill  to  render  the  superstition  essentially  poetical. 
When  we  hear  in  imagination  the  drum  upon  that  wild  heath,  and  see  the  victorious  generals  in  the 
"  proper  temperament  for  generating  or  receiving  superstitious  impressions,":}:  we  connect  with  these 
poetical  situations  the  lofty  bearing  of  the  "  imperfect  speakers,"  and  the  loftier  words  of  the 
"  prophetic  greeting  : " — 

"  All  hail,  Macbeth!  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Glamis  ! 
All  hail,  Macbeth !  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Cawdor ! 
All  hail,  Macbeth!  that  slialt  be  king  hereafter." 

It  is  the  romance  of  this  situation  which  throws  its  charm  over  the  subsequent  horrors  of  the 
realization  of  the  prophecy,  and  keeps  the  whole  drama  within  the  limits  which  separate  tragedy 
from  the  '  Newgate  Calendar.'  If  some  Tate  had  laid  his  hand  upon  Macbeth,  aa  upon  Lear  (for 
D'Avenant,  who  did  manufacture  it  into  something  which  up  to  the  time  of  Quin  was  played  as 
Shakspere's,  had  yet  a  smack  of  the  poet  in  him) — if  some  matter-of-fact  word-monger  had  thought 
it  good  service  to  "  the  rising  generation  "  to  get  rid  of  the  Witches,  and  had  given  the  usurper  and 
his  wife  only  their  ambition  to  stimulate  their  actions,  he  would  have  produced  a  George  Barnwell 
instead  of  a  Macbeth. 

It  is  upon  the  different  reception  of  the  supernatural  influence,  proceeding  out  of  the  different 
constitution  of  their  minds,  by  which  we  must  appreciate  the  striking  differences  in  the  charactera 
of  Macbeth,  Banquo,  and  Lady  Macbeth-  These  are  the  three  who  are  the  sole  recipients  of 
the  prophecy  of  the  Witches ;  and  this  consideration,  as  it  appears  to  us,  must  determine  all  that 
has  been  said  upon  the  question  whether  Macbeth  was  or  was  not  a  brave  man.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  his  braveiy  when  he  was  acting  under  the  force  of  his  own  will.  In  the  contest  with  "  the 
merciless  Macdouwald "  he  was  "valour's  minion."  In  that  \\-ith  "Norway  himself"  he  was 
"Bellona's  bridegroom."  But  when  he  encountered  the  Witches,  and  his  will  was  laid  prostrate 
under  a  belief  in  destiny,  there  was  a  new  principle  introduced  into  his  mind.  His  self-possession 
?-nd  liis  self-reliance  were  gone  : — 

"  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start ;  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair?" 


*  Coleridge  s  '  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.,  p.  238. 
t  '  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets,'  vol.  i.,  p.  187. 


X  Coleridge. 


63 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

But  he  yet  depended  upon  bia  reason     AVith  marvelloua  art  Shakspere  at  this  moment  throwa  on 
the  straw  which  is  to  break  the  camel's  back  :  — 

"The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 
A  prosperous  gentleman  ;  and,  to  be  klni?, 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  knows  he  15  Cawdor  : — 


"  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor : 
The  greatest  is  behind. 

But  Banquo  receives  the  partial  consummation  of  the  prophecy  with  an  unsubdued  mind  : — 

"  Oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm. 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths ; 
AVin  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequence." 

The  will  of  Banquo  refuses  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  prophecy.  The  will  of  Macbeth  becomes  the 
accompUce  of  the  "  instruments  of  darkness,"  and  is  subdued  to  their  purposes  : — 

"  Why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair. 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature?" 

And  then  comes  the  refuge  of  every  man  of  vmfirm  mind  upon  whom  temptation  is  laid  : — 

"  If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance  may  crown  me, 
Without  my  stir." 

If  he  had  opposed  the  chance  he  would  have  been  safe ;  but  his  will  was  prostrate  before  the  chance, 
and  he  perished.  It  is  perfectly  clear  that  the  faint  battle  had  been  fought  between  his  principle 
and  his  "black  and  deep  desires"  when  he  saw  something  to  "o'erleap"  even  beyond  the  life  of 
Duncan, — "  the  prince  of  Cumberland."  In  the  conflict  of  his  mind  it  is  evident  that  he  commu- 
nicates to  his  wife  the  promises  of  those  v\-ho  "  havo  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge,"  not  only 
that  she  might  not  lose  the  "dues  of  rejoicing,"  but  that  he  might  have  some  power  to  rely  upon 
stronger  than  his  own  will.  He  was  not  deceived  there.  It  is  clear  that  Lady  Macbeth  had  no 
reliance  upon  the  prophecy  working  out  itself.  iJlie  had  no  belief  that  chauce  would  make  Itim  king 
without  his  stir : — 

"  Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor;  and  shalt  be 
AVhat  thou  art  promis'd." 

It  waa  not  thou  mayst  be,  or  thou  wilt  be,  but  thou  shcUt  be.  The  only  fear  she  had  was  of  his 
nature.  She  would  "  catch  the  nearest  way."  She  instantly  saw  that  way.  The  prophecy  was  to  her 
nothing  but  as  it  regarded  the  effect  to  be  produced  upon  him  who  would  not  play  false,  and  yet  would 
wrongly  win.     All  that  is  coming  is  clear  before  her  through  the  force  of  her  will  ■ — 

"  The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements." 

Upon  the  arrival  of  Macbeth,  the  breathless  rapidity  with  which  she  subjects  him  to  her  resolve  is 
one  of  the  most  appalling  thiugH  in  the  whole  drama.  Her  tremendous  will  is  the  real  destiny  which 
subjugates  his  indecision.  Not  a  word  of  question  or  explanation !  She  salutes  him  as  Glamis  and 
Cawdor,  and 

"  Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter." 


This  is  the  sole  allusion  to  the  weird  sidters, 
C4 


"  We  will  speak  further,"  seals  his  fate. 


MACBETH. 

Here  then,  up  to  this  point,  we  have  the  supernatural  influence  determining  the  progress  of  the 
action  with  a  precipitation  which  in  itself  appears  almost  supernatural ;  and  yet  it  is  in  itself  strictly 
consonant  to  nature.  It  works  in  and  through  human  passions  and  feelings.  It  woi'ks  through 
unbelief  as  weU  as  through  belief.  It  pervades  the  entire  action,  whether  in  its  repose  or  in  its 
tumult.  When  "  the  heavens'  breath  smells  wooingly "  in  Macbeth's  castle,  we  feel  that  it  is  as 
treacherous  to  the  "  gentle  senses "  of  Duncan  as  the  blandishments  of  his  hostess ;  and  that  this 
calm  is  but  the  prelude  to  that  "  unruly  "  night  which  is  to  follow,  with  its  "  lamentings  "  and  its 
"  strange  screams  of  death."  But  this  is  a  part  of  the  poetiy  of  the  action,  which  keeps  the  horror 
within  the  boiuids  prescribed  by  a  high  art.  The  beautiful  adaptation  of  the  characters  to  the 
action  constitutes  a  higher  essential  of  the  poetry.  The  last  scene  of  the  first  act,  where  Macbeth 
marshals  before  him.  the  secondary  consequences  of  the  meditated  crime,  and  the  secondary  argu- 
ments against  its  commission, — all  the  while  forgetting  that  the  real  question  is  that  of  the  one 
step  from  innocence  into  guilt, — and  where  all  these  prudential  considerations  are  at  once  over- 
whelmed by  a  guUty  energy  which  despises  as  well  as  renounces  them,- — that  scene  is  indeed  more 
terrible  to  us  than  the  assassination  scene  ;  for  it  shows  us  how  men  fall  through  their  own  weak- 
ness and  the  bad  strength  of  others.  But  in  all  this  we  see  the  deep  philosophy  of  the  poet,— hia 
profound  knowledge  of  the  springs  of  human  action,  derived  perhaps  from  his  experience  of  every- 
day crime  and  folly,  but  lifted  into  the  highest  poetry  by  his  marvellous  imagination.  We  know 
that  after  this  the  scene  of  the  murder  must  come.  All  the  preparatory  incidents  are  poetical. 
The  moon  is  down;  Banquo  and  Fleance  walk  by  torch-light;  the  servants  are  moving  to  rest; 
Macbeth  is  alone.  He  sees  "  the  air-drawn  dagger "  which  leads  him  to  Duncan ;  he  is  still  under 
the  influence  of  some  power  stronger  than  his  will ;  he  is  beset  with  false  creations ;  his  imagina- 
tion is  excited;  he  moves  to  bloodshed  amidst  a  crowd  of  poetical  images,  with  which  his  mind 
dallies,  as  it  were,  in  its  agony.  Half  frantic  he  has  done  the  deed.  His  passion  must  now  have 
vent.  It  rushes  like  a  torrent  over  the  calmness  which  his  wife  opposes  to  it.  His  terrors  embody 
themselves  in  gushing  descriptions  of  those  fearful  voices  that  rang  in  the  murderer's  eai-s. 
Reproaches  and  taunts  have  now  no  power  over  him  : — ■ 

"I'll  go  no  more: 
1  am  afiaid  to  think  what  I  have  done , 
Look  on't  again,  I  dare  not." 

It  is  impossible,  we  think,  for  the  poet  to  have  more  clearly  indicated  the  mode  in  which  he  meant 
to  contrast  the  characters  of  Macbeth  and  his  wife  than  in  the  scene  before  us.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
characterise  the  intellect  of  Lady  Macbeth  as  of  a  higher  order  than  that  of  her  husband.  Her 
force  of  character  was  stronger,  because  her  intellect  was  less.  She  wanted  that  higher  power 
which  he  possessed — the  power  of  imagination.  She  hears  no  noises  in  that  terrible  hour  but  the 
scream  of  the  owl  and  the  cry  of  the  crickets.     To  her. 


In  her  view 


'  The  sleeping,  and  the  dead, 
Are  but  as  pictures." 


"  A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed." 


We  believe  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  necessities  of  a  theatrical  representation,  Shakspere  would 
never  have  allowed  it  to  have  been  supposed  that  a  visible  ghost  was  presented  in  the  banquet- 
scene.  It  is  to  him  who  saw  the  dagger,  and  heard  the  voices  cry  "sleep  no  more,"  and  who 
exclaimed 

"  Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?" — 

it  is  to  him  alone  that  the  spectral  appearances  of  that  "solemn  supper"  are  vi^ibla  Are  they  not 
then  the  forms  only  of  his  imagination  ?  The  partner  of  his  guilt,  who  looked  upon  the  great  crime 
only  as  a  business  of  necessity, — who  would  have  committed  it  herself  but  for  one  touch  of  foelinp 
confessed  only  to  herself, — 


Thagkcies.— Vol.  II. 


Co 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

'  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  lie  slept,  1  had  done 't,"— 

who  had  before  disclaimed  eveu  the  teudcrest  feelings  of  a  mother  if  they  had  Btood  betweeu  her 
and  her  purpose, — she  sees  no  spectre,  because  her  obdurate  will  cannot  co-exist  with  the  imagina- 
tion which  produces  the  terror  and  remorse  of  her  husband.  It  is  scarcely  the  "  towering  bravery 
of  her  mind,"  *  in  the  right  sense  of  the  word  :  it  is  something  lower  than  courage ;  it  is  the 
absence  of  impressibility :  the  tenacious  adherence  to  one  dominant  passion  constitutes  her  force  of 
character. 

As  Macbeth  recedes  from  his  original  nature  under  the  influence  of  his  fears  and  his  superstition.^^ 
he  becomes,  of  necessity,  a  lower  creatii  re.  It  is  the  uatui'al  course  of  guilt.  The  "  bravo  Macbeth  " 
changes  to  a  counterfeiter  of  passions,  a  hypocrite, — 

"  O,  yet  T  do  repent  mo  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them." 

He  descends  not  only  to  the  hire  of  murderei'S,  but  to  the  slander  of  his  friend  to  stimulato  their 
revenge.  But  his  temperament  is  still  that  of  which  poets  are  made.  In  his  mui'derous  purposes  he 
is  still  imaginative  : — 

"  Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 

His  cloister'd  flight;  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons, 

The  shard-borne  beetle,  -with  his  drowsy  hums, 

Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal. 

There  shall  be  done  a  deed  of  dreadful  note." 

It  is  this  condition  of  Macbeth's  mind  which,  we  must  again  repeat,  limits  and  mitigates  the  horror  of 
the  ti-agedy.  After  the  tumult  of  the  banquet-sicene  the  imagination  of  Macbeth  again  overbears 
(a.s  it  did  after  the  murder)  the  force  of  the  will  in  Lady  Macbeth.  It  appears  to  v.s  that  her  taunts 
and  reproaches  are  only  ventured  upon  by  her  when  his  excitement  is  beginning.  After  it  has  run 
its  ten-ific  course,  and  the  frighted  guests  have  departed,  and  the  guilty  man  mutters  "  it  v/ill  have 
blood,"  then  is  her  intellectual  energy  \itterly  helpless  before  his  higher  passion.  Jlrs.  Jameson  says 
of  this  remarkable  scene,  "  A  few  words  of  submissive  rejily  to  his  questions,  and  an  entreaty  to  seek 
repose,  are  all  she  permits  herself  to  utter.  There  is  a  touch  of  pathos  and  tenderness  in  thi.s  silence 
which  has  always  affected  me  beyond  expression."  Is  it  submission  ?  Is  it  tenderness  ?  Is  it  not 
rather  the  lower  energy  in  subjection  to  the  higher?  Her  intellect  has  lost  its  anchorage;  but  his 
imagination  is  about  to  receive  a  new  stimulant : — 

"  I  will  to-monow 
(And  betimes  I  will)  unto  the  weird  sisters  : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst." 

"  He  has  by  guilt  torn  himself  live-asunder  from  nature,  and  is  therefore  himself  in  a  preternatm-al 
state :  no  wonder,  then,  that  he  is  inclined  to  superstition,  and  faith  in  the  unknown  of  signs  and 
tokens,  and  superhuman  agencies."  Coleridge  thus  notices  the  point  of  action  of  which  wo  are 
speaking.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Macbeth  was  inclined  to  superstition  before  the  guilt, 
and  that  his  faith  in  superhuman  agencies  went  far  to  produce  the  guUt.  From  this  moment,  how 
ever,  his  guilt  is  bolder,  and  his  will  more  obdurate ;  his  supernatural  knowledge  stands  in  the  place 
of  reflection  and  caution.  He  believes  in  it,  and  yet  he  will  do  something  beyond  the  belief.  He  is 
told  to  " beware  Macduff;"  but  he  is  also  told  that  "none  of  woman  bom  shall  harm  Macbeth."  How 
does  he  reconcile  this  contrary  belief?  — 

"  Then  live,  MacdufT:  What  need  I  fear  of  thee? 
But  yet  1  '11  make  assurance  double  sure. 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate :  thou  s-'ialt  not  live 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder." 


66 


*  Mrs.  Jameson. 


MACBETH. 


And  then  comes  the  other  prophecy  of  safety  : — 


"  Macbeth  shall  never  vanquisli'd  he,  until 
Great  BLrnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him." 

Does  it  produc3  tranquillity  ?    All  beyond  is  desperation  :  — 

"  Macb.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Len.  No,  my  lord. 

Macb.  Came  they  not  by  you  ? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord, 

Macb.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them !— I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse  :  Who  was 't  came  by? 

Len.  'T  is  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word, 
Macduff'is  fled  to  England. 

Macb.  Fled  to  England  ? 

Len.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  Time,  thou  anticipat  'st  my  dread  exploits : 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ettook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  From  this  moment.       • 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 

The  firstlings  of  my  hand.    And  even  now,  • 

To  crown  my  thought:;  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done  • 
The  castle  of  Macdufl'  I  will  surprise  ; 
Seize  upon  Fife  ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  his  line." 

The  retribution  which  falls  upon  Lady  Macbeth  is  precisely  that  which  is  fitted  to  her  guilt.  The 
powerful  will  is  subjected  to  the  domination  of  her  own  imperfect  senses.  We  cannot  dwell  upon  her 
teiTible  punishment.     There  can  be  nothing  beyond  the  agony  of 

"  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  all  the 
perfumes  of  Arabia  wiU  not  sweeten  this  little 
hand." 

The  Tengeance  falls  more  gently  on  Macbeth ;  for  he  is  in  activity ;  he  is  stiU  confident  in  prophetic 
securities.  The  contemplative  melancholy  which,  however,  occasionally  comes  over  him  in  the  last 
struggle  is  still  true  to  the  poetry  of  his  character  : — 

"  Seyton  ! — I  am  sick  at  heart, 
■WTien  I  behold— Seyton,  I  say  !— This  push 
Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  dis-seat  me  now. 
I  have  liv'd  long  enough  :  my  way  of  life 
Is  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf: 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
.\s  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  ;  but,  in  their  stead. 
Curses  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath. 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not." 

This  passage,  and  the  subsequent  one  of 

"  To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time  i 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death," — 

tell  us  of  something  higher  and  better  in  his  character  than  the  assassin  and  the  usurper  He  was 
the  victim  of  "  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend ;"  and  he  has  paid  a  fearful  penalty  for  his  belfef.  The 
final  avenging  is  a  compassionate  one,  for  he  dies  a  warrior's  death  : — 

F  2  .  ^^ 


; 


SUrPLEMENTARV  NOTICE. 


'  I  will  not  yield, 
To  kiss  tbe  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Bimam  wood  be  come  to  Uunsinanc, 
And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  boni. 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last :  Before  my  body 
I  throw  my  warlike  shield." 

The  princii'le  which  we  have  thus  so  imperfectly  attempted  to  exhibit,  aa  the  leading  characteristic 
of  this  glorious  tragedy,  is,  without  doubt,  that  which  constitutes  the  essential  difference  between 
a  work  of  the  highest  genius  and  a  work  of  mediocrity.  Without  jjoiccr— by  which  we  here  especially 
mean  the  ability  to  produce  strong  excitement  by  the  display  of  scenes  of  horror— no  poet  of  the 
highest  order  was  ever  made ;  but  this  alone  does  not  make  such  a  poet.  If  he  is  called  upon  to 
present  such  scenes,  they  must,  even  in  their  most  striking  forms,  be  associated  with  the  beautiful. 
The  pre  eminence  of  his  art  in  this  particular  can  jdone  prevent  them  affecting  the  imagination  beyond 
the  limits  of  pleasurable  emotion.  To  keep  within  these  limits,  and  yet  to  preserve  all  the  energy 
which  results  from  the  power  of  dealing  with  the  terrible  apart  from  the  beautiful,  belongs  to  few 
chat  the  world  has  seen :  to  Shak.?pere  it  belongs  surpassingly. 


-^^:^?i:^^mii 


-I' 


1  ;7-  A-"^-<^-"-Vf  a 


n'l; 


'plf 


'•  ii 


] 


JM 

I 


a 


[Chaucer.j 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Teoilus  and  Cressida. 

The  original  quarto  edition  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  printed  in  1C09,  bears  the  following  title  :—'  The 
famous  Historie  of  Troylus  and  Cresseid.  Excellently  expressing  the  Beginning  of  their  Loues,  with 
the  Conceited  Wooing  of  Pandarus  Prince  of  Licia.  Written  by  William  Shakespeare.  London, 
Imprinted  by  G.  Eld,  for  R.  Bonian  and  H.  Walley,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  Spred  Eagle  in  Paules 
Churchyeard,  ouer  against  the  great  North  Doore,  1609.'  In  the  same  year  a  second  edition  was  put 
forth  by  the  same  publishers,  in  the  title-page  of  which  appears,  "  As  it  was  acted  by  the  King's 
Majesty's  Servants  at  the  Globe."  There  was  a  preface  to  the  first  edition,  which  is  omitted  in  the 
second,  in  which  are  these  words  : — "  You  have  here  a  new  play,  never  staled  with  the  stage."  AVe 
shall  have  occasion  more  fully  to  notice  this  preface.  No  other  edition  of  the  play  was  published 
until  it  appeared  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  Its  position  in  this  collection  has  given  rise  to  a 
singular  hypothesis.  Steevens  says,  "  Perhaps  the  drama  before  us  was  not  entirely  of  his 
(Shakspere's)  construction.  It  appears  to  have  been  unknown  to  his  associates,  Hemings  and  Condell, 
tUl  after  the  first  folio  was  almost  printed  off."  If  the  play  had  been  uiiknoum  to  Hemings  and 
Condell,  the  notion  that,  for  this  reason,  it  might  not  be  entirely  of  Shakspere's  construction,  would 
be  a  most  illogical  inference.  But  how  is  it  shown  that  the  play  was  unknown,  to  Shakspere's 
associates  ?  Farmer  tells  us,  "  It  was  at  first  either  vmhnmim  or  forgotten.  It  does  not,  however, 
appear  in  the  list  of  the  plays,  and  is  thrust  in  between  the  Histories  and  the  Tragedies,  without  any 
enumeration  of  the  pages ;    except,  I  think   on  one  leaf  only."     If  these  critics  had  carried  their 

71 


IXTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

inquiries  one  step  farther,  they  would  have  found  that  Troilus  and  Cressida  was  neither  unknown  nor 
forgotten  by  the  editors  of  the  first  folio.  It  is  more  probable  that  they  were  only  doubtful  how  to 
cliissify  it.  In  the  first  quarto  edition  it  is  called  a  famous  i/w^').-?/,  in  the  title-page;  but  in  the 
preface  it  is  repeatedly  mentioned  as  a  Covicdy.  In  the  folio  edition  it  boars  the  title  of  '  The 
Tragcdie  of  Troylus  and  Cressida.'  In  that  edition  the  Tragedies  begin  with  Coriolanus ;  and  the 
paging  goes  on  regularly  from  1  to  7C,  that  last  page  bringing  us  within  a  hundred  lines  of  the  close  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  We  then  skip  pages  77  and  78,  Ilomeo  and  Juliet  concluding  with  79.  Now  the 
leaf  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  on  which  Farmer  observed  an  enumeration  of  pages  includes  the  second 
and  third  pages  of  the  play,  and  those  are  marked  79,  80.  If  the  last  page  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  had 
been  marked  77,  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  and  the  first  page  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  78,  we  should 
have  seen  at  once  that  this  Tragedy  was  intended  by  the  editors  to  follow  Romeo  and  Juliet.  But 
they  found,  or  they  were  infoi-med,  that  this  extraordinary  drama  was  neither  a  Comedy,  nor  a 
Ilistor}-,  nor  a  Tragedy ;  and  they  therefore  placed  it  between  the  Histories  and  the  Tragedies,  leaving 
to  the  reader  to  make  his  own  classification.  This  is  one  solution  of  the  matter  which  we  have  to 
offer ;  and  it  is  a  bettor  one,  we  think,  than  the  theorj'  that  so  remarkable  a  production  of  Shakspere's 
later  years  should  be  unknown  or  forgotten  by  his  "  fellows."  But  there  is  another  view  of  the 
matter,  to  be  presently  noticed,  which  involves  a  curious  point  in  literary  history. 
The  first  quarto  edition  of  1609  contains  the  following  very  extraordinaiy  preface  : — 


"  A  never  writer  to  an  ever  reader. 
"  News. 
"  Eternal  reader,  you  have  hero  a  new  play,  never  staled  with  the  stage,  never  clapper-clawed  with  the 
palms  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  passing  full  of  the  palm  comical  ;  for  it  is  a  birth  of  your  brain,  that  never 
imdertook  anj-thing  comical  vainly :  and  were  but  the  vain  names  of  comedies  changed  for  the  titles  of 
commodities,  or  of  plays  for  pleas,  you  should  see  all  those  grand  censors,  that  now  style  them  such 
vanities,  flock  to  them  for  the  main  grace  of  their  gravities  ;  especially  this  author's  comedies,  that  are  so 
framed  to  the  life,  that  they  serve  for  the  most  common  commentaries  of  all  the  actions  of  our  lives,  show- 
ing such  a  dexterity  and  power  of  wit,  that  the  most  displeased  with  plays  are  pleased  with  his  comedies. 
And  all  such  dull  and  heavy-wittcd  worldlings  as  were  never  capable  of  the  wit  of  a  comedy,  coming  by 
report  of  them  to  his  representations,  have  found  that  wit  there  that  they  never  found  in  themselves,  and 
have  parted  better  witted  than  they  came  ;  feeling  an  edge  of  wit  set  upon  them  more  than  ever  they 
dreamed  they  had  brain  to  grind  it  on.  So  much  and  such  favoured  salt  of  wit  is  in  his  comedies,  that  they 
seem  (for  their  height  of  pleasure)  to  be  bom  in  that  sea  that  brought  forth  Venus.  Amongst  all  there  is 
none  more  witty  than  this  :  and  had  I  time  I  would  comment  upon  it,  though  I  know  it  needs  not  (for  so 
much  as  will  make  you  think  your  testern  well  bestowed),  but  for  so  much  worth  as  even  poor  I  know  to 
be  stuffed  in  it.  It  deserves  such  a  labour,  as  well  as  the  best  comedy  in  Terence  or  Plautus.  And  believe 
this,  that  when  he  is  gone,  and  his  comedies  out  of  sale,  you  will  scramble  for  them,  and  set  up  a  new  Eng- 
lish Inquisition.  Take  this  for  a  warning,  and  at  the  peril  of  your  pleasures'  loss  and  judgments,  refuse  not, 
nor  like  this  the  less  for  not  being  sullied  with  the  smoky  breath  of  the  multitude  ;  but  thank  Fortune  for 
the  scape  it  hath  made  amongst  you,  since  by  the  grand  possessora'  wills  I  believe  you  should  have  prayed 
for  them  rather  than  been  prayed.  And  so  I  leave  all  such  to  be  prayed  for  (for  the  states  of  their  wit's 
healths)  that  will  not  praise  it.     Vale." 

In  1609,  then,  the  reader  is  told,  "You  have  here  a  new  play,  never  staled  with  the  stage,  never 
clapper-clawed  with  the  palms  of  the  vulgar  ;"  and  he  is  farther  exhorted — "  refuse  not,  nor  like  this 
the  less  for  not  being  sullied  with  the  smoky  breath  of  the  multitude."  The  reader  is  also  invited  to 
spend  a  sixpence  upon  this  play  : — "  Had  I  time  I  would  comment  upon  it,  though  I  know  it  needs 
not,  for  so  much  as  will  make  you  think  your  testern  well  bestowed."  Never  was  one  of  Shakspere's 
plays  set  forth  during  his  life  with  such  commendation  as  here  abounds.  His  Comedies  "  are  so 
framed  to  the  life,  that  they  serve  for  the  most  common  commentaries  of  all  the  actions  of  our  lives." 
The  passage  towards  the  conclusion  is  the  most  remarkable  : — "  Thank  Fortune  for  the  scape  it  hath 
made  amongst  you,  since  by  the  grand  possessors'  wills  I  believe  you  should  have  prayed  for  them 
rather  than  been  prayed."  We  have  here,  then,  first,  a  most  distinct  assertion  that,  in  1609,  Troilus 
and  Cressida  was  a  new  play,  never  staled  with  the  stage.  This,  one  might  think,  would  bo  decisive 
SM  to  the  chronology  of  this  play ;  but  in  the  Stationers'  books  is  the  following  entry : — "  Feb.  7, 
1602.  Mr.  Roberts.  The  booke  of  Troilus  and  Crcsseda,  as  yt  is  acted  by  my  Lo.  Chambcrlen's 
men."  Malone  assumes  that  the  Troilus  and  Cressida  thus  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  men 
72 


TEOILUS  AND   CHESSID^V. 

(the  players  at  the  Globe  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth)  was  the  same  as  that  published  in  1609. 
Yet  there  were  other  authors  at  work  upon  the  subject  besides  Shakspere.  In  Henslowe's  manuscripts 
there  are  several  entries  of  moneys  lent,  in  1599,  to  Dekker  and  Chettle,  in  earnest  of  a  book 
called  Troilus  and  Cressida.  This  play,  thus  bargained  for  by  Henslowe,  appears  to  have  been 
subsequently  called  Agamemnon.  The  probability  is,  that  the  rival  company  at  the  Globe  had,  about 
the  same  period,  brought  oxit  their  own  Troilus  and  Cressida ;  and  that  this  is  the  play  referred  to 
in  the  entry  by  Roberts  in  1602  ;  for  if  that  entry  had  applied  to  the  Troilus  and  Cressida  of  Shak- 
spere, first  published  in  1609,  how  are  we  to  account  for  the  subsequent  entry  in  the  same  registers 
made  previously  to  the  publication  of  that  edition?  "Jan.  28,  1608.  Richard  Bonian  and  Hen. 
Walley.  A  booke  called  the  History  of  Troylus  and  Cressuda."  According  to  Malone's  theory, 
the  copyright  in  1602  was  in  Roberts;  but  in  1608  a  new  entry  claims  it  for  Bonian  and  Walley. 
In  that  case  there  must  have  been  an  assignment  from  Roberts  to  Bonian  and  Walley.  Roberts 
was  a  printer.  His  name  appears  as  printer  to  the  second  edition  of  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
to  the  second  edition  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  and  to  two  editions  of  Hamlet ;  but  nowhere  as  a 
publisher.  Altogether  the  evidence  of  the  date  of  the  play,  derived  from  the  entry  of  1602,  appears 
to  us  worth  very  little.  Malone  most  gratuitously  assumes  that  the  statement  in  the  preface  to  the 
edition  of  1609,  that  it  was  a  new  play  never  staled  by  the  stage,  was  altogether  false  :  "  Mr.  Pope, 
in  his  '  Table  of  Editions  of  Shakspeare's  Plays,'  having  mentioned  one  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  in 
1609,  subjoined  a  notice  of  a  second  copy — 'as  acted  by  the  King's  Majesty's  Servants  at  the 
Globe  ;  '  not  thinking  it  necessary  to  repeat  the  year.  But  in  fact  both  these  copies  are  one  and 
the  same  edition.  The  truth  is,  that  in  that  edition,  where  no  mention  is  made  of  the  theatre  in 
which  the  play  was  represented,  we  find  a  preface,  in  which,  to  give  an  additional  value  to  the 
piece,  the  booksellers  assert  that  it  never  had  been  acted.  That  being  found  a  notorious  falsehood, 
they  afterwards  suppressed  the  preface,  and  printed  a  new  title-page,  in  which  it  is  stated  to  have 
been  acted  at  the  Globe  Theatre  by  his  Majesty's  Servants.  The  date  of  this,  as  of  the  other  title- 
page,  is  1609."*  According  to  this  theory,  a  preface  is  written  which  sets  out  with  a  lie,  known 
to  be  such  by  every  person  who  buys  the  book ;  and  then,  because  the  lie  is  found  out,  a  new  title- 
page  is  printed,  acknowledging  the  truth  that  the  play  hnd  been  acted,  and  the  lying  preface  is 
withdrawn.  Is  not  all  this  the  most  forced  interpretation  of  two  very  simple  facts,  which  are 
perfectly  consistent  with  each  other  ?  Troilus  and  Cressida  was  a  new  play,  and  it  had  not  been 
publicly  acted,  when  the  original  edition  appeared.  The  editor  does  not  state  this  to  give  an 
"  additional  value  to  the  piece,"  for  he  evidently  thinks  that  the  circumstance  may  be  injurious  to 
the  sale  of  the  book :  "  Refuse  not,  nor  like  this  the  less  for  not  being  sullied  with  the  smoky 
breath  of  the  multitude."  After  the  piece  has  thus  been  published,  it  is  publicly  acted ;  and  then 
the  preface  which  states  that  it  has  not  been  acted  is  naturally  suppressed,  in  a  new  edition  of 
which  the  title-page  bears  the  additional  recommendation  of,  "  As  it  was  acted  by  the  filing's 
Majesty's  Servants  at  the  Globe." 

And  here  arises  the  question,  whether  the  expressions,  "never  staled  with  the  stage," — "never 
clapper-clawed  with  the  palms  of  the  vulgar," — "  not  sullied  with  the  smoky  breath  of  the  multitude," 
mean  that  the  play  had  not  been  acted  at  all,  or  that  it  had  not  been  acted  on  the  public  stage. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  probability  in  the  conjecture  of  Tieck  upon  this  subject : — 

"In  the  palace  of  some  great  personage,  for  whom  it  was  probably  expressly  written,  it  was  first  repre- 
sented,— according  to  my  belief  for  the  King  himself,  who,  weak  as  he  was,  contemptible  as  he  sometimes 
showed  himself,  and  pedantic  as  his  wisdom  and  shortsighted  as  his  politics  were,  yet  must  have  had  a 
certain  fine  sense  of  poetry,  wit,  and  talent,  beyond  what  his  historians  have  ascribed  to  him.  But  whether 
the  King,  or  some  one  else  of  whom  we  have  not  received  the  name,  it  is  sufficient  to  know  that  for  this 
person,  and  not  for  the  public,  Shakspere  wrote  this  wonderful  comedy." 

We  have  already  noticed  the  remarkable  passage  in  the  conclusion  of  the  preface  of  1609  in  the 
Introductory  Notice  to  Henry  V.  We  there  stated  that  the  copy  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  was 
acknowledged  by  the  editor  to  have  been  obtained  by  some  artifice  ;  that  we  learn  that  the  copy 
had  an  escape  from  some  powerful  possessors  ;  and  that  those  possessors  were  probably  the  proprietors 
of  the  Globe  Theatre.   But  another  view  of  this  matter  may  be  taken  without  any  glaring  inconsistency 


*  Note  in  Malone's  edition  of  Dryden's  Prose  Works,  vol.  i.,  part  ii.,  p.  261. 


73 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


The  proprietors  of  tlie  Globe  Theatre  were  clearly  hostile  to  the  publication  of  Shakspere's  later  plays ; 
and,  in  fact,  with  the  exception  of  Lear,  and  Troilus  and  Creseida,  no  play  was  published  between 
1603  and  Sliakspere's  death.  Now,  in  the  title-page  of  the  original  Lear,  published  in  1608,  there  is 
the  following  minute  particularity  : — "As  it  was  played  before  the  King's  Majesty  at  Whitehall  upon 
St.  Stephen's  liight  in  Christmas  holidays,  by  his  Majesty's  Sei-vants  playing  usually  at  the  Globe,  on 
the  Bank's  side."  From  this  statement  it  appears  to  us  highly  probable  that  in  the  instances  both  of 
Lear,  and  Troilus  and  Cressida,  the  pLiys  were  performed,  for  the  first  time,  before  the  King ;  that 
the  copies  so  used  were  out  of  the  control  of  the  players  who  represented  these  dramas ;  and  that 
oome  one,  authorized  or  not,  printed  each  play  from  the  copy  used  on  these  occasions.  Let  us  look 
again  at  the  passage  in  the  preface  to  Troilus  and  Cressida  under  this  impression  ; — "  Thank  Fortune 
for  the  scape  it  hath  made  amongst  you,  since  by  the  grand  possessors'  wills  I  believe  you  should  have 
prayed  for  them  rather  than  been  prayed."  There  is  an  obscurity  in  this  passage  which  we  cannot 
attempt  to  clear  up  if  we  receive  "  the  grand  possessors  "  as  the  proprietors  of  the  Globe  Theatre. 
But  suppose  the  grand  possessors  to  be,  as  Tieck  has  conjectured,  some  great  personage,  probably  the 
King  himself,  for  whom  the  play  was  expressly  written,  and  a  great  deal  of  the  obscurity  of  the 
preface  vanishes.  By  the  grand  possessors'  wills  you  should  have  prayed  for  them  (as  subjects 
publicly  pray  for  their  rulers)  rather  than  been  prayed  (as  you  are  by  players  who  solicit  your 
indulgence  in  prologues  and  epilogues). 

We  have  bestowed  more  attention  upon  this  inquiry  than  it  may  appear  at  first  intrinsically 
to  deserve ;  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  original  quarto  edition,  upon  the  credibility  of 
which  these  questions  have  been  raised,  is  not,  like  several  of  the  early  quartos,  a  mutilated  and 
imperfect  copy.  From  whatever  secondary  source  it  proceeded,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was 
printed  from  the  genuine  copy  of  the  great  poet.  The  slight  variations  between  the  text  of  the 
quarto  and  of  the  folio,  which  we  have  indicated  in  our  foot-notes,  sufficiently  show  that  the 
original  was  most  accurately  printed.  The  alterations  of  the  folio  are  not  corrections  of  errora  in 
the  original ;  but,  for  the  most  part,  slight  changes  of  expression.  We  have  no  doubt  that  each  text 
was  printed  from  a  different  but  a  genuine  copy.  The  consideration  of  the  genuineness  of  the 
original  edition  brings  us  back  to  the  point  from  which  we  started.  Troilus  and  Cressida  might,  as 
we  have  shown,  have  been  placed  between  the  Histories  and  Tragedies  of  the  foUo  collection,  on 
accoimt  of  the  difficulty  of  classification.  But  suppose  another  probable  case.  The  proprietors  of 
this  first-collected  edition  of  Shakspere's  works  entered  upon  the  Stationei-s'  registers,  in  1623,  a 
claim  to  the  copyright  of  sixteen  plays,  "  not  formerly  entered  to  other  men."  The  proprietoi-s  of 
that  edition  were  four  booksellers,  in  whom,  for  the  most  part,  the  copyright  of  the  original 
quartos  had  merged  by  assignment.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  that  Bonian  and  Walley,  or 
their  representatives,  the  possessors  of  the  copy  of  this  single  play,  might  have  refused  to  come  to 
terms  with  the  proprietors  of  the  folio,  and  that  the  printing  of  this  play  was  necessarily  suspended 
till  the  final  settlement  of  the  matter  in  dispute.  In  the  mean  time  the  printing  of  the  volume  had 
gone  on  to  its  completion ;  and  Troilus  and  Cressida  was  finally  inserted,  out  of  its  order,  but  having 
two  pages  numbered  which  show  where  it  was  intended  to  have  been  placed. 


TROILL'S   AOT)   CKESSIDA. 


Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 


■  "The  original  story,"  says  Dryden,  "was  ^vTitten  by  one  Lollius,  a  Lombard,  in  Latin  verse,  and 
translated  by  Chaucer  into  English;  intended,  I  suppose,  a  satire  on  the  inconstancy  of  women.  I 
find  nothing  of  it  among  the  ancients,  not  so  much  as  the  name  Cressida  once  mentioned.  Shak- 
speare  (as  I  hinted),  in  the  apprenticeship  of  his  writing,  modelled  it  into  that  play  which  is  now 
called  by  the  name  of  Troilus  and  Cressida."  "We  shall  have  occasion  to  revert  to  Drydcn's  opinion 
of  this  play,  and  to  his  transmutation  of  it  into  what  he  considered  his  own  fine  gold.  Chaucer 
himself  speaks  of  "  Myne  Auctor  Lollius;"  and  in  his  address  to  the  Muse,  in  the  beginning  of 
the  second  book,  he  says, — 

"  To  every  lover  I  me  excuse 
That  of  no  sentiment  1  this  endite, 
But  out  of  Latin  in  my  tongue  it  \\rite." 

Without  entering  into  the  question  who  Lollius  was,  or  believing  more  than  that  "Lollius,  if  a 
writer  of  that  name  existed  at  all,  was  a  somewhat  somewhere,"*  we  at  once  receive  the  'Troilus 
and  Creseide '  of  Chaucer  as  the  foundation  of  Shakspere's  play.  Of  his  perfect  acquaintance  with 
that  poem  there  can  be  no  doubt.  Chaucer,  of  all  English  writers,  was  the  one  who  would  have 
the  gi-eatest  charm  for  Shakspere.  The  Rape  of  Lucrece  is  written  precisely  in  the  same  versifica- 
tion as  Chaucer's  'Troilus  and  Creseide.'     When  Lorenzo,  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  exclaims, — 

"  In  such  anight, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  vrall, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night," — 

we  may  be  sure  that  Shakspere  had  in  his  mind  the  following  passages  of  Chaucer :  — 

"  Upon  the  wallas  fast  eke  would  he  walk, 
.  And  on  the  Greekes  host  he  would  ysee, 

And  to  himself  right  thus  he  would  ytalk  : 
'  Lo  !  yonder  is  mine  owne  lady  free, 
Or  elles  yonder  there  the  tentes  be, 
And  thence  cometh  this  air  that  is  so  sote, 
That  in  my  soul  I  feel  it  doth  me  bote.' 
«  «  *  *  * 

The  day  go'th  fast,  and  after  that  came  eve, 
And  yet  came  not  to  Troilus  Creseid : 
He  looketh  forth  by  hedge,  by  tree,  by  grove. 
And  far  his  head  over  the  wall  he  laid." 

Mr,  Godwin  has  justly  observed  that  the  Shaksperian  commentators  have  done  injustice  to  Chaucer 
in  not  more  distinctly  associating  his  poem  with  this  remarkable  play  : — 

"  It  would  be  extremely  unjust  to  quit  the  consideration  of  Chaucer's  poem  of  '  Troilus  and  Creseide' 
without  noticing  the  Idgh  honour  it  lias  received  in  having  been  made  the  foundation  of  one  of  tlie  plays 
of  Shakespear.  There  seems  to  have  been  in  this  respect  a  sort  of  conspiracy  in  the  commentators  upon 
Shakespear  ag.unst  the  glory  of  oiu-  old  English  bard.  In  what  they  have  written  concerning  this  play, 
they  make  a  very  slight  mention  of  Chaucer ;  they  have  not  consulted  his  poem  for  the  purpose  of  illus- 
trating this  admirable  drama ;  and  they  have  agreed,  as  far  as  possible,  to  transfer  to  another  author 
the  honom-  of  having  supplied  materials  to  the  tragic  artist.     Dr.  Johnson  says,  '  Shakespeare  has  in  his 


Coleridge.     '  Literary  Remains,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  130. 


IXXrvODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Btorj'  followed,  for  the  greater  part,  the  old  book  of  Caxton,  which  was  then  very  popular  ;  but  the  cha- 
racter of  Thcrsite3,  of  which  it  makes  no  mention,  is  a  proof  that  this  i>lay  was  written  after  Chapman 
had  published  his  version  of  Homer.'     Mr.  Steevcns  asserts  that  'Shakspe.iro  received  the  greatest  part 
of   his  materials   for  the  structure   of  this  play  from  the   Troyo   Boko  of  Lydgate.'     And  Mr.  Malono 
rcjieatedly  treats  the    'History  of  the   Destruction   of  Troy,  translated   by   Caxton,'   as    ' Shakspearo'a 
authority '  in  the  composition  of  this  drama.     •    *    »    •     The  fact  is,  that  the  play  of  Shakespear  we  are 
here  considering  has  for  its  main  foundation  the  poem  of  Chaucer,  and  is  indebted  for  many  accessorj' 
heljis  to  the  books  mentioned  by  the  commentators.         ««••••••* 

"  We  are  not,  however,  left  to  probability  and  conjecture  as  to  the  use  made  by  Shakespear  of  the  poem 
of  Chaucer.  His  other  sources  were  Chapman's  translation  of  Homer,  the  '  Troy  Book '  of  Lydgate,  and 
Caxton's  '  History  of  the  Destruction  of  Troy.'  It  is  well  known  that  there  is  no  trace  of  the  particulai 
story  of  'Troilus  and  Creseidc'  among  the  ancients.  It  occurs,  indeed,  in  Lydgate  and  Caxton  ;  but  the 
n.-uno  and  actions  of  Pandarus,  a  very  essential  personage  in  the  tale  as  related  by  Shakespear  and  Chaucer, 
are  entirely  wanting,  except  a  single  mention  of  him  by  Lydgate,  and  that  with  an  express  reference  to 
Chaucer  as  his  authority.  Shakespear  has  taken  the  story  of  Chaiicer  with  all  its  imperfections  and  deftects, 
and  has  copied  the  series  of  its  incidents  with  his  customary  fidelitj  ;  an  exactness  seldom  to  be  found  in 
any  other  dramatic  writer."* 

Although  the  main  incidents  in  the  adventures  of  the  Greek  lover  and  his  faithless  mistress  are 
followed  with  little  deviation,  yet,  independent  of  the  wonderful  difference  in  the  characterization, 
the  whole  story  under  the  treatment  of  Shakspere  becomes  thoroughly  original.  In  no  play  does 
he  appear  to  us  to  have  a  more  complete  mastery  over  his  materials,  or  to  mould  them  into  more 
plastic  shapes  by  the  force  of  his  most  surpassing  imagination.  The  gieat  Homeric  poem,  the 
rude  romance  of  the  destruction  of  Troy,  the  beautiful  elaboration  of  that  romance  by  Chaucer,  are 
all  subjected  to  his  wondrous  alchemy ;  and  new  forms  and  combinations  are  called  forth  so  lifelike, 
that  all  the  representations  which  have  preceded  them  look  cold  and  rigid  statues,  not  warm  and 
breathing  men  and  women.  Coleridge's  theory  of  the  principle  upon  which  this  was  effected  is,  we 
have  no  doubt,  essentially  true  :^ 

*'  I  am  half  inclined  to  believe  that  Shukspeare's  mam  object  (or  shall  I  rather  say  his  ruling  impulse  ?) 
was  to  translate  the  poetic  heroes  of  Paganism  into  the  not  less  rude,  but  more  intellectually  vigorous,  and 
more  featurdy,  warriors  of  Christian  chivalry,  and  to  substantiate  the  distinct  and  graceful  profiles  or 
outlines  of  the  Homeric  epic  into  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the  romantic  drama, — in  short,  to  give  a  gi-and 
history-piece  in  the  robust  style  of  Albert  Durer."t 

Without  attempting  to  exhibit  all  the  materials  which  Shakspere  has  thus  made  his  ovra,  we  shall, 
in  the  Illustrations  to  each  act,  give  some  passages  from  Chaucer's  poem,  Chapman's  '  Homer,' 
Caxton's  '  Destruction  of  Troy,'  and  Lydgate's  '  Troy  Book,'  in  which  the  reader  may  trace  the  re- 
semblances which,  however  obvious  or  minute,  equally  manifest  the  same  power  in  the  dramatic 
poet  of  fashioning  a  perfect  whole  out  of  th.e  most  incongruous  p.arts. 


•  I/ife  of  Chaucer,'  vol.  i.  (4to.).  p.  SIS 


♦  '  I.iterar>'  Remains,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  1S3 


TROILUS  AND   CEESSIDA 


Costume. 


In  our  notice  of  the  costume  for  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  we  have  given  a  description 
of  the  dress  and  arms  of  the  Greeks  during  the  heroical  ages,  illustrated  by  engravings  from  the 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon.  To  the  information  there  collected  may  be  added  on  the  present  occasion 
that  afforded  to  us  by  the  Iliad  of  Homer,  and  the  vases  and  statues  possessed  or  described  by  the 
late  Mr.  Hope.  According  to  the  latter  authorities,  the  Trojans  and  other  Phrygians  appear  to  have 
worn  the  tunic  with  sleeves  to  the  wrist,  the  tight  trousers  or  pantaloons,  and  the  cap  with  the 
point  bending  forwards,  in  the  form  of  which  their  helmets  were  made.     In   war  the  tunic  of  mail 


[A  Trojan  ] 


[Phrygian  Helmets.] 


composed  of  rings  sewn  flat  upon  leather  or  cloth,  like  those  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  and  Normans  of 
the  11th  century,  would  seem  to  have  distinguished  them  in  general  from  the  Greeks,  who  wore 
the  cuirass  and  the  greaves.  Homer,  however,  by  his  descriptions  of  the  armour  of  the  Trojan 
heroes,  would  induce  us  to  believe  that  it  did  not  always  so  essentially  differ  from  that  of  the  Greeks. 
He  describes  Paris,  when  arming  for  the  combat  with  Menelaus,  as  putting  on  greaves,*  fastened 
with  silver  buttons,  a  thorax,  or  breast-plate,  and  a  helmet  with  a  horse-hair  ci-est.+  On  an  old 
Sicilian  vase  too,  in  the  Hope  collection,  Eneas  is  represented  in  complete  Grecian  armour.J  Again, 
we  gather  from  the  vases  that  the  Phrygian  shield,  like  that  of  the  Amazons,  was  the  Pelta,  or 
small  semi-lunar  shield,  and  their  favourite  weapon  the  bi-pennis,  or  double  axe.  Yet  Homer 
does  not  make  this  distinction,  but  arms  the  Trojans  with  the  large  orbicular  shield  of  the  Greeks, 
the  two  spears,  the  sword,  &c.  He  also  describes  the  warriors  of  both  armies  as  wearing  occasionally 
the  skins  of  beasts  over  their  armour.  Is  it  that  some  of  the  poets  and  painters  of  Greece,  like 
all  those  of  the  middle  ages,  represented  persons  of  every  nation  and  period  in  the  costume  of 
the  country  and  time  in  which  they  themselves  wrote  or  painted ;  or  was  there  really  little  or 
no  difference  between  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  when  armed  for  battle  ?  §  In  the  latter  case,  are  we 
to  look  upon  the  interesting  figures  of  Paris  and  other  Phrygians  represented  on  the  ancient  vases, 
&c.,  as  things  of  no  authority?  These  are  questions  the  discussion  of  which  would  require  much 
more  time  and  space  than  can  be  afforded  to  us  in  the  present  instance,  and  we  must  content  our- 
selves with  submitting  to  our  readers  the  engravings  from  the  antique  which  are  scattered  through- 
out this  play,  with  the  avowal  that  we  lean,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  the  pictorial  side,  and  consider 
that  there  was  that  remarkable  difference  between  the  Grecian  armour  and  that  of  the  Trojans 
which  may  be  observed  in  the  specimens  given.  The  Phrygians  are  represented  in  shoes,  the 
Greeks  in  sandals,  or  with  naked  feet,  when  wearing  the  greaves. 


*  Ridiculously  rendered  by  Pope  as  "pHrp^e  catiA^i." 

+  Phrygian  helmets,  with  crests,  both  of  horse-hair  and  metal,  in  imitation  of  the  Greek,  appear  in  Hope's  collection, 
and  so  far  bear  out  the  poet's  description. 

1  Mr.  Hope,  however,  does  not  give  us  his  authority  for  so  designating  the  figure,  which  in  the  edition  of  1S06  is  termed 
"  a  Greek  warrior." 

§  Then  wherefore  "  the  weli-greaved  Greeks?  "  Does  not  that  designation  imply  a  peculiarity  distinguishing  them  from 
thsir  Asiatic  or  other  opponents  ? 

77 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

TLe  arms  of  Achilles,  worn  by  Patroclu?,  arc  said  by  Homer  to  have  been  of  brass  ornamented 
with  gold.  Those  made  for  Achilles,  by  Vulcan,  were  of  various  metals, — the  greaves  of  tin,  the 
corslet  of  gold,  the  sword  of  brass,  the  helmet  with  a  fourfold  crest  of  gilded  horse-hair,  the 
shield  of  the  most  elaborate  workmanship.  The  arms  of  Diomed  were  all  brass;  those  of  Ajax 
steel.  Agamemnon's  cuirass  w.-v?  composed  of  steel,  tin,  and  gold,  and  ornamented  with  dragons. 
The  hilt  of  his  sword  was  gold,  the  sheath  silver.  His  buckler  was  defended  by  ten  circles  and 
twenty  bosses  of  brass,  and  in  the  centre  had  a  Gorgon's  head.  The  helmet  was  surmounted  by  a 
fuur  fold  crest  of  horse-hair. 


[Homer.] 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


his  sons. 


Grecian  commanders. 


Priam,  King  of  Troy. 

Hector, 

Troiltjs, 

Paris, 

Deiphobus, 

Helenus, 

'  f  Trojan  commanders. 

Antenor,      •' 

Calch  AS,  a  Trojan  priest  taJiingparl  uiih  ^/isGreeks 

Pandarus,  uncle  to  Cressida. 

Margarelon,  a  bastard  son  of  Priam 

Agamemnon,  the  Grecian  general. 

Menelaus,  his  brother. 

AcaiLLES, 

Ajas, 

Ulysses, 
Nestor, 

DlOMEDES, 

Patrocltjs, 

Thersites,  a  deformed  and  scurrilnus  Grecicn. 

Alexander,  servant  to  Cressida. 

Servant  to  Troilus. 

Servant  to  Paris. 

Servant  to  Diomedes 

Helen,  wife  to  Menelaus. 
Andhomaciie,  wife  to  Hector. 
Cassandra,  daughter  to  Priam;  a  prophetess. 
Cressida,  daughter  to  Calchas. 

Trojan  and  Greek  Soldiers,  and  Attendants 

SCENE,— Troy,  and  the  Grecian  Camp 
before  it. 


["  To  Tenedos  they  come.^J 


PROLOGUE. 


la  Troj  there  lies  the  sceue.    Fiom  isles  of 

Greece 
The  princes  orgulous,"  their  high  blood  chaf  'd. 
Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  ships, 
Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  instruments 
Of  cmel  war :  Sixty  and  nine  that  wore 
Their  crownets  regal,  from  the  Athenian  bay 
Put  forth  toward  Phrygia :  and  their  vow  is  made 
To  ransack  Troy,  ^vithin  whose  strong  immures 
The  ravish'd  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen, 
AVith  wanton    Paris    sleeps, — and    that's  the 

quarrel. 
To  Tenedos  they  come ; 
And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgoi'ge 
Their    warlike    fraughtage :    Now   on    Dardan 

plains 
The  fresh  and  yet  unbruised  Greeks  do  pitch 
Their  brave  pavilions  :  Priam's  six-gated  city, 
Dardan,  and  Tymbria,  Ilias,  Chetas,  Trojan, 
And  Antenorides,^  with  massy  staples. 


*  Orgulom — proud — the  French  orgeuilleux.  Lord  Bemers, 
in  liis  translation  of  Froissart,  several  times  uses  the  word: 
as,  "The  Flemings  were  great,  fierce,  and  orgulout." 

y>  The  names  of  the  gates  thus  stand  in  the  folio  of  1G23: — 

"  Dard;iii  and  Tinibria,  Helias,  Chetas,  Troicn, 
And  Anlcnonidui." 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  Shakspere  had  before  him 
Caxton's  translation  of  the  '  Ilccuyel  of  the  Ilistoryes  of 
Troy,' and  there  the  names  of  the  gates  are  thus  pivcn:  "In 
this  cittie  were  sixa  principall  gates :  of  which  the  one  was 
named  Dardane,  the  second  Tymbria,  the  thyrd  llelias,  the 
fourth,  Chetas,  the  fifth  Troyan,  and  the  sixt  Anicnorides." 
But  he  was  also  familiar  witli  the  '  Troy  Boke '  of  Lydpate, 
in  which  the  six  gates  are  described  as  Dardanydes,  Tym- 
bria, Ilelyas,  Cetheas,  Trojana,  Anthonydcs.     It  is  diflicult 

80 


And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  *  bolts, 
Sperr  up  ^  the  sons  of  Troy. 
Now  expectation,  tickling  skittish  spirits. 
On  one  and  other  side,  Trojan  and  Greek, 
Sets  aU  on  hazard : — And  hither  am  I  come 
A  prologue  arm'd," — but  not  in  confidence 
Of  author's  pen,  or  actor's  voice ;  but  suited 
In  like  conditions  as  our  argument, — 
To  teU  you,  fair  beholders,  that  our  play 
Leaps  o'er  the  vaxmt^  and  firstlings  of  those  broils, 
Beginning  in  the  middle ;  starting  thence  away 
To  what  may  be  digested  in  a  play. 
Like,  or  find  fault ;  do  as  your  pleasures  are ; 
Now  good,  or  bad,  't  is  but  the  chance  of  war. 

to  say  whether  Shakspere  meant  to  take  the  Anlenorides  of 
Caxton,  or  the  Anthonyiles  of  Lydgate;  or  whether,  the 
names  l)ei!ig  pure  inventions  of  the  middle  age  of  romance- 
writers,  he  deviated  from  both.  As  it  is,  we  have  retained 
the  Antenorides  of  the  modern  editors. 

a  Fulfilling.  The  \ex\i  fulfil  is  here  used  in  the  original 
sense  ot  fill  full. 

*>  Sperr  up.  The  original  has  stirre  up,  which  Tieck  con- 
siders preferable  to  Theobald's  substitution  of  sperr  up. 
Desirous  as  we  are  to  hold  to  the  original,  wc  cannot  a;;rce 
with  Tieck.  The  relative  positions  of  each  force  are  con- 
trasted. The  Greeks  pitrh  their  pavilions  on  Dardan  plains; 
the  Trojans  are  shut  up  in  their  six-gated  city.  The  com- 
mentators give  us  examples  of  the  use  of  .t/xrr,  in  the  sense 
of  to  fasten,  by  Spenser  and  earlier  writers.  They  have 
overlooked  a  passage  in  Chaucer's  '  Troilus  and  Crcssida' 
(book  v.),  which  Shakspere  must  have  had  before  him  in 
the  composition  of  his  play: — 

"  For  when  he  saw  her  dor6s  iperred  all. 
Wcl  ni(;h  for  sorrow  adoun  he  gan  to  fall." 

c  Arm'd.  Johnson  has  pointed  out  that  the  prologue 
was  spoken  by  one  of  the  characters  in  armour.  "This  was 
noticed,  because  in  general  the  speaker  of  tlie  Prologue 
wore  a  black  cloak.  (See  Collier's  'Annals  of  the  Stage,' 
(vol.  iii  ,  p.  412.) 

d  Vaunt — the  van. 


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[SCEKE  III.    Before  Agamemnon's  Tent  ] 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Troy.     Before  Pnara'5  Palace. 

Enter  Tkoilus  armed,  and  Pakdakus. 

Tro.  Call  here  my  varlet,*^  I  '11  unarm  again : 
Why  sliould  I  war  without  the  walls  of  Troy, 
That  find  such  cruel  battle  here  within  ? 
Each  Trojan  that  is  master  of  his  heart, 
Let  him  to  field ;  Troilus,  alas  !  hath  none. 
Pan.  Will  this  gear  ne'er  be  mended  ? 
Tro.  The  Greeks  are   strong,  and  skilful  to 
their  strength, 
Fierce  to  their  skill,    and   to   their  fierceness 

valiant ; 
But  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear, 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  than  ignorance, 

"  Varlet-a.  servant.  Tooke  considers  that  varlet  and 
valet  are  the  same;  and  ihat,  as  well  as  harlr.t,  they  mean 
hireling. 

Tragedies  —Vol,  II.         G 


Less  valiant  than  the  virgin  in  the  night, 
And  skni-less  as  unpractis'd  infancy. 

Pan.  Well,  I  have  told  you  enough  of  this : 
for  my  part  I  '11  not  meddle  nor  make  no  fartlier. 
He  that  will  have  a  cake  out  of  the  wheat  must 
needs  '^  tarry  the  grinding. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  grinding :  but  you  must  tarry  the 
bolting. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  bolting  :  but  you  must  tarry  the 
leavening. 

Tro.  Still  have  I  tamed. 

Pan.  Ay,  to  the  leavening  :  but  here's  yet  m 
the  word  hereafter,  the  kneading,  the  making  of 

a  Needs  is  not  found  in  the  quarto,  and  is  consequently 
omitted  in  all  modern  editions. 

81 


ACT   I.] 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


[SCEME   I. 


the  cake,  the  heating  of  the  oven,  and  the  baking : 
nay,  you  must  stay  tlie  cooling  too,  or  you  may 
chance  to  burn  your  lips. 

Tro.  Patience  herself,  what  goddess  e'er  she 

be, 
Doth  lesser  blench  at  sufferance  than  I  do. 
At  Priam's  royal  table  do  I  sit ; 
And  when  f;ur  Cressid  comes  into  my  thoughts, — 
So,  traitor  !  when  she  comes ! — \\'heu  is   she 

thence  ? ' 
Pan.  Well,  slie  looked  yesternight  fairer  than 
ever  I  saw  her  look,  or  any  woman  else. 

Tro.  I  was  about  to  tell  thee,— When  my 

heart. 
As  wedged  with  a  sigh,  would  rive  in  twain; 
Lest  Hector  or  my  father  should  perceire  me, 
I  have  (as  when  the  sun  doth  light  a  storm) 
Buried  this  sigh  in  wrinkle  of  a  smile  : 
But  sorrow  that  is  couch'd  in  seeming  gladness 
Is  like  that  mirth  fate  turns  to  sudden  sadness. 

Pan.  An  her  hair  were  not  somewhat  darker 
than  Ilelen's,  (well,  go  to,)  there  were  no  more 
comparison  between  the  women. — But,  for  my 
part,  she  is  my  kinswoman ;  I  would  not,  as 
they  term  it,  praise  her, — But  I  would  some- 
body had  heard  her  talk  yesterday,  as  I  did.  I 
will  not  dispraise  your  sister  Cassandra's  wit ; 
but— 

Tro.  O,  Pandarus !  I  tell  thee,  Pandarus, — 
When  I  do  tell  thee,  there  my  hopes  He  drown'd. 
Reply  not  in  how  many  fathoms  deep 
They  lie  indrench'd.    I  teU  thee,  I  am  mad 
In  Cressid's  love  :  Thou  answer'st,  she  is  fair ; 
Pour'st  in  the  open  ulcer  of  my  heart 
Her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek,   her  gait,  her 

voice ; 
Handiest  in  thv  discourse,  0,  that  her  hand, 
In  whose  comparison  all  whites  are  ink. 
Writing  their  own  reproach ;  ^    to  whose  soft 

seizure 
The  cygnet's  down  is  harsh,  and  spirit  of  sense  "^ 
Hard  as   the  palm  of  ploughman; — this  thou 

tell'st  me. 
As  true  thou  tell'st  me,  when  I  say  I  love  her  ; 
But,  saying  thus,  instead  of  oil  and  balm. 
Thou  lay'st  in  every  gash  that  love  hath  given  me 
The  knife  that  made  it. 


•  This  line  a?  it  stands  is  an  inf;enious  and  tasteful  cor- 
rection by  Rowe  The  line  in  both  the  originals  appears 
thus:— 

"  So  (traitor)  then  she  conies  when  she  is  thence." 

b  We  do  not  receive  this  passage  as  an  interjection  be- 
ginning "  O !  that  her  hand ;"  for  what  does  Troilus  desire? 
— the  wish  is  incomplete.  The  meaning  we  conceive  to  be 
rather,— in  thy  discourse  thou  handiest  that  hand  of  hers, 
ill  whose  comparison,  &c. 

c  Johnson  explains  tpirit  of  tensi  as  the  most  exquisite 
sensibility  of  touch. 
82 


Pan.  I  speak  no  more  than  truth. 

Tro.  Thou  dost  not  speak  so  much. 

Pan.  'Faith,  I'll  not  meddle  in't.  Let  her 
be  as  she  is :  if  she  be  fair  't  is  the  better  for 
her;  an  she  be  not  slie  has  the  mends  in  her 
own  hands. 

Tro.  Good  Pandarus  !  How  now,  Pandarus  ? 

Pan.  I  have  had  my  labour  for  my  travail; 
Hi-thought  on  of  her,  and  ill-thought  ou  of  you  : 
gone  between  and  between,  but  small  thanks  for 
my  labour. 

Tro.  What,  art  thou  angry,  Pandarus  ?  what, 
with  me  ? 

Pan.  Because  she  is  kin  to  me,  therefore  she  's 
not  so  fair  as  Helen  :  an  she  were  not  kin  to  me, 
she  would  be  a.s  fair  on  Friday  as  Helen  is  on 
Sunday.  But  what  care  I  ?  I  care  not  an  she 
were  a  black-a-moor  ;  't  is  all  one  to  me. 

Tro.  Say  I  she  is  not  fair  ? 

Pan.  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  no. 
She 's  a  fool  to  stay  behind  her  father ;  let  her 
to  the  Greeks  ;  and  so  I  '11  tell  her  the  next  time 
I  see  her  :  for  my  part,  I  '11  meddle  nor  make  no 
more  in  the  matter. 

Tro.  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Not  I. 

Tro.  Sweet  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Pray  you,  speak  no  more  to  me ;  I  will 
leave  all  as  I  found  it,  and  there  an  end. 

lE.rit  Pakdartjs.     Jn  alarvm. 

Tro.  Peaoe,  you  ungracious  clamours !  peace, 
rude  sounds ! 
Fools  on  both  sides  !  Helen  must  needs  be  fair. 
When  with  your  blood  you  daily  paint  her  thus. 
I  cannot  fight  upon  this  argument ; 
It  is  too  starv'd  a  subject  for  my  sword. 
But  Pandarus — 0  gods,  how  do  you  plague  me  ! 
I  cannot  come  to  Cressid  but  by  Pandar ; 
And  he 's  as  tetchy  to  be  woo'd  to  woo. 
As  she  is  stubborn-chaste,  against  all  suit. 
Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love. 
What  Cressid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we  ? 
Her  bed  is  India  ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl : 
Between  our  Ilium  and  where  she  resides. 
Let  it  be  call'd  the  vrild  and  wandering  flood  ; 
Ourself,  tlie  merchant ;  and  this  sailing  Pandar, 
Our  doubtful  hope,  our  convoy,  and  our  baik. 

Alarum.    Enter  JEneas. 

J^ne.  How  now,  prince  Troilus?    wherefore 

not  afield  ? 
Tro.  Because  not  there  :  This  woman's  answer 
sorts. 
For  womanish  it  is  to  be  from  thence. 
What  news,  iEneas,  from  the  field  to-day  r 


Act  I.l 


TROILUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  II. 


^ne.  That  Paris  is  retiirued  home,  and  hui-t. 
Tro.  By  M'hom,  ^Eneas  ? 
/Sne.  Troilus,  by  Meuelaus. 

Tro.  Let  Paris  bleed :  't  is  but  a  scar  to  scorn; 
Paris  is  gor'd  with  Menelaus'  hoi-n.        [Alanrm. 
JH/ie.  Hark !  wliat  good  sport  is  out  of  to^vn 

to-day ! 
Tro.  Better  at  home,   if    'would  I  micyht' 
were  'may.' — 
But   to  the   sport  abroad: — Ai-e    you    bound 
thither  ? 
jEiie.  In  all  swift  haste. 
Tro.  Come,  go  we  then  together. 

{Exe2int. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  Cresslda  and  Alexander. 

Cres.  Who  were  those  went  by  ? 

Ale.T.  Queen  Hecuba,  and  Helen. 

Cres.  And  whither  go  they  ? 

Ale.r.  Up  to  the  eastern  towei', 

"Wliose   height   commands   as    subject    all  the 

vale. 
To  see  the  battle.    Hector,  whose  patience 
Is,  as  a  virtue,  fix'd,  to-day  was  raov'd  : 
He  chid  Andi-omache,  and  struck  his  armoiu-er  ; 
And,  like  as  there  were  husbandry  in  war. 
Before  the  sun  rose  he  was  harness'd  light. 
And  to  the  field  goes  he  ;  where  every  flower 
Did,  as  a  prophet,  weep  what  it  foresaw 
In  Hector's  wrath. 


Cres. 


Wliat  was  his  cause  of  an£cer  ? 


1 


Alex.  The  noise  goes,  this  :  There  is  among 
the  Greeks 
A  lord  of  Trojan  blood,  nephew  to  Hector ; 
They  call  him  Ajax. 

Cres.  Good ;  and  what  of  him  ? 

Ale.x.  They  say  he  is  a  very  man  per  se. 
And  stands  alone. 

Cres.  So  do  all  men ;  unless  they  are  drunk, 
sick,  or  have  no  legs. 

Alex.  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many 
beasts  of  their  particular  additions;  he  is  as 
vaHant  as  the  Hon,  churlish  as  the  bear,  slow  as 
the  elephant :  a  man  into  whom  nature  hath  so 
crowded  humours,  that  his  valour  is  crushed 
into  foUy,  his  folly  sauced  with  discretion :  there 
is  no  man  hath  a  virtue  that  he  hath  not  a 
glimpse  of;  nor  any  man  an  attaint  but  he 
carries  some  stain  of  it :  he  is  mekncholy  with- 
out cause,  and  merry  against  the  hair- :  He  hath 
the  joints  of  everything;  but  evei-y thing  so  out 
of  joint,  that  he  is  a  gouty  Briareus,  many  hands 

G  2 


and  no  use  ;  or  purbliuded  "  Argus,  all  eyes  and 
no  sight. 

Cres.  But  how  should  this  man,  that  makes 
me  smile,  make  Hector  angry  ? 

Alex.  They  say  he  yesterday  coped  Hector  in 
the  battle,  and  struck  him  down;  the  disdain 
and  shame  whereof  hafh  ever  since  kept  Hector 
fasting  and  waking. 

Enter  Pandartjs. 

Cres.  Who  comes  here  ? 

Alex.  Madam,  your  uncle  Pandarus. 

Cres.  Hector 's  a  gallant  man. 

Alex.  As  may  be  in  the  world,  lady. 

Pan.  What 's  that  ?  what 's  that  ? 

Cres.  Good  morrow,  uncle  Pandanis. 

Pan.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Cressid  :  What  do 
you  talk  of?— Good  morrow,  Alexander. — How 
do  you,  cousin  ?     When  were  you  at  Ilium  ? ' 

Cres.  This  morning,  uncle. 

Pan.  What  were  you  talking  of  when  I  came  ? 
Was  Hector  armed,  and  gone,  ere  ye  came  to 
Ilium  ?  Helen  was  not  up,  was  she  ? 

Cres.  Hector  was  gone ;  but  Helen  was  not 

up- 

Pan.  E'en  so ;  Hector  was  stirring  early. 

Cres.  That  were  we   talking  of,    and  of  his 
anger. 

Pan.  Was  he  angry  ? 

Cres.  So  he  says  here. 

Pan.  True,  he  was  so ;  I  know  the  cause  too ; 
he  'U  lay  about  him  to-day,  I  can  tell  them  that : 
and  there's  Troilus  will  not  come  far  behind 
him  ;  let  them  take  heed  of  Troilus ;  I  can  teU 
them  that  too. 

Cres.  What,  is  he  angry  too  ? 

Pan.  Who,  Troilus  ?  Troilus  is  the  better 
man  of  the  two. 

Ores.  0,  Jupiter  !  there 's  no  comparison. 

Pan.  What,  not  between  Troilus  and  Hector  ? 
Do  you  know  a  man  if  you  see  him  ? 

Cres.  Ay ;  if  I  ever  saw  him  before,  and  knew 
him. 

Pan.  Well,  I  say  Troilus  is  Troilus. 

Cres.  Then  you  say  as  I  say ;  for  I  am  sui'e  he 
is  not  Hector. 

Pan.  No,  nor  Hector  is  not  Troilus,  in  some 
degrees. 

Cres.  "T  is  just  to  each  of  them  ;  he  is  liim- 
self. 

Pan.  Himself  ?  Alas,  poor  Troilus !  I  would 
he  were. 

Cres.  So  he  is. 


Purblindcd  in  the  folio— the  quarto /jurft/ind. 

S3 


ACT    I.] 


TKOILUS  AND   CKESSIDA. 


[scESF.  n. 


Fan.  'Condition,  I  had  gone  barefoot  to 
India. 

Cres.  He  is  not  Hector. 

Tan.  Himself?  no,  he 's  not  himself. — MVould 
'a  were  himself !  "Well,  the  gods  are  above.  Time 
must  friend,  or  end :  Well,  Troilus,  well, — I 
would  my  heart  were  in  her  body  ! — No,  Heetor 
is  not  a  belter  man  than  Troilus. 

Cres.  Excuse  me. 

Tan.  He  is  elder. 

Cres.  Pardon  me,  pardon  me. 

Tan.  The  other's  not  come  to't;  you  shall 
tell  me  another  tale  when  the  other's  come  to't. 
Hector  shall  not  have  his  wit '  this  year. 

Cres.  He  shall  not  need  it,  if  he  have  his 
own. 

Tan.  Nor  his  qualities ; — 

Cres.  No  matter. 

Nor  his  beauty. 

'T  would  not  become  him, 


his   ovni  's 


Tan. 

Cres, 
better. 

Tan.  You  have  no  judgment,  niece:  Helen 
herself  swore  the  other  day,  that  Troilus,  for  a 
bro\vn  favour,  (for  so  'tis,  I  must  confess,) — 
Not  brown  neither. 

Cres.  No,  but  brown. 

Tan.  Faith,  to  say  truth,  brown  and  not 
brown. 

Cres.  To  say  the  truth,  true  and  not  true. 

Tan.  She  prais'd  his  complexion  above  Paris. 

Cres.  lYhy,  Paris  hath  colour  enough. 

Tan.  So  he  has. 

Cres.  Then  Troilus  should  have  too  much  :  if 
she  praised  him  above,  his  complexion  is  higher 
than  his;  he  having  colour  enough,  and  the 
other  higher,  is  too  llaming  a  praise  for  a  good 
complexion.  I  had  as  lief  Helen's  golden  tongue 
had  cemmended  Troilus  for  a  copper  nose. 

Tan.  I  swear  to  you,  1  think  Helen  loves  him 
better  than  Paris. 

Cres.  Th?n  she  's  a  merry  Greek,  indeed. 

Tan.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  does.  She  came  to 
him  the  other  day  into  the  compassed  window,** 
— and,  you  know,  he  has  not  past  three  or  four 
hairs  on  his  chin. 

Cres.  Indeed,  a  tapster's  arithmetic  may  soon 
bring  his  particulars  therein  to  a  total. 

Tan.  Wliy,  he  is  very  young :  and  yet  will 
he,  within  tliree  pound,  lift  as  much  as  his  bro- 
ther Hector. 

Cres.  Is  he  so  young  a  man,  and  so  old  a 
lifter?" 


»  Wil. — This  is  Rowe's  correction  :  both  the  old  copies 
have  will. 
b  Cnmpattfd  irinrfoir— a  bow-'window. 
c  Lifler— thief.     We  still  say  a  thopli/ter. 


Tan.  But,  to  prove  to  you  that  Helen  loves 
him ; — she  came,  and  puts  me  her  white  hand 
to  his  cloven  chin, — 

Cres.  Juno  have  mercy !  —  How  came  it 
cloven  ? 

Ta/i.  Why,  you  know,  't  is  dimpled :  I  think 
his  smiUng  becomes  him  better  than  any  man  in 
all  Phrygia. 

Cres.  O,  he  smiles  valiantly. 

Tan.  Does  he  not  ? 

Crc-i.  O  yes,  an  'twere  a  cloud  in  autumn. 

Tan.  AVhy,  go  to  then. — But  to  prove  to  you 
that  Helen  loves  Troilus, — 

Cres.  Troilus  will  stand  to  the  proof,  if  you  'h 
prove  it  so. 

Tan.  TroUus  ?  why,  he  esteems  her  no  more 
than  I  esteem  an  addle  egg. 

Cres.  If  you  love  an  addle  egg  as  well  as  you 
love  an  idle  head,  you  would  eat  chickens  i'  the 
shell. 

Tan.  I  cannot  choose  Ijut  laugh,  to  think  how 
she  tickled  his  chin ! — Indeed,  slie  has  a  mar- 
vellous white  hand,  I  must  needs  confess. 

Cres.  Without  the  rack. 

Tan.  And  she  takes  upon  her  to  spy  a  white 
hair  on  his  ehiu. 

Cres.  Alas,  poor  chin !  mauy  a  wart  is  richer. 

Tan.  But  there  was  siicli  laughing ; — Queen 
Hecuba  lauglied,  that  her  eyesTan  o'er. 

Cres.  With  mill-stones. 

Tan.  And  Cassandra  laughed. 

Cres.  But  there  was  more  temperate  fire  under 
the  pot  of  her  eyes  : — Did  her  eyes  nm  o'er 
too? 

Tan.  jVnd  Hector  laughed. 

Cres.  At  what  was  all  this  laughing  ? 

Tan.  iNIarry,  at  the  white  hair  that  Helen 
spied  on  Troilus'  chin. 

Cres.  An  "t  had  been  a  green  hair,  I  should 
have  laughed  too. 

Tan.  They  laughed  not  so  much  at  the  hair, 
as  at  his  pretty  answer. 

Cres.  What  was  his  answer  ? 

Tan.  Quoth  she,  '  Here  's  but  two  and  fifty 
hairs  on  your  chin,  and  one  of  them  is  white.' 

C/es.  This  is  her  qiiestion. 

Tan.  That 's  true  ;  make  no  question  of  that. 
'  Two  and  fifty  hairs,' »  quoth  be,  '  and  one  white : 
Tliat  white  hair  is  my  father,  and  all  the  rest  are 
his  sons.'  '  Jupiter ! '  quoth  she,  '  which  of  these 


»  So  the  quarto  and  folio.  Some  modern  copies  read 
one  and  fifty.  "How  else  can  the  number  make  out  Priam 
anil  )ll^  iiliy  son>  ? "  says  Tliroh.ild.  'Jliis  is  an  exactness 
which  Priam  and  his  chroniclers  would  equally  have 
spumed.  The  Margnrelon  nf  the  romance-writers,  who 
makes  his  appearance  in  Act  v.,  is  one  of  the  additions  to 
the  old  classical  family.    We  leave  the  text  as  we  find  it. 


Act  I.] 


TliOILUS   AXD   CEESStDxi. 


[SclXK  II. 


hairs  is  Paris  my  husbaud  ? '  *  The  forJied  one,' 
quoth  he,  '  pluck  it  out,  and  give  it  him.'  But, 
there  was  such  laughing !  and  Helen  so  blushed, 
and  Paris  so  chafed,  and  all  the  rest  so  laughed, 
that  it  passed.* 

Ores.  So  let  it  now ;  for  it  has  been  a  great 
wlule  going  by. 

Pan.  Well,  cousin,  I  told  you  a  thiug  yester- 
day ;  think  on  't. 

Cres.  So  I  do. 

Fan.  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true;  He  will  weep 
yoc,  an  't  were  a  man  born  in  April. 

Crcs.  And  I'U  spring  up  in  his  tears,  an 
't  were  a  nettle  against  May. 

\_A  retreat  sotinded. 

Pan.  Hark,  they  are  coming  from  the  field: 
Shall  we  stand  up  here,  and  see  them,  as  they 
pass  toward  Ilium  ?  good  niece,  do ;  sweet  niece 
Cressida. 

Ores.  At  your  pleasure. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here's  an  excellent  place; 
here  we  may  see  most  bravely  :  I  'U  tell  you 
them  all  by  their  names,  as  they  pass  by ;  but 
mark  Troilus  above  the  rest. 

jEneas  passes  over  the  Stage. 

Cres.  Speak  not  so  loud. 

Pan.  That 's  jEneas :  Is  not  that  a  brave 
man  ?  he 's  one  of  the  flowers  of  Troy,  I  can  tell 
you.     But  mark  Troilus  ;  you  shall  see  anon. 

Cres.  Who  's  that  ? 

Antenor  passes  over. 

Pan.  That's  Anteuor  ;  he  has  a  shrewd  wit,  I 
can  tell  you ;  and  he 's  a  man  good  enough : 
he 's  one  o'  the  soundest  judgment  in  Troy, 
whosoever,  and  a  proper  man  of  person  : — When 
comes  Troilus  ? — I  'U  show  you  Troilus  anon ;  if 
he  see  me,  you  shall  see  him  nod  at  me. 

Cres.  Wni  he  give  you  the  nod  ? 

Pan.  You  shall  see. 

Cres.  If  he  do,  the  rich  shall  have  more. 

Hector  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Hector,^  that,  that,  look  you, 
that :  there 's  a  feUow  ! — Go  thy  way.  Hector ! 
— There 's  a  brave  man,  niece. — O  brave  Hector ! 
— Look,  how  he  looks  !  there  's  a  countenance  ! 
Is  't  not  a  brave  man  ? 

Cres.  0,  a  brave  man ! 

Pan.  Is  'a  not  ?  It  does  a  man's  heart  good — 
Look  you  what  hacks  are  ou  hia  helmet !  look 


»  Passed— vcas  excessive.  So  in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor,—"  AVhy,  this  passes,  master  Ford."  Cressida 
retorts  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word. 


you  yonder,  do  you  sec  ?  look  you  there !  there  is 
no  jesting:  there's  laying  en;   tak't  off  who 
will,  as  they  say :  there  be  hacks  ! 
Cres.  Be  those  with  swords  ? 

Tavus  passes  over. 

Pan.  Swords  ?  anything,  he  cares  not :  an  the 
devil  come  to  him,  it 's  all  one :  By  god's  lid, 
it  does  one's  heart  good : — Yonder  comes  Paris, 
yonder  comes  Paris :  look  ye  yonder,  niece.  Is't 
not  a  gallant  man  too,  is  't  not  ?— Why,  this  is 
brave  now. — Who  said  he  came  hurt  home  to- 
day ?  he 's  not  hurt :  why,  this  will  do  Helen's 
heart  good  now.  Ha !  'would  I  could  see 
Troilus  now ! — you  shall  see  Troilus  anon. 

Cres.  Who 's  that  ? 

Helenus  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Helenus, — I  marvel  where  Troilus 
is  : — That 's  Helenus ; — I  think  he  went  not  forth 
to-day  : — That 's  Helenus. 

Cres.  Can  Helenus  fight,  uncle  ? 

Pan.  Helenus  ?  no  ; — yes,  he  '11  fight  indif- 
ferent well : — I  marvel  where  Troilus  is  ! — 
Hark ;  do  you  not  hear  the  people  cry,  Troilus  ? 
— Helenus  is  a  priest. 

Cres.  What  sneaking  fellow  comes  yonder  ? 

Troilus  passes  over. 

Pan.  Where?  yonder?  that's  Deiphobus: 
'Tis  Troilus!  there's  a  man,  niece! — Hen'--- 
Brave  Troilus  !  the  prince  of  chivahy. 

Cres.  Peace,  for  shame,  peace  ! 

Pan.  Mark  him ;  note  him ; — 0  brave  Troilus 
— look  well  upon  him,  niece  ;  look  you,  how  his 
sword  is  bloodied,  and  his  helm  more  hacked 
than  Hector's  :  And  how  he  looks,  and  how  he 
goes  ! — O  admirable  youth  !  he  ne'er  saw  three- 
and-twenty.  Go  thy  way,  Troilus,  go  thy  way ; 
had  I  a  sister  were  a  grace,  or  a  daughter  a  god- 
dess, he  shoiJd  take  his  choice.  O  admirable 
man  1  Paris  ? — Paris  is  dii't  to  him  ;  and,  I  war- 
rant, Helen,  to  change,  would  give  money  to 
boot. 

Forces  pass  over  the  stage. 

Cres.  Here  come  more. 

Pan.  Asses,  fools,  dolts !  chaff  and  bran,  chaff 
and  bran!  porridge  after  m.eat!  I  coidd  live 
and  die  i'  the  eyes  of  Troilus.  jN'e'cr  look,  ne'er 
look ;  the  eagles  are  gone ;  crows  and  daws, 
crows  and  daws  !  I  had  rather  be  such  a  man  as 
Troilus,  than  Agamemnon  and  all  Greece. 

Cres.  There  is  among  the  Greeks,  Achilles ; 
a  better  man  tlian  Troilus. 

85 


Act  1.] 


TROILUS   AND   CllESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Pan.  Acliillcs  ?  a  drayman,  a  porter,  a  very 
camel. 

Cres.  Well,  wcU. 

Pan.  "Well,  well  ? — Why,  have  yovi  any  dis- 
cretion? have  you  any  eyes?  Do  you  know 
what  a  man  is  ?  Is  not  birth,  beauty,  good 
shape,  discourse,  nianliood,  learning,  gentleness, 
virtue,  youth,  liberality,  and  so  forth,''  the  spice 
and  salt  that  season  a  man  ? 

Crcs.  Ay,  a  minced  man :  and  then  to  be 
baked  with  no  date  in  the  pie, — for  then  the 
man's  date  's  out. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another "^  woman!  one 
knows  not  at  what  ward  you  lie. 

Cres.  Upon  my  back,  to  defend  my  belly ; 
upon  my  wit,  to  defend  my  wiles ;  upon  my 
secrecy,  to  defend  mine  honesty ;  my  mask,  to 
defend  my  beauty  ;  and  you,  to  defend  all  these : 
and  at  all  these  wards  I  lie,  at  a  thousand 
watches. 

Pan.  Say  one  of  youi-  watches. 

Cres.  Nay,  I  '11  watch  you  for  that ;  and  that 's 
cue  of  the  chiefcst  of  them  too ;  if  I  cannot  ward 
•what  I  would  not  have  hit,  I  can  watch  you  for 
telling  how  I  took  the  blow ;  unless  it  swell  past 
hiding,  and  then  it 's  past  watching. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another  ! 

Enier  Troelus'  Boy. 

Boy.  Su',  my  lord  would  instantly  speak  with 
you. 

Pan.  Where? 

Boy.  At  vour  own  house ;  [there  he  unarms 
him.*=J 

Pan.  Good  boy,  tell  him  I  come :  [Exit  Boy. 
I  doubt,  he  be  hurt. — Fare  ye  well,  good  niece. 

Cres.  Adieu,  uncle. 

Pan.  I  '11  be  with  you,  niece,  by  and  by. 

Cres.  To  bring,  uncle, — 

Pan.  Ay,  a  token  from  Troilus. 

Cres.  By  the  same  token — you  are  a  bawd. 

\_E.vii  Pandakus. 
Words,  vows,  gifts,"*  tears,  and  love's  full  sacrifice. 
He  offers  in  another's  enterprise  : 
But  more  in  Troilus  thousand-fold  I  sec 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Bandar's  praise  may  be ; 
Yet  hold  I  olT.     Women  are  angels,  wooing  : 
Things  won  are  done,  joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing : 
That  she  bclov'd  knows  nought  that  knows  not 

this, — 
Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is  : 


"  Sn  forth  in  the  folio— the  qiiarto,  luch  like. 
*>  AnulHi-r  in  the  folio — the  ijuarlo,  a. 
c  The  \vor(l.'i  in  brackets  arc  not  in  the  folio, 
d  Ci/lt  is  the  reading  of  all  the  old  copies.     GrU/$  crept 
into  tome  of  the  earlier  modern  editions. 
86 


That  she  was  never  yet  that  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet,  as  when  desire  did  sue  : 
Therefore  this  maxim  out  of  love  I  teach, — 
Achievement  is  command ;  ungain'd,  beseech  : 
Then  though  my  heart's  content  firm  love  dotii 

bear. 
Nothing  of  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear. 

[ErU. 


SCENE  lU.—ne  Grecian  Camp.     Before 
Agamcmnon'5  2'enL 

Senet.    Enter  Agamejinox,  Nestor,  Ulysses, 
!Menelal'S,  and  others. 

Agam.  Princes, 
What  grief   hath    set   the  jaundice  on    your 

cheeks  ? 
The  ample  proposition  that  hope  makes 
In  all  designs  begun  on  earth  below. 
Fails  in  the  promis'd  largeness  :  checks  and  dis- 
asters 
Grow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  rear'd ; 
AlS  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap, 
Infect  the  sound  pine,  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  from  his  coiu'se  of  growth. 
Nor,  princes,  is  it  matter  new  to  us. 
That  we  come  short  of  our  suppose  so  far. 
That,   after  seven  years'  siege,  yet  Troy  walls 

stand ; 
Sith  every  action  that  hath  gone  before, 
Whereof  we  have  record,  trial  did  draw 
Bias  and  thwart,  not  answering  the  aim. 
And  that  unbodied  figure  of  the  thought 
That  gave  't  surmised    shape.    "Wliy  then,  you 

princes. 
Do  you  with  cheeks  abash'd  behold  our  works ; 
And    call'  them    sharnes,   which   are,    indeed, 

nought  else 
But  the  protraelive  trials  of  great  Jove, 
To  find  persistivc  constancy  in  men  ? 
The  fineness  of  which  metal  is  not  found 
In  fortune's  love  :  for  then,  the  bold  and  coward, 
The  wise  and  fool,  the  artist  and  unread. 
The  hard  and  soft,  seem  all  atSn'd  and  kin  : 
But,  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown. 
Distinction,  with  a  broad  '■  and  powerful  fan. 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away ; 
And  what  hath  mass,  or  matter,  by  itself 
Lies,  rich  in  virtue,  and  muningled. 

Isest.  With  due  observance  of  thy  godlike  seat, 
Great  Agamemnon,  Nestor  shall  apply 
Thy  latest  words.     In  the  reproof  of  chance 


>  Call  is  the  reading  of  the  quarto— the  folio  has  tkink 
them  shame. 
b  Broad  in  the  quarto — tho  folio,  loud. 


Act  I.] 


TROILUS   AA'D    CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Lies  the   true  proof  of  men :    tlie  sea  being 

smooth, 
How  many  shallow  bauble  boats  dare  sail 
Upon  her  patient  breast,  making  their  way 
With  those  of  nobler  bulk  ! 
But  let  the  ruffian  Boreas  once  em-age 
The  gentle  Thetis,  and,  anon,  behold 
The  strong-ribb'd  bark  through  liquid  mountains 

cut, 
Bouudiug  between  the  two  moist  elements. 
Like  Perseus'  horse :  Where 's  then  the  saucy 

boat. 
Whose  weak  untimber'd  sides  but  even  now 
Co-rivall'd  greatness  ?  either  to  harbour  fled, 
Or  made  a  toast  for  Neptune.     Even  so 
Doth  valour's  show,  and  valour's  worth,  divide. 
In  storms  of  fortune :  For,  in  her  ray  and  bright- 
ness. 
The  herd  hath  more  annoyance  by  the  brize  * 
Than  by  the  tiger ;  but  when  the  splitting  wind 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  oaks. 
And  flies  fled  under  shade,  why,  then,  the  thing 

of  courage. 
As  rous'd  with  rage,  with  rage  doth  sympathize. 
And,  with  an  accent  tun'd  in  self-same  key, 
Returns  to  chiding  fortune.'' 

Ulyss.  Agamemnon, — 

Thou    great    commander,    nerve   and   bone  of 

Greece, 
Heart  of  our  numbers,  soul  and  only  spirit. 
In  whom  the  tempers  and  the  minds  of  all 
Should  be  shut  up, — hear  what  Ulysses  speaks. 
Besides  the  applause  and  approbation 
The  which, — most  mighty  for  thy  place  and 

sway, —  [_To  Agaieeilnox. 

jVnd  thou  most  reverend  for  thy  stretch'd-out 

life,—  ITo  Nestok. 

I  give  to  both  your  speeches, — which  were  such 
As  Agamemnon  and  the  hand  of  Greece 
Should  hold  up  high  in  brass ;  and  such  again. 
As  venerable  Nestor,  hatch' d  in  silver, 
Should  with  a  bond  of  air,  strong  as  the  axletree 
On  which  heaven  rides,  knit  all  the  Greekish  ears.'= 
To  his  experienced  tongue,— yet  let  it  please 

both,— 
Thou  great, — and  wise,— to  hear  Ulysses  speak. 
Agam.  Speak,  prince  of  Ithaca ;  and  be  't  of 

less  expect 
That  matter  needless,  of  importless  burden, 
Divide  thy  lips,  than  we  are  confident, 

tt  Brixe— the  gad-fly. 

i*  The  original  has  an  obvious  misprint: — 
"iJe/eVci  to  chiding  fortune." 
Pope  suggested  retvnis.    Hanmer  and  Mr.  Collier's  folio 
Corrector  have  replies,  which  is  better,  although  returns 
gives  the  meaning.   Mr.  Dyce  suggests  retorts,  which  might 
well  be  adopted.  «  This  is  the  reading  of  the  auarto. 


When  rank  Thersites  opes  his  mastick"  jaws, 
We  shall  bear  music,  wit,  and  oracle. 

Uylss,  Troy,  yet  upon  his  basis,   had  been 
down. 
And  the  great  Hector's   sword  had  lack'd  a 

master. 
But  for  these  instances. 
The  specialty  of  rule  hath  been  neglected  : 
And,  look,  how  many  Grecian  tents  do  stand 
Hollow  upon  this  plain,  so  many  hollow  fac- 
tions. 
When  that  the  general  is  not  like  the  hive 
To  whom  the  foragers  shall  all  repair. 
What  honey  is  expected  ?  Degree  being  vizarded. 
The  unworthiest  shows  as  fairly  in  the  mask. 
The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets  and  this 

centre, 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 
Insisture,  coui-se,  proportion,  season,  fonu, 
OfiBce,  and  custom,  in  all  line  of  order  : 
And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet,  Sol, 
In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd 
Amidst  the  other  ;  whose  med'cinable  eye 
Corrects  the  ill  aspects  of  planets  evil. 
And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 
Sans  check,  to  good  and  bad :    But  when  the 

planets. 
In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander. 
What  plagues,  and  what  portents  !  what  mutiny ! 
What  raging  of  the  sea !  shaking  of  earth ! 
Commotion  in  the  winds  !  frights,  changes,  hor- 
rors. 
Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate 
The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 
Quite  from  their-  fixture  !    0,  when  degree  is 

shak'd, 
Which  is  the  ladder  to  all  high  designs. 
The  enterprise  is  sick  !  How  could  communities. 
Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities. 
Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  shores, 
The  primogenitive  and  due  of  birth. 
Prerogative  of  age,  crowns,  sceptres,  laurels. 
But  by  degree,  stand  in  authentic  place  ? 


"  Maslkh.—V>'e  retain  the  word  of  the  original.  Mas- 
tide  is  there  printed  with  a  capital  initial,  as  marking 
something  emphafc.  In  BasweU's  edition  the  word  is 
rendered  ma.-,tive.  We  are  ire  iiied  to  think  that  ">">'"■!' '« 
not  a  typographical  mistake.  Every  one  has  heard  ol 
Prynne's  celebrated  book,  "  Histrio-ilastix:  The  Piayers 
Scourge:"  but  it  is  not  so  generally  known  that  this  title- 
was  borrowed  by  the  great  controversialist  from  a  plav  first 
printed  in  IGIO.  but  supposed  to  be  written  earlier,  which  is 
a  satire  upon  actors  and  dramatic  writers  from  first  to  last. 
We  attach  little  importance  to  ihe  circumstance  that  tue 
author  of  that  satire  has  introduced  a  dialogue  between 
Troilus  and  Cressida ;  for  the  subject  had  most  probably 
possession  of  the  stage  before  Shakspere's  play.  «>."  " 
appears  to  us  by  no  means  improbable  that  an  epithe 
should  be  applied  to  the  "rank  Thersites"  which  shoiUd 
pretty  clearly  point  at  one  who  had  done  enough  to  make 
himself  obnoxious  to  the  poet's  fraternity. 

87 


Act  I.] 


TKOILUS   A^D   CRESS  IDA. 


[Scene  III. 


thing 


Take  but  degree  awav,  untune  that  string, 
And,  hark,  uhat  discord  follows !    each 

meets 
In  mere  oppugnaucy :    The  bounded  waters 
Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores, 
And  make  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe  : 
Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility, 
And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead  : 
Force  should  be  right;    or,    rather,    right   aud 


(Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides) 
Should  lose  their  names,  and  so  should  justice 

too. 
Then  everything  includes  itself  in  power, 
Power  into  will,  will  mto  appetite  ; 
And  appetite,  an  universal  wolf. 
So  doubly  seconded  with  will  and  power, 
Must  make,  perforce,  an  universal  prey. 
And,  last,  eat  up  himself.     Great  Agamemnon, 
This  chaos,  when  degree  is  suffocate. 
Follows  the  choking. 
And  this  neglection  of  degree  is  it, 
That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  in  a  purpose 
It  hath  to  climb.     The  general 's  disdain'd 
By  him  one  step  below ;  he,  by  the  next ; 
That  next,  by  him  beneath :  so  every  step, 
Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 
Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 
Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation : 
And  't  is  this  fever  that  keeps  Troy  on  foot, 
Not  her  own  sinews.     To  end  a  talc  of  length, 
Troy  in  our  weakness  lives,*  not  in  her  strength. 

Nesi.  !Most  wisely  hatli  Ulysses  here  discover'd 
The  fever  whereof  all  our  power  is  sick. 

Agam.  The  nature   of  the    sickness    found, 
Ulysses, 
What  is  the  remedy  ? 

Vlyss.  The    great    Achilles,     whom    opinion 
crowns 
The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  liost, 
Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame. 
Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 
Lies  mocking  our  designs  :  With  him,  Patroclus, 
Upon  a  lazy  bed,  the  livelong  day 
Breaks  seurril  jests ; 
Aud  with  ridiculous  and  awkward  action 
f Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls,) 
Ue  pageants  us.     Sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 
Thy  topless  deputation  he  puts  on ; 
And  like  a  strutting  player,  whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  aud  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
'T  wi.\t  his  strctch'd  footing  aud  the  scaffold- 
age, 

'  Litei  in  the  roUo— in  the  qmrto,  tlantit. 
88 


Such  to-be-pitied  and  o'er-wTcsted  seeming 
lie  acts  thy  greatness  in :  and  when  he  speaks, 
'T  is  like  a  chime  a  mending ;  with  terms  un- 

squar'd, 
Wliich    from    the   tongue   of    roaring  Typlion 

dropp'd 
Would  seem  hyperboles.     At  this  fusty  stuff. 
The  large  Achilles,  on  his  prcss'd  bed  lolling. 
From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause  ; 
Cries — '  Excellent ! — 'T  is  Agamemnon  just. — 
Now  play  me  Nestor ;— hem,  and  stroke  thy 

beard. 
As  he,  being  'dress'd  to  some  oration.' — 
That 's  done ; — as  near  as  the  extremest  ends 
Of  parallels, — as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife : 
Yet  god  "^  Achiiles  still  cries,  '  Excellent ; 
'T  is  Nestor  right !  Now  play  him  me,  Patroclus, 
Ai-ming  to  answer  in  a  night  alarm.' 
And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age 
Must  be  the  scene  of  mirth  ;  to  cough,  and  spit 
And  with  a  palsy,  fumbling  on  his  gorget. 
Shake  in  aud  out  the  rivet ; — aud  at  this  sport. 
Sir  Valoui'  dies ;  cries, '  0  ! — enough,  Patroclus  ; 
Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel !  I  shall  split  all 
In  pleasure  of  my  spleen.'     And  in  this  fashion, 
All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 
Sevcrals  and  generals  of  grace  exact. 
Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions, 
Excitements  to  the  field,  or  speech  for  truce. 
Success,  or  loss,  Avhat  is,  or  is  not,  serves 
As  stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

Nesi.  And  in  the  imitation  of  these  twain 
(AVhom,  as  Ulysses  says,  opinion  crowns 
With  an  imperial  voice,)  many  are  infect. 
Ajax  is  grown  self-will'd  ;  and  bears  his  head 
In  such  a  rein,  in  full  as  proud  a  place 
As  broad  Achilles  j  keeps  his  tent  like  him ; 
!Makes  factious  feasts  ;  rails  on  our  state  of  war, 
Bold  as  an  oracle  ;  aud  sets  Thersitcs 
(A  slave  whose  gall  coins  slanders  like  a  mint) 
To  match  us  in  comparisons  with  dirt ; 
To  weaken  and  discredit  our  exposure, 
How  rank  soever  rounded  iu  with  danger. 
U/j/ss.  They  tax  our  policy,  and  call  it  cow- 
ardice ; 
Count  •wisdom  as  no  member  of  the  war ; 
Forestall  prescience,  and  esteem  no  act 
But  that  of  hand :  the  still  and  mental  parts, — 
That  do  contrive  how  many  liands  shall  strike, 
When  fituess   calls   tliem  on ;    and  know,    by 

measure 
Of  their  observant  toil,  the  enemies'  weight, — 
Why,  this  hath  not  a  finger's  dignity  : 

•I  Clod  in  the  old  copies.     It  is  flittered  down   by  the 
moderns  into  good. 


Act  1.] 


TKOILUS  Ai!^D   CEESSIDA. 


[SC£N£    111. 


They  call  this  bed-work,  mappery,  closet-war  : 
So  that  the  ram  that  batters  down  the  wall, 
For  the  great  spring  and  rudeness  of  his  poise, 
They  place  before  his  hand  that  made  the  engine ; 
Or  those  that  with  the  fineness  of  their  souls 
By  reason  guide  his  execution. 

Nest.  Let  this  be  granted,  and  AchiUes'  horse 
;Makes  many  Thetis'  sons.  \_Tucket  sounds. 

Agam.  "What  trumpet?  look,  Menelaus. 

Enter  jExeas. 

Men.  From  Troy, 

Agam.  What  would  you  'fore  our  tent  ? 

^ne.  Is  this 

Great  Agamemnon's  tent,  I  pray  you  ? 

Agam.  Even  this. 

Mie.  May  one  that  is  a  herald,  and  a  prince, 
Do  a  fair  message  to  his  kingly  ears  ? 

Agam.  With  surety  stronger  than  AchUles' 
arm 
'Fore  all   the  Greekish  heads,  which  with  one 

voice 
CaU.  Agamemnon  head  and  general. 

Mne.  Fair  leave,  and  large   security.     How 
may 
A  stranger  to  those  most  imperial  looks 
Know  them  from  eyes  of  other  mortals  ? 

Agam.  How  ? 

Mne.  Ay; 
I  ask,  that  I  might  waken  reverence, 
And  bid  the  cheek  be  ready  with  a  blush 
Modest  as  morning  when  she  coldly  eyes 
The  youthful  Phoebus : 
IVhich  is  that  god  in  office,  guiding  men  ? 
AVhich  is  the  high  and  mighty  Agamemnon  ? 

Agam.  This  Trojan  scorns  us  ;  or  the  men  of 
Troy 
Are  ceremonious  courtiers. 

Mie.  Courtiers  as  free,  as  debonair,  unarm' d, 
A.S  bending  angels  ;  that 's  then-  fame  in  peace  : 
But  when  they  would  seem  soldiers,  they  have 

galls, 
Good  arras,   strong  joints,  true   swords ;   and, 

Jove's  accord, 
Nothing  so  full  of  heart.     But  peace,  Jilneas, 
Peace,  Trojan  ;  lay  thy  finger  on  thy  lips  ! 
The  worthiness  of  praise  distains  his  worth, 
If  that  the  prais'd  liimself  bring  the  praise  forth  : 
But  what  the  repming  enemy  commends. 
That  breath  fame  blows  ;  that  praise,  sole  pure, 
ti'anscends. 

Agam.  Sir,   you  of  Troy,   call  you  yourself 
Jineas  ? 

^Ene.  Ay,  Greek,  that  is  my  name. 

Agam.  AVliat  's  youi"  affair,  I  pray  you  ? 


/Ene.  Sir,    pardon;     'tis    for    Agamemnon's 
ears. 

Agam.  He  hears  nought  privately  that  comes 
from  Troy. 

AEne.  Nor  I  from  Troy  come  not  to  whisper 
him  : 
I  bring  a  trumpet  to  awake  his  ear  ; 
To  set  his  sense  on  the  attentive  bent, 
And  then  to  speak. 

Agam.  Speak  frankly  as  the  wind : 

It  is  not  Agamemnon's  sleeping  hour  : 
That  thou  shalt  know,  Trojan,  he  is  awake, 
He  tells  thee  so  himself. 

AEne.  Trumpet,  blow  loud. 

Send  thy  brass   voice   through   all   these  lazy 

tents ; 
And  every  Greek  of  mettle,  let  him  know, 
What  Troy  means  faiiiy  shall  be  spoke  aloud. 

[_Trumpet  sounds. 
We  have,  great  Agamemnon,  here  in  Troy 
A  prince  call'd  Hector,  (Priam  is  his  father,) 
Who  in  this  dull  and  long- continued  truce 
Is  rusty  gro\vn ;  he  bade  me  take  a  trumpet. 
And  to  this   pm-pose   speak.     Kings,    princes, 

lords !  => 
If  there  be  one,  among  the  fair'st  of  Greece, 
That  holds  liis  honour  higher  than  his  ease  ; 
That   seeks   his   praise  more  than  he  fears  his 

peril ; 
That  knows  liis  valoui",  and  knows  not  his  fear. 
That  loves' his  mistress  more  than  in  confession, 
(With  truant  vows  to  her  own  lips  he  loves,) 
And  dare  avow  her  beauty  and  her  worth, 
In  other  arms  than  hers — to  him  this  challenge. 
Hector,  in  view  of  Trojans  and  of  Greeks, 
Shall  make  it  good,  or  do  his  best  to  do  it. 
He  hath  a  lady,  wiser,  fairer,  truer, 
Than  ever  Greek  did  compass  in  his  arms  ; 
And  will  to-morrow  with  his  trumpet  call, 
Mid-way  between  your  tents  and  walls  of  Troy, 
To  rouse  a  Grecian  that  is  true  in  love  : 
If  any  come.  Hector  shaU  honour  liim ; 
If  none,  he  '11  say  in  Troy,  when  he  retires, 
The    Grecian    dames    are    sunburnt,   and    not 

worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance.    Even  so  much. 

Agam.  This   shall   be  told   oui-  lovers,   lord 
jEneas ; 
If  none  of  them  have  soul  in  such  a  kind. 
We  left  them  all  at  home :  But  we  are  soldiers  ; 
And  may  that  soldier  a  mere  recreant  prove. 
That  means  not,  hath  not,  or  is  not  in  love  ! 
If  then  one  is,  or  hath,  or  means  to  be, 
That  one  meets  Hector  ;  if  none  else,  I  '11  be  he. 

Nest.  Tell  him  of  Nestor,  one  that  was  a  man 

8f» 


( 


Act  l.J 


TKOILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


IScENt    III 


"W^Leu    Hector's  grandsirc  suck'd .    he  is   old 

now ; 
But,  if  there  be  not  in  our  Grecian  mould' 
One  noble  rnan,  that  hath  one  spark  of  fire 
To  answer  for  his  love,  tell  liiin  from  me, — 
I  '11  hide  my  silver  beard  in  a  gold  beaver, 
And  in  my  vantbrace  put  this  withcr'd  brawn  ; 
And  meeting  him,  will  tell  liim,  that  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  graudame,  and  as  chaste 
As  may  be  in  the  world  ;  his  youth  in  flood, 
I'll   pawn*'  this  truth  with  my  tlirec  drops  of 
blood. 

^;te.  Now  heavens   forbid  such   scarcity  of 
youth ! 

Vlyss.  Amen. 

J^am.  Fair  lord  ^neas,  let  me  touch  your 
hand ; 
To  our  pavUiou  shall  I  lead  you  first. 
Achilles  ihall  have  word  of  this  intent ; 
So  shall  each  lord  of  Greece,  from  tent  to  tent : 
Yourself  shall  feast  with  us  before  you  go, 
And  find  the  welcome  of  a  noble  foe. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ulysses  and  Nestok. 

Ut^ss.  Nestor ! 

Nest.  What  says  Ulysses  ? 

Uli/ss.  I   have    a   young   conception  in   my 
brain. 
Be  you  my  time  to  bring  it  to  some  shape. 

Nest.  Wiat  is 't  ? 

Ul^ss.  This  't  is : 
Blunt  wedges  rive  hard  knots  :  The  seeded  pride 
That  hath  to  this  matmity  blown  up 
In  rank  Achilles,  must  or  now  be  cropp'd, 
Or,  shedding,  breed  a  nursery  of  like  evil, 
To  overbulk  us  all. 

Nest.  Well,  and  how  ? 

Ulps.  This  challenge  that  the  gallant  Hector 
sends, 
However  it  is  spread  in  general  name. 
Relates  in  purpose  only  to  Achilles. 

Nest.  The   purpose   is  perspicuous  even  as 
substance, 
Whose  grossness  little  characters  sum  up  : 
And,  in  the  publication,  make  no  strain. 
But  that  Acliilles,  were  his  brain  as  barren 
As  banks  of  Libya, — though,  Apollo  knows, 
'Tis   dry  enough, — will,  with  great   speed    of 

judgment. 
Ay,  with  celerity,  find  Hector's  purpose 
Pointing  on  him. 

Utj/ss.  And  wake  him  to  the  answer,  think 


Nest. 


you 


Yes, 


■  Mould  in  the  folio  —in  tlie  quarto,  hoit. 
*>  Paicn  111  the  folio— in  the  quarto  prove. 

£0 


It  is  most  meet :  Whom  may  you  else  oppose. 

That  can  from  Hector  bring  his  honour  off. 

If  not  Achilles  ?  Thougli  't  be  a  sportful  combat. 

Yet  in  this  trial  much  opinion  dwells ; 

For  here  the  Trojans  taste  our  dear'st  repute 

With  then:  fin'st   palate:    iVnd   trust   to   mc, 

Ulysses, 
Our  imputation  shall  be  oddly  pois'd 
In  this  wild  action  :  for  the  success. 
Although  particular,  shall  give  a  scantling 
Of  good  or  bad  unto  the  general ; 
And  in  such  indexes,  although  small  pricks 
To  their  subsequent  volumes,  there  is  seeu 
The  baby  figure  of  the  giant  mass 
Of  tilings  to  come  at  large.     It  is  suppos'd. 
He  that  meets  Hector  issues  from  our  choice  : 
And  choice,  being  mutual  act  of  all  our  souls. 
Makes  merit  her  election ;  and  doth  boil. 
As 't  were  from  forth  us  all,  a  man  distill'd 
Out  of  our  virtues  ;  who,  miscarrying, 
What  heart  from  hence  receives  the  conquering 

part, 
To  steel  a  strong  opinion  to  themselves  ? 
Which  entertain'd,  limbs  are  his  instruments, 
In  no  less  working,  than  are  swords  and  bows 
Directive  by  the  limbs. 

Uli/ss.  Give  pardon  to  my  speech ; — 
Therefore  't  is  meet,  Achilles  meet  not  Hector. 
Let  us  hke  merchants  show  our  foulest  wares. 
And  think,  perchance,  they  '11  sell ;  if  not, 
The  lustre  of  the  better  yet  to  show 
Shall  show  the  better.''    Do  not  consent 
That  ever  Hector  and  Achilles  meet ; 
For  both  our  honour  and  our  shame,  in  this. 
Are  dogg'd  with  two  strange  followers. 

Nest.  I  see  them  not  with  my  old  eyes ;  what 

are  they  ? 
Ulyss.  What  glory  our  Achilles  shares  from 

Hector, 
Were  he  not  proud,  we  all  should  wear**  with 

him  : 
But  he  already  is  too  insolent ; 
And  we  were  better  parch  iu  Afric  sun. 
Than  in  the  pride  and  salt  sconi  of  his  eyes, 
Shoidd  he  'scape  Hector  fair  :  If  he  were  foil'd. 
Why,  then  we  did  our  main  opinion  crush 
In  taint  of  our  best  man.     No,  make  a  lottery  ; 
And,  by  device,  let  blockish  Ajax  draw 
The  sort   to  fight  with  Hector : 

selves 
Give  him  allowance  as  the  worthier  man," 


Among  our- 


»  The  quarto  reads— 

"  The  lustre  of  the  hc-ttcr  shall  exceed, 
By  showing  the  worse  first." 

b   Wear  in  the  folio — in  the  quarto,  share. 

c  So  the  folio— in  the  quarto,  for  the  belter  man. 


Act  I.] 


TKOILUS  AND   CEESSIDA. 


[SCEht    III. 


For  thai;  will  physic  the  great  Myrmidon, 

Who  broils  iu  loud  applause;   and  make  him 

fall 
His  crest,  that  prouder  than  blue  Iris  bends. 
If  the  dull  brainless  Ajax  come  safe  off, 
We  '11  dress  him  up  in  voices  :  If  he  fail, 
Yet  go  we  under  our  opinion  still 
That  we  have  better  men.    But,  hit  or  miss, 


Oui-  project's  life  this  shape  of  sense  assumes, — 
Ajax,  employ' d,  plucks  down  Achilles'  plumes. 
Nest.  Now,  Ulysses,  I  begin  to  relish  thy 
advice ; 
And  I  will  give  a  taste  of  it  forthwith 
To  Agamemnon :  go  we  to  him  straight. 
Two  curs  shall  tame  each  other :  Pride  alone 
Must  tarre  the  mastiffs  on,  as  't  were  their  bone. 

\_Exeuiii, 


[Ulysses. 


[Phrygian  Lady,  with  Casket.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  ACT  I. 


^  Scene  II,—"  H7tere  were  you  at  Ilium.  V 
Ilium,  according  to  the  romance-writers,  was  the 
palace  of  Priam.  The  author  of  '  The  Destruction 
of  Troy'  thus  describes  it : — "In  the  most  open  place 
of  the  city,  upon  a  rock,  the  king  Priamus  did  build 
his  rich  palace,  which  was  named  Ilion  :  that  was 
one  of  the  richest  palaces  and  the  strongest  that 
ever  was  in  all  the  world." 

="  ScE^^:  II.—"  That  'a  Hedor,"  JL-c. 
This  scene,  in  which  Pandarus  so  characteristic- 
ally describes  the  Trojan  leaders,  is  founded  upon 
a  similar  scene  in  Chaucer,  in  which  the  same  per- 
sonage recounts  the  merits  of  Priam's  two  valiant 
sons : — 

"  Of  Hector  needeth  nothing  for  to  tell ; 
In  all  this  world  there  n'  is  a  better  knight 
Than  he,  that  is  of  worthiness  the  well, 
And  he  well  more  of  virtue  hath  than  miKht ; 
This  knoweth  many  a  wise  and  worthy  knight: 
And  the  same  praise  of  Troilus  I  say  : 
God  help  me,  so  I  know  not  suchc  tway. 

"  Pardie,  quod  she,  of  Hector  there  is  solh. 
And  of  Troilus  the  same  thing  trow  I, 
For  dredeless  •  men  telleth  that  he  doth 
In  arm^s  day  by  day  so  worthily, 
And  bear'th  him  here  at  home  so  gently 
To  cv'ry  wight,  that  all6  praise  hath  he 
Of  them  that  me  were  levest  praised  bc.t 

•  Doubtless. 
t  Whose  praiic  I  should  moit  desire. 

92 


"  Ye  say  right  sotb,  I  wis,  quod  Pandarus, 
For  yesterday  whoso  had  with  him  been 
Mighten  have  wonder'd  upon  Troilus; 
For  never  j'et  so  thick  a  swarm  of  been  * 
Ne  flew,  as  Greek6s  from  him  'gonnen  fleen. 
And  through  the  field  in  every  wightes  ear 
There  was  no  cry  but  '  Troilus  is  there  I ' 

"  Now  here,  now  there,  he  hunted  them  so  fast, 
There  n'as  but  Greekes  blood  and  Troilus  ; 
Now  him  he  hurt,  and  him  all  down  he  cast ; 
Aye  where  he  went  it  was  arrayed  thus  : 
He  was  their  death,  and  shield  and  life  for  us. 
That  as  that  day  there  durst  him  none  withstand 
While  that  he  held  his  bloody  sword  in  hand." 

3  Scene  III. — "  Eiiifjs,  princes,  lords,"  tLc. 
Stecvens  says  the  challenge  thus  sent  "would 
better  have  suited  Palmerin  or  Amadis  than  Hector 
or  .^neas."  Precisely  so.  And  this  was  not  only 
the  language  of  romance,  but  of  real  life,  almost  up 
to  the  days  of  Shakspere.  In  a  challenge  of  the 
reign  of  Mary,  four  Spanish  and  English  kuij^'hts 
will  maintain  a  fight  on  foot  at  the  barriers  against 
all  comers,  that "  they  may  show  their  great  desires 
to  serve  their  ladies  by  the  honourable  adventure 
of  their  person."  But  would  Steevens  assert  that 
Shakspere  did  not  purposely  make  the  distinction 
between  the  Homeric  and  the  feudal  ages?  He 
found  the  challenge  of  Hector  in  Homer;  he  in- 
vested it  with  its  Gothic  attributes  in  accordance 
with  a  principle.     The   commentators  sneer  at 

•  Bees. 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


Sbakspere's  violation  of  chronology,  in  the  men- 
tion of  Aristotle :  what  do  they  say  to  Chaucer's 
line  in  the  *  Troilus  and  Creseide ' — 

"  He  sung,  she  play'd,  he  told  a  tale  of  Wade"? 
Wade  was  a  hero  of  the  same  fabulous  school  as 
Levis  and  Launcelot.     The  challenge  of  Hector  is 
thus  rendered  by  Chapman  : — 

"Hear,   Trojans,   and   ye  well-ami'd  Greeks,  what  my 

strong  mind,  diffus'd 
Through  all  my  sinrits,  commands  me  speak;  Saturnius 

hath  not  us'd 
His  promis'd  favour  for  our  truce,  but,  studying  both  our 

ills, 
Will  never  cease  till  Mars,  by  you,  his  ravenous  stomach 

fills 
With  ruin'd  Troy;   or  -we  consume  your  mighty  sea-bom 

fleet. 
Since  then  the  general  peers  of  Greece  in  reach  of  one  voice 

meet. 


Amongst  you  all  whose  breast  includes  the  most  impulsive 

mind 
Let  him  stand  forth  as  combatant,  by  all  the  rest  design'd ; 
Before  whom  thus  I  call  high  Jove  to  witness  of  our  strife, 
If  he  with  home-thrust  iron  can  reach  th'  exposure  of  my 

life. 
Spoiling  my  arms,  let  him  at  will  convey  them  to  his  tent ; 
But  let  my  body  be  retum'd,  that  Troy's  two-sex'd  descent 
May  waste  it  in  th€  funeral  pile  :  if  I  can  slaughter  hira, 
Apollo  honouring  me  so  much,  I  '11  spoil  his  conquer'd  limb, 
And  bear  his  arms  to  Ilion,  where  in  Apollo's  shrine 
I  'U  hang  them  as  my  trophies  due :  his  body  I  "11  resign 
To  be  disposed  by  his  friends  in  flamy  funerals. 
And  honour'd  with  erected  tomb  where  Hellespontus  falh 
Into  Egaeura,  and  doth  reach  even  to  your  naval  road; 
That,  when  our  beings  in  the  earth  shall  hide  their  period, 
Survivors  sailing  the  Black  Sea  may  thus  his  name  renew. 
This  is  his  monument  whose  blood  long  since  did  fates 

embrue. 
Whom  passing  fair  in  fortitude  illustrate  Hector  slew. 
This  shall  posterity  report,  and  my  fame  never  die." 

Book  vii. 


Phrj-gian  Tunic,  Bi-peiiiies,  Bow,  Quiver,  Helmets,  &c. 


''M,. 


'lOfcir'is'l 


[ScENK  II.     '  Enter  Cassandra,  raving.'] 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Grecian  Camp. 

Enter  Ajax  and  Thersites. 

Ajax.  Thersites, — 

Ther.  Agamemnon — how  if  he  had  boils  ? 
full,  all  over,  generally  ? 

Ajax.  Thersites, — 

Ther.  And  those  boils  did  run? — Say  so, — 
did  not  the  general  run  ?  were  not  that  a  botchy 
core? 

Ajax.  Dog,— 

Ther.  Then  would  come  some  matter  from 
him ;  I  see  none  now. 

Ajax.  Thou  bitch-wolf's  son,  canst  thou  not 
hear?  Feel  then.  \_Slrikcs  him. 

Ther.  ITie  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee,  thou 
mongrel  beef-witted  lord ! ' 

Ajax.  Speak  then,  thou  vinew'dest*  leaven, 
speak :  I  will  beat  thee  into  handsomeness. 

»  Vinm'dett  —  vincwcd  —  vinny  —  signifles    decayed, 
94 


Ther.  I  shall  sooner  rail  thee  into  wit  and 
holiness :  but  1  think  thy  horse  will  sooner  con 
an  oration,  than  thou  learn  a  prayer  without 
book.  Thou  canst  strike,  canst  thou?  a  red 
murrain  o'  thy  jade's  tricks ! 

Ajaz.  Toadstool,  learn  me  the  proclamation. 

Ther.  Dost  thou  think  I  liave  no  sense,  thou 
strik'st  me  thus  ? 

Ajax.  'J'he  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  art  proclaimed  a  fool,  1  think. 

Ajax.  Do  not,  porpentine,  do  not ;  my  fiugers 
itch. 

Ther.  I  would  thou  didst  itch  from  head  to 
foot,  and  I  had  the  scratching  of  thee  ;  I  would 
make  thee  the  loathsomest  scab  in  Greece. 
[When  thou  art  forth  in  the  incursions,  thou 
strikest  as  slow  as  another."] 


mouldy ;  the  word  in  the  text  is  the  superlative  otvinewed. 
In   the  preface   to  our  translation  or  the  Bible  we  have 
"fenewed  traditions." 
>  These  vords  are  not  in  the  folio. 


Act  Il.j 


TEOTLUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  I. 


Ajax.  I  say,  the  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  grumblest  and  railest  every  hour 
on  Achilles ;  and  thou  art  as  full  of  envy  at  his 
greatness,  as  Cerberus  is  at  Proserpina's  beauty, 
ay,  that  thou  bark'st  at  him. 

Ajax.  Mistress  Thersites ! 

Ther.  Thou  shouldst  strike  him. 

Ajax.  Cobloaf! 

Ther.  He  would  pun"*  thee  into  shivers  with 
his  fist,  as  a  sailor  breaks  a  biscuit. 

Ajax.  You  whoreson  cur !  \^Beat'uig  him. 

Ther.  Do,  do. 

Ajax.  Thou  stool  for  a  witch ! 

jihp,;  s^j^  (Jo^  [lo;  thou  sodden-witted  lord! 
thou  hast  no  more  brain  than  I  have  in  mine 
elbows;  an  assinego''  may  tutor  thee:  Thou 
scurvy- valiant  ass  '  thou  art  here  butc  to  thrash 
Trojans ;  and  thou  art  bouqiit  and  sold  amoncr 
those  of  any  wit,  like  a  Barbarian  slave.  If 
thou  use  to  beat  me,  1  will  begin  at  thy  heel, 
and  tell  what  thou  art  by  inches,  thou  thing  of 
no  bowels,  thou ! 

Ajax.  You  dog ! 

Ther.  You  scurvy  lord ! 

Ajax.  You  cur  !  [^Beating  him. 

Ther.  Mars  his  idiot !  do,  rudeness ;  do,  ca- 
mel; do,  do. 

Unter  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 

Achil.  Why,  how  now,  Ajax?   wherefore  do 
you  this  ? 
How  now,  Thersites  ?  what 's  the  matter,  man  ? 

Ther.  You  see  him  there,  do  you  ? 

Achil.  Ay  ;  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Ther.  Nay,  look  upon  him. 

Achil.  So  I  do ;  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Ther.  Nay,  but  regard  him  well. 

Achil.  Well,  why  I  do  so. 

Ther.  But  yet  you  look  not  well  upon  him : 
for,  whosoever  you  take  him  to  be,  he  is  Ajax. 

Achil.  I  know  that,  fool. 

Ther.  Ay,  but  that  fool  knows  not  himself. 

Ajax.  Therefore  I  beat  thee. 

Ther.  Lo,  lo,  lo,  lo,  what  modicums  of  wit  he 
utters !  his  evasions  have  ears  thus  long.  I  have 
bobbed  his  brain  more  than  he  has  beat  my 
bones :  I  will  buy  nine  sparrows  for  a  penny, 
and  his  pia  mater  is  not  worth  the  ninth  part  of 
a  sparrow.  This  lord,  Achilles,  Ajax, — who 
wears  his  wit  in  his  belly,  and  his  guts  in  liis 
head, — I'll  tell  you  what  I  say  of  him. 

Achil.  What? 

*  Pun — pound. 
b  Assinego — an  ass. 

<:  But.—Boih.  the  quarto  and  fol'a  so  read;  but  put  was 
substituted  by  Steevens. 


Ther.  I  say,  this  Ajax — 
Achil.  Nay,  good  Ajax. 

[Ajax  offers  to  strike  him,  Achilles 
interposes. 
Ther.  Has  not  so  much  vAi — 
Achil.  Nay,  I  must  hold  you. 
Ther.  As  \vill  stop  the  eye  of  Helen's  needle, 
for  whom  he  comes  to  fight. 
Achil.  Peace,  fool ! 

Ther.  T  would  have  peace  and  quietness,  but 
the  fool  will  not :  he  there ;  that  he ;  look  you 
there. 

Ajax.  0  thou  damned  cur !  I  shall — 

Achil.  Wni  you  set  your  wit  to  a  fool's  ? 

Ther.  No,  I  warrant  you;  for  a  fool's  will 
shame  it. 

Pair.  Good  words,  Thersites. 

Achil.  What 's  the  quarrel  ? 

Ajax.  I  bade  the  vile  owl  go  learn  me  the 
tenor  of  the  proclamation,  and  he  rails  upon 
me. 

Ther.  I  serve  thee  not. 

Ajax.  Well,  go  to,  go  to. 

Ther.  I  serve  here  voluntary. 

Achil.  I'our  last  service  was  sufferance,  't  was 
not  voluntary ;  no  man  is  beaten  voluntary ; 
Ajax  was  here  the  voluntary,  and  you  as  under 
an  impress. 

Ther.  E'en  so ; — a  great  deal  of  your  wit  too 
lies  in  your  sinews,  or  else  there  be  liars.  Hector 
shall  have  a  great  catch  if  he  knock  out  either  of 
your  brains ;  'a  were  as  good  crack  a  fusty  nut 
with  no  kernel. 

Achil.  What,  with  me  too,  Thersites  ? 

Ther.  There 's  Ulysses  and  old  Nestor, — whose 
wit  was  mouldy  ere  your  grandsires  had  nails  on 
their  toes, — yoke  you  like  draught  oxen,  and 
make  you  plough  up  the  war. 

Achil.  "What,  what  ? 

Ther.  Yes,  good  sooth.  To,  Achilles !  to, 
Ajax !  to ! 

Ajax.  I  shall  cut  out  your  tongue. 

Ther.  'T  is  no  matter ;  I  shall  speak  as  much 
as  thou,  afterwards. 

Patr.  No  more  woi'ds,  Thersites ;  peace. 

Ther.  I  vrill  hold  my  peace  when  Achilles' 
brach  bids  me,  shall  I  ? 

Achil.  There 's  for  you,  Patroclus. 

Ther.  I  will  see  you  hanged,  like  clotpoles, 
ere  I  come  any  more  to  your  tents ;  I  will  keep 
where  there  is  wit  stirring,  and  leave  the  faction 
of  fools.  \E.Tit. 

Patr.  A  good  riddance. 

Achil.  Marry,  this,  sir,  is  proclaim'd  through 
all  our  host : 


95 


Act  II.] 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


[SrE3B  II. 


That  Hector,  by  the  fifth''  hour  of  the  sun, 
Will,  with  a  trumpet,  'twixt  our  tents  and  Troy, 
To-morrow  morning  call  some  knight  to  arms, 
That  hath  a  stomacli ;  and  such  a  one  that  dare 
Maintain — I  know  not  what;  'tis  trash:  Fare- 
well. 
Ajar.  Farewell.     Who  shall  answer  him  ? 
Achil.  1  know  not,  it  is  put  to  lottery ;  otlier- 
wise, 
He  knew  his  man. 
Ajax.  0,  meaning  you  :— I  '11  go  learn  more 
of  it.  '  [I'JTeunt. 

SCEISE  II.— Troy.   A  Room  in  Priam'*  Palace. 

Enter  PiUA.M,  Hector,  Tkoilus,  Pakis,  and 
Helenus. 

Pri.   After  so  many   hours,   lives,   speeches 
spent. 
Thus  once  again  says  Nestor  from  the  Greeks : 
'  Deliver  Helen,  and  all  damage  else — 
As  honour,  loss  of  time,  travel,  expense. 
Wounds,  friends,  and  what  else  dear  that  is  con- 
sun  I'd 
In  hot  digestion  of  this  cormorant  war, — 
Shall  be  struck  off :  '—Hector,  what  say  you  to 't? 
Hed.  Though  no  man  lesser  fears  the  Greeks 
than  I, 
As  far  as  toucheth  my  particular,  yet,  dread 

Priam, 
There  is  no  lady  of  more  softer  bowels. 
More  spongy  to  suck  in  the  sense  of  fear. 
More  ready  to  cry  out — 'Who  knows  what  fol- 
lows ? ' 
ITian  Hector  is :  The  wound  of  peace  is  surety, 
Surety  secure ;  but  modest  doubt  is  call'd 
The  beacon  of  the  wise,  the  tent  that  searches 
To  the  bottom  of  the  worst.     Let  Helen  go  : 
Since  the  first  sword  was  drawn  about  this  ques- 
tion. 
Every  tithe  soul,  'mongst  many  thousand  dismes,'' 
Hath  been  as  dear  as  Helen ;  I  mean  of  ours  : 
If  we  have  lost  so  many  tenths  of  ours, 
To  guard  a  thing  not  ours ;  nor  worth  to  us, 
Had  it  our  name,  the  value  of  one  ten ; 
What  merit 's  in  that  reason  which  denies 
The  yielding  of  her  up  ? 

Tio-  Fie,  fie,  my  brother ! 

Weigh  you  the  worth  and  honour  of  a  kmg 
So  great  as  our  dread  father,  in  a  scale 

»  Fifth.-  So  the  folio;  the  quarto  has yfr»/,  which  obtained 
In  most  modern  edilinns.  The  kniphta  of  chivalry  Hid  n<it 
encounter  at  tlic  firtt  hour  of  the  sun  ;  by  the  fifth  of  a 
summer's  morninp  the  lists  would  be  set,  and  the  ladies  in 
their  seats.    The  usages  of  chivalry  are  those  of  this  play. 

b  Dimet — ^teii.hs. 

96 


Of  common  ounces  ?  will  you  with  counters  sum 
The  past-proportion  of  liis  infinite  ? 
And  buekle-in  a  waist  most  fathomless 
Witli  spans  and  inches  so  duniimtivc 
As  fears  and  reasons  ?  fie,  for  godly  shame ! 
Hcl.  No  marvel,  though  you  bite  so  sharp  at 
reasons. 
You  are  so  empty  of  them.     Should  not  our 

father 
Bear  the  great  sway  of  his  affairs  with  reasons. 
Because  your  speech  hath  none,  tliat  tells  him 
so? 
Tro.  You  are  for  dreams  and  slumbers,  brother 
priest,- 
You  fur  your  gloves  with  reason.   Here  are  your 

reasons : 
You  know  an  enemy  intends  you  hai-m ; 
You  know  a  sword  euiploy'd  is  perilous. 
And  reason  flies  the  object  of  all  harm  : 
Who  marvels  then,  when  Helenus  beholds 
A  Grecian  and  his  sword,  if  he  do  set 
The  very  wings  of  reason  to  his  heels  ; 
And  fly  like  chidden  ^Mercury  from  Jove, 
Or  like  a  star  dis-orb'd  ?— Nay,  if  we  talk  of 

reason, 
Let's  shut  our  gates,  and  sleep:  !Manhood  and 

honour 
Should  have  hare*  hearts,  would  they  but  fat 

their  thoughts 
With  this  cramm'd  reason ;  reason  and  respect 
Make  livers  pale,  and  lustihood  deject. 

lied.  Brother,  she  is  not  worth  what  she  doth 
cost 
The  holding. 

Tro.        What 's  aught  but  as  't  is  valued  ? 
IlecL  But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will ; 
It  holds  his  estimate  and  dignity 
As  well  wherein  't  is  precious  of  itself 
As  in  the  prizer;  'tis  mad  idolatry 
To  make  the  service  greater  than  the  god  ; 
And  the  will  dotes  that  is  inclinable'' 
To  what  infectiously  itself  effects, 
Without  some  image  of  the  affected  merit. 

Tro.  I  take  to-day  a  wife,  and  my  election 
Is  led  on  in  the  conduct  of  my  wall ; 
My  ^vill  enkindled  by  mine  eyes  and  ears, 
Two  traded  pilots  'twixt  the  dangerous  shores 
Of  will  and  judgment :  How  may  I  avoid. 
Although  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected, 
The  wife  I  chose  ?  there  can  be  no  evasion 
To  blench  from  this,  and  to  stand  firm  by  honour : 
We  tuni  not  back  the  silks  upon  the  merchant. 


»  Ilnre  in  the  quarto;  by  a  typographical  error,  hard  in 
the  f  )lio. 
b  Inclinable  in  the  folio ;  the  quarto,  atlribttlive. 


Act  II] 


TEOILUS  AND   CEESSLDiL 


[SCF.NE  II. 


When  we  have  spoil'd  them :  nor  the  remaiudcr 

viands 
We  do  not  tlu-ow  in  iinrespective  sieve," 
Because  we  now  are  full.    It  was  thouglit  meet, 
Paris  should  do  some  vengeance  on  the  Greeks  : 
Your  breath  of  fidl  consent''  bellied  his  sails  ; 
The  seas  and  winds  (old  wranglers)  took  a  tnice, 
And  did  him  service  :  lie  touch'd  the  ports  desir'd; 
And,  for  an  old  aunt,  whom  the  Greeks  held 

captive, 
He  brought  a  Grecian  quecD,  whose  youth  and 

freshness 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  stale  the  morning. 
Why  keep  we  her  ?  the  Grecians  keep  our  aunt : 
Is  she  worth  keeping  ?  why,  she  is  a  pearl, 
Whose  price  hath  launch'd  above  a  thousand  ships, 
And  tum'd  crowu'd  kings  to  merchants. 
If  you  '11  avouch 't  was  wisdom  Paris  went, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  cried — '  Go,  go,') 
If  you  'U  confess  he  brought  home  noble  prize, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your 

hands. 
And  cried — 'Inestimable !')  why  do  you  now 
The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate  ; 
And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did. 
Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 
Richer  than  sea  and  land  ?    0  theft  most  base  ; 
That  we  have  stolen  what  we  do  fear  to  keep  ! 
But  thieves,  unworthy  of  a  thing  so  stolen. 
That  in  their  country  did  them  that  disgrace. 
We  fear  to  warrant  in  our  native  place  ! 

Cas.  [Within..']  Cry,  Trojans,  cry! 

Pri.  What  noise  ?  what  shriek  is  this  ? 

Tro.  'T  is  our  mad  sister,  I  do  know  her  voice. 

Cas.  [Within^  Cry,  Trojans  ! 

Red.  It  is  Cassandi-a. 

Enter  Cassandka,  raving. 
Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  lend  me  ten  thousand 
eyes, 
^bid  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetic  tears. 
Hed.  Peace,  sister,  peace. 
Cas.  Virgins  and  boys,  mid  age,  and  wrinkled 

eld," 

a  Sieve.  The  quarto  has  sive,  the  old  mode  of  spelling 
sieve.  The  first  folio  has  same;  the  second  folio  place. 
Same  is  held  to  be  a  misprint.  The  commentators  explain 
that  sieve  is  a  basket,  and  that  the  term  is  well  known  in 
Covent  Garden  and  other  markets  for  fruit  and  vegetables. 
The  original  notion  of  sieve  implies  separation,  and  we 
therefore  held,  in  our  first  edition,  that  a  sieve  of  fruit  was  a 
basket  of  sorted  fruit.  But  domestic  observation  might 
have  shown  us  that  the  "  unrespective"  sieves  into  which 
any  "remainder"  is  thrown  has  subsequently  to  perform 
the  office  of  separation.  This  consideration  reconciles  us 
to  the  adoption  of  sieve. 

b  How  forcible  is  "your  breath  of  full  consent,"— com- 
pared with  the  reading  of  the  quarto,  "  your  breath,  with 
full  consent." 

c  Old  in  the  folio—  the  quarto,  eldm.  Theobald  substi- 
tuted eid. 


Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry, 
Add  to  my  clamours  !  let  us  paj  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears ! 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand ; 
Our  firebrand  brother,  Paris,  burns  us  all. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  a  Helen,  and  a  woe : 
Cry,  cry  !  Troy  bui-ns,  or  else  let  Helen  go.  [Exit. 

Hed.  Now,   youthful  Troilus,  do  not  these 
high  strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  touches  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 
So  madly  hot,  that  no  discourse  of  reason. 
Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause. 
Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Ti-o.  Wliy,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it ; 
Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds 
Because  Cassandra 's  mad ;   her  brain-sick  rap- 
tures 
Cannot  distaste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel 
Which  hath  our  several  honours  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious.     For  my  private  part, 
I  am  no  more  touch'd  than  all  Priam's  sons  : 
And  Jove  forbid,  there  should  be  done  amongst 


us 


Tbaoedies. — Vol.  II. 


H 


Such  things  as  might  oifend  the  weakest  spleen 
To  fight  for  and  maintain  ! 

Par.  Else  might  the  world  convince  of  levity 
As  well  ray  und  ertakings  as  your  counsels : 
But  I  attest  the  gods,  your  full  consent 
Gave  wings  to  my  propensiou,  and  cut  off 
AH  fears  attending  on  so  dire  a  project. 
For  what,  alas,  can  these  my  single  arms  ? 
WTiat  propuguation  is  in  one  man's  valour. 
To  stand  the  push  and  enmity  of  those 
This  quarrel  woidd  excite  ?  Yet,  I  protest. 
Were  I  alone  to  pass  the  difficulties. 
And  had  as  ample  power  as  I  have  will, 
Paris  should  ne'er  retract  what  he  hath  done. 
Nor  faint  in  the  pursuit. 

Pri.  Paris,  you  speak 

Like  one  besotted  on  your  sweet  delights  : 
You  have  the  honey  still,  but  these  the  gall ; 
So  to  be  valiant  is  no  praise  at  all. 

Par.  Sir,  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 
The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings. with  it; 
But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape 
Wip'd  off,  in  honourable  keeping  her. 
What  treason  were  it  to  the  ransack'd  queen. 
Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me, 
Now  to  deliver  her  possession  up. 
On  terms  of  base  compulsion  !     Can  it  be 
That  so  degenerate  a  strain  as  this 

97 


ACI  11.] 


TROILUS  AND   CIIESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Shoul  J  once  set  footing  in  your  generous  bosoms  ? 
There 's.  not  the  lucanest  spii-it  on  our  party, 
Without  a  heart  to  dare,  or  sword  to  draw, 
When  Helen  is  defended ;  nor  none  so  noble, 
Whose  life  were  ill  bestow'd,  or  death  uufaui'd, 
Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say, 
Well  may  we  fight  for  her,  whom,  we  know  well. 
The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 

Hcct.  Paris,  and  Troilus,  you  have  both  said 
well; 
And  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand 
Have  gloz'd, — but  superficially ;  not  much 
Uulikc  young  men,  whom  Aristotle  thought 
Unfit  to  hear  moral  philosophy  : 
The  reasons  you  allege  do  more  conduce 
To  the  hot  passion  of  distemper'd  blood, 
Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 
'Twixt  right  and  wrong;  for  pleasure,  and  re- 
venge, 
Have  ears  more  deaf  than  adders  to  the  voice 
Of  any  true  decision.     Nature  craves 
All  dues  be  rcndcr'd  to  their  owners  :  Now 
What  nearer  debt  in  all  humanity 
Than  wife  is  to  the  husband  ?  if  this  law 
Of  nature  be  corrupted  through  affection. 
And  that  great  minds,  of  partial  indulgence 
To  their  benumbed  wills,  resist  the  same. 
There  is  a  law  in  each  well-order'd  nation. 
To  curb  those  raging  appetites  that  are 
Most  disobedient  and  refractory. 
If  Helen  then  be  wife  to  Sparta's  king, — 
As  it  is  kuo\vii  she  is, — these  moral  laws 
Of  nature,  and  of  nations,  speak  aloud 
To  have  her  back  return'd :  Thus  to  persist 
In  doing  wrong  extenuates  not  wrong. 
But  makes  it  much  more  heavy.  Hector's  opinion 
Is  this,  in  way  of  truth  :  yet,  ne'ertheless. 
My  spritely  brethren,  I  propend  to  you 
In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  stUl ; 
For 't  is  a  cause  that  hath  no  mean  dcpcudancc 
Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities. 

Tro.  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our 
design : 
Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleens, 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.    But,  worthy  Hector, 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown ; 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds  ; 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes. 
And  fame,  in  time  to  come,  canonize  us  : 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promis'd  glory. 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action, 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 


98 


Hcct.  1  am  yours. 

You  valiant  ofFspruig  of  great  Prianms. 
I  have  a  roLsting  ehidlengc  sent  amongst 
The  dull  and  factious  nobles  of  the  Greeks, 
Will  strike  amazement  to  their  drowsy  spirits : 
I  was  advertis'd  their  great  general  slept, 
Whilst  emidation  in  the  army  crept; 
This,  I  presume,  wiU  wake  him.  [Eveu/iL 

SCENE   UL  —  T/ie     Grecian     Cump.      Be/ore 
AchiUes'  'JhiL 

Enter  TlIEKSITES. 

T/ici:  How  now,  Thersites  ?  what,  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  of  thy  fury  ?  Shall  the  elephant  Ajax 
cai-ry  it  thus  ?  he  beats  me,  and  I  rail  at  him  :  0 
worthy  satisfaction  1  would  it  were  otherwise  ; 
that  I  could  beat  him,  whilst  he  railed  at  me  : 
'Sfoot,  I  '11  learn  to  conjure  and  raise  devils,  but 
I'U  see  some  issue  of  my  spiteful  execrations. 
Then  there's  AchiUes, — a  rare  engineer.  If 
Troy  be  not  taken  till  these  two  undermine  it, 
the  walls  will  stand  till  they  fall  of  themselves. 
0  thou  great  thunder-darter  of  Olympus,  forget 
that  thou  art  Jove  the  king  of  gods  ;  and.  Mer- 
cury, lose  all  the  serpentine  craft  of  thy  Cadu- 
ccas ;  if  ye  take  not  that  little  little  less-than- 
little  wit  from  them  that  they  have  1  which  short- 
armed  ignorance  itself  knows  is  so  abundant 
scarce,  it  will  not  in  circumvention  deliver  a  fly 
from  a  spider,  without  drawing  the  massy  irons, 
and  cutting  the  web.  After  this,  the  vengeance 
on  the  whole  camp !  or,  rather,  the  bone-ache ! 
for  that,  methiuks,  is  the  curse  dependant  on 
those  that  war  for  a  placket.  I  have  said  my 
prayers ;  and  devil  envy,  say  Amen.  What 
ho  !  my  lord  Achilles  ! 

Enter  Patkoclus. 

I'atr.  Who 's  there  ?  Thersites  ?  good  Ther- 
sites, come  in  and  rail. 

T/ier.  If  I  could  have  remembered  a  gilt 
counterfeit,  thou  wouldst  not  have  slipped  out 
of  my  contemplation :  but  it  is  no  matter :  Thy- 
self upon  thyself  1  The  common  curse  of  man- 
kind, folly  and  ignorance,  be  thine  in  great 
revenue!  heaven  bless  thee  from  a  tutor,  and 
discipline  come  not  near  thee !  Let  tliy  blood 
be  thy  direction  tiU  thy  death !  then  if  she  that 
lays  thee  out  says  thou  art  a  fair  corse,  I  '11  be 
swoni  and  sworn  upon't,  she  never  shrouded 
any  but  lazars.    Amen.    "Where 's  Achilles  ? 

Pair.  What,  art  thou  devout  ?  wast  thou  in  a 
prayer  ? 

T/icr.  Ay  :  the  heavens  hear  me  ! 


Act  II.] 


TEOILUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Enter  Achilles. 

Achil  Who  's  there  ? 

Pair.  Thersites,  my  lord. 

Achil.  Where,  where  ? — Art  thou  come  ?  Why, 
my  cheese,  my  digestion,  why  hast  thou  not 
served  thyself  in  to  my  table  so  many  meals  ? — 
Come;  what's  Agamemnon? 

Ther.  Thy  commander,  Acliilles  : — Then  tell 
me,  Patroclus,  what 's  Achilles  ? 

Patr.  Thy  lord,  Thersites :  Then  tell  me,  I 
pray  thee,  what 's  thyself  ? 

Ther.  Thy  knower,  Patroclus :  Then  tell  me, 
Patroclus,  what  art  thou  ? 

Patr.  Thou  mayst  tell  that  knowest. 

Achil.  0,  tell,  tell. 

Ther.  I  '11  decline  the  whole  question.  Aga- 
memnon commands  Achilles;  Achilles  is  my 
lord ;  I  am  Patroclus'  knower ;  and  Patroclus  is 
a  fool. 

Patr.  You  rascal ! 

Ther.  Peace,  fool ;  I  have  not  done. 

Achil.  He  is  a  privileged  man. — Proceed, 
Thersites. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool;  Achilles  is  a 
fool ;  Thersites  is  a  fool ;  and,  as  aforesaid,  Pa- 
troclus is  a  fool. 

Achil.  Derive  this ;  come. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool  to  offer  to  com- 
mand Achilles;  Achilles  is  a  fool  to  be  com- 
manded of  Agamemnon;  Thersites  is  a  fool  to 
serve  such  a  fool ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool  posi- 
tive. 

Patr.  Why  am  I  a  fool  ? 

Ther.  Make  that  demand  of  the  prover.— It 
suiSces  me  thou  art.  Look  you,  who  comes 
here  ? 

Enter  Agamemnon,  Ultsses,  Nestor,  Dio- 
MEDES,  and  Ajax. 

Achil.  Patroclus,  I'll  speak  with  nobody.— 
Come  in  with  mc,  Thersites.  [_Exit. 

Ther.  Here  is  such  patchery,  such  juggling, 
and  such  knavery !  aU  the  argument  is,  a  cuck- 
old and  a  whore:  A  good  quarrel,  to  draw 
emulous  factions,  and  bleed  to  death  upon. 
Now  the  di-y  serpigo  on  the  subject !  and  war, 
and  lechery,  confound  all !  [E.vit. 

Again.  Where  is  Achilles  ? 

Patr.  Within  his  tent;  but  ill-disposed,  my 
lord. 

Agam.  Let  it  be  known  to  him  that  we  are 
here. 
He  shent*  our  messengers,  and  we  lay  by 

a  SAe«;.— The  quarto  reads  salt,  the  folio  s:Mt.  Theobald 
made  the  change  to  shent,  meaning  to  rebuke. 

H  2 


Our  appertainments,  visiting  of  him  : 
Let  him  be  told  so ;  lest,  perchance,  he  think 
We  dare  not  move  the  question  of  our  place. 
Or  know  not  what  we  are. 

Patr.  I  shall  so  say  to  him.  \Exit. 

XJlyss.  We  saw  him  at  the  opening  of  liis  tent ; 
He  is  not  sick. 

Ajax.  Yes,  lion-sick,  sick  of  proud  heart :  you 
may  caU  it  melancholy,  if  you  will  favour  the 
man ;  but,  by  my  head,  it  is  pride :  But  why, 
why  ?  let  him  show  us  the  cause. — A  word,  my 
lord.  {Takes  Agamemnon  aside. 

Nest.  What  moves  Ajax  thus  to  bay  at  him  ? 

Ulyss.  Achilles  hath  inveigled  his  fool  from 
him. 

Nest.  Who?  Thersites? 

Uli/ss.  He. 

Nest.  Then  will  Ajax  lack  matter,  if  he  have 
lost  his  argument. 

Uli/ss.  No ;  you  see,  he  is  his  ai-gnment  that 
has  his  argument, — Achilles. 

Nest.  All  the  better ;  their  fraction  is  more 
our  wish  than  their  faction  :  But  it  was  a  strong 
counsel  a  fool  could  disunite, 

Ulyss.  The  amity  that  wisdom  knits  not,  folly 
may  easily  xuitie.    Here  comes  Patroclus. 

Re-enter  Patkocltjs. 

Nest.  No  Achilles  with  him. 

Uli/ss.  The  elephant  hath  joints,  but  none  for 
courtesy : 
His  legs  are  legs  for  necessity,  not  for  flexui-e.^ 

Pair.  Achilles  bids  me  say— he  is  much  sorry 
If  anything  more  than  your  sport  and  pleasure 
Did  move  your  greatness,  and  this  noble  state. 
To  call  upon  him  ;  he  hopes  it  is  no  other. 
But,  for  your  health  and  your  digestion  sake, 
An  after-diuner's  breath. 

Agam.  Hear  you,  Patroclus ; — 

We  are  too  well  acquainted  with  Itese  answers  : 
But  his  evasion,  wing'd  thus  with  scorn. 
Cannot  outfly  our  apprehensions. 
IMuch  attribute  he  hath ;  and  much  the  reason 
Why  we  ascribe  it  to  him :  yet  all  his  virtues, 
Not  virtuously  of  his  own  part  beheld. 
Do,  in  our  eyes,  begui  to  lose  then-  gloss ; 
Yea,  like  fair  fruit  in  an  unwholesome  dish, 
Are  like  to  rot  untasted.     Go  and  tell  him 
We  come  to  speak  with  hun :  And  you  shall  not 

sin. 
If  you  do  say— wc  think  him  over-proud, 
Ajid  under-honest ;  in  self-assumption  greater 
Than  in  the  note  of  judgment ;  and  worthier 

than  himself 
Here  tend  the  savage  strangeness  he  puts  on ; 

99 


iCT    II.] 


TROILUS  AKD   CRESSIDA. 


[Scr.NE  III 


Disguise  the  holy  strength  of  their  command, 
And  underwrite  in  an  observing  kind 
His  humorous  predominance ;  yea,  watch 
His  pettish  lines,'  his  ebbs,  his  flows,  as  if 
The  passage  and  whole  carriage  of  this  action 
llodc  on  his  tide.     Go,  tell  him  this ;  and  add. 
That,  if  he  overbold  his  price  so  much, 
TVe  '11  none  of  him  ;  but  let  him,  like  an  engine 
Not  portable,  lie  under  this  report — 
Bring  action  hither,  this  cannot  go  to  war  : 
A  stirring  dwarf  we  do  allowance  give 
Before  a  sleeping  giant : — Tell  him  so. 

Fafr.  I  shall :  and  bring  his  answer  presently. 

[Exif. 

Agam.  In  second  voice  we  '11  not  be  satisfied, 

We  come  to   speak  with  him. — Ulysses,  enter 

you.  [Exit  Ulysses. 

Aja-x.  What  is  he  more  than  another  ? 

Agara.  No  more  than  what  he  thinks  he  is. 

Ajax.  Is  he  so  much  ?  Do  you  not  think  he 
thinks  himself  a  better  man  than  I  am  ? 

Agam.  No  question. 

Ajax.  Will  you  subscribe  his  thought,  and  say 
he  is  ? 

Agam.  No,  noble  Ajax ;  you  are  as  strong,  as 
valiant,  as  wise,  no  less  noble,  much  more  gentle, 
and  altogether  more  tractable. 

Ajax.  Why  should  a  man  be  proud  ?  How 
doth  pride  grow  ?    I  know  not  what  pride  is. 

Agam.  Your  mind 's  the  clearer,  Ajax,  and 
your  virtues  the  fairer.  He  that  is  proud  cats 
up  himself:  pride  is  his  own  glass,  his  o\^ti 
trumpet,  his  own  chronicle ;  and  whatever 
praises  itself  but  in  the  deed,  devours  the  deed 
in  the  praise. 

Ajax.  I  do  hate  a  proud  man,  as  I  hate  the 
engendering  of  toads. 

Nest.  Yet  he  loves  himself :  Is  't  not  strange  ? 

[Aside. 
Re-enter  Ulysses. 

Ulgss.  Achilles  will  not  to  the  field  to-morrow. 

Agam.  Wliat  's  his  excuse  ? 

Ulyss.  He  doth  rely  on  none ; 

But  carries  on  the  stream  of  his  dispose. 
Without  observance  or  respect  of  any, 
In  will  peculiar  and  in  self-admission. 

Agam.  Why,  will  he  not,  upon  our  fair  request, 
Untent  his  person,  and  share  the  air  with  us  ? 

Uli/ss.  Things  small  as  nothing,  for  request's 
sake  only. 
He  makes  important :  Possess'd  he  is  with  great- 
ness; 
And  speaks  not  to  himself,  but  with  a  pride 

»  Linrt  In  the  folio.  Hamncr  changed  the  word,  the 
meaning  of  trhich  is  clear  enough,  into  lunct. 

100 


That  quarrels  at  self-breath :  iniagiii'd  worth 
Holds  in  his  blood  such  swoln  and  hot  discourse, 
That,  'twixt  his  mentid  and  his  active  parts, 
Kingdom'd  Achilles  in  commotion  rages. 
And  batters  'gainst  itself."    Wliat  should  I  say  r 
He  is  so  plaguy ''  proud,  that  the  death-tokens  of  it 
Cry — '  1^0  recovery. ' 

Agam.  Let  Ajax  go  to  him. — 

Dear  lord,  go  you  and  greet  him  in  his  tent : 
'T  is  said,  he  holds  you  well ;  and  will  be  led. 
At  your  request,  a  little  from  himself. 

Ul^ss.  O  Agamemnon,  let  it  not  be  so  ! 
We  '11  consecrate  the  steps  that  Ajax  makes 
When  they  go  from  Achilles :    Shall  the  proud 

lord. 
That  bastes  his  arrogance  with  his  own  seam. 
And  never  suffers  matter  of  the  world 
Enter  his  thoughts, — save  such  as  do  revolve 
And  ruminate  himself, — shall  he  be  worshipp'd 
Of  that  we  hold  an  idol  more  than  he  ? 
No,  this  thrice  worthy  and  right  valiant  lord 
!Must  not  so  stale  his  palm,  nobly  acquir'd ; 
Nor,  by  my  will,  assubjugate  liis  merit. 
As  amply  titled  as  Achilles  is. 
By  going  to  Achilles ; 
That  were  to  enlard  his  fat-already  pride ; 
And  add  more  coals  to  Cancer,  when  he  bums 
With  entertaining  great  Hyperion. 
This  lord  go  to  him !  Jupiter  forbid ; 
And  say  in  thunder — 'Achilles  go  to  him.' 

Nest.  0,  this  is  well;    he  rubs  the   vem  of 
him.  [Aside. 

Dio.  And  how  his  silence  drinks  up  this  ap- 
plause !  [Aside. 

Ajax.  If  I  go  to  him,  Avith  my  arm'd  fist  I  '11 
pash  him 
Over  the  face. 

Agam.  0,  no,  you  shall  not  go. 

Ajax.  An  r'  be  proud  with  me,  I  '11  pheeze  his 
pride : 
Let  me  go  to  him. 

Ulyss.  Not  for  the  worth  that  hangs  upon  our 
quarrel. 

Ajax.  A  paltry,  insolent  fellow ! 

Nest.  How  he  describes  himself !  [Aside. 

Ajax.  Can  he  not  be  sociable  ? 

Ulgss,  The  raven  chides  blackness.        [Aside. 

Ajax.  I  '11  let  his  humours  blood. 

Agam.  He  will  be  the  pliysician,  that  should 
be  the  patient.  [Aside. 


*  'Gainst  iUel/li  the  reading  of  the  folio ;  the  quarto,  down 
liimself. 

b  I'laijuy. — Stcevens,  in  his  horror  of  a  line  of  more  than 
ten  syllables,  calls  plapuy  a  "vulgar  epithet, — the  wretched 
interpolation  of  some  foolish  player."  Malone,  with  good 
sense,  says,  "  the  very  word  explains  what  follows, — the 
death-tokens." 


Act  II.] 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Ajax.  An  all  men  were  o'  my  mind ! 

Uli/ss.  Wit  would  be  out  of  fasliiou.     [^Aside. 

Ajax.  A.'  should  not  bear  it  so,  a'  should  eat 
swords  first :  Shall  pride  carry  it  ? 

JVesf.  An't  would,  you'd  carry  half.      \_Aside. 

Ulyss.  He  would  have  ten  shares.         [Aside. 

Ajax.  I  will  knead  him,  I  '11  make  him  supple. 

Nest.  He 's  not  yet  through  warm :  force  him 
with  praises :  Pour  in,  pour  in  ;  his  ambition  is 
dry.  [Aside. 

Ulyss.  My  lord,  you  feed  too  much  on  this 
dislike.  [To  Agamemnon. 

Nest.  Our  noble  general,  do  not  do  so. 

Dio.  You    must    prepare    to    fight    without 
Achilles. 

Uli/ss.  Why,  't  is  this  naming  of  him  does  him 
harm. 
Here  is  a  man — But  't  is  before  his  face ; 
I  will  be  silent. 

Nest.  Wherefore  should  you  so  ? 

He  is  not  emulous,  as  Achilles  is. 

Uli/ss.  Know  the  whole  world,  he  is  as  valiant. 

Ajax.  A  whoreson  dog,  that  shall  palter  thus 
with  lis !  Would  he  were  a  Trojan ! 

Nest.  What  a  vice  were  it  in  Ajax  now — 

Uli/ss.  If  he  were  proud — 

Bio.  Or  covetous  of  praise — 

Uli/ss.  Ay,  or  surly  borne — 

Bio.  Or  strange,  or  self-affected ! 

Uli/ss.  Thank  the  heavens,  lord,  thou  art  of 
sweet  composure; 
Praise  him  that  got  thee,  she   that  gave  thee 

suck : 
Fam'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thrice-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition  : 


But  he  that  disciplin'd  thy  arms  to  fight,  " 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain. 
And  give  him  half :  and,  for  thy  vigour. 
Bull-bearing  ]\Iilo  his  addition  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.     I  will  not  praise  thy  wisdom. 
Which,  like  a  bourn,  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts :  Here  's  Nes- 
tor,— 
Instructed  by  the  antiquary  times, 
lie  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise ; — 
But  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 
As  green  as  Ajax,  and  your  brain  so  tempcr'd, 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Shall  I  call  you  father  ? 

U!i/is.  Ay,  my  good  son.'' 

Bio.  Be  rul'd  by  him,  lord  Ajax. 

Uli/ss.  There   is  no  tarrying  here;   the   hart 
Achilles 
Keeps  thicket.     Please  it  our  great  general 
To  call  together  aU  his  state  of  war ; 
Fresh  kings  are  come  to  Troy :  To-morrow, 
We  must  with  all  our  main  of  power  stand  fast : 
And  here 's  a  lord, — come  knights  from  east  to 

west. 
And  cull  their  flower,  Ajax  shall  cope  the  best. 

Agam.  Go  we  to  council.     Let  Achilles  sleep : 

Light   boats   sail  swift,  though  greater  hulks 

draw  deep.  [E.veunt. 


»  The  folio  gives  tliis  line  to  Ulysses;  the  quarto  to 
NestMJr.  We  believe  that  the  fono,  in  this  instance,  is  not 
to  be  hastily  superseded,  because  Nestor  was  an  old  man. 
In  Shakspere's  time  it  was  the  highest  compliment  to  call  a 
man  whose  wit  or  learning  was  reverenced,  father.  Ben 
JoDson  had  thus  his  sons.  The  (lattery  of  Ulysses  has  won 
the  heart  of  Aja.x;  Nestor  has  said  nothing. 


[Cassandra.] 


[Phrygian  Shields,  Quivers,  and  Battle  Axes.] 


ILLUSTEATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


'  Scene  I. — "Tlie  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee"  <Lc. 

TnERsrrE3  has  been  termed  by  Coleridge  "the 
Caliban  of  demagogic  life;"  and  he  goes  on  to  de- 
scribe him  as  "the  admirable  portrait  of  intellectual 
power  deserted  by  all  grace,  all  moral  principle,  all 
not  momentary  impulse ;  j  ust  wise  enough  to  detect 
the  weak  head,  and  fool  enough  to  provoke  the 
armed  fist,  of  his  betters."  This  is  the  Thersites 
of  Shakspere ;  he  of  Homer  is  merely  a  deformed 
jester.  The  wonderful  finished  portrait  is  made 
out  of  the  slightest  of  sketches  : — 

"  All  sat,  and  audience  gave; 

Thersites  only  would  speak  all.     A  most  disorder'd  store 

Of  words  he  foolishly  pour'd  out;  of  which  his  mind  held 
more 

Than  it  could  manage;  anything  with  which  he  could  pro- 
cure 

Laughter,  he  never  could  contain.   He  should  have  yet  been 
sure 

To  touch  no  kings.     T'  oppose  their  states  becomes  not 
jesters'  parts. 

Dut  he  the  filthiest  fellow  was  of  all  that  had  deserts 
102 


In  Troy's  brave  siege:   he  was  squint-eyed,  and  lame  o( 

either  foot : 
So  crook-back'd  that  he  had  no  breast:  sharp-headed,  where 

did  shoot 
(Here  and  there  sperst)  thin  mossy  hair.    He  most  of  all 

envied 
Ulysses  and  .SlaciJes,  whom  still  his  spleen  would  chide j. 
Nor  could  the  sacred  king  himself  avoid  his  saucy  vein, 
Against  whom,  since  he  knew  the  Greeks  did  vehement 

hates  sustain, 
(Being  angry  for  Achilles'  wrong,)  he  cried  out,  railing 

thus: — 
'  Atrides,   why   complain'st    thou    nowf    what  wouldst 

thou  more  of  us? 
Thy  tents  are  full  of  brass,  and  dames ;  the  choice  of  all  are 

thine : 
With  whom  we  must  present  thee  first,  when  any  towns 

resign 
To  our  invasion.    Wan'st  thou  then  (besides  all  this)  more 

gold 
From  Troy's  knights,  to  redeem  their  sons?  whom,  to  bi 

dearly  sold, 
I,  or  some  other  Greek,  must  lake?  or  wouldst  thou  yci 

again 
Force  from  some  other  lord  his  prize,  to  soothe  the  lustj 

that  reign 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  II. 


In  thy  encroaching  appetite?    It  fits  no  prince  to  be 

A  prince  of  ill,  and  govern  us ;  or  lead  our  progeny 

By  rape  to  ruin.     O  base  Greeks,  deserving  infamy, 

And  ills  eternal !  Greekish  girls,  not  Greeks,  ye  are :  Come, 

fly 
Home  with  our  ships ;  leave  this  man  here,  to  perish  with 

his  preys. 
And  try  if  we  help'd  him,  or  not:  he  wrong'd  a  man  that 

weighs 
Far  more  than  he  himself  in  worth:  he  forc'd  from  Thetis' 

son. 
And  keeps  his  prize  still :    nor  think  I  that  mighty  man 

hath  won 
The  style  of  wrathful  worthily ;  he 's  soft,  he 's  too  remiss. 
Or  else,  Atrides,  his  had  been  thy  last  of  injuries.' 
Thus  he  the  people's  pastor  chid ;  but  straight  stood  up  to 

him 
Divine  Ulysses,  who,  with  looks  exceeding  grave  and  grim, 
This  bitter  check  gave:    'Cease,  vain  fool,  to  vent  thy 

railing  vein 
On  kings  thus,  though  it  serve  thee  well;  nor  think  thou 

canst  restrain 
With  that  thy  railing  faculty,  their  wills  in  least  degree, 
For  not  a  worse,  of  all  this  host,  came  with  our  king  than 

thee 
To  Troy's  great  siege  :  then  do  not  take  into  that  mouth  of 

thine 
The  names  of  kings,  much  less  revile  tlie  dignities  that 

shine 
In  their  supreme  states ;  wresting  thus  this  motion  for  our 

home 
To  soothe  thy  cowardice;   since  ourselves  yet  know  not 

what  will  come 
Of  these  designmcnts,— if  it  be  our  good  to  stay  or  go: 
Nor  is  it  that  thou  stand'st  on ;  thou  revil'st  our  general 

so; 
Only  because  he  hath  so  much,  not  given  by  such  as  thou, 
But  by  our  heroes.    Therefore  this  thy  rude  vein  makes  me 

vow 
(Which  shall  be  curiously  observ'd),  if  ever  I  shall  hear 
This  madness  from  thy  mouth  again,  let  not  Ulysses  l)ear 
This  head,  nor  be  the  father  call'd  of  young  Telemachus, 
If  to  thy  nakedness  I  take  and  strip  thee  not,  and  thus 
Whip  thee  to  fleet  from  council;  send,  with  sharp  stripes, 

weeping  hence, 
This  glory  thou  alTect'st  to  rail.'    This  said,  his  insolence 


He  settled  with  his  sceptre,  strook  his  back  and  shoulders  so 
That  bloody  wales  rose :   he  shrunk  round,  and  from  hia 

eyes  did  flow 
Moist  tears  ;  and,  looking  filthily,  he  sat,  fear'd,  smarted ; 

dried 
His  blubber'd  cheeks ;  and  all  the  press  (though  griev'd  to 

be  denied 
Their  wish'd  retreat  for  home)  yet  laugh'd  delightsomely, 

and  spake 
Either  to  other."  (Chapman's  '  Homer,'  Book  ii.) 

^  Scene  II. — "  You  are  for  dreams  and  slumbers, 
hrother  priest." 

From  his  '  Homer '  Shakspere  turned  to  the  old 
Gothic  romancer,  and  there  he  found  the  reproach 
of  Troilus  to  Helenus,  in  the  following  very  cha- 
racteristic passage : — 

"  Then  arose  up  on  his  feet  Troylus,  the  youngest 
son  of  King  Pryamus,  and  began  to  speak  in  this 
manner : — 0  noblemen  and  hardy,  how  be  ye 
abashed  for  the  words  of  this  cowardly  priest  here  ? 
*  *  *  If  Helenus  be  afraid,  let  him  go  into  the 
Temple,  and  sing  the  divine  service,  and  let  the 
other  take  revenge  of  their  injurious  wrongs  by 
strength  and  force  of  arms.  *  *  *  AH  they  that 
heard  Troylus  thus  speak  allowed  him,  saying 
that  he  had  very  well  spoken.  And  thus  they 
finished  their  parliament,  and  went  to  dinner." 

^  Scene  III. — "  The  elepliant  hath  joints"  <i:c. 

Up  to  the  time  when  Sir  Thomas  Brown  wrote 
his  'Vulgar  Errors  '  (aboitt  1670),  there  was  a  pre- 
vailing opinion  that  the  elephant  had  no  joints, 
and  that  it  could  not  lie  down.  Its  joints,  accord- 
ing to  the  passage  before  \\a,  were  not  "  for  flexure." 
Sir  T.  Brown  refutes  the  error  by  appealing  to  the 
experience  of  those  who  had  "'not  many  years 
past"  seen  an  elephant  in  England,  "kneeling, 
and  lying  down." 


[Head  of  Park-.] 


Ii 
1  ! 


[ScESE  I.    ITelen  unarming  Hector.] 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— Troy.     J  Room  in  Priam'5  Palace. 


Enter  Pandartjs  and  a  Servant. 


Do 


Pan.  Friend !   you !    pray  you,  a  word 
not  you  follow  the  yoimg  lord  Paris  ? 

Sen.  Ay,  sir,  when  he  goes  before  lue. 

Pan.  You  depend  upon  him,  I  mean. 

Sere.  Sir,  I  do  depend  upon  the  lord. 

Pan.  You  depend  upon  a  noble  gentleman; 
1  must  needs  praise  him. 

Sere.  The  lord  be  praised ! 

Pan.  You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  'Faith,  sir,  superficially. 

Pan.  Friend,  know  mc  better ;  I  am  the  lord 
Pandarus. 

Serv.  I  hope  I  shall  know  your  honour  better. 

Pan.  I  do  dcsiic  it. 
104 


Sere.  You  arc  in  the  state  of  grace 

[^Iimc  within. 

Pan.  Grace !    not    so,    friend ;    honour    and 
lordship  are  my  titles  : — What  music  is  this  ? 

Sere.  I  do  but  partly  know,  sir ;  it  is  music 
in  parts. 

Pan.  Know  you  the  musicians  ? 

Sere.  TTholly,  sir. 

Pan.  "Who  play  they  to  ? 

Sere.  To  the  hearers,  sir. 

Pan.  At  whose  pleasure,  friend  ? 

Sere.  At  mine,  sir,  and  theirs  that  love  music. 

Pan.  Command,  I  mean,  friend. 

Serv.  Who  shall  I  command,  sir  ? 

Pan.  Friend,  we  understand  not  one  another ; 
[  am  too  courtly,  and  thou  art  too  cunning :  At 
whose  request  do  these  men  play  ? 


Act  Ill.l 


TEOILUS   AND    CRESSIDvV. 


[SCEKE  1. 


Sero.  Tliat  's  to  't,  indeed,  sir :  Marry,  sir,  at 
the  request  of  Paris  my  lord,  who's  there  iu 
person ;  with  him,  the  mortal  Venus,  the  heart- 
blood  of  beauty,  love's  invisible  soul, — 

Pan.  Who,  my  cousin  Cressida  ? 

Sen.  No,  sir,  Helen ;  could  you  not  find  out 
that  by  her  attributes  ? 

Pan.  It  should  seem,  fellow,  that  thou  hast 
not  seen  the  lady  Cressida.  I  come  to  speak 
with  Paris  from  the  prince  Troilus :  I  will  make 
a  complimeutal  assault  upon  him,  for  my  business 
seeths. 

Serv.  Sodden  business !  there 's  a  stewed 
phrase,  indeed ! 

Enter  Pakis  and  Helen,  attended. 

Pan.  Fair  be  to  you,  my  lord,  and  to  all  this 
fair  company !  fair  desires,  in  all  fair  measure, 
faii-ly  guide  them  !  especially  to  you,  fair  queen  ! 
fair  thoughts  be  your  fair  pillow  ! 

Helen.  Dear  lord,  you  are  full  of  fair  words. 

Pan.  You  speak  your  fail*  pleasure,  sweet 
queen.     Pair  prince,  here  is  good  bioken  music. 

Par.  You  have  broke  it,  cousin :  and,  by  my 
life,  you  shall  make  it  whole  again ;  you  shall 
piece  it  out  with  a  piece  of  youi"  performance  : 
— NeU,  he  is  full  of  harmony. 

Pan.  Truly,  lady,  no. 

Helen.  O,  sir, — 

Pan.  Rude,  in  sooth;  iu  good  sooth,  very 
rude. 

Pan.  Well  said,  my  lord  !  well,  you  say  so  iu 
fits. 

Pan.  I  have  business  to  my  lord,  dear  queen : — 
My  lord,  will  you  vouchsafe  me  a  word  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  this  shall  not  hedge  us  out :  we  '11 
hear  you  sing,  certainly. 

Par.  Well  sweet  queen,  you  are  pleasant 
with  me. — But,  marry,  thus,  my  lord, — My 
dear  lord,  and  most  esteemed  friend,  your  brother 
Troilus— 

Helen.  My  lord  Pandarus ;  honey-sweet 
lord, — 

Pan.  Go  to,  sweet  queen,  go  to  : — commends 
himself  most  affectionately  to  you. 

Helen.  You  shall  not  bob  us  out  of  our 
melody:  If  you  do,  our  melancholy  upon  youi- 
head! 

Pan.  Sweet  queen,  sweet  queen;  that's  a 
sweet  queen,  i'  faith. 

Helen.  And  to  make  a  sweet  lady  sad  is  a 
sour  offence. 

Pan.  Nay,  that  shall  not  serve  your  tui-n; 
that  shall  it  not,  iu  truth,  la.  Nay,  I  care  not 
for  such  words:   no,  no.— And,   my   lord,   he 


desii'es  you,  that  if  the  king  call  for  him  at  sup- 
per you  will  make  his  excuse. 

Helen.  My  lord  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen, — my  very 
very  sweet  queen  ? 

Par.  What  exploit 's  iu  hand  ?  where  sups  he 
to-night  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  but  my  lord, — 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen? — My  cousin 
win  faU  out  with  you.  You  must  not  know 
where  he  sups. 

Par.  [I'll  lay  my  life,"]  with  my  disposer 
Cressida. 

Pan.  No,  no,  no  such  matter,  you  are  wide ; 
come,  your  disposer  is  sick. 

Par.  Well,  I  '11  make  excuse. 

Pan.  Ay,  good  my  lord.  Why  should  you 
say  Cressida  ?  no,  youi-  poor  disposer 's  sick. 

Par.  I  spy. 

Pan.  You  spy !  what  do  you  spy  ? — Come, 
give  me  an  instrument. — Now,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Why,  this  is  kiudly  done. 

Pan.  My  niece  is  horribly  in  love  with  a  thuig 
you  have,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  She  shall  liave  it,  my  lord,  if  it  be  not 
my  lord  Paris. 

Pan.  He  !  no,  she  '11  none  of  him ;  they  two 
are  twain. 

Helen.  Palling  in,  after  falling  out,  may  make 
them  three. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  I  '11  hear  no  more  of  this  ; 
I  'U  sing  you  a  song  now. 

Helen.  Ay,  ay,  prithee  now.  By  my  troth, 
sweet  lord,  thou  hast  a  fine  forehead. 

Pan.  Ay,  you  may,  you  may. 

Helen.  Let  thy  song  be  love:  this  love  will 
undo  us  all.     O,  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid ! 

Pan.  Love !  ay,  that  it  shall,  i'  faith. 

Par.  Ay,  good  now,  love,  love,  nothmg  but 
love. 

Pan.  In  good  troth,  it  begins  so  : 

Love,  love,  nothing  but  love,  still  more  I 

For,  oh,  love's  bow 

Shoots  buck  and  doe : 

The  shaft  confounds, 

Not  that  it  wounds, 
But  tickles  still  the  sore. 

These  lovers  cry— Oh  !  oh  !  they  die ! 

Yet  that  -which  seems  the  wound  to  kill. 
Doth  turn  oh  !  oh !  to  ha !  ha !  hu  I 

So  dying  love  lives  still  : 
Oh  !  oh  !  a  while,  but  ha  !  ha!  ha! 
Oh  !  oh  !  groans  out  for  ha  !  ha !  ha  I 

Ilcy  ho  ! 


The  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 

105 


Act  III.] 


TEOILUS   AKD   CEESSIDA. 


[SCEIIE   II. 


Helen.  In  love,  i'  faith,  to  the  very  tip  of  the 
nose. 

Par.  He  eats  nothing  but  doves,  love;  and 
that  breeds  hot  blood,  and  hot  blood  begets  hot 
thoughts,  and  hot  thoughts  beget  hot  deeds,  and 
hot  deeds  is  love. 

Tan.  Is  this  the  generation  of  love?  hot  blood, 
hot  thoughts,  and  hot  deeds? — "Wliy,  they  are 
vipers :  Is  love  a  generation  of  vipers  ?  Sweet 
lord,  who 's  atield  to-day  ? 

Par.  Heetor,  Deiphobus,  Ilelcnus,  iVnlcuor, 
and  all  the  gallantry  of  Troy :  I  woidd  fain  have 
armed  to-day,  but  my  Nell  would  not  have  it  so. 
How  chance  my  brother  Troilus  went  not  ? 

Helen.  He  hangs  the  lip  at  something ; — you 
know  all,  lord  Pandarns. 

Pan.  Not  I,  honey-sweet  queen. — I  long  to 
hear  how  they  sped  to-day. — You'll  remember 
your  brother's  excuse  ? 

Par.  To  a  hair. 

Pan.  Farewell,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Commend  me  to  your  niece. 

Pan.  I  will,  sweet  queen.  [^Exit. 

[A  retreat  sounded. 

Par.  They  are  come  from  field :   let  us  to 
Priam's  hall. 
To  greet  the  warriors.    Sweet  Helen,  I  must 

woo  you 
To  help  unarm  our  Hector :  his  stubborn  buckles, 
"With  these  your  white  enchanting  fingers  touch'd, 
Shall  more  obey,  than  to  the  edge  of  steel, 
Or  force  of  Greekish  sinews ;  you  shall  do  more 
Than  all  the  island  kings,  disarm  great  Hector. 

Helen.  'T  vrill  make  us  proud  to  be  his  servant, 
Paris: 
Yea,  what  he  shall  receive  of  us  in  duty 
Gives  us  more  palm  in  beauty  than  we  have ; 
Yea,  overshines  ourself. 

Par.  Sweet,  above  thought  I  love  thee." 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Troy.    Pandarus'  Orchard. 

Enter  Paxdarus  and  a  Servant,  meeting. 

Pan.  How  now  ?  where 's  thy  master  ?  at  my 
cousin  Crcssida's  ? 

Serv.  No,  sir;  he  stays  for  you  to  conduct 
him  thither. 

Enter  TnoiLUS. 

Pan.  O,  here  he  comes. — How  now,  how  now? 


»  The  readinR  of  the  quarto  is  "  Sweet,  above  thought  I 
lore  Aer,"  and  the  speech  is  there  correctly  given  to  Paris. 
Thee  is  the  reading  of  the  folio,  and  the  words  incorrectly 
conclude  the  speech  of  Helen. 

106 


Tfo.  Sirrah,  walk  off.  [Exit  Servant. 

Pan.  Have  you  seen  my  cousin  ? 

Ti-o.  No,  Pandarus :  I  stalk  about  her  door, 
Like  a  strange  soul  upon  the  Stygian  banks 
Staying  for  waftage.    O,  be  thou  my  Charon, 
And  give  me  swift  transportance  to  those  fields 
Where  I  may  wallow  in  the  lily  beds 
Propos'd  for  the  deserver !  0  gentle  Pandarus, 
From  Cupid's  shoulder  pluck  his  painted  wings, 
And  fly  with  mc  to  Cressid ! 

Pan.  A\'alk  here  i'  the  orchard,  I  '11  bring  her 
straight.  [E.vit  Paudakus. 

Tro.  I    am    giddy;    expectation    wliirls    me 
round. 
The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchanth  my  sense.    What  will  it  be, 
Wlien  that  the  wat'ry  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrice  repured"  nectar  ?  death,  1  fear  me ; 
Swooning  destruction ;  or  some  joy  too  fine, 
Too  subtle-potent,  and  too  sharp  in  sweetness, 
For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers : 
I  fear  it  much ;  and  I  do  fear  besides. 
That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  joys ; 
As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flying. 

Re-enter  Paxdauus. 

Pan.  She's  making  her  ready,  she'll  come 
straight :  yon  must  be  witty  now.  She  docs  so 
blush,  and  fetches  her  wind  so  short,  as  if  she 
were  frayed  with  a  sprite  :  I  '11  fetch  her.  It  is 
the  prettiest  villain : — she  fetches  her  breath  so 
short  as  a  new-ta'en  sparrow.    [E.vit  Pa:xdaiius. 

Tro.  Even  such  a  passion  doth  embrace  my 
bosom  : 
My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse  ; 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose, 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  eneount'ring 
The  eye  of  majesty. 

Enter  Paj.dab.vs  and  Cressida. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  what  need  you  blush  ? 
shame 's  a  baby. — Here  she  is  now  :  swear  the 
oaths  now  to  her  that  you  have  sworn  to  me. — 
AVTiat,  are  you  gone  again  ?  you  must  be  watched 
ere  you  be  made  tame,  must  you?  Come  your 
ways,  come  your  ways ;  an  you  draw  backward, 
we'U  put  you  i'  the  fills. — Why  do  you  not  speak 
to  her? — Come,  draw  this  curtain,  and  let's  see 
your  picture.  Alas  the  day,  how  loth  you  are 
to  offend  daylight !  an  't  were  dark  you  'd  close 
sooner.  So,  so ;  rub  on,  and  kiss  the  mistress. 
How    now,   a    kiss   in  fcc-f;u-m !    build  there, 


a  Thrice  rrpurrd  in  the  quarto  of  1609 — that  is  thrice  rc- 
puriticd.    The  folio  ha3  thrice  reputed. 


Act  in.] 


TEOILUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


[SCEKE   II. 


carpenter;  the  ak  is  sweet.  Nay,  you  sliall 
fight  youi'  hearts  out  ere  I  part  you.  The  falcou 
as  the  tercel,  for  all  the  ducks  i'  the  river :  go 
to,  go  to. 

Tro.  You  have  bereft  me  of  all  words,  lady. 

Tan.  Words  pay  no  debts,  give  her  deeds : 
but  she  '11  bereave  you  of  the  deeds  too,  if  she 
call  your  activity  in  question.  What,  billing 
again  ?  Here 's^'  In  witness  whereof  the  parties 
interchangeably' — Come  in,  come  in;  I'll  go 
get  a  fire.  \Ilxit  Pandakus. 

Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Tro.  0  Cressida,  how  often  have  I  wish'd  me 
thus? 

Ores.  Wish'd,  my  lord  ? — The  gods  grant ! — 
0  my  lord ! 

Tro.  What  should  they  grant?  what  makes 
this  pretty  abruption?  What  too  curious  di-eg 
espies  my  sweet  lady  in  the  fountain  of  our 
love  ? 

Cres.  More  di'egs  than  water,  if  my  fears  have 
eyes. 

Tro,  Eears  make  devils  of  cherubins ;  they 
never  see  truly. 

Cres.  Blind  fear,  that  seeing  reason  leads, 
finds  safer  footing  than  blind  reason  stumbling 
without  fear :  To  fear  the  worst  oft  cures  the 
worse. 

Tro.  0,  let  my  lady  apprehend  no  fear :  in 
all  Cupid's  pageant  there  is  presented  no  mon- 
ster. 

Cres.  Nor  nothing  monstrous  neither  ? 

Tro.  Nothing,  but  our  undertakings ;  when 
we  vow  to  weep  seas,  live  in  fire,  eat  rocks,  tame 
tigers;  thinking  it  harder  for  our  mistress  to 
devise  imposition  enough,  than  for  us  to  undergo 
any  difficulty  imposed.  This  is  the  moustruosity 
in  love,  lady, — that  the  will  is  infinite,  and  the 
execution  confined  ;  that  the  desire  is  boundless, 
and  the  act  a  slave  to  limit. 

Cres.  They  say,  all  lovers  swear  more  per- 
formance than  they  are  able,  and  yet  reserve  an 
ability  that  they  never  perform ;  vowing  more 
than  the  perfection  of  ten,  and  discharging  less 
than  the  tenth  part  of  one.  They  that  have  the 
voice  of  Hons,  and  the  act  of  hares,  are  they  not 
monsters  ? 

Tro.  Are  there  such  ?  such  are  not  we : 
Praise  us  as  we  are  tasted,  allow  us  as  we  prove ; 
our  head  shall  go  bare  till  merit  crown  it:  no 
perfection  in  reversion  shall  have  a  praise  in 
present:  we  will  not  name  desert  before  his 
birth;  and,  being  bora,  his  addition  shall  be 
humble.  Pew  words  to  fair  faith :  TroUus  shall 
be  such  to  Cressid,  as  what  envy  can  say  worst 


shall  be  a  mock  for  his  truth ;  and  what  trulh 
can  speak  truest,  not  truer  than  Troilus. 
Cres.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Re-enter  Pandauus, 

Tan.  What,  blushing  stdl  ?  have  you  not  done 
talking  yet  ? 

Cres.  Well,  uncle,  what  folly  I  commit  I 
dedicate  to  you. 

Tan.  I  thank  you  for  that ;  if  my  lord  get  a 
boy  of  you,  you  '11  give  him  me :  Be  true  to  mj 
lord :  if  he  flinch,  chide  me  for  it. 

Tro.  You  know  now  your  hostages;  your 
uncle's  word,  and  my  firm  faith. 

Tan.  Nay,  I  '11  give  my  word  for  her  too ;  our 
kindred,  though  they  be  long  ere  they  are  wooed, 
they  are  constant,  being  won:  they  are  burs, 
I  can  tell  you;  they'll  stick  where  they  are 
thrown. 

Cres.  Boldness  comes  to  me  now,  and  brings 
me  heart : 
Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day, 
For  many  weary  months. 

Tro.  Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to 
win? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won ;  but  I  was  won,  my 
lord. 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever — Pardon  me ; — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  wiU  play  the  tyi'ant. 
I  love  you  now ;  but  not,  till  now,  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it : — in  faith,  I  lie ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  childi-en,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother :  See,  we  fools  ! 
Wby  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us. 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man; 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of    speaking  first.      Sweet,   bid  me  hold  my 

tongue ; 
For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See,  see,  youi-  silence. 
Cunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  di-aws 
My  soul  of  counsel  from  me :  ^  Stop  my  mouth. 

Tro.  And   shall,    albeit   sweet    music    issues 
thence. 

Tan.  Pretty,  i'  faith. 

Cres.  My  lord,  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me : 
'T  was  not  my  piu'pose  thus  to  beg  a  kiss : 
I    am    asham'd;— 0    heavens!    what    have    i 

done  ? — 
For  this  time  will  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Tro.  Your  leave,  sweet  Cressid  ? 

•T  So  the  folio;  the  quarto,  mij  very  soul  ofcou:isfL 

107 


Act  III.] 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


[SCEKE    III. 


Pa7i.  Leave  !  au  you  lak«  leave  till  to-morrow 
luoniing, — 

Cres.  Pray  you,  content  you. 

Tro.  What  offends  you,  lady  ? 

Cres.  Sir,  mine  owu  company. 

Tro.  You  caimot  slum 

Yourself. 

Cres.  Let  me  go  and  tiy : 
I  have  a  kind  of  self  resides  with  you : 
But  an  unkind  self,  that  itself  will  leave. 
To  be  another's  fool.     "Where  is  my  wit  ? 
1  would  be  gone : — I  speak  I  know  not  what." 

Tro.  Well  know  they  what  they  speak  that 
speak  so  wisely. 

Cres.  rcrchancc,  my  lord,  I  show  more  craft 
than  love : 
And  fell  so  roiyully  to  a  large  confession. 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts  :  But  you  are  wise ; 
Or  else  you  love  not :  I'or  to  be  wise,  and  love, 
Exceeds  man's  might;    that  dwells  with  gods 
above. 

Tro.  O,  tliat  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman, 
(As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you,) 
To  feed  for  aye  licr  lamp  and  flames  of  love ; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  pliglit  and  youth, 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays  ! 
Or,  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me. 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  affronted  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnowed  piu'ity  in  love; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted  !  but,  alas, 
I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity. 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  trath. 

Cres.  In  that  I  '11  war  with  you. 

Tro.  0  virtuous  fight. 

When  right  with  right  wars  who  shall  be  most 

right ! 
True  swains  in  love  shall,  in  the  world  to  come, 
Approve  their  truths  by  Troilus:    when  their 

rhymes. 
Full  of  protest,  of  oath,  and  big  compare, 
Want  similes,  truth  tir'd  with  iteration,— 
As  true  as  steel,  as  plantage  to  the  moon, 
\s  sun  to  day,  as  turtle  to  her  mate. 
As  iron  to  adamant,  as  eartli  to  the  centre,— 
Yet,  after  all  comparisons  of  truth, 
As  truth's  authentic  author  to  be  cited. 
As  true  as  Troilus  shall  crown  up  the  verse. 
And  sanctify  the  numbers. 

Cres.  Prophet  may  you  be ! 

If  I  be  false,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth. 
When  time  is  old  and  hath  forgot  itself, 


*  Wc  follow  the  reading  of  the  folio, 
transpoied  in  the  quarto. 

103 


The  sentences  are 


Wlien  waterdrops  have  woru  the  stones  of  Troy, 

And  blind  oblivion  swallow'd  cities  up. 

And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 

To  dusty  nothing ;  yet  let  memory 

From  false  to  false,  among  false  maids  in  love. 

Upbraid  my  falsehood  !  when  they  have  said,  as 

false 
As  air,  as  water,  wind,  or  sandy  earth, 
Ab  fox  to  lamb,  or  wolf  to  heifer's  calf, 
Pard  to  the  hind,  or  stepdame  to  her  son; 
Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood. 
As  false  as  Crcssid, 

Fan.  Go  to,  a  bargain  made :  seal  it,  seal  it ; 
I  '11  be  the  witness. — Here  I  hold  your  hand : 
here,  my  cousin's.  If  ever  you  prove  false  one 
to  another,  since  I  have  taken  such  pains  to  bring 
you  together,  let  all  pitiful  goers-between  be 
called  to  the  world's  end  after  my  name,  call 
them  all— Pandars;  let  all  constant  men  be 
Troiluses,  all  false  women  Cressids,  and  all 
brokers-between  Pandars  !  say,  amen. 

Tro.  Amen. 

Cres.  Amen. 

Pan.  Amen.  Whereupon  I  will  shosv  you  a 
chamber,  which  bed,  because  it  shall  not  speak 
of  your  pretty  encounters,  press  it  to  death : 
away. 

And  Cupid  grant  all  tongue-tied  maidens  here. 

Bed,  chamber,  and  I'andar  to   provide  this 
gear !  [E.Teunt. 

SCENE  111.— The  Grecian  Camp. 

Enter  Agamemnox,  Ulysses,  Diomedes,  Nes- 
TOE,  Ajax,  Menelatjs,  and  Calcuas. 

Cal.  Now,  princes,  for  the  service  I  have  done 

you. 
The  advantage  of  the  time  prompts  me  aloud 
To   call   for  recompense.     Appear   it  to  your 

mind. 
That,  through  the  sight  I  bear  in  things  to  love," 
I  have  abandou'd  Troy,  loft  my  possession, 
Tncurr'd  a  traitor's  name  ;  expos'd  myself. 
From  certain  and  possess'd  conveniences. 
To  doubtful  fortunes ;  ^  scqucst'ring  from  me  all 
That  time,  acquaintance,  custom,  and  condition. 
Made  tame  and  most  familiar  to  my  nature ; 
And  here,  to  do  you  service,  am  become 
As  new  into  the  world,  strange,  luiacquaintcd  : 


«  The  meaning  apjicars  to  us  sufficiently  clear— through 
my  prescience  in  knowing  wliat  things  I  should  love.  The 
conjeclui.il  reading,  unsupported  by  any  authority,  is— 

"  That,  through  the  sight  1  bear  in  things,  to  Jove 
1  have  abandon'd  Troy." 
This  is  the  favourite  reading  of  Mr.  Dyce. 


Act  III.] 


TEOILUS   AJN^D   CRESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


I  do  beseech  you,  as  iu  way  of  taste. 
To  give  me  uow  a  little  beuefit, 
Out  of  those  many  register'd  in  promise, 
Which  you  say  live  to  come  in  my  beluilf. 

Agctm.  What  wouldst    thou   of  us,  Trojan  ? 

make  demand. 
Cal.  You  have  a   Trojan  prisoner,  call'd  An- 
tenor, 
Yesterday  took  ;  Troy  holds  him  very  dear. 
Oft  have  you  (often  have  you  thanks  therefore) 
Desir'd  my  Cressid  iu  right  great  exchange, 
Whom  Troy  hath  still  denied :  But  this  Antenor, 
I  know,  is  such  a  wrest  in  their  aifairs. 
That  their  negotiations  all  must  slack. 
Wanting  his  manage ;  and  they  will  almost 
Give  us  a  prince  of  blood,  a  son  of  Priam, 
In  change  of  him :  let  him  be  sent,  great  princes. 
And  he  shall  buy  my  daughter;  and  her  pre- 
sence 
Shall  quite  strike  off  all  service  I  have  done, 
In  most  accepted  pain. 

Again.  Let  Diomedes  bear  him, 

x\nd  bring  us  Cressid  hither ;  Calchas  shall  have 
What  he  requests  of  us. — Good  Diomed, 
Furnish  you  fairly  for  this  interchange  : 
Withal,  bring  word,  if  Hector  will  to-morrow 
Be  answer'd  in  his  challenge  :  Ajax  is  ready. 

Bio.  This    shall    I   undertake;    and   'tis    a 
burthen 
Wliich  I  am  proud  to  bear, 

{E.veunt  Diomedes  and  Calchas. 

Elder  Achilles  and  Patkoclus,  before  their 
Tent. 

JJlyss.  Achilles  stands  i'  the  entrance  of  his 
tent : — 
Please  it  our  general  to  pass  strangely  by  him, 
As  if  he  were  forgot ;  and,  princes  all, 
Lay  negligent  and  loose  regard  upon  him : 
I  will  come  last :  'T  is  like,  he  '11  question  me, 
"Wliy  such  nnplausive  eyes  are  bent,  why  turn'd 

on  him : 
If  so,  1  have  derision  medicinable, 
To  use  between  your  strangeness  and  his  pride. 
Which  his  own  will  shall  have  desire  to  drink ; 
It  may  do  good  :  pride  hath  no  other  glass 
To  show  itself,  but  pride ;  for  supple  knees 
Feed  arrogance  and  are  the  proud  man's  fees. 
Again.  We'll  execute  your  purpose,  and  put 

on 
A  form  of  strangeness  as  we  pass  along ; — 
So  do  each  lord ;  and  either  greet  him  not. 
Or   else    disdainfully,    which   shall    shake   him 

more 
Than  if  not  look'd  on.    I  wiU  lead  the  way. 


Achil.  What,  comes  the  general  to  speak  with 
me  ? 
You  know  my  miud,  I  '11  fight  no  more  'gainst 
Troy. 
Agar,!.  What  says  Achilles?  would  he  aught 

with  us  ? 
Nest.  Would  you,    my  lord,  aught  with  the 

general  ? 
Acliil.  No. 

Nest.  Nothing,  niy  lord. 
Agam.  The  better.  . 

[E.reunf  Agamemnon  and  Nestor. 
Ac/iil.  Good  day,  good  day. 
Men.  How  do  you  ?  h.ow  do  you  ? 

lEvit  Menelal's. 
Aciil,  Wliat,  does  the  cuckold  scoi-n  me  ? 
AJa.v.  How  now,  Patroclus  ? 
Ac/iil.  Good  morrow,  Ajax. 
AJa.T.  Ha? — • 
Ac/iil.  Good  morrow. 
AJa.T.  Ay,  and  good  next  day  too. 

[Edit  Ajax. 
Achil.  What  mean  these  fellows  ?  Know  they 

not  Achilles  ? 
Patr.  They  pass  by  strangely  :  they  were  us'd 
to  bend. 
To  send  their  smiles  before  them  to  AchUles ; 
To  come  as  humbly  as  they  us'd  to  creep 
To  holy  altars. 

Achit.  What,  am  I  poor  of  late  ? 

'T  is  certain,  greatness,  once  fallen  out  with  for- 
tune. 
Must  fall  out  with  men  too :  "VYhat  the  declin'd  is^ 
He  shall  as  soon  read  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
As  feel  in  his  o\vn  fall :  for  men,  like  butterflies. 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings  but  to  the  summer ; 
And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man. 
Hath  any  honour ;  but  honour  for  those  honom-s 
That  are  without  him,   as   place,   riches,    aud 

favom', 
Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit : 
Which,  when  they  fall,  as  being  slippery  standers. 
The  love  that  lean'd  on  them  as  slippery  too. 
Do  one  pluck  do^vn  another,  and  together 
Die  in  the  fall.     But  't  is  not  so  with  me : 
Fortune  and  I  are  friends ;  I  do  enjoy 
At  ample  point  all  that  I  did  possess. 
Save  these  men's  looks  :  who  do,  mctliinks,  find 

out 
Something  not  worth  iu  me  such  rich  beholding 
As  thev  have  often  given.    Here  is  Ulysses ; 
I  '11  interrupt  his  reading. — 
How  noWjUlysses  ? 

Vlyss.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son  ! 

Achil.  What  are  you  reading  ? 

10? 


Act  III.] 


TEOILUS   iVND   CEESSLDA. 


[Scene  111. 


Uli/ss.  A  stmngc  fellow  here 

Writes  mc,  That  mau,  how  deai-ly  ever  parted," 
How  much  ia  having,  or  mthout,  or  iu, 
Caimot  make  boast  to  have  that  wliich  he  hath, 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  rcdcctiou  ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shiniug  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Achil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses. 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here  in  the  face 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commends  itself 
[To  others'  eyes  :  nor  doth  the  eye  itself 
(That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense)  behold  itself,'"] 
Not  going  from  itself;  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'd 
Salutes  each  other  with  each  other's  form. 
For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself, 
TiU  it  hath  travell'd,  and  is  married  "^  I  here 
ATlicre  it  may  see  itself:  this  is  not  strange  at  all. 

Uli/ss.  I  do  not  strain  at  the  position, 
It  is  familiar ;  but  at  the  author's  drift  : 
Who,  in  his  ciicumstancc,  expressly  proves. 
That  no  man  is  the  lord  of  anything, 
(Though  in  and  of  him  there  is  much  consisting,) 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others  : 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where  they  are  extended;  who,  like  an  arch, 

reverberates 
The  voice  again ;  or,  like  a  gate  of  steel 
Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  renders  back 
Uis  figure  and  his  heat.    I  was  much  rapt  in 

this; 
And  apprehended  here  immediately 
The  unknown  Ajax. 

Heavens,  what  a  man  is  there  !  a  very  horse  ; 
That  has  he  knows  not  what.     Nature,  what 

things  there  are. 
Most  abject  in  regard,  and  dear  iu  use ! 
What  things  again  most  dear  iu  tlic  esteem, 
.\jid  poor  in  worth !     Now  shall  we   see   to- 
morrow. 
An  act  that  very  chance  doth  tlu-ow  upon  him, 
Ajax  renowu'd.    0  heavens,  what  some  men  do. 
While  some  men  leave  to  do ! 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
"\71iile  others  play  the  idiots  in  her  eyes ! 
How  one  man  cats  into  another's  pride. 
While  pride  is  feasting  in  his  wantonness  ! 
To  see  these  Grecian  lords  ! — why,  even  akeady 
They  clap  the  lubber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder ; 
As  if  liis  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast. 
And  great  Troy  shrinking. 

»  PaWorf— endowed  wiili  parts,  talenta. 
b  The  lines  in  brackets  arc  not  in  the  folio, 
e  Married.    So  the  quarto  and  folios.    Mr.  Collier's  cor- 
rected folio  ha3  mirror'd. 


110 


Achil.  I  do  believe  it :  for  f  hey  pass'd  by  me 
As  misers  do  by  beggars ;  neither  gave  to  mc 
Good   word,    nor    look:  What,   are   my  deeds 

forgot  ? 
Uli/ss.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his 

back. 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great  sized  monster  of  ingratitudes  : 
Those  scraps  arc  good  deeds  past :   which  arc 

devour'd 
As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done  :  Perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  honour  bright :   To  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Qidte  out  of  fashion,  like  a  iiisty  mail 
In   monumental  mockery.       'J'ake   the  instant 

w;iy ; 
For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow, 
Where   one  but  goes   abreast :  keep  then  the 

path ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons. 
That  one  by  one  pursue :  If  you  give  way. 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright. 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  jdl  rush  by. 
And  leave  you  hindmost ; — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  fii'st  rank, 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 
O'errun  and  trampled  on :     Then  what  they  do 

in  present, 
Though  less  than  yom-s  in  past,  must  o'crtop 

yours : 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host. 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the 

hand; 
And  with  his  arms  outstretch' d,  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps-in  the  comer :  Welcome  ever  smiles, 
i\jid  farewell  goes  out  sighing.    0,  let  not  virtue 

seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was ; 
For  beauty,  wit. 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service. 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  ai'c  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes   the  whole  world 

kin, — 
That  all,   with  one  consent,   praise  new-born 

gawds, 
Though  tlicy  are  made  and  moulded  of  things 

past ; 
And  give  to  dust,  tliat  is  a  little  gilt. 
More  laud  than  gUt  o'cr-dusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present  object : 
Then    marvel   not,   thou   great   and    complete 

man, 
That  all  the  Greeks  begm  to  worship  Ajax ; 
Smee  tilings  iu  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye. 


A.CT  ni.] 


TEOILUS  AND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  III. 


Than  what  uot  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on 

thee. 
And  still  it  might ;  and  yet  it  may  again, 
If  thou  wouldst  not  entomb  thyself  alive, 
And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent ; 
Whose  glorious  deeds,  but  in  these  fields  of  late, 
Made  em'ilous  missions  'mongst  the  gods  them- 
selves, 
And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

Achil.  Of  this  my  privacy 

I  have  strong  reasons. 

Uli/ss.  But  'gainst  your  privacy 

The  reasons  are  more  potent  and  heroical : 
'Tis  known,  AchiUes,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  oue  of  Priam's  daughters. 

AcJiil.  Ila  !  known  ? 

Uli/ss.  Is  that  a  wonder  ? 
The  providence  that 's  in  a  watchful  state 
Knows  almost  every  grain  of  Plutus'  gold ; 
Finds  bottom  in  the  uncompreheusive  deeps  ; 
Keeps  place  with  thought,  and  almost,  like  the 

gods. 
Does  t'houghts  unveil  in  then:  dumb  cradles. 
There  is  a  mystery  (with  whom  relation 
Durst  never  meddle)  iu  the  soul  of  state ; 
Wbich  hath  au  operation  more  divine 
Than  breath,  or  pen,  can  give  expressui-e  to  : 
All  the  commerce  that  you  have  had  with  Troy> 
As  perfectly  is  ours,  as  yours,  my  lord ; 
And  better  would  it  fit  Achilles  much. 
To  throw  down  Hector,  than  Polyxena  : 
But  it  must  grieve  young  Pyrrhus  now  at  home, 
When  fame   shall  in  oiu-    islands    sound    her 

tnimp  ; 
And  all  the  Greekish  girls  shall  tripping  sing,— 
'  Great  Hector's  sister  did  Achilles  win ; 
But  our  great  Ajax  bravely  beat  down  him.' 
Farewell,  my  lord  :  I  as  your  lover  speak  ; 
The  fool  slides   o'er  the  ice  that  you  shoidd 

break.  U^-^'it- 

Pair.  To  this  effect,  Achilles,  have  I  mov'd 

you  : 
A  woman  impudeut  and  mannish  grown 
Is  not  more  loath'd  than  an  effeminate  man 
In  time  of  action.     I  stand  condemu'd  for  this ; 
They  think,  my  little  stomach  to  the  war. 
And  yoiu-  great  love  to  me,  restrains  you  thus  : 
Sweet,  rouse  yourself;    and  the  weak  wanton 

Cupid 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold. 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  airy  air.'' 

Achil  Shall  Ajax  fight  with  Hector  ? 


a  Airy  air  is  the  reading  of  tlie  folio;   the  quarto  has 
air. 


Pair.  Ay  ;  and,  pei'haps,  receive  muck  honour 
by  him. 

Achil.  I  see,  my  reputation  is  at  stake ; 
My  fame  is  shrewdly  gor'd. 

Pat/-.  O,  then  beware  ; 

Those  wounds  heal  ill  that  men  do  give  them- 
selves : 
Omission  to  do  M'hat  is  necessary 
Seals  a  commission  to  a  blank  of  danger ; 
And  danger,  like  au  ague,  subtly  taints 
Even  then  when  we  sit  idly  iu  the  smi. 

Achil.  Go   call  Thersitcs  hither,   sweet    Pa- 
troclus  : 
I'U  send  the  fool  to  Ajax,  and  desire  him 
To  invite  the  Troiau  lords  after  the  combat, 
To  see  us  here  nnarm'd :    I  have  a  woman  s 

longing, 
An  appetite  that  I  am  sick  withal, 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace  ;" 
To  talk  with  him,  and  to  behold  his  visage. 
Even  to  my  full  of  view.    A  labour  saVd ! 

Enter  Thersites. 

Ther.  A  wonder ! 

Achil.  What? 

Ther.  Ajax  goes  up  and  down  the  field,  ask- 
ing for 'himself. 

Achil.  How  so  ? 

Ther.  He  must  fight  singly  to-moiTOW  with 
Hector;  and  is  so  prophetically  proud  of  an 
heroical  cudgelling,  that  he  raves  in  saying  no- 
thing. 

Achil.  Hovv"  can  that  be  ? 

Ther.  Why,  he  stalks  up  and  down  like  a 
peacock— a  stride  and  a  stand:  ruminates-  like" 
an  hostess  that  hath  no  arithmetic  but  her  brain 
to  set  down  her  reckoning :  bites  his  lip  with  a 
politic  regard,  as  who  shoidd  say,  there  were 
wit  iu  this  head,  an't  would  out ;  and  so  there 
is ;  but  it  lies  as  coldly  iu  him  as  fire  in  a  flint, 
which  will  not  show  without  knocking.  The 
man's  undone  for  ever ;  for  if  Hector  break  not 
his  neck  i'  the  combat,  he  '11  break  it  himself  in 
vainglory.  He  knows  not  me  :  I  said,  '  Good- 
morrow,  Ajax;'  and  he  replies,  'Thanks,  Aga- 
memnon.' What  think  you  of  this  man,  that 
takes  me  for  the  general?  He  is  grown  a  very 
land  fish,  languageless,  a  monster.  A  plague 
of  opinion !  a  man  may  wear  it  on  both  sides, 
like  a  leather  jerkin.  • 

Achil.  Thou  must  be  my  ambassador  to  him, 
T]i6rsitcs. 

Ther.  Who,  I?  why,  he'll  answer  nobody; 
he  professes  not  answering ;  speaking  is  for  beg- 
gars :  he  wears  his  tongue  in  his  arms.  I  will 
^  111 


Act  1 1  I.J 


TliOILUS   AND   CKESSIDA. 


[Scene  111. 


put  on  his  presence ;  let  Patroelus  make  his 
demands  to  nic,  you  shall  sec  the  pageant  of 
Ajax. 

Jchil.  To  him,  Patroelus:  Tell  him,  I  hum- 
bly desire  the  valiant  Ajax  to  invite  the  most 
valorous  Hector  to  come  unarmed  to  my  tent ; 
and  to  procure  safe  conduct  for  his  person,  of 
the  magnanimous,  and  most  illustrious,  six-or- 
seven-times  honoured  eaptain-gencral  of  the 
Grecian  army,  Agamemnon,  &e.    Do  this. 

Patr.  Jove  bless  great  Ajax. 

Ther.  Humph! 

Patr.  I  come  from  the  worthy  Achilles, — 

Ther.  Ha! 

Patr.  Who  most  humbly  desires  you  to  invite 
Hector  to  his  tent, — 

Ther.  Humph! 

Patr.  And  to  procure  safe  conduct  from  Aga- 
memnon. 

Ther.  Agamemnon? 

Patr.  Av,  my  lord. 

Ther.  Ha ! 

Patr.  "What  say  you  to 't  ? 

Ther.  God  be  wi'  you,  with  all  my  heart. 


Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  If  to-morrow  be  a  fair  day,  by  eleven 
o'clock  it  will  go  one  way  or  other ;  howsoever, 
he  shall  pay  for  me  ere  he  has  me. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  Tare  you  well,  with  all  my  heart. 

Achil.  ^Vhy,  but  he  is  not  in  tliis  tune,  is  he  ? 

T/icr.  No,  but  he  's  out  o'  tune  thus.  What 
music  will  be  in  him  when  Hector  has  knocked 
out  his  brains,  I  know  not :  But,  I  am  sure, 
none ;  unless  the  fiddler  Apollo  gets  his  sinews 
to  make  catlings  on. 

Acliil.  Come,  thou  shalt  bear  a  letter  to  him 
straight. 

Ther.  Let  me  can-y  another  to  his  horse ;  for 
tha't's  the  more  capable  creature. 

Achil.  My  mind  is  troubled,  Hke  a  fountain 
stirr'd ; 
And  I  myself  see  not  the  bottom  of  it. 

\_E.re/ait  AcuiLLES  and  Patroclus. 

Ther.  'Would  the  fountain  of  your  mind  were 
clear  again,  that  I  might  water  an  ass  at  it !  1 
had  rather  be  a  tick  in  a  sheep,  than  such  a  va- 
liant ignorance.  [E.vii. 


[Achilles.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  ACT  III. 


'  Scene  III. — "  Expos' d  myself. 
From  certain  and  possess'd  conveniences, 
To  doubtful  fortunes" 

The  '  Troy  Book '  gives  a  different  version  of  the 
motives  of  Calchas  iu  going  over  to  the  Greeks. 
Apollo  appeared  to  the  priest, — 

"  And  said  Calchas  twice  by  his  name; 
Be  right  well  'ware  thou  ne  turn  again 
To  Troy  tcrni,  for  that  were  hut  in  vain  ; 
For  finally  learn  this  thing  of  me, 
In  short  time  it  shall  destroyed  be." 


-  Scene  III. — "  I  have  a  woman's  longing. 
An  appetite  that  I  am  sich  withal. 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace." 

In  the  '  Destruction  of  Troy '  we  have  the  same 
conception  worthy  to  be  received  into  the  poetry 
of  Shakspere : — • 

"  The  truce  during,  Hector  went  on  a  day  unto 
the  tents  of  the  Greeks,  and  Achilles  beheld  him 
gladly,  forasmuch  as  he  had  never  seen  him  un- 
armed. And  at  the  request  of  Achilles,  Hector 
went  into  his  tent ;  and  as  they  spake  together  of 
many  things,  Achilles  said  to  Hector,  I  have  great 
pleasure  to  see  thee  unarmed,  forasmuch  as  I  have 
never  seen  thee  before." 


TKAaEDIES.--YOL.  II. 


113 


-1.* 


■f 


[jEneas  meoting  Tans.] 


ACT  TV 


SCENE  I.-Tioj.     A  SI  reel. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  JilxEAS,  and  Servant  with  a 
torch;  at  the  other,  Paris,  Deiphobus,  An- 
T£NOR,  DiOMEDES,  and  others,  with  torches. 

Par.  See,  ho  !  who 's  that  there  ? 
Dei.  'Tis  the  lord  ^neas. 

J^ne.  Is  the  prince  there  in  person  ? — 
Had  I  so  good  occasion  to  lie  long, 
As  you,  prince  Paris,  nothing  but  heavenly  busi- 
ness 
Should  rob  my  bed-mate  of  my  company. 

JJio.  ITiat  's   my   mind  too. — Good  morrow, 

lord  iEueas. 
Par.  A  valiant  Greek,  jEncas  ;  take  his  hand  : 
Witness  the  process  of  your  speech,  wherein 
You  told  how  Diorr.jd,  in  a  whole  week  by  days. 
Did  haunt  you  in  the  field. 
114 


J^ne.  Health  to  you,  valiant  sir, 

During  all  question  of  the  gentle  truce  : " 
But  wlicn  I  meet  you  arni'd,  as  black  defiance. 
As  heart  can  think  or  courage  execute. 

Bio.  Tlie  one  and  other  Diomed  embraces. 
Our  bloods  are  now  in  calm  ;  and,  so  long,  healtli : 
But,  when  contention  and  occasion  meet. 
By  Jove,  I  '11  play  the  hunter  for  thy  life. 
With  all  my  force,  pursuit,  and  policy. 

Jl'Jne.  And  thou  shalt  hunt  a  lion,  that  will  fly 
With  his  face  backward. — In  humane  gentleness, 
AVelcome  to  1'roy !  now,  by  Anchises'  life, 
W^eleome,  indeed  !  By  Venus'  hand  I  swear. 
No  man  alive  can  love,  in  such  a  sort, 
The  tiling  he  means  to  kill,  more  excellently. 

•  The  Eciitence  scarcely  requires  explanation  :  j^neas 
wishes  DIomedes  health,  whilst  tliere  is  no  question,  argu- 
ment, between  them  but  what  arises  out  of  the  truce. 


Act  IV.] 


TEOILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


rScENS   II. 


Dio.  We  sympathize  : — Jove,  let  J<lneas  live, 
If  to  my  sword  his  fate  be  not  the  glory, 
A  thousand  complete  courses  of  the  sun ! 
But,  in  mine  emulous  honour,  let  him  die, 
With  every  joint  a  wound  ;  and  that  to-morrow  ! 

^ne.  We  know  each  other  weU. 

Bio.  We  do ;  and  long  to  know   each  other 
worse. 

Par.  This  is  the  most  despitefull'st  '^  gentle 
greeting, 
The  noblest  hateful  love,  that  e'er  I  heard  of. — 
What  business,  lord,  so  early  ? 

J;! lie.  I  was  sent  for  to  tiie  king;  but  why,  I 
know  not. 

Par.  His  purpose  meets  you  :  'T  was  to  bring 
this  Greek 
To  Calchas'  house  ;  and  there  to  render  liim. 
For  the  enfreed  Antenor,  the  fair  Cressid : 
Let 's  have  your  company  ;  or,  if  you  please. 
Haste  there  before  us :  I  constantly  do  think, 
(Or,  rather,  call   my  thought  a  certain   know- 
ledge,) 
My  brother  Troilus  lodges  there  to-night ; 
Rouse  him,  and  give  liim  note  of  our  approao'.i. 
With  the  whole  quality  whereof ;  I  fear, 
We  shall  be  nuich  unwelcome. 

jEne.  That  I  assure  you ; 

Troilus  had  rather  Troy  were  borne  to  Greece, 
Than  Cressid  borne  from  Troy. 

Par.  There  is  no  help ; 

The  bitter  disposition  of  the  time 
Will  have  it  so.     On,  lord ;  we  '11  follow  you. 

JEne.  Good  morrow,  all.  \_Exit. 

Par.  And  tell  me,  noble  Diomed ;  faith,  tell 
me  true. 
Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellowship, — 
Who,  in  your  thoughts,  merits  fair  Helen  most,'' 
Myself,  or  Menelaus  ? 

Dio.  Both  alike : 

He  merits  well  to  have  her  that  doth  seek  her 
(Not  making  any  scruple  of  her  soilure) 
With  such  a  hell  of  pain,  and  world  of  charge ; 
And  you  as  well  to  keep  her,  tliat  defend  her 
(Not  palatiug  the  taste  of  her  dishonour) 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends  : 
He,  like  a  puling  cuckold,  would  drink  up 
The  lees  and  dregs  of  a  flat  tamed  piece ; 
You,  like  a  lecher,  out  of  whorish  loins 
Are  pleas'd  to  breed  out  your  inheritors ; 
Both  merits  pois'd,  each   weighs   no   less  nor 

more  ; 
But  he  as  he  ;  which  heavier  for  a  whore  ?° 


*  This,  the  reading  of  the  folio,  is  a  common  construction 
of  the  age  of  Shakspere  :  the  quarto  reading  is  despiieful. 
b  Most  is  the  reading  of  the  folio;  tlic  quarto,  best 
c  This  is  the  reading  of  the  folio. 

I  2 


Par.  You    are  too  bitter  to  your  cctmtry- 
womac. 

Dio.  She 's  bitter  to  her  couiitry :  Hear  me, 
Paris. — 
For  every  false  drop  in  her  bawdy  veins 
A  Grecian's  life  hath  sunk  ;  for  every  scruple 
Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight, 
A  Trojan  hath  been  slain;    since   she    cotud 

speak. 
She  hath  not  given  so  many  good  words  breath, 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  suffer'd  death. 

Par.  Fan-  Diomed,  you  do  as  chapmen  do, 
Dispraise  the  thing  that  you  desire  to  buy  : 
But  we  in  silence  hold  this  vntue  well, — 
We  '11  not  commend  what  we  intend  to  sell.^ 
Here  lies  our  way.  [jE.veuiit. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     Conrl  be/ore  the  House 
of  Pandarus. 

Enter  Tkoilus  and  Cressida. 

Tro.  Dear,  trouble  not  yourself ;  the  morn  is 
cold. 

Cres.  Then,  sweet  my  lord,  I  '11  call  mine  uncle 
down ; 
He  shall  unbolt  the  gates. 

Tro.  Trouble  liim  not ; 

To  bed,  to  bed  :  Sleep  kill  those  pretty  eyes. 
And  give  as  soft  attachment  to  thy  senses, 
As  infants'  empty  of  all  thought ! 

Ores.  Good  morrov/,  then. 

Tro.  Prithee  now,  to  bed. 

des.  Are  you  aweary  of  me  ? 

Tro.  0  Cressida  !  but  that  the  busy  day, 
Wak'd  by  the  lark,  hath  rous'd  the  ribald  crows. 
And  dreaming  night  will  hide  our  joys  ^  no  longer, 
I  would  not  from  thee. 

Ores.  Night  hath  been  too  brief. 

Tro.  Beshrew    the    witch !    M"ith    venomous 
\viglits  she  stays. 
As  tediously "  as  hell ;  but  flies  the  grasps  of  love. 
With  wintrs  more  momeutarv-swift  thanthouglit. 
You  will  catch  cold,  and  curse  me. 

Cres.  Prithee,   tarry; — you  men  will    never 
tarry.— 
O  foolish  Cressid!— I  might  have  still  held  off. 
And  then  you  would  have  tarried.  Hark  !  there 's 
one  up. 

Pan.  [JFithin.']    What,  are  all  the  doors  open 
here  ? 


*  Warhurfon  proposed  to  read  not  sell,  which  is  evidently 
the  meaning,— antithetically  oppose. 1  to  biiij.  Ticck  and 
Voss  support  the  change  of  reading;  but  our  principle  is 
not  to  alter  tlie  text.  In  this  respect  It  is  the  same  in  both 
editions,  the  quarto  and  tlie  folio. 

b  Joys  in  tlie  quarto  ;  the  folio,  ci/es. 

c  Tediously  in  the  quarto  ;  the  folio,  hideously. 

U5 


Act  IV.l 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA. 


[SC£NE   II. 


Tro.  It  is  your  xincle. 

Enter  Pandakus. 

Cres.  A  pestilence  on  him!  now  will  he  be 
mocking : 
I  shall  have  such  a  life, — 

Pan.  How  now,  how  now  ?  how  go  maiden- 
heads ?  Here,  you  maid !    where 's  my  cousin 
Cressid  ? 
Cres.  Go  hang  yourself,  you  naughty  mock- 
ing uncle ! 
You  brine:  me  to  do,  and  then  vou  flout  me 
too. 
Pan.  To  do  what  ?    to  do  what  ?— let  her  say 
what :  what  have  I  brought  you  to  do  ? 

Cres.  Come,    come  ;     besluew    your    heart : 
you  '11  ne'er  be  good. 
Nor  suffer  others. 

Pan.  Ha,  ha !  Alas,  poor  wretch  1  a  poor  ca- 
pocchia  !  '^  hast  not  slept  to-night  ?  would  he  not, 
a  naughty  man,  let  it  sleep  ?  a  bugbear  take 
him !  \Knocldng. 

Cres.  Did  not  I  tell  you  ? — 'would  he  were 
kuock'd  o'  the  head ! 
Who 's  that  at  door  ?  good  uncle,  go  and  see. — 
My  lord,  come  you  again  into  my  chamber : 
You  smile,  and  mock  me,  as  if  I  meant  naugh- 
tily. 
Tro.  Ha,  ha! 

Cres.  Come,  you  are  deceiv'd,  I  think  of  no 
such  thing. —  [Knocking. 

How  earnestly  they  knock  !  pray  you,  come  in ; 
I  would  not  for  half  Troy  have  you  seen  here. 

[Exeunt  Troiltjs  and  Ckessida. 
Pan.  [Going  to   the   door.']    Wlio's    there? 
what 's  the  matter  ?   will  you  beat   down  the 
door  ?    How  now  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Enter  JUneas. 

./E?ie.  Good-morrow,  lord,  good-morrow. 

Pan.  "Who 's  there  ?  my  lord  ^ueas  ?  By  my 
troth, 
I  knew  you  not :   what  news  with  you  so  early  ? 

.^ne.  Is  not  prince  Troilus  here  ? 

Pan.  Here  !  what  should  he  do  here  ? 

JEne.  Come,  he  is  here,  my  lord,  do  not  deny 
him ; 
It  doth  import  him  much  to  speak  with  me. 

Pan.  Is  he  here,  say  you  ?  "t  is  more  than  I 
know,  I  '11  be  sworn : — For  my  own  part,  I  came 
in  late :  What  should  he  do  here  ? 

jEne.  Who! — nay,  then: — Come,  come,  you'll 
Ho  him  wrong  ere  y^  are  'ware  :  You  '11  be  so  true 


"  CnpoccAia. —Florio,  in  liis  Italian  Dictionary,  explains 
capocchio  as  "a  shallow  skonce,  a  loggerhead." 

116 


to  him,  to  be  false  to  hiin  :   Do  not  you  know  of 
him,  but  yet  go  fetch  him  hitlicr ;  go. 

As  PaxDx\.iius  is  going  out,  enter  Tkoilus. 

Tro.  How  now  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 

.^ne.  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  leisure  to  ^alutc 
you. 
My  matter  is  so  rash     There  is  at  hand 
Paris  your  brotlier,  ami  Deiphobus, 
The  Grecian  Diomed,  and  our  Antenor 
Delivcr'd  to  us  ;  and  for  him  forthwith. 
Ere  the  first  sacrifice,  within  this  hour, 
We  must  give  up  to  Diomcdes'  hand 
The  lady  Cressida.' 

Tro.  Is  it  concluded  so  ? 

.^ne.  By  Priam,    and  the  general  state  of 
Troy: 
They  are  at  hand,  and  ready  to  effect  it. 

Tro.  How  my  achievements  mock  me  ! 
I  wUl  go  meet  them  :  and,  my  lord  iEneas, 
We  met  by  chance  ;  you  did  not  find  me  here. 

^ne.  Good,  good,  my  lord ;   the   secrets   of 
natui'e 
Have  not  more  gift  in  taciturnity. 

[Exeunt  Troilus  and  ^xeas. 

Pan.  Is  "t  possible  ?  no  sooner  got  but  lost  ? 
The  devil  take  Antenor !  the  young  prince  will 
go  mad.  A  plague  upon  Antenor  !  I  would  they 
had  broke 's  neck. 

Enter  Cressida. 

Cres.  How  now  ?  what 's  the  matter  ?  Who 
was  here  ? 

Pan.  Ah,  ah ! 

Cres.  Why  sigh  you  so  profoundly  ?  where  's 
ray  lord  gone?  Tell  me,  sweet  uncle,  what's 
the  matter  ? 

Pan.  'Would  I  were  as  deep  under  the  earth 
as  I  am  above ! 

Cres.  O  the  gods  ?— what 's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Prithee,  get  thee  in.  Would  thou  hadst 
ne'er  been  born !  I  knew  thou  wouldst  be  his 
death: — 0  poor  gentleman!— A  plague  upon 
Antenor ! 

Cres.  Good  uncle,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
I  beseech  you,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Thou  must  be  gone,  wench,  thou  must 
be  gone ;  thou  art  changed  for  Antenor :  thou 
must  to  thy  father,  and  be  gone  from  Troilus  ; 
't  will  be  his  death  !  't  will  be  his  baue  ;  he  can- 
not bear  it, 

Cres.  O  you    immortal   gods!  —  I  will  not 

go- 
Pa;!.  Thou  must. 

Cres.  I  will  not,  uncle  :   I  have  forgot  my 
father  ; 


ACT    iV.j 


TROILUS   Al^D   CRESSIDA. 


[SCES£S   III.,  IV. 


I  know  no  toucli  of  consariguinity; 

No  kiu,  no   love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near 

me, 
As  the  sweet  Troilus.  —0  you  gods  divine  1 
Make  Cressid's  name  the  very  crown  of  false- 
hood 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus !     Time,  force,  and 

death, 
Do  to  this  body  what  extremity-  you  can  ; 
But    the    strong    base    and    building    of    rriy 

love 
Is  as  the  very  centre  of  the  earth, 
Drawhig  all  thmgs  to  it. — I  will  go  in,  and 

weep ; — 
Fan.  Do,  do. 
Ores.  Tear  my  bright  hair,  and  scratch   my 

praised  cheeks  ; 
Crack  my  clear  voice  with  sobs,  and  break  my 

heart 
With  soimding  Troilus.     I   M'iU  not   go  from 

Troy.  [Exeiint. 

SCENE   111.— The  same.     Before  Pandarus' 
House. 

Enter   Pahis,    Troilus,    ^neas,  Deiphobtjs, 
Antenok.  and  Dioiiedes. 

Far.  It  is  great  morning ;  and  the  hour  pre- 
fix'd 
Of  her  delivery  to  this  valiant  Greek 
Comes  fast  upon : — Good  my  brother  Troilus, 
TeU  you  the  lady  what  she  is  to  do. 
And  haste  her  to  the  purpose. 

Tro.  Walk  in  to  her  house ; 

I  '11  bring  her  to  the  Grecian  presently  : 
And  to  his  hand  when  I  deliver  her, 
Think  it  an  altar ;  and  thy  brother  Troilus 
A  priest,  there  offermg  to  it  his  own heai't.    [E.vit. 

Far.  I  know  what 't  is  to  love  ; 
And  'would,  as  I  shall  pity,  I  could  help  !— 
Please  you  walk  in,  my  lords.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IS.— The  same.     A  Room  in  Pandarus' 
Hotcse. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 

Fa7i.  Be  moderate,  be  moderate. 
Ores.  Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste. 
And  no  less  in  a  sense  as  strong  as  that 
Which  causeth  it :  ^   How  can  I  moderate  it  ? 

*  Extremity  in  the  folio  ;  the  quarto,  extremes. 
b  This  is  the  reading  of  the  folio ;  the  quarto  has, 

"  And  violenielh  in  a  sense  as  strong 
As  that  -which  causeth  it." 


If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection. 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate. 
The  Uke  allayment  could  I  give  my  grief  : 
My  love  admits  no  qualifyiag  cross :  " 
No  more  my  grief,  m  such  a  precious  loss. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Fan.  Here,  here,  here  he  comes,  a  sweet 
duck! 

Ores.  0  Troilus  !  Troilus ! 

Fan.  Wliat  a  pair  of  spectacles  ri  here !  Let 
me  embrace  too  :  0  heart,— as  the  goodly  say- 
ing is,— 

O  heart,  heavy  heart. 
Why  sigh'st  thou  without  breaking? 

where  he  answers  again, 

Because  thou  canst  not  ease  thy  smart, 
By  friendship,  nor  by  speaking. 

There  w^as  never  a  truer  rhyme.  Let  us  cast 
away  nothing,  for  we  may  live  to  have  need  of 
such  a  verse ;  we  see  it,  we  see  it. — How  now, 
lambs  ? 

Tro.  Cressid,   I  love  thee  in  so   strain'd  a 
pui-ity, 
That  the  blest  gods— as  angry  with  my  fancy, 
More  bright  in  zeal  than  the  devotion  which 
Cold  lips^blow  to  their  deities,— take  thee  from 
me. 
Ores.  Have  the  gods  envy  ? 
Fan.  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay ;  't  is  too  plain  a  case. 
Ores.  And  is   it  true  that  I  must  go  from 

Troy? 
Tro.  A  hateful  truth. 

Ores.  What,  and  from  Troilus  too  ? 

Tro.  From  Troy,  and  Troilus. 
Ores.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Tro.  And  suddenly ;  where  injury  of  chance 
Puts  back  leave-taking,  justles  roughly  by 
All  time  of  pause,  rudely  beguiles  our  lips 
Of  all  rejoindui-e,  forcibly  prevents 
Oiu-  lock'd  embrasures,  strangles  our  dear  vows 
Even  in  the  birth  of  our  own  labouring  breath : 
We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 
Did  buy  each    other,   must    poorly  sell    our- 
selves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  time  now,  with  a  robber's  haste. 
Crams  Ms  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how : 
As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven, 
With   distinct   breath  and  consigu'd  kisses  to 

them. 
He  fumbles  up  into  a  loose  adieu  j 


a  Cross  in  the  folio;  dross  in  the  quarto.    The  folio   give^ 
as  clear  a  meaning,  without  a  raised  metaphor. 

117 


AjT  IV.J 


TEOILUS  AND   CEESSIDA 


[SiCKM.    IV. 


And  scants  us  with  a  single  faniish'd  kiss, 
Distasting"  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 
^ne.  SJVithin^  My  lord !  is  the  lady  ready  ? 
Tro.  Hark  !   you  are   call'd :    Some  say,  the 
Genius  so 
Cries,    'Come!'   to    him   that    instantly    must 

die. — 
Bid  them  have  paticuee ;  she  shall  come  anon. 

Tan.  Where  are  my  tears  ?  rain,  to  lay  this 
wind,  or  my  heart  will  be  blown  up  by  the  root. 

[Exit  Pakdakvs. 
Crei.  I  must  then  to  the  Grecians  ? 
Tro.  No  remedy. 

Ores.  A  woeful   Cressid  'mongst   the   merry 
Greeks ! 
When  shall  we  see  again? 

Tro.  Hear  me,  mv  love  :  Be  thou  but  true  of 

heart, — ' 
Ores.  I  true !  how  now  ?  what  wicked  deem 

is  this  ? 
Tro.  Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 
For  it  is  parting  from  us  : 
[  speak  not,  '  be  thou  true,'  as  fearing  thee ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  Death  himself. 
That  there's  no  niaculation  in  thy  heart : 
But  '  be  thou  true,'  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation ;  be  thou  true. 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

Cres.  0,  you  shall  be   expos'd,  my  lord,   to 
dangers 
As  infinite  as  imminent !  but,  1  '11  be  true. 
Tro.  And  I  '11  grow  friend  with  danger.  Wear 

this  sleeve. 
Cres.  And  you  this  glove.     When  shall  I  see 

you? 
Tro.  I  will  corrupt  the  Grecian  sentinels, 
To  give  thee  nightly  visitation. 
But  yet,  be  true. 

Cres.  0  heavens  ! — be  true,  again  ? 

Tro.  Hear  why  I  speak  it,  love ; 
The  Grecian  youths  are  full  ^l  quality ; 
Their  loving  well  compos'd  with  gift  of  nature, 
Flowing  and  swelUng  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise  -^ 


»  DUlatling  in  the  folio;  the  quarto,  ditlailed. 

""  Thcie  are  three  fine  lines,  perfectly  intelligible: — their 
loving  is  well  composed  with  the  gift  of  nature,  which  gift 
(natural  quality)  is  flowing,  and  swelli!  g  over,  with  arts 
and  exercise.  The  second  line  is  not  found  ia  the  quarto, 
nrhicb  reads, 

"  The  Grecian  youths  are  full  of  quality. 
And  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exfrcise." 
The  poet  appears  to  have  strsnsthcned  the  image  in  his 
last  copy.    In  the  Vdriorum  edivions  we  have — 
"  The  Grecian  youths  ars  full  of  quality, 

r/i^reloving,  v.eii  compos'd,  with  gifts  of  nature  flowing. 
And  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise." 
Mr.  Staunton  reads — 

'•Tbey  're  loving,  well  composed  with  gifts  of  nature, 
And  Powing  o'tr  with  arts  and  exercise:  " 

118 


How  novelties  may  move,  and  parts  with  person, 
Alas,  a  kind  of  godly  jealousy 
(Which,  I  beseech  you,  call  a  virtuous  sm,) 
Makes  me  afraid. 

Cres.  0  heavens !  you  love  me  not. 

Tro.  Die  I  a  villain  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question. 
So  mainly  as  my  merit :  I  cannot  sing, 
Nor  heel  the  high  lavolt,  nor  sweeten  talk. 
Nor  play  at  subtle  games  ;  fair  virtues  all, 
To  which  the  Grecians  are  most  prompt  and 

pregnant : 
But  1  can  tell,  that  in  each  grace  of  these 
There  lurks  a  still  and  dumbdiseoursive  devil. 
That  tempts  most  cunningly:  but  be  not  tempted. 

Cres.  Do  you  think  I  will  ? 

Tro.  No. 
But  something  may  be  done  that  we  will  not : 
i\jid  sometimes  we  are  devils  to  ourselves, 
AVhen  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers, 
Presuming  on  their  changeful  potency. 

Mie.  [irUhin.']  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Tro.  Come,  kiss,  and  let  us  part. 

Par.  \JFilhin.'}  Brother  Troilus  ! 

Tro.  Good  brother,  come  you  hither ; 

And  bring  ^neas  and  the  Grecian  with  you.   . 

Cres.  My  lord,  will  you  be  true  ? 

Tru.  Who,  1  ?  alas,  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault ; 
T\'Tiile  others  fi.sh  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 
I  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simplicity  ; 
Whilst   some   with  cunning  gild  their  copper 

crowns, 
With  truth  and  plainness  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 
Fear  not  my  truth  ;  the  moral  of  my  wit 
Is — plain,    and    true, — there 's  all    the    reach 
of  it. 

Enter  ^neas,  Paris,  Antenok,  Deiphobus, 
and  DioiiEDES. 

Welcome,  sir  Diomed  !  here  is  the  lady. 
Which  for  Antenor  we  deliver  you  : 
At  the  port,  lord,  I  '11  give  her  to  thy  hand ; 
And,  by  the  way,  possess  thee  what  she  is. 
Entreat  her  fair ;  and,  by  my  soul,  fair  Greek, 
If  e'er  thou  stand  at  mercy  of  my  sword. 
Name  Cressid,  and  thy  life  shall  be  as  safe 
As  Priam  is  in  Ilion. 

J)io.  Fair  lady  Cressid, 

So  please  you,  save  the  thanks  this  prince  ex- 
pects : 
The  lustre  in  your  eye,  heaven  in  your  check. 
Pleads  yoar  fair  usage ;  and  to  Diomed 
You  shall  be  mistress,  and  command  him  wholly. 

Tro.  Grecian,  thoi;  dost  not  use  me  courte- 
ously, 


Act  IV.] 


TEOILUS   AND   CRESSIDA, 


[Scene  V, 


To  shame  the  seal "  of  my  petition  to  thee, 
lu  praising  her :  I  tell  thee,  lord  of  Greece, 
She  is  as  far  high-soaring  o'er  thy  praises. 
As  thou  unworthy  to  be  called  her  servant. 
I  charge  thee,  use  her  well,  even  for  my  cliarge ; 
For,  by  the  dreadful  Pluto,  if  thou  dost  not. 
Though  the  great  bulk  Achilles  be  thy  guard, 
I  '11  cut  thy  throat. 

Dio.  0,  be  not  mov'd,  prince  Troilus  : 

Let  me  be  privileg'd  by  my  place  and  message. 
To  be  a  speaker  free  ;  when  I  am  hence, 
I  'U  answer  to  my  lust :  And  know  you,  lord, 
I  '11  nothing  do  on  charge  :  To  her  own  worth 
She  shall  be  priz'd ;  but  that  you  say — be 't  so, 
I  '11  speak  it  in  my  spirit  and  honour, — no. 

Tro.  Come,  to  the  port. — I'll  tell  thee,  Diomed, 
This  brave  shall  oft  make  thee  to  hide  thy  head.— 
Lady,  give  me  your  hand ;  and,  as  we  walk, 
To  our  own  selves  bend  wc  our  needful  talk. 

\_Exeunt  Troilus,  CiuiissiDA,  and  Dioiied. 

\Trumpet  heard. 

Par.  Hark !  Hector's  trumpet. 

Mie.  How  have  we  spent  this  morning ! 

The  prince  must  think  me  tardy  and  remiss. 
That  swore  to  ride  before  him  in  the  field. 

Par.  'T  is  Troilus'  fault :  Come,  come,  to  field 
with  him. 

Dei.  Let  us  make  ready  straight. 

Mie.  Yea,  with  a  bridegroom's  fresh  alacrity, 
Let  us  address  to  tend  on  Hector's  heels  : 
The  glory  of  our  Troy  doth  this  day  lie 
On  his  fair  worth,  and  single  chivalry.     [_Exeuiit. 

SCENE  N.—The  Grecian  Camp.      Lists  set  out. 

Enter  Ajax,  armed;  Agamemnon,  Achilles, 
Patroclus,  Menelaus,  Ulysses,  Nestoe, 
and  others. 

Agam.  Here  art  thou  in  appointment   fresh 
and  fair, 
Anticipating  time.     With  starting  courage, 
Give  with  thy  trumpet  a  loud  note  to  Troy, 
Thou  dreadful  Ajax  ;  ^  that  the  appalled  air 
May  pierce  the  head  of  the  great  combatant. 
And  hale  him  hither. 


a  Seal  is  the  reading  of  all  the  old  copies.  Warburton 
rhanged  this  to  %eal,  which  is  commonly  adopted.  The 
strong  meaning  attached  to  seal  in  Shakspere's  age  is  ex- 
pressed in  the  line  of  the  well-known  song 

"  Seals  of  love,  but  scaVd  inVain.' 

b  Our  text  is  pointed  as  the  first  folio  (which  is  also  the 
punctuation  of  the  quarto).  This  is  the  modern  punetua 
tion : — 

"  Here  art  thou  in  appointment  fresh  and  fair, 
Anticipating  time  with  alarting  courage. 
Give  with  thy  trumpet,"  &o. 

The  variation  was  first  introduced  by  Theobald. 


Ajax.  Thou,  trumpet,  there 's  my  purse. 

Now  crack  thy  lungs,  and  sph't  thy  brazen  pipe : 
Blow,  villain,  till  thy  sphered  bias  cheek 
Out-swell  the  coUc  of  puft''d  Aquilon: 
Come,  stretch  thy  chest,  and  let  thy  eyes  spout 

blood ; 
Thou  blow'st  for  Hector.  {Trumpet  sounds. 

Uli/ss.  No  trumpet  answers. 
Achil.  'T  is  but  early  days. 

Agam.  Is   not  yon    Diomed,   with    Calchas' 

daughter  ? 
JJlyss.  'T  is  he,  I  ken  the  manner  of  his  gait ; 
He  rises  on  the  toe  :  that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth, 

Enkr  DiOMED,  with  Cressida. 

Agam.  Is  this  the  lady  Cressid  ? 

Bio.  Even  she. 

Agam.  Most  dearly  welcome  to  the  Greeks, 
sweet  lady. 

Nest.  Our  general  doth  salute  you  with  a  kiss. 

TJlyss.  Yet  is  the  kindness  but  particular ; 
'T  were  better  she  were  kiss'd  in  general. 

Nest.  And  very  courtly  counsel :  I  'U  begin. — 
So  much  for  Nestor. 

Achil.  I'll  take  that  winter  from  your  lips, 
fair  lady : 
Achilles  bids  you  welcome. 


Men. 


I  had  good  argument  for  kissing  once. 


Pair.  But  that's   no   argument   for  kissing 
now  : 
For  thus  popp'd  Paris  in  his  hardiment ; 
[And  parted  thus  you  aud  your  argument.^] 
TJlgss.  0  deadly  gall,  and  theme  of  all  our 
scorns  ! 
For  which  we  lose  our  heads,  to  gild  his  horns. 
Patr.  The  first  was   Menelaus'   kiss,— this, 
mine: 
Patroclus  kisses  you. 

Men.  O,  this  is  trim ! 

Patr.  Paris,  and  I,  kiss  ever  more  for  him. 

Men.  I'll  have  my  kiss,  sir:— Lady,  by  your 

leave. 
Ores.  In  kissing,  do  you  render  or  receive  ? 
Patr.  Both  take  and  give. 
Ores.  I  '11  make  my  match  to  live. 

The  kiss  you  take  is  better  than  you  give ; 
Therefore  no  kiss. 

Men.  I'll  give  you  boot,  I'll  give  you  three 

for  one. 
Ores.  You  're  an  odd  man ;  give  even,  or  give 

none. 
Men.  An  odd  man,  lady  ?  every  man  is  odd. 

'■-  The  line  in  brackets  is  not  in  the  folio. 

119 


A.CT  IV.] 


TEOILUS  .VlsD   CEESSIDA. 


[SCBSl.    V. 


Ores.  No,  Paris  is  not;    for  you   know   'tis 
true 
That  you  are  odd,  and  he  is  even  witli  you. 
Men.  You  fillip  mo  o'  the  head. 
Cres.  No,  I  '11  be  sworu. 

Ulyss.  It  T'cre  no  match,  your  nail  against  his 
horn. — 
May  I,  sweet  lady,  beg  a  kiss  of  you  ? 
Cres.  You  may. 
Ult/ss.  I  do  desire  it. 

Cres.  ^Vhy,  beg  then. 

Ul^ss.  V^\s  then,  for  Venus'  sake,  give  me  a 
kiss, 
"When  Helen  i.s  a  maid  again,  and  his. 

Cres.  I  am  your  debtor,  claim  it  when  't  is 

due. 
Ulyss.  Never 's  my  day,  and  then  a  kiss  of  you. 
Dio.  Lady,  a  word  ; — I  '11  bring  you  to  your 
father.      [Diomed  leads  out  Ckessida. 
Nest.  A  woman  of  quick  sense. 
Uli/ss.  Fie,  fie  upon  her  ! 

There's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her 

lip, 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks ;    her  wanton  spirits  look 

out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
0,  these  encounterers,  so  gHb  of  tongue, 
That  give  a  coasting  welcome  ere  it  comes. 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  tickling  *  reader !  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity, 
.\jid  daughters  of  the  game.       [Tnmpet  irithin. 
All.  The  Trojans'  trumpet. 
Afjam.  Yonder  comes  the  troop. 

Enter  Hector,  armed ;   ^neas,  Tuoilus,  and 
other  Trojans,  with  Attendants. 

JFw.  Hail,  all  you  state  ^  of  Greece  !    what 
shall  be  done 
To  him  that  victory  commands  ?  Or  do  you  pur- 
pose, 
A  victor  shall  be  known  ?  will  you,  the  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  aU  extremity 
Pursue  each  other,  or  shall  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field  ? 
Hector  bade  ask. 

Affum.        AVhich  way  would  Hector  have  it  ? 

£ne.  He  cares  not,  he  '11  obey  conditions. 

Achil.  'T  is  done  like  Hector ;    but  securely 
done, 
A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  disprizing  "^ 
The  knight  oppos'd. 


»  Tickling  in  the  folio;  the  quarto,  ticklish. 
b  You  slate  in  tlie  folio;    the  quarto,  the  stale. 
«  Diti/Titing  in  the  folio;  the  quarto,  mispriting. 

120 


Ult/ss. 
A  gam. 


JEne.  If  not  Achilles,  sir, 

AVhat  is  your  name  ? 
Achil.  If  not  Achilles,  nothing. 

Jine.  Therefore     Achilles :     But,     whate'er, 
know  this ; — 
In  the  extremity  of  great  and  little. 
Valour  and  pride  excel  themselves  in  Hector  ; 
The  one  almost  as  infinite  as  all. 
The  other  blank  as  nothing.     Weigh  him  well, 
And  that  which  looks  like  pride  is  courtesy. 
This  Ajax  is  half  made  of  Hector's  blood : 
In  love  whereof  half  Hector  stays  at  home ; 
Half  heart,  half  hand,  half  Hector  comes  to  seek 
This  blended  kuigbt,  half  Trojan,  and  half  Greek. 
Achil.  A  maiden  battle  tlicii  ?— 0,  I  perceive 
you. 

Re-enter  Diomedes. 
Agam.  Here  is  sir  Diomed: — Go,  gentle  knight, 
taud  by  oui-  Ajax :  as  you  and  lord  .Sneas 
Consent  upon  the  order  of  theii'  fight, 
So  be  it ;  either  to  the  uttermost. 
Or  else  a  breath  :  the  combatants  being  kin. 
Half  stints  their  strife  before  then-  strokes  begin. 
[Ajax  and  HtCTOK  enter  the  lists. 
They  are  oppos'd  already. 
\Vliat  Trojan  is  that  same  that  looks 
so  heavy  ? 
Ult/ss.  The  youngest  son  of  Priam;    a   true 
knight ; * 
Not  yet  matm-e,  yet  matchless  :  fii'm  of  word ; 
Speaking  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue ; 
Not  soon  provok'd,  nor,  being  provok'd,  soon 

calm'd : 
His  heart  and  hand  both  open,  and  both  free ; 
For  what  he  has  he  gives ;  what  thinks  he  shows  ; 
Yet  gives  he  not  till  judgment  guides  Jiis  bounty, 
Nor  dignifies  an  impair- ''  thought  with  breath  : 
Manly  as  Hector,  but  more  dangerous ; 
For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wrath,  subscribes 
To  tender  objects ;  but  he,  in  heat  of  action. 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love : 
They  call  him  Troilus ;  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  hope,  as  fairly  built  as  Hector. 
Thus  says  jUncas ;  one  that  knows  the  youth 
Even  to  his  inches,  and,  with  private  soul, 
Did  m  great  llion  thus  translate  him  to  me. 

lAlariim.     Hectok  and  Ajax  ^//ht. 


a  We  fake  the  reading  of  ihe  quarto.    The  folic  has, 
"  The  youngest  son  of  Priam; 
A  true  knight;  they  call  him  Troilus." 
These  words,  they  cull  him  'J'roiliti,  are  found  below;  and 
their  introduction  here  is  probably  a  clerical  or  typogra- 
phical error. 

b  Impair.  Johnson  conjectured  that  impure  waa  the 
proper  word.  In  adopting  this,  Mr.  Dyce  contends  that 
there  is  no  precedent  for  the  use  of  this  word  adjcctively. 
The  Cambridge  editors  retain  impnir,  considering  that 
ctymologically  't  may  have  the  sense  "  unsuitable." 


e-ii  IV.] 


TEOILUS  AKD   CRESSIDA. 


[SlENE    V. 


Agani.  They  are  in  action. 

Nest.  Now,  Ajax,  hold  thine  own ! 

Tro.  Hector,  thou  sleep'st ; 

Awake  thee ! 

Agam.  His   blows  are  well  dispos'd : — there, 
Ajax ! 

Bio.  You  must  no  more.  [Trumpels  cease. 

Mie.  Princes,  enough,  so  please  you. 

Ajax. '  I  am  not  warm  yet,  let  us  fight  again. 

Bio.  As  Hector  pleases. 

Hect.  Why  then,  wiU  I  no  more : — 

Thou  art,  great  lord,  my  father's  sister's  sou,-'' 
A  cousin-german  to  great  Priam's  seed ; 
The  obligation  of  our  blood  forbids 
A  gory  emulation  'twixt  us  twain  : 
Were  thy  commixtiou  Greek  and  Trojan  so 
That  thou  couldst  say — '  This  hand  is  Grecian 

all, 
And  this  is  Trojan ;  the  sinews  of  this  leg 
All  Greek,  and  this  all  Troy ;  my  mother's  blood 
Runs  on  the  dexter  cheek,  and  tliis  sinister 
Bounds  in  my  father's  ;'  by  Jove  multipotent. 
Thou  shouldst  not   bear  from  me   a  Greekish 

member 
Wherein  my  sword  had  not  impressure  made 
Of  our  rank  feud :  But  the  just  gods  gainsay. 
That  any  drop  thou  borrow'dst  from  thy  mother, 
My  sacred  aunt,  should  by  my  mortal  sword 
Be  di-ain'd  !  Let  me  embrace  thee,  Ajax  : 
By  him  that  thunders,  thou  hast  lusty  arms  ; 
Hector  would  have  them  fall  upon  hiin  thus  : 
Cousin,  all  honour  to  thee ! 

Ajax.  I  thank  thee.  Hector : 

Thou  art  too  gentle,  and  too  free  a  man  : 
I  came  to  kill  thee,  cousin,  and  bear  hence 
A  great  addition  earned  in  thy  death. 

Hect.  Not  Neoptolemus  so  mirable 
(On  whose  bright  crest  Fame  with  her  loud'st 

0  yes 
Cries,  'This  is  he,')  could  promise  to  himself 
A  thought  of  added  honour  torn  from  Hector. 

Mie.  There  is  expectance  here  from  both  the 
sides. 
What  further  you  will  do. 

TIect.  We  '11  answer  it ; 

The  issue  is  embracement : — Ajax,  farewell. 

Ajax.  If  I  might  in  entreaties  find  success, 
(As  seld'  I  have  the  chance,)  I  would  desire 
My  famous  cousin  to  our  Grecian  tents. 

Bio.    'Tis    Agamemnon's    wish,    and    great 
Achilles 
Doth  Ions;  to  see  unarm'd  the  valiant  Hector. 

Hect.  Jincas,  call  my  brother  Troilus  to  me  : 
And  signify  this  loving  interview 
To  the  expecters  of  oui-  Trojan  part ; 


Desu-e   them   home.— Give   me    thy   hand,  my 

cousin  ; 
I  will  go  eat  with  thee,  and  see  your  knights. 
Ajax.  Great  Agamemnon  comes   to  meet  us 

here. 
Hect.  The  worthiest  of  them  tell  me  name  by 
name ; 
But  for  Achilles,  mine  own  searching  eyes 
Shall  find  him  by  his  large  and  portly  size. 

Agam.  Worthy  of  arms  !  as  welcome  as  to  one 
That  would  be  rid  of  such  an  enemy  ; 
But  that 's  no  welcome  :  Understand  more  clear 
What 's  past,  and  what 's  to  come,  is  strew'd  with 

husks 
And  formless  ruin  of  oblivion  ; 
But  in  this  extant  moment,  faith  and  troth, 
Strain'd  purely  from  all  hollow  bias-dl•a^ving, 
Bids  thee,  with  most  divine  integrity. 
Prom   heart  of  very  heart,  great  Hector,  wel- 
come.^ 
Hect.  I    thank    thee,  most    imperious    Aga- 
memnon. 
Agam.  My  well-fam'd  lord  of  Troy,  no  less  to 
you.  \To  Troilus. 

Men.  Let  me   confirm  my  princely  brother's 
greeting ; — 
You  brace  of  warlike  brothers,  welcome  hither. 
Hect.  Whom  must  we  answer  ? 
Mne.  The  noble  Menelaus.** 

Hect.  0  you,  my  lord  ?  by  Mars  his  gauntlet, 
thanks  ! 
Mock  not,  that  I  affect  the  uutraded  *^  oath ; 
Your  qnondam  wife  swears  stiU  by  Venus'  glove . 
She's  well,  but  bade  me  not  commend  her  to 
you. 
Men.  Name  her  not  now,  sir ;  she 's  a  deadly 

theme. 
Hect.  0,  pardon ;  I  offend. 
Nest.  I  have,  thou  gallant  Trojan,  seen  thee 
oft, 
Labom'ing  for  destiny,  make  cruel  way 
Tlu-ough  ranks  of  Greekish  youth :  and  I  have 

seen  thee. 
As  hot  as  Perseus,  spur  thy  Phrygian  steed. 
And   seen   thee   scorning  forfeits    and  subdue- 
ments,"^ 


"  The  quarto  has  only  the  two  first  lines,  and  the  last  line, 
of  this  noble  address;  and  yet  Steevens  and  Malone  talk 
about  the  additions  and  substitutions  of  "the  player- 
editors." 

b  In  the  quarto,  and  the  folio,  this  answer  to  the  question 
of  Hector  is  given  by  jEncas ;  in  the  variorum  editions  it  is 
assigned  to  Mcnclaus ;  and  tlien,  without  looking  at  the 
originals,  Reed  and  M.  Mason  discuss  whether  it  is  proper 
for  Rfenelaus  to  call  hinseif  "  noble." 

c  Untraded — unused — uncommon. 

d  So  the  folio  ;  the  quarto, 

"  Despising  many  forfeits  and  subduements  " 

121 


Act  IV.] 


TEOILUS  AND   CEESSIDA. 


[SCBKE   V. 


When  tliou  hast  hung  thy  advanced  sword  i'  the 

air, 
Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  decliu'd  ; 
That  I  have  said  unto  my  standers-bv, 
'Lo,  Jupiter  is  yonder,  dealing  life  !' 
And   I  have   seen  thee  pause,   and  take   tliy 

breath, 
\Vhen  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have  hemm'd  thee 

iu. 
Like  an  Olympian  wrestling  :  This  have  I  seen ; 
But  this  thy  countenance,  still  lock'd  in  steel, 
I  never  saw  till  now.    1  knew  thy  graudsii-e. 
And  once  fought  with  him :  he  was  a  soldier 

good; 
But,  by  great  Mars,  the  captain  of  us  all, 
Never  like  thee :  Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee ; 
And,  worthy  warrior,  welcome  to  our  tents. 

£ne.  'T  is  the  old  Nestor. 

Hed.  Let  me  embrace  thee,  good  old  chro- 
nicle. 
That  hast   so   long  walk'd  hand  in  hand  with 

time : — 
Most  reverend  Nestor,  I  am  glad  to  clasp  thee. 

Nest.  I  would  my  arms  could  match  thee  iu 
contention, 
-\s  they  contend  with  thee  in  courtesy. 

Heel.  I  would  they  could. 

Nest.  Ha! 
By  this  white  beard,  I'd  fight  with  thee  to- 
morrow. 
Well,  welcome,  welcome  !  I  have  seen  the  time. 

Ultjss.  I  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands, 
When  we  have  here  her  base  and  pillar  by  us. 

Ilect.  I  know  your  favour,  lord  Ulysses,  well. 
Ah,  sir,  there's  many  a  Greek  and  Trojan  dead. 
Since  first  I  saw  yourself  and  Diomcd 
In  Ilion,  on  your  Greekish  embassy. 

Ulyss.  Sir,  I  foretold  you  then  what  would 
ensue  : 
My  prophecy  is  but  half  his  journey  yet ; 
For  yonder  walls,  that  pertly  front  your  town, 
Yon   towers,  whose  wanton   tops   do   buss  the 

clouds, 
Must  kiss  their  own  feet. 

lied.  I  must  not  believe  you  : 

There  they  stand  yet ;  and  modestly  I  think. 
The  fall  of  every  Phrygian  stone  will  cost 
A  drop  of  Grecian  blood  :  Tlie  end  cro\ras  all ; 
And  that  old  common  txrbitrator,  time, 
Will  one  dfty  end  it. 

Vlyas.  So  to  him  we  leave  it. 

Most   gentle,   and    most  valiant   Hector,   wel- 
come : 
.Vfter  the  general,  I  beseech  you  next 
To  feast  with  me,  and  see  me  at  my  tent. 

122 


Adiil.  I    shall  forestall  thee,    lord   Ulysses, 
thou  !— 
Now,  Hector,  I  have  fed  mine  eyes  on  thee  : 
I  have  with  exact  view  pcrus'd  thee,  Hector, 
And  quoted  joint  by  joint. 

Uect.  Is  this  Achilles  ? 

Jchil.  I  am  Achilles. 

Hed.  Stand  fair,  I  pray  thee  :  let  me  look  on 
thee. 

Achil.  Behold  thy  fill. 

Hed.  Nay,  I  have  done  already. 

Achil.  Thou  art  too  brief;   I  will  the  second 
time, 
As  I  would  buy  thee,  view  thee  limb  by  limb. 

Hed.  0,  like  a  book  of  sport  thou  'It  read  nic 
o'er; 
But  there 's  more  in  me  thau  thou  understand'st. 
Why  dost  thou  so  oppress  me  with  thine  eye  ? 

Achil.  Tell  me,  you  heavens,  in  which  part  ol 
his  body 
Shall  I  destroy  him  ?^  whether  there,  or  there,  or 

there  ? 
That  I  may  give  the  local  wound  a  name ; 
And  make  distinct  the  very  breach  whereout 
Hector's  great  spirit  flew :  Answer  me,  heavens ! 

Hed.  It  would    discredit    the    bless'd  gods, 
proud  man. 
To  answer  such  a  question :  Stand  again  : 
Think'st  thou  to  catch  my  life  so  pleasantly, 
As  to  prenominate  in  nice  conjecture 
Where  thou  wilt  liit  me  dead  ? 

Addl.  I  tell  thee,  yea. 

Hed.  Wert  thou  the  oracle  to  tell  me  so, 
I'd  not  believe  thee.     Henceforth  guard   thee 

well ; 
For  I  'U  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there ; 
But,  by  the  forge  that  stithied  Mars  his  helm, 
I  '11  kill  thee  everywhere,  yea,  o'er  and  o'er, — 
You  wisest  Grecians,  pardon  me  this  brag, 
His  insolence  draws  folly  from  my  lips  ; 
But  I'll  endeavour  deeds  to  match  tlicse  words. 
Or  may  I  never — 

Ajax.  Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin ; — 

And  you,  Acliilles,  let  these  threats  alone. 
Till  accident,  or  purpose,  bring  you  to 't : 
You  may  have  every  day  enough  of  Hector, 
If  you  have  stomach ;  tlie  general  state,  I  fear. 
Can  scarce  entreat  you  lo  be  odd  with  him. 

Hed.  I  pray  you,  let  us  see  you  in  the  field  ; 
We  have  had  pelting"  wars,  since  you  rcfus'd 
The  Grecians'  cause. 

Ach'.l.  Dost  thou  entreat  me,  Hector  ' 

To-morrow  do  I  meet  thee,  fell  as  death  ; 
Tonight,  all  friends. 

*  Pillinff — petty. 


Act  IV.] 


TEOILUS   iLND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  V. 


lied.  Thy  hand  upon  that  match. 

Agam.  First,  all  you  peers  of  Greece,  go  to  my 
tent; 
Tliei-e  in  the  full  convive  you :  '^  afterwards. 
As  Hector's  leisure  and  youi-  bounties  shall 
Concur  together,  severally  entreat  him. 
Beat  loud  the  tabourines,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
That  this  great  soldier  may  his  welcome  know. 
[Exenni  all  but  Tkoilus  and  Ulysses. 

Tro.  My  lord  Ulysses,  tell  me,  I  beseech  you, 
In  what  place  of  the  field  doth  Calchas  keep  ? 

Vltjss.  At    Menelaus'    tent,     most    princely 
Troilus : 
There  Diomed  doth  feast  with  him  to-nisrht ; 
Who  neither  looks  on  heaven,  nor  on  earth,'' 

;»   Yuu  in  the  folio  ;  the  quarto,  we. 
>>  So  tlie  folio  ;  tlie  quarto, 

"  Who  neijher  looks  upon  the  LeET^n  ncT  Oirth." 


But  gives  all  gaze  and  bent  of  amorous  view 
On  the  fair  Crcssid. 

Tro.  Shall  I,  sweet  lord,  be  bound  to  thee  so 
much, 
After  we  part  from  Agamemnon's  tent, 
To  bring  me  thither  ? 


Uli/ss. 


You  shall  command  me,  sir. 


As  gentle  tell  me,  of  what  honoui'  was 

This    Cressida    in   Troy  ?     Had    she  no    lover 

there. 
That  wails  her  absence  ? 

Tro.  0,  sir,  to  such  as  boasting  show  their 

scars, 
A  mock  is  due.     Will  you  walk  on,  my  lord  ? 
She  was  belov'd,  she  lov'd  ;  she  is,  and  doth  : 
But,  still,  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth. 

\_Exeunt. 


[/Kncas.] 


[Phrygian  attired  in  Coat  of  Mail.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  ACT  IV. 


•  Scene  II. — "  We  must  ffive  np  to  Dlomedes'  hand 
The  lady  Cressida." 

This  part  of  the  story  is  thus  told  in  the  '  De- 
struction of  Troy  : ' — 

"  Calcas,  that  by  the  commandment  of  Apollo 
had  left  the  Troyaus,  had  a  passing  fair  daughter, 
and  wise,  named  Briseyda — Chaucer,  in  his  book 
that  he  made  of  Troylus,  named  her  Cresida — for 
which  daughter  he  prayed  to  King  Agamemnon, 
and  to  the  other  princes,  that  they  would  require 
the  King  Priamus  to  send  Briseyda  unto  him. 
They  prayed  enough  to  King  Priamus  at  the  in- 
stance of  Calcas,  but  the  Troyans  blamed  sore 
Calcas,  and  called  him  evil  and  false  traitor,  and 
worthy  to  die,  that  had  left  his  own  land  and  his 
natural  lord,  for  to  go  into  the  company  of  his 
mortal  enemies  :  yet,  at  the  petition  and  earnest 
desire  of  the  Greeks,  the  King  Priamus  sent 
Briseyda  to  her  father." 

«  Scene  IV.—"  Be  thou  lut  true  of  heart." 

The  parting  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  very 
beautifully  told  by  Chaucer ;  but  as  Shakspere's 
conception  of  the  character  of  Cressida  is  alto- 
gether different  from  that  of  Chaucer,  we  see 
little  in  the  scene  before  us  to  make  us  believe 
that  Cressida  will  keep  her  vows.  In  the  elder  poet 
she  manifests  a  loftiness  of  character  which  ought 
124 


to  have  preserved  her  faith, 
her  consistent : — 


Shakspcre  has  made 


"  And  o'er  all  this,  I  pray  you,  quod  she  tho,» 
Mine  owne  heartes  sotlifast  suffisance ! 
Sith  I  am  thine  all  whole  withouten  mo. 
That  while  that  I  am  absent,  no  pleasincc 
Of  other  do  me  from  your  remembrance, 
For  I  am  e'er  aghast ;  for  why  ?  men  rede  | 
That  love  is  thing  aye  full  of  busy  drede. 

"  For  in  this  world  there  liveth  lady  none, 
If  that  ye  were  untrue,  as  God  defend  I 
That  so  betrayed  were  or  woe  begone 
As  I,  that  alle  truth  in  you  intend  : 
And  doubteless,  if  that  I  other  ween'd, 
I  n'ere  but  dead,  and  ere  ye  cause  yfind. 
For  Goddfes  love,  so  be  me  nought  unkind. 

"  To  this  answered  Troilus,  and  said, 
Xow  God,  to  whom  there  is  no  cause  awry. 
Me  glad,  as  wis  I  never  to  Cressid', 
Sith  thilke  day  I  saw  her  first  with  eye, 
Was  false,  nor  ever  shall  till  that  1  die: 
At  short  wordes,  well  ye  mriy  me  believe; 
I  can  no  more ;  it  shall  be  found  at  preve. J 

"  Grand  mercy,  good  heart  mine  !  iwis,  (quod  she,) 
And,  blissful  Venus !  let  me  never  sterve  § 
Ere  I  may  stand  of  p'.easancc  in  degree 
To  quite  him  well  that  bo  well  can  deserve; 
And  while  that  God  my  wit  will  me  conserve 
I  shall  so  do,  so  true  I  have  you  found. 
That  aye  bon6ur  to  me-ward  shall  rebound : 


•  Then. 


t  Say. 


I  Vroof. 


i  Die. 


ILLUSTEATIONS   OF  ACT  IV. 


"  For  trusteth  well  that  your  estate  royal, 
Nor  vain  delight,  nor  only  worthiness 
Of  you  in  warjor  tourney  martial, 
Nor  pomp,  array,  nobley,*  or  eke  riches?, 
Ne  maden  me  to  rue  on  your  distress. 
But  moral  virtue,  grounded  upon  truth ; — 
That  was  the  cause  I  first  had  on  you  ruth : 

"  Eke  gentle  heart,  and  manhood  that  ye  had, 
And  that  ye  had  (as  me  thought)  in  despite 
Every  thing  that  souned  into  t  bad. 
As  rudeness,  and  peoplishj:  appetite, 
And  that  your  reason  bridled  your  delight; 
This  made  aboven  ev'ry  creature 
That  I  was  yours,  and  shall  while  I  may  dure." — Book  iv. 

3  Scene  V. — "  Thou  art,  great  lord,  my  father's 
sister's  son." 

This  incident,  which  is  one  of  the  occasions  in 
which  Shakspere,  following  the  old  romance- 
writers,  desires  to  exhibit  the  magnanimity  of 
Hector,  is  found  in  the  'Destruction  of  Troy  :' — 

"  As  they  were  fighting,  they  spake  and  talked 
together,  and  thereby  Hector  knew  that  he  was  his 
cousin-german,  sou  of  his  aunt :  and  then  Hector, 
for  courtesy,  embraced  him  in  his  arms,  and  made 
great  cheer,  and  offered  to  him  to  do  all  his  plea- 
sure, if  he  desired  anything  of  him,  and  prayed  him 
that  he  would  come  to  Troy  with  him  for  to  see  his 
lineage  of  his  mother's  side  :  but  the  said  Thela- 
mon,  that  intended  to  nothing  but  to  his  best  ad- 


Nobilitv. 


t  Verged  towards.        J  Vulgar. 


vantage,  said  that  he  would  not  go  at  this  time. 
But  he  prayed  Hector,  requesting  that,  if  he  loved 
him  Bo  much  as  he  said,  that  he  would  for  his  sake, 
and  at  his  instance,  cease  the  battle  for  that  day, 
and  that  the  Troyans  should  leave  the  Greeks  in 
peace.  The  unhappy  Hector  accorded  unto  him 
his  request,  and  blew  a  horn,  and  made  all  hia 
people  to  withdraw  Into  the  city." 

^  Scene  V. — "  Tell  rue,  you  heavens,  in  which  part 

of  his  body 

Shall  I  destroy  hivi  V 

It  was  a  fine  stroke  of  art  in  Shakspere  to  borrow 
the  Homeric  incident  of  Achilles  surveying  Hector 
before  he  slew  him,  not  using  it  in  the  actual  scene 
of  the  conflict,  but  more  characteristically  in  the 
place  which  he  has  given  it.  The  passage  of  Homer 
is  thus  rendered  by  Chapman  : — 

"  His  bright  and  sparkling  eyes 
Look'd  through  the  body  of  his  foe,  and  sought  through  a.\ 

that  prize 
The  next  way  to  his  thirsted  life.     Of  all  ways,  only  one 
Appear'd  to  him ;  and  this  was,  where  th'  unequal  winding 

bone 
That  joins  the  shoulders  and  the  neck  had  place,  and  where 

there  lay 
The  speeding  way  to  death;  and  there  his  quick  eye  could 

display 
The  place  it  sought,— even  through  those  arms  his  friend 

Patroclus  wore 
Wlien  Hector  slew  him."  (Book  xxiL) 


[TIaetor.l 


*. 


[ScESF.  IX.    Dsath  of  ilector 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.—  The  Grecian  Camp.     Before 
Achilles'  Tent. 

Enter  AcHiLLZS  and  Patroclcs. 

AcMl.  I  '11  heat  his  blood  with  Greekish  wine 
to-night, 
WLich  with  my  scimitar  I  '11  cool  to-morrow. — 
Patroclus,  let  us  feast  him  to  the  height. 

Patr.  Here  comes  Thersites. 

Enter  Thersites. 

Achil.  How  now,  thou  core  of  envy  ? 

Thou  crusty  batch  of  nature,  what 's  the  news  ? 

Tfier.  TThy,  thou  picture  of  what  thou  seemest, 
and  idol  of  idiot-worshippers,  here 's  a  letter  for 
thee. 

Achil.  From  whence,  fragment  ? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  full  dish  of  fool,  from  Troy. 

Pntr.  "Who  keeps  the  tent  now  ? 

Ther.  The  surgeon's  box,  or  the  patient's 
wound. 

120 


Patr.  Well  said.  Adversity!  and  what  need 
these  tricks  ? 

Ther.  Prithee  be  silent,  boy ;  I  profit  not  by 
thy  talk :  thou  art  thought  to  be  Achilles'  male 
varlet. 

Patr.  ilale  varlet,  you  rogue !  what 's  that  ? 

Ther.  Why,  his  masculine  whore.  Now  the 
rotten  diseases  of  the  south,  guts-griping,  rup- 
tures, catarrhs,  loads  o'  gravel  i'  the  back,  lethar- 
gies, cold  palsies,  raw  eyee,  dirt-rotten  livers, 
wheezing  lungs,  bladders  full  of  imposthume, 
sciaticas,  lime-kilns  i'  the  palm,  incurable  bone- 
ache,  and  the  rivelled  fee-simple  of  the  tetter, 
take  and  take  again  such  preposterous  disco- 
veries ! ' 

Patr.  VThj,  thou  damnable  box  of  envy,  thou, 
what  meanest  thou  to  curse  thus  ? 

Ther.  Do  I  curse  thee  ? 


•  This  is  the  reading  of  the  quarto.  The  folio  shortens 
the  enumeration  of  loathsome  diseases,  with,  "  and  the 
like." 


Act  v.] 


TEOILUS   AND   CEESSIDA. 


[Scene  11. 


Patr.  Why,  no,  you  ruinous  butt ;  you  whore- 
son indistinguishable  cur,  no. 

Ther.  No  ?  why  art  thou  then  exasperate, 
thou  idle  immaterial  skein  of  sleVd  silk;,  thou 
green  sarcenet  flap  for  a  sore  eye,  thou  tassel  of 
a  prodigal's  purse,  thou?  Ah,  how  the  poor 
world  is  pestered  with  such  water-flies ;  diminu- 
tives of  nature ! 

Patr.  Out,  gall ! 

Ther.  Finch  ^^^ ! 

Achil.  My  sweet  Patroclus,  I  am  thwarted 
quite 
From  my  great  purpose  in  to  morrow's  battle. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  queen  Hecuba ; 
A  token  from  her  daughter,  my  fair  love ; 
Both  taxing  me,  and  gaging  me  to  keep 
An  oath  that  I  have  sworn.    I  wiU  not  break  it : 
Fall,  Greeks  ;  fail,  fame ;  honour,  or  go,  or  stay ; 
My  major  vow  lies  here,  this  I  '11  obey. 
Come,  come,  Thersites,  help  to  trim  my  tent ; 
This  night  in  banqueting  must  all  be  spent. 
Away,  Patroclus. 

{Exeunt  Achilles  and  Patroclus. 

Ther.  With  too  much  blood  and  too  little 
brain,  these  two  may  run  mad ;  but  if  with  too 
much  brain  and  too  little  blood  they  do,  I  '11  be 
a  curer  of  madmen.  Here's  Agamemnon, — an 
honest  fellow  enough,  and  one  that  loves  quails ; 
but  he  has  not  so  much  brain  as  ear-wax :  And 
the  goodly  transformation  of  Jupiter  there,  his 
brother,  the  bull, — the  primitive  statue  and 
oblique  memorial  of  cuckolds ;  a  thrifty  shoeing- 
liora  in  a  chain,  hanging  at  his  brother's  lee, — 
to  what  form,  but  that  he  is,  should  wit  larded 
with  malice,  and  malice  forced  with  wit,  turn 
him  to  ?  To  an  ass  were  nothing ;  he  is  both  ass 
and  ox :  to  an  ox  were  nothing ;  he  is  both  ox 
and  ass.  To  be  a  dog,  a  mule,  a  cat,  a  fitchew, 
a  toad,  a  lizard,  an  owl,  a  puttock,  or  a  herring 
without  a  roe,  I  woidd  not  care :  but  to  be 
Menelaus,  1  would  conspire  against  destiay. 
Ask  me  not  what  I  would  be  if  I  were  not 
Thersites ;  for  I  care  not  to  be  the  louse  of  a 
lazar,  so  I  were  not  Menelaus. — Hey-day  !  spii'its 
and  fires ! 

Enter  Hector,  Troilus,  Ajax,  Agamem:ncn, 
Ulysses,  Nestor,  JIexelaus,  and  Dioaled, 
with  lights. 

Agam.  We  go  wrong,  we  go  wrong. 
Ajax.  No,  yonder  't  is  ; 

There,  where  we  see  the  lights. 

Hect.  I  trouble  you. 

Ajax.  No,  not  a  whit. 

JJlyss.  Here  comes  himself  to  guide  you. 


Unter  Achilles. 

Achil.   Welcome,    brave    Hector;    welcome, 

princes  idl. 
Agam.  So  now,  fair  prince   of  Troy,  I  bid 
good  night. 
Ajax  commands  the  guard  to  tend  on  you. 
Hect.  Thanks,  and  good  night,  to  the  Greeks' 

general. 
Men.  Good  night,  my  lord. 
Hect.  Good  night,  sweet  lord  Menelaus. 

Ther.  Sweet  draught :  Svceet,  quoth'a!  sweet 
sink,  sweet  sewer. 

Achil.  Good  night,  and  welcome,  both  at  once, 
to  those 
That  go,  or  tarry. 
Agam.  Good  m'ght. 

\_Kveunt  Agamemxcx  and  Mexelaus. 
Achil.  Old  Nestor  tarries  ;  and  you  too,  Dio- 
med, 
Keep  Hector  company  an  hour  or  two. 

Dio.  I  caimot,  lord;  I  have  important  "busi- 
ness, 
The  tide  whereof  is  now. — Good  night,  great 
Hector. 
Hect.  Give  me  your  hand. 
Uli/ss.  Follow  his  torch,  he  goes 

To  Calchas'  tent ;  I  'U  keep  you  company. 

{Aside  to  Troilits. 
Tro.  Sweet  sir,  you  honour  me. 
Hect.  And  so  good  night. 

{E.nt  DiOHED  ;  Ulyss.  and  Tro.  following. 
Achil.  Come,  come,  enter  my  tent. 

\_E.rei(nt  Achil.,  Hector,  Aj.\:x,  and  Nest. 
Ther,  That  same  Diomed's  a  false-hearted 
rogue,  a  most  unjust  knave ;  I  will  no  more 
trust  him  when  he  leers,  than  I  will  a  serpent 
when  he  hisses :  he  will  spend  his  mouth,  and 
promise,  like  Brablcr  the  hound;  but  wheu  he 
performs,  astronomers  foretell  it  that  it  is  pro- 
digious, there  will  come  some  change ;  the  sun 
borrows  of  the  moon  when  Diomed  keeps  his 
word.  I  will  rather  leave  to  see  Hector  than 
not  to  dog  him :  they  say  he  keeps  a  Trojan 
drab,  and  uses  the  traitor  Calchas'  tent :  I  '11 
after. — Nothing  but  lechery !  all  incontinent 
varlets !  [E.nt. 

SCENE  U.—The  same.    Before  Calchas'  Tent. 

Enter  Diomedes. 
Dio.  What,  are  you  up  here,  ho  ?  speak. 

Ceil.  [With in ^^  "VVho  calls? 
Dio.    Diomed.— Calchas,   I  think.— Where 's 
your  dau2;hter  ? 

Cal.  [Within.']  She  comes  to  you. 

127 


Act  v.] 


TROILUS  AND   CRESSIDA 


[SCEiJK    II. 


Enter  Thoiltjs  and  Ulysses,  at  a  distance  ;  after 

them  TlIERSITES. 

Ul^ss.  Stand  \rhere  the  torch  ni:iy  not  dis- 
cover us. 

Enter  Cressida. 

Tro.  Crcssid  comes  fortli  to  bini. 
Dio.  How  now,  my  charge  ? 

Ores.  Now,  my  sweet  guardian! — Hark!    a 
word  with  you.  [IF/dspers. 

Tro.  Yea,  so  faniihar ! 
Ult/ss.  She  will  sing  any  man  at  first  sight. 
Ther.  And  any  man  may  sing  her,  if  he  can 
take  her  cliiT ;  she's  noted. 
Dio.  "Will  you  remember  ? 
Cres.  Remember?  yes. 

Dio.  Nay,  but  do  then ; 

And  let  your  niiud  be  coupled  with  your  words. 
Tro.  What  should  she  remember  ? 
Uli/ss.  List! 
Cres.  Sweet  honey  Greek,  tempt  me  no  more 

•       to  folly. 
Ther.  Roguery ! 
Dio.  Nay,  then, — 

Cres.  I  '11  tell  you  what : 

Dio.  Pho !  pho !  come,  tell  a  pin :  You  arc  a 

forsworn — 
Cres.  In  faith,  I  cannot:    What  would  you 

have  me  do  ? 
Ther.  A  juggling  trick,  to  be  secretly  open. 
Dio.  What  did  you  swear  you  would  bestow 

on  me  ? 
Cres.  I  prithee,  do  not  hold  me  to  mine  oath  ; 
Bid  me  do  anything  but  that,  sweet  Greek. 
Dio.  Goodnight. 
Tro.  Hold,  patience ! 

Uli/ss.  How  now,  Trojan  ? 

Cres.  Diomed, — 

Dio.  No,  no,  good  night :  I  '11  be  yoiu-  fool  no 

more. 
Tro.  Thy  better  must. 

Cres.  Hark  !  one  word  in  your  car. 

Tro.  0  plague  and  madness  ! 
Uli/ss.  You  are  mov'd,  prince ;  let  us  depart, 
I  pray  you. 
Lest  yoiu*  displeasure  should  enlarge  itself 
To  wrathful  terras ;  this  place  is  dangerous ; 
The  time  right  deadly ;  I  beseech  you,  go. 
Tro.  Behold,  I  pray  you ! 
Ulj/ss.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  go  olT : 

You  flow  to  great  distraction,  come,  my  lord. 
Tro.  I  pray  thee,  stay, 

Ulyss.  You  have  not  patience ;  come. 

Tro.  I  pray  you,  stay;  by  hell  and  all  hell 
torments, 
I  will  not  speak  a  word. 
128 


Dio.        .  And  so,  good  night. 

Cres.  Nay,  but  you  part  in  anger. 

Tro.  Doth  that  grieve  tlicc  ? 

0  wither'd  truth ! 

Uli/ss.  Why,  how  now,  lord  ? 

Tro.  By  Jove, 

1  will  be  patient. 

Cres.  Guardian ! — why,  Greek ! 

Dio.  Elio,  pho !  adieu ;  you  palter. 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  do  not;    come  hither  once 
again. 

Uli/ss.  You  shako,  my  lord,  at  something ;  will 
you  go  ? 
You  will  break  out. 

Tro.  She  strokes  his  cheek ! 

Ulyss.  Come,  come. 

Tro.  Nay,  stay;  by  Jove,  I  will  not  speak  a 
word : 
There  is  between  my  will  and  aU  offences 
A  guard  of  patience : — stay  a  little  while. 

Ther.  IIow  the  devil  luxury,  with  his  fat 
rump,  and  potato  finger,  tickles  these  together  1 
Fry,  lechery,  fry ! 

Dio.  But  will  you  then  ? 

Cres.  Li  faith,  I  wDl,  la  :  never  trust  me  else. 

Dio.  Give  me  some  token  for  the  surety  of  it. 

Cres.  I'll  fetch  you  one.  \E.vil. 

Ult/ss.  You  have  sworn  patience. 

Tro.  Fear  me  not,  sweet  lord  ; 

I  will  not  be  myself,  nor  have  cognition 
Of  what  I  feel ;  I  am  all  patience. 

Re-enter  Cressida. 

Ther.  Now  the  pledge ;  now,  now,  now  ! 

Cres.  Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve.* 

Tro.  0  beauty !  where 's  thy  faith  ? 

Uli/ss.  My  lord, — 

Tro.  I  will  be  patient ;  outwardly  I  wdl. 

Cres.  You  look  upon  that  sleeve:   Behold  it 
weU.— 
He  lov'd  mc — 0  false  M'cnch  ! — Give 't  me  again. 

Dio.  Whose  was 't  ? 

Cres.         It  is  no  matter,  now  I  have 't  again. 
I  will  not  meet  with  you  to-morrow  night : 
I  prithee,  Diomed,  visit  me  no  more. 

T/ier.  Now  she  sharpens : — Well  said,  whet- 
stone. 

Dio.  I  shall  have  it. 

Cres.  What,  this  ? 

Dio.  Ay,  that. 

Cres.  O    all    you    gods ! — 0    pretty     pretty 
pledge ! 
Thy  master  now  lies  thinking  in  his  bed 
Of  thee,  and  me ;  and  sighs,  and  takes  my  glove, 
And  gives  memorial  dainty  kisses  to  it, 


Act  V. 


TROILUS   A^^D    CRESSIDA. 


[SCENb    I  i. 


As  I  kiss  thee. — Nay,  do  not  snatch  it  from  me ; 
He  that  takes  that  doth  take  my  heart  withal.* 

Dio.  I  had  yoiir  heart  before,  this  follows  it. 

Tro.  I  did  swear  patience. 

Ores.  You  shall  not  have  it,  Diomed;   'faith 
you  shall  not ; 
I  '11  give  you  something  else. 

Dio.  I  will  have  this  :  whose  was  it  ? 


Cres. 


'T  is  no  matter. 


Dio.  Come,  tell  me  whose  it  was. 

Cres.  'T  was  one's  that  loved  me  better  than 
you  will. 
But,  now  you  have  it,  take  it. 

Dio.  "Wliose  was  it  ? 

Cres.  By  all  Diana's  waiting-women,  youd, 
And  by  herself,  I  will  not  tell  you  whose. 

Dio.  To-morrow  will  I  wear  it  on  my  helm  ; 
And  grieve  his  spirit  that  dares  not  challenge  it. 

Tro.  Wert  thou  the  devil,  and  wor'st  it  on  thy 
horn. 
It  should  be  chaUeng'd. 

Cres.  Well,  well,  "t  is  done,  't  is  past : — And 
yet  it  is  not ; 
I  will  not  keep  my  word. 

Dio.  ^^  I'y  then,  farewell ; 

Thou  never  shalt  mock  Diomed  again. 

Cres.  You  shall  not  go:-^One  cannot  speak 
a  word, 
But  it  straight  starts  you. 

Dio.  I  do  not  like  tliis  fooling. 

Ther.  Nor  I,  by  Pluto  :   but  that  that  likes 
not  you  pleases  me  best. 

Dio.  What,  shall  I  come  ?  the  hoiu-  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  come  : — 0  Jove  ! 

Do  come  : — I  shall  be  plagued. 

Dio.  Farewell  till  then. 

Cres.  Good  night.     I  prithee,  come. — 

[Exit  DlOMEDES. 

Troilus,  farewell !  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee  ; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah  !  poor  oar  sex  !  this  fault  in  n5  I  find. 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind : 
What  error  leads  must  err ;  0  then  conclude. 
Minds  sway'd  by  eyes  are  full  of  turpitude. 

[Exit  Cressida. 

Ther.   A    proof  of  strength   she   could  not 
publish,  more, 
Unless  she  say,  my  mind  is  now  turn'd  whore. 

Uli/ss.  All 's  done,  my  lord. 

Tro.  It  is. 

UIi/ss.  Why  stay  we  then  ? 

Tro.  To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 

a  Tliis  is  the  line  of  the  quarto.     The  folio  has 

"  He  that  takes  that  takes  my  heart  withal." 
Tragedies. — Vol.  II.        K 


Of  every  syllable  that  here  was  spoke. 
But,  if  I  tell  how  these  two  did  co-act. 
Shall  I  not  lie  in  publishing  a  truth  ? 
Sith  yet  there  is  a  credence  in  my  heart. 
An  esperance  so  obstinately  strong, 
That  doth  invert  the  attest  of  eyes  and  ears. 
As  if  those  organs  had  deceptious  functions. 
Created  only  to  calumniate. 
Was  Cressid  here  ? 

Ulps.  I  cannot  conjure,  Trojan. 

Tro.  She  was  not,  sure. 

Ulj/ss.  Most  sure  she  was. 

Tro.  Why,  my  negation  hath  no  taste  of  mad- 
ness. 

Uli/ss.  Nor  mine,  my  lord :  Cressid  was  here 
but  now. 

Tro.  Let  it  not  be  believ'd  for  womanhood  ! 
Think,  we  had  mothers  ;  do  not  give  advantage 
To  stubborn  ci-itics,  apt,  without  a  theme. 
For  depravation,  to  square  the  general  sex 
By  Cressid's  rule  :  rather  think  this  not  Cressid. 

Uli/ss.  What  hath  she  done,  prince,  that  can 
soil  onr  mothers  ? 

Tro.  Nothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were  she. 

Ther.  Will  he  swagger  himself  out  on 's  own 
eyes? 

Tro.  This  she  ?  no,  this  is  Diomed's  Cressida : 
If  beauty  have  a  soul,  this  is  not  she  ; 
If  souls  guide  vows,  if  vows  be  sanctimony. 
If  sanctimony  be  the  gods'  delight, 
If  there  be  rule  in  unity  itself. 
This  is  not  she.     0  madness  of  discourse. 
That  cause  sets  up  with  and  against  thyself ' 
Bi-fold  authority  !  where  reason  can  revolt 
"Without  perdition,  and  loss  assume  aU  reason 
Without  revolt ;  this  is,  and  is  not,  Cressid ! 
Within  my  soul  there  doth  conduce"  a  fight 
Of  this  strange  nature,  that  a  thing  inseparate 
Divides  more  wider  than  the  sky  and  earth  ; 
And  yet  the  spacious  breadth  of  this  division 
Admits  no  orifice  for  a  point,  as  subtle 
As  Ariachne's  broken  woof,  to  enter. 
Instance,  O  instance  !  strong  as  Pluto's  gates ; 
Cressid  is  mine,  tied  with  the  bonds  of  heaven  • 
Instance,  O  instance !  strong  as  heaven  itself ; 
The  bonds  of  heaven  are  slipp'd,  dissolv'd,  and 

loos'd ; 
And  with  another  knot,  five-finger-tied, 
The  fractions  of  her  faith,  orts  of  her  love. 
The  fragments,   scraps,  the    bits,   and    greasy 

reHques 
Of  her  o'er-eaten  faith,  are  bound  to  Diomed. 

Ulyss.  May  worthy  Troilus  be  half  attach'd 
With  that  wiiich  here  his  passion  doth  express? 

a  Conduce  in  both  copies ;  in  the  Latin  sense  of  le.id  to. 

129 


Act    V, 


TlfOlLUS   AND   CliESSIDA. 


[SttM-,    II. 


Tro.  Ay,  Gieek  ;    nud  that  shall  be  diviilgcil 

MCll 

III  characters  as  red  as  Mars  his  heart 

lullum'd    with   Venus :    never   did  young   inau 

fancy 
"With  so  eternal  and  so  fix'd  a  soid. 
Hark,  Greek  :  As  much  as  I  do  Crcssid  love, 
So  much  by  weight  hate  I  her  Diomcd  : 
That  sleeve  is  mine  that  he'll  bear  in  his  helm  ; 
Were  it  a  casque  compos'd  by  Vulcan's  skill, 
My  sword  should  bite  it  :  not  the  dreadful  spout 
"Which  shipmen  do  the  hurrieano  call, 
Constring'd  in  mass  by  the  almighty  sun, 
Shall  dizzy  with  more  clamour  Neptune's  ear 
In  his  descent,  than  shall  my  piompled  sword 
Falling  on  Diomed. 

Ther.  lie  '11  tickle  it  for  his  coucupy. 

Tro.  0  Crcssid !  0  false-  Cressid !  fahe,  false, 
false ! 
Let  aQ  untruths  stand  by  thy  stained  name, 
And  they  '11  seem  glorious. 

Ulyss.  0,  contain  yourself; 

Your  passion  draws  ears  hither. 

Enter  ^neas. 

J^ne.  I  have  been  seeking  you  this  hour,  my 
lord : 
Hector,  by  this,  is  arming  him  in  Troy  ; 
Ajax,  your  guard,  stays  to  conduct  you  home. 

Tro.  Have  with  you,  prince  : — My  courteous 
lord,  adieu : — 
Farewell,  revolted  fair  ! — and,  Diomed, 
Stand  fast,  and  wear  a  castle  on  thy  head ! 

Ulyss.  I  '11  bring  you  to  the  gates. 

Tro.  Accept  distracted  thanks. 

[Exeunt  Tkoilus,  jEnkas,  and  Ulysses. 

T/ier.  'Would  I  could  meet  that  rogue  Dio- 
med !  I  would  croak  like  a  raven ;  I  would  bode, 
I  would  bode.  Patroclus  will  give  me  any  thing 
for  the  intelligence  of  this  whore :  the  parrot  will 
not  do  more  for  an  almond  than  he  for  a  com- 
modious drab.  Lechery,  lechery ;  still,  wars  and 
lechery;  nothing  ebe  holds  fashion:  A  burning 
devil  take  them  !  [/^.r/V. 

SCENE  III.— Troy.     Ue/ure  Priam'*  Palace. 
Enter  Hector  and  Andromacue. 

Jnd.  When  was  my  lord  so  much  ungently 
tcmpcr'd, 
To  stop  his  ears  against  admonishment  ? 
Unarm,  unarm,  and  do  not  fight  to-day. 

Ilert.  You  train  mc  to  offend  you ;    get  you 
gone : 
By  all  the  everlasting  gods,  I  '1!  go. 
130 


A/iJ.  My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove  ominous  to 

the  day.^ 
llccl.  No  more,  I  say. 

Enter  Cassandra. 

Ci/,1.  AVhcrc  is  my  brother  Hector? 

Jud.  Hero,  sister ;   urm'd,  and  bloody  in  in- 
tent. 
Consort  with  mc  in  loud  and  dear  petition, 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees ;  for  1  have  dream'd 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath  nothing  been   but   shapes   and  forms  of 
slaughter. 
Cas.  0,  it  is  true. 

Ilect.  Hu  !  bid  my  trumpet  sound  ! 

Cas.  No  notes  of  sally,  for  the  heavens,  sweet 

brother. 
Ilect.  Begone,  I  say  :  the  gods  have  heard  me 

swear. 
Cas.  The  god.s  are  deaf  to  hot  and  peevish 
vows ; 
They  are  polluted  offering.s,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

Jnd.  0  !  be  persuaded :  Do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just :  it  is  as  lawful. 
For  we   would    give    much,    to   count   violent 

thefts, 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity." 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose  that  makes  strong  the 
vow : 
But  vows  to  every  purpose  must  not  hold : 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 

Hect.  Hold  you  still,  1  say  ; 

Mine  honour  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate  : 
Life  every  man  holds  dear ;  but  the  dear  man 
Holds  honour-  far  more  precious  dear  than  life. — 

Enter  Troilus. 

How  now,  young  man  ?  mean'st  thou  to  fight  to- 
day ? 
Jnd.  Cassandra,  call  my  father  to  persuade. 

\_E.Tit  Cassandr\. 

'  This  i.s  one  of  the  very  few  obscure  pass-nges  in  this  pl.iy. 
The  lines  are  not  in  the  quarto.     In  t)ie  folio  we  find, 

"  Do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  bein';  Just :  it  is  as  lawful : 
l-'or  we  would  count  give  much  to  as  violent  thefts, 
And  rob,"  &c. 
The  ordinary  reading  is, 

"  Tor  wc  would  give  much,  to  use  violent  thefts." 
To  use  thefts  is  clearly  not  Sh.iksperian.  I'erh.ips  count,  or 
giic,  might  lie  omitted,  supposing  that  one  word  had  bt-cn 
.substituted  for  another  m  the  maniis(ript,  without  the 
erasure  of  lliat  first  written;  but  this  omission  will  not  (.-i'C 
us  a  meaning.  We  have  ventured  to  tran.sposc  Count,  and 
omit  as: — 

"  For  we  would  give  much,  to  count  violent  thefts." 
We  have  now  a  clear  meaning  :— it  is  as  lawful,  because  we 
desire  to  give  much,  to  count  violent  thefts  as  holy. 

"  And  rol)  in  the  behalf  of  charity." 


Alt    V  ] 


TKOILUS   iVI^I)   CliESSlDA. 


ISCEM      III. 


llecl.  No,     'faith,    young   Troilus;    doff   tliy 
liai-ness,  youth, 
I  am  to-day  i'  the  vein  of  chivalry : 
Let  grow  thy  sinews  till  their  knots  be  strong. 
And  tempt  not  yet  the  brushes  of  the  war. 
Unarm  thee,  go  ;  and  doubt  thou  not,  brave  boy, 
I  '11  stand  to-day,  for  thee,  and  me,  and  Troy. 

Tro.  Brother,  you  have  a  vice  of  mercy  in  you, 
^Yhich  better  fits  a  lion  than  a  man. 

Hect.  Wliat  vice  is  that,  good  Troilus  ?   chide 
me  for  it. 

Ti-o.  When  many  times  the  captive  Grecians 
fall, 
Even  in  the  fan  and  wind  of  your  fair  sword, 
You  bid  them  rise  and  live. 

Jlect.  0,  't  is  fair  play. 

Tro.  Fool's  play,  by  heaven,  Hector  ! 

Hed.  How  now  ?  how  now  ? 

Tro.  Eor  tht  love  of  all  the  gods. 

Let 's  leave  the  hermit  pity  with  our  mothers ; 
And  when  we  have  our  armours  buckled  on. 
The  venom'd  vengeance  ride  upon  our  swords  ; 
Spur  them  to  ruthful  work,  rein  them  from  ruth. 

Red.  Pie,  savage,  fie  ! 

Tro.  Hector,  then  't  is  wars. 

Hed.  Troilus,  I  would  not  have  you  fight  to 
day. 

Tro.  Who  should  withhold  me  ? 
Not  fate,  obedience,  nor  the  hand  of  Mars 
Beckoning  with  fiery  truncheon  my  retii-e ; 
Not  Priamus,  and  Hecuba  on  knees. 
Their  eyes  o'ergalled  with  recourse  of  tears ; 
Nor  you,   my  brother,  with  your  true   sword 

drawn, 
Oppos'd  to  hinder  me,  should  stop  my  way. 
But  by  my  ruin. 

Re-enter  Cassandra,  with  Phiaji. 

Cas.  Lay  hold  upon  him,  Priam,  hold  him  fast : 
He  is  thy  crutch ;  now  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  aU  Troy  on  thee. 
Fall  all  together. 

Fri.  Come,  Hector,  come,  go  back  : 

Thy  wife  hath  dream'd;   thy  mother  hath  had 

visions ; 
Cassandra  doth  foresee ;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt. 
To  tell  thee  that  this  day  is  ommous : 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Hect.  iEneas  is  a-field ; 

And  I  do  stand  cngag'd  to  many  Greeks, 
Even  in  the  faith  of  valour,  to  appear 
Tills  morning  to  them. 

P/-/.  Ay,  but  thou  shalt  not  go. 

lied.  I  must  not  break  my  faith. 
K  2 


You  know  me  dutiful;  therefore,  dear  sir, 
Let  me  not  shame  respect ;  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice. 
Which  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 
Cas.  0  Priam,  yield  not  to  him . 
And.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

lied.  Audj'omache,  I  am  offended  with  vou : 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

{Exit  Andromache. 
Tro.  This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  0  farewell,  dear  Hector. 

Look,  how  thou  diest !  look,  how  thy  eye  turns 

pale  ! 
Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents  ! 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars  !   how  Hecuba  cries  out ! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolour  forth! 
Behold  distraction,  frenzy,  and  amazement. 
Like  witless  antics,  one  another  meet, 
And  all  cry — Hector  !  Hector 's  dead !  0  Hector ! 
Tro.  Away ! — Away  ! 

Cas.  Farewell. — Yet,  soft. — Hector,    I    take 
my  leave  : 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive. [iij-jY. 
Hed.  Xqta.  are  araaz'd,  my  liege,  at  her  ex- 
claim: 
Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town ;  we  '11  forth,  and  fight ; 
Do  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at  night. 
Fri.  Farewell:   the   gods   with   safety  stand 
about  thee ! 

{Exeunt  severally  Priam  and  Hector. 
Alarur.is. 
Tro.  They  are  at  it ;    hark  !    Proud  Diom^, 
believe, 
I  come  t  :i  lose  my  arm,  or  win  my  sleeve. 

As  Troilus  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  other 
side,  Pandartjs. 

Pan.  Do  you  hear,  my  lord  ?  do  you  hear  ? 

Tro.  "Wliat  now  ? 

Pan.  Here  's  a  letter  from  you'  poor  gin. 

Tro.  Let  me  read. 

Pan.  A  whoreson  tisick,  a  whoreson  rascally 
tisick  so  troubles  me,  and  the  foolish  fortune 
of  this  girl ;  and  what  one  thing,  what  another, 
that  I  shall  leave  you  one  o'  these  days :  And  I 
have  a.  rheum  in  mine  eyes  too ;  and  such  an 
ache  in  my  bones,  that,  unless  a  man  were 
cursed,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  on 't. — What 
says  she  there  ? 

Tro.  Words,  words,  mere    words,  no  jnatter 
from  the  heart ;        [Tearing  the  letter. 
The  effect  doth  operate  another  way. — 
Go,  wind,  to  wind,  there  turn  and  change  toT- 
ther. — 


A<T  V.) 


TROILUS  AT^ID   CRESSIDA. 


[Sci;nes  IV..  V. 


My  love  with  words  and  ciTors  still  she  feeds ; 
But  edifies  another  with  her  deeds. 
Pan.  Why  !  but  hear  you. 
Tro.   Hence,    broker    lackey !     ignoniy    and 
shame 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name." 

{Exeunt  scteraUt/. 

SCENE  IV. — Between  Troy   and  the    Grecian 
Camp. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  TilEKSITES. 

Ther.  Now  they  are  clapper-clawing  one 
another ;  I  '11  go  look  on.  That  dissembling 
abominable  varlet,  Diomed,  has  got  that  same 
scurvy  doting  foolish  young  knave's  sleeve  of 
Troy  there  in  his  helm  :  I  would  fain  see  them 
meet ;  that  that  same  young  Trojan  ass,  that 
loves  the  whore  there,  might  send  that  Greekish 
whoremasterly  villain,  \vith  the  sleeve,  back  to 
the  dissembling  luxurious  drab,  of  a  sleeveless 
errand.  O'  the  other  side,  the  policy  of  those 
crafty  swearing  rascals, — that  stale  old  mouse- 
eaten  dry  cheese,  Nestor,  and  that  same  dog- 
fox, Ulysses, — is  not  proved  worth  a  blackberry : 
— They  set  me  up,  in  policy,  that  mongrel  cur, 
Ajax,  against  that  dog  of  as  bad  a  kind,  Achilles : 
and  now  is  the  cur  Ajax  prouder  than  the  cur 
Achilles,  and  will  not  arm  to-day ;  whereupon 
the  Grecians  begin  to  proclaim  barbarism,  and 
policy  grows  into  an  ill  opinion.  Soft !  here 
come  sleeve,  an'^.  t'  other. 

Enter  DiOMEDES,  Iv.oiujs  following. 

Tro.  Fly  not ;   for,  shouldst    thou    take   the 
river  Styx, 
I  would  swira  after. 

Dio.  Tliou  dost  miscall  retire  : 

I  do  not  fly ;  but  advantageous  care 
Withdrew  me  from  the  odds  of  multitude  : 
Have  at  thee ! 

Ther.  Hold  thy  whore,  Grecian ! — now  for 
thy  whore,  Trojan  ! — now  the  sleeve,  now  the 
sleeve ! 

{Exeunt  Troilus  and  Dio^iedes,  fttjhting. 

Enter  ITectoh. 

Jlect.  What   art  thou,   Greek,   art   thou   for 
Hector's  match  ? 

•■V  This  couplet,  wliich  we  here  find  In  the  folio,  is  apain 
nseil  by  Troilus  towards  the  conclusion  of  the  play— the  last 
words  which  Troilus  speaks.  Followin);  the  (|iiartu,  llie 
lines  are  usually  omitted  in  the  close  of  the  third  scene. 
Stcevenj  says,  "the  poet  would  h.irdly  have  piven  us  an 
unnecessary  repetition  of  the  same  words,  nor  have  dis- 
missed P.ind*rus  twice  in  the  same  manner."  Tlie  Cam- 
bridge editors  think  that  the  repetition  is  .in  indication  that 
the  I'lay  has  been  tampered  -vith  by  anoihcr  hand  than 
Shakspere's. 

132 


Art  thou  of  blood  and  honour  ? 

Ther.  No,  no : — I  am  a  rascal ;  a  scurvy 
railing  knave ;  a  very  filthy  rogue. 

Uect.  I  do  believe  thee ; — live.  \Exit. 

Ther.  God-a-mercy  that  thou  wilt  believe  me  ; 
buf  a  plague  break  thy  neck  for  frighting  me  ! 
"What's  become  of  the  wenching  rogues?  1 
think  they  hnve  swallowed  one  another:  I 
would  laugh  at  that  miracle.  Yet,  in  a  sort, 
lechery  eats  itself.    I  'U  seek  them.  \Exit. 

SCENE  v.— r/;e  same. 

Enter  Diomedes  and  a  Servant. 

Dio.  Go,  go,  my  servant,  take  thou  Troilus' 
horse  !  ^ 
Present  the  fair  steed  to  my  lady  Cressid : 
Fellow,  commend  my  service  to  her  beauty  ; 
Tell  her  I  have  chastis'd  the  amorous  Trojan, 
And  am  her  knight  by  proof. 

Sere.  I  go,  my  lord. 

{Exit  Servant. 

Enter  Agamemnon. 

Af/am.  Renew,  renew  !    The  fierce  Polydauius 
Hath  beat  down  Menon :  bastard  Margarelon 
Hath  Doreus  prisoner ; 
And  stands  colossus-wise,  waving  his  beam. 
Upon  the  pashed  corses  of  the  kings 
Epistrophus  and  Cedius  :  Polixenes  is  slain  ; 
Amnhimacus,  and  Thoas,  deadly  hurt ; 
Patroclus  ta'en,  or  slain  ;  and  Palamedes 
Sore  hurt  and  bruis'd  :  the  dreadful  Sagittary 
Appals  our  numbers  ;''  haste  we,  Diomed, 
To  reinforcement,  or  we  perish  all. 
Enter  Nestok. 

Nest.  Gro,  bear  Patroclus'  body  to  Achilles  j 
And  bid  the  snail-pac'd  Ajax  arm  for  shame. 
There  is  a  thousand  Hectors  in  the  field  ; 
Now  here  he  fights  on  Galathe  his  horse,  * 
And  there  lacks  work ;  anon,  he  's  there  afoot, 
And  there  they  fly,  or  die,  like  scaled  sculls  " 
Before  the  belching  whale  ;  then  is  he  yonder. 
And  there  the  strawy ''  Greeks,  ripe  for  his  edge. 
Fall  down  before  him  like  the  mower's  swath  : 
Here,   there,   and  everywhere,   he   leaves    and 

takes ; 
Dexterity  so  obeying  appetite 
That  what  he  will  he  does  ;  and  does  so  much 
Thiat  proof  is  call'd  impossibility. 

"  5ci//fj— shoals  of  fish.     We  have  the  word  in  Milton 
(I'aradisc  Lost,  book  vii.): — 

•'  Fish,  that  with  their  fin.s  .nnd  shininp  scales 
(ilide  under  the  preen  wave,  in  sculls  that  oft 
I3ank  the  mid  sea." 
b  Strawy.    This  beautiful  epithet  is  found  in  the  quarto; 
the  folio  has  straying. 


xc^  r.-\ 


TROILUS   AXD   CRESSIDA. 


[SCESIS  Vi.—VIIl. 


E/ifer  Ulysses. 
Uij/ss.  O    courage,   courage,    princes !    gi-eat 

AcliiUes 
Is  arming,  weepiug,  cursing,  vowing  vengeance ; 
Putroclus'  wounds  have  rous'd  his  di'owsy  blood, 
Together  with  his  mangled  Myrmidons, 
That   noseless,   handless,   hack'd  and    chipp'd, 

come  to  him. 
Crying  on  Hector.     Ajax  hath  lost  a  friend. 
And  foams  at  mouth,  and  he  is  arm'd,  and  at  it. 
Roaring  for  Troilus ;  who  hath  done  to-day 
^lad  and  fantastic  execution; 
Engaging  and  redeeming  of  himself. 
With  such  a  careless  force,  and  forceless  care, 
ks  if  that  luck,  in  very  spite  of  cunning. 
Bade  him  win  all. 

Ent^  Ajax. 

Jja.r.  Troilus,  thou  coward  Troilus !       [Edi. 
Dio.  Ay,  there,  there. 

NesL  So,  so,  we  draw  together. 

Eaier  Achilles. 

JchiL  Where  is  this  Hector  ? 

Come,  come,  thca  boy-queller,  show  thy  face ; 
Know  what  it  is  to  meet  Achilles  angry. 
Hector!    where 's   Hector?    I  wdl    none    but 
Hector.  [Exeui/L 


SCENE  Yi— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Troilus,  thou  coward  Troilus,  show  thy 
head! 

Enter  DiOiiEDES. 

Dio.  Troilus,  I  say !  where 's  Troilus  ? 
Jjax.  Wliat  woiddst  thou  ? 

I)io.  I  would  correct  him. 
Ajax.  Were  I  the  general,  thou  shouldst  have 

my  office 
Ere  that   correction :— Troilus,   I   say  !    what, 

Troilus ! 

Enter  Tkoilus. 

Tro.  0  traitor  Diomed ! — turn  thy  false  face, 
thou  traitor. 
And  pay  thy  life  thou  ow'st  me  for  my  horse  ! 

Dio.  Ha  1  art  thou  there  ? 

Ajax.  I'll  fight  with  him  alone:   stand,  Dio- 
med. 

Bio.  He  is  my  prize.     I  will  not  look  upon. 

Tro.  Come  both  you  cogging   Greeks;    have 
at  you  both.  \Exeuntf(jhtincj. 


Enter  Hector. 

Hect.  Yea,    Troilus?     O    well    fought,    div 
youngest  brother ! 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Now  do  I  see  thee : — Ha ! — Have  at 
thee.  Hector. 

Kect.  Pause,  if  thou  wilt. 

Achil.  I  do  disdain  tliy  courtesy,  proud  Trojan. 
Be  happy  that  my  amis  are  out  of  use : 
My  rest  and  neghgence  befriend  thee  now. 
But  thou  auon  shalt  hear  of  me  again ; 
Till  when,  go  seek  thy  fortune.  \Exit. 

Hect.  Fiu'e  thee  well : — 

I  would  have  been  much  more  a  fresher  man 
Had  I  expected  thee. — How  now,  my  brother  ? 

Re-enter  Teoiltjs. 

Tro.  Ajax  hath  ta'en  ^neas  :  Shall  it  be  ? 
No,  by  the  flame  of  yonder  glorious  heaven. 
He  shall  not  carry  him ;  I  '11  be  ta'en  too. 
Or  bring  him  off : — Eate,  hear  me  what  I  say ! 
I  reck  not  though  I  end  my  life  to-day.       \^Exit. 

Enter  one  in  sumptnous  armour. 

Hect.  Stand,  stand,  thou  Greek;  thou  art  a 
goodly  mark : — 
No  ?  wilt  thou  not  ? — I  like  thy  armour  well ; 
I  '11  frush  **  it,  and  unlock  the  rivets  aU, 
But  I  'U  be  master  of  it : — Wilt  thou  not,  beast, 

abide  ? 
"VYhy  then,  fly  on,  I'll  hunt  thee  for  thy  hide. 

[Exeunl. 

SCENE  \ll.—The  same. 

Enter  Achilles,  with  Myrmidons. 
Achil.  Come  here  about  me,  you  my  iMyrmi- 
dons; 
}*[ark  what  I  say.— Attend  me  where  I  wheel : 
Strike  not  a  stroke,   but  keep  yourselves   in 

breath ; 
And  when  I  have  the  bloody  Hector  found, 
Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  about ; 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  arms.'' 
Follow  me,  sirs,  and  my  proceedings  eye  : — 
It  is  decreed  Hector  the  great  must  die. 

[Ereuzt- 

SCENE  Wll.—The  same. 

Enter  Menelatjs  and  Paris, ////<//////;  then 
Thebsites. 

Ther.  The  cuckold  and  the  cuckold-maker 
are  at  it :  Now,  bull !  now,  dog !  'Loo,  Paris, 
'loo!    now  my  double-henned    sparrow!    'loo, 


a  fcus/j— break  to  pieces. 


b  Capell  suggested  aimi. 
133 


AiT    V.| 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


rScFvrs   IX  -Xi 


Paris,  'loo I      The  bull  Las  the  game: — 'ware 
homs,  ho !  [Exeunt  Pabis  and  Mexki-aus. 

Enter  Margarelok. 

Mar.  Turn,  slave,  and  fight. 

Ther.  What  art  thou  ? 

Mar.  A  bastard  son  of  Priam's. 

Ther.  I  am  a  bastard  too ;  I  love  bastards :  I 
am  a  bastard  begot,  bastard  instnicted,  bastard 
in  mind,  bastard  in  valour,  in  everything  illegi- 
timate. One  bear  will  not  bite  another,  and 
wherefore  should  one  bastard?  Take  heed,  the 
quarrel 's  most  ominous  to  us :  if  the  son  of  a 
whore  fight  for  a  whore,  he  tempts  judgment. 
Farewell,  bastard. 

Mar.  The  devil  take  thee,  coward  !     [E.r^in/t. 

SCENE  lX.—Jj>otAer  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Hector. 

Ueet.  Most  putrefied  core,  so  fair  without, 
Thy  goodly  armour  thus  hath  cost  thy  life. 
Now  is  my  day's  work  done :    1  '11   take  good 

breath : 
Rest,  sword :  ®  thou  hast  thy  fill  of  blood  and 
death ! 
[Vids  off  his  helmet,  and  hangs  his  shield 
behind  him. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Myrmidons. 

Achil.  Look,  Hector,  how  the  sun  begins  to 
set; 
How  ugly  night  comes  breathing  at  his  heels  : 
Even  with  the  vail  and  darking'  of  the  sun. 
To  close  the  day  up.  Hector's  life  is  done. 
ITert.  I   am   unarm'd ;    forego   this   vantage, 

Greek. 
Achil.  Strike,  fellows,  strike ; '  this  is  the  man 
I  seek.  [HECTORy«//«. 

So,  riion,  fall  thou ;  now,  Troy,  sink  down ; 
Here  lies  thy  heart,  thy  sinews,  and  thy  bone. — 
On,  Myrmidons ;  and  cry  you  all  amain, 
•Achilles  hath  the  mighty  Hector  slain.' 

\_A  retreat  sounded. 
Hark !  a  retreat  npon  our  Grecian  part. 
Mi/r.  The  Trojan  trumpets  sound  the  like,  mv 

lord. 
Achil.  The  dragon  wing  of  night  o'ersprcads 
the  earth, 
And,  stickler-like,''  th.c  armies  sc)  arate. 


•  Darking — so  the  folio ;  the  common  reading  is  dark'ning 
*>  Stickler  like. — A  stickler  was  an  arl.ilrator,  or  sidesman  ; 

sne  who  l•re^i:!ed  over  the  combats  of  q'larterstaff  and 

•rrettling. 


My  half-supp'd  sword  that  frauklv  would  have 

fed, 
Pleas'd  with  this  dainty  bit,  thus  goes  to  bed. — 

[Sheaths  his  sword. 
Come,  tie  his  body  to  my  horse's  tail ; 
Along  the  field  I  will  the  Trojan  trail.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  'L.—The  same. 

Enter  Agamemnox,  Ajax,  Mexelaus,  Nestor, 
!       DfOMEDES,    and    others,    marching.       Shouts 
iritliin. 

Agam.  Hark !  hark  !  what  shout  is  that  ? 
Nest.  Peace,  drums. 

[Within?^  Achilles! 

Achilles!     Hector *s  slain !     Achilles! 

Lio.  The   bruit  is    Hector's    slain,   and    by 

Achilles. 
Ajax.  If  it  be  so,  yet  bragless  let  it  be ; 
Great  Hector  was  a  man  as  good  as  he. 

Agam.  March  patiently  along: — Let  one  be 
sent 
To  pray  Achilles  see  us  at  our  tent. — 
If  in  his  de^ith  the  gods  have  us  befriended, 
Gieat  Troy  it  ours,  and  our  sharp  wars   arc 
ended.  [Exeunt,  marching. 

SCENE  m.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  -Sxeas  and  Trojans. 
ASne.  Stand,  ho!   vet  are  we  masters  of  the 
field : 
Never  go  home ;  here  starve  we  out  the  night. 

Enter  Tkoilus. 

'fro.  Hector  is  slain. 

All.  Hector  ? — Tlie  gods  forbid ! 

Tro.  He 's    dead ;    and    at    the    murtherer's 
horse's  tail. 
In  beastly  sort,  drasrg'd  through  the  shameful 

field.— 
Frown  on,  you  heavens,  effect  your  rage  with 

speed ! 
Sit,  gods,  upon  your  thrones,  and  smile  at  Troy  ! 
I  say,  at  once  let  your  brief  plagues  be  mercy, 
And  linger  not  our  sure  destructions  on ! 

jEne.  My  lord,  you  do  discomfort  all  the  host. 

Tro.  You  understand  me  not  that  tell  me  so : 
I  do  not  speak  of  flight,  of  fear,  of  death  ; 
But  dare  all  imminence  that  gods  and  men 
Address  their  dangers  in.     Hector  is  goue ! 
Who  shall  tell  Priam  so,  or  Hecuba  ? 
Let  him  that  will  a  screech-owl  aye  be  call'd 
Go  in  to  Troy,  and  say  there — Hector 's  dead  : 
There  is  a  word  will  Priam  turn  to  stone; 
Make  wells  and  N lobes  of  the  maids  and  wives, 


Act  v.] 


TROILUS   AND    CRF.SSIDA. 


[Scene  X  I. 


Cold  statues  of  the  youth ;  and,  in  a  word, 

Scare  Troy  out  of  itself.     But,  march,  away  : 

Hector  is  dead  ;  there  is  no  more  to  say. 

Stay  yet : — You  viJe  abominable  tents. 

Thus  proudly  pight  upon  our  Phrygian  plains, 

Let  Titan  rise  as  early  as  he  dare, 

I  '11  through  and    through    you ! — And    thou, 

great-siz'd  coward ! 
No  space  of  earth  shall  sunder  our  two  hates ; 
I  '11  haunt  thee  like  a  wicked  conscience  still. 
That  mouldeth  goblins  swift  as  frenzy's  thoughts. 
Strike  a  free  march  to  Tioy  ! — with  comfort  go: 
Elope  of  revenge  shall  hide  our  inward  woe. 

\_ExYii)it  JilNEAS  and  Trojans. 
As  Troiltjs  is  f/oiiig  out,  enter,  from  the  other 

side,  Pandauus. 
Pun.  But  hear  you,  hear  you ! 
Tro.    Hence,    broker    lackey !     ignomy    and 
shame 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name. 

\_Exit  Tkoilus. 

Pan.   A   goodly    medicine    for   mine   aching 

bones ! — 0  world  1   world  !    world !   thus  is  the 

poor  agent   despised  !    O   traitors   and  bawds, 


how  earnestly  are  you  set  a-work,  and  how  ill 
requited !  Why  should  our  endeavour  be  so 
desired,  and  ti\e  performance  so  loathed  ?  what 
verse  for  it?  what  instance  for  it? — Let  me 
see  :  — 

Full  merrily  the  humble-bee  dotli  sing, 
Till  he  hath  lost  his  honey  and  his  sting  : 
And  being  once  subdued  in  armed  tail. 
Sweet  honey  and  sweet  notes  togetlier  fail. — 
Good  traders  in  the  flesh,  set  this  in  your  painted 
cloths. 

As  many  as  be  here  of  pander's  hall. 
Your  eyes,  half  out,  weep  out  at  Pandar's  fall : 
Or,  if  you  cannot  weep,  yet  give  some  groans, 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  aching  bones. 
Brethren,  and  sisters,  of  the  hokl-door  trade. 
Some  two  months  hence  my  will  shall  here  be 

made : 
It  should  be  now,  but  that  my  fear  is  this, — 
Some  galled  goose  of  Winchester  would  hiss : 
Till  then  I  '11  sweat,  and  seek  about  for  eases  ; 
And,  at  that  time,  bequeath  you  my  diseases. 

[Krlt. 


[Diomedes.] 


^Parting  of  Hector  and  Andromache.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


■  Scene  II. — "  Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve." 
The  story  of  Cressida's  falsehood  is  prettily  told 
V>y  Chaucer.    Shakspere  has  literally  copied  one  of 
the  incidents  : — 

"  She  made  him  wear  a  pencell  of  her  sleeve." 
But  we  Btill  trace  the  inconsistency  of  character 
in  Chaucer's  Cressida.  Mr.  Godwin  laments  that 
Shakspere  has  not  interested  us  in  his  principal 
female,  as  Chaucer  has  done.  Such  an  interest 
would  have  been  bought  at  the  expense  of  truth. 
The  passages  which  we  give  will  enable  the  reader 
to  compare  the  two  characters  : — 

"  The  morrow  came,  and  ghostly  for  to  speak, 
This  Diomed  is  come  unto  Crest-id' ; 
And,  shortly,  lest  that  ye  my  tale  break, 
So  well  he  for  himselfen  spake  and  said 
That  all  her  sighes  sore  adown  he  laid  ; 
And,  Anally,  the  soth6  for  to  sain, 
He  reft  her  of  the  great  of  all  her  pain. 

"  And  after  this  the  story  telleth  us 
That  she  unto  him  gave  the  fair  bay  steed 
The  which  she  ones  won  of  Troilus, 
And  eke  a  brooch  (and  that  was  little  neud) 
That  Troilus'  was,  she  pave  this  Diomed  ; 
And  eke  the  bet  from  sorrow  him  to  relieve. 
She  made  him  wear  a  pencell  of  her  sleeve. 
136 


"  I  find  eke  in  the  story  eU6s  where, 
When  through  the  body  hurt  was  Diomed 
Of  Troilus,  then  wept  she  many  a  tear 
When  that  she  saw  his  wide  wciundes  bleed, 
And  that  she  took  to  keepen  him  good  heed, 
And  for  to  heal  him  of  his  woundes  smart : 
Men  say, — 1  n'ot, — that  she  give  liim  her  heart. 

"  But  truely  the  siory  telleth  us 
There  maden  never  women  more  woe 
Than  she  when  that  she  falsed  Troilus  ; 
She  said,  Alas !  for  now  is  clean  ago 
My  name  in  tnitli  of  love  for  evermo. 
For  I  have  falsed  one  of  the  gentillest 
That  ever  was,  and  one  of  the  worthiest." 

(Book  T.; 

"  Scene  III. — "My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove 
ominous  to  ike  day." 

Chaucer  has  mentioned  the  presaging  dreams  of 
Andromache  in  the  'Canterbury  Tales.'  We  find 
the  same  relation  in  '  The  Destruction  of  Troj' :' — 

"  Andromeda  saw  that  night  a  marvellous  vi- 
sion, and  her  seemed  if  Hector  went  that  day  to 
the  battle  he  should  be  slain.  And  she,  that  had 
great  fear  and  dread  of  her  husband,  weeping,  said 
to  him,  praying  that  ho  would  not  go  to  the  battle 
that  day ;  whereof  Hector  blamed  his  wife.sayin-,' 


TROILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 


that  she  should  not   believe   nor  give   faith   to 
dreams,  and  would  not  abide  nor  tarry  therefore. 
When  it  was  in  the  morning,  Andromeda  went 
to  the  King  Priamus  and  to  the  queen,  and  told  to 
them  the  verity  of  her  vision ;  and  prayed  them  with 
all  her  heart  that  they  would  do  so  much  at  her 
request  as  to  dissuade  Hector,  that  he  should  not 
in  any  wise  that  day  go  to  the  battle,  &c.    It  hap- 
pened that  day  was  fair  and  clear,  aud  the  Tioyans 
armed  them,  and  Troylus  issued  first  into  the  bat- 
tle ;  after  him  ^neas.  *  *  Aud  the  King  Priamus 
sent  to  Hector  that  he  should  keep  him  well  that 
day  from  going  to  battle.     AVherefore  Hector  was 
angry,  and  said  to  his  wife  many  reproachful  words, 
as  tliat  he  knew  well  that  this  commandment  came 
by  her  request ;  yet,  notwithstanding  the  forbid- 
ding, he  armed  him.  ^'  *  At  this  instant  came  the 
Queen  Hecuba,   aud  the   Queen   Helen,  aud  the 
sisters  of  Hector,  aud  they  humbled  themselves 
and  kneeled  down  presently  before  his  feet,  and 
prayed  and  desired  him  with  weepiag  tears  that  he 
would  do  off  his  harness,  and  unarm  him,  and  come 
with  them  into  the  hall  :  but  never  would  he  do 
it  for  their  prayers,  but  descended  from  the  palace 
thus  armed  as  he  was,  and  took  his  horse,  aud 
would  have  gone  to  battle.     But  at  the  request  of 
Andromeda  the  King  Priamus  came  running  auou, 
and  took  him  by  the  bridle,  and  said  to  him  so 
many  things  of  one  and  other,  that  he  made  him 
to  return,  but  iu  no  wise  he  would  be  made  to 
unarm  him." 

^  Scene  V. — "  Go,  go,  my  servant,  take  thou  Tro'dus 
horse." 

This  circumstance  is  also  miuutely  copied  from 
'  The  Destruction  of  Ti-oy  :  * — 

"And  of  the  party  of  the  Troyans  came  the 
King  Ademon  that  jousted  against  Menelaus,  and 
smote  him,  and  hurt  him  in  the  face  :  and  he  and 
Troylus  took  him,  aud  had  led  him  away,  if  Dio- 
medes  had  not  come  the  sooner  with  a  great  com- 
pany of  knights,  aud  fought  with  Troylus  at  his 
coming,  and  smote  him  down,  and  took  his  horse, 
and  sent  it  to  Briseyda,  and  did  cause  to  say  to  her 
bv  his  servant  that  it  was  Troylus's  horse,  her 
love,  and  that  he  had  conquered  him  by  his  pro- 
mise, and  prayed  her  from  thenceforth  that  she 
would  hold  him  for  her  love." 


■•  Scene  V. — '' 


-The  dreadful  Sagittarij 


Appals  our  numbers." 
In  '  The  Destruction  of  Troy '  we  have  an  ac- 
count of  "  a  marvellous  beast  that  was  called  Sa- 
gittary."     The  qualities  of  this  beast  are  more  cir- 
cumstantially related  by  Lydgate  : — 

"  And  with  him  Guido  saith  that  he  had 
A  wonder  archer  of  siglit  mervaylous. 
Of  form  and  shape  in  manner  monstrous  : 
For  like  mine  auetour  as  I  reliearse  cm, 
Fro  the  navel  upward  he  was  man^ 


And  lower  down  like  a  horse  yshaped: 
And  thilke  part  that  after  man  was  maked 
Of  skin  was  black  and  rough  as  any  bear, 
Cover'd  with  liair  fro  cold  liim  for  to  wear. 
Passing  foul  and  horrible  of  sight, 
Whose  eyes  twain  were  sparkling  as  bright 
As  is  a  furnace  with  his  red  leven, 
Or  the  lightning  that  falleth  from  the  heaven ; 
Dreadful  of  look,  and  red  as  fire  of  cheer, 
And,  as  I  read,  he  was  a  good  archer  ; 
And  with  his  bow  both  at  even  and  morrow 
Upon  Greeks  he  wrought  much  sorrow." 

'  Scene  V. — "Now  Jure  he  fights  on  Galathe  his 
horse." 

"  Then  when  Hector  was  richly  arrayed,  aud 
armed  with  good  harness  and  sure,  he  mounted 
upon  his  horse  named  Galathe,  that  was  one  of  the 
most  great  and  strongest  horses  of  the  world." 
{'  Destruction  of  Troy.') 


"  Scene  IX.-  -"  Jiest,  sword." 

Shakspere  borrowed  the  circumstance  which  pre- 
ceded the  death  of  Hector  from  the  Gothic  ro- 
mancers : — 

"  When  Achilles  saw  that  Hector  slew  thus  the 
nobles  of  Greece,  and  so  many  other  that  it  was 
mai-vel  to  behold,  he  thought  that,  if  Hector  were 
not  slain,  the  Greeks  would  never  have  victory. 
And  forasmuch  as  he  had  slain  many  kings  and 
princes,  he  ran  upon  him  marvellously,  *  *  but 
Hector  cast  to  him  a  dart  fiercely,  and  made  him 
a  wound  in  his  thigh  :  aud  then  Achilles  issued 
out  of  the  battle,  and  did  biud  up  his  wound,  and 
took  a  gi-eat  spear  in  purpose  to  slay  Hector,  if  he 
might  meet  him.  Among  all  these  things  Hector 
had  taken  a  very  noble  baron  of  Greece,  that  was 
quaintly  and  richly  armed,  and,  for  to  lead  him 
out  of  the  host  at  his  ease,  had  cast  his  shield 
behind  him  at  his  back,  and  had  left  his  breast  dis- 
covered :  and  as  he  was  in  this  point,  and  took 
none  heed  of  Achilles,  he  came  privily  unto  him, 
and  thrust  his  spear  within  his  body,  and  Hector 
fell  down  dead  to  the  ground." 

"  Scene  IX. — "  Strike,  fellows,  strike." 

From  the  same  authorities  Shakspere  took  the 
incident  of  Achilles  employing  his  Myrmidons  for 
the  destruction  of  a  Trojan  chief ;  but  they  tell  the 
story  of  Troilus,  and  not  of  Hector  : — 

"  After  these  things  the  nineteenth  battle  began 
with  great  slaughter ;  and  afore  that  Achilles 
entered  into  the  battle  he  assembled  his  Myr- 
midons, and  prayed  them  that  they  would  intend 
to  none  other  thing  but  to  enclose  Troylus,  and 
to  hold  him  without  flying  till  he  came,  and 
that  he  would  not  be  far  from  them.  And 
they  promised  him  that  they  so  would.  And 
he  thronged  into  the  battle.  And  on  the  other 
side  came  Troylus,  that  began  to   flee  and   beat 

137 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


down  all  them  that  he  caught,  and  did  so  mucli, 
that  about  midday  he  put  the  Greeks  to  fliglit : 
then  the  Myrmidons  (that  were  two  thousand 
fighting  men,  and  had  not  forgot  the  command- 
ment of  their  lord)  thi-ust  in  among  the  Troynns, 
and  recovered  the  field.  And  as  they  held  them 
together,  and  sought  no  man  but  Troylus,  they 
found  him  thnt  he  fought  strongly,  and  was  en- 
closeil  on  all  part,"*,  but  he  slew  and  wounded  many. 
And  as  he  was  all  alone  among  them,  and  had  no 
man  to  succour  him,  they  slew  his  horse,  aud  hurt 
him  in  many  places,  and  plucked  off  bis  head  helm, 
and  his  coif  of  ii-on,  and  ho  defended  hivn  in  the 
best  manner  he  could.  Then  came  ou  Achillea, 
when  he  saw  Troylus  all  nuked,  and  ran  upon  him 
in  a  rage,  and  smote  ofiF  his  head,  aud  cast  it  under 
tl:e  feet  of  his  horse,  and  took  the  body  an  1  bound 


it  to  the  tail  of  his  horse,  and  so  drew  It  aftei  him 
throughout  the  host." 

But  Shakspere  again  goes  to  his  '  Homer,'  when 
Achilles  trails  Hector  "along  the  field  :" — 

"  This  said,  a  work  not  wortliy  him  he  set  to ;  of  both  feet 
He  bor'd  tlie  nerves  through  from  the  heel  to  Ih' ankle,  and 

then  knit 
Both  to  his  chariot  with  a  Ihong  of  white  leather,  his  head 
Trailing  the  centre.     Up  he  got  to  chariot,  where  he  laid 
The  arms  repurchas'd,  and  scourg'd  on  his  horse  that  freely 

flew; 
A  whirlwind  made  of  startled  dust  drave  with  them  as  the) 

drew, 
With  which  were  all  his  black -brown  curls  knoited  in  heaps 

and  fill'd. 
And  there  l.ny  Troy's  late  gracious,  by  Jupiter  exil'd, 
To  all  disgrace  in  his  own  land,  and  by  his  parents  seen." 
(Chapman's  Translation,  book  xxii. 


[Plains  of  Troy. J 


SUPPLEMENTAUY  NOTICE. 


To  Dryden's  alteration  of  Tioilus  and  Cressida  was  prefixed  a  prologue,  "spoken  by  Mr.  Betterton 

representing  the  Ghost   of  Shakspere."     The  Ghost  appears  to  have  entirely  forgotten  what  he  was 

on  earth  ;  and  to  present  a  marvellous  resemblance,  in  his  mind  at  least,  to  Mr.  John  Dryden.     lie 

siiys, 

"  In  this  my  rough-drawn  play  you  shall  behold 
Some  master-strokes." 

Dryden,  in  his  elaborate  '  Preface  to  Troihis  and   Cressida,  containing  the   grounds    of  Criticism  in 
Trage'ly,'  thus  speaks  of  Shakspere's  pei-formance  :  — 

"  For  the  play  itself,  the  author  seems  to  have  begun  it  with  some  fire  ;  the  characters  of  Pandarus 
and  Thersites  are  promising  enough  ;  but,  as  if  he  grew  weary  of  his  ta.sk,  after  an  entrance  or  two  he 
lets  them  fall ;  and  the  latter  part  of  the  tragedy  is  nothing  but  a  confusion  of  drums  and  trumpets,  ex- 
cursions and  alarms.  The  chief  persons  who  gave  name  to  the  tragedy  are  left  alive  :  Cressida  Li  false,  and 
is  not  punislied.  Yet,  after  all,  because  the  play  was  Shakspcare's,  and  that  there  appeared  in  some  j)lac(s 
of  it  the  admirable  genius  of  the  author,  /  itndcrtooh  to  remove  that  heap  of  rubbish  un'ler  which  rnatii/ excel- 
lent thouffhts  la>i  vho'l ij  buried.'' 

1  .",0 


SU  PPI.EiMENTA IIY   NOTICE. 

The  liioUe  in  which  Dryden  got  riil  of  the  rubbish,  and  built  up  his  own  edifice,  is  very  cbaracteriptic 
of  the  age  and  of  the  man  : — 

"  I  now-modelled  the  plot ;  threw  out  many  unneccsaary  persons  ;  improved  those  characters  which  were 
htfrnn  and  l^fl  uiifinuh(d,—t\s  Hector,  Troihis,  Pimdarus,  and  Thcrsitca  ;  and  added  that  of  Andromache. 
After  this  I  made,  with  no  small  trouble,  lui  order  and  connexion  of  all  the  scenes,  removing  thcui  from  the 
places  where  they  wore  inartificially  set." 

The  result  of  all  this  is,  that  the  Ghost  of  Shakspere,  iu  the  concluding  lines  of  the  Prologue,  thua 
eulighteija  the  audience  aa  to  the  dominant  idea  of  the  Troilua  and  Cressida  : — 

"  My  faithful  scene  from  tfue  records  sliall  tell 
How  Trojan  valour  did  the  Greek  excel ; 
Your  great  forefathers  shall  their  fame  rej;ain, 
And  Homer's  angry  ghost  repine  in  vain." 

Coleridge  says,  "  there  is  no  one  of  Shak.spere's  plays  harder  to  characteri.se."  He  has  overlooked 
the  circumstance  that,  when  the  "rubbish"  was  removed,  it  became  a  true  record,  a  faithful  chro- 
nicle, of  the  heroic  actions  of  the  Trojans, — our  "great  forefathers."  With  every  admiration  for 
"glorious  John"  in  his  own  proper  line,  we  must  endeavour  to  understand  what  Shakspere's  Troilus 
and  Cressida  is,  by  comparing  it  with  what  it  is  not  in  the  alteration  before  us. 

The  notion  of  Dryden  was  to  convert  the  Troilus  and  Cressida  into  a  regular  tragedy.  He  com- 
plains, we  have  seen,  that  "  the  chief  persons  who  give  name  to  the  tiugedy  are  left  alive :  Cressida 
is  false,  and  is  not  punished."  The  excitement  of  pity  and  terror,  we  are  told,  is  the  only  ground 
of  tragedy.  Tragedy,  too,  must  have  "a  moral  that  directs  the  whole  action  of  the  play  to  one 
centre."  To  this  standard,  then,  is  Shakspere's  Troilus  and  Ci'essida  to  be  reduced.  The  chief 
persons  who  give  name  to  the  tragedy  are  not  to  be  left  alive.  Cressida  is  not  to  be  false  ;  but  .she 
is  to  die  :  and  so  terror  and  pity  are  to  be  produced.     And  then  comes  the  moral : — 

"  Then,  since  from  home-bred  factions  ruin  springs, 
I.ct  subjects  Uarn  obedience  to  their  kings.'' 

The  management  by  which  Dryden  has  accomplished  this  metamorphosis  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able examples  of  perverted  ingenuity.  He  had  a  licentious  age  to  please.  He  could  not  spare  a 
line,  or  a  word,  of  what  may  be  considered  the  objectionable  scenes  between  Pandarus,  Troilus,  and 
Cressida.  They  formed  no  part  of  the  "  rubbish  "  he  desired  to  remove.  He  has  heightened  them 
wherever  possible ;  and  what  in  Shakspere  was  a  sly  allusion  becomes  with  him  a  positive  gross- 
ness.  Now  let  us  consider  for  a  moment  what  Shakspere  intended  by  these  scenes.  Cressida  is 
the  exception  to  Shakspere's  general  idea  of  the  female  character.  She  is  beautiful,  witty,  accom- 
plished,— but  she  is  impure.  In  her,  love  is  not  a  sentiment,  or  a  passion, — it  is  an  impulse.  Tem- 
perament is  stronger  than  will.  Her  love  has  nothing  ideal,  spiritual,  in  its  composition.  It  is  not 
constant,  because  it  is  not  discriminate.  Setting  apart  her  inconstancy,  how  altogether  different  is 
Cressida  from  Juliet,  or  Viola,  or  Helena,  or  Perdita !  There  is  nothing  in  her  which  could  be 
called  love  ;  no  depth,  no  concentration  of  feeling, — nothing  that  can  bear  the  name  of  devotion. 
Shakspere  would  not  permit  a  mistake  to  be  made  on  the  subject ;  and  he  has  therefore  given  to 
Ulysaes  to  describe  her,  as  he  conceived  her.  Considering  what  his  intentions  were,  and  what  really 
18  the  high  morality  of  the  characterisation,  we  cau  scarcely  say  that  he  has  made  the  representation 
too  prominent  When  he  drew  Cressida,  we  think  he  had  the  feeling  strong  on  his  mind  which  gave 
birth  to  the  129th  Sonnet.  A  French  writer,  in  a  notice  of  this  play,  says,  "  Les  deux  amauts  se  voient, 
B'entendent,  et  sout  heureiix."     Shakspere  has  described  such  happiness  : — 


"  A  bliss  in  proof, — and  prov'd,  a  very  woe; 
Before,  a  joy  propos'd;  behind,  a  dream: 
All  tliis  the  world  well  knows  ;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell." 

It  WM  thia  morality   that  Shaksi>ere   meant   to  teach  when   he  painted  this  one  exception  to   the 
general  purity  of  hU  female  characterd.     He  did  not,  like  the  dramatists  of  the  age  of  the  Reatora- 
1«0 


TEOILUS   AND   CRESSIDA. 

tion,  make  purity  the  exception  :  his  estimate  of  women  was  formed  upon  a  truer  standard.  But 
when  Dryden  undertook  to  remodel  Shakspere,  female  morality,  like  every  other  morality,  was 
merely  conventional :  virtue  was  an  afitxir  of  expediency,  and  not  of  principle.  With  an  'entire 
submission,  then,  to  the  genius  of  his  age,  does  Dryden  retain  and  heighten  the  scenes  between 
Troilus  and  Cressida  until  she  quits  the  Trojan  camp.  But  in  all  this,  as  we  are  to  see  in  the 
sequel,  Cressida  is  a  perfectly  correct  and  amiable  personage.  We  are  told,  indeed,  of  her  frank  recep- 
tion of  the  welcome  of  the  Grecian  chiefs;  but  there  is  no  Ulysses  to  pronounce  a  judgment  upon 
her  character.  She  admits,  indeed,  the  suit  of  Diomedes,  and  she  gives  him  pledges  of  her 
affection;  but  this  is  all  a  make-believe,  for,  like  a  dutiful  child,  she  is  following  the  advice 
of  her  father  : — 

"  You  must  dissemble  love  to  Diomede  still : 
False  Diomede,  bred  in  Ulysses'  school, 
Can  never  be  deceiv'd 

But  by  strong  arts  and  blandishments  of  love. 
Put  'em  in  practice  all ;  seem  lost  and  won, 
And  draw  him  on,  and  give  him  line  again." 

Upon  this  very  solid  foundation,  then,  are  built  up  the  terror  and  pity  of  Dryden's  tragedy :  and  so 
Troilus,  who  has  witnessed  Cressida's  endearments  to  Diomede,  refuses  to  believe  that  she  is  faithful ; 
and  then  Cressida  kills  herself;  and  Troilus  kills  Diomede;  and  Achilles  kills  Troilus;  and  all 
the  Trojans  are  killed:  and  the  Greeks  who  remain  upon  the  field  are  very  happy;  and  Ulysses 
tells  us,— 

"  Now  peaceful  Order  has  resumed  the  reins, 
Old  Time  looks  young,  and  nature  seems  renew'd." 


Here  is  a  tragedy  for  you,  which  "  is  an  imitation  of  one  entire,  great,  and  probable  action,  not  told, 
but  represented ;  which,  by  moving  us  to  fear  and  pity,  is  condvicive  to  the  purging  of  those  two 
passions  in  our  minds."  So  Dryden  quotes  Aristotle ;  and  so,  not  understanding  Aristotle,  he  takes 
upon  himself  to  mend  Shakspere,  "incomparable,"  as  he  calls  him,  according  to  the  notions  of  "my 
friend  Mr.  Rymer,"  and  of  "Bossu,  the  best  of  modern  critics." 

The  feeling  which  the  study  of  Shakspere's  Troilus  and  Cressida  slowly  but  certainly  calls  forth, 
is  that  of  almost  prostration  before  the  marvellous  intellect  which  has  produced  it.  But  this  is  the 
result  of  study,  as  we  have  said.  The  play  cannot  be  understood  upon  a  superficial  reading  :  it  is 
full  of  the  most  subtle  art.  We  may  set  aside  particular  passages,  and  admire  their  surpassing 
eloquence, — their  profound  wisdom ;  but  it  is  long  before  the  play,  as  a  whole,  obtains  its  proper 
mastery  over  the  imderstanding.  It  is  very  difficult  to  define  what  is  the  great  charm  and  wonder 
of  its  entirety.  To  us  it  appears  as  if  the  poet,  without  the  slightest  particle  of  presumption,  had 
proposed  to  himself  to  look  down  upon  the  Homeric  heroes  from  an  Olympus  of  his  own.  He  opens 
the  'Iliad,'  and  there  he  reads  of  "Achilles'  baneful  wrath."  A  little  onward  he  is  told  of  the  "high 
threatening"  of  "the  great  cloud-gatherer."  The  gods  of  Homer  are  made  up  of  human  passions. 
But  he  appears  throned  upon  an  eminence,  from  which  he  can  not  only  command  a  perfect  view 
of  the  game  which  men  play,  but,  seeing  all,  become  a  partisan  of  none, — perfectly  cognisant  of  all 
motives,  but  himself  motiveless.  And  yet  the  whole  representation  is  true,  and  it  is  therefore 
genial.  He  does  not  stand  above  men  by  lowering  men.  Social  life  is  not  made  worse  than  it  is, 
that  he  who  describes  it  may  appear  above  its  ordinary  standard.  It  is  not  a  travcstie  of  Homer,  or 
of  Nature,  The  heroic  is  not  lowered  by  association  with  the  ridiculous.  The  heroes  of  the  'Iliad' 
show  us  very  little  of  the  vulgar  side  of  human  life, —not  much  even  of  the  familiar;  but  the  result 
is,  that  they  cease  to  be  heroic.  How  this  is  attained  is  the  wonder.  It  is  something  to  have  got 
rid  of  the  machinery  of  the  gods, — something  to  have  a  Thersites  eternally  despising  and  despised. 
But  this  is  not  all.  The  whole  tendency  of  the  play, — its  incidents,  its  characterisation, — is  to  lower 
what  the  Germans  call  herodom.  Ulrici  maintains  that  "  The  far-sighted  Shakspere  most  certainly 
did  not  mistake  as  to  the  beneficial  effect  which  a  nearer  intimacy  with  the  high  culture  of  anti- 
quity had  produced,  and  would  produce,  upon  the  Christian  European  mind.  But  he  saw  the  danger 
of  an  indiscriminate  admiration  of  this  classical  antiquity ;  for  he  who  thus  accepted  it  must  neces- 
sarily fall  to  the  very  lowest  station  In  religion  and  morality ;— as,  indeed,  if  we  closely  observe  the 

141 


SUPPLEMEXTAKY  XOTICK. 

character  of  the  ISth  ceutury,  we  see  has  happened.  Out  of  thia  propLetic  spiiit,  wlii.h  pene- 
trated with  equal  clearness  through  the  darkness  of  coming  centuries  and  the  clouds  of  a 
far-distant  past,  Shakspere  wrote  thia  deeply-significant  satire  upon  the  Homeric  herodom.  He 
had  no  desire  to  debase  the  elevated,  to  deteriorate  or  make  little  the  great,  and  still  less  to 
attack  the  poetical  worth  of  Homer,  or  of  heroic  poetry  in  general.  But  he  wished  to  warn  tho- 
roughly against  the  over-valuation  and  idolatry  of  them,  to  which  man  so  willingly  abandons  him- 
self. He  en'leavoured,  at  the  same  time,  to  bring  strikingly  to  view  the  universal  truth  that  every- 
thing that  is  merely  human,  even  when  it  is  glorified  with  the  nimbus  of  a  poetic  ideality  and  a 
tnythicid  past,  yet,  seen  in  the  bird's-eye  peispective  of  a  pure  moral  ideality,  appears  very  small." 
All  this  may  seem  as  super-refinement,  in  which  the  critic  pretends  to  see  farther  than  the  poet  ever 
taw.  But  to  such  an  objection  there  is  a  very  plain  answer.  A  certain  result  is  produced : — is  the 
result  correctly  described  ?  If  it  be  so,  is  that  result  an  effect  of  principle  or  an  effect  of  chance  ? 
As  a  proof  that  it  was  the  effect  of  principle,  we  may  say  that  Dryden  did  not  see  the  principle ; 
and  that,  not  seeing  it,  he  entirely  changed  the  character  of  the  play  as  a  work  of  art.  For  example, 
there  is  no  scene  in  the  drama  so  entirely  in  accordance  with  the  principle  as  that  in  which  Ulysses 
stirs  up  the  slothful  and  dogged  Achilles  into  a  rivalry  with  Aji\x.  It  is  altogether  so  Sliaksperiau 
in  its  profundity, — it  presents  such  a  key  to  the  whole  Shak^perian  conduct  of  thia  wonderful 
dnima, — that  we  can  scarcely  be  content  merely  to  refer  to  it, 


"  Vlyn.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son! 

Jchii.  What  are  yoii  reading  I 

Ulyit.  A  strange  fellow  htie 

Vrites  me,  That  man,  how  dearly  ever  parted. 
How  much  in  having,  or  without,  or  in. 
Cannot  make  boast  to  have  that  which  he  hath. 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  reflection ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shining  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Jchil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses. 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here  in  the  face 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commei.ds  itself 
[To  others'  eyes  :  nor  doth  the  eye  itself 
(That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense)  behold  itselfi] 
Not  going  from  itself;  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'd 
SaJutes  each  other  with  each  other's  form. 
For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself, 
1  ill  It  hath  travell'd,  and  is  married  tliere 
Where  it  may  see  itself:  this  is  not  stran^'e  at  all. 

Vlyit.  I  do  not  strain  at  the  position, 
It  is  familiar ;  but  at  the  author's  drirt : 
Who,  In  his  circumstance,  expressly  proves. 
That  no  man  Is  the  lord  of  anything, 
(Though  in  and  of  him  there  is  much  consisting,) 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others : 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where    they   are    extended;    si\\o,    like    an    arch,    icicr- 

berates 
The  voice  again  ;    or  '.ike  a  gate  of  steel 
Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  renders  back 
His  figure  and  his  heat.     1  was  much  rapt  in  this; 
And  apprchtiided  here  imincdialcly 
The  unknown  Ajax. 

Heavens,  what  a  man  is  there !  a  very  h.orse ; 
That  has  he  knows  not  what.     Nature,  what  things  there 

are. 
Most  abject  in  regard,  and  dear  in  use  ! 
What  thing!  again  most  dear  in  the  esteem. 
And  poor  in  worth  I  Now  shall  we  sec  to-morrow. 
An  act  that  very  cliancc  doth  throw  upon  him,  • 

Ajax  renown'J.     O  heavens,  what  some  men  do, 
While  some  men  leave  to  do ! 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune'b  hall. 
While*  others  play  the  idiot*  In  her  ey^s ! 
142 


How  one  man  eats  into  another's  pride, 
While  pride  is  feasting  in  his  wantonness  ! 
To  see  these  Grecian  lords  1 — why,  even  already 
They  clap  the  lubber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder; 
As  if  his  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast, 
And  great  Troy  shrinking. 

Achil.  I  do  believe  it :  for  they  pass'd  by  me 
As  misers  do  by  beggars ;  neither  gave  to  tiie 
Good  word,  nor  look;  What,  are  my  deeds  forgot  ? 

Ulyss.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his  back, 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes  : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past ;  which  are  devour'd 
As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done :  Perseverance,  dear  my  lord. 
Keeps  honour  bright ;  To  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way  ; 
For  honour  travels  in  a  straight  so  narrow. 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast :  keep  then  the  path ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons. 
That  one  by  one  pursue  :  If  you  give  way, 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright, 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  all  rush  by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost ; — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first  rank. 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 
O'errun   and   trampled   on:    Th.-n   what   they   do   in   )ire 

sent, 
Though  less  than  yours  in  past,  must  o'eitop  yours: 
For  .time  is  like  a  fashionable  host. 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the  hand; 
And  with  his  arms  out-stretch 'd,  as  he  would  (1y, 
Grasps-in  the  comer:  AVelcome  ever  smiles, 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     O,  let  not  virtue  seek 
llemuneration  for  the  thing  it  was ; 
For  beauty,  wit. 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service. 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin, — 
That  all,  with  one  consent,  praise  new-born  gawds. 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past ; 
And  give  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt, 
.More  laud  than  gilt  o'er-dusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present  objoct : 


TKOILUS   AND    CRESSIDA. 


rlien  marvel  not,  thou  great  ant  complete  man, 
That  all  the  Greeks  beijin  to  worship  Ajax  ; 
Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye, 
Tlian  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on  thee, 
And  still  it  might;  an>l  yet  it  may  again. 


If  thou  wouldst  not  entomb  tliyself  alive, 

And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent; 

Whose  glorious  deeds,  but  in  these  fields  of  late. 

Made  emulous  missions  'mongst  tlie  gods  themselves, 

And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction." 


Now,  of  this  scene  Dryden  has  not  a  word.  This  was  apart  of  the  "rubbish"  which  he  discarded. 
But  in  the  place  of  it  he  gives  us  an  entirely  new  scene  between  Hector  and  Troilus — "almost  half 
the  act."  He  says,  "  the  occasion  of  raising  it  was  hinted  to  me  by  Mr.  Betterton ;  the  contrivance 
and  working  of  it  was  my  own."  This  scene,  he  admits,  was  an  imitation  of  the  famous  scene  in 
Julius  Caesar  between  Brutus  and  Cassius.  And  so  Dryden  transposes  the  principle  of  one  play  into 
another;  destroys  the  grave  irony  of  Troilus  and  Cre.9sida  by  the  iutroJuctiun  of  the  heroic  serious- 
ness which  was  in  its  place  in  Julius  Caesar ;  and  gives  us,  altogether,  a  set  of  mongrel  characters, 
compounded  of  the  commonplace  heroic  and  Shakspere's  reduction  of  the  false  heroic  to  truth  and 
reason.  And  yet,  with  all  his  labour,  Dryden  could  not  make  the  thing  consistent.  He  is  compelled 
to  take  Shakspere's  representation  of  Ajax,  for  e.'cample.  One  parallel  passage  wiU  be  sufficient  to 
show  how  Dryden  and  Shakspere  managed  these  things  : —  "* 


Drvdkn. 

"  Thank  Htav'n,  my  lord,  you're  of  a  gentle  nature, 
Praise  liim  that  got  you,  her  that  brought  you  foith  ; 
liiit  he  who  taught  you  first  the  use  of  arms, 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  two. 
And  give  him  half.     I  will  not  praise  your  wisdom, 
Nestor  shall  do't ;  but  pardon,  father  Nestor, 
Were  you  as  green  as  Ajax,  and  your  brain 
Teraper'd  like  his,  you  never  should  excel  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax  is." 


Shakspere. 

"  Ulyss.  Thank  the  heavens,   lord,    thou   ait   of   sweet 
composure; 
Praise  him  that  got  thee,  she  that  gave  thee  suck : 
Fiim'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thriee-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition  : 
But  he  that  disciplin'd  thy  arms  to  tight, 
let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain, 
And  give  him  half:  and,  for  thy  vigour. 
Bull-bearing  Milo  his  addition  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.     I  will  not  praise  thy  wisdom, 
Which,  like  a  bourn,  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts:  Here's  Nestor,— 
Instructed  by  the  antiquary  times, 
He  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise  ; — 
But  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 
As  green  as  Ajax,  and  your  brain  so  temper'd, 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax." 

One  of  the  most  extraordinary  subtleties  of  Shakspere's  Troilus  and  Cressida  arises  out  of  the 
circumstance  that  the  real  heroic  tragedy  is  found  side  by  side  with  the  ironical  heroic.  Cassan- 
dra, short  as  the  character  is,  may  be  classed  amongst  the  finest  creations  of  art.  Dryden  omits 
Cassandra  altogether.  Was  this  a  want  of  a  real  perception  of  "  the  grounds  " .  of  tragedy ;  or  an 
instinct  which  avoided  the  higher  heroic,  when  it  would  come  into  contrast  with  his  own  feebler 
conceptions  ?  The  Cassandra  of  Shakspere  is  introduced  to  heighten  the  efifect  of  the  petty  passions, 
the  worldliuess,  which  are  everywhere  around  her.  The  solemn  and  the  earnest  are  in  alliance  with 
madness. 

Ulrici  has  a  curious  theory  about  this  drama.     Without  yielding  our  assent  to  it,  we  give  it  as  a 

specimen  of  very  ingenious  conjecture  : — 

"  Sh:^k3pere,  in  working  up  these  materials,  has  had  another  design  in  the  background  respecting  him- 
self and  his  art.  We  know  that  Ben  Jonson,  his  fj-iend  as  a  man,  but  his  decided  opponent  as  a  dramatist, 
bad  taken,  as  the  object  of  his  critical  and  poetical  activity,  the  restoration  of  the  dramatic  art  in  his  Ufe- 
tlme  to  the  ancient  form  according  to  the  (certainly  misunderstood)  rules  of  Aristotle ;  and  afterwards, 
upon  that  principle,  to  form  the  English  national  drama.  Shakspere,  although  frequently  attacked,  has 
never  openly  and  directly  engaged  in  the  advocacy  of  the  contrary  principle.  He  despised  the  contest ; 
doubtless  because  nothing  was  to  be  decided  upon  by  vag-ue  abstract  reasoning  upon  the  merits  of  a  theory. 
But  the  T^oints  of  his  opponent's  arrows  were  broken  off  as  soon  as  it  was  proved,  m  the  most  striking 
manner,  that  the  spirit  and  character,  customs  and  forms  of  life,  of  antiquity  were  essentially  dLEferent  ana 
distinct  from  those  founded  upon  Christian  opinions  and  represented  in  a  Christian  pomt  of  view^  t 
would  appear  at  once  as  a  most  contradictory  beginning  to  wish  to  transfer  foreign  ancient  prmciples  ot  art 
into  the  poetry  of  Christianity.     And  how  could  Shakspere,  the  poet,  produce  a  proof  more  strong,  strUcmg, 


SUPPLEMENTARY   NOTICE. 

and  convincing,  than  to  embody  his  own  principles  in  a  poem  open  to  all  eyes  ?  But  we  must  not  cxncct 
to  find  such  a  by-end  mode  prominent ;  tho  poet,  indeed,  hedges  it  round,  and  scarcely  leaves  anything 
inlpablo.  •  •  •  *  Only  one  single  dismembered  feature  ho  suffered  to  remain,  perhaps  in  order  to  act 
as  a  direction  to  tho  initiated.  1  mean  tho  passage  where  Hector  reproaches  Troilus  and  Paris  that  they 
had  discussed  very  siiperficially  the  controversy  as  to  the  delivering  up  of  Helen  : — 

'  Not  much 
Unlike  young  men,  -whom  Aristotle  tliouglit 
Unfit  to  hear  moral  philosophy.' 

Tho  words  have  certainly  their  value  in  themselves  for  their  comic  effect.  Nevertheless,  may  not  this  va-y 
useless  and  unfitting  anachronism  contain  a  satirical  horsewhip  for  Shakspere's  pedantic  adversaries  who 
evjrywhero  invoked  their  Aristotle  without  sense  or  understanding  ?" 


[Hector's  Body  dragyec  at  the  Gar  oi  Achii.us.j 


A, 


Tragedies. — Vol.  ]I. 


IKomrtn  Eagle.] 


INTEODUCTOHY  NOTICE. 


State  op  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  op  Coriolanus. 


'  The  tragedy  of  Coriolanus  '  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  It  is  entered  in  the 
Sbationers'  registers  of  that  year  by  the  publishers  of  the  folio,  as  one  of  the  copies  "not  formerly 
entered  to  other  men."  In  this  folio  edition  it  stands  the  first  of  the  tragedies  in  the  order  of 
paging ;  but  this  arrangement,  as  in  every  other  case,  was  in  all  likelihood  aa  arbitrary  one.  The 
text  is  divided  into  acts  and  scenes,  according  to  the  modern  editions ;  and  the  stage  directions  aro 
very  full  and  precise.  With  the  exception  of  some  obvious  typographical  errors,  such  as  invariably 
occur  even  under  the  eye  of  an  author  when  a  book  is  printed  from  manuscript,  the  text  may  be 
received  as  accurate. 

It  would  be  a  natural  and  almost  imavoidable  consequence  of  printing  blank  verse  from  a  post- 
humous manuscript,  that  the  beginnings  and  endings  of  the  lines  should  be  occasionally  confused,  and 
that  therefore  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  author  would  not  be  perfectly  represented  in  the 
printed  copy.  In  the  text  of  Coriolanus  the  variorum  editors  have,  in  several  instances,  corrected 
obvious  defects  of  the  oi-iginal  metrical  arrangement;  but  they  have  as  frequently  destroyed  its 
harmony  and  force  from  their  invariable  dislike  to  short  lines  and  alexandrines,  and  so  they  piece  on 
and  lop  off  with  their  usual  vigour. 

L  2  147 


i2;tkoductoiiy  notice. 

Malone  a-ssigns  the  tragedy  of  Coriolinus  to  the  year  1610.  He  has  given  Julius  Cxsar  to  1607, 
aud  Antony  and  Cleopatra  to  1608.  On  tlie  20th  of  May  of  that  year  Edward  Blount  enters  at 
Stationers'  Hall  "a  book  called  Anthony  and  Cleopatra;"  but  in  1623  Blount  and  Jaggard,  the 
publishers  of  the  folio,  enter  "Mr.  William  Shakspere's  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tiugedies,  so 
nuny  of  the  said  copies  as  are  not  formerly  entered  to  other  men."  Amongst  these  is  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.  All  the  plays  thus  entered  in  1623  were  unpublished ;  and  not  one  of  them,  with 
the  exception  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  had  been  "formerly  entered  "by  name.  It  is  therefore 
more  than  probable  that  the  'Anthony  and  Cleopatra'  entered  in  1008  was  not  Shakspere's  tra- 
gedy; and  we  therefore  reject  this  entry  as  any  evidence  that  Shakspere's  Antony  and  Cleopatra  was 
written  as  c.-irly  as  1608.  Upon  the  date  of  this  play  depends,  according  to  Malone,  the  date  of 
Julius  Ca;sar.  We  state,  imhesitatingly,  that  there  is  no  internal  evidence  whatever  for  the  dates 
of  any  of  the  three  Roman  plays.  We  believe  that  they  belong  to  the  same  cycle ;  but  we  would 
place  that  later  in  Shakspei-e's  life  than  is  ordinarily  done.  Malone  places  them  together,  properly 
enough  ;  but  in  assuming  that  they  were  written  in  1607,  1608,  and  1610,  his  theoi-y  makes  Shak- 
spere  almost  absolutely  unemployed  for  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life.  We  hold  that  his  last  yeai-s 
were  devoted  to  these  plays.  The  proof  which  Chalmers  ofifers  that  Coriolanus  was  written  in  1609 
15  one  of  the  many  ingenious  absurdities  with  which  he  has  suiToiinded  the  question  of  the  chrono- 
logical order  of  Shakspere's  plays.  The  citizens,  he  says,  are  resolved  rather  to  die  than  to  famish ; 
— they  require  com  cheap;  there  is  a  dearth.     He  adds,  very  gravely,  "Now  the  fixct  is,  that  the 

years  1608  and  1609  were  times  of  great  deai-th And  therefore  the  play  was  probably 

written  in  I611O  while  the  pressure  was  yet  felt."  We  say,  now  the  fact  is,  the  ori'jinal  slori/  turns 
upon  the  dearth.  In  North's  'Plutarch'  we  have  the  causes  assigned  "which  ina<le  the  extreme 
dearth  ; "  and  Plutarch  also  tells  us  there  was  great  scarcity  of  com  within  the  city.  If  Shakspere 
found  the  dearth  in  the  original  story,  what  could  the  dearth  of  1608  possibly  have  to  do  with 
the  mode  in  which  he  dramatized  it? 


ScprosED  Source  op  the  Plot. 


'  The  Lives  of  the  Xoblc  Grecians  and  Romans,  compared  together  by  Plutarch,  done  into  English 
by  Thomas  North,'  is  a  book  on  many  accounts  to  be  venerated.  It  is  still  the  best  translation  of 
Plutarch  we  have, — full  of  fine  robust  English, — a  book  worthy  of  Shakspere  to  read  and  some- 
times to  imitate.  Here  he  found  the  story  of  Coriolanus  told  in  the  most  graphic  manner ;  and  he 
followed  it  pretty  literally.  Niebuhr  places  this  story  amongst  the  fabulous  legends  of  Rome. 
Plutarch,  and  especially  Shakspere,  have  made  it  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  such  Romans 
did  not  really  live,  and  think,  and  talk,  and  act,  as  we  see  them  in  these  wonderful  pictures  of 
humanity.  In  the  Illustrations  to  each  act  we  have  given  the  parallel  passages  from  Plutarch.  We 
here  subjoin  a  summary  of  the  story  of  Coriolanus,  which  we  extract  from  a  work  whose  articles  ou 
classical  literature  are  deservedly  valued  as  authorities. 

"  Coriolanus  was  in  the  Roman  camp  when  the  consul  Cominius  was  laying  siege  to  Corioli.  The  be- 
sieorcd,  makinir  a  vii,'orous  sally,  succeeded  in  driving  back  the  Romans  to  their  camp  ;  but  Coriolanus 
Immediately  rallied  them,  rushed  through  the  gates,  and  took  the  ]>1a(}e.  Meanwhile  the  Antiates  had  come 
to  relieve  the  town,  and  were  on  the  point  of  engaging  with  the  consul's  army,  when  Coriolanus  commenced 
the  battle,  and  soon  completely  defeated  them.  From  this  time  he  was  greatly  admired  for  his  warlike  abili- 
ties, but  his  haughty  demeanour  gave  considerable  ofifenco  to  the  commonalty.  Not  long  afterwards  his 
implacable  anger  was  excited  by  being  refused  the  consiilship  ;  and  when,  on  occasion  of  a  severe  famine  in 
the  city,  com  was  at  last  brought  from  Sicily  (some  purchased  and  some  given  by  a  Greek  prince),  and  a 
debate  arose  whether  it  should  be  given  gratis  or  sold  to  the  plebs,  Coriolanus  strenuously  advised  that  it 
should  be  sold.  The  people  in  their  fury  would  have  torn  him  in  pieces  had  not  the  tribunes  summoned 
Ha 


COR  101  ANUS. 

him  to  take  his  trial.  He  was  banished  by  a  majority  of  the  tribes,  and  retired  to  Antiura,  the  chief  town 
of  the  Volsci,  where  the  king,  Attius  Tullus,  received  him  with  great  hospitality.  Coriolanus  promised  the 
Volsci  his  aid  in  their  war  against  Rome,  and  they  forthwith  granted  him  the  highest  civil  honours,  and  ap- 
pointed him  their  general.  He  attacked  and  took  many  towns  ;  among  others,  Circeii,  Satricum,  Longula, 
and  Lavinium.  At  last  he  directed  his  march  to  Rome  itself,  and  pitched  his  camp  only  a  few  miles  from 
the  city,  where  he  dictated  the  terms  at  which  the  Romans  might  pui-chase  a  cessation  of  hostilities.  Among 
other  things  he  demanded  that  the  land  taken  from  the  Volsci  should  be  restored,  that  the  colonies  settled 
there  should  be  recalled,  and  that  the  whole  people  should  bo  received  as  alUes  and  citizens  with  equal 
rights  ;  and  that  all  those  who  had  enlisted  themselves  under  Lis  banners  should  be  recalled,  as  well  as  him- 
self. Coriolanus  allowed  them  two  terms,  one  of  thirty  and  the  other  of  three  days,  for  making  up  their 
minds.  After  thirty  days  had  expired,  a  deputation  of  four  leading  senators  came  before  his  tribunal,  but 
were  repulsed  with  threats  if  they  should  again  offer  anything  but  unreserved  submission. 

"  On  the  second  day  the  whole  body  of  priests  and  augurs  came  in  their  official  garb,  and  implored  him, 
but  in  vain.  On  the  third  and  last  day  which  he  had  allowed  them  he  intended  to  lead  his  ai-my  against  the 
city,  but  another  expedient  was  tried,  and  succeeded.  The  noblest  matrons  of  the  city,  led  by  Vcturia,  the 
mother  of  Coriolanus,  and  his  wife  Volumnia,  who  held  her  little  childi-en  by  the  hand,  came  to  his  tent. 
Their  lamentations  at  last  prevailed  on  his  almost  unbending  resolution,  and  addressing  his  mother  he  said, 
with  a  flood  of  tears,  '  Take  then  thy  country  instead  of  me,  since  this  is  thy  choice.'  The  embassy  departed ; 
and,  dismissing  his  forces,  he  returned  and  lived  among  the  Volsci  to  a  great  age.  According  to  another 
accoimt,  he  was  murdered  by  some  of  the  Volsci,  who  were  indignant  at  his  withdrawing  from  the  attack. 

"  After  his  death,  however,  the  Roman  women  were  mourning  for  him,  as  they  had  done  for  some  foi-mer 
heroes.  The  public  gratitude  for  the  patriotic  services  of  Volumnia  was  acknowledged  by  a  temple,  which 
was  erected  to  Female  Fortune."* 


SCENEEir   AND    COSTUME. 


It  would  be  extremely  difficult  to  represent  the  Rome  of  Coriolanus, — its  streets,  its  market-place, 
its  senate-house,— without  a  violation  of  historical  propriety.  The  stage  may  properly  take  a 
greater  licence  in  this  matter  than  we  can  venture  to  do.  We  have  therefore  judged  it  best  to 
illustrate  this  tragedy  by  engravings  which  show  the  unchanging  natural  localities  of  Rome,  and 
some  of  the  remains  of  the  ancient  city.  We  do  not  assume  that  these  remains  belong  to  the  Rome 
of  Coriolanus  :  we  know  the  contrary.  But  they  are  the  nearest  associations  which  we  can  offer ; 
and  they  tell  a  tale  of  grandeur  and  of  ruin  which  harmonizes  with  the  leading  idea  of  the  drama. 

The  general  subject  of  Roman  costume  will  be  more  appropriately  examined  in  the  succeeding 
tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar. 


Kiiplish  Cyclopaedia— Art.  Coriolanus. 


A, 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


I  iri 


tribunes  of  the  people. 


Caids  Makcius  CoRioLASJUs,  a  noble  Roman. 
TiTvs  Lartius,         I  yg„„g,g  „g„i„,t  f,,c  Volsce?. 

COMINIUS,  •' 

Mexenius  AoRiTr a,  friend  to  Coriolanu». 

SiciNivs  Velutcs, 

Junius  Brutus, 

Young  Marcius,  son  to  Coriolanus. 

A  Roman  Herald. 

TuLLUs  AuFiDivs,  general  of  the  Volsces. 

Lieutenant  to  Aufidius. 

Cor,spirators  wUh  Aufidius. 

A  Citizen  o/Antium. 

Two  Volscian  Guard'. 

VoLDMSiA,  mother  to  Corioianus. 
ViRGiLiA,  wife  to  Coriolanus. 
Valeria, /rifnrf  to  Virgilia. 
Gentlewoman,  attending  Virgilia. 


Roman  and  Volscian  Senators,  Patricians,  /EdiUs,  Liclors, 
Soldiers,  Citizens,  Messengers,  Servants  lo  AuHdius,  and 
other  Attendants. 

SCRiiE,— partly  in  Rome;  and  partly  in  the  territories  of 
the  Volsciass  and  Antiateb. 


.■'^' 


g 

■2 

a 


o 
o 


H 

& 
H 
OS 


O 


o 

Q 

O 
iJ 


tSite  of  Home.    Tiburtine  Chain  in  the  clistaace  j 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Ex)nie.    A  Street. 


Enter  a  company  of  mutinous  Citizeus,  with 
staves,  clubs,  and  other  weapons. 

1  at.  Before  we  proceed  any  further,  hear 
me  speak. 

at.  Speak,  speak.     iSeceral  speaUng  at  once. 

1  at.  You  are  all  resolved  rather  to  die  than 
to  famish  ? 

at.  llesolved,  resolved. 

1  at.  First,  you  know,  Cains  IMareius  is  chief 
enemy  to  the  people. 

at.  We  know 't,  we  know 't. 

1  ad.  Let  us  kill  him,  and  we  '11  have  corn  at 
our  own  price.    Is 't  a  verdict  ? 

at.  No  more  talking  on't:  let  it  be  done: 
away,  away ! 

^^  at.  One  word,  good  citizens. 

1  at.  We  are  accounted  poor  citizens ;   the 


pati-icians,  good-.='  What  authority  surfeits  on 
would  reUeve  us.  If  they  would  yield  us  but 
the  superfluity,  while  it  were  wholesome,  we 
might  guess  they  relieved  us  humanely;  but 
they  thmk  we  are  too  dear :  the  leanness  that 
afflicts  us,  the  object  of  oui-  misery,  is  as  an  in- 
ventory to  particularize  their  abundance;  our 
sufferance  is  a  gain  to  them.— Let  us  revenge 
this  with  our  pikes,  ere  we  become  rakes  :•>  for 
the  gods  know,  I  speak  this  in  hunger  for  bread, 
not  in  thirst  for  revenge. 


»  Goorf— used  in  the  sense  in  which  Shylock,  m  the  Mci- 
chant  of  Venice,  says,  "  Antonio  is  a  <7ood  inan. 

b  Uahes.    Spenser,  in  the  '  Fairy  Queen,  has— 
"  His  body  lean  and  meagre  as  a  rake" 
The  allusion,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  is  to  the  tool  so 
called.    The  simile  is  very  old  ;  we  find  m  Ctiaucer— 

"  As  lean  was  his  horse  as  is  a  rake." 
This  is  the  sense,  we  apprehend,  in  which  the  citizens  are 
toJ'  become  rakes. " 

«  151 


Act  i.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[SCEME   1 


2  at.  "Would  you  proceed  especially  against 
Cains  Marcius  ? 

Alt.  Apalust  hiiu  first ;  lie 's  a  very  dog  to  the 
coiunionalty. 

2  Cil.  Cousidcr  you  what  services  he  has  done 
for  his  count  ry  ? 

1  at.  Very  well ;  and  could  be  content  to 
give  him  pood  report  for't,  but  that  he  pays 
himself  with  being  proud. 

All.  Kay,  but  speak  not  maliciously. 

1  at.  I  say  unto  you,  what  he  hath  done  fa- 
mously he  did  it  to  that  cud ;  though  soft-con- 
scieneed  men  can  be  content  to  say  it  was  for  his 
country,  he  did  it  to  please  his  mother,  and  to 
be  partly  proud ;  which  he  is,  even  to  the  altitude 
of  his  virtue. 

2  at.  What  he  cannot  help  in  his  nature  you 
account  a  vice  in  him  :  You  must  in  no  way  say 
he  is  covetous. 

1  at.  If  I  must  not,  I  need  not  be  barren  of 
accusations ;  he  hath  faults,  with  sui-plus,  to  tu-e 
in  repetition.  \_Shoids  tcit/ti//.]  "Wliat  shouts  arc 
these  ?  The  other  side  o'  the  city  is  risen  :  "Why 
stay  wc  prating  here  ?  to  the  Capitol ! 

All.  Come,  come. 

1  at.  Soft !  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Menekius  Agrippa. 

2  at.  "Worthy  Menciiius  Agrippa ;  one  that 
hath  always  loved  the  people. 

1  at.  He 's  one  honest  enough  :  'Would  all 
the  rest  were  so  ! 

Men.  "What  work 's,  my  countrymen,  in  hand  ? 
"Where  go  you 
"With  bats  and  clubs  ?    The  matter  ?    Speak,  I 
pray  you. 

2  at.^  Our  business  is  not  unknown  to  the 
senate ;  they  have  had  inkling,  this  foi'tnight, 
what  wc  intend  to  do,  which  now  we  '11  show  'em 
in  deeds.  They  say  poor  suitors  have  strong 
breaths;  they  shall  know  we  have  strong  arms 
too. 


»  All  Iho  subsequent  dialof;uc  with  Mcneniiis  is  given  by 
the  Tsri'iniTii  editors  fo  the  j!r»/  citizen.  Malone  thus  ex- 
plains thechanf^e: — "  This  and  all  the  subsequent  plebeian 
sp-erhes  In  this  scene  arc  given  by  the  old  copy  to  the 
secund  citizen.  But  the  dialogue  at  the  0|)cniiig  of  the  play 
ihnws  that  It  must  have  been  a  mistake,  and  that  they 
ought  to  be  .^tt^lbuted  to  the  Jir'l  citizen.  The  second  is 
rather  friendly  to  Coriolanus."  We  adhere  to  the  original 
copy,  for  the  precise  reason  which  Malone  gives  for  de- 
parting from  it.  The  Jirtl  citizen  is  a  hater  of  public  vieii, 
— the  second  of  public  meatura;  the  first  would  kill  Corio- 
lanus,— the  second  would  repeal  the  laws  relating  to  corn 
and  usury.  He  says  not  one  word  against  Coriolanus.  Wc 
.trc  satiihcd  that  it  was  not  Shakspcre's  intention  to  make 
the  low  brawler  against  an  individual  argue  so  well  with 
Mcncnius  in  the  mailer  <>f  the  "  kingly-crowned  head,"  Kv. 
The  speaker  is  of  a  higher  cast  than  he  who  says,  "  LcLus 
kill  hini,  and  we'll  have  com  at  our  own  price." 
152 


Men.  A\niy,   masters,  my  good  friends,  mine 
honest  neighbours, 
AVill  you  undo  yourselves  ? 

2  at.  "We  cannot,  sir,  wc  are  undone  already. 

Men.  I  tell  you,  friends,  most  charitable  care 
Have  the  patricians  of  you.     For  your  wants. 
Your  suiTcring  in  this  dearth,  you  may  as  well 
Strike  at  the  heaven  with  your  staves,  as  lift  them 
Against  the  lloinan  state ;  whose  course  will  on 
The  way  it  takes,  cracking  ten  thousand  curbs. 
Of  more  strong  link  asunder  than  can  ever 
Appear  in  your  impediment :  For  the  dearth. 
The  gods,  not  the  patricians,  make  it ;  and 
Yom"  knees  to  them,  not  arms,  must  help.  Alack, 
You  are  transported  by  calamity 
Thither  where  more  attends  you ;  and  you  slander 
The  helms  o'  the  state,  who  care  for  you  like 

fathers. 
When  you  cuj-se  them  as  enemies. 

2  at.  Care  for  us  ! — True,  indeed  ! — They 
ne'er  cared  for  us  yet.  Suffer  us  to  famish,  and 
their  storehouses  crammed  with  grain ; '  make 
edicts  for  usury,  to  support  usurers ;-  repeal  daily 
any  wholesome  act  established  against  the  rich  ; 
and  pro\ide  more  piercing  statutes  daily,  to  chain 
up  and  restrain  the  poor.  If  the  wars  cat  us 
not  up,  they  will;  and  there's  all  the  love  they 
bear  us. 

Men.  Either  you  must 
Confess  youi'sclves  wondrous  nuilicious, 
Or  be  accus'd  of  folly.     I  shall  tell  you 
A  pretty  tale ;  it  may  be  you  have  heard  it ; 
But,  since  it  serves  my  purpose,  I  will  venture 
To  stale  't  "^  a  little  more. 


•  »  To  stale  'I.  The  original  has  to  scale  'I.  We  adopted 
it  in  previous  editions,  in  the  sense  of  weight.  Menenius  will 
venture  to  uifiV'  to  try  the  value,  of  the  "  pretty  tale,"  a  little 
more;  though  they  may  have  heard  it,  he  will  again  scale 
it.  But  Steevens  says,  "to  scale  is  to  disperse;  though 
some  of  you  have  heard  the  story,  I  will  spread  it  still 
wider,  and  diffuse  it  among  the  rest."  Hornc  Tooke"s  ex- 
planation appears  to  us  somewhat  fanciful.  To  scale,  he 
says,  is  derived  from  the  Anglo-Sa.ton  sci/lan,  to  divide. 
The  tale  of  Menenius  is  scaled  by  being  divided  into  par- 
ticulars. But  Mr.  Dyce  has  referred  to  a  note  by  GifTuid, 
on  a  passage  in  Massinger, 

"I'llnot»/o/e  thejest 
By  my  relation." 

GIfford  gives  this  explanation  of  stale:  "render  It  flat,  de- 
prive it  of  zest  by  previous  intimation  ;"  and  then  notices 
the  passage  of  the  text.  "  This  is  one  of  a  thousand  in- 
stances wliich  might  be  brought  to  prove  that  the  true  reading 
in  Coriolanus,  Act  i.,  Sc.  i.,  is 

",'  To  stale  't  a  little  more.'  " 

The  old  copies  have  scale,  for  which  Theobald  judicinuyly 
proposed  stale.  To  this  Warburton  objects,  petulantly 
enough,  it  must  be  confessed,  because  to  s.  ale  signifies  lo 
weigh;  so,  indeed,  it  does,  and  many  other  things;  none  of 
which,  however,  bear  any  relation  to  the  text.  Steevens, 
too,  prefers  scale,  which  lie  proves,  from  a  variety  ofauiho- 
rltici,  to  mean,  "'scatter,  disperse,  spread.'"  .Mr.  Dyce 
.".dds,  "Thcie  is,  indeed,  no  cr.d  of  passages  in  our  early 
dramatists  whtre  stale  occurs  in  the  sense  of  '  make  stale, 
f&miliar,'  &c."     Upon  these  authorities  we  adopt  stale  'I. 


Act  1.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


[SCKN£    1. 


2  at.  Well,  I  '11  hear  it,  sir :  yet  you  must 
not  think  to  fob  off  our  disgrace  with  a  tale  : 
but,  au  't  please  you,  deliver. 
Men.  There  was  a  time  when  all  the  body's 
members 
Rebell'd  against  the  belly  ;  thus  accus'd  it :  — 
That  only  Uke  a  gulf  it  did  remain 
L'  the  midst  o'  the  body,  idle  and  unaclive, 
Stni  cupboardiug  the  viand,  never  bearuig 
Like  labour  with  the  rest ;  where  the  other  in- 
struments 
Did  see  and  hear,  devise,  instruct,  walk,  feel. 
And  mutually  participate;  did  minister* 
Unto  the  appetite  and  affection  common 
Of  the  whole  body.     The  belly  answered, — 
2  at.  Well,    sir,    what    answer    made    the 

belly  ? 
Men.  Sir,  I  shall  tell  you.— With  a  kind  of 
smile. 
Which  ne'er  came  from  the  lungs,  but   even 

thus, 
(For,  look  you,  I  may  make  the  belly  smile 
As  well  as  speak,)  it  tauntingly  replied 
To  the  discontented    members,   the   mutinous 

parts 
That  envied  his  receipt ;  even  so  most  fitly 
As  you  mahgn  our  senators,  for  that 
They  are  not  such  as  you. 

2  at.  Your  belly's  answer  :  What ! 

The  kingly-crowned  head,  the  vigilant  eye. 
The  counsellor  heart,  the  arm  our  soldier. 
Our  steed  the  leg,  the  tongue  our  trumpeter, 
With  other  muniments  and  petty  helps 
In  this  our  fabric,  if  that  they — 

Men.  What  then  ?— 

'Fore  me,  this  fellow  speaks !— what  then  ?  what 
then? 
2  at.  Should  by  the  cormorant  belly  be  re- 
strain'd. 
Who  is  the  sink  o'  the  body, — 
]^£en.  Well,  what  then  ? 

2  at.  The  former  agents,  if  they  did  com- 
plain, 
What  could  the  belly  answer  ? 

Men.  1  will  tell  you ; 

[f  you  '11  bestow  a  small  (of  what  you  have 

little) 
Patience  a  while,  you  '11  hear  the  belly's  answer. 
2  at.  You  are  long  about  it. 
Men.  Note  me  this,  good  friend ; 

Your  most  grave  belly  was  deliberate, 


a  This  is  usually  pointed  thus  : — 

"And,  mutually  participate,  did  minister,"  &c. 

Malone  tel's  us  that  participate  is  participant  (the  par- 
ticiple).    We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  folio. 


Not  rash  like  his  accusers,  and  thus  auswer'd. 
'  True  is  it,  my  incorporate  friends,'  quoth  he, 
*  That  I  receive  the  general  food  at  first, 
Which  you  do  live  upon :  and  fit  it  is  ; 
Because  I  am  the  storehouse,  and  the  shop 
Of  the  whole  body  :  But  if  you  do  remember, 
I  send  it  through  the  rivers  of  your  blood. 
Even  to  the  coiu't,  the  heart,  to  the  seat  o'  the 

brain, 
And  through  the  cranks  and  offices  of  man : 
The  strongest  nerves,  and  small  inferior  veins. 
From  me  receive  that  natural  competency 
Whereby  they  live  :  "■  And  though  that  all  at  once. 
You,  my  good  friends,'   (this  says    the  belly,) 

mark  me, — 
2  at.  Ay,  sir ;  well,  well. 
Men.  '  Though  all  at  once  cannot 

See  what  I  do  deliver  out  to  each ; 
Yet  I  can  make  my  audit  up,  that  all 
From  me  do  back  receive  the  flotu*  ^  of  all. 
And  leave  me  but  the  bran.'  What  say  you  to 't  ? 
2  at.  It  was  an  answer  :     How  apply  you 

this? 
Men.  The  senators  of  Rome   are  this  good 

beUy, 
And  you  the  mutinous  members :  For  examine 
Their  counsels  and  their  cares ;    digest  things 

rightly. 
Touching  the  weal  o'  the  common ;  you  shaD 

find. 
No  public  benefit,  which  you  receive. 
But  it  proceeds,  or  comes,  from  them  to  you. 
And  no  way   from  yourselves.  — What  do  you 

think? 
You,  the  great  toe  of  this  assembly  ? — 


a  A  common  punctuation  of  this  passage  is,— 

"  I  send  it  through  the  rivers  of  your  blood, 
Even  to  the  court,  the  heart,— to  the  seat  o'  tlie  brain ; 
And,  through  the  cranks  and  offices  of  man, 
The  strongest  nerves,"  &c. 
This  arrangement  of  the  passage  involves  a  difficulty.  The 
"  heart"  is  metaphorically  "  tlie  court,"  the  centre  to  which 
all  tends :  but  the  punctuation  also  makes  it  "  the  seat  of 
the  brain."  This,  Malone  and  Douce  tell  us,  is  ri-ht :  the 
"brain"  is  here  put  for  the  understanding,  and  according  to 
the  old  philosophy  the  "  heart"  was  the  seat  of  the  under- 
standing. Now,  we  do  not  believe  that  Shak^pere's  judg- 
ment would  have  permitted  him  to  use  "  heart"  in  a  phy- 
sical sense,  and  "brain"  in  a  metaphysical;  nor  do  we  see 
why  the  belly  should  not  claim  the  merit  of  supplying  the 
head  as  well  as  the  heart.  The  obvious  meaning  of  the 
passage  without  anv  of  this  forced  punctuation  (the  origmal 
uses  uo  point  hut  the  comma)  appears  to  us  to  be,— I  send 
the  general  food  through  the  rivers  of  your  blood,  to  the 
court,  the  heart ;  I  send  it  to  the  scat  of  the  brain,  and 
through  the  cranks  and  offices  (obscure  parts)  of  the  whole 
body.     By  this  means 

"  The  strongest  nerves,  and  small  inferior  veins, 
From  me  receive  that  natural  competency 
Whereby  they  live." 
b  Flour.    This  is  certainly  the  flour  of  corn  opposed  to 
"the  bran."    The  word  in  the  text  was  usually  spelt  floicer, 
which,  though  correct  in  the  original  sense  of  flour,  may 
give  an  erroneous  impression  to  the  reader. 

153 


Act  I.] 


l^ORTOLANUS. 


LSCENE    1. 


•2  Ci/.  I  the  great  toe  ?  AMiy  the  great  (oc  ? 
Mai.  For  that,  behig  one  o'  the  lowest,  basest, 
poorest. 
Of  this  most  wise  rebellion,  thou  go'st  fore- 
most : 
Thou  rascal,  that  art  worst  in  blood  to  run, 
liCad'st  first,  to  win  some  vantage. — 
But  make  jou  ready  your  stiff  bats  and  clubs  ; 
Rome  and  her  rats  are  at  the  point  of  battle, 
The  one  side  must    have  bale."  -Hail,  noble 
Marcius ! 

E/iier  Caius  Marcius. 

Miir.  Thanks. — "What 's  the  matter,  you  dis- 
sent ions  rogues. 
That,  rubbing  the  poor  itch  of  your  opinion. 
Make  yourselves  scabs  ? 
2  Cii.  Vi'e  have  ever  your  good  word. 

^far.  He  that  will  give  good  words  to  thee 

will  flatter 
Beneath  abhorrin£r. — What  would  vou  have,  vou 

curs. 
That  like  nor  peace,  nor  war?  the  cue  affrights 

)ou, 
The  other  makes  you  proud.     He  lliat  trusts  to 

vou. 
Where  he  should  find  you  lions  finds  you  hares  ; 
Where  foxes,  geese  :  You  are  no  surer,  no. 
Than  is  the  coal  of  fire  upon  the  ice. 
Or  hailstone  in  the  sun.     Your  vu-tuc  is, 
To  make  him  worthy   whose   offence   subdues 

him. 
And  curse  that  justice  did  it.     Who  deserves 

greatness 
Deserves  your  hate  :  and  your  affections  are 
A  sick  man's  appetite,  who  desires  most  that 
Which  would  increase  his  evil.   He  that  depends 
Upon  your  favour  swims  with  fins  of  lead. 
And  hews  down  oaks  with  rushes.    Hang  yc ! 

trust  ye  ? 
With  everv  minute  vou  do  change  a  mind  : 
And  call  him  noble  that  was  now  your  hate. 
Him  vile  that  was  your  garland.    W^hat's  tlic 

matter, 
That  in  these  several  places  of  the  city 
You  cry  against  the  noble  senate,  who, 
Under  the  gods,  keep  you  in  awe,  which  else 
Would  feed  on   one  another? — What's   tlicir 

seeking  ? 


»  /Jn;<— Piin.  This  is  the  only  instance  in  which  Shak- 
«p«Te  uses  the  suhsLintive  hale;  thnui;li  we  have  frequently 
baUful.  Malone  tt-lls  us  the  word  was  ohsolote  in  Shak- 
ipcre's  time  :  but  it  is  cue  of  Shakspcre's  merits  to  clinjr  to 
our  fine  eld  langiiaKe,  not  ostentatiously,  hut  with  a  full 
knowledge  of  its  powers. 

164 


Men.  Tor  corn  at  their  own  rates  ;  whereof, 

they  say. 
The  city  is  well  stor'd. 

3r(/r.  Hang  'em  !     They  say  ! 

They  '11  sit  by  the  fire,  and  presume  to  know 
What 's  done  i'  the  Capitol :  who 's  like  to  rise. 
Who  thrives,  and  who  declines :  side  factions, 

and  give  out 
Conjectural  marriages  ;  making  parties  strong, 
And  fcebling  such  as  stand  not  in  their  liking 
Below  their  cobbled  shoes.     They  say  there's 

grain  enough  ! 
Would  the  nobility  lay  aside  their  ruth,'* 
And  let  me  use  my  sword,  I  'd  make  a  quarry 
With  thousands  of  these  quartcr'd  slaves,  as  high 
As  I  could  pick ''  my  lance. 

Men.  Nay,  these  are  almost  thoroughly  per- 
suaded ; 
For  though  abundantly  they  lack  discretion. 
Yet  are  they  passing  cowardly.    But,  1  beseech 

you, 
W^hat  says  the  other  troop  ? 

Mar.  They  are  dissolved :  Hang  'em  ! 

They  said  they  were  an-lunigry;   sigh'd  forth 

proverljs. 
That  hunger  broke  stone  walls,  that  dogs  must 

eat. 
That  meat  was  made  for  mouths,  that  the  gods 

sent  not 
Corn  for  the  rich  man  only  : — With  these  shreds 
They  vented  their  complainings;    which  being 

answer' d. 
And  a  petition  granted  them,  a  strange  one, 
(To  break  the  heart  of  generosity. 
And  make  bold  power  look  pale,)  they  threw 

their  caps 
As  they  would  hang  them  on  the  horns  o'  the 

moon. 
Shouting  their  emulation. 
Men.  What  is  granted  them  ? 

Mar.  Five   tribunes   to   defend  their  vulgar 

wisdoms. 
Of  their  own  choice  :  One 's  Junius  Brutus, 
Sieinius  Vclutus,  and  I  know  not — 'Sdeath  ! 
The  rabble  should  have  first  unroof 'd  the  city. 
Ere  so  prevail'd  witli  me  ;  it  will  in  time 
Win  upon  power,  and  tkrow  forth  greater  themes 
For  insurrection's  arguing. 

Men.  This  is  strange. 

Mar.  Go,  get  you  home,  you  fragments ! 

Jin/er  a  [Messenger,  hasiili/. 
Mess.  Where 's  Caius  Marcius  ? 


n  7?m//i- pity— another  old  word, 
b  i'.c*— pitch. 


Act  I.J 


COEIOLANUS. 


[Scene  II. 


Mar  Here  :  T\liat  's  the  matter  ? 

Mess.  The  news  is,  sir,  the  Volsces  are  in  arms. 
Mar.  I  am  glad  on't;    then  -we  shall  have 
means  to  vent 
Our  musty  superfluity  : — See,  our  best  elders. 

Enter  CojnNius,  Titus  Lartius,  Uiid  other  Sena- 
tors ;  Junius  Bruius,  and  Sicixius  Yelutus. 
1  Sen.  Marcius,  't  is  true  that  you  have  lately 
told  us ; 
The  Volsces  are  in  arms. 

Mar.  They  have  a  leader, 

Tullus  Auiidius,-4hat  vill  put  you  to 't. 
I  sin  in  envying  his  nobility : 
And  were  I  anything  but  what  I  am, 
I  would  wish  me  only  he. 

Com.  You  have  fought  together. 

Mar.  "Were  half  to  half  the  world  by  the  ears, 
and  he 
Upon  my  party,  I  'd  revolt,  to  make 
Only  my  wars  with  him  :  he  is  a  lion 
That  I  am  proud  to  hunt. 

1  Sen.  Then,  worthy  Marcius, 

Attend  iipon  Cominius  to  these  wars. 
Com.  It  is  your  former  promise. 
Mar.  Sir,  it  is ; 

And  I  an:  constant. — Titus  Lartius,  thou 
Shalt  see  me  once  more  strike  at  Tullus'  face  : 
\Yhat,  art  thou  stiff?  stand'st  out  ? 

Tit.  No,  Cains  Marcius  ; 

I  '11  lean  upon  one  crutch,  and  fight  'svith  t'  other, 
Ere  stay  behind  this  business. 

Men.  0,  true  bred ! 

1  Sen.  Your  company  to  the  Capitol;  where, 
I  know, 
Our  greatest  friends  attend  us. 

Tit.  Lead  you  on : 

Follow,  Cominius ;   we  must  foUow  you ; 
Right  worthy  you  priority.* 

Com.  Noble  Marcius ! 

1  Sen.  Hence !  To  your  homes,  be  gone. 

[To  the  Citizens. 

Mar.  Nay,  let  them  follow : 

The  Voices  have  much  corn;   take  these  rats 

thither. 
To  gnaw  their  garners  :— "ITorshipful  mutineers. 
Your  valoiu-  puts  well  forth :  pray,  follow. 

[E-reuiit  Senators,  Coir.,  Mail,  Tit.,  and 
;Menex.     Citizens  steal  atca_'/. 
Sic.  Was    ever    man    so    proud    as    is    this 

Marcius  ? 
Bru.  He  has  no  equal. 

Sic.  "When  we  were  chosen  tribunes  for  the 
people, — 

'  We  must  here  understand,  worthy  of  riiorily. 


Brtc.  Mark'd  you  his  lip  and  eyes  ? 

Sic.  Nay,  but  his  taunts. 

Bru.  Being  mov'd,  he  wiU  not  spare  to  gird" 
the  gods. 

Sic.  Be-mock  the  modest  moon. 

Bru.  The  present  wars  devour  him :    he  is 
grown 
Too  proud  to  be  so  valiant.'' 

Sic.  Such  a  nature. 

Tickled  with  good  success,  disdains  the  shadow 
TVhich  he  treads  on  at  noon :  But  I  do  wonder 
His  insolence  can  brook  to  be  commanded 
Under  Cominius. 

Bru.  Fame,  at  the  which  he  aims. 

In  whom  already  he  is  well  grae'd,  cannot 
Better  be  held^  nor  more  attain'd,  than  by 
A  place  below  tlie  first :  for  what  miscarries 
Shall  be  the  general's  fault,  though  he  perform 
To  the  utmost  of  a  man ;  and  giddy  censure 
Will  then  cry  out  of  Marcius,  '  0,  if  he 
Had  borne  the  business ! ' 

Sic.  Besides,  if  things  go  well, 

Opinion,  that  so  sticks  on  Marcius,  shall 
Of  his  demerits"  rob  Cominius. 

Bru.  Come : 

Half  aU  Cominius'  honours  are  to  Marcius, 
Though  IMarciiis  eam'd  them  not ;   and  all  his 

faults 
To  Marcius  shall  be  honours,  though,  indeed, 
In  aught  he  merit  not. 

Sic.  Let 's  hence,  and  hear 

How  the  despatch  is  made ;  and  in  what  fashion, 
]\[ore  than  in  singularity,  he  goes 
Upon  this  present  action. 

Bru.  Let 's  along.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Corioli.     The  Senate-House. 
Enter  Tullus  Aufidius,  and  certain  Senators. 

1  Sen.  So,  your  opinion  is,  Aufidius, 
That  they  of  Rome  are  enter'd  in  our  counsels. 
And  know  how  we  proceed. 

jiiij;  Is  it  not  \ ours? 

Whatever  have"*  been  thought  on  in  this  state. 
That  could  be  brought  to  bodily  act  ere  Rome 


=»  Gird.  This  is  the  verb  of  Falstaffs  noun,  "  Every  mau 
has  a.nird  at  me."  . 

b  There  is  much  dispute  about  the  meani;^?  of  this  sen- 
t»iice  "The  present  vrars  devour  him"  is  clear  enougli, 
we  thiuk;  the  wars  absorb,  cat  up  the  wliolo  m.-in:^anrt 
then  comes  the  explanation;  he  is  trown  too  proud  o.  his 
valour — of  beins  so  valiant. 

c  Demerits.  The  word  is  used  in  a  similar  sense  in 
Othello,— that  of  merits.  The  meaniiif:  of  i"-''^*'^'T'"S,'"*^ 
acquired  later;  for  demerit  is  constantly  used  tor  desert  oy 
the  old  writers. 

<l  Whalei-er  Aace— elliptically,  whatever  thinr/s  have. 

155 


Act  1.] 


COKIOLAliUS. 


[Scene  111. 


Had  circumvention?  'Tis  not  four  days  gone 
Since  I  board  thence ;  these  are  the  words :   I 

think 
I  have  the  letter  here ;  yes,  here  it  is  :      [lu-ads. 
'  They  have  prcss'd  a  power,  but  it  is  not  known 
"Whether  for  east  or  west :  The  dearth  is  great ; 
The  people  mutinous :  and  it  is  runiour'd, 
Coniiuius,  Marcius  your  old  enemy, 
(Who  is  of  Eome  worse  hated  than  of  yon,) 
And  Titus  Lartius,  a  most  valiant  Roman, 
These  three  lead  on  this  preparation 
"Whither  't  is  bent :  most  likclv,  't  is  for  vou  : 
Consider  of  it.' 

1  Sen.  Our  army 's  in  the  field : 
AVe  never  yet  made  doubt  but  Rome  was  ready 
To  answer  us. 

An/.  Nor  did  you  think  it  folly 

To  keep  your  great  pretences  veil'd  till  when 
They  needs  must  show  themselves;  which  in 

the  hatching. 
It  seem'd,  appear'd  to  Rome.    By  the  discovery, 
We  shall  be  shortened  in  our  aim ;  which  was, 
To  take  in*  many  towns,  ere,  almost,  Rome 
Should  know  we  were  afoot. 

2  Se/i.  Noble  Aufidius, 
Take  your  commission ;  hie  you  to  your  bands  : 
Let  us  alone  to  guard  Corioli : 

If  they  set  down  before  us,  for  the  remove 
Bring  up  your  army  ;  but,  I  think,  you  '11  find 
They  'vc  not  prepar'd  for  us. 

Ji'/.  0,  doubt  not  that ; 

I  speak  from  certainties.     Nay,  more ; 
Some  paicels  of  their  powers  are  forth  already, 
And  only  hitherward.     I  leave  your  honours. 
K  we  and  Caius  iNIarcius  chance  to  meet, 
'Tis  sworn  between  us  we  shall  ever*"  strike 
Till  one  can  do  no  more. 

Jll.  The  gods  assist  you ! 

Au/.  And  keep  your  honours  safe ! 

1  Sen.  Farewell. 

2  Sen.  Farewell. 
All.  Farewell.  \_Exeunl. 


SCENE  III. — Rome.     An  Apartment  tn  Mar- 
cius* House. 

Enter  Volumxia  and  "Virgiua:  They  sit  down 
on  Itco  low  stools,  and  sew. 

Vol.  I  pray  you,  daughter,  sing;'  or  express 


•   Take  in — tiilidue. 

b  Brer.  In  Rced'i  edition  Ihli  was  itrangcly  cliaiigcd 
to  ntrer.  By  "  rrtr  strike"  wc  underitaiid,  we  sliall  con- 
tinue to  itrikc;  if  v«e  adopt  the  reading  of  nrvrr,  we 
muit  accept  ilrike  in  tlie  sen»e  of  strikinK  a  colour— 
yielding. 

156 


yourself  in  a  more  comfortable  sort :  If  my  son 
were  my  husband,  I  should  freelier  rejoice  in 
that  absence  wherein  he  won  liouour,  than 
in  the  embracements  of  his  bod,  where  he 
would  show  most  love.  "When  yet  ho  was  but 
tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my  womb ; 
when  youth  with  comeliness  plucked  all  gaze  his 
way;  when,  for  a  day  of  kings'  entreaties,  a 
mother  should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  be- 
holding ;  I, — considering  how  honour  would  be  • 
eome  such  a  person;  that  it  was  no  better  than 
picture-like  to  hang  by  the  wall,  if  renown  made 
it  not  stir,— was  pleased  to  let«him  seek  danger 
where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war 
I  sent  him ;  from  whence  he  returned,  his  brows 
bound  with  oak."*  I  tell  thee,  daughter, — I  sprang 
not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing  he  was  a  man- 
child,  than  now  in  first  seeing  he  had  proved 
himself  a  man. 

Vir.  But  had  he  died  in  the  business,  madam  ? 
how  then? 

Vol.  Then  his  good  report  should  have  been 
my  son;  I  therein  would  have  found  issue. 
Hear  me  profess  sincerely : — Had  I  a  dozen 
sons,  each  in  my  love  alike,  and  none  less  dear 
than  tliine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I  had  rather 
had  eleven  die  nobly  for  their  country,  than  one 
voluptuously  surfeit  out  of  action. 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 

Gent.  Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come  to 

visit  you. 
Fir.  'Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire 

myself. 
Vol.  Indeed,  you  shall  not. 
Methiuks,  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum ; 
See  liim  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair ; 
As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Volsces  shunning 

him  : 
Methinks,  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus,  — 
'  Come    on,   you  cowards !    you    were  got    in 

fear. 
Though  you  were  bora  in  Rome  : '     His  bloody 

brow 
With  his  maii'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he 

goes; 
Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that 's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 

Vir.  His  bloody  brow !  0,  Jupiter,  no  blood  ! 
Vol.  Away,  you  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man 
Than  gilt  his  trophy :  The  breasts  of  Hecub<t, 
"When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords'  contending. — Tell  Valeria 
We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [^Exit  Gent. 


Act  I.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


[SCEKE    IV. 


Fir.  Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufl- 

dius ! 
T'ol.    He  '11    beat    Aufidius'  head  below   his 
knee. 
And  tread  upon  his  neck. 

Re-enter  Gentlewoman,  wilh  Valeria  and  her 
Usher. 

J'al.  My  ladies  both,  good  day  to  you. 

Vol.  Sweet  madam. 

Fir.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  ladyship. 

Fal.  How  do  you  both  ?  you  are  manifest 
housekeepers.  ^Vhat  are  you  sewing  here?  A 
fine  spot,  in  good  faith. — How  does  yom-  little 
sou? 

Fir.  I  thank  your  ladyship  ;  well,  good  ma- 
dam. 

Fol.  He  had  rather  see  the  swords,  and  hear 
a  dram,  than  look  upon  his  schoohnaster. 

Fal.  0'  my  word,  the  father's  son :  I  '11  swear 
't  is  a  very  pretty  boy.  O'  my  troth,  I  looked 
upon  him  o'  Wednesday  half  an  hour  together : 
he  has  such  a  confirmed  countenance.  I  saw 
him  run  after  a  gilded  butterfly;  aud  when  he 
caught  it,  he  let  it  go  again ;  and  after  it  again ; 
aud  over  and  over  he  comes,  and  up  again ; 
catched  it  again:  or  whether  his  fall  enraged 
him,  or  how 't  was,  he  did  so  set  his  teeth,  and 
tear  it ;  O.  I  warrant,  how  he  mammocked  it ! 

Fol.  One  of  his  father's  moods. 

Fal.  Indeed  la,  't  is  a  noble  child. 

Fir.  A  crack,  madam. 

Fal.  Come,  lay  aside  your  stitchery  ;  I  must 
Lave  you  play  the  idle  huswife  with  me  this 
afternoon. 

Fir.  No,  good  madam ;  I  will  not  out  of 
doors. 

Fal.  Not  out  of  doors  ? 

Fol.  She  shall,  she  shall. 

Fir.  Indeed,  no,  by  your  patience:  I  will 
not  over  the  threshold  tiU  my  lord  return  from 
the  wars. 

Fal.  Fie  !  you  confine  yourself  most  um-eason- 
ably.  Come,  you  must  go  visit  the  good  lady 
that  lies  in. 

Fir.  I  will  wish  her  speedy  strength,  and 
visit  her  with  my  prayers ;  but  I  cannot  go 
thither. 

Fol.  Why,  I  pray  you  ? 

Fir.  'T  is  not  to  save  labour,  nor  that  I  want 
love. 

Fal.  You  would  be  another  Penelope:  yet, 
they  say,  aU  the  yarn  she  spun  in  Ulysses'  ab- 
sence did  but  fill'lthaca  full  of  moths.  Come ; 
I  would  yom-  cambric  were  sensible   as  your 


finger,  that  you  might  leave  pricking  it  for  pity. 
Come,  you  shall  go  with  us. 

Fir.  No,  good  madam,  pardon  me;  indeed  I 
win  not  forth. 

Fal.  In  truth,  la,  go  with  me ;  and  I  '11  teU 
you  excellent  news  of  your  husband. 

Fir.  O,  good  madam,  there  can  be  none 
yet. 

Fal.  Verily,  I  do  not  jest  with  you ;  there 
came  news  from  him  last  night. 

Fir.  Indeed,  madam  ? 

Fal.  In  earnest,  it's  true  ;  I  heard^a  senator 
speak  it.  Thus  it  is : — The  Volsces  have  an 
army  forth,  against  whom  Cominius  the  general 
is  gone,  with  one  part  of  our  Roman  power: 
your  lord  and  Titus  Lai-tius  are  set  down  before 
their  city  Corioli;  they  nothing  doubt  prevail- 
ing, and  to  make  it  brief  wars.  This  is  true,  on 
mine  honour ;  and  so,  I  pray,  go  with  us. 

Fir.  Give  me  excuse,  good  madam  ;  I  will 
obey  you  in  everything  hereafter. 

Fol.  Let  her  alone,  lady ;  as  she  is  now,  she 
will  but  disease  our  better  mirth. 

Fal.  In  troth,  I  think  she  would : — Fare  you 
well  then. — Come,  good  sweet  lady. — Prithee, 
Virgilia,  turn  thy  solemnness  out  o'  door,  and  go 
along  with  us. 

J'ir.  No  :  at  a  word,  madam,  indeed  I  must 
not.     I  wish  you  much  mirth. 

Fal.  Well,  then  farewell.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  lY.— Before  CorioU.^ 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colours,  Marcits,  TlTl's 
Laktitts,  Ofiicers,  and  Soldiers.  To  them  a 
Messenger. 

3Iar.  Yonder  comes  news: — A  wager,  they 

have  met. 
Lart.  My  horse  to  yours,  no. 
Mar.  'T  is  done. 

Lart.  Agreed. 

Mar.  Say,  has  our  general  met  the  enemy  ? 
Mess.  They  lie  in  view ;  but  have  not  spoke 

as  yet. 
Lart.  So,  the  good  horse  is  mine. 
Mar.  I  '11  buy  Mm  of  you. 

Lart.  No,  I  '11  nor  sell  nor  give  him :  lend 

you  hin\  I  will. 
For  half  a  hundred  years.— Summon  the  town. 
Mar.  How  far  off  lie  these  armies  ? 
jJess.  Within  this  mile  and  half. 

Mar.  Then   shall  we  hear   their 'lamm,  and 

they  ours. 
Now,  Mais,  i  prithee,  make  us  quick  in  work ; 

157 


Act  I.] 


CORIOr/VNUS. 


[Scene  IV. 


That  we  \ritli  smoking  swords  may  march  from 

heucc, 
To  help  our  fielded  friends !— Come,  blow  thy 

blast. 

They  sound  a  parley.     Enter,  on  the  walls,  some 
Senators,  and  others. 

Tullus  Aufidius,  is  he  within  your  walls  ? 

1  Sen.  No,  nor  a  man  that  fears  you  less  than 
he: 
ITiat  's  lesser  than  a  little.     Hark,  our  drums 

*.  \_Aluntms  afar  off- 

Are  bringing  forth  our  youth :  We  '11  break  our 

walls. 
Rather  than  they  shall  pound  us  up  :  Oui-  gates. 
Which  yet  seem  shut,  wc  have  but  piuu'd  with 

rushes ; 
They  '11  open  of  themselves.      Haik  you,  far 
off ;  [Other  alarums. 

There  is  Aufidius ;  list,  what  work  he  makes 
Amongst  your  cloven  army. 
Mar.  0,  they  are  at  it ! 

Lart.  Their  noise  be  our  instruction. — Lad- 
ders, ho ! 

The  Volsces  enter,  and  pass  over  the  stage. 

Mar.  They  fear  us  not,  but  issue  forth  their 

city. 
Now  put  your  shields  before  your  hearts,  and 

fight 
With  hearts  more  proof  than  shields. — Advance, 

brave  Titus  ; 
They  do  disdain  us  much  beyond  our  thoughts, 
Which  makes  me  sweat  with  wrath. — Come  on, 

my  fellows ; 
He  that  retires  I  '11  take  him  for  a  Volsce^ 
And  he  shall  feel  mine  edge. 

.ilarums,  and  exeunt  Romans  and  Volsces,  fight- 
ing. The  Romans  are  beaten  back  to  their 
trenches.     Re-enter  Makcius. 

Mar.  All  the  contagion  of  the  south  light  on 

yon. 
You  shames  of  Rome  ! — you  herd  of — Boils  and 

plagues 
Plaster  you  o'er ;  that  you  may  be  abhorr'd 
Further  than  seen,  and  one  infect  another 
Against  the  wind  a  mile  !     You  souls  of  geese 
That  bear  the  shapes  of  men,  how  have  you  run 
From  slaves  that  apes  would  beat !     Pluto  and 

hell! 
.Vll  hurt  behind  ;  backs  red,  and  faces  pale 
With  flight  and  agned  fear !    Mend,  and  charge 

home, 
Or,  by  the  fires  of  heaven,  I  '11  leave  the  foe, 

153 


iVnd  make  my  wars  on  you  !  look  to 't :     Come 

on ; 
If  you  '11  stand  fast,  wc  '11  beat  them  to  their 

wives. 
As  they  us  to  our  trenches  followed. 

.inother  alarum.  The  Volsces  and  Romans  re- 
enter, and  ike  fiqht  is  renewed.  The  Volsces 
retire  into  Corioli,  and  Makcius  follows  them 
to  the  gates. 

So,  now  the  gates  are  ope : — Now  prove  good 

seconds : 
'T  is  for  the  followers  fortune  widens  them, 
Not  for  the  fliers  :  mark  mc,  and  do  the  like. 

[He  enters  the  gates,  and  is  shut  in. 

1  Sol.  Fool-hardiness ;  not  I. 

2  Sol.  Nor  I. 

3  Sol.  See,  they  have  shut  him  in. 

[Alarum  continues. 
All.  To  the  pot,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Tixus  Laktius. 

iMrt.  What 'is  become  of  IMarcius? 

All.  Slain,  sii-,  doubtless. 

1  Sol.  Follo\\Tng  the  fliers  at  the  very  heels, 
With  them  he  enters :  who,  upon  the  sudden, 
Clapp'd-to  their  gates ;  he  is  himself  alone, 
To  answer  all  the  city. 

Lart.  0  noble  fellow  I 

Who  sensibly  outdares  his  senseless  sword. 
And  when  it  bows  stands  up  !     Thou  art  left, 

Mareius  : 
A  carbuncle  entire,  as  big  as  thou  art, 
"Were  not  so  rich  a  jewel.     Thou  Avast  a  soldier 
Even  to  Cato's  wish,''  not  fierce  and  terrible 
Only  in  strokes  ;  but  with  thy  grim  looks  and 
The  thunder-like  percussion  of  thy  sounds. 
Thou  mad'st  thine   enemies   shake,   as   if   the 

world 
Were  feverous,  and  did  tremble 


»  The  ori^'inal  has  "  Calues  wish."  This  is  evidently  a 
typographical  error;  but,  following  Rowe  and  Pope,  Mr. 
Monck  Mason  would  have  us  read  Cnhus  u-hli.  We 
quite  asree  with  Malone  that  the  manuscript  was  Catoes  ; 
easily  mistaken  and  rendered  by  the  printer  Calues.  But 
we  do  not  agree  with  him  that  Shakspere  committed  the 
anachronism  in  ignorance.  Plutarch,  de.<;crlbingtlie  valiant 
deeds  c  f  Coriolanus,  says  (North's  translation),  "  He  was 
even  such  another  as  Cato  would  have  a  soldier  and  a  cap. 
tain  to  be."  Shakspere  puts  nearly  the  same  words  in  the 
mouth  of  Lartius;  feeling  that  Lartius,  in  thus  conveying 
the  sentiment  of  Plutarch,  was  to  the  avidience  as  a  sort  of 
chorui.  He  had  no  vision  of  a  critic  before  him,  book  in 
hand,  calling  out  that  Cato  was  not  born  till  two  hundred 
and  fifty-three  years  after  the  death  of  Coriolanus.  Now 
Mr.  Malone,  with  hisexact  chronology  of  the  death  of  Corio- 
lanus, commits  in  the  eyes  of  modem  learning  as  great  a 
blunder  as  Shakspere  commits  in  his  eyes.  We  hold  to  the 
reading  of  "  Cato's  wish,"  which  Theobald  very  sensibly 
gave  us. 


ACT   I.] 


COEIOLAl^rUS. 


[Scenes  V.,  VI. 


Re-enter  Marcius,  bleedhuj,  assaulted  by  the      I    Go,  sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  market-place  • 


enemy, 

1  Sol.  Look,  sir. 

Lart.  O !  't  is  Marcius  : 

Let 's  fetch  him  off,  or  make  remain  alike. 

[Thei/ fight,  and  all  enter  the  city. 

SCENE  ^.—Within  the  Town.     A  Street. 
Enter  certain  Romans,  with  spoils. 

1  Rom.  This  will  I  carry  to  Eome. 

2  Rom.  And  I  this. 

3  Rom.  A  murrain  on 't !     I  took  this    for 

silver. 

\^Alariim  continues  still  afar  off. 

Enter  Makcius  and  Titus  Lartius,  xcith  a 
trumpet. 

Mar.  See  here  these  movers,  that   do   prize 

their  hours 
At  a  crack'd  drachm !  Cushions,  leaden  spoons. 
Irons  of  a  doit,  doublets  that  hangmen  would 
Bury  with  those  that  wore  them,  these   base 

slaves. 
Ere  yet  the  fight  be  done,  pack  up  : — Down  with 

them ! — 
And  hark,  what  noise  the  general  makes !— To 

him  ! — 
There  is  the  man  of  my  soul's  hate,  Aufidius, 
Piercing  our  Romans  :  Then,  valiant  Titus,  take 
Convenient  numbers  to  make  good  the  city  ; 
Whilst  I,  with  those  that  have  the  spirit,  will 

haste 
To  help  Cominius. 

Lart.  Worthy  sir,  thou  bleed'st ; 

Thy  exercise  hath  been  too  violent 
For  a  second  course  of  fight. 

Mar.  Sir,  praise  me  not : 

My  work  hath  yet  not  warm'd  me :    Eare  you 

well. 
The  blood  I  drop  is  rather  physical 
Than  dangerous  to  me  :  To  Aufidius  thus 
I  will  appear,  and  fight. 

Lart.  Now  the  fair  goddess.  Fortune, 

Fall  deep   in  love   with  thee;  and   her  great 

charms 
Misguide  thy  opposers'  swords  !    Bold  gentle- 
man. 
Prosperity  be  thy  page ! 

Mar.  Thy  friend  no  less 

Than  those  she  placeth  highest ! — So,  farewell. 
Lart.  Thou  wortliiest  Marcius  ! — 

\Exit  Marcius. 


Call  thither  all  the  oflicers  of  the  town. 
Where  they  shall  krfow  our  mind  :  Away ! 

{Exeunt, 

SCENE  ^l.—Near  the  Camp  of  Cominius. 

Enter  Cominius  and  Forces,  retreating. 

Com.  Breathe  you,  my  friends  ;  well  fought : 
we  are  come  off 
Like  Romans,  neither  foolish  in  our  stands. 
Nor  cowardly  in  retire :  believe  me,  sirs. 
We  shall  be  charg'd  again.     Whiles  we  have 

struck, 
By  interims  and  conveying  gusts  we  have  heard 
The  charges  of  our  friends  : — The  Roman  gods 
Lead  their  successes  as  we  wish  our  own ; 
That  both  our  powers,  with  smiling  fi-onts  en- 
countering. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

May  give  you  thankful  sacrifice ! — Thy  news  ? 

Mess.  The  citizens  of  Corioli  have  issued. 
And  given  to  Lartius  and  to  Marcius  battle  : 
I  saw  our  party  to  their  trenches  driven, 
And  then  I  came  away. 

Com.  Though  thou  speak'st  truth, 

Methinks  thou  speak'st  not  well.     How  long 
is  't  since  ? 

Mess.  Above  an  hour,  my  lord. 

Com.  'T  is  not  a  mile ;  briefly  we  heard  their 
drums  : 
How  couldst  thou  in  a  mile  confound  an  hour, 
And  bring  thy  news  so  late  ? 

3Iess.  Spies  of  the  Yolsces 

Held  me  in  chase,  that  I  was  forc'd  to  wheel 
Three  or  four  miles  about ;  else  had  I,  sir. 
Half  an  hour  since  brought  my  report. 

Enter  !Marcius. 
Com.  "Wlio  's  yonder. 

That  does  appear  as  he  were  flay  'd  ?  0  gods ! 
He  has  the  stamp  of  Marcius  ;  and  I  have 
Before-time  seen  him  thus. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late  ? 

Com.  The  shepherd  knows  not  thunder  from 
a  tabor. 
More  than  I  know  the  sound  of  Marcius'  tongue 
From  every  meaner  man. 

Mar.  Come  I  too  late  ? 

Com.  Ay,  if  you  come  not  in  the  blood  of 
others, 
But  mantled  in  your  own. 

Mar.  0  !  let  me  clip  you 

159 


ACT    I.] 


CORTOLANUS. 


tSiEUfceVII.Vni. 


In  arms  as  sound  as  when  I  woo'd  ;  in  heart 
As  merry  as  when  our  nuptial  day  was  done, 
And  tapers  burn'd  to  bedward. 

Com.  riower  of  warriors, 

How  is  't  with  Titus  Lartins  ? 

Mar.  As  with  a  man  busied  about  decrees  : 
Condemning  some  to  death,  and  some  to  exile  ; 
]{ansoming  him,  or  pitying,  tlireat'uing  the  other; 
Holding  Corioli  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
Even  like  a  fawning  greyhound  in  the  leash, 
To  let  liim  slip  at  will. 

Com.  Where  is  that  slave 

AVhich  told  me  they  had  beat  you  to  your  trenches  ? 
Where  is  he  ?    Call  him  liitlicr. 

Mar.  Let  him  alone, 

He  did  infonn  the  truth :  But  for  our  gentlemen. 
The   common  file,    (A    plague ! — Tribunes   for 

them  !) 
The  mouse  ne'er  sbunu'd  the  cat  as  they  did  budge 
From  rascals  worse  than  they. 

Com.  But  how  prevail'd  you  ? 

Mar.  Will  the  time  serve  to  tell?  I  do  not 
think  : 
Wliere  is  the  enemy  ?  Are  you  lords  o'  the  field  ? 
If  not,  why  cease  you  till  you  are  so  ? 

Com.  Marcius,  we  have  at  disadvantage  fought, 
.Vnd  did  retire,  to  win  our  purpose. 

Mar.  IIow  lies  their  battle  ?    Know  you  on 
which  side 
They  have  plac'd  their  men  of  trust  ? 

Com.  As  I  guess,  Marcius, 

Their  bands  in  the  vaward  arc  the  Antiates, 
Of  their  best  trust ;  o'er  them  Aufidius, 
Their  very  heart  of  hope. 

Mar.  1  do  beseech  you, 

By  all  the  battles  wherein  we  have  fought. 
By  the  blood  we  have  shed  together,  by  the  vows 
We  have  made  to  endure  friends,  that  you  directly 
Set  mc  against  Aufidius,  and  his  Aniiates  : 
And  that  you  not  delay  the  present;  but. 
Filling  the  air  with  swords  advanc'd,  and  darts, 
We  prove  this  very  hour. 

Com.  Though  I  could  wish 

You  were  conducted  to  a  gentle  bath, 
,Vnd  balms  applied  to  you,  yet  dare  I  never 
Deny  your  asking ;  take  your  choice  of  those 
That  best  can  aid  your  action. 

Mar.  Those  are  they 

That  most  are  willing: — If  any  such  be  here, 
(As  it  were  sin  to  doubt,)  that  love  this  painting 
"Wherein  vou  see  me  smcar'd  ;  if  anv  fear 
Lesser  his  person  than  an  ill  rej)ort ; 
If  any  think  brave  death  outweighs  bad  life, 
And  that  his  countiT  's  dearer  than  himself; 
Let  him  alone,  or  so  many  so  minded, 

ICC 


Wave  thus,  {iravinj  his  haint]  to  express  his  dis- 
position. 
And  follow  ^farcins. 

\_T/iei/  all  shout,  and  vave  their  sicords  ;  take 
him  up  in  their  anus,  and  cast  vp  their  cap:, 
0  me,  alone  !  !Make  you  a  sword  of  me  ? 
If  these  shows  be  not  outward,  which  of  you 
But  is  four  Voices  ?  None  of  vou  but  is 
Able  to  bear  against  the  great  Aufidius 
A  shield  as  hard  as  his.     A  certain  number, 
Though  thanks  to  all,  must  I  select  from  all :  the 

rest 
Shall  bear  the  business  in  some  other  fight. 
As  cause  will  be  obev'd.     Please  vou  to  march  ; 
And  four  shall  quickly  draw  out  my  connnand. 
Which  men  arc  best  inclin'd. 

Com.  !March  on,  my  fellows  ; 

Make  good  this  ostentation,  and  you  shall 
Divide  in  all  with  us.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  Yll.— The  Gates  of  Corioli. 

Titus  Lartius,  having  set  a  guard  upon  Corioli, 
ffoififf  with  a  drum  and  trumpet  totcardCoMiyuva 
and  Caius  Makcius,  enters  with  a  Lieutenant, 
a  party  of  Soldiers,  and  a  Scout. 

Lart.  So,  let  the  ports  be  guarded ;  keep  your 
duties, 
As  I  have  set  them  down.  If  I  do  send,  despatch 
Those  centuries  to  our  aid  ;  the  rest  will  serve 
For  a  short  holding :  If  we  lose  the  field. 
We  cannot  keep  the  town. 

Lieu.  Fear  not  our  care,  sir. 

Lart.  Ilcnce,  and  shut  your  gates  upon  us. — 

Oui-  guider,  come  ;  to  the  Roman  camp  conduct 

us.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— ^  Field  of  Battle  between  the 
Roman  and  the  Volscian  Camps. 

Alarum.     Enter  !Marcius  and  AvriDirs. 

Mar.  I  '11  fight  with  none  but  thee  ;  for  I  do 
hate  thee 
Worse  than  a  promise-breaker. 

Auf.  \^c.  hate  alike ; 

Not  Afric  owns  a  serpent  I  abhor 
More  llian  thy  tame,  and  envy  :  Fix  thy  foot. 

Mar.  Let  the  first  budger  die  the  other's  slave. 
And  the  gods  doom  him  after ! 

Auf.  If  I  fly,  Mai'cius, 

Halloo  me  like  a  hare. 

Mar.  Within  these  three  hours,  Tullus, 

Alone  I  fought  in  your  Corioli  walls. 


ACT   I.] 


COEIOLAISTUS. 


[Scene  IX. 


And  made  what  work  I  pleas'd;  'Tis   not  my 

blood 
Wherein  thou  seest  me  mask'd :  for  thy  revenge 
Wrench  up  thy  power  to  the  higliest. 

Auf.  Wert  thou  the  Hector 

That  was  the  whip  of  your  bragg'd  progeny, 
Thou  shouldst  not  scape  me  here. — ■ 

[^They  Jight,  and  certain  Yolsces  come  to 
the  aid  o/'Aufidius. 
Officious,  and  not  valiant — you  have  sham'd  me 
In  your  condemned  seconds. 

\Exeunt  fighting,  driven  in  by  Mabcius. 


SCENE  X^.—The  Roman  Camp. 

Alarum.  A  retreat  is  sounded.  Flourish.  Enter 
at  one  side,  CoMiNius,  and  Romans;  at  the 
other  side,  Marcius,  with  his  arm  in  a  scarf, 
and  other  Romans. 

Com.  If  I  should  tell  thee  o'er  this  thy  day's 

woyJc, 
Thou'lt  not  believe  thy  deeds  :  but  I'll  report  it 
Where  senators  shall  mingle  tears  with  smiles ; 
Where  great  patricians  shall  attend,  and  shrug, 
r  the  end,  admire ;  where  ladies  shall  be  frighted. 
And,  gladly  quak'd,  hear  more ;  where  the  dull 

tribunes, 
That,  with  the  fustyplebeiaps,  hate  thine  honours, 
Shall  say,  against  their  hearts, — '  We  thank  the 

gods. 
Our  Rome  hath  such  a  soldier ! ' — 
Yet  cam'st  thou  to  a  morsel  of  this  feast. 
Having  fully  din'd  before. 

Enter  TiTus  Lartius,  with  his  power,  from  the 
pursuit. 

Lurt.  O  general. 

Here  is  the  steed,  we  the  caparison : 
Hadst  thou  beheld — 

Mar.  Pray  now,  no  more  :  my  mother. 

Who  has  a  charter  to  extol  her  blood. 
When  she  does  praise  me  grieves  me.     I  have 

done. 
As  you  have  done  :  that 's  what  I  can ;  induc'd 
As  you  have  been ;  that 's  for  my  country : 
He  that  has  but  effected  his  good  will 
Hath  overt  a'c-n  mine  act. 

Com.  You  shall  not  be 

The  grave  of  your  deserving :  Rome  must  know 
The  value  of  her  own :  't  were  a  concealment 
Worse  than  a  theft,  no  less  than  a  traducement, 
To  hide  your  doings ;  and  to  silence  that, 
\Vhich,  to  the  spire  and  top  of  praises  vouch' d. 

Tragedies. — Vol.  II.         M 


Would  seem  but  modest :  Therefore,  I  beseech 

you, 

(In  sign  of  what  you  are,  not  to  reward 
What  you  have  done,)  before  our  army  hear  me. 
Mar.  I  have  some  wounds  upon  me,  and  they 

smart 
To  hear  themselves  remember'd. 

Com.  Should  they  not, 

Well  might  they  fester  'gainst  ingratitude. 
And  tent  themselves  with  death.      Of   all  the 

horses, 
(Whereof  we  have  ta'en  good,  and  good  store,) 

of  all 
The  treasure,  in  this  field  aehiev'd,  and  city. 
We  render  you  the  tenth  ;  to  be  ta'en  forth. 
Before  the  common  distribution. 
At  your  only  choice. 

Mar.  I  thank  you,  general ; 

But  cannot  make  my  heart  consent  to  take 
A  bribe  to  pay  my  sword :  I  do  refuse  it ; 
And  stand  upon  my  common  part  with  those 
That  have  beheld  the  doing. 

[_A  long  flourish.     They  all  cry,  Marcius  ! 

Marcius  !  cast  up  their  caps  and  lances: 

CoMiNius  and  Lartitjs  stand  bare. 
Mar.  May  these  same  instruments,  which  you 

profane. 
Never  sound  mere,  when  drums  and  trumpets 

shall 
I'  the  field  prove  flatterers  !   Let  courts  and  cities 

be 
Made  all  of   false-fac'd  soothing,  where   steel 

grows  soft 
As  the  parasite's  siUc  ! 
Let  them  be  made  an  overture  for  the  wars !  * 


a  We  here  venture  to  make  an  important  change  in  the 
generally  received  reading  of  this  passage. 

"  May  these  same  instruments,  which  you  profane, 
Never  sound  more!  Wlien  drums  and  trumpets  shall 
1'  the  field  prove  flatterers,  let  courts  and  cities  be 
Made  all  of  false-fac'd  soothing!  When  steel  grows 
Soft  as  the  parasite's  silk,  let  him  be  made 
An  overture  for  the  wars !  " 
The   stage  direction  of  the  original  which  precedes   this 
speech   is,  "A    long  flouruh."    The  drums  and  trumpets 
have  sounded  in  honour  of  Coriolanus;  but,  displeased  as 
he  may  be,  it  is  somewhat  unreasonable  of  him  to  desire 
that   these  instruments  may  "never  sound   more.       We 
render  his  desire,  by  the  slightest  change  of  punctuation, 
somewliat  more  rational : — 

"  May  these  same  instruments,  which  you  profane. 
Never  sound  more,  when  drums  and  trumpets  shall 
1'  the  field  prove  flatterers!  " 
The  difficulty  increases  with  the  received  reading;  for,  ac- 
cording to  this,  when  drums  and  trumpets  prove  flatterers, 
courts  and  cities  are  to  be  made  of  false-faced  sooiliing. 
Courts  and  cities  are  precisely  what  a  soldier  would  describe 
as  invariably  so  made.    But  Coriolanus  contrasts  courts  and 
cities  with  the  field  ;  he  separates  them:— 

"  Let  courts  and  cities  be 
Made  all  of  false-fac'd  soothing:" 

and  he  adds,  as  we  believe, 

101 


Act  I.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[Scene  X. 


No  more,  I  sav !     For  Uiat  I  have  not  wasli'd 
My  nose  tliat  bled,  or  foil'd  some  dcbile  wreteli, 
Which   without    note   here 's   many  else    have 

done, 
You  sliout  lue  forth 
In  acehimations  hyperbolical; 
As  if  I  lov'd  my  little  should  be  dieted 
In  praises  sauc'd  with  lies. 

Com.  Too  modest  are  you ; 

More  cruel  to  your  good  report  than  grateful 
To  us  that  give  you  truly :  by  your  patience, 
If  'gainst  yourself  you  be  incciis'd,  we  '11  put  you 
(Like  one  that  means  his  proper  harm)  in  mana- 
cles, 
Then  reason  safely  with  you. — Therefore,  be  it 

known. 
As  to  us,  to  all  the  world,  that  Caius  Marcius 
Wears  this  war's  garland  :  in  token  of  the  which 
My  noble  steed,  known  to  the  camp,  I  give  him. 
With  all  his   trim  belonging;    and,  from  this 

time. 
For  what  he  did  before  Corioli,  call  him. 
With  all  the  applause  and  clamour  of  the  host, 
Caics  Marcius  Coriolanus. — 
Bear  the  addition  nobly  ever ! 

[^Flourish.     Trumpets  sound,  and  drums. 
All.  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  ! 
Cjr.  I  will  go  wash  ; 
And  when  my  face  is  fair,  you  shall  perceive 
Whether  I  blush,  or  no :     Howbeit,  1  thank 

you : — 
I  mean  to  stride  your  steed ;  and,  at  all  times. 
To  undercrest  your  good  addition, 
To  the  fairness  of  my  power. 

Com.  So,  to  our  tent : 

Where,  ere  we  do  repose  us,  we  will  write 
To  Rome  of  our  success. — You,  Titus  Lartius, 
Must  to  Corioli  back :  send  us  to  Rome 
The  best,  with  whom  we  may  articulate. 
For  their  own  good,  and  ours. 

Lart.  I  shall,  my  lord. 


"  Where  steel  grows  soft 
.\?  the  parasite's  silk  !  " 

The  difnculties  with  the  received  readinR  arc  imiticasurablc. 
ff'hen  ^tecl  Rrows  soft  as  the  parasite's  silk  theconinieiitators 
say  that  him  (the  steel),  used  for  il,  is  to  bu  made  an  over- 
ture for  the  wars  ;  but  what  overture  means  here  they  do 
not  attempt  to  explain.  The  slight  change  we  have  made 
(irivcs  a  perfectly  clear  meaning.  The  whole  speech  has  now 
a  leading  idea: — 

"  Let  them  be  made  an  overture  for  the  wars." 

I^t  them,  the  instntnicnti  which  you  profane,  be  the  pre- 
lude to  our  wars.  Opposed  ai  we  are  to  editorial  licence,  we 
hold  ourselves  kc<'ping  within  due  bounds  in  nubstituting 
where  for  irhen,  and  them  for  Aim  ;  for  there  are  several  in- 
stances of  these  words  having  been  misprinted  in  the  original 
copies.  We  bi-licve  that  the  ^ense  of  these  lines  ha.s  been 
mistaken,  in  konie  measure,  through  the  ilevi.itions  from  the 
metrical  arrangement  in  the  original.  Our  reading  follows 
this  arrangement  much  moreclosely  than  that  of  the  modern 
editors. 

162 


Cor.  The  gods  begiu  to  mock  me.      I  that 
now 
llefus'd  most  princely  gifts,  am  bound  to  beg 
Of  my  lord  general. 

Com.  Take  it :  't  is  yours. — AVhat  is 't  ? 

Cor.  I  sometime  lay,  here  in  Corioli, 
At  a  poor  man's  house ;  he  us'd  me  kindly : 
He  cried  to  me ;  I  saw  him  prisoner ; 
But  then  Aufidius  was  within  my  view. 
And   wrath   o'erwhelm'd  my  pity:     I  request 

you 
To  give  my  poor  host  freedom. 

Com.  O,  well  begg'd ! 

Were  he  the  butcher  of  my  son,  he  should 
Be  free  as  is  the  wind.     Deliver  him,  Titus. 

Lnri.  Marcius,  his  name  ? 

Cor.  By  Jupiter,  forgot ! — 

T  am  weary ;  yea,  my  memory  is  tir'd. — 
Have  we  no  wine  here  ? 

Com.  Go  we  to  our  tent : 

The  blood  upon  your  visage  dries :  't  is  time 
It  should  be  look'd  to  :  come.  [Rreitnl. 


SCENE  X.~T/ie  C^mp  of  the  Volsces. 

A  flourish.     Cornels,     linter  Tui.LVS  Aufiditts, 
bloody,  tcith  Two  or  Three  Soldiers. 

Auf.  The  town  is  ta'en  ! 
1  Sol.  'T  will  be  deliver'd  back  on  good  con- 
dition. 
Aiff.  Condition? — 
I  would  I  were  a  Roman ;  for  I  cannot, 
Beiug  a  Volsce,  be  that  I  am. — Condition ! 
What  good  condition  can  a  treaty  find 
r  the  part  that  is  at  mercy  ?  Five  times,  Mar- 
cius, 
I  have  fought  with  thee ;  so  often  hast  thou  beat 

me; 
And  wouldst   do   so,   I   thiidc,   should  we   en- 
counter 
As  often  as  we  eat. — By  the  elements. 
If  e'er  again  I  meet  him  beard  to  beard. 
He  is  mine,  or  I  am  his:  Mine  emulation 
llath  not  that  honour  in  't  it  had  :  for  where 
I  thought  to  crush  him  in  an  equal  force, 
(True  sword  to  sword,)  I  '11  potch  at  him  some 

way ; 
Or  wrath,  or  craft,  may  get  him. 

ISol.  He's  the  devil 

Auf.  Bolder,  though  not  so  subtle :  My  valour's 
poison'd, 
With  only  sufteruig  stain  by  him  ;  for  him 
Shall  fly  out  of  itself:  nor  sleep,  nor  sanctuary, 
Bting  naked,  sick  :  nor  fane,  nor  Capitol, 


Act  I.] 


CORIOLAITUS. 


[SCEKE   X. 


The  prayers  of  pi'iests,  nor  times  of  sacrifice, 
Embarquements  '^  all  of  fury,  shall  lift  up 
Their  rotten  privilege  and  custom  'gainst 
My  hate  to  Marcius :  where  I  find  him,  were  it 
At  home,  upon  my  brother's  guard,  even  there, 
Against  the  hospitable  canon,  would  I 
Wash  my  fierce  hand  in  his  heart.     Go  you  to 
the  city ; 

^  F.mbarijuements — embargoes. 


Learn  how  'tis  held;  and  wliat  they  are  that 

must 
Be  hostages  for  Rome. 

1  Sol.  Will  not  you  go  ? 

Ai/f.  I  am  attended  at  the  cypress  grove  : 
I  pray  you,  ('t  is  south  the  city  mills,)  bring  me 

word  thither 
How  the  world  goes ;  that  to  the  pace  of  it 
I  may  spur  on  my  journey. 

1  Sol.  I  shall,  sir.   [^Exeunt. 


[The  Tiber.     Mount  Aventine  in  the  distance] 


[Isoia  Tiberlim^O 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


'  ScBNE  I. — "  Suffer  us  to  famish,  and  their  store- 
houses crammed  with  grain." 

Plutarch  describes  two  iusurrections  of  the 
Roman  plebeians  against  the  patricians.  The  second 
was  on  account  of  the  scarcity  of  corn,  and  is  thus 
related : — 

"  Now,  when  this  war  was  ended,  the  flatterers 
of  the  people  began  to  stir  up  sedition  again,  without 
any  new  occasion  or  just  matter  offered  of  com- 
plaint. For  they  did  ground  this  second  insurrec- 
tion  against  the  nobility  and  patrician.s  upon  the 
people's  misery  and  misfortune,  that  could  not  but 
fall  out,  by  reason  of  the  former  discord  and  sedi- 
tion between  them  and  the  nobility.  Because  the 
most  pan  of  the  aralile  laud  within  the  territoiy  of 
Kome  waa  become  heathy  and  barren  for  lack  of 
ploughing,  for  that  they  had  no  time  nor  mean  to 
cause  corn  to  be  brought  them  out  of  other  countries 
to  sow,  by  reason  of  their  wars,  which  made  the  ex- 
treme dearth  thoy  had  among  them.  Now  those 
busy  prattlers,  that  sought  the  people's  good  will 
by  such  flattering  words,  perceiving  great  scarcity 
of  Corn  to  be  within  the  city — and,  though  there 
had  been  plenty  enough,  yet  the  common  people 
had  no  money  to  buy  it — they  spread  abroad  false 
tales  and  rumours  against  the  nobility,  that  they, 
in  revenge  of  the  people,  had  practised  and  pro- 
cured the  extreme  dearth  among  them." 
1G4 


*  Scene  I. — "  Make  edicts  for  uswy,  to  support 
usurers." 

This  was  the  principal  cause  of  the  first  insur- 
rection ;  and  it  was  upon  this  occasion  that 
Menenius  told  the  "pretty  tale  "  which  Shakspere 
has  so  dramatically  treated : — 

"  Now,  he  being  grown  to  great  credit  and  autho- 
rity in  Rome  for  his  valiantness,  it  fortuned  there 
grew  sedition  in  the  city,  because  the  senate  did 
favour  the  rich  against  the  people,  who  did  com- 
plain of  tho  sore  oppression  of  usurers,  of  whom 
they  borrowed  money.  •  «  •  ♦  •  Whereupon 
their  chief  magisti-ates  and  many  of  the  senate  be- 
gan to  be  of  divers  opinions  among  themselves. 
For  some  thought  it  was  reason  they  should  some- 
what yield  to  the  poor  people's  request,  and  that 
they  should  a  little  qualify  the  severity  of  the  law ; 
other  held  hard  against  that  opinion,  and  that  was 
Martius  for  one;  for  he  alleged  that  the  creditors 
losing  their  money  they  had  lent  was  not  the  worst 
thing  that  was  herein;  but  that  the  lenity  that  was 
favoured  was  a  beginning  of  disobedience,  and  that 
the  proud  attempt  of  the  commonalty  was  to  abolish 
l;iw,  and  to  bring  all  to  confusion;  therefore  he 
said,  if  the  senate  were  wise  they  should  betimes 
prevent  and  quench  this  ill-favoured  and  worse- 
meant  beginning.  The  senate  met  many  days  in 
consultation  about  it ;   but  in  the  end  they  con 


CORIOLAXUS. 


cliulcd  nothing.  •  *  ♦  •  •  Of  those,  Meneuius 
Agrippa  was  he  who  was  sent  for  chief  man  of 
the  message  from  the  senate.  He,  after  many  good 
persuasions  and  gentle  requests  made  to  the  people 
on  the  behalf  of  the  senate,  knit  up  his  oration  in 
the  end  with  a  notable  tale,  in  this  manner : — That, 
on  a  time,  all  the  members  of  man's  body  did  rebel 
against  the  belly,  complaining  of  it  that  it  only 
remained  in  the  midst  of  the  body,  without  doing 
anything,  neither  did  bear  any  labour  to  the  main- 
tenance of  the  rest ;  whereas  all  other  parts  and 
members  did  labour  painfully,  and  were  very  care- 
ful to  satisfy  the  appetites  and  desires  of  the  body. 
And  so  the  belly,  all  this  notwithstanding,  laughed 
at  their  folly,  and  said,  It  is  true  I  first  receive  all 
meats  that  nourish  man's  body  ;  but  afterwards  I 
send  it  again  to  the  nourishment  of  other  parts  of 
the  same.  Even  so  (quoth  he),  0  you,  my  masters 
and  citizens  of  Rome,  the  reason  is  alike  between 
the  senate  and  you ;  for,  matters  being  well  di- 
gested, and  their  counsels  thoroughly  examined, 
touching  the  benefit  of  the  commonwealth,  the  se- 
nators are  cause  of  the  common  commodity  that 
cometh  unto  every  one  of  you.  These  persuasions 
pacified  the  people,  conditionally  that  the  senate 
would  grant  there  should  be  yearly  chosen  five  ma- 
gistrates, which  they  now  call  Trihuni  plebis,  whose 
office  should  be  to  defend  the  poor  people  from 
violence  and  oppression.  So  Junius  Brutus  and 
Sicinius  Yelutus  were  the  first  tribunes  of  the 
people  that  were  chosen,  who  had  only  been  the 
causers  and  procurers  of  this  sedition." 

Shakspere  found  the  apologue  also  in  Camden's 
'  Remains,'  and  he  has  availed  himself  of  one  or 
two  peculiarities  of  the  story,  as  there  related  : — 
"All  the  members  of  the  body  conspired  against 
the  stomach,  as  against  the  swallowing  gulf  of  all 
their  labours  :  for  whereas  the  eyes  beheld,  the 
ears  heard,  the  hands  laboured,  the  feet  travelled, 
the  tongue  spake,  and  all  parts  performed  their 
functions;  only  the  stomach  lay  idle  and  consumed 
all.  Hereupon  they  jointly  agreed  all  to  forbear 
their  labours,  and  to  pine  away  their  lazy  and  public 
enemy.  One  day  passed  over,  the  second  followed 
very  tedious,  but  the  third  day  was  so  grievous  to 
them  all  that  they  called  a  common  council.  The 
eyes  waxed  dim,  the  feet  could  not  support  the 
body,  the  arms  waxed  lazy,  the  tongue  faltered 
and  could  not  lay  open  the  matter;  therefore  they 
all  with  one  accord  desired  the  advice  of  the  heart. 
There  reason  laid  open  before  them,"  &c. 

^  Scene  III. — "  I praij  you,  daughter,  sing." 

According  to  Plutarch,  Coriolanus,  when  he 
married,  "  never  left  his  mothers  house  ;  "  and 
Shakspere  has  beautifully  exhibited  Volumnia 
and  Valeria  following  their  domestic  occupations 
together : — 

"  The  only  thing  that  made  him  to  love  honour 
was  the  joy  he  saw  his  mother  did  take  of  him ; 


for  he  thought  nothing  made  him  so  happy  and 
honourable  as  that  his  mother  might  hear  every- 
body praise  and  commend  him,  that  she  might 
always  see  him  return  with  a  crown  upon  his  head, 
and  that  she  might  still  embrace  him  with  tears 
running  down  her  cheeks  for  joy.  Which  desire, 
they  say,  Epaminondas  did  avow  and  confess  to 
have  been  in  him,  as  to  think  himself  a  most  happy 
and  blessed  man  that  his  father  and  mother  in  their 
lifetime  had  seen  the  victory  he  won  in  the  plain 
Leuctres.  Now,  as  for  Epaminondas,  he  had  this 
good  hap,  to  have  his  father  and  mother  Uving  to 
be  partakers  of  his  joy  and  prosperity ;  but  Martius, 
thinking  all  due  to  his  mother,  that  had  been  also 
due  to  his  father  if  he  had  lived,  did  not  only  con- 
tent himself  to  rejoice  and  honour  her,  but  at  her 
desire  took  a  wife  also,  by  whom  he  had  two 
children,  and  yet  never  left  his  mother's  house 
therefore." 

■'Scene  III. — "To  a  cruel  war  I  sent  him;  from 
whence  he  returned,  his  brows  hound  with  oak." 

Plutarch  thus  describes  the  prowess  of  Coriolanus, 
"  When  yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied : " — 

"  The  first  time  he  went  to  the  wars,  being  but 
a  stripling,  was  when  Tarquin,  surnamed  the  Proud 
(that  had  been  King  of  Rome,  and  was  driven  out 
for  his  pride,  after  many  attempts  made  by  sundry 
battles  to  come  in  again,  wherein  he  was  ever  over- 
come), did  come  to  Rome  with  all  the  aid  of  the 
Latins,  and  many  other  people  of  Italy,  even,  as  it 
were,  to  set  up  his  whole  rest  upon  a  battle  by 
them,  who  with  a  great  and  mighty  army  had  un- 
dertaken to  put  him  into  his  kingdom  again,  not  so 
much  to  pleasure  him  as  to  overthrow  the  power  of 
the  Romans,  whose  greatness  they  both  feared  and 
envied.  In  this  battle,  wherein  were  many  hot  and 
.«'•  irp  encounters  of  either  party,  Martius  valiantly 
ft  •  ht  in  the  sight  of  the  dictator  ;  and  a  Roman 
solaier  being  thrown  to  the  ground  even  hard  by 
him,  Martius  straight  bestrid  him,  and  slew  the 
enemy  with  his  own  hands  that  had  before  over- 
thrown the  Roman.  Hereupon,  after  the  battle  was 
won,  the  dictator  did  not  forget  so  noble  an  act, 
and  therefore,  first  of  all,  he  crowned  Martius  with 
a  garland  of  oaken  boughs  :  for  whosoever  saveth 
the  life  of  a  Roman,  it  is  a  manner  among  them 
to  honour  him  with  such  a  garland." 

5  Scene  IV.—"  Be/ore  Corioli." 

Shakspere  has  followed  Plutarch  very  closely  in 
his  narrative  of  the  war  against  the  Voices  : — 

"  In  the  country  of  the  Voices,  against  whom 
the  Romans  made  war  at  that  time,  there  was  a 
principal  city,  and  of  most  fame,  that  was  called 
Corioles,  before  the  which  the  consul  Cominius 
did  lay  siege.  Wherefore,  all  the  other  Voices 
fearing  lest  that  city  should  be  taken  by  assault, 
they  came  from  all  parts  of  the  countrj-  to  save 

165 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   I. 


It,  intending  to  give  the  Romans  biittlo  before  the 
city,  and  to  give  an  onset  on  them  in  two  several 
places.  Tlie  consul  Cominius,  understanding  this, 
divided  his  army  also  into  two  parts,  and,  taking 
the  one  part  with  himself,  be  marched  towards 
them  that  were  dr.iwiiig  to  the  city  out  of  the 
country ;  and  the  other  part  of  his  army  he  left 
in  the  camp  with  Titus  Lartius  (one  of  the 
valiantest  men  the  l^omans  had  at  that  time), 
to  resist  those  that  would  make  any  sally  out  of 
the  city  upon  them.  So  the  Coriolans,  making 
small  account  of  them  that  lay  in  camp  before  the 
city,  made  a  sally  out  upon  them,  in  the  which  at 
the  first  the  Coriolans  had  the  better,  and  drove 
the  Komans  back  again  into  the  trenches  of  their 
cnmp.  But  Martius  being  there  at  that  time, 
running  out  of  the  camp  with  a  few  men  with 
him,  he  slew  the  first  enemies  he  met  withal,  and 
made  the  rest  of  them  stay  upon  the  sudden, 
crj-ing  out  to  the  Romans  that  had  turned  their 
backs,  and  cr.lling  them  .again  to  fight  with  a 
loud  voice.  For  he  was  even  such  another  as 
Cato  would  have  a  soldier  and  a  captain  to  be ; 
not  only  terrible  and  fierce  to  lay  about  him,  but 
to  make  the  enemy  afeared  with  the  sound  of  his 
voice  and  grimness  of  his  countenance.  Then 
there  flocked  about  him  immediately  a  great 
number  of  Romans  :  whereat  the  enemies  were 
6o  afeared,  that  they  gave  back  presently.  But 
Martius,  not  staying  so,  did  chase  and  follow  them 
to  their  own  gates,  that  fled  for  life.  And  there 
perceiving  that  the  Romans  retired  back,  for  the 
great  number  of  darts  and  arrows  which  flew 
about  their  ears  from  the  walls  of  the  city,  and 
that  there  was  not  one  man  amongst  them  that 
durst  venture  himself  to  follow  the  flying  enemies 
into  their  city,  for  that  it  was  full  of  men  of  war, 
very  well  armed  and  appointed,  he  did  encourage 
his  fellows  with  words  and  deeds,  crying  out  to 
them  that  Fortune  had  opened  the  gates  of  the 
city  more  for  the  followers  than  the  flyers  :  but 
all  this  notwithstandinrj,  few  had  the  hearts  to 
follow  him.  Howbeit,  Martius,  being  in  the  throng 
amongst  the  enemies,  thrust  himself  into  the 
gates  of  the  city,  and  entered  the  same  among 
them  that  fled,  without  that  any  one  of  them 
durst  at  the  first  turn  their  face  upon  him,  or 
ofler  to  stay  him.  But,  he  lo'ikiug  about  him,  and 
seeing  he  was  entered  the  city  with  very  few  men 
to  help  him,  and  perceiving  ho  was  environed  by 
his  enemies  that  gathered  round  about  to  set  upon 
him,  did  things,  as  it  is  written,  wonderful  and 
incredible,  xs  well  for  the  force  of  his  hand  as 
also  for  the  agility  of  his  body,  and  with  a  won- 
derful courr.ge  and  valiantncss  he  made  a  lane 
through  the  midst  of  them,  and  overthrew  also 
those  he  laid  at :  that  some  he  made  run  to  the 
furthest  part  of  the  city,  and  other  for  fear  he 
made  yield  themselves,  and  to  let  fall  their  weapons 
before  him.  By  this  mains,  Maitius,  that  was 
166 


gotten  out,  had  some  leisure  to  bring  the  Romans 
with  more  safety  into  the  city.  'J'he  city  being 
taken  in  this  sort,  the  most  part  of  the  soldiers 
began  incontinently  to  spoil,  to  carry  away,  and  to 
look  up  the  booty  they  had  won.  But  Martius 
was  marvellous  angry  with  them,  and  cried  out  on 
them,  that  it  was  no  time  now  to  look  after  spoil, 
and  to  run  straggling  here  and  there  to  enrich 
themselves,  whilst  the  other  consul  and  tlieir 
fellow-citizens,  peradventure,  were  fighting  with 
their  enemies :  and  how  that,  leaving  the  spoil, 
they  should  seek  to  wind  themselves  out  of  danger 
and  peril.  Howbeit,  cry  and  say  to  them  what 
ho  could,  very  few  of  them  would  hearken  to  him. 
Wherefore,  taking  those  that  willingly  offered 
themselves  to  follow  him,  he  went  out  of  the 
city,  and  took  his  way  towai'd  that  part  where  he 
understood  the  rest  of  the  army  was,  exhorting 
and  entreating  them  by  the  waj'  that  followed  him 
not  to  be  faint-hearted ;  .and  oft  holding  up  his 
hands  to  heaven,  he  besought  the  gods  to  bo 
gracious  and  favourable  unto  him,  that  he  might 
come  in  time  to  the  battle,  and  in  a  good  hour  to 
hazard  his  life  in  defence  of  his  countrymen. 
Now  the  Romans,  when  they  were  put  in  battle 
array,  and  ready  to  take  tlieir  targets  c)n  their 
arms,  and  to  gird  them  upon  their  arming  coats,  had 
a  custom  to  make  their  wills  at  thiit  very  instant, 
without  anj'  manner  of  writing,  naming  him  only 
whom  they  would  make  their  heir  in  the  pi-esence 
of  three  or  four  witnesses.  Martius  came  just  to 
that  reckoning,  whilst  the  soldiers  were  doing 
after  that  sort,  and  that  the  enemies  were  ap- 
proached so  near  as  one  stood  in  view  of  the  other. 
When  they  saw  him  at  his  first  coming  all  bloody 
and  in  a  sweat,  and  but  with  a  few  men  following 
him,  some  thereupon  began  to  be  afeared.  But 
soon  after,  when  they  saw  him  run  with  a  lively 
cheer  to  the  consul,  and  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 
declaring  how  he  had  taken  the  city  of  Corioles, 
and  that  they  saw  the  consul  Cominius  also  kiss 
and  embrace  him,  then  there  was  not  a  man  but 
took  heart  again  to  him,  and  began  to  be  of  good 
courage,  some  hearing  him  report  from  point  to 
point  the  happy  success  of  tliis  exploit,  and  ot,her 
also  conjecturing  it  by  seeing  their  gestures  afar 
off.  Then  they  all  began  to  call  upon  the  consul 
to  march  forward,  and  to  del.-\y  no  longer,  but  to 
give  charge  upon  the  enemy.  Martius  asked  him, 
how  the  order  of  the  enemy's  battle  was,  and  on 
which  side  they  had  placed  their  best  fighting 
men  ?  the  consul  made  him  answer,  that  he 
thought  the  bands  which  were  in  the  vaward  of 
their  battle  were  those  of  the  Antiates,  whom 
they  esteemed  to  be  the  warlikest  men,  and  which 
for  valiant  courage  would  give  no  place  to  any  of 
the  host  of  their  enemies  :  then  prayed  Martius 
to  bo  set  directly  against  them.  The  consul 
granted  him,  greatly  praising  his  couiixge  Then 
Martius,  when  both  anuics  came  almost  to  join. 


il 


COEIOLANUS. 


advanced  Limaelf  a  good  spac  j  before  bis  company, 
and  went  so  fierely  to  give  cbarge  on  tbe  vaward 
that  came  rigbt  against  bim,  that  they  could  stand 
no  longer  in  his  bands ;  he  made  such  a  lane 
through  tbem,  and  opened  a  passage  into  the 
battle  of  the  enemies.  But  the  two  wings  of 
either  side  turned  one  to  tbe  other,  to  compass 
him  in  between  them  :  which  the  consul  Cominius 
perceiving,  he  sent  thither  straight  of  tbe  best 
soldiers  he  had  about  him.  So  the  battle  was 
marvellous  bloody  about  Martins,  and  in  a  very 
short  space  many  were  slain  in  the  place.  But  in 
the  end  the  Romans  were  so  strong  that  they  dis- 
tressed tbe  enemies  and  brake  their  array ;  and, 
scattering  tbem,  made  tbem  fly.  Then  they  prayed 
Martius  that  he  would  retire  to  the  camp,  because 
they  saw  he  was  able  to  do  no  more,  be  was  already 
so  wearied  with  the  great  pain  be  had  taken,  and 
so  faint  with  the  great  wounds  he  had  upon  him  : 
but  Martius  answered  them  that  it  was  not  for 
conquerors  to  yield,  nor  to  be  faint-hearted  :  and 
thereupon  began  afresh  to  chase  those  that  fled, 
until  such  time  as  the  army  of  the  enemies  was 
utterly  overthi-own,  and  numbers  of  them  slain 
and  taken  prisoners.  The  next  morning,  betimes, 
Martius  went  to  the  consul,  and  the  other  Romans 
with  him.  There  the  consul  Cominius,  going  up 
to  his  chair  of  state,  in  tbe  presence  of  the  whole 
army,  gave  thanks  to  the  gods  for  so  great,  glorious, 
and  prosperous  a  victory.  Then  he  spake  to  Mar- 
tius, whose  valiantness  be  commended  beyond  the 
moon,  both  for  that  he  himself  saw  him  do  with 
his  eyes,  as  also  for  that  Martius  bad  reported 
unto  him.  So  in  the  end  he  willed  Martius  that 
he  should  choose  out  of  all  the  horses  they  had 
taken  of  their  enemies,  and  of  all  tbe  goods  they 
had  won  (whereof  there  was  great  store),  ten  of 


every  sort  which  he  liked  best,  before  any  di.?tribu- 
tiou  should  be  made  to  other.  Besides  this  great 
honorable  offer  be  had  made  him,  he  gave  him,  in 
testimony  that  he  had  won  that  day  the  price  of 
prowess  above  all  other,  a  goodly  horse  with  a  ca- 
parison, and  all  furniture  to  him  :  which  the  whole 
army  beholding,  did  marvellously  pi'aise  and  com- 
mend. But  Martius,  stepping  forth,  told  the  consul 
he  most  thankfully  accepted  the  gift  of  bis  horse, 
and  was  a  glad  man  besides  that  bis  service  had 
deserved  bis  general's  commendation  :  and  as  for 
his  other  offer,  which  was  rather  a  mercenary 
reward  than  an  honourable  recompense,  he  would 
have  none  of  it,  but  was  contented  to  have  his 
equal  part  with  tbe  other  soldiers.  Only,  this 
grace  (said  he)  I  crave  and  beseech  you  to  grant 
me  :  among  tbe  Voices  there  is  an  old  friend  and 
host  of  mine,  an  honest  wealthy  man,  and  now  a 
prisoner,  who,  living  before  in  great  wealth  in  his 
own  country,  liveth  now  a  poor  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  his  enemies :  and  yet,  notwithstanding 
all  this  his  misery  and  misfortune,  it  would  do 
me  gi-eat  pleasure  if  I  could  save  him  from  this 
one  danger,  to  keep  him  from  being  sold  as  a  slave. 
The  soldiers,  bearing  Martius's  words,  made  a 
marvellous  great  shout  among  them.  *  *  *  * 
After  this  shout  and  noise  of  the  assembly  was 
somewhat  appeased,  the  consul  Cominius  began 
to  speak  in  this  sort :— We  cannot  compel  Martius 
to  take  these  gifts  we  offer  bim  if  he  will  not 
receive  tbem,  but  we  will  give  him  such  a  reward 
for  the  noble  service  be  hath  done  as  he  cannot 
i-efuse.  Therefore  we  do  order  and  decree  that 
'  henceforth  he  be  called  Coriolanus,  unless  his 
valiant  acts  have  won  him  that  name  before  our 
nomination.  And  so  ever  since  he  still  bare  the 
third  name  of  Coriolanus." 


[Sife  of  tbe  Koman  Forum.] 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     A  public  Flare. 
Enter  Menenius,  SiciNius,  and  Brutus. 

Mfn.  The  augurer  tells  me  we  shall  have  news 
to-night. 

Bru.  Good,  or  bad  ? 

Mf/t.  Not  according  to  the  prayer  of  the 
people,  for  they  love  not  Marcius. 

Sic.  Nature  teaches  beasts  to  know  their 
friends. 

Men.  Pray  you,  who  does  the  wolf  love  ? 

Sic.  The  lamb. 

Men.  Ay,  to  devour  him ;  as  the  hungry  ple- 
beians would  the  noble  Marcius. 

Bru.  He's  a  lamb  indeed,  that  baes  like  a 
bear. 

Men.  He  's  a  bear,  indeed,  that  lives  like  a 
lamb.  You  two  are  old  men ;  tell  me  one  tiling 
that  I  shall  ask  you. 

Both  Trih.  Well,  sir. 


Men.  In  what  enormity  is  Marcius  po)r  ir,^ 
that  you  two  have  not  in  abundance  ? 

Bru.  He  's  poor  in  no  one  fault,  but  i  tored 
with  all. 

Sic.  Especially  in  pride. 

Bru.  And  topping  all  others  in  boasting. 

Men.  This  is  strange  now  :  Do  you  two  know 
how  you  are  censured  here  in  the  city,  I  mean 
of  us  o'  the  right-hand  file  ?  Do  you  ? 

Both  Trih.  ^^hy,  how  arc  wc  censured  ? 

Men.  Because  you  talk  of  pride  now, — Will 
you  not  be  angry  ? 

Both  Trih.  WeU,  well,  sir,  well ! 

Mfn.  Why,  'tis  no  great  matter:  for  a  very 
little  Ihicf  of  occasion  will  rob  you  of  a  great  deal 
of  patience  :  give  your  disposition  the  reins,  and 

■  The  repetition  of  the  preposition,  as  in  this  sentence,  ii 
found  in  other  passages  of  Sliakspere.  In  Romeo  ai.d 
Juliet, 

"  That  fair,  for  which  love  proan'd  for  :  " 
in  As  you  Like  It,  "  the  scene  wherein  we  play  in." 


ACT    II.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[SCEKE    I 


be  augry  at  jour  pleasure? ;  at  the  least,  if  you 
take  it  as  a  pleasure  to  you,  in  being'  so.  You 
blame  Marcius  for  being  proud  ? 

Bru.  We  do  it  not  alone,  sir. 

Men.  I  know  you  can  do  very  little  alone; 
for  your  helps  are  many;  or  else  your  actions 
would  grow  wondrous  single :  your  abilities  are 
too  infant-like  for  doing  much  alone.  You  talk 
of  pride:  O,  that  you  could  turn  your  eyes 
towards  the  napes  of  your  necks,*  and  make  but 
an  interior  survey  of  your  good  selves  !  O,  that 
you  could ! 

Bru.  What  then,  sir  ? 

Men.  Why,  then  you  should  discover  a  brace 
of  unmeriting,  proud,  violent,  testy  magistrates, 
(alias,  fools,)  as  any  in  Rome. 

Sic.  Meuenius,  you  are  known  well  enough 
too. 

Men.  I  am  known  to  be  a  humorous  patrician, 
and  one  that  loves  a  cup  of  hot  wine  with  not  a 
drop  of  allaying  Tyber  in 't ;  said  to  be  some- 
thing imperfect,  in  favouring  the  first  complaint : 
hasty,  and  tinder-like,  upon  too  trivial  motion :  ^ 
one  that  converses  more  with  the  buttock  of  the 
night  than  with  the  forehead  of  the  morning. 
What  I  think  I  utter  ;  and  spend  my  malice  in 
my  breath:  Meeting  two  such  weals-men  as 
you  are,  (I  cannot  call  you  Lycurguses,)  if  the 
drink  you  give  me  touch  my  palate  adversely,  I 
make  a  crooked  face  at  it.  1  cannot  say  your 
woi'ships  have  delivered  the  matter  well,  when  I 
find  the  ass  in  compound  with  the  major  part  of 
your  syllables :  and  though  I  must  be  content 
to  bear  with  those  that  say  you  are  reverend 
grave  men,  yet  they  lie  deadly  that  tell  you  have 
good  faces.  If  you  see  this  in  the  map  of  my 
microcosm,  follows  it  that  I  am  known  well 
enough  too  ?  What  harm  can  your  bisson*^  con- 
spectuities  glean  out  of  this  character,  if  1  be 
known  well  enough  too  ? 

Bru.  Come,  sir,  come,  we  know  you  well 
enough. 

Men.  You  kuow  neither  me,  yourselves,  nor 
anything.  You  are  ambitious  for  poor  knaves' 
caps  and  legs  ;  you  wear  out  a  good  wholesome 
forenoon  in  hearing  a  cause  between  an  orange- 
wife  and  a  fosset-seller  ;  and  then  rejourn  the 
controversy  of  three-pence  to  a  second  day  of 
audience.  —  When  you  are  heai'ing  a  matter 
between  party  and  party,  if  you  chance  to  be 
pinched  with   the   coUc,   you  make  faces  like 

a  Johnson  explains,  "with  allusion  to  the  fable  whicl\ 
savs  that  every  man  has  a  bag  hanging  before  him  in  which 
he"  puts  his  neighbour's  faults,  and  another  behind  him  in 
which  he  stows  liis  own." 

b  See  recent  New  Reading  at  the  end  of  Act  II. 

0.  7i/,>io«— hlinil. 


mummers  ;  set  up  the  bloody  flag  against  all 
patience;  and,  in  roaring  for  a  chambcr-pol, 
dismiss  the  controversy  bleeding,  the  more  en- 
tangled by  your  hearing :  all  the  peace  you 
make  in  their  cause  is,  calling  both  the  parties 
knaves  :  You  are  a  pair  of  strange  ones. 

Bru.  Come,  come,  you  are  well  understood  to 
be  a  perfecter  giber  for  the  table,  than  a  necessary 
bencher  in  the  Capitol. 

Men.  Our  very  priests  must  become  mockers, 
if  they  should  encounter  such  ridiculous  subjects 
as  you  are.  When  you  speak  best  unto  the 
purpose,  it  is  not  worth  the  wagging  of  your 
beards  ;  and  your  beards  deserve  not  so  honoui- 
able  a  grave  as  to  stuff  a  botcher's  cushion,  or 
to  be  entombed  in  an  ass's  pack-saddle.  Yet 
you  must  be  saying,  !Marcius  is  proud ;  who,  in 
a  cheap  estimation,  is  worth  all  your  predeces- 
sors since  Deucalion  ;  though,  peradventurc, 
dome  of  the  best  of  'em  were  hereditary  hang- 
men. Good  e'en  to  your  worships;  more  of 
your  conversation  would  infect  my  brain,  being 
the  herdsmen  of  the  beastly  plebeians  :  I  will  be 
bold  to  take  my  leave  of  you. 

[Brutus  and  Sicixius  retire  to  the  back  of  the 
scene. 

Enter  Volumnia,  Vikgilia,  and  Valeria,  §-c. 

How  now,  my  as  fair  as  noble  ladies,  (and  the 
moon,  were  she  earthly,  no  nobler,)  whither  do 
you  follow  your  eyes  so  fast  ? 

Vol.  Honourable  Menenius,  my  boy  Marcius 
approaches  ;  for  the  love  of  Juno,  let 's  go. 

Men.  Ha !  Marcius  coming  home  ? 

Vol.  Ay,  worthy  Menenius ;  and  with  most 
prosperous  approbation. 

Men.  Take  my  cap,  Jupiter,  and  I  thank  thee 
— Hoo !  Marcius  coming  home  ! 

Two  Ladies.  Nay,  't  is  true. 

Vol.  Look,  here's  a  letter  from  him;  the  state 
hath  another,  his  wife  another;  and  I  thmk 
there 's  one  at  home  for  you. 

Men.  I  will  make  my  very  house  reel  to-night : 
— A  letter  for  me  ? 

Vir.  Yes,  certain,  there 's  a  letter  for  you ;  I 
saw  't. 

Men.  A  letter  for  me  ?  It  gives  me  an  estate 
of  seven  years'  health  ;  in  which  time  I  will 
make  a  lip" at  the  physician :  the  most  sovereign 
prescription  in  Galen  is  but  empiricutick,"  and, 
to  this  preservative,  of  no  better  report  than  a 
horse-drench.  Is  he  not  wounded!'  he  was 
wont  to  come  home  wounded. 

"  Empiricutick.   This  is  a  word  coined  from  empiric,  and 
is  spelt  in  the  original  "  cmpcrickqutique." 

169 


Act  II.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


[Scene  I. 


Vir.  O,  no,  no,  no. 

Vol.  0,  he  is  wounded,  I  thank  the  gods  for 't. 

Men.  So  do  I  too,  if  it  be  not  too  much  : — 
Brings  a'  victory  in  his  pocket? — The  wounds 
become  him. 

Vol.  On 's  brows  -. '  Mcnenius,  he  comes  the 
third  time  home  with  tlie  oaken  garland. 

Men.  Has  he  disciplined  Aufidius  soundly  ? 

Vol.  Titus  Lartius  writes, — they  fought  toge- 
ther, but  Aufidius  got  off. 

Men.  And  't  was  time  for  him  too,  I'll  v.ar- 
rant  him  that :  an  lie  had  staid  by  liim,  I  would 
not  have  been  so  fidiused  for  all  the  chests  in 
Corioli,  and  the  gold  that 's  in  them.  Is  the 
senate  possessed  of  this  ? 

Vol.  Grood  ladies,  let 's  go  : — Yes,  yes,  yes  : 
the  senate  has  letters  from  the  general,  wherein 
he  gives  my  son  the  whole  name  of  the  war :  he 
hath  in  this  action  outdone  his  former  deeds 
doubly. 

Val.  In  troth,  there 's  wondrous  things  spoke 
of  him. 

Men.  Wondrous !  ay,  I  warrant  you,  and  not 
without  his  true  purchasing. 

J'ir.  The  gods  grant  them  true  ! 

Vol.  True  ?  pow,  wow  ! 

Men.  True  ?  I  '11  be  sworn  they  are  true : — 
^nlere  is  he  wounded? — God  save  your  good 
worships !    [7'o  the  Tribunes,  icho  come  f one ard7\ 
Marcius  is  coming  home  :  he  has  more  cause  to 
be  proud. —  "WTiere  is  he  wounded  ? 

Vol.  r  the  shoulder,  and  i'  the  left  arm  : 
There  will  be  large  cicatrices  to  show  the  people 
when  he  shall  stand  for  his  place.  He  received 
in  the  repulse  of  Tarquin  seven  hui'ts  i'  the  body. 

Men.  One  in  the  neck,  and  two  in  the  thigh, 
— there 's  nine  that  I  know. 

Vol.  He  had,  before  this  last  expedition, 
twenty-five  wounds  upon  him. 

Men.  Now  it 's  twenty-seven :  every  gash 
was  an  enemy's  grave :  [a  shout  ayid flourish^ 
Hark !  the  trumpets. 

Vol.  These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius :  before 
him  he  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves 
tears : 

Death,  that  dark  spirit,  in  's  nervy  aim  doth  lie  ; 
"Which,  being  advanc'd,  declines ;  and  then  men 
die. 

A  Sennet.  Trumpets  sound.  Enter  Coiliyirs 
and  Titus  Lartius  ;  beticeen.  them,  Coriola- 
NUS,  crotcnrd  tcith  an  oaken  garland ;  tcilh 
Captains,  Soldiers,  and  a  Herald. 

»  Voliimnia  here  answers  the  question  of  Mcnenius, 
"bring*  m'(he)  victory  in  his  pocket?'  without  iioiici'jg  the 
old  man's  obiervatum  about  the  "  wounds." 

170 


Her.  Know,  Rome,  that  all  alone  [Marcius  did 

Within  Corioli'  gates :  where  he  hath  won. 
With  fame,  a  name  to  Caius  Marcius; 
Tlicsc  in  honour  follows,  Coriolanus  : — 
Welcome  to  Home,  renowned  Coriolanus  ! 

^^Flourish. 
All.  Welcome  to  Rome,  renowned  Coriolanus ! 
Cor.  No  more  of  this,  it  does  ofi'end  my  heart ; 
Pray  now,  no  more. 

Com.  Look,  sir,  your  mother ! 

Cor.  0 !  you  have,  I  know,  pctitiou'd  all  the 
gods 
For  my  prosperity.  [Kneels. 

Vol.  Nay,  my  good  soldier,  up  ! 

!My  gentle  Marcms,  worthy  Caius, 
And  by  deed-achieving  honour  newly  nam'd. 
What  is  it  ?  Coriolanus  must  1  call  thee  ? 
But,  0  thy  wife  ! 

Cor.  My  gracious  sUence,  hail ! 

Would'st  thou  have  laugh'd  had  I  come  coffin'd 

home. 
That  Aveep'st  to  see  me  triumph  ?     Ah,  ray  dear. 
Such  eves  the  widows  in  Corioli  wear. 
And  mothers  that  lack  sons. 

Men.  Now  the  gods  crown  thee  ! 

Cor.  And  live  you  yet? — O  my  sweet  lady, 
pardon.  [To  Valeria. 

Vol.  I  know  not  where  to  tuni ; — 0  welcome 
home; 
And  welcome,  general : — And  \ou  are  welcome 
aU. 
Men.  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes  :  I  could 
weep, 
And  I  could  laugh ;    I   am   light  and  heavy  : 

Welcome : 
A  curse  begin  at  every  root  of  his  heart 
That  is  not  glad  to  see  thee ! — You  are  three 
That  Rome  should  dote  on  :  yet,  by  the  faith  of 

men. 
We  have  some  old  crab-trees  here  at  home  that 

will  nut 
Be  grafted  to  your  relish.    Yet  welcome,  war- 
riors : 
We  call  a  nettle  but  a  nettle ; 
And  the  faults  of  fools  but  folly. 

Com.  Ever  right. 

Cor.  Mcnenius,  ever,  ever. 
Her.  Give  way  there,  and  go  on. 
Cor.  Your  hand,  and  yours  : 

[To  his  wife  and  mother. 
Ere  in  our  own  house  I  do  shade  my  head, 
The  good  patricians  must  be  visited ; 
From  whom  I  have  receiv'd  not  only  greetings. 
But  with  them  change  of  honours. 


Act  II.J 


CORIOLAl^US. 


[Scene  1. 


Vol.  I  have  liv'd 

To  see  inherited  my  very  wishes. 
And  the  buildings  of  my  fancy  : 
Only  there 's  one  thing  wanting,  which  I  doubt 

not. 
But  our  Rome  will  cast  upon  thee. 

Cor.  Know,  good  mother, 

I  had  rather  be  their  servant  in  my  way, 
Than  sway  with  them  in  theirs. 

Com.  On,  to  the  Capitol ! 

[Flourish.  Cornets.  Exeunt  in  state,  as  before. 
The  Tribunes  remain. 

Bru.  All    tongues    speak    of  him,   and   the 
bleared  sights 
Are  spectacled  to  see  him.   Your  prattling  nm-se 
Into  a  rapture*  lets  her  baby  cry, 
While  she  chats  him ;  the  kitchen  malkin''  pins 
Her  richest  lockram"  'bout  her  reechy  neck, 
Clambering  the  walls  to  eye  him  :  Stalls,  bulks, 

windows. 
Are  smother'd  up,  leads  fill'd,  and  ridges  hors'd 
With  variable  complexions  :  iiU  agreeing 
In  earnestness  to  see  him :  seld-shown  flameus 
Do  press  amoug  the  popular  throngs,  and  puif 
To  win  a  vulgar  station :  our  veil'd  dames 
Commit  the  war  of  white  and  damask,  iu 
Their   nicely-gawded    cheeks,'^  to   the    wanton 

spoil 
Of  Phoebus'  burning  lasses  :  such  a  pother. 
As  if  that  whatsoever  god  who  leads  him 
Were  slily  crept  into  his  human  powers. 
And  gave  him  graceful  posture. 

Sic,  On  the  sudden, 

I  warrant  him  consul. 

Bru.  Then  our  office  may. 

During  his  power,  go  sleep. 

Sic.  He  cannot  temperately  transport  his  ho- 
nours 


•">  Rapture — fit. 

b  Malkin.  A  scarecrow— a  fipiire  of  rafrs— is  called  a 
malkin.  Is  the  kitchen-wench  called  a  nialkln  from  her 
sxipposed  resemblance  to  such  a  fi{,nire?  On  the  other  hand, 
Malkin  is  the  diminutive  of  Mall,  Moll ;  and  thus  the  lady 
of  the  May  had  degenerated  into  Malkin  in  the  time  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Is  the  scarecrow  then  called  after 
the  kitchen-wench?  Our  readers  must  decide  the  question 
for  themselves. 

c  Lockram  was  no  doubt  a  coarse  linen.  In  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  '  Spanish  Curate  '  we  have— 

"  To  poor  maidens'  marriages 
I  give  per  annum  two  hundred  ells  of  lockram." 

<1  Shakspere  has  the  same  image  in  the  Tarquin  and  Lu- 
crece,  of  white  and  red  contending  for  the  empire  of  a  lady's 
cheek  : — 

"  The  silent  wars  of  lilies  and  of  roses 
Which  Tarquin  view'd  in  her  fair  iace's  field." 

But  we  are  inclineci  to  think  that  in  the  passage  before  us 
the  word  "damask  "  conveys  an  allusion  to  the  more  fearful 
AVar  of  the  Roses,  which  is  more  specially  introduced  by  a 
later  writer,  Cleaveland  : — 

"  Her  cheeks 
AVhere  roses  mix  :  no  civil  war 
Between  her  York  and  Lancaster." 


From  where   he   should   begin,  and  end;   but 

will 
Lose  those  he  hath  won. 

Bru.  In  that  there 's  comfort. 

Sic.  Doubt  not  the  commoners,  for  whom  we 
stand. 
But  they,  upon  their  ancient  malice,  will 
Forget,   with  the  least   cause,   these  his  new 

honours ; 
Wliich  that  he'll  give  them,   make  I  as  little 

question 
As  he  is  proud  to  do 't. 

Bru.  I  heard  him  swear, 

Were  he  to  stand  for  consul,  never  would  he 
Appear  i'  the  market-place,  nor  on  him  put 
The  napless*  vesture  of  humility; 
Nor,  showing  (as  the  manner  is)  his  womids 
To  the  people,  beg  their  stinking  breaths. 

Sic.  'Tis  right. 

Bru.  It  was  his  word :  0,  he  would  miss  it, 
rather 
Then  carry  it,  but  by  the  sidt  o'  the  gentry  to 

him. 
And  the  desire  of  the  nobles. 

Sic.  I  wish  no  better 

Than  have    him    hold    that  purpose,   and    to 

put  it 
In  execution. 

Bru.  'T  is  most  like,  he  will. 

Sic.  It  shall  be  to  him  then,   as   oui'  good 


will; 


.  h 


A  sure  destruction. 

/?/■«.  So  it  must  fall  out 

To  him,  or  our  authorities.     For  an  end, 
\{&  must  suggest  the  people  in  what  hatred 
He  stiU  hath  held  them ;  that,  to  his  power,  he 

would 
Have  made  them  mules,  silenc'd  their  pleaders, 
And  dispropertied  their  freedoms  :  holding  them, 
In  human  action  and  capacity, 
Of  no  more  soul,  nor  fitness  for  the  world, 
Than  camels  in  then-  war ;    who  have    their 

provaud 
Only  for  bearing  burdens,  and  sore  blows 
For  sinking  under  them. 

Sic.  This,  as  you  say, — suggested 

At  some  time  when  his  soaring  insolence 
Shall  touch  the  people, — (which  time  shall  not 

want, 
If  he  be  put  upon't,  and  that's  as  easy 
As  to  set  dogs  on  sheep,)  will  be  his  fire 


a  Napless — threadbare. 

b  The  passage  may  be  either  taken  to  mean  that  the  pur- 
pose of  Coriolanus  will  be  to  him  a  sure  destruction,  in  the 
same  way  as  the  good  wilts  (ironically)  of  the  tribunes;  oi 
as  our  good,  our  advantage,  tuUls  (a  verb). 

in 


ACT   11.) 


COIUOLANUS. 


[Scene  II. 


To  kindle  their  dry  stubble  ;  *  aud  their  bliize 
Shall  darken  him  for  ever. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
J^rti.  "What's  the  matter? 

Mess.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  Capitol. 
'Tis  thought  that  Marcius  shall  be  consul : 
I  have  secu  the  dumb  men  throng  to  see  hiui, 
And  the  blind  to  hear  him   speak:   Alatrons 

fluiig  gloves,*" 
I>adics  and  maids  their  scarfs  aud  handkcrcluefs, 
Upon  him  as  he  pass'd  :  the  nobles  beudcd, 
As  to  Jove's  statue;  aud  the  commous  made 
A  sliower  aud   thunder,   with   their   caps   aud 

shouts : 
I  never  saw  the  like. 

Bru.  Let 's  to  the  Capitol ; 

And  cai-ry  with  us  ears  aud  eyes  for  the  time, 
But  hearts  for  the  event. 
Sic.  Have  with  you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     The  Capitol. 
Enter  Ttco  Officers,  to  lay  cushions. 

1  Off.  Come,  come,  they  are  almost  here: 
How  many  stand  for  consulships  ? 

2  Off.  Three,  they  say :  but  't  is  thought  of 
every  one  Coriolanus  will  carry  it. 

1  Off.  That 's  a  brave  fellow ;  but  he 's  ven- 
geance proud,  and  loves  not  the  common  people. 

2  Off'.  'Faith,  there  have  been  many  great 
men  that  have  flattered  the  people,  who  ne'er 
loved  them;  and  there  be  many  that  they  have 
loved,  they  know  not  wherefore :  so  that  if  they 
love  they  know  not  why,  they  hate  upon  no 
better  a  ground :  Therefore,  for  Coriolanus 
neither  to  care  whether  they  love  or  hate  him, 
manifests  the  true  knowledge  he  has  in  their 
disposition ;  aud,  out  of  his  noble  carelessness, 
lets  them  plainly  see  't. 

1  Off.  If  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had  their 


»  r/iM— this  plan  — is  the  antecedent  to  "  will  be  his  fire.  " 
The  double  parenthesis  makes  the  sentence  involved ;  am! 
we  alwaya  doubled  whellier  leach  was  the  right  word.  We 
incline  to  think  that  louch  was  the  word ;  as  in  Othello, — 

"  Touch  me  not  so  near." 
We  now  alopt  touch. 

>>  We  pive  the  metrical  arrangement  as  well  as  the  words 
of  the  ori|?inal.  The  versification  indicates  the  freedom 
which  marks  all  Shakspere's  later  i<lays.  Steevens  says, 
"  the  words  the  and  their,  which  are  waTiting  in  the  old 
ropy,  were  properly  supplied  by  Sir  T.  llanmer  to  com- 
pleie  the  verse  "  These  words  were  adopted  by  Ilanmcr 
from  Pope.  The  following  arrangement  was  long  received  : — 

"  You  are  sent  for  to  the  Capitol.     'T  is  thought, 
That  Marci\is  shall  he  consul  :   I  hare  seen 
The  dumb  men  thronp  to  see  him,  and  the  blind 
To  hear  him  speak  :  The  matrons  flung  Iheir  gloves, 

172 


love  or  no,  he  waved  indifferently  'twixt  doing 
them  neither  good  nor  harm  ;  but  he  seeks  their 
hate  with  greater  devotion  than  they  can  render 
it  him ;  and  leaves  nothing  undone  that  may 
fully  discover  him  their  opposite.  Now,  to  seem 
to  affect  the  malice  and  displeasure  of  the  people 
is  as  bad  as  that  which  he  dislikes,  to  flatter 
them  for  their  love. 

2  Off.  He  hath  deserved  worthily  of  his  coun- 
try :  And  his  ascent  is  not  by  such  easy  degrees 
as  those  who,  having  been  supple  and  courteous 
to  the  people,  bonneted,*  without  any  further 
deed  to  have  them  at  all  into  their  estimation 
aud  report :  but  he  hath  so  planted  his  honours 
in  their  eyes,  and  his  actions  in  their  hearts,  that 
for  their  tongues  to  be  silent,  and  not  confess  so 
much,  were  a  kind  of  ingrateful  injury;  to  re- 
port otherwise  were  a  malice,  that,  giving  itself 
the  lie,  would  pluck  reproof  and  rebuke  from 
every  ear  that  heard  it. 

1  Off.  No  more  of  him  :  he  is  a  worthy  man  : 
Make  way,  they  are  coming. 

A  Sennet.  Enter,  with  lictors  before  them,  Co- 
MiNius  the  Consul,  Menenius,  Coriolanus, 
mani/  other  Senators,  Sicinius  and  Brutus. 
The  Senators  take  their  places ;  the  Tribunes 
take  theirs  also  bi/  themselves. 

Men.  Having  determin'd  of  the  Yolsces, 
And  to  send  for  Titus  Lartius,  it  remains, 
As  the  main  point  of  this  our  after-meeting. 
To  gratify  his  noble  service,  that  hath 
Thus  stood  for  his  country:  Therefore,  please 

you. 
Most  reverend  and  grave  elders,  to  desire 
The  present  consul,  and  last  general 
In  our  well-found  successes,  to  report 
A  little  of  that  worthy  work  perform'd 
By  Cains  Marcius  Coriolanus ;  whom 
We  meet  here,  both  to  thank,  and  to  remember 
AVith  honours  like  himself. 


••>  Bnnneled.  The  variorum  editors  said  that  to  bonnet  is 
fo  take  oir  the  bonnet ;  as  to  ca/t  in  the  academic  phrase  is  to 
lake  olf  the  cap.  In  illustration  we  may  remark  that  in 
the  quarto  edition  of  Othello  we  find  "oft  capp'd  ;  "  in  the 
folio  "  oflf-capp'd ; "  and  we  believe  from  the  collateral  cir- 
cumstances that  ilie  latter  is  the  true  readiiig.  (See  note  on 
Othello,  Act  I.  Scene  i.)  In  a  subsequent  scene  Othello 
says — 

"  My  demerits 
May  speak,  unbonncted." 

This  is  clearly  without  the  bonnet,  in  whatever  sense  we 
receive  it.  (See  note  on  Othello,  Act  i.  Scene  ii.)  But  here 
in  the  text  before  us  we  are  told  that  bonneted  also  means 
without  the  bonnet.  Malonc  says,  "They  humbly  took  oflT 
their  bonnets  without  any  farther  deed."  The  context 
appears  to  us  to  give  exactly  the  contrary  meaning:  "  His 
ascent  is  not  by  such  easy  degrees  as  those  who,  having 
been  supple  and  Ci  iirteous  to  the  people,"  put  on  their 
bonnets  "without  anv  farther  dee  1." 


&(T    11.] 


CORIOLAl^TJS. 


I  Scene  II. 


1  Sen.  Speak,  good  Cominius  : 

Leave  nothing  out   for  length,  and  make   us 

think, 
Rather  our  state 's  defective  for  requital. 
Than  we   to   stretch    it    out.     Masters   o'  the 

people. 
We  do  request  your  kindest  ears ;  and,  after, 
Your  loving  motion  toward  the  common  body. 
To  yield  what  passes  here. 

Sic.  We  are  convented 

Upon  a  pleasing  treaty ;  and  have  hearts 
Inclinable  to  honour  and  advance 
The  theme  of  our  assembly. 

Bru.  Wliich  the  rather 

We  shall  be  bless'd  to  do,  if  he  remember 
A  kinder  value  of  the  people  than 
He  hath  hereto  priz'd  them  at. 

Men.  That's  off,  that's  off;" 

I  would  you  rather  had  been  silent :  Please  you 
To  hear  Cominius  speak  ? 

Bru.  Most  willingly : 

But  yet  my  caution  was  more  pertinent 
Than  the  rebuke  you  give  it. 

Men.  He  loves  your  people ; 

But  tie  him  not  to  be  their  bedfellow. — 
Worthy   Cominius,   speak.  —  Nay,    keep    your 
place. 
[CoRiOLANUS  rises,  and  offers  to  go  away. 
1  Sen.  Sit,  Coriolanus ;  never  shame  to  hear 
What  you  have  nobly  done. 

Cor.  Your  honours'  pardon ; 

I  had  rather  have  my  wounds  to  heal  again. 
Than  hear  say  how  I  got  them. 

Brtt.  Sir,  I  hope 

My  words  dis-bench'd  you  not. 

Cor.  No,  sir  :  yet  oft, 

When  blows  have  made  me  stay,  I  tied  from 

words. 
You  sooth'd  not,  therefore  huit  not :  But,  your 

people, 
I  love  them  as  they  weigh. 

Men.  Pray  now,  sit  down. 

Cor.  I  had  rather  have  one  scratch  my  head 
i'  the  sun. 
When  the  alarum  were  struck,  than  idly  sit 
To  hear  my  nothings  monster' d. 

\_Exit  C0KIOLA.NTJS. 
Men.  Masters  0'  the  people. 

Your  multiplying  spawn  how  can  he  flatter, 
(That's  thousand  to  one  good  one,)  when  you 

now  see 
He  had  rather  venture  all  his  limbs  for  honour. 
Than  one  of  his  ears  to  hear  it  ?— Proceed,  Comi- 
nius. 

a  That  is  nothing  to  the  matter. 


Com.  I  shall  lack  voice :  the  deeds  of  Corio' 
lanus 
Should  not  be  utter'd  feebly. — It  is  held 
That  valour  is  the  chiefest  virtue, 
And  most  dignifies  the  haver :  if  it  be. 
The  man  I  spe^  of  cannot  in  the  world 
Be  singly  counterpois'd.     At  sixteen  years, 
AVhen  Tarquin  made   a   head    for    Rome, 


16 


fought 


Beyond  the  mark  of  others :  our  then  dictator, 
TVTiom  with    all  praise   I   point   at,   saw  him 

When  with  his  Amazonian  chm  he  drove 

The  bristled  lips  before  him  :  he  bestrid 

An    o'erpress'd    Roman,*   and  i'   the   consul's 

view 
Slew  three  opposers  :  Tarquin's  self  he  met. 
And  struck  him  on  his  knee :  '^  in  that  day's 

feats. 
When  he  might  act  the  woman  in  the  scene, 
He  prov'd  best  man  i'  the  field,  and  for  his 

meed 
Was  brow-bound  with  the  oak.     His  pupil  age 
Man-enter'd  thus,  he  waxed  like  a  sea ; 
And,  in  the  brunt  of  seventeen  battles  since. 
He  lurch'd"  all  swords  0'  the  garland.     For  this 

last. 
Before  and  in  Corioli,  let  me  say 
I   cannot   speak  hun  home:   He   stopp'd    the 

fliers ; 
And  by  his  rare  example  made  the  coward 
Turn  terror  into  sport :  as  weeds '^  befoie 
A  vessel  under  sail,  so  men  obey'd. 
And   fell  below  his  stem:   his  sword  (death's 

stamp), 


a  A  touch  of  Malone's  minute  criticism  will  amuse  our 
readers: — "  This  was  an  act  of  similar  friendship  in  our  old 
English  armies:  but  there  is  no  proof  that  any  such  practice 
prevailed  among  the  legionary  soldiers  of  Rome,  nor  dirt 
our  author  give  himself  any  trouble  on  that  subject." 
b  On  his  knee — down  on  his  knee. 

c  Lurch'd.  We  have  a  similar  expression  in  Ben  Jensen's 
'Silent  Woman:'  "  Vou  have  lurched  your  friends  of  the 
better  half  of  the  garland."  The  term  is,  or  was,  used  in 
some  game  of  cards,  in  which  a  complete  and  easy  victory 
is  called  a  lurch;  and  the  w<ird,  as  we  fnul  in  Florio's 
Italian  Dictionary,  was  in  use  in  Shakspere's  time,— "  gioco 
marzo— a  lurch  at  any  game;"  and  "  gioce  marcio-a 
lurch-game." 

d  IVneds.  The  second  folio  chansred  this  wonl  to  fcirw  ; 
and  Steevens  adopting  it,  this  reading  became  the  common 
one.  Malone  supports  the  original;  of  the  correctness  of 
which  we  think  there  can  be  no  doubt.  Waces  falling  before 
the  stem  of  a  vessel  under  sail  is  an  image  which  conveys  no 
adequate  notion  of  a  triumph  over  petty  obstacles:  a  ship 
cuts  the  w.-ives  as  a  bird  the  air;  there  is  opposition  to  the 
progress,  but  each  moves  in  its  element.  But  take  the 
ima^e  of  weeds  encumbering  the  progress  of  a  vessel  under 
sail,  but  with  a  favouring  wind  dasliing  them  aside;  and  we 
have  a  distinct  and  heautifu!  illustration  of  the  proyf*  "' 
Coriolanus.  Steevens  says,  "  Weeds,  instead  of  f-'Hing 
below  a  vessel  under  sail,  cling  fast  about  the  stem  of  it. 
But  Shakspere  was  not  thinking  of  the  weed  floating  on  the 
biliow:  the  Avon  or  the  Thames  supplied  him  wiiU  tne 
image  of  weeds  rooted  at  the  bottom. 

173 


Act  II.] 


COrJOLANUS. 


[ScrNE  in. 


"Wlicrc  il  did  mark,  it  took ;  from  face  to  foot 
He  was  a  thing  of  blood,  whose  every  motion 
Was  tim'd  witli  dying  cries :  alone  he  enter'd 
Tiie  mortal  gate  o'  the  city,  which  he  painted 
With  shunless  destiny,  aidless  came  off, 
And  with  a  sudden  re-enforcement  struck 
Corioli  like  a  planet :  Now  all 's  his : 
Wien  by  and  by  the  din  of  war  'gan  pierce 
His  ready  sense,  then  straight  his  doubled  spirit 
Ke-quicken'd  what  in  flesh  was  fatigate, 
And  to  the  battle  came  he ;  where  he  did 
Run  recking  o'er  the  lives  of  men,  as  if 
'Twere  a  perpetual  spoil :  and,  till  we  call'd 
Both  field  and  city  ours,  he  never  stood 
To  ease  his  breast  with  panting. 

Men.  Worthy  man ! 

1  Sen.  He  cannot  but  with  measure  fit  the 
I      honours 
Which  we  devise  him. 

Com.  Our  spoils  he  kick'd  at ; 

And  look'd  upon  things  precious  as  they  were 
The   common  muck   o'  the   world;   he   covets 

less 
Than  misery  itself  would  give;  rewards 
His  deeds  with  doing  them  ;  and  is  content 
To  spend  the  time,  to  end  it. 

Men.  He 's  right  noble  ; 

Let  him  be  call'd  for. 

1  Sen.  Call  Coriolanus. 

Off.  He  doth  appear. 

lie-enter  Couiolaxus. 

Men.  The  senate,  Coriolanus,  are  well  pleas'd 
To  make  thee  consul. 

Cor.  I  do  owe  them  still 

My  life  and  services. 

Men.  It  then  remains 

That  you  do  speak  to  the  people.^ 

Cor.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Let  me  o'erleap  that  custom  ;  for  I  cannot 
Put   on  the   gown,  stand  naked,   and  entreat 

them. 
For  my  wounds'  sake,  to  give  their  suffrage : 

please  you 
That  I  may  pass  this  doing. 

Sic.  Sir,  the  people 

Mast  have  their  voices  ;  neither  will  they  bate 
One  jot  of  ceremony. 

Men.  Put  them  not  to  't : — 

Pray  you,  go  fit  you  to  the  custom ; 
And  take  to  you,  as  your  predecessors  have, 
Your  honour  with  your  form. 

Cor.  It  is  a  part 

That  I  shall  blush  in  acting,  and  might  well 
Be  taken  from  the  people. 
174 


Bru.  !Mark  you  that  ? 

Cor.  To  brag  unto  them, — Thus  1  did,  and 
thus ; — 
Show  them  the  unaching  scarg  which  I  siiould 

hide. 
As  if  I  had  reeeiv'd  them  for  the  hire 
Of  their  breath  only  : — 

Men.  Do  not  stand  upon 't. — 

We  recommend  to  you,  tribunes  of  the  people. 
Our    purpose    to    them; — and    to    our    noble 

consul 
Wish  we  all  joy  and  honour. 

Sen.  To  Coriolanus  come  all  joy  and  honour  ! 

[Flourish.     Then  exeunt  Senators. 

Bra.  You  see   how   he  intends   to  use  the 

people. 
Sic.  May  they  perceive  his  intent !     He  will 
require  them, 
As  if  he  did  contemn  what  he  requested 
Should  be  in  them  to  give. 

Bru.  Come,  we'll  inform  them 

Of  our  proceedings  here ;  on  the  market-place 
I  know  they  do  attend  us.  [Erennt. 

,  SCENE  III.— The  same.     The  Market-place. 

Enter  several  Citizens. 

1  at.  Once,  if  he  do  require  our  voices,  we 
ought  not  to  deny  him. 

2  at.  We  may,  sir,  if  we  will. 

3  at.  We  have  power  in  ourselves  to  do  it, 
but  it  is  a  power  that  we  have  no  power  to  do : 
for  if  he  show  us  his  wounds,  and  tell  us  his 

'deeds,  we  are  to  put  our  tongues  into  those 
wounds,  and  speak  for  them;  so,  if  he  tell  us 
his  noble  deeds,  we  must  also  tell  him  our  noble 
acceptance  of  them.  Ingratitude  is  monstrous : 
and  for  the  multitude  to  be  ingrateful  were  to 
make  a  monster  of  the  multitude ;  of  the  which, 
we  being  members,  should  bring  ourselves  to  be 
monstrous  members. 

1  at.  And  to  make  us  no  better  thought  of, 
a  little  help  will  serve :  for  once,  when  we  stood 
up  about  the  corn,  he  himself  stuck  not  to  call 
us  the  many-headed  multitude. 

3  at.  We  have  been  called  so  of  many ;  not 
that  our  heads  are  some  brown,  some  black, 
some  auburn,'"'  some  bald,  but  that  our  wits  are 
so  diversely  coloured :  and  tnaly  I  think  if  all 
our  wits  were  to  issue  out  of  one  skull,  they 
would  fly  east,  west,  north,  south ;   and  their 


'  Auburn.  The  word  of  the  or4f;inaI  is  nbram,  and  it  so 
continued  until  the  publication  of  the  fourth  folio,  when  it 
tirranie  auburn. 


i  I 


ACT    II.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


[ScENi:  111. 


consent  of  one  direct  way  slioiild  be  at  once  to 
all  points  o'  the  compass. 

2  at.  Think  you  so  ?  Which  way  do  you 
judge  my  wit  would  fly  ? 

3  at.  Nay,  your  wit  will  not  so  soon  out  as 
another  man's  will,  't  is  strongly  wedged  up  in  a 
block-head ;  but  if  it  were  at  liberty,  't  would, 
sure,  southward. 

2  at.  Why  that  way  ? 

3  at.  To  lose  itself  in  a  fog;  where  being 
three  parts  melted  away  with  rotten  dews,  the 
fourth  would  return  for  conscience'  sake,  to  help 
to  get  thee  a  wife. 

2  at.  You  are  never  without  your  tricks : — • 
You  may,  you  may. 

3  at.  Are  you  all  resolved  to  give  your 
voices  ?  But  that 's  no  matter,  the  greater  part 
carries  it.  I  say,  if  he  would  incline  to  the 
people,  there  was  never  a  worthier  man. 

Enter  Coriolanus  and  Menenufs. 

Here  he  comes,  and  in  the  gown  of  humility ; 

mark  his  behaviour.    We  are  not  to  stay  all 

together,  but  to  come  by  him  where  he  stands, 

hy  ones,  by  twos,  and  by  threes.     He 's  to  make 

his  requests  by  particulars:  wherein  every  one 

of  us  has  a  single  honour,  in  giving  him  our  own 

voices  with  our  own  tongues :  therefore  follow 

me,  aud  I'll  direct  you  how  you  shall  go   by 

him. 

All.  Content,  content.  [Eveunt. 

Men.  0  sir,  you  are  not  right :   have  you  not 
known 
The  worthiest  men  have  done  't  ? 

Cor.  AVhat  must  I  say  ? — 

I  pray,  sir, — Plague  upon 't !  I  cannot  bring 
My  tongue  to  such  a  pace  : — Look,    sir ; — my 

wounds ; — 
I  got  them  in  my  country's  service,  when 
Some  certain  of  your  brethren  roar'd,  and  ran 
From  the  noise  of  our  own  drums. 

Men.  O  me,  the  gods ! 

You  must  not  speak  of  that :  you  must  desire 

them 
To  think  upon  you. 

Cor.  Think  upon  me  ?  Hang  'em ! 

I  would  they  would  forget  me,  like  the  virtues 
\Yhich  our  divines  lose  by  them. 

Men.  You  '11  mar  all ; 

I  '11  leave  you :  Pray  you,  speak  to  them,  I  pray 

you. 
In  wholesome  manner.  \_E.ril. 


Cor. 


Enter  two  Citizens. 

Bid  them  wash  then-  faces, 


And  keep  their  teeth  clean. — So,  here  comes  a 

brace. 
You  know  the  cause,  sir,  of  my  standing  here. 

1  at.  Wc  do,  sir ;  tell  us  what  hath  brought 
you  to 't.'' 

Cor.  Mine  own  desert. 

2  at.  Your  own  desert  ? 
Cor.  Ay,  not  mine  own  desire. 

1  at.  How !  not  your  own  desire  ? 

Cor.  No,  sir  :  'T  was  never  my  desire  yet  to 
trouble  the  poor  with  begging. 

1  at.  You  must  think,  if  we  give  you  any- 
thing, we  hope  to  gain  by  you. 

Cor.  Well  then,  I  pray,  your  price  o'  the 
consulship  ? 

1  at.  The  price  is,  to  ask  it  kiudly. 

Cor.  Kiudly,  sir  ?  I  pray,  let  me  ha 't :  I  have 
wounds  to  sliow  you,  which  shall  be  yours  in 
private. — Your  good  voice,  sir  ;  what  say  you  ? 

2  at.  You  shall  have  it,  worthy  sir. 

Cor.  A  match,  sir: — There  is  in  all  two 
worthy  voices  begged: — I  have  your  alms; 
adieu. 

1  at.  But  this  is  sometliing  odd. 

2  at.  An 't  were  to  give  again,— But 't  is  no 
matter.  \_Exeiint  two  Citizens. 

Enter  two  other  Citizens. 

Cor.  Pray  you  now,  if  it  may  stand  with  the 
tune  of  your  voices  that  I  may  be  consul,  I  have 
here  the  customary  gown. 

3  at.  You  have  deserved  nobly  of  your 
country,  and  you  have  not  deserved  nobly. 

Cor.  Youi"  enigma  ? 

3  at.  You  have  been  a  scourge  to  her  enemies, 
you  have  been  a  rod  to  her  friends ;  you  have 
not,  indeed,  loved  the  common  people. 

Cor.  You  should  account  me  the  more  virtu- 
ous that  1  have  not  been  common  in  my  love. 
I  will,  sir,  flatter  my  sworn  brother  the  people, 
to  earn  a  dearer  estimation  of  them ;  't  is  a  con- 
dition they  account  gentle :  and  since  the  wis- 
dom of  their  choice  is  rather  to  have  my  hat 
than  my  heart,  I  will  practise  the  insinuating 
nod,  and  be  oft"  to  them  most  counterfeitly :  that 
is,  su-,  I  will  counterfeit  the  bewitchment  of  some 
popular  man,  and  give  it  bountifully  to  the 
dcsirers.  Therefore,  beseech  you,  I  may  be 
consul. 

4  at.  We  hope  to  find  you  our  friend ;  and 
therefore  give  you  our  voices  heartily. 


a  All  this  dialogue  is  printed  in  the  original  ss  we  print 
it,— as  prose.     The  variorum  editors  turned  it  into  limping 

biauk-verse,  f.iUowin?  Capell. 

170 


Act  II.] 


CORTOLANUS. 


[SCENEli;. 


ynur  knowledge   with 
make    much    of    your 


3  at.  You  have  received  many  wounds  for 
your  country. 

Cor.  1  will  not  seal 
showing  them.  I  will 
voices,  and  so  trouble  you  no  farther 

Both  at.  The  gods  give  you  joy,  sir,  heartily  ! 

\_E.rei(iit. 

Cor.  Most  sweet  voices  ! — 
Better  it  is  to  die,  better  to  starve, 
Than  crave  the  hire  which  first  we  do  deserve. 
Why  iu  this  woolvish  gown"  should  1  stand  here, 
To  beg  of  Hob  and  Dick,  that  do  appear. 
Their  needless  vouchers  ?  Custom  calls  me  to 't: — 
What  custom  wills,  in  all  things  should  we  do  't, 
The  dust  on  antique  time  would  lie  unswept. 
And  mountainous  error  be  too  highly  hcap'd 
For  truth  to  overpeer.     Kathcr  than  fool  it  so. 
Let  the  high  office  and  the  honour  go 
To  one  that  would  do  thus. — I  am  half  through 
The  one  part  suffer' d,  the  other  will  I  do. 

Enter  three  other  Citizens. 

Here  come  more  voices. — 
Your  voices  :  for  your  voices  I  have  fought ; 
Watch'd  for  your  voices ;  for  your  voices,  bear 
Of  wounds  two  dozen  odd ;  battles  thrice  six 
I  have  seen  and  heard  of;  for  your  voices 
Have  done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more : 

your  voices : 
Indeed,  I  would  be  consul. 

5  at.  He  has  done  nobly,  and  caniiot  go 
without  any  houest  man's  voice. 

G  at.  Therefore  let  him  be  consul :  The  gods 
give  him  joy,  and  make  him  good  friend  to  the 
people ! 

All.  Amen,    amen.      God    save    thee,    nuble 
consul !  [^Exeunt  Citizens. 

Cor.  AYorthy  voices  ! 

Re-enter  Meseniu.s,  with  Brutus  and  SiciNius. 

Men.  You  have  stood  your  limitation;    and 
the  tribunes 
Endue  you  with  the  people's  voice  : 
B^mains,  that,  in  the  official  marks  invested, 
You  anon  do  meet  the  senate. 


»  Wooli-hh  giiicn.  The  readin);  of  the  fir>l  folio  is  woolilsh 
tongue;  of  t'lie  second,  ttuolvith  gowne.  We  l)eliev-;  the 
C'lTrction  of  tongue  to  gown  is  right.  Some  of  tlie  com- 
meniators  think  that  the  original  word  was  loge.  It  Is 
difllcult  to  say  whether  woolvish  means  a  gown  made  of 
wool,  or  a  gown  reieinhling  a  woU  or  tcolfiih.  The  notion 
of  Stecvens  that  the  allusion  was  to  tiie  wolf  in  ^heell■s 
cUithing  iieenis  iiierel)  fanciful.  Mr.  Collii-r's  Corrector 
given  us  woollett  logue.  As  the  gowrn  wa<  made  of  wool,  it 
tur'.-ljr  cannot  be  voolteit. 

176 


Cor.  Is  this  done  ? 

Sic.  The  custom  of  request  you  have  discliarg'd : 
The  people  do  admit  you  ;  and  are  suminon'd 
To  meet  anon  upon  your  approbation. 

Cor.  Where  ?  at  the  senate-house  ? 

Sic.  There,  Coriolanus. 

Cor.  May  I  change  these  garments  ? 

Sic.  You  may,  sir. 

Cor.    That  I  'II   straight   do ;   and,   knowing 
myself  again. 
Repair  to  the  senate-house. 

Men.   I'll    keep  you    company. —  Will  you 
along  ? 

Br/i.  We  stay  here  for  the  people. 

Sic.  Fare  you  well. 

^Exeunt  Coriol.  and  Mknkn. 
He  has  it  now ;  and  by  his  looks,  methinks, 
'T  is  warm  at  his  heart. 

Bnt.  With  a  proud  heart  he  wore 

His  humble  weeds :  Will  you  dismiss  the  people  ? 


Re-enter  Citizens. 

Sic.  How  now,  my  masters  ?  have  you  chose 
this  man  ? 

1  at.  He  has  our  voices,  sir. 

Bru.  Vie  pray  the  gods  he  may  deserve  your 
loves. 

2  at.  Amen,  sir :  to  my  poor  unworthy  notice, 
He  nioek'd  us  when  he  begg'd  our  voices. 

3  at.  '  Certainly, 
He  flouted  us  dowTiright. 

1  at.  No,  't  is  liis  kind  of  speech,  he  did  not 

mock  us. 

2  at.  Not  one  amongst  us,  save  yourself,  but 

says 
He  used  us  scornfully  :  he  should  have  shovv'd  us 
His  marks  of  merit,    wounds   receiv'd  for  his 
country. 
Sic.  Why,  so  he  did,  I  am  sure. 
at.  No,  no ;  no  man  saw  'em. 

[^Several  speak. 

3  at.  He  said  he  had  wounds,  which  he  could 

show  in  private ; 
And  with  his  hat,  thus  waving  it  in  scorn, 
'  I  would  be  consul,'  says  he  :  '  aged  custom. 
But  by  your  voices,  will  not  so  permit  me ; 
Your  voices  therefore  : '  When  we  granted  that. 
Here  was, — '  I  thank  you   for  your    voices, — 

thank  you, — 
Your  most  sweet  voices : — now  you  have   left 

your  voices, 
I  have  no  further  with  you : ' — Was  not  this 
mockery  ? 
Sic.  Wliy,  either,  were  you  ignorant  to  see'tP 


Act  II.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


[Scene  IJI. 


Or,  seeing  it,  of  such  eliildish  friendliriess 
To  yield  your  voices  ? 

Bru.  Could  you  not  have  told  him, 

As    you    were    lesson'd, — When    he    had    uo 

power, 
But  was  a  petty  servant  to  the  state, 
He  was  your  enemy ;  ever  spake  against 
Your  hberties,  and  the  charters  that  you  bear 
I'  the  body  of  the  weal :  and  now,  arriving 
A  place  of  potency,  and  sway  o'  the  state, 
If  he  should  still  mahgnantly  remain 
Fast  foe  to  the  plebeii,  your  voices  might 
Be  curses  to  yourselves  ?  You  should  have  said, 
That  as  his  worthy  deeds  did  claim  no  less 
Than  what  he  stood  for,  so  his  gi-acious  nature 
Would  thiuk  upon  you  for  your  voices. 
And  translate  his  malice  towards  you  into  love, 
Standing  your  friendly  lord. 

Sic.  Thus  to  have  said, 

As    you    were    fore-advis'd,   had    touch'd    his 

spirit. 
And  tried  his  inclination ;  from  him  pluck'd 
Either  his  gracious  promise,  which  you  might. 
As  cause  had  call'd  you  up,  have  held  him  to  ; 
Or  else  it  would  have  gall'd  his  surly  natare, 
Which  easily  endures  not  article 
Tying  him  to  aught ;  so,  putting  him  to  rage, 
You  should  have   ta'en  the   advantage   of  his 

choler. 
And  pass'd  him  unelected. 

Bnt.  Did  you  perceive 

He  did  soUcit  you  in  free  contempt, 
When  he   did  need  yoiu-  loves;  and  do  you 

think 
That  his  contempt  shall  not  be  bruising  to  you, 
When  he  hath  power  to  crush  ?   Why,  had  your 

bodies 
No  heart  among  you?  Or  had  you  tongues,  to 

cry 
Against  the  rectorship  of  judgment  ? 

Sic.  Have  you, 

Ere  now,  denied  the  asker  ?  and,  now  again. 
Of  him  that  did  not  ask,  but  mock,  bestow 
Your  sued-for  tongues  ? 

3  at.  He  's  not  confirm' d,  we  may  deny  him 
yet. 

2  at.  And  will  deny  him : 
I  '11  have  five  hundred  voices  of  that  sound. 

1  at.  I  twice  five  hundred,  and  theii-  friends 
to  piece  'em. 

Bru.  Get  you  hence  instantly  ;   and  tell  those 

friends. 
They  have  chose  a  consul  that  will  from  them 

take 
Their  liberties  ;  make  them  of  no  more  voice 


Tragedies.- 


-VoL.  IT. 


Than  dogs,  that  are  as  often  beat  for  barking 
As  tlierefore  kept  to  do  so. 

Sic.  Let  them  assemble ; 

And,  on  a  safer  judgment,  all  revoke 
Your  ignorant  election  :  Enforce  his  pride. 
And  his  old  hate  unto  you :  besides,  forget  not 
With    what    contempt    he    wore    the  humble 

weed : 
How  in    his  suit   he   seorn'd  you :    but  your 

loves, 
Thinking  upon  his  services,  took  from  you 
The  apprehension  of  his  present  portancc, 
Which  most  gibingly,  ungravely,  he  did  fashion 
After  the  inveterate  hate  he  bears  you. 

Bru.  Lay  a  fault  on  us,  your  tribunes,  that  wc 
labour' d 
(No  impediment  between)  but  that  you  must 
Cast  your  election  on  him. 

Sic.  Say,  you  chose  him 

Jklore  after  our  commandment,  than  as  guided 
By  your  owii  true  affections  ;  and  that,  your 

minds, 
Pre-occupied  with  what  you  rather  must  do 
Than  what  you  should,  made  you  against  the 

grain 
To  voice  him  consul ;  Lay  the  fault  on  us. 
Bru.  Ay,  spare  us  not.     Say  we  read  lectures 
to  you. 
How  youngly  he  began  to  serve  his  country,^ 
How  long  continued  :  and  what  stock  he  springs 

of,2 
The  noble  house  o'  the  jMarcians  ;   from  whence 

came 
That  Ancus  Marcius,  Numa's  daughter's  son, 
Who,  after  great  Hostilius,  here  was  king : 
Of  the  same  house  Publius  and  Quintus  were. 
That  our  best  water  brought  by  conduits  hither ; 
[And  Censorinus,  darling  of  the  people,]" 
And  nobly  nam'd  so,  twice  being  censor, 
Was  his  great  ancestor. 

,5-/^.  One  thus  descended. 

That  hath  beside  well  in  his  person  wrought 
To  be  set  high  in  place,  we  did  commend 
To  your  remembrances  :  but  you  have  found, 
Scaling  his  present  bearing  with  his  past. 
That  he  's  your  fixed  enemy,  and  revoke 
Yom-  sudden  approbation. 

a  The  line  in  brackets  is  not  in  the  original,  but  was  sup- 
Dlied  bv  Pope.  Something  is  clearly  wanting  to  connect 
with  "nvice  being  eensor;"  and  Plutarch  tells  us  who  was 
"nobly  named:  "—"Censorinus  also  came  of  that  famiU, 
that  was  so  surnamed  because  the  people  had  chosen  h.m 
rensor  twice"  The  Cambridge  editors  have  a  readmg  ol 
^hefrown,  which  leaves  the  words  of  the  folio  still  in  thsu 
order  :— 

"  And  [Censorinus]  nobly  named  so,  ^^ 

Twice  being  [by  the  people  chosen]  censor. 

177 


Act  ri.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[SCBMB  III. 


Bru.  Say,  you  ne'er  had  done  't, 

(Ilarp  ou  that  still,)  but  by  our  putting  on  : 
And    presently,   when    you   have   drawn    your 

number, 
Repair  to  the  Capitol. 

Cit.  We  will  so  :  almost  all  repent  in  their 
election.  [^Several  speak. 

[Eretini  Citizens. 
Bru.  Let  them  go  on ; 
This  mutiny  were  better  put  in  hazard. 


Than  stay,  past  doubt,  for  greater : 

If,  as  his  nature  is,  he  fall  in  rage 

With  their  refusal,  both  observe  and  answer 

The  vantage  of  his  anger. 

Sic.  To  the  Capitol ! 

Come ;  we  '11  be  there  before  the  stream  o'  the 

people ; 
And  this  shall  seem,  as  partly  't  is,  their  own, 
Whieh  we  have  goaded  onwaid. 

[Exeunt. 


RECENT   NEW   READING. 


Sc.  I.  p.  1C9. 


"  I  am  known  to  be  a  lunnorous  patrician,  and  one  that 
loves  a  cup  of  hot  wine  with  nol  a  drop  of  allaying  Tiber  in 
't ;  said  to  be  somewhat  imperfect  \n  favouring  the/rf<  com- 
plaint ;  hasty,"  &c. 

"  1  am  known  to  be  a  humorous  patrician,  and  one  that 
lOves  a  cup  of  hot  wine,  without  a  drop  of  allayins;  Tiber  in 
't :  said  to  be  somewhat  imperfect  in  favouring  the  thirst 
complaint;   hasty,"  &:c.— Collier.     MS.  Corrector. 

The  alteration  of  iciih  not  to  u-ithout  is  needless;  and  in 
Lovelace's  beautiful  'Verses  to  Althea,'  we  have  — 

"  When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round, 
JTi'M  no  allaying  Thame?." 


Would  either  passage  be  improved  by  substituting  without  f 
In  the  second  part  of  the  sentence,  common  sense  will  not 
stt  thirst  aside  because  Mr.  Singer  has  discovered  that  thirst 
was  sometimes  provincially  pronounced  and  spelt  yfr«^  and 
fiirst.  We  believe  the  expression  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  hot  wine  that  .N(enenius  loved.  He  acknowledges  to  be 
jovial;  he  confesses  to  the  imperfection  of  listening  with 
favour  to  him  who  first  complains  of  a  grievance;  he  is 
hasly,  &c.  Complaint  \t  invariably  used  by  Shakspere  iij 
this  sense.  The  secondary  meaning  of  complaint— a  ma'.ady 
— is  modern. 


[Koman  Vittorj*.] 


ILLUSTKATIONS  OE  ACT  II. 


'  Scene  II. "  It  then  remains. 

That  you  do  speak  to  the  people." 

The  circumstance  of  Coriolanus  standing  for  the 
consulship,  which  Shakspere  has  painted  with  such 
wonderful  dramatic  power,  is  told  very  briefly  in 
Plutarch  : — 

"  Shortly  after  this,  Martins  stood  for  the  consul- 
ship, and  the  common  people  favoured  his  suit, 
thinking  it  would  be  a  shame  to  them  to  deny 
and  refuse  the  chiefest  noble  man  of  blood,  and 
most  worthy  person  of  Rome,  and  especially  him 
that  had  done  so  great  service  and  good  to  the 
commonwealth ;  for  the  custom  of  Rome  was  at 
that  time  that  such  as  did  sue  for  any  of6.ce  should, 
for  certain  days  before,  be  in  the  market-place, 
only  with  a  poor  gown  on  their  backs,  and  without 
any  coat  underneath,  to  pray  the  citizens  to 
remember  them  at  the  day  of  election ;  which 
was  thus  devised,  either  to  move  the  people  the 
more  by  requesting  them  in  such  mean  apparel,  or 
else  because  they  might  show  them  their  wounds 
they  had  gotten  in  the  wars  in  the  service  of  the 
commonwealth,  as  manifest  marks  and  testimonies 
of  their  valiantness.  *  *  *  »  Now,  Martins,  fol- 
lowing this   custom,   showed  many  wounds  and 


cuts  upon  his  body,  which  he  had  received  in 
seventeen  years'  service  at  the  wars,  and  in  many 
sundry  battles,  being  ever  the  foremost  man  that 
did  set  out  feet  to  fight ;  so  that  there  was  not  a 
man  among  the  people  but  was  ashamed  of  himself 
to  refuse  so  valiant  a  man  ;  and  one  of  them  said 
to  another,  We  must  needs  choose  him  consul, 
there  is  no  remedy." 

-  Scene  III. — "  What  stock  he  springs  of." 

The  '  Life  of  Coriolanus,'  in  Plutarch,  opens 
with  the  following  sentence  : — 

"  The  house  of  the  Martians  at  Rome  was  of 
the  number  of  the  patricians,  out  of  the  which 
have  sprung  many  noble  personages,  whereof 
Ancus  Martius  was  one,  King  Numa's  daughter's 
sou,  who  was  King  of  Rome  after  Tullus  Hostilius. 
Of  the  same  house  was  Publius  and  Quintus,  who 
brought  to  Rome  their  best  water  they  had  by 
conduits.  Censorinus  also  came  of  that  family, 
that  was  so  surnamed  because  the  people  had 
chosen  him  censor  twice,  through  whose  persuasion 
they  made  a  law  that  no  man  from  thenceforth 
might  require  or  enjoy  the  censorship  twice." 


[Aiigui's  Stafl.] 


>. . 


St/-?*'';'    . 


I  Old  Walls  of  Rome.] 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  \.—The  same.     A  Street. 

Conwts.  Enter  Coriolanus,  Menexius,  Comi- 
Nius,  Titus  Lartius,  Senators,  and  Patri- 
cians. 

Cor.  Tullus   Aufidius    then    had    made  new 

head  ? 
Ijort.  He  had,  my  lord ;  and  that  it  was  which 
caus'd 
Our  swifter  composition. 

Cor.  So  tlien  the  Voices  stand  but  as  at  first ; 
Ready,  when  time  shall  prompt  them,  to  make 

road 
Upon  us  again. 

Com.  Tiiey  are  worn,  lord  consul,  so 

That  we  shall  hardly  in  our  ages  see 
Their  banners  wave  again. 

Cor.  Saw  you  Aufidiur,  ? 

I^arf.  On  safeguard  he  came  to  mc;  and  did 
curse 
Against  the  Volsccs,  for  they  had  so  vilely 
Yielded  the  town :  he  i.s  retir'd  to  Antium 
Cor.  Spoke  he  of  mc  ? 
180 


Lart.  He  did,  my  lord. 

Cor.  How  ?  what  ? 

Lart.  How  often  he  had  met  you,  sword  to 
sword : 
That  of  all  things  upon  the  earth  he  iiated 
Your  person  most :  that  he  would  pawn  his  for- 
tunes 
To  hopeless  restitution,  so  he  might 
Be  call'd  your  vanquisher. 

Cor.  At  Antium  lives  he  ? 

T/firt.  At  Antium. 

Cor.  I  A\ish  I  had  a  cause  to  seek  him  there. 
To  oppose  his  hatred  fully. — AVeleome  home. 

\_To  Lautius, 

Enter  SiciNius  and  Brutus. 

Behold !  these  are  the  tribunes  of  the  people, 
The  tongues  o'  the  common  mouth.     I  do  despise 

them ; 
For  they  do  prank  them  in  authority, 
Asainst  all  noble  sufferance. 


Sic. 

Cor.  Ha !  what  is  that  ? 


Pass  no  further. 


Act  111. J 


COEIOLANUS. 


[Scene  1. 


Bru.  It  will  be  dangerous  to  go  oii :  no  fur- 
ther. 

Cor.  What  makes  this  change  ? 

Me7i.  The  matter? 

Cojn.  Hath  he  not  pass'd  the  uoble  and  the 
common  ?  * 

Bru.  Cominius,  no. 

Cor.  Have  I  had  children's  voices  ? 

1  Sen.  Tribunes,  give  way;  he  shall  to  the 
market-place. 

Bru.  The  people  are  incens'd  against  him. 

Sic.  Stop, 

Or  all  wiU  fall  in  broil. 

Cor.  Are  these  your  herd  ? — ' 

Must  these  have  voices,  that  can  yield  them  now. 
And  straight  disclaim  their  tongues  ?— What  are 

your  offices  ? 
You  being  their  mouths,  why  rule  you  not  their 

teeth? 
Have  you  not  set  them  on  ? 

Men.  Be  calm,  be  calm. 

Cor.  It  is  a  purpos'd  thing,  and  grows  by  plot, 
To  curb  the  will  of  the  nobility  : 
Suffer  it,  and  live  with  such  as  cannot  ride. 
Nor  ever  will  be  rul'd. 

Bru.  Call 't  not  a  plot : 

The  people  cry  you  mock'd  them ;  and,  of  late. 
When  corn  was  given  them  gratis,  you  repin'd; 
Scandal'd  the  suppliants  for  the  people ;  caU'd 

them 
Time-pleasers,  flatterers,  foes  to  nobleness. 

Cor.  Why,  this  was  known  before. 

Bru.  Not  to  them  aU. 

Cor.  Have  you  inform'd  them  sithence  ?  ^ 

Bru.  How  !  I  inform  them  ! 

Com.  You  are  like  to  do  such  busiaess.*^ 

Bru.  Not  unlike, 

Each  way,  to  better  yours. 

Cor.  Why  then  should  I  be  consul  ?   By  yon 
clouds, 
Let  me  deserve  so  iU  as  you,  and  make  me 
Your  fellow  tribune. 

Sic.  You  show  too  much  of  that 

For  which  the  people  stir :  If  you  will  pass 
To  where  you  are  bound,  you  must  inquii-e  your 

way, 
Wliich  you  are  out  of,  with  a  gentler  spirit ; 
Or  never  be  so  noble  as  a  consul. 
Nor  voke  with  him  for  tribune. 


a-  The  nolle  and  the  common.  Rowe  changed  this  read- 
ing of  the  original  to  the  nobles  and  the  commons,  partially 
adopting  a  reading  of  the  subsequent  folios. 

l>  Sithence — since. 

•^  This  interposition  of  Cominius  is  according  to  the  old 
copy.  Theobald  gave  the  words  to  Coriolanus,  as  a  con- 
tinuation of  his  dialogue  with  Brutus.  The  words  are  not 
characteristic  of  Coriolanus ;  whilst  the  interruption  of 
Cominius  gives  spirit  and  variety  to  the  scene. 


Men.  Let 's  be  calm. 

Com.  The  people  are  abus'd, — set  on.* — This 
palt'ring 
Becomes  not  Home  ;  nor  has  Coriolanus 
Deserv'd  this  so  dishonour'd  rub,  laid  falsely 
r  the  plain  way  of  his  merit. 

Cor.  TeU  me  of  corn ! 

This  was  my  speech,  and  I  wiU  speak 't  again ; — 

Men.  Not  now,  not  now. 

1  Se%.  Not  in  this  heat,  sir,  now. 

Cor.    Now,   as   I  live,   I   will. — My  nobler 
friends, 
I  crave  their  pardons  : 
For  the  mutable,  rank-scented  many,*" 
Let  them  regard  me  as  I  do  not  flatter. 
And  therein  behold  themselves  :  I  say  again. 
In  soothing  them,  we  nourish  'gainst  our  senate 
The  cockle "  of  rebellion,  insolence,  sedition. 
Which  we  ourselves  have  plough'd  for,  sow'd 

and  scatter' d. 
By  mingling  them  with  us,  the  honour'd  number ; 
Who  lack  not  vu-tue,  no,  nor  power,  but  that 
Which  they  have  given  to  beggars. 

Men.  Well,  no  more. 

1  Sen.  No  more  words,  we  beseech  you. 

Cor.  How  !  no  more  ? 

As  for  my  country  I  have  shed  my  blood, 
Not  fearing  outward  force,  so  shall  my  lungs 
Coin  words  till  their  decay,  against  those  measles, 
Wliich  we  disdain  should  tetter  us,  yet  sought 
The  very  way  to  catch  them. 

Bru.  You  speak  o'  the  people  as  if  you  were 
a  god 
To  punish ;  not  a  man  of  their  infirmity. 

Sic.  'T  were  well  we  let  the  people  know  't. 

Men.  What,  what  ?  his  choler  ? 

Cor.  Choler! 
Were  I  as  patient  as  the  midnight  sleep. 
By  Jove,  't  would  be  my  mind ! 

Sic.  It  is  a  mind 

That  shall  remain  a  poison  where  it  is. 
Not  poison  any  further. 

Cor.  Shall  remain  I — 

Hear  you  this  Triton  of  the  minnows  ?  mark  you 
His  absolute  shall  ? 

Com.  'T  was  from  the  canon. 

Cor.  _  Shall.' 

0  good,  but  most  unwise  patricians,  why. 
You  grave,  but  reckless  senators,  have  vou  thus 
Given  Hydra  here  to  choose  an  ofiiccr. 


a  Set  on— stirred  up.  These  words  were  printed  by  R.^we 
as  a  complete  sentence,  liaving  the  meaning  o.''  iro  forward. 

»  Many.  This  is  mcinij  in  the  original.  Shaksperc,  in 
Lear,  uses  meini/  as  a  body  of  attendants,  whence  menials; 
but  this  is  not  the  sense  of  the  passage  before  us. 

o  Cockle.    A  weed  amongst  liie  corn. 

181 


^,rr  HI] 


CORIOLA^^US. 


[Scene  1. 


'J'hat  with  his  peremptory  shall,  being  but 

The  horn  and  noise  o'  the  monsters,  vants  not 

spirit 
To  say  he'll  turn  your  current  in  a  ditch, 
And  make  your  channel  his  ?  If  he  have  power, 
Then  vail  your  ignorauce  :  if  none,  awake 
Your  dangerous  lenity.     If  you  are  learned. 
Be  not  as  common  fools  ;  if  you  are  not, 
Let  them  have  cushions  by  you.      You  are  ple- 
beians. 
If  they  be  senators  :  and  thev  are  no  less. 
When  both  your  voices  blended,  the  greatest  taste 
Most  palates  theirs.     They  choose  their  magis- 
trate; 
And  such  a  one  as  he,  who  puts  his  shall, 
His  popular  shall,  against  a  graver  bench 
Than  ever  frown'd  in  Greece !    By  Jove  himself, 
It  makes  the  consuls  base !  and  my  soul  aches 
To  know,  when  two  authorities  are  up, 
Neither  supreme,  how  soon  confusion 
May  enter  'twixt  the  gap  of  both,  and  take 
The  one  by  the  the  other. 

Com.  Well — on  to  the  market-place. 

Cor.  Wliocver  gave  that  counsel  to  give  forth 
The  corn  o'  the  storehouse  gratis,  as  't  was  used 
Sometime  in  Greece, — 
Men.  "Well,  well,  no  more  of  that 

Cor.  Thougli  there  the  people  had  more  abso- 
lute power, 
I  say,  they  nourish'd  disobedience,  fed 
The  ruin  of  the  state. 

Bru.  Why  shall  the  people  give 

One  that  speaks  thus,  their  voice  ? 

Cor.  I  '11  give  my  reasons. 

More  worthier  than  their  voices.     They  know 

the  corn 
Was  not  our  recompense ;  resting  well  assui-'d 
They  ne'er  did  service  for  't :    Bemg  press'd  to 

the  war, 
Even  whea  the  navel  of  the  state  was  touch' d. 
They  would  not  thread  the  gates :  this  kind  of 

service 
Did  not  desei-ve  com  gratis :  being  i'  the  war, 
Their  mutinies  and  revolts,  wherein  they  show'd 
Most  valour,  spoke  not  for  them  :  The  accusation 
Which  they  have  often  made  against  the  senate. 
All  cause  unborn,  could  never  be  the  native 
Of  our  so  frank  donaf  ion.     Well,  what  then  ? 
How  shall  this  bosom  multiplied  "  digest 
The  senate's  courtesy  ?    Let  deeds  express 
"What 's  like  to  be  their  words  : — '  We  did  re- 
quest it ; 

a  liotom  muHiplicd.  This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  folios 
whicli  may  \>c  mpported  by  consiicrmg  that  lio.om  is  used' 
as  ehak.pcrp  oflen  usen  it,  in  the  sense  of  iemp»r  disposi- 
tion. .Mr.  Dyce,  however,  has  given  us  the  clearer  readine 
ox  btiion  mullilude. 

182 


We  are  the  greater  poll,  and  in  true  fear 
They  gave  us  our  demands  : ' — Thus  we  debase 
The  nature  of  our  seats,  and  make  the  rabble 
Call  our  cares,  fears  :  which  will  in  time 
Break  ope  the  locks  o'  the  senate,  and  bring  in 
The  crows  to  peck  the  eagles. 

Men.  Come,  enough. 

Bru.  Enough,  with  over-measure. 

Cor.  No,  take  more  : 

What  may  be  sworn  by,  both  divine  and  human. 
Seal  what  I  end  withal ! — This  double  worship, — 
Where  one  part  does  disdain  with  cause,  the 

other 
Insult  without  all  reason;  where  gentry,  title, 

wisdom, 
Cannot  conclude,  but  by  the  yea  and  no 
Of  general  ignorance, — it  must  omit 
Real  necessities,  and  give  way  the  while 
To  unstable  slightness  :    purpose   so  barr'd,  it 

follows 
Nothing  is  done  to  purpose  :  Therefore,  beseech 

you,— 
You  that  will  be  less  fearful  than  discreet ; 
That  love  the  fundamental  part  of  state 
More  than  you   doubt  the  change  on't;  that 

prefer 
A  noble  life  before  a  long,  and  wish 
To  jump  "  a  body  with  a  dangerous  physic 
That 's  sure  of  death  without  it, — at  once  pluck 

out 
The  multitudinous  tongue,  let  them  not  lick 
The  sweet  which  is  their  poison :  your  dishonour 
Mangles  true  judgment,  and  bereaves  the  state 
Of  that  integrity  which  should  become  it ; 
Not  having  the  power  to  do  the  good  it  would, 
For  the  ill  which  doth  control  it. 


Bru. 


He  has  said  enouglu 


Sic.  He  has  spoken  like  a  traitor,  and  shall 
answer 
As  traitors  do. 

Cor.  Thou  \vi-etch  !  despite  o'erwhclm  thee ! — 
What  should  the  people  do  witli  these  bald  tri- 
bunes ? 
On  whom  depending,  thcii-  obedience  fails 
To  the  greater  bench  :  In  a  rebellion,  ' 
VVhen  what's  not  meet, but  what  must  be,  was  law, 
Then  were  they  chosen;  in  a  better  hour, 
Let  what  is  meet  be  said,  it  must  be  meet. 
And  throw  their  power  i'  the  dust. 

Bru.  Manifest  treason ! 

Sic.  This  a  consul  ?  no. 

Bru.  The  iEdilcs,  ho! — Let   him   be  appro 
heuded. 

Enter  an  jEdilc.  • 

>  Jump — in  the  sense  of  tisk. 


k 


Act  111.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[Scene  I. 


Sie.    Go,  call  the  people;   [Exii  JEdile]  in 
whose  name,  myself 
Attach  thee,  as  a  traitorous  innovator, 
A  foe  to  the  public  -weal :  Obey,  I  charge  tlicc. 
And  follow  to  thine  answer. 

Cor.  Hence,  old  goat ! 

Sen.  and  Pat.  We  '11  surety  him. 

Com.  Aged  sir,  hands  off. 

Cor.  Hence,  rotten  thing,  or  I  shall  shake  thy 
bones 
Out  of  thy  garments ! 

Sic.  Help,  ye  citizens  ! 

Enter  the  ^diles,  and  a  rabble  o/"  Citizens. 

Men.  On  both  sides  more  respect. 

Sic.  Here  's  he  that  would  take  from  you  all 

your  power. 
Bru.  Seize  him,  Jidiles  I 
at.  Down  with  him,  down  with  him! 

\_Seceral  speak. 
Senators  and  others.  Weapons,  weapons,  wea- 
pons! 

[Theif  all  bustle  about  CoKiOLANUS. 
Tribunes,  patricians,  citizens ! — what,  ho  ! — 
Sicinius,  Brutus,  Coriolanus,  citizens ! 
Pefxe,  peace,  peace ;  stay,  hold,  peace  ! " 

Mtn.  What   is   about  to  be  ?— I  am  out  of 
breath ; 
Confusion's  near:   I  cannot  speak: — You,  tri- 
bunes 
To  the  people. — Coriolanus,  patience  : — 
Speak,  good  Sicinius. 
Sic.  Hear  me,  people ; — ^Peace  ! 

at.  Let 's  hear  our  tribune : — Peace  !  Speak, 

speak,  speak ! 
Sic.  You  are  at  point  to  lose  your  liberties  : 
Marcius  would  have  all  from  you ;  Marcius, 
Whom  late  you  have  uam'd  for  consul. 

Men.  Fie,  fie,  fie ! 

This  is  the  way  to  kindle,  not  to  quench. 

1  Sen.  To  unbuild  the  city,  and  to  lay  all  flat. 
Sic.  What  is  the  city  but  the  people  ? 
at.  True, 

The  people  are  the  city. 

Bru.  ]3y  the  consent  of  all,  we  were  establish'd 
The  people's  magistrates. 

Cit.  You  so  remain. 

Men.  And  so  are  like  to  do. 
Com.  That  is  the  way  to  lay  the  city  flat ; 
To  brins:  the  roof  to  the  foundation  ; 
And  bury  all  which  yet  distinctly  ranges, 
In  heaps  and  piles  of  ruin.'' 

a  We  follow  the  Cambridse  editors  in  considering  these  four 
lines  as  the  tumultuous  cries  of  ihe  partizans  on  both  sides. 

b  We  give  this  speecli,  as  in  the  original,  to  the  calm  and 
reverend  Cominius.    Coriolanus  is  standing  apart,  in  proud 


Sic.  This  deserves  death. 

Bru.  Or  let  us  stand  to  our  authority. 
Or  let  us  lose  it : — We  do  here  pronounce, 
Upon  the  part  o'  the  people,  in  whose  power 
Wc  were  elected  theirs,  Marcius  is  worthy 
Of  present  death. 

Sic.  Therefore  lay  hold  of  him  ; 

Bear  him  to  the  rock  Tarpeian,  and  from  thence 
Into  destruction  cast  him. 

Bru.  jEdiles,  seize  him ! 

Cit.  Yield,  Marcius,  yield. 

Men.  Hear  me  one  word. 

Beseech  you,  tribunes,  hear  me  but  a  word. 

J^di.  Peace,  peace ! 

Men.  Be  that  you  seem,  truly  your  country's 
friend,  {To  Brutus  *] 
And  temperately  proceed  to  what  you  would 
Thus  violently  redi-ess. 

Bru.  Sir,  those  cold  ways. 

That  seem  like  pnident  helps,  are  very  poisonous 
Where  the  disease  is  violent :— Lay  hands  upon 
him, 

And  bear  him  to  the  rock. 

(7(,;._  No  ;  I  '11  die  here. 

\_Drawing  his  sword. 
There 's  some  among  you  have  beheld  me  fight- 
ing ; 
Come,  try  upon  yourselves  what  you  have  seen 

me. 
Men.  Down  with  that  sword  !— Tribunes,  with- 

di'aw  a  while. 
Bru.  Lay  hands  upon  him. 
jHfen.  He'p  Marcius  ;  help. 

You  that  be  noble  :  help  him,  young  and  old' 
Cit.  Down  with  him,  down  with  him ! 

[In  this  mutiny,  the  Tribunes,  the  ^diles, 
and  the  people  are  beat  in. 
Men.  Go,  get  you  to  your  house ;  be  gone, 
away ! 
All  will  be  naught  else. 
2  Sen.  Get  you  gone. 

Com.  Stand  fast ; 

We  have  as  many  friends  as  enemies. 
Men.  Shall  it  be  put  to  that  ? 
1  Sen.  The  gods  forbid . 

and  sullen  rage;  and  yet  the  variorum  editors,  following 
Pope,  put  these  four  lines  in  his  mouth,  as  if  it  was  any  part 
of  his  character  to  argue  with  the  people  about  the  prudence 
of  their  conduct.  These  editors  continue  this  change  m  he 
persons  to  whom  the  speeches  are  assigned,  without  he 
slightest  regard,  as  it  appears  to  "S,  to  tlie  exquisi  e  clia- 
rac'terisation  of  the  poet.  Amidst  all  .h.s  tumult  the  firs 
words  which  Coriolanus  utters,  according  to  the  original 
copv,  are.  "  No,  I  '11  die  here."  He  again  continues  silent 
butthe  once-received  edition  must  have  him  talking,  an  I 

so  they  put  in  his  mouth  the  ""^.l-'^t'l^S  ^,^°'^;;^,f;  '  ha 
have  as  many  friends  as  enemies.'  and  the  equally  cha 
racteristic  talking  of  Menenius-"  I  would  they  were  bar 
barians."     We  have  left  all  these  passages  precisely  a.  they 

^^r.  J^Ve  Cambridge  editors  consider  this  to  W^^-sed  .0 
Brutus,  the  original  having  fried  and  not  fnends  as  Ko«e 

printed.  „ 

1  <■.••) 


Act  III.] 


COEIOLA^US. 


ISCEKF.   I. 


I  prithee,  noble  frieud,  home  to  tliy  house  ; 
Leave  us  to  cure  this  cause. 

Men.  For  *t  is  a  sore  upon  us 

You  cannot  tent  yourself :  Begone,  'beseech  you. 

Com.  Come,  sir,  aloug  with  us. 

Men.  I  would  they  were  barbarians,  (as  they  are. 
Though  in  Home  litter' d,)  not  Romans,  (as  thoy 

are  not. 
Though  calv'd  i'  the  porch  o'  the  Capitol.) — Be 

gone ; 
Put  not  your  Morthy  rage  into  your  tongue ; 
One  time  will  owe  another. 

Cor.  On  fair  ground  I  could  beat  forty   of 
them. 

Men.  I  could  myself  take  up  a  brace  of  the 
best  of  them  ;  yea,  the  two  tribunes. 

Com.  But  now  't  is  odds  beyond  arithmetic  ; 
And  manhood  is  call'd  foolery,  when  it  stands 
Against  a  falling  fabric. — Will  you  hence 
Before  the  tag  return  ?  whose  rage  doth  rend 
Like  interrupted  waters,  and  o'erbear 
What  they  are  used  to  bear. 

Men.  Pray  you,  be  gone  : 

I  '11  try  whether  my  old  wit  be  in  request 
"With  those  that  have  but  little ;  this  must  be 

patch'd 
With  cloth  of  any  colour. 

Com.  Nay,  come  away. 

{^Exeunt  CoRiOLAKUS,  Coiiixrus,  and  others. 

1  Pat.  Tliis  man  has  marr'd  his  fortune. 

Men.  His  nature  is  too  noble  for  the  world : 
He  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident. 
Or  Jove  for  his  power  to  thunder.     His  heart 's 

his  mouth : 
What  liis  breast  forges  that  his  tongue  must  vent ; 
And,  being  angry,  does  forget  that  ever 
He  heard  the  name  of  death.        [A  noise  within. 
Here 's  goodlv  work ! 

?'  Pat.  I  would  tliey  were  a-bed  ! 

Men.  I  would  they  were  in  Tyber ! — What, 
the  vengeance, 
Could  he  not  speak  them  fair  ? 

Re-enter  Bkutus  and  SiciNlus,  with  the  rabble. 

Sic.  "Wlicre  is  this  viper. 

That  would  depopulate  the  city, 
And  be  every  man  himself  ? 

Men.  You  worthy  tribunes, — 

Sic.  He  shall  be  thrown  down  the  Tarpeian 
rock 
With  rigorous  hands  ;  he  hath  resisted  law. 
And  therefore  law  shall  scorn  him  further  trial 
Tlian  the  severity  of  the  public  power. 
Which  he  so  sets  at  nought. 

1  Cit.  Ho  shall  well  know 

The  noble  tribunes  arc  tiie  people's  mouths, 
184 


And  we  their  hands. 

at.  He  shall,  sure  on't. 

\_Several  speak  together. 

Men.  Sir,  sir,— 

Sic.  Peace ! 

Men.  Do  not  cry  havoc,  where  you  should  but 
hunt 
With  modest  warrant. 

Sic.        Sir,  how  comes 't,  that  you  have  holp 
To  make  this  rescue  ? 

Men.  Hear  me  speak : — 

As  I  do  know  the  consul's  worthiness. 
So  can  I  name  his  faults  : — 

Sic.  Consul  '.—what  consul  ? 

3[en.  The  consul  Coriolanus. 

Bru.  He  consul ! 

Cit.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no  ! 

Men.  If,  by  the  tribunes'  leave,  and  yours, 
good  people, 
I  may  be  heard,  I  would  crave  a  word  or  two ; 
The  which  shall  turn  you  to  no  further  harm 
Than  so  much  loss  of  time. 

Sic.  Speak  briefly  then ; 

For  we  are  peremptory,,  to  despatch 
This  viperous  traitor  :  to  eject  him  hence 
Were  but  one  danger ;  and  lo  keep  him  here 
Our  certain  death ;  therefore  it  is  decreed, 
He  dies  to-night. 

Men.  Now  the  good  gods  forbid. 

That  our  renowned  Bx)me,  whose  gratitude 
Towards  her  deserved  children  is  enroU'd 
In  Jove's  own  book,  like  an  iinnatui'al  dam 
Should  now  eat  up  her  own  ! 

Sic.  He 's  a  disease,  that  must  be  cut  away. 
■    Men.  0,  he 's  a  limb,  that  has  but  a  disease  ; 
Mortal,  to  cut  itofl";to  cure  it,  easy. 
What  has  he  done  to  Home  that 's  worthy  death  ? 
Killing  our  enemies  ?  The  blood  he  hath  lost, 
(Which  I  dare  vouch  is  more  than  that  he  hath. 
By  manj  an  ounce,)  he  dropp'd  it  for  his  countiy : 
And  what  is  left,  to  lose  it  by  his  coimtry, 
Were  to  us  all,  that  do  't,  and  suffer  it, 
A  brand  to  the  end  o'  the  world. 

Sic.  This  is  clean  kam.-"" 

Bru.  Merely  awry :   When   he   did  love   his 
country, 
It  honour'd  him. 

Men.  The  service  of  the  foot, 

Being  once  gangren'd,  is  not  then  respected 
For  what  before  it  was — 

n  Kam  is  probably  from  the  French  camut,  bent,  turiied- 
up,  crookcil,  and  mians  that  tlie  reasons  arc  a\vr>-  from  the 
purpose.  Skehon,  in  hi>  '  I'leiiis  against  Gamesci c'  h.is 
"  crooked  as  a  canioke  ;  "  and  in  a  translation  ot  '  Giizni.in 
d'Alfarache,'  we  hav^  "  all  poes  toi)sy  turvy,  aU  kem-kam." 
Mr.  Grant  Wliile  says  it  is  Welsh,  nuaninp  awry.  Nirris, 
in  his  Cornish  Vocabulary,  says  cam  in  Welsh  is  crooked, 
and  is  applied  to  si|Uintiiig.  Darid  Gam,  Mjiiirc  (Henry  V.), 
was  so  called  fiom  this  peculiarity. 


Act  III.] 


COEIOLAlfUS. 


ISCEKE    11 


Bru.  We  '11  hear  uo  more  : — 

Pursue  him  to  his  house,  and  pluck  him  thence ; 
liest  his  infection,  being  of  catching  nature, 
Spread  further. 

Me7i.  One  word  more,  one  word. 

This  tiger-footed  rage,  when  it  shall  find 
The  harm  of  unscann'd  swiftness,  will,  too  late. 
Tie  leaden  pounds   to   his  heels.     Proceed  by 

process ; 
Lest  parties  (as  he  is  belov'd)  break  out, 
And  sack  great  Rome  with  Romans. 

Bru.  If  it  were  so, — 

Sic.  What  do  ye  talk  ? 
Have  we  not  had  a  taste  of  his  obedience  ? 
Our  ^dUes smote!  ourselves  resisted! — Come: — 

Men.  Consider  this  ; — he  has  been  bred  i'  the 
wars 
Since  he  could  di-aw  a  sword,  and  is  ill  sehool'd 
In  bolted  language  ;  meal  and  bran  together 
He  thi-ows  without  distinction.     Give  me  leave, 
I'll  go  to  him,  and  undertake  to  bring  him  in 

peace,'' 
Where  he  shall  answer,  by  a  lawful  form, 
(In  peace,)  to  his  utmost  peril. 

1  Se}i.  Noble  tribunes. 

It  is  the  humane  way :  the  other  course 
Will  prove  too  bloody  ;  and  the  end  of  it 
Unknown  to  the  beginning. 

Sic.  Noble  Menenius, 

Be  you  then  as  the  people's  ofiicer  : — 
Masters,  lay  down  your  weapons. 

Bru.  Go  not  home. 

Sic.  Meet   on  the   market-place: — We'll  at- 
tend you  there : 
Where,  if  you  bring  not  Marcius,  we'll  proceed 
In  our  first  way. 

Men.  I  '11  bring  him  to  you  : — 

Let  me  desire  your  company.     He  must  come, 

[To  the  Senators. 
Or  what  is  worse  wiU  follow. 

1  Sen.  Pray  you,  let 's  to  hun. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Coriolanus'-s  House. 

Enter  Cokiolanus  and  Patricians. 

Cor.  Let  them  pull  all  about  mine  eai-s  ;  pre- 
sent me 
Death  on  the  wheel,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels  ; 
Or  pile  ten  hills  on  the  Tarpeian  rock. 
That  the  precipitation  might  down  stretch 
Below.the  beam  of  sight,  yet  will  I  still 
Be  thus  to  them. 

"■  In  peace.  So  tlie  original.  Pope  and  .subsequent  editors 
have  omitted  these  words,  assuming'  them  to  liave  been 
brought  by  mistake  from  the  line  below. 


Enter  VoLUMNIA. 

1  Pat.  You  do  the  nobler. 

Cor.  I  muse  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woollen  vassals,  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats ;  to  show  bare  hcad.> 
In  congregations,  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder, 
When  one  but  of  my  ordinance  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace,  or  war.     I  talk  of  you ; 

[To  VOLUMNIA. 

Why  did  you  wish  me  milder?     Would  you 

have  me 
Palse  to  my  nature  ?     Rather  say,  I  play 
The  man  I  am. 

Vol.  0,  sir,  sir,  sir, 

I  would  have  had  you  put  your  power  well  on. 
Before  you  had  worn  it  out. 

Cor.  Let  go. 

Vol.  You  might  have  been  enough  the  man 
you  are. 
With  striving  less  to  be  so  :  Lesser  had  been 
The  thwartiugs''  of  your  dispositions,  if 
You  had  not  show'd  them  how  you  were  dispos'd 
Ere  they  lack'd  power  to  cross  you. 

Cor.  Let  them  hang. 

Vol.  Ay,  and  bui-n  too. 

Enter  Menenius  and  Senators. 

Men.  Come,  come,  you  have  been  too  rough, 
sometliing  too  rough ; 
You  must  return,  and  mend  it. 

1  Sen.  There 's  no  remedy  ; 

Unless,  by  not  so  doing,  our  good  city 
Cleave  in  the  midst,  and  perish. 

Vol.  Pray  be  counsell'd  : 

I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  youi-s. 
But  yet  a  brain  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

Men.  Well  said,  noble  woman ! 

'  Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,^  but 
that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physic 
For  the  whole  state,  I  would  put  mine  armour  ou, 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 

Cor.  What  must  I  do  ? 

■]Ien  Return  to  the  tribunes. 

'cor.  ^^ell. 

What  then  ?  what  then  ? 

Men.  Repent  what  you  have  spoke. 

Cor.  For  them  ?— I  cannot  do  it  to  the  gods ; 
Must  I  then  do 't  to  them  ? 


»  T/inmriings.  This  is  an  inginiious  correction  by  Theo- 
bald.    The  original  has  iluni/s.  -  ,  »  i 

h  Herd.  The  original  lias  /icarl.  The  words  might  be 
easily  mistaken  in  the  old  spelling  of  heard;  and  we  adopt 
the  correction,  which  is  also  Theobald's. 

185 


ACT   III.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[SCEXK  II. 


Vol.  You  are  too  absolute ; 

Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble, 
But  when  extremities  speak.     I  have  heard  you 

say. 
Honour  and  policy,  like  unsever'd  friends, 
r  the  war  do  grow  together:  Grant  that,  and 

tell  me, 
In  peace,  what  each  of  them  by  th'  other  lose. 
That  they  combine  not  there. 

Cor.    '  Tush,  tush  ! 

Men.  A  good  demand. 

Fol.  If  it  be  honour,  in  your  wars,  to  seem 
The  same  you  are  not,  (which,  for  your  best 

ends, 
You  adopt  your  policy,)  how  is  it  less,  or  worse. 
That  it  shall  hold  companionship  in  peace 
With  honour,  as  in  war ;  since  that  to  both 
It  stands  in  like  request  ? 

Cor.  Why  force  you  this  ? 

Fol.  Because  that  now  it  lies  you  on  to  speak 
To  the  people ;  not  by  your  own  instruction, 
Kor  by  the  matter  which  your  heart  prompts  you, 
But  with  such  words  that  are  but  roted  in 
Your  tongue,  though  but  bastards,  and  syllables 
Of  no  allowance,  to  your  bosom's  truth. 
Now,  this  no  more  dishonours  you  at  all, 
Than  to  take  in  a  town  with  gentle  words,. 
Wliich  else  would  put  you  to  your  fortune,  and 
The  hazard  of  much  blood. — 
I  would  dissemble  with  my  nature,  where 
My  fortunes,  and  my  friends,  at  stake,  requir'd 
I  should  do  so  in  honour  :  I  am  in  this. 
Your  wife,  your  son,  these  senators,  the  nobles ; 
And  you  will  rather  show  our  general  lowts 
How  you   can  frown,  than  spend  a  fawn  upon 

them. 
For  the  inheritance  of  their  loves,  and  safeguard 
Of  what  that  want  misrht  ruin. 

Men.  Noble  lady  !— 

Come,  go  with  us  ;  speak  fair  :  you  may  salve  so. 
Not  what  is  dangerous  present,  but  the  loss 
Of  what  is  past. 

Fol.  I  prithee  now,  my  son, 

Go  to  them,  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand ; 
And  thus  far  having  stretch'd  it,  "(here  be  with 

them,) 
Thy  knee  bussing  the  stones,  (for  in  such  bu- 
siness 
Action  is  eloquence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
More  learned  than  the  ears,)  waving  thy  head, 
Which  often, — thus,— correcting  thy  stout  heart,* 


»  Thu  pas>a<;e  hai  bf  en  a  Btumblirg-lilock  to  tl.e  varioriiin 
editors;  and  they  want  to  know  how  the  waving  the 
head  correctj  the  stout  heart.  They  have  fDr.'ottei  the 
maxim  which  Volumnia  ha*  ju»t  uttered,  "Action  ii  elo- 
qoence."    She  is  explaining  her  meninj  by  her  action  : — 

186 


Now  humble,  as  the  ripest  mulberry 

That  will  not   hold   the   handling  :   Or,  say  to 

them, 
Tliou  art  their  soldier,  and,  being  bred  in  broils. 
Hast  not  the  soft  way,  which,  thou  dost  confess, 
Were  fit  for  thee  to  use,  as  they  to  claim. 
In  asking  their  good  loves  ;  but  thou  wilt  frame 
Thyself,  forsooth,  hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou  hast  power  and  person. 

Men.  This  but  done. 

Even   as  she   speaks,   why,   their  hearts  were 

yours  : 
For  they  have  pardons,  being  ask'd,  as  free 
As  words  to  little  purpose. 

Vol.  Prithee  now 

Gro,  and  be  rul'd :  although  I  know  thou  hadst 

rather 
Follow  thine  enemy  in  a  fiery  gulf, 
Than  flatter  him  in  a  bower.     Here  is  Cominius. 

Enter  CoMrsTCS. 

Com.  I  have  been  i'  the  market-place :   and, 
sir,  't  is  fit 
You  make  strong  party,  or  defend  yourself 
By  cabmess,  or  by  absence ;  all 's  in  anger. 
Men.  Only  fair  speech. 

Com.  I  think 't  wiU  serve,  if  he 

Can  thereto  frame  his  spirit. 

Vol.  He  must,  and  will : — 

Prirhee  now  say  you  will,  and  go  about  it 
Cor.  Must    I   go    show  them  my  uubarb'd 
sconce?    Must  I, 
With  my  base  tongue,  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A  lie,  that  it  must^'bear  ?    Well,  I  will  do 't : 
Yet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 
This  mould  of  Marcius,  they  to   dust   should 

grind  it. 
And  throw  it  against  the  wind. — To  the  market- 
place : — 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which 

never 
I  shall  discharge  to  the  Ufe. 

Com.  Come,  come,  we  '11  prompt  you. 

Fol.  I  prithee  now,  sweet  son,  as  thou  hast 
said, 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so. 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

Cor.  Well,  I  must  do 't : 

Away  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 


waving  thy  head,  which  often  wave— thus — (and  she  ther. 
waves  her  head  several  timesl.  She  adds,  "  correctinj;  thy 
stout  heart,"  be  "  humble  as  the  ripest  mulberry."  We 
owe  this  interpretation  to  a  pamphlet  printed  at  Edinburgh 
in  1814 — '  Explanations  and  E  iiendations  of  some  Fassag'.-j 
in  the  Text  of  Shakespeare.' 


Act  III.] 


CORIOLAJS^US. 


[SC£K£   111, 


Some  harlot's  spirit !  My  throat  of  war  be  turn'd, 
"Which  quired  with  my  drum,  into  a  pipe 
Small  as  an  eunuch,  or  the  virgiu  voice 
That  babies  lulls  asleep  !  The  smiles  of  knaves 
Tent  in  my  cheeks ;  and  schoolboys'  tears  take  up 
Tlie  glasses  of  my  sight !  A  beggar's  tongue 
Make  motion  through  my  hps ;  and  my  arm'd 

knees, 
Wlio  bow'd  but  iu  my  stirrup,  bend  like  his 
That  hath  receir'd  an  alms  ! — I  will  not  do 't : 
Lest  I  surcease  to  honour  mine  own  tnith, 
Aud,  by  my  body's  action,  teach  my  mind 
A  most  inherent  baseness. 

Vol.  At  thy  choice  then : 

To  beg  of  thee  it  is  my  more  dishonour, 
Than  thou  of  them.     Come  all  to  ruin  ;  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness ;  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.     Do  as  thou  list. 
Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it  from 

me  ; 
But  owe  thy  pride  thyself. 

Cor.  Pray,  be  content; 

Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  market-place ; 
Chide  me  no  more.     I  '11  mountebank  their  loves, 
Cog  their  hearts  from  them,  and  come  home  be- 

lov'd 
Of  all  the  trades  in  Rome.     Look,  I  am  going : 
Commend  me  to  my  wife.     I  '11  return  consul ; 
Or  never  trust  to  what  my  tongue  can  do 
r  the  way  of  flattery,  further. 

Vol.  Do  your  wUl.     [^Exit. 

Com.  Away !  the  tribunes  do  attend  you :  arm 
yourself 
To  answer  mildly ;  for  they  ai-e  prepai-'d 
With  accusations,  as  I  hear,  more  strong 
Than  are  upon  you  yet. 

Cor.  The  word  is,  mildly : — Pray  you,  let  us 
go: 
Let  them  accuse  me  by  invention,  I 
Win  answer  in  mine  honour. 

^[en.  Ay,  but  mildly. 

Cor.  Well,  mildly  be  it  then ;  mildly. 

\E.ceuHL 


SCENE  111.— The  same,     ^/^e  Mai-ket-place. 
Enter  SicinitjS  atid  Butjttjs. 

Bru.  In  this  point  charge  him  home,  that  he 
affects 
Tyrannical  power :  If  he  evade  us  there. 
Enforce  him  with  his  envy  to  the  people ; 
And  that  the  spoil,  got  on  the  Autiates. 
Was  ne'er  distributed. — 


Enter  an  -^dile. 

What,  ■ndll  he  come  ? 

^d.  He  's  coming. 

B/u.  How  accompanied  ? 

^d.  With  old  Menenius,  and  those  senators 
That  always  favour'd  him. 

Sic.  Have  you  a  catalogue 

Of  aU  the  voices  that  wc  have  procur'd. 
Set  down  by  the  poll  ? 

JEd.  I  have ;  't  is  ready. 

Sic.  Have  you  collected  them  by  tribes  ? 

^d.  I  have. 

Sic.  Assemble  presently  the  people  hither : 
And  when  they  hear  me  say  '  It  shall  be  so 
r  the  right  and  strength  o'  the  commons,'  be  it 

either 
For  death,  for  fine,  or  banishment,  then  let  them. 
If  I  say,  fine,  cry  '  fine ; '  if  death,  cry  *  death  ; ' 
Insistmg  on  the  old  prerogative 
And  power  i'  the  truth  o'  the  cause. 

jfd.  I  shall  inform  them. 

Bru.  And  when  such  time  they  have  begun 
to  cry. 
Let  them  not  cease,  but  with  a  din  confus'd 
Enforce  the  present  execution 
Of  what  we  chance  to  sentence. 

^d.  Very  well.    . 

Sic.  Make  them  be  strong,  and  ready  for  this 
hint. 
When  we  shall  hap  to  give 't  them. 

Bru.  Go  about  it.— 

[Exit  ^dile. 
Put  him  to  choler  straight :  He  hath  been  us'd 
Ever  to  conquer,  and  to  have  his  worth 
Of  contradiction :  Being  once  chaPd,  he  cannot 
Be  rein'd  again  to  temperance :  then  he  speaks 
What 's  in  his  heart :  and  that  is  there  which 

looks 
With  us  to  break  his  neck. 

Enter  CoKiOLAis^rs,  Menenius,  CoiiDfros,  Sena- 
tors, and  Patricians. 

Sic.  Well,  here  he  comes. 
Men.  Calmly,  I  do  beseech  you. 

Cor.  Ay,  as  an  ostler,  that  for  the  poorest 
piece 
WUl  bear  the  knave  by  the  volume. — The  ho- 

nour'd  gods 
Keep  Rome  iu  safety,  and  the  chairs  of  justice 
Supplied  with  worthy  men !  plant  love  among  us ! 
Throng  our  large  temples  with  the  shows  of  peace, 
And  not  oui-  streets  with  war ! 

1  Sen.  Amen,  Amen ! 

Men.  A  noble  wish. 

137 


i 


Acr  III.) 


CORIOLAKUS. 


(SCEKE    III. 


lie-enler  Jidilc,  tcitk  Citizens. 

Sic.  Draw  near,  yc  people. 

J-!d.  List  to  your  tribunes  ;  audience:  Peace, 
I  say  ! 

Cor.  First,  hear  me  speak.^ 

Both  Tri.  Well,  say.— rcace,  ho  ! 

Cor.  Shall  I  be  charg'd  no  further  than  this 
present  ? 
Must  all  determine  here? 

Sic.  I  do  demand, 

If  you  submit  you  to  the  people's  voices, 
Allow  their  officers,  and  arc  content 
To  suffer  lawful  censure  for  such  faults 
As  shall  be  prov'd  upon  you  ? 

Cor.  I  am  content. 

Mm.  Lo,  citizens,  he  says  he  is  content : 
The  warlike  service  he  has  done,  consider ; 
Think  on  the  wounds  his  body  bears,  Nvhich  show 
Like  graves  i'  the  holy  churchyard. 

Cur.  Scratches  with  briars, 

Scars  to  move  laughter  only. 

Men.  Consider  further. 

That  when  he  speaks  not  like  a  citizen. 
You  find  him  like  a  soldier :  Do  not  take 
His  rougher  accents*  for  malicious  sounds. 
But,  as  I  say,  such  as  become  a  soldier, 
Rather  than  envy  you. 

Com.  Well,  well,  no  move. 

Cor.  What  is  the  matter. 
That  being  pass'd  for  consul  with  full  voice, 
I  am  so  dishonour'd,  that  the  very  houi' 
You  take  it  off  again  ? 

Sic.  Answer  to  us. 

Cor.  Say  then  :  't  is  true,  1  ought  so. 

Sic.  We  charge  you,  that  you  have  contriv'd 
to  take 
From  Rome  all  season'd  office,  and  to  wind 
Yourself  into  a  power  tyrannical ; 
For  which  you  are  a  traitor  to  the  people. 

Cor.  Uow  !  traitor  ? 

Men.  Nay ;  temperately :  Your  promise. 

Cor.  Tlie  fires  i*  the  lowest  hell  fold  in  the 
people ! 
Call  me  their  traitor  ! — thou  injurious  tribune ! 
Witiiin  thine  eyes  sat  twenty  thousand  deaths, 
In  tt»y  hands  elutch'd  as  many  millions,  in 
Thy  lying  tongue  both  numbers,  I  would  say. 
Thou  liest,  unto  thee,  with  a  voice  as  free 
As  I  do  pray  the  gods. 

Sir.  Mark  you  this,  people  ? 

at.  To  the  rock ;  to  the  rock  with  him  ! 

Sic.  Peace! 


«  Jcctntt.     This    ii  a  Curn-ction  by   Tlitob.ilil ;    tlic   old 
copy  hai  achoni. 

183 


We  need  not  put  new  matter  to  his  charge : 
What  you  have  seen  him  do,  and  heard  him 

speak. 
Beating  your  officers,  cursing  yourselves. 
Opposing  laws  with  strokes,  and  here  defying 
Those  whose  great  power  must  try  him ;  even 

this. 
So  criminal,  and  in  such  capital  kind. 
Deserves  the  extremest  death. 

Brii.  But  since  he  hath  scrv'd  well  for  Rome, — 

Cor.  What !  do  you  prate  of  service  ? 

Bru.  I  talk  of  that,  that  know  it. 

Cor.  You  ? 

Men.  Is  this  the  promise  that  you  made  your 
mother  'i 

Com.  Know,  I  pray  you, — 

Cor.  I  '11  know  no  further : 

Let  them  pronounce  the  steep  Tarpeiau  death. 
Vagabond  exile,  flaying,  pent  to  linger 
But  with  a  grain  a  day,  I  would  not  buy 
Their  mercy  at  the  price  of  one  fair  word  ; 
Nor  check  my  courage  for  what  they  can  give, 
To  have  't  with  saying.  Good  morrow. 

Sic.  For  that  he  lias 

(.As  much  as  in  him  lies)  from  time  to  time 
Envied  against  the  people,  seeking  means 
To  pluck  away  their  power ;  as  now  at  last 
Given  hostile  strokes,  and  that  not  in  the  pre- 
sence 
Of  dreaded  justice,  but  on  the  ministers 
That  do  distribute  it :  In  the  name  o'  the  people. 
And  in  the  power  of  us  the  tribunes,  we. 
Even  from  this  instant,  banish  him  our  city ; 
In  peril  of  jirccipitation 
From  off  the  rock  Tarpeian,  never  more 
To  enter  our  Rome  gates  ;  I'  the  people's  name, 
I  say  it  shall  be  so. 

at.  It  shall  be  so :  It  shall  be  so ;  let  him 
away : 
He  's  banish'd,  and  it  shall  be  so." 

Com.  Hear  me,  my  masters,  and  my  common 
friends ; — 

Sic.  He 's  sentene'd ;  no  more  hearing. 

Com.  Let  me  speak  : 

I  have  been  consul,  and  can  show,  for  Rome, 


a  If  we  turn  to  the  bcKinninp  of  the  scene,  vre  shall  find 
the  direction  of  the  tribunes  very  precise  as  to  the  echo 
which  the  people  were  to  raise  of  their  words.  When,  there- 
fore, Sicinius  here  pronounces  the  sentence  of  banishment, 
he  tpmiinates,  as  he  said  he  should,  with,  "  It  shall  be  so;  " 
and  tlie  people,  true  to  the  instruction,  vociferate,  "  It 
shall  be  so."  They  afterwards  repeat  the  cr)'  in  the  sac.e 
words.  Perhaps  upon  the  whole  the  common  ttxt  formerly 
presented  one  of  Steevens's  most  atrocious  alterations.  It 
can  scarcely  be  conceived  that  he  has  had  the  folly  to  say, 
"old  copy  unmctrically,  nnd  it  shall  bit  so," — and  to  print  the 
passage  thus:  — 

"  It  shall  be  so. 

It  shall  be  so;  let  him  away:  he's  banish'd. 

And  so  il  shall  be." 


Act  III.] 


COKIOLANUS. 


[Scene  III. 


Her  enemies'  marks  upon  me.     I  do  love 
My  country's  good,  with  a  respect  more  tender, 
More  holy  and  profound,  than  mine  own  life, 
My  dear  wife's  estimate,  her  womb's  increase. 
And  treasure  of  my  loins ;  then  if  I  would 
Speak  that— 

Sic.  We  know  your  drift :  Speak  what  ? 

Jii-n.  There's  no  more  to  be  said,  but  he  is 
banish'd. 
As  enemy  to  the  people  and  his  country : 
It  shall  be  so. 

Ci(.  It  shall  be  so,  it  shall  be  so. 

Cor.  You  common  cry  of  curs !  whose  breath 
I  hate 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens,  whose  loves  I  prize 
As  the  dead  carcases  of  unburied  men 
That  do  corrupt  my  air,  I  banish  you ; 
And  here  remain  with  your  uncertainty  I 
Let  every  feeble  rumour  shake  your  hearts ! 
Your  enemies,  with  nodding  of  their  plumes, 
Ean  you  into  despair  !     Have  the  power  still 
To  banish  your  defenders ;  till,  at  length. 


Youi-  ignorance,  (which  fmds  not,  till  it  feels,) 
Making  not  *  reservation  of  yourselves, 
(Still  your  own  foes,)  deliver  you, 
As  most  abated  captives,  to  some  nation 
That  won  you  without  blows  !  Despising, 
For  you,  the  city,  thus  I  turn  my  back  : 
There  is  a  world  elsewhere. 

[Exei'jit  CoRiOL.\.xus,  Comisius,  Mexenius, 

Senators,  and  Patricians. 
Jid.  The  people's  enemy  is  gone,  is  gone ! 
at.  Our  enemy  is  banish'd !  ^   he  is  gone ! 
Hog  !  hoo ! 
[The  people  shout,  mid  throw  np  their  caps. 
Sic.  Go,  see  him  out  at  gates,  and  follow  him, 
As  he  hath  foUow'd  you,  with  all  despite ; 
Give  him  deserv'd  vexation.     Let  a  guard 
Attend  us  through  the  city. 

at.  Come,  come,  let 's  see  him  out  at  gates ; 
come :—  ' 

The  gods  preserve  our  noble  tribunes ! — Come. 

[E.rennf. 

"  Not.    The  original  has  but,  which  Capell  corrected, 


RECENT   NEW  READING. 


Apt  III.,  Sc.  IT.,  p.  1S.5— 


"  I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours, 

But  yet  a  brain  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage." 

In  this  passage  is  introduced  one  of  the  ei-ht  new  lines, 
whieli  Mr.  Collier  considers  to  have  been  recovered  as  tlie 
genuine  writing  of  Shakspere.  After  the  line  "  I  liave  a 
heart,"  S.C.,  the  Corrector  inserts — 

"  Ti>  brook  control  without  l.'ie  use  of  anger :" 


and  he  holds  the  sense  to  be  incomplete  without  it.  The 
incompleteness  of  the  sense  depends,  in  some  degree,  upon 
our  interpretation  of  tlie  word  "apt."  In  Ben  Jonson 
('  Cynthia's  Revels')  we  liave,  "I  confess  you  to  be  of  ar; 
nptc'd  and  double  humour.''  Assuming  "apt"  to  mean 
"ready,"  the  new  line  is  scarcely  required ;  for  Volumnia 
may  refer  to  the  aptitude  to  be  "  counselled,"  for  «liich  her 
heart  is  as  "little  apt"  as  lliat  of  her  son.  Mr.  Staunton 
says  the  MS.  Corrector's  line  has  underj;one  a  change  since 
its  first  appearance.     It  is  now— to  brook  reproof. 


V.*;"' '"  .^ 


[Tarpeian  Bock.] 


[Rome— a  Fragment  after  Piranesi.] 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OP  ACT  III. 


'  ScESE  I. — "  Arc  these  your  herd  ?" 
We  continue  our  quotations  from  North's  '  Plu- 
tarch :'— 

•'  But  when  the  day  of  election  was  come,  and 
that  Martins  came  to  the  market-place  with  great 
pomp,  accompanied  with  all  the  senate  and  the 
whole  nobility  of  the  city  about  him,  who  sought 
to  make   him  consul  with  the  greatest  instance 
and  entreaty  they  could  or  ever  attempted   for 
any  man  or  matter,  then  the  love  and  good  will 
of  the  common  people  turned  straight  to  an  hate 
and  envy  toward  him,  fearing  to  put  this  office  of 
Bovereign  authority  into  his  hands,  being  a  man 
somewhat   partial   towards    the  nobility,    and  of 
great  credit  and  authority  amongst  the  patricians, 
and  as  one  they  might  doubt  would  take  away 
altogether  the  liberty  from  the  people.     Where- 
upon, for  these  considerations,  they  refused  Martins 
in  the  end,  and  made  two  other  that  were  suitors 
consuls.    The  senate,  being  marvellously  offended 
with  the  people,  did  account  the  shame  of  this 
n-'fu.'^al  rather  to  redound  to  themselves  than  to 
Marti uB  :  but  Martins  took  it  in  far  worse  part 
than  the  senate,  and  was  out  of  all  patience ;  for 
he  waa  a  man  t^)0  full  of  pa.'sion  and  choler,  and 
too  much  given  over  to  self-will  and  opinion,  as 
one  of  It  high  mind  and  great  courage,  that  lacked 
the   gravity   and   affability   that   is   gotten   with 
judgment  of  learning  and  reason,  which  only  is 
to  be  looked  for  in  a  gov.emor  of  state ;  and  that 
remembered  not  how  wilfulness   is  the  thing  of 
the  world  which  a  governor  of  a  commonwealth 
for  pleasing  shovdil  shun,  being  that  which  Plato 
calle<l  BoliuriueBs." 

'  ScEXE  III. — "  Pirtt,  hear  vu  gpeah." 

"  So  Martins  came  and  presented  himself  to  an- 
■wer  their  accusations  against  him  ;  and  the  people 
held  their  peace,  and  gave  attentive  ear  to  hear 
190 


what  he  would  say.  But  where  they  thought  to 
have  heard  very  humble  and  lowly  words  come 
from  him,  he  began  not  only  to  use  his  wonted 
boldness  of  speaking  (which  of  itself  was  very 
rough  and  unpleasant,  and  did  more  aggravate  his 
accusation  than  purge  his  innocency),  but  alsa  gave 
himself  in  his  words  to  thunder,  and  look  there- 
withal so  grimly,  as  though  he  made  no  reckoning 
of  the  matter.  This  stirred  coals  among  the 
people,  who  were  in  wonderful  fury  at  it,  and 
their  hate  and  malice  grew  so  toward  him  that 
they  could  hold  no  longer,  bear,  nor  endure  his 
bravery  and  careless  boldness.  Whereupon  Sici- 
nius,  the  cruellest  and  stoutest  of  the  tribunes, 
after  he  had  whispered  a  little  with  his  companions, 
did  openly  pronounce,  in  the  face  of  all  the  people, 
Martius  as  condemned  by  the  tribunes  to  die. 
Then,  presently,  he  commanded  the  a?diles  to 
apprehend  him,  and  carry  him  straight  to  the 
rock  Tarpeian,  and  to  cast  him  headlong  down  the 
same.  When  the  jediles  came  to  lay  hands  upon 
Martius  to  do  that  they  were  commanded,  divers 
of  the  people  themselves  thought  it  too  cruel  and 
violent  a  deed." 

3  Scene  III. — "  Our  enemy  is  hanish'cH" 
"When  they  came  to  tell  the  voices  of  the 
tribes,  there  were  three  voices  odd  which  con- 
demned him  to  be  banished  for  ever.  After 
declaration  of  the  sentence,  the  people  made  such 
joy,  as  they  never  rejoiced  more  for  any  battle 
they  had  won  upon  their  enemies,  they  were  so 
brave  and  lively,  and  went  home  so  jocundly 
from  the  assembly,  for  triumph  of  this  sentence. 
The  senate  again,  in  contrary  manner,  were  as  sad 
and  heavy,  repenting  themselves  beyond  measure 
that  they  had  not  rather  determined  to  have 
done  and  suffered  anything  whatsoever,  before 
the  common  people  should  so  arrogantly  and  out- 
rageously have  abused  their  authority." 


1:1  &t;y--.- 


[Roman  Highway  on  the  Banks  of  the  Tiber.] 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— The 


same.     Before  a   Gale  of  the 
City.   ' 


Enter  Cokiolanus,  Volumnia,  Vikgilia,  !Me- 
NENitrs,  CoMiNiTJs,  and  several  yoimg  Patri- 
cians. 

Cor.  Come,  leave  your  tears ;^  a  brief  farewell : 
— the  beast 
With  many  heads  butts  me  away. — Nay,  mother, 
Where  is  your  ancient  courage  ?  you  were  used 
To  say,  extremity*  was  the  trier  of  spirits ; 
That  common  chances  common  men  could  bear ; 
That,  when  the  sea  was  calm,  all  boats  alike 
Show'd  mastership  in  floating :  fortune's  blows, 
When  most  struck  home,  being  gentle  wounded, 

craves 
A  noble  cunning :  you  were  used  to  load  me 
'With  precepts,  that  would  make  invincible 
The  heart  that  conn'd  them. 

*  Ertremily.  So  the  second  folio;  the  first  exircmities. 
This  correction  of  what  we  call  tlie  false  grammar,  in  an 
edition  published  so  soon  after  the  original,  ought  perhaps 
to  be  adopted  in  a  modern  text. 


rir.  0  heavens  !  O  heavens  ! 
Cor.  Nay,  I  prithee,  woman, — 

Vol.  Now  the  red  pestilence  strike  all  trades 
in  Rome, 
And  occupations  perish ! 

Cor.  What,  what,  what ! 

I  shall  be  lov'd  when  I  am  lack'd.     Nay,  mother, 
Resume  that   spirit,  when  you  were  wont   to 

say. 
If  you  had  been  the  wife  of  Hercules, 
Six  of  his  labours  you  'd  have  done,  and  sav'd 
Your  husband  so  much  sweat. — Cominius, 
Droop  not ;    adieu ! — Farewell,   my  wife  !    my 

mother ! 
I  '11  do  well  yet. — Thou  old  and"  true  Menenius, 
Thy  tears  are  Salter  than  a  younger  man 's. 
And  venomous   to  thine   eyes. — My  sometime 

general, 
I  have  seen  thee  stern,  and  thou  hast  oft  beheld 
Heart-hard'ning  spectacles ;  tell  these  sad  wo- 
men, 
'T  is  fond  to  wail  inevitable  strokes, 

191 


Act   IV.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[Scene  11. 


As  't  is  to  laugh  at  them. — My  mother,  you  wot 

well 
Aly  hazards  still  have  becu  your  solace:  and 
Believe 't  not  lightly,  (though  I  go  alone. 
Like  to  a  lontly  dragon,  that  his  fen' 
Makes  fcar'd   and  talk'd   of    more  than  seen,) 

your  son 
Will,  or  exeeed  the  common,  or  be  caught 
With  cautclous  baits  and  practice. 

Vol.  My  first  •>  sou, 

Whither  wilt  (hou  go?  Take  good  Coininius 
With  thee  a  while  :  Determine  on  some  course, 
More  than  a  w.'.d  exposure'  to  Cnich  chance 
That  st^irts  i'  the  way  before  thee. 

Cor.  O  the  gods  ! 

Com.  I'll  follow  thee  a  month,   devise  witii 
tliee 
Where  thou  shalt  rest,  that  thou  niay'st  hear  of 

us, 
And  we  of  thee :  so,  if  the  time  thrust  forth 
A  cause  for  thy  repeal,  we  shall  not  send 
O'er  the  vast  world,  to  seek  a  single  man ; 
And  lose  advantage,  which  doth  ever  cool 
r  the  absence  of  the  necder. 

Cor.  Fare  ye  well : — 

Thou  hast  years  upon  thee ;  and  thou  art  too  full 
Of  the  wars'  surfeits,  to  go  rove  with  one 
That's  yet  unbruis'd :  bring  mc  but  out  at  gate. — 
Come,  my  sweet  wife,  my  dearest  mother,  and 
My  friends  of  noble  touch,  when  I  am  forth. 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  smile.     I  pray  you,  come. 
While  I  remain  above  the  ground,  you  shall 
Hear  from  me  still ;  and  never  of  me  aught 
But  what  is  like  me  formerly. 

Men.  That 's  worthily 

As  any  ear  can  hear. — Come,  let 's  not  weep. — 
If  I  could  shake  off  but  one  seven  years 
From  these  old  arms  and  legs,  by  the  good  gods, 
I  'd  with  thee  every  foot ! 

Cor.  Give  me  thy  hand. 

Come.  [E.reunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Street  near  the 
Gale. 

Enter  Siciyics,  Bkutus,  and  an  Miile. 

Sic.  Bid  them  all  home ;  he 's  gone,  and  we  '11 
no  further. — 
The  nobility  are  vex'd,  who,  wc  see,  have  sided 
In  his  behalf. 


»  The  fen  U  the  pcitilentlal  abode  of  the  "lonely  drafjon," 
which  he  maket  "frarcd  and  talked  of  more  than  seen." 

b  Firtt — in  the  «cii«e  of  noblest. 

<■  '  -•  ••■-^  The  original  has  expmturf ;  but  we  think 
wi'  1  tli.it  lhi«  H  a  typographical  error,  and  correct 

It  1  .   y,  tflcr  Hfiwc. 

192 


Brii.  Now  we  have  shown  our  power, 

Let  us  seem  humbler  after  it  is  dune, 
Thau  when  it  was  a  doing. 

Sic.  Bid  them  home : 

Say,  their  great  enemy  is  gone,  and  they 
Stand  in  their  ancient  strength. 

Bni.  Dismiss  tlicra  home. 

[Exit  ^dile. 

Enter  VoLUMNiA,  Virgilia,  and  Menenius. 

Here  comes  his  mother. 

Sic.  Let 's  not  meet  her. 

Bni.  Why? 

Sic.  Tlicy  say  she 's  mad. 

Bru.  They  have  ta'en  note  of  us  : 

Keep  on  your  way. 

Vol.  0,  you  're  well  met :  The  hoarded  plague 
o'  the  gods 
llequitc  your  love ! 

Men.  Peace,  peace  !  be  not  so  loud. 

Vol.  If  that  I  could  for  weeping,  you  should 
hear, — 
Nay,  and  you  shall  hear  some. — Will  you  be 
gone  ?  {_To  Brutus. 

Vir.  You  shall  stay  too :  [To  Sicin.]  I  would 
I  had  the  power 
To  say  so  to  my  husband. 

Sic.  Are  you  mankind  ? " 

Vol.  Ay,  fool :   Is  that  a  shame  ? — Note  but 
this  fool. — 
Was  not  a  man  my  father  ?  Hadst  thou  foxship 
To  banish  him  that  struck  more  blows  for  Rome, 
Than  thou  hast  spoken  words  ? 

Sic.  0  blessed  heavens  ! 

Vol.  More  noble  blows,  than  ever  thou  wise 
■words ; 
And  for  Rome's  good. — I '11  tell  thee  what; — 

Yet  go  :— 
Nay,  but  thou  shalt  stay  too : — I  would  my  son 
Were  iu  Arabia,  and  thy  tribe  before  him, 
His  good  sword  in  his  hand. 

Sic.  ,      What  then? 

Vir.  '  AVhat  then  ? 

He'd  make  an  end  of  ihy  posterity. 

Vol.  Bastards,  and  all. — 
Good  man,  the  wounds  that  he  does  bear  for 
Rome ! 

Men.  Come,  come,  peace  ! 

Sic.  I  would  he  had  continued  to  his  country. 
As  he  began ;  and  not  unknit  himself 
The  noble  knot  he  made. 

Brii.  I  would  he  had. 


"  Mankind.  Sicinius  asks  insultinply  wlicther  Volun-.r-'n 
is  mankinil — a  woman  with  the  rouphnesa  of  a  man  ?  Shak- 
spcre,  in  A  Winter's  Tale,  uses  the  term  "  mankind  witch." 


Act  IV.] 


COEIOLAi^US. 


[SCENEB   III.,  IV. 


Vol.  I  ^yould  he  had  !    'T  was   you  incens'd 
the  rabble : 
Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth, 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries  which  heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

Bru.  Pray,  let  us  go. 

Vol.  Now,  pray,  sir,  get  you  gone  : 
Ton  have  done  a  brave  deed.    Ere  yo"  go,  hear 

this; 
As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
The  meanest  house  in  Rome,  so  far  my  son, 
(This  lady's  husband  here,  this,  do  you  see,) 
Whom  you  have  banish' d,  does  exceed  you  all. 

Bru.  Well,  well,  we  '11  leave  you. 

Sic.  Why  stay  we  tr  be  baited 

With  one  that  wants  her  wits  ? 

Vol.  Take  my  prayers  with  you. — 

I  would  the  gods  had  nothing  else  to  do, 

\_E.teunt  Tribunes. 
But  to  confirm  my  curses  !  Could  I  meet  them 
But  once  a  day,  it  would  unclog  my  heart 
Of  what  lies  heavy  to  't. 

Men.  You  have  told  them  home, 

And,  by  my  troth,  you  have  cause.     You  '11  sup 
with  me  ? 

Vol.  Anger 's  my  meat ;  I  sup  upon  myself, 
And  so  shall  starve  with  feeding. — Come,  let's 

go: 
Leave  this  faint  puling,  and  lament  as  I  do, 
In  anger,  Juno-like.     Come,  come,  come. 
Men.  Fie,  fie,  fie  !  \E.feuHt. 


SCENE  III. — A    Uigliway  beticeen  Eome  and 
Antium. 

Bnter  a  Roman  and  a  Voice,  meeting. 

Rom.  I  know  you  well,  sir,  and  you  know  me  : 
your  name,  I  think,  is  Adrian. 

Vole,  it  is  so,  sir :  truly,  I  have  forgot  you. 

Rom.  I  am  a  Roman ;  and  my  services  are, 
as  you  are,  against  them :  Know  you  me  yet  ? 

Vole.  Nicanor  ?  No. 

Rom.  The  same,  sir. 

Vole.  You  had  more  beard  when  I  last  saw 
you,  but  your  favour  is  well  appeared*  by  your 
tongue.  What 's  the  news  in  Rome  ?  I  have  a 
note  from  the  Volcian  state,  to  find  you  out 
there  :  You  have  well  saved  me  a  day's  journey. 

Rom.  There  hath  been  in  Rome  strange  in- 
surrections :  the  people  against  the  senators, 
patricians,  and  nobles. 

Vole.  Hath  been !  Is  it  ended  then  ?  Our  state 
thinks  not  so ;  they  are  in  a  most  warlike  pre- 

*  Well  appeared — rendered  apparent. 

Tragedies. — Vol.  II,         0 


paration,  and  hope  to  come  upon  them  in  the 
heat  of  their  division. 

Rom.  The  main  blaze  of  it  is  past,  but  a  small 
thing  would  make  it  flame  again.  For  the  no- 
bles receive  so  to  heart  the  banishment  of  that 
worthy  Coriolanus,  that  they  are  in  a  right  apt- 
ness to  take  all  power  from  the  people,  and  to 
pluck  from  them  their  tribunes  for  ever.  This 
lies  glowing,  I  can  tell  you,  and  is  almost  ma- 
ture for  the  violent  brealang  out. 

Vole.  Coriolanus  banished  ? 

Rom.  Banished,  sir. 

Vole.  You  will  be  welcome  with  this  intelli- 
gence, Nicanor. 

Rom.  The  day  serves  well  for  them  now.  I 
have  heard  it  said,  the  fittest  time  to  corrupt  a 
man's  wife  is  when  she 's  fallen  out  with  her 
husband.  Your  noble  TuUus  Aufidius  will  ap- 
pear well  in  these  wars,  his  great  opposer,  Co- 
riolanus, being  now  in  no  request  of  his  country. 

Vole.  He  cannot  choose.  I  am  most  fortunate 
thus  accidentally  to  encounter  you :  You  have 
ended  my  business,  and  I  wiU  merrily  accom- 
pany you  home. 

Rom.  I  shall,  between  this  and  supper,  tell 
you  most  strange  things  from  Rome ;  all  tend- 
ing to  the  good  of  their  adversaries.  Have  you 
an  army  ready,  say  you  ? 

Vole.  A  most  royal  one  :  the  centmions,  and 
theii"  charges,  distinctly  billeted,  already  in  the 
entertainment,^  and  to  be  on  foot  at  an  hour's 
warning. 

Ro7n.  I  am  joyful  to  hear  of  their  readiness, 
and  am  the  man,  I  think,  that  shall  set  them  in 
present  action.  So,  sii',  heartily  well  met,  and 
most  glad  of  your  company. 

Vole.  You  take  my  part  from  me,  sir  ;  I  have 
the  most  cause  to  be  glad  of  yours. 

Rom.  WeU,  let  us  go  together.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Antium.    Before  Aufidius',?  House. 

Enter  Coriolanus,  in  mean  apparel,  disguised 
and  muffled. 

Cor.  A  goodly  city  is  this  Antium :  ^  City, 
'T  is  I  that  made  thy  widows  :  many  an  heir 
Of  these  fair  edifices  'fore  my  wars 
Have  I  heard  groan,  and  di'op  :   then  know  me 

not; 
Lest  that  thy  wives  with  spits,  and  boys  with 

stones. 

Enter  a  Citizen. 
In  puny  battle  slay  me. — Save  you,  sir. 

'  In  the  c»/fWaJ«m«;j<— under  engagement  for  pay. 

193 


Act  IV.J 


CORIOLANUS. 


[ScENi:  V. 


at.  And  you. 

Cor.  Direct  mc,  if  it.  be  yoiir  •w-ill, 

Wbcrc  great  Aufidius  lies :  Is  lie  in  Antium  ? 

at.  Uc  is,  aud  feasts  the  nobles  of  the  state, 
At  liis  bouse  tliis  night. 

Cor.  AMiich  is  lus  house,  'beseech  you  ? 

at.  This,  here,  before  you. 

Cor.  Thank  you,  sir ;  farewell. 

[^Exit  Citizen. 
O,  world,  thy  slippery  turns !   Friends  now  fast 

sworn, 
Whose  double  bosoms  seem  to  wear  one  heart, 
"Whose    hours,   whose   bed,   whose   meal,    and 

exercise. 
Are  still  together,  who,  twin,  as't  were,  in  love 
Unseparable,  shall  within  this  hour, 
Ou  a  dissension  of  a  doit,  break  out 
To  bitterest  enmity  :  So,  fellcst  foes, 
Whose  passions  and  whose  plots   have  broke 

their  sleep 
To  take  the  one  the  other,  by  some  chance. 
Some  trick  not  woi'th  an  gq^,  shall  grow  dear 

friends. 
And  interjoin  their  issues.     So  with  me  : — 
My  birthplace  hate''  I,  and  my  love 's  upon 
This  enemy  town. — I  '11  enter :  if  he  slay  me. 
He  does  fair  justice ;  if  he  give  me  way, 
I  '11  do  his  country  service.  ^^Exit. 

SCENE  \.—The  same.    A  hall  hi  Aufidius'* 
House. 

Music  icithin.     Enter  a  Servant. 

1  Sere.  Wine,  wine,  wine .'  What  service  is 

here ! 
I  think  our  fellows  are  asleep.  \_E.rii. 

Enter  another  Servant.  ■ 

2  Serv.  Where 's  Cotns  !  my  master  calls  for 

liim. 
^ius  1  [^Exit. 

Enter  Coriolakits. 

Cor.  A  goodly  house :  The  feast  smells  well : 
but  I 
Appear  not  like  a  guest. 

He-enter  the  first  SeiTant. 

1  Scrv.  "What  would  you  have,  friend  ?  "Whence 
arc  you  ?  llcrc  's  no  i)Uicc  for  you  :  Pray,  go  to 
the  door. 

Cor.  I  have  dcscrv'd  no  better  entertainment. 
In  being  Coriolanus, 

*  Halt.  T)ic  nrif^inal  ha  hare;  and  we  owe  the  judici- 
ous correction  tc  CapelL 

194 


Re-enter  second  Servant. 

2  Serv.  Whence  are  you,  sir  ?  lias  the  porter 
his  eyes  iu  his  head,  that  he  gives  entrance  to 
such  companions  ?  Pray,  get  you  out. 

Cor.  Away ! 

2  Serv.  Away?   Get  you  away. 

Cor.  Now  thou  art  troublesome. 

2  Serv.  Are  you  so  brave ?  I '11  have  jou 
talked  with  anon. 

Enter  a  third  SeiTant.     The  first  meets  him. 

?>  Serv.  "What  fellow's  this? 

1  Serv.  A  strange  one  as  ever  I  looked  on :  I 
cannot  get  hir.i  out  o'  the  house :  Prithee,  call 
my  master  to  him. 

3  Serv.  What  have  you  to  do  here,  fellow  ? 
Pray  you,  avoid  the  house. 

Cor.  Let  me  but  stand ;  I  will  not  hurt  your 
hearth. 

3  Serv.  What  are  you  ? 

Cor.  A  gentleman. 

3  Serv.  A  marvellous  poor  one. 

Cor.  True,  so  I  am. 

3  Serv.  Pray  you,  poor  gentleman,  take  up 
some  other  station ;  here 's  no  place  for  you ; 
pray  you,  avoid :  come. 

Cor.  Pollow  your  function,  go  !  aud  batten  on 
cold  bits.  \_Pi(shes  him  awai/. 

3  Serv.  "What,  will  you  not  ?  Prithee,  tell  my 
master  what  a  strange  guest  he  has  here. 

2  Serv.  And  I  shall.  [_Exit. 

3  Serv.  Where  dwellest  thou  ? 
Cor.  Under  the  canopy. 

3  Serv.  Under  the  canopy  ? 

Cor.  Ay. 

3  Serv.  Where 's  that  ? 

Cor.  V  the  city  of  kites  and  crows. 

3  Serv.  V  the  city  of  kites  and  crows  ? — What 
an  ass  it  is !— Then  thou  dwcUest  with  daws 
too? 

Cor.  No,  I  serve  not  thy  master. 

3  Serv.  How,  sir !  Do  you  meddle  with  my 
master  ? 

Cor.  Ay;  'tis  an  honester  service  than  to 
meddle  with  thy  mistress :  Thou  prat'st,  and 
prat'st ;  serve  ^vith  thy  trencher,  hence  ! 

[Eeats  him  away. 

Enter  Aufldius  and  the  second  Servant. 

Auf.  Where  is  this  follow  ? 
2  Serv.  Here,  sir ;  I  'd  have  beaten  him  like 
a  dog,  but  for  disturbing  the  lords  within. 
Auf.    Whence   com'st  thou?    what   wouJdst 


Act  IV.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


[Scene  V. 


thou?  Thy  name?  "Wliy  speak'st  not?    Speak, 
man  :  "Wliat  's  thy  name  ? 

Cor.  If,  Tullus,  \ii7im7fffiin(f\  not  yet  thou 
know'st  me,  and,  seeing  me,  dost  not  think  me 
for  the  man  I  am,  necessity  commands  me  name 
myself. 

Aitf.  What  is  thy  name  ?         [Servants  retire. 
Cor.  A  name    nnmusical    to  the  Volscians' 
ears. 
And  harsh  in  sound  to  thine. 

Auf-  Say,  what 's  thy  name  ? 

Thou  hast  a  grim  appearance,  and  thy  face 

Bears  a  command  in  't ;  though  thy  tackle 's  torn. 

Thou  show'st  a  noble  vessel :   Wliat  's  thy  name  ? 

Cor.  Prepare  thy  brow  to  frown:     Know'st 

thou  me  yet  ? 
Auf.  I  know  .thee  not : — Thy  name  ? 
Cor.  My  name  is  Cains  Marcius,  who  hath 
done 
To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Vol  sees. 
Great  hui't  and  mischief;  thereto  witness  may 
My  sm-name,  Coriolanus  :  The  painful  service, 
Tlie  extreme  dangers,  and  the  drops  of  blood 
Shed  for  my  thankless  country,  are  requited 
But  with  that  surname  ;  a  good  memory, 
And  witness  of  the  malice  and  displeasure 
lYliich  thou  shouldst  bear  me  :  only  that  name 

remains  ; 
The  cruelty  and  envy  of  the  people. 
Permitted  by  our  dastard  nobles,  who 
Have  all  forsook  me,  hath  devom-'d  the  rest  ; 
And  sujfer'd  me  by  the  voice  of  slaves  to  be 
"Whoop'd  out  of  Rome.    Now,  this  extrenaty 
Hath  brought  me  to  thy  hearth :  Not  out  of 

hope. 
Mistake  me  not,  to  save  my  life ;  for  if 
I  had  fear'd  death,  of  all  the  men  i'  the  world 
I  would  have  'voided  thee :  but  in  mere  spite. 
To  be  full  quit  of  those  my  bauishers. 
Stand  I  before  thee  here.     Then  if  thou  hast 
A  heart  of  wreak  '^  in  thee,  that  will  revenge 
Thme   o^vn  particidar  wrongs,  and  stop  those 

maims 
Of  shame  seen  through  thy  country,  speed  thee 

straight, 
And  make  my  misery  serve  thy  turn ;  so  use  it, 
That  my  revengeful  services  may  prove 
As  benefits  to  thee ;  for  I  will  fight 
Against  my  canker' d  country  with  the  spleen 
Of  aU  the  imder  fiends.^    But  if  so  be 
Thou  dai-'st  not  this,  and  that  to  prove   more 

fortunes 
Thou  art  tur'd,  then,  in  a  word,  I  tdso  am 


jrr«o  At— revenge. 


l"  Under  fiends- 
0  2 


■fiends  below. 


Longer  to  live  most  weary,  and  present 
My  throat  to  thee,  and  to  thy  ancient  malice : 
Which  not  to  cut  would  show  thee  but  a  fool ; 
Smee  I  have  ever  follow'd  thee  with  hate. 
Drawn  tuns    of    blood    out  of    thy  counti-y's 

breast. 
And  cannot  live  but  to  thy  shame,  unless 
It  be  to  do  thee  service. 

^i^if-  O  Marcius,  Marcius  ! 

Each  word  thou  hast  spoke  hath  weeded  from 

my  heart 
A  root  of  ancient  envy.     If  Jupiter 
Should  from  yon  cloud  speak  divine  things. 
And  say,  '  'T  is  true,'  I  'd  not  believe  them  more 
Than  thee,  aU  noble  Marcius. — Let  me  t\vine 
Mine  arms  about  that  body,  where  against 
My  grained  ash  an  hundred  times  liath  broke. 
And  scarr'd  the  moon  with  splinters!     Here  I 

clip 
The  ^nvil  of  my  sword ;  and  do  contest 
As  hotly  and  as  nobly  with  thy  love, 
As  ever  in  ambitious  strength  I  did 
Contend  against  thy  valour.     Know  thou  first, 
I  lov'd  the  maid  I  married ;  never  man 
Sigh'd  truer  breath  ;  but  that  I  see  thee  here. 
Thou  noble  thing !  more  dances  my  rapt  lieart 
Thau  when  I  first  my  wedded  mistress  saw 
Bestride   my  threshold.     Why,  thou  Mars !   I 

tell  thee, 
We  have  a  power  on  foot ;  and  I  had  piu'pose 
Once  more  to  hew  thy  target  from  thy  brawn. 
Or  lose  mine  arm  for 't :   Thou  hast  beat  me 

out^' 
Twelve  several  times,  and  I  have  nightly  since 
Dreamt  of  encounters  'twixt  thyself  and  me  : 
We  have  been  down  together  in  my  sleep. 
Unbuckling  helms,  fisting  each  other's  throat, 
And   walc'd  half  dead  with   nothing.     Worthy 

Alarcius, 
Had  we  no  other  quarrel  else  to  Home,  but  that 
Thou  art  thence  banish' d,  we  would  muster  all 
Prom  twelve  to  seventy ;  and,  pouring  war 
Into  the  bowels  of  ungrateful  Rome, 
Like  a  bold  flood  o'erbeat.     0,  come,  go  in, 
And  take  our  friendly  senators  by  the  hands ; 
Who  now  are  here,  taking  their  leaves  of  me, 
Who  am  prepar'd  against  your  territories. 
Though  not  for  Kome  itself. 

Cor.  You  bless  me,  gods ! 

Avf.  Therefore,  most  absolute  sir,  if  thou  wilt 

have 
The  leading  of  tliine  own  revenges,  take 
The    one    half  of    my    commission;    and    set 

dowa, — 


"  Oa/— complete. 


195 


.Act  IV.) 


COKIOLAiSUS 


[SCKNE    T  , 


As  best  thou  art  expcricnc'd,  since  thou  know'at 
Thy  countn-'s   strength   and   weakness, — thine 

own  ways : 
TMicthcr  to  knock  against  the  gates  of  Rome, 
Or  rudely  visit  them  in  parts  remote, 
To  fright  them,  ere  destroy.     But  come  in : 
Let  me  commend  thee  first  to  those  that  shall 
Say,  Yea,  to  thy  desires.   A  thousand  welcomes  ! 
And  more  a  friend  that  e'er  an  enemy  ; 
Yet,   Marcius,    that   was    much.     Your    hand! 

Most  welcome ! 

\_E.reuii(  CouioL.vNUS  and  AuFiDius. 

1  Sen.  [AdcanctHff.]  Here  's  a  strange  alter- 
ation 1 

2  St'rc.  By  my  hand  I  had  thought  to  have 
struckcn  him  with  a  cudgel ;  and  yet  my  mind 
gave  me  his  clothes  made  a  false  report  of  him. 

1  Serv.  What  an  arm  he  has !  He  turned 
me  about  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb,  as  one 
would  set  up  a  top.  ^ 

2  Sere.  Kay,  I  knew  by  his  face  that  there 
was  something  in  liim  :  he  had,  sir,  a  kind  of 
face,  methought, — I  cannot  tell  how  to  term  it. 

1  Serv.  He  had  so  ;  looking  as  it  were, — 
'Would  I  were  hanged  but  I  thought  there  was 
more  iu  him  than  I  could  think. 

2  Serv.  So  did  I,  I  '11  be  sworn :  he  is  simply 
the  rarest  man  i'  the  world. 

1  Serv.  I  think  he  is  :  but  a  greater  soldier 
than  he,  you  Mot  one. 

2  Serv.  Who  ?  my  master  ? 

1  Serv.  Nay,  it 's  no  matter  for  that. 

2  Serv.  Worth  six  of  him. 

1  Serv.  Nay,  not  so  neither ;  but  I  take  him 
to  be  the  greater  soldier. 

2  Serv.  Taith,  look  you,  one  cannot  tell  how- 
to  say  that :  for  the  defence  of  a  town  our  gene- 
ral is  excellent. 

1  Serv.  Ay,  and  for  an  assault  too. 


Re-cxter  third  Servant. 

3  Serv.  0,  slaves,  I  can  tell  you  news  ;  news, 
you  rascals ! 

1  iJ-  2  Serv.  What,   what,  what  ?    let 's  par- 
take. 

3  S'Tv.  I  would  not  be  a  Boman,  of  all  na- 
tions ;  1  had  as  lieve  be  a  condemned  man. 

1  tj-  2  Serv.  Wherefore  ?  wherefore  ? 

3  Sere.  Why,    here 's   he  that  was   wont  to 
thwack  our  general, — Caius  Marcius. 

1  Serv.  Why  do  you  say   thwack  our  gene- 
ral ? 

3  Serv.  I   do   not  say   thwack   our  general : 
but  he  was  always  good  enough  for  him. 
19G 


2  Sere.  Come,  we  arc  fellows  and  friends : 
he  was  tver  too  hard  for  him  ;  1  have  heard  him 
say  so  himself. 

1  Serv.  He  was  too  hard  for  him  directly,  to 
say  the  truth  on't:  before  Corioli  he  scotched 
him  and  notched  him  like  a  carbonado. 

2  Serv.  An  he  had  been  cannibally  given,  he 
might  have  broiled  and  eaten  him  too. 

1  Scree.  But,  more  of  thy  news  'r* 

3  Serv.  Why,  he  is  so  made  on  here  within, 
as  if  he  were  son  and  heir  to  Mars  :  set  at  upper 
end  o'  the  table  :  no  question  asked  him  by  any 
of  the  senators,  but  they  stand  bald  before  him  : 
Our  general  himself  makes  a  mistress  of  him ; 
sanctifies  himself  with  's  hand,  and  turns  up  the 
white  o'  the  eye  to  his  discourse.  But  the  bot- 
tom of  the  news  is,  our  general  is  cut  i'  the 
middle,  and  but  one  half  of  what  he  was  yester- 
day ;  for  the  other  has  half,  by  the  entreaty  and 
grant  of  the  whole  table.  He  '11  go,  he  says, 
and  sowle''  the  porter  of  Rome  gates  by  the  ears : 
He  will  mow  all  down  before  him,  and  leave 
his  passage  polled.'' 

2  Sere.  And  he 's  as  like  to  do 't  as  any  man 
I  can  imagine. 

3  Serv.  Do 't  ?  he  will  do  't :  For,  look  you, 
sir,  he  has  as  many  friends  as  enemies  :  which 
friends,  sir,  (as  it  were,)  durst  not  (look  you, 
sir)  show  themselves  (as  we  term  it)  his  friends 
whilst  he  's  in  direct itude." 

1  Serv.  Directitude  !  what 's  that  ? 

3  Sere.  But  when  they  shall  see,  sir,  his  crest 
up  again,  and  the  man  in  blood,  they  will  out  of 
their  burrows,  like  conies  after  rain,  and  revel 
all  with  him. 

1  Sere.  But  when  goes  this  forward  ? 

3  Serv.  To-morrow ;  to-day ;  presently.  You 
shall  have  the  drum  struck  up  this  afternoon  ■ 
't  is,  as  it  were,  a  parcel  of  their  feast,  and  to  be 
executed  ere  they  wipe  their  lips. 

2  Serv.  Why,  then  we  shall  have  a  stirring 
world  again.  This  peace  is  nothing,  but  to  rust 
ii'on,  increase  tailors,  and  breed  ballad-makers. 

1  Serv.  Let  me  have  war,  say  I ;  it  exceeds 
peace  as  far  as  day  does  night ;  it 's  sprightly, 
waking,  audible,  and  full  of  vent.  Peace  is  a 
very  apoplexy,  lethargy;  mulled,  deaf,  sleepy, 
insensible ;  a  getter  of  more  bastard  children 
than  war  's  a  destroyer  of  men. 

2  Sere.  'T  is  so  :  and  as  war,  in  some  sort. 


"  Soirle — a  provincial  word  for  pull  out. 

1>  /'o/Zfrf— cleared. 

c  Directitude.  Malone  would  read  discredilude.  He 
thinks  the  servant  was  not  meant  to  talk  absolute  non- 
sense. Why  then  does  the  other  servant  ask  the  niefi:iing 
of  the  fine  word  \ 


Act  IV.I 


COEIOLANUS. 


[Scene  VI. 


may  be  said  to  be  a  ra\asher,  so  it  cannot  be 
denied  but  peace  is  a  great  maker  of  cuckolds. 

1  Serv.  Ay,  and  it  makes  men  hate  one  an- 
other. 

3  Serv.  Reason ;  because  they  then  less  need 
one  another.  The  wars  for  my  money.  I 
hope  to  see  Romans  as  cheap  as  Volsciaiis. 
They  are  rising,  they  ai'e  rising. 

All.  In,  in,  in,  in  !  [Kveiint 

SCENE  VI.— Rome.     A  jmblic  Place. 
Enter  SiCDiius  and  Brutus. 

Sic.  We  hear  not  of  him,  neither  need  we 

fear  him; 
His  remedies  are  tame  i'  the  present  peace 
And  quietness  o'  the  people,  which  before 
Were  in  wild  hurry.     Here  do  we  make  his 

friends 
Blush  that  the  world  goes  well;    who  rather 

had. 
Though  they  themselves  did  suifer  by 't,  beheld  '^ 
Dissentious  numbers  pestering  streets,  than  see 
Our  tradesmen  singing  in  their  shops,  and  going 
About  their  functions  friendlv. 

Enter  Menenius, 

Bru.  We  stood  to't  in  good  time.  Is  this 
Menenius  ? 

Sic.  'T  is  he,  't  is  he :  0,  he  is  grown  most 
kind  of  late.     Hail,  sir  ! 

Men.  Hail  to  you  both  ! 

Sic.  Your  Coriolanus  is  not  much  missed 
but  with  his  friends ;  the  commonwealth  doth 
stand;  and  so  would  do,  were  he  more  angry 
at  it. 

Men.  All 's  well ;  and  might  have  been  much 
better,  if  he  could  have  temporised. 

§ic.  Where  is  he,  hear  you  ? 

Men.  Nay,  I  hear  nothing;  his  mother  and 
his  wife  hear  nothing  from  him.'' 

Enter  Three  or  Four  Citizens. 

at.  The  gods  preserve  you  both  ! 

Sic.  Good-e'en,  our  neighbours. 

Bru.  Good-e'en  to  you  all,  good-e'en  to  you 

all. 
1  at.  Ourselves,  our  wives,  and  childreu,  on 

oxir  knees. 
Are  bound  to  pray  for  you  both. 


a  Beheld.  The  original  has  behold,  which  is  retained  in 
most  modern  editions;  but  we  should  certainly  read  would 
behold,  or  had  beheld. 

b  We  print  this  dialogue  in  prose,  as  in  the  original. 
It  is  ordinarily  printed  as  ten  lines  of  blank  verse,  after 
Capell. 


Sic.  Live,  and  thrive ! 

Bru.  Farewell,  kind  neighbours :   We  wish'd 
Coriolanus 
Had  lov'd  you  as  we  did. 

Cit.  Now  the  gods  keep  you ! 

Both  Tri.  Farewell,  farewell. 

\_Exeunt  Citizens. 
Sic.    This  is   a    happier   and    more    comely 
time 
Than  Mheu  these  fellows  ran  about  the  streets, 
Cryiag,  Confusion. 

Bru.  Caius  Marcius  was 

A  worthy  officer  i'  the  war ;  but  insolent, 
O'ercome  with  pride,  ambitious  past  all  think- 


incr 


SeLf-loving, — 

Sic.  And  affecting  .one  sole  throne. 

Without  assistance. 

Men.  I  tliink  not  so. 

Sic.  We  should  by  this,  to  all  our  lamenta- 
tion. 
If  he  had  gone  forth  consul,  found  it  so. 

Bru.  The  gods  have  well  prevented  it,  and 
Rome 
Sits  safe  and  stUl  without  him. 

Enter  M(!a\e. 

.^d.  Worthy  tribunes, 

There  is  a  slave,  whom  we  liave  put  ia  prison. 
Reports,  the  Voices  with  two  several  powers 
Are  enter'd  in  the  Roman  territories ; 
And  with  the  deepest  malice  of  the  war 
Destroy  what  lies  before  them. 

Men.  'T  is  Aufidius, 

AVho,  hearing  of  our  Marcius'  banishment. 
Thrusts  forth  his  horns  again  into  the  world, 
"Which  were  insheU'd  when  Marcius  stood  fi^r 

Rome, 
And  durst  not  once  peep  out. 

Sic.  Come,  what  talk  you  of  Marcius  ? 

Bru.  Go  see  this  rumourer  whipp'd. — It  can- 
not be 
The  Volsces  dare  break  with  us. 

Men.  Cannot  be ! 

We  have  record  that  very  well  it  can ; 
And  three  examples  of  the  like  have  been 
Within  my  age.     But  reason  with  the  feUow, 
Before  you  punish  him,  where  he  heard  this : 
Lest  you   shall  chance  to  whip  your  informa- 
tion, 
And  beat  the  messenger  who  bids  beware 
Of  what  is  to  be  dreaded. 

Sic.  Tell  not  me : 

I  know  this  cannot  be. 

Bru.  Not  possible. 

787 


Aor  iv.i 


CORIOLANUS. 


[SCEVl.     VI. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  nobles,  in  great  earnestness,  arc 
going 
All  to  the  sonatc-house :  some  news  is  come  "* 
That  turns  their  countenances. 

Sic.  'T  is  this  slave ; — 

Go  whip  him  'fore  the  people's  eyes : — liis  rais- 
ing! 
Nothing  but  his  report ! 

^fess.  Yes,  worthy  sir. 

The  slave's  report  is  seconded ;  and  more. 
More  fearful,  is  deliver'd. 

Sie.  What  more  fearful  ? 

Mess.  It  is  spoke  freely  out  of  many  mouths, 
(llow  probable,  I  do  not  know,)  tliat  ^larcius, 
Joiu'd  with    Aufulius,   leads    a    power  'gainst 

Rome ; 
And  vows  revenge  as  sjjacious  as  between 
The  young'st  and  oldest  thing. 

Sic.  This  is  most  likely ! 

Bru.  Rais'd  only  that  the  weaker  soi-t  may 
wish 
Good  Mareius  home  again. 

Sic.  The  very  trick  on 't 

Men.  This  is  unlikely : 
He  and  Aufidius  can  no  more  atone,'' 
Than  nolentcst  contraiiety. 

Elder  another  Messenger. 

Mess.  You  are  sent  for  to  the  senate ; 
A  fearful  army,  led  by  Caius  ]\Iarcius, 
Associated  with  Aufidius,  rages 
Upon  our  temtories ;  and  have  already, 
O'erbome  their  way,   eonsum'd  with  fire,  and 

took 
What  lay  before  them. 

Enter  CoiiiNlus. 

Com.  O,  you  have  made  good  work ! 
Men.  What  news  ?  what  news  ? 

Com.  You   have    liolp   to    ravish 
daughters,  and 
To  melt  the  city  leads  upon  your  pates ; 
To  sec  your  wives  dishonour'd  to  your  noses ; — 
Men.  ^Vllat  's  the  news  ?  what 's  the  news  ? 
Com.  Your  temples  burned  in  their  cement; 
and 


'^  Cn-rj>.  The  orIgin.il  h.u  cnming.  The  alteration  to 
c>.TJ<!  wa.1  by  Ilowc,  wlilcli  \vc  adopt,  in  Co:nmoii  with  other 
recent  editors.  Yet  we  unwillinf^ly  give  up  cnminy.  The 
reader  will  lemcmber  Mr.  Campbell's  fine  imat;L  — 

"  Coming  events  ca»t  their  shadows  before." 

*  AloTUr—ht  reconciled— 3/  om. 

198 


your    own 


Your  franchises,  whereon  you  stood,  confin'd 
Into  an  auger's  bore. 

Men.  Pray  now,  your  news  ? — 

You  have  made  fair  work,  I  fear  me: — Pray, 

your  news  ? 
If  Mareius  should  be  joiu'd  with  Volcians, — 

Com.  If! 

He  is  their  god;  he  leads  them  like  a  thing 
Made  by  some  other  deity  than  nature, 
That    shapes    man    better :     and    they    follow 

him, 
Against  us  brats,  with  no  less  confidence 
Than  boys  pursuing  summer  butterflies. 
Or  butchers  killing  flics. 

Men.  You  have  made  good  work. 

You,  and  your  apron-men;   you  that  stood  so 

much 
Upon  the  voice  of  occupation,  and 
The  breath  of  garlic-eaters ! 

Com.  He'll    shake  your  Rome    about  your 
ears. 

Men.  As  Hercules  did  shake  down  mellow 
fruit: 
You  have  made  fair  work ! 

Bru.  But  is  this  true,  sir  ? 

Com.  Ay ;  and  you  '11  look  pale 
Before  you  find  it  other.     All  the  regions 
Do  smilingly  revolt ;  and,  who  resist. 
Are  mock'd  for  valiant  ignorance, 
And  perish  constant  fools.    Who  is 't  can  blame 

him? 
Your  enemies,  and  his,  find  something  in  him. 

Men.  We  are  all  undone,  unless 
The  noble  man  have  mercy. 

Com.  Who  shall  ask  it  ? 

The  tribimes  cannot  do 't  for  shame ;  the  people 
Deserve  such  pity  of  him  as  the  wolf 
Does  of  the  shepherds :  for  his  best  friends,  if 

they 
Should  say,  'Be  good  to  Rome,'  they  charg'd 

him  even 
As  those  should  do  that  had  deserv'd  his  hate. 
And  therein  show'd  like  enemies. 

Men.  'T  is  true : 

If  he  were  putting  to  my  house  the  brand 
That  should  consume  it,  I  have  not  the  face 
To  say,  "Beseech  you,  cease.' — You  have  made 

fair  hands. 
You  and  your  crafts  !  you  have  crafted  fair ! 

Com.  You  have  brought 

A  trembling  upon  Rome,  such  as  was  never 
So  incapable  of  help. 

Tri.  Say  not  we  brought  it. 

Men.  How  !  Was  it  we  ?  We  lov'd  him ;  but, 
like  beasts. 


Act  IY.] 


COEIOLAlf[JS. 


[SCESE  vn. 


And    cowardly   nobles,    gave  way    unto    your 

clusters. 
Who  did  hoot  him  out  o'  the  city. 

Com.  Bat;  I  fear, 

They  '11  roar  him  in  again.     Tullus  Aulidius, 
The  second  name  of  men,  obeys  his  points 
As  if  he  were  his  officer :— Desperation 
Is  all  the  policy,  strength,  and  defence. 
That  Rome  can  make  against  them. 

Enter  a  troop  of  Citizens. 

Men.  Here  come  the  clusters. — 

And  is  Aufidius  with  him  ? — You  are  they 
That  made  the  air  unwholesome,  when  you  cast 
Your  stinking,  greasy  caps,  in  hooting 
At  Coriolauus'  exUe.     Now  he 's  comius' ; 
And  not  a  hair  upon  a  soldier's  head 
WMch  wUl  not  prove  a  whip;  as  many  cox- 
combs 
As  you  threw  caps  up,  will  he  tumble  down. 
And  pay  you  for  your  voices.    'T  is  no  matter ; 
If  he  could  bum  us  all  into  one  coal. 
We  have  deserv'd  it. 

at.  'Faith,  we  hear  fearful  news. 

1  Git.  For  mine  own  part. 
When  I  said,  banish  him,  I  said  't  was  pity. 

2  at.  And  so  did  I. 

3  at.  And  so  did  I;  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
so  did  very  many  of  us  :  That  we  did  we  did  for 
the  best ;  and  though  we  wiUingly  consented  to 
liis  banishment,  yet  it  was  against  our  -nTll. 

Com.  You  are  goodly  things,  you  voices  ! 
Meji.  You  have  made 

Good  work,  you  and  your  cry ! — Shall  us  to  the 
Capitol  ? 
Com.  O,  ay ;  what  else  ? 

[Exeunt  CoM.  and  Men. 
Sic.  Go,  masters,  get  you  home,  be  not  dis- 
may'd. 
These  are  a  side  that  would  be  glad  to  have 
This  true,  which  they  so  seem  to  fear.     Go  home, 
And  show  no  sign  of  fear. 

1  at.  The  gods  be  good  to  us!  Come,  masters, 
let 's  home.  I  ever  said  we  were  i'  the  wrong 
when  we  banished  him. 

2  at.  So  did  we  all.    But  come,  let 's  home. 

\Exeunt  Citizens. 
Bru.  I  do  not  like  this  news. 
Sic.  Nor  I. 

Brti.  Let's  to  the  Capitol: — 'Would  half  my 
wealth 
Would  buy  this  for  a  lie ! 
Sic.  Pray,  let  us  go. 

{Exeunt. 


SCENE  vn. — A  Camp  ;  at  a  small  distance 
from  Rome. 

Enter  Aufidius  and  his  Lieutenant. 

Aiif.  Do  they  still  fly  to  the  Roman  ? 
Lieu.  I  do  not  know  what  witchcraft 's  in  him ; 
but 
Your  soldiers  use  him  as  the  grace  'fore  meat, 
Their  talk  at  table,  and  their  thanks  at  end ; 
And  you  are  darken' d  in  this  action,  su-. 
Even  by  your  own. 

.  -^uf.  I  cannot  Jielp  it  now ; 

Unless,  by  using  means,  I  lame  the  foot 
Of  our  design.     He  bears  himself  more  proudliei , 
Even  to  my  person,  than  I  thought  he  would 
When  first  I  did  embrace  him  :  Yet  his  natia-e 
In  that 's  no  changeling ;  and  I  must  exciise 
What  cannot  be  amended. 

Lieu.  Yet  I  wish,  sir, 

(I  mean,  for  your  particular,)  you  had  not 
Join'd  in  commission  with  him :  but  either  had 

borne 
The  action  of  yourself,  or  else  to  him 
Had  left  it  solely. 

Auf.  I  understand  thee  well;    and  be  thou 
sure, 
When  he  shall  come  to  his  account,  he  knows 

not 
What  I  can  urge  against  him.    Although  it 

seems. 
And  so  he  thinks,  and  is  no  less  apparent 
To  the  vulgar  eye,  that  he  bears  all  things  fairly. 
And   shows  good  huabandi-y  for  the  Volcian 

state ; 
Fights  dragon-like,  and  does  achieve  as  soon 
As  draw  his  sword :  yet  he  hath  left  undone 
That  which  shall  break  his  neck,  or  hazard  mine, 
Whene'er  we  come  to  our  account. 

Lieu.  Sir,   I   beseech  you,   think  you  he'll 

can-y  Rome  ? 
Auf.  All  places  yield  to  him  ere  he  sits  down ; 
And  the  nobility  of  Rome  are  his : 
The  senators  and  patricians  love  him  too  : 
The  tribunes  are  no  soldiers  ;  and  their  people 
Win  be  as  rash  in  the  repeal,  as  hasty 
To  expel  him  thence.     I  think  he  '11  be  to  Rome, 
As  is  the  osprey  to  the  fish,  who  takes  it 
By  sovereignty  of  natm-e."    First  he  was 
A  noble  servant  to  them ;  but  he  could  not 

*  The  force  and  propriety  of  this  image  will  be  seen  from 
the  following  extract  from  Drayton's  '  Folyolbion,'  descrit 
ing  the  osprey,  according  to  the  popular  notion  : — 
"  The  osprey,  oft  here  seen,  though  seldom  here  it  breeds. 
Which  over  them  the  fish  no  sooner  doth  espy, 
But,  betwixt  him  and  tliem  by  an  antipathy, 
Turning  their  bellies  up,  as  though  their  death  they  saw, 
They  at  his  pleasure  lie  to  stuff  his  gluttonous  maw.  ' 

190 


Act  IV. ] 


CORIOLANUS. 


(SCEKE   VII. 


Carry  his  honours  even :  wlicthcr  't  was  pride, 
Which  out  of  daily  fortune  ever  taints 
The  happy  man  ;  Mlicthcr  defect  of  judgment, 
To  fail  in  the  disposing  of  those  chances 
"Which  he  was  lord  of ;  or  whether  nature, 
Not  to  be  other  than  one  thing,  not  moving 
From  the  casque  to  the  cushion,  but  command- 
ing peace 
Even  with  the  same  austerity  and  garb 
As  he  controU'd  the  war;  but  one  of  these 
(As  he  hath  spices  of  them  all,  not  all, 
For  I  dare  so  far  free  him)  made  him  fcar'd, 
So  liatcd,  and  so  banish'd  :  But  he  has  a  merit, 
To  choke  it  in  the  utterance.     So  our  virtues 
Lie  in  the  interpretation  of  the  time  : 
knd  power,  unto  itself  most  commendable, 


Hath  not  a  tomb  so  evident  as  a  chair 

To  extol  what  it  hath  done. 

One  fire  drives  out  one  fire  ;  one  nail,  one  nail ; 

Rights  by  rights  fouler,"  strength  by  strengths  do 

fail. 
Come,  let 's  away.     WHien,  Caius,  Rome  is  thine, 
Thou  art  poor'st  of  all ;  then  shortly  art  thou 

mine.  \_E.reuht. 


*  Fouler.  So  the  original.  Malone  substitutes /ountfcr; 
and  the  emendation  has  provoked  three  pages  of  controversy 
nmonKst  the  commentators.  We  may  understand  the  mean- 
ing of  the  original  expression  if  we  substitute  the  op|)osite 
epithet,  fairer.  As  it  is,  the  lesser  rights  drive  out  the 
greater— the  fairer  rights  fail  through  the  fouler.  In  the 
same  manner,  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  fouler  is  not 
usad  in  the  sense  of  more  polluted  ;  we  have, 

"  The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  eiid." 


[Ancient  Arch  on  Road  leading  int<i'  Borne.] 


-'■•«^^^1  ""^^ry"- 


[Old  Roman  Willow  Wood.] 


ILLITSTExiTIONS  OP  ACT  IV. 


•  Scene  I.—"  Come,  leave  your  tears." 

The  departure  of  Coriolanus  from  Rome  is  thus 
described  by  Plutarch  : — 

"  When  he  was  come  home  to  his  house  again, 
and  had  taken  his  leave  of  his  mother  and  wife, 
finding  them  weeping  and  striking  out  for  sorrow, 
and  had  also  comforted  and  persuaded  them  to  be 
content  with  his  chance,  he  went  immediately  to 
the  gate  of  the  city,  accompanied  with  a  great 
number  of  patricians  that  brought  him  thither, 
from  whence  he  went  on  his  way  with  three  or 
four  of  his  friends  only,  taking  nothing  with  him, 
nor  requesting  anything  of  any  man.  So  he 
remained  a  few  days  in  the  country  at  his  houses, 
turmoiled  with  sundry  sorts  and  kinds  of  thoughts, 
Buch  as  the  fire  of  his  choler  did  stir  up." 

2  Scene  IV.— "A  goodly  city  is  this  Antiuni." 
The  entry  of  Coriolanus  into  the  "  enemy  city," 
and  the  interview  between  the  two  rival  captains, 
is  most  graphically  told  by  Plutarch.  Shakspere 
has  put  forth  all  his  strength  in  working  up  the 
scene,  and  yet  has  kept  to  the  original  with 
wonderful  exactness  : — 

"  It  was  even  twilight  when  he  entered  the  citv 


of  Antium,  and  many  people  met  him  ic  the 
streets,  but  no  man  knew  him.  So  he  went 
directly  to  TuUus  Aufidius'  house ;  and  when  he 
came  thither  he  got  him  up  straight  to  the  chimney- 
hearth,  and  sat  him  down,  and  spake  not  a  woi-d 
to  any  man,  his  face  all  muffled  over.  They  of 
the  house,  spying  him,  wondered  what  he  should 
be,  and  yet  they  durst  not  bid  him  rise.  For  ill- 
favouredly  muffled  and  disguised  as  he  was,  yet 
there  appeared  a  certain  majesty  in  his  countenance 
and  in  his  silence :  whereupon  they  went  to  Tulhis, 
who  was  at  supper,  to  tell  him  of  the  strange  dis- 
guising of  this  man.  TuUus  rose  presently  from 
the  board,  and,  coming  towards  him,  asked  him 
what  he  was,  and  wherefore  he  came.  Then  JIartius 
unmuffled  himself,  and  after  he  liad  paused  awhile, 
making  no  answer,  he  said  unto  him — If  thou 
knowest  me  not  yet,  Tulius,  and,  seeiug  me,  dost 
not  perhaps  believe  me  to  be  the  man  I  am  indeed, 
I  must  of  necessity  betray  myself  to  be  that  I  am. 
I  am  Caius  Martins,  who  hath  done  to  thyself 
particularly,  and  to  all  the  Voices  generally,  great 
hurt  and  mischief,  which  I  cannot  deny  for  my 
surname  of  Coriolanus  that  I  bear:  for  I  never 
had  other  benefit  nor  recompense  of  the  true  and 

201 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  IV. 


painful  service  I  have  done,  and  the  extreme 
dangers  I  have  been  in,  but  thia  only  surname, 
a  good  mcruor)'  find  witness  of  the  malice  and 
displeasure  thou  shouldst  bear  mo.  Indeed  the 
name  only  remaineth  with  mo  :  for  the  rest,  the 
envy  and  cruelty  of  the  people  of  Rome  have 
taken  from  me,  by  the  sufferance  of  the  dastardly 
nobility  and  magisti-ates,  who  have  forsaken  me, 
and  let  mo  bo  banished  by  tho  people.  This 
extremity  hath  now  driven  me  to  come  as  a  poor 
suitor  to  take  thy  chimney-hearth, not  of  any  hope 
I  have  to  save  my  life  thereby, — for  if  I  had  feared 
death  I  would  not  have  como  hither  to  have  put 
myself  in  hazard, — but  pricked  fonvard  with  desire 
to  be  revenged  of  them  that  thus  have  banished 
me,  which  now  I  do  begin,  in  putting  my  person 
into  the  hands  of  their  enemies.  AVherefore,  if 
thou  hast  any  heart  to  bo  wreaked  of  the  injuries 
thy  enemies  have  done  thee,  speed  thee  now,  and 
let  my  misery  serve  thy  turn,  and  so  use  it  as  my 


service  may  be  a  benefit  to  the  Voices :  promising 
thee  that  I  will  fight  with  better  good  will  for  all 
you,  than  I  did  when  I  was  against  you,  knowing 
that  they  figlit  more  valiantly  who  know  the  force 
of  tho  enemy,  than  such  as  have  never  proved  it. 
And  if  it  be  so  that  thou  daro  not,  and  that  thou 
art  wcaiy  to  prove  fortimo  any  more,  then  I  am 
also  weary  to  live  any  longer.  And  it  were  no 
wisdom  in  thee  to  save  the  life  of  him  who  hath 
been  heretofore  thy  mortal  enemy,  and  whoso 
service  now  can  nothing  help  nor  pleasure  thee. 
TuUus,  hearing  what  he  said,  was  a  marvellous 
glad  man,  and,  taking  him  by  tho  hand,  he  said 
unto  him— Stand  up,  0  Martins,  and  be  of  good 
cheer,  for  in  j)roffering  thyself  unto  us  thou  doest 
us  gi'eat  honour  :  and  by  this  means  thou  mayest 
hope  also  of  greater  things  at  all  the  Voices'  hands. 
So  he  feasted  him  for  that  time,  and  entertained 
him  in  the  honourablest  manner  he  could." 


'  •!'  ''s^/mi 


i/ 


[Public  Place  in  Rome.] 


ACT  V. 


I 


S(3ENE  I.— Rome.     J  public  Place. 

Enter  Menenius,  Comintos,  Sicmius,  Brtjttts, 
and  others. 

Men.  No,  I  '11  uofc  go :  you  hear  wliat  he  hath 
said 
Which  was  sometime  his  general;    who  lov'd 

him 
In  a  most  dear  particular.    He  caU'd  me  father  : 
But  what  o '  that  ?  Go,  you  that  banish'd  him ; 
A  mile  before  his  tent  fall  do^vu,  and  knee"' 
The  way  into  his  mercy :  Nay,  if  he  coy'd 
To  hear  Cominius  speak,  I  '11  keep  at  home. 
Com.  He  would  not  seem  to  know  me.^ 
Men.  Do  you  hear? 

Com.  Yet  one  time  he  did  call  me  by  my 
name : 
I  urg'd  our  old  acquaintance,  and  the  drops 

a  Knee.    So  the  original.    The  second  folio,  which  has 
been  followed  In  all  other  editions,  has  the  less  expressive 
verb  kneel.    Shakspere  uses  knee  as  a  verb  in  Lear  : — 
"  To  knee  his  throne." 


That  we  have  bled  together.     Coriolanus 
He  would  not  answer  to  :  forbad  all  names ; 
He  was  a  kind  of  nothing,  titleless, 
Tin  he  had  forg'd  liimself  a  name  o'  the  fire 
Of  burning  Eomc. 

Men.      Why,  so ;  you  have  made  good  work : 
A  pair  of  tribunes  that  have  rack'd  for  Rome, 
To  make  coals  cheap  :  A  noble  memory ! 

Com.  I    minded    him    how    royal    'twas    to 
pardon 
WTien  it  was  less  expected  :  He  replied. 
It  was  a  bare  petition  of  a  state 
To  one  whom  they  had  punish'd. 

Men.  "Very  well ; 

Could  he  say  less  ? 

Com.  I  offer'd  to  awaken  his  regard 
For  his  private  friends :  His  answer  to  me  was, 
He  could  not  stay  to  pick  them  in  a  pile 
Of  noisome  musty  chaff :  He  said,  't  was  folly 
For  one  poor  grain  or  two  to  leave  unbumt. 
And  stiU  to  nose  the  offence. 

Men.  For  one  poor  grain  or  two  ? 

203 


Act  V.J 


CORTOLANUS 


[SCF.KS    II. 


I  am  one  of  those ;  his  motlicr,  wife,  his  child, 
And  this  brave  fellow  too,  \rc  arc  the  grains  : 
You  are  tiic  musty  chaff ;  and  you  are  smelt 
Above  the  moon :  We  must  be  burnt  for  you. 

Sic.  Nay,  pray  be  patient :  If  you  refuse  your 
aid 
In  this  so  ucvcr-nccdcd  help,  yet  do  not 
Upbraid  us  with  our  distress.     But,  sure,  if  you 
Would  be  your  coimtry's  pleader,  your  good 

tongue. 
More  than  the  instant  army  we  can  make, 
Might  stop  our  countryman. 

Men.  No ;  I  '11  not  meddle. 

Sic.  Pray  you,  go  to  him. 

Men.  What  should  I  do  ? 

Bru.  Only  make  trial  what  your  love  can  do 
For  Rome,  towards  Marcius. 

Men.  Well,  and  say  that  Marcius  return  me. 
As  Cominius  is  returu'd,  unheard ;  what  then  ? — 
But  as  a  discontented  friend,  grief-shot 
With  his  unkindness  ?  Say  't  be  so  ? 

Sic.  Yet  your  good  will 

Must  have  that  thanks  from  Rome,  after  the 

measure 
As  you  intended  well. 

Men.  I  '11  undertake  it : 

I  think  he  '11  hear  me.     Yet,  to  bite  his  lip 
And  hum  at  good  Cominius,  much  unhearts  me. 
He  was  not  taken  well :  he  had  not  din'd : 
The  veins  unfill'd,  our  blood  is  cold,  and  then 
We  pout  upon  the  morning,  are  unapt 
To  give  or  to  forgive ;  but  when  we  have  stuff 'd 
These  pipes,  and  these  conveyances  of  our  blood, 
With  \vine  and  feeding,  we  have  suppler  souls 
Than  in  our  priest-like  fasts  :  therefore  I  '11  watch 

him 
Till  he  be  dieted  to  my  request. 
And  then  I  '11  set  upon  him. 

Bru.  You  know  the  very  road  into  his  kuid- 
ness. 
And  cannot  lose  your  way. 

Men.  Good  faith,  I  '11  prove  him. 

Speed  how  it  will,     I  shall  ere  long  have  know- 
ledge 
Of  my  success.  [^Exii. 

Com.  He  '11  never  hear  him. 

Sic.  Not  ? 

Com.  I  tell  you,  he  does  sit  in  gold,  his  eye 
Red  as  't  would  burn  Rome ;  and  his  injury 
The  gaoler  to  his  pity.     I  kneel 'd  before  him  ; 
'T  was  very  faintly  he  said, '  Rise ;'  dismiss'd  me 
Thus,  with  his  speechless  hand  :  What  he  would 

do, 
He  sent  in  writing  after  me, — what  he  would 
not ; 

204 


Bouud  with  an  oath  to  yield  to  his  conditions  :* 

So  that  all  hope  is  vain. 

Unless'*  his  no])le  mother,  and  his  wife ; 

Who,  as  I  hear,  mean  to  solicit  him 

For   mercy   to   his   country.      Tiierefore,   let's 

hence. 
And  with  our  fair  entreaties  haste  them  on. 

[Exeun/. 

SCENE  11.—^//  advanced  Post  of  the  Volcian 
Camp  before  Rome.     The  Guard  at  their  stations. 

Enter  to  them  Menenius. 

1  G.  Stay :  Whence  are  you  ? 

2  G.  Stand,  and  go  back. 
Men.  You  guard  like  men ;  't  is  well :   But, 

by  youi"  leave, 
I  am  an  officer  of  state,  and  come 
To  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

1  G.  From  whence  ? 

Men.  From  Rome. 

1  G.  You  may  not  pass,  you  must  return 

our  general 
Will  no  more  hear  from  thence. 

2  G.  Y'ou'U  see  your  Rome  embrac'd  with 

fire,  before 
You  'U  speak  with  Coriolanus. 

Men.  Good  my  friends. 

If  you  have  heard  your  general  talk  of  Rome, 
And  of  his  friends  there,  it  is  lots*^  to  blanks 
My  name  hath  touch' d  your  ears :    it  is  Me- 
nenius. 
1  G.  Be  it  so ;  go  back :  the  virtue  of  your 
name 
Is  not  here  passable. 

Men.  I  tell  tliee,  fellow. 

Thy  general  is  my  lover :  I  have  been 
The  book  of  his  good  acts,  whence  men  have 

read 
His  fame  unparallel'd,  haply  amplified ; 
For  I  have  ever  verified  my  friends 
(Of  whom  he's  chief)  with  all   the  size  that 

verity 
Would  without  lapsing  suffer :  nay,  sometimes, 
Like  to  a  bowl  upon  a  subtle  ground. 


a  Tlie  commentators  suspect  some  omission  here;  but  it 
appears  to  us  that  Ihey  have  mistaken  the  passage.  They 
conceive  that  "  what  lie  would  not  "  is  the  matter  especially 
"bound  with  an  oath."  Coriolanus  sends  "in  wri'lng " 
both  "  what  he  would  do"  and  "  what  he  would  not ;  "  and, 
in  justification  of  the  harshness  of  his  dem.Tnds,  he  adds  that 
he  is  "  bound  with  an  oath  to  yield  to  his  conditions," — 
that  is,  to  make  his  sole  law  the  "  conditions  "  in  which  he 
had  become  placed — hi<  duty  to  the  Volscians;— to  yield 
himself  up  entirely  to  the  puidance  of  those  "  conditions." 

b  Unless  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  except :  We  have  no 
hope  except  his  noble  mother,  &c. 

c  L'lli  are  the  whole  number  of  tickets  in  alottery ;  blankt 
a  proportion  of  the  whole  number. 


Act  v.] 


CORIOLANUS 


fScE.NE    II. 


I  have   tumbled  past   the   throw ;   and  in  his 

praise 
Have   almost  stamp'd  the   leasing:    therefore, 

fellow, 
I  must  have  leave  to  pass. 

1  G.  'Eaith,  su-,  if  you  had  told  as  many  lies 
in  his  behalf,  as  you  have  uttered  words  in  your 
own,  you  should  not  pass  here :  no,  though  it 
were  as  virtuous  to  lie  as  to  live  chastely.  There- 
fore, go  back. 

Me7t.  Prithee,  fellow,  remember  my  name  is 
Menenius,  always  factionary  on  the  party  of 
your  general. 

2  G.  Howsoever  you  have  been  his  Har,  (as 
you  say  you  have,)  I  am  one  that,  telling  true 
under  him,  must  say  you  cannot  pass.  There- 
fore, go  back. 

Men.  Has   he  dined,  canst  thou  tell  ?   for  I 
would  not  speak  with  him  till  after  dinner. 
1  G.  You  are  a  Roman,  are  you  ? 
Men.  I  am  as  thy  general  is. 

1  G.  Then  you  should  hate  Rome,  as  he 
does.  Can  you,  when  you  have  pushed  out 
your  gates  the  very  defender  of  them,  and  in  a 
violent  popular  ignorance  given  your  enemy 
your  shield,  think  to  front  his  revenges  with 
the  easy  groans  of  old  women,  the  virginal 
palms  of  your  daughters,  or  with  the  palsied 
intercession  of  such  a  decayed  dotant  as  you 
seem  to  be?  Can  you  think  to  blow  out  the 
intended  fire  your  city  is  ready  to  flame  in, 
with  such  weak  breath  as  this  ?  No,  you  are 
deceived :  therefore,  back  to  Rome,  and  pre- 
pare for  your  execution  :  you  arc  condemned ; 
our  general  has  sworn  you  out  of  reprieve  and 
pardon. 

Men.  Sirrah,  if  thy  captain  knew  I  were 
here,  he  would  use  me  with  estimation. 

2  G.  Come,  my  captain  knows  you  not. 
Men.  I  mean,  thy  general. 

1  G.  My  general  cares  not  for  you.  Back, 
I  say ;  go,  lest  1  let  forth  your  half-pint  of  blood  ; 
— back, — that 's  the  utmost  of  your  having  ; — 
back. 

Men.  Nay,  but  feUow,  fellow, — 

Enter  Coriolaijus  and  Aufidius. 

Cor.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Men.  Now,  you  companion,  I  '11  say  an  errand 
for  you ;  you  shall  know  now  that  I  am  in  esti- 
mation ;  you  shall  perceive  that  a  jack  guardant 
cannot  office  me  from  my  son  Coriolauus : 
guess,  but  by  my  entertainment  with  him,  if 
thou  stand'st  not  i'  the  state  of  hanging,  or  of 
some    death   more  long  in  spectatorship,   and 


crueller  in  suffering;  behold  now  presently, 
and  swoon  for  what 's  to  come  upon  thee. — 
The  glorious  gods  sit  in  hourly  synod  about  thy 
particular  prosperity,  and  love  thee  no  worse 
than  thy  old  father  Menenius  does !  0,  my 
son !  my  son !  thou  art  preparing  fire  for  us ; 
look  thee,  here's  water  to  quench  it.  I  was 
hardly  moved  to  come  to  thee  :  but  being  as- 
sured none  but  myself  could  move  thee,  T  have 
been  blown  out  of  your  gates  with  sighs :  and 
conjure  thee  to  pardon  Rome,  and  thy  peti- 
tionary couutrymeu.  The  good  gods  assuage 
thy  wrath,  and  turn  the  dregs  of  it  upon  this 
varlet  here ;  this  who,  like  a  block,  hath  de- 
nied my  access  to  thee. 
Cor.  Away  ! 
Men.  How  !  away  ? 

Cor.  Wife,  mother,  child,  I  know  not.     My 
affairs 
Are  servanted  to  others  :  Though  I  owe 
My  revenge  pi'operly,  my  remission  lies 
In  Volcian  breasts.     That  we  have  been  fa- 
miliar, 
Ingrate  forgetfulness  shall  poison  rather 
Than   pity    note    how    much.  —  Therefore,    be 

gone. 
]\line  ears  against  your  suits  are  stronger  than 
Your  gates  against  my  force.     Yet,  for  I  lov'd 

thee. 
Take  this  along ;  I  writ  it  for  thy  sake, 

\_Gives  a  letter. 
And  would  have  sent  it.     Another  word,  Me- 
nenius, 
I  will  not  hear  thee  speak. — This  man,  Aufidius, 
Was  my  belov'd  in  Rome  :  yet  thou  behold'st — 
All/.  You  keep  a  constant  temper. 

\E.veiint  CoRioLANUs  and  Aufidius. 

1  G.  Now,  sir,  is  your  name  Menenius  ? 

2  G.  'T  is  a  spell,  you  see,  of  much  power : 
you  know  the  way  home  again. 

1  G.  Do  you  hear  how  we  are  shent*  for 
keeping  your  greatness  back  ? 

2  G.  What  cause,  do  you  think,  I  have  to 
swoon  ? 

3Ien.  I  neither  care  for  the  world  nor  your 
general :  for  such  thmgs  as  you,  I  can  scarce 
think  there's  any,  you  are  so  slight.  He  that 
hath  a  will  to  die  by  himself,  fears  it  not  fr  )m 
another.  Let  your  general  do  his  worst.  Tor 
you,  be  that  you  are,  long ;  and  your  misery 
increase  \vith  your  age  !  I  say  to  you,  as  I  was 
said  to.  Away  !  [Exit. 

\  G.  k  noble  fellow,  I  warrant  him. 


"  S«en/— rebuked. 


205 


Act  v.] 


COIlIOL.iNUS. 


[Scene  III. 


2  G.  The  worthy  fellow  is  our  gcucral :  He 
is  the  rock,  the  oak  not  to  be  \n:id-sh;ikcn. 

\_Exeunl. 

SCENE  III.— r-i^  tent  o/Coriolauus. 
EnUr  CoRiOLANUS,  Aufidius,  and  others. 
Cor.  Wc  M-ill  before  the  walls  of  Rome  to- 

Set  down  our  host. — My  partner  in  this  action, 
You    must    report  to  the   Volcian  lords   how 

plainly 
I  have  borne  this  business. 

Auf.  Only  their  ends 

You  have  respected ;  stopp'd  your  ears  against 
The  general  suit  of  Home  ;  never  admitted 
A  private  whisper,  no,  not  with  such  friends 
That  thought  them  sure  of  you. 

Cor.  This  last  old  man, 

Whom  with  a  crack'd  heart  I  have  sent  to  Eome, 
Lov'd  me  above  the  measure  of  a  father ; 
Nay,  godded  me,  indeed.    Their  latest  refuge 
Was  to  send  him  ;  for  whose  old  love  I  have 
(Though  I  show'd  sourly  to  him)  once  more  offer'd 
The  first  conditions  which  they  did  refuse. 
And  cannot  now  accept,  to  grace  him  only 
That  thought  he  could  do  more ;  a  very  httlc 
I  have  yielded  too  :  Fresh  embassies,  and  suits. 
Nor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to. — Ha  !  what  shout  is  this  ? 

[^Shout  within. 
Shall  I  be  tempted  to  infringe  my  vow 
In  the  same  time  't  is  made  ?    I  will  not. — 

BiUer  ViBGiLU,  Volumnia,  leading  young  Mah- 

cius,  Valeria,  and  Attendants. 
My  wife   comes  foremost;^  then   the  honour'd 

mould 
Wherein  this  trunk  was  fram'd,  and  in  her  hand 
The  grandchild  to  her  blood.   But  out,  affection ! 
All  bond  and  privilege  of  nature  break ! 
Let  it  be  virtuous  to  be  obstinate. — 
What  is  that  curtsy  worth !  or  those  doves'  eyes. 
Which  can  make  gods  forsworn! — I  melt,  and 

am  not 
Of    stronger  earth   than   others. — My  mother 

bows ; 
As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  bhould 
In  suppUcation  nod  :  and  my  young  boy 
Hath  an  aspect  of  intercession,  which 
Great  nature  cries,  'Deny  not.' — Let  tlic  Volsces 
Plough  Rome,  and  harrow  Italy  :  I  'il  never 
Be  such  a  gosling  to  obey  instinct ;  but  stand, 
As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself. 
And  knew  no  otlier  kin. 

206 


Vir.  My  lord  and  husband  ! 

Cor.  These  eyes  arc  not  the  same  I  wore  in 
Rome. 

Vir.  The  sorrow  that  delivers  us  thus  chaug'd 
Makes  you  think  so. 

Cor.  Like  a  dull  actor  now, 

I  have  forgot  my  part,  and  I  am  out. 
Even  to  a  full  disgrace.     Best  of  my  flesh, 
Eorgivc  my  tyranny ;  but  do  not  say, 
For  tiuit,  'Forgive  our  Romans.' — O,  a  kiss 
Long  as  my  exile,  sweet  as  my  revenge ! 
Now,  by  the  jealous  queen  of  heaven,  that  kiss 
I  carried  from  thcc,  dear,  and  my  true  lip 
Hath    virgin'd    it    e'er    since. — You   gods !    I 

prate,* 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted  :  Sink,  my  knee,  i'  the  earth  ; 

\Knecls. 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression  show 
Thau  that  of  common  sons. 

Vol.  0,  stand  up  bless'd  ! 

Whilst,  Anth  no  softer  cushion  than  the  flint, 
I  kneel  before  thee ;  and  unproperly 
Show  duty,  as  mistaken  all  this  whUc 
Between  the  child  and  parent.  \Kncels 

Cor.  What  is  this  ? 

Your  knees  to  me  ?  to  your  corrected  son  ? 
Then  let  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars  ;  then  let  the  mutinous  winds 
Stiike  the  proud  cedars  'gainst  the  fiery  sun ; 
Murd'ring  impossibility,  to  make 
What  cannot  be,  slight  work. 

Vol.  Thou  ai't  my  warrior ; 

I  holp''  to  frame   thee.     Do  you  know  this 
lady? 

Cor.  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome  ;  chaste  as  the  icicle, 
That 's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow. 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple  :  Dear  Valeria  ! 

Vol.  This  is  a  poor  epitome  of  yours. 
Which  by  the  interpretation  of  full  time 
May  show  like  all  yourself. 

Cor.  The  god  of  soldiers, 

With  the  consent  of  supreme  Jove,  infonn 
Thy  thoughts  with  nobleness  ;  that  thou  mayst 

prove 
To  shame  iuvuhierable,  and  stick  i'  the  wars 
Like  a  great  sea  mark,  standing  every  flaw. 
And  saving  those  that  eye  thee  ! 

Vol.  Your  knee,  sirrah. 

Cor.  That 's  my  brave  boy. 

Vol.  Even  he,  your  wife,  this  lady,  and  myself. 
Arc  suitors  to  you. 

»  Prate.    The  original  has  pray.    Wc  owe  the  correction 
to  Theobald, 
b  Jlolp.    In  the  original  hope.  Pope  made  the  correctiou. 


Act  v.] 


COEIOLAmJS. 


[SCESE   III. 


Cor.  I  beseech  you,  peace  : 

Or,  if  you'd  ask,  remember  this  before, — 
The  things  I  have  forsworn  to  grant  may  never 
Be  held  by  you  denials.     Do  not  bid  me 
Dismiss  my  soldiers,  or  capitidate 
Again  Mith  Rome's  mechanics  : — Tell  me  not 
AVherein  I  seem  unnatural :  Desire  not 
To  allay  my  rages  and  revenges  witli 
Your  colder  reasons. 

Fol.  O,  no  more,  no  more  ! 

You  have  said  you  wiU  not  grant  us  anything ; 
For  we  have  nothing  else  to  ask  but  that 
"WTiich  you  deny  already  :  Yet  we  wiU  ask ; 
That,  if  you  fail  in  our  request,  the  blame 
May  hang  upon  your  hardness ;  therefore  hear 
us. 
Cor.  Aufidius,  and  you  Yolsces,  mark ;    for 
we'U 
Hear  nought  from  Rome  ui  private. — Your  re- 
quest ? 
Fol.  Shoidd  we  be  silent  and  not  speak,  our 
raiment 
And  state  of  bodies  would  bewray  what  life 
We  have  led  since  thy  exile.     Think  with  thy- 
self 
How  more  unfortunate  than  all  living  women 
Are  we  come  hither :  siuce  that  thy  sight,  which 

should 
Make  our  eyes  flow  with  joy,  hearts  dance  with 

comforts. 
Constrains  them  weep,  and  shake  with  fear  and 

sorrow ; 
Making  the  mother,  wife,  and  child,  to  see 
The  son,  the  husband,  and  the  father,  tearing 
His  country's  bowels  out.     And  to  poor  we 
Thine  enmity 's  most  capital :  thou  barr'st  us 
Our  prayers  to  the  gods,  wliich  is  a  comfort 
That  all  but  we  enjoy  :  For  how  can  we, 
Alas  !  how  can  we  for  our  country  pray. 
Whereto   we   are   bound  j    together    with    thy 

victory, 
WTiereto  we  are  bound  ?    Alack !   or  we  must 

lose 
The  country,  our  dear  nurse;   or  else  thy  per 

son, 
Our  comfort  iu  the  country.     We  must  find 
An  evident  calamity,  though  we  had 
Our  wish,  which  side  should  win :    for   eithei- 

thou 
Must,  as  a  foreign  recreant,  be  led 
With  manacles  through  our  streets,  or  else 
Triumphantly  tread  on  thy  country's  ruin ; 
And  bear  the  palm,  for  having  bravely  shed 
Thy  wife  and  children's  blood.    For  myself,  sou, 
[  purpose  not  to  wait  on  fortune  till 


These  wars  deiermine:^   if  I  cannot  persuade 

thee 
Rather  to  show  a  noble  grace  to  both  paiis 
Than  seek  the  end  of  one,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 
March  to  assault  tliy  country  than  to  tread 
(Trust  to't,  thou   shalt   not)  on  thy  mother's 

womb. 
That  brought  thee  to  this  world. 

Fir.  Ay,  and  mine. 

That  brought  you  forth  this  boy,  to  keep  your 

name 
Living  to  time. 

Boy.  A'  shall  not  tread  on  me ; 

I'll  run  away  till  I  am  bigger,  but  then  I'l! 
fight. 
Cor.  Not  of  a  woman's  tenderness  to  be. 
Requires  nor  child  nor  woman's  face  to  see. 
1  have  sat  too  long.  [Rising. 

J'ol.  Nay,  go  not  from  us  thus. 

If  it  were  so  that  our  request  did  tend 
To  save  the  Romans,  thereby  to  destroy 
The  Voices  whom  you  serve,  you  might  con- 
demn us, 
As  poisonous  of  your  honour :   No ;  our  suit 
Is  that  you  reconcile  them :  while  the  A^olces 
May  say,  'This   mercy  we  have   show'dj'  the 

Romans, 
'  This  we  receiv'd  ; '  and  each  in  either  side 
Give  the  all-hail  to  thee,  and  cry,  '  Be  bless'd 
For  making   up  this    peace!'    Thou   know'st, 

great  son. 
The  end  of  war 's  uncertain ;  but  this  certain. 
That  if  thou  conquer  Rome,  the  benefit 
Which  thou  shalt  thereby  reap  is  such  a  name, 
Whose  repetition  will  be  dogg'd  with  curses ; 
Whose   chronicle   thus   writ,— 'The   man  was 

noble. 
But  with  his  last  attempt  he  wip'd  it  out ;  _ 
Destroy'd  his  country ;  and  his  name  remains 
To  the  eusuiug  age  abhorr'd.'  Speak  to  me,  son : 
Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  strains  of  honour. 
To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods ; 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not 

speak? 
Think'st  thou  it  honourable  for  a  noble  man 
Still  to  remember  wrongs  ?— Daughter,  speak  you : 
He  cai-es  not  for  your  weeping.    Speak  thou, 

boy : 
Perhaps  thy  childishness  will  move  hun  more 
Than  can  our  reasons.— There  is  no  man  iu  the 
world 


a  Determine— coxae  to  an  end. 


207 


Acv  v.] 


COKIOLANUS. 


[Scene  iV 


More  bound  to  his  motker ;  vet  here  ho  lets  me 

prate, 
Like  one  i'  the  stocks.     Thou  hast  never  m  thy 

life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtsey  ; 
Wiien  she,  (poor  hen !)  fond  of  no  second  brood, 
lias  cluck'd  thee  to  the  ■wars,  and  safely  home, 
Loaden  with  honour.    Sav,  my  request's  unjust, 
And  spurn  me  back  :  But,  if  it  be  not  so, 
Thou  art  not  honest ;  and  the  gods  will  plague 

thee. 
That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs. — He  turns  away  : 
Down,    ladies !    lot    us    shame   him    with    our 

knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers.     Down :  An  end : 
This  is  the  last :— So  we  will  home  to  Rome, 
And  die  among  our  neighbours. — Nay,  behold 

us  : 
Tliis  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have. 
But  kneels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship. 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strength 
Than  thou  hast  to  deny't. — Come,  let  us  go  : 
This  fellow  had  a  Volscian  to  his  mother; 
His  wife  is  in  Corioli,  and  his  child 
Like  him  by  chance : — Yet  give  us  our  despatch  : 
I  am  husird  until  our  city  be  afire, 
And  then  I  '11  speak  a  little. 

Cor.  0  mother,  mother  ! 

[Holding  VoLUMSiA  by  the  hands,  silent. 

What  have  you  done  ?   Behold,  the  heavens  do 

ope. 
The  gods  look  down,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     0  my  mother,  mother  !  0  ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Eome  : 
But,  for  your  son, — believe  it,  0,  believe  it. 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail  d, 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him.     But,  let  it  come ; — 
Aufidius,  though  I  cannot  make  true  wars, 
I'll  frame  convenient  peace.      Kow,  good  Au- 
fidius, 
Were  you  in  my  stead,  would  you  have  heard 
A  mother  less  ?  or  granted  less,  Aufidius  ? 
Auf.  I  was  mov'd  ^vithal. 
Cor.  I  dare  be  sworu  you  were  : 

And,  sir,  it  is  no  little  thing  to  make 
Mine  eyes  to  sweat  compassion.     But,  good  sir, 
"What  peace  you  '11  make,  advise  me  :    for  my 

part, 
1 11  not  to  Rome,  1  '11  back  with  you ;  and  pray 

you, 
Stand  to  me  in  this  cause.  — O  mother  !  wife  ! 
Ah/.  I  am  glad  thou  hast  set  thy  mercy  and 

thy  honour 

208 


At  dilTcrence  in  thee  :  out  of  that  1  '11  work 
^Myself  a  former  fortune.  [Aside. 

[TAe  Ladies  make  signs  to  Coriolanus. 
Cor.  Ay,  by  and  by ; 

[To  VOLUMNIA,  VlKGILIA,  ^C. 

But  we  will  drink  together ;  and  you  shall  bear 
A  better  witness  back  than  words,  which  we, 
Oq  like  conditions,  will  have  counter-seal'd. 
Come,  cuter  with  us.     Ladies,  you  deserve 
To  have  a  temple  built  you :  all  the  swords 
In  Italy,  and  her  confederate  arms. 
Could  not  have  made  this  peace.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Rome.     A  public  Place. 

Enter  Menenius  and  Sicinius. 

Men.  See  you  yond'  coign  o'  the  Capitol ; 
yond'  corner  stone  ? 

Sic.  AA'hy,  what  of  that  ? 

Men.  If  it  be  possible  for  you  to  displace  it 
with  your  little  finger,  there  is  some  hope  the 
ladies  of  Rome,  especially  his  mother,  may  pre- 
vail with  him.  But  I  say  there  is  no  hope  in 't ; 
cm-  throats  are  sentenced,  and  stay  upon  execu- 
tion. 

Sic.  Is 't  possible  that  so  short  a  time  can  alter 
the  condition  of  a  man  ? 

Men.  There  is  difiercucy  between  a  grub  and 
a  buttei-fly;    yet  your  butterfly   was  a  grub. 
This  Marcius  is  grown  from  man  to  dragon :  he 
has  wings  ;  he 's  more  than  a  creeping  thing. 
-     Sic.  He  loved  his  mother  dearly. 

Men.  So  did  he  me :  and  he  no  more  remem- 
bers his  mother  now  than  an  eight  year  old 
horse.  The  tartness  of  his  face  sours  ripe  grapes. 
When  he  walks,  he  moves  like  an  engine,  and 
tlic  ground  shrinks  before  his  treading.  He  is 
able  to  pierce  a  corslet  with  his  eye ;  talks  like  a 
knell,  and  his  hum  is  a  battery.  He  sits  in  his 
state,  as  a  thing  made  for  Alexander.  Wliat  he 
bids  be  done  is  finished  with  his  bidding.  He 
wants  nothing  of  a  god  but  eternity,  and  a  heaven 
to  throne  in. 

Sic.  Yes,  mercy,  if  you  report  him  truly. 

Men.  I  paint  him  in  the  character.  Mark 
what  mercy  his  mother  shall  brag  from  him : 
There  is  no  more  mercy  in  him  than  there  is 
milk  in  a  male  tiger ;  that  shall  our  poor  city 
find  :  and  all  this  is  'long  of  you. 

Sic.  The  gods  be  good  unto  us  ! 

Men.  No,  in  such  a  case  the  gods  will  not  bo 
good  unto  us.  AVhen  we  banished  him  we 
respected  not  them :  and  he  returning  to  break 
our  necks,  they  respect  not  us. 


Act  v.] 


COEIOLANUS. 


fSCiNi!    V. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Sir,  if  you  'd  save  your  life,  fly  to  your 
bouse ; 
Tlie  plebeians  bave  got  your  feUow-tribune, 
And  bale  bim  up  and  down ;  all  swearing,  if 
Tbe  Roman  ladies  bring  not  comfort  bome, 
Tbey  '11  give  bim  deatb  by  incbes. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 


Wbat  's  tbe  news  ? 
news  : — Tbe  ladies 


Sic. 

Mess.  Good  news,  good 
bave  prevail' d, 
Tbe  Voleians  are  dislodg'd,  and  Marcius  gone  : 
A  merrier  day  did  never  yet  greet  Rome, 
No,  not  tbe  expulsion  of  tbe  Tarquins. 

Sif^-  Friend, 

Art  tbou  certain  tbis  is  tnie?  is  it  most  certain? 

Mess.  As  certain  as  I  know  tbe  sun  is  fire : 
Wbere  bave  you  lurk'd,  tbat  you  make  doubt 

of  it? 
Ne'er  tbrougb  an  arcb  so  bm-ried  tbe  blown  tide, 
As  tbe  recomforted  tbrougb  tbe  gates.     Wby, 
bark  you ! 
\Trumpets  and  hautboys  sounded,  and  drums 
beaten,  all  together.     Shouting  also  within. 
Tbe  trumpets,  sackbuts,  psalteries,  and  fifes, 
Tabors,  and  cymbals,  and  tbe  sbouting  Romans, 
Make  tbe  sun  dance.     Hark  you ! 

\_Shonting  again. 
Men.  Tbis  is  good  news  : 

I  will  go  meet  the  ladies.     Tbis  Volumnia 
Is  wortb  of  consuls,  senators,  patricians, 
A  city  full ;  of  tribunes  such  as  you 
A  sea  and  land  full :  You  bave  pray'd  weU  to- 
day; 
Tbis  morning,  for  ten  thousand  of  your  tbroats 
I'd  not  bave  given  a  doit.     Hark,  bow  tbey  joy  '. 

[Shouting  and  music. 
Sic.  First,  tbe  gods  bless  you  for  their  tidings  : 
next, 
Accept  my  thankfulness. 

3Iess.  Sir,  we  bave  all 

Great  cause  to  give  great  thanks. 
Sic.  Tbey  are  near  the  city  ? 

Mess.  Almost  at  point  to  enter. 
Sic.  We  wiU  meet  them. 

And  help  tlie  joy.  [Going, 

Enter  the  Ladies,  accompanied  by  Senators, 
Patricians,  and  People.  They  pass  over  the 
Stage. 

1  Sen.  Behold  our  patroness,  tbe  life  of  Rome : 
Call  aU  your  tribes  together,  praise  the  gods. 
And  make  triumphant  fires;  strew  flowers  be- 
fore them : 

Tragedies. — Vol.  II.        P 


Unsbout  the  noise  tbat  bauish'd  Marcius, 
Repeal  him  with  the  welcome  of  bis  mother ; 
Cry, — Welcome,  ladies,  welcome  ! — 
All.  Welcome,  ladies,  welcome  ! 

[AJlourish  with  druMS  and  trumpets. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Antium.     A  public  Place. 

Enter  Tullus  Aufidius,  with  Attendants. 

Auf.  Go  tell  tbe  lords  of  the  city  I  am  here : 
Deliver  them  this  paper :  having  read  it, 
Bid  them  repair  to  the  market-place ;  wbere  T, 
Eveu  in  theirs  and  in  the  commons'  ears, 
Will  vouch  the  truth  of  it.     Him  I  accuse 
The  city  ports  by  this  bath  enter'd,  and 
Intends  to  appear  before  the  people,  hoping 
To  purge  himself  with  words :   Dispatch. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 

Enter  Three  or  Four  Conspirators  of  Aufidius' 

faction. 
Most  welcome ! 

1  Con.  How  is  it  with  our  general  ? 

Auf.  Even  so 

As  \vitb  a  man  by  bis  own  alms  empoison' d, 
And  with  his  charity  slain. 

2  Con.  Most  noble  sii*. 
If  you  do  hold  the  same  intent  wherein 
You  -wish'd  us  parties,  we  '11  deliver  you 
Of  your  great  danger. 

Auf.  Sir,  1  cannot  tell ; 

We  must  proceed  as  we  do  find  the  people. 

3  Con.    The    people    will    remain    uncertain 

whilst 
'T  wdxt  you  there 's  difference ;  but  tbe  fall  of 

either 
Maflces  tbe  survivor  heir  of  all. 

Auf.  I  know  it ; 

And  my  pretext  to  strike  at  bim  admits 
A  good  construction.    I  rais'd  bun,  and  I  pawn'd 
Mine  honour  for  his  truth :  Who  being  so  heigbt- 

en'd, 
He  water'd  bis  new  plants  with  dews  of  flattery. 
Seducing  so  my  friends :  and,  to  this  end, 
He  bow'd  his  natui-e,  never  known  before 
But  to  be  rough,  unswayable,  and  free. 

3  Con.  Sir,  his  stoutness. 
When  be  did  stand  for  consul,  which  be  lost 
By  lack  of  stooping, — 

Auf  That  I  would  have  spoke  of  .- 

Being  bauish'd  for 't,  be  came  unto  my  hearth ; 
Presented  to  my  knife  his  throat :  I  took  liim ; 
Made  him  joint-servant  with  me ;  gave  bim  way 
In  aU  his  own  desires ;  nay,  let  him  choose 


Act  v.] 


COEIOL^mUS. 


[SCESK    V, 


Out  of  my  files,  Lis  projects  to  acconiplisli, 
My  best  and  freshest  men ;  scrv'd  his  desigu- 

ments 
In  mine  own  person ;  holp  to  reap  the  fame, 
Which  he  did  end  all  iiis ;  and  took  some  pride 
To  do  myself  this  wrong :  till,  at  the  hist, 
I  seera'd  his  follower,  not  padncr;  and 
lie  wag'd  me  with  his  countcuance,  as  if 
I  had  been  mercenary. 

1  Con.  So  he  did,  my  lord : 

The  army  marvell'd  at  it.     And,  in  the  last. 
When  he  had  c;irried  Rome;  and  that  we  look'd 
For  no  less  spoil  than  glory, — 

Ah/.  There  was  it ; — 

For  wliich  my  sinews  shall  be  stretch'd  upon  him. 
At  a  few  drops  of  women's  rhenm,  which  are 
As  cheap  as  lies,  ho  sold  the  blood  and  laboiu- 
Of  our  great  action :  Therefore  shall  he  die. 
And  1  '11  renew  me  in  his  fall.     But,  hark ! 

\_Drums  and  trumpets  sound,  with  great 
shouts  of  the  people. 

1  Con.  Youi"  native  town  you  euter'd  like  a 

post, 
And  had  no  welcomes  home  ;  but  he  returns 
Splitting  the  air  with  noise. 

2  Con.  And  patient  fools. 
Whose  children  he  hath  slain,  their  base  throats 

tear 
With  giving  him  glory. 

3  Con.  Therefore,  at  yom-  vantage. 
Ere  he  express  himself,  or  move  tlic  people 
AVith  what  he  would  say,  let  him  feel  your  sword, 
Which  we  will  second.     Wlien  he  lies  along. 
After  your  way  his  tale  prouounc'd  shall  bm-y 
His  reasons  with  his  body. 

Auf.  Say  uo  more ; 

Here  come  the  lords. 

Enter  the  Lords  of  the  City. 

Tjords.  You  are  most  welcome  home. 

Auf.  I  have  not  deserv'd  it  ; 

But,  worthy  lords,  have  you  with  heed  penis'd 
What  I  have  written  to  you  ? 

Lords.  We  have. 

1  Lord.  And  grieve  to  hear  it. 

"What  faults  he  made  before  the  last,  I  think, 
Might  have  found  easy  fines  :  but  there  to  end 
Where  he  was  to  begin,  and  give  away 
The  benefit  of  our  levies,  answermc  us 
With  our  own  charge  ;  making  a  treaty  where 
There  was  a  yielding, — this  admits  no  excuse. 

Auf.  lie  approaches ;  you  shall  hear  him. 

Enter  C'ORlOLAXfs,  tcith  drums  and  colours  ;  a 
crowd  of  Citizens  icith  him. 
Cor.  Uail,  lords!  I  am  retuni'd  your  soldier;* 

•J.O 


No  more  infected  with  my  country's  love 
Than  when  I  parted  hence,  but  still  subsisting 
Under  your  great  command.     You  are  to  know, 
That  prosperously  I  have  attempted,  and 
With  bloody  passage  led  your  wars,  even  to 
The  gates  of  Itome.    Our  spoils  we  have  brought 

home 
Do  more  tlian  counterpoise,  a  full  third  part, 
The   charges   of   the   action.     AVe   have   made 

peace. 
With  no  less  honour  to  the  Autiates, 
Than  shame  to  the  Romans:  and  we  here  deliver. 
Subscribed  by  the  consuls  and  patricians. 
Together  with  the  seal  o'  the  senate,  what 
We  have  compounded  on. 

Auf.  Read  it  not,  noble  lords  ; 

But  tell  tlie  traitor,  in  the  highest  degree 
He  hath  abus'd  your  powers. 

Cor.  Tnulor ! — How  now  ? — 

Auf  Ay,  traitor,  Marcius. 

Cor.  Marcius ! 

Aif.  Ay,  Marcius,  Caius  Marcius  :  Dost  thou 
think 
I  '11  grace  tlice  with  that  robbery,  thy  stol'n  name 
Coriolanus  in  Corioli  ? 

You  lords  and  heads  of  the  state,  perfidiously 
He  has  betray'd  yom*  business,  and  given  up, 
For  certain  drops  of  salt,  your  city  Rome 
(I  say,  your  city)  to  his  wife  and  mother : 
Breaking  his  oath  and  resoluiion,  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk  ;  never  admitting 
Counsel  o'  the  war ;  but  at  his  nurse's  tears 
He  whin'd  and  roar'd  away  your  victory ; 
That  pages  blush'd  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Look'd  wondering  each  at  other. 

Cor.  Hear'st  thou.  Mars  ? 

Auf.  Name  not  the  god,  thou  boy  of  tears,— 

Cor.  .  Ha ! 

Jjf.  No  more. 

Cor.  Measureless    liar,   thou  hast   made  my 
heart 
Too  great  for  what  contains  it.  Boy !  O  slave! — 
Pardon  me,  lords,  't  is  the  first  time  that  ever 
I  was   forc'd  to   scold.     Your  judgments,  my 

grave  lords. 
Must  give  this  cui*  the  lie :  and  his  own  notion 
(Who  wears  my  stripes  impress'd  on  him,  that 

must  bear 
My  beating  to  his  grave)  shall  join  to  thrust 
The  lie  unto  him. 

1  Lord.  Peace,  both,  and  hear  me  speak. 

Cor.  Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volsccs;  men  and  lads, 
Stain  all  youi*  edges  on  me. — Boy  !  False  hound ! 
If  you  have  \vrit  youi-  annals  true,  't  is  there. 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 


AiT  v.] 


CORIOLANUS. 


Sceml  V. 


Flutter'd  your  Volscians  in  Corioii: 
Alone  I  did  it. — Boy ! 

Aiif.  Why,  noble  lords, 

Will  you  be  put  in  mind  of  his  blind  fortune, 
Which  was  your  shame,  by  this  unholy  braggart. 
Tore  your  own  eyes  and  ears  ? 

Con.  Let  him  die  for 't. 

\_Several  speak  at  once. 

at.  [Speaking  promiscuousli/.']  Tear  him  to 
pieces,  do  it  presently.  He  killed  my  son ; — my 
daughter ; — He  killed  my  cousin  Marcus ; — He 
killed  my  father. — 

2  Lord.  Peace,  ho ! — no  outrage ; — peace ! 
The  mau  is  noble,  and  his  fame  folds  in 
This  orb  o'  the  earth.     His  last  offences  to  us 
Shall  have  judicious'*  hearing.— Stand,  Aufldius, 
And  trouble  not  the  peace. 

Cor.  0,  that  I  had  him, 

With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more,  his  tribe, 
To  use  my  lawful  sword  ! 

Auf.  Insolent  villain ! 

Con.  Km,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill  him ! 

[AuFiDiTJS  and  the  Conspirators  draw,  and 
kill  CoRiOLANUS,  who  falls,  and  Atji'I- 
DIXJS  stands  on  him. 

lA)rds.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  hold  ! 

Auf.  My  noble  masters,  hear  me  speak. 

1  Lord.  O  Tullus,— 

2  Lord.  Thou    hast    done    a    deed  whereat 

valour  will  weep. 

a  yKdJcioui— judicial. 


3  Lord.  Tread  not  upon  him. — Masters  all, 
be  quiet ; 
Put  up  your  swords. 

Auf.  My  lords,  when  you  shall  know  (as  in 
this  rage, 
Provok'd  by  him,  you  cannot)  the  great  danger 
"\Yliich  this  man's  life  did  owe  you,  you  'U  rejoice 
That  he  is  thus  cut  off.     Please  it  your  honours 
To  call  me  to  your  senate,  I  '11  deliver 
Myself  your  loyal  servant,  or  endure 
Your  heaviest  censure. 

1  Lord.  Bear  from  hence  his  body, 
And  mourn  you  for  him :  let  him  be  regarded 
As  the  most  uoble  corse  that  ever  herald 

Did  follow  to  his  urn. 

2  Lord.  His  own  impatience 
Takes  from  Aufldius  a  great  part  of  blame. 
Let 's  make  the  best  of  it. 

Atf.  My  rage  is  gone, 

And  I  am  struck  with  sorrow. — Take  him  up  : — 
Help,   three   o'  the   chiefest  soldiers;   I'll  be 

one. — 
Beat  thou  the  dnim  that  it  speak  mournfully : 
Trail  your  steel  pikes. — Though  in  this  city  he 
Hath  widow'd  and  unchilded  many  a  one, 
Which  to  this  hour  bewail  the  injury. 
Yet  he  shall  have  a  noble  memory. 
Assist. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  the  body  of  CoRIOLA^■us. 
./  dead  march  sounded. 


[lloman  Tomb  and  Fragments.  J 


I 


<=!rC«:#r 


J'  I'ebbles  on  the  hungry  beach.'] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  Y 


'  Scene  I. — "  He  would  not  seem  to  know  me." 

We  continue  our  extracts  from  North's  '  Plutarch  : ' 
"  So  they  all  agreed  together  to  send  ambassadors 
unto  him,  to  let  him  understand  how  his  country- 
men did  call  him  home  again,  and  restored  him  to 
all  his  goods,  and  besought  him  to  deliver  them 
from  this  war.  The  ambassadors  that  were  sent 
were  Martius's  familiar  friends  and  acquaintance, 
who  looked  at  the  least  for  a  courteous  welcome  of 
him,  as  of  their  familiar  friend  and  kinsman.  How- 
beit  they  found  nothing  less  ;  for,  at  their  coming, 
they  were  brought  through  the  camp  to  the  place 
where  he  was  set  in  his  chair  of  state,  with  a  mar- 
vellous and  an  unspeakable  majesty,  having  the 
chiefest  men  of  the  Voices  about  him  :  sn  he  com- 
manded them  to  declare  openly  the  cause  of  their 
coming,  which  they  delivered  in  the  most  humble 
and  lowly  words  they  possibly  could  devise,  and 
with  all  modest  countenance  and  behaviour  agree- 
able to  the  same.  When  they  had  done  their  mes- 
sage, for  the  injury  they  had  done  him  he  answered 
them  very  hotly  and  in  great  choler ;  but  as  general 
of  the  Voices,  ho  willed  them  to  restore  imto  the 
Voices  all  their  lands  and  cities  they  had  taken 
from  them  in  former  vr.irs ;  an' i ,  moreover,  that  they 
should  give  thcni  the  like  honour  and  freedom  of 
Rome  as  they  had  before  given  to  the  Latins.  For 
otherwi.ac  they  had  no  other  mean  to  end  this  wars 
if  they  did  not  grant  these  honest  and  just  condi- 
tions of  peace." 
212 


-  Scene  III. — "  My  wife  comes  foremost." 

"She  took  her  daughter-in-law,  and  Martius's 
children,  with  her,  and,  being  accompanied  with  all 
the  other  Roman  ladies,  they  went  in  troop  toge- 
ther imto  the  Voices'  camp ;  whom,  when  they  saw, 
they  of  themselves  did  both  i^ity  and  reverence  her, 
and  there  was  not  a  man  among  them  that  once 
durst  say  a  word  unto  her.  Now  was  Martins  set 
then  in  his  chair  of  state,  with  all  the  honours  of  a 
general,  and  when  lie  had  spied  the  women  coming 
afar  off,  he  marvelled  what  the  matter  meant;  but 
afterwards,  knowing  his  wife  which  came  foremost, 
he  detei-mined  at  the  first  to  persist  in  his  obstinate 
and  inflexible  rancour.  But,  overcome  in  the  end 
with  natural  affection,  and  being  altogether  altered 
to  see  them,  his  heart  would  not  serve  him  to  tany 
their  coming  to  his  chair,  but,  coming  down  in  ha.ste, 
he  went  to  meet  them,  an<l  first  he  kissed  his  mo- 
ther, and  embraced  her  a  pretty  while,  then  his 
wife  and  little  children ;  and  nature  so  wrought  with 
him  that  the  tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  he  could 
not  keep  himself  froni  making  much  of  them,  but 
yielded  to  the  affection  of  his  blood,  as  if  he  had 
been  violently  carried  with  the  fury  of  a  most  swift 
running  stream.  After  he  had  thus  lovingly  re- 
ceived them,  and  perceiving  that  his  mother  Vo- 
lumnia  would  begin  to  speak  to  him,  he  called  the 
chiefest  of  the  council  of  tbe  Voices  to  hear  what 
she  would  say.  Then  she  spake  in  this  sort : — '  If 
wo  held  our  peace  (my  son),  and  determined  not  to 


COEIOLANUS. 


speak,  the  state  of  oui*  poor  bodies,  and  present 
sight  of  otir  raiment,  would  easily  betray  to  thee 
what  life  we  have  led  at  home,  since  thy  exile  and 
abode  abroad ;  but  think  now  with  thyself,  how 
much  more  unfortunate  than  all  the  women  living 
we  are  come  hither,  considering  that  the  sight 
which  should  be  most  pleasant  to  all  other  to 
behold,  spiteful  Fortune  hath  made  most  fearful  to 
us ;  making  myself  to  see  my  son,  and  my  daughter 
here  her  husband,  besieging  the  walls  of  his  native 
country ;  so  as  that  which  is  the  only  comfort  to 
all  other  in  their  adversity  and  misery,  to  pray  unto 
the  gods,  and  to  call  to  them  for  aid,  is  the  only 
thing  which  plungeth  us  into  most  deep  perplexity. 
For  we  cannot  (alas  !)  together  pray  both  for  vic- 
tory to  our  country,  and  for  safety  of  thy  life  also  ; 
but  a  world  of  grievous  curses,  yea,  more  than  any 
mortal  enemy  can  heap  upon  us,  are  forcibly  wrap- 
ped up  in  our  prayers.  For  the  bitter  sop  of  most 
hard  choice  is  offered  thy  wife  and  children,  to 
forego  one  of  the  two — either  to  lose  the  person 
of  thyself,  or  the  nurse  of  their  native  country. 
For  myself,  my  son,  I  am  determined  not  to  tarry 
till  fortune  in  my  lifetime  do  make  an  end  of  this 
war.  For  if  I  cannot  persuade  thee  rather  to  do 
good  unto  both  parties,  than  to  overthrow  and 
destroy  the  one,  i:)referring  love  and  nature  before 
the  malice  and  calamity  of  wai's,  thou  shalt  see, 
my  son,  and  trust  unto  it,  thou  shalt  no  sooner 
march  forward  to  assault  thy  country,  but  thy 
foot  shall  tread  upon  thy  mother's  womb,  that 
brought  thee  first  into  this  world.  And  I  may  not 
defer  to  see  the  day,  either  that  my  sou  be  led 
prisoner  in  triumph  by  his  natural  countiymen,  or 
that  he  himself  do  triumph  of  them  and  of  his 
natural  country.  For  if  it  were  so  that  my  request 
tended  to  save  thy  country  in  destroying  the 
Voices,  I  must  confess  thou  wouldst  hardly  and 
doubfuUy  resolve  on  that.  For  as  to  destroy  thy 
natural  country,  it  is  altogether  unmeet  and  un- 
lawful ;  so  were  it  not  just,  and  less  honourable, 
to  betray  those  that  put  their  trust  in  thee.  But 
my  only  demand  consisteth  to  make  a  gaol-de- 
liveiy  of  all  evils,  which  delivereth  equal  benefit 
and  safety  both  to  the  one  and  the  other,  but  most 
honourable  for  the  Voices.  For  it  shall  appear 
that,  having  victory  in  their  hands,  they  have  of 
special  favour  granted  us  singular  graces,  peace, 
and  amity,  albeit  themselves  have  no  less  part  of 
both  than  we ;  of  which  good,  if  so  it  come  to 
pass,  thyself  is  the  only  author,  and  so  hast  thou 
the  only  honour.  But  if  it  fail,  and  fall  out  con- 
trary, thyself  alone  deservedly  shall  carry  the 
shameful  reproach  and  burden  of  either  party ;  so, 
though  the  end  of  war  be  uncertain,  yet  this  not- 
withstanding is  most  certain, — that,  if  it  be  thy 
chance  to  conquer,  this  benefit  shalt  thou  reap  of 
thy  goodly  conquest,  to  be  chronicled  the  plague 
and  destroyer  of  thy  country.  And  if  fortune 
overthrow  thee,  then  the  world  will  say,  that 
through  desire  to  revenge  thy  private  injuries,  thou 
hast  for  ever  imdone  thy  good  friends,  who  did 
most  lovingly  and  courteously  receive  thee.'  Mar- 
tins gave  good  ear  unto  his  mother's  words,  without 
interrupting  her  speech  at  all,  and,  after  she  had 
said  what  she  would,  he  held  his  peace  a  pretty 
while,  and  answered  not  a  word.  Hereupon  she 
began  again  to  speak  unto  him,  and  said — '  My  sou, 
why  dost  thou  not  answer  me  ?  dost  thou  think  it 


good  altogether  to  give  place  unto  thy  choler  and 
desire  of  revenge,  and  thinkest  thou  it  not  honesty 
for  thee  to  gi-ant  thy  mother's  request  in  so  weighty 
a  cause  ?  dost  thou  take  it  honourable  for  a  noble 
man  to  remember  the  wrongs  and  injuries  done 
him,  and  dost  not,  in  like  case,  think  it  an  honest 
noble  man's  part  to  be  thankful  for  the  goodness 
that  parents  do  show  to  their  children,  acknow- 
ledging the  duty  and  reverence  they  ought  to  bear 
unto  them  ?  No  man  living  is  more  bound  to  show 
himself  thankful  in  all  parts  and  respects  than 
thyself,  who  so  universally  showestall  ingratitude. 
Moreover,  my  son,  thou  hast  sorely  taken  of  thy 
country,  exacting  grievous  payments  upon  them  iu 
revenge  of  the  injuries  offered  thee  ;  besides,  thou 
hast  not  hitherto  showed  thy  poor  mother  any 
courtesy,  and  therefore  it  is  not  only  honest,  but 
due  unto  me,  that,  without  compulsion,  I  should 
obtain  my  so  just  and  reasonable  request  of  thee. 
But  since  by  reason  I  cannot  persuade  .thee  to  it, 
to  what  fiurpose  do  I  defer  my  last  hope  ? '  And 
with  these  words,  herself,  his  wife  and  children,  fell 
down  upon  their  knees  before  him.  Martius,  seeing 
that,  could  refrain  no  longer,  but  went  straight 
and  lift  her  up,  crying  out,  '  Oh,  mother,  what  have 
you  done  to  me  ? '  And,  holding  her  hard  by  the 
right  hand,  '  Oh,  mother,'  said  he,  '  you  have  won 
a  happy  victory  for  your  country,  but  mortal  and 
unhappy  for  your  son  ;  for  I  see  myself  vanquished 
by  you  alone.'  These  words  being  .spoken  openly, 
he  spake  a  little  apart  with  his  mother  and  wife, 
and  then  let  them  return  again  to  Rome,  for  so 
they  did  request  him ;  and  so,  remaining  in  camp 
that  night,  the  nest  morning  he  dislodged,  and 
marched  homeward  into  the  Voices'  country 
again." 

^  Scene  V.—"  Hail,  lords  I  I  am,  retunCd  your 
soldier." 

"  Xow,  when  Martius  was  returned  again  into  the 
city  of  Antium  from  his  voyage,  Tullus,  that  hated 
and  could  no  longer  abide  him  for  the  fear  he  had 
of  his  authority,  sought  divers  means  to  make  him 
away,  thinking  that,  if  he  let  slip  that  present  time, 
he  should  never  recover  the  like  and  fit  occasion 
again.  Wherefore  Tullus,  having  procured  many 
other  of  his  confederacy,  required  ^lartius  might  be 
deposed  from  his  estate,  to  render  up  account  to  the 
Voices  of  his  charge  and  government.  Martius, 
fearing  to  become  a  private  man  again,  under  Tullus, 
being  general  (whose  authority  was  greater,  other- 
wise, than  any  other  among  all  the  Voices),  an- 
swered— he  was  willing  to  give  up  his  charge,  and 
would  resign  it  into  the  hands  of  the  lords  of  the 
Voices  if  they  did  all  command  him,  as  by  all 
their  commandment  he  received  it ;  and,  more- 
over, that  he  would  not  refuse  even  at  that  present 
to  give  up  an  account  imto  the  people,  if  they  would 
tarry  the  heai-ing  of  it.  The  people  hereupon  called 
a  common  council,  iu  which  assembly  there  were 
certain  orators  appointed,  that  stirred  up  the  com- 
mon people  against  him  :  and  when  they  had  told 
their  tales,  Martius  rose  up  to  make  them  answer. 
Now,  notwithstanding  the  mutinous  people  made  a 
marvellous  great  noise,  yet,  when  they  s;iw  him,  for 
the  reverence  they  bare  unto  his  valiantness  they 
quieted  themselves,  and  gave  him  audience  to  al- 
lege with  leisure  what  he  could  for  his  purgation. 

213 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   V. 


Moreover,  the  houestest  nieu  of  the  Antiates,  and 
who  most  rejoiced  in  peace,  showed  by  their  coun- 
tenance that  they  would  hear  him  willingly,  and 
judge  also  according  to  their  conscience.  Where- 
iipon  Tulhis,  fearing  that  if  he  did  let  him  speak 
he  would  jrove  his  innocency  to  the  j^cople,  be- 
cause, amongst  other  things,  he  had  an  eloquent 
tongue  ;  besides  that,  the  first  good  service  he  had 
done  to  the  people  of  the  Voices,  did  win  him  more 
favour  than  these  last  accusations  could  purchase 
him  displeasure;  and  furthermore, the  offence  they 
laid  to  his  charge  was  a  testimony  of  the  good  will 
they  ought  him ;  for  they  would  never  have 
'iiought  he  had  done  them  wrong  for   that   he 


took  not  the  city  of  Rome,  if  they  had  not  been 
very  near  taking  of  it  by  means  of  his  approach 
and  conduction  ; — for  these  causes,  Tullus  thought 
he  might  no  longer  delay  his  pretence  niKl  enter- 
prise, neither  to  tairy  for  the  mutining  and  rising 
of  the  common  people  against  him  :  wherefore 
those  that  were  of  the  conspiracy  began  to  cry 
out  that  he  was  not  to  be  heard,  and  that  they 
would  not  suffer  a  traitor  to  usurp  tyrannical 
power  over  the  tribe  of  the  Voices,  who  would  not 
yield  up  his  state  and  authority.  And  in  saying 
these  words  they  all  fell  upon  him,  and  liilled  him 
in  the  market-place,  .none  of  the  people  once  of- 
ferine:  to  rescue  him." 


LK>mMe  as  Coriolnnns.] 


' 


I 

t  ! 

•I  ■ 

?! 

li 
i\ 


I 


[llonicin  Standard  r.earers.] 


INTRODUCTOEY   NOTICE. 


Stath  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  op  Julius  Caesar. 

'  The  Tragedy  of  Julius  Cfesar'  was  first  printed  iu  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  This  play,  as  well 
as  Coriolanus,  and  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  registers  amongst  those 
copies  "  not  formerly  entered  to  other  men. '  The  text  is  divided  into  acts ;  and  the  stage  directions 
are  full  and  precise.  Taken  altogether,  we  know  no  play  of  Shakspere's  that  presents  so  few 
difficulties  arising  out  of  inaccui'acies  in  the  original  edition.  There  are  some  half-dozen  passages 
in  which  there  are  manifest  typographical  errox's,  such  as  occur  in  every  modern  book,  even  when 
it  is  printed  under  the  eye  of  the  author.  There  are  one  or  two  others  in  which  we  can  scarcely 
venture  to  make  alteration,  although  it  is  pretty  manifest  that  error  does  exist.  For  example 
in  the  second  act,  Brutus,  addressing  Conspiracy,  says — 

"  Wliere  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage?   Seek  none,  Conspiracy ; 
Hide  it  in  smiles,  and  affability: 
For  if  thou  path,  thy  native  semblance  on,"  &c. 

Johnson  explains  this,  "  If  thou  walk  in  thy  true  form."  Coleridge  says,  "  Surely,  there  need 
be  no  scruple  in  treating  this  path  as  a  mere  misprint  or  misscript  for  put."  We  are  inclined  to 
agree  with  him,  for  fxUte  might  be  easily  mistaken  for  pathe ;  but  we  do  not  alter  the  passage,  for 

21? 


1 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE 

there  is  a  menning  in  it   as  it  sUukIs.     On  the  contrary,  when  Cxsar  says  that  the  couchings 
Cimber  might 

■  Turn  pro-ordinanrc  and  first  decree 
Into  the  law  of  children, 

we  reject  the  laru  of  the  original  as  clearly  wrong. 

lu  the  Introductory  Notice  to  Coriolanua  we  expressed  our  opinion  that  the  entry  in  the  Stationers' 
registers  in  1608  of  '  a  book  called  Anthony  and  Cleopatra'  did  not  determine  the  date  of  Shakepere's 
tragedy;  for  the  proprietors  of  the  folio  enter  that  tragedy  in  1C23  as  "not  formerly  entered."  There 
was  a  careful  avoidance  of  publishing  any  of  Shakspero's  dramas  after  1603.  What  were  published 
were  piratically  obtained.  We  believe  the  'Anthony  and  Cleopatra'  entered  in  1608  was  some  other 
work.  Malone  has  very  sensibly  remarked  that  there  are  passages  in  Shakspere's  Antouj  and 
Cleopatra  which  appear  to  discover  "  such  a  knowledge  of  the  appropriated  characters  of  the  pereons 
exhibited  in  Julius  Caesar,  and  of  the  events  there  dilated  and  enlarged  upon,  as  Shakspcre  would 
necessarily  have  acquired  from  having  previously -written  a  play  on  that  subject."  The  passages  do 
not  BO  much  point  to  the  general  historical  notion  of  the  characters  as  to  the  poet's  own  mode  of 
treating  them.  This  would  imjily  that  the  play  of  Julius  Cresar  had  preceded  that  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra.  But  there  is  nothing  to  lis  the  exact  time  when  either  of  them  was  written.  We  believe 
that  they  were  amongst  the  latest  works  of  Shakspere. 


Sdi'poeed  Source  ov  tds  Tlot. 

We  have  given,  as  Illustrations  to  each  act,  very  full  extracts  from  North's  translation  of  Plutarch. 
Shakspere  is  to  be  traced  in  each  of  the  three  lives  of  Julius  Ctcsar,  Autonius,  and  Brutus ;  and  we 
have  selected  those  passages  from  the  several  narratives  of  the  same  events  which  appear  to  have 
furnished  the  poet  with  the  fullest  materials. 


SCENEiB. 

We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  A.  Poynter  for  six  designs  for  this  tragedy.  The  principle  by  which  Mr. 
Poynter  haq  been  guided  in  making  these  drawings  is  thus  explained  by  himself  in  a  note  to  the 
editor : — "  Augustus  foimd  Rome  of  brick  and  left  it  of  marble.  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  would 
be  an  ungrateful  task  to  illustrate  the  Home  of  brick : — the  attempt  would  produce  nothing  either 
true  or  interesting.  I  propose,  therefore,  to  give  the  Forum,  the  Capitol,  &c.,  not  as  scenes  but  as 
illuttralions,  and  to  represent  them  as  tbey  actually  were  some  two  centuries  later." 


218 


Juomaii  Soldier'i,^ 


Costume. 

From  the  reign  of  Augustvis  downwards  innumerable  authorities  exist  for  the  civil  and  military  costume 
of  the  Romans;  but  before  that  period  much  obscurity  remains  to  be  dispersed,  notwithstanding  the 
labours  of  many  learned  men. 

Tarquinius  Priscus,  the  fifth  King  of  Rome,  an  Etruscan  by  birth,  introduced  among  the  Romans 
many  of  the  manners  and  habits  of  his  native  country.  He  first  distinguished  the  senators  and 
magistrates  by  particular  robes  and  ornaments,  surroimded  the  axes  carried  before  great  public 
functionaries  with  bundles  of  rods  (fasces),  and  established  the  practice  of  triumphing  in  a  golden  car 
drawn  by  four  horses.  The  toga  pura,  prastexta,  and  picta,  the  trabea,  the  paludamentum,  the  tunica 
palmata,  and  the  curule  chairs,  were  all  derived  from  the  Etruscans,  and  from  the  Greeks  and 
Etruscans  the  early  Romans  borrowed  also  their  arms,  both  offensive  and  defensive.  Polybius  extols 
the  readiness  of  the  Romans  in  adopting  such  foreign  customs  as  were  preferable  to  their  own.  It  is 
therefore,  amongst  Grecian  and  Etrurian  remains  that  we  must  look  for  the  illustration  of  such  points 
as  are  still  undecided  respecting  the  habits  of  the  Romans  during  the  commonwealth,  and  not  on  the 
columns  and  arches  of  the  emperors,  which  may  almost  be  termed  the  monuments  of  another  nation. 
The  date  assigned  to  the  death  of  Caius  Marcius  Coriolanus  is  B.C.  488.  Julius  Ccesar  was  assassinated 
B.C.  44.  During  four  hundred  years  little  alteration  took  place  in  the  habiliments  of  the  Romans,  and 
the  civil  and  military  dress  of  the  earher  play  may,  with  very  few  exceptions,  be  worn  by  similar 
personages  in  the  other,  and  exhibit  together  the  most  particular  drcses  in  use  during  the  whole 
period  of  the  republic. 

219 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

The  civil  dress  of  the  higher  classes  amongst  the  ancient  Romans  consistdl  of  a  woollen  tunic,  ovei 
which,  in  public,  was  worn  the  toga.  The  toga  was  also  of  wool,  and  its  colour,  during  the  earlier 
ages,  of  its  o\vn  natural  yellowish  hue.  It  was  a  robe  of  honour,  which  the  common  people  were 
not  permitted  to  wear,  and  it  was  laid  aside  in  times  of  mourning  and  public  calamities.  The 
form  of  the  toga  has  been  a  hotly-contested  point;  Dionysius  of  Halicamassus  says  it  was  semicircular; 
and  an  ingenious  foreigner,*  who  devoted  many  years  to  the  inquiry,  has  practically  demonstrated 
that,  though  not  perfectly  semicircular,  its  shape  was  such  as  to  be  better  described  by  that  term  than 
any  other. 

The  Roman  tunic  was  of  different  lengths,  according  to  the  caprice  of  the  wearer;  but  long 
tunics  were  deemed  effeminate  during  the  time  of  the  republic.  Cicero,  speaking  of  the  luxury  of 
Catiline's  companions,  says  they  wore  tunics  reaching  to  their  heels,  and  that  their  togas  were  as 
large  as  the  sails  of  a  ship.  Some  wore  two  or  more  tunics ;  the  interior  one,  which  held  the  place 
of  the  modern  shirt,  was  called  intcrula  or  suhucida.  The  subucula  of  Augustus  was  of  wool, 
according  to  Suetonius;  and  there  does  not  appear  any  proof  that  linen  was  used  for  this  garment 
by  men  before  the  time  of  Alexander  Severus,  who,  according  to  Lampridius,  was  particularly  fond 
of  fine  linen.  Women,  however,  appear  to  have  generally  used  it,  for  Van-o  mentions,  as  an 
extraordinary  circumstance,  that  it  had  long  been  the  custom  of  the  females  of  a  particular  Roman 
family  not  to  wear  linen  garments. 

The  common  people  wore  over  their  tunics  a  kind  of  mantle  or  surtout,  called  lacerna,  which  was 
fastened  before  with  a  buckle,  and  had  a  hood  attached  to  it  {cucidlus).  It  was  generally  made  of 
wool,  and  dyed  black  or  brown.  In  the  time  of  Cicero  it  was  a  disgrace  for  a  senator  to  adopt  such 
a  habit ;  but  it  was  afterwards  worn  by  the  higher  orders.  The  luThus  was  a  similar  vestment, 
also  with  a  hood,  but  usually  of  a  red  colour.  "When  travelling,  the  heads  of  the  higher  classes  were 
generally  covered  by  the  petasus,  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  which  they  had  borrowed  from  the  Greeks. 
The  common  people  wore  the  pileiis,  a  conical  cap,  which  was  also  the  emblem  of  liberty,  because  it 
was  given  to  slaves  when  they  were  made  fi'ee.f 

Various  kinds  of  covering  are  mentioned  for  the  feet,  and  many  were  called  by  the  Romans 
calceus  which  are  found  under  their  own  n.imes,  as  pei'o,  mulleus,  phajcasium,  caliga,  solea,  crepida, 
sandalium,  baxea,  &c.  The  caliga  was  the  sandal  of  the  Roman  soldiei'y,+  such  has  had  nails  or 
spikes  at  the  .bottom.  The  pero  is  supposed  by  some  to  be  the  boot  worn  by  the  senators ;  the 
phtEcasium  was  also  a  kind  of  boot,  covering  the  foot  entirely.  According  to  Appianus,  it  was  of 
white  leather,  and  worn  originally  by  the  Athenian  and  Alexandrian  i^riesthood  at  sacrifices :  it  was 
worn  in  Rome  by  women  and  effeminate  persons.  Petronius,  who  wore  it  and  called  himself  a  soldier, 
was  asked  by  a  legionary  if  in  his  army  soldiers  marched  with  the  phoecasium  : — 

'  Age  vero,  in  exercitu  vestro  phscasiati  milit»s  ambulant  ?  " 

The  mulleus  is  described  by  Dion  Cassius  as  coming  up  to  the  middle  of  the  leg,  though  it  did 
not  cover  the  whole  foot,  but  only  the  sole,  like  a  sandal :  it  was  of  a  red  colour,  and  originally 
worn  by  the  Alban  kings. 

The  cothurnus,  which  Dion  says  it  resembled  both  in  colour  and  fashion,  is  described  by  Sidonius 
ApoUinaris  as  having  a  ligature  attached  to  the  sole,  which  passed  between  the  great  and  second 
toes,  and  then  divided  into  two  bands.     And  Virgil  tells  us  that  it  was  worn  by  the  Tyriau  virgins.§ 

The  armour  of  the  Romans  at  the  commencement  of  the  republic  consisted,  according  to  Livy,  of 


•  The  late  Mons.  Combre,  costumier  to  tlie  Theatre  Fr-inyais,  Paris.    This  intelligent  person,  at  the  recommendation  o( 
Talma  and  Mr.  Ch.irlcs  Young,  was  engaged  by  Mr.  Charles  Kcnible,  during  his  management  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
for  the  revival  of  Julius  Caesar,  and  made  th«  beautiful  togas  which  have  since  been  worn  in  all  the  Roman  plays  at  that 
theatre, 
t   Vide  Persius,  Sat.  5,  thus  translated  by  Dryden  : — 

"  What  further  can  we  from  our  caps  receive,  • 

But  as  wc  please  without  control  to  live?  " 
Suetonius  (in  Nero,  cap.  Ivii.)  8.-iys,  "  Mors  Neronis  tantum  gaudiura  publiciB  prsebuit  ut  plebs  pilcata  tota  urbe  dis- 
currcret." 

I  Hence  Juvenal  (Sat.  IC)  and  Suetonius  fin  Augustus,  25)  use  the  term  caligali  for  tlie  common  soldiers,  without  the 
addition  of  a  substantive. 

§  "  Virpinibus  Tyriis  mos  est  gcstare  pharetram, 

Purjiureoque  alte  suras  vincire  cothurno.'— jCn.  2. 
See  many  varieties  of  the  mulleus  and  cothurnus  in  the  paintings  discovered  at  Ilcrculanxum. 
tented  wearing  the  cothurnus. 

220 


Diana  is  generally  lepre- 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 

the  galea,  the  cassia,  the  clypeus,  the  ocrecB  or  greaves,  and  the  lorica,  all  of  brass.  This  was  the 
Etruscan  attire,  and  introduced  by  Servius  Tullius.  The  lorica,  like  the  French  cuirass,  was  so  called 
from  having  been  originally  made  of  leather.  It  followed  the  line  of  the  abdomen  at  bottom,  and 
seems  to  have  been  impressed  whilst  wet  with  forms  corresponding  to  those  of  the  human  body,  and 
this  peculiarity  was  preserved  in  its  appearance  when  it  was  afterwards  made  of  metal.  At  top,  the 
square  aperture  for  the  throat  was  guarded  by  the  pcctorale,  a  band  or  plate  of  brass;  and  the 
shoidders  were  likewise  protected  by  pieces  made  to  slip  over  each  other.  The  galea  and  cassis  were 
two  distinct  head-pieces  originally,  the  former,  like  the  loi-ica,  being  of  leather,  and  the  latter  of  metal : 
but  in  the  course  of  time  the  words  were  applied  indifferently.* 

Polybius  has  furnished  us  with  a  very  minute  account  of  the  military  equipment  of  the  Eomans  of 
his  time ;  and  it  is  from  his  description,  and  not  from  the  statues,  which  have  been  generally  con- 
sidered as  authorities,  but  which  are  in  truth  of  a  considerably  later  date,  that  we  muit  collect 
materials  for  the  military  costume  of  the  latter  days  of  the  republic. 

He  tells  us  then  that  the  Roman  infantry  was  divided  into  four  bodies  :  the  yoimgest  men  and  of 
the  lowest  condition  were  set  apart  for  the  light-armed  troops  {velites);  the  next  in  age  were  called 
the  haslati;  the  third,  who  were  in  their  full  strength  and  vigour,  the  principes ;  and  the  oldest  of 
all  were  called  triarii.f  The  velites  were  armed  with  swords,  light  javelins  (a  cubit  and  a  span 
in  length),  and  bucklers  of  a  circular  foi-m,  three  feet  in  diameter;  and  they  wore  on  their  heads 
some  simple  covering,  like  the  skin  of  a  wolf  or  other  animal  The  hastati  wore  complete  armour, 
which  consisted  of  a  shield  of  a  convex  surface,  two  feet  and  a  half  broad  and  four  feet  or  four  feet 
and  a  palm  in  length,  made  of  two  planks  glued  together,  and  covered,  first  with  linen  and  then  with 
calves'  skin,  having  in  its  centre  a  shell  or  boss  of  iron ;  on  their  right  thigh  a  sword,  called  the 
Spanish  sword,  made  not  only  to  thrust  but  to  cut  with  either  edge,  the  blade  remarkably  firm  and 
strong;  two  piles  or  javelins,  one  stouter  than  the  other,  but  both  about  six  cubits  long;  a  brazen 
helmet;  and  greaves  for  the  legs.  JJpon  the  helmet  was  worn  an  ornament  of  three  upright 
feathers,  either  black  or  red,  about  a  cubit  in  height,  which,  being  placed  on  the  very  top  of  their 
heads,  made  them  seem  much  taller,  and  gave  them  a  beautiful  and  terrible  appearance.  Their 
breasts  were  protected  by  the  pectorale  of  brass  :  but  such  as  were  rated  at  more  than  ten  thousand 
drachmae  wore  a  ringed  lorica.  The  principes  and  triarii  were  armed  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
hastati,  except  only  that  the  triarii  carried  pikes  instead  of  javelins.  The  Roman  cavalry,  the  same 
author  tells  us,  were  in  his  time  armed  like  the  Greeks,  but  that,  anciently,  it  was  very  different,  for 
they  then  wore  no  armour  on  their  bodies,  but  were  covered  in  the  time  of  action  with  only  an 
under  garment;  they  were  thereby  enabled  certainly  to  mount  and  dismount  with  great  facility, 
but  they  were  too  much  exposed  to  danger  in  close  engagements.  The  spears,  also,  that  were  in 
use  amongst  them  in  former  times,  were  in  a  double  respect  unfit  for  service  :  first,  as  they  were  of 
slender  make,  and  always  trembled  in  the  hand,  it  was  extremely  difficult  to  direct  them  with  any 
certainty,  and  they  were  sometimes  shaken  to  pieces  by  the  mere  motion  of  the  horse ;  and,  secoudly, 
the  lower  end  not  being  armed  with  iron,  they  were  formed  only  to  strike  with  the  point,  and,  when 
broken  with  this  stroke,  became  useless.  Their  bucklers  were  made  of  the  hide  of  an  ox,  and  in  fonn 
not  unlike  to  the  globular  dishes  which  were  used  in  sacrifices ;  but  these  were  also  of  too  infirm 
a  texture  for  defence,  and,  when  relaxed  by  weather,  were  utterly  spoiled.  Observing  these  defects, 
therefore,  they  changed  their  weapons  for  those  of  the  Greeks. 

The  siguiferi,  or  standard-bearers,  seem  to  have  been  habited  like  their  fellow-soldiers,  with  the 
exception  of  the  scalp  and  mane  of  a  lion  which  covered  then-  heads  and  hung  down  on  their 
shoulders.  The  eagles  of  Brutus  and  Cassius  were  of  silver.  The  lictors,  according  to  Petronius, 
wore  white  habits,  and  from  the  following  passage  of  Cicero  it  would  appear  they  sometimes 
wore  the  saga,  or  paludameutum,  aud  sometimes  a  small  kind  of  toga : — "  Togulaj  ad  poi-tam 
lictoribus  praesto  fuerunt  quibua  illi  acceptis  sagula  rejecerunt."  The  fa.sces  were  bound  with 
purple  ribbons.  The  axes  were  taken  from  them  by  Publicola ;  but  T.  Lartius,  the  first  dictator, 
restored  them.  The  augurs  wore  the  frabca  of  purple  and  scarlet ;  that  is  to  say,  dyed  first  with 
one   colour  and  then  with  the  other.      Cicero   uses  the    word   "dibaphus,"   twice  dyed,   for  the 


Vide  Sir  S.  Meyiick's  '  Crit.  Inquiry,'  Introduction. 


Uonii 
D.  '/fo2. 


Our  tusinRss  here  is  only  with  the  dress  of  the  soldiery ;  but  those  who  wish  for  further  particulars  respecting  the 
i;  n  legions  will  do  well  to  consult  Mons.  le  Beau's  luminous  account  in  the  '  Acadeniie  des  Inscripticfls,'  tome  xxxv. 


211 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

augural  robe  (Epist,  Fam.,  lib.  12.  IC);  auJ  iu  another  passage  calls  it  "our  purple,"  being  himself 
a  member  of  the  college  of  augurs.  The  shape  of  the  aforesaid  trabea  is  another  puzzle  for  the 
antiquiu-ies.  Dionysius  of  Halicarnasaus  says  plainly  enough  that  it  only  differed  from  the  toga  in 
the  quality  of  its  stuff;  but  Kubeuius  would  make  it  appear  from  the  lines  of  Virj^il — 

•'  I'arvaque  sedcbat 
Succinctus  trabea." — .''En.  " — 

that  it  was  shoi-t,  and  resembled  the  paludamentum,  for  which  reason  he  says  the  salii  (priests  of 
Mars),  who  are  sometimes  termed  "  trabcati,"  are  called  "paludati"  by  Festus. 

The  Roman  women  originally  wore  the  toga  as  well  as  the  men,  but  they  soon  abandoned  it  for  the 
Greek  pallium,  an  elegant  mantle,  under  which  they  wore  a  tunic  descending  in  graceful  folds  to  the 
feet,  called  the  stola.* 

Another  exterior  habit  was  called  the  peplum,  also  of  Grecian  origin.  It  is  very  difl&cult,  says 
Montfaucon,  to  distinguish  these  habits  one  from  the  other.  There  was  also  a  habit  called  crocota, 
most  probably  because  it  was  of  a  saffron  colour,  as  we  are  told  it  was  worn  not  only  by  the  women, 
but  effeminate  men,  revellers,  and  buffoons.t 

The  fashions  of  ladies'  head  dresses  changed  aa  often  in  those  times  as  they  do  now.  Vitta  and 
fascia,  ribbons  or  hllcts,  were  the  most  simple  and  respectable  ornaments  for  the  hair.  Ovid  par- 
ticularly mentions  the  former  as  the  distinguishing  badges  of  honest  matrons  and  chaste  virgins.t 

The  calantica  was,  according  to  some,  a  coverchief.  Servius  says  the  mitra  was  the  same  thing 
as  the  calantica,  though  it  anciently  signified  amongst  the  Greeks  a  ribbon,  a  fillet,  a  zone.§ 
Ajiother  coverchief  called  flammeum,  or  flammeolum,  was  worn  by  a  new-married  female  on  the 
wedding-day.  According  to  Nonius,  matrons  also  wore  the  flammeum,  and  TertuUian  seems  to 
indicate  that  in  his  time  it  was  a  common  ornament  which  Christian  women  wore  also.  The 
caliendrum,  mentioned  by  Horace  (i.  Sat.  viii.  48),  and  aftenvards  by  Arnobius,  was  a  round  of 
false  hair  which  women  added  to  their  natural  locks,  in  order  to  lengthen  them  and  improve  their 
appearance.  The  Roman  ladies  wore  bracelets  {arniilla)  of  silver,  or  gilt  metal,  and  sometimes 
of  pure  gold,  necklaces,  and  earrings.  Pliny  says,  "they  seek  the  pearl  in  the  Red  Sea,  and  the 
emeralds  in  the  depths  of  the  earth.  It  is  for  this  they  pierce  their  ears."  These  earrings  were 
extremely  long,  and  sometimes  of  so  great  a  price,  says  Seneca,  that  "  a  pair  of  them  would  con- 
sume the  revenue  of  a  rich  house;"  and  again,  that  "the  folly  of  them  (the  women)  was  such, 
that  one  of  them  would  carry  two  or  three  patrimonies  hanging  at  her  ears."  Green  and  vei-mi- 
lion  were  favourite  colours,  both  ^vith  Greek  and  Roman  females.  Such  garments  were  called 
"vestes  herbidse,"  from  the  hue  and  juice  of  the  herbs  with  which  they  were  stained.  The 
rage  for  green  and  vermilion  was  of  long  duration,  for  Cyprian  and  TertuUian,  inveighing  against 
luxury,  name  particularly  those  colours  as  most  agreeable  to  the  women;  and  Martian  Capella, 
who  wrote  in  the  fifth  century,  even  says,  "Floridam  discoloremque  vestem  herbida  palla  con- 
teiuerat."  At  banquets,  and  on  joyful  occasions,  white  dresses  were  made  use  of.  ||  Among 
the  many  colours  in  request  with  gentlewomen,  Ovid  reckons  "albeutes  rosaa"  (de  Ait.  iii.  v.  189); 
and  at  v.  191  he  says — 

"  .\lba  decent  fuscas  :  albis,  es  Cephei  placebas." 

In  TibuUus  we  meet  with  the  following  passage  : — 

"  Urit  seu  Tyria  voluit  procedere  pillaj 
Urit  seu  nivea  caadida  veste  venit." — Eleg.  iv.  2. 

Having  thus  ^ven  a  sketch  of  the  general  costume  of  the  Romans,  we  will  proceed  to  notice 

•  "  Ad  talos  stolaet  demusa  circumdata  palla." — Horace,  lib.  i..  Sat.  !,  99. 

t  Yellow  was  always  considered  effeminate  amongst  the  Romans,  and  the  votaries  of  pleasure  are  generally  described 
in  it.    See  also  a  painting  of  vocal  and  instrumental  performers  found  at  Portici,  A.D.  1701. 

t  "  Estc  procul  vittae  tenues  insigne  pudoris." — Mctain.,  lib.  i.,  fab.  9. 
And  describing  the  chaste  Daphne,  he  says, 

"  Vitta  coercebat  positos  sine  lege  capUlos." — Met.  lib.  i. 

§  "  Unde  mitram   solvere  quod   metaphorice   signiflcabat    cum    virgine    coDcumberc." — .Montfaucon,    Ant.    £x;liq. 
tome  iii.  p.  -It. 

1  Staekius,  Ant.  Con.  IL  26. 
222 


JULIUS  CJ^SAR 

such  peculiarities  as  are  requisite  to  distinguish  the  dr:42i«,iis  persona  cf  the  Roman  plays  of 
Shakspere. 

The  dress  of  the  ancient  Roman  consuls  consisted  of  the  tunic,  called  from  its  ornament  latidavian, 
the  toga  pratexta  (L  e.  bordered  with  purple),  and  the  red  sandals  called  mullei.  Of  all  the  disputed 
points  before  alluded  to,  that  which  has  occasioned  the  most  controversy  is  the  distinguishing  mark  of 
the  senatorial  and  equestrian  classes. 

The  latus  clavus  is  said  to  have  been  the  characteristic  of  the  magistrates  and  senators,  and  the 
angustus  clavus  that  of  the  equites  or  knights. 

That  it  was  a  purple  ornament  we  learn  from  Pliny  *  and  Ovid ;  but  concerning  its  shape  there 
are  almost  as  many  opinions  as  there  have  been  pages  written  on  the  subject,  not  one  of  the 
ancients  having  taken  the  trouble  to  describe  what  to  them  was  a  matter  of  no  curiosity,  or  by 
accident  dropped  a  hiut  which  "might  serve  as  a  clue  to  the  enigma.  Some  antiquarians  contend  that 
it  was  a  round  knob  or  naU  with  which  the  tunic  was  studded  ah.  over ;  others  that  it  was  a  flower  ; 
some  that  it  was  a  fibula ;  some  that  it  was  a  ribbon  worn  like  a  modem  order ;  and  others,  again,  that 
it  was  a  stripe  of  purple  wove  in  or  sewn  on  the  tunic  ;  but  these  last  are  divided  among  themselves 
as  to  the  direction  in  which  this  stripe  ran.f 

The  learned  Pere  Montfaucon,  in  his  'Antiquite  ExpUquee  p>ar  les  Figures,'  observes  that  Lam- 
pridius,  in  his  '  Life  of  Alexander  Severus,'  says  that  at  feasts  napkins  were  used  adorned  with 
scarlet  clavi,  "  clavata  cocco  mantili-.u"  These  clavi  were  also  seen  in  the  sheets  that  covered  the 
beds  on  which  the  ancients  lay  to  take  their  meals.  Ammianus  Marcellinus  also  tells  us  that  a  table 
was  covered  with  cloths  so  ornamented,  and  disposed  in  such  a  manner,  that  the  whole  appeared  like 
the  habit  of  a  prince. 

Upon  this  Montfaucon  ingeniously  remarks,  that,  presuming  the  clavus  to  be  a  stripe  or  band  of 
purple  running  round  the  edges  of  these  cloths,  it  would  not  be  diificult  by  laying  them  one  over  the 
other  to  show  nothing  but  their  borders,  and  thei-eby  present  a  mass  of  pui-ple  to  the  eye,  which 
might  of  course  be  very  properly  compared  to  the  habit  of  a  prince,  but  that  this  could  not  be 
effected  were  the  cloths  merely  studded  with  purple  knobs,  or  embroidered  with  purple  flowers,  as 
in  that  case  the  white  ground  must  inevitably  jippear.  In  addition  to  this,  he  observes  that  St.  Basil, 
in  explanation  of  a  passage  in- Isaiah,  says,  he  blames  the  luxury  of  women  "who  border  their 
garments  with  purple,  or  who  insert  it  into  the  stuff  itself;"  and  that  St.  Jerome,  on  the  same 
passage,  uses  the  expression  of  "  daiatum purpura." 

Now,  though  these  observations  go  some  way  towards  proving  the  clavus  to  have  been  a  band  or 
stripe  (broad  for  the  senators  and  narrow  for  the  knights),  we  are  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever 
i-especting  the  direction  it  took.  It  could  not  have  hovdered  the  tunic,  or  surely,  like  that  of  the 
Spaniards,^  it  would  have  been  called  prsctexta  (as  the  toga  was  when  so  ornamented).  On  the  line 
in  Horace — 

"  Latum  demisH  pectore  clavum." — Sat.  1,  6,  28 — 

a  commentator  (Torreutius)  says,  "recto  ordine  descendebat  insuti  clavi  vel  intexti  " — the  clavi 
sewn  on,  or  woven  into,  the  garment,  descended  in  a  right  line ;  but  if  he  founded  this  conjecture 
simply  on  the  word  "  demisit,"  he  did  not  recollect  that  the  ornament  gave  its  name  to  the  garment, 
and  that  the  tunic  itself  ia  repeatedly  called  the  latus  clavus  by  the  ancient  writers.  Hoi-ace  might, 
therefore,  merely  allude  to  the  tunic  of  the  wearer  hanging  loosely  and  negligently  down  upon  the 
breast,  an  affectation  of  weaving  it  which  is  imputed  to  Julius  Ca;sar.  Nothing,  in  short,  appears  likely 
to  solve  this  difficulty  but  the  discoveiy  of  some  painting  of  Roman  times,  in  which  colour  may  afford 
the  necessary  information. 

Noble  Roman  youths  wore  the  prtetexta,  and  the  bulla,  a  golden  ornament,  which,  from  the  rare 
specimen  in  the  collection  of  the  late  Samuel  Rogers,  we  should  compare  to  the  case  of  what  is  called 
a  hunting- vvatch.§     It  has  generally  been  described  as  a  small  golden  ball;  but,  imless  the  jne  we 


•  Lib.  9,  cap.  xxxi.x. 

t  Those  of  our  readers  who  would  like  to  plunge  into  the  depths  of  this  unfathomable  controversy  are  recommended  to 
a  perusal  of  the  essays  of  Kubenius  and  Ferrarius. 

t  Livy,  speaking  of  the  tunics  of  the  Spaniards,  says  they  were  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  and  bordered  with  purple-"  iV 
tii  pretextcc." 

§  An  exactly  siruilar  one  is  engraved  in  Montfaucon. 

225 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE 


liavo  Been  has  been  by  accidout  much  compressed  or  flattened,  wa  eUould  say  they  were  not  more 
globular  than  an  old-fasliionod  watcL  Macrobius  says  they  were  sometimes  in  the  shape  of  a  heait, 
and  that  they  frequently  contained  preservatives  against  envy,  &c.  On  arriving  at  the  age  of 
puberty,  which  was  fourteen,  youths  abandoned  the  bulla,  and  exchanged  the  io>ja  pvatcxta  for  the 
toga  pura,  which  was  also  called  the  "toga  viniis,"  and  "libera." — " virilis,"  iu  allusion  to  the 
period  of  life  at  which  they  had  anived  ;  and  libera,  because  at  the  same  time,  if  they  were 
pupilii,  they  attained  full  power  over  their  property,  and  were  released  from  tutela.  There  is  no 
ascertaining  the  age  of  young  Marcius,  in  the  tragedy  of  Coriolanus;  but  as  ho  only  appears  in 
the  scene  before  the  Volsciau  camp  when  he  is  brought  to  supplicate  his  father,  he  phould  wear 
nothing  but  a  black  tunic,  the  toga  and  all  ornaments  being  laid  aside  iu  mourning  and  times  of 
public  calamity. 

Of  Julius  Cffisar  we  learn  the  followuig  facts  relative  to  his  dress  and  personal  appearance.  Sue- 
tonius tells  us  that  he  was  tall,  fair-complexioned,  i-ound-limbed,  rather  full-faced,  and  with  black 
eyes ;  that  he  obtained  from  the  senate  permission  to  wear  constantly  a  laurel  crown  (Dion  Cassius 
Bays  on  account  of  his  baldness);  that  he  was  i-eraarkable  in  his  dress,  wearing  the  laticlavian 
tunic  with  sleeves  to  it,  having  gatherings  about  the  wi-ist,  and  always  had  it  girded  rather  loosely, 
which  latter  circumstance  gave  origin  to  the  esjiression  of  Sulla,  "  Beware  of  the  loose-coated  boy," 
or  " of  the  man  who  is  so  ill  girt.'  Dion  Cassius  adds  that  he  had  also  the  right  to  wear  a  royal 
robe  in  assemblies;*  that  he  wore  a  i"ed  sash  and  the  calcei  muUei  even  on  ordinary  days,  to  show 
his  descent  from  the  Alban  kings.f  A  statue  of  Julius  Caesar,  armed,  is  engraved  in  Rossi's 
'  Racolta  di  Statue  Antiche  e  Moderne,'  folio,  Rome,  1704,  pi.  15;  also  one  of  Octavianus,  or 
Augustus  Coesar :—  the  latter  statue  having  been  once  in  the  possession  of  the  celebrated  Marquis 
Maffei.  Octavius  affected  simplicity  in  his  appearance,  and  humility  in  his  conduct ;  and,  con- 
sistently with  this  description,  we  find  his  armour  of  the  plainest  kind.  His  lorica,  or  cuirass,  is 
entirely  without  ornament,  except  the  two  rows  of  plates  at  the  bottom.  The  thorax  is  i)artly 
liidden  by  the  paludamentum,  which  was  worn  by  this  emperor  and  by  Julius  Caesar  of  a  much 
larger  size  than  those  of  his  successors.  Although  he  is  without  the  cinctura,  or  belt,  he  holds  in  his 
right  hand  the  paragonium,  a  short  sword,  which,  as  the  name  imports,  was  fastened  to  it. 

Suetonius  tells  us  that  Octavius  was  in  height  five  feet  nine  inches,  of  a  complexion  between 
brown  and  fair,  his  hair  a  little  curled  and  inclining  to  yellow.  He  had  clear  bright  eyes, 
small  cars,  and  an  aquiline  nose, — his  eyebrows  meeting.  He  wore  his  toga  neither  too  scanty  nor 
too  full,  and  the  clavus  of  his  tunic  neither  remarkably  broad  nor  narrow.  His  shoes  were  a  little 
thicker  in  the  jole  than  common,  to  make  him  appear  taller  than  he  was.  In  the  winter  he  wore 
a  thick  toga,  four  tunics,  a  shirt,  a  flannel  stomacher,  and  wrappers  on  his  legs  and  thighs.  He 
could  not  bear  the  winter's  sun,  and  never  walked  in  the  open  air  without  a  broad-brimmed  hat  on 
his  head. 

From  the  time  of  Caius  Marius  the  senators  wore  black  boots  or  buskins  reaching  to  the  middle  of 
the  leg,i  with  the  letter  C  in  silver  or  ivory  upon  them,  or  rather  the  figure  of  a  half-moon  §  or 
crescent.  II  There  is  one  engraved  in  Montfaucon,  from  the  cabinet  of  P.  Kircher.  It  was  worn  above 
the  heel,  at  the  height  of  the  ankle  ;  but  this  last  honour,  it  is  conjectured,  was  only  granted  to  such 
as  were  descended  from  the  huutlred  senators  elected  by  Romulus. 

In  conclusion,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  say  a  few  words  respecting  the  purple  of  the  ancients. 
Gibbon  says  "  it  was  of  a  dark  cast,  as  deep  as  bulls'  blood." — See  also  President  Goguet's 
'  Origine  des  Loix  et  des  Arts,'  part  ii.  1.  2,  c.  2,  pp.  184,  215.  But  there  were  several  sorts  of 
purjile,  and  each  hue  was  fashionable   in  its  turn.     "In  my  youth,"  says   Cornelius   Nepos  (who 


: 


*  Cicero  alio  says  that  Cssar  sat  in  the  rostra,  in  a  purple  toga,  on  a  golden  seat,  crowned :  "  Sedebat  in  rostris  coUega 
tnus,  aniictus  toga  purpurea,  in  sella  aurea,  coronatus." — Phil.,  2,  34. 

t  Rubcniui  thinks  he  wore  the  sleeved  tunic  for  the  saint  reason,  to  show  his  descent,  through  those  monarcU3,  from 
the  Trojans,  to  whom  Numanus  objects,  in  Virgil,  as  a  proof  of  their  elTeminacy — 

"  Et  tunica;  luanicas  et  habent  rediraicula  mitrae." — yEn.  9,  CIC. 
I  "  Nam  ut  quisque  insanus  nigris  medium  impcdiit  crus 

Pellibus,  et  latum  dcmisit  pectore  clavum." — Horace,  i..  Sat.  C,  v.  27. 
Hence  also  "calceos  muiari,"  to  become  a  senator,  as  they  then  exchanged  one  sort  of  chaussiire  for  anotbi.'r. — Cicero. 
Phil.  ziii.  IS. 
S  Therefore  called  "  Calcei  /una/t."— Kubenius  apud  Philostratus. 

i  The  crescent  it  teen  upon  the  standards  of  the  Roman  centuries,  probably  to  denote  the  number  100. 
224 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 

died  during  the  reign  of  Augustus ;  Pliny,  ix.  39),  "  the  violet  purple  was  fashionable,  and  Eold 
for  a  hundred  denarii  the  pound.  Some  time  afterwards  the  red  purple  of  Tarentum  came  into 
vogue,  and  to  this  succeeded  the  red  Tyrian  twice  dyed,  which  was  not  to  be  bought  under  one 
thousand  denariL"  Here,  then,  we  ha%-e  three  sorts  of  purple  worn  during  the  life  of  one  man. 
The  red  purple  is  mentioned  by  Macrobius :  he  says  the  redness  of  the  purple  border  of  the  toga 
prsetexta  was  admonitory  to  those  who  assumed  it  to  preserve  the  modesty  of  demeanour  becoming 
young  noblemen ;  and  Virgil  says  that  the  sacrificing  priest  should  cover  his  head  with  purple, 
without  noticing  whether  its  hue  be  red  or  violet.  Indeed,  purple  was  a  term  applied  indiscri- 
minately by  the  ancients  to  every  tint  produced  by  the  mixture  of  red  and  blue,  and  sometimes  to 
the  pure  coloui-s  themselves.  J.  R.  P. 


I  Plebeian 


TaACJEDiES.  —Vol.  IT. 


Q 


«i 


i 


■PV-.' 


pehsoxs  represented. 

JULIDS  C;E8AH. 

OcTAVius    CxsAR,    Marcvs   Antonius,   M.   /Emu.. 

Lepiuus;  triumvirs  after  the  death  0/ Julius  Cxsar. 
Cicero,  Poblius,  Popihus  Lena;  senators. 
Marcus  Urutus,  Cassius,  Casca,  Trebonius,  Lica- 

Rius.  Decius  ISrutus,  Metellus  Cimrer.  Cinna 

conspirators  against  Julius  Csesar. 
Flavius  and  Marullis,  tribunes. 
Artemidorus,  a  sophist  o/Ciiidos. 
4  Soothsayer.     CiS}i\,  a  poet.     Another  Poet. 
LuciLics,    TiTixius,    Messala,    young    Cato,    and 

VoLUMNius;  friends  to  Brutus  and  Cassius. 
Varro,  Clitus.  Claudius,  Strato,  Lucius,  Darda- 

Nlis;  servants  to  Brutu."!. 
PiNDARUs,  servant  to  Cassius. 

Calpiiurnia  ici/e  <o  Ca»sar. 


ml 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Rome.     //  Street. 


Enter    Flavius,   Mahullxjs,   and  a  rabble   of 
Citizens. 

Flav.  Hence;  home,  you  idle  creatures,  get 
you  home ; 
Is  this  a  holiday  ?    Wliat !  know  you  not, 
Being  mechanical,  you  ought  not  walk, 
Upon  a  labouring  day,  without  the  sign 
Of  your  profession  ? — Speak,  what  trade  art  thou? 

1  at.  Why,  sir,  a  carpenter. 

Mar.  Where  is  thy  leather  apron,  and  thy  rule  ? 
What  dost  thou  with  thy  best  apparel  on  ? — 
You,  sir ;  what  trade  are  you  ? 

2  at.  Truly,  sir,  in  respect  of  a  fine  work- 
man, I  am  but,  as  you  would  say,  a  cobbler. 

Mar.  But  what  trade  art  thou  ?     Answer  me 

directly. 
2  at.  A  trade,  sir,  that  I  hope  I  may  use 
with  a  safe  conscience;  \ihich  is,  indeed,  sk,  a 
mender  of  bad  soles. 

Q  2 


Flac.  ''What  trade,  thou  knave?  thou  naughty 
knave,  what  trade  ? 

2  at.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  not  out 
with  me:  yet  if  you  be  out,  sir,  I  can  mend 
you. 

Mar.  What  meanest  thou  by  that?  Mend 
me,  thou  saucy  feUow  ? 

2  at.  Why,  sir,  cobble  you. 

Flav.  Thou  art  a  cobbler,  art  thou  ? 

2  at.  Truly,  su-,  all  that  I  live  by  is  with  the 
awl ;  I  meddle  with  no  tradesman's  matters,  nor 
women's  matters,  but  with  ail.''  I  am,  indeed, 
SU-,  a  sm-geon  to  old  shoes ;  when  they  are  in 
great  danger,  I  recover  them.    As  proper  men 

a  We  follow  the  folios  in  givinfr  this  speech  to  Flaviu?. 
Capell  assigns  it  to  MaruUus,  and  he  is  generally  followed. 
We  doubt  whether  it  is  correct  to  assume  that  only  one 
should  take  the  lead;  whereas  it  is  clear  that  the  dialogue  is 
more  natural,  certainly  more  dramatic,  according  to  the  ori- 
ginal arrangement,  where  Flavins  and  MaruUus  alternately 
rate  the  people,  like  two  smiths  smiting  on  the  same  anvil. 

ij  With  all.— The  original  has  withal.  Some  editors  write 
with  awl,  oiTering  an  equivoque  to  the  eye  which  is  some- 
what too  palpable. 

227 


Act  I.J 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[SCKNK  II. 


as  ever  trod  upon  ueat's-Ieatbcr  Lave  gone  upon 
my  handiwork. 

Fldv.  But  wherefore  art  not  in  thy  shop  to- 
day? 
"Why  dost  thou  lead  these  men  about  the  streets  ? 
2  at.  Truly,  sir,  to  wear  out  their  shoes,  to 
get  myself  into  more  work.  But,  indeed,  sir,  we 
make  holiday,  to  see  Csesar,  and  to  rejoice  in  his 
triumph. 

Mar.  Wherefore    rejoice?      Wliat    conquest 
brings  he  home  ? 
What  tributaries  follow  him  to  Rome, 
To  grace  in  captive  bonds  his  chariot-wheels  ? 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  sense- 
less things ! 
0,  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome, 
Knew  you  not  Pompey  ?  ilany  a  time  and  oft 
Have  you  climbed  up  to  walls  and  battlements. 
To  towers  and  windows,  yea,  to  chimney-tops, 
Your  infants  in  your  arms,  and  there  have  sat 
The  livelong  day,  with  patient  expectation. 
To  see  great  Pompey  pass  the  streets  of  Rome  : 
And  when  you  saw  his  chariot  but  appear. 
Have  you  not  made  an  universal  shout. 
That  Tiber  trembled  underneath  her  banks. 
To  hear  the  replication  of  your  sounds. 
Made  in  her  concave  shores  ? 
And  do  you  now  put  on  your  best  attire  ? 
And  do  you  now  cidl  out  a  holiday  ? 
And  do  you  now  strew  flowers  in  his  way. 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood  ? 
Be  gone ! 

Run  to  your  houses,  fall  upon  your  knees. 
Pray  to  the  gods  to  intermit  the  plague 
That  needs  must  light  on  this  ingratitude. 
Flat.  Go,  go,  good  countrymen,  and,  for  this 
fault, 
Assemble  all  the  poor  men  of  your  sort; 
Draw  them  to  Tiber  banks,  and  weep  your  tears 
Into  the  channel,  till  the  lowest  stream 
Do  kiss  the  most  exalted  shores  of  all. 

[^Exeunt  Citizens. 
See,  whe'r  their  basest  metal  be  not  mov'd ; 
They  vanish  tongue-tied  in  their  guiltiness. 
Go  you  down  that  way  towards  the  Capitol ; 
This  way  will  I :  Disrobe  the  images. 
If  you  do  fmd  them  deek'd  with  ceremonies. 

Mar.  May  we  do  so  ? 
You  know  it  is  the  feast  of  Lupercal. 

Flav.  It  is  no  matter ;  let  no  images 
Be  himg  with  Caisar's  trophies.     I  '11  about. 
And  drive  away  the  vulgar  from  the  streets : 
So  do  you  too,  wlicrc  you  perceive  them  thick. 
These  growing  feathers  pluck'd  from  Caesar's 


wmg 


228 


Will  make  him  fly  an  ordinaiy  pitch ; 

Who  else  would  soar  above  the  view  of  men, 

And  keep  us  all  in  servile  fearfuluess.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  U.—The  same.     A  Public  FImc 

Enter,  in  procession,  with  music,  Cesah;  Antony, 
for  the  course ;  Caxphurnia,  Poutia,  Decius, 
CiCEiio,  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  Casca,  a  great 
crowd  following  ;  among  them  a  Soothsayer. 

Cas.  Calphumia, — 

Casca.  Peace,  ho  !  Casar  speaks. 

[Music  ceases. 
Cas.  Calphumia, — 

Cal.  Here,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Stand  you  directly  in  Antonius'  way. 
When  he  doth  run  his  course. — .(Vutonius, — 
Ant.  CfEsai',  my  loi"d. 
Cas.  Forget  not,  in  your  speed,  Antonius, 
To  touch  Calphumia :  for  our  elders  say, 
The  barren,  touched  in  this  holy  chase. 
Shake  off  their  sterile  curse.^ 

Ant.  I  shall  remember 

When  Ca;sar  says,  *  Do  this,'  it  is  perform'd. 
Cas.  Set  on ;  and  leave  no  ceremony  out. 

[Music. 
Sooth.  Caesar. 
Cas.  Ha!  Who  calls? 

Cas.  Bid    every  noise  be  still: — Peace   yet 
again.  [Music  ceases. 

Cas.  Who  is  it  in  the  press  that  calls  on  me  ? 
I  hear  a  tongue,  striller  than  all  the  music, 
Cry,  Caesar :  Speak ;  Caesar  is  tum'd  to  hear. 
Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March. 
Cas.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Bru.  A  soothsayer  bids  you  beware  the  ides 

of  !March. 
Cas.  Set  him  before  me ;  let  me  see  his  face. 
Cas.  Fellow,  come  from   the  tlirong:    Look 

upon  Caesar. 
Cas.  What  say'st  thou  to  me  now?     Speak 

once  again. 
Sooth.  Beware  the  ides  of  March.* 
Cas.  He  is  a  dreamer;  let  tis  leave  him; — 
pass. 

[Senet.     Exeunt  all  but  Bru.  and  Cas. 
Cas.  Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course?^ 
Bru.  Not  I. 
Cas.  I  pray  you  do. 

Bru.  I  am  not  gamesome:   I  do  lack  some 
part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony. 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires ; 
I  '11  leave  you. 
Cat.  Brutus,  I  do  obsene  you  now  of  late  : 


Acr  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[SCESE  II 


I  Have  not  fi'om  your  eyes  that  gentleness. 
And  show  of  love,  as  I  was  wont  to  have : 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Brii.  Cassius, 

Be  not  deceiv'd :  If  I  have  veil'd  my  look, 
I  turn  the  trouble  of  ray  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself.     Vexed  I  am. 
Of  late,  with  passions  of  some  difference. 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself. 
Which  give  some  soil,  perhaps,  to  my  behaviours : 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  gnev'd ; 
(Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one ;) 
Nor  construe  any  fui-ther  ray  neglect. 
Than  that  poor  Biiitus,  with  himself  at  war, 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.    Then,  Brutus,   I  have   much    mistook 
your  passion ; 
By  means  whereof  this  breast  of  mine  hati 

buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  rae,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius  :  for  the  eye  sees  not  itself, 
But  by  reflection,  by  some  other  things. 

Cas.  'T  is  just : 
And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirrors  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your  eye. 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard. 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 
(Except  immortal  Csesar,)  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke. 
Have  wish'd  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me, 
Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ? 

Cas.  Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepar'd  to 
hear : 
And,  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass. 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  you  yet  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  on  me,''  gentle  Bmtus : 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protester ;  if  you  know 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them ;  or  if  you  know 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout,  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

[Flottnsh  and  shout. 


»  On  me.    So  the  original.    "We  do  not  change  this  idiom- 
atic language  of  Shakspere's  time  into  the  0/  me  of  modern 

speech. 


Bru.  What  means  this  shouting  ?    I  do  fear, 
the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king, 

C'^^-  Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 

Tlien  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.  I  would  not,  Cassius;  yet  I  love  him 
well : — 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  woidd  impart  to  me  ? 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good. 
Set  honour  in  one  eye,  and  death  i'  the  other. 
And  I  will  look  on  both  indifferently : 
For,  let  the  gods  so  speed  me  as  I  love 
The  name  of  honour  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.  I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Bmtus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  youi'  outward  favour. 
Well,  hououi-  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
T  cannot  teU  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  tliis  life ;  but,  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  hef  not  be  as  hve  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself. 
I  was  born  free  as  Csesar ;  so  were  you : 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he : 
For  once,  \ipon  a  raw  and  gusty  day. 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  her  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  '  Dars't  thou,  Cassius,  now 
Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood. 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ?' — Upon  the  word. 
Accoutred  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in. 
And  bade  him  foUow :  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd ;  and  we  did  buifet  it 
With  lusty  sinews ;  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 
But  ere  we  could  ai-rive  the  point  propos'd," 
Caesar  cried,  '  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink.' 
I,  as  ^neas,  our  great  ancestor. 
Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upou  his  shoulder 
The  old  Anchises  bear,  so,  from  the  waves  of 

Tiber 
Did  I  the  tired  Caesar :  And  this  man 
Is  now  become  a  god ;  and  Caseins  is 
A  wretched  creatui-e,  and  must  bend  his  body 
If  Csesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake :  't  is  true,  this  god  did  shake ; 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  colour  fly ; 
And  that  same  eye  whose  bend  doth  awe  the 
world 

a  The  use  of  arrire  without  the  preposition  has  an  examiile 
in  the  later  writings  of  Milton  : — 

"  Who  shall  spread  his  airy  flight 
Uphorne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle  " 

229 


Act  I.) 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


ISlENE  II. 


Did  lose  liis  liistre :  I  did  hear  him  groau : 

Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his  tliat  bade  tlic  Itoniaus 

Mark  him,  and  \rrite  his  speeches  iu  their  books, 

Alas !  it  cried,  '  Give  rac  some  drink,  Titiuius,' 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  beAr  the  palm  alone.         ISAou/.     Flourhh. 

Bni.  Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honours  that  are  heap'd  on  Cncsar. 
Cas.  TMiy,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow 
world. 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  tuidcr  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishououiable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars. 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus,  and  Caesar:  What  should  be  in  that 

Cffisar? 
\VTiy  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than 

yours  ? 
Write  them  together,  yours  is  as  fair  a  name ; 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy ;  conjure  with  them, 
Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Csesar. 

IShoitt. 
Now  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 
L^pon  what  meat  doth  this  our  Cajsar  feed, 
Tliat  he  is  grown  so  great?    Age,  thou  art 

sham'd ! 
Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods ! 
Wiien  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  Qood, 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man? 
When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walls*  cncompass'd  but  one  man? 
Now  is  it  Rome  indeed,  and  room  enough, 
When  there  is  in  it  but  one  only  man. 
O !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say. 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome, 
As  easily  as  a  king. 

Brii.  That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing 
jealous ; 
AVhat  you  would  work  roe  to,  I  have  some  aim  ; 
IIow  I  have  thoiight  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter ;  for  this  present, 
I  would  not,  so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you, 
Be  any  further  mov'd.    "What  you  have  said, 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hear :  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear  and  answer  such  high  things. 


Walki  in  the  original :  changed  by  Rowe  to  vallt. 
230 


Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this ; 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager, 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 

Ciis.  I  am  glad  that  my  weak  words 
Have  struck  but  thus  much  show  of  fire  from 
Brutus. 

Re-enter  C^sar,  and  his  Train. 

Bru.  The  games  are  done,  and  Casar  is  re- 
turning. 
Cas.  As   they  pass  by,  pluck  Casca  by  the 
sleeve ; 
And  he  will,  aftf^r  liis  sour  fashion,  tell  you 
What  hath  proceeded  worthy  note  to-day. 

Bru.  I  will  do  so  -.—But,  look  you,  Cassius, 
The  angiy  spot  doth  glow  on  Caesar's  brow. 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train : 
Calphumia's  cheek  is  pale ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes. 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  cross'd  in  conference  by  some  senators. 
Cas.  Casca  will  tell  us  what  the  matter  is. 
Cces.  Antonius. 
Ant.  Ca:sar. 

Cas.  Let  me  have  men  about  me  that  are 
fat; 
Sleek-headed  men,  and  such  as  sleep  o'nights : 
Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look ; 
lie  thinks  too  much :  such  men  are  dangerous.'' 
Ant.  Tear  liim    not,   Cajsar,   he's  not    dan- 
gerous ; 
He  is  a  noble  Roman,  and  well  given. 

CcES.  'Would  he  were  fatter  : — But  I  fear  him 
not: 
Yet  if  my  name  were  liable  to  fear, 
I  do  not  know  the  man  I  should  avoid 
So  soon  as  that  spare  Cassius.     He  reads  much ; 
He  is  a  great  observer,  and  he  looks 
Quite  through  the  deeds  of  men:  he  loves  no 

plays. 
As  thou  dost,  Antony ;  he  hears  no  music : 
Seldom  he  smiles ;  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scom'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  anything. 
Such  men  as  he  be  never  at  heart's  ease. 
Whiles  they  behold  a  greater  than  themselves ; 
And  therefore  are  they  very  dangerous. 
I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fcar'd. 
Than  what  I  fear,  for  always  I  am  Caesar. 
Come  on  my  right  hand,  for  this  ear  is  deaf. 
And  tell  me  truly  what  thou  thiuk'st  of  him. 

\Excnnt  CiiSAR  and  his  Train.     CiSCA 
stays  behind. 


Act  I.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[Some  II. 


Casca.  You  pull'd  me  by  the  cloak:  Would 
you  speak  with  me? 

Bru.  Ay,  Casca;  tell  us  what  hath  chanc'd 
to-day/ 
That  Cffisar  looks  so  sad  ? 

Casca.  Wliy,  you  were  with  him,  were  you 
not? 
Bru.  I  should  not  then  ask  Casca  what  had 

chanc'd. 
Casca.  Wliy,  there  was  a  crown  offered  him : 
and  being  offered  him,  he  put  it  by  with  the 
back  of  his  hand,  thus :  and  then  the  people  fell 
a  shouting. 

Bru,  What  was  the  second  noise  for  ? 

Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 

Cas.  They  shouted  thrice :  What  was  the  last 

cry  for  ? 
Casca.  Why,  for  that  too. 
Bru.  Was  the  crown  offer'd  him  thrice  ? 
Casca.  Ay,  marry,  was  't,  and  he  put  it  by 
thrice,  every  time  gentler  than  other;  and  at 
every    putting    by,    mine     honest    neighbours 
shouted. 

Cas.  Who  offered  him  the  crown  ? 
Casca.  Why,  ^intony. 

Bru.  TeU  us  the  manner  of  it,  gentle  Casca. 
Casca.  I  can  as  well  be  hanged  as  tell  the 
manner  of  it :  it  was  mere  foolery.  I  did  not 
mark  it.  I  saw  Mark  Antony  offer  him  a 
crown ; — yet 't  was  not  a  crown  neither,  't  was 
one  of  these  coronets ; — and,  as  I  told  you,  he 
put  it  by  once ;  but  for  aU  that,  to  my  thinking, 
he  would  fain  have  hud  it.  Then  he  offered  it 
to  him  again ;  then  he  put  it  by  again :  but,  to 
my  thinking,  he  was  very  loth  to  lay  his  fingers 
off  it.  And  then  he  offered  it  the  third  time; 
he  put  it  the  third  time  by :  and  still  as  he  re- 
fused it,  the  rabblement  hooted,  and  clapped 
their  chapped  hands,  and  threw  up  their  sweaty 
nightcaps,  and  uttered  such  a  deal  of  stinking 
breath  because  Caesar  refused  the  crown,  that  it 
had  almost  chok'd  Csesar ;  for  he  swooned,  and 
fell  down  at  it :  And  for  mine  own  part,  I  dm-st 
not  laugh,  for  fear  of  opening  my  lips  and 
receiving  the  bad  air. 

Cas.    But,   soft,   I  pray  you:    What?    Did 

Csesar  swoon  ? 
Casca.  He  fell  down  in  the  market-place,  and 
foamed  at  mouth,  and  was  speechless. 
Bru.  'T  is  very  hke  :  he  hath  the  falling  sick- 
ness. 
Cas.  No,  Csesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you,  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling  sick- 
ness. 
Casca.  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  that; 


but  I  am  sure  Csesar  fell  down.  If  the  tag-rag 
people  did  not  clap  him,  and  hiss  him,  according 
as  he  pleased  and  displeased  them,  as  they  use 
to  do  the  players  in  the  theatre,  I  am  no  true 
man. 
Bru.  What  said  he  when  he  came  unto  him- 
self? 
Casca.  Marry,  before  he  fell  down,  when  he 
perceived  tlie  common  herd  was  glad  he  refused 
the  crown,  he  plucked  me  ope  his  doublet,  and 
offered  them  his  throat  to  cut. — An  I  had  been 
a  man  of  any  occupation,  if  I  would  not  have 
taken  him  at  a  word,  I  would  I  might  go  to  hell 
among  the  rogues : — and  so  he  fell.  "V^Hien  he 
came  to  himself  again,  he  said.  If  he  had  done 
or  said  anything  amiss,  he  desired  their  wor- 
sliips  to  think  it  was  his  infirmity.  Three  or 
four  wenches,  where  I  stood,  cried  '  Alas,  good 
soul!' — and  forgave  him  with  all  their  hearts: 
But  there's  no  heed  to  be  taken  of  them;  if 
Csesar  had  stabbed  their  mothers  they  would 
have  done  no  less. 

Bru.  And  after  that  he  came,  thus  sad,  away  ? 
Casca.  Ay. 

Cas.  Did  Cicero  say  anything  ? 
Ciisca.  Ay,  he  spoke  Greek. 
Cas.  To  what  effect  ? 

Casca.  Nay,  an  I  tell  you  that  I  '11  ne'er  look 
you  i'  the  face  again :  But  those  that  understood 
hiia  smiled  at   one    another,   and  shook  their 
heads :  but,  for  mine  own  part,  it  was  Greek  to 
me.    I  could  tell  you  more  news  too :  Marullua 
and  Flavins,  for  puUing  scarfs  off  Csesar's  images, 
are  put  to  sdeuce.     Fare  you  well.     There  was 
more  foolery  yet,  if  I  could  remember  it. 
Cas.  WiU  you  sup  with  me  to  night,  Casca  ? 
Casca.  No,  I  am  promised  forth. 
Cas.  WUl  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ? 
Casca.  Ay,  if  I  be  alive,  and  yoiu:  mind  hold, 
and  your  dinner  worth  the  eating. 
Cas.  Good ;  I  wiU  expect  you. 
Casca.  Do  so :  farewell  both.       [Exit  Casca. 
Bru.  What  a  blunt  fellow  is  this  grown  to  be! 
He  was  qiuck  mettle  when  he  went  to  school. 

Cas.  So  ia  he  now,  in  execution 
Of  any  bold  or  noble  enterprise. 
However  he  puts  on  this  tardy  form. 
This  rudeness  is  a  sauce  to  his  good  wit. 
Which  gives  men  stomach  to  digest  his  words 
With  better  appetite. 
Bru.  And  so  it  is.    For  this  time  I  will  leave 
you: 
To-morrow,  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  win  come  home  to  you ;  or,  if  you  will. 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  ^siU  wait  for  you. 

231 


Act  I.l 


JULIUS  CAESAR. 


[ScEKE  m. 


Cat.  I  ^vill  do  so: — till  then,  tliink  of  the 
world.  \_Exit  Brutus. 

Well,  Brutn3,  thou  art  noble ;  yet,  I  see 
Thv  honourable  metal  may  be  ^vTOught 
From  that  it  is  dispos'd :  Therefore  't  is  meet 
That  noble  minds  keep  ever  with  their  likes : 
For  who  so  firm  that  cannot  be  scducM  ? 
Caesar  doth  bear  mc  hard :  But  he  loves  Brutus : 
If  I  were  Brutus  now,  and  he  were  Cassius, 
lie  should  not  humour  mc.     I  will  this  night, 
In  several  hands,  in  at  his  windows  throw, 
As  if  they  came  from  several  citizens, 
Writuigs,  all  tending  to  the  great  opinion 
That  Rome   holds   of  his  name;  wherein  ob- 
scurely 
Caesar's  ambition  shall  be  glanced  at : 
/Vnd,  after  this,  let  Csesar  seat  him  sure ; 
For  we  will  shake  him,  or  worse  days  endure. 

[_ExU. 

SCENE  Ul.—The  same.    A  Street. 

ThtinJer  and  Lightning.  Enter,  from  opposite 
sides,  Casca,  with  his  sword  drawn,  and 
CiCEKO. 

Cic.  Good  even,  Casca :    Brought  you  Caesar 
home  ?• 
Wliy  are  you  breathless  ?  and  why  stare  you  so  ? 

Casca.  Are  you  not  mov'd,  when  all  the  sway 
of  earth 
Shakes  like  a  thing  unfirm  ?  0  Cicero, 
I  have  seen  tempests,  when  the  scolding  winds 
Have  riv'd  the  knotty  oaks ;  and  I  have  seen 
The  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threat'ning  clouds : 
But  never  till  to-night,  never  till  now. 
Did  I  go  through  a  tempest  dropping  fire. 
Either  there  is  a  civU  strife  in  heaven ; 
Or  else  the  world,  too  saucy  with  the  gods. 
Incenses  them  to  send  d  est  motion. 

Cic.  ^ATiy,  saw  you  anything  more  wonderful  ? 

Casca.  A  common  slave  (you  know  him  well 
by  sight) 
Held  up  his  left  hand,  which  did  flame  and  bum 
Like  twenty  torches  johi'd ;  and  yet  his  hand. 
Not  sensible  of  fire,  remain'd  unscorch'd. 
Besides,  (I  have  not  since  pnt  up  my  sword,) 
Against  the  Capitol  I  met  a  lion, 
Who  glar'd*  upon  me,  and  went  surly  by 


a  To  bring  one  on  his  way  was  to  accompany  liim. 

•>  Glar'd.  The  original  has  glnz'd.  This  is  a  mean- 
Inirless  word ;  and  we  have  therefore  to  choose  between  one 
of  two  rorrectiont.  Knowing  the  mode  in  wliicli  typo- 
graphical crrori  ari«c,  wc  should  «ay  that  gtar'd  in  the 
manuscript  might  very  rcudily  become  j/naVi  in  the  printed 
copy,  bv  the  substitution  of  a  2  for  an  r.  Glar'd  U  the  read- 
ing of  Rowe.     On  the  contrary,  if  the  manuicript  had  been 

232 


Without  annoying  me :  and  there  were  drawn 
Upon  a  heap  a  hundred  ghastly  women. 
Transformed  with  their  fear;  who  swore  they 

saw 
Men  all  in  fu-e  walk  up  and  down  the  streets. 
And,  yesterday,  the  bird  of  night  did  sit. 
Even  at  noon- day,  upon  tlic  market-place, 
Hooting  and  shrieking.''    When  these  prodigies 
Do  so  conjointly  meet,  let  not  men  say 
'These  are  their  reasons, — They  are  natural;' 
For,  I  behove,  they  are  portentous  things 
Unto  the  cUmate  that  they  point  upon. 

Cic.  Indeed,  it  is  a  strange-disposed  tune : 
But  men  may  constmc  things,  after  their  fashion. 
Clean  from  the  purpose  of  the  things  themselves. 
Comes  Caesar  to  the  Capitol  to-morrow  ? 

Casca.  He  doth ;  for  he  did  bid  Antonius 
Send  word  to  you  he  would  be  there  to-morrow. 

Cic.  Good  night  then,  Casca:  this  disturbed 
sky 
Is  not  to  walk  in. 

Casca.  Farewell,  Cicero.    [Exit  Cicero. 

Enter  Cassius. 

Cas.  Who  's  there  ? 

Casca.  A  Roman. 

Cas.  Casca,  by  your  voice. 

Casca.  Your  ear  is  good,   Cassius,  what  night 

is  this? 
Cas.  A  very  pleasing  night  to  honest  men. 
Ca^ca.  Who  ever  knew  the  heavens  menace 

so? 
Cas.  Those  that  have  known  the  earth  so  full 
of  faults. 
For  my  part,  I  have  walk'd  about  the  streets. 
Submitting  me  unto  the  perilous  night ; 
And,  thus  unbraced,  Casca,  as  you  see. 
Have  bar'd  my  bosom  to  the  thunder-stone  : 
jVnd  when  the  cross  blue  lightning  seem'd  to 

open 
The  breast  of  heaven,  I  did  present  myself 
Even  in  the  aim  and  very  flash  of  it. 

Casca.  But  wherefore  did  you  so  much  tempt 
the  heavens  ? 
It  is  the  part  of  men  to  fear  and  tremble, 


gciz'd,  which  Malone  adopts,  the  compositor  must  have  in- 
serted an  /,  to  change  a  common  word  into  an  unfamiliar 
one;  and  this  is  not  the  usual  process  of  typographical 
blundering.  Malone  quotes  a  passage  from  Stow,  describing 
a  lion-fight  in  the  Tower:— "Then  was  the  great  lion  put 
forth,  who  fjazed  awhile  ;"  and  he  thinks  the  term  to  have 
been  peculiarly  applied  to  the  fierce  aspect  of  a  lion. 
Surely  this  is  nonsense.  A  well-known  quotation  from 
Macbeth,  given  by  Stccvcns,  is  decisive  as  to  the  propriety 
o(  using  glar'd  in  the  passage  before  us  : — 

"  Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
That  thou  dost  glare  with." 


Act  I.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


[SCESE    III. 


When  the  most  mighty  gods,  by  tokens  send 
Such  dreadful  heralds  to  astonish  us. 

Cas.  Yon  are  duU,  Gasca;  and  those  sparks 
ofHfe 
That  should  be  in  a  Roman  you  do  want, 
Or  else  you  use  not :  You  look  pale,  and  gaze. 
And  put  on  fear,  and  cast  youi'self  in  wonder. 
To  see  the  strange  impatience  of  the  heavens  : 
But  if  you  would  consider  the  true  cause 
Why  aU  these  fires,  why  all  these  gUding  ghosts, 
"Why  birds  and  beasts,  from  quaUty  and  kind ; 
Wliy  old  men,  fools,  and  children  calculate ; 
Why  all  these  things  change  from  their  ordi- 
nance, 
Their  natures,  and  pre-formed  faculties, 
To  monstrous  quality, — why,  you  shall  find. 
That  heaven  hath  infus'd  them  with  these  spirits. 
To  make  them  instruments  of  fear  and  warning 
Unto  some  monstrous  state. 
Now  could  I,  Casca,  name  to  thee  a  man 
Most  like  this  dreadful  night ; 
That  thunders,  hghtens,  opens  graves,  and  roars 
As  doth  the  hon  in  the  Capitol : 
A  man  no  mightier  than  thyself,  or  me. 
In  personal  action ;  yet  prodigious  grown, 
And  fearful,  as  these  strange  eruptions  are. 
Casca.  'T  is  Caesar  that  you  mean :  Is  it  not, 

Cassius  ? 
Cas.  Let  it  be  who  it  is  :  for  Romans  now 
Have  thews  and  limbs  like  to  then-  ancestors, 
But,  woe  the  while !  our  father's  minds  are  dead. 
And  we  are  govem'd  with  our  mothers'  spirits ; 
Our  yoke  and  sufferance  show  us  womanish. 
Casca.  Indeed  they  say  the  senators  to-mor- 
row 
Mean  to  establish  Caesar  as  a  king : 
And  he  shall  wear  his  crown  by  sea  and  land, 
In  every  place,  save  here  in  Italy. 

Cas.  I  know  where  I  wiU  wear  this  dagger 
then; 
Cassius  from  bondage  will  deliver  Cassius : 
Therein,   ye  gods,   you  make  the  weak  most 

strong ; 
Therein,  ye  gods,  you  tyrants  do  defeat : 
Nor  stony  tower,  nor  walls  of  beaten  brass, 
Nor  airless  dungeon,  nor  strong  links  of  iron. 
Can  be  retentive  to  the  strength  of  spuit : 
But  life,  being  weary  of  these  wQrldly  bars. 
Never  lacks  power  to  dismiss  itself. 
If  I  know  this,  know  aU  the  world  besides. 
That  part  of  tyranny  that  I  do  bear 
I  can  shake  off  at  pleasure.  \Thunder  still. 

Casca.  So  can  I : 

So  every  bondman  in  his  own  hand  bears 
The  power  to  cancel  his  captivity. 


Cas.  And  why  should  Caesar  be  a  tyrant  then  ? 
Poor  man !  I  know  he  would  not  be  a  wolf, 
But  that  he  sees  the  Romans  are  but  sheep : 
He  were  no  Hon  were  not  Romans  hinds. 
Those  that  with  haste  will  make  a  mighty  Gre 
Begin  it  with  weak  straws :  What  trash  is  Rome, 
AYhat  rubbish,  and  what  offal,  when  it  serves 
For  the  base  matter  to  illiuninate 
So  vile  a  thing  as  Caesar !     But,  0,  grief ! 
Where  hast  thou  led  me  ?  I,  perhaps,  speak  this 
Before  a  willing  bondman :  then  I  know 
My  answer  must  be  made :  But  I  am  arm'd. 
And  dangers  are  to  me  indifferent. 

Casca.  You  speak  to  Casca;  and  to  such  a  man 
That  is  no  fleering  teU-tale.    Hold  my  band : 
Be  factions'' for  redress  of  all  these  griefs; 
And  I  win  set  this  foot  of  mine  as  far 
As  who  goes  farthest. 

Cas.  There  's  a  bargain  made. 

Now  know  you,  Casca,  I  have  mov'd  already 
Some  certain  of  the  noblest-minded  Romans, 
To  undergo  with  me  an  enterprise 
Of  honourable-dangerous  consequence ; 
And  I  do  know  by  this  they  stay  for  me 
La  Pompey's  porch :  For  now,  this  fearful  night, 
There  is  no  stir  or  walking  in  the  streets ; 
And  the  complexion  of  the  element 
In  favour  's''  like  tlie  work  we  have  in  hand, 
Most  bloody,  fiery,  and  most  terrible. 

Enter  Cinna. 

Casca.  Stand  close  awhile,  for  here  comes  one 

in  haste. 
Cas.  'T  is  Cinna,  I  do  know  him  by  his  gait ; 
He  is  a  friend. — Cinna,  where  haste  you  so  ? 
Cin.  To  find  out  you :  Who 's  that  ?  Metellus 

Cimber  ? 
Cas.  No,  it  is  Casca ;  one  incorporate 
To  our  attempts.     Am  I  not  staid  for,  Cinna  ? 
Cin.  1  am  glad  on't.     What  a  fearful  night 
is  this  ! 
There  's  two  or  three  of  us  have  seen  strange 
sights. 
Cas.  Am  I  not  staid  for  ?  Tell  me. 
Cin.  Yes,  you  are. 

0,  Cassius,  if  you  could  but  vnn  the  noble 

Brut\is 
To  our  party 


a  Faciious.  Johnson  considers  that  the  expression  here 
means  active.  To  be  factious,  in  its  original  sense,  is  to  be 
doing;  but  Malone  suggests  that  it  means  "embody  a  party 
or  faction." 

b  The  original  has  is  favors.  Some  would  read  is  fa- 
vour'd:  but  the  use  of  the  noun,  in  the  sense  of  appearance, 
is  probably  clearer. 

233 


Act  I.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


Cos.  Be  you  content:  Good  Cimia,  take  this 
paper, 
Ajid  look  you,  lay  it  in  the  prtetor's  chair, 
WTiere  Brutus  may  but  find  it ;  and  throw  this 
In  at  his  window :  set  this  up  with  wax 
Upon  old  Brutus'  statue : '  all  this  done. 
Repair  to  Pompey's  porch,  where  you  shall  find 

us. 
Is  Decius  Brutus,  and  Trcbonius  there  ? 

Cin.  All,  but  Metellus  Cimber ;  and  he  's  gone 
To  seek  you  at  your  house.    Well,  I  will  hie, 
ind  so  bestow  these  papers  as  you  bade  me. 
Ca4.  That  done,  repair  to  Pompey's  theatre. 

[_Exit  CiNNA. 


Come,  Casca,  you  and  1  will  yet,  ere  day, 
See  Brutus  at  his  house :  three  parts  of  Lim 
Is  ours  already ;  and  the  man  entire. 
Upon  the  next  encounter,  yidds  him  ours. 

Casca.  O,   he   sits   high   in  all  the  people's 
hearts : 
And  that  which  would  appear  offence  in  us, 
llis  countenance,  like  richest  alchymy. 
Will  change  to  virtue  and  to  worthiness. 

Cas.  Him,  and  his  worth,  and  our  great  need 
of  him. 
You  have  right  well  conceited.     Let  us  go. 
For  it  is  after  midnight ;  and  ere  day 
We  will  awake  him,  and  be  sure  of  him. 

[ExeuT.  t. 


[Juliu3  Csesar.] 


LKoman  Augur  ] 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT   I. 


1  Scene  II.  "  Our  elders  say, 

The  barren,"  &c. 

"  At  that  time  tlie  feast  Luperoalia  was  celebrated, 
the  which  in  old  time,  men  say,  was  the  feast  of 
shepherds  or  herdsmen,  and  is  much  like  unto  the 
feast  of  the  Lycseians  in  Arcadia.  But  howsoever 
it  is,  that  day  there  are  divers  noblemen's  sons, 
young  men  (and  some  of  them  magistrates  them- 
selves that  govern  there),  which  run  naked  through 
the  city,  striking  in  sport  them  they  meet  in  their 
way  with  leather  thongs,  hair  and  all  on,  to  make 
them  give  place.  And  many  noble  women  and 
gentlewomen  also  go  of  purpose  to  stand  in  their 
way,  and  do  put  forth  their  hands  to  be  stricken, 
as  scholars  hold  them  out  to  their  schoolmaster  to 
be  stricken  with  the  ferula,  persuading  themselves 
that  being  with  child  they  shall  have  good  de- 
livery; and  so  being  barren,  that  it  will  make 
them  to  conceive  with  child." 

2  Scene  II.—"  Beware  the  ides  of  March." 

"  Furthermore,  there  was  a  certain  soothsayer 
that  had  given  Ctesar  warning  long  time  afore  to 


take  heed  of  the  day  of  the  Ides  of  March  (which 
is  the  15th  of  the  month),  for  on  that  day  he 
should  be  in  great  danger." 

3  Scene  II.—"  Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the 
course  J" 

"  Cassius  asked  him  if  he  were  determined  to 
be  in  the  Senate-house  the  first  day  of  the  month  of 
March,  because  he  heard  say  that  Csesar's  friends 
should  move  the  council  that  day  that  Csesar  should 
be  called  king  by  the  Senate.  Brutus  answered 
him  he  would  not  be  there.  But  if  we  be  sent  for 
(said  Cassius),  how  then?  For  myself  then  (said 
Brutus),  I  mean  not  to  hold  my  peace,  but  to  with- 
stand it,  and  rather  die  than  lose  my  liberty.  Cas- 
sius being  bold,  and  taking  hold  of  this  word,— 
Why  (quoth  he),  what  Roman  is  he  alive  that  will 
suffer  thee  to  die  for  thy  liberty  ?  What?  knowest 
thou  not  that  thou  art  Brutus  ?  Thinkest  thou  that 
they  be  cobblers,  tapsters,  or  such-like  base  mecha- 
nical people,  that  write  these  bills  and  scroUs  which 
are  found  daily  in  thy  pnctor's  chair,  and  not  the 
noblest  men  and  best  citizens  that  do  it  ?  No;  be 
thou  well  assured  that  of  other  prsetors  they  look 

235 


ILLUSTRA.TIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


for  gifts,  common  distribut'ious  lAmoncpt  tho  people, 
and  for  common  plays,  and  to  see  fencers  fight  at 
the  sharp,  to  show  the  people  pastime :  but  at  thy 
hands  they  specially  require  (as  a  due  debt  unto 
them)  the  taking  away  of  the  tyranny,  being  fully 
bent  to  suffer  any  extremity  for  thy  sake,  so  that 
thou  wilt  show  thyself  to  be  the  man  thou  art 
taken  for,  and  that  they  hope  thou  art." 

'  SCF.XE  II. — " Ld  me  hare  men  about  me  that  arc 
fat,  kc" 

"  Csesar  also  had  Cassius  in  great  jealousy,  and 
suspected  him  much  :  whereupon  he  said  on  a  time 
to  his  friends,  What  will  Caseins  do,  think  ye  ?  I 
like  not  his  pale  looks.  Another  time,  when 
Caesar's  friends  complained  unto  him  of  Autouius 
and  Dolabella,  that  they  pretended  some  mischief 
towards  him,  he  answered  them  again,  As  for 
those  fat  men  and  smooth-combed  head.s,  quoth 
he,  I  never  reckon  of  them ;  but  these  pale-visaged 
and  carrion-lean  people,  I  fear  them  most,  meaning 
Brutus  and  Cassius." 

'  Scene  II. — "Ay,  Casca;  tell  us  \chat  hath  chanc'd 
today." 

"  Caesar  sat  to  behold  that  sport  upon  the  pulpit 
for  Orations,  in  a  chain  of  gold,  appareled  in  tri- 
umphant manner.  Antonius,  who  \vas  consul  at 
that  time,  was  one  of  them  that  ran  this  holy 
course.  So  when  he  came  into  the  market-jjlace 
the  people  made  a  lane  for  him  to  run  at  liberty, 
and  he  came  to  Caesar,  and  presented  him  a  diadem 
wreathed  about  with  laurel.  Whereupon  there 
was  a  certain  cry  of  rejoicing,  not  very  great,  done 
only  by  a  few  appointed  for  the  pui-pose.  But 
when  Caesar  refused  the  diadem,  then  all  the  people 
together  made  an  outcry  of  joy.  Then  Antonius 
offering  it  him  again,  there  was  a  second  shout  of 
joy,  but  yet  of  a  few.  But  when  Caesar  refused  it 
again  the  second  time,  then  all  the  whole  people 
shouted.  Cccsar,  having  made  this  proof,  found 
that  the  people  did  not  like  of  it,  and  thereupon 
rose  out  of  his  chair,  and  commanded  the  crown 
to  be  carried  unto  Jupiter  in  the  Capitol." 

"  When  they  had  decreed  divers  honours  for  him 
in  the  Senate,  the  consuls  and  pra-tors,  accompa- 
nied with  the  whole  assembly  of  the  Senate,  went 
unto  him  in  the  market-place,  where  he  was  set  by 


the  pulpit  for  Orations,  to  tell  him  what  honours 
they  had  decreed  for  him  in  his  absence.  But  he, 
sitting  still  in  his  majesty,  disdaining  to  rise  up  unto 
them  when  they  came  in,  as  if  they  had  been  pri- 
vate men,  answered  them,  that  his  honours  had 
more  need  to  be  cut  off  than  enlarged.  This  did  not 
only  offend  the  Senate,  but  the  common  people  also, 
to  see  that  he  should  so  lightly  esteem  of  the  ma- 
gistrates of  the  commonwealth ;  insomuch  as  everj* 
man  that  might  lawfully  go  his  way  departed 
thence  very  sorrowfully.  Thereupon  also  Caesar, 
rising,  departed  home  to  his  house,  and,  tearing 
open  his  doublet  collar,  m.iking  his  neck  bare,  he 
cried  out  aloud  to  his  friends  that  his  throat  was 
ready  to  offer  to  any  man  that  would  come  and  cut 
it.  Notwithstanding,  it  is  reported  that  after- 
wards, to  excuse  his  folly,  he  imputed  it  to  his 
disease,  saying  that  their  wits  are  not  perfect  which 
have  this  disease  of  the  falling  evil,  when,  standing 
on  their  feet,  they  speak  to  the  common  people, 
but  are  soon  troubled  with  a  trembling  of  their 
body,  and  a  sudden  dimness  and  giddiness." 

^  Scene  III. — "  A  common  slave,"  &c. 
"  Touching  the  fires  in  the  element,  and  spirits 
running  up  and  down  in  the  night,  and  also  the 
solitary  birds  to  be  seen  at  noon-days  sitting  in 
the  great  market-place,  are  not  all  these  signs 
perhaps  worth  the  noting,  in  such  a  wonderful 
chance  as  happened  ?  But  Strabo  the  philosopher 
writeth  that  divers  men  were  seen  going  up  and 
down  in  fire;  and,  furthermore,  that  there  was 
a  slave  of  the  soldiers  that  did  ca-st  a  man-ellous 
burning  flame  out  of  his  hand,  insomuch  as  they 
that  saw  it  thought  he  had  been  burned ;  but  when 
the  fire  was  out,  it  was  found  he  had  no  hurt." 

''  Scene  III. — "  Good  Cinna,  take  this  paper  "  &c. 
"  But  for  Brutus,  his  friends  and  countrymen, 
both  by  divers  procurements  and  sundry  rumours 
of  the  city,  and  by  many  bills  also,  did  openly  call 
and  procure  him  to  do  that  he  did.  For  under  the 
image  of  his  ancestor  Junius  Brutus  (that  drave 
the  kings  out  of  Rome)  they  wrote — 0,  that  it 
pleased  the  gods  thou  wert  now  alive,  Brutus ! 
And  again,  That  thou  wert  here  among  us  now  ! 
His  tribunal,  or  chair,  where  he  gave  audience 
during  the  time  he  was  pnctor,  was  full  of  such 
bills.  Bnitus,  thou  art  asleep,  and  art  not  Brutus 
indeed." 


2.36 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  \.—The  same.     Brutus'*  Orchard. 

Enter  Brutus. 

Bru.  What,  Lucius  !  lio ! — 
I  cannot,  by  the  progress  of  the  stars. 
Give  guess  how  near  to  day. — Lucius,  I  say  ! — 
I  would  it  were  my  fault  to  sleep  so  soundly. — 


When,  Lucius,  when!* 
Lucius ! 


Awake,  I  say !  What, 


Enter  Lucius. 

Lnc.  CaU'd  you,  my  lord  ? 
Bru.  Get  me  a  taper  in  my  study,  Lucius : 
When  it  is  lighted,  come  and  call  me  here. 
Lite.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Bru.  It  must  be  by  his  death:  and,  for  my 
part, 

^  So  in  Richard  II. 

"When,  Harry,  when! 
A  common  expre.ssion  of  impatience 


I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spm-n  at  him, 
But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  cro\yn'd : — 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there 's  the 

question. 
It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder ; 
And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  him  ? — 

That;— 
And  then,  I  grant,  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 
That  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  with. 
The  abuse  of  greatness  is  when  it  disjoins 
Remorse*  from  power :  And,  to  speak  truth  of 

Csesai-, 
I  have  not  kno\vn  when  his  affections  sway'd 
More  than  his  reason.    But  't  is  a  common 

proof 
That  loMliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder, 
Whereto  the  climber-upward  turns  his  face  ; 
But  when  he  once  attaios  the  upmost  round. 


=»  Remorse  —  pity — tenderness, 
commonly  used  by  Slir.kspere, 


A  sense  In  which  it  u 
9Z^ 


Act  II. j 


JULIUS  C^SAll. 


[Sce:(E  I. 


He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back, 
Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 
By  which  he  did  ascend :  So  Ccesar  may  ; 
Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.    And,  since  the 

quarrel 
Will  bear  no  colour  for  the  tiling  he  is, 
Fashion  it  thus  ;  that  what  he  is,  augmented, 
Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities  : 
And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg, 
TVliieh,  hateh'd,  would  as  his  kind  grow  mis- 
chievous ; 
And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 

Re-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  The  taper  burneth  in  your  closet,  sir. 
Searching  the  window  for  a  fliul,  I  found 
This  paper,  thus  seal'd  up  ;  and,  I  am  sure. 
It  did  not  lie  there  when  I  went  to  bed. 

Bru.  Get  you  to  bed  again,  it  is  not  day. 
Is  not  to-morrow,  boy,  the  ides  of  March  i' " 

Luc.  I  know  not,  sir. 

Bru.  Look   in  the  calendar,   and  bring  me 
word. 

Luc.  I  will,  sir.  [E.iit. 

Bru.  The  exhalations,  whizzing  in  the  air. 
Give  so  much  light  that  I  may  read  by  them. 

\_Opcns  the  letter,  and  reads, 
"  Brutus,  thou  sleep'st ;  awake,  and  see  thyself. 
Shall  Rome,  &c.     Speak,  strike,  redress  !  " 
'  Brutus,  thou  sleep'st ;  awake  ! ' — 
Such  instigations  have  been  often  dropp'd 
Where  I  have  took  them  up. 
'  Shall  Rome,  &'c.'    Thus  must  I  piece  it  out ; 
Shall  Rome  stand  under  one  man's  awe  ?  "What ! 

Rome  ? 
My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king. 
'  Speak,  strike,  redress  !'•' — Am  I  entreated 
To  speak,  and  strike  ?   O  Rome !   I  make  thee 

promise, 
If  the  redresd  will  follow,  thou  receivest 
Thy  full  petition  at  the  hand  of  Brutus  ! 

Be-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  March  is  wasted  fourteen  days. 

[A«oc^  Kithin. 

Bru.  'Tis  good.     Go  to  the  gate  :  somebody 

knocks.  \_ExU  Lucius. 

•  Idei  of  March.— In  the  original  the  first  of  March.  Pre- 
sently Lucius  says  also,  in  the  folio,  "  March  i.s  wasted yf//ff;i 
rtaiji."    Theobald  made  the  correction  in  both  instances. 

b  Mr.  Cralk,  in  his  valuable  Philological  Commentary  on 
Julius  CjEsarC'The  English  of  Shakespeare"),  has  pointed 
out  that  the  letter  unquestionably  concluded  with  the  em- 
phatic adjuration — "Speak,  strike,  redress! "and  that  the 
second  enunciation  of  'Brutus,  thou  tlccp'st;  awake  1'  is 
a  repetition  by  Brutus  to  himself. 
238 


Since  Cassius  first  did  whet  me  against  Caisar 

I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 

And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 

Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream  : 

Tlic  genius  and  the  mortal  instruments 

Are  then  in  council ;  and  the  state  of  a  man,* 

Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 

Tlie  nature  of  an  insurrection. 

Be-enter  Lucius. 

Luc.  Sir,  't  is  your  brother  Cassius''  at  the 
door, 
Wlio  doth  desire  to  see  you. 

Bru.  Is  he  alone  ? 

Lac.  No,  sir,  there  are  more  with  him. 
Bru.  Do  you  know  them  ? 

Lite.  No,  sir;   their  k-.ts  are  pluck' d  about 
their  ears. 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloaks. 
That  by  no  means  I  may  discover  them 
By  any  mark  of  favour.'^ 
Bru.  Let  them  enter. 

[_E.dt  Lucius. 
They  are  the  faction.     0  ConspiJracy ! 
Sham'st  thou  to  show  thy  dangerous  brow  by 

night, 
"When  evils  are  most  free  ?    0,  then,  by  day 
\7here  wilt  thou  find  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage?     Seek  none, 

Conspiracy ; 
Hide  it  in  smiles  and  affability : 
For  if  thou  path  ^  thy  native  semblance  on, 
Not  Erebus  itself  were  dim  enough 
To  hide  thee  from  prevention. 

Enter  Cassius,  Casca,  Decius,  Cinna,  Metel- 
Lus  CiMBER,  and  Tbebonius. 

Cas.  I  think   we  are    too    bold  upon  your 
rest : 
Good  morrow,  Brutus.     Do  wc  trouble  you  ? 


n  i<  mnn.— So  the  first  folio;  but  the  other  folios  and 
iiioderii  editors  omit  the  article,  which,  we  think,  explains 
"hat  has  preceded  it.  .-/  man  individualizes  the  descrip- 
tion;  and  shows  that  "the  genius,"  on  the  one  hand, 
means  the  spirit,  or  the  Impelling  higher  power  moving 
the  spirit,  whilst  •'  the  mortal  instruments  "  has  reference 
to  the  bodily  powers  which  the  will  sets  in  action.  The 
condition  of  Macbeth  before  the  murder  of  Duncan  illus- 
trates this: — 

"  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 
Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat." 

Mr.  Dyce  holds  th,it  the  article  a  is  a  barbarous  addition. 
Mr.  Craik  retains  the  article. 

i)  Cassius  had  married  Junia,  the  sister  of  Brutus. 

c  Favour — countenance. 

A  Path — walk  on  a  trodden  way— move  forward  amidst 
observation.    Sec  Introductory  Notice,  p.  217. 


Act  II.] 


JULIUS  CvESAR. 


[SCEKB    I. 


Bru.  I  have  been  up  this  hour ;  awake  all  uight. 
Know  I  these  men  that  come  along  with  you  ? 

Cas.  Yes,  every  man  of  them ;  and  no  man 
here 
But  honours  you :  and  every  one  doth  wish 
You  had  but  that  opinion  of  yourself 
Which  every  noble  Boman  bears  of  you. 
This  is  Trebonius. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  hither. 

Cas.  This  Decius  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  is  welcome  too. 

Cas.   This,   Casca ;    this,   Cinna ;    and    this, 
Metellus  Cimber. 

Bru.  They  are  all  welcome. 
What  watchful  cares  do  interpose  themselves 
Betwixt  your  eyes  and  night  ? 

Cas.  Shall  I  entreat  a  word  ?     [The^  whisper. 

Dec.  Here  lies  the  east :   Doth  not  the  day 
break  here  ? 

Casca.  No. 

Cin.  0,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth;   and  yon  grey 
lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day. 

Casca.  You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both 
deceiv'd. 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south, 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence,  up  higher  toward  the 

north 
He  first  presents  his  fire  ;  and  the  high  east 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here. 

Bru.  Give  me  your  bauds  all  over,  one  by  one. 

Cas.  And  let  us  swear  our  resolution. 

Bru.  No,  not  au  oath :  If  not  the  face  of  men. 
The  sufferance  of  our  souls,  the  time's  abuse, — 
If  these  be  motives  weak,  break  off  betimes. 
And  every  man  hence  to  his  idle  bed ; 
So  let  high-sighted  tyranny  range  on. 
Till  each  man  drop  by  lottery.    But  if  these. 
As  I  am  sure  they  do,  bear  fire  enough 
To  kindle  cowards,  and  to  steel  with  valour 
The  melting  spirits  of  women ;  then,  countrymen, 
What  need  we  any  spur  but  our  own  cause 
To  prick  us  to  redress  ?  what  other  bond. 
Than  secret  Romans,  that  have  spoke  the  word. 
And  will  not  palter  ?  and  what  other  oath. 
Than  honesty  to  honesty  engag'd. 
That  this  shall  be,  or  we  will  fall  for  it  ? 
Swear  priests,  and  cowards,  and  men  cautelous," 
Old  feeble  carrions,  and  such  suffering  souls 
That  welcome  wrongs ;  unto  bad  causes  swear 
Such  creatures  as  men  doubt :  but  do  not  stain 

•  Cauteloui — vraxy — circumspect. 


The  even  virtue  of  our  enterprise, 

Nor  the  insuppressive  metal  of  our  spii-its. 

To  think  that,  or  our  cause,  or  our  performance. 

Did  need  an  oath ;  when  every  drop  of  blood 

That  every  Roman  bears,  and  nobly  bears, 

Is  guilty  of  a  several  bastardy, 

If  he  do  break  the  smallest  particle 

Of  any  promise  that  hath  pass'd  from  him. 

Cas.  But  what  of  Cicero? '  Shall  we  sound  him? 
I  think  he  will  stand  very  strong  with  us. 

Casca.  Let  us  not  leave  him  out. 

Cifi.  No,  by  no  means. 

MeL  O  let  us  have  him ;  for  his  silver  hairs 
WUl  purchase  us  a  good  opinion. 
And  buy  men's  voices  to  commend  our  deeds  : 
It  shall  be  said  his  judgment  rul'd  our  hands  ; 
Our  youths,  and  wildness,  shall  no  whit  appear, 
But  all  be  buried  in  his  gravity. 

Bru.  O,  name  him  not ;  let  us  not  break  with 
him  ; 
For  he  wiU  never  follow  anything 
That  other  men  begin. 

Cas.  Then  leave  him  out. 

Casca.  Lideed,  he  is  not  fit. 

Dec.  Shall  no  man  else  be  touch'd  but  only 
Caesar  ? 

Cas.  Decius,  well  ui-g'd :— I  think  it  is  not 
meet, 
Mark  Antony,  so  well  belov'd  of  Caesar, 
Should  outlive  Csesar  :  We  shall  find  of  him 
A  shrewd  contriver ;  and  you  know  his  means. 
If  he  improve  them,  may  well  stretch  so  far 
As  to  annoy  us  all :  which  to  prevent, 
Let  Antony  and  Csesar  fall  together.^ 

Bru.  Our  course  wiU  seem  too  bloody,  Caius 
Cassius, 
To  cut  the  head  off,  and  then  hack  the  lunbs ; 
Like  wrath  in  death,  and  envy  afterwai'ds  : 
For  Antony  is  but  a  Umb  of  Csesar. 
Let  us  be  sacrificers,  but  not  butchers,  Caius. 
We  all  stand  up  against  the  spirit  of  Caesar; 
And  in  the  spirit  of  men  there  is  no  blood : 
O,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit. 
And  not  dismember  Csesar !  But,  alas, 
Ctesar  must  bleed  for  it !  And,  gentle  friends. 
Let 's  kill  him  boldly,  but  not  wrathfully ; 
Let 's  carve  him  as  a  dish  fit  for  the  gods. 
Not  hew  him  as  a  carcase  fit  for  hounds : 
And  let  our  hearts,  as  subtle  masters  do, 
Stir  up  their  servants  to  an  act  of  rage, 
And  after  seem  to  chide  them.     This  shall  make 
Our  purpose  necessary,  and  not  envious  : 
Which  so  appearing  to  the  common  eyes. 
We  shall  be  call'd  purgers,  not  mui'derers. 
And  for  Mark  Antony,  think  not  of  him ; 

239 


Act  II. ] 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


[SCEKE   1 


For  he  can  do  uo  more  than  Caesar's  ami, 
When  CiEsar's  head  is  off. 

Cas.  Yet  I  fear  him  :  ■> 

For  in  the  ingrafted  love  he  bears  to  Csesar, — 

Bru.  Alas,  good  Cassius  !  do  not  think  of  hiin: 
If  he  love  Caesar,  all  that  he  can  do 
Is  to  himself, — take  thought,  and  die  for  Ca;sar: 
And  that  were  much  he  should ;  for  he  is  given 
To  sports,  to  ^vildness,  and  much  company. 

Treb.  There  is  no  feai'  in  him ;  let  him  not  die; 
For  he  will  live,  and  laugh  at  this  hereafter. 

[Clock  strikes. 

£ni.  Peace  !  count  the  clock. 

Cai.  The  clock  hath  stricken  thi-ec. 

Treb.  'T  is  time  to  part. 

Cas.  But  it  is  doubtful  yet 

Wlicther  Caesar  will  come  forth  to-day,  or  no : 
For  he  is  superstitious  grown  of  late ; 
Quite  from  the  main  opinion  he  held  once 
Of  fantasy,  of  dreams,  and  ceremonies ; 
It  may  be,  these  apparent  prodigies. 
The  unaccustom'd  terror  of  this  night, 
And  the  persuasion  of  his  augurcrs. 
May  hold  him  from  the  Capitol  to-day. 

Ike.  Never  fear  that :  If  he  be  so  resolv'd 
T  can  o'ersway  liim  :  for  he  loves  to  hear 
Chat  unicorns  may  be  betray'd  with  trees, 
And  bears  ^nth  glasses,  elephants  with  holes, 
Lions  with  toils,  and  men  with  flatterers : 
But  when  I  tell  him  he  hates  flatterers, 
He  says  he  does ;  being  then  most  flattered. 
Let  me  work : 

For  I  can  give  his  humour  the  true  bent ; 
And  I  will  bring  him  to  the  Capitol. 

Cas.  Nay,  we  will  all  of  us  be  there  to  fetch 
him. 

Bru.  By  the  eighth  hour :  Is  that  the  utter- 
most? 

Cin.  Be  that  the  uttermost,  and  fail  not  then. 

Met.  Caius  Ligarius  doth  bear  Csesar  hard, 
^V^10  rated  him  for  speaking  well  of  Pompey  ; 
I  wonder  none  of  you  have  thought  of  him. 

Bru.  Now,  good  Metcllus,  go  along  by  him ; 
lie  loves  me  well,  and  I  have  given  him  reasons ; 
Send  him  but  hither,  and  I  '11  fashion  him. 

Ctw.  The   morning  comes   upon  us :    Wc  '11 
leave  you,  Brutus : — 
And,  friends,  disperse  yourselves :   but  all  re- 
member 
What  you  have  said,  and  show  yourselves  true 
Romans. 


•  The  pause  vrhich  naturally  occurs  before  Cassius  offers 

an  answer  to  the  impassioned  argument  of  lirutus  vrould 

\x  most  decidedly  marked  by  a  proper  reader  or  actor  ;  yet 

Pope  and  other  editors  read  do  fear,  to  make  out  the  inetre> 

>>  By  him  — by  his  house. 

2tn 


Bru.  Good  gentlemen,  look  fresh  and  merrily; 
Let  not  our  looks  put  on  our  purposes ; 
But  bear  it  as  our  Roman  actors  do, 
With  untir'd  spirits  and  formal  constancy  : 
And  so,  good-moiTOw  to  you  every  one.' 

[Rveu/it  all  but  BRTJirs. 
Boy  !  Lucius ! — Fast  asleep  !  It  is  no  matter ; 
Enjoy  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber  : 
Thou  hast  no  figures,  nor  no  fantasies. 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men  : 
Therefore  thou  sleep'st  so  sound. 

Enter  Portia. 

For.  Brutus,  my  lord  ! 

Brii.  Portia,  what  mean  you  ?  Wherefore  rise 
you  now  ? 
It  is  not  for  your  health  thus  to  commit 
Your  weak  condition  to  the  raw-cold  morning. 

For.  Nor  for  yours  neither.     You  have  lui- 
gently,  Brutus, 
Stole  from  my  bed  :  And  yesternight,  at  supper, 
You  suddenly  arose,  and  walk'd  about. 
Musing  and  sighing,  with  your  anus  across  : 
And  when  I  asked  you  what  the  matter  was. 
You  star'd  upon  me  with  ungentle  looks  : 
I  urg'd  you  further;  then  you  scratch'd  youi- 

head. 
And  too  impatiently  stamp'd  with  your  foot : 
Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not ; 
But,  with  an  angry  waftui-e  of  your  hand. 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you  :  So  I  did  ; 
Fearing  to  strengthen  that  impatience 
Which  seem'd  too  much  enkiudled ;  and,  withal. 
Hoping  it  was  but  an  efi'ect  of  hujuour. 
Which  sometime  hath  his  hour  with  every  man. 
It  wiU  not  let  you  cat,  nor  talk,  nor  sleep ; 
And,  could  it  work  so  mucli  upon  your  shape. 
As  it  hath  much  pvevail'd  on  your  condition, 
I  should  not  know  you,  Brutus.     Dear  my  lord, 
Make  me  acquainted  with  your  cause  of  grief. 

Bru.  I  am  not  weU  in  health,  and  that  is  all. 

For.  Brutus  is  wise,  and  were  he  not  in  health 
He  would  embrace  the  means  to  come  by  it. 

Bru.  Why,  so  I  do : — Good  Portia,  go  to  bed. 

For.  Is  Brutus  sick  ?  and  is  it  physical 
To  walk  unbraced,  and  suck  up  the  humours 
Of  the  dank  morning  ?  What,  is  Brutus  sick ; 
And  will  he  steal  out  of  his  wholesome  bed. 
To  dare  the  vile  contagion  of  the  night. 
And  tempt  the  rheumy  and  uupurged  air 
To  add  unto  Ids  sickness  ?  No,  my  Brutus ; 
You  have  some  sick  offence  within  youi*  mind. 
Which,  by  the  right  and  virtue  of  my  place, 
I  ought  to  know  of :  And,  upon  my  knees, 
I  charm  you,  by  my  once  commended  beauty. 


ACT   II.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR 


[Scene  II. 


By  all  your  vows  of  love,  and  that  great  vow 
Whicli  did  incorporate  and  make  us  one, 
That  you  unfold  to  me,  yourself,  your  half. 
Why  you  are  heavy  ;  and  what  men  to-night 
Have  had  resort  to  you  :  for  here  have  been 
Some  six  or  seven,  who  did  hide  their  faces 
Even  from  darkness. 

Bru.  Kneel  not,  gentle  Portia. 

For.  I  should  not  need,  if  you  were  gentle 
Brutus. 
Within  the  bond  of  marriage,  tell  me,  Brutus, 
Is  it  excepted  I  should  know  no  secrets 
That  appertain  to  you  ?  Am  I  yourself 
But,  as  it  were,  in  sort  or  limitation ; 
To  keep  with  you  at  meals,  comfort  your  bed. 
And  talk  to  you  sometimes  ?  Dwell  I  but  in  the 

subuibs 
Of  your  good  pleasui'e  ?  If  it  be  no  more, 
Portia  is  Brutus'  hai'lot,  not  his  wife. 

Bn(.  You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife ; 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart. 

For.  If  this  were  true,  then  should  I  know 
tliis  secret. 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman ;  but,  withal, 
A  woman  that  lord  Brutus  took  to  wife : 
I  grant  I  am  a  woman ;  but,  withal, 
A  woman  well-reputed,— Cato's  daughter. 
Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex. 
Being  so  father-' d,  and  so  husbanded  ? 
Tell  me  yoiu-  counsels,  I  will  not  disclose  them : 
I  have  made  strong  proof  of  my  constancy, 
Giving  myself  a  voluntary  wound 
Here,  iu  the  thigh :  Cau  I  bear  that  with  pa- 
tience. 
And  not  my  husband's  secretsV 

Bru.  0  ye  gods, 

Ecnder  me  worthy  of  this  noble  wife  1 

\_Knockinff  tcithin. 
Hark,  hark  !  one  knocks :  Portia,  go  in  a  while ; 
And  by  and  by  thy  bosom  shall  partake 
The  secrets  of  my  heart. 
All  my  engagements  I  will  construe  to  thee. 
All  the  charactery  of  my  sad  brows  : — 
Leave  me  with  haste.  [Exit  Portia. 

Enter  Lucius  and  Ligaeius. 

Lucius,  who 's  that  knocks  ? 
Luc.  Here  is  a  sick  man  that  would  speak 

with  you. 
Bru.  Caius  Ligarius,  that  MeteUus  spake  of.— 
Boy,  stand  aside.— Caius  Ligarius  !  how  ? 
Lig.  Vouchsafe  good  morrow  from  a  feeble 


tongue. 


Tragedies. — Yol.  II. 


11 


Bru.  0,  what  a  time  have  you  chose  out, 
brave  Caius, 
To  wear  a  kerchief !  'Would  you  were  not  sick  ' 

Lig.  I  am  not  sick,  if  Brutus  have  in  hand 
Any  exploit  worthy  the  name  of  honour.'' 

Bru.  Such  au  exploit  have  I  in  hand,  Liga- 
rius, 
Had  you  a  healthful  ear  to  hear  of  it. 

Lig.  By  all  the  gods  that  Romans  bow  before, 
I  here  discard  my  sickness  !     Soul  of  Rome  ! 
Brave  son,  deriv'd  from  honoiu'able  loins  ! 
Thou,  like  an  exorcist,  hast  conjur'd  up 
My  mprtified  spirit.     Now  bid  me  run. 
And  I  wiU  strive  with  things  impossible ; 
Yea,  get  the  better  of  them.     What 's  to  do  ? 
Bru.  A  piece  of  work  that  will  make  sick 

men  whole. 
Lig.  But  are  not  some  whole  that  we  must 

make  sick  ? 
Bru.  That  must  we  also.    What  it  is,  my 
Caius, 
I  shall  unfold  to  thee,  as  we  are  going 
To  whom  it  must  be  done. 

Lig.  Set  on  your  foot ; 

And,  with  a  heart  new  fir'd,  I  follow  you. 
To  do  I  know  not  what :  but  it  sufiiceth 
That  Brutus  leads  me  on. 

Bru.  PoUow  me  then. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   II.  —The  same.     A  Room  vi  Ca;sar'« 
Falace. 

Thunder  and  lightning.     En-ter  C^sae,  in  his 
nightgoicn. 

Cas.  Nor  heaven,  nor   eaith,  have  been  at 
peace  to-night : 
Thrice  hath  Calphumia  iu  her  sleep  cried  out, 
'Help,   hoi   They   murther   Casarl'     Who's 
within?^ 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord  ? 

Cccs.  Go  bid  the  priests  do  present  sacrifice. 
And  bring -me  then-  opinions  of  success. 

Serv.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Enter  Calphurnia. 

Cat.  \Yhat  mean  you,  Ctesai-  ?  Tlunk  you  to 
walk  forth  ? 
You  shall  not  stir  out  of  your  house  to-day. 
Cces.  Csesai-    shall    forth:    The    things    that 
threatcn'd  me 


Act  II.] 


JULIUS  C^:SAR. 


[ScEtiE    II 


Ne'er  look'd  but  ou  my  back;  when  they  shall 

see 
The  face  of  Cwsar,  they  are  vanished. 

Cal.  Cfesar,  I  never  stood  on  ceremonies, 
Yet  now  they  fright  inc.     There  is  one  within, 
Besides  the  tilings  that  wc  have  heard  and  seen, 
Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 
A  lioness  bath  whelped  in  the  streets  ; 
And  graves  have  yawu'd  and  yielded  up  their 

dead  : 
Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds, 
In  ranks,  and  squadrons,  aud  right  form  of  war, 
Which  drizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol : 
The  noise  of  battle  hurtled*  in  the  air, 
Horses  do  neigh,''  and  dying  men  did  groan; 
And  ghosts  did  shriek   and  squeal  about  the 

streets. 
0  Ctesar  !  these  things  ai'e  beyond  all  use. 
And  I  do  fear  them. 

C^s.  Wliat  can  be  avoided 

Whose  end  is  purpos'd  by  the  mighty  gods  ? 
Yet  Csesar  shall  go  forth :  for  these  predictions 
Are  to  the  world  in  general,  as  to  Caesar. 

Cal.  When  beggars  die,  there  ai-e  no  comets 

seen; 
The  heavens  themselves  blaze  forth  the  death  of 

princes. 
Cces.  Cowards   die  many  times  before  their 

deaths ; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard. 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should 

fear; 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end, 
WiU  come  when  it  will  come. 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 

What  say  the  augurers  f 
Sen.  They  would  not  have  you  to  stir  forth 
to-day. 
Plucking  the  entrails  of  ua.  offering  forth. 
They  could  not  find  a  heart  witliin  the  beast. 

C(es.  The  gods  do  this  in  shame  of  cowardice : 
Csesar  should  be  a  beast  without  a  heart. 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
No,  Cffisar  shall  not :  Danger  knows  full  well 


»  IIurtUd.—'ThXi  mapnificcnt  word  expresses  the  clashinf; 
of  weapons :  it  is  probably  the  same  word  as  Hurled ;  and 
Sbakspere,  with  tlie  boldness  of  genius,  makes  the  action 
give  the  »ound. 

b  Do  nfijA.— Stetvcns  departs  from  the  original  in  read- 
ing did  neiyh;  but  the  tenses  might  have  been  purposely 
confounded,  to  represent  the  vague  terror  of  the  speaker. 
Horses  "do  neigh  '  continues  the  image  of 

"  Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds." 
But  to  make  did  nriyh  consistent  with  the  action  of  the 
"fiery  warriors,"  Mr.  Grant  While  writes /om<//i',  and  Mr. 
Kelghtley,  did  lighl.  It  is  perhaps  better  to  retain  the  ori- 
ginal text  than  go  into  alterations  without  knowing  where 
to  stop. 

242 


That  Cassai'  is  more  dangerous  than  he. 
Wc  jirc  •■*  two  lions  litlcr'd  in  one  day, 
Aud  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible  ; 
Aud  CiEsar  shall  go  forth. 

Cal.  Alas,  my  lord. 

Your  wisdom  is  consum'd  in  confidence. 
Do  not  go  forth  to-day  :  Call  it  my  fear 
That  keeps  you  in  Ihc  house,  and  not  your  own. 
"W^c  'U  send  Mark  Antony  to  the  senate-house; 
And  he  shall  say  you  are  not  wcU  to-day  : 
Let  me,  upon  my  knee,  prevail  in  tliis. 

Ccfs.  [Mark  Antony  shall  say  I  am  not  well ; 
And,  for  thy  humouj-,  I  will  stay  at  home. 

Enter  Decius. 

Here  's  Decius  Erutus,  he  shall  teU  them  so. 

Dec.  Cjfisar,  aU  hail !    Good  morrow,  worthy 
Caisar : 
I  come  to  fetch  you  to  the  senate-house. 

Cas.  And  you  are  come  in  very  happy  time. 
To  bear  my  greeting  to  the  senators. 
And  teU  them  that  I  will  not  come  to-day  : 
Cannot,  is  false  ;  aud  that  I  dare  not,  falser ; 
I  will  not  come  to-day :  Tell  them  so,  Decius. 

Cal.  Say  he  is  sick. 

Cces.  Shall  Caesar  seud  a  lie  '< 

Have  I  in  conquest  stretch'd  mine  arm  so  far. 
To  be  afeard  to  tell  greybeards  the  truth  ? 
Decius,  go  tell  them  Caisar  will  not  come. 

Dec.  Most  mighty  Caesar,  let  me  know  some 
cause, 
Lest  I  be  laugh'd  at  when  I  tell  them  so. 

Cas.  The  cause  is  in  my  will,  I  will  not  come ; 
Tliat  is  enough  to  satisfy  the  senate. 
But,  for  your  private  satisfaction. 
Because  I  love  you,  I  wiU  let  you  know ; 
Calphurnia  here,  my  wife,  stays  mc  at  home  : 
She  di-eamt  to-night  she  saw  my  statue. 
Which  like  a  fountain,  with  an  hundred  spcuts, 
Did  run  pure  blood ;  and  many  lusty  Romans 
Came  simling,  and  did  bathe  thcii-  hands  in  it. 
And  these  docs  she  apply  for  warnings  aud  por- 
tents. 
And  evils  imminent ;  and  on  her  knee 
Hath  bcgg'd  that  I  will  stay  at  home  to-day. 

Dec.  This  dream  is  all  amiss  interpreted ; 
It  was  a  vision  fair  and  fortunate : 
Your  statue  spouting  blood  in  many  pipes. 
In  wliich  so  many  smiling  llomans  bath'd. 
Signifies  that  from  you  great  Rome  shall  suck 
Reviving  blood ;  and  that  great  men  shall  press 
For  tinctures,  stains,  relics,  and  cognizance. 
This  by  Calphuniia's  di-cam  is  signified. 

••<  .-/re.— The  original  has  heare:  a  correction  by  Theobald 
is  ucre.     Capell  has  are. 


Act  II.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


[Scenes  III.,  IV. 


Cecs.  And  this  way  have  you  well  expounded 

it. 
Dec.  1  have,  when  you  have  heard  what  I 

can  say : 
And  know  it  now ;  the  senate  have  concluded 
To  give,  tliis  day,  a  crown  to  mighty  Cajsar. 
If  you  shall  send  them  word  you  will  not  come, 
Their  minds  may  change.    Besides,  it  were  a 

mock 
Apt  to  be  render' d,  for  some  one  to  say, 
'  Break  up  the  senate  till  another  time. 
When    Csesai-'s    wife    shall    meet  with  better 

dreams.' 
If  Caesar  hide  himself,  shaU  they  not  whisper, 
'  Lo,  Caesar  is  afraid  ? ' 
Pardon  me,  Caesar :  for  my  dear,  dear  love 
To  your  proceeding  bids  me  tell  you  this ; 
And  reason  to  my  love  is  liable. 

C<ss.  How  foolisli  do  your  fears  seem  now, 

Calphui-uia ! 
I  am  ashamed  I  did  yield  to  them.— 
Give  me  my  robe,  for  I  will  go : — 

Enter  Publius,  Brutus,  Ligamus,  IMetellus, 
Casca,  Trebonius,  and  Cinna. 

And  look  where  Publius  is  come  to  fetch  me. 

Pub.  Good  morrow,  Caesar. 

Cccs.  Welcome,  Publius. — 

What,  Brutus,  are  you  stirr'd  so  early  too  ? 
Good  morrow,  Casca.— Caius  Ligaiius, 
Caesar  was  ne'er  so  much  your  enemy 
As  that  same  ague  which  hath  made  you  lean. — 
What  is 't  o'clock  ? 

Bru.  Caesar,  't  is  strucken  eight. 

C(es.  I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  courtesy. 

Enter  Antony. 

See  !  Antony,  that  revels  long  o'  nights. 
Is  notwithstanding  up  :    Good  morrow,  iintony. 
Ant.  So  to  most  noble  Caesar. 
CiBS.  Bid  them  prepare  within : — 
I  am  to  blame  to  be  thus  waited  for. — 
Now,    Cimia  :— Now,    Metellus  :— What,   Tre- 

bonius ! 
I  have  an  hour's  talk  in  store  for  you; 
Uemember  that  you  call  on  me  to-day  : 
Be  near  me,  that  I  may  remember  you. 

Treb.  Caesar,  I  will : — and  so  near  wiU  I  be, 

\_Aside. 
That  your  best  friends  shall  wish  I  had  been 
further. 
Cues.  Good  fi-iends,   go  in,   and  taste   some 
wine  with  me ; 
And  we,   like  friends,  will  straightway  go   to- 
gether. 

R  2 


Bru.  That  every  like  is  not  the  same,  0  Caesar. 
The  heart  of  Brutus  yearns  to  think  upon ' 

[Exeunt 


SCENE  III. 


-The  same. 
Capitol. 


A  Street  near  the 


Enter  Artemidobus,  reading  a  paper. 

Art.  •  Ceesar,  beware  of  Brutus ;  take  lioed  of  Cassius  j 
come  not  near  Casca;  have  an  eye  to  China;  trust  not  Tre- 
bonius;  mark  -well  Jletellus  Cnnber  ;  Decius  Brutus  loves 
thee  not ;  thou  hast  wronged  Caius  Ligarius.  Tliere  is  tut 
one  mind  iu  all  these  men,  and  it  is  bent  against  Caesar.  If 
thou  beest  not  immortal,  look  about  you :  Security  gives 
way  to  conspiracy.  The  mighty  gods  defend  thee !  Tliy 
lover  Artemidorcs.' 

Here  will  I  stand  till  Caesar  pass  along. 

And  as  a  suitor  will  I  give  him  this. 

My  heart  laments  that  virtue  cannot  live 

Out  of  the  teeth  of  emulation. 

If  thou  read  this,  0  Caesar,  thou  may'st  live  : 

If  not,  the  Eates  with  traitors  do  contrive. 

[E.vit. 

SCENE   IV. — The  same.     Another  part  of  the 
same  Street,  before  the  House  of  Bnitus. 

Enter  Portia  and  Lucius. 

For.  I  prithee,  boy,  riui  to  the  senate-house  ; 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone : 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

inc.  To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

For.  I  would  have  had  thee  there,  andjiere 
again. 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  shouldst   do 
there. — 

0  constancy,  be  strong  upon  my  side  ! 

Set   a  huge  mountain  'tween    my  hetu-t    and 
tongue ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 
How  hard  it  is  for  women  to  keep  counsel  !— 
Ai-t  thou  here  yet  ? 

l^c.  Madam,  what  should  I  do  ? 

Bun  to  the  Capitol,  and  nothing  else  ? 
Aud  so  retui-n  to  you,  and  nothing  else  ? 

For.  Yes,  bring  me  word,  boy,  if  thy  lord 
look  well. 
For  he  went  sickly  forth :  And  take  good  note 
What  Ctesar  doth,  what  suitors  press  to  him. 
Hark,  boy  !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

Luc.  I  hear  none,  madam. 

P(,^  Prithee,  listen  well; 

I  heard  a  bustling  rumour,  like  a  fray, 
And  the  wind  brings  it  from  the  Capitol. 
Luc.  Sooth,  madam,  I  hear  nothing. 

243 


Act  II.) 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[Scene  tV. 


Enter  Soothsayer. 

Por.  Come  liither,  fellow  • 

Which  way  hast  thou  been  ? 

Sooth.  At  niiue  own  house,  good  lady. 

Por.  AVhat  is  't  o'clock  ? 

Sooth.  About  the  ninth  hour,  lady. 

Por.  Is  Cfcsar  yet  gone  to  the  Capitol  ? 

Sooth.  Madam,  not  yet;  I  go  to  take  my  stand. 
To  see  him  pass  on  to  the  Capitol. 

Por.  Thou  hast  some  suit  to  Caesar,  hast  thou 
not? 

Sooth.  That  I  have,  lady:    if  it  will  please 
Cffisar 
To  be  so  good  to  Cwsar  as  to  hear  me, 
I  shall  beseech  him  to  befriend  himself. 

Por.  Why,  know'st  thou" any  harm's  intended 
towards  him  ? 


Sooth.  Nouc  that  I  know  \nll  be,  much  that 
I  fear  may  chance. 
Good  morrow  to  you.  Here  the  street  is  narrow: 
The  throng  that  follows  Ca^ar  at  the  heels. 
Of  senators,  of  pnetors,  conuiion  suitors, 
AVill  crowd  a  feeble  man  almost  to  death  : 
I  '11  get  me  to  a  place  more  void,  and  there 
Speak  to  great  Ctcsar  as  he  comes  along. 

{Exit. 
Por.  I  must  go  in. — Ay   me !   how  weak  a 
thing 
The  heart  of  woman  is  !  0  Bnitus  ! 
The  heavens  speed  thee  in  thine  enterprise ! 
Sure,  the  boy  heard  me : — Brutus  hath  a  suit 
Thai  Cffisar  will  not  grant. — 0, 1  grow  faint : — 
Run,  Lucius,  and  commend  me  to  my  lord ; 
Say  I  am  merry  :  come  to  me  again, 
^^^i  bring  me  word  what  he  doth  say  to  thee. 

[Exeunt. 


[Roman  Matron,  j 


ILLTJSTUATIONS  OE  ACT  II, 


1  ScENK  I,—"  But  what  of  Cicero  ?  " 
"  They  durst  not  acquaint  Cicero  with  their  con- 
spiracy, although  he  was  a  man  whom  they  loved 
dearly  and  trusted  best;  for  they  were  afraid  that, 
he  being  a  coward  by  nature,  and  age  also  having 
increased  his  fear,  he  would  quite  turn  and  alter 
all  their  purpose,  and  quench  the  heat  of  their  en- 
terprise, the  which  specially  required  hot  and  earnest 
execution,  seeking  by  persuasion  to  bring  all  things 
to  such  safety  as  there  should  be  no  peril." 

2  Scene  I. — "Let  Antony  and  Ccesar  fall  together." 
"After  that  they  consulted  whether  they  should 
kill  Antonius  with  Caesar;  but  Brutus  would  in  no 
wise  consent  to  it,  saying,  that  venturing  on  such 
an  enterprise  as  that,  for  the  maintenance  of  law 
and  justice,  it  ought  to  be  clear  from  all  villainy." 

3  Scene  I. — "  Let  not  our  holes"  &c. 
"  Furthermore,  the  only  name  and  great  calling 
of  Brutus  did  bring  on  the  most  of  them  to  give  con- 
sent to  this  conspu-acy :  who  having  never  taken 
oaths  together,  nor  taken  nor  given  any  caution  or 
assurance,  nor  binding  themselves  one  to  another 
by  any  religious  oaths,  they  all  kept  the  matter  so 
secret  to  themselves,  and  could  so  cunningly  handle 
it,  that  notwithfit'indiug  the  gods  did  reveal  it  by 


manifest  signs  and  tokens  from  above,  and  by  pre- 
dictions of  sacrifices,  yet  all  this  would  not  be  be- 
lieved. Now  Brutus,  who  knew  very  well  that  for 
his  sake  all  the  noblest,  vaUantest,  and  most  courage- 
ous men  of  Rome  did  venture  their  lives,  weighing 
with  himself  the  greatness  of  the  danger,  when  he 
was  out  of  his  house,  he  did  so  frame  and  fashion 
his  countenance  and  looks  that  no  man  could  dis- 
cern he  had  anything  to  trouble  his  mind.  But 
when  night  came  that  he  was  in  his  own  house,  then 
he  was  clean  changed;  for  either  care  did  wake  him 
against  his  will  when  he  would  have  slept,  or  else 
oftentimes  of  himself  he  fell  into  such  deep  thoughts 
of  this  enterpiise,  casting  in  his  mind  all  the  dim- 
gers  that  might  happen,  that  his  wife,  lying  by  him, 
found  that  there  was  some  marvellous  great  matter 
that  troubled  his  mind,  not  being  wont  to  be  in  that 
taking,  and  that  he  could  not  well  determine  witli 
himself.  His  wife,  Portia,  was  the  daughter  of 
Cato,  whom  Brutus  married,  being  his  cousin,  not 
a  maiden,  but  a  young  widow,  after  the  death  of  her 
first  husband  Bi  bulus,  by  whom  she  had  also  a  young 
sou  called  Bibulus,  who  afterwards  wrote  a  book  of 
the  acts  and  jests  of  Brutus,  extant  at  this  present 
day.  This  young  lady  being  excellently  weU  seen 
in  philosophy,  loving  her  husband  well,  and  being 
of  a  noble  coiu->wre,  a>?  she  w;is  also  wise,  because 

2JI5 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IL 


slie  would  not  ask  her  buabontl  what  he  ailed  before 
she  had  made  some  proof  by  herself,  she  took  a 
little  i-azor,  such  as  barbers  occupy  to  pare  incu'.s 
nails,  and,  causing  her  maids  and  women  to  go  out 
of  her  chamber,  gave  herself  a  great  gash  withal  in 
her  thigh,  that  she  was  Btraightallof  agoreof  blood, 
and  incontinently  after  a  vehement  fever  took  her 
by  reason  of  the  pain  of  her  wound.  Then  perceiv- 
ing her  husband  was  marvellously  out  of  quiet,  and 
that  he  could  take  no  rest,  even  in  her  greatest 
pain  of  all  she  spake  in  this  sort  unto  him : — I  being, 

0  Brutus  (said  she),  the  daughter  of  Cato,  was  mar- 
ried unto  thee ;  not  to  be  thy  bedfellow  and  com- 
panion in  bed  and  at  board  only,  like  a  harlot,  but 
to  be  partaker  also  with  thee  of  thy  good  and  evil 
fortune.  Now  for  thyself  I  can  find  no  cause  of 
fault  in  thee  touching  our  match;  but,  for  my  part, 
how  may  I  show  my  duty  towards  thee,  and  how 
much  I  would  do  for  thy  sake,  if  I  cannot  con- 
stantly bear  a  secret  mischance  or  grief  with  thee 
which  requireth  secresy  and  fidelity?  I  confess 
that  a  woman's  wit  commonly  is  too  weak  to  keep  a 
secret  safely ;  but  yet  (Brutus)  good  education,  and 
the  company  of  virtuous  men,  have  some  power  to 
reform  the  defect  of  nature.  And  for  myself,  I  have 
this  benefit  moreover,  that  I  am  the  daughter  of 
C&to  and  wife  of  Brutus.     This  notwithstanding, 

1  did  not  trust  to  any  of  these  things  before,  until 
that  now  I  have  found  by  experience  that  no  pain 
or  grief  whatsoever  can  overcome  me.  With  these 
words  she  showed  him  her  wound  on  her  thigh,  and 
told  him  what  she  had  done  to  prove  herself.  Brutus 
was  amazed  to  heai-  what  she  said  unto  him,  and 
lifting  up  his  hands  to  heaven,  he  besought  the  gods 
to  give  him  the  grace  he  might  bring  his  enterprise 
to  so  good  pass  that  he  might  be  found  a  husband 
worthy  of  so  noble  a  wife  as  Portia :  so  he  then  did 
comfort  her  the  best  he  could." 

■•  Scene  I.— "Mere  is  a  sich  man,"  &c. 
"  Now  amongst  Pompey's  friends  there  was  one 
called  Caius  Ligarius,  who  had  been  accused  unto 
Cxsar  for  taking  part  with  Pompey,  and  Ctcsar 
discharged  him.  But  Ligarius  thanked  notCtcsar 
so  much  for  his  discharge,  as  he  was  ofifendcd  with 
him  for  that  he  was  brought  in  danger  by  his  ty- 
rannical power ;  and  therefore  in  his  heart  he  was 
always  his  mortal  enemy,  and  was  besides  very 
familiar  with  Brutus,  who  went  to  see  him,  being 
sick  in  his  bed,  and  "aid  unto  him,  Ligarius,  in  what 
a  time  art  thou  sick  !  Ligarius,  rising  up  in  his  bed, 
and  taking  hiui  by  the  right  hand,  said  unto  him, 
Brutus  (.«aid  he),  if  thou  hast  any  great  enterin-ise 
in  hand  worthy  of  thyself,  I  am  whole." 

*  ScEJfE  n. — "  Thrice  hath  Calphumia  in  Jiei- sleep 
cried  out,"  &c. 

"  Then  going  to  bed  the  same  night,  as  his  man- 


ner was,  and  lying  with  his  wife  Cidpurnia,  all  tho 
windows  and  doors  of  his  chamber  flying  open,  the 
noise  awoko  him,  and  made  him  afraid  when  ho  saw 
such  hght;  but  more,  when  ho  heard  his  wife  Cal- 
purnia,  being  fast  asleep,  weep  and  sigh,  and  put 
forth  many  grumbling  lamentable  speeches,  for  she 
deemed  that  Casar  was  slain,  and  that  she  had  him 
in  her  arms.  Others  also  do  deny  that  she  had  any 
such  dream,  as,  amongst  other,  Titus  Livius  writeth 
that  it  was  in  this  soi't : — The  Senate  having  set 
upon  tho  top  of  Cffisar's  house,  for  an  ornament  and 
setting  forth  of  tho  same,  a  certain  pinnacle,  Cal- 
purnia  dreamed  that  she  saw  it  broken  down,  and 
that  she  thought  she  lamented  and  wept  for  it;  in- 
somuch that,  Caesar  rising  in  the  morning,  sho 
prayed  him,  if  it  were  possible,  not  to  go  out  of  the 
doors  that  day,  but  to  adjourn  the  session  of  tha 
Senate  until  another  day  ;  and  if  that  he  made  no 
reckoning  of  her  dream,  yet  that  he  would  search 
further  of  the  soothsayers  by  their  sacrifices  to  know 
what  should  happen  him  that  day.  Thereby  it 
seemed  that  Cres'ar  likewise  did  fear  and  suspect 
somewhat,  because  his  wife  Calpurnia,  until  that 
time,  was  never  given  to  any  fear  or  superstition ; 
and  that  then  he  saw  her  so  troubled  in  mind  with 
this  dream  she  had,  but  much  more  afterwards 
when  the  soothsayer,  having  sacrificed  many  beasts 
one  after  another,  told  him  that  none  did  like  them. 
Then  he  determined  to  send  Antouius  to  adjourn 
the  session  of  the  Senate ;  but  in  the  mean  time  came 
Decius  Brutus,  surnamed  Albinus,  in  whom  Cssar 
put  such  confidence  that  in  his  last  will  and  testa- 
ment he  had  appointed  him  to  be  his  next  heir,  and 
yet  was  of  the  conspiracy  with  Cassius  and  Brutus. 
He,  fearing  that,  if  Cajsar  did  adjourn  the  session  that 
day,  the  conspiracy  would  be  betrayed,  laughed  at 
the  soothsayers,  and  reproved  Crosar,  saying  that  he 
gave  the  Senate  occasion  to  mislike  with  him,  and 
that  they  might  think  he  mocked  them,  considering 
that  by  his  commandment  they  were  assembled,  and 
that  they  were  ready  willingly  to  grant  him  all 
things,  and  to  proclaim  him  king  of  all  the  provinces 
of  the  empire  of  Rome  out  of  Italy,  and  that  he 
should  wear  his  diadem  in  all  other  places,  both  by 
sea  and  land ;  and  furthermore,  that  if  any  man 
should  tell  them  from  him  they  should  dejiart  for 
that  present  time,  and  retuni  again  when  Calpurnia 
should  have  better  dreams,  what  would  his  enemies 
and  ill-willers  say,  and  how  could  they  like  of  his 
friend's  words  ?  and  who  could  persuade  them  other- 
wise, but  that  they  would  think  his  dominion  a  slav- 
ery unto  them,  and  tyrannical  in  himself?  And 
yet,  if  it  be  so,  said  he,  that  you  utterly  mislike  of 
this  day,  it  is  better  that  you  go  yourself  in  person, 
and,  saluting  the  Senate,  to  dismiss  them  till  an- 
other time.  Therewithal  ho  took  Cicsar  by  the 
hand,  and  brought  him  out  of  his  house." 


216 


'^.^iui"\"'-ili*T.-' 


f.-^i;^p|^'|]«^^rif=!U;iS^i^ 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— The  same.    The  Capitol;   the  Se- 
nate sitting. 

A  crowd  of  peo])le  in  the  street  leading  to  the  Ca- 
pitol; among  them  Autemidokus  and  the 
Soothsayer.  Flourish.  Enter  C^sar,  Bru- 
tus, Cassius,  Casca,  Decius,  Metellus, 
Tbebonius,  Cinna,  Antony,  Lepidus,  Popi- 
Lius,  PuBLius,  and  others. 

Cas.  The  ides  of  March  are  come. 
Sooth.  Ay,  Csesar ;  but  not  gone. 
Art.  Han,  Caesar  !  Read  this  schedule. 
Bee.  Trebonius  doth  desire  you  to  o'er-read, 
At  your  best  leisure,  this  his  humble  suit. 
Art.  0,  Caesar,  read  miae  fii'st ;  for  mine 's  a 
suit 
That  touches    Caesar  nearer:    Read   it,  great 
Caesar. 


CeEs.  What  touches  us  om-self  shall  be  last 

serv'd. 
Art.  Delay  not,  Caesar ;  read  it  instantly. 
Gas.  "What,  is  the  fellow  mad  ? 
Pub.  Sii'rah,  give  place. 

Cas.  What,  urge  you  yom-  petitions  in  the 

street  ? 
Come  to  the  Capitol. 

C^SAR  enters  the  Capitol,  the  rest  following.  All 
the  Senators  rise.^ 

Pop.  I  wish  your  enterprise  to-day  may  thiive. 

Cas.  What  enterprise,  Popiliiis  ? 

Poj).  Pare  you  well. 

\Adca7iCeS  to  C-ESAR. 

Bru.  What  said  Popilius  Lena  ? 
Cas.  He  wish'd  to-day  our  enterprise  might 
thrive. 
I  feax  our  purpose  is  discovered. 

24  r 


ACT  in.] 


JULIUS  CtESAR. 


[SCENK    1. 


Bru.  Look,  how  he  makes  to  Ctcsar  :    Mark 

him. 
Cas.  Casca,  be  sudden,  for  we  fear  preven- 
tiou. — 
Brutus,  what  shall  be  done  ?     If  this  be  known, 
Cassius  or  Ca>sar  never  shall  turn  back. 
For  I  will  slay  myself. 

])ru.  Cassius,  be  constant : 

Popilius  Lena  speaks  not  of  our  purposes ; 
For,  look,  he  smiles,  and  Ca-sar  doth  not  cliange. 
Cas.  Trebonius  knows  his  time ;  for,  look  you, 
Brutus, 
lie  draws  !Mark  Antony  out  of  the  way. 

[Exeunt  Antony  and  Trebonius.    Caesar 
and  the  Senators  take  their  seats. 
Dec.  Wlicre  is  MctcUus  Cimbcr?  Let  him  go. 
And  presently  prefer  his  suit  to  Cajsar. 
Bru.  He  is  address'd:"  press  near,  and  second 

him. 
Cin.  Casca,  you  are  the  first  that  rears  your 

hand. 
Ctvs.  Are  we  all  ready  ?''  what  is  now  amiss, 
That  Casar,  and  his  senate,  must  redress  ? 
Met.  Most    high,    most    mighty,   and    most 
puissant  Ccesar, 
Mctcllus  Cimber  throws  before  thy  seat 
An  humble  heart : —  [Kneelint/. 

Cas.  I  must  prevent  thee,  Cimber. 

These  coucliings,  and  these  lowly  courtesies, 
Might  fire  the  blood  of  ordinary  men ; 
And  turn  pre-ordinance,  and  first  decree. 
Into  the  law  *"  of  children.     Be  not  fond, 
To  think  that  Csesar  bears  such  rebel  blood. 
That  will  be  thaw'd  from  the  true  quality 
With  that  which  melteth  fools  ;   I  mean  sweet 

words. 
Low  crooked  curtsies,  and  base  spaniel  fawTiing. 
Thy  brother  by  decree  is  banished ; 
If  thou  dost  bend,  and  pray,  and  fawn,  for  hiin, 
I  spurn  thee,  like  a  cur,  out  of  my  way. 
Know,   Ca:sar  doth  not   wTong:    nor   without 

cause 
Win  he  be  satisfied.'' 


*  Addrets'd — ready. 

^  Mr.  Collier  (,'ives  the  words  to  Casca;  as  Ritson  also 
did.  The  distribution  seems  plausible.  But  Brutus  lias  just 
said  of  Ca!sar, "  he  is  address'd,"  wliich  means  "  he  is  ready." 
Catar,  heinR  ready  himself,  looks  to  the  senate,  and  says 
"Are  we  all  ready?  " 

c  Lmc. — The  orijrinal  has  lane.— sn  easy  misprint  for  lau-e. 

d  In  Ben  Jonson's  'Discoveries'  there  is  the  following 
passage  referrinR  to  Shakspere :  "  Many  times  he  fell  into 
those  thint's  could  not  escape  lauRhter:  aa  when  he  said  in 
the  person  of  Caesar,  one  speaking  to  him,  'Caesar,  thou 
dost  me  wronp,'  he  rejjlied,  'Caesar  did  never  wrong  but 
with  just  cause.'"  Jonson  wrote  this,  we  have  no  douht, 
before  the  publication  of  the  folio  of  IC23;  for  he  was  in- 
capable of  falsely  quoting  his  friend's  lines.  T^iTwhitt  sup- 
poses that  the  players  altered  the  line;  and  maintains  that 
Shakspere  did  not  use  urong  in  the  sense  of  impropriety, 
liut  with  reference  to  his  exercise  of  power  which  sometimes 

218 


Met.  Is  there  no  voice  more  worthy  than  my 
own. 
To  sound  more  sweetly  in  great  Ca;sar's  ear. 
For  the  repealing  of  my  banish'd  brother  ? 

Bru.  I  kiss   thy  hand,  but  not  in  flattery^ 
Cfcsar ; 
Desiring  thee  that  Publius  Cimber  may 
Have  an  immediate  freedom  of  repeal. 

Ctcs.  What,  Brutus  ! 

Cas.  Pardon,  Crosar ;  Csesar,  pardon  : 

As  low  as  to  thy  foot  doth  Cassius  fall. 
To  beg  enfranchisement  for  Publius  Cimber. 

Cccs.  I  could  be  well  mov'd  if  I  were  as  you  ; 
If  I  could  pray  to  move,  prayers  would  move 

me  : 
But  I  am  const:ii:fc  as  the  northern  star. 
Of  whose  trae-fix'd  and  resting  quality 
There  is  no  fellow  in  the  firmament. 
The  skies  arc  painted  with  uuuumber'd  sparks, 
They  are  all  fire,  and  every  one  doth  shine ; 
But  there 's  but  one  in  all  doth  hold  his  place  : 
So,  in  the  world :  'T  is  furnish'd  well  with  men. 
And  men  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  apprehensive ; 
Yet,  in  the  number,  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Unshak'd  of  motion :  and,  that  I  am  he. 
Let  me  a  little  show  it, — even  in  this. 
That  I  was  constant  Cimbcr  should  be  banish'd, 
.;\jid  constant  do  remain  to  keep  him  so, 

Cin.  O  Cajsar, — 

Cas.  Hence !  wilt  thou  lift  up  Olympus  ? 

Dec.  Great  Caesar, — 

Cas.  -  Doth  not  Brutus  bootless  kneel  ? 

Casca.  Speak,  hands,  for  me. 

[Casca  dabs  Cesar  in  the  neck.  Caesar 
catches  hold  of  his  arm.  He  is  then  stabbed 
by  several  otlier  Conspirators,  and  at  last  by 
!Marcus  Brutus. 

Cas.  Et  tu,  Brute  f—lhen.  fall,  Csesar. 

[Dies.  The  senators  and  people  retire  in  con- 
fusion. 

Cin.  Liberty  !  Freedom  !  Tvranny  is  dead  ! — 
Run  hence,  proclaim,  cry  it  about  the  streets. 

Cas.  Some  to  the  common  pulpits,  and  cry 
out, 
'  Liberty,  freedom,  and  enfranchisement !  * 

Bru.  People,  and  senators !  be  not  affrighted; 
Fly  not ;  stand  still : — ambition's  debt  is  paid. 

Casca.  Go  to  the  pulpit,  Bnitus. 

Dec.  And  Cassius  too. 

Bru.  AVlicrc  's  Publius  ? 

required  him  to  punish.     "On  the  whole,"  say  the  Cam- 
bridge editors,  "  it  seems  more  probable  thai  Jonson,  quoting 
from  memory;  quoted  wrong,  than   that  the  passage  w,i8 
altered  in  consequence  of  his  censure,  which  was  first  made 
publicly,  in  1025." 


Act  III] 


JULIUS  OiESAR. 


fScElTE  1. 


Cin.  Here,  quite  confounded  with  tMs  mu- 
tiny. 
Met.  Stand  fast  together,  lest  some  friend  of 
Csesar's 
Should  chance — 
Bru.  Talk  not  of  standing ; — Pubhus,  good 
cheer ; 
There  is  no  harm  intended  to  your  person. 
Nor  to  no  Ex)man  else :  so  teU  them,  Publius. 
Cas.  And  leave  us,   Publius ;    lest  that  the 
people, 
Rusliing  on  us,  should  do  your  age  some  mis- 
chief. 
Bnt.  Do  so ; — and  let  no  man  abide  this  deed 
But  we  the  doers. 

Re-enter  Trebonitjs. 

Cas.  Where  is  Antony  ? 

Tre.  Pled  to  his  house  amaz'd : 
Men,  wives,  and  childi-en  stare,  cry  out,  and  run, 
As  it  were  doomsday. 

Bru.  Pates  !  we  wiU  know  your  pleasures : — 
That  we  shall  die  we  know ;  't  is  but  the  time, 
And  drawing  days  out,  that  men  stand  upon. 

Casca.  Why,  he  that  cuts  off  twenty  years  of 
life 
Cuts  off  so  many  years  of  fearing  death." 

Bru.  Grant  that,  and  then  is  death  a  benefit : 
So  are  we  Csesar's  friends,  that  have  abridg'd 
His  tune  of   fearing  death.— Stoop,  Eomans, 

stoop, 
And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Csesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  om-  swords  : 
Then  walk  we  forth,  even  to  the  market-place  ; 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads. 
Let 's  all  cry.  Peace,  Freedom,  and  Liberty ! 

Cas.  Stoop  then,  and  wash.— How  many  ages 
hence 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over, 
La  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown  ! 

Bru.  How  many  times  shall  Csesar  bleed  in 
sport. 
That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along. 
No  worthier  than  the  dust ! 

Cas.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  caU'd 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 

Dec.  What,  shall  we  forth  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  every  man  away  : 

Brutus  shall  lead ;  and  we  wiU  grace  his  heels 
With  the  most  boldest  and  best  hearts  of  Rome. 


a  The  original  copies  give  this  speech  fo  Casca.  The 
variorum  editors  assigned  it  to  Cassius.  Jlr.  Craik  thinks 
it  is  more  in  tlie  manner  of  Cassius. 


"Enter  a  SoiTant. 


Bru.  Soft,   who   comes  here?     A  friend  of 
Antony's. 

Serv.  Tlius,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me 
kneel ; 
Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down  ; 
Aid,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say  : 
Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest : 
Csesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  lonng : 
Say,  I  love  Brutus,  and  I  honour  him ; 
Say,  I  fear'd  Csesar,  honour'd  him,  and  lov'd 

him. 
If  Brutus  wiU  vouchsafe  that  Antony 
May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 
How  Csesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 
Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Caesar  dead 
So  well  as  Brutus  Uving ;  but  will  follow 
The  fortunes  and  affahs  of  noble  Brutus, 
Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state. 
With  all  true  faith.     So   says  iny  master  An- 
tony. 

Bru.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman; 
I  never  thought  him  worse. 
TeU  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place, 
He  shall  be  satisfied ;  and,  by  my  honour. 
Depart  untouch'd. 

Serv.  I  'U  fetch  him  presently. 

[_Bxit  Servant. 

Bru.  I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to 
friend. 

Cas.  I  wish  we  may  :  but  yet  have  I  a  miud 
That  fears  hira  much ;  and  my  misgiving  stiU 
Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 

Re-enter  Antony. 

Bru.  But    here    comes    Antony.— Welcome, 

Mark  Antony. 
Ant.  0  mighty  Csesar !  Dost  thou  lie  so  low  ? 
Are  aU  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils. 
Shrunk  to  this  little  measure  ?— Pare  thee  well— 
I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 
Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank  : 
If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 
As  Csesar's  death's  hour ;  nor  no  instrument 
Of  half  that  worth  as  those  your  swords,  made 

rich 
With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 
I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard. 
Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reck  and 

smoke. 
Fulfil  yoiu-  pleasui-e.     Live  a  thousand  years, 
I  shall  not  find  myseK  so  apt  to  die : 
No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mear.  of  death, 
^  249 


Act  III] 


JULIUS  CvESAR. 


rScEXB  L 


As  here  by  CiBsar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 
The  clioicc  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 

Bru.  O  Antony  !  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 
Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel, 
As,  by  our  hands  and  this  our  present  act. 
You  see  wc  do,  yet  sec  you  but  our  hands. 
And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done  : 
Our  hearts  you  see  not,  they  arc  pitiful ; 
.iVnd  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
(As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity,  pity) 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Casar.     For  your  pari, 
To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark 

Antony : 
Our  anus,  in  strength  of  nialiee,"  and  oiu-  hearts. 
Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in 
With  all  kiud  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 
Cas.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  niau'.s 
In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 

Bru.  Only  be  patieut,  till  we  have  appeas'd 
The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear ; 
And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause, 
>Vliy  I,  that  did  love  Ctesar  when  I  struck  him. 
Have  thus  proceeded. 

j„/.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 

Let  each  man  render  mc  his  bloody  hand : 
First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you  ; 
Next,  Cains  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand  ; 
Now,  Dccius  Brutus,  yours ;— now  yours,  Mc- 

tellus ; 
Yours,  Cinna ;— and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours  ; — 
Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Tre- 

bonius. 
Gentlemen  all,— alas  !  what  shall  I  say  ? 
My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground, 
That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 
Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer. — 
That  I  did  love  thee,  Csesar,  0,  't  is  true : 
Tf  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now, 
Shall  it  not  grieve  thee,  dearer  than  thy  death. 
To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace. 
Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes. 
Most  noble  !  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse  ? 
Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  liast  wounds. 
Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood. 
It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 
In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 
Pardon    me,   Julius!— Here  wast  thou  bay'd, 

brave  hart ; 
Here  didst  thou   fall;    and  here  thy  hunters 

stand, 
Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimson'd  in  thy  lethe. 
0  world !  tliou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart ; 
And  this  indeed,  0  world !  the  heart  of  thee.— 

»  See  Recent  New  Reading  at  ihc  end  of  the  Act. 
2j0 


How  like  a  deer,  stricken  by  many  princes, 
Dost  thou  here  lie  ! 
Cas.  !M;u-k  Antony, — 

Jnt.  Pardon  mc,  Caius  Cassius ; 

The  enemies  of  CiEsar  shall  say  this  ; 
Then  in  a  friend  it  is  cold  modesty, 

Cas.  I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Ctesar  so ; 
But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us  ? 
■\yill  you  be  prick'd  in  number  of  oui-  friends ; 
Or  shall  wc  on,  and  not  depend  on  you  ? 

Ant.  Therefore  I  took  your  hands ;  but  was, 
indeed, 
Sway'd  from  the  point,  by  looking  down  on 

Cicsar. 
Friends  am  I  with  you  all,  and  love  you  all ; 
Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons 
'\Vliy  and  wherein  Cscsar  was  dangerous. 

Bru.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle. 
Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard. 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Ctesar, 
You  should  be  satisfied. 

Ant.  That 's  all  I  seek  : 

And  am  moreover  suitor  that  I  may 
Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place ; 
And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend. 
Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral. 
Bru.  You  sliidl,  Mark  Antony. 
Cas.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you. — 

You  know  not  what  you  do :  Do  uot  consent 

[^Aside. 
That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral : 
Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 
By  that  which  he  will  utter  ? 

Brv.  By  your  pardon ; — 

I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  fu'st. 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death : 
What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 
He  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission ; 
And  that  we  are  contented  Ca!sar  shall 
Have  all  true  rites  and  lawful  ceremonies. 
It  shall  advantage  more  than  do  us  wrong. 
Cas.  I  know  not  what  may  fall ;  I  like  it  not. 
Bru.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caisar's 
body. 
You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Caisar ; 
And  say  you  do  't  by  our  permission ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 
About  his  funeral :  And  you  shall  speak 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended. 

Ant.  Be  it  so ; 

I  do  desire  no  more. 
Bru.  Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us. 

[E.Tettnt  all  but  Aktonjt. 


Act  rir.] 


JULIUS  C^^SAR. 


[SCENIS  IL 


Ant.  0,  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of 
eai-th," 
That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers ! 
Thou  ai-t  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 
That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  tunes. 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood  ! 
Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, — 
Which,  like  duiub   mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby 

lips, 
To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue, — 
A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men ; 
Domestic  fury,  and  fierce  civil  strife. 
Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy : 
Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use, 
And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar, 
That  mothers  shall  but  smile  when  they  behold 
Their  infants  qutirter'd  with  the  hands  of  war ; 
All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds  : 
And  Caesar's  spuit,  ranging  for  revenge. 
With  Ate  by  his  side,  come  hot  from  hell, 
ShaU.  in  these  confines,  with  a  monarch's  voice. 
Cry  '  Havock,'  t"  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war ; 
That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 
With  carrion  men  groaning  for  burial. 

Eiite-i-  a  Servant. 

You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

Ant.  Cffisar  did  write  for  him  to  come  to  Rome. 

Sere.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming : 
And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth, — 
0  Caesar  ! —  \8eeing  the  body. 

Ant.  Thy  heart  is  big;  get  thee  apart  aud 
weep. 
Passion,  I  see,  is  catching ;  for  mine  eyes. 
Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine. 
Began  to  water.     Is  thy  master  coming  ? 

Sero.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of 
Rome. 

Ant.  Post  back  with  speed,  and  teU  him  what 
hath  chanc'd : 
Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 
No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet ; 
Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.     Yet,  stay  awhile ; 
Thou  shalt  not  back  till  I  have  bonie  this  corse 
Into  the  market-place :  there  shaU  I  try, 
In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 
The  cniel  issue  of  these  bloody  men ; 
According  to  the  which  thou  shalt  discourse 


a  We  give  the  line  as  in  the  first  and  second  editions. 
The  text  was  invariably  corrupted  in  all  modem  editions 
before  tlie  Pictorial  into — 

"  O,  pardon  me,  thou  piece  of  bleeding  earth." 

b  Havock,  according  to  Sir  William  Blackstone,  was,  in 
the  military  operations  of  ancient  times,  the  word  by  which 
declaration  was  made  that  no  quarter  should  be  given. 


To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 
Lend  me  your  hand. 

[Exeunt,  with  C^sab's  bodi/. 

SCENE  ll.—The  same.     The  Forum. 

Enter  Beuttts  and  Cassitts,  and  a  throng  of 
Citizens.^ 

at.  We  wiU  be  satisfied ;  let  us  be  satisfied. 

Bru.  Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience, 
friends. — • 
Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street. 
And  part  the  numbers. — 
Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  tliem  stay 

here ; 
Those  that  wiU  foUow  Cassius,  go  with  him ; 
And  pubKc  reasons  shall  be  rendered 
Of  Caesar's  death. 

1  at.  I  win  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2  at.  I  will  hear  Cassius ;  and  compare  their 

reasons. 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

\Bxit  Cassius,  xcith  some  of  the  Citizens. 
Brtjxus  goes  into  the  Rostrum. 

3  at.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended :  Silence  ! 
Bru.  Be  patient  tUl  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers !  hear  me  for 
my  cause ;  and  be  silent,  that  you  may  hear : 
believe  me  for  mine  honour;  and  have  respect 
to  mine  honour,  that  you  may  believe :  censure 
me  in  your  wisdom ;  and  awake  your  senses,  that 
you  may  the  better  judge.  If  there  be  any  in 
this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him 
I  say,  that  Brutus'  love  to  Cfesar  was  no  less 
than  his.  If  then  that  friend  demand  why 
Brutus  rose  against  Caesar,  this  is  my  answer, — 
Not  that  I  loved  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  loved 
Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living, 
and  die  all  slaves ;  than  that  Caesar  were  dead, 
to  live  all  iTce-men  ?  As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep 
for  him;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it;  as 
he  was  valiant,  I  honour  him:  but,  as  he  was 
ambitious,  I  slew  him :  There  is  tears,  for  his 
love ;  joy,  for  his  fortune ;  honour",  for  his  valour; 
and  death,  for  his  ambition.  TVTio  is  here  so 
base  that  would  be  a  bondman  ?  If  any,  speak ; 
for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  rude 
that  would  not  be  a  Roman?  If  any,  speak; 
for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so  vile 
that  win  not  love  his  country?  If  any,  speak; 
for  him  have  I  offended.     I  pause  for  a  reply. 

at.  None,  Brutus,  none. 

[Several  speaking  at  once. 

Bru.  Then  none  have  I  offended.     I  have 
done  no  more  to  Caesar  than  you  shall  do  to 

251 


ACT   III. J 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[ScEK3  n. 


Brutus.  The  question  ot  his  death  is  enrolled 
in  the  Capitol ;  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein 
he  was  wortliy;  nor  liis  offences  enforced,  for 
which  he  suffered  death. 

EHtrr  .\jfTOXY  and  othfn,  with  Ciesar'*  bo(I>/. 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Jfark  Antony : 
who,  though  he  had  no  hand  iu  his  death,  shall 
receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in  the 
commonwealth :  As  which  of  you  shall  not  ?  With 
this  I  depart :  That,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for 
the  good  of  Rome,  1  have  the  same  dagger  for 
myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need 
my  death. 

CU.  Live,  Brutus,  live  I  live ! 

1  at.  Bring  liim  with   triumph  home   unto 

his  house. 

2  at.  Give  him  a  statue  with  liis  ancestors. 

3  at.  Let  him  be  Csesar. 

4  at.  CfEsar's  better  parts 
Shall  be  crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1  at.  We  '11  bring  him  to   his   house   with 

shouts  and  clamours. 
Bru.  My  countni-men, — 

2  at.  Peace ;  silence  !  Brutus  speaks. 
1  at.  Peace,  ho ! 

Bru.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone. 
And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony : 
Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 
Tending  to  Caesar's  glories ;  which  Mark  Antony, 
By  our  permission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 
T  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart. 
Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  [^Exit. 

1  at.  Stay,  ho !  and  let  us  hear  Alark  Antony. 

3  at.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair ; 
We  '11  hear  him :  Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

Ant.  For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you. 

4  at.  What  does  he  say  of  Bmtus  ? 

3  at.  He  says  for  Bmtus'  sake. 
He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 

4  at.  'T  were  best  he  speak  no  hann  of  Brutus 

here. 

1  at.  This  Ctesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3  at.  Nay,  that 's  rortain  : 

We  arc  bless'd  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him. 

2  at.  Peace;  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can 

say. 
Ant.  You  gentle  Romans, — 
Oil.  Peace,  ho !  let  us  hear  him. 

Jnt.  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me 
your  cars ; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them ; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones ; 
So  let  it  be  %vith  Caesar.    The  noble  Brutus 
252 


Hath  told  you  CiEsar  was  ambitious : 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault ; 

And  grievously  hatii  Cffisar  answer'd  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus,  and  the  rest, 

(For  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man ; 

So  arc  they  all,  all  honourable  men ;) 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  mc : 

But  Bi-utus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 

Wliose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill : 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 

Wlien  that  the  poor  have   cried,   Cajsar   iiath 

wept : 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff : 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And  Brutus  is  an  honourable  man. 
You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal 
I  thrice  presented  bim  a  kingly  crown. 
Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.    Was  this  ambition  ? 
Yet  Brutus  says,  he  was  ambitious ; 
And,  sure,  he  is  au  honourable  man. 
I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke. 
But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 
You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause ; 
What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for 

him  ? 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts. 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason ! — Bear  with  me ; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1  at.  Methiuks  there  is  much  reason  in  liis 

sayings. 

2  at.  If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Cffisar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3  at.  Has  he,  masters  ? 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4  at.  ]Mark'd  ye  his  words?  He  would  not 

take  the  crown ; 
Tliercfore,  't  is  ecrtain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1  at.  If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide 

it. 

2  at.  Poor  soul !  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with 

weeping. 

3  at.  There 's  not  a  nobler  man  iu  Rome  than 

Antony. 

4  at.  Now  mark  him,  he   begins  again  to 

speak. 
Ant.  But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Cajsar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world :  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

0  masters !  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 


Act  III.] 


JULIUS  CiKSAR. 


[Scene  IL 


Who,  you  all  know,  are  honoui-able  men : 
I  will  not  do  them  wrong ;  I  rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you, 
Than  I  will  wrong  such  honourable  men. 
But  here  's  a  parchment,  \vith  the  seal  of  Caesar, 
I  found  it  in  his  closet,  't  is  his  will : 
Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament, 
(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read,) 
And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds. 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 
Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 
And,  dying,  mention  it  wiihin  their  wills, 
Bequeatliing  it,  as  a  rich  legacy. 
Unto  their  issue. 

4  at.  We  '11  hear  the  will :  Read  it,  Mark 
Antony. 

at.  The  will,  the  will !  we  will  hear  Csesar's 
will. 

Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I   must 
not  read  it ; 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesai-  lov'd  you. 
You  are  not  wood,  you  arc  not  stones,  but  men ; 
And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Csesar, 
It  will  inflame  you,  it  wdll  make  you  mad : 
'T  is  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs ; 
For  if  you  should,  0,  what  would  come  of  it ! 

4  au.  Read  the  will ;  we  '11  hear  it,  Antony  ; 
you  sliaU  read  us  the  will;  Ctesar's  will. 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient?  Will  you  stay  a 
while? 
I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it. 
I  fear  I  ^vrong  the  honourable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Cssar :  I  do  fear  it. 

4  at.  They  were  traitors :    Honourable  men ! 

at.  The  win !  the  testament ! 

2  ad.  They  were  villains,  murderers:  The 
will !  read  the  will ! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me  then  to  read  the 
will? 
Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Ceesar, 
And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 
Shall  I  descend  ?  And  will  you  give  me  leave  ? 

ait.  Come  down. 

2  ait.  Descend. 

\He  comes  down  from  the  pulpit, 

3  at.  You  shall  have  leave. 

4  at.  A  ring ;  stand  round. 

1  at.  Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the 
body. 

2  at.  Room  for  Antony; — most  noble  An- 
tony. 

Ant.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me ;  stand  far  off. 

ait.  Stand  back !  room  1  bear  back  ! 

Ant.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now. 


You  aU  do  know  this  mantle :  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 

'T  was  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii : — 

Look  !  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through : 

See,  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made  : 

Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd ; 

And,  as  he  pluck'd  his  cui-sed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Ca;sar  foUow'd  it. 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock' d,  or  no ; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel : 

Judge,   0  you  gods,   how   dearly  Caesar  lov'd 

him ! 
This  was  the  most  uukindest  cut  of  all : 
For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab. 
Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms. 
Quite  vanquish'd  him:  then  burst  his  mighty 

heart ; 
^Vnd,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face. 
Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue,* 
Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 
0,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  ! 
Then  T,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 
AVhilst  bloody  treason  flourish'd  over  us. 
0,  now  you  weep ;  and,  I  perceive,  you  feel 
The  dint*"  of  pity :  these  are  gracious  drops. 
Kind  souls,  what  weep  you,  when  you  but  be- 
hold 
Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?    Look  you  here, 
Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

1  at.  O  piteous  spectacle ! 

2  at.  0  noble  Caesar ! 

3  at.  0  woeful  day ! 

4  at.  O  traitors,  villains ! 

1  ad.  0  most  bloody  sight ! 

All.  T^'e  will  be  reveuged:  revenge;  about, 
—  seek, — burn, —  fire, — kill, — slay!— let  not  a 
traitor  live. 

Ant.  Stay,  coimtrymen. 

1  Cd.  Peace  there :— Hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2  ad.  We  '11  hear  him,  we  'U  follow  him,  we  '11 
die  with  him. 

Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not 

stii-  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honourable ; 
WTiat  private  griefs  they  have,  alas  !  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  it;    they  are    wise    and 

honom-able. 


a  Slaluc.—\\\  this  passage,  and  in  a  previous  instance,  the 
word  Hatua  has  been  substituted  for  the  English  word. 
What  we  may  gain  in  the  harmony  of  the  verse  we  lose  in 
the  simplicity  of  the  expression,  by  this  alteration. 

f)  Dini— impression. 

253 


Act  III] 


JULIUS  C;ESAR. 


[Scene  III. 


Ajid  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  conic  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts ; 
I  ain  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is ; 
But  as  you  know  inc  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
That  love  my  friend;  and  tliat  they  know  full 

weU 
That  gtive  me  public  leave  to  spcjik  of  hiiu. 
For  1  have  neither  wit,*  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 
To  stir  men's  blood :  I  only  speak  riglit  on ; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 
Show   you  sweet    Cesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor 

dumb  mouths. 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me  :  But  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Csesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
at.  We  '11  mutiny ! 

1  at.  We  '11  bum  the  house  of  Brutus ! 

3  at.  Away  then;  come,  seek  the  couspii-a- 
tors! 

Ant.  Yet  hear  me,  countrymen ;  yet  hear  me 
speak. 

at.  Peace,  ho!     Hear  Antony,  most  noble 
Antony.  , 

Ant.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know 
not  what  : 
U  herein  hath  Cesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves  ? 
Alas,  you  know  not — I  must  tell  you  then  : — 
You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 

Cil.  Most  true ;  the  will :— let 's  stay,  and  hear 
the  will. 

Ant.  Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal. 
To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 
To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2  at.  Most  noble  Csesar ! — we  '11  revenge  his 
death. 

3  at.  O  royal  Csesar ! 

Ant.  Hear  me  with  patience. 

at.  Peace,  ho ! 

Ant.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 
Ilis  private  arbours,  and  new-planted  orchards. 
On  this  side  Tiber ;  he  hath  left  them  you. 
And  to  your  heirs  for  ever ;  common  pleasures. 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  C»sar !  When  comes  such  another  ? 

1  at.  Never,  never ! — Come,  away,  away ! 
Wc  '11  bum  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 
\nA.  with  the  brands  lire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 


»  rr</.— The  folif)  of  IC2.1  has  irri<— tbat  of  IC.32  nil. 
irnl  may  be  cxpUined  n  a  prepared  writinK;  bulwe  retain 
the  readme  of  the  tccond  folio,  receiving  tcil  in  the  sense  of 
uoderttanding. 

254 


2  at.  Go,  fetch  fu-e. 

3  at.  Pluck  down  benches. 

4  at.  Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  anytliing. 

[Exeunt  Citizens,  with  the  body. 
Ant.  Now  let  it  m ork !  Miseliicf,   thou  ait 
afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! — How  now, 
fellow  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir,  Octavius  is  already  come  to  Rome. 

Ant.  Where  is  he  ? 

Serv.  He  and  Lepidus  are  at  Csesar's  house. 

Ant.  And  thither  wall  I  straight  to  visit  him : 
He  comes  upon  a  wish.     Fortune  is  merry. 
And  in  this  mood  will  give  us  anything. 

Serv.  I  heard  him  say,  Bnitus  and  Cassius 
iVi'C  rid  like  madiucn  thi-ough  the  gates  of  Rome. 

Ant.  Belike    they   had   some  notice   of    the 
people. 
How  I  had  niov'd  them.     Bring  me  to  Octavius. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  IJl.—The  same.    A  Street. 

Enter  Cinna,  the  Poet? 

at.  I  di-eamt  to-night  that  I  did  feast  with 
Csesar, 
And  things  unluckily  charge  my  phantasy : 
I  have  no  will  to  wander  forth  of  doors. 
Yet  something  leads  me  forth. 

Enter  Citizens. 

1  at.  What  is  your  name  ? 

2  at.  Whither  are  you  going  ? 

3  at.  Wliere  do  you  dwell  ? 

4  at.  Are  you  a  married  man,  or  a  bachelor  ? 

2  at.  Answer  every  man  diixctly. 

1  at.  Ay,  and  briefly. 
4  at.  Ay,  and  wisely. 

3  at.  Ay,  and  truly,  you  were  best. 

an.  Wliat  is  my  name  ?  Whither  am  I  going  ? 
Where  do  I  dwell  ?  Am  I  a  married  man  or  a 
bachelor?  Tlicn,  to  answer  every  man  directly, 
and  briefly,  wisely,  and  tmly;  wisely  I  say,  I 
am  a  bachelor. 

2  at.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say  they  are 
fools  that  marry:  You'll  bear  me  a  bang  for 
that,  I  fear.    Proceed;  directly. 

an.  Directly,  I  am  going  to  Caesar's  funeral. 

1  at.  As  a  friend,  or  an  enemy  ? 
an.  As  a  friend. 

2  at.  That  matter  is  answered  dueetly. 

4  at.  For  your  dwelling, — briefly. 
an.  Briefly,  I  dwell  by  the  Capitol. 


A.CT    III.] 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


[ScEKK  m. 


3  at.  Your  name,  sir,  truly. 
Citi.  Truly,  my  name  is  Cinna, 

1  at.  Tear  him  to  pieces,  he 's  a  conspii-ator. 
an.  I  am  Cinna  the  poet,  I  am  Cinna  the 
poet. 

4  at.  Tear  him  for  his  bad  verses,  tear  him 
for  his  bad  verses. 

Cin.  I  am  not  Cinna  the  conspirator." 

»  Through  a  most  extraordinary  licence,  or  indolence  in 


2  at.  It  is  no  matter,  his  name's  Cimia; 
pluck  but  his  name  out  of  his  heart,  and  turn 
him  going. 

3  at.  Tear  him,  tear  hun!  Come,  brands, 
ho!  firebrands.  To  Brutus',  to  Cassius';  bum 
all.  Some  to  Decius'  house,  and  some  to  Casca's ; 
some  to  Ligarius' :  away ;  go !  [_Exeunt. 

the  collation  of  copies,  this  entire  line  is  omitted  in  some 
modern  editions. 


RECENT  NEW  READING. 


Act  III.,  Sc.  I.,  p.  250. 

"  Our  arms,  in  strength  of  malice,"  &c. 

"  Our  arms,  in  strength  of  welcome,"  &c. — Collier. 

We  transcribe  the  following  note  from  Mr.  Craik's  Philo- 
logical Commentarj-  on  Julius  Cjeoar:  — 

The  word  malice  "  has  stood  in  every  edition  down  to 
that  in  one  volume  produced  by  Mr.  Collier  in  1S53;  and 
there,  for  the  first  time,  instead  of  '  strength  of  malice,'  we 
have  '  strength  of  welcome.'    This  turns  the  nonsense  into 


excellent  sense;  and  the  two  words  are  by  no  means  so  un- 
like as  that,  in  a  cramp  hand,  or  an  injured  or  somewhat 
faded  page,  the  one  might  not  easily  have  been  mistaken  by 
the  first  printer  or  editor  for  the  other.  .  .  .  Yet,  strange 
to  say,  it  is  not  so  much  as  mentioned  by  Mr.  Collier  in  the 
large  voluftle,  of  above  500  pages  (Notes  and  Emendations, 
etc.),  which  professes  to  contain  an  account  of  everything  of 
interest  or  importance  in  his  copy  of  the  Second  Folio.  Nor, 
as  far  as  I  remember,  has  it  attracted  any  attention  from  any 
one  of  the  numerous  critics  of  the  new  readings.  As  how, 
indeed,  should  it,  smuggled  into  the  text  as  it  has  been?  " 


[Roman  Consul.] 

ILLUSTEATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


'  Scene  I. — "  All  the  Senators  rise." 
"  A  SENATOR  (Milled  Popilius  Locna,  after  lie  had 
fsaluted  Biiitus  and  Casaius  more  friendly  than  he 
was  wont  to  do,  he  rounded  softly  in  their  ears,  and 
told  them,  1  pray  the  gods  you  may  go  through 
with  that  you  have  taken  in  hand ;  but,  withal,  de- 
spatch, I  rede  you,  for  your  enterprise  is  bewrayed. 
When  he  had  said,  he  presently  departed  from  them, 
and  left  them  both  afraid  that  their  conspiracy 
would  out.  *****  When  Caesar  came  out 
of  hia  litter,  Popilius  Lccna  (that  had  talked  before 
with  Brutus  and  Cassius,  and  had  prayed  the  gods 
they  might  bring  this  enterprise  to  pa.ss)  went  unto 
Caesar,  and  kept  him  a  long  time  with  a  talk. 
Cscsar  gave  good  ear  unto  him ;  wherefore  the  con- 
spiratora  (if  so  they  should  be  called),  not  hearing 
what  he  said  to  Ctcsar,  but  conjecturing  by  that  he 
had  told  them  a  Lttle  before  that  his  talk  was  none 
other  but  the  very  discovery  of  their  conspiracy, 
they  were  afraid  every  man  of  them  ;  and  one  look- 
ing in  another's  face,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
all  were  of  a  mind  that  it  was  no  tanying  for  them 
till  they  were  apprehended,  but  rather  that  they 
should  kill  themselves  with  their  own  hands.  And 
when  CaMiuB  and  certain  other  clapped  their  Lands 
on  their  swords  under  their  gowns  to  draw  them, 
Brutus  marking  the  countenance  and  gesture  of 
Lxoa,  and  cjiisidcring  that  he  did  use  himself 
rather  like  an  humble  and  eamc-st  suitor  than  like 
aa  accuser,  he  said  nothing  to  his  companions  (be- 
cause there  were  many  amongst  them  that  were  not 
of  the  conspiracy),  but  with  a  pleasant  countenance 
encouraged  Cassiua,  and  immediately  after  Lxna 
went  from  Ca»ar,  and  kissed  hia  hand,  which  showed 
226 


plainly  that  it  was  for  some  matter  conceraiug  him- 
self that  he  had  held  liim  so  long  in  talk.  Now  all 
the  senators  being  entered  first  into  this  place  or 
chapter-house  where  the  council  should  be  kept,  all 
the  other  conspirators  straight  stood  about  Cajsar's 
chair,  as  if  they  had  had  something  to  say  unto  him ; 
and  some  say  that  Cassius,  casting  his  eyes  upon " 
Pompey's  image,  made  his  prayer  unto  it  as  if  it 
had  been  alive.  Trebonius,  on  the  other  side,  drew 
Antonius  aside  as  he  came  into  the  house  where  the 
Senate  sat,  and  held  him  with  a  long  talk  without. 
When  Caesar  was  come  into  the  house,  all  the  senate 
rose  to  honour  him  at  hia  coming  in;  so,  when  he 
was  set,  the  conspirators  flocked  about  him,  and 
amongst  them  they  pi  esented  one  Tullius  (Metellua) 
Cimber,  who  made  humble  suit  for  the  calling  home 
again  of  his  brother  that  was  banished.  They  all 
made  as  though  they  were  intercessors  for  him,  and 
took  Cscsar  by  the  hands,  and  kissed  his  head  and 
breast.  Cscsar,  at  the  first  simply  refused  their 
kindness  and  entreaties ;  but  afterwards,  perceiving 
they  still  pressed  on  him,  he  violently  thrust  them 
from  him.  Then  Cimber,  with  both  his  hands, 
plucked  Caesar's  gown  over  his  shoulders,  and  Casca 
that  stood  behind  him  drew  his  dagger  first,  and 
strake  Cresar  upon  the  shoulder,  but  gave  him  no 
great  wound.  Cajsar,  feeling  himself  hurt,  took  him 
straight  by  the  hand  ho  held  his  dagger  in,  and  cried 
out  in  Latin,  0  traitor  Casca,  what  dost  thou? 
Caaca  on  the  other  side  cried  in  Greek,  and  called 
his  brother  to  help  him.  So  divers  running  on  a 
heap  together  to  fly  upou  Cxsar,  he,  looking  about 
him  to  have  fled,  saw  Brutus  with  a  sword  drawn  in 
his  hand  ready  to  strike  at  him :  tiieu  he  let  Casca'n 


/ 


o 


o 


i 


g 

^ 


o 


o 
»4 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


haud  go,  and,  casting  his  gown  over  liis  face,  suf- 
fered every  man  to  strike  at  him  that  would.  Then 
the  conspirators  thronging  one  upon  another,  be- 
cause every  man  was  desirous  to  have  a  cut  at  him, 
so  many  swords  and  daggers  lighting  upon  one  body, 
one  of  them  hurt  another,  and  among  them  Brutus 
caught  a  blow  on  his  hand,  because  he  would  make 
one  in  murthering  of  him,  and  all  the  rest  also  were 
every  man  of  them  bloodied.  Casar  being  slain  in 
this  manner,  Brutus,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
house,  would  have  spoken,  and  stayed  the  other 
senators  that  were  not  of  the  conspiracy,  to  have  told 
them  the  reason  why  they  had  done  this  fact ;  but 
they,  as  men  both  afraid  and  amazed,  fled  one  upon 
another's  neck  in  haste  to  get  out  at  the  door,  and 
no  man  followed  them ;  for  it  was  set  down  and 
agreed  between  them  that  they  should  kUl  no  man 
but  Csesar  only,  and  should  entreat  all  the  rest  to 
look  to  defend  their  liberty.  All  the  conspirators, 
but  Brutus,  determining  upon  this  matter,  thought 
it  good  also  to  kill  Antonius,  because  he  was  a 
wicked  man,  and  that  in  nature  favoured  tyranny. 
Besides,  also,  for  that  he  was  in  great  estimation 
with  soldiers,  having  been  conversant  of  long  time 
amongst  them,  and  especially  having  a  mind  bent  to 
great  enterprises  ;  he  was  also  of  great  authority  at 
that  time,  being  consul  with  Cresar.  But  Brutus 
(vould  not  agree  to  it :  first,  for  that  he  said  it  was 
not  honest ;  secondly,  because  he  told  them  there  was 
hope  of  change  in  him,  for  he  did  not  mistrust  but 
that  Antonius,  b»ing  a  noble-minded  and  courageous 
man  (when  he  should  know  that  Ctesarwas  dead), 
would  willingly  help  his  country  to  recover  her 
liberty,  having  them  an  example  unto  him  to  follow 
their  courage  and  virtue.  So  Brutus  by  this  means 
saved  Antonius'  life,  who  at  that  present  time  dis- 
guised himself  and  stole  away;  but  Brutus  and  his 
consorts,  having  their  swords  bloody  in  their  hands, 
wont  straight  to  the  Capitol,  persuading  the  Bomaris 
as  they  went  to  take  their  liberty  again," 

^  Scene    II. — "Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius,  and  a 
throng  of  Citizens" 

"  A  great  number  of  men  being  assembled  toge- 
ther one  after  another,  Brutus  made  an  oration 
imto  them  to  win  the  favour  of  the  people,  and  to 
justify  that  they  had  done.  All  those  that  were 
by  said  they  had  done  well,  and  cried  unto  them 
that  they  should  boldly  come  down  from  the  Ca- 
pitol ;  whereupon  Brutus  and  his  companions  came 
boldly  down  into  the  market-place.  The  rest  fol- 
lowed in  troof),  but  Brutus  went  foremost,  very 
honourably  compassed  in  round  about  with  the 
noblest  men  of  the  city,  which  brought  him  from  the 
Capitol,  through  the  market-place,  to  the  pulj^it  for 
orations.  When  the  people  saw  him  in  the  pulpit, 
although  they  were  a  multitude  of  rakehells  of  all 
sorts,  and  had  a  good  will  to  make  some  stu",  yet, 
being  ashamed  to  do  it  for  the  reverence  they  bare 
unto  Brutus,  they  kept  silence  to  hear  what  he  would 
say.  When  Brutus  began  to  speak  they  gave  him 
quiet  audience  :  howbeit  immediately  after  they 
showed  that  they  were  not  all  contented  with  the 
murther.  *  *  *  *  *  Then  Antonius,  thinking 
good  his  testament  should  be  read  openly,  and  also 


that  his  body  should  be  honourably  buried,  and  noc 
in  hugger-mugger,  lest  the  people  might  thereby 
take  occasion  to  be  worse  ofiended  if  they  did  other- 
wise, Cassius  stoutly  spake  against  it,  but  Brutus 
went  with  the  motion,  and  agreed  unto  it,  wherein  it 
seemeth  he  committed  a  second  fault;  for  the  first 
fault  he  did  was  when  he  would  not  consent  to  his 
fellow  conspirators  that  Antonius  should  be  slain,and 
therefore  he  was  justly  accused  that  thereby  he  had 
saved  and  strengthened  a  strong  and  grievous  enemy 
of  then."  conspiracy.  The  second  fault  was  when  he 
agreed  that  Crcsar's  funerals  should  be  as  Antonius 
would  have  them,  the  which  indeed  marred  all. 
For,  first  of  all,  when  Ctesar's  testament  was  openly 
read  among  them,  whereby  it  appeared  that  he  be- 
queathed unto  every  citizen  of  Rome  75  drachmas  a 
man,  and  that  he  left  his  gardens  and  arbours  unto 
the  people,  which  he  had  on  this  side  of  the  river 
Tiber,  in  the  place  Avhere  now  the  Temple  of  For- 
tune is  bunt,  the  people  theu  loved  him,  and  were 
mai'vellous  sorry  for  him.  Afterwards,  when  CEesnr's 
body  was  brought  into  the  market-place,  Antonius 
making  his  funeral  oration  in  praise  of  the  dead,  ac- 
cording to  the  ancient  custom  of  Rome,  and  per- 
ceiving that  his  words  moved  the  common  people  to 
compassion,  he  framed  his  eloqiience  to  make  their 
hearts  yearn  the  more ;  and  taking  Cccsai-'s  gown 
all  bloody  in  his  hand,  he  laid  it  open  to  the  sight 
of  them  all,  showing  what  a  number  of  cuts  and 
holes  it  had  upon  it ;  therewithal  the  people  fell 
presently  into  such  a  rage  and  mutiny,  that  there 
was  no  more  order  kept  amongst  the  common  peo- 
ple, for  some  of  them  cried  out.  Kill  the  murtherers; 
others  plucked  up  forms,  tables,  and  stalls  about  the 
market-place,  as  they  had  done  before  at  the  funerals 
of  Clodius,  and,  having  laid  them  all  on  a  heap  to- 
gether, they  set  them  on  fire,  and  thereupon  did  put 
the  body  of  Cfesar,  and  bimit  it  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  holy  place.  And,  furthermore,  when  the  fire 
was  thoroughly  kindled,  some  here,  some  there,  took 
burning  firebrands,  and  ran  with  them  to  the  mur- 
therers' houses  that  killed  him  to  set  them  on  fire. 
Howbeit,  the  conspirators,  foreseeing  the  danger  be- 
fore, had  wisely  provided  for  themselves,  and  fled." 

3  Scene  III. — "Enter  Cinna,  the  Poet." 

"  There  was  a  poet  called  Cinna,  who  had  been 
no  partaker  of  the  conspiracy,  but  was  alway  one 
of  Cscsar's  chiefest  friends.  He  dreamed  the  night 
before  that  Cffisar  bad  him  to  supper  with  him,  and 
that,  he  refusing  to  go,  Cffisar  was  very  imi^ortunate 
with  him,  and  compelled  him,  so  that  at  length  he 
led  him  by  the  hand  into  a  great  dai-k  place,  where, 
being  marvellously  afraid,  he  was  driven  to  follow 
him  in  spite  of  his  heart.  This  dream  put  him  all 
night  into  a  fevei',  and  vet,  notwithstanding,  the  next 
morning  when  he  heard  that  they  carried  Csesar'a 
body  to  burial,  being  ashamed  not  to  accompany  his 
funerals,  he  went  out  of  his  house,  and  thnast  him- 
self into  the  press  of  the  common  people  that  were 
in  a  great  uproar ;  and  because  some  one  called  him 
by  his  name  Cinna,  the  people  thinking  he  had  been 
that  Cinna  who  in  an  oration  he  made  had  spoken 
very  evil  of  Cffisar,  they,  falling  upon  him  in  their 
lage,  slew  him  outright  in  the  market-place." 


TiiAGEDiES. — Vol.  II. 


257 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  l.—A  Room  in  Autony's  Housed 

;bfTO>'T,  OcTAVias,  and  Lepidtjs,  seated  at  a 
table. 

Ant.  These  many  then  shall  die ;  their  names 

are  prick'd.' 
Oct.  Your  brother  too  must  die :  Consent  you, 

Lepidus  ? 
I/'p.  I  do  consent — 

Oct.  Prick  him  down,  Antony. 

Lep.  Upon  condition  Publius  shall  not  live, 
Who  is  your  sister's  son,  Mark  Antony. 
Ant.  He  shall  not  live :  look,  with  a  spot  I 
damn  him. 
But,  Lepidus,  go  you  to  Ca;sar's  house ; 
Fetch  the  will  hither,  and  we  shall  determine 
IIow  to  cut  off  some  charge  in  legacies. 

a  The  triuTTiTirii,  It  ii  well  known,  did  not  meet  at  Rome 
to  lettle  their  projcription.— (Sec  Illustration.) — But  it  is 
eri(!ent  th.itShakspcrc  jilares  irn  nccne  at  Home,  by  Lepidus 
being  aen:  to  C.xsar'i  )i"U<ic,  ami  tolil  that  he  shall  find  his 
confederates  "  or  here,  or  at  the  Capitol." 

268 


Lep.  What,  shall  I  find  you  here  ? 

Oct.  Or  here,  or  at  the  Capitol. 

[E.vit  Lepidus. 

Ant.  This  is  a  slight  unmeritable  man. 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands  :  Is  it  fit, 
the  three-fold  world  divided,  he  should  stand 
One  of  the  three  to  share  it  ? 

Oct.  So  you  thought  him  ; 

And  took  liis  voice  who  should  be  prick'd  to  diPj 
In  our  black  sentence  and  proscription. 

Atit.  Octavius,  I  have  seen  more  days  than 
you: 
And  though  wc  lay  these  honours  on  this  man, 
To  case  oui-selvcs  of  divers  slanderous  loads. 
He  shall  but. bear  them  as  the  ass  bears  gold, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  the  business. 
Either  led  or  driven,  as  we  point  the  way ; 
And  having    brought  our  treasure  where  wc 

will. 
Then  take  we  do\vn  his  load,  and  turn  him  off. 
Like  to  the  empty  ass,  to  shake  his  cai's, 
And  graze  in  commons. 


Act  IV.] 


JULIUS  CyESAE. 


r.Sc::x:-:  I 


Oct.  You  may  do  youi-  will ; 

But  he 's  a  tried  and  valiant  soldier. 

Ant.  So  is  my  horse,  Octavius  j  and,  for  that, 
I  do  appoint  him  store  of  provender. 
It  is  a  creature  that  I  teacli  to  fight. 
To  wind,  to  stop,  to  run  dii-ectly  ou ; 
His  coi-poral  motion  govern'd  by  my  spii'it. 
And,  in  some  taste,  is  Lepidus  but  so ; 
He  must  be  taught,  and  train' d,  and  bid  go 

forth : 
A  barren-spu-ited  fellow ;  one  that  feeds 
On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations,* 
Which,  out  of  use,  and  stal'd  by  other  men. 
Begin  his  fashion :  Do  not  talk  of  him. 
But  as  a  property.     And  now,  Octavius, 
Listen  great  things. — Brutus  and  Cassius 
Are  levying  powers  :   we  must  straight  make 

head: 
Therefore,  let  our  alliance  be  combin'd. 
Our  best  friends  made,  our  means  stretch' d ;  '^ 
And  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council. 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclos'd. 
And  open  peiils  surest  answer'd, 

Oct.  Let  us  do  so  :  for  we  are  at  the  stake. 
And  bay'd  about  with  many  enemies ; 
And  some  that  smile  have  in  their  hearts,  I  ftai". 
Millions  of  mischiefs.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  'XI.— Before  Brutus'  Tent,  in  the  Camp 
near  Sardis. 

Drum.  Enter  Brutus,  Lucilius,  Lucius,  and 
Soldiers  :  Titinius  and  Pindabus  meeting 
them. 

Bni.  Stand,  ho!' 

Luc.  Give  the  word,  ho  !  and  stand. 


»  In  the  original  there  is  a  full  point  at  the  end  of  this 
line;  and  in  variorum  editions  there  is  a  semicolon,  ■which 
equally  answers  the  purpose  of  separating  the  sense  from 
■what  follows.  ;This  separation  has  created  a  difficulty. 
Theobald  wants  to  know  why  a  man  is  to  be  called  a  barren- 
spirited  fellow  that  feeds  on  objects  and  arts;  and  he  pro- 
poses to  read  abject  oris.  This  is  something  too  violent; 
and  therefore  Steevens  maintains  that  objects  and  arts  were 
unworthy  things  for  a  man  to  feed  upon,  because  the  one 
means  speculative  and  the  other  mechanical  knowledge. 
If  these  are  excluded,  what  knowledge  are  we  to  feed  upon? 
Lepidus  is  called  barren,  because,  a  mere  follower  of  others, 
he  feeds 

"  On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations, 
Which,  0!(i  of  use,  and  stal'd  by  other  men, 
Begin  his  faihion." 
b  We  print  this  line  as  in  the  first  folio.   It  certainly  gives 
one  the  notion  of  being  imperfect;  but  it  is  not  necessarily 
so,  and  may  be  taken  as  a  hemistich.    The  second  folio  has 
pieced  it  out  rather  botchingly : — 

"  Our  best  friends  made,  and  our  best  means  stretch'd  out." 
This  is  a  common  reading.    Malone  reads, 
"  Our  best  friends  made,  our  means  stretch'd  to  Che  utmost." 
«  Stand,  ho! — This  is  the   pass-word,   which  Steevens 
absurdly  changes  to  stand  here. 

S  2 


£ru.  What  now,  Lucilius !  is  Cassius  near  ? 

Luc.  He  is  at  hand ;  and  Pindarus  is  come 
To  do  you  salutation  from  his  master. 

[PiNDATvUS  gives  a  letter  to  Brutus. 

Bru.  He  greets  me  well. — Your  master,  Pin 
darus, 
In  his  own  change,  or  by  ill  officers. 
Hath  given  me  some  worthy  cause  to  wish 
Things  done,  undone  :  but  if  he  be  at  hand 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

Fin.  I  do  not  doubt 

But  that  my  noble  master  will  appear 
Such  as  he  is,  full  of  regard  aud  honour. 

Bru.  He  is  not  doubted. — A  word,  LucUius ; 
How  he  receiv'd  vou,  let  me  be  resolv'd. 

Luc.  With  com-tesy,  and  with  respect  enougli, 
But  not  with  such  famihar  instances, 
Nor  with  such  free  and  friendly  conference. 
As  he  hath  used  of  old. 

Bru.  Thou  hast  describ'd 

A  hot  friend  cooling :  Ever  note,  Lucilius, 
When  love  begins  to  sicken  and  decay. 
It  useth  an  enforced  ceremony. 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith  : 
But  hollow  men,  like  horses  hot  at  hand. 
Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle  : 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur-. 
They  fall  their  crests,  and,  like  deceitful  jades. 
Sink  in  the  trial.     Comes  his  army  on  ? 

Luc.  They  mean  this  night  in  Sardis  to  be 
quarter'd ; 
The  greater  part,  the  horse  in  general. 
Are  come  with  Cassius.  [March  within. 

Bru.  Hark,  he  is  arriv'd : — 

March  gently  on  to  meet  him. 

Enter  Cassius  and  Soldiers. 

Cos.  Stand,  ho ! 

Bru.  Stand,  ho  !  Speak  the  word  along. 

IFithin.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand. 

Within.  Stand. 

Cas.  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  mz 

wrong.- 
Bru.  Judge  me,  you  gods  !   Wrong  I  mine 
enemies  ? 
And,  if  not  so,  how  should  I  wrong  a  brother  ? 
Cas.  Brutus,  this  sober  form  of  yours  hides 
wrona:s ; 
And  when  you  do  them — 

Bru.  Cassius,  be  content ; 

Speak  vour  griefs'  softly,  — I  do  know  you 
weU:— 


1  GriV/s— grievanoea. 


259 


Act  IV.] 


JULIUS  C/ESAR, 


[SCEMR    III 


Before  the  eyes  of  both  our  armies  licrc, 
Wliith  should  perceive  uothiug  but  love  from  us, 
Let  us  uol  wraugle  :  Bid  them  move  away  ; 
Then  iu  my  tent,  Cassius,  enlarge  your  griefs, 
And  1  will  give  you  audience. 

Cits.  Pindarus, 

Bid  our  commanders  lead  their  charges  off 
A  little  from  tliis  ground. 

Jim.  Lucilius,  do  you  the  like;  and  let  no  man 
Come  to  our  teut.till  wc  have  done  our  coiifcrcuce. 
Let  Lucius  ;md  Titinius  guard  our  door." 

SCENE  m.—  ini/i!n  the  Tent  of  Brutus." 

Lucius  and  Titinius  at  some  distance  from  it. 

Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

Cas.  That  you  have  wrong'd  mc  doth  appear 
in  this  : 
You  have  coudcum'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
Tor  t;ddng  bribes  here  of  the  Sardiaus ; 
Wliercm  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side. 
Because  I  blew  the  man,  were  slighted  olT. 

£ru.  You  wrong'd  yourself  to  write  iu  such 
a  case. 

Cas.  In  such  a  tmie  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  evci-y  nice  offence  should  bear  his  com- 
ment. 

£ru.  Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  mncli  coudenm'd  to  have  au  itching  pahu  j 
To  sell  aud  mart  your  olEccs  for  gold 
To  undescrvcrs. 

Cas.  I  au  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  tliat  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  tiiis. 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  youi-  last. 

Sni.  The  name  of  Cassius  honours  this  cor- 
ruption, 
Aud  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement! 

Bru.  llemember  March,  the  ides  of  March 
remember ! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake  ? 
^Vhat  villain  toueh'd  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?    What,  shall  one  of  us. 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers,  shall  wc  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes. 


"i  .18  in  tlic  ori|;inaI.     Mr.  Craik 

llic  I.ucilius  or  III'.-  flrst  line  and 

^   re,  he   knyi,  Ihc   lm|jcrfect 

;'.l  rid  of  iliL-  incongruity  of 

1  boy  being  aj/pointcd  to  the 


!  ■ 

a;. ; . 

laroc  oincc. 

b  Thii  i>  rot  rfvi-n  as  a  separate  iccne  in  the  original; 
but,  with  r'  the  (onttriu! ion  of  ilitr  modern  stage, 

theprcjen:  nt  ii  ncccj^ary.     In  the  Sliuksperian 

theatre    lirutii     .-mi    Couiua    miKht    have    retired   to  the 
aecondary  utapc. — (See  Othello.     Jllustraliun  of  Act  v.) 
260 


And  sell  the  aiiglity  space  of  our  large  honours 
Tor  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? — 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cifs.  Brutus,  bait''  not  mc ; 

I  '11  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yom-selil 
To  hedge  mc  iu  ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  iu  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  midcc  couditions. 

Jiru.  Go  to  ;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I  am. 

Bru.  I  say  you  arc  not. 

Cas.  Urge  mc  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  liealth,  tempt  mc  no 
furtiicr. 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

jNIust  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  cholcr  ? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madmau  stares  ? 

Cas.  0  ye  gods  !  ye  gods !  Must  I  endure  all 
this  ? 

Bru.  All  this  ?  ay,  more :  Fret,  till  your  proud 
heart  break ; 
Go,  show  yom-  slaves  how  choleric  you  are. 
And   make  your  boudaien  tremble.      Must  I 

budge  ? 
iMust  I  observe  you  ?  Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humour  ?    By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Thougli  it  do  split  you !  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I  'U  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter. 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  youi"  vaunting  true. 
And  it  shall  please  me  well :  For  mine  o\vn  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  leai-n  of  noble  men. 

Cas.  You  wroug  me  every  way ;   you  wrong 
me,  Brutus ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better : 
Did  I  say  better  ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.  When  Crcsar  liv'd  he  durst  not  thus  have 
mov'd  me. 

Bru.  Peace,  peace !   you  durst  not  so  have 
tempted  him. 

Cas.  I  durst  not  P 


a  Bail.  — So  the  original.  Slccvens  roads  bay,  conceiving 
that  the  repetition  of  the  word  used  by  Brutus  is  necessary 
to  the  spirit  of  the  reply.  However  this  may  be,  bai/  is  not 
.so  expressive  as  bail.  Shakspcrc  uses  the  wofd  here  as  in 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  : — 

"  Injurious  Hcrmia,  most  ungrateful  maid, 

TIave  you  conspir'd,  have  you  with  these  contrivM, 

'i'o  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ?" 


Act  IV.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


[SCESE   III 


Bru.  No. 

Cas.  What  ?  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 
Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too   much  upon   my 
love; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 
Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry 
for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  iu  your  threats  ; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  -sviud,  • 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied 

me; — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means  : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coiu  my  heart. 
And  ckop  my  blood  for  di-achmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile 

trash 
By  any  radirection  !     I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 
\Yhich  you  denied  me :   Was   that   done  Ukc 

Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have  answer'd  Cains  Cassius  -so  ? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  aU  your  thunderbolts. 
Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.  You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not : — he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back.— Brutus  hath 

riv'd  my  heart : 
A  fi-iend  should  beai-  his  fiiend's  ioib-mities. 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  ai'e. 
Bru.  I  do  not,  tiQ  you  practise  them  on  me. 
Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  youi-  faults. 

Cas.  A  friendly  eye  could   never   see   such 

faults. 
Bru.  A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do 
appear 
ks,  huge  as  high  Olympus. 
Cas.  Come,    Antony,    and    young    Octavius, 
come. 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world : 
Hated  by  one  he  loves  ;  brav'd  by  his  brother ; 
Check'd  like  a  bondman ;  aU  his  faults  observ'd, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  leam'd  and  conn'd  by  rote. 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  miae  eyes  ! — There  is  my  dagger. 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Deai-er  than  Plutus'  miae,  richer  than  gold : 
[f  that  thou  beest  a  Roman,  take  it  forth ; 


I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  wiU  give  my  heart : 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar ;  for,  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst 

liim  better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius 

Bru.  Sheath  your  dagger : 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope ; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonour  shall  be  humour. 
0  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire; 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark. 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mnth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When    grief,    and    blood    Ul-temper'd,    vexeth 
liim? 
Bru.  When  I  spoke  that  I  was  Ul-temper'd 

too. 
Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much  ?  Give  me  your 

hand 
Bru.  And  my  heart  too. 
Cas.  O,  Brutus  ! — 

Bru.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.  Have  not  you  love  enough  to  bear  with 
me. 
When  that  rash  humour  which  my  mother  gave 

me 
Makes  me  forgetful  ? 

Bru.         Yes,  Cassius ;  and,  from  henceforth, 

When  yon  ai'e  over-earnest  with  your  Bnxtus, 

He  'U  thiuk  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you 

so.  \Noise  within. 

Poet.  [_Witliin.'\  Let  me  go  iu  to  see  the 

generals ; 

There  is  some  grudge  between  them,  'tis  not 

meet 
Tliey  be  alone. 
Lucil.  [Within.']  You  shall  not  come  to  them. 
Poet.  [Within.']  Nothing  but  death  shall  stay 
me. 

Enter  Poet. 

Cas.  How  now  ?  What 's  the  matter  ? 
Poet.  For  shame,  you  generals :  Wksti  do  you 
mean  ? 
Love,  and  be  friends,  as  two  such  men  should 

be; 
For  I  have  seen  more  years,  I  am  sure,  than  ye. 
Cas.  Ha,    ha!    how  vilely  doth    tliis    cynic 

rhyme ! 
Bru.  Get  you  hence,   skrah;   saucy  fellow, 

hence ! 
Cas.  Bear  with  inm,  Brutus ;  't  is  his  fashion. 
Bru.  I  'U  know  his  humom-,  when  he  loiows 
his  time 

261 


ACT  IV.] 


JULIUS  C^SAR. 


[SCENF.    lU. 


What  should  tlie  wars  do  with   these  jigging 

fools? 
Companion,  hence ! 

Cas.  Awaj,  away,  begone ! 

[Lxit  Poet. 

Enter  LuciLlUS  and  TiTlNIUS. 

Brit.  Lucilius  and  Titinius,  bid  the  commanders 
i'rcparc  to  lodge  their  companies  to-night. 
Cas.  And  come  yourselves,  aud  bring  Messala 
witli  you. 
Immediately  to  us. 

[^Exeunt  Lucilius  and  Titinius. 
Jim.  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine. 

Cas.  I  did  not  think  you  could  have  been  so 

luigry. 
Bru.  0  Cassias,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 
Ciis.  Of  your  pliilosopliy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better  :— Portia  is 

dead. 
Cas.  Ila!  Portia? 
Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cas.  How  'seap'd  I  killing  when  I  cross'd  you 
so? — 
O  insupportable  aud  touching  loss  !— 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 

jirii.  Impatient  of  my  absence  ; 

And   grief,   that    young  Octavius    with   Mark 

Antony 
Have  made  tlicmselves  so  strong ;— for  \vith  her 

death 
That  tidings  came :— With  this  she  fell  distract, 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallow'd  lire. 
Cas.  And  died  so  ? 
Bru.  Even  so. 
Cas.  0  ye  immortal  gods  ! 

Enter  Lucius,  with  wine  and  tapers. 

Bru.  Speak  no  more  of  her.— Give  me  a  bowl 
of  \vinc  : — ■ 
In  this  I  bury  all  unkindness,  Cassius.    [Drinks. 
Cas.   ;My    heart    is    thii-sty    for   that    noble 
pledge : — 
Fill,  Lucius,  till  the  wbe  o'erswcll  the  cup  ; 
I  cannot  druik  too  much  of  Brutus'  love. 

[Drinks. 

B£-€nter  Titinius  toith  Messal.\.. 

Bru.   Come  in,  Titinius  :  —  'Welcome,  good 
Messala. — 
Now  sit  we  close  about  this  taper  here, 
And  call  in  question  our  necessities. 
Cas.  Portia,  art  thou  gone  ? 
Bru.  No  more,  I  pray  yon. — 

262 


Bru. 
Mcs. 


Messala,  I  have  here  received  letters, 
That  young  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
Conic  down  upon  us  with  a  mighty  power. 
Bending  their  expedition  toward  Philippi. 

Mcs.  IMysclf    liuve   letters   of    the   scif-same 
tenor. 
With  what  addition  ? 
That  by  proscription,  and  bills  of  out- 
lawry, 
Octavius,  Antony,  and  Lepidus, 
Have  put  to  death  an  luuulred  senators. 

Bru.  Therein  our  letters  do  not  well  agree  ; 
Mine  speak  of  seventy  senators  that  died 
By  their  proscriptions,  Cicero  being  one. 

Cas.  Cicero  one  ? 

Mes.  "Cicero  is  dead. 

And  by  that  order  of  proscription. — 
Had  you  your  letters  from  your  wife,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  No,  !Messala. 

Mes.  TSfor  nothing  in  your  letters  writ  of  her  ? 

Bru.  Nothing,  Messala. 

Mes.  That,  niethiidj:s,  is  strange. 

Bru.  TVliy  ask  you  ?  Hear  you  aught  of  her 
in  yours  ? 

Mes.  No,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Now,  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true. 

Mes.  Then  like  a  Roman  bear  the  truth  I  tell : 
For  certain  she  is  dead,  and  by  strange  manner. 

Bru.  Why,  farewell,  Portia.— We  must  die, 
Messala : 
With  meditating  that  she  must  die  once, 
I  have  the  patience  to  endure  it  now. 

Mes.  Even  so  great  men  great  losses  should 
endure. 

Cas.  I  have  as  much  of  this  in  art  as  you. 
But  yet  my  nature  could  not  bear  it  so. 

Bru.  Well,  to  our  work  alive.     Wliat  do  you 
think 
Of  marching  to  Philippi  presently  ? 

Cas.  I  do  not  think  it  good. 

jiru.  Your  reason  ? 

Cas.  This  it  is  • 

'T  is  better  that  the  enemy  seek  us  : 
So  shall  he  waste  his  means,  weary  his  soldiers. 
Doing  himself  offence  ;  whilst  wc,  lying  still. 
Arc  full  of  rest,  defence,  and  nimblencss. 

Bru.  Good  reasons  must,  of  force,  give  place 
to  better. 
The  people,  'twixt  Philippi  and  this  ground. 
Do  stand  but  in  a  fore'd  affection ; 
For  they  have  grudg'd  us  contribution  : 
The  enemy,  marching  along  by  them. 
By  them  shall  make  a  fuller  number  up, 

«  Stecvens  here  thrusts  in  ay,  "to  complete  the  verse." 
by  destroying  the  pause  which  makes  it  so  emphatic. 


ACT  IV.]                                            JULIUS 

C-(ESAR.                                                            [Scene  III, 

Come  on  refresh' d,  new-added,  and  encourag'd  ; 

It  may  be,  I  shall  raiijc  you  by  and  by 

From  which  advantage  shall  we  cut  him  off. 

On  busiaess  to  my  brother  Cassius. 

If  at  Philippi  we  do  face  him  there. 

Var.  So  please  you,  we  will  stand,  and  watch 

These  people  at  our  back. 

your  pleasure. 

Cas.                              Hear  me,  good  brother. 

Bru.  I  win  not  have  it  so:  He  down,  good 

Bru.  Under  your  pardon. — You  must   note 

sirs; 

beside. 

It  may  be,  I  shaU  otherwise  bethink  me. 

That  we  have  tried  the  utmost  of  our  friends, 

Look,  Lucius,  here 's  the  book  I  sought  for  so  : 

Our  legions  are  brim-full,  our  cause  is  ripe  : 

I  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  gown. 

The  enemy  increaseth  every  day. 

[Servants  lie  down. 

We,  at  the  height,  are  ready  to  decline. 

Luc.  I  was  sure  your  lordship  did  not  give  it 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men. 

me. 

VV  hich,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune ; 

Bru.  Bear  with  me,  good  boy,  I  am  much  for- 

Omitted, all  the  voyage  of  their  life 

getful. 

Is  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries. 

Canst  thou  hold  up  thy  heavy  eyes  awhile. 

On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat ; 

And  touch  thy  instrument  a  strain  or  two  ? 

And  we  must  take  the  current  when  it  serves, 

Luc.  Ay,  my  lord,  an  it  please  you. 

Or  lose  our  ventures. 

Bru.                                       It  does,  my  boy  : 

Cas.                      Then,  with  your  will,  go  on : 

I  trouble  thee  too  much,  but  thou  art  willing. 

We'U  along  ourselves,  and  meet  them  at  Philippi. 

Luc.  It  is  my  duty,  sir. 

Bru.  The  deep  of  night  is  crept  upon  our  talk, 

Bru.  I  should  not  urge  thy  duty  past  thy 

And  nature  must  obey  necessity ; 

might ; 

Which  we  will  niggard  with  a  little  rest. 

I  know  young  bloods  look  for  a  time  of  rest. 

There  is  no  more  to  say  ? 

Luc.  I  have  slept,  my  lord,  ali'eady. 

Cas.                             No  more.     Good  night ; 

Bru.  It  was  well  done ;  and  thou  shalt  sleej) 

Early  to-morrow  will  we  rise,  and  hence. 

again ; 

Bru.  Lucius,  my  go^vn.  \_Rvit  Lacius.]  Fare- 

I wUl  not  hold  thee  long  :  if  I  do  live. 

well,  good  Messala ; — 

I  will  be  good  to  thee.           {Music,  and  a  Song. 

Good  night,  Titinius  : — Noble,  noble  Cassius, 

This  is  a  sleepy  tune  : — 0  mui'd'rous  sbimber  ! 

Good  night,  and  good  repose. 

Lay'st  thou  thy  leaden  mace  upon  my  boy. 

Cas.                                  0  my  dear  brother ! 

That  plays  thee  music  ? — Gentle  knave,  good 

This  was  an  iU  beginning  of  the  night : 

night; 

Never  come  such  division  'tween  our  souls  ! 

I  will  not  do  thee  so  much  wrong  to  wake  thee. 

Let  it  not,  Brutus. 

If  thou  dost  nod,  thou  break'st  thy  instrument ; 

Bru.                    Everything  is  well. 

I  'U  take  it  from  thee :    and,  good  boy,  good 

Cas.  Good  night,  my  lord. 

night. 

Bru.                        Good  night,  good  brother. 

Let  me  see,  let  me  see: — Is  not  the  leaf  tum'd 

Tit.  Mes.  Good  uight,  lord  Brutus. 

do\vn 

Bru.                                 Farewell,  every  one. 

W  here  I  left  reading  ?    Here  it  is,  I  think. 

[_Exeunt  C.iS.,  Tit.,  and  Mes. 

[He  sits  down. 

Be-enter  Lucius,  with  the  gown. 

JEnter  the  Ghost  of  CjESks.. 

Give  me  the  gown.     Where  is  thy  instrument  ? 

How  ill  this  taper  burns!— Ha!   who  comes 

Luc.  Here  in  the  tent. 

here?  3 

Bru.                  What,  thou  speak'st  drowsily  ? 

I  think  it  is  the  weakness  of  mine  eyes 

Poor  knave,  I  blame  thee  not ;  thou  art  o'er- 

That  shapes  this  monstrous  apparition. 

watch'd. 

It  comes  upon  me : — ^Art  thou  anything  ? 

Call  Claudius,  and  some  other  of  my  men : 

Ai't  thou  some  god,  some  angel,  or  some  devil. 

I'U  have  them  sleep  on  cushions  in  my  tent. 

That  mak'st  my  blood  cold,  and  my  haii"  to  stare? 

Luc.  Varro,  and  Claudius  ! 

Speak  to  me  what  thou  art. 

Ghost.  Thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus. 

Bnter  Vaeko  and  Claudius. 

Bru.                                    Why  com'st  thou  P 

Far.  Calls  my  lord? 

Ghost.  To  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  see  me  at 

Bru.  I  pray  you,  sirs,  lie  ia  my  tent,  and 

Philippi. 

sleep ; 

Bru.  Well :  Then  I  shall  see  thee  again  P 

263 

I 


i=T»V.] 


JULIUS  CESAR. 


[SCBSB   III. 


Ghost.  Ay,  at  Philippi. 

[Ghost  vanishes. 

Bru.  "Wliy,  I  will  see  thcc  at  Pliilippi  then. — 
Now  I  have  tiilcon  heart  thou  vanislicst : 
111  spirit,  I  would  hold  more  talk  with  thee. — 
Boy!  Lucius! — ^Varro!  Claudius!  Sirs,  awake! — 
Claudius ! 

Lhc.  The  strings,  my  lord,  arc  f;dse. 

Bru.  lie  thiuka  he  still  is  at  his  instrument. — 
Lucius,  awake  I 

Luc.  ^ly  lord. 

Bru.  Didst  thou  dream,  Lucius,  that  thou  so 
cricdst  out  ? 

Luc.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  that  I  did  cry. 

Bru.  Yes,  that  thou  didst:    Didst  thou  sec 
anvthin"  ? 

Luc.  Notliing,  my  lord. 


Bni.  Sleep  again,  Lucius. — Sin-ah,  Claudius ! 
Fellow  thou !  awake  ! 

Var.  My  lord, 

Clau.  ]\ry  lord. 

Bru,  Why  did  you  so  cry  out,  sirs,  in  your 
sleep  ? 

Far.  Clau.  Did  we,  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  Ay ;  saw  you  anything  ? 

Far.  No,  my  lord,  I  saw  nothing. 

Clau.  Hot  I,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Go,  and  commend  me  to  my  brother 
Cassius ; 
Bid  him  set  on  his  powers  betimes  before. 
And  we  will  follow. 

Far.  Clau.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord. 

\Ej:eu7it.. 


ILLTJSTEATIONS  OE  ACT  lY. 


'  Scene  I. — "  These  many  then  shall  die." 

"  All  three  met  together  (to  wit,  Caesar,  Antonius, 
and  Lepidus)  in  an  island  environed  round  about 
with  a  little  river,  and  there  remained  three  days 
together.  Now,  as  touching  all  other  matters,  they 
were  easily  agreed,  and  did  divide  all  the  empire  of 
Rome  between  them,  as  if  it  had  been  their  own 
inheritance.  But  yet  they  could  hardly  agree  whom 
they  would  put  to  death  :  for  every  one  of  them 
would  kni  their  enemies  and  save  their  kinsmen 
and  friends.  Yet  at  length,  giving  place  to  their 
greedy  desire  to  be  revenged  of  their  enemies,  they 
spurned  all  reverence  of  blood  and  holiness  of 
friendship  at  their  feet.  For  Csesar  left  Cicero  to 
Antonius'  will ;  Antonius  also  forsook  Lucius 
Csesar,  who  was  his  uncle  by  his  mother ;  and 
both  of  them  together  suffered  Lepidus  to  kill  his 
own  brother  Paulus.  Yet  some  writers  affirm 
that  Csesar  and  Antonius  requested  Paulus  might 
be  slain,  and  that  Lepidus  was  contented  with  it." 

2  Scene  II. — "  Moit  nolle  brother,  you  have  done 
me  wrong." 
"  About  that  time  Brutus  sent  to  pray  Cassius  to 
come  to  the  city  of  Sardis,  and  so  he  did.  Brutus, 
understanding  of  his  coming,  went  to  meet  him  with 
all  his  friends.  There,  both  armies  being  armed, 
they  called  them  both  emperors.  Now,  as  it  com- 
monly happeneth  in  great  affairs  between  two  per- 
sons, both  of  them  having  many  friends,  and  so  many 
captains  under  them,  there  ran  tales  and  complaiats 
betwixt  them.  Therefore,  before  they  fell  in  hand 
with  any  other  matter,  they  went  into  a  little  cham- 
ber together,  and  bade  every  man  avoid,  and  did 
shut  the  doors  to  them.  Then  they  began  to  pour 
out  their  complaints  one  to  the  other,  and  grew  hot 
and  loud,  earnestly  accusing  one  another,  and  at 
length  fell  both  a  weeping.  Their  friends  that  were 
without  the  chamber  hearing  them  loud  within,  and 
angry  between  themselves,  they  were  both  amazed 
and  afraid  also  lest  it  should  grow  to  further  matter : 
but  yet  they  were  commanded  that  no  man  should 
come  to  them.  Notwithstanding  one  Marcus 
Phaonius,  that  had  been  a  friend  and  follower  of 
Cato  while  he  lived,  and  took  upon  him  to  coun- 
terfeit a  philosopher,  not  with  wisdom  and  dis- 
cretion, but  with  a  certain  bedlam  and  frantic 
motion  -,  *  *  *  This  Phaonius  at  that  time,  in 
despite  of  the  doorkeepers,  came  into  the  chamber, 
and  with  a  certain  scofSng  and  mocking  gesture, 
which  he  counterfeited  of  purpose,  he  rehearsed 
the  verses  which  old  Nestor  said  in  Homer  : — 

'  My  lords,  I  pray  you,  hearken  both  to  me, 
For  I  have  seen  more  years  than  such  ye  three.' 


Cassius  fell  a  laughing  at  him  ;  but  Brutus  thntst 
him  out  of  the  chamber,  and  called  him  dog  and 
counterfeit  cynic.  Howbeit,  his  coming  in  broke 
their  strife  at  that  time,  and  so  they  left  each  other. 
The  self-same  night  Cassius  prepared  his  supper  in 
his  chamber,  and  Brutus  brought  Lis  friends  with 
him.  *  »  *  The  next  day  after,  Brutus,  ttpon 
complaint  of  the  Sardians,  did  condemn  and  noted 
Lucius  Pella  for  a  defamed  person,  *  *  *  for 
that  he  was  accused  and  convicted  of  robbery  and 
pilfery  in  his  office.  This  judgment  much  mis- 
liked  Cassius  :  *  *  *  and  therefore  he  greatly 
reproved  Brutus,  for  that  he  would  show  himself 
so  straight  and  severe  in  such  a  time,  as  was  meeter 
to  bear  a  little  than  to  take  things  at  the  worst. 
Brutus  in  contrary  manner  answered  that  he 
should  remember  the  ides  of  March,  at  which 
time  they  slew  Julius  Csesar,  who  neither  pUled 
nor  polled  the  country,  but  only  was  a  favourer 
and  suborner  of  all  them  that  did  rob  and  spoil 
by  his  countenance  and  authority." 

^  Scene  III. — "  IToia  ill  this  taper  burns  J" 

"  But  as  they  both  prepared  to  pass  over  again 
out  of  Asia  into  Europe,  there  went  a  rumour  that 
there  appeared  a  wonderful  sign  unto  him.    Brutus 
was  a  careful  man,  and  slept  very  little.     *     *     * 
After  he  had  slumbered  a  little  after  supper  he 
spent  aU  the  rest  of  the  night  in  despatching  of  his 
weightiest  causes,  and  after  he  had  taken  order  for 
them,  if  he  had  any  leisure  left  him,  he  would  read 
some  book  till  the  third  watch  of  the  night,  at  what 
time  the  captains,  petty  captains,  and  colonels,  did 
use  to  come  unto  him.    So,  being  ready  to  go  into 
Europe,  one  night  (when  all  the  camp  took  quiet 
rest)  as  he  was  in  his  tent  with  a  httle  light,  think- 
ing of  weighty  matters,  he  thought  he  heard  one 
come  in  to  him.  and,  casting  his  eye  towards  the  door 
of  his  tent,  that  he  saw  a  wonderful,  strange,  and 
monstrous  shape  of  a  body  coming  towards  him, 
and  said  never  a  word.     So  Brutus  boldly  asked 
what  he  was,  a  god  or  a  man,  and  what  cause 
brought  him  thither.     The  spu-it  answered  him,  I 
am  thy  evil  spirit,  Brutus,  and  thou  shalt  see  me 
by  the  city  of  Philippes.    Brutus,  being  no  other- 
wise afraid,  replied  again  imto  it,  Well,  then,  I 
shall  see  thee  again.   The  spirit  presently  vanished 
away ;  and  Brutus  called  his  men  unto  him,  who 
told  him  that  they  heard  no  noise,  nor  saw  any- 
thing at  all.    Thereupon  Brutus  returned  again  to 
think  on  his  matters  as  he  did  before  :  and  when 
the  day  brake  he  went  imto  Cassius,  to  tell  him 
what  vision  had  appeared  unto  him  in  the  night." 

265 


ACT  y. 


SCENE  l.—TAe  Plains  of  PhilippL 

Enter  OcTAvras,  A^xoxy,  a>id  their  Army. 

Oct.  Now,  Antony,  our  hopes  are  answered  : 
You  said  the  enemy  would  not  come  down, 
But  keep  the  hills  and  upper  regions ; 
It  proves  not  so  :  their  battles  are  at  hand ; 
They  mean  to  warn*  us  at  Phihppi  here, 
Answering  before  we  do  demand  of  them. 

Ant.  Tut,  I  am  in  their  bosoms,  and  I  know 
Wherefore  they  do  it :  they  could  be  content 
To  visit  other  places ;  and  come  down 
With  fearful  bravery,  thinking,  by  this  face, 
To  fasten  in  our  thoughts  that  they  have  courage ; 
Bat 't  is  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Meu.  Prepare  you,  generals  : 

The  enemy  comes  on  in  gallant  show  ; 


»  To  icarn— to  summon. 


263 


I 


Their  bloody  sign  of  battle  is  hung  out, 
And  something  to  be  done  immediately. 

A)it.  Octavius,  lead  your  battle  softly  on, 
Upon  the  left  hand  of  the  even  field. 

Oct.  Upon  the  right  hand  I,  keep  thou  the 

left. 
Afit.  Why  do  you  cross  me  in  this  exigent  ? 
Oct.  I  do  not  cioss  you;  but  I  wiU  do  so. 

[^March. 

Drum.  Enter  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  their 
Army;  LuciLius,  TiTiNius,  Messala,  and 
others. 

Bru.  They  stand,  and  would  have  parley. 
Cas.  Stand  fast,  IHtinius :  We  must  out  and 

talk. 
Oct.  ^lark   Antonv,   shall  wc  give    sign    of 

battle  ? 
Ant.  No,   Cffisar,   wc  will   answer  on  their 

cliargc. 
Make  forth;  the  generals  would  have  some  words. 


Act  v.] 


JULIUS  CiESAR. 


[SrExa  I. 


Oct.  Stir  not  until  the  signal. 

Brii.  Words  before  blows :  Is  it  so,  country- 
men? 

Oct.  Not  that  we  love  words  better,  as  you 
do. 

Bru.  Good  words  are  better  than  bad  strokes, 
Octavius. 

Ant.  In  your  bad  strokes,  Brutus,  you  give 
good  words : 
Witness  the  hole  you  made  in  Caesar's  heart, 
Crying,  '  Long  live !  hail  Caesar  ! ' 

Cas.  Antony, 

The  posture  of  your  blows  are  yet  unknown ;  ^ 
But  for  your  words,  they  rob  the  Hybla  bees, 
And  leave  them  houeyless. 

Ant.  Not  stingless  too. 

Bru.  0,  yes,  and  soundless  too ; 
For  you  have  stolen  their  buzzing,  Antony, 
And,  very  wisely,  threat  before  you  sting. 

Ant.  Villains,  you  did  not  so,  when  your  vile 
daggers 
Hack'd  one  another  in  the  sides  of  Caesar : 
You  show'd  your  teeth  like  apes,   and  fawn'd 

like  hounds. 
And  bow'd  like  bondmen,  kissing  Caesar's  feet ; 
Whilst  damned  Casca,  like  a  cur,  behind, 
Struck  Caesar  on  the  neck.     0  you  flatterers  ! 

Cas.  Flatterers! — Now,  Brutus,  thank  your- 
self: 
This  tongue  had  not  offended  so  to-day, 
If  Cassius  might  have  rul'd. 

Oct.  Come,  come,  the  cause :  If  arguing  make 
us  sweat. 
The  proof  of  it  will  tui'n  to  redder  drops. 
Look  J I  draw  a  sword  against  conspirators ; 
When  think  you  that  the  sword  goes  up  again  ? — 
Never,  till  Caesar's  three-and-thirty  **  wounds 
Be  well  aveng'd  ;  or  till  another  Caesar 
Have  added  slaughter  to  the  sword  of  traitors. 

Brii.  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  die  by  traitors' 
hands. 
Unless  thou  briag'st  them  with  thee. 

Oct.  So  I  hope ; 

I  was  not  born  to  die  on  Brutus'  sword. 

Bru.  0,  if  thou  wert  the  noblest  of  thy  stram. 


a  Where  a  plural  noun  being  a  genitive  case  immediately 
precedes  the  verb,  it  is  not  at  all  uncommon,  in  the  Tvriters 
of  Shakspere's  time,  to  disregard  the  real  singular  nomina- 
tive. Such  a  construction  is  not  to  be  imputed  to  gram- 
matical ignorance,  but  to  a  licence  warranted  by  the  best 
examples.  Our  language  in  becoming  more  correct  has 
lost  something  of  its  spirit. 

b  Three-and-thirty. — The  variorum  reading  is  three-and- 
iwenty;  which  Theobald  gave  us  upon  the  authority  of 
Suetonius  and  others.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  speak  of 
CsBsar's  "  two-and-thirty  wounds."  The  poets  in  such 
cases  were  not  very  scrupulous  in  following  historical  au- 
thorities. They  desire  to  give  us  an  idea  of  many  wounds, 
and  they  accomplish  their  purpose. 


Young  man,  thou  couldst  not  die  more  honour- 
able. 

Cas.  A  peevish  schoolboy,  wortliless  of  such 
honour, 
Join'd  with  a  masker  and  a  reveller. 

Ant.  Old  Cassius  still ! 

Oct.  Come,  Antony;  away. — 

Defiance,  traitors,  hurl  we  in  your  teetli : 
If  you  dare  fight  to-day,  come  to  the  field ; 
If  not,  when  you  have  stomachs. 

\_Exeu)it  Octavius,  Antony,  and  their  Armtf. 

Cas.  Why  now,  blow,  wind;    swell,   billow; 
and  swim,  bark ! 
The  storm  is  up,  and  all  is  on  the  hazard. 

Bru.  Ho  !  Lucilius ;  hark,  a  word  with  you. 

Luc.  My  lord. 

[Brutus  and  Lucilius  converse  apart. 

Cas.  Messala, — 

Mes.  What  says  my  general  ? 

Cas.  Messala, 

This  is  my  bu-thday ;  as  this  very  day 
Was  Cassius  born.     Give  me  thy  liand,  Messala : 
Be  thou  my  witness  that,  agaiust  ray  wl11,i 
As  Pompey  was,  am  I  corapeU'd  to  set 
Upon  one  battle  all  our  liberties. 
You  know  that  I  held  Epicui-us  strong, 
And  his  opinion :  now  I  change  my  mind, 
And  partly  credit  things  that  do  presage. 
Coming  from  Sardis,  on  our  former  ensign  ^ 
Two  mighty  eagles  fell ;  and  there  they  perch'd, 
Gorging  and  feeding  from  our  soldiers'  hands, 
Who  to  Philippi  here  consorted  us ; 
This  morning  are  they  fled  away,  and  gone ; 
And  in  their  steads  do  ravens,  crows,  and  kites, 
Fly  o'er  our  heads,  and  downward  look  on  us. 
As  we  were  sickly  prey ;  their  shadows  seem 
A  canopy  most  fatal,  under  which 
Oui"  army  lies,  ready  to  give  up  the  ghost. 

Mes.  Believe  not  so. 

Cas.  I  but  believe  it  partly  ; 

For  I  am  frssh  of  spirit,  and  resolv'd 
To  meet  all  perils  very  constantly. 

Bru.  Even  so,  LuciHus. 

Cas.  Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 

The  gods  to-day  stand  friendly ;  that  we  may, 
Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age ! 
But,  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  stiQ  incertain, 
Let 's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 
If  we  do  lose  this  battle,  then  is  this 
The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together : 
What  are  you  then  determined  to  do  ? 

Bru.  Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy 
By  which  I  did  blame  Cato  for  the  death 


^  Former  ensign. — The  ensign  in  the  van. 

267 


Act  T] 


JULIUS  O^SAR. 


[SCESES    II.,  III. 


YVTiich  he  did  give  himself : — I  know  not  how, 

But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile, 

For  fcai-  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 

The  time  of  life : — arming  myself  with  patience, 

To  stay  the  providence  of  some  liigh  powers, 

That  govern  us  below. 

C<is.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle. 

You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Thorougli  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius,  no :  think  not,  thou  noble 
Roman, 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome ; 
He  bears  too  great  a  umid.     But  this  same  day 
Must  end  that  work  the  ides  of  !Mareh  begun ; 
And  whether  we  shall  meet  again  I  know  not. 
Therefore  our  everlasting  farewell  take : — 
For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius ! 
If  we  do  meet  agam,  wliy,  we  shall  smile ; 
If  not,  why  then  this  parting  was  well  made. 

Cas.  For  ever,  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Bratus  ! 
If  we  do  meet  again,  we  '11  smile  indeed ; 
If  not,  't  is  true  tliis  parting  was  well  made. 

Bru.  "WTiy  then,   lead   on. — 0,   that    a  man 
might  know 
The  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it  come ! 
But  it  suffieeth  that  the  day  will  end. 
And  then  the  end  is  known. — Come,  ho !  away ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Jl.—The  same.     The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum.    Enter  Brutus  and  Messala. 

Bru.  Ride,  ride,  Messala,  ride,  and  give  these 
bills 
Unto  the  legions  on  the  other  side : 

[Loud  alarum. 
Let  them  set  on  at  once ;  for  I  perceive 
But  cold  demeanour  in  Octavius'  wing, 
And  sudden  push  gives  them  the  overthrow. 
Ride,  ride,  Messala :  let  them  all  come  down. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  in..— The  same.     Jnotlier  Part  of  the 
Field. 

Alarum.    Enter  Cassius  and  TiTmius. 

Cas.  O,  look,  Titinius,  look,  the  villains  fly ! 
Myself  have  to  mine  own  tum'd  enemy : 
This  ensign  here  of  mine  was  turning  back ; 
I  slew  the  coward,  and  did  take  it  from  him. 

Tit.  O  Cassius,  Brutus  gave  the  word  too 
early : 
Who,  having  some  advantage  on  Octaviu.s, 
Took  it  too  eagerly ;  hii  soldiers  fell  to  spoil, 
^V'hilst  we  by  Antony  are  all  enclos'd. 


Enter  Pindauus. 

Pin.  Fly  further  off,  my  lord,  fly  furthei  off;' 
Mark  Antony  is  in  your  tents,  my  lord  ! 
Fly  therefore,  noble  Cassius,  fly  far  off. 

Cas.  This  hiU  is  far  enough.    Look,    look, 
Titinius ; 
Are  those  my  tents  where  I  perceive  the  fire  ? 

Tit.  They  are,  my  lord. 

Cas.  Titinius,  if  thou  lov'st  me. 

Mount  thou  my  horse,  and  hide  thy  spurs  in 

liini, 
Till  he  have  brought  thee  up  to  yonder  troops. 
And  here  again ;  that  I  may  rest  assur'd 
Whether  yond'  troops  are  friend  or  enemy. 

Tit.  I  ^vill  be  here  a'gaiu,  even  with  a  thought. 

[E.Tit. 

Cas.  Go,  Pindarus,  get  higher  on  that  hill ; 
My  sight  was  ever  thick ;  regard  Titinius, 
And  tell  me  what  thou  not'st  about  the  field. — 

[E.Vlt  PlNDAEUS. 

This  day  I  breathed  first :  time  is  come  round, 

And  where  I  did  begin  there  shall  I  end ; 

My  life  is  run  his  compass. — Sirrah,  what  news  ? 

Pin.  [Above.']  0  my  lord ! 

Cas.  "\yhat  news  ? 

Pin.  Titinius  is  enclosed  round  about 
With  horsemen  that  make  to  him  on  the  spur ; 
Yet  he  spurs  on. — Now  they  are  almost  on  him; 
Now,  Titinius! — Now  some  'light:  —  O,   he 

lights  too : — 
He  's  ta'en ; — and  hark !  they  shout  for  joy." 

[Shout. 

Cas.  Come  down,  behold  no  more. — 
0,  coward  that  I  am,  to  live  so  long, 
To  see  my  best  friend  ta'en  before  my  face ! 

Enter  Pindarus. 

Come  hither,  sirrah : 

In  Parthia  did  I  take  thee  prisoner ; 

And  then  I  swore  thee,  saving  of  thy  life. 

That  whatsoever  I  did  bid  thee  do 

Thou  shouldst  attempt  it.     Come  now,   keep 

thine  oath ! 
Now  be  a  freeman ;  and.  with  this  good  sword. 


»  We  follow  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original, 
than  which  nothing  can  he  more  perfect.     Boswell,  the  last 
editor  of  a  variorum  edition,  has,  for  the  first  time  that  has 
come  under  our  notice,  reprehended  this  species  of  mis- 
chievous dabbling  with  the  text.     He  says,  "  The  modem 
editors,  I  know  not  why,  have  altered  it  thus  : — 
"Titinius  is 
Enclosed  round  about  with  horsmcn,  that 
Make  to  him  on  the  spur;— yet  he  spurs  on. — 
Now  they  are  almost  on  him;  now,  I'itiniusI — 
Now  some  'liglit:— O,  he  "lights  too:— he's  ta'en:  nud 

hark ! 
They  shout  for  joy." 


Act  v.] 


JULIUS  CiESAll.. 


[SCEKE    IV. 


That  ran  through  Ccesar's  bowels,  search  this 

bosom. 
Stand  not  to  answer :  Here,  take  thou  the  hilts ; 
And,  when  my  face  is  cover' d,  as  't  is  now. 
Guide  thou  the  sword. — Csesar,   thou  art  re- 

veng'd. 
Even  with  the  sword  that  kUl'd  thee.         [Dies. 
Fin.  So,  I  am  free;  yet  would  not  so  have 

been. 
Durst  I  have  done  my  wiU.     0  Cassius  ! 
Far  from  this  country  Pindarus  shall  run, 
Where  never  Roman  shall  take  note  of  him. 

[Exit 

Re-enter  Titinius,  with  Messai^a. 

Mes.  It  is  but  change,  Titinius ;  for  Octavius 
Is  overthro^vn  by  noble  Brutus'  power. 
As  Cassius'  legions  are  by  Antony. 

Tit.  These  tidiugs  ^viLl  well  comfort  Cassius. 

Mes.  Where  did  you  leave  liim  ? 

Tit.  All  disconsolate, 

With  Pindarus  his  bondman,  on  this  hiU. 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  that  lies  upon  the  ground  ? 

Tit.  He  lies  not  like  the  living.     0  my  heart ! 

Mes.  Is  not  that  he  ? 

Tit.  No,  this  was  he,  Messala, 

But  Cassius  is  no  more. — 0  setting  sun ! 
As  in  thy  red  rays  thou  dost  sink  to  night, 
So  in  his  red  blood  Cassius'  day  is  set ; 
The  sun  of  Borne  is  set !     Our  day  is  gone ; 
Clouds,  dews,  and  dangers  come ;  oiu'  deeds  are 

done ! 
IVIistrust  of  my  success  hath  done  this  deed. 

Mes.  Mistrust  of  good  success  hath  done  this 
deed. 
O  hateful  error,  melancholy's  chUd ! 
"Why  dost  thou  show  to  the  apt  thoughts  of  men 
The  things  that  are  not  ?  0  error,  soon  conceiv'd, 
Thou  never  com'st  unto  a  happy  birth, 
But  kill'st  the  mother  that  engender'd  thee. 

Tit.  What,  Pindarus  !     Wliere  art  thou,  Pin- 
darus ? 

Mes.  Seek  him,  Titinius :  whilst  I  go  to  meet 
The  noble  Brutus,  thi'ustiug  this  report 
Into  his  ears :  I  may  say,  thrusting  it ; 
Por  piercing  steel,  and  darts  envenomed, 
Shall  be  as  welcome  to  the  ears  of  Brutus 
As  tidings  of  this  sight. 

Tit.  Hie  you,  Messala, 

And  I  win  seek  for  Pindarus  the  while. 

[JExit  Messala. 
Why  didst  thou  send  me  forth,  brave  Cassius  ? 
Did  I  not  meet  thy  friends  ?  and  did  not  they 
Put  on  my  brows  tiiis  wreath  of  victory, 


And  bid  me  give  't  thee  ?    Didst  thou  not  bear 

their  shouts  ? 
Alas,  thou  hast  misconstrued  everything. 
But  hold  thee,  take  this  garland  on  thy  brow ; 
Thy  Brutus  bid  me  give  it  thee,  and  I 
WiU  do  his  bidding. — Bmtus,  come  apace. 
And  see  how  I  regarded  Caius  Cassius. — 
By  your  leave,  gods : — This  is  a  Boraan's  part : 
Come,  Cassius'  sword,  and  find  Titinius'  heart. 

[Dies. 

Alarum.  Re-enter  Messala,  with  Bkutus, 
young  Cato,  Strato,  Voltjjinius,  and  Lu- 
ciLitrs. 

Bru.  Where,  where,  Messala,  doth  his  body 
He? 

Mes.  Lo,  yonder ;  and  Titinius  mourning  it, 

Bru.  Titinius'  face  is  upward. 

Cato.  He  is  slain. 

Bru.  0  Julius  Ccesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet ! 
Thy  spiiit  Malks  abroad,  and  tui-ns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails.  [Low  alarums, 

Cato.  Brave  Tituiius ! 

Look,  whe'r  he  have  not  crown'd  dead  Cassius ! 

Bru.  Are   yet  two  Romans  living  such    as 
these  ? — 
The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well ! 
It  is  impossible  that  ever  Rome 
Should  breed  thy  fellow. — Friends,  I  owe  more 

tears 
To  this  dead  man  than  you  shall  sec  me  pay. — 
I  shall  fmd  time,  Cassius,  I  shall  find  time. — 
Come,  therefore,  and  to  Thasos  send  liis  body ; 
His  funerals  shall  not  be  in  oui-  camp, 
Lest  it  discou)fort  us. — Lucilius,  come ; — 
And  come,  young  Cato ;  let  us  to  the  field. — 
Labeo,  and  Flavins,  set  oiu'  battles  on : — 
'T  is  three  o'clock;  and,  Romans,  yet  ere  night 
We  shall  try  fortune  in  a  second  fight.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  W.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum.  Enter,  fighting,  Soldiers  of  hoth  Armies ; 
then  Brutus,  Cato,  Lucilius,  and  others. 

Bru.  Yet,  countrymen,  0  yet  hold  up  your 

heads ! 
Cato.  What  bastard  doth  not  ?     Who  will  go 
with  me  ? 
I  wiU  proclaim  my  name  about  the  field : — 
I  am  the  son  of  Marcus  Cato,  ho ! 
A  foe  to  tyrants,  and  my  country's  friend ; 
I  am  the  son  of  Mai'cus  Cato,  ho ! 

[Charges  the  enemy. 
Bru.  And  I  am  Brutus,  Marcus  Brutus,  I; 

269 


Act  v.] 


JULIUS  CJ]:SAll. 


[SCEXK  V. 


Brutus,   my   country's   friend;    kno\?    me    for 
Brutus. 
[£rjV,  charging  the  enemy.     Cato  /'*  oter- 
poicered,  and  falls. 
Luc.  0  young  and  noble  Cato,  art  thou  down  ? 
Vfhj,  now  thou  diest  as  bravely  as  Titinius; 
And  mayst  be  honour' d,  being  Gate's  son. 
1  Sold.  Yield,  or  thou  diest. 
Luc.  Only  I  yield  to  die : 

There  is  so  much  that  thou  wilt  kill  me  straight; 

\OJfering  monev. 
Kill  Brutus,  and  be  lionour'd  in  his  death.' 

1  Sold.  We  must  not. — A  noble  prisoner ! 

2  Sold,  "Room,  ho !    Tell  Antony,  Brutus  is 

ta'en. 
1  Sold.  I  '11  tell  the  news.— Here  comes  the 
general : — 

Enter  Antont. 

Brutus  b  ta'en,  Brutus  is  ta'en,  my  lord. 

Ant.  Where  is  he  ? 

Luc  Safe,  Antony ;  Brutus  is  safe  enough ; 
I  dare  assure  thee  that  no  enemy 
Shall  ever  take  alive  the  noble  Brutus : 
The  gods  defend  him  from  so  great  a  shame ! 
AVhen  you  do  find  him,  or  alive,  or  dead, 
lie  will  be  found  like  Brutiis,  like  himself. 

Ant.  This  is  not  Brutus,  friend ;  but,  I  assure 
you, 
.K  prize  no  less  in  worth  :  keep  this  man  safe, 
Give  him  all  kindness :  I  had  rather  have 
Such  men  my  friends,  than  enemies.     Go  on, 
.\jid  see  whe'r  Brutus  be  alive,  or  dead : 
.Vnd  bring  us  word,  unto  Octanus'  tent. 
How  everything  is  chanc'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Y.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  BfiUTCs,  DABcorirs,  Clitcs,  Strato, 
and  VoLUMyirs. 

Bru.  Come,  poor  remains  of  friends,  rest  on 

this  rocL* 
Cli.  Statilius  show'd  the  torchlight ;  but,  my 

lord, 
lie  came  not  back ;  he  is  or  ta'en,  or  slain. 
Bru.  Sit  thee  down,  Clitua :   Slaying  is  the 

word; 
It  is  a  deed  in  fashion.     Hark  thee,  Clitus. — 

[JFhispering. 
Cli.  What,  I,  my  lord  ?    No,  not  for  all  the 

world. 
Bru.  Peace  then,  no  words. 
Cli.  I  '11  rather  kill  myself. 

Brn.  Hark  thee,  Dardanius. —  [Whispen  him. 

270 


Dar.  Shall  I  do  such  a  deed  ? 

Cli.  0,  Dardanius  !  , 

Dar.  O,  cut  us ! 

Cli.  ^yiiat  ill  request  did  Brutus  make  to 
thee? 

Dar.  To  kill  him,  Clitus.    Look,  he  meditates. 

Cli.  Now  is  that  noble  vessel  full  of  grief. 
That  it  runs  over  even  at  his  eyes. 

Bru.  Come  hither,   good   Volumnius:  list  a 
word. 

Vol.  What  says  ray  lord  ? 

Bru.  Why,  this,  Volumnius : 

The  ghost  of  Caesar  hath  appeared  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night :  at  Sardis,  once ; 
And,  this  last  night,  here  in  Philippi  fields. 
I  know  my  hour  is  come. 

Fol.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Bru.  Nay,  I  am  sure  it  is,  Volumnius. 
Thou  seest  the  world,  Volumnius,  how  it  goes ; 
Our  enemies  have  beat  us  to  the  pit : 
It  is  more  worthy  to  leap  in  ourselves. 
Than  tarry  till  they  push  us.     Good  Volumnius, 
Thou  know'st  tliat  we  two  went  to  school  to- 
gether ; 
Even  for  that  our  love  of  old,  I  prithee, 
Hold  thou  my  sword-hilts,  whilst  I  run  on  it. 

Fol.  That  's  not  an  office  for  a  friend,  my 
lord.  [Alarum  still. 

Cli.  Ely,  fly,  my  lord;  there  is  no  tarrying 
here. 

Bru.  Farewell  to  you — and  you; — and  you, 
Volumnius. — 
Strato,  thou  hast  been  all  this  while  asleep ; 
Farewell  to  thee  too,  Strato. — Countrymen, 
My  heart  doth  joy  that  yet,  in  all  my  life, 
I  found  no  man  but  he  was  true  to  me. 
I  shall  have  glory  by  this  losing  day. 
More  than  Octavius  and  Mark  Antony 
By  this  vile  conquest  shall  attaiu  unto. 
So,  fare  you  well  at  once ;  for  Brutus'  tongue 
Hath  almost  ended  his  life's  history : 
Night  hangs  upon  mmc  eyes;  my  bones  would  rest, 
That  have  but  labour'd  to  attain  this  hour. 

[Alarum.     Cry  within ;  Fly,  fly,  fly! 

Cli.  Fly,  my  lord,  fly ! 

Bru.  Hence ;  I  will  follow. 

[Exeunt  Clitus,  Daedanius,  and  VoLUM- 

KIUS. 

I  prithee,  Strato,  stay  thou  by  thy  lord : 
Thou  art  a  fellow  of  a  good  respect ; 
Thy  life  hath  had  some  smatch  of  honour  in  it: 
Hold  then  my  sword,  and  turn  away  thy  face, 
'NYhile  I  do  run  upon  it.    Wilt  thou,  Strato  ? 
Stra.  Give  me  your  hand  first :  Fare  you  well, 
niT  lord. 


Act  V.J 


JULIUS  C^SAK. 


[SCEKS  V 


Bru.  Farewell,  good  Strato. — Caesar,  now  be 
still: 
I  kill'd  not  thee  with  half  so  good  a  wUl. 

[He  runs  on  his  sword,  and  dies. 

Alarum.    Retreat.     Enter  Octavius,  Antony, 
!Messala,  Lucilius,  atid  their  army. 

Oct.  What  man  is  that  ? 

Mes.  My  master's  man. — Strato,  where  is  thy 

master  ? 
Stra.  Free  from  the  bondage  you  are  in,  Mes- 
sala; 
The  conquerors  can  but  make  a  fire  of  him ; 
For  Brutus  only  overcame  himself, 
And  no  man  else  hath  honour  by  his  death. 
Luc.  So  Brutus  should  be  found. — I  thank 
thee,  Brutus, 
That  thou  hast  prov'd  Lucilius'  saying  true. 
Oct.  All  that  serv'd  Bmtus,  I  will  entertain 
them. 
Fellow,  wilt  thou  bestow  thy  time  with  me  ? 


Stra.  Ay,  if  Messala  ^^ill  prefer  me  to  you. 

Oct.  Do  so,  good  Messala. 

Mes.  How  died  ray  master,  Strato  ? 

Stra.  I  held  the  sword,  and  he  did  run  on  it. 

Mes.  Octavius,  then  take  him  to  follow  thee, 
That  did  the  latest  service  to  my  master. 

Ant.  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all: 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he. 
Did  that  they  did  in  envy  of  great  Caesar ; 
He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought. 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them. 
His  life  was  gentle ;  and  the  elements 
So  mixed  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up. 
And  say  to  all  the  world,  'This  was  a  man!' 

Oct.  According  to  his  vii'tue  let  us  use  him, 
With  all  respect  and  rites  of  burial. 
Within  my  tent  his  bones  to-night  shall  lie. 
Most  like  a  soldier,  order'd  honourably. — 
So,  call  the  field  to  rest :  and  let 's  away, 
To  part  the  glories  of  this  happy  day. 

\E.xeunt. 


[Medal  of  Brutus.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  Y. 


'  Scene  I. — "Be  thou  viv  witness  that,  against  my 
icill'l'  &c. 

"  When  they  raised  their  camp,  there  came  two 
eagles,  that,  flying  with  a  marvellous  force,  lighted 
uj)ou  two  of  the  foremost  ensigns,  and  always  fol- 
lowed the  soldiers,  which  gave  them  meat  and  fed 
them  until  they  came  near  to  the  city  of  Philippes; 
and  there  one  day  only  before  the  battle  they  both 
flew  away.  *  ♦  *  And  yet,  further,  there  were 
seen  a  marvellous  number  of  fowls  of  prey  that  fed 
upon  dead  carcases.  *  *  *  The  which  began 
somewhat  to  alter  Cassius'  mind  from  Epicurus' 
opinions,  and  had  put  the  soldiers  also  in  a  marvel- 
lous fear;  thereujion  Cassius  was  of  opinion  not  to 
trj-  this  war  at  one  battle,  but  rather  to  delay  time, 
and  to  draw  it  out  in  length.  *  *  *  But  Brutus, 
in  contrarj*  manner,  did  alway  before,  and  at  that 
time  also,  desire  nothing  more  than  to  put  all  to  the 
hazard  of  battle,  as  soon  as  might  be  possible.  *  * 
Thereupon  it  was  presently  determined  they  should 
fight  battle  the  next  day.  So  Brutus  all  supper- 
time  looked  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  like  a  man 
that  had  good  hope,  and  talked  very  wisely  of  phi- 
losophy, and  after  supper  went  to  bed.  But  touch- 
ing Cassius,  Messala  reporteth  that  he  supped  by 
himself  in  his  tent  with  a  few  friends,  and  that  all 
Buppev-time  he  looked  very  sadly,  and  was  full  of 
thoughts,  although  it  was  against  his  nature;  and 
that  after  supper  he  took  him  by  the  hand,  and,  hold- 
ing him  fast  (in  token  of  kindness,  as  his  manner 
was),  toM  him  in  Greek — Messala,  I  protest  unto 
thee,  and  make  thee  my  witness,  that  I  am  com- 
jolled  against  my  mind  and  ^vill  (as  Pompey  the 
Great  was)  to  'jeopard '  the  liberty  of  our  country 
to  the  hazard  of  a  battle.  And  yet  we  must  be  lively 
and  of  good  courage,  considering  our  good  foi-tune, 
whom  we  lihould  wrong  too  much  to  mistrust  her, 
although  we  follow  evil  counsel.  Messala  writeth 
that  Ca  .-iu3  having  spoken  these  last  words  unto 
liiiii,  h'j  U-ide  him  farewell,  and  willed  him  to  come 
to  supper  to  him  the  next  night  following,  because 
it  was  his  birtliday.  The  next  morning  by  break  of 
day  the  siLiial  of  battle  w.as  set  out  in  Brutus'  and 
C.-i.-i-iu-i'  r.fip.  which  wafl  an  anniug  scarlet  coat, 
an  i  I  -th  ;l.e  chit-ftains  fpake  together  in  the  midst 
of  their  armies.  Then  C:us.siu8  began  to  speak  first, 
and  eaid, —  The  gods  ^'rant  lis,  0  Brutus,  that  this 
day  we  may  win  the  field,  and  ever  after  to  live  all 
the  reat  of  our  life  quietly  one  with  another.  But 
272 


sith  the  gods  have  so  ordained  it  that  the  greatest 
and  chiefest  things  amongst  men  arc  most  uncer- 
tain, and  that,  if  the  battle  fall  out  otherwise  to-day 
than  we  wish  or  look  for,  we  shall  hardly  meet 
again,  what  art  thou  then  determined  to  do— to 
fly,  or  die  ?  Brutus  answered  him.  Being  yet  but  a 
young  man,  and  not  over-greatly  experienced  in  the 
world,  I  trust  (I  know  nob  how)  a  certain  i-ule  of 
l">hilosophy,  by  the  which  I  did  greatly  blame  and 
reprove  Cuto  for  killing  ofhiraself,  as  being  no  lawful 
ni>r  godly  act  touching  the  gods,  nor  concerning 
men  valiant,  not  to  give  place  and  yield  to  Divine 
Providence,  and  not  constantly  and  patiently  to  take 
whatsoever  it  pleasetli  him  to  send  us,  but  to  draw 
back  and  fly  :  but  being  now  in  the  midst  of  the 
danger,  I  am  of  a  contrary  mind ;  for  it  be  not  the 
will  of  God  that  this  battle  fall  out  fortunate  for  us, 
I  will  look  no  more  for  hope,  neither  seek  to  make 
any  new  .supply  of  war  again,  but  will  rid  me  of  this 
miserable  world,  and  content  me  with  my  fortune ; 
for  I  gave  up  my  life  for  my  country  in  the  Ides  of 
March,  for  the  which  I  shall  live  in  another  more 
glorious  world.  Cassius  fell  a  laughing  to  hear 
what  he  said,  and,  embracing  him,  Come  on  then, 
said  he,  let  us  go  and  charge  our  enemies  with  this 
mind ;  for  either  we  shall  conquer,  or  we  shall  not 
need  to  fear  the  conquerors.  After  tliis  talk  they 
fell  to  consultation  among  their  friends  for  the  ox*- 
dering  of  the  battle." 

2  SCEKE  III.—"  Fly  further  off,  my  lord." 
"  So  Cassius  himself  was  at  length  compelled  to 
fly,  with  a  few  about  him,  xinto  a  little  hill,  from 
whence  they  might  easily  see  w'hat  was  done  in  all 
the  plain :  howbeit,  Cassius  himself  saw  nothing,  for 
his  sight  was  very  bad,  saving  that  he  saw  (and  yet 
with  much  ado)  how  the  enemies  spoiled  his  camp 
before  his  eyes.  He  saw  also  a  great  troop  of  hoi-se- 
men,  whom  Brutus  sent  to  aid  him,  and  thought 
that  they  were  his  enemies  that  followed  him ;  but 
yet  he  sent  Titinius,  one  of  them  that  was  with  him, 
to  go  and  know  what  they  were.  Brutus'  horsemen 
saw  him  coming  afar  off,  whom  when  they  knew 
that  he  was  one  of  Cassius'  chiefest  friends,  they 
shouted  out  for  joy,  and  they  that  were  familiarly 
acquainted  with  him  lighted  from  their  horses,  and 
went  and  embraced  him.  The  rest  compassed  him 
in  round  about  on  horseback,  with  songs  of  victory 
and  great  rushingof  their  harness,  so  that  they  made 
all  the  field  ring  again  for  joy.  But  this'marred  all : 


JULIUS  C^SAll. 


for  Cassius  thinking  indeed  that  Titinius  was  taken 
of  the  enemies,  he  then  spake  these  words  :  —Desir- 
ing too  much  to  live,  I  have  lived  to  see  one  of  my 
best  friends  taken,  for  my  sake,  before  my  face. 
After  that  he  got  into  a  tent  where  nobody  was,  and 
took  Pindarus  with  him,  one  of  his  bondmen  whom 
he  reserved  ever  for  such  a  pinch  since  the  cursed 
battle  of  the  Parthians,  where  Crassus  was  slain, 
though  he,  notwithstanding,  scaped  from  that  over- 
throw. But  then  casting  his  cloak  over  his  head, 
and  holding  out  his  bare  neck  unto  Pindarus,  he 
gave  him  his  head  to  be  stricken  off.  So  the  head 
was  found  severed  from  the  body;  but  after  that 
time  Pindarus  was  never  seen  more  :  whereupon 
some  took  occasion  to  say  that  he  had  slain  his 
master  without  his  commandment.  By  and  by  they 
knew  the  horsemen  that  came  towards  them,  and 
might  see  Titinius  crowned  with  a  garland  of  tri- 
umph, who  came  before  with  great  speed  unto  Cas- 
sius.  But  when  he  perceived  by  the  cries  and  tears 
of  his  friends  which  tormented  themselves  the  mis- 
fortune that  had  chanced  to  his  captain  Cassius 
by  mistaking,  hedrewout  his  sword,  cursing  himself 
a  thousand  times  that  he  had  tarried  so  long,  and  so 
slew  himself  presently  in  the  field.  Brutus,  in  the 
mean  time,  came  forward  still,  and  understood  also 
that  Cassius  had  been  overthrown ;  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  his  death  till  he  came  very  near  to  his 
camp.  So  when  he  was  come  thither, 'after  he  had 
lamented  the  death  of  Cassius,  calHng  him  the  last 
of  all  the  Romans,  being  impossible  that  Rome 
should  ever  breed  again  so  noble  and  valiant  a  man 
as  he,  he  caused  his  body  to  be  buried,  and  sent  it  to 
the  city  of  Thassos,  fearing  lest  his  funei-als  within 
his  camp  should  cause  great  disorder." 

^  Scene  IV. — "  Kill  Brutus,  and  he  honoured  in  his 
death." 

"  So  there  were  slain  in  the  field  all  the  chiefest 
gentlemen  and  nobility  that  were  in  his  army,  who 
valiantly  ran  into  any  danger  to  save  Brutus'  life. 
Amongst  them  there  was  one  of  Brutus'  friends 
called  Lucilius,  who,  seeing  a  troop  of  barbarous 
men  making  no  reckoning  of  all  men  else  they  met 
in  their  way,  but  going  altogether  right  against 
Bi'utus,he  determined  to  stay  them  with  the  hazard 
of  his  life ;  and,  being  left  behind,  told  them  that  he 
was  Brutus,  and,  because  they  should  believe  him, 
he  prayed  them  to  bring  him  to  Antonius,  for  he 
said  he  was  afraid  of  Csesar,  and  that  he  did  trust 
Antonius  better.  The  barbarous  men  being  very 
glad  of  this  good  hap,  and  thinking  themselves 
happy  men,  they  carried  him  in  the  night,  and  sent 
some  before  imto  Antonius  to  tell  him  of  their 
coming.  He  was  marvellous  glad  of  it,  and  went  out 
to  meet  them  that  brought  him.  Others  also  under- 
standing of  it,  that  they  had  brought  Brutus  pi-i- 
souer,  they  came  out  of  all  parts  of  the  camp  to  see 
him;  some  pitying  his  hard  fortune,  and  others 
saying  that  it  was  not  done  like  himself,  so  cowardly 
to  be  taken  alive  of  the  barbarous  people  for  fear  of 
death.  When  they  came  near  together,  Antonius 
stayed  awhile  bethinking  himself  how  he  should  use 
Brutus.  In  the  mean  time  Lucilius  was  brought  to 
him,  who  stoutly  with  a  bold  countenance  said — ■ 
Antonius,  I  dare  assure  thee  that  no  enemy  hath 
taken  nor  shall  take  Marcus  Brutus  alive,  and  I 
beseech  God  keep  him  from  that  fortune ;  for  where- 
soever he  be  found,  alive  or  dead,  he  will  be  found 
like  himself.  And  now  for  myself: — I  am  come 
unto  thee,  having  deceived  these  men  of  arms  here, 
Thauedibs. — Vol,  II.  T 


bearing  them  down  that  I  was  Brutus,  and  do  not 

refuse  to  suffer  any  torment  thou  wilt  put  me  to. 
Lucilius'  words  made  them  all  amazed  that  heard 
him.  Antonius  on  the  other  side,  looking  upon  all 
them  that  had  brought  him,  said  unto  them,  My 
companions,  I  think  ye  are  sorry  you  have  failed  of 
your  purpose,  and  that  you  think  this  man  hath  done 
you  great  wrong ;  but  I  do  assure  you,  you  have 
taken  a  better  booty  than  that  you  followed ;  for 
instead  of  an  enemy,  you  have  brought  me  a  friend : 
and,  for  my  part,  if  you  had  brought  rhe  Brutus 
alive,  ti'uly  I  cannot  tell  what  I  should  have  done 
to  him ;  for  I  had  rather  have  such  men  my  friends, 
as  this  man  here,  than  enemies.  Then  he  embraced 
Lucilius,  and  at  that  time  delivered  him  to  one  of 
his  fi-iends  in  custody,  and  Lucilius  ever  after 
served  him  faithfully,  even  to  his  death." 

■*  Scene  V. — "  Come,  poor  remains  offnejids,"  &c. 

"  Now,  Brutus  having  passed  a  little  river,  walled 
in  on  every  side  with  high  rocks,  and  shadowed 
with  great  trees,  being  then  dark  night,  he  went  no 
further,  but  stayed  at  the  foot  of  a  rock  with  certain 
of  his  captains  and  friends  that  followed  him  :  and 
looking  up  to  the  firmament  that  was  full  of  stars, 
sighing,  he  rehearsed  two  verses  of  the  which  Vo- 
lumnius  wrote  the  one,  to  this  effect : — 

'Let  not  the  wight  from  whom  this  mischief  went 
(O  Jove)  escape  without  due  punishment;' — 

and  saith  that  he  had  forgotten  the  other.  Within 
a  little  while  after,  naming  his  friends  that  he  had 
seen  slain  in  battle  before  his  eyes,  he  fetched  a 
greater  sigh  than  before,  specially  when  he  came  to 
name  Sabia  and  Flavins,  of  the  which  the  one  was 
his  lieutenant,  and  the  other  captain  of  the  pioneers 
of  his  camp.  In  the  mean  time  one  of  the  company 
being  athirst,  and  seeing  Brutus  athirst  also,  he  ran 
to  the  river  for  water,  and  brought  it  in  his  sallet. 
At  the  self-same  time  they  heard  a  noise  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river.  Whereupon  Volumnius 
took  Dardanus,  Brutus'  servant,  with  him,  to  see 
what  it  was  ;  and  returning  straight  again,  asked  if 
there  were  any  water  left.  Brutus,  smiling,  gently 
told  them  all  was  drunk,  but  they  shall  bring  you 
some  more.  Thereupon  he  sent  him  again  that 
went  for  water  before,  who  was  in  great  danger  of 
being  taken  by  the  enemies,  and  hardly  escaped, 
being  sore  hui't.  Furthermore,  Brutus  thought  that 
there  was  no  great  uumber  of  men  slain  in  battle, 
and  to  know  the  truth  of  it  there  was  one  called 
Statilius  that  promised  to  go  through  his  enemies 
(for  otherwise  it  was  impossible  to  go  see  their 
camp),  and  from  thence,  if  all  were  well,  that  he 
should  lift  up  a  torchlight  in  the  air,  and  then 
return  again  with  speed  to  him.  The  torchlight 
was  lift  up  as  he  had  promised,  for  Statilius  went 
thither.  Now,  Brutus  seeing  StatiUus  tarry  long 
after  that,  and  that  he  came  not  again,  he  said.  If 
Statilius  be  alive  he  will  come  again  ;  but  his  evil 
fortune  was  such,  that  as  he  came  back  he  lighted 
in  his  enemies'  hands  and  was  slain.  Now  the  night 
being  far  spent,  Brutus,  as  he  sat,  bowed  towards 
Clitus,  one  of  his  men,  and  told  him  somewhat  in 
his  ear :  the  other  answered  him  not  but  fell  a 
weeping.  Thereupon  he  proved  Dardanus,  and 
said  somewhat  also  to  him.  At  length  he  came  to 
Volumuius  himself,  and,  speaking  to  him  in  Greek, 
prayed  him,  for  the  studies'  sake  which  brought 
them  acquainted  together,  that  he  would  help  him 
to  put  his  hand  to  his  sword  to  thrust  it  in  him  to 

273 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


kill  him.  Volumnius  denied  his  request,  and  so 
di.l  many  others;  and  amongst  the  rest,  one  of  them 
said  there  was  no  tarrying  for  them  there,  but  that 
they  must  needs  fly.  Then  Hrutus,  rising  up,  We 
must  fly  indeed,  said  he,  but  it  must  bo  with  our 
hands,  not  with  our  feet.  Then  taking  every  man 
by  the  hand,  he  said  these  words  unto  them  with 
a  cheerful  countenance  :  it  rejoiceth  my  heart  that 
not  one  of  my  friends  hath  failed  me  at  my  need, 
and  i  do  not  complain  of  my  fortune,  but  only  for 
my  countrj"'B  sake  :  for,  as  for  me,  1  think  myself 
happier  than  they  that  have  overcome,  considering 
that  I  have  a  perpetual  fame  of  our  courage  and 
m.anhood,  the  which  our  enemies  the  conquerors 
8h;dl  never  attain  unto  by  force  or  money  j  neither 
can  let  theirpostority  to  say  that  they  ,beingnaughty 
and  xmjust  men,  have  slain  good  men,  to  usurp 
tyrannio:d  power  not  pertaining  to  them.  Having 
8aid  so,  ho  prayed  every  man  to  shift  for  themselves. 


and  then  ho  went  a  little  aside  with  two  or  three 
onlj-,  among  the  which  Sti-ato  wa-s  one,  with  whom 
he  came  first  acquainted  by  the  study  of  rhetoric. 
He  came  as  near  to  him  as  he  could,  and  taking 
his  sword  by  the  hilt  with  both  his  hands,  and  falling 
down  upon  the  point  of  it,  ran  himself  through. 
Others  say  that  not  he,  but  Strato  (at  his  request), 
held  the  sword  in  his  hand,  and  turned  his  head 
aside,  and  that  Brutus  fell  down  upon  it,  and  so 
ran  himself  through,  and  died  presently.  Messala, 
that  had  been  Brutus'  great  friend,  became  after- 
wards Octavius  Caesar's  friend.  So,  shortly  after, 
Cajsar  being  at  good  leisure,  he  brought  Strato, 
Brutus' friend,  unto  him,  and  weeping  said — Cocsar, 
behold,  here  is  ho  that  did  the  last  service  to  my 
Brutus.  Crc.sar  welcomed  him  at  that  time,  and 
afterwards  he  did  him  aa  faithful  service  in  all  hie 
affairs  as  any  Grecian  else  he  had  about  him,  until 
the  battle  of  Actium. 


[Pompey's  Statue.] 


AN 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


State  op  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

'The  Tragedie  of  Authonie  and  Cleopatra'  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  TLe 
play  is  not  divided  into  acts  and  scenes  in  the  original ;  but  the  stage-directions,  like  those  of  the 
other  Roman  plays,  are  very  full.  The  text  is,  upon  the  whole,  remarkably  accurate ;  although 
the  metrical  arrangement  is,  in  a  few  instances,  obviously  defective.  The  positive  errors  are  very 
few.  Some  obscure  passages  present  themselves ;  but,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  they  are  not 
such  as  to  render  conjectural  emendation  desirable. 

We   have   already  stated   our   views    of   the   chronology   of   this  tragedy,    in    the    Introductory 
Notices  to  Coriolanus  and  Julius  Csesar, 


Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 

The  Life  of  Autonius,  in  North's  Plutarch,  has  been  followed  by  Shakspei'e  with  very  remarkable 
fidelity ;  and  there  is  scarcely  an  incident  which  belongs  to  this  period  of  Antony's  career  which 
the  poet  has  not  engrafted  upon  his  wonderful  performance.  The  poetical  power,  subjecting  the 
historical  minuteness  to  an  all-pervading  harmony,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  efforts  of  Shak- 
spere's  genius.  That  this  may  be  properly  felt  we  have  given  very  copious  extracts  from  the  Life 
of  Antonius,  as  Illustrations  of  each  Act. 


Costume. 

For  the  costume  of  the  Roman  personages  of  this  play,  we,  of  course,  refer  our  readers  to  the 
Notice  prefixed  to  that  of  Julius  Csesar :  but  for  the  costume  of  Egypt  during  the  latter  period  of 
Greek  domination  we  have  no  satisfactory  authority.  Winkelman  describes  some  figures  which 
he  asserts  were  "  made  by  Egyptian  sculptors  under  the  dominion  of  the  Greeks,  who  introduced 
into  Egypt  their  gods  as  well  as  their  arts ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Greeks  adopted  Egyptian 
usages."  But  from  these  mutilated  remains  of  Greco-Egyptian  workmanship  we  are  uuable  to 
ascertain  how  far  the  Egyptians  generally  adopted  the  costume  of  their  conquerors,  or  the  con- 
querors themselves  assumed  that  of  the  vanquished.  In  the  work  on  Egyptian  Antiquities  pub- 
lished in  the  Library  of  Entertaining  Knowledge,  the  few  facts  bearing  upon  this  subject  have 
been  assembled,  and  the  minutest  details  of  the  more  ancient  Egyptian  costume  will  be  found  in 
the  admirable  works  of  Sir  G.  "Wilkinson :  but  it  would  be  worse  than  useless  for  us  to  enter  here 
into  a  long  description  of  the  costume  of  the  Pharaohs,  uiJess  we  could  assert  how  much,  if  any 
part  of  it,  was  retained  by  the  Ptolemies. 


277 


>-.<;;ii;:i,vj|ii,ii!,ii'WiM'n-ili;^^  i.'i''!.i'^-'"' 


[Room  in  Cleopatra's  Palace.] 


ACT    I. 


SCENE   I. 


-Alexandria.     A  Room 
patra'5  Palace. 


in 


Cleo- 


Enter  DEiiETRirs  and  Philo. 

Phi.  Nay,  but  this  dotage  of  our  general's 
O'erflows  the  measui'e :  those  his  goodly  eyes, 
Tliat  o'er  the  files  and  musters  of  the  war 
Have  glow'd  like  plated  Mars,  now  bend,  now 

turn. 
The  office  and  devotion  of  their  view 
Upon  a  ta\my  front :  his  captain's  heart, 
Which  in  the  scuffles  of  great  fights  hath  burst 
The  buckles  on  his  breast,  reneaguesa  all  temper; 
Ajid  is  become  the  bellows,  and  the  fan. 
To  cool  a  gipsy's  lust.    Look,  where  they  cornel 


a  Remagues — renounces.  Thia  is  sometiines  spelt  rfnejrar; 
but  Coleridge  suggested  the  orthography  we  have  adopted, 
which  gives  us  the  proper  pronunciation,  as  in  league,  s'tee- 
wr  s  proposes  to  read  reneyes,  a  word  used  by  Chaucer  in  the 
eame  sense. 


Flourish.      Enter    Antony     and    Cleopatra, 
tcilh  their  Trains ;    Eunuchs  fanning  her. 

Take  but  good  note,  and  you  shall  see  in  hira 
The  triple  a  piUar  of  the  world  transform'd 
Into  a  strumpet's  fool :  behold  and  see. 

Cleo.  If  it  be  love  indeed,  tell  me  how  much. 
Ant.  There 's  beggary  in  the  love  that  can  be 

reckon' d. 
Cleo.  I  '11  set  a  bourn  how  far  to  be  belov'd. 
Ant.  Then  must  thou  needs  find  out  new 
heaven,  new  earth. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alt.  News,  my  good  lord,  from  Rome — 
Ant.  Grates  me :  '^ — The  sum. 

a  Triple  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  third,  or  one  of 
three.  So  in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  we  have  a  triple  eye 
for  a  third  eye.  We  are  not  aware  that  any  other  author 
uses  triple  otherwise  than  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  three- 
fold. 

b  Grates  me — offends  me; — is  grating  to  me. 

279 


ACTl.J 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  II. 


Cleo.  Nay,  bear  tbeni,  Antony  : 
Pulvia,  perchance,  is  angry ;  Or,  who  knows 
If  the  scarce-bearded  Cajsar  have  not  sent 
His  powcrfid  mandate  to  you,  '  Do  tliis,  or  this  ; 
Take  in  that  kingdom,  and  enfranchise  that ; 
Perform  't,  or  else  we  damn  thee.' 

Ant.  How,  my  love ! 

Cleo.  Perchance, — nay,  and  most  like. 
You  must  not  stay  here  longer,  your  dismission 
Is  come  from-  Csesar;    therefore  bear  it,   An- 
tony.— 
Where's  Fulviu's  process?*   Caesar's,  I  would 

say. — ^Both. — 
Call  in  the  messengers. — As  I  am  Egypt's  queen, 
Thou  blushest,  Antony ;  and  that  blood  of  thine 
Is  Caisar's  homager :    else   so   thy  check  pays 

shame 
When  shrill-tongued  Fulvia  scolds. — The  mes- 
sengers. 

Ant.  Let  Rome  in  Tiber  melt !  and  the  wide 
arch 
Of  the  rang'd  empire''  fall !  Here  is  my  space. 
Kingdoms  are  clay :  our  dungy  earth  alike 
Feeds  beast  as  man :  the  nobleness  of  life 
Is,  to  do  thus ;  w  hen  such  a  mutual  pair, 
And  such  a  twain  can  do 't,  in  wliich  I  bind. 
On  pain  of  punishment,  the  world  to  weet  * 
We  stand  up  peerless. 

Cko.  Excellent  falsehood ! 

Why  did  he  marry  Ful™,  and  not  love  her  ? — 
I  'U  seem  the  fool  I  am  not ;  Antony 
Will  be  himself— 

Aiit.  But  stirr'd  by  Cleopatra.'' — 

Now,  for  the  love  of  Love,  and  her  soft  hours, 
Let 's  not  confound  the  time  with  conference 

harsh : 
There 's  not  a  minute  of  our  lives  should  stretch 
Without  some  pleasure  now :    What  sport  to- 
night ? 

Cleo.  Hear  the  ambassadors. 

^nt.  Fie,  wrangling  queen ! 

Whom  everything  becomes,  to  chide,  to  laugh. 
To  weep  ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 


a  /"rofM*— summons. 

b  Riing'd  empire.  Capell,  the  mo^t  ncplected  of  the  com- 
mentators, properly  explains  this — "Orderly  ranged— whose 
parts  are  now  entire  and  distinct,  like  a  number  of  ■well- 
built  edifices."    He  refers  to  a  passage  in  Coriolanus, — 

,  "  Rury  all  wliich  yet  distinctly  ranget, 

In  heaps  and  piles  of  ruin." 

'    7*0  if<e<  — to  know. 

d  Johnson  explains  this  as  ifhul  had  the  meaning  of  rjccp* 
—Antony  will  be  himself,  unless  Cleopatra  keeps  him  in 
commotion.  Afonck  Masnn  objects  to  this;  and  interprets 
the  pMsage,— i/  but  stirred  by  Cleopatra.  Surely  the  mean- 
ing is  more  obvious.  Antony  accepts  Clcoi>aira'8  belief  of 
what  he  will  be.  lie  will  be  himself;  but  still  under  the 
influence  of  Cleopatra;  and  to  show  what  that  influence  is 
he  continues,  "  Now,  for  the  love  of  Love,"  &c.  ' 

280 


To  make  itself,  iu  thee,  fair  and  admir'd  ! 
No  messenger ;  but  thine  and  aU  alone, 
To-night  we  '11  wander  tlirough  the  streets,  and 

note 
The  qualities  of  people.'     Come,  my  queen ; 
Last  night  you  did  dcsii-e  it : — Speak  not  to  us. 
\_Exetnit  Ant.  and  Cleop.,  tcilh  their  Train. 

Bern.  Is  Ca;sar  with  Antonius  priz'd  so  slight? 

Phi.  Sir,  sometimes,  when  he  is  not  Antony, 
He  comes  too  short  of  that  great  property 
Which  still  should  go  with  Antony. 

Bern.  I  'm  full  sorry 

That  he  approves  the  common  liar,  who 
Thus  speaks  of  him  at  Home :  But  I  will  hope 
Of  better  deeds  to-morrow.     Rest  you  happy ! 

\E.veunt. 

SCENE  \\.— The  same.     Another  Room. 

Enter      Cilahmun,     Iiias,     Alexas,     and     a 
Soothsayer. 

Char.  Lord  Alexas,  sweet  Alexas,  most  any- 
thing Alexas,  almost  mfist  absolute  Alexas, 
where 's  the  soothsayer  that  you  praised  so  to 
the  queen  ?  O,  that  I  knew  tliis  husband, 
which,  you  say,  must  change''  his  horns  with 
garlands ! 

Alex.  Soothsayer. 

Sooth.  Your  will  ? 

Char.  Is  this  the  man  ? — ^Is  't  you,  su-,  that 
know  things  ? 

Sooth.  In  natui-e's  infinite  book  of  secrecy 
A  little  I  can  read. 

Alex.  Show  him  your  hand. 

Enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  Bring  in  the   banquet    quickly ;    wine 
enough 
Cleopatra's  health  to  drink. 

Char.  Good  sir,  give  me  good  fortune. 

Sooth.  I  make  not,  but  foresee. 

Char.  Pray  then,  foresee  me  one. 

Sooth.  You  shall  be  yet  far  faiier  than  you 
are. 

Char.  He  means  in  flesh. 

Iras.  No,  you  shall  paint  when  you  are  old. 

Char.  Wrinkles  forbid ! 

Alex.  Vex  not  his  prescience ;  be  attentive. 

Char.  Hush  ! 

Sooth.  You  shall  be  more  bcloving  than  be- 
lov'd. 

Char.  I  had  rather  heat  my  liver  vn'Oa 
drinking. 

»  Change — vary— give  a  difTerent  appearance  to.  Changcxit 
the  word  of  the  original.  Warburton  and  others  propose  to 
read  cliarge. 


Act  I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  II. 


Alex.  Nay,  hear  him. 

Char.  Good  now,  some  excellent  fortune ! 
Let  me  be  mamed  to  thi-ee  kings  in  a  forenoon, 
and  widow  them  all :  let  me  have  a  child  at 
fil'ty,  to  whom  Herod  of  Jewry  may  do  homage  : 
find  me  to  marry  me  with  Octavius  Csesai-,  and 
compamou  me  with  my  mistress. 

Sooth.  You  shall  outlive  the  lady  whom  you 
serve. 

Char.  O  excellent !  1  love  long  life  better 
than  figs. 

Sooth.  You  have  seen  and  prov'd  a    fau-er 
former  fortune 
Than  that  which  is  to  approach. 

Char.  Then,  belike  my  children  shall  have 
no  names  :  Prithee,  how  many  boys  and  wenches 
must  I  have  ? 

Sooth.  If  every  of  your  wishes  had  a  womb, 
And  fertile^  every  wish,  a  million. 

Char.  Out,  fool !  I  forgive  thee  for  a  witch. 

Alex.  You  think  none  but  your  sheets  are 
privy  to  your  wishes. 

Char.  Nay,  cooie,  tell  Iras  hers. 

Alex.  We  '11  know  aU  our  fortunes. 

Em.  Mine,  and  most  of  our  fortunes,  to- 
night, shall  be — drunk  to  bed. 

Iras.  There  's  a  palm  presages  chastity,  if 
nothing  else. 

Char.  Even  as  the  o'erflowing  Nilus  pre- 
sageth  famine. 

Iras.  Go,  you  wild  bedfellow,  you  cannot 
soothsay. 

Char.  Nay,  if  an  oily  palm,  be  not  a  fruitfid 
prognostication,  I  cannot  scratch  mine  ear. 
Prithee,  tell  her  out  a  worky-day  fortune. 

Sooth.  Your  fortunes  are  alike. 

Iras.  But  how,  but  how?  give  me  particulars. 

Sooth.  I  have  said. 

Iras.  Am  I  not  an  inch  of  fortune  better  than 
she? 

Char.  Well,  if  you  were  but  an  inch  of  fortune 
better  than  I,  where  woidd  you  choose  it  ? 

Iras.  Not  in  my  husband's  nose. 

Char.  Oiu-  worser  thoughts  heavens  mend ! 
Alexas, — come,  his  fortune,  his  fortune; — 0,  let 
him  maiTy  a  woman  that  cannot  go,  sweet  Isis, 
I  beseech  thee !  And  let  her  die  too,  and  give 
him  a  worse !  and  let  worse  follow  worse,  till 
the  worst  of  all  follow  hun  laughing  to  his  grave, 
fifty-fold  a  cuckold!  Good  Isis,  hear  me  this 
prayer,  though  thou  deny  me  a  matter  of  more 
weight,  good  Isis,  I  beseech  thee ! 

Iras.  Amen.     Dear  goddess,  hear  that  prayer 

s  Fertile.  The  original  has  foretel.  The  emendation, 
■which  is  very  ingenious,  was  made  by  'Warbuiton. 


of  the  people !  for,  as  it  is  a  heart-breaking  to 
see  a  handsome  man  loose-wived,  so  it  is  a  deadly 
sorrow  to  behold  a  foul  knave  uncuckolded : 
Therefore,  dear  Isis,  keep  decorum,  and  fortune 
him  accordingly ! 

Char.  Amen. 

Alex.  Lo,  now !  if  it  lay  in  their  hands  to 
make  me  a  cuckold,  they  would  make  them- 
selves whores  but  they  'd  do  't. 

Eno.  Hush  !  here  comes  Antony. 

Char.  Not  he ;  the  queen. 

Enter  Cleopatra. 

Cleo.  Saw  you  my  lord  ? 

Eiio.  No,  lady. 

Cleo.  Was  he  not  here  ? 

Char.  No,  madam. 

Cleo.  He  was  dispos'd  to  mii-th ;  but  on  the 
sudden 
A  Roman  thought  hath  struck  him. — Enobar- 
bus, — 

Eno.  Madam. 

Cleo.  Seek     him,    and     bring     him     hither. 
Where  's  Alexas  ? 

Alex.  Here,-  at  your  service. — My  lord  ap- 
proaches. 

Enter   Antony,   with   a   Messenger,    and 

Attendants. 
Cleo.  "We  will  not  look  upon  him :  Go  with 
us. 
\E.reunt  Cleopatka,  Enobakbtjs,  Alexas, 
Lras,  Chakmia^,  Soothsayer,  and 
Attendants. 
Mess.  Eulvia  thy  wife  first  came  into  the  field." 
Ant.  Against  my  brother  Lucius  ? 
3Iess.  Ay : 
But  soon  that  war  had  end,  and  the  time's  state 
Made  friends  of  them,  jointing  their  force  'gainst 

Csesar ; 
"Whose  better  issue  in  the  war,  from  Italy, 
Upon  the  first  encounter,  di-ave  them. 

Ant.  Well,  what  worst  ? 

Mess.  The  nature  of  bad  news  infects  the  teller. 

Ant.  "When  it  concerns  the  fool,  or  coward. — 

On: 

Things  that  are  past  ai-e  done  with  me. — 'T  is 

thus. 
"Who  tells  me  true,  though  in  his  tale  lie  death, 
I  hear  him  as  he  flatter'd. 

3Iess.  Labienus 

(This  is   stiff   news)   hath,  with  his  Parthian 
force, 

a  Steevens  here  introduces  madam,  "as  a  proper  cure  foi 
the  present  defect  in  metre." 

2S1 


*CI   I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SC£KS   IL 


Extended,  Asia  from  Euphrates  ; 

His  conquering  banner  shook  from  Syria 

To  Lvdia  and  to  Ionia ; 

Whilst— 

Ant.  Antony,  thou  wouldst  say, — 

Mess.  O,  my  lord  ! 

Ant.  Speak  to  me  home,  mince  not  the  general 
tongue; 
Name  Cleopatra  as  she  *s  call'd  in  Ex)me : 
Rail  thou  in  FulvLVs  phrase;  and  taunt  my  faults 
With  such  full  licence  as  both  truth  and  malice 
Have  power  to  utter.     0,  then  we  bring  forth 

weeds 
^Vhen  our  quick  winds  lie  stiU;   and  our  ills 

told  us, 
Is  as  our  earing. ''    Fare  thee  well  a  while. 

Mess.  At  your  noble  pleasure.  [Exit. 

Ant.  FromSicyon  how  the  news  r*^  Speak  there. 

1  Att.  The  man  from  Sicyon. — Is  there  such 

an  one? 

2  Att.  He  stays  upon  your  will. 

Ant.  Let  him  appear. — 

These  strong  Egyptian  fetters  I  must  break, 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Or  lose  myself  in  dotage. — TYbat  are  you  ? 

2  Mess.  Fulvia  thy  wife  is  dead. 

Ant  "Where  died  she  ? 

2  Mess.  In  Sicyon : 
Her  length  of  sickness,  with  what  else  more 

serious 
Importeth  thee  to  know,  this  bears. 

[Gives  a  lettS: 

Ant.  Forbear  me. — 

[Exit  Messenger. 
Tliere  's  a  great  spirit  gone!  Thus  did  I  desire  it: 
WTiat  our  contempts  do  often  hurl  from  us. 
We  wish  it  ours  again :  the  present  pleasure 
By  revolution  lowering,  does  become 
The  opposite  of  itself  ;*"  she 's  good,  being  gone ; 

■  Eilfnded—stizt&  upon.  In  North's  Plutarch  we  find 
that  Labienui  had  "overrun  Asia  from  Euphrates."  Nearly 
all  Shakipere's  contemporaries  make  the  second  syllable  of 
Euphrates  short.     Drayton,  for  example, — 

"  That  gliding  go  in  state,  like  swelling  Euphralet." 

b  Malone  proposes  to  read  mind$  instead  of  wintU ;  and 
the  commentator*  have  taken  ditfercnt  sides  in  this  matter. 
Itcfore  we  adopt  a  new  reading  we  must  be  satisfied  that  the 
old  one  ia  corrupt.  When,  then,  do  we  "bringforth  weedsf  " 
In  a  heavy  and  moist  season,  when  there  are  no  "quick 
winds  *'  to  mellow  the  earth,  to  dry  up  the  exuberant  mois- 
ture, to  fit  it  for  the  plough.  The  poet  kn'  \v  the  old  pro- 
verb of  the  worth  of  abusl.cl  of  March  dust;  but  "the  winds 
of  March,"  rough  and  unpleasant  as  they  are,  he  knew  also 
produced  this  good.  The  quick  winds  then  arc  the  voices 
which  bring  us  true  reports  to  put  an  end  to  our  inaction. 
When  these  winds  lie  still  we  htinn  forth  weeds.  But  the 
metaphor  Is  carricl  farther:  the  winds  have  rendered  the 
soil  fit  for  the  plough:  but  the  knowledge  of  our  own  faults 
— ilN — is  as  the  plouching  itself — the  "  caring." 

*  I/oic  the  neat  r  So  the  folio.  Mr.  Djcc  reads  Ao,/A<  n«iri.' 

•i  Warburton  says,  "Tbe  allusion  is  to  the  sun's  diu~nal 

couiBc;  which,  rising  in  the  east,  and  by  revolution  lower- 

282 


The  Lund  could  pluck  her  back  that  shov*d  her 

on. 
I  must  from  this  enchanting  queen  break  off ; 
Ten  thousand  harms,  more  than  the  ills  I  know. 
My  idleness  doth  hatch. — How  now !  Enobarbus  1 

Enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno.  What 's  your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Ant.  1  must  with  haste  from  hence. 

Eno.  Wh\,  then,  we  kill  all  our  women :  Wc 
see  how  mortal  an  unkiudness  is  to  them;  if 
they  suffer  our  departure,  death 's  the  word. 

Ant.  I  must  be  gone. 

Eno.  Under  a  compelling  occasion,  let  women 
die :  It  were  pity  to  cast  them  away  for  nothing ; 
though,  between  them  and  a  great  cause,  they 
should  be  esteemed  nothing.  Cleopatra,  catching 
but  the  least  nobe  of  this,  dies  instantly ;  I  have 
seen  her  die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer  mo- 
ment :  I  do  think  there  is  mettle  in  death,  which 
commits  some  loving  act  upon  her,  she  hath 
such  a  celerity  in  dying. 

Ant.  She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

Eno.  Alack,  sir,  no ;  her  passions  are  made 
of  nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure  love :  We 
cannot  call-  her  winds  and  waters,  sighs  and 
tears;  they  are  greater  storms  and  tempests 
than  almanacs  can  report :  this  cannot  be  cun- 
ning in  her;  if  it  be,  she  makes  a  shower  of 
rain  as  weU  as  Jove. 

Ant.  'Would  I  had  never  seen  her  ! 

Eno.  0,  sir,  you  had  then  left  unseen  a  won- 
derful piece  of  work ;  wtiich  not  to  have  been 
blessed  withal,  would  have  discredited  your 
travel. 

Ant.  Fxdna  is  dead. 

Eno.  Sir? 

Ant.  Fulvia  is  dead. 

Eno.  Fulvia? 

Ant.  Dead. 

Eno.  Why,  sir,  give  the  gods  a  thankful  sacri- 
fice. When  it  pleaseth  their  deities  to  take  the 
wife  of  a  mau  from  him,  it  shows  to  man  the 
tailors  of  the  earth ;  comforting  therein,  that 
when  old  robes  arc  worn  out  there  are  members 
to  make  new.  If  there  were  no  more  women 
but  Fidvia,  then  had  you  indeed  a  cut,  and  the 
case  to  be  lamented ;  tlib  gi-icf  is  crowned  with 
consolation ;  your  old  smock  brings  forth  a  new 
petticoat: — and,  indeed,  the  tears  live  in  an 
onion  that  should  water  this  sorrow. 

ing,  or  setting,  in  the  west,  becomes  the  opposite  of  itself 
Itut,  taking  revolution  simply  as  a  change  of  circumstances, 
the  passage  may  mean  (and  this  is  the  interpretation  of 
t^tecvens)  that  the  pleasure  of  to  day  becomes  subsequently 
a  pain — the  opposite  of  iiself.  Mr.  Collier's  MS.  Corrector 
alters  revolution  lotcermg  to  repetition  touring,  but  we  hold 
to  the  original 


Act  I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKE  III. 


Ant.  The  business   she  hath   broached  in  the 

state 
Cannot  endure  my  absence. 

Eno.  And  the  basiness  you  have  broached 
here  cannot  be  without  you ;  especially  that  of 
Cleopatra's,  which  wholly  depends  on  your 
abode. 

A>it.  No  more  light  answers.    Let  our  officers 
Have  notice  what  we  purpose.     I  shall  break 
The  cause  of  our  exDcdience  to  the  queen. 
And  get  her  love  to  part.*    For  not  alone 
The  death  of  Fulvia,  with  more  urgent  touches, 
Do  strongly  speak  to  us ;  but  the  letters  too 
Of  many  our  contriving  friends  in  Rome 
Petition  us  at  home :  Sextus  Pompeius 
Hath  given  the  dare  to  Caesar,  and  commands 
The  empire  of  the  sea :  our  slippery  people 
(Whose  love  is  never  Kuk'd  to  the  deserver 
Till  his  deserts  are  past)  begin  to  throw 
Pompey  the  great,  and  all  his  dignities. 
Upon  his  son ;  who  high  in  name  and  power. 
Higher  than  both  in  blood  and  life,  stands  up 
For  the  main  soldier :  whose  quality,  going  ou. 
The  sides  o'  the  world  may  danger:   Much  is 

breeding, 
Which,  like  the  courser's  hair,  hath  yet  but  life. 
And  not  a  serpent's  poison.     Say,  our  pleasure, 
To  such  whose  place  is  under  us,  requires 
Our  quick  remove  from  hence. 

Eno.  I  shall  do 't.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  ni. 

Enter  Cleopatra,  Cilariiian,  Iras,  and 

Alexas. 

Cleo.  Where  is  he  ? 

Char.  I  did  not  see  him  si:  r;e. 

Cleo.  See  where  he  is,  who 's  with  him,  what 
he  does : — 
I  did  not  send  you : — If  you  find  him  sad, 
Say  I  am  dancing ;  if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I  am  sudden  sick  :  Quick,  and  retui-n. 

{Exit  Alex. 
Char.  Madam,  methinks,  if  you  did  love  him 
dearly, 
You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

Cleo.  What  should  I  do  I  do  not  ? 

Char.  lu  each  thing  give  him  way,  cross  him 

in  nothing. 
Cleo.  Thou  teachest  like  a  fool :   the  way  to 
lose  him. 

a  Some  of  the  commentators  would  read  "  leave  to  part." 
To  get  her  love,  here,  may  be  to  prevail  upon  her  love  that 
■we  may  part.     Pope  \vas  the  first  to  real  leave. 


Char.  Tempt  him  not  so  too  far :  I  wish,  for- 
bear; 
Li  time  we  hate  that  which  we  often  fear. 

Enter  Autony. 

But  here  comes  Antony. 

Cleo.  I  am  sick  and  sullen. 

Ant.  I  am  sorry   to   give   breathing  to  my 

purpose. — 
Cleo.  Help  me  away,  dear  Charmian,  I  shall 
fall; 
It  cannot  be  thus  long,  the  sides  of  nature 
Will  not  sustaia  it. 
Ant.  Now,  my  dearest  qusen, — ' 

Cleo.  Pray  you,  stand  farther  from  me. 
Ant.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Cleo.  I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there 's  some 
good  news. 
What  says  the  married  woman  ? — You  may  go ; 
'Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come  ! 
Let  her  not  say 't  is  I  that  keep  you  here, 
I  have  no  power  upon  you ;  hers  you  are.  • 
Ant.  The  gods  best  know, — 
Cleo.  0,  never  was  there  queen 

So  mightily  betray' d !     Yet,  at  the  first, 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 

Ant.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Why  should  I  think  you  can  be  mine, 
and  true. 
Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned  gods. 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia  ?     Riotous  mad- 
ness. 
To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
"Which  break  themselves  in  swearing  ! 

Ant.  Most  sweet  queen, — 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  colour  for  youi 

going, 

But  bid  farewell,  and  go :  when  you  sued  stay- 
ing. 

Then  was  the  time  for  words  :  No  going  then  ;— 

Eternity  was  in  our  lips  and  eyes ; 
Bliss  in  our  brows'  bent ;  none  our  parts  so  poor. 
But  was  a  race  of  heaven :  They  are  so  still. 
Or  thou,  the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world, 
Ai-t  turn'd  the  greatest  liar. 

Ant.  How  now,  lady  ! 

Cleo.  I  would  I  had  thy  inches ;  thou  shouldst 
know 
There  were  a  heart  in  Egypt. 

j^iil^  Hear  me,  queen : 

The  strong  necessity  of  time  commands 
Our  services  a  while ;  but  my  fuU  heart 
Remains  in  use  with  you.     Our  Italy 
Shines  o'er  with  civil  swords :  Sextus  Pompeiuj; 
Makes  his  approaches  to  the  port  of  Rome : 

2oa 


Act  M 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  IV. 


Eqiulitj  of  two  domestic  powers 

Breeds  scrupulous  faction:  The  bated,  grown 

to  strength, 
^\je  ucwlj  grown  to  love  :  the  coudemiicd  Pom- 

pe.v, 
Rich  in  his  father's  honour,  creeps  apace 
Into  the  hearts  of  such  as  have  not  thriv'd 
Upon  the  present  state,  whose  numbers  threaten ; 
And  quietness,  grown  sick  of  rest,  would  purge 
By  any  desperate  change :  My  more  particular, 
And  that  which  most  with  you  should  safe'  my 

goiug, 
Is  Fuhia's  death. 

Cleo.  Though  age  from  foUy  could  not  give 
me  freedom, 
It  does  from  childishness  :— Cim  Fid\ia  die? 

Ant.  She 's  dead,  my  queen : 
Look  here,  and  at  thy  sovereign  leisure  read 
The  garboils''  she  awak'd ;  at  the  last,  best ; 
See  when  and  where  she  died. 

CUo.  0  most  false  love ! 

Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fiU 
"With  sorrowful  water  ?  Now  I  see,  I  see. 
In  Fulvia's  death  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

A>U.  Quarrel  no   more,  but  be  prepar'd  to 
know 
The  purposes  I  bear ;  which  are,  or  cease. 
As  you  shall  give  the  advice  :  By  the  fire  . 
That  quickens  Nilus'  slime,  I  go  from  hencp, 
Thy  soldier,  servant ;  making  peace  or  war 
As  thou  affect'st. 

CUo.  Cut  ray  lace,  Charmian,  come ; — 

But  let  it  be. — I  am  quickly  ill,  and  well, 
So  Antony  loves.'' 

Ant.  My  precious  queen,  forbear ; 

And  give  true  evidence  to  his  love,  which  stands 
An  honourable  trial. 

Cleo.  So  Fulvia  told  me. 

I  prithee,  turn  aside,  and  w  eep  for  her ; 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say  the  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt : ''  Good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling ;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honour. 

Ant.  You  '11  heat  my  blood  :  no  more. 

Cleo.  You   can   do   better   vet  ;    but   this   is 
meetly. 

Ant.  Now,  by  my  sword, — 


»  .?(7/e— render  safe. 

**  Gar<ioi/<— disorders, commotioni;  probably  derived  frbm 
the  »ame  tourcc  as  turmoil. 

c  This  passage  was  usually  pointed  «itli  .-i  colon  alter 
"  well;"  and,  »o  pointed,  it  is  interpreted  by  Capell,  "such  is 
Antony  s  love,  fluctuating  and  subject  to  sudden  turns,  like 
my  health."  We  follow  the  punctua'.ion  of  the  original, 
which  is  more  consonant  with  the  rapid  and  rnpricioiis 
demeanour  of  Cleopatra— I  am  quickly  ill,  and  I  am  well 
again,  so  that  Antony  loves. 

d  Kgypl—the  quten  of  Egypt. 

234 


Cleo.  And  target, — Still  he  mends ; 

But  this  is  not  the  best :  Look,  prithee,  Char- 
mian, 
How  this  llerculcan  Roman  docs  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe. 

Ant.  I  '11  leave  you,  lady. 

Cleo.  Courteous  lord,  one  word. 
Sir,  you  and  I  must  part, — but  that 's  not  it : 
Sir,  you  and  I  have  lov'd, — but  there 's  not  it ; 
That  you  know  well :  Something  it  is  I  would, — 
O,  my  oblivion  is  a  very  Antony, 
And  I  am  all  forgotten. 

Ant.  But  that  your  royalty 

Holds  idleness  your  subject,  I  should  take  you 
For  idleness  it.self. 

Cko.  'T  is  sweating  labour 

To  bear  such  idleness  so  near  the  heart 
As  Cleopatra  this.     But,  sir,  forgive  me ; 
Since  my  becomings  kill  me,  when  they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you :  Your  honour  calls  you  hence ; 
Therefore  be  deaf  to  my  uupitied  folly. 
And  all  the  gods  go  with  you !  Upon  your  sword 
Sit  laui-el"  victory,  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew'd  before  your  feet ! 

Anf.  Let  us  go.     Come : 

Our  separation  so  abides,  and  flies. 
That  thou,  residing  here,  go'st  yet  with  me. 
And  I,  hence  fleeting,  here  remain  with  thee. 
Away.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV. — Rome.     An  Apartment  in 
Csesai-'*  House. 

Enter  Octavius   Cesaii,  Lepidus,  and 
Attendants. 

C'^5.  You  may  see,  Lepidus,  and  henceforth 
know. 
It  is  not  CfEsar's  natural  vice  to  hate 
Our  great  competitor'':  from  Alexandria 
This  is  the  news  :  He  fishes,  drinks,  and  wastes 
The  lamps  of  night  in  revel ;  is  not  more  man- 
like 
Than  Cleopatra ;  nor  the  queen  of  Ptolemy 
More  womanly  than  he :  hardly  gave  audience, 
Or  vouchsafd  to  think  he  had  partners :  You 

shall  find  there 
A  man  who  is  the  abstract  of  all  faidts 
That  all  men  follow. 

Lcp.  I  must  not  tliiuk  there  arc 

Evils  enow  to  darken  all  his  goodness  : 


a  Lnurel.  The  use  of  the  substantive  adjectively  wa.s  a 
peculiarity  of  the  poetry  of  Shakspcrc's  time,  which  has  been 
revived  with  advantase  in  our  own  da 

^  Our  great.—  Ihit  is  Johnson's  cniuiidaiion  of  the  original 
one  great.    Competitor  is  Uicd  in  tlic  .sense  of  associate. 


Act  I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  IV. 


His  faults,  in  him,  seem  as  the  spots  of  heaven, 
More  fiery  by  night's  blackness ;  hereditary, 
Rather  than  purchas'd ;  what  he  cannot  change. 
Than  what  he  chooses. 

Cces,  You  are  too  indulgent :  Let 's  grant  it 
is  not 
Amiss  to  tumble  on  the  bed  of  Ptolemy ; 
To  give  a  kingdom  for  a  mirth ;  to  sH 
And  keep  the  turn  of  tippling  with  a  slave  ; 
To  reel  the  streets  at  noon,  and  stand  the  buifet 
With  knaves   that  smell   of  sweat ;   say,   tliis 

becomes  him, 
(xVs  his  composure  must  be  rare  indeed 
Whom  these  things  cannot  blemish,)  yet  must 

Antony 
No  way  excuse  his  soHs,"  when  we -do  bear 
So  great  weight  in  his  Hghtness.     If  he  fiU'd 
His  vacancy  with  his  voluptuousness, 
Pull  surfeits,  and  the  dryness  of  his  bones. 
Call  on  him  for 't :  but,  to  confound  such  time. 
That  drums  him  from  his  sport,  and  speaks  as 

loud 
As  his  own  state,  and  ours, — 't  is  to  be  chid. 
As  we  rate  boys ;  who,  being  matm-e  in  know- 
ledge. 
Pawn  their  experience  to  their  present  pleasure, 
And  so  rebel  to  judgment. 

Unter  a  Messenger. 

jjej).  Here  's  more  news. 

Mess.  Thy   bidduigs   have  been    done;    and 
every  hour. 
Most  noble  Ceesar,  shalt  thou  have  report 
How  'tis  abroad.     Pompey  is  strong  at  sea ; 
And  it  appears  he  is  belov'd  of  those 
That  only  have  fear'd  Csesar :  to  the  ports 
The  discontents  repair,  and  men's  reports 
Give  him  much  wrong' d. 

Cas.       I  should  have  known  no  less  : — 
It  hath  been  taught  us  from  the  prunal  state. 
That  he  which  is  was  wish'd,  until  he  were : 
And  the  ebb'd  man,  ne'er  lov'd  till  ne'er  worth 

love. 
Comes  fear'd^-  by  being  lack'd.     This  common 

body. 
Like  to  a  vagabond  flag  upon  the  stream, 
Goes  to,  and  back,  lackeying  ■=  the  varying  tide, 
To  rot  itself  with  motion. 

a  5oi7j— defilements,  taints.  The  original  has /oi7s,  which 
Malone  amended.  .  , 

b  Fi-ar'd  in  the  original :  the  general  reading  is  dear  d. 
But  it  mav  be  argued  that  Caesar  is  speaking;  and  that,  in 
the  notion's  of  one  who  aims  at  supreme  authority,  to  be 
feared  and  to  be  loved  are  pretty  synonymous. 

c  Lackeying— the  original  has  lacking  (not  lashing  as  the 
commentators  state) ;  but  the  reading  is  evidently  corrupt, 
and  we  may  properly  adopt  Theobald's  emendation  ot 
lackeying. 


Mess.  Caesar,  I  bring  thee  word, 

Menecrates  and  Menas,  famous  pirates. 
Make  the  sea  serve  them ;  which  they  ear  and 

wound 
With  keels  of  every  kind  :  Many  hot  inroads 
They  make  in  Italy ;  the  borders  maritime 
Lack  blood  to  think  on  't,   and  flush  youth 

revolt: 
No  vessel  can  peep  forth  but 't  is  as  soon 
Taken  as  seen ;  for  Pompey' s  name  strikes  more 
Than  could  his  war  resisted. 

C^s.  Antony, 

Leave  thy  lascivious  vassails.*  When  thou  once 
Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 
Hu-tius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 
Did  famine  foUow  ;^  whom  thou  fought'st  against. 
Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  satience  more 
Than  savages  could  suffer :  Thou  didst  drink 
The  stale  of  horses,  and  the  gilded  puddle 
Which  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate  then 

did  deign 
llie  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge  ; 
Yea,  like  the  stag,  when  snow  the  pasture  sheets. 
The  barks  of  trees  thou  browsed'st ;  on  the  Alps 
It  is  reported  thou  didst  eat  strange  flesh. 
Which  some  did  die  to  look  on :  And  all  tliis 
(It  woimds  thine  honour  that  I  speak  it  now) 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier,  that  thy  cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not. 

Lep.  'T  is  pity  of  him. 

Cas.  Let  his  shames  quickly 

Drive  him  to  Rome :    T  is  time  we  twain 
Did  show  ourselves  i'  the  field ;  and,  to  that  end, 
Assemble  me''  immediaie  council.     Pompey 
Thrivcj  in  our  idleness. 

Zep.  To-morrow,  Caesar, 

I  shaU  be  furnish'd  to  inform  you  rightly 
Both  what  by  sea  and  land  I  can  be  able. 
To  front  this  present  time. 

(j^s.  TiU  wliich  encounter. 

It  is  my  business  too.     Farewell. 

a  Vassalls.—The  spelling  of  the  original  is  vassaiks.  The 
modern  reading  is  wassals  or  wassails.  A  question  then 
arises  in  what  sense  Shakspere  used  this  word.  In  three  other 
passages  of  the  original,  where  the  old  English  word  wassal 
is  used  it  is  spelt  wassels.  Wassal  is  employed  by  Shakspere 
in  the  strict  meaning  of  drunken  revelry;  and  that  could 
scarcely  be  called  "lascivious."  On  the  contrary,  "leave 
thy  lascivious  vassals"  might  express  Cssavs  contempt  for 
Cleopatra  and  her  minions,  who  were  strictly  the  vassals  of 
Antony,  the  queen  being  one  of  his  tributaries.  W  e  leave 
the  original  word  vassails.  Henley,  one  of  the  variorum 
commentators,  says,  "  rassahis,  without  question,  the  true 

'^t'Afscmbleme.  So  the  original.  The  modern  reading  is 
assemble  we;  and  it  is  justified  by  the  assertion  that  one 
equal  is  speaking  to  another.  The  commentators  forget  the 
contempt  which  Caesar  had  for  Lepidus  :  they  forget,  too, 
the  crouching  humility  of  Lepidus  himself:— 

"  What  you  shall  know  meantime 
Of  stirs  abroad,  I  shall  beseech  you,  sir, 
To  let  me  be  partaker." 

285 


-Act  I.J 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKE  V. 


Lep.  Farewell,    my   lord:    What    vou    shall 
know  meantime 
Of  stirs  abroad,  I  shall  beseech  you,  sir, 
To  let  me  be  partaker. 

("'f^-  Doubt  not,  sir ; 

I  knew  it  for  my  bond.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Alexandria.   A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enler  Cleop.\tra,  Ciiarmian,  Iras,  and 
Maudiax. 

Cleo.  Charniian, — 
Char.  Madam. 
Cleo.  Ha,  ha  !— 
Give  mc  to  drink  mandragora. 

Char.  Wliy,  madam  ? 

Cleo.  That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap 
of  time 
My  Antony  is  away. 

Char.  You  think  of  him  too  much. 

CUo.  0,  't  is  treason ! 

Char.  Madam,  I  trust  not  so. 

CUo.  Thou,  eunuch  !  ^fardian ! 
Mar.  Vfhai  's  your  highness'  pleasure  ? 

Cleo.  Not  now  to  hear  thee  sing ;  I  take  no 
pleasure 
In  aught  an  eunuch  has :  'T  is  well  for  thee. 
That,  being  uuseminar'd,  thy  freer  thoughts 
May  not  fly  forth  of  Egypt.     Hast  thou  aiTec- 
tions  ? 
Mar.  Yes,  gracious  madam. 
Cleo.  Indeed? 

Mar.  Not  in  deed,   madam;   for  J   can  do 
nothing 
But  what  indeed  is  honest  to  be  done : 
Yet  I  have  fierce  affections,  and  think 
What  Venus  did  with  Mars. 

Cleo.  O  Charmian, 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now  ?  Stands  he,  or 

sits  he  ? 
Or  docs  he  walk  ?  or  is  he  on  his  horse  ? 
0  happy  horse,  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony  ! 
Do  bravely,  horse !  for  wot'st  thou  whom  thou 

mov'st  ? 
The  denu-Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet  *  of  men.— He 's  speaking  now. 
Or  murmuring,  'Wliere  's  my  serpent  of  old 

Nile?' 
For  so  he  caUs  me :  Now  I  feed  myself 
With  most  delicious  poison : — Think  on  me. 
That  am  with  Phoebus'  amorous  pinches  black, 
And  wrinkled  deep  in  time?     Broad-fronted 
Cffisar, 


When  thou  wast  here  above  the  ground,  I  was 
A  morsel  for  a  monarch  :  and  great  Pompey 
Would  stand,  and  make  his  eyes  grow  in  my 

brow  J 
There  would  he  anchor  his  aspect,  and  die 
With  looking  on  his  life. 

Enter  Alexas. 

■^le.r.  Sovereign  of  Egypt,  hail ! 

Cleo.  How  much  unlike  art  thou  ]\Iark  An- 
tony! 
Yet,  coming  from  him,  that  great  medicine  hath 
With  his  tinct  gilded  thee. — 
How  goes  it  with  my  brave  ^Mark  Antony  ? 

Alex.  Last  tiling  he  did,  dear  queen. 
He  kiss'd,— tiie  last  of  many  doubled  kisses, — 
This  orient  pearl:— His   speech  sticks   in  my 
heart. 
Cleo.  Mine  ear  must  pluck  it  thence. 
Alex.  Good  friend,  quoth  he, 

Say,  'The  firm  Roman  to  great  Egypt  scuds 
This  treasui-c  of  an  oyster ;  at  whose  foot. 
To  mend  the  petty  present,  I  \vill  piece 
Her  opulent  throne  with  kingdoms  :  All  the  cast,' 
Say  thou,  'shall  call  her  mistress.'  So  he  nodded. 
And  soberly  did  mount  an  arm-gaunt*  steed, 
WTio  neigh'd  so  high,  that  what  I  would  have 

spoke 
Was  beastly  dumb'd  by  him. 

Cleo.  What,  was  he  sad,  or  merry  ? 

Alex.  Like  to  the  time  o'  the  year  between 
the  extremes 
Of  hot''  and  cold  :  he  ^Tas  nor  sad  nor  merry. 

Cleo.  O  wcU-divided  disposition ! — Note  him, 
Note  him,  good  Charmian,  't  is  the  man ;  but 

note  him : 
He  was  not  sad ;  for  he  would  shire  ou  those 
That  make  their  looks  by  his  :  he  was  not  merry ; 
Which  seera'd  to  tell  them  liis  remembrance  lay 
In  Egypt  with  his  joy :  but  between  both  : 
0  heavenly  mingle  ! — Beest  thou  sad,  or  merrv. 
The  violence  of  either  thcc  becomes ; 
So  does  it  no  man  else. — Mett'st  thou  my  posts  ? 
Alex.  Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers : 
"Why  do  you  send  so  tliick  ? 

Cleo.  Who 's  bom  that  day 

When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar. — Ink  and  paper,  Charmian. — 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas.— Did  I,  Charmian, 
Ever  love  Caesar  so  P 


»  flurj^nW— helmet.     In  Henry  VI.  we  have,  "I  wear 
*\ofr.  my  burgonet."  i      i   »  ur 

286 


a  Arm-gaunt.  So  the  original.  Some  propose  to  read 
tcrnuigant;  but  arm-gaunt,  of  whicli  we  have  no  other 
example,  conveys  the  notion  of  a  steed  fierce  and  terrible  in 
•irmour;  and  the  epithet  therefore  is  not  to  be  lightly 
replaced  by  any  other. 

i*  Hot.    So  the  original.     Stecvens  reads  heat. 


Act  I.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  V. 


Char.  0  that  brave  Caesar ! 

Cleo.  Be  chok'd  with  sach  another  emphasis ! 
&ay,  the  brave  Autony. 

Char.  The  vaUant  Caesar ! 

Cleo.  By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Caesar  paragou  again 
My  man  of  men  ! 


Char.  By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 

I  sing  but  after  you. 

Cleo.  My  salad  days ! 

When  I  was  green  in  judgment, — cold  in  blood. 
To  say  as  I  said  then ! — But  come,  away : 
Get  me  ink  and  paper :  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I  '11  uupeo])le  Egypt. 

{Exeunt 


WiM^i^^': 


[Scene  IV.  Atrium  in  C;csar's  House.  J 


IMcdal  of  Antony  aoU  Cleopntra.j 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OE  ACT  I. 


'Scene  I. — "Tonight  we'll  wander  through  the 
stress,"  &c. 

In  this,  and  the  subsequent  Illustrations  in  each 
act,  the  quotations  are  from  North's  Plutarch, 
unless  otherwise  distinguished. 

"But  now  again  to  Cleopati-a.  Plato  writeth 
that  there  are  four  kinds  of  flattery,  but  Cleopatra 
divided  it  into  iiiauy  kinds.  For  she  (were  it  in 
sport,  or  in  matters  of  earnest)  still  devised  sundry 
new  delights  to  have  Antonius  at  commandment, 
never  leaving  him  night  nor  day,  nor  once  letting 
him  go  out  of  her  sight.  For  she  would  play  at 
dice  with  him,  drink  with  him,  and  hunt  commonly 
with  him,  and  also  be  with  him  when  he  went  to 
any  exercise  or  activity  of  body.  And  sometime 
also,  when  he  would  go  up  and  down  the  city  dis- 
guised like  a  slave  in  the  night,  and  would  peer 
into  poor  men's  windows  and  their  shops,  and  scold 
and  brawl  within  the  house,  Cleopati-a  would  be  also 
in  a  chambermaid's  array,  and  amble  up  and  down 
the  streets  with  him,  so  that  oftentimes  Antonius 
bare  away  both  mocks  and  blows.  Now,  though 
most  men  misliked  this  manner,  yet  the  Alexan- 
drians were  commonly  glad  of  this  jollity,  and  liked 
it  well,  saying,  very  gallant  ly  and  wisely,  that 
Antonius  showed  them  a  comical  face,  to  wit,  a 
merry  countenance ;  and  the  Romans  a  tragical  face, 
that  is  to  say,  a  grim  look." 

'  Scene  II.—"  Fidvia  thy  wife  first  came  into  the 
field." 

"  Now,  Antonius  delighting  in  these  fond  and 
childish  pastimes,  very  ill  news  were  brought  him 
from  two  places.  The  first  from  Rome,  that  his 
brother  Lucius  and  Fulvia  his  wife  fell  out  first 
between  themselve-s,  and  afterwards  fell  to  open  war 
with  C;csar,and  had  brought  all  to  nought,  that  they 
were  both  driven  to  fly  out  of  Italy.  The  second 
news  as  ba'l  as  the  first :  that  Labienus  conquered 
all  Asia  with  the  army  of  the  Partbians,  from  the 
river  of  Euphrate-i,  and  from  Syria,  unto  the  country 
of  Lydia  and  Ionia.  Then  began  Antonius,  with 
much  ado,  a  little  to  rouse  himself,  as  if  he  had  been 
wakened  out  of  a  deep  slecj),  and,  as  a  man  may  say, 
coming  out  of  a  great  drunkenness.  So,  first  of  all, 
he  bent  him.se'Jf  against  the  Parthian.^,  and  went  as 
far  aa  the  country  of  Phccnicia ;  but  tlierc  he  received 
lamentable  letters  from  his  wife  Fulvia.  Whereupon 
he  straight  returned  towardflItaly,with  two  hundred 
288 


sail,  and  as  he  went  took  up  his  friends  by  the  way 
that  fled  out  of  Italy  to  come  to  him.  By  them  he 
was  informed  that  his  wife  Fulvia  was  the  only  caxise 
of  this  war ;  who,  being  of  a  peevish,  crooked,  and 
troublesome  nature,  had  purposely  rai.sed  this  up- 
roar in  Italy,  in  hope  thereby  to  draw  him  from 
Cleopatra.  But  by  good  fortune  his  wife  Fulvia, 
going  to  meet  with  Antonius,  sickened  by  the  way, 
and  died  in  the  city  of  Sicion  :  and  therefore  Octa- 
vius  Caesar  and  he  were  the  easier  made  friends 
again." 

3  Scene  IV.—  "  TMien  thou  once 

Wast  beaten  from  Modena,"  &c. 

"  Cicero,  on  the  other  side,  being  at  that  time  the 
chiefest  man  of  authority  and  estimation  in  the  city, 
ho  stirred  up  all  men  against  Antonius ;  so  that  in 
the  end  he  made  the  Senate  pronounce  him  an  ene- 
my to  his  country,  and  appointed  young  Ciesar  Ser- 
jeants to  can-y  axes  before  him,  and  such  other  signs 
as  were  incident  to  the  dignity  of  a  consul  or  prretor ; 
and,  moreover,  sent  Hircius  and  Pansa,  then  con- 
suls, to  drive  Antonius  out  of  Italy.  These  two 
consuls,  togetherwith  C;esar,  who  also  had  an  army, 
went  against  Antonius,  thatbeseiged  the  city  of  Mo- 
dena, and  there  overthrew  him  in  battle  ;  but  both 
the  consuls  were  slain  there.  Antonius,  flying  upon 
this  overthrow,  fell  into  great  misery  all  at  once:  but 
the  chiefest  want  of  all  other,  and  that  which  pinched 
him  most,  was  famine.  Howbeit  he  was  of  such  a 
strong  nature,  that  by  patience  he  would  overcome 
any  adversity ;  and  the  heavier  fortune  lay  upon 
him,  the  more  constant  showed  he  himself.  Every 
man  that  fceleth  want  or  adversity  knowcth  by  vir- 
tue and  discretion  what  he  should  do ;  but  when  in- 
deed they  are  overlaid  with  extremity,  and  be  sore 
oppressed,  few  have  the  hearts  to  follow  that  which 
they  praise  and  commend,  and  much  less  to  avoid 
that  they  reprove  and  mislike :  but  rather  to  the 
contrary,  they  yield  to  their  accustomed  easy  life, 
and  through  faint  heart  and  lack  of  courage  do 
change  their  first  mind  and  purpose.  And  therefore 
it  was  a  wonderful  example  to  the  soldiers  to  see 
Antonius,  that  was  brought  up  in  all  fineness  and 
superfluity,  soea-ily  to  drink  puddle-water,  and  to 
eat  wild  friiits  and  roots :  and,  moreover,  it  is  re- 
ported, that  even  as  they  passed  the  Alps  they  did 
eat  the  barks  of  trees,  and  such  beasts  as  never  man 
tiiated  of  their  flesh  before." 


[Room  in  Pompey's  House.] 


ACT  II. 


SCENE   I. — Messma.     A  Room  in  Pompey'5 
House. 

Enter  Pomtey,  Meneckates,  and  Menas. 

Fom.  If  the  great  gods  be  just,  they  shall 
assist 
The  deeds  of  justest  men. 

Mene.  Know,  worthy  Pompey, 

That  what  they  do  delay  they  not  deny. 

Fom.  Whiles  we  are  suitors  to  their  throne, 
decays 
The  thmg  we  sue  for. 

Mene.  We,  ignorant  of  ourselves. 

Beg  often  our  own  harms,  which  the  wise  powers 
Deny  us  for  our  good ;  so  find  we  profit, 
By  losing  of  our  prayers. 

Tom.  I  shall  do  weU : 

The  people  love  me,  and  the  sea  is  mine ; 
My  power 's  a  crescent,  ="  and  my  auguring  hope 
Says  it  will  come  to  the  full.     Mark  Antony 
In  Egypt  sits  at  dinner,  and  -will  make 
Nc   wars  without   doors:    Caesar  gets  money 
where 

3  The  original  has,  "  My  powers  are  crescent."  The  use 
of  if  iu  the  next  line  shows  that  crescent  is  a  substantive. 
The  correction,  which  we  give  in  the  text,  was  made  by 
Theobald. 

TRAaEDI133.--V0L   II.  U 


He  loses  hearts  :  Lepidiis  flatters  both, 
Of  both  is  flatter'd ;  but  he  neither  loves, 
Nor  either  cares  for  him. 

Men.  Ceesar  and  Lepidus 

Are  in  the  field ;  a  mighty  strength  they  carry. 

Fom.  Where  have  you  this  ?  't  is  false. 

Men.  From  SUvius,  sir. 

Fom.  He  dreams ;  I  know  they  are  in  Borne 
together. 
Looking  for  Antony :  But  all  the  charms  of  love. 
Salt  Cleopatra,  soften  thy  wan'd  lip  ! 
Let  witchcraft  join  -with  beauty,  lust  with  both ! 
Tie  up  the  libertine  in  a  field  of  feasts ; 
Keep  his  brain  fuming ;  Epicurean  cooks 
Sharpen  with  cloyless  sauce  his  appetite ; 
That  sleep  and  feeding  may  prorogue  his  honour 
Even  till  a  Lethe'd  dulness.— How  now,  Var- 
rius? 

Enter  Vaukius. 
Far.  This  is  most  certain  that  I  shall  deliver : 
Mark  Antony  is  every  hour  in  Borne 
Expected ;  since  he  went  from  Egypt,  't  is 
A  space  for  farther  travel. 

Fom.  I  could  have  given  less  mattei' 

A  better  ear. — Menas,  I  did  not  think 

289 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOrATllA. 


At!  II  ] 

This  amorous  surfcifcr  woiUil  have  doui\'d  his 

hchu 
For  such  a  petty  war :  Ids  soldiership 
Is  twice  the  other  twain:  Eut  let  us  reai- 
The  higher  our  opinion,  that  oui-  stirring 
Can  from  the  bp  of  Egypt's  widow  pluck 
The  ne'er  lust-wcaricd  Antony. 

jff„,  I  cannot  hope" 

CiBSiu:  and  Antony  shall  well  greet  together  : 
His  wife  that 's  dead  did  trespasses  to  Cresar; 
His  brother  warT'd**  upon  him  ;  although,  I  think. 
Not  mov'd  by  Antony. 

jPoni.  I  know  not,  Meuas, 

How  lesser  enmities  may  give  way  to  greater. 
Were 't  not  that  we  stand  up  against  them  all, 
'Twerc  pregnant  they  should  squai-e  between 

themselves ; 
For  they  have  entertained  cause  enough 
To  draw  their  swords  :  but  how  the  fear  of  us 
May  cement  their  divisions,  and  bind  up 
The  petty  difference,  we  yet  not  know. 
Be  it  as  our  gods  will  have  it !  It  only  stands 
Our  lives  upon  to  use  our  strongest  hands. 
Come,  Menas.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — llome.     A  liooi>i  in  the  House  of 
Lepidus. 

Enter  Exobajibus  and  Lepidus. 

Lrp.  Good  Enobarbus,  't  is  a  worthy  deed, 
iVnd  shall  become  you  well,  to  entreat  youi- 

captain 
To  soft  and  gentle  speech. 

Eiio.  I  shall  entreat  him 

To  answer  like  liimself :  if  Csesar  move  him. 
Let  Antony  look  over  Caesar's  head, 
.Vnd  speak  as  loud  as  IMars.    By  Jupiter, 
Were  I  the  wearer  of  Antonius'  beard, 
I  would  not  shave 't  to-day  ! 

Lep.  'Tis  not  a  time 

For  private  stomacliing. 

Eno.  Every  time 

Serves  for  the  matter  that  is  then  bom  in  it. 

Lep.  But  small  to  greater  matters  must  give 
way. 

Eno.  Not  if  the  small  come  first. 

Lep.  Your  speech  is  passion  : 

But,  pray  you,  stir  no  embers  up.     Here  comes 
The  noble  Antony. 


«  Hope  U  here  used  in  the  sense  ot  expect.  Chaucer  em- 
ploy! the  word  in  thii  sense ;  but  the  inaccuracy  of  this  use 
wa»  czcmplificd  in  Shaksperc's  time,  by  I'uttenham,  wlio 
quote!!  the  spccchof  the  Tanner  of  Tarn  worth  to  Edward  IV. : 
"  I  hope  I  shaU  be  handed  to-morrow." 

b  IVarr'd.  The  original,  by  a  typogr.iphical  error,  has 
uan'd. 

290 


ISCESE  It. 


Enter  Antony  and  Venxidius. 
Eno.  And  yonder  Csesar 

Enter  C^esab,  Mecenas,  and  Agkippa. 

Jnf.  If  we  compose'  well  here,  to  Parthia  : 
Hai-k,  Vcntidius. 

Qcs.  I  do  not  know,  Mccienas  ;  ask  Agrippa. 

L('p.  Noble  friends, 
Tliat  which  combin'd  us  was   most  great,  and 

let  not 
A  leaner  action  rend  us.     What 's  amiss, 
May  it  be  gently  heard  :  When  we  debate 
Our  trivial  difference  loud,  wc  do  commit 
Murlhcr  in  healing  wounds :  Then,  noble  part- 
ners, 
(The  rather,  for  I  earnestly  beseech,) 
Touch  you  the  sourest  points  with  sweetest  terms. 
Nor  ciu'stness  grow  to  the  matter. 

Jut.  T  is  spoken  well : 

Were  wc  before  our  armies,  and  to  fight, 
I  should  do  thus. 

Cees.  Welcome  to  llome. 

Jnt.  Thank  you. 

Cas.  Sit. 

ylnt.  Sit,  sir." 

Ctes.  Nay,  then. 

Jnt.  I  learn,  you  take  things  ill  which  arc 
not  so ; 
Oi*,  being,  concern  you  not. 

Cas.  I  must  be  laugh'd  at, 

If,  or  for  nothing,  or  a  little,  I 
Should  say  myself  offended ;  and  with  you 
Chiefly  i'  the  world:   more  laugh'd  at,  that  1 

should 
Once    name    you    derogately,   when  to   sound 
your  name 

It  not  concem'd  mc. 
Jnt.  My  being  in  Egypt,  Csesar, 

What  was  't  to  you  r 

C(Ps.  No  more  than  my  residing  here  at  llome 
Might  be  to  you  in  Egj-pt :  Yet  if  you  there_ 
Did  practise  on  my  state,  your  being  in  Egypt 
Might  be  my  question. 

Jnt.  How  intend  you,  practis'd  ? 

Ceps.  You  may  be  plcas'd  to  catch  at  mine  intent 
By  what  did  lierc  bcf;d   me.     Your  wife  and 

brother 
Made  wars  upon  rac ;  and  their  contestation 
Was  theme  for  you,  you  were  the  word  of  war. 

a  Compo««^a(frce— conic  to  agreement. 

bin  the  variorum  editions  a  note  of  admiration  is  here 
put,  it  being  explained  by  Stcevens  that  Antony  means  to 
resent  the  invitatiim  of  C'aisar  tliat  he  should  be  seated. 
That  invitation  implied  superiority.  We  agree  witli  Malonc 
that  they  each  desired  the  other  to  be  seated;  and  that 
Ca'sar  puts  an  end  to  the  bandying  of  compliments  by  taking 
his  seat. 


AitII.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  IL 


Ant.  You    do    mistake    your    business ;    my 
brother  never 
Did  urge  me  in  his  act :  I  did  iuquii-e  it ; 
And  have  my  learning  from  some  true  reports, 
That  dre-w  their  swords  with  you.     Did  he  not 

rather 
Discredit  my  authority  with  yours  ; 
And  make  the  wars  alike  against  my  stomach, 
Having  aUke  your  cause?     Of  this,  my  letters 
Before    did    satisfy  you.      If    you  '11  patch  a 

quarrel, 
As  matter  whole  you  have  to  make  it  with,'' 
It  must  not  be  with  this. 

Cees.  You  praise  yourself  by  laying  defects 
of  judgment  to  me ;  but  you  patch'd  up  yom- 
excuses. 

Aiif.  Not  so,  not  so  ; 
I  know  you  could  not  lack,  I  am  cei-taiu  on  't. 
Very  necessity  of  this  thought,  tliat  I, 
Your  partner  iu  the   cause  'gainst  wliich    lie 

fought. 
Could  not  with  graceful  eyes  attend  those  wars 
Which   frouted  mine  own  peace.      As  for  mj 

wife, 
I  would  you  had  her  spirit  in  such  another : 
The  third  o'  the  Morld  is  yours ;  which  with  a 

snaffle 
You  may  pace  easy,  but  not  such  a  wife. 

Em.  'Would  we  had  all  such  wives,  that  the 
men  might  go  to  wars  with  the  women ! 

Ant.  So     much     uncm-bable     her     garboils, 
Caesar, 
Made  out  of  her  impatience,  (which  not  wanted 
Shrewdness  of  poHcy  too,)  I  grieving  grant 
Did  you  too  much  disquiet :  for  that,  you  must 
But  say  I  could  not  help  it. 

Cas.  I  wrote  to  you 

When  rioting  in  Alexandria ;  you 
Did  pocket  up  my  letters,  and  with  taunts 
Did  gibe  my  missive  out  of  audience. 

Ant.  Su-, 

He  fell  upon  me,  ere  admitted ;  then 
Three  kings  I  had  newly  feasted,  and  did  want 
Of  what  I  was  i'  the  morning :  but,  next  day, 
I  told  him  of  myself ;  which  was  as  much 
As  to  have  ask'd  Mm  pardon :  Let  this  fellow 
Be  nothing  of  our  strife ;  if  we  contend. 
Out  of  our  question  wipe  him. 


a  This  is  the  reading  of  the  original;  T)ut  an  ordinary 
reading,  from  the  time  of  Rowe,  has  been 

"  As  matter  whole  you  have  not  to  make  it  with." 

We  doubt  the  propriety  of  departing  from  the  text,  and  the 
meaning  appears  to  us — if  you'll  patch  a  quarrel  so  as  to 
seem  the  luhole  matter  you  have  to  make  it  -with,  you  must 
Dot  patch  it  with  this  complaint.  Whole  is  opposed  to 
patch, 

U  2 


Can,  You  have  broken 

The  article  of  your  oath  ;  which  you  shall  never 
Have  tongue  to  charge  me  -with. 

Lep.  Soft,  Cgesar. 

Ant.  No,  Lepidus,  let  him  speuk ; 
The  honour  is  sacred  which  he  talks  on  now. 
Supposing  that  I  lack'd  it :  But  on,  Caesar ; 
The  article  of  my  oath, — 

C<es.  To  lend  me  arms  and  aid  when  I  re- 
quir'd  them ; 
The  which  you  both  denied. 

Ant.  Neglected,  rather ; 

And  theu,  when  poison'd  hours  bad  bound  me  up 
From  mine  own  knowledge.     As  nearly  as  I 

may, 
I  '11  play  the  penitent  to  you ;  but  mine  honesty 
Shall  not  make  poor  my  greatness,  nor  my  power 
Work  without  it :  Truth  is,  that  Fulvia, 
To  have  me  out  of  Egypt,  made  wars  here  ; 
For  which  myself,  the  ignorant  motive,  do 
So  far  ask  pardon  as  befits  mine  honom- 
To  stoop  in  such  a  case. 

Lep.  .  'T  is  nobly  spoken. 

Mec.  If  it  might  please  you  to  enforce  no 
fui"ther 
The  griefs  between  ye  :  to  forget  them  quite. 
Were  to  remember  that  the  present  need 
Speaks  to  atone  you. 

Lep.  Worthily  spoken,  Mecsenas. 

Eno.  Or,  if  you  borrow  one  another's  love 
for  the  instant,  you  may,  when  you  hear  no 
more  words  of  Pompey,  retm-n  it  again :  you 
shall  have  time  to  \vrangle  in  when  you  have 
nothing  else  to  do. 

Ant.  Thou  art  a  soldier  only ;  speak  no  more, 

Eno.  That  truth  should  be  silent,  I  had  abuost 
forgot. 

Anf.  You     wrong    this    presence,    therefore 
speak  no  more. 

Eno.  Go  to,  then ;  yom-  considerate  stone.'' 

Cas.  I  do  not  much  dislike  the  matter,  but 
The  manner  of  his  speech  :  for  it  cannot  be 
We  shall  remain  in  friendship,  our  conditions 
So  differing  in  their  acts.     Yet,  if  I  knew 
What  hoop  should  hold  us  stanch,  from  edge  to 

edge 
0'  the  world  I  would  pm-sue  it. 

Agr.  Give  me  leave,  Caesar, — 

Cces.  Speak,  Agrippa. 

A(/r.  Thou  hast  a  sister  by  the  mother's  side,' 
Admir'd  Octavia :  great  Mark  Antony 
Is  now  a  widower. 

a  This  is  most  probably  an  allusion  to  the  old  saying  "ss 
silent  as  a  stone,"  which  is  a  frequent  comparison  amongst 
our  ancient  writers. 

291 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  11. 


ACT  II.) 

Ors.  Say  not  so,  Agrippa ; 

If  Cleopatra  heard  you,  your  reproof 
Were  well  descrv'd  of  raslmcss.» 

Jnl.  I  am  uot  married,  Ciesur;  let  me  hear 
Agrippa  further  speak. 

J(/r.  To  hold  you  iu  perpetual  amity. 
To  make  you  brothers,  and  to  knit  your  hearts 
With  an  uuslipping  knot,  take  Antony 
Oetavu  to  his  wUc  :  whose  beauty  clanns 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men ; 
Wliosc  %-irtue,  and  whose  general  graecs,  speak 
That  wliicli  none  else  can  utter.     By  this  mar- 
riage, 
All  little  jealousies,  which  now  seem  great, 
.Ynd  all  great   fears,   which  now   imjort   their 

dangers. 
Would  then  be  nothing :  truths  would  be  talcs 
Wicre  now  half  tales  be  truths:  her  love  to  both 
Would,  each  to  other,  and  all  loves  to  both. 
Draw  after  her.     Pardon  what  I  have  spoke : 
For  't  is  a  studied,  not  a  present  thought. 
By  duty  ruminated. 
'  jnt.  Will  Caesar  speak  ? 

GO'S.  Not  till  he  hears  how  Antony  is  touch'd 
Witii  what  b  spoke  akeady. 

^„t.  "^Vhat  power  is  in  Agrippa, 

Lf  I  would  say,  'Agrippa,  be  it  so,' 

To  make  this  good  ? 

^,  The  power  of  Csesar, 

And  his  power  unto  Octavia. 

Ani.  May  I  never 

To  this  good  purpose,  that  so  fairly  shows, 
Dream  of  impediment !— Let  mc  have  thy  hand : 
Further  this  act  of  grace;  and,  from  this  hour, 
The  heart  of  brothers  govern  in  our  loves, 
And  sway  ovs  great  designs  ! 

Q^.^  There  's  my  hand. 

A  sister  I  bcqacj.h  you,  whom  no  brother 
Did  ever  love  so  Uearly  :  Let  her  live 
To  join  our  kingdoms,  and  our  hearts:  and  never 
Fly  off  our  loves  again ! 

Lep.  HappUy,  amen! 

Ant.  I  did  not  think  to  draw  my  sword  'gainst 
Pompey ; 
For  he  hath  kid  strange  courtesies,  and  great. 
Of  ktc  upon  me :  I  must  thank  him  only. 
Lest  my  remembrance  suffer  ill  report ; 
At  heel  of  that,  defy  him.  . 

Igp^  Time  cjiUs  upon  us : 

Of  us  must  Pompey  presently  be  sought. 
Or  else  he  seeks  out  us. 

^„t.  Where  lies  he  ? 

Cat.  About  the  Mount  Misenum. 


Ant.  What  is  his  strength  by  laJid  ? 

Ctcs.  Great  and  increasing  : 
But  by  sea  he  is  an  absolute  master. 

Ant.  So  is  the  fame. 
'Would  we  had  spoke  together!  Haste  we  for  it: 
Yet,  ere  wc  put  ourselves  iu  arms,  despatch  wc 
The  business  wc  have  tidk'd  of. 

Qf.^  With  most  ghidncss  ; 

And  do  invite  you  to  my  sister's  view. 
Whither  straight  1  '11  lead  you. 

j^l  Let  us,  Lepidus, 

Not  lack  yoiur  company. 

lpp_  Noble  Antony, 

Not  sickness  should  detain  me. 
{Flourish.    Exeunt  Cesaii,  Ant.,  and  Lepidus. 
Mec.  Welcome  from  Egypt,  sir. 
Eno.  Half  tlie  heart  of  Cffisur,  worthy  Me- 
ca;nas !— my  honourable  friend,  Agrippa  !— 
Agr.  Good  Enobarbus ! 
Mec.  We  have  cause  to  be  glad  that  matters 
ai-e  so  weU  digested.     You  stayed  weU  by  it  in 

Egypt. 

Eno.  Ay,  sir;  we  did  sleep  day  out  of  coun- 
tenance, and  made  the  night  hght  with  drinking. 

Mec.  Eight  ^vild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a 
breakfast,   and  but  twelve  persons  there:    Is 

this  true  ?  ^ 

Eno.  This  was  but  as  a  fly  by  an  eagle :  wc 
had  much  more  monstrous  matter  of  feasts, 
which  worthily  deserved  noting. 

Mec.  She 's  a  most  triumphant  lady,  if  report 
be  square  to  her. 

Eno.  \\Tien  she  first  met  Mark  Antony,^  she 
I  pursed  up  his  heart,  upou  the  river  of  Cydnus. 
Agr.  There  she  appeared  indeed;  or  my  re- 
porter devised  well  for  her. 

Eno.  I  \vill  tell  you  : 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  bumish'd  throne. 
Burnt  on  the  water:    the   poop    was    beaten 


gold 


•  of  rath  lies  I 
262 


-on  account  of  rafhneti. 


Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 

The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  :  the  oars 

were  silver ; " 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and 

made 
The  water,  which  they  beat,  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.  For  her  own  person. 
It  bcggar'd  all  dcscriplioii:    she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion,  (cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue,) 
O'er-pieturing  that  Venus,  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature :  on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  Hkc  smiling  Cupids, 

»  The  punctuation  of  the  original  Rives  U3  a  full  pausa 
at  love-.ick.  The  ordinary  reading  is  "^^e  wmds  were  lo^e- 
»ick  with  them. 


Act  ri.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


With  divers-colom-'d  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  tlie  delicate  clieeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid,  did. 

Agr.  0,  rare  for  Antony  ! 

Uno.  Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adomings :  »  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers ;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     Trom  the  bai-ge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  whaifs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her ;  and  Antony, 
Enthrou'd  in  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
"VATiistling  to  the  air ;  which,  but  for  vacancy. 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too. 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

Agr.  Rare  Egyptian ! 

Bno.  Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her. 
Invited  her  to  supper  :  she  replied. 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest ; 
Which  she  entreated :  Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  '  No '    woman  heard 

speak. 
Being  barbor'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast ; 
And,  for  his  ordinary,  pays  his  heart. 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agr.  Royal  wench ! 

She  made  great  Csesar  lay  his  sword  to  bed ; 
He  plough'd  her,  and  she  cropp'd. 

Eno.  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street : 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted, 
That  she  did  make  defect,  perfection. 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 

Mec.  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 

'Em.  Never ;  he  will  not ; 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety :  Other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed ;  but  she  makes  hungry 
Wbere  most  she  satisfies.     For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her ;  that  the  ho'y  priests 
Bless  her  when  she  is  riggish. 

Mec.  If  beauty,  wisdom,  modesty,  can  settle 
Tlie  heart  of  Antony,  Octavia  is 
A  blessed  lottery  to  him. 

Agr.  Let  us  go. — 

Good  Enobarbus,  make  yourself  my  guest, 
Whilst  you  abide  here. 

Eno.  Humbly,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

\Exe2mt. 


a  TVartiirton  proposed  to  read  adorings ;  and  the  contro- 
versy upon  the  matter  is  so  full  ;hat  Boswell  prints  it  as  a 
sort  of  supplement  at  the  end  of  the  play.  We  hold  to  the 
cdcrninys  of  the  original. 


[SCEKE  III. 

SCENE    III.— The  same.    A  Room  in  Censara 
House. 

Enter  Cesab,  An'tont,  Octavia  letweett  them^ 
Attendants,  and  a  Soothsayer. 

Ant.  The  world,  and  my  great    office,  will 
sometimes 
Divide  me  from  your  bosom. 

Octa.  All  which  time 

Before  the  gods  my  knee  shall  bow  my  prayers 
To  them  for  you. 

Ant.  Good  night,  sir. — My  Octavia, 

Read  not  my  blemishes  in  the  world's  report : 
I    have    not   kept    my  square ;    but    that    to 

come 
Shall  all  be  done  by  the  rule.     Good  m'ght,  dear 
lady. — Good  night,  sir. 

des.  Good  night, 

[Exen7it  C^SAE,  a}Hl  Octavia. 

Ant.  Now,  sirrah  !    you  do  Avish  yourself  in 
Egypt  ? 

Sooth.  'Would  I  had  never  come  from  thence, 
nor  you  thither ! 

Ant.  If  you  can,  your  reason? 

Sooth.  I  see  it  in  my  motion,  have  it  not  in 
my  tongue :  But  yet  hie  you  to  Egypt  again. 

Ant.  Say  to  me. 
Whose  fortunes   shall  rise  higher,  CsEsar's  or 
mine?* 

Sooth.  Csesar's. 
Therefore,  0  Antony,  stay  not  by  his  side : 
Thy  daemon  (that  thy  spirit  which  keeps  thee)  is 
Noble,  coiu'ageous,  high,  unmatchable, 
"VThere  Csesar's  is  not ;  but  near  him  thy  angel 
Becomes  a  Fear,  as  being  o'erpower'd;  therefore 
Make  space  enough  between  you. 

A7it.  Speak  this  no  more. 

Sooth.  To  none  but  thee ;  no  more,  but  when 
to  thee. 
If  thou  dost  play  with  him  at  any  game. 
Thou  art  sm-e  to  lose  ;  and,  of  that  natural  luck, 
He    beats   thee  'gainst  the  odds ;    thy  lustre 

thickens 
Wlien  he  shines  by  :  I  say  again,  thy  spirit 
Is  all  afraid  to  govern  thee  near  him ; 
But,  he  away,  't  is  noble. 


Ant. 


Get  thee  ffone ; 


Say  to  Ventidius  I  would  speak  with  him  : — 

[E.vit  Soothsayer. 
He  shall  to  Parthia. — ^Be  it  ai't,  or  hap. 
He  hath  spoken  true  :  The  very  dice  obey  liini ; 
Aiid  in  our  sports  my  better  cunning  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  di-aw  lots,  he  speeds  ; 
His  cocks  do  win  the  battle  still  of  mine, 
"When  it  is  all  to  nought ;  and  his  quails  ever 

2S3 


Act  II.] 

Beat  mine,  inlioop'd,  at  odds.     I  will  to  Egyrit : 
And  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 

i:nter  Ventiditjs. 

I'  the  east  my  pleasure  lies: — 0,  come,  Ventidius, 
You  must  to  Parthia;  your  commission's  ready : 
Follow  me,  and  receive  it.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Vf.—Thc  same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Lepidvs,  ^Iec.3EKAs,  and  Agrippa. 

Lep.  Trouble  yourselves  no    further:    pray 
you,  hasten 
Your  generals  after. 

Jffr.  Sir,  Mark  Antony 

Will  e'en  but  kiss  Oetavia,  and  we'll  follow. 

Lep.  Till  I  shall  see  you  in  your  soldier's  dress, 
Which  will  become  you  both,  farewell. 

]\[(c.  We  shall, 

As  I  conceive  the  journey,  be  at  the  Mount" 
Before  you,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  way  is  shorter ; 

Jkly  purposes  do  draw  me  much  about ; 
You  '11  win  two  days  upon  me. 

Mec,  Agr.  Sir,  good  success  ! 

Lep.  Farewell.  \Exevnt. 

SCENE  V. — ^Uexaudria.     A  'Room  in  the 
Falace. 

Enter   Cleopatka,  Chaemiax,  Iras,  and 
Alexas. 

Cleo.  Give  me  some  music;  music,  moody  food 
Of  us  that  trade  in  love. 

Attend.  The  music,  ho ! 

E7iter  Mabdiax. 

Cleo.  Let  it  alone ;  let  us  to  billiards : 
Come,  Charmian. 

Char.  Mv  arm  is  sore,  best  plav  with  Mai-dian. 

Cleo.  As  well  a  woman  ^vith  an  eunuch  play'd 
As  with  a  woman  : — Come,  you  '11  play  with  me, 
sir? 

Mar.  As  well  as  I  can,  madam. 

Cleo.  And  wlien  good  will  is  show'd,  though 't 
come  too  short. 
The  actor  may  plead  pardon.     I  '11  none  now  : — 
Giye  me  mine  angle,— we'll  to  the  river:  there, 
My  music  playing  far  off,  I  will  betray 
Tawny-finn'd ''  tishes;    my  bended  hook  shall 

pierce 
Their  slimy  jaws  ;  and,  as  I  draw  them  up, 

»  At  Ihr  Mount.  This  no  doubtmcans  at  Mount  Misenum. 
The  original  has  not  the  article, 
b  Tatmgjlnn'il.     The  original  has  tawny  fine. 

20  i 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKES  IV.,  v. 


I  '11  thiidc  ihera  every  one  an  Antony, 
And  say,  Ali,  ah !  you  're  caught. 

Char.  'T  was  merry  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling  ;  when  your  diver 
Did  hang  a  salt-flsh  on  his  hook,  which  he 
With  fervency  drew  up.* 

Cleo.  That  time  !— O  times  ! 

I  laugh'd  him  out  of  patience ;  and  that  night 
I  laugh'd  him  into  patience ;  and  next  mora. 
Ere  the  nintli  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed; 
Theu  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword  Philippan.     0  !  from  Italy  ; 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Ram  thou  thy  fruitful  tidings  in  mine  ears, 
That  long  time  have  been  barren. 

]i[ess.  Madam,  madam, — 

Cko.  Antony 's  dead  ? — 
If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress  : 
But  well  and  free. 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
]\Iy  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

^ess.  First,  madam,  he 's  well 

Cleo.  Why,  there 's  more  gold.    But,  sirrali, 
mark ;  we  use 
To  say  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that. 
The  gold  I  give  thee  will  I  melt,  and  pom- 
Do^vn  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  "Well,  go  to,  I  will ; 

But  there  's  no  goodness  in  thy  face,  if  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful :— so  tart  a  favour 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings ! "    If  not  well, 
Thou  shouldst  come  like  a  fury  crown'd  with 

snakes, 
Not  like  a  formal  man. 

Mess.  Will 't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

Cleo.  I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou 
speak' st : 
Yet,  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well. 
Or  friends  with  Csesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 
I  '11  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  goll,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he  's  weU. 

Cleo.  ^Vell  said. 

Mess.  And  friends  with  Casai-. 

Cleo.  Thou  'rt  an  honest  man. 


a  How  full  of  characteristic  si>iritis  thispassaRO,  in  which 
wo  exactly  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original !  But  the 
variorum  editors  were  not  »ati«lied  witti  it.  According  to 
them,  something  is  wanting  butli  to  the  sense  and  to  the 
metre,  and  so  they  render  't  as  follows  : 

"Well,  go  to,  I  will; 
But  there 's  no  goodness  in  thy  face  :  if  Antony 
Be  free,  and  healthful,— icAy  so  tart  a  favour 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  t  " 


Act  11.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SC£NE   7, 


Mess.  Caesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than 

ever. 
Cleo.  Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 
Mess.  But  yet,  madam, — 

Cleo.  I  do  not  like  '  but  yet/  it  does  allay 
The  good  precedence ;  fie  upon  '  but  yet : ' 
'  But  yet '  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 
Some  monstrous  malefactor.    Prithee,  friend, 
Pour  out  the  pack  of  matter  to  miue  ear. 
The  good  and  bad  together :  He 's  friends  with 

Caesar ; 
In  state  of  health  thou  sa/st;  and  thou  say'st  free. 
Mess.  Free,  madam !   no ;    I  made   no   such 
report : 
He 's  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Cleo.  For  what  good  turn  ? 

Mess.  For  the  best  turn  i'  the  bed. 
Cleo.  I  am  pale,  Charmian. 

3Iess.  Madam,  he 's  married  to  Octavia. 
Cleo.  The    most    infectious  pestilence    upon 
thee !  [Strikes  him  down. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  patience. 
Cleo.  What  say  you  ? — ^Hence, 

\_Strikes  him  again. 
Horrible  villain !  or  I  'U  spurn  tliine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me ;  I  'U  unliair  thy  head ; 

\_She  hales  him  up  and  down. 
Thou  shalt  be  wliipp'd  with  wire,  and  stew'd  in 

brine. 
Smarting  in  Hng'ring  pickle. 

Mess.  Gracious  madam, 

I  that  do  bring  the  news  made  not  the  match. 
Cleo.  Say,  't  is  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give 
thee. 
And  make  thy  fortunes  proud :  the  blow  thou 

hadst 
Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage ; 
And  I  win  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He 's  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  Rogue,  thou  hast  liv'd  too  long. 

[Draws  a  dagger. 
Mess.  Nay,  then  I  'U  rim : — 
What  mean  you,  madam  ?  I  have  made  no  fault. 

[Etit. 
Char.  Good    madam,    keep    yourself    within 
youi'self ; 
The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleo.  Some  innocents  'scape  not  the  thunder- 
bolt.— 
Melt  Egypt  into  NOe !  and  kindly  creature,? 
Turn  all  to  serpents  ! — Call  the  slave  again  ; 
Though  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him : — Call. 
Char.  He  is  afeard  to  come. 
Cleo.  I  will  not  hurt  him  : — 


These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  sti-ike 

A  meaner  than  myself ;  since  I  myself 

Have  given  myself  the  caxise. — Come  hither,  sir. 

Re-enter  Messenger. 

Though  it  be  honest,  it  is  never  good 
To  bring  bad  news :  Give  to  a  gracious  message 
An  host  of  tongues ;  but  led  ill  tidings  tell 
Themselves,  when  they  be  felt. 

Mess.  I  have  done  my  duty. 

Cleo.  Is  he  married  ? 
I  cannot  hate  thee  worser  than  I  do 
If  thou  again  say.  Yes. 

Mess.  He  is  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  gods  confound    thee !    dost    thou 
hold  there  still  ? 

Mess.  Should  I  lie,  madam  ? 

Cleo.  0,  I  would  thou  didst ; 

So  half  my  Egypt  were  submerg'd,  and  made 
A  cistern  for  scal'd  snakes  !  Go,  get  thee  hence : 
Hadst  thou  Narcissus  in  thy  face,  to  me 
Thou  wouldst  appear  most  ugly.  He  is  married? 

Mess.  I  crave  your  highness'  pardon. 

Cleo.  He  is  married  ? 

Mess.  Take  no  offence  that  I  woidd  not  offend 
you: 
To  punish  me  for  what  you  make  me  do 
Seems  much  unequal :  He  is  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  O,  that  his  faidt  should  make  a  knave 
of  thee, 
That  art  not  what  thou  'rt  sure  of ! " — Get  thee 

hence : 
The  merchandise  which  thou  hast  brought  from 

Rome 
Are  aU  too  dear  for  me ;  lie  they  upon  thy  hand, 
And  be  undone  by  'em !  [Exit  Messenger. 

Char.  Good  your  highness,  patience. 

Cleo.  In  praisiag  Antony,  I  have  disprais'd 
Caesar. 

Char.  Many  times,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  am  paid  for  't  now. 

Lead  me  from  hence ; 

I  faint ;  O  Iras,  Charmian. — 'T  is  no  matter  : — 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas ;  bid  hiai 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years. 
Her  inclination ;  let  him  not  leave  out 
The    colour    of    her    hair : — bring    me    word 
quickly. —  [Exit  Alexas. 

Let  him  for  ever  go  : — Let  him  not — Charmian, 


a  Such  is  the  reading  of  the  original.  The  passage  is 
somewhat  obscure,  but  it  has  been  thus  explained: — Thou 
art  not  an  honest  man,  of  which  thou  art  thyself  assured, 
because  thy  master's  faulthasmadeaknaveof  thee.  Several 
emendations  have  been  proposed ;  and  one  suggested  by 
Monck  Mason  has  been  adopted  by  Steevens: — 

"  O,  that  his  fault  should  make  a  knave  of  thee, 
That  art  not !— What  1  thou  'rt  sure  of  't  f " 

295 


ACT  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scr.sB  VI, 


Tliough  be  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgou, 

The  other  way  's  a  Mars :— Bid  you  Ak-xus 

ITo  Makdian. 

Bring  me  word  bow   tall   she    is.— Pity  me, 
Chamiian, 

But  do  not  speak  to  mc.— Lead  me  to  my  cham- 
ber, [Exeunt,  j 

SCENE  Tl.—Near  Misenum. 

Enter  Pompey  and  Menas  at  one  side,  icith 
drum  and  trumpet :  at  another,  Cesak,  Le- 
piDTJs,  Antony,  Enobakbus,  Mecjenas, 
tcith  Soldiers  marchinff. 

Pom.  Your  hostages  I  have,  so  have  you  mine; 
And  we  shall  talk  before  we  fight." 

Q^s,  Most  meet 

That  first  we  come  to  words ;  and  therefore  have 

we 
Our  written  purposes  before  us  sent ; 
"\Yhich,  if  thou  hast  consider'd,  let  us  know 
If  't  will  tie  up  thy  discontented  sword ; 
.Vnd  carry  back  to  Sicily  much  tall  youth, 
Tliat  else  must  perish  here. 

Pom.  To  you  all  three. 

The  senators  alone  of  this  great  world, 
Chief  factors  for  the  gods,— I  do  not  know 
Wherefore  my  father  should  revengers  want, 
Having  a  son,  and  friends  ;  since  Julius  Caesar, 
Wlio  at  Philippi  the  good  Brutus  ghosted, 
There  saw  you  labouring  for  him.     What  was  it 
That  mov'd  pale  Cassius  to  conspire  ?  And  whafc 
Made  the  all-houour'd,  honest,  Roman  Brutus, 
With  the  arm'd  rest,  courtiers  of   beauteous 

freedom. 
To  drench  the  Capitol ;  but  that  they  would 
Have  one  man  but  a  man  ?     And  that  is  it 
Hath  made  me  rig  my  navy ;  at  whose  burthen 
The  anger'd  ocean  foams ;  with  which  I  meant 
To  scourge  the  ingratitude  that  despiteful  Rome 
Cast  on  my  noble  father. 

Cas.  Take  your  time. 

Ant.  Thou  canst  not  fear  us,  Pompey,  with 
thy  sails. 
We  '11  speak  with  thee  at  sea :  at  land,  thou 

know'st 
How  much  we  do  o'ercount  thee. 

Pom.  At  land,  indeed, 

Thou  dost  o'ercount  me  of  my  father's  hou.se ; 
But,  since  the  cuckoo  builds  not  for  himself, 
Remaui  in  't  as  thou  mayst. 

Lep.  Be  pleas'd  to  tell  us 

(Tor  this  is  from  the  present)  how  you  take 
The  offers  we  have  sent  you. 

CiFs.  There  's  the  point. 

296 


Ant.  Which  do  not  be  entreated  to,  but  weigh 
What  it  is  worth  embrac'd. 

Cas.  And  what  may  follow, 

To  try  a  laigcr  fortune. 

Pom.  You  have  made  me  offer 

Of  Sicily,  Sardinia ;  and  I  must 
Rid  all  the  sea  of  pii-atcs ;  then,  to  send 
Measures  of  wheat  to  Rome :  This  'greed  upon, 
To  part  with  uuhack'd  edges,  and  bear  back 
Our  targes  undinted. 

Cas.,  Ant.,  Lep.        That 's  our  offer. 
Po7n.  Know  then, 

I  came  before  you  here,  a  man  prepar'd 
To  take  this  offer  :  But  Mark  Antony 
Put  mc  to  some  impatience : — Though  I  lose 
The  praise  of  it  by  tcUing,  you  must  know, 
When  Caesar  and  your  brother  were  at  blows, 
Your  mother  came  to  Sicily,  and  did  find 
Her  welcome  friendly. 

Atit.  I  have  heard  it,  Pompey  ; 

And  am  well  studied  for  a  liberal  thanks. 
Which  I  do  owe  you. 

Pom.  Let  me  have  your  hand  : 

I  did  not  think,  sir,  to  have  met  you  here. 
Ant.  The  beds  i'  the  east  are  soft;  and  thanks 
to  you. 
That  call'd  me,  timelier  than  my  purpose,  hither; 
For  I  have  gain'd  by  it. 

Cas.  Since  I  saw  you  last. 

There  is  a  change  upon  you. 

Pom.  Well,  I  know  not 

What  counts  harsh  Fortune  casts  upon  my  face; 
But  in  my  bosom  shall  she  never  come, 
To  make  my  heart  her  vassal. 

Lep.  Well  met  here. 

Pom.  1  hope    so,    Lepidus. — Thus    we    are 
agreed ; 
I  crave  our  composition  may  be  written. 
And  seal'd  between  us. 

Cas.  That 's  the  next  to  do. 

Pom,  We  '11  feast  each  other  ere  we  part ; 
and  let  us 
Draw  lots  who  shall  begin. 
Ant.  That  will  T,  Pompey. 

Pom.  No,  Antony,  take  the  lot :  but,  first 
Or  last,  your  fine  Egyptian  cookery 
Shall  have  the  fame.     I  have  heard  that  Julius 

Caesar 
Grew  fat  with  feasting  there. 
Ant.  You  have  heard  much. 

Pom.  I  have  fair  meanings,  sir. 
Ant.  And  fair  words  to  them. 

Pom.  Then  so  much  have  I  heard : — 
And  I  have  heard,  Apollodorus  carried^ 
Eno.  No  more  of  that : — He  did  so. 


iCT  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCENS  VII. 


Pom.  What,  I  pray  you  ? 

lEno.  A  certain  queen  to  Cassar  in  a  mattress. 
Pom.  I  know  thee  now :   How  far'st  thou, 

soldier  ? 
Uno.  Well; 

And  well  am  like  to  do  ;  for  I  perceive 
Four  feasts  are  toward. 

Poyn.  Let  me  shake  thy  hand ; 

I  never  hated  thee  :  I  have  seen  thee  fight, 
Wien  I  have  envied  tliy  behaviour. 

Eno.  Sir, 

I  never  lov'd  you  much ;  but  I  have  prais'd  you, 
When  you  have  well  deserv'd  ten  times  as  much 
As  I  have  said  you  did. 

Pom.  Enjoy  thy  plainness, 

It  nothing  iU  becomes  thee. — 
Aooard  my  gaUey  I  invite  you  all : 
Will  you  lead,  lords  ? 

Cas.,  Ant.,  Lep.       Show  us  the  way,  sir, 

Pom.  Come. 

[Exeunt    Pompey,    C.es.vh,    Antony,    Lepi- 
Dus,  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

3Ien.  Thy  father,  Pompey,  would  ne  'er  have 
made  this  treaty. — [Aside.'] — You  and  I  have 
known,  sii*. 

Pno.  At  sea,  I  think. 

Men.  We  have,  sir. 

P/io.  You  have  done  well  by  water. 

Men.  And  you  by  land.. 

Pno.  I  will  praise  any  man  that  will  praise 
me;  though  it  cannot  be  denied  what  I  have 
done  by  land. 

Men.  Nor  what  I  have  done  by  water. 

Pno.  Yes,  something  you  can  deny  for  your 
own  safety  ;  you  have  been  a  great  thief  by  sea. 

Men.  And  you  by  land. 

Pno.  There  I  deny  my  land  service.  But 
give  me  your  hand,  Menas :  if  owe  eyes  had 
authority,  here  they  might  take  two  thieves 
kissing. 

Men.  All  men's  faces  are  true,  whatsoe'er 
then-  hands  are. 

Pno.  But  there  is  never  a  fair  woman  has  a 
true  face. 

3Ien.  No  slander;  they  steal  hearts. 

Pno.  We  came  hither  to  fight  with  you. 

Men.  Por  my  part,  I  am  soiTy  it  is  turned  to 
a  drinking.  Pompey  doth  this  day  laugh  away 
his  fortune. 

Pno.  If  he  do,  sure  he  canuot  weep  it  back 
again. 

3fen.  You  have  said,  sii-.  We  looked  not  for 
Mark  Antouy  here.  Pray  you,  is  he  married 
to  Cleopatra  ? 

Pno.  Caesar's  sister  is  caU'd  Octavia. 


Men.  TiTie,  sir ;  she  was  the  wife  of  Caius 
Marcellus. 

Pno.  But  she  is  now  the  wife  of  Marcus 
Antonius. 

Men.  Pray  you,  sir  ? 

Pno.  'T  is  true. 

Men.  Then  is  Caesar  and  he  for  ever  knit 
together. 

Pno.  If  I  were  bound  to  divine  of  this  unity, 
I  would  not  prophesy  so. 

3fen.  I  think  the  policy  of  that  purpose  made 
more  in  the  marriage  than  the  love  of  the  parties. 

Pno.  1  think  so  too.  But  you  shall  find  the 
band  that  seems  to  tie  their  friendship  together 
will  be  the  very  strangler  of  their  amity :  Octa- 
via is  of  a  holy,  cold,  and  stiU  conversation. 

Men.  Who  would  not  have  his  wife  so  ? 

Pno.  Not  he,  that  himself  is  not  so ;  whicli 
is  Mark  Antony.  He  wiU  to  his  Egyptian 
dish  again :  then  shall  the  sighs  of  Octavia 
blow  the  fu'e  up  in  Caesar;  and,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, that  which  is  the  strength  of  their  amity 
shall  prove  the  immediate  author  of  their  vari- 
ance. Antony  will  use  his  affection  where  it 
is ;  he  married  but  his  occasion  here. 

Men.  And  thus  it  may  be.  Come,  sii-,  wiU 
you  aboard  ?  I  have  a  health  for  you. 

Pno.  I  shall  take  it,  sir ;  we  have  used  our 
throats  in  Egypt. 

Men.  Come ;  let 's  away.  [P.reunf. 

SCENE  YU.—On  board  Pompey's  Galley, 
lying  near  Misenum. 

Music.     Pnter  Two  or   Three  Servants,  tcilh 
a  banquet. 

1  Serv.  Here  they  '11  be,  man :  Some  o'  then 
plants  are  Hi-rooted  already,  the  least  wind 
i'  the  world  will  blow  them  down. 

2  Serv.  Lepidus  is  high-coloui-ed. 

1  Serv.  They  have  made  him  drink  alms- 
driuk. 

2  Sen-.  As  they  pinch  one  another  by  the 
disposition,  he  cries  out  '  no  more ; '  reconciles 
them  to  his  entreaty,  and  himself  to  the  drink. 

1  Serv.  But  it  raises  the  greater  war  between 
him  and  his  discretion. 

2  Serv.  Why  this  it  is  to  have  a  name  in  great 
men's  fellowship  :  I  had  as  lief  have  a  reed  that 
wUl  do  me  no  service,  as  a  partizan  I  could  not 
heave. 

1  Serv.  To  be  called  into  a  huge  sphere,  and 
not  to  be  seen  to  move  in  't,  are  the  holes 
where  eyes  should  be,  which  pitifully  disaster 

the  cheeks. 

297 


Aci  n. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[bCENK  Vll. 


J  tenet  sounded.    Enter  Ces.ui,  Antony,  Pom- 
pet,  LzriDUs,  Agrhta,  Mec^nas,  Enobar- 

BUS,  Menas,  Kith  other  captains. 

Jut.  Thus  do  they,  sir  :  [To  Cjesab.]    ITicy 
take  the  flow  o'  the  Nile 
By  certain  scales  i'  the  pyramid; '  they  know. 
By  the  height,  the  lowness,  or  the  mean,  if  dearth 
Or  foison  follow :  The  higher  Nilus  swells. 
The  raore  it  promises  :  as  it  ebbs,  the  seedsman 
Upon  the  slime  and  ooze  scatters  his  grain, 
.fViid  shortly  comes  to  hancst. 

Leji.  You  have  stnuige  serpents  there. 

Jut.  Ay,  Lepidus. 

Lep.  Your  serpent  of  Egypt  is  bred  now  of 
your  mud  by  the  operation  of  your  sun:  so  is 
your  crocodile. 

Ant.  They  are  so. 

Pom.  Sit, — and  some  wine.  A  health  to 
Lepidus. 

Lep.  I  am  not  so  well  as  I  should  be,  but 
I  '11  ne'er  out. 

Eno.  Not  Hll  you  have  slept;  I  fear  me 
you  '11  be  in  till  then. 

Lep.  Nay,  certainly,  I  have  heard  the  Ptole- 
mies' pyramises  are  very  goodly  things  ;  without 
contradiction,  I  have  heard  that. 

Men.  Pompey,  a  word.  [Jside. 

Pom.  Say  in  mine  eai- :  what  is  't  ? 

Men.  Forsake  thy  seat,  I  do  beseech  thee, 
captain,  [Aside. 

And  hear  me  speak  a  word. 

Pom.  Forbear  me  till  anon. — 

This  wine  for  Lepidus. 

Lep.  What  manner  o'  thing  is  youi-  crocodile? 

Jnt.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as 
broad  as  it  hath  breadth :  it  is  jiist  so  high  as  it 
is,  and  moves  with  its  own  organs :  it  lives  bv 
that  which  nourisheth  it :  and  the  elements 
once  out  of  it,  it  transmigrates. 

Tjep.  What  colour  is  it  of  ? 

Ant.  Of  its  own  colour  too. 

Lep.  'T  is  a  strange  serpent. 

Jnt.  'T  is  so.    And  the  tears  of  it  are  wet. 

C(es.  Will  tliis  description  satisfy  him  ? 

Ant.  With  the  health  that  Pompey  gives  him ; 
else  he  is  a  very  epicure. 

Pom.  [To    Menas    aside.]      Go    hang,    sir, 
hang  !     Tell  me  of  that  ?  away  ! 
Do  as  I  bid  yon.— 'Where  's  this  cup  I  call'd  for? 

Men.  If  for  the  sake  of  merit  thou  wilt  hear  me. 
Rise  from  thy  stool.  [Asid^. 

Pom.        I  think  thou 'rt  mad.     The  matter? 
[Rises,  and  iralis  aside. 

Men.  I  have  ever  held  my  cap  off  to  thy  for- 
tunes. 
298 


Pom.  Thou  hast  serv'd  me  with  much  faith. 
What 's  else  to  say  ? 
Be  jolly,  lords. 

Ant.  These  quicksands,  Lepidus, 

Keep  off  them,  for  you  sink. 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  all  the  world  ? 

Pom.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Men.  Wilt  thou  be  lord  of  the  whole  world  ? 
That 's  twice. 

Pom.  How  should  that  be  ? 

Men.  But  entertain  it; 

And  though  thou  think  me  poor,  I  am  the  man 
Will  give  thee  all  the  world. 

Pom.  Hast  thou  drunk  well  ? 

Men.  No, Pompey,  I  have  kept  me  fromthecup. 
Thou  art,  if  thou  dar'st  be,  the  earthly  Jove : 
Whate'er  the  ocean  pales,  or  sky  inclips. 
Is  thine,  if  thou  wilt  have  't. 

Pom.  Show  me  which  way. 

Men.  These  three  world-sharers,  these  com- 
petitors, 
Axe  in  thy  vessel :  Let  me  cut  the  cable ; 
And,  when  wc  are  put  off,  f;dl  to  their  tliroats  : 
All  there  is  thine. 

Pom.  Ah,  this  thou  shouldst  have  done. 

And  not  have  spoken  on 't !  In  me,  't  is  villainy; 
In  thee,  it  had  been  good  service.     Thou  must 

know, 
'T  is  not  my  profit  that  does  lead  miue  honour ; 
;Mine  honour,  it.     Repent,  that  e'er  thy  tongue 
Hath  so  betray'd  thine  act :  Being  done  un- 
known, 
I  should  have  found  it  aftcnvards  well  done ; 
But  must  condemn  it  now.    Desist,  and  drink. 

Men.  For  this,  [Aside. 

1  '11  never  follow  thy  pall'd  fortunes  more. — 
Who  seeks,  and  will  not  take,  when  once  't  is 

offer'd, 
Shall  never  find  it  more. 

Pom.  This  health  to  Lepidus. 

Ant.  Bear  him  ashore. — I  '11  pledge  it  for  him, 
Pompey. 

Eno.  Here 's  to  thee,  Menas. 

Men.  Euobaibus,  welcome. 

Pom.  Fill  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

Eno.  There 's  a  strong  fellow,  Menas. 

[Pointing  to  the  Attendant  who  carries, 
off  Lepidus. 

Men.  Why? 

Eno.  A'  bears  the  third  part  of  the  world, 
man :  Seest  not  ? 

Men.  The  third  part  then  is  drunk :   'Would 
it  were  all,  that  it  might  go  on  wheels ! 

Eno.  Drink  thou;  increase  the  reels. 

Men.  Come. 


Act  II.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCENK  VI. 


Pom.  This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

Ant,  It  ripens  towards  it. — Strike  the  vesselsj 
ho! 
Here  is  to  Caesar. 

Cas.  I  could  well  forbear  it. 

It 's  monstrous  labour  when  I  wash  my  brain 
And  it  grows  fouler. 

Jnt.  Be  a  child  o'  the  time. 

Cm.  Possess  it,  I  '11  make  answer : 
But  I  had  rather  fast  from  aU  four  days, 
Than  drink  so  much  in  one. 

Em.  Ha,  my  brave  emperor !       [^To  Antony. 

Shall  we  dance  now  the  Egyptian  Bacchanals, 

And  celebrate  om-  drink  ? 

Poth.  Let 's  ha  't,  good  soldier. 

A)it.  Come,  let  us  aU  take  hands ; 
Till  that  the  conquering  wine  hath  steep'd  oui- 

sense 
In  soft  and  delicate  Lethe. 

Eno.  AU.  take  hands. — 

Make  battery  to  our  ears  with  the  loud  music : — 
The  while,  I  '11  place  you.    Then  the  boy  shall 

sing; 
The  holding*  every  man  shall  beai-,  as  loud 
As  liis  strong  sides  can  volley. 

[Music  plays.    Enobakbtjs  places  them 
hand  in  hand. 

SONG. 
Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus,  with  pink  eyne : 

•1  i/oW/n«f— the  burden  of  the  song, 


In  thy  vats  our  cares  be  drown'd, 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crown'd ; 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round; 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round  ! 

Cces.  IVTiat  would  you  more  ? — ^Pompey,  good 
night.     Good  brother. 
Let  me  request  you  off :  our  graver  business 
Frowns  at  this  levity. — Gentle  lords,  let 's  part ; 
You  see  we  have  burnt  our  cheeks :   strong 

Enobarbe 
Is  weaker  than  the  wine ;  and  mine  own  tongue 
Splits  what  it  speaks:    the  wild  disguise  hath 

almost 
Antick'd  us  all.      Wliat    needs  more  words? 

Good  night. — 
Good  Antony,  your  hand. 

Pom.  I  '11  try  you  o'  the  shore. 

Ant.  And  shall,  sir ;  give 's  your  hand. 
Pom.  0,  Antony,  you  have  my  father-house, — 
But  what  ?  we  are  friends  :  Come,  down  into  the 
boat. 
Eno.  Take  heed  you  fall  not. — Menas,  I'll  not 
on  shore.       {Exeunt  Pompey,  C^sak, 
Antony,  and  Attendants. 
Men.  No,  to  my  cabin. — 
These  drums ! — these  trumpets,  flutes !  what ! — 
Let  Neptune  hear  we  bid  a  loud  farewell 
To  these  great  fellows :   Sound,  and  be  hang'd, 
sound  out ! 

[Afoiirish  of  trumpets,  with  drums. 
Eno.  Ho,  says  'a !— There 's  my  cap. 
jl/(?».  Ho! — noble  captain !    Come.    '\ Exeunt. 


'THE  BARGE  SHE   SAT  IN,'  &C. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OE  ACT  II. 


'  Scene  II. — "  Tliou  hast  a  sister  by  the  mothm's 
side." 

"  The  friends  of  both  parties  would  not  suffer 
them  to  unrip  any  old  matters,  and  to  prove  or 
defend  who  hail  the  wrong  or  right,  and  who  was 
the  first  procurer  of  this  war,  fearing  to  make  mat- 
ters worse  between  them :  but  they  made  them 
friends  together,  and  divided  the  empire  of  Rome 
between  them,  making  the  sea  Ionium  the  bounds 
of  their  division.  For  they  gave  all  the  provinces 
castwiird  unto  Antonius,  and  the  countries  west- 
ward unto  Caesar,  and  left  Afric  unto  Lepidus  :  and 
made  a  law  that  they  three,  one  after  another, 
should  make  their  friends  consuls,  when  they  would 
not  be  themselves.  This  seemed  to  be  a  sound 
counsel ;  but  yet  it  was  to  be  confirmed  with  a 
straiter  bond,  which  fortune  offered  thus.  There 
was  Octavia,  the  eldest  sister  of  Caesar,  not  by  cue 
mother,  for  she  came  of  Ancharia,  and  Casar  liim- 
self  afterwards  of  Accia.  It  is  reported  that  he 
dearly  loved  his  sister,  Octavia,  for  indeed  she  was 
a  noble  lady,  and  left  the  widow  of  her  first  hus- 
band, Caius  Marcellus,  who  died  not  long  before  : 
•ind  it  seemed  also  that  Antonius  had  been  widower 
ever  since  the  death  of  his  wife  Fulvia.  •  <  •« 
Thereupon  every  man  did  set  forward  this  marriage, 
hoping  thereby  that  this  lady  Octavia,  having  an 
excellent  grace,  wisdom,  and  honesty,  joined  unto 
80  rare  a  beauty,  when  she  were  with  Antonius 
(he  loving  her  as  so  worthy  a  lady  deserved)  she 
should  be  a  good  mean  to  keep  good  love  and  amity 
betwixt  her  brother  and  him." 

*  ScEHE  II. — "  Eight  wild  boars  roasted  whole  at  a 
breakfast." 

"  I  have  heard  my  grandfather  Lampryas  report 
that  one  Philotas,  a  physician,  bom  in  the  city  of 
Amphissa.  told  him  that  he  was  at  that  present 
time  in  Alexandria,  and  studied  physic ;  and  that, 
having  acquaintance  with  one  of  Antonius'  cooks, 
he  took  him  with  him  to  Antonius'  liouse  (being  a 
young  man  desirous  to  see  things)  to  show  him  the 
wonderful  sumptuous  charge  and  preparation  of  one 
only  Buppcr.  When  he  was  in  the  kitchen,  and  saw 
a  world  of  diversities  of  meats,  and,  amongst  others, 
eight  wild  boars  roasted  ~hole,  he  began  to  wonder 
jJt  it,  and  said,  Sure  you  have  a  great  number  of 
guests  to  supper.  The  cook  fell  a  laughing,  and 
answered  him,  No  (quoth  he),  not  many  guests, 
not  above  twelve  in  all ;  but  yet  all  that  is  boiled  or 
roasted  must  be  served  in  whole,  or  else  it  would  be 
marred  straight :  for  Antonius,  peradventure,  will 
Blip  presently,  or  it  may  be  a  pretty  while  hence,  or 
likely  enough  he  will  defer  it  longer,  for  that  he 
hath  drunk  well  to-day,  or  else  hath  had  some  other 
800 


great  matters  in  hand;  and  therefore  we  do  not 
dress  one  supper  only,  but  many  suppers,  because 
we  ai'o  uncertain  of  the  hour  he  will  sup  in." 

^  Scene  II. — "  When  she  first  met  Mark  Antony," 
&c. 

"  The  manner  how  he  fell  in  love  with  her  was 
this  : — Antonius,  going  to  make  war  with  the  Par- 
thians,  sent  to  command  Cleopatra  to  appear  per- 
sonally before  him  when  he  came  into  Cilicia,  to 
answer  unto  such  accusations  as  were  laid  against 
her.  «  «  «  »  So  she  furnished  herself  with  a 
world  of  gifts,  store  of  gold  and  silver,  and  of  riches 
and  other  sumptuous  ornaments,  as  is  credible 
enough  she  might  bring  from  so  gi-eat  a  house  and 
from  so  wealthy  and  rich  a  realm  as  Egypt  was. 
But  yet  she  carried  nothing  with  her  wherein  she 
trusted  more  than  iu  herself,  and  in  the  charms 
and  enchantment  of  her  passing  beauty  and  grace. 
Therefore,  when  she  was  sent  unto  by  divers  letters, 
both  from  Antonius  himself  and  also  from  his 
friends,  she  made  so  light  of  it,  and  mocked  Anto- 
nius so  much,  that  she  disdained  to  set  forward 
otherwise  but  to  take  her  barge  in  the  river  of 
Cydnus ;  the  poop  whereof  was  of  gold,  the  sails  of 
purple,  and  the  oars  of  silver,  which  kept  stroke  in 
rowing  after  the  sound  of  the  music  of  flutes,  haut- 
boys, citterns,  vials,  and  such  other  instruments  as 
they  played  upou  in  the  barge.  And  now  for  the 
person  of  herself,  she  was  laid  under  a  pavilion  of 
cloth  of  gold  of  tissue,  apparelled  and  attired  like 
the  goddess  Venu.s,  commonly  drawn  in  picture  ; 
and  hard  by  her,  on  either  hand  of  her,  pretty  fair 
boys  apparelled  as  painters  do  set  forth  god  Cupid, 
with  little  fans  in  their  hands,  with  the  which  they 
fanned  wind  upon  her.  Her  ladies  and  gentlewomen 
also,  the  fairest  of  them  were  apparelled  like  the 
Nymphs  Nereides  (which  are  the  mermaids  of  the 
waters)  and  like  the  Graces ;  some  steering  the 
helm,  others  tending  the  tackle  and  ropes  cf  the 
barge,  out  of  the  which  there  came  a  wonderful 
passing  sweet  favour  of  perfumes,  that  perfumed 
the  wharf's  side,  pestered  with  innumerable  multi- 
tudes of  people.  Some  of  them  followed  the  barge 
all  along  the  river-side ;  others  also  ran  out  of  the 
city  to  see  her  coming  in  :  so  that  in  the  end  there 
ran  such  multitudes  of  people  one  after  another  to 
see  her,  that  Antonius  wa.s  left  post  alone  in  the 
market  place,  in  his  imperial  seat,  to  give  audience; 
and  there  went  a  rumour  in  the  people's  mouths 
that  the  goddess  Venus  was  come  to  play  with  the 
god  Bacchus  for  the  general  good  of  all  Asia. 
When  Cleopatra  landed,  Antonius  sent  to  invito 
her  to  supper  to  him.  But  she  sent  him  word 
again  he  should  do  better  rather  to  come  and  sup 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


VTith  ker.  Antonius,  therefore,  to  show  himself 
courteous  unto  her  at  her  arrival,  was  content  to 
obey  her,  and  went  to  supper  to  her,  where  he 
found  such  passing  sumptuous  fare  that  no  tongue 
can  express  it." 

*  Scene  III. —  "  Say  (o  me, 

]Vhose  fortunes   shall   rise   Idgher,   Ccesars  or 
mine  ? 

"  With  Antonius  there  was  a  soothsayer  or  astro- 
nomer of  Egypt,  that  could  cast  a  figure,  and  judge 
of  men's  nativities,  to  tell  them  what  should  happen 
to  them.  He,  either  to  please  Cleopatra,  or  else  for 
that  he  found  it  so  by  his  art,  told  Antonius  plainly 
that  his  fortune  (which  of  itself  was  excellent  good 
and  very  great)  was  altogether  blemished  and 
obscured  by  Caesar's  fortune  :  and  therefore  he 
counselled  him  utterly  to  leave  his  company,  and 
to  get  him  as  far  from  him  as  he  could.  For  thy 
demon,  said  he  (that  is  to  say,  the  good  angel  and 
spirit  that  keepeth  thee),  is  afraid  of  his  :  and,  being 
courageous  and  high  when  he  is  alone,  becometh 
fearful  and  timorous  when  he  cometh  near  unto  the 
other.  Howsoever  it  was,  the  events  ensuing  proved 
the  Egyptian's  words  true  :  for  it  is  said  that,  as 
often  as  they  two  drew  cuts  for  pastime  who  should 
have  anything,  or  whether  they  played  at  dice, 
Antonius  always  lost.  Oftentimes  when  they  were 
disposed  to  see  cock-fight,  or  quails  that  were 
taught  to  fi.ght  one  with  another,  Caesar's  cocks  or 
quails  did  ever  overcome." 

'  Scene  V. —  "  'Twas  merry,  when 

You  wager'd  on  your  angling,"  &c. 

"  On  a  time  he  went  to  angle  for  fish,  and  when 
he  could  take  none  he  was  as  angiy  as  could  be, 
because  Cleopatra  stood  by.  Wherefore  she  se- 
cretly commanded  the  fishermen  that  when  he  cast 
in  his  line  they  should  straight  dive  under  the  water 
and  put  a  fish  on  his  hook  which  they  had  taken 
before ;  and  so  snatched  up  his  angling-rod,  and 
brought  up  a  fish  twice  or  thrice.  Cleopatra  found 
it  straight,  yet  she  seemed  not  to  see  it,  but  won- 
dered at  his  excellent  fishing  ;  but  when  she  was 
alone  by  herself  among  her  own  people,  she  told 
them  how  it  was,  and  bade  them  the  next  morning 
to  be  on  the  water  to  see  the  fishing.  A  number  of 
people  came  to  the  haven,  and  got  into  the  fisher- 
iDoats  to  see  this  fishing.  Antonius  then  threw  in 
hia  line,  and  Cleopatra  straight  commanded  one  of 
her  men  to  dive  under  water  before  Antonius'  men, 
and  to  put  some  old  salt  fish  upon  his  bait,  like 
unto  those  that  are  brought  out  of  the  country  of 
Pont.  When  he  had  hung  the  fish  on  his  hook, 
Antonius,  thinking  he  had  taken  a  fish  indeed, 
snatched  up  his  line  presently.  Then  they  all  fell 
a-laughing." 


**  Scene  VI. — "  Youv  hostage^t  I  have,  so  ?uivc  you 
mine,"  &c. 

"  Sextus  Pompeius  at  that  time  kept  in  Sicilia, 
and  so  made  many  an  inroad  into  Italy  with  a  great 
number  of  pinnaces  and  other  pirate  ships,  of  the 
which  were  captains  two  notable  pirates,  Menas  and 
Meuecrates,  who  so  scoured  all  the  sea  thereabouts 
that  none  durst  peep  out  with  a  sail.  Furthermore, 
Sextus  Pompeius  had  dealt  very  friendly  with  An- 
tonius, for  he  had  courteously  received  his  mother 
when  she  fled  out  of  Italy  with  Fulvia ;  and  there- 
fore they  thought  good  to  make  peace  with  him. 
So  they  met  all  three  together  by  the  Mount  of 
Misena,  upon  a  hill  that  runneth  far  into  the  sea; 
Pompey  having  his  ships  riding  hard  by  at  anchor, 
and  Antonius  and  Ctesar  their  armies  upon  the 
shore  side,  directly  over  against  him.  Now,  after 
the  had  agreed  that  Sextus  Pompeius  should  have 
Sicily  and  Sardinia,  with  this  condition,  that  he 
should  lid  the  sea  of  all  thieves  and  pirates,  and 
make  it  safe  for  passengers,  and  withal  that  he 
should  send  a  cei-taiu  quantity  of  wheat  to  Rome, 
one  of  them  did  feast  another,  and  drew  cuts  who 
should  begin.  It  was  Pompeius'  chance  to  invite 
them  first.  Whereupon  Antonius  asked  him,  And 
where  shall  we  sup  ?  There,  said  Pompey  :  and 
showed  him  his  admiral  galley,  which  had  six  banks 
of  oars  :  That  (said  he)  is  my  father's  house  they 
have  left  me.  He  spake  it  to  taunt  Antonius,  be- 
cause he  had  his  father's  house,  that  was  Pompey 
the  Great.  So  he  cast  anchors  enow  into  the  sea, 
to  make  his  galley  fast,  and  then  built  a  bridge  of 
wood  to  convey  them  to  his  galley,  from  the  head 
of  Mount  Misena :  and  there  he  welcomed  them,  and 
made  them  great  cheer.  Now,  in  the  midst  of  the 
feast,  when  they  fell  to  be  merry  with  Antonius' 
love  unto  Cleopatra,  Menas  the  pirate  came  to 
Pompey,  and,  whi.spering  in  his  ear,  said  unto  him, 
Shall  I  cut  the  cables  of  the  anchors,  and  make  thee 
lord,  not  only  of  Sicily  and  Sardinia,  but  of  -the 
whole  emph-e  of  Rome  besides  ?  Pompey,  having 
paused  awhile  upon  it,  at  length  answered  him. 
Thou  shouldst  have  done  it,  and  never  have  told 
it  me ;  but  now  we  must  content  us  with  that  we 
have  :  as  for  myself,  I  was  never  taught  to  break  my 
faith,  nor  to  be  counted  a  traitor.  The  other  two 
also  did  likewise  feast  him  in  their  camp,  and  then 
he  returned  into  Sicily." 

7  Scene  VII.—"  They  taTce  the  flow  o'  the  Nile,"  &c 

Shakapere  might  have  found  a  description  of 
the  rise  of  the  Nile,  and  the  estimate  of  plenty  or 
scarcity  thereon  depending,  in  Holland's  transla- 
tion of  Pliny.  The  Nilometer  is  described  in 
Leo's  '  History  of  Africa,'  translated  by  John  Pory. 
Both  works  were  published  at  the  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth  century. 


301 


.ofS^^f" 


iThe  Proinoiiion  ut  .'.ct.uni.J 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  l.—d  Plain  in  Syria. 

Enter  Vextidius,  as  it  were  in  triumph,  Kith 
SiLius,  and  other  Exjmans,  Officers,  a7id 
Soldiers;  the  dead  hody  of  Pacoutjs  borne 
before  him. 

Fen.  Now,  darting  Parthia,'  art  tliou  stmck  ; 
and  now 
Plcas'd  fortune  docs  of  Marcus  Crassus'  death 
Make  me  revenger. — Bear  the  king's  son's  body 
Before  our  army :    Thy  Pacorus,  Orodes, 
Pays  this  for  Marcus  Crassus. 

Sil.  Noble  Ventidius, 

^Vllil3t  yet  with  Parthian  blood  thy  sword  is 

warm. 
The   fugitive  Parthians   follow;   spur  through 

Media, 
Mesopotamia,  and  the  shelters  whither 
The  routed  fly :  so  thy  grand  captain  Antony 
Shall  set  thee  on  t  riumpbant  chariots,  and 
Put  garlands  on  thy  head. 
302 


Ven.  0  Silius,  Silius, 

I  have  done  enough  :   A  lower  place  note  well. 
May  make  too  great  an  act :  Eor  learn  this, 

Silius, 
Better  to  leave  undone,  than  by  om-  deed 
Acquire  too  high  a  fame,  when  him  we  serve  's 

away." 
Caesar,  and  Antony,  have  ever  won 
More  in  their  offif-er  than  person :  Sossius, 
One  of  my  place  in  Syria,  his  lieutenant. 
For  quick  accumulation  of  renown, 
"Which  he  achiev'd  by  the  minute,  lost  his  favour. 
Who  does  i'  the  wars  more  than  his  captain  can. 
Becomes  his  captain's  captain :   and  ambition, 
The  soldier's  virtue,  rather  makes  choice  of  loos, 
Than  gain,  which  darkens  him. 
I  could  do  more  to  do  Antonius  good, 


»  We  print  these  lines  as  in  the  original.   Steevens  omits 
to,  anil  regulates  the  passage  thus  :  — 

"  netter  leave  undone,  than  by  our  deed  acquire 
Too  hlgb  a  fame,  when  him  we  serve 's  away." 


^ 


Act  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLjEOPATRA. 


[Scene  II. 


But 't  would  offend  him ;  aud  in.  his  offence 
Should  my  perfonnance  perish. 

Sil.  Thou  hast,  Ventidius,  that, 

Without  the  which  a  soldier,  and  his  sword, 
Grants  scarce  distraction.     Thou  wilt  wTite  to 
Antony  ? 

Fen.  I  'U  humbly  signiJy  what  in  his  name. 
That  magical  word  of  war,  we  have  effected ; 
How,  with  his  banners,  and  his  well-paid  ranks. 
The  ne'er-yet-beaten  horse  of  Parthia 
We  have  jaded  out  o'  the  field. 

Sil.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

Fen.  He  purposeth  to  Athens  :   whither  with 

what  haste 

The  weight  we  must  convey  with  us  wUl  permit, 

Wc  shall  appear  before  liim. — On  there;  pass 

along.  [Exeu'iit. 


SCENE   II.— Rome.      A,i  Ante-Chamler   in 
Caesar'^  House. 

Elder  Agrippa  and  Enobabbus,  meetitifj. 

Agr.  What,  ai"e  the  brothers  parted  ? 
Em.  They  have  despatch' d  with  Pompey,  he 
is  gone ; 
The  other  thi-ee  are  sealing.    Octavia  weeps 
To  part  from  Rome ;  Caesar  is  sad ;  and  Lepidus, 
Siace  Pompey's  feast,  as  Menas  says,  is  troubled 
With  the  green  sickness. 
Agr.  'T  is  a  noble  Lepidus. 

Eno.  A    very  fine   one:     0,   how    he  loves 

Caesar ! 
Agr.  Nay,  but  how  dearly  he  adores  Mark 

Ajitony ! 
Eno.  Caesar  ?    Why,  he 's  the  Jupiter  of  men. 
Agr.  What 's  Antony  ?     The  god  of  Jupiter. 
Eno.  Spake  you  of  Caesar  ?    How  ?    the  non- 
pareil 1 
Agr.  0  Antony  !    0  thou  Arabian  bu'd ! 
Eno.  Would  you  praise  Caesar,  say,— Caesar ; — 

go  no  fui'ther. 
Agr.  Indeed,  he  phed  them  both  with  excel- 
lent praises, 
Eno.  But  he  loves  Caesar  best : — Yet  he  loves 
Antony : 
Ho  i    hearts,   tongues,   figui-es,    scribes,   bards, 

poets,  cannot 
Think,  speak,  cast,  write,  sing,  number,  ho  ! — 
His  love  to  Antony.     But  as  for  Caesar, 
Kneel  dovra,  kneel  down,  and  wonder. 

Agr.  Botli  he  loves. 

Eno.  They  are  his  shards,  aud  he  their  beetle. 
So, —  [^IVumnels. 

This  is  to  horse — Adieu,  noble  Agrippa. 


Agr.    Good    fortune,    worthy    soldier ;    and 
farewell. 

Enter  CffiSAK,  Antony,  Lepidus,  and  Octavu. 

Ant.  No  further,  su-. 

Cess.  You    take    from   me  a  great  part  of 
myself ; 
Use  me  well  in  it. — Sister,  prove  such  a  wife  • 
As  my  thoughts  make  thee,  and  as  my  farthest 

baud 
Shall  pass  on  thy  approof. — Most  noble  Antouy, 
Let  not  the  piece  of  vii'tue  which  is  set 
Betwixt  us,  as  the  cement  of  our  love. 
To  keep  it  bnilded,  be  the  ram  to  batter 
The  fortress  of  it :  for  better  might  we 
Have  loved  without  this  mean,  if  on  both  parts 
This  be  not  cherish'd. 

Ant.  Make  me  not  offended     . 

In  your  distrust. 

Cas.  I  have  said. 

Ant.  You  shall  not  find. 

Though  you  be  therein  curious,  the  least  cause 
For  what  you  seem  to  fear :  So,  the  gods  keep 

you, 
And  make  the  hearts  of  Romans  serve  your  ends  ! 
We  will  here  part. 

C(ss.  PareweU,  my  dearest  sister,  fare   thee 
weU. 
The  elements  be  kind  to  thee,  aud  make 
Thy  spuits  all  of  comfort !  *  fare  thee  well. 
Octa.  My  noble  brother ! — 
Ant.  The  April 's  in  her  eyes :    It  is  love's 
spring. 
And  these  the  showers    to  bring  it  on. — Be 
cheerful. 
Odd.  Sir,  look  well  to  my  husband's  house ; 

and — 
C(ss.  What, 

Octavia  ? 

Oct.  I  'U  teU  you  in  your  ear. 

Ant,  Her  tongue  will  not  obey  her  heart,  nor 
can 
Her  heart  inform  her  tongue  :  the  swan's  down 

feather. 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  the**  full  of  tide. 
And  neither  way  inclines. 
Eno.  Will  Caesar  weep  ?     \_Aside  to  Agrippa. 
Agr.  He  has  a  cloud  in  's  face. 


a  Johnson  explains  this  after  a  somewhat  mystical 
fashion :  —  "  May  the  different  elements  of  the  body,  or 
principles  of  life,  maintain  such  proportion  and  harmony  as 
may  keep  you  cheerful."  It  is  more  probable  that  the  poet 
only  intended  that  Caesar  should  wish  his  sister  a  propitious 
voyage. 

b  The  is  omitted  in  some  modern  editions;  the  omission 
having  been  made  in  the  second  folio. 

303 


Act  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SctNE  III 


Eno.  He  were  the  ■worse  for  that,  were  he  iv 
horse ; 
So  is  he,  being  a  man.* 

Agr.  Why,  Euol)arbus  ? 

^Vhcn  Antony  found  Julius  Cajsar  dead, 
lie  cried  almost  to  roaring:  and  he  wept, 
Wliea  at  Philippi  he  found  Brutus  slain. 

Etto.  That  year,  indeed,  he  was  troubled  with 
a  rheum ; 
■\Miat  willingly  he  did  confound''  he  wail'd, 
Believe 't,  till  I  wept  too. 

C<rs.  No,  sweet  Octavia, 

You  shall  hear  from  me  still;  the  time  shall  not 
Out-go  my  thinking  on  you. 

Ant.  Come,  sir,  come  ; 

I  '11  wrestle  with  you  in  mj  strength  of  love  :   . 
Look,  here  I  have  you ;  thus  I  let  you  go. 
And  give  you  to  the  gods. 

Cics.  Adieu ;  be  happy  ! 

Lep.  Let  all  the  number  of  the  stars  give  light 
To  thy  fair  way ! 

Cees.  Farewell,  farewell !        [Kisses  Octavia. 

Ant.  Farewell ! 

[Trumpets  sound.     Exeunt. — 


SCENE   ILL— Alexandria. 
Palace. 


A   Room  ill   the 


Enter    Clzopatea,    Chaemiax,    Iras,    and 
Alexas. 

Cleo.  Where  is  the  fellow  ?  ^ 

Alex.  Half  afeard  to  come. 

Cko.  Go  to,  go  to : — Come  hither,  sir. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

AUx.  Good  majesty, 

llerod  of  Jewry  dare  not  look  upon  you. 
But  when  you  arc  well  pleas'd. 

Cleo.  That  Herod's  head 

I  '11  have :  But  how  ?  when  Antony  is  gone 
Through  whom  I  might  command  it. — Come 
thou  near. 

Mess.  Most  gracious  majesty, — 

Cleo.  Didst  thou  behold 

Octavia  ? 

Mess.  Ks,  dread  queen. 

CUo.      '  Where  P 

Mess.  Madam,  in  Rome 

I  look'd  her  in  the  face ;  and  saw  her  led 
Between  her  brother  and  Mark  Antony. 

»  StecTcns  nays,  without  otTerind  any  authority,  that  "  a 
horse  is  laid  to  hare  a  cloud  in  his  fare  when  he  has  a  black 
or  dark-coloured  spot  in  his  forehead  between  his  eyes." 

i-  Corjound — destroy. 

304 


Cleo.  Is  she  as  tall  as  me  ? 

Mess.  She  is  not,  madam 

Cleo.  Didst   hear  her  speak?  Is  she  shrill- 
tongu'd,  or  low  ? 

Mess.  Madam,   I    heard  her   speak ;    she  is 
low-voic'd. 

Cleo.  That 's  not  so   good : — he   cannot  like 
her  long. 

C/iar.  Like  her  ?   0  Isis  !  't  is  impossible. 

Cleo.  I  think  so,  Charmian :  Dull  of  tongue, 
and  dwarfisli ! — 
What  majesty  is  in  her  gait  ?   Remember, 
If  e'er  thou  look'dst  on  majesty. 

Mess.  She  creeps : 

Her  motion  and  her  station"  are  as  one : 
She  shows  a  body  rather  than  a  life ; 
A  statue,  than  a  breather. 

Cleo.  Is  this  certain? 

Mess.  Or  I  have  no  observance. 

Char.  Three  in  Egj7)t 

Cannot  make  better  note. 

Cleo.  He  's  very  knowing, 

I  do  perceive 't : — There 's  notliing  in  her  yet ; — 
The  feUow  has  good  judgment. 

Char.  Excellent. 

Cleo.  Guess  at  her  years,  I  prithee. 

Mess.  Madam, 

She  was  a  widow. 

Cleo.  Widow  ? — Charmian,  hark. 

Mess.  And  I  do  think  she  's  thii-ty. 

Cleo.  Bear  'st  thou  her  face  in  mind?    is  'i 
long,  or  round  ? 

Mess.  Round  even  to  faultiness. 

Cleo.  For  the  most  part  too,  they  ai-e  foolish 
that  are  so. 
Her  hair,  what  colour  ? 

Mess.  Brown,  madam :    And  her  forehead 
As  low  as  she  would  wish  it. 

Cleo.  There  's  gold  for  thee. 

Thou  must  not  take  my  former  shaqmess  ill : — 
I  will  employ  thee  back  again ;  I  find  thee 
Most  fit  for  business :  Go,  make  thee  ready ; 
Our  letters  are  prepar'd.  [Exit  Messenger. 

C/iar.  A  proper  man. 

Cleo.  Indeed,  he  is  so :  I  repent  me  mucli 
That  so  I  harried''  him.  Why,  methinks,  by  him, 
Tliis  creature  *s  no  such  thing. 

Char.  Nothuig,  madam. 

Cleo.  The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and 
should  know. 


a  Station  is  the  act  of  standing,  as  motion  it  the  act  of 
movini;. 

b  Harried.  To  harry  is  to  vex,  to  torment,  to  annoy;  the 
r-ame  as  harass :  and  derived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  her^-icn. 
The  word  had  ori^nally  reference  to  military  plunder  and 
ravage. 


Acr  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[S.ESESlV.,  V 


1/ 


Char.  Hath  he  seen  majesty  ?  Isis  else  defend, 
And  serving  you  so  long ! 

Cleo.  I  have  one  thing  more  to  ask  him  yet, 
good  Charmian : 
But 't  is  no  matter ;  thou  shalt  bring  hitn  to  me 
Where  I  will  write :   All  may  be  well  enough. 

Char.  I  warrant  you,  madam.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Athens.     A  Room  in  Antony's 
House. 

Unter  Antony  and  Octavia. 

A?it.  Nay,  nay,  Octavia,  not  only  that, — 
That  were  excusable,  that,  and  thousands  more 
Of  semblable  import, — but  he  hath  wag'd 
New  wars  'gainst  Pompey ;  made  his  will,  and 

read  it 
To  public  ear : 
Spoke  scantly  of  me:   when  perforce  he  could 

not 
But  pay  me  terms  of  honour,  cold  and  sickly 
He  vented  them  :  most  nan-ow  measure  lent  me. 
When  the  best  hint  was  given  him :  he  not  look'd. 
Or  did  it  from  his  teeth.'' 

Oct.  0  my  good  lord. 

Believe  not  all ;  or  if  you  must  believe. 
Stomach  not  all.     A  more  unhappy  lady,^ 
If  this  division  chance,  ne'er  stood  between. 
Praying  for  both  parts : 
The  good  gods  will  mock  me  presently, 
When  I  shall  pray,  '  0,  bless  my  lord  and  hus- 
band!' 
Undo  that  prayer,  by  cryiug  out  as  loud, 
'  O,   bless    my  brother ! '     Husband  win,   win 

brother, 
Prays,  and  destroys  the  prayer;  no  midway 
'Twixt  these  extremes  at  all. 

Ant.  Gentle  Octavia, 

Let  your  best  love  draw  to  that  point  which  seeks 
Best  to  preserve  it :   If  I  lose  mine  honour, 
I  lose  myself :  better  1  were  not  yours. 
Than  yours  so  branchless.   But,  as  you  requested, 
Yom-self  shall  go  between  us :   The  mean  time, 

lady, 
I  '11  raise  the  preparation  of  a  war 


a  We  follow  the  original  in  the  punctuation  of  these  two 
lines,  and  in  retaining  the  word  look'd.  The  modern  reading 
is  — 

"  When  the  best  hint  was  given  him,  he  not  took  'i ;" 
by  which  we  are  to  understand  he  did  not  take  the  hint. 
We  believe,  on  the  contrary,  that  although  it  was  hinted  to 
Caesar  when  speaking  that  he  should  mention  Antony  with 
terms  of  honour,  he  lent  him  most  narrow  measure — cold 
and  sickly.  His  demeanour  is  then  more  particularly  de- 
scribed. He  looked  not  upon  the  people  as  one  who  is 
addressing  tliem  with  sincerity — he  spoke  from  his  teeth, 
and  not  with  the  full  utterance  of  the  heart. 

TuiUKDiEs. — Vol.  II.  X 


Shall  stain  your  brother :  Make  your  soonsst 

haste ; 
So  youi'  desii'es  are  yours. 

Oct.  Thaulcs  to  my  lord. 

The  Jove  of  power  make  me  most  weak,  most 

weak. 
Your  reconciler !   Wars  'twixt  you  twain  would 

be 
As  if  the  world  shoxild  cleave,  and  that  slaia 

men 
Should  solder  up  the  rift. 

Ant.  When    it  appeal's    to  you  where  this 

begins. 
Turn  your  displeasure  that  way ;  for  our  faults 
Can  never  be  so  equal,  that  your  love 
Can  equally   move  with  them.     Provide  your 

going; 
Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what 

cost 
Your  heart  has  mind  to.  \_Kveunt. 


SCENE  V. — The  same.     Another  Room  in  the 
same. 

Unter  Enobakbus  and  Eros,  meeting. 

Eno.  How  now,  friend  Eros  ? 
Eros.  There  's  strang-e  news  come,  sir. 
Eno.  Wliat,  man? 

Eros.  Caesar  and  Lepidus  have  made  wars 
upon  Pompey. 
Eno.  This  is  old :  What  is  the  success  ? 
Eros.  Caesar,  having  made  use  of  him  in  the 
wars  'gainst  Pompey,  presently  denied  him 
rivality  ;  would  not  let  him  partake  in  the  glory 
of  the  action :  and  not  resting  here,  accuses  him 
of  letters  he  had  formerly  wi'ote  to  Pompey; 
upon  his  own  appeal,  seizes  him:  So  the  poor 
third  is  up,  till  death  enlarge  his  confine. 

Eno.  Then,  world,  thou  hast  a  pair  of  chaps, 
no  more ; 
And  tlu'ow  between  them  all  the  food  thou  hast. 
They  '11  grind  the  one   the  other.     Where  's 
Antony  ? 
Eros.  He  's   walking  in  the  garden— thus; 
and  spurns 
The  rush  that   lies   before  him;   cries,  'Pool, 

Lepidus ! ' 
And  threats  the  throat  of  that  his  officer. 
That  murder'd  Pompey. 

Eno.  Oui-  great  navy  's  rigged 

Eros.  For  Italy,  and  Caesar.   More,  Domitius ; 
My  lord  desii-es  you  presently  :  my  news 
I  miffht  have  told  hereafter. 

305 


Act  lil.] 

Eho. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


(SCKNE  VI. 


'T  wiU  be  iiaugUt 


But  let  it  be. — Briug  me  to  Autony. 

Erof.  Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.— Rome.     A  Room  in  Casar'i- 
Uoiise. 

Enter  C.?;sab,  Agbippa,  and  MxcjiNAS. 

CiSi.  Contemning  Rome,  he  has  done  all  this  : 
And  more ; 
In  Alexandria^ — here  's  the  manner  of  it, — 
r  the  market-place,  on  a  tribunal  silvcr'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publicly  enthrou'd :  at  the  feet,  sat 
Cffisarion,  whom  they  call  my  father's  son; 
And  all  the  unlaMrful  issue,  that  their  lust 
Since  then  hath  made  between  them.     Unto  her 
He  gave  the  'stabhshmeut  of  Egypt ;  made  her 
Of  lower  Syria,  Cyprus,  Lydia, 
Absolute  queen. 

Mec.  This  in  the  public  eye  ? 

Cces.  I'  the  common  show-place,  where  they 
exercise. 
His   sons  he  there  proclaim'd.   The  kings  of 

kings : 
Great  Media,  Partbia,  and  Armenia, 
He  gave  to  Alexander ;  to  Ptolemy  he  assign'd 
Syria,  Cilicia,  and  Phauicia :  She 
In  the  habiliments  of  the  goddess  Isis 
That  day  appcar'd ;  and  oft  before  gave  audience, 
As  't  is  reported,  so. 

2lec.         .  Let  Rome  be  thus  inform' d. 

Agr.  Who,  queasy  with  his  insolence  already. 
Will  their  good  thoughts  call  from  him. 

Cas.  The  people  know  it ;  and  have  now  rc- 
ceiv'd 
His  accusations. 

Agr.  ^Vhom  does  he  accuse  ? 

Go's.  Ca;sar:  and  that,  having  in  Sicily 
Sextus  Pompeius  spoil'd,  we  had  not  rated  liira 
His  part  o'  the  isle :  thcu  does  he  say,  he  lent 

me 
Some  shippiii!,'  uurc-Kir'd:  lastly,  he  frets. 
That  Lej)idus  of  the  triumvirate 
Should  be  dcpos'd;  and,  being,  that  we  detain 
All  his  revenue. 

Agr.  Sir,  this  should  be  answer'd. 

Cas.  *T  is  done  already,  and  the  messenger 
gone. 
I  have  told  him,  Lcpidus  was  gro\\Ti  too  cruel; 
That  he  lus  high  authority  ubus'd. 
And  did  deserve  Ids  change;  for  what  1  have 

conquer' d, 
I  grant  him  part ;  but  then,  in  liia  Armenia, 
30G 


And  other  of  his  conquer'd  kingdoms,  I 
Demand  the  like. 

Mec.  He  '11  never  yield  to  that. 

Cas.  Nor  must  not  then  be  yielded  to  in 
this. 

Enter  Octavia. 

Od.  Hail,   Csesar,   and   my  lord!  hail,  most 

dear  Ca;sar ! 
Cics.  That  ever  I  shoidd  call  thee,  cast-away ! 

Oct.  You  have  not  call'd  me  so,  nor  have  you 
cause. 

Cas.  Why  have  you  stolen  upon  us  thus? 
You  come  not 
Like  Caesar's  sister :   The  wife  of  Antony 
Should  have  an  army  for  an  usher,  and 
The  neighs  of  horse  to  tell  of  her  approach. 
Long  ere  she  did  appear ;  the  trees  by  the  way 
Should  have  borne  men;  and  expectation  fainted, 
Longing  for  what  it  had  not :  nay,  the  dust 
Should  have  ascended  to  the  roof  of  heaven, 
Rais'd  by  your  populous  troops:   But  you  are 

come 
A  market-maid  to  Rome ;  and  have  prevented 
The  ostentation*  of  our  love,  which,  left  unshown 
Is  often  left  unlov'd :  we  should  have  met  you 
By  sea  and  land ;  supplying  every  stage 
V7ith  an  augmented  greeting. 

Oct.  Good  my  lord. 

To  come  thus  was  I  not  constrain' d,  but  did  it 
On  my  free-wilL     My  lord,  Mark  Antony, 
Hearing  that  you  prepar'd  for  war,  acquainted 
My  grieved  ear  withal :  whereon,  I  begg'd 
His  pardon  for  retui-u. 

Ccps.  Which  soon  he  granted. 

Being  an  abstract''  'tween  his  lust  and  liim. 

Oct.  Do  not  say  so,  my  lord. 

Cces.  I  have  eyes  upon  him, 

And  his  affairs  come  to  me  on  the  wind. 
Where  is  he  now  ? 

Oct.  My  lord,  in  Athens. 

Cisi.  No,  my  most  wronged  sister ;  Cleopatra 
Hath  nodded  him  to  her.     He  hath  given  his 

empii'C 
Up  to  a  whore ;  who  now  are  levjang 
The  kings  o'  the  earth  for  war :  He  hath  as- 
sembled 

••>  Osleiitalion  in  the  orijrinal.     Steevcns  reads  ostenl. 

b  Abstract.  This  is  the  word  oftlieoriprinal;  and,  although 
it  may  be  used  with  sulTicient  licence,  it  pives  us  the  mean- 
ing wliich  the  poet  would  express,  that  Octavia  was  some- 
thing  separating  Alitor. y  from  the  gratification  of  his  desires. 
Warburton  reads  ohslruci ;  but  we  have  no  example  of  such 
an  abbreviation  of  ohslruciion.  There  are  diflirulties  in 
cither  rcadinp;  and  it  is  better,  therefore,  to  hold  to  the 
original,  seeing  that  Shakspeie  sometimes  employs  words 
witli  a  meaning  pt-culiar  to  himself.  His  boldness  may  not 
be  justified  by  example, — but  his  meaning  has  always 
ttferencc  to  the  original  sense  of  the  word. 


Act  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEJIE    VII. 


Bocchus,  the  king  of  Libya;  Arehelaus, 
Of  Cappadocia;  Philadelphos,  king 
Of  Paphlagonia ;  tlie  Thi-acian  kiug,  Adallas ; 
Kiag  Malchus  of  Arabia ;  king  of  Pout ; 
Herod  of  Jewry ;  jNlitkiidates,  king 
Of  Comagene ;  Polemou  and  Amintas, 
The  kings  of  Mede,  and  Lycaonia, 
With  a  more  larger  list  of  sceptres. 

Oct.  Ah  naCj  most  wretched. 

That  have  my  heart  parted  betwixt  two  friends. 
That  do  afflict  each  other ! 

Cccs,  Welcome  hither : 

Your  letters  did  withhold  oiu-  breaking  forth ; 
TUl  we  perceiv'd,  both  how  you  were  wrong  led. 
And  we  in  neghgeut  danger.    Cheer  your  heaii : 
Be  you  not  troubled  with  the  time,  which  drives 
O'er  your  content  these  strong  necessities ; 
But  let  determiti'd  things  to  destiny 
Hold  unbewail'd  theii-  way.  Welcome  to  Rome : 
Nothing  more  dear  to  me.     You  are  abus'd 
Beyond  the  mark  of  thought:    and  the  high 

gods. 
To  do  you  justice,  make  their*  ministers 
Of  us,  and  those  that  love  you.     Best  of  com- 
fort; 
And  ever  welcome  to  iis. 

Agr,  Welcome,  lady. 

Mec.  Welcome,  dear  madam. 
Each  heart  in  Rome  does  love  and  pity  you. 
Only  the  adulteroiis  Antony,  most  large 
Li  his  abominations,  turns  you  off ; 
And  gives  his  potent  regunent*"  to  a  trull, 
That  noises  it  against  us. 

Oct.  Is  it  so,  sir  ? 

C(Bs.  Most  cei-tain.     Sister,  welcome :    Pray 

you. 

Be  ever  known  to  patience :  My  dearest  sister ! 

\JExetmt. 

SCENE  Vn.— Antony'5  Camp  near  to  the 
Promontory  of  Actium. 

Enter  Cleopatra  and  Enobabbus. 

Cleo.  I  will  be  even  with  thee,  doubt  it  not. 
Eno.  But,  why,  why,  why  ? 
Cleo.  Thou  hast  forspoke'^my  being  in  these 
wars ; 
And  say'st,  it  is  not  fit. 


a  Their.    The  original  has— 

"  And  the  high  gods, 
To  do  you  justice,  makes  his  ministers." 
Here  is  a  false  concord  ;  and  to  correct  it  we  ought  to  read 
make  their.     But  some  modem  editors  read  make  them, 
which  is  a  deviation  from  the  principle  upon  which  a  cor- 
rection can  be  authorized. 
»>  Regiment — government,  authority. 
'  Forspoke — spoken  against. 

X   2 


Bno.  Well,  is  it,  is  it  ? 

Cleo.    If    not    denounc'd*  against    us,   why 
should  not  we 
Be  there  in  person  ? 

Eno.  lAside.']  Well,  I  could  reply  :- 
If  we  should  serve  with  horse  and  mares  together. 
The  horse  were  merely '' lost ;  the  mares  would 

bear 
A  soldier  and  his  horse. 

Cleo.  Wh&t  is 't  you  say  ? 

Eno.  Your  presence  needs  must  puzzle  An- 
tony ; 
Take  from  his  heart,  take  from  his  brain,  from 

his  time, 
What  should  not  then  be  spar'd.     He  is  already 
Traduc'd  for  levity ;  and  't  is  said  in  Rome, 
That  Photinus  an  emruch,  and  your  maids. 
Manage  this  war.'' 

Cleo.  Sink  Rome ;  and  their  tongues  rot. 

That  speak  against  us  !    A  charge  we  bear  i'  the 

war. 
And,  as  the  president  of  my  kingdom,  wUl 
Appear  there  for  a  man.     Speak  not  against  it  j 
I  will  not  stay  behind. 

Eno.  Nay,  I  have  done : 

Here  comes  the  emperor. 

Enter  Antony  and  Canldius. 

A/it.  Is  it  not  strange,  Canidius, 

That  from  Tarentum,  and  Brundusiuni, 
He  could  so  quickly  cut  the  Ionian  sea. 
And  take  in"=  Toryne  ? — You  have  heard  ou't, 
sweet  ? 

Cleo.  Celerity  is  never  more  admir'd 
Than  by  the  negligent. 

Ant.  A  good  rebuke. 

Which  might  have  weU  becom'd  the  best  of  men 
To  taunt  at  slackness. — Canidius,  we 
WiU  fight  vfith.  him  by  sea. 

Cleo.  By  sea!     Whatebe? 

Can.  Why  wiU  my  lord  do  so  ? 

Ant.  Eor  that  he  dares  us  to  't. 

Eno,  So  hath  my  lord  dar'd  him  to  single 
fight. 

Can.  Ay,  and  to  wage  this  battle  at  PharsaHa, 
Where  Caesar  fought  with  Pompey:  But  these 

offers, 
Wliich  serve  not  for  his  vantage,  he  shakes  off ; 
And  so  should  yo\i. 


^  A  modern  reading  was — 

"  Is 't  not?     Denounce  against  us  why  should  not  we." 
We  follow  the  original,  the  meaning  of  which  is,  if  there 
he  no  especial  denunciation  against  us,  why  should  we  not 
be  there  i 

b  Merely — entirely. 

c  Take  in— _gain  by  conquest. 

307 


Acr  III.  j 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


ISCEKE    VIU. 


Eno.  Your  ships  arc  not  well  niannM  :* 

Your  mariners  are  muliters,  reapers,  people 
Ingross'd  by  swift  impress  :  in  Ca;sar's  fleet 
Are  those  that  often  have  'gainst  Poinpey  fought: 
Their  ships  are  yarc :  yours,  heavy.     No  dis- 
grace 
Shall  f;vll  you  for  refusing  him  at  sea. 
Being  prepar'd  for  laud 

Ant.  By  sea,  by  sea. 

Eno.   Most  worthy  sir,  you   therein    throw 
away 
The  absolute  soldiership  you  have  by  land; 
Distract  your  army,  which  doth  most  consist 
Of  war-mark'd  footmcu  ;  leave  unexecuted 
Your  own  renowned  knowledge  :  quite  forego 
The  way  which  promises  assurance  :  and 
Give  up  yourself  merely  to  chance  and  hazard, 
From  firm  seciu'ity. 

Aid.  I  '11  figlit  at  sea. 

Cleo.  I  have  sixty  sails,  Csesar  none  better. 

A)i(.  Our  overplus  of  shipping  will  we  burn  ; 
And,  with  the  rest  full-mann'd,  from  the  head  of 

Actiura 
Beat  the  approaching  C»sar.    But  if  we  fail, 

Eiiler  a  Messenger. 

We  then  can  do 't  at  land. — Thy  business  ? 
Mess.    The    news   is   true,   my   lord;    he   is 
descried ; 
Csesar  has  taken  Toryne. 
Ant.  Can  he  be  there  in  person  ?  't  is  im- 
possible ? 
Strange  that  his  power  shoidd  be. — Canidius, 
Our  nmcteen  legions  thou  shalt  hold  by  land. 
And  our  twelve  thousand  horse : — We  '11  to  our 
ship, 

Enter  a  Soldier. 

Away,  my  Thetis  ! — How  now,  worthy  soldier? 
Sold.  0  noble  emperor,  do  not  fight  by  sea ;" 
Trust  not  to  rotten  planks  :  Do  you  misdoubt 
This  sword,  and  these  my  wounds?    Let  the 

Egyptians 
And  the  Phoenicians  go  a  ducking ;  we 
llave  tised  to  conquer,  standing  on  the  earth, 
And  fighting  foot  to  foot. 

Ant.  Well,  well,  away. 

[Exeunt  Aktony,  Cleopatra,  and 
Enobaubus. 
Sold.  By  Hercules,  I  think,  I  am  i'  the  right. 
Can.  Soldier,  thou  art :  but  his  whole  action 
grows 
Not  in  the  power  on 't :  So  our  leader 's  led, 
And  we  are  women's  men. 
.S08 


Sold.  You  keep  by  land 

The  legions  and  the  horse  whole,  do  you  not  Y 

Can.  Marcus  Octavius,  Marcus  Justeius, 
Publicola,  and  Cajlius,  arc  for  sea  : 
But  we  keep  whole  by  laud.     This  speed  of 

Ca:sar's 
Carries  beyond  belief. 

Sold.  "\Miile  he  was  yet  in  Rome, 

His  power  went  out  in  such  distractions,* 
As  beguil'd  all  spies. 

Can.  Who 's  his  lieutenant,  hear  you  ? 

Sold.  They  say,  one  Taurus. 

Can.  Well,  I  know  the  man. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Hess.  The  emperor  calls  Canidius. 
Can.  With  news  the  time 's  with  labour :  and 
thi'oes  forth, 
Each  minute,  some.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— .4  Tlain  near  Actium. 
Enter  CjEsar,  Taurus,  Officers,  and  others. 

Cees.  Taurus, — 

Taur.       My  lord. 

Cm.  Strike  not  by  land ;  keep  whole ; 

Provoke  not  battle  till  we  have  done  at  sea. 
Do  not  exceed  the  prescript  of  this  scroll : 
Our  fortune  lies  upon  this  jump.  \_E.veiint. 

Enter  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 

Ant.  Set  we  our  squadrons  on  yon  side  o'  the 
hill, 
In  eye  of  Cesar's  battle :  from  which  place 
We  may  the  number  of  the  ships  behold. 
And  so  proceed  accordingly.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Canidius,  marching  with  his  land  Army 
one  way  over  the  stage;  and  Taurus,  the 
Lieutenant  of  Cjssar,  the  other  way.  After 
their  going  in,  is  Iieard  the  noise  of  a  sea  fight. 

Alarum.    He-enter  Enobarbus. 

Eno,  Naught,   naught,   all  naught,!'     I  can 
behold  no  longer ; 
The  Antoniad,  the  Egyptian  admiral. 
With  all  their  sixty,  ily,  and  tuni  the  mdder : 
To  sec 't,  mine  eyes  are  blasted. 

Enlcr  ScARUS. 

Scar.  Gods,  and  goddesses. 

All  the  whole  synod  of  them  ! 

*  DtWractioni— detachments. 


Act  hi.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


rScE!;E  rX. 


Em.  Wliat  's  iliy  passion  ? 

Scar.  The  greater  cantle '  of  the  world  is  lost 
With  very  ignorance  ;  we  have  kiss'd  away 
Kingdoms  and  provinces. 

Eho.  How  appears  the  fight  ? 

Scar.  On  our  side  like  the  token'd  pestilence,'' 
Where  death  is  sure.     Yon  ribald-rid'  nag  of 

Egypt, 
Whom  leprosy  o'ertake  !    i'   the  midst  of   the 

■fight,- 
When  vantage  like  a  pair  of  twins  appear'd. 
Both  as  the  same,  or  rather  ours  the  elder, 
The  brize''  upon  her,  like  a  cow  in  June, 
Hoists  sails,  and  flies. 

Em.  That  I  beheld  : 
Mine  eyes  did  sicken  at  the  sight,  and  could  not 
Enduxe  a  fui'ther  view.   ■ 

Scar.  She  once  being  loof 'd. 

The  noble  ruin  of  her  magic,  Antony, 
Claps  on  his  sea-wing,  and  like  a  doting  mallard. 
Leaving  the  fight  in  height,  flies  after  her  : 
1  never  saw  an  action  of  such  shame ; 
Experience,  manhood,  honour,  ne'er  before 
Did  violate  so  itself. 

Eno.  Alack,  alack  i 

Enter  CAi-fiDius. 

Can.  Cm-  fortune  on  the  sea  is  out  of  breath, 
And  sinks  most  lamentably.     Had  our  general 
Been  what  he  knew  himself,  it  had  gone  well : 
0,  he  has  given  example  for  our  flight, 
Most  grossly,  by  his  own. 

Em.  Ay,  are  you  thereabouts?     Wliy  then, 
good  night,  indeed.  [Aside. 

Can.  Towards  Peloponnesus  are  they  fled. 

Scar.  'T  is  easy  to  't ; 
And  there  I  will  attend  what  further  comes. 

Can.  To  Csesar  will  I  render 
My  legions,  and  my  horse :  six  kings  already 
Show  me  the  way  of  yielding. 

Eno.  I  '"11  yet  follow 

The  wounded  chance  of  Antony,   though   my 

reason 
Sits  in  the  wind  agalust  me.  \Exetint. 

SCENE  IX.— Alexandria.'    A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Antony  and  Attendants. 
Ant.  Hark,  the  land  bids  me  tread  no  more 
upon 't, 

a  Ccinlle—a.  portion.  See  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  Act  iii., 
Scene  i. 

b  Token'd  pestilence — the  pestilence  which  is  mortal,  when 
those  spots  appear  on  the  skin  which  are  called  God's  tokens. 

c  Rib'ild-rid.     The  original  has  riftaJ/rfred. 

<i  The  brize— the  gad-fly. 


It   is   asham'd   to  bear  me  !  —  Priend.s,   come 

hither,^ 
I  am  so  lated  in  the  world,  that  I 
Have  lost  my  way  for  ever  :  =" — I  have  a  ship 
Laden  with  gold  :  take  that,  dinde  it ;  fly. 
And  make  your  peace  with  Csesar. 
Att.  •  Fly !  not  we. 

Ant.  I  have  fled  myself ;  and  have  instructed 

cowards 
To  run,  and  show  their  shoulders. — Friends,  be 

gone; 
I  have  myself  resolv'd  upon  a  course. 
Which  has  no  need  of  you :  be  gone ; 
My  treasure's  in  the  harbour,  take  it. — 0, 
I  follow'd  that  I  blush  to  look  upon  : 
My  very  hairs  do  mutiny,  for  the  white 
Reprove    the    brown    for    rashness,   and    they 

them 
For  fear  and  doting. — Friends,  be  gone;  you 

shaU 
Have  letters  from  me  to  some  friends,  that  wUl 
Sweep  your  way  for  you.    Pray  you,  look  not 

sad. 
Nor  make  replies  of  loathness  :  take  the  hint 
Which  my  despair  proclaims  ;  let  that  be  left 
Which  leaves  itself:   to  the  sea-side  straight- 
way: 
I  win  possess  you  of  that  ship  and  ti-easure. 
Leave  me,  I  pray,  a  little  :  'pray  you  now  : — 
Nay,  do  so ;  for,  indeed,  I  have  lost  command. 
Therefore  I  pray  you  :— I'll  see  you  by  and  by. 

[^Sits  down. 

Enter  Eros  and  Cleopatra,  led  by  Chariuau 
and  Iras. 

Eros.  Nay,  gentle  madam,  to  him : — Comfort 

him. 
Iras.  Do,  most  dear  queen. 
Char.  Do  !  Why,  what  else  ? 
Cleo.  Let  me  sit  down.    0  Juno  ! 
Ant.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no. 
Eros.  See  you  here,  sir  ? 
Ant.  O  fie,  fie,  fie. 
Char.  Madam, — 

Iras.  Madam ;  0  good  empress  !— 
Eros.  Sii-,  sii-, — 

Ant.  Yes,   my  lord,  yes :— He,   at  Philippi, 
kept 
His  sword  e'en  like  a  dancer ;"  while  I  struck 

•  a  In  Macbeth  we  have — 

"  Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace." 
Here  is  the  same  image ;  but  laled  and  Mled  each  have  the 
sense  of  obstructed,  hindered.  i,!„c  n.;. 

b  A  passage  in  All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well  explains  thi» 
allusion : — 

"  Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  -word  tccrr., 
But  one  lo  dance  with." 

809 


ACTlIM 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEMR  X. 


The  lean  and  ^niiiklcd  Cassius  ;  aud  't  was  I 
Tliat  the  mad  Brutus  ended :  he  alone 
Dealt  on  licutenantry,»  and  no  practice  had 
In  the  brave   squares  of  war:  Yet  now— No 
matter. 
CUo.  Ah,  stand  by. 
Eros.  The  queen,  my  lord,  the  queen. 
Iroi.  Go  to  him,  madam,  speak  to  him ; 
He  is  unqualiticd  with  very  shame. 
Cleo.  Well  then,— Sustain  me :— 0  ! 
Eros.  Most  noble  sir,  arise;  the  queen  ap- 
proaches ; 
Her  head's  deelin'd,  and  death  will  seize  her; 

but 
Your  comfort  makes  the  rescue. 

Ant.  I  have  offended  reputation ; 
A  most  unuoble  swer\-ing. 
Eros.  Sir,  the  queen. 

Ant.  0,  whither  hast  thou  led  me,  Egypt? 
Sec, 
How  I  convey  my  shame  out  of  tliine  eyes 
By  looking  back  what  I  have  left  behind 
'Stroy*d  iu  dishonour. 

Cleo.  0  my  lord,  my  lord ! 

Forgive  my  fearful  sails  ;  I  little  thought 
You  would  have  follow'd. 

j^nt.  Egypt,  thou  kuew'st  too  well 

My  heart  was  to  thy  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And   thou  shouldst  tow  me  after  :    O'er  my 

spirit 
Thy  full  supremacy  thou  knew'st ;  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

Cleo.  O,  my  pardon. 

Ant.  ^0^  I  ^^^ 

To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  loAvness  ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I 

pleas' d, 
Making  and  marring  fortunes.     You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror  ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  weak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

Cleo.  Pardon,  pardon. 

Ant.  Fall   not   a  tear,  I  say;   one  of  them 
rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost :  Give  me  a  kiss  ; 
Even  this  repays  me.— We  sent  our  school- 
master. 
Is  he  come  back  ?— Love,  I  am  full  of  lead  :— 
Some  Avine,   within  there,  and  our  viands:— 

Fortune  knows 
We  scorn  her  most  when  most  she  offers  blows. 

[Exeunt 


»  Made  war  by  lieutenanU. 


SCENE  X.— Csesar'«  Camp,  in  Egypt. 

Enter  C^au,  Doiabella,  Thybeus,   and 
others. 
Cas.  Let  him  appear  that 's  come  from  An- 
tony.—" 
Know  you  him  ? 

BoL  Cajsar,  't  is  his  schoolmaster  : 

An  argument  that  he  is  pluck'd,  when  hither 
He  scuds  so  poor  a  pinion  of  his  wing, 
Which  had  superfluous  kings  for  messengers, 
Not  many  moons  gone  by. 

Enter  Euphrokius. 
(Tpj  Approach,  and  speak. 

Euj).  Such  as  I  am,  I  come  from  Antony  : 
I  was  of  late  as  petty  to  liis  ends, 
As  is  the  mom-dew  on  the  myi-tle-leaf 
To  his  grand  sea." 

Ctcs.  Be  it  so  :  Declare  thine  office. 

Enp.  Lord  of  his  fortunes  he  salutes  thee,  and 
Requires  to  live  iu  Egypt :  which  not  granted. 
He  lessens  his  requests :  and  to  thee  sues 
To  let  him  breathe  between  the  heavens  and 

earth, 
A  private  man  in  Athens  :  This  for  him. 
Next,  Cleopatra  does  confess  thy  greatness  ; 
Submits  her  to  thy  might ;  and  of  thee  craves 
The  circle  of  the  Ptolemies  for  her  heirs. 
Now  hazarded  to  tliy  grace. 

6W.  Eor  Antony, 

I  havs  no  ears  to  his  request.    The  queen 
Of  audience,  nor  desire,  shall  fail ;  so  she 
From  Egypt  drive  her  all-disgraced  friend. 
Or  take  his  life  there  :  This  if  she  perform, 
She  shall  not  sue  unheard.     So  to  them  both. 
Euj).  Fortune  pui-sue  thee ! 
C(cs.  Bring  him  through  the  bands. 

[Exit  EUPHRONIUS. 

To  try  thy  eloquence,  now  't  is  time :  Despatch ; 
From  Antony  win  Cleopatra :  promise, 

[To  Thtreus. 
And  in  our  name,  what  she  requires ;  add  more, 
From  thine  invention,  offers :  womeu  are  not 
In  their  best  fortunes  strong;   but  want  will 

perjure 
The    ne'er-touch'd    vestal  :    Try  thy   cunning, 

Thyreus, 
]^rake  thine  own  edict  for  thy  pains,  which  we 
Will  answer  as  a  law. 

TAyr.  Csesar,  I  go. 

»  rnpell  explains  this  passage  thus  :  "The  sea,  that  he 
(the  dew-drop)  arose  from." 


310 


Act  III.] 


ANTOXY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCESE  Vl. 


Cces.  ObseiTe  liow  Antony  becomes  his  flaw ; 
And  Avliat  thou  think'st  his  very  action  speaks 
In  evei*y  power  that  moves. 

Thijr.  Csesar,  I  sliiUl.  {Exeunt. 


SCENE  XL— Alexandiia. 
Palace. 


A  Room  in  the 


Enter  Cleopatra,  Exobakbtjs,  Charmian,  and 
«  Iras. 

Cleo.  What  shall  we  do,  Enobai-bus  ? 

Eno.  Think,  and  die,-"* 

Cleo.  Is  Antony,  or  we,  in  fault  for  this  ? 

Eno.  Antony  only,  that  would  make  his  will 
Lord  of  his  reason.     What  although  you  fled 
From  that  great  face   of  war,  whose   several 

ranges 
Frighted  each  other  ?  why  should  he  follow  ? 
The  itch  of  his  affection  should  not  then 
Have  nick'd  liis  captainship  ;  at  such  a  point, 
When  half  to  half  the  world  oppos'd,  he  being 
The  mered''  question  :  T  was  a  shame  no  less 
Than  was  his  loss,  to  coui-se  your  flying  flags, 
.  And  leave  his  navy  gazing. 

Cleo.  Prithee,  peace. 

Enter  Axtony  with  Euphkonitjs. 

Ant.  Is  that  his  answer  ? 
Eitp.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  The  queen  shall  then  have  courtesy,  so 
she  will  yield 
Us  up. 
Eup.  He  says  so. 

Ant.  Let  her  know  it. — 

To  the  boy  Csesar  send  this  grizzled  head, 
And  he  -will  fUl  tliy  wishes  to  the  brun 
With  principalities. 

Cleo.  That  head,  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  To  him  again :  TeU  liim,  he  wears  the 
rose 
Of  youth  upon  him ;    from  which  the  world 

should  note 
Something  particular  :  his  coin,  ships,  legions. 
May  be   a  coward's ;    whose  ministers   would 

prevail 
Under  the  service  of  a  cliild,  as  soon 
As  i'  the  command  of  Caesar  :  I  dare  him  there- 
fore 
To  lay  his  gay  compaiisons  apart. 


a  Here  is  a  noble  answer  from  the  rough  soldier  to  the 
voluptuous  queen.  But  the  commentators  have  not  been 
satisfied  with  it.  Hanmer  reads  "  drin]:  and  die ;"  Tyrwhitt 
proposes  to  read  "wink  and  die."  We  may  here  very  safely 
trust  to  the  original. 

b  Mered. — Mere  is  a  boundary ;  and  to  mere  is  to  mark, 
to  limit.    Spenser  thus  uses  the  word  as  a  verb. 


And  answer  me  declin'd,^  sword  agamst  sword, 
Oui-selves  alone  :  I'll  write  it ;  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  ksionx  and  EtJPHiioxius. 
Eno.   Yes,  Like   enough,  high-battled  Ccesar 
wiU 
Unstate  his  happmess,  and  be  stag'd  to  the  show. 
Against  a  sworder.— I  see,  men's  judgments  are 
A  parcel  of  theii-  fortunes  ;  and  things  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  quahty  after  them. 
To  suffer  all  alike.     That  he  should  dream. 
Knowing  all  measui-es,  the  full  Caesar  will 
Answer  his  emptiness ! — Csesar,  thou  hast  sub- 
dued 
His  judgment  too. 

Enter  an  Attendant. 

Alt.  A  messenger  from  Csesar.^" 

Cleo.  What,   no  raore  ceremony  ?— Ste,   my 
women ! 
Against  the  blown  rose  may  they  stop  then-  nose. 
That  kneel'd  unto  the  buds. — Admit  him,  sir. 
Eno.  JMine  honesty  and  I  begin  to  square. 

[Aside. 
The  loyalty,  well  held  to  fools,  does  make 
Our  faith  mere  folly  ; — Yet  he  that  can  endure 
To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fallen  lord. 
Does  conquer  him  that  did  his  master  conquer. 
And  earns  a  place  i'  the  story. 

Enter  Thyketjs. 

Cleo.  Ceesai-'s  will  ? 

Thi/r.  Hear  it  apart. 

Cleo.  None  but  friends ;  say  boldly. 

Tliyr.  So,  haply,  are  they  friends  to  Autonv. 

Eno.  He  needs  as  many,  sii",  as  Csesar  has ; 
Or  needs  not  U5.    If  Csesar  please,  our  master 
Will  leap  to  be  his  friend :  For  us,  you  know. 
Whose  he  is,  we  are ;  and  that  is  Caesar's. 

Thi/r.  So. 

Thus  then,  thou  most  renown'd :  Csesar  entreats, 
Not  to  consider  in  what  case  thou  stand'st. 
Further  than  he  is  Csesar.'' 

Cleo.  Go  on  :  Eight  royal. 

Thi/r.  He  knows  that  you  embrace  not  Antony 
As  you  did  love,  but  as  you  fear'd  him. 

Cleo.  ^  0 ! 

Tliyr.  The  scars  upon  youi"  honoui',  therefoie, 
he 
Does  pity,  as  constrained  blemishes. 
Not  as  deserv'd. 


a  Johnson  explains  the  passage  thus  :  "I  require  of  CjBsai 
not  to  depend  on  that  superiority  which  the  comparison  of 
our  different  fortunes  may  exhibit  to  him,  but  to  answer 
me  man  to  man,  in  this  decline  of  my  age  or  power." 

b  This  is  the  reading  of  the  second  folio.  The  first  editioo 
has  "  Further  than  he  is  Casar's." 

811 


Act  HI.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKE  XI. 


Cleo.  lie  is  a  god,  and  knows 

What  is  most  right :    Miue  honour  was  not 

yicKlcd, 
But  conqucr'd  merely. 

Eno.  To  be  sure  of  that,  [Aside. 

I  will  ask  Antony. — Sir,  sir,  thou  art  so  leaky, 
Tiiat  we  must  leave  thee  to  thy  sinking,  for 
Thy  dearest  quit  thee.  [A>/7  Enobaiibus. 

Thyr.  Shall  I  say  to  Ccesar 

What  you  require  of  him  ?  for  he  partly  begs 
To  be  desir'd  to  give.   It  much  would  please  him, 
That  of  his  fortunes  you  should  make  a  staff 
To  lean  upon .  but  it  would  warm  his  spirits. 
To  hear  from  me  you  had  left  Antony, 
And  put  yourself  under  his  shroud. 
The  universal  landlord. 

Cleo.  "What 's  your  name  ? 

Thtfr.  My  name  is  Thyreus. 

Cleo.  Most  kind  messenger. 

Say  to  great  Caesar  this,  In  deputation  * 
1  kiss  his  conqc'rinn;  hand :  Tell  him,  1  am  jirompt 
To  lay  my  crown  at 's  feet,  and  there  to  kneel : 
Tell  him,  from  his  aU-obcyiug  breath  1  hear 
The  doom  of  Egypt. 

Thyr.  'T  is  your  noblest  course. 

Wisdom  and  fortune  combating  together, 
If  that  the  former  dare  but  what  it  can. 
No  ehanee  may  shake  it.     Give  me  grace  to  lay 
My  duty  on  your  hand. 

Cleo.  Your  Caesar's  father. 

Oft,  when  be  hath  mus'd  of  taking  kingdoms  in, 
Bestow'd  his  lips  on  that  unworthy  place. 
As  it  raiu'd  kisses. 

Re-enler  Antony  and  Enobakbus. 

Ant.  Favours,  by  Jove  that  thunders  ! — 

What  art  thou,  fellow  ? 

Thi/r.  One,  that  but  performs 

The  bidding  of  the  fullest  man,  and  worthiest 
To  have  command  obcy'd. 

Eno.  You  will  be  whipp'd. 

Ant.  Approach,  there  : — Ay,  you  kite ! — Now 
gods  and  devils ! 
Aulhority  melts  from  mc :  Of  late,  when  I  cried 

•bo!' 
Like  boys  unto  a  muss,''  kings  would  start  forth, 
And  cry,  '  Your  will  ?'  Have  you  no  ears  ? 

Enter  Attendants. 

I  am  Antony  yet.     Take  hence  tliis  Jack,  and 
whip  him. 
Eno.  'T  is  better  ])laying  with  a  lion's  whelp, 
Tlian  with  an  old  one  dying. 

»  Deputnti1n.—^\\\^  ii  Warl)Urton'i  nmcndinvnt  of  Ihc 
original  ditjiulallon,  which  new  rcviing  in  now  generally 
ad  '|ited.  ''  A  mutt — a  scramble. 

m2 


Ant.  Moon  and  stars  1 

Wiiip  him  : — Were 't   twenty  of   the  greatest 

tributaries 
That  do  acknowledge  Caesar,  should  I  Cnd  them 
So  saucy  with  the  hand  of  she  here,  (What's 

her  name. 
Since  she  was  Cleopatra  ?) — ^Wliip  him,  fellows. 
Till,  like  a  boy,  you  sec  him  cringe  his  face. 
And  whine  aloud  for  mercy  :  Take  him  hence. 

T/i^r.  Mark  Antony. —  • 

Ant.  Tug  him  away  :  being  whij^p'd. 

Bring  him  again  : — This  Jack  of  Caesar's  shall 
Bear  us  an  errand  to  him. — 

[Ece/a/t  Attend,  wif/i  Thyreus. 
Y'ou  were  half-blasted  ere  I  knew  you : — Ha  ! 
Have  I  my  pillow  left  unpress'd  in  Home, 
Forborne  the  getting  of  a  lawful  race, 
And  by  a  gem  of  women,  to  be  abus'd 
By  one  that  looks  on  feeders  P* 

Cleo.  Good  my  lord,— 

Ant.  You  have  been  a  boggier  ever  : — 
But  when  we  in  our  viciousness  grow  hard, 
(O  misery  on 't !)  the  wise  gods  seel  our  eyes 
In  our  own  filth;''  drop  our  clear  judgments; 

make  us 
Adore  our  errors  ;  laugh  at  us,  while  we  strut 
To  oui-  confusion. 

Cleo.  0,  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Ant.  I  found  you  as  a  morsel  cold  upon 
Dead  Caesar's  trencher :  nay,  you  were  a  frag- 
ment 
Of  Cueius  Pompey's  ;  besides  what  hotter  hours, 
Um-egistcr'd  iu  vulgar  fame,  you  have 
Luxuriously  piek'd  out :  For,  I  am  sure, 
Though  you  can  guess  what  temperance  should 

be. 
You  know  not  what  it  is. 

Cleo.  Wherefore  is  this  ? 

Ant.  To  let  a  fellow  that  will  take  rewards, 
And  say,  '  God  quit  you  !'  be  familiar  with 
My  playfellow,  your  hand ;  this  kiugly  seal. 
And  plighter  of  high  hearts  ! — O,  that  I  were 


»  Antony  is  comparing  Cleopatra  with  Octavia:  "One 
that  looks  on  feeders"  is  one  that  bestows  favours  on  servants. 
Enters,  jecder.\,  were  terms  fcjr  servants  in  the  old  dramatists. 
Oiirurd  has  clearly  shown,  in  a  note  to  '  The  Silent  Woman,' 
that  Ur.  Johnson  was  mistaken  when  he  interpreted  the 
passage  in  the  text  to  mean  th.it  Antony  was  abused  by 
Thyreus, — by  one  that  looked  on  whilst  others  fed. 

I'  We  follow  the  original  punctuation.  The  ordinary 
reading  was 

"  The  wise  gods  seel  our  eyes ; 
In  our  own  filth  drop  our  clear  judgments;  " 
the  only  recommendation  of  which  appears  to  be  that  it 
gives  occasion  fur  a  nute  by  Steevcns,  emulating  many 
otiiers  that  have  rendered  the  variorum  edition  uf  Sliakspera 
one  of  the  filthiest  books  in  our  language.  If  there  be 
a  possibility  of  distorting  Shaksjxre  into  indelicacy,  Stee- 
vcns in  his  own  nani'-,  or  undtr  the  disguise  of  Amner  or  of 
Collins,  never  missed  the  ojiporlunity. 


Act  I II. I 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCBSE  XI. 


Upon  the  Mil  of  Basan,  to  outroar 

The  horned  herd  !  for  I  have  savage  cause ; 

And  to  proclaim  it  civilly,  were  like 

A  halter'd  neck,  which  does  the  hangman  thank, 

For  beiug  yare '  about  him. — Is  he  whipp'd  ? 

Re-enter  Attendants,  tcith  Tuykeus. 

1  Att.  Soundly,  my  lord. 
'Ant.  Cried  he  ?  and  begg'd  he  pardon  ? 

1  Att.  He  did  ask  favour-. 
A)it.  If  that  thy  father  live,  let  him  repent 
Thou  wast  not  made  his  daughter ;  and  be  thou 

sorry 
To  follow  Csesar  in  his  triumph,  since 
Thou  hast   been  whipp'd   for  following    him : 

henceforth. 
The  white  hand  of  a  lady  fever  thee. 
Shake  thou  to  look  on't. — Get  thee  back  to 

Csesar, 
Tell  him  thy  entertainment :  Look,  thou  say. 
He  makes  me  angry  with  hun :  for  he  seems 
Proud  and  disdainfiJ ;  harphig  on  what  I  am. 
Not  what  he  knew  I  was :  He  makes  me  angry ; 
And  at  this  time  most  easy  't  is  to  do 't ; 
When  my  good    stars,   that  were  my  former 

guides. 
Have  empty  left  their  orbs,  and  shot  their  fires 
Into  the  abysm  of  hell.     If  he  mislike 
My  speech,  and  what  is  done,  tell  him,  he  has 
Hipparchus,  my  enfranchis'd  bondman,  whom 
He  may  at  pleasure  whip,  or  hang,  or  tortiu-e. 
As  he  shaU  like,  to  quit  me  :  Urge  it  thou : 
Hence,  with  thy  stripes,  begone. 

\E.vit  Thykeus. 
Cleo.  Have  you  done  yet  ? 
Ant.  Alack,  our  terrene  moon 

Is  now  eclipsed ;  and  it  portends  alone 
The  faU  of  Antony ! 

Cleo.  I  must  stay  his  time. 

Ant.  To   flatter  Csesar,   would    you  mingle 
eyes 
With  one  that  ties  his  points  ? 

Cleo.  Not  know  me  yet  ? 

Ant.  Ccld-hearted  towai'd  me  ? 
Cleo.  Ah,  dear,  if  I  be  so, 

Prom  my  cold  heart  let  heaven  engender  hail. 
And  poison  it  in  the   source ;    and  the  first 

stone 
Drop  in  my  neck  :  as  it  determines,  so 
Dissolve  my  life !  The  next  Cfcsarion  smite ! 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  memory  of  my  womb 
Together  with  my  brave  Egyptians  all, 


By  the  discanderuig"  of  this  pelleted  storm. 
Lie  graveless ;  till  the  flies  and  gnats  of  Nile 
Have  bulled  them  for  prey  ! 

Ant.  I  am  satisfied. 

Csesar  sits  down  in  Alexandria ;  where 
I  will  oppose  his  fate.     Our  force  by  land 
Hath  nobly  held :  our  sever'd  navy  too 
Have  knit  again,  and  fleet,"'  threat'ning  most 

seaUke. 
Where  hast  thou  been,  my  heart? — Dost  thou 

hear,  lady  ? 
If  from  the  field  I  shall  return  once  more 
To  kiss  these  lips,  I  wiU  appear  in  blood ; 
I  and  my  sword  will  earn  oiu'  chronicle ; 
There 's  hope  in 't  yet. 

Cleo.  That 's  my  brave  lord  ! 

Ant.  I  win  be  treble-sinew'd,  hearted,  breath'd, 
And  fight  maliciously  :  for  when  mine  hours 
Were  nice  and  lucky,  men  did  ransom  lives 
Of  me  for  jests  ;  but  now,  I'U  set  my  teeth. 
And  send  to  darkness  all  that  stop  me. — Come, 
Let's  have  one  other  gaudy  night  :"=  call  to  me 
AU    my    sad    captains ;    fill    our    bowls    once 

more ; 
Let 's  mock  the  midnight  beU. 

Cleo.  It  is  my  birthday ; 

I  had  thought  to  have  held  it  poor ;  but,  since 

my  lord 
Is  Antony  again,  I  will  be  Cleopatra. 

Ant.  We  wiU  yet  do  well. 

jCleo.  Call  all  his  noble  captains  to  my  lord. 

Ant.  Do  so,  we  'U  speak  to  them ;  and  to-night 
I'll  force 


a  Dhcai,dering.—T\).\s.  is  the  word  of  the  original ;  but 
the  invariable  modern  reading  i.s  discayxlying.  Theobald, 
treating  the  original  as  a  corruption,  "reformed  the  text;" 
and  Malone  explains  thai  "discandy  is  used  in  the  next 
act.    But  how  IS  it  used  ? 

"The  hearts 
That  spaniel'd  me  at  heels,  to  whom  I  gave 
Their  wishes,  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets, 
On  blossoming  Ccesar." 
The  expletive  vielt  their  siceels  gives  us  the  peculiar  and 
most  forcible  meaning  in  which  the  word  is  here  used. 
But  the  pelleted  storm,  which  makes  Cleopatra's  brave 
Egyptians  lie  graveless,  is  utteily  opposed  to  the  melting 
into   sweetness   of   the  word   discandtjing.     We   refer  our 
readers  to  a  note  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  i..  Scene 
III.,  upon  the  passage  "Other  ventures  he  hath  squandered 
abroad."    To  squander  is  to  scatter;  and  so  Dryden  uses 
the  word: — 

"  They  drive,  they  squander  the  huge  Belgian  fleet." 
To  dis-scandcr,  we  believe,  then,  is  to  dia-squander.  The 
particle  dis  U,  as  Mr.  Richardson  has  stated,  "frequently 
prefixed  to  words  themselves  meaning  separation  or  par- 
tition, and  ausmenting  the  force  of  those  wo;ds."  Vie 
therefore,  without  l-.c'sitation,  restore  the  original  discander- 
ing,  in  the  s«iiSe  of  dis-sqtiandering. 
b  J^lcet.    The  old  word  for  foal. 

c  Gaud//  night— a.  night  of  rejoicing.     A  gaudy  day  in  tlij 
Universities  and  Inns  of  Court  is  a  feast  day.     ^ares,  m 
explanation  of  the  term,  quotes  from  an  old  play:  — 
"  A  foolish  utensil  of  stale. 
Which,  like  old  plate  upon  a  gaudy  day 's 
Brouglit  forth  to  make  a  show,  and  that  is  all, 

213 


Act  III.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 


[Scene  XI, 


The  wine  peep  through  their  scars. — Come  on, 

my  queen ; 
There 's  sap  iu  't  yet.    The  next  time  I  do  fight, 
I  '11  make  Death  love  me ;  for  I  will  contend 
Even  with  his  pestilent  scythe. 
[Exeunt  Antont,  Cleopatiia,  and  Attendants. 
Eno.  Now  he'll  outstare  the  lightning.     To 
be  furious, 


Is  to  be  frighted  out  of  fear:  and  in  that  mood. 
The  dove  will  peck  the  estridgc ;  and  I  see  still, 
A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores  liis    heart:    When  valour    preys  on 

reason, 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.     I  will  seek 
Some  way  to  leave  him.  [Exit. 


^7-.i;:r';i;:i^^i,,.,f!S" 


Trow  of  a  K-jruan  Galley.] 


% 


[^Cleopaira's  Xceillu.j 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OE  ACT  IIL 


'  Scene  I. — "  Noio  darting  Parthia,"  &c. 

"In  the  mean  time  Ventidius  once  again  oTer- 
came  Pacorus  (OroJes'  son,  king  of  Parthia)  in  a 
battle  fought  in  the  country  of  Cyrrestica,  he  being 
come  again  with  a  great  army  to  invade  Syria,  at 
which  battle  was  slain  a  gi-eat  nurr'-^er  of  the  Par- 
thians,  and  among  them  Pacorus,  the  king's  own 
son.  This  noble  exploit,  as  famous  as  ever  any  was, 
was  a  full  revenge  to  the  Romans  of  the  shame  and 
loss  they  had  received  before  by  the  death  of  Marcus 
Crassus ;  and  he  made  the  Parthiaus  fly,  and  glad 
to  keep  themselves  within  the  confines  and  territo- 
ries of  Mesopotamia  and  Media,  after  they  had 
thrice  together  been  overcome  in  several  battles. 
Howbeit,  Ventidius  durst  not  undertake  to  follow 
them  any  farther,  fearing  lest  he  should  have  gotten 
Antonius's  displeasure  by  it.  *  *  -"  *  Having 
given  Ventidius  such  honours  as  he  deserved,  he 
sent  him  to  Rome  to  triumph  for  the  Parthians. 
Ventidius  was  the  only  man  that  ever  triumphed  of 
the  Parthians  until  this  present  day,  a  mean  man 
born,  and  of  no  noble  house  or  family,  who  only 


came  to  that  he  attained  unto  throue^h  Antonius 
friendship,  the  which  delivered  him  happy  occasion 
to  achieve  great  matteis.  And  yet,  to  say  truly, 
he  did  so  well  quit  himself  in  all  his  enterprises, 
that  he  confirmed  that  which  was  spoken  of  Anto- 
nius and  Caesar,  to  wit,  that  they  were  alway  more 
fortunate  when  they  made  war  by  their  lieutenants 
than  by  themselves." 

-  Scene  IV. — "  A  more  unhappy  lady,"  &c. 

"  But  Antonius,  notwithstanding,  grew  to  be  mar- 
vellously offended  with  Ccesar  upon'  certain  reports 
that  had  been  brought  unto  him,  and  so  took  sea  to 
go  towai-ds  Italy  with  three  hundred  saU  ;  and  be- 
cause those  of  Brundusium  would  not  receive  his 
army  into  their  haven,  he  went  further  unto  Taren- 
tum.  There  his  wife  Octavia,  that  came  out  of 
Greece  with  him,  besought  him  to  send  unto  her 
brother,  the  which  he  did.  She  put  herself  in  jour- 
ney, and  met  with  her  brother  Octavius  Cnesar  by 
the  way,  who  brought  his  two  chief  friends,  Mecenaa 
and  Agrippa,  with  him.     She  took  them  aside,  and 

315 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IIL 


with  all  the  instance  she  coulil  possible,  eiitre.ated 
theu  the}-  would  not  suffer  her  thftt  was  the  hap- 
piest woman  of  the  world,  to  becoiue  now  the  ujost 
wretched  and  unfortunate  creatureof  all  other.  For 
now,  said  she,  every  man's  eyes  do  gaze  on  me,  that 
am  the  sister  of  one  of  the  emperors,  and  wife  of 
the  other ;  and  if  the  worst  counsel  take  place 
(which  the  gods  fori  ad),  and  that  they  grow  to  wars, 
for  j'ourselves,  it  is  uncertain  to  which  of  them  two 
the  (^'ods  have  assigned  the  victory  or  overthrow  ; 
but  for  me,  on  which  side  soever  the  victory  fall, 
my  state  can  be  but  most  miserable  still." 

'  Scene  VI.— "/n  Alexandria:' 

"  And  to  confess  a  truth,  it  was  too  arrogant  and 
insolent  a  part,  and  done  (as  a  man  would  saj')  in 
derision  and  contempt  of  the  Romans  ;  for  he  as- 
sembled all  the  people  in  the  show-place,  where 
young  men  do  exercise  themselves,  and  there  upon 
a  high  tribunal  silvered  he  set  two  chairs  of  gold, 
the  one  for  himself  and  the  other  for  Cleopatr.i,  and 
lower  chairs  for  his  children  ;  then  he  openly  pub- 
lished before  the  a.?sembly  that  first  of  all  he  did 
estiiblish  Cleopatra  queen  of  Egypt,  of  Cyprus,  of 
Lydia,  and  of  the  Lower  Syria;  and  at  that  time 
also,  Cccsarion  king  of  the  same  realms.  This 
Ca;si\rionwassuj)posedtobethesonof  Julius  Cw.sar. 
Secondly,  he  called  the  sons  he  had  by  herthekings 
of  kings,  and  gave  Alexander,  for  hi.s  portion,  Arme- 
nia, Media,  and  Parthia,  when  he  had  conquered 
the  countiy ;  and  unto  Ptolemy,  for  his  portion, 
Phenicia,  Syria,  and  Cilicia.  And  therewithal  he 
brou-'ht  out  Alexander  in  a  long  gown,  afrer  the 
fashion  of  the  Medes,  with  a  high  cop-tanke  hat  on 
his  head,  narrow  in  the  top,  as  the  kings  of  the 
Medes  and  Armenians  do  use  to  wear  them  ;  and 
Ptolemy  apparelled  in  a  cloak  after  the  Macedonian 
manner,  with  slippers  on  his  feet,  and  a  broad  hat, 
with  a  royal  band  or  diadem.  Such  was  the  apparel 
and  old  attire  of  the  ancient  kings  and  successors  of 
Alexander  the  Great.  So  after  his  sons  had  done 
their  humble  duties,  and  kissed  their  father  and 
mother,  presently  a  company  of  Armenian  soldiers, 
set  there  of  purpose.  compa.ssed  the  one  about,  and 
a  like  company  of  Macedonians  the  other.  Now 
for  Cleopatra,  she  did  not  only  wear  at  that  time, 
but  at  all  other  times  else  when  she  came  abroad, 
the  apparel  of  the  goddess  Isis,  and  so  gave  audi- 
ence unto  all  her  subjects  as  a  new  Isis.  Octavius 
Csc.sar  reportin;;  all  these  things  unto  the  Senate, 
and  oftentimes  accusing  him  to  the  whole  people 
and  assembly  in  Rome,  he  thereby  stirred  up  all  the 
Romans  against  him  Antonius,  on  the  other  side. 
Bent  to  Rome  likewise  to  accuse  him,  and  the 
chiefest  point.^  of  his  accusations  he  charged  him 
with  were  these : — First,  that,  having  spoiled  Sextus 
Pompeius  in  Sicily,  he  did  not  give  him  his  part 
of  the  isle;  secondly,  that  he  did  detain  in  his 
hands  the  chips  he  lent  him  to  make  that  war; 
thinllj",  that  having  put  Lcpidus  their  companion 
and  triumvii-ate  out  of  his  part  of  the  empire,  and 
having  deprive*!  him  of  all  honours,  he  retiined  for 
him.tclf  the  land.?  and  revenues  thereof  which  had 
been  a-s.-'igned  \iiitohim  for  his  part;  nn<l,  last  of  all, 
tLit  he  had  in  manner  divirle*!  all  It  ily  amongst  hi.s 
own  soldiers,  and  had  Jcft  no  part  of  it  for  hi.s  sol- 
diers. OctftviusC;cs:ir answered  him  again,  —That 
foT Lcpidus, he  ha*!  indeed  despoiled  him. and  taken 
his  part  of  the  empire  from  him,  becaui<e  he  did 
over-crupUy  use  his  authority ;  and,  secondly,  for 

810 


the  conquests  he  had  made  V)y  force  of  arms,  he  was 
contented  Antoniusshouldhavehispartof  them,  so 
that  he  would  likewise  let  him  have  his  part  of 
Armenia;  and,  thirdly,  that  for  his  soldiers,  they 
should  seek  for  nothing  in  Italy,  because  they  pos- 
sessed Media  and  Parthia,  the  which  provinces  they 
ha<l  ad' led  to  the  empire  of  Rome,  valiantly  fighting 
with  their  emperor  and  captain." 

■•  Scene  VII.—"  T/s  said  in  Rome,"  &c. 

"  Now  after  that  Cfcsar  had  made  sufficient  pre- 
pariition,  he  proclaimed  ojien  war  against  Cleopati-a, 
and  made  the  people  to  aboli.sh  the  power  and  em- 
piie  of  Antonius,  because  he  had  before  given  it  up 
unto  a  woman.  And  Crcsar  said  furthermore,  that 
Antonius  was  not  master  of  himself,  but  that  Cleo- 
patra had  brought  him  beside  himself  by  her  charms 
and  amorous  poisons ;  and  that  they  that  should 
make  war  wit  h  them  should  be  Mardian  the  eunuch, 
Photinus,  and  Iras  (a  woman  of  Cleopatra's  bed- 
chamber, that  frizzled  her  hair  and  dressed  her 
head),  and  Charmian,  the  which  were  those  that 
ruled  all  the  affairs  of  Antouius's  empire  " 

*  Scene  VII. — "  Your  ships  are  not  u-dl  mann'd." 

"Now  Antonius  was  made  so  subject  to  a  woman's 
will,  that,  though  he  was  a  great  deal  the  stronger 
by  laud,  yet  for  Cleopatra's  sake  he  would  needs 
have  this  battle  tried  by  sea,  though  he  saw  before  his 
eyes  that  for  lack  of  water-men  his  captains  did 
press  by  force  all  sorts  of  men  out  of  Greece  that 
they  could  take  up  in  the  field,  as  travellers,  mule- 
teens,  reapei-s,  harvest-men,  and  young  boys  ;  and 
yet  could  they  not  sufficiently  furnish  his  galleys, 
so  that  the  most  part  of  them  were  empty,  and 
could  scant  row,  because  they  lacked  water-men 
enough ;  but,  on  the  contrary  side,  Cicsar's  ships 
were  not  built  for  pomp,  high  and  great,  only  for  a 
sight  and  bravery,  but  they  were  light  of  yarage, 
armed  and  furnished  with  water-men  as  many  as 
they  needed,  and  had  them  all  in  readiness  in  the 
havens  of  Tareutum  and  Bruudusium.  So  Octa- 
vius Cajsar  sent  unto  Antonius  to  will  him  to  delay 
no  more  time,  but  to  come  on  with  his  army  into 
Italy,  and  that  for  his  own  part  he  would  give  him 
safe  harbour  to  land  without  any  trouble,  and  that 
he  would  withdraw  his  army  from  the  sea,  as  far  as 
one  horse  could  run, until  he  had  put  his  army  ashore, 
and  had  lodged  his  men.  Antonius,  on  the  other 
side,  bravely  sent  him  word  again,  and  challenged 
the  combat  of  him,  man  for  man,  though  he  were  the 
elder;  and  that,  if  he  refused  him  so,  he  would  then 
fight  a  battle  with  him  in  the  fields  of  Phai-salia,  as 
Julius  Cicsar  and  Pompey  had  done  before." 

6  Scene  VII. — '•  0  noble  emperor,  do  notjiyht  by 
sea." 

"  So  when  Antonius  had  determined  to  fight  by 
sea,  he  set  all  the  other  ships  on  fire  but  threescore 
ships  of  Egypt,  and  reserved  only  the  best  and 
greatest  galleys,  from  three  banks  unto  ten  banks  of 
oars.  Into  them  he  put  twoand-twenty  thousand 
fightiuLC  men,  with  two  thousand  darters  and  slingers. 
Now,  a-s  he  was  setting  his  men  in  order  of  battle, 
there  was  a  captain,  a  valiant  man,  that  had  sei-ved 
Ant'inius  in  many  battles  and  conflicts,  and  had  all 
his  body  hacked  and  cut,  who,  as  Antonius  passed 
by  him,  cried  out  unto  him,  and  said.  0  noble  em- 
peror, how  cometh  it  to  pa.ss  that  you  trust  to  those 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


vile  brittle  ships  ?  "What,  do  you  mistrust  these 
wouuds  of  mine,  aud  this  sword  ?  Let  the  Egyptians 
aud  Phceuicians  fight  by  sea,  aud  set  us  on  the 
main  laud,  where  we  use  to  couquer,  or  to  be  slain 
on  our  feet.  Antonius  passed  by  him  and  said 
never  a  word,  but  only  beckoned  to  him  with  his 
hand  aud  head,  as  though  he  willed  him  to  be  of 
good  courage,  although,  indeed^  he  had  no  great 
courage  himself." 

"  Scene  VIII. — "Naught,  naught,  all  naught T 

"  Howbeit  the  battle  was  yet  of  even  hand,  aud 
the  victory  doubtful,  being  indifferent  to  both,when 
suddenly  they  saw  the  threescore  ships  of  Cleopatra 
busily  about  their  yard-masts,  and  hoisting  sail  to 
fly.  So  they  fled  through  the  midst  of  them  that 
were  in  fi'^'ht,  for  they  had  been  placed  behind 
the  great  ships,  aud  did  marvellously  disorder  the 
other  ships,  for  the  enemies  themselves  wondered 
much  to  see  them  sail  in  that  sort,  with  full  sail 
towards  Peloponnesus.  There  Antonius  showed 
plainly  that  he  not  only  lost  the  courage  aud  heart 
of  an  emperor,  but  also  of  a  valiant  man;  and  that 
he  was  not  his  own  man  (proving  that  true  which 
an  old  man  spake  iu  mirth.  That  the  soul  of  a  lover 
lived  in  another  body,  and  not  his  own) ;  he  was  so 
carried  away  with  the  vain  love  of  this  woman  as  if 
he  had  been  glued  unto  her,  aud  that  she  could 
not  have  removed  without  moving  of  him  also :  for 
when  he  saw  Cleopatra's  ship  under  sail,  he  forgot, 
forsook,  and  betrayed  them  that  fought  for  him,  aud 
embarked  upon  a  galley  with  five  banks  of  oars  to 
follow  her  that  had  alreadybegun  to  overthrow  him, 
and  would  in  the  end  be  his  utter  destruction." 

8  Scene  IX. — "  Friends,  come  hither." 

"  Now  for  himself  he  determined  to  cross  over 
into  Afric,  aud  took  one  of  his  carects,  or  hulks, 
laden  with  gold  and  silver,  and  other  rich  carriage, 
aud  gave  it  unto  his  friends,  commanding  them  to 
depart,  and  seek  to  save  themselves,  'i'hey  an- 
swered him  weeping,  that  they  would  neither  do  it, 
nor  yet  forsake  him.  Then  Antonius  veiy  cour- 
teously and  lovingly  did  comfort  them,  and  prayed 
them  to  depart,  and  wrote  unto  Theophilus.  go- 
vernor of  Corinth,  that  he  would  see  them  safe, 
and  help  to  hide  them  in  some  secret  place  until 
they  had  made  their  peace  with  C^jsar." 


^  Scene  X. — "  Let  him  appear  that 's  come  from 
Antony." 

"  They  sent  ambassadors  unto  Octavius  Caesar  in 
Asia,  Cleopatra  requesting  the  realm  of  Egypt  for 
their  children,  and  Antouius  praying  that  he  might 
be  suffered  to  live  at  .Uhens  like  a  private  man,  if 
Caesar  would  not  let  him  i-emain  in  Egypt.  And 
because  they  had  no  other  men  of  estimation  about 
them,  for  that  some  were  fled,  and  those  that  re 
mained  they  did  not  greatly  trust,  they  were  en- 
forced toseudEuphrouius,  the  schoolmasterof  their 
children.  *  *  *  Furthermore,  Caesar  would  not 
grant  unto  Antonius'  requests  ;  but  for  Cleopatra, 
he  made  her  answer,  that  he  would  deny  her  no- 
thing reasonable,  so  that  she  would  either  put  An- 
tonius to  death,  or  drive  him  out  of  her  country." 

10  Scene  XI. — "A  messenger  from  Cccsar." 

"  Therewithal  he  sent  Thyreus,  one  of  his  men, 
unto  her,  a  very  wise  and  discreet  man,  who,  bring- 
ing letters  of  credit  from  a  young  lord  unto  a  noble 
lady,  aud  that,  besides,  greatly  liked  her  beauty, 
might  easily  by  his  eloquence  have  persuaded  her. 
He  was  longer  in  talk  with  her  than  any  man  else 
was,  and  the  queen  herself  also  did  him  great 
honour,  inasmuch  as  he  made  Antouius  jealous  of 
him.  Whereupon  Antonius  caused  him  to  be  taken 
and  well  favouredly  whipped,  aud  so  sent  him  unto 
Crcsar,  aud  bade  him  tell  him  that  he  made  hmi 
angry  with  him,  because  he  showed  himself  proud 
and  disdainful  towards  him ;  and  now,  specially, 
when  he  was  easy  to  be  angered  by  reason  of  his 
present  misery.  To  be  short,  if  this  mislike  thee 
(said  he),  thou  has  Hipparchus,  one  of  my  en- 
franchised bondmeU;  with  thee;  hang  him  if  thou 
wilt,  or  wliip  him  at  thj'  pleasure,  that  we  may 
cry  quittance.  From  heucefoath,  Cleopatra,  to 
clear  herself  of  the  suspicion  he  had  of  her,  made 
more  of  him  than  ever  she  did.  Foi",  first  of  all, 
where  she  did  solemnize  the  day  of  her  birth 
very  meanly  and  sparingly,  fit  for  her  present 
misfortune,  she  now  in  contrary  manner  did  keep 
it  with  such  solemnity  that  she  exceeded  all 
measure  of  sumptuousness  and  magnificence,  so 
that  the  guests  that  were  bidden  to  the  feasts, 
aud  came  poor,  went  away  rich. 


817 


lAiicienl  Egyptian  Palace.] 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I.— CjEsarV  Camp  at  Alexandria. 

Enter  C^sak  reading  a  letter;  Aorippa, 

!MEC.aNAS,  and  others. 
Cas.  He  calls  me  boy ;  and  chides,  as  he  had 
power 
To  beat  me  out  of  Egypt :  iny  messenger 
He  hath  whipp'd  with  rods ;  dares  me  to  personal 

combat, 
CsBsar  to  Antony :  Let  the  old  ruffian  know, 
I  have  many  other  ways  to  die ;  mean  time, 
Laugh  at  his  challenge.' 

Mec.  Caesar  must  think, 

AYhen  one  so  great  begins  to  rage,  he 's  hunted 
Even  to  faUing.     Give  him  no  breath,  but  now 
Make  boot  of  his  distraction :  Never  anger 
Made  good  guard  for  itself. 

Qet.  Let  our  best  heads 

Know,  that  to-morrow  the  last  of  many  battles 
We  mean  to  fight : — Within  our  files  there  are 
Of  those  that  serv'd  ^Mark  Antony  but  late, 
Enough  to  fetch  him  in.     See  it  done ; 
And  feast  the  army :  we  have  store  to  do  't. 
And  they  have  cam'd  the  waste.    Poor  Antony  ! 

lExeunt. 
313 


SCENE  II.— .Uexaudria. 
Pa/ace. 


A  Boom  in  the 


Enter  Antony,  Cleopatka,  Enobajibus, 
Cjiarmlan,  Iras,  Alexas,  and  others. 

Ant.  He  Avill  not  fight  with  me,  Domitius  ? 

Eno.  No. 

Ant.  Why  should  he  not  ? 

Efio.  He  thinks,  being  twenty  times  of  better 
fortune. 
He  is  twenty  men  to  one. 

Ant.  To-morrow,  soldier, 

By  sea  and  land  I  '11  fight :  or  I  will  live. 
Or  bathe  my  dymg  honour  in  the  blood 
Shall  make  it  live  again.     Woo  't  thou  fight 
weU? 

Eno.  I  '11  strike ;  and  cry,  '  T;ike  all.' 

Ant.  Well  said  ;  come  on. — 

Call  forth  my  household  servants ;'   let  's  to- 
night 

Enter  Servants. 

Be    bounteous    at    our    meal. — Give    mc    thy 

hand, 
Thou  hast  been  rightly  honest ; — so  hast  thou : 


Act  TV.' 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scene  III. 


Tlion,* — and  tliou, — and  thou : — ^you  have  ser\''d 

me  well, 
And  kings  have  been  your  fellows. 

Cleo.  What  means  tliis  ? 

Eiio.  'T  is   one   of    those   odd  tricks   which 
sorrow  shoots  \_Aside. 

Out  of  the  mind. 

Ant.  And  thou  art  honest  too. 

I  wish  I  could  be  made  so  many  men ; 
And  all  of  you  clapp'd  up  together  in 
An  Antony ;  that  I  might  do  you  service. 
So  good  as  you  have  done. 

Serv.  The  gods  forbid ! 

A?it.  Well,  my  good  fellows,  wait  on  me  to- 


night ; 


Tend  me  to-night ; 


Scant  not  my  cups;  and  make  as  much  of  me 
As  when  mine  empu'e  was  yoiu*  fallow  too, 
And  suffer'd  my  command. 

Cleo.  What  does  he  mean  ? 

E)io.  To  make  his  followers  weep. 

A7lf. 

May  be,  it  is  the  period  of  your  duty  : 
Haply,  you  shall  not  see  me  more ;  or  if, 
A  mangled  shadow :  perchance,  to-morrow 
You  'U  serve  another  master.     I  look  on  you 
As  one  that  takes  his  leave.     Mine    lionest 

friends, 
I  turn  you  not  away ;  but,  like  a  master 
Manied  to  your  good  service,  stay  till  death : 
Tend  me  to-night  two  hours,  I  ask  no  more. 
And  the  gods  yield  you  for 't !  ^ 

Eiio.  What  mean  you,  sir, 

To  give  them  this  discomfort  ?  Look,  they  weep ; 
And  T,  an  ass,  am  onion-eyed;  for  shame, 
Transform  us  not  to  women. 

Ant.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  = 

Now  the  witch  take  me  if  I  meant  it  thus ! 
Grace  grow  where  those  drops  fall !  My  hearty 

friends, 
You  take  me  in  too  dolorous  a  sense. 
For  I  spake  to  you  for  your  comfort :  did  desu-e 

you 
To  burn  this  rddit  with  torches :   Know,   mv 

hearts, 
I  hope  well  of  to-morrow ;  and  wiU  lead  you 
Where  rather  I  '11  expect  victorious  life. 
Than  death  and  honour.     Let  's   to  supper; 

come. 
And  di-own  consideration.  {_Exeunt. 


a  Thou.  Hanmer  reads  and  thou,  'nhich  some  editors 
follow.  The  pause,  which  is  necessary  in  addressing  various 
persons,  stands  in  the  place  of  a  syllable. 

b  In  A3  You  Like  It  we  have  the  familiar  expression 
"  God  'ild  you,"  which  is  equivalent  to  God  yield  you,  or 
God  reward  you.    So  in  the  passage  before  us. 

c  These  interjections  have  the  sense  of  stop. 


SCENE  lll.—T/ie  same.     Before  the  Palace. 
Enter  Two  Soldiers,  to  their  Guard. 

1  Sold.  Brother,   good  night :   to-morrow  is 

the  day. 

2  Sold,  It  win  determine  one  way :  fare  you 

well. 
Heard  you  of  nothing  strange  about  the  streets  ? 

1  Sold.  Nothing  :  What  news  ? 

2  Sold.  BeHke  't  is  but  a  rumoui" : 
Good  night  to  you. 

1  Sold.  Well,  sir,  good  night. 


Enter  Two  other  Soldiers. 


Soldiers, 


2  Sold. 
Have  careful  watcli. 

3  Sold.  And  you :  Good  night,  good  night. 

[The  first  two  place  themselces  at 
their  posts. 

4  Sold.  Here  we :  [thei/  take  their  posts.']  and 

if  to-morrow 
Our  navy  thi-ive,  I  have  an  absolute  nope 
Our  landmen  wiU  stand  up. 

3  Sold.  'T  is  a  brave  army, 
jVnd  full  of  purpose. 

[_3iusic  of  hautboys  under  the  stage. 

4  Sold.  Peace,  what  noise  ? '' 

1  Sold.  List,  list 

2  Sold.  Hark  ! 

1  Sold.  Music  i'  the  air. 

3  Sold.  Under  the  earth. 

4  Sold.  It  signs  well, 
Does  't  not  ? 

3  Sold.  No. 

1  Sold.  Peace,  I  say.    What  should 

this  mean  ? 

2  Sold.  'T  is  the  god  Hercules,  whom  Antony 

lov'd. 
Now  leaves  him. 

1  Sold.  Walk ;  let 's  see  if  other  watchmen 
Do  hear  what  we  do. 

{They  advance  to  another  post. 

2  Sold.  How  now,  masters  ? 
Sold.  How  now  ? 

How  now  ?  do  you  hear  this  ? 

[Several  speaking  together. 
1  Sold.  Ay :  Is 't  not  strange  ? 

3  Sold.  Do  you  hear,  masters  ?   do  you  hear  ? 
I  Sold.  Follow  the  noise  so  far  as  we  have 

quarter ; 
Let 's  see  how  't  wiU  give  off. 

Sold.      [Several  speaking.]    Content:    'T  is 

[Exeunt. 


sti'ange. 


319 


AcTlV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scenes  IV.,  V. 


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

Enter  Aktoky  and  Cleopatra;  Cuabmlan, 
and  others,  attending. 

Ant.  Eros  !  luiue  armour,  Eros ! 
Oleo.  Sleep  a  little. 

Ant.    No,    my    chuck. — Eros,    come;    mine 
armour,  Eros ! 

Enter  Eros,  Kith  armour. 

Come,  good  fellow,  put  thine  iron  on : — 
If  fortune  be  not  ours  to-day,  it  is 
Bec.iusc  wc  brave  her. — Come. 

Geo.  Nay,  I  '11  help  too. 

What's  this  for? 

Ant.  Ah,  let  be,  let  be !  thou  art 

The  armourer  of  my  heart;— False,  false;  this, 
this. 

Cleo.  Sooth,  la,  I  '11  help :  Thus  it  must  be. 

Ant.  Well,  well : 

We  shall  thrive  now.— Seest  thou,  my  good 

fellow  ? 
Go,  put  on  thy  defences. 

Brot.  Briefly,  sir. 

CUo.  Is  not  this  buckled  well  ? 

Ant.  Rarely,  rarely ; 

Ue  that  imbuckles  this,  till  wc  do  please 
To  doff 't  for  our  repose,  shall  hear  a  storm.— 
Thou  fumblest,  Eros ;  and  my  queen 's  a  squire 
More  tight  at  this  than  thou:    Despatch — 0 

love. 
That  thou  couldst  see  my  wars  to-day,   and 

knew'st 
The  royal  occupation !  thou  shouldst  see 

Enter  an  Officer,  armed. 
A  workman  in 't— Good  morrow  to  thee;  wel- 
come: 
Thou  look'st  like  him  that  knows  a  warlike 

charge : 
To  business  that  wc  love  we  rise  betime. 
And  go  to  't  ^vith  delight. 

\OJf.  A  thousand,  sir, 

Early  though  't  be,  have  on  their  riveted  trim. 
And  at  the  port  expect  you. 

\Shout.     Trumpets.    Flourish. 

Enter  other  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 
2  Off.  The   morn    is    fair.      Good    moiTOW, 

general. 
All.  Good  morrow,  general. 
Ant.  'T  is  well  blown,  lads. 

Tins  morning,  like  the  spirit  of  a  youth 
That  mcuis  to  be  of  note,  begins  betimes. 
320 


So,  so;  come,  give  me  that:  this  way;    well 

said. 
Fare  thee  well,  dame,  whate'cr  becomes  of  me, 
This  is  a  soldier's  kiss :  rebukable,    \_Kisses  her. 
And  worthy  shaniefid  check  it  were,  to  stand 
On  more  mechanic  compliment ;  I  'U  leave  thee 
Now,  like  a  man  of  steel,— You  that  will  fight 
Follow  me  close ;  I  '11  bring  you  to 't.— Adieu. 

[Exeunt  Antony,  Eros,  Officers,  and 
Soldiers. 
Char.  Please  you,  retire  to  your  chamber  ? 
Cleo.  Lead  me. 

He  goes  forth  gallantly.    That  he  and  Casar 

might 
Determine  this  great  war  in  single  fight ! 
Then,  Antony,— But  now,— Well,  on.     [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  v.— Antony's  Camp  near  Alexandiia. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Antony  and  Eros; 
a  Soldier  meeting  them. 

Sold.  The  gods  make  this  a  happy  day  to 
Antony ! 

Ant.  'AVoiJd  thou,  and  those  thy  scars,  had 
once  prevail'd 
To  make  me  ight  at  land ! 

Sold.  Hadst  thou  done  so. 

The  kings  that  have  revolted,  and  the  soldier 
That  has  this  morniug  left  thee,  would  have  still 
Follow'd  thy  heels. 

Ant  Who 's  gone  thb  moniing  ? 

Sold.  Who? 

One  ever  near  thee  :  Call  for  Enobarbus, 
He  shall  not  hear  thee ;  or  from  Caesar's  camp 
Say,  'I  am  none  of  thine.' 

Ant.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Sold.  Sir, 

He  is  with  Ca:sar. 

Eros.  Sir,  his  chests  and  ti-easui-c 

He  has  not  with  him. 

Ant.  Is  he  gone  ? 

^oW.  Most  ccrtam. 

Ant.  Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after ;  do  it ; 
Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee  :  write  to  him 
(I  will  subscribe)  gentle  adieus,  and  greetings ; 
Say,  that  I  wish  he  never  find  more  cause 
To  change  a  master.— 0,  my  fortunes  have 
Corrupted  lionest  men;— dispatch:  Enobarbus!* 

\_Exeunt. 


B  Wc  follow  the  words  of  the  original,  but  not  the  punctu 
.ntion.  That  readinR  is  "dispatch  Enobarbus."  It  may 
i)Oi.s.ibly  mean  dispatch  the  business  of  Knobarbus;  but  it 
is  more  i)rot)able  that  AntDny,  addressinp  I'.ros,  says 
"dispatch;"  and  then,  thinking  of  his  revolted  friend, 
pronounces  his  n.imc.  The  second  folio  changes  the  words, 
having  "  Eros,  dispatch." 


Aci  IV. J 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATEA. 


[Sces.es  VI.-VIII. 


SCENE  VI. — Csesar'j  Camp  before  Alexandria. 

Flourish.    Enter  CffiSAH,  with  Agrippa, 
Enobabbus,  and  others. 

Cees.  Go  forth,  Agrippa,  and  begm  the  fight, 
Our  will  is  Antony  be  took  alive ; 
Make  it  so  known. 

Affr.  Cajsar,  I  shall.     \_Exit  Agkippa. 

Cces.  The  time  of  universal  peace  is  near ; 
Prove  this  a  prosperous  day,  the  three-nook'd 

world 
Shall  bear  the  olive  freely. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Antony 

Is  come  into  the  field. 

Cces.  Go,  charge  Agrippa 

Plant  those  that  have  revolted  in  the  van. 
That  Antony  may  seem  to  spend  his  fury 
Upon  himself.        [Exeunt  C^esab,  and  his  Train. 

Eno.  Alexas  did  revolt ;  and  went  to  Jewry, 
On  aiFairs  of  Antony ;  there  did  persuade 
Great  Herod  to  incline  himself  to  Csesar, 
And  leave  his  master  Antony :  for  this  pains, 
Csesar  hath  hang'd  him.     Cauidius,  and  the  rest 
That  fell  away,  have  entertainment,  but 
No  honourable  trust.     I  have  done  iU  j . 
Of  which  I  do  accuse  myself  so  sorely, 
That  I  will  joy  no  more. 

Enter  a  Soldier  of  Csesai-'*. 

Sold.  Euobarbus,  Antony 

Hath  after  thee  sent  all  thy  treasure,  with 
His  bounty  overplus  :  The  messenger 
Came  on  my  guard ;  and  at  thy  tent  is  now 
Unloading  of  his  mules. 

Eno.  I  give  it  you. 

Sold.  Mock  not,  Euobarbus. 

I  teU  you  true :  Best  you  saf  d*  the  bringer 
Out  of  the  host ;  I  must  attend  mine  ofiice, 
Or  would  have  done  't  myself.     Your  emperor 
Continues  still  a  Jove.  \Exit  Soldier. 

Eno.  I  am  alone  the  villain  of  the  earth. 
And  feel  I  am  so  most.     0  Antony, 
Thou  mine  of  bounty,  how  wouldst  thou  have 

paid 
My  better  service,  when  my  tiu'pitude 
Thou  dost  so  crown  with  gold !  This  blows''  my 

heart : 
If  swift  thought  break  it  not,  a  swifter  mean 
Shall  outstrike  thought :  but  thought  ^vill  do 't, 

I  feel. 
I  fight  against  thee ! — No :  I  wiU  go  seek 


Some  ditch  wherein  to  die ;  the  foul'st  best  fits 
My  latter  pai-t  of  Hfe,  \Exit. 

SCENE  TH.— Field  of  Battle  between  the 
Camps. 

Alarum,    Drums  and  trumpets.    Enter  Agkippa, 
and  others. 

Ayr.  Retire,  we  have  engag'd  ourselves  too 
far: 
Caesar  himself  has  work,  and  our  oppression 
Exceeds  what  we  expected.  \Exennt. 

Alarum.    Enter  Antony  and  Scabus,  wounded. 

Scar.  0   my  brave  emperor,  this   is  fought 
indeed ! 
Had  we  done  so  at  first,  we  had  driven  them 

home 
With  clouts  about  their  heads. 

Ant.  Thou  bleed'st  apace. 

Scar.  I  had  a  wound  here  that  was  like  a  T, 
But  now  't  is  made  an  H. 

Ant.  They  do  retire. 

Scar.  We  'U  beat  'em   into  bench-holes;   1 
have  yet 
Room  for  six  scotches  more. 

Enter  Ebos. 

Eros.  They  are  beaten,  sir;   and  our  advan- 
tage seiTcs 
Eor  a  fair  victory. 

Scar.  Let  us  score  their  backs. 

And  snatch  'em  up,  as  we  take  hai'es,  behind ; 
'T  is  sport  to  maul  a  runner. 

Ant.  I  will  reward  thee 

Once  for  thy  spritely  comfort,  and  ten-fold 
Eor  thy  good  valour.     Come  thee  on. 

Scar.  I  'U  halt  after.     \Exciait. 

SCENE  ^Vl.— Under  the  Walls  o/ Alexandria. 

Alanm.     Enter  Antony,   marching ;   Scabus, 
and  Forces. 

Ant.  We  have  beat  him  to  his  camp  :  Run 

one  before, 
And   let  the  queen  know  of  our  gests.^ — To- 

moiTow, 
Before  the  sun  shall  see  us,  we  '11  spill  the  blood 
That  has  to-day  escap'd.     I  tiiank  you  all ; 
Eor  doughty-handed  are  you ;  and  have  fought 
Not  as  you  serv'd  the  cause,  but  as  't  had  been 
Each  man's  like    mine ;    you  have   shown  all 

Hectors. 
Enter  the  city,  clip  your  wives,  your  friends. 


a  Sard — made  safe. 
Traged[es. — Vor,.  II. 


b  Blows— s\\c\^s. 


^  Tlie  ciigiiial  has  guats. 


321 


Act  IV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Scenes  IX.,  X. 


Tell  them  your  feats;  whilst  they  with  joyful  ' 

tears 
"\7ash  the  cougealmeut  from  your  wounds,  and 

kiss 
Tliy    honour'd    gashes    whole. — Give    me    thy 

hand ;  [To  Scabtjs. 

Enler  Cleopatra,  af (ended. 

To  this  great  fairy  I  Tl  commend  thy  acts, 
Alake  her  thanks  bless  thee. — 0   thou  day  o' 

the  world, 
Chain  mine  arni'd  neck;  leap  thou,  attire  and  all. 
Through  proof  of  harness  to  my  heart,  and  there 
Ride  on  the  pants  triumphing. 

Cleo.  Lord  of  lords ! 

0  infinite  virtue !  com'st  thou  smiling  from 
The  world's  great  snare  uncaught  ? 

Jnf.  'Mj  nightingale. 

We  have  beat  them  to  their  beds.     What,  girl  ? 

though  grey 
Do  something  mingle  with  our  younger*  brown ; 
Yet  ha'  we  a  brain  that  nourishes  our  nerves, 
And  can  get  goal  for   goal  of  youth.    Behold 

this  man ; 
Commend  unto  his  lips  tliy  favouring  hand ; — 
Kiss  it,  mv  warrior : — He  hath  foufrht  to-dav, 
yVs  if  a  god,  in  hate  of  mankind,  had 
Destroy'd  in  such  a  shape. 

Cko.  I  '11  give  thee,  friend. 

An  armour  all  of  gold;  it  was  a  king's. 

A/i/.  He  has  deserv'd  it,  were  it  carbuncled 
Like  holy  Phoebus'  car. — Give  me  thy  hand ; 
Through  Alexandria  make  a  jolly  march : 
Bear  our  hack'd  targets  like  the  men  that  owe 

them: 
Had  our  great  palace  the  capacity 
To  camp  tliis  host,  we  all  would  sup  together. 
And  drink  carouses  to  the  next  day's  fate. 
Which  promises  royal  peril, — Trumpeters, 
With  brazen  din  blast  you  the  city's  ear ; 
Make  mingle  with  our  rattling  tabourines ; 
That  heaven  and  earth  may  strike  their  sounds 

together 
Applauding  our  approach.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.— Caesar'*  Camp. 
Sentinels  on  their  post.     Enter  ExOBAKBCS. 

1  Sold.  If  we  be  not  reliev'd  within  this  hour. 
We  must  return  to  the  court  of  guard:  The 

night 
[s  shiny ;  and,  they  say,  we  shall  embattle 
By  the  second  hour  i'  the  mom. 

.1  YoHiger.    StMvena  oimta  the  epithet  in  hi»  "regulation 
or  tbe  metre." 

322 


[Hies. 


2  Sold.  This  last  day  was  a  shrewd  one  to  us. 
Eno.  O,  bear  me  witness,  night, — 

3  Sold.  What  man  is  this  ? 

2  Sold.  Stand  close,  and  list  him. 

Eno.  Be  witness  to  me,  0  thou  blessed  moon. 
When  men  revolted  shall  upon  record 
Bear  hateful  memory,  poor  Enobarbus  did 
Before  thy  face  repent ! — 

1  Sold.  Enobarbus ! 
?,Sold.  Peace; 

Hark  further. 

Eno.  O   sovereign    mistress  of   true  melan- 

cholv. 
The  poisonous   damp  of  night  disponge  upon 

me; 
That  life,  a  very  rebel  to  my  will. 
May  hang  no  longer  on  me :  Throw  my  heart 
Against  the  flint  and  hardness  of  my  fault ; 
Which,   being   dried  with  grief,  will  break  to 

powder, 
And  finish  all  foid  thoughts.     O  Antony, 
Nobler  than  my  revolt  is  infamous. 
Forgive  me  in  thine  own  particular ; 
But  let  the  world  rank  me  in  register 
A  master-leaver,  and  a  fugitive : 
0  Antony  !  O  Antony ! 

2  Sold.  Let 's  speak  to  him. 
1  Sold.  Let 's  hear  him,  for  the 

speaks  may  concern  Caesar. 

3  Sold.  Let 's  do  so.     But  he  sleeps. 

1  Sold.  Swoons  rather;  for  so  bad  a  prayer 
as  his  was  never  yet  for  sleep. 

2  Sold.  Go  we  to  him. 

3  Sold.  Awake,  sir,  awake ;  speak  to  us. 

2  Sold.  Hear  you,  sir  ? 

1  Sold.  The  hand  of  death  hath  raught  him. 
Hark,  the  drums  [Drums  afar  cjf. 

Demurely  wake  the  sleepers.    Let  us  bear  him 
To  the  court  of  guard ;  he  is  of  note :  our  hour 
Is  fuUy  out. 

3  Sold.  Come  on  then ; 

He  may  recover  yet.  [Exeunt  with  the  body. 

SCENE  X. — Between  the  two  Camps. 

Enter  AifTONY  and  Scahus,  with  Forces 
march  in ff. 

Ant.  Their  preparation  is  to-day  by  sea ; 
We  please  them  not  by  land. 

Scar.  For  both,  my  lord. 

Ant.  I  would  they'd  fight  i'  the  fire,  or  iu 
the  air; 
T^'e  'd  fight  there  too.     But  this  it  is :  Our  foot 
Upon  the  lulls  adjoining  to  the  city. 
Shall  stay  with  us : — order  for  sea  is  given ; 


things 


he 


Act  IV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKE  XI. 


They  have  put  forth  the  haven :" — 

"Where  their  appointment  we  may  best  discover, 

And  look  on  their  endeavour.  \JExeunt. 

Enter  C^sab,  and  his  Forces  marching. 

Cces.  But  being  charg'd,  we  will  be  still  by 
land, 
WTiich,  as  I  take  't,  we  shall ;  for  his  best  force 
Is  forth  to  man  his  galleys.     To  the  vales, 
And  hold  our  best  advantage.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Antony  a?id  Scarus. 
Ant.  Yet  they  are  not  join'd:  Where  yond 
pine  does  stand, 
I  shall  discover  all :  I  '11  bring  thee  word 
Straight,  how  't  is  like  to  go.  [Exit. 

Scar.  Swallows  have  built 

In  Cleopatra's  sails  their  nests :  the  augurers 
Say,  they  know  not, — they  cannot  tell; — look 

grimly, 
And  dare  not  speak  their  knowledge.     Antony 
Is  valiant  and  dejected;  and,  by  starts. 
His  fretted  fortunes  give  him  hope,  and  fear, 
Of  what  he  has,  and  has  not. 

Alarum  afar  off,  as  at  a  sea  fight. 

Re-enter  Antony. 

Ant.  All  is  lost ! 

This  foul  Egyptian  hath  betrayed  me  :* 
My  fleet  hath  yielded  to  the  foe ;  and  yonder 
They  cast  their  caps  up,  and  carouse  together 
Like  friends   long  lost. — Triple-turu'd  whore! 

't  is  thou 
Hast  sold  me  to  this  novice ;  and  my  heart. 
Makes  only  wars  on  thee. — Bid  them  all  fly ; 
For  when  I  am  revenged  upon  my  charm, 
I  have  done  aU :— Bid  them  all  fly,  be  gone. 

[Exit  ScAHtJS. 
O  sun,  thy  uprise  shall  I  see  no  more : 
Fortune  and  Antony  part  here ;  even  here 
Do  we  shake  hands. — All  come  to  this  ?— The 

hearts 
That    spaniel'd  b    me    at    heels,    to    whom    I 
,  gave 

Their  wislies.  do  discandy,  melt  their  sweets 


"  The  sentence — 

"Order  for  sea  is  given; 
They  have  put  forth  the  haven" — 

is  parenthetical.  Omit  it,  and  Antony  says,  that  the  foot 
soldiers  shall  stay  with  him,  upon  the  hills  adjoining  to  the 
city, 

"  Where  their  appointment  we  may  best  discover." 

There  are  various  modes  of  piecing  out  this  line,  such  as, 
"Let's  seek  a  spot."    Others  give  us  "further  on." 

b  SpanieVd.  The  original  has  panell'd.  The  emendation, 
which  is  by  Hanmer,  is  judicious;  and  it  is  supported  by 
the  fact  that  spaniel  was  formerly  spelt  spannel. 

Y  2 


On  blossoming  Csesar ;  and  this  pine  is  bark'd, 
That  overtopp'd  them  aU.     Betray'd  I  am  : 
0  this  false  soid  of  Egypt !  this  grave  charm, 
Whose   eye  beck'd  forth  my  wars,  and  call'd 

them  home ; 
^\Tiose  bosom  was  my  cro\vnet,  my  cliief  cud, 
Like  a  right  gipsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose, 
Beguil'd  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss. — 
What,  Eros,  Eros ! 

Enter  Cleopatka. 

Ah,  thou  spell !     Avaunt. 
Cleo.  Why  is  my  lord   em-ag'd  against  his 

love  ? 
Ant.  Vanish;   or  I  shall  give  thee  thy  de- 
serving. 
And  blemish  Csesar's  triumph.     Let  him  take 

thee. 
And  hoist  thee  up  to  the  shouting  plebeians  ; 
Follow  his  chariot,  like  the  greatest  spot 
Of  all  thy  sex :  most  monster-like,  be  shown 
For  poor'st  diminutives,  for  dolts;*  and  let 
Patient  0  eta  via  plough  thy  visage  up 
With  her  prepared  nails.     [Exit  Cleo.]     'T  is 

well  thou  'rt  gone. 
If  it  be  well  to  live :  But  better  't  were 
Thou  feU'st  into  my  fury,  for  one  death     '. 
Might  have  prevented  many. — Eros,  hoa ! 
The  shirt  of  Nessus  is  upon  me  :  Teach  me, 
xUeides,  thou  mine  ancestor,  thy  rage : 
Let  me  lodge  Lichas  on  the  horns  o'  the  moon ; 
i\jid  with  those  hands,  that  grasp'd  the  heaviest 

club, 
Subdue  my  worthiest  self.     The  witch  shall  die; 
To  the  young  Roman  boy  she  hath  sold  me,  and 

I  fall 
Under  this  plot :  she  dies  for  't.— Eros,  hoa ! 

[Exit. 


SCENE  XL— Alexandi-ia. 
Palace. 


A  Room  in  the 


Enter  Cleopatra,  Ch.vrmlan,  Iras,  and 
Mardian. 

Cleo.  Help  me,  my  women !     0,  he  is  more 

mad 
Than  Telamon  for  his  shield;  the  boar  of  Thes- 

saly 
Was  never  so  emboss' d. 

a  We  follow  the  original.  The  ordinary  reading  is 
"  For  poor'st  diminutives  to  dolts;" 
and  it  is  explained  that  the  poorest  diminutives  are  the 
smallest  pieces  of  money.  Others  read  "for  doits,"  diminn- 
tives  and  doits  each  meaning  small  moneys.  We  believa 
that  the  "  poor'st  diminutives  "  are  the  lowest  of  the  popu- 
lace, as  the  "  dolts"  are  the  most  stupid.  We  must  there- 
fore understand /or  to  mean  for  the  gratification  of;  ot 
adopt  a  suggestion  by  Malone,  be  shown /or?,  &c. 

3-J3 


AOTiV,] 


ANTO:^Y  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ScEVE  ni 


Char.  To  the  monument ; 

There  lock  yourself,  and  send  liim  word  you  are 

dead. 
The  soul  and  body  rive  not  more  in  parting, 
Than  greatness  going  off. 

Cleo.  To  the  monument : — 

Mardian,  go  tell  him  I  have  slain  myself; 
Say,  that  the  last  I  spoke  was,  Antony, 
And  word  it,  pritliee,  piteously  :  Hence,  Mardian, 
iVnd  bring  n)C  how  he  takes  my  death. — 


To  the  monument. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IJl.—The  same.     Another  Room. 
Enter  Antony  and  Eros. 

Ant.  Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me  ? 

Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord 

Ant.  Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  that 's  dragon- 
ish : 
A  vapour,  sometime,  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon  't,  that  nod  unto  the  world, 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air :  thou  hast  seen 

these  signs ; 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants.* 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a 
thought 
The  rack  disUmns  ;  and  makes  it  indistinct. 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

Ant.  My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  body ;  here  I  am  Antony ; 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  ray  knave. 
I  made  these  wars  for  Egypt ;  and  the  queen, — 
Whose  heart  I  thought  I  had,  for  she  had  mine ; 
Which,  whilst  it  was  mine,  had  annex'd  unto  't 
A  million  more,  now  lost, — she,  Eros,  has 
Pack'd  cards  with  Cassar,  and  fahjc-play'd  my 

glory 
Unto  an  enemy's  triumph. — 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  Eros ;  there  is  left  us 
Ourselves  to  end  ourselves. — 0,  thy  vile  lady  ! 

Enter  Mardian. 

She  has  robb'd  me  of  my  sword. 

Mar.  No,  Antony ; 

My  mistress  lov'd  thee,  and  her  fortunes  mingled 
With  thine  entire! v.* 


•  T.  Wartou  remark  J  upon  this  passage,  "The  beauty 
both  of  the  expression  and  the  allusion  is  lost,  unless  we 
recollect  the  frcquenry  and  the  nature  of  these  shows  in 
Shakspeare's  age."  Whiter  adds  that  "  The  rack  dislim:.*" 
is  a  continuation  of  the  same  allusion. 
824 


Ant.  Hence,  saucy  euimch ;  peace ; 

She  hath  betray'd  mc,  and  shall  die  the  death. 
Mar.  Death  of  one  person  can  be  paid  bui 
once ; 
And  that  she  has  discharg'd  :  What  thou  would'st 

do 
Is  done  unto  thy  hand ;  the  last  she  spake 
AVas,  Antony  !  most  noble  Antony  ! 
Then  in  the  midst  a  tearing  groan  did  break 
Tlie  name  of  Antony ;  it  was  divided 
Between  her  heart  and  lips ;  she  reuder'd  life, 
Thy  name  so  buried  in  her. 
Ant.  Dead  then  ? 

Mar.  Dead. 

Ant.  Unaiin,   Eros;   the  long  day's   task  is 
done. 
And  we  must  sleep : — That  thou  depart'st  hence 

•     safe, 
Does  pay  thy  labour  richly;    Gro. — Off,   pluck 
off ; —  [Exit  ;Mardian. 

The  seven-fold  shield  of  Ajax  cannot  keep 
The  battery  from  my  heart,     O,   cleave,   my 

sides ! 
Heart,  once  be  stronger  than  thy  continent ; 
Crack  thy  fraU  case ! — Apace,  Eros,  apace.— 
No  more  a  soldier : — Bruised  pieces,  go; 
You  have    been    nobly  borne.  —  From    rac    a 
while. —  [Exit  Eros. 

I  will  o'ertake  thee,  Cleopatra,  and 
AVeep  for  my  pardon.     So  it  must  be,  for  now 
All  length  is  torture : — Since  the  torch  is  out, 
Lie  down,  and  sti'ay  no  farther : — Now  all  labour 
Mars  what  it  does ;  yea,  very  force  entangles 
Itself  with  strength :  Seal  then,  and  all  is  done." — 
Eros! — I  come,   my  queen: — Eros!— Stay  for 

me: 
Where  souls  do  couch  on  flowers,  we  '11  hand  in 

hand. 
And  with  our  sprightly  port  make  the  ghosts 

gaze: 
Dido  and  her  .^neas  shall  want  troops. 
And  all  the  haunt  be  ours. — Come,  Eros,  Eros ! 

Re-enter  Eros. 

Eros.  What  would  my  lord  ? 

Ant.  Since  Cleopatra  died, 

I  have  liv'd  in  such  dishonour,  that  tlic  gods 
Detest  my  baseness.  I,  that  with  my  sword 
Quarter'd  the  world,  and  o'er  green  Neptune's 

back 
With  ships  made  cities,  condemn  myself,  to  lack 
The  courage  of  a  woman ;  less  noble  mind 

«  The  pass.i(re  may  be  illustrated  by  a  corresponding 
ininge  in  King  IIenr>'  V. : — 

"  And  so  espous'd  to  death,  with  blood  he  leard 
A  testament  of  noble-«nding  love." 


Act  IV.  ] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 


[SCKNE   Xll. 


Thau  she,  which,  by  her  death,  oiu-  Caesar  tells, 
*  I  am  conqueror  of  myself.'     Tliou  art  sworn, 

Eros, 
That,  when  the  exigent  should  come,  (which  now 
Is  come,  indeed,)  when  I  should  see  behind  me 
Th'  inevitable  prosecution  of  disgrace 
And  horror,  that,  on  my  command,  thou  tlien 
Wouldst  kill  me :  *  do  't ;  the  time  is  come  : 
Thou  strik'st  not  me,  't  is  Caesar  thou  defeat'st. 
Put  colour  in  thy  cheek. 

Eros.  The  gods  withhold  me  ! 

Shall  I  do  that  which  aU  the  Parthian  darts, 
Thousrh  enemv,  lost  aim,  and  could  not  ? 

Aiit.  Eros, 

Would'st  thou  be  window'd  in  great  Rome,  and  see 
Thy  master  thus  with  pleach'd*'  arms,  bending 

down 
His  corrigible  neck,  his  face  subdued 
To  penetrative  shame ;  whilst  the  wheeled  seat 
Of  fortunate  Csesar,  drawn  before  him,  branded 
His  baseness  that  ensued  ? 

Eros.  I  would  not  see  't. 

Ant,  Come,  then ;  for  with  a  wound  I  must  be 
cur'd. 
Draw  that  thy  honest  sword,  which  thou  hast 

worn 
Most  useful  for  thy  country. 

Eros.  O,  sir,  pardon  me. 

Ant.  "When  I  did  make  thee  free,  swor'st  thou 
not  then 
To  do  this  when  I  bade  thee  ?     Do  it  at  once ; 
Or  thy  precedent  services  are  all 
But  accidents  unpurpos'd.     Draw,  and  come. 

Eros.  Turn  from  me  then  that  noble  counte- 
nance, 
"Wherein  the  worship  of  the  whole  world  lies. 

Ant.  Lo  thee.  \Tiirninfffrom  him. 

Eros.  My  sword  is  drawn. 

Ant.  Then  let  it  do  at  once 

The  thing  why  thou  hast  drawn  it. 

Eros.  My  dear  master, 

My  captain,  and  my  emperor ;  let  me  say. 
Before  I  strike  this  bloody  stroke,  farewell. 

Ant.  'T  is  said,  man ; — and  farewell. 

Eros.  Farewell,   great   chief.     Shall  I  strike 
now? 

Ant.  Now,  Eros. 

a  The  passage  is  regulated  thus  in  the  original : — 
"  When  I  should  see  behind  me 
Th'  inevitable  prosecution  of  disgrace  and  horror, 
That,  on  my  command,  thou  then  wilt  kill  me." 
The  ordinary  metrical  arrangement  is — 

"  When  I  should  see  behind  me 
Th'  inevitable  prosecution  of 
Disgrace  and  horror,  that,  on  my  command, 
Thou  then  wouldst  kill  me." 
"U'e  trust  our  change  is  an  improvement, 
t  Pleach'd—io'iii.. 


Eros.  Why,  there  then : — ^Ealls  on  his  sword. 
Thus  I  do  escape  the  sorrow 
Of  Antony's  death.  \_Dies. 

Ant.  Thrice  nobler  than  myself ! 

Thou  teachest  me,  0  valiant  Eros,  what 
I  should,  and  thou  coiddst  not.     My  queen  and 

Eros 
Have,  by  their  brave  instruction,  got  upon  me 
A  nobleness  in  record :  But  I  will  be 
A  bridegroom  in  my  death,  and  run  into  't 
As  to  a  lover's  bed.     Come  then ;  and,  Eros, 
Thy  master  dies  thy  scholar ;  to  do  thus 

[Falling  on  his  sword. 
I  leam'd  of  thee.  How !  not  dead  ?  not  dead  ? — 
The  guard — ho  !  * — 0,  dispatch  me. 

Enter  Dercetas  and  Guard. 

1  Quard.  "What 's  the  noise  ? 
Ant.  I  have  done  my  work  ill,  friends  :  0, 

make  an  end 
Of  what  I  have  begun. 

2  Gtuard.  Tlie  star  is  fallen. 
1  Guard.  And  time  is  at  his  period. 

All.  Alas,  and  woe ! 

Ant.  Let  him  that  loves  me  strike  me  dead. 

1  Guard.  Not  I. 

2  Guard.  Nor  I. 

3  Guard.  Nor  any  one.  [Exeunt  Guard. 
Der.  Thy  death  and  fortunes  bid  thy  followers 

fly. 

Tliis  sword  but  shown  to  Csesar,  virith  this  tidmgs. 
Shall  enter  me  with  him. 

Enter  Diomedes. 

JDio.  Wkei-e  's  Antony  ? 

Ber.  There,  Dioraed,  there. 

Dio.  Lives  he  ? 

"Wilt  thou  not  answer,  man  ?      [Exit  Dercetas. 

Ant.  Art  thou  there,   Diomed?     Draw  thy 
sword,  and  give  me 
Sufficing  strokes  for  death. 

2)io.  Most  absolute  lord. 

My  mistress  Cleopatra  sent  me  to  thee. 

Ant.  "When  did  she  send  thee  ? 

Eio.  Now,  my  lord. 

jfif,  "Where  is  she  r 

Dio.  Lock'd  in  her  monument.     She  had  a 
prophesying  fear 
Of  what  hath  come  to  pass :  for  w^hen  she  saw 
("Which  never  shall  be  found,)  you  did  suspect 
She  had  dispos'd  with  '^  Ctesar,  and  that  your  rage 
"\yould  not  be  purg'd,  she  sent  you  word  she  was 
dead; 

a  The  original  has  hnw,  -vvith  a  note  of  interrogation    The 
ordinary  reading  is  ho  ! 
b  Dispos'd  «'»<A— made  terms  with. 

325 


Act  IV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[ScekeXIII. 


But,  fearing  since  how  it  might  work,  hath  sent 
Me  to  proclaim  the  truth ;  and  I  am  come, 
I  dread,  too  late. 

Ant.  Too  late,  good  Diomcd :— Call  my  guard, 

I  prithee. 
Dio.  What,  ho  1  the  emperor's  guard  !     The 
guard,  what,  ho ! 
Come,  your  lord  calls. 

Enter  some  of  the  Guard. 
Ant.  Bear  nie,  good  friends,  where  Cleopatra 
bides ! 
'T  is  the  last  service  that  I  shall  command  you. 
1  Guard.  Woe,  woe  are  we,  sir,  you  may  not 
live  to  wear 
All  your  true  followers  out. 
All.  Most  heavy  day ! 

Ant.  Nay,    good  my  fellows,    do  not  please 
sharp  fate 
To  grace  it  with  youi-  sorrows :  bid  that  welcome 
Which  comes  to  punish  us,  and  we  punish  it 
Seeming  to  bear  it  lightly.     Take  mc  up  : 
I  have  led  you  oft ;  carry  me  now,  good  friends. 
And  have  my  thanks  for  all. 

\Exeunty  bearing  Anton'Y. 

SCENE  XIII.— r//^  same.     A  Monument. 
Enter  abocr,  Cleopatea,  Chakmian,  and  Iras. 

Cleo.  0  Charmian,  I  ^vill  never  go  from  hence.^ 

Cfutr.  Be  comforted,  dear  madam. 

Cleo.  No,  I  will  not. 

.Ml  strange  and  terrible  events  are  welcome. 
But  comforts  we  despise;  our  size  of  sorrow, 
Proportion'd  to  our  cause,  must  be  as  great 

Enter  Diomedes. 

As  that  which   makes  it. — How  now?   is  he 
dead  ? 
Bio.  His  death  's  upon  him,  but  not  dead. 
Look  out  o'  the  other  side  your  monument. 
His  guard  have  brought  him  thither. 

Enter  JiSTOTHY,  iortie  by  the  Guard. 

Cleo.  O  sun,* 
Bum  the  great  sphere  thou  movest  in ! — dark- 
ling stand 
Tlie  var}  ing  shore  o'  the  world ! — 0  Antony ! 
Antony,  Antony! — Help,  Charmian;  help,  Iras, 

help ; 
Help,  friends  below ;  let 's  draw  him  hither. 

Ant.  Peace : 

Not  Caesar's  valour  hath  o'crthrown  Antony, 
But  Antony's  hath  triuniph'd  on  itself. 


326 


*  0  tun.    Pope  added  thon. 


Cleo.  So  it  should  be,  that  none  but  Antony 
Should  conquer  Antony ;  but  woe  't  is  so ! 

Ant.  I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ;  only 
I  here  importune  death  a  while,  until 
Of  many  tliousund  kisses  the  poor  last 
I  lay  upon  thy  lips. — 

Cleo.  I  dare  not,  dear," 

(Dear  my  lord,  pardon,)  I  dare  not. 
Lest  I  be  taken :  not  the  imperious  show 
Of  the  fuU-fortuu'd  Cajsar  ever  shall 
Be  broocli'd""  wilhmc;  if  knife,  drugs,  serpent.-*; 

have 
Edge,  sting,  or  operation,  I  am  safe : 
Your  wife  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes 
And  still  conclasion,  shall  acquire  no  honour 
Demurmg  upon  me. — But   come,    come,    An- 
tony,— 
Help    me,   my  women, — we    must   di-aw  thee 

up;— 
Assist,  good  friends. 

Ant.  O,  quick,  or  I  am  gone. 

Cleo.  Here    's    sport,   indeed! — How   heavy 
■weighs  my  lord! 
Our  strength  is  all  gone  into  heaviness ; 
That  makes  the  weight:   Had  I  great  Juno's 

power. 
The  strong- wing'd  Mercury  should  fetch  thee  up. 
And  set  thee  by  Jove's  side.  Yet  come  a  little, — 
Wishers  were  ever  fools  :—0,  come,  come,  come; 

\They  draw  Antony  vp. 
And  welcome,  welcome!  die  where  thou  hast 

liv'd : 
Quicken  with  kissing ;  had  my  lips  that  power. 
Thus  would  I  wear  them  out. 

All.  A  heavy  sight ! 

Ant.  I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying ; 
Give  me  some  wiue,  and  let  me  speak  a  little. 
Cleo.  No,  let  mc  speak;  and  let  mc  rail  so 
high. 
That  the  false   housewife  Eortune    break  her 

wheel,"^ 
Provok'd  by  my  offence. 

Ant.  One  -word,  sweet  queen : 

Of  Caesar  seek  your  honour,  with  your  safety. 
— O! 
Cko.  They  do  not  go  together. 
Ant.  Gentle,  hear  me ; 

None  about  Caesar  trust,  but  Proculcius. 

Cleo.  My  resolution,  and  my  hands,  I  '11  trust* 
None  about  Ctesar. 


&  Cleopatra  dares  not  come  down  out  of  the  monument,  to 
bestow  liie  poor  last  kiss. 
b  lirooch'd — adorned,  as  with  a  brooch. 

c  Johnson  calls  this  a  "  despicable  line."     There  nn.- 
not  many  i>uch  despicable  lints  in  'Irene.' 


Act  IV.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKS  XIII. 


Ant.  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end, 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at:  but  please  your  thoughts, 
In  feecUng  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes 
Wherein  I  liv'd,   the  greatest  prince    o'    the 

world. 
The  noblest :  and  do  now  not  basely  die, 
Nor  cowardly  put  oif  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman, — a  Roman,  by  a  Roman 
Valiantly  vanquish'd.     Now,  my  spirit  is  going; 
I  can  no  more.  [_Dies. 

Cleo.  Noblest  of  men,  woo  't  die  ? 

Hast  thou  no  care  of  me  ?  shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world,  which  in  thy  absence  is 
No  better  than  a  sty  ? — 0,  see,  my  women, 
The  crown  o'  the  earth  doth  melt : — My  lord! — 
0,  wither'd  is  the  garland  of  the  war, 
The  soldier's  pole  is  fallen;    young  boys  and 

girls 
Are  level  now  with  men  :  the  odds  is  gone. 
And  there  is  nothing  left  remarkable 
Beneath  the  visiting  moon.  [She  fai?ds. 

Char.  0,  quietness,  lady  ! 

Iras.  She  is  dead  too,  our  sovereign. 

Char.  Lady, — 

Iras.  Madam, — 

Char.  0  madam,  madam,  madam ! 

Iras.  Royal  Egyjot ! 

Empress ! 

Char.  Peace,  peace,  L*as. 


Cleo.  No   more,   but  e'en=*  a  woman;    and 

commanded 
By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks. 
And  does  the  meanest  chares.'' — It  were  for  me 
To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods  ; 
To  teU  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs. 
Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.  All's  butnauglit; 
Patience  is  sottish ;  and  impatience  does 
Become  a  dog  that 's  mad  :  Then  is  it  sin 
To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death. 
Ere   death  dare   come  to  us  ? — How  do  you, 

women  ? 
What,   what  ?    good  cheer !     TVTiy,  how  now, 

Charmian  ? 
My  noble  gii-ls  ! — Ah,  women,  women !  look, 
Our  lamp  is  spent,  it 's  out : — Good  sks,  take 

heart :  [To  the  Guard  beloic. 

We  '11    bui-y    him ;    and    then,    what 's  brave, 

what's  noble. 
Let 's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion. 
And  make  Death  proud  to  take  us.  Come,  away: 
This  case  of  that  huge  spirit  now  is  cold. 
Ah,  women,  women !  come ;  we  have  no  friend 
But  resolution,  and  the  briefest  end. 

[Exeu7it ;  those  above  bearing  off  AxTONl's 

bodj/. 

•1  E'en.    The  original  has  in. 

•>  Chares.  A  chare,  or  char,  is  a  single  act,  or  piece  of 
work, — a  turn,  or  bout  of  work,  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  cymr., 
to  turn.    Hence,  a  charwoman. 


Pompey'3  Pillar.] 


[.Pyraniid  and  Sphynx.' 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT   IV. 


•  Scene  I. —  "  Let  the  old  ruffian  Tcnow, 

I  have  many  other  ways  to  die"  &c. 

"  So  Cxsar  came,  and  pitched  his  camp  hard  by 
the  city  (Alexandria),  in  the  pkce  where  they  run 
and  manage  their  horses.  Antonius  made  a  sally 
upon  him,  and  fought  very  valiantly,  bo  that  he 
drave  Caesar's  horsemen  back,  fighting  with  his 
men,  even  into  their  camp.  Then  he  came  af;ain  to 
the  palace,  greatly  boasting  of  this  victory,  and 
sweetly  kis.5ed  Cleopati-a,  armed  as  he  was  when  he 
came  from  the  fight,  recommending  one  of  his  men- 
at-arms  unto  her  that  had  valiantly  fought  in  this 
skirmish.  Cleopatra,  to  reward  his  manliness,  gave 
him  an  armour  and  hearl-piece  of  clean  gold ;  how- 
beit,  the  man-at-arms,  when  he  received  this  rich 
gift,  stole  away  by  night,  and  went  to  Caesar.  An- 
tonius sent  again  to  challenge  Caesar  to  fight  with 
him  hand  to  hani  Cicsar  answered  him  that  he 
Iiad  many  other  ways  to  die  than  so." 

'  Scene. II. — "  Call  forth  my  household  servants." 

"Tlien  Antonius  seeing  there  was  no  way  more 
honourable  for  him  to  die  than  fighting  valiantly, 
ho  determined  to  set  up  his  rest  both  by  sea  and 
land.  So,  being  at  supper  (as  it  is  reported),  he 
commanded  his  officers  and  h'^>u=ehold  scrvantsthat 
waited  on  him  at  his  board  that  they  should  fill  his 
cups  full,  and  make  as  much  of  him  as  they  could, 


for,  said  he,  You  know  not  whether  you  shall  do  so 
much  for  me  to  morrow  or  not,  or  whether  you  shall 
serve  another  master ;  it  may  be  you  shall  see  me 
no  more,  but  a  dead  body.  This  notwithstanding, 
perceiving  that  his  friends  and  men  fell  a  weeping 
to  hear  him  say  so,  to  salve  that  he  had  spoken  he 
added  this  more  unto  it,  that  he  would  not  lead  them 
to  battle  where  he  thought  not  rather  safely  to  return 
with  victory  than  valiantly  to  die  with  honour." 

*  Scene  III. — "  Peace,  wJiat  noise?" 

"Furthermore,  the  selfsame  night,  within  a  little 
of  midnight,  when  all  the  city  was  quiet,  full  of  fear 
and  sorrow,  thinking  what  would  be  the  issue  and 
end  of  this  war,  it  is  said  that  suddeuly  they  heard 
a  marvellous  sweet  harmony  of  sundry  sorts  of 
instruments  of  music,  with  the  cry  of  a  multitude  of 
people,  as  they  had  been  dancing,  and  had  sung  as 
they  used  in  Bacchus'  fea.sts,  with  movings  and 
turnings  after  the  manner  of  the  Satyrs ;  and  it 
seemed  that  this  dance  went  through  the  city  unto 
the  gate  that  opened  to  the  enemies,  and  that  all  the 
troop  that  made  this  noise  they  heard  went  out  of 
the  city  at  that  gate.  Now,  such  as  in  reason 
sought  the  depth  of  the  interpretation,  of  this 
wonder,  thought  it  w.is  the  God  unto  whom 
Antonius  b.aro  singular  devotion  to  counterfeit 
and  resemble  him  that  did  foraake  them." 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 


*  Scene   X. — "  This  foul  Egiiptian  hath  betray'd 
me." 

"The  next  morning  by  break  of  day  lie  went  to 
set  those  few  footmen  he  had  in  order  upon  the  hills 
adjoining  unto  the  city,  and  there  he  stood  to  behold 
his  galleys  which  departed  from  the  haven,  and 
rowed  against  the  galleys  of  his  enemies,  and  so 
stood  still,  looking  what  exploit  his  soldiers  in  them 
would  do.  But  when  by  force  of  rowing  they  were 
come  near  unto  them,  they  first  saluted  Cesar's 
men,  and  then  Caesar's  men  resaluted  them  also, 
and  of  two  armies  made  but  one,  and  then  did  alto- 
gether row  toward  the  city.  "When  Antonms  saw 
that  his  men  did  forsake  him,  and  yielded  unto 
Ccesar,  and  that  his  footmen  were  broken  and  over- 
thrown, he  then  fled  into  the  city,  crying  out  that 
Cleopatra  had  betrayed  him  unto  them,  with  whom 
he  had  made  war  for  her  sake." 

'  Scene  XII.— "ify  mistress  lov'd  thee"  &c. 

"  Then  she,  being  afraid  of  his  fury,  fled  into  the 
tomb  which  she  had  caused  to  be  made,  and  there 
locked  the  doors  unto  her,  and  shut  all  the  springs 
of  the  locks  with  great  bolts,  and  in  the  mean  time 
sent  unto  Antonius  to  tell  him  that  she  was  dead. 
Antonius,  believing  it,  said  unto  himself,  Whatdost 
thoulook  forfurther,  Antonius, sithspiteful fortune 
hath  taken  from  thee  the  only  joy  thou  haddest,  for 
whom  thou  yet  reservedst  thy  life?  When  he  had 
said  these  words,  he  went  into  a  chamber  and  un- 
armed himself,  and,  being  naked,  said  thus  : — 0 
Cleopatra,  it  gi-ieveth  me  not  that  I  have  lost  thy 
company,  for  I  will  not  be  long  from  thee  :  but  I 
am  sorry  that,  having  been  so  great  a  captain  and 
empei-or,  I  am  indeed  condemned  to  be  judged  of 
less  courage  and  noble  mind  than  a  woman.  Now 
he  had  a  man  of  'his,  called  Eros,  whom  he  loved 
and  trusted  much,  and  whom  he  had  long  before 
caused  to  swear  unto  him  that  he  should  kill  him 
when  he  did  command  him,  and  then  he  willed  him 
to  keep  his  promise.  This  man,  drawing  his  sword, 
liftitup  as  thoughhe  had  meanttohave  stricken  his 
master;  but,  turning  his  head  at  one  side,  he  thrust 
his  sword  into  himself,  and  fell  down  dead  at  his 
master's  foot.  Then  said  Antonius,  0  noble  Eros, 
I  thank  thee  for  this,  and  it  is  valiantly  done  of  thee, 
to  show  me  what  I  should  do  to  myself,  which  thou 
couldst  not  do  for  me.  Therewithal  he  took  his 
Bword,  and  thrust  it  into  liis  belly,  and  so  fell  down 
upon  a  little  bed.  The  wound  he  had  killed  him 
not  presently,  for  the  blood  stinted  a  little  when  he 
was  laid ;  and  when  he  came  somewhat  to  himself 
f.gain,  he    prayed  them  that  were  about  him  to 


despatch  him ;  but  they  all  fled  out  of  the  chamber, 
and  left  him  crying  and  tormenting  himself,  until 
at  last  there  came  a  secretary  unto  him  called  Dio- 
medes,  who  was  commanded  to  bring  him  into  the 
tomb  or  monument  where  Cleopatra  was.  When 
he  heard  that  she  was  aUve,  he  very  earnestly  pi'ayed 
his  men  to  carry  his  body  thither,  and  so  he  was 
carried  in  his  men's  arms  into  the  entry  of  the 
monument." 

^  Scene  XIII. — "  0  Charmian,  I  will  nevei'  go 

from  hence." 

"  Notwithstanding,  Cleopatra  would  not  open 
the  gates,  but  came  to  the  high  windows,  and  cast 
out  certain  chains  and  ropes,  in  the  which  Antonius 
was  trussed ;  and  Cleopatra  her  own  self,  with  two 
women  only  which  she  had  suff"ered  to  come  with 
her  into  these  monuments,  '  trised '  Antonius  up. 
They  that  were  present  to  behold  it  said  they  never 
saw  so  pitiful  a  sight ;  for  they  plucked  up  poor 
Antonius, all  bicody  as  he  was,  and  drawing  on  with 
pangs  of  death,  who,  holding  up  his  hands  to  Cleo- 
patra, raised  up  himself  as  well  as  he  could.  It  was 
a  hard  thing  for  these  women  to  do,  to  lift  him  up ; 
but  Cleopatra  stooping  down  with  her  head,  putting 
to  all  her  strength  to  her  uttermost  power,  did  lift 
him  up  with  much  ado,  and  never  let  go  her  hold, 
with  the  help  of  the  women  beneath  that  bade  her 
be  of  good  courage,  and  were  as  soiTy  to  see  her 
labour  so  as  she  herself.  So  when  she  had  gotten 
him  in  after  that  sort,  and  laid  him  on  a  bed,  she 
rent  her  garments  upon  him,  clapping  her  breast, 
and  scratching  her  face  and  stomach.  Then  she 
dried  up  his  blood  that  had  berayed  his  face,  and 
called  him  her  lord,  her  husband,  and  emperor,  for- 
getting her  own  misery  and  calamity  for  the  pity 
and  compassion  she  took  of  him.  Antonius  made 
her  cease  her  lamenting,  and  called  for  wine,  either 
because  he  was  athirst,  or  else  for  that  he  thought 
thereby  to  hasten  his  death.  When  he  had  drunk 
he  earnestly  prayed  her  and  persuaded  her  that  she 
would  seek  to  save  her  life,  if  she  could  possible, 
without  reproach  and  dishonour,  and  that  chiefly 
she  should  trust  Proculeius  above  any  man  else 
about  Caesar ;  and,  as  for  himself,  that  she  should 
not  lament  nor  sorrow  for  the  miserable  change  of 
his  fortune  at  the  end  of  his  days,  but  rather  that  she 
should  think  liim  the  more  fortunate  for  the  former 
triumphs  and  honours  he  had  received,  considering 
that  while  he  lived  he  was  the  noblest  and  greatest 
prince  of  the  world,  and  that  now  he  was  overcome, 
not  cowardly,  but  valiantly,  a  Roman  by  another 
Eoman." 


329 


[Interior  of  ari  Egyptian  Monument.] 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — CjEsar'*   Camp   before  Alexandria. 

Enter   Cesar,    Agrippa,   Dolabella,   Me- 
CJ2NAS,  G.iXLUS,  Proculeius,  and  others. 

Cat.  Go  to  liim,  Dolabella,  bid  hiin  yield ; 
Being  so  frustrate,  tell  liim,  Lc  mocks  [us  by "] 
The  pauses  that  he  makes. 

Dot.  Caesar,  I  shall.  [Exit  Dolabella. 

Enter  Dercetas,  with  the  sword  of  Aktony. 

Cas.  Wherefore  is  that?  and  what  art  thou 
that  dar'st 
Appear  thus  to  us  ?  ' 

I)er.  I  am  call'd  Dcreetas  ; 

Mark  Antony  I  senr'd,  who  best  was  worthy 
Best  to  be  serv'd:  wliilst  he  stood  up,  and  spoke, 
He  was  my  master :  and  I  wore  my  life 
To  spend  upon  his  haters :  If  thou  please 
To  take  me  to  thee,  as  I  was  to  him 
I'll  be  to  Cajsar ;  if  thou  plcasest  not, 
1  yield  thee  up  my  life. 


»  The  word*  in  brackets  arc  not  in  the  original.  Malone 
supplied  them,  and  Sttevens  adopts  them  with  some  hesita- 
tion, sayinp,  "  We  are  not  yet  accjuainted  with  the  full  and 
exact  meanin;:  of  the  word'mocAr,  as  sometimes  employed  by 
Shakspcare."  It  is  diflicult,  however,  to  render  the  passage 
intelligible  without  some  such  words  as  those  inserted. 

330 


Ccps.  What  is  't  thou  say'st  ? 

Der.  I  say,  0  Cassar,  Antony  is  dead. 

Cas.  The  breaking  of  so  great  a  thing  should 
make 
A  greater  crack  :  The  round  world 
Should  have  shook  lions  into  civil  streets. 
And  citizens  to  their  dens :  •'' — The  death  of 

Antony 
Is  not  a  single  doom ;  in  the  name  lay 
A  moiety  of  the  woi-ld. 

Ber.  He  is  dead,  Caesar  ; 

Not  by  a  public  minister  of  justice, 
Nor  by  a  liired  knife  ;  but  that  self  hand, 
"Wliich  writ  his  honour  in  the  acts  it  did. 
Hath,  with  the  courage  which  the  heart  did 

lend  it, 
SpUtted  the  heart. — This  is  his  sword ; 
I  robb'd  his  wound  of  it ;  behold  it  stain'd 
With  his  most  noble  blood. 

Can.  Look  you  sad,  friends  ? 

The  gods  rebuke  me,  but  it  b  tidings 
To  wash  the  eyes  of  kings. 


>  The  commentators  make  a  great  difficulty  with  this  pas- 
sage ;  but  surely  nothinp  can  more  forcibly  express  the  idea 
ofa  general  convulsion  tlian  that  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest 
sliould  have  been  hurled  into  the  streits  where  men  abide, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  cities  as  forcibly  thrown  into  the 
lions'  dens. 


Aer  v.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCKKE  IL 


Agr.  And  strange  it  is 

That  nature  must  compel  us  to  lament 
Our  most  persisted  deeds. 

Mec.  His  taints  and  honours 

Wag'd  equal  with  him. 

Agr.  A  rarer  spirit  never 

Did  steer  humanity :  but  you,  gods,  -wtU  give  us 
Some  faults  to  make  us  men.     Csesar  is  touch'd. 

Mec.    When    such  a  spacious  mirror's    set 
before  him, 
He  needs  must  see  himself. 

C(ss.  0  Antony  ! 

I  have  follow'd  thee  to  tliis  :"— But  we  do  lauce 
Diseases  in  our  bodies  :  I  must  perforce 
Have  sho\vn  to  thee  such  a  declining  day. 
Or  look  on  thine  ;  we  coidd  not  stall  together 
In  the  whole  world :  But  yet  let  me  lament, 
With  tears  as  sovereign  as  the  blood  of  hearts, 
That  thou,  my  brother,  my  competitor 
In  top  of  all  design,  my  mate  in  erapii-e. 
Friend  and  companion  in  the  front  of  war, 
The  arm  of  mine  own  body,  and  the  heart 
Where  mine  his  thoughts  did  kindle,— that  oui- 

stars, 
Unreconciliable,  should  divide 
Our  equalness  to  this. — Hear  me,  good  friends, — 
But  I  will  tell  you  at  some  meeter  season : 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

The  business  of  this  man  looks  out  of  him. 
We  '11   hear  him  what    he  says. — Whence    are 
you? 

Mess.  A  poor  Egyptian  yet.     The  queen  my 
mistress, 
Confin'd  in  all  she  has,  her  monument. 
Of  thy  intents  desires  instruction ; 
That  she  preparedly  may  frame  herself 
To  the  way  she  's  forced  to. 

Cces.  Bid  her  have  good  heart ; 

She  soon  shall  know  of  irs,  by  some  of  ours. 
How  honourable  and  how  kindly  we 
Determine  for  her :  for  Caesar  cannot  live 
To  be  imgentle. 

Mess.  So  the  gods  preserve  thee !     [Exit. 

Cces.  Come  hither,  Proculeius  :  Go,  and  say 
We    purpose    her  no   shame :    give  her  what 

comforts 
The  quality  of  her  passion  shall  require  ; 
Lest,  in  her  greatness,  by  some  mortal  stroke 
She  do  defeat  us  :  for  her  life  in  Borne 
Wotdd  be  eternal  in  our  triumph :  Go, 
.\nd,  with  your  speediest,  bring  us  what  she 

says, 
A-ud  how  you  find  of  her. 

»  Follow'd  thee  to  this— dn\en  thee  to  this. 


Pro.         Caesar,  I  shall.    [E-rit  Proculeius. 

Cas.  GaUus,  go  you  along. — Where's  Dola- 
beUa, 
To  second  Proculeius  ?  [Exit  Gallus. 

Agr.,  Mec.  DolabeUa ! 

Cas.  Let  him  alone,  for  I  remember  now 
How  he 's  employed ;  he  shall  in  time  be  ready. 
Go  with  me  to  my  tent :  where  you  shall  see 
How  hardly  I  was  di'awn  into  this  war ; 
How  calm  and  gentle  I  proceeded  stUl 
In  all  my  ^vritiugs :  Go  with  me,  and  see 
What  I  can  show  in  this.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— Alexandria. 
Mo7inmeiit. 


A  lioom  in  the 


Enter    Cleopatka,    Chakmian,    and   Ikas.* 

Cleo.  My  desolation  does  begin  to  make 
A  better  life  :  'T  is  paltry  to  be  Caesar ; 
Not  being  Fortune,  he 's  but  Fortune's  knave, 
A  minister  of  her  wUl :  And  it  is  great 
To  do  that  thing  that  ends  all  other  deeds ; 
Which  shackles  accidents,  and  bolts  up  change ; 
Which  sleeps,  and  never  palates  more  the  dmig, 
The  beggar's  nurse,  and  Caesar's.*" 

Enter,  to  the  gates  of  the  Monument,  Pkoculeius, 
Gaixus,  and  Soldiers. 

Pro.  Caesar  sends  greeting  to  the  queen  of 
Egypt ; 
And  bids  thee  study  on  what  fair  demands 
Thou  mean'st  to  have  him  grant  thee. 

Cleo.  [Within.']  What 's  thy  name  r 

Pro.  My  name  is  Proculeius. 

Cleo.  [Within.']  Antony 

Did  tell  me  of  you,  bade  me  trust  you ;  but 
I  do  not  greatly  care  to  be  deceiv'd. 
That  have  no  use  for  tnisting.     If  your  master 
Would  have  a  queen  his  beggar,  you  must  tell  him 
That  majesty,  to  keep  decoram,  must 
No  less  beg  than  a  kingdom :  if  he  please 
To  give  me  conquer' d  Egypt  for  my  son. 
He  gives  me  so  much  of  mine  own,  as  I 
WiU  kneel  to  him  with  thanks. 

Pro.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

a  JFalone  says,  "  Our  author  here  (as  in  King  Henry  VIII., 
Act  V.  Scene  i.).  has  attempted  to  exhibit  at  once  the  out- 
side and  the  inside  of  a  building.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  represent  this  scene  in  any  way  on  the  stage,  but  by 
making  Cleopatra  and  her  attendants  speak  all  their 
speeches,  till  the  queen  is  seized,  within  the  monument." 
Our  readers  will  recollect  what  we  have  so  often  said  about 
the  secondary  stage  of  the  old  theatre,  which  contrivance 
?ot  rid  of  the  difficulty  here  pointed  out.  See  Othello, 
Illustrations  of  Act  v. 

b  The  bepgar's  nurse  and  Ci^sar's  is  xmquestionably  rfeat'i; 
not,  as  Johnson  explains  it,  the  gross  substance  »hich 
equally  nourishes  the  beggar  and  Caesar.  Upon  the  autho- 
rity of  Warburton  and  .Mr.  Collier's  MS.  Corrector,  the 
ordinary  reading  is  now  palates  more  the  dug,  instead  of 
tkedung  of  the  folio. 

331 


Act  v.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[Sce:<j.  It, 


i'ou  are  fallen  into  a  princely  hand ;  fear  nothing : 
Make  your  full  referenee  freely  to  my  lord, 
AVho  is  so  full  of  grace  that  it  flows  over 
On  all  that  need :  Let  me  report  to  him 
Your  sweet  dependency  :  and  you  shall  find 
A  conqueror  that  will  pray  in  aid  for  kindness, 
Where  he  for  grace  is  kneel'd  to. 

Cleo.  [If'ithiiiJ]  Pray  you,  tell  him 

I  am  his  fortune's  vassal,  and  I  send  him 
The  greatness  he  has  got.    I  hourly  learn 
A  doctrine  of  obedience ;  and  would  ghidly 
Look  him  i'  the  face. 

Pro.  This  I  '11  report,  dear  lady. 

Have  comfort ;  for  I  know  your  plight  is  pitied 
Of  him  that  caus'd  it. 

Gal.  You  see  how   easily  she  may  be   sur- 
pris'd ; 
\_Here  Proculeius  and  two  of  the  Guard 
ascend  the  Monument  by  a  ladder  placed 
against  a  window,  and,  having  descended, 
come  behind  Cleopatra,    Some  of  the 
Guard  unbar  and  open  the  gates. 
Guard  lier  till  Casar  come.2 

{To  Proculeics  and  the  Gnai-d,     E.vil 
Gallus, 
Iras.  Roval  queen ! 

Char.  0  Cleopatra !  thou  art  taken,  queen ! — 
Cleo.  Quick,  quick,  good  hands. 

{Drawing  a  dagger. 
Pro.  Hold,  worthy  lady,  hold  : 

{Seizes  and  disarms  her. 
Do  not  yourself  such  wrong,  who  are  in  this 
Reliev'd,  but  not  betray'd. 

Cleo.  "What,  of  death  too 

That  rids  our  dogs  of  languish  ? 

Pro.  Cleopatra, 

Do  not  abuse  my  master's  bounty  by 
The  -undoing  of  yourseK :  let  the  world  see 
His  nobleness  well  acted,  which  your  death 
"Will  never  let  come  forth. 

Cleo.  "Where  art  thou.  Death  ? 

Come  hither,  come !   come,  come,  and  take  a 

queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars  1 
Pro.  0,  temperance,  lady ! 

dec.  Sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat,  I  '11  not  drink, 
sir; 
If  idle  talk  will  once  be  necessary, 
I'll  not  sleep  neither:'  This  mortal  house  I'll 

ruin. 
Do  Cffisar  what  he  can.     Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court ; 


•  Johnson  explains  this,  we  think  conectly,  "  I  will  net 
eat,  and,  if  it  will  be  necessarj'  now  for  once  to  waste  a  mo- 
ment in  idle  talk  of  my  purpose,  I  will  not  sleep  neither." 

SS2 


Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eje 
Of  dull  Octavia.     Shall  they  hoist  me  up. 
And  show  me  to  the  shouting  varletry 
Of  censuring  Rome  ?     Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
13c  gentle  grave  unto  me !  rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorruig !  rather  make 
INIy  country's  high  i)yrainides''  my  gibbet. 
And  hang  me  up  in  chains  ! 

Pro.  You  do  extend 

These  thoughts  of  horror  further  than  you  shall 
Find  cause  in  Cjcsar. 

Enter  Dolabella. 

Dol.  Proculeius, 

"What  thou  hast  done  thy  master  Coesar  knows, 
And  he  hath  sent  for  thee  :  for  the  queen, 
I  'U  take  her  to  my  guard. 

Pro.  So,  Dolabella, 

It  shall  content  me  best :  be  gentle  to  her. — 
To  Cffisar  I  will  speak  what  you  shall  please, 

{To  Cleopatra. 
If  you  '11  employ  me  to  him. 

Cleo.  Say,  I  would  die. 

{Exeunt  Proculeius  and  Soldiers. 
Dol.  Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of 

me? 
Cleo.  I  cannot  tell. 

Dol.  Assuredly,  you  know  me. 

Cleo.  No  matter,  sir,  what  I  have  heard  or 
known. 
You  laugh,   when   boys   or  women   tell   their 

di-eanis ; 
Is  't  not  youi"  trick  ? 

Dol.  I  understand  not,  madam. 

Cleo.  I  dreamt  there  was   an  emperor  An- 
tony ; — 
0,  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man  ! 

Dol.  If  it  might  please  you, — 

Cleo.    His    face  was    as  the  heavens ;    and 
therein  stuck 
A  sun  and  moon,  which  kept  their  course,  and 

lighted 
The  little  0,  the  earth. 

Dol.  Most  sovereign  creature, — 

Cleo.  His  legs  best  rid  the  ocean :  his  rear'd 
arm 
Crested  the  world  :  his  voice  was  propertied 
As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  tliat  to  friends ; 
But  when  he  meant  to  quail  and  shake  the  orb. 
He  was  as  rattling  thunder.     For  his  bounty. 


•  Pyramirfci— the  Latin  plural  of  pyramid;   used  as  a 
quadrisyllable. 


Aci  v.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


fScEHE    II. 


There  was  no  winter  iii''t;  au  autumn*  't  was, 
That  grew  the  more  by  reaping  :  His  delights 
Were  dolphin-like ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 
The  element  they  iiv'd  in  :  In  his  livery 
Walk'd  crowns  and  crownets ;  realms  and  islands 

were 
As  plates ''  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 

Dol.  Cleopatra, — 

Cleo.  Think  you  there  was,  or  might  be,  such 
a  man 
As  this  I  di-eamt  of  ? 

Bol.  Gentle  madam,  no. 

Cleo.  You  lie,  up  to  the  heai'ing  of  the  gods. 
But,  if  there  be,  or  ever  were,  one  such. 
It's  past  the  size  of  dreaming:  Nature  wants 

stuff 
To  vie  strange  forms  with  fancy ;  yet,  to  imagine 
An  Antony,  Avere  nature's  piece  'gainst  fancy. 
Condemning  shadows  quite. 

Dol.  Hear  me,  good  madam  : 

Your  loss  is  as  yourself,  great ;  and  you  bear  it 
As  answering  to  the  weight :  'Would  I  might 

never 
O'ertake  pursued  success,  but  I  do  feel. 
By  the  rebound  of  yours,  a  grief  that  Bciites 
My  very  heart  at  root. 

Cleo.  I  thank  you,  sii'. 

Know  you  what  Caesar  means  to  do  with  me  ? 

Bol.  I  am  loth  to  tell  you  what  I  woidd  you 
knew. 

Cleo.  Nay,  pray  you,  sir, — 

Bol.  Though  he  be  honoui-able, — 

Cleo.  He  'U  lead  me  then  in  triumph  ? 

Bol.  Madam,  he  will ; 

I  know  it. 

Within.  Make  way  there, — Caesar ! 

Enter  C^sak,  Gallus,  Peoculeius,  Mec^nas, 
Seleucus,  and  Attendants. 

Cas.  Which  is  the  queen  of  Egypt  ?^ 

Bol.  'T  is  the  emperor,  madam. 

[Cleopatka  kneels. 

C(es.  Arise,  you  shall  not  kneel : — 
I  pray  you,  rise ;  rise,  Egypt. 

Cleo.  Sir,  the  gods 

Will  have  it  thus ;  my  master  and  my  lord 
I  must  obey. 

Cres.  Take  to  you  no  hard  thoughts : 

The  record  of  what  injuries  you  did  us. 
Though  written  in  our  flesh,  we  shall  remember 
As  things  but  done  by  chance. 

a  Autumn.    The  original  has  Antony ;  evidently  a  mis- 
take.    The  correction  was  made  by  Theobald. 

b  Plates.     Pieces  of  silver  money  were  called  plates.     So 
in  Marlowe's  '  Jew  of  Malta,' — 

"  Uat'st  thou  this  Moor  but  at  two  hundred  plates!" 


Cleo.  Sole  sir  o'  the  world, 

I  cannot  project  mine  o^vn  cause  so  well 
To  make  it  clear ;  but  do  confess,  I  have 
Been  laden  •with  like  frailties,  wliicb  before 
Have  often  sham'd  our  sex. 

Cces.  Cleopatra,  know. 

We  will  extenuate  rather  than  enforce  : 
If  you  apply  yourself  to  our  intents, 
(Which  towards  you  are  most  gentle,)  you  shall 

find 
A  benefit  in  this  change ;  but  if  you  seek 
To  lay  on  me  a  cruelty,  by  taking 
Antony's  course,  you  shall  bereave  yourself 
Of  my  good  purposes,  and  put  your  children 
To  that  destruction  which  I  '11  guard  them  from. 
If  thereon  you  rely.     I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Cleo.  And  may,  through  all  the  world :  't  is 
yours ;  and  we 
Yom-  'scutcheons,  and  your  signs  of  conquest, 

shall 
Hang  in  what  place  you  please.     Here,  my  good 
lord. 
Cas.  You  shall  advise  me  in  all  for  Cleopatra. 
Cleo.  This  is  the  brief  of  money,  plate,  and 
jewels, 
I  am  possess'd  of ;  't  is  exactly  valued ; 
Not  petty  things  admitted.— Where's  Seleucus? 
Sel.  Here,  madam. 

Cleo.  This  is  my  treasurer ;  let  him  speak,  my 
lord, 
Upon  his  peril,  that  I  have  reserv'd 
To  myself  nothing.     Speak  the  truth,  Seleucus. 

Sel.  Madam, 
I  had  rather  seal  my  lips,  than,  to  my  peril. 
Speak  that  which  is  not. 

Cleo.  What  have  I  kept  back  ? 

Sel.  Enough  to  prnxhase  what  you  have  made 

known. 
Caes.  Nay,  blush  not,  Cleopatra;  I  approve 
Your  wisdom  in  the  deed. 

Cleo.  See,  Caesar !  0,  behold. 

How  pomp  is  followed !  mine  will  now  be  yours ; 
And  should  we  shift   estates  yours  would  be 

mine. 
The  ingratitude  of  this  Seleucus  does 
Even  make  me  wild  :  0  slave,  of  no  more  trust 
Than  love  that's  hir'd— What,  goest  thou  back ? 

thou  shalt 
Go  back,  I  warrant  thee ;  but  I  'U  catch  thine 

eyes, 
Though  they  had  wings :  Slave,  soulless  villain, 

dog! 
0  rarely  base  ! 

Cas.  Good  queen,  let  us  entreat  you. 

Cleo.  O  Caesar,  what  a  woundhag  shame  is  this ; 

333 


>3I 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


Act  v.] 

That  thou,  vouchsafing  here  to  visit  me, 

Doiug  the  honour  of  thy  lordliness 

To  one  so  uicck,  that  mine  own  servant  should 

Parcel  the  sum  of  my  disgraces  by 

Addition  of  his  envy !  Say,  good  Caesar, 

That  I  some  lady  trifles  have  rcserv'd, 

Immoment  toys,  things  of  such  dignity 

As  we  greet  modern''  friends  withal ;  and  say. 

Some  nobler  token  I  have  kept  apait 

For  Li  via,  and  Octavia,  to  induce 

Tlicir  mediation ;  must  I  be  unfolded 

With  one  that  I  have  bred?  The  gods !  It  smites 

me 
Beneath  the  fall  I  have.    Prithee,  go  hence  ; 

[To  Seleucxis. 

Or  I  shall  show  the  cinders  of  my  spirits 
Through  the  ashes  of  my  chance  :— Wert  thou 

a  man. 
Thou  wou'.dst  have  mercy  on  me. 

Ca-s.  Porbcar,  Seleucus. 

[E.vi(  Seleccus. 
Cleo.  Be  it  kno\vn  that  we,  the  greatest,  are 
misthought 
For  things  that  others  do  ;  and,  when  we  fall, 
"We  answer  others'  merits  in  our  name. 
Are  therefore  to  be  pitied. 

C<rs.  Cleopatra, 

Not  what  you  have  reserv'd,  nor  what  acknow- 

ledg'd. 
Put  we  i'  the  roU  of  conquest :  still  be  it  yours, 
Bestow  it  at  youi-  pleasure ;  and  believe 
Cfcsar'a  no  merchant,  to  make  prize  with  you 
Of  things  that  merchants  sold.    Therefore  be 

cheer'd ; 
Make  not  your  thoughts  your  prisons  :  no,  dear 

queen ; 
For  we  intend  so  to  dispose  you,  as 
Yourself  shall  give  us  counsel.    Feed,  and  sleep  : 
Our  care  and  pity  is  so  much  upon  you. 
That  we  remain  your  friend :  And  so  adieu. 
CUo.  My  master,  and  my  lord  ! 
Q^g^  Kot  so  :  Adieu. 

[Exeunt  C.a:sAR  and  Ms  Train. 
Cleo,  He  words  me,  gb-b,  he  words  me,  tliat 
I  should  not 
Be  noble  to  myself :  but  hark  thee,  Charmian. 

[Whimpers  Ciluimian. 
Iras.  Finish,  good   lady;   the   bright  day  is 
done. 
And  we  are  for  the  dark. 

Cleo.  Hie  thee  a^ain: 

I  have  spoke  already,  and  it  is  provided ; 
Go,  put  it  to  the  haste. 

Char.  Madam,  I  will. 


[SCEUB  II. 


•  if  odcrn— common. 


lie-enter  Dolabella. 

Dol.  Wliere  is  the  queen  ? 
Char.  Behold,  sir.     [&// Chahmian. 

Cleo.  Dolabella  ? 

Dol.  Madam,  as  thereto  sworn  by  your  com- 
mand, 
Wbich  my  love  makes  religion  to  obey, 
I  tell  you  this  :  Cicsar  through  Syria 
Intends  his  journey  ;*  and,  within  three  days, 
You  with  your  children  will  he  send  before  : 
Make  youi-  best  use  of  this  :  I  have  pcrform'd 
Your  pleasure,  and  my  promise. 

Cleo.  Dolabella, 

I  shall  remain  your  debtor. 

Dol  I  your  servant. 

Adieui  good  queen;  I  must  attend  on  Caisar. 
Cleo.  FareweU,  and  thanks.  [^""^  Doi-- 

Now,  Iras,  what  think' st  thou  ? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  be  shown 
In  Borne,  as  weU  as  I :  mechanic  slaves 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shaU 
UpUft  us  to  the  view ;  in  their  thick  breaths, 
Hank  of  gross  diet,  shaU  \\c  be  enclouded. 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapour. 

j^^,.  The  gods  forbid ! 

Cleo.  Nay,  't  is  most  certain,  Ii-as :    Saucy 
lictors 
Will  catch  at  us  like  strumpets;   and  scald 

rhymers 
Ballad  us  out  o'  tune ;  the  quick  comedians 
Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 
Our  Alexandrian  revels :  Antony 
ShaU  be  brought  drunken  forth,  and  I  shaU  see 
Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my  greatness 
r  the  posture  of  a  whore. 

Iras.  0  the  good  gods! 

Cleo.  Nay,  that  is  certain. 
Iras.  I'll  never  see  it;  for,  I  am  sui-e,  my 
nails 
Are  stronger  than  mine  eyes. 

Ql^^^  Why,  that 's  the  way 

To  fool  their  prepai-ation,  and  to  conquer 
Their  most  absui-d  intents.— Now,  Charmian  ?- 

Enter  Chahmian. 
Show  me,  my  women,  Uke  a  queen  ;— Go  fetch 
My  best  attires  ;— I  am  again  for  Cydnus, 
To  meet  Mai-k  Antony  -.-Sirrah,  Iras,  go.— 
Now  noble  Charmian,  we'U  despatch  indeed: 
And,  when  thou  hast  done  this  chare,  I'll  give 

thee  leave 
To  play  till  doomsday.— Bring  our  crown  and 

aU. 
"Wbcrcfore 's  this  noise  ? 

[Exit  Iras.     A  none  wiihu:. 


334 


Act  V, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCENK  11. 


Enter  one  of  the  Guard. 

Gitard.  Here  is  a  rural  fellow 

That  will  not  be  denied  your  liighness'  presence ; 
He  brings  you  figs. 

Cleo.  Let  him  come  in.    What  poor  an  in- 
strument [Exit  Guard. 
May  do  a  noble  deed  !  he  brmgs  me  liberty. 
My  resolution's  placed,  and  I  have  notliing 
Of  woman  in  me  :  Now  from  head  to  foot 
I  am  marble-constant :  now  the  fleeting  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 

He-enter  Guard,  with  a  Clown,  bringing  a 
basket. 

Guard.  This  is  the  man. 

Cleo.  Avoid,  and  leave  him.  [Exit  Guard. 

Hast  thou  the  pretty  worm  of  Nilus  there, 
That  knis  and  pains  not  ? 

Clojcn.  Truly  I  have  him :  but  I  M-ould  not 
be  the  party  that  should  desire  you  to  touch 
him,  for  his  biting  is  immortal ;  those  tliat  do 
die  of  it  do  seldom  or  never  recover. 

Cleo.  Remember'st  thou  any  that  have  died 

on't? 

Clown.  Very  many,  men  and  women  too.  I 
heard  of  one  of  them  no  longer  than  yesterday : 
a  veiy  honest  woman,  but  something  given  to 
lie ;  as  a  woman  should  not  do,  but  in  the  way 
of  honesty:  how  she  died  of  the  biting  of  it, 
what  pain  she  felt,— Truly,  she  makes  a  very 
good  report  o'  the  worm:  But  he  that  wiU 
believe  all  that  they  say,  shall  never  be  saved  t)y 
half  that  they  do  :  But  this  is  most  fallible,  the 
worm 's  an  odd  worm. 

Cleo.  Get  thee  hence ;  farewell. 

Clown.  I  wish  you  all  joy  of  the  worm. 

Cleo.  Farewell.     [Clown  sets  down  the  basket. 

Clown.  You  must  tliiuk  this,  look  you,  that 
the  worm  will  do  his  kind. 

Cleo.  Ay.  ay  ;  farewell. 

Clown.  Look  you,  the  worm  is  not  to  be 
trusted,  but  in  the  keeping  of  v^^se  people  :  for, 
indeed,  there  is  no  goodness  in  the  worm. 

Cleo.  Take  thou  no  care  ;  it  shall  be  heeded. 

Clown.  Very  good :  give  it  nothing,  I  pray 
you,  for  it  is  not  worth  the  feeding. 

Cleo.  WUl  it  eat  me  ? 

Clown.  You  must  not  think  I  am  so  sunple, 
but  I  know  the  devil  himself  will  not  eat  a 
woman :  I  know  that  a  woman  is  a  dish  for  the 
gods,  if  the  devil  di-ess  her  not.  But,  ti'uly, 
these  same  whoreson  devils  do  the  gods  great 
harm  in  their  women  ;  for  in  every  ten  that  they 
make,  the  devils  mar  five. 

Cleo.  Well,  get  thee  gone;  fareweU. 


Clown,  Yes,  forsooth ;  1  wish  you  joy  of  the 
worm.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Iras,  with  i?  robe,  erown,  ire 

Cleo,  Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown; 
I  have 
Immortal  longings  in  me  :  Now  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip:— 
Yare,  yare,  good  L-as ;  quick.— Methinks  I  hear 
Antony  call ;  I  see  him  rouse  himself 
To  praise  my  noble  act ;  I  hear  him  mock 
The  luck  of  Cssar,  which  the  gods  give  men. 
To  excuse  their  after  wrath :  Husband,  I  come : 
Now  to  that  name  my  corn-age  prove  my  title  ! 
I  am  fire  and  air  ;  my  other  elements 
I  give  to  baser  life.— So,— have  you  done  ? 
Come  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 
Farewell,  kind  Charmian ;— Iras,  long  farewell. 

[Kisses  them.     Iras  falls  and  dies. 
Have  I  the  aspic  in  my  lips  ?     Dost  fall  ? 
If  thou  and  nature  can  so  gently  part,  *" 

The  stroke  of  death  is  as  a  lover's  pinch, 
l^Tiich  hui-ts,  and  is  desk'd.   Dost  thou  lie  still? 
If  thus  thou  vanishest,  thou  tell'st  the  world 
It  is  not  worth  leave-taking. 

Char.  Dissolve,  thick  cloud,  and  rain ;  that 
I  may  say. 
The  gods  themselves  do  weep  ! 

QlgQ^  This  proves  me  base  : 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He  'U  make  demand  of  her ;  and  spend  that  kiss 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have.     Come,  thou" 
mortal  wretch, 
[To  the  asp,  which  she  applies  to  her  breast. 
I  With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie  :  poor  venomous  fool. 
Be  angry,  and  despatch.   0,  couldst  thou  speak! 
That  I  might  hear  thee  call  great  Csesar,  ass 
Uupolicied ! 

Char.        0  eastern  star! 
Cleo.  Peace,  peace! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast. 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ? 

Qj^^,.^  0,  break !  0,  break ! 

Cleo,  hs  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  aii-,  as 
gentle, — 
0  Antony  !— Nay,  I  will  take  thee  too  :— 

[Applying  another  asp  to  her  arm. 
What  should  I  Slav-   [Falls  on  a  bed,  and  dies. 
Char,  In  this  wild"  world?— So,  fare  thee 
well. —      •  . 

Now  boast  thee.  Death  !  in  thy  possession  bes 

a  Steevens  omits  the  impressive  «ou. 

b  Wild.    Some  of  the  modern  ediuons  have  tun>ed_^^_ 
into  wide.   Steevens  suggests  that  the  true  «ui 
^"«-  335 


ACT  v.] 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


[SCEKX  II. 


A  lass  unparallel'd. — Downy  windows,  close ; 
And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 
Of  eyes  again  so  royal !     Your  crown 's  awry ; 
I  '11  mend  it,  and  then  play. 

Enter  the  Guard,  rushing  in. 

1  Guard.  Where  is  the  queen  ? 
Char.  Speak  softly,  wake  her  not. 

1  Guard.  Csesar  hath  sent — 
Char  Too  slow  a  messenger. 

\_Applies  the  asp. 
0,  come ;  apace,  despatch  :  I  partly  feel  thee. 

1  Guard.   Approach,    ho !    All 's    not    well : 

Caesar 's  bcguil'd. 

2  Guard.  There 's  DolabeUa  sent  from  Caesar ; 

— call  him. 
1  Guard.  What  work  is  here  ? — Charmian,  is 

this  well  done  ? 
Char.  It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
All,  soldier ! 


[Dies. 


Enter  Dolabella. 


Dot.  How  goes  it  here  ? 

2  Guard.  All  dead. 

Dot.  Csesar,  thy  thoughts 

Touch  their  effects  in  this  :  Thyself  art  coming 
To  see  perform'd  the  dreaded  act  which  thou 
So  sought'st  to  hinder. 

Within.  A  way  there,  a  way  for  Caesar ! 

Enter  CjESab,  and  Attendants. 

Dol.  0,  sir,  you  are  too  sure  an  augxirer ; 
That  you  did  fear  is  done. 

Cas.  Bravest  at  the  last ; 

She  levell'd  at  our  purposes,  and,  being  royal, 
Took    her    own    way. — The    manner  of    their 
deaths  ? 


I  do  not  see  them  bleed. 

Dol.  Who  was  last  with  them  ? 

1  Guard.  A  simple  countryman,  that  brought 
her  figs. 
This  was  his  basket. 

Cas.  Poison'd  then. 

1  Guard.  0  Cffisar, 

This  Channian  liv'd  but  now;  she  stood,  and 

spake: 
I  found  her  trimming  up  the  diadem 
On  her  dead  mistress  ;  tremblingly  she  stood, 
And  on  the  sudden  dropp'd. 

C<rs.  0  noble  weakness  ! — 

If  they  had  swallow'd  poison  't  would  appear 
I3y  cxtcr-ual  swelling  :  but  she  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace. 

Dol.  Here,  on  her  breast, 

There  is  a  vent  of  blood,  and  something  blown : 
The  like  is  on  her  arm, 

1  Cruard.  This  is  an  aspic'.s  trail :    and  these 
fig-leaves 
Have  slime  upon  them,  such  as  the  aspic  leaves 
Upon  the  caves  of  Nile. 

CcEs.  Most  probable 

That  so  she  died ;  for  her  physician  tells  mo 
She  hath  piu'sued  conclusions  uifinite 
Of  easy  ways  to  die. — Take  up  her  bed ; 
And  bear  her  women  from  the  monument : — 
She  shall  be  buried  by  her  Antony  : 
No  grave  upon  the  eai'th  shall  clip  iu  it 
A  pair  so  famous.     High  events  as  these 
Strike  those  that  make  them  ;  and  their  stoiy  is 
No  less  in  pity  than  his  gloiT,  which 
Brought  them  to  be  lamented.     Our  army  shall, 
In  solenm  show,  attend  tliis  funeral ; 
^Vnd  then  to  Home.— Come,  DolabeUa,  sec 
High  order  in  tliis  great  solemnity.         {Exeunt. 


I  Alexandria.] 


[Augustus.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT   V. 


'  Scene  I. — "  Wherefore  is  tliati  and  what  art  thou 
that  dar'sf 
Ajipear  thus  to  ns  ? " 
"  Aftek  Antonius  had  thrust  his  sword  into  him- 
self, as  they  carried  him  into  the  tombs  and  monu- 
ments of  Cleopatra,  one  of  his  guard,  called  Der- 
cetsGus,  took  his  sword  with  which  he  had  stricken 
himself  and  hid  it;  then  he  secretly  stole  away,  and 
brought  Octavius  Cffisar  the  first  news  of  his  death, 
and  showed  him  his  sword  that  was  bloodied.  Csesar, 
hearing  these  news,  straight  withdrew  himself  into 
a  secret  place  of  his  tent,  and  there  burst  out  with 
tears,  lamenting  his  hard  and  miserable  fortune, 
that  had  been  his  friend  and  brother-in-law,  his 
equal  in  the  empire,  and  companion  with  him  in 
sundry  gi-eat  exploits  and  battles.    Then  he  called 
for  all  his  friends,  and  showed  them  the  letters  An- 
tonius had  written  to  him,  and  his  answers  also  sent 
him  again,  during  theii'  quarrel  and  strife,  and  how 
fiercely  and  proudly  the  other  answered  him  to  all 
just  and  reasonable  matters  he  wrote  unto  him. 
After  this  he  sent  Proculeius,  and  commanded  him 
to  do  what  he  could  possible  to  get  Cleopatra  alive, 
fearing  lest  otherwise  all  the  treasure  would  be  lost : 
and  furthermore,  he  thought  that,  if  he  could  take 
Cleopatra,  and  bring  her  alive  to  Eome,  she  would 
marvellously  beautify  and  set  out  his  triumph." 

2  Scene  II. — "  Guard  her  till  Ccesar  come." 

"But  Cleopatra  would  never  jDut  herself  into 
Proculeius'  hands,  although  they  spoke  together. 
For  Proculeius  came  to  the  gates,  that  were  very 
thick  and  strong,  and  surely  barred ;  but  yet  there 
were  some  crannies  through  the  which  her  voice 
might  be  heard,  and  so  they  without  undei-stood 
that  Cleopatra  demanded  the  kingdom  of  Egypt  for 
her  sons  ;  and  that  Proculeius  answered  her  that 
she  should  be  of  good  cheer,  and  not  be  afraid  to 
refer  all  unto  Ccesar.  After  he  had  viewed  the 
Tkagedies. — Vol.  II. 


place  very  well,  he  came  and  reported  her  answer 
unto  Csesar,  who  immediately  sent  Gallus  to  speak 
once  again  with  her,  and  bade  him  purposely  hold 
her  with  talk  whilst  Prociileius  did  set  up  a  ladder 
against  that  high  window  by  the  which  Antonius 
was  'trised'  up,  and  came  down  into  the  monument 
with  two  of  his  men  hard  by  the  gate  where  Cleo- 
patra stood  to  hear  what  Gallus  said  unto  her.  One 
of  her  women  which  was  shut  in  the  monument 
with  her  saw  Proculeius  by  chance  as  he  came 
down,  and  shrieked  out,  0,  poor  Cleopatra,  thou  art 
taken !  Then  when  she  saw  Proculeius  behind  her 
as  she  came  from  the  gate,  she  thought  to  have 
stabbed  herself  with  a  short  dagger  she  wore  of 
purpose  by  her  side.  But  Proculeius  came  sud- 
denly upon  her,  and,  taking  her  by  both  the  hands, 
said  unto  her,  Cleopatra,  first  thou  shalt  do  thyself 
great  wrong,  and  secondly  unto  Cae.«ar,  to  deprive 
him  of  the  occasion  and  opportunity  openly  to  show 
his  bounty  and  mercy,  and  to  give  his  enemies  cause 
to  accuse  the  most  courteous  and  noble  prince  that 
ever  was,  and  to  '  appeache'  him  as  though  he  were 
a  cruel  and  merciless  man  that  were  not  to  be 
trusted.  So,  even  as  he  spake  the  word,  he  took 
her  dagger  from  her,  and  shook  her  clothes  for 
fear  of  any  poison  hidden  about  her." 

^  Scene  II. — "  Which  is  the  queen  of  Egypt  ?" 

"  Shortly  after  Cajsar  came  himself  in  person  to 
see  her,  and  to  comfort  her.  *****  'When 
Cajsar  had  made  her  lie  down  again,  and  sat  by  her 
bedside,  Cleopatra  began  to  clear  and  excuse  her- 
self for  that  she  had  done,  laying  all  to  the  fear  she 
had  of  Antonius.  Ca'sar,  in  contrary  manner,  re- 
proved her  in  every  point.  Then  she  suddenly 
altered  her  speech,  and  prayed  him  to  pardon  her, 
as  though  she  were  afraid  to  die,  and  desirous  to 
live.  At  length  she  gave  him  a  brief  and  memorial 
of  all  the  ready  money  and  treasure  she  had.    But 

337 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


by  chiuice  there  stood  Seleucus  by,  cue  of  her  trea- 
surers, who,  to  seem  a  good  serviint,  came  straight 
to  Cxsar  to  disprove  Cleopatra,  that  she  had  not 
set  iu  all,  but  kept  mauy  things  back  of  purpose. 
Cleopatra  was  iu  such  a  rage  with  him,  that  she 
flew  upon  him,  and  took  him  by  the  hair  of  the 
head,  and  boxed  him  well  favouredly.  Ctcsar  fell 
a-laughing,  and  parted  the  fray.  Alas  !  said  she, 
0,  Caosar  1  is  not  this  a  great  shame  and  reproach, 
that  thou  having  vouchsafed  to  take  the  pains  to 
come  unto  me,  aud  hast  done  me  this  honour,  poor 
wTctch  and  caitiff  creature,  brought  unto  this  pitiful 
and  miserable  estate ;  and  that  mine  own  servants 
should  come  now  to  accuse  me,  though  it  may  be 
I  have  reserved  some  jewels  and  trifles  meet  for 
women,  but  not  for  me  (poor  soul)  to  set  out  myself 
withal,  but  meaning  to  give  some  pretty  presents 
and  gifts  unto  Octavia  and  Livia,  that,  they  making 
means  and  intercession  for  me  to  thee,  thou 
mightest  yet  extend  thy  mercy  and  favour  upon 
me?  Caesar  was  glad  to  hear  her  say  so,  per- 
suading himself  thereby  that  she  had  yet  a  desire 
to  save  her  life.  So  he  made  her  answer,  that  he 
did  not  only  give  her  that  to  dispose  of  at  her 
pleasure  which  she  had  kept  back,  but  further 
promised  to  use  her  more  honourably  and  bounti- 
fully than  she  would  think  for :  and  so  he  took 
his  leave  of  her,  supposing  he  had  deceived  her, 
but  indeed  he  was  deceived  himself." 

*  Scene  II. —  "  Ccesar  through  Syria 

Intends  hU  jouiTiey." 

"  There  was  a  young  gentleman,  Cornelius  Dola- 
bella,  that  was  one  of  Caesar's  very  great  familiars, 
and  besides  did  bear  no  evil  will  unto  Cleopatra. 
He  sent  her  word  secretly,  as  she  had  requested 
him,  that  Ccesar  deteimined  to  take  his  journey 
through  Syria,  and  that  within  thi-ee  days  he  would 
send  her  away  before  with  her  children.  "When  this 
was  told  Cleopatra,  she  commanded  they  should 
prepare  her  bath,  and  when  she  had  bathed  and 
washed  herself  she  fell  to  her  meat,  and  was  sump- 
tuously served.  Now,  whilst  she  was  at  dinner, 
there  came  a  countryman,  and  brought  her  abasket. 
The  soldiers  that  warded  at  the  gates  asked  him 
straight  what  he  had  in  his  basket.  He  opened  the 
basket,  and  took  out  the  leaves  that  covered  the  figs, 
and  showed  them  that  they  were  figs  he  brought. 
They  all  of  them  marvelled  to  see  such  goodly  figs. 
The  countryman  laughed  to  hear  them,  and  bade 
them  take  some  if  they  would.  They  believed  he 
told  them  truly,  and  so  bade  him  carry  them  in. 
After  Cleopatra  had  dined,  she  sent  a  certain  table 
written  and  sealed,  unto  Caesar,  and  commanded 


them  all  to  go  out  of  the  touibs  \\herc  she  was  but 
the  two  women;  then  she  shut  the  doors  to  her, 
Caesar,  when  he  received  this  table,  and  began  to 
read  her  lamentation  and  petition,  requesting  him 
that  ho  would  let  her  bo  buried  with  Antonius, 
found  straight  what  she  meant,  and  thought  to  have 
gone  thither  himself;  howbeit  he  sent  one  before 
him  in  all  haste  that  might  be  to  see  what  it  Wi»s. 
Her  death  was  very  sudden ;  for  those  whom  Cassar 
sent  imto  her  ran  thither  in  all  haste  possible,  and 
found  the  soldiers  standing  at  the  gate,  mistrusting 
nothing,  nor  understanding  of  her  death.  But  when 
they  had  opened  the  doors  they  found  Cleopatra 
stark  dead,  laid  upon  a  bed  of  gold,  attired  and 
aiTayed  in  her  royal  robes,  and  one  of  her  two 
women,  which  was  called  Ii-as,  dead  at  her  feet;  and 
her  other  woman,  called  Charmian,  half  dead,  and 
trembling,  trimming  the  diadem  which  Cleopatra 
wore  upon  her  head.  One  of  the  soldiers,  seeing 
her,  angrily  said  unto  her,  Is  that  well  done,  Char- 
mian ?  Very  well,  said  she  again,  and  meet  for  a 
priucass  descended  from  the  race  of  so  many  noble 
kings.  She  said  no  more,  but  fell  down  dead  hard 
by  the  bed.  Some  repo!-t  that  this  aspic  was  brought 
unto  her  in  the  basket  with  figs,  aud  that  she  had 
commanded  them  to  hide-  it  under  the  fig-leaves, 
that,  when  she  should  think  to  take  out  the  figp  the 
aspic  should  bite  her  before  she  should  see  her. 
Howbeit,  that,  when  she  would  have  taken  away  the 
leaves  from  the  figs,  she  perceived  it,  and  said,  Ai-t 
thou  here  then  ?  And  so,  her  arm  being  naked,  she 
put  it  to  the  aspic  to  be  bitten.  Other  say  again 
she  kept  it  in  a  box,  and  that  she  did  prick  aud 
thrust  it  with  a  spindle  of  gold,  so  that  the  aspic, 
being  angered  withal,  leapt  out  with  gi-eat  fury,  and 
bit  her  in  the  ai*m.  Howbeit,  few  can  tell  the  truth : 
for  they  report  also  that  she  had  hidden  poison  in  a 
hollow  razor  which  she  carried  in  the  hair  of  her 
head;  and  yet  was  there  no  mark  seen  of  her  body, 
or  any  sign  discerned  that  she  was  poisoned,  neither 
also  did  they  find  this  serpent  in  her  tomb.  But  it 
was  reported  only  that  there  were  seen  eei-tain  fresh 
steps  or  ti-acks  where  it  had  gone  on  the  tomb  side 
toward  the  sea,  and  sjjecially  by  the  door's  side. 
Some  say  also  that  they  found  two  pretty  bitings  in 
her  arm,  scant  to  be  discerned :  the  which  it  seemeth 
Cajsar  himself  gave  credit  unto,  because  in  his  tri- 
umph he  carried  Cleopatra's  image  with  an  aspic 
biting  of  her  aim.  And  thus  goeth  the  report  of 
her  death.  Now  Crcsar,  though  he  was  marvellous 
soiTy  for  the  death  of  Cleopatra,  yet  he  wondered 
at  her  noble  mind  and  courage,  and  therefore 
commanded  she  should  be  nobly  buried,  and  laid 
by  Antonius ;  and  willed  also  that  her  tv/o  women 
should  have  honourable  burial." 


ass 


SUPPLEMENTARY   NOTICE   TO   THE 
ROMAN   PLAYS. 


The  German  critic,  Horn,  concludes  Bome  remarks  upon  Sliakspei-e's  King  John  with  a  passage  that 
may  startle  those  who  believe  that  the  truth  of  History,  and  the  truth  of  our  great  dramatic  teacher 
of  history,  are  altogether  different  things : — 

"  The  hero  of  this  piece  stands  not  in  the  list  of  personages,  and  could  not  stand  with  them ;  for 
the  idea  should  be  clear  without  personification.     The  hero  is  England. 

"  What  the  poet  chose  to  express  of  his  view  of  the  dignity  and  worth  of  his  native  land  he  has 
confided  to  the  Bastard  to  embody  in  words : — 

'  This  England  never  did,  nor  never  shall. 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror, 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself.' 

But  Shakspere  is  immeasurably  more  than  Falconbridge,  and  he  would  have  the  reader  and  the 
spectator  more  also.  These  lines  are  not  intended  to  be  fixed  upon  England  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fourteenth  century  alone  ;  they  are  not  even  confined  to  England  generally.  They  are  for  the  elevation 
of  the  views  of  a  state — of  a  people.  Happy  for  England  that  she  possesses  a  poet  who  so  many  yeara 
since  has  spoken  to  her  people  as  the  highest  and  most  splendid  teacher  !  The  full  consequences  of 
his  teaching  have  not  yet  been  sufficiently  revealed ;  they  may  perhaps  never  wholly  be  exhibited. 
We,  however,  know  that  in  England  a  praiseworthy  zeal  for  their  country's  histoiy  prevails  amongst 
the  people.     But  who  first  gave  true  life  to  that  history  ?" 

Z2  339 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE 

In  the  throe  great  (lram:\s  that  are  before  us,  the  idea,  not  persouifiecl,  but  full  of  a  life  that  animates 
and  informs  ev?ry  scene,  is  Rome.  Some  one  eaid  that  Chantrey's  bust  of  a  great  living  poet  was 
more  like  than  the  poet  himself.  Shakspere's  Rome,  we  venture  to  think,  is  more  like  than  the  Rome 
of  the  Romans.  It  is  the  idealized  Rome,  true  indeed  to  her  every  day  features,  but  embodying  that 
expression  of  character  which  belongs  to  the  universal  rather  than  the  accidental.  And  yet  how 
varied  is  the  idert  of  Rome  which  the  poet  presents  to  us  in  these  three  great  mirrors  of  her  history  ! 
In  the  young  Rome  of  Coriolanus  we  see  the  terrible  energy  of  her  rising  ambition  checked  and  over- 
powered by  the  factious  violence  of  her  contending  classes.  We  know  that  the  pi-ayer  of  Coriolanus  is 
a  vain  prayer : — 

"  The  honour'd  gods 
Keep  Rome  in  safety,  and  the  cliairs  of  justice 
Supplied  with  worthy  men  !  plant  love  among  us  ! 
Throng  our  large  temples  with  the  shows  of  peace, 
And  not  our  streets  with  war  !" 

In  the  matured  Rome  of  Julius  Caesar  we  see  her  riches  and  her  glories  about  to  be  swallowed  up  in 
a  domestic  conflict  of  principles: — 

"  Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods  ! 
When  went  there  by  an  age,  since  the  great  flood. 
But  it  was  fam'd  with  more  than  with  one  man  ? 
AVhen  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talk'd  of  Rome, 
That  her  wide  walks  encompass'd  but  one  man!" 

In   the  slightl}'  older  Rome  of  Antony,  her  power,  her  magnificence,  are  really  to  perish  in  the 
selfishness  of  individuals : — 

"  Let  Rome  iu  Tiber  melt !  and  the  wide  arch 
Of  the  rang'd  empire  fall !  " 


Rome  was  saved  from  anarchy  by  the  supremacy'  of  one.     Shakspere  did  not  live  to  make  the  Caesars 
more  immortal. 

Schlegel  has  observed  that  "these  plays  are  the  very  thing  itself;  and  under  the  apparent  artless- 
ness  of  adhering  closely  to  history  as  he  [Shakspere]  found  it,  an  uncommon  degree  of  art  is  con- 
cealed." In  our  edition  of  these  plays  we  have  given,  with  great  fulness,  the  passages  from  Plutarch, 
as  translated  by  North,  which  the  poet  followed — sometimes  even  to  the  literal  adoption  of  the 
biographer's  words.  This  is  the  "  apparent  artle.?sness."  But  Schlegel  has  also  shown  us  the  principles 
of  the  "uncommon  art:" — "Of  every  historical  transaction  Shakspere  knows  how  to  seize  the  true 
poetical  point  of  view,  and  to  give  unity  and  rounding  to  a  series  of  events  detached  from  the 
immeasiu^ble  extent  of  history,  without  in  any  degree  changing  them."  But  he  adopts  the  literal 
only  when  it  enters  into  " the  true  iioetical  point  of  view;"  and  is  therefore  in  harmony  with  the 
general  poetical  truth,  which  in  many  subordinate  particulars  necessarily  discards  all  pretension  of 
"  adhering  closely  to  history."  Jonson  has  left  us  two  Roman  plays  produced  essentially  upon  a 
different  principle.  In  his  '  Sejanus  '  there  is  scarcely  a  speech  or  an  incident  that  is  not  derived  from 
the  ancient  authorities  ;  and  Jonson's  own  edition  of  the  play  is  crowded  with  i-eferences  as  minute  as 
would  have  been  required  from  any  modern  annalist.  In  his  Address  to  the  Readers  he  says — "  Lest 
in  some  nice  nostril  the  quotations  might  savour  affected,  I  do  let  you  know  that  I  abhor  nothing 
more  ;  and  I  have  only  done  it  to  show  my  integrity  in  the  story."  The  character  of  the  dramatist's 
mind,  as  well  as  the  abundance  of  his  learning,  determined  this  mode  of  proceeding ;  but  it  is 
evident  that  he  worked  upon  a  false  principle  of  art.  His  characters  are,  therefore,  puppets 
carved  and  stuffed  according  to  the  descriptions,  and  made  to  speak  according  to  the  very  words, 
of  Tacitus  and  Suetonius  ; — but  they  are  not  living  men.  It  is  the  same  in  his  '  Catiline.' 
Cicero  is  the  great  actor  in  that  play  ;  and  he  moves  as  Sallust,  corrected  by  other  authorities, 
made  him  move ;  and  speaks  as  he  spoke  himself  in  his  own  orations.  Jonson  gives  the  whole  of 
Cicero's  first  oration  against  Catiline,  in  a  translation  amounting  to  some  three  hundred  lines.  It 
may  be  asked  what  can  we  have  that  may  better  present  Cicero  to  us  than  the  descriptions  of  the 
Roman  historians,  and  Cicero's  own  words  ?  We  answer,  six  lines  of  Shakspere,  not  found  in  the 
books : — 

340 


TO  THE  EOMAN   PLAYS. 

"  The  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Cjesar's  brow, 
And  all  the  rest  look  like  a  chidden  train. 
Calphurnia's  cheek  is  pale  ;  and  Cicero 
Looks  with  such  ferret  and  such  fiery  eyes, 
As  we  have  seen  him  in  the  Capitol, 
Being  cross'd  in  conference  with  some  senators." 

Gifford,  speaking  of  Jonsou's  two  Eoman  tragedies,  says — "  He  has  apparently  succeeded  iu  Lid 
principal  object,  which  was  to  exhibit  the  characters  of  the  drama  to  the  spectators  of  his  days  pre- 
cisely as  they  appeared  to  those  of  their  own.  The  plan  was  scholastic,  but  it  was  not  judicious. 
The  difference  between  the  dramatis  personce  and  the  spectators  was  too  wide  ;  and  the  very 
accuracy  to  which  he  aspired  would  seem  to  take  away  much  of  the  power  of  pleasing.  Had  he 
drawn  men  instead  of  Romans,  his  success  might  have  been  more  assured."*  We  presume  to  think 
that  there  is  hei-e  a  slight  confusion  of  terms.  If  Jouson  had  succeeded  in  his  principal  object,  and 
had  exhibited  his  characters  precisely  as  they  appeared  in  their  own  days,  his  representation  would 
have  been  the  truth.  But  he  has  drawn,  according  to  this  intelligent  critic,  Romans  instead  of 
men,  and  therefore  his  success  was  not  perfectly  assured.  Not  drawing  men,  he  did  not  draw  his 
characters  as  they  appeared  in  their  own  days ;  but  as  he  pieced  out  their  supposed  appearance 
from  incidental  descriptions  or  formal  charactei-izations— from  pai-ty  historians  or  prejudiced 
rhetoricians.  If  he  had  drawn  Romans  as  they  were,  he  would  have  drawn  men  as  they  were. 
They  were  not  the  less  men  because  they  were  Romans.  He  failed  to  draw  the  men,  principally  on 
account  of  the  limited  range  of  his  imaginative  power;  he  copied  instead  of  created.  He  repeated, 
says  Gifford,  "  the  ideas,  the  language,  the  allusions,"  which  "  could  only  be  readily  caught  by  the 
contemporaries  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius."  He  gave  us,  partly  on  this  account  also,  shadows  of 
life,  instead  of  the  "  living  features  of  an  age  so  distant  from  our  own,"  as  his  biographer  yet  thinks 
ae  gave.     Shakspere  worked  upon  different  principles,  and  certainly  with  a  different  success. 

The  leading  idea  of  Coriolanus — the  pivot  upon  which  all  the  action  turns — the  key  to  the  bitterness 
of  factious  hatred  which  runs  through  the  whole  drama — is  the  contest  for  power  between  the 
patricians  and  plebeians.  This  is  a  broad  principle,  assuming  various  modifications  in  various  states 
of  society,  but  very  slightly  varied  in  its  foundations  and  its  results.  He  that  truly  works  out  the 
exhibition  of  this  principle  must  paint  men,  let  the  scene  be  the  Rome  of  the  first  Ti'ibunes,  or 
the  Venice  of  the  last  Doges.  With  the  very  slightest  changes  of  accessaries,  the  principle 
stands  for  the  contufits  between  aristocracy  and  democracy,  iu  any  country  or  in  any  age — under 
a  republic  or  a  monarchy — in  England  under  Queen  Victoria,  in  the  United  States  under  President 
Tyler.  The  historical  truth,  and  the  philosophical  principle,  which  Shakspere  has  embodied  iu 
Coriolanus  ai-e  universal.  But  suppose  he  had  possessed  the  means  of  treating  the  subject  with 
what  some  would  call  historical  accuracy;  had  learnt  that  Plutarch,  in  the  story  of  Coriolanus, 
was  probably  dealing  only  with  a  legend ;  that,  if  the  story  is  to  be  received  as  true,  it  belongs 
to  a  later  period ;  that  in  this  later  pei'iod  there  were  very  nice  shades  of  difference  between  the 
classes  composing  the  jiopulation  of  Rome ;  that  the  balance  of  power  was  a  much  more  complex 
thing  than  he  found  in  the  narrative  of  Plutarch  :  further  suppose  that,  proud  of  this  learning, 
he  had  made  the  universal  principle  of  the  plebeian  and  patrician  hostility  subsidiary  to  an  exact 
display  of  it,  according  to  the  conjectures  which  modern  industry  and  acuteness  have  brought  to 
bear  on  the  subject.  It  is  evident,  we  think,  that  he  would  have  been  betrayed  into  a  false 
principle  of  art ;  and  would  necessarily  have  drawn  Roman  shadows  instead  of  vital  and  euduring 
men.  As  it  is,  he  has  drawn  men  so  vividly — under  such  permanent  relations  to  each  other — 
with  such  universal  manifestations  of  character,  that  some  persons  of  strong  political  feelings 
have  been  ready  to  complain,  according  to  their  several  creeds,  either  that  his  plebeians  ai-o  too 
brutal,  or  his  patricians  too'haughty.  A  polite  democracy,  a  humane  oligarchy,  would  be  better. 
Johnson  somewhat  rejoices  in  the  amusing  exhibition  of  "plebeian  malignity  and  tribunitian 
insolence."  Hazlitt,  who  is  more  than  half  angry  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  says — '"  The 
whole  dramatic  moral  of  Coriolanus  is  that  those  who  have  little  shall  have  less,  and  that  those 
who  have  much  shall  take  all  that  others  have  left."     Let  us  see. 

With  his  accustomed  consummate  judgment  in  his  opening  scenes,  Shakspere  throws  us  at  ouce 


'  Memoirs  of  Joiison,'  p.  cc.\x. — Works,  9  vols. 


341 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE 

into  the  centre  of  the  conteuding  classes  of  early  Rome.     Wo  have  no  description  of  the  nature 
of  the  factions';  we  behold  them  : — 

"  1  at.  You  arc  all  resolved  rather  to  die  than  to  famisii. 

at.  Uesolvcd,  resolved  I 

I  ai.  First,  you  know,  Caius  Marcius  is  chief  enemy  to 
the  people. 

at.  We  know 't,  we  know 't. 

I  at.  Let  us  kill  him,  and  we'll  have  corn  at  our  own 
price. 

at.  No  more  talking  on 't:  let  it  be  done." 

The  foundation  of  the  violence  is  misery;— its  great  stimulant  is  ignorance.  The  people  are 
famishing  for  want  of  corn ;— they  will  kill  one  man,  and  that  will  give  them  corn  at  their  own 
price :  the  murder  will  turn  scarcity  into  plenty.  Hazlitt  says  that  Shakspere  "  spared  no  occasion 
of  baiting  the  rabble."  If  to  show  that  misery  acting  upon  ignorance  produces  the  same  effects 
in  all  ages  be  "baiting  the  rabble,"  he  has  baited  them.  But  he  has  not  painted  the  "mutinous 
citizens"  with  an  undiscriminating  contempt.  One  that  displays  a  higher  power  than  his  fellows 
of  reasoning  or  remonstrance,  and  yet  is  zealous  enough  to  resist,  what  he  thinks  injustice,  says  of 
Caius  Marcius, 

"  Consider  you  what  services  he  has  done  for  his  country." 

The  people  are  sometimes  ungrateful ;  but  Shakspere  chose  to  show  that  some  amongst  them  could 
be  just.  The  people  have  their  favourites.  "Worthy  Menenius  Agi-ippa"  has  the  good  word  of 
the  mutinous  citizens.  Shakspere  gave  them  no  unworthy  favourite.  His  rough  humour,  his 
true  kindliness,  his  noble  constancy,  form  a  character  that  the  people  have  always  loved,  even 
whilst  they  are  rebuked  and  chastened.  But  if  the  poet  has  exhibited  the  democratic  ignorance 
in  pretty  strong  colours,  has  he  shrunk  from  presenting  us  a  full-length  portrait  of  patrician 
haughtiness  f     Caius  Marcius  in  the  first  scene  claims  no  sympathies  : — 

"  AVould  the  nobility  lay  aside  their  ruth, 
And  let  me  use  my  sword,  I'd  make  a  quarry 
With  thousands  of  these  quarter'd  slaves,  as  high 
As  I  could  pick  my  lance." 

Till  Caius  Marcius  has  become  Coriolanus,  and  we  see  that  the  popular  violence  is  under  the  direction 
of  demagogues — the  same  never-varying  result  of  the  same  circumstances — we  feel  no  love 
for  him.  It  is  under  oppression  and  ingratitude  that  his  pride  becomes  sublime.  But  he  has 
previou.sly  deserved  our  hornage,  and  in  some  sort  our  affection.  The  poet  gradually  wins  us  to 
an  admiration  of  the  hero  by  the  most  skilfui  management.  First,  through  his  mother.  AVhat  a 
glorious  picture  of  an  antique  matron,  from  whom  her  son  equally  derived  his  pride  and  his  heroism, 
is  presented  in  the  exquisite  scene  where  Volumnia  and  Valeria  t;ilk  of  him  they  loved,  according 
to  their  several  natures  !  Who  but  Shakspere  could  have  seized  upon  the  spirit  of  a  Roman  woman 
of  the  highest  courage  and  mental  power  bursting  out  in  words  such  as  these  ? — 

"  Vol.  His  bloody  brow 

With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wipinjr,  forth  he  goes  ; 
Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that's  task'd  to  mow 
Or  all,  or  los6  his  hire. 

Fir.  His  bloody  brow !  O,  Jupiter,  no  blood  ! 

fol.  Away,  you  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man 
Than  gilt  his  trophy  :  The  breasts  of  Hecuba, 
When  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 
Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 
At  Grecian  swords'  contending." 

This  is  a  noble  preparation  for  the  scenic  exhibition  of  the  deeds  of  Caius  Marcius.  Amidst  the 
physical  strength,  and  the  laental  energy,  that  make  the  triumphant  warrior,  the  poet,  by  a  few 
of  his  magical  touches,  has  diown  us  the  ever-present  loftiness  of  mind  that  denotes  qualities  far 
beyond  those  which  belong  to  mere  animal  courage.  His  contempt  of  the  Romans  who  are 
"beaten  back,"  and  the  "Romans  with  spoils,"  is  equally  withering.  It  is  not  sufiScient  for 
him  to  win  one  battle.  The  force  of  character  through  which  lie  thinks  that  nothing  is  done 
whilst  anything  remains  to  do,  shows  that  Shakspere  understood  the  stuff  of  whidi  a  great 
general  is  made.  His  remonstrance  to  Cominius — 
842 


TO   THE  EOIVIA^   PLAYS. 

"  Where  is  the  enemy  ?    Are  you  lords  o'  the  field  ? 
If  not,  why  cease  you  till  you  are  so  ?" — 

is  not  in  Plutarch.  It  is  supplied  to  us  by  a  higher  authority — by  the  instinct  by  which  Shakspere 
knew  the  great ,  secret  of  success  in  eveiy  enterprise — the  determination  to  be  successful.  Ono 
example  more  of  the  skill  with  which  Shakspere  makes  Caius  Marcius  gradually  obtain  the  un- 
controlled homage  of  our  hearts.  The  proud  conqueror  who  rejects  all  gifts  and  honours,  who  has 
said, 

"  I  have  some  ivounds  upon  me,  and  they  smart 
To  hear  themselves  remember'd," 

asks  a  gift  of  his  superior  officer  : — 

"  Cor.  I  sometime  lay,  here  in  Corioli, 
At  a  poor  man's  liouse;  he  us'd  me  kindly  : 
He  cried  to  me;  I  saw  him  prisoner; 
But  then  Aufidius  was  -nithin  my  view. 
And  wrath  o'erwhelm'd  my  pity :  I  request  you 
To  give  my  poor  host  freedom." 

We  now  see  only  the  true  hero.  He  realize.?  the  noble  description  of  the  "Happy  Warrior"  wiich 
the  great  poet  of  our  own  days  has  drawn  with  eo  majjterly  a  hand  : — 

"  Who,  doom'd  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train  ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
■Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives. 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  render'd  more  compassionate." 

We  have  forgotten  the  fierce  patrician  who  would  make  a  quarry  of  the  Roman  populace. 

And  this,  we  suppose,  is  what  Hazlitt  objects  to  in  Shakspere's  conduct  of  this  play.  The  character 
of  Coriolanus  rises  upon  us.  The  sufferings  and  complaints  of  his  enemies  are  merged  in  their 
factious  hatred.  "  Poetry,"  says  the  critic,  "  is  right  royal.  It  puts  the  individual  for  the  species,  the 
one  above  the  infinite  many,  might  before  right."  Now  we  apprehend  that  Shakspere  has  not  treated 
the  subject  of  Coriolanus  after  this  right  royal  fashion  of  poetry.  He  has  dealt  fairly  with  the  vices 
as  well  as  the  virtues  of  his  hero.  The  scene  in  the  second  act,  in  which  Coriolanus  stands  for  the 
consulship,  is  amongst  the  most  remarkable  examples  of  Shakspere's  insight  into  character.  In 
Plutarch  he  found  a  simple  fact  related  without  any  comment : — "  Now,  Marcius,  following  this 
custom,  showed  many  wounds  and  cuts  upon  his  body,  which  he  had  received  in  seventeen  years' 
service  at  the  wars,  and  in  many  sundry  battles,  being  ever  the  foremost  man  that  did  set  out  feet  to 
fight ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  man  among  the  people  but  was  ashamed  of  himself  to  refuse  so  valiant 
a  man ;  and  one  of  them  said  to  another,  We  must  needs  choose  him  consul,  there  is  no  remedy.' 
But  in  his  representation  of  this  fact  Shakspere  had  to  create  a  character,  and  to  make  that  character 
act  and  re-act  upon  the  character  of  the  people.  Coriolanus  was  essentially  and  necessarily 
proud.  His  education,  his  social  position,  his  individual  supremacy,  made  him  so.  He  Uves  in  a 
city  of  factions,  and  he  dislikes,  of  course,  the  faction  opposed  to  his  order.  The  people  represent 
the  opinions  that  he  dislikes,  and  he  therefore  dislikes  the  people.  That  he  has  pity  and  love  for 
humanity,  however  humble,  we  have  already  seen.  Coming  into  contact  with  the  Roman  populace 
for  their  sufi'rages,  his  uppermost  thought  is  "  bid  them  wash  their  faces  and  keep  their  teeth 
clean."  He  outwardly  despises  that  vanity  of  the  people  which  will  not  reward  desert  unless  it 
go  hand  in  hand  with  solicitation.     He  betrays  his  contempt  for  the  canvassed,  even  whilst  he  is 


"  I  will,  sir,  flatter  ray  sworn  brother  the  people,  to 
earn  a  dearer  estimation  of  them  ;  'tis  a  condition  they 
account  gentle :  and  since  the  wisdom  of  their  choice  is 
rather  to  have  my  hat  than  my  heart,  I  will  practise  the 
insinuating  nod,  and  be  off  to  them  most  counterfeitly : 
that  is,  sir,  I  will  counterfeit  the  bewitchment  of  some 
popular  man,  and  give  it  bountifully  to  the  desirers. 
Therefore,  beseech  you,  I  may  be  consul." 


343 


SUrrLE.MENTAUY  NOTICE 

The  satire  is  not  obsolete.  The  desperation  with  which  he  at  last  ronrs  out  his  demand  for  their 
voices,  as  if  he  were  a  chorus  mocking  himself  and  the  people  with  the  most  bitter  irony,  is  tho 
climax  of  this  wonderful  exhibition  : — 

"  Vour  voices:  for  your  voices  I  liave  fouglit ; 
Wntcli'd  for  your  voices  ;  for  your  voices,  bear 
Of  wounds  two  dozen  odd;  battles  thrice  six 
I  htive  seen  and  heard  of;  for  your  voices 
Have  done  many  things,  some  less,  some  more  :  yoiu 

voices  : 
Indeed,  I  would  be  consul." 

The  people  have  justice  enough  to  elect  tho  man  for  his  deed.s  ;  but  they  have  not  strength  enough 

to  abide  by  their  own  election.     When  they  are  told  by  the  Tribunes  that  they  have  been  treated 

scornfully,  they  can  bear  to  be  rebuked  by  their  demagogues — to  have  their  "ignorant  election' 

revoked — to  suffer  falsehoods  to  be  put  in  their  mouth — to  be  the  mere  tools  of  their  weak  though 

crafty  leaders.     It  is  Shakspere's  praise,  in  his  representation  of  this  plebeian  and  patrician  conflict, 

Ihat  he,  for  the  most  part,  shows  the  people  as  they  always  ai-e— just,  generous,  up  to  a  certain 

point.     But  put  that  thing  called  a  demagogue  amongst  them, — that  cold,  grovelling,  selfish  thing, 

without  sympathies  for  the  people,  the  real  despiser  of  the  people,  because  he  uses  them  as  tools, — 

and  then  there  is  no  limit  to  their  unjust  violence.     In  the  subsequent  scenes  we  see  not  the  people 

at  all  in  the  exercise  of  their  own  wills.     We  see  only  Brutus  and  Sicinius  speaking  the  voice,  not 

of  the  people,  but  of  their  individual  selfishness.     In  the  first  scene  of  the  third  act  the  Tribunes 

insult  Coriolanus ;    and  from  that  moment  the  lion  lashes  himself  up  into  a  fury  which  will  be 

deadly.     The  catastrophe  is  only  deferred  when  the  popular  clamour  for  the  Tarpeian  Rock  subsides 

into  the  demand  that  he  should    answer  to  them  once   again    in    the    market-place.      The   mother 

of   Coriolanus  abates  something  of   her  high  nature  when   she  counsels  her  son  to  a  dissembling 

submission : — 

"  Fol.  Because  that  now  it  lies  you  on  to  speak 
To  the  people  ;  not  by  your  own  instruction, 
Kor  by  the  matter  which  your  heart  prompts  you, 
Rut  with  such  words  as  are  but  roted  in 
Your  tongue,  tliough  but  bastards,  and  syllables 
Of  no  allowance,  to  your  bosom's  truth." 

This  is  the  prudence  even  of  an  heroic  woman  ;  but  she  fears  for  her  sou.  She  is  somewhat  lowered 
by  the  instruction.  But  the  poet  knew  that  a  real  contempt  for  the  people,  allied  to  a  strong  desire 
for  the  honours  which  the  people  have  to  bestow,  must  produce  this  lip-service.  Coriolanus  does  not 
heed  the  instructions  of  his  mother.  He  approaches  temperately  to  his  questioners ;  he  puts  up  vows 
for  the  safety  of  Rome  from  the  depths  of  his  full  heart ;  he  is  in  earnest  to  smother  his  pride  and 
his  resentment,  but  the  coarse  Tribune  calls  him  "  traitor."  There  can  be  but  one  issue ;  he  is 
banished. 

Some  of  the  historians  say  that,  although  Coriolanus  joined  the  enemies  of  his  country,  he  pro- 
voked no  jealou.sies  amongst  the  native  leaders  of  those  enemies ;  that  he  died  honoured  and 
rewarded  ;  that  his  memory  was  even  reverenced  at  Rome.  Shakspere  probably  knew  not  this  version 
of  the  legend  of  Coriolanus.  If  he  had  known  it  he  would  not  have  adopted  it.  He  had  to  show  the 
false  step  which  Coriolanus  took.  He  had  to  teach  that  his  proud  resentment  hurried  him  upon 
a  course  which  brought  evils  worse  than  the  Tarpeian  Rock.  And  yet  we  are  compelled  to  admire 
him ;  we  can  scarcely  blame  him.  It  has  not  been  our  good  fortune  to  see  John  Kemble  in  this  his 
greatest  character :  if  we  had,  we  probably  should  have  received  into  our  minds  an  embodied  image 
of  Ihc  moral  grandeur  of  that  scene  when  Coriolanus  stands  upon  the  hearth  of  Tullus  Aufidius, 
and  says — 

"  My  n.ime  is  Caius  Marcius,  who  hath  done 
To  thee  particularly,  and  to  all  the  Voices. 
Great  hurt  and  mischief." 

The  words  are  almo.st  literally  copied  from  Plutarch  ;  but  the  wondrous  art  of  the  poet  is  shown  in 
the  perfect  agreement  of  these  words  with  the  minuto.-t  traits  of  the  man's  character  which  had 
preceded  them.  The  answer  of  Aufidius  is  not  in  Plutarch ;  and  here  Shaksi)ere  invests  the  rival  of 
Coriolanus  with  a  majesty  of  language  which  has  for  its  main  object  to  call  us  back  to  the  real 
greatness  of  tho  banished  man  : 


TO   THE  EOMA>T   PLAYS. 


"  Know  thou  first, 
I  lov'd  the  maid  I  marrted:  never  man 
Sigh'd  truer  breath  ;  but  that  I  see  thee  here, 
Thou  noble  thing !  more  dances  my  rapt  heart 
Than  when  I  first  my  wedded  mistress  saw 
Bestride  my  threshold." 

Brief  aud  rapid  is  their  agreement  to  make  war  upon  Rome,  In  tlie  great  city  herself 
"  Coriolauus  is  not  much  missed  but  with  his  friends,"  according  to  the  Tribune ;  no  harm  can  come 
to  Rome;  the  popular  authority  -vvill  whip  the  slave  that  speaks  of  evil  news.  Shakspere  again 
"baits  the   rabble,"  according   to   Hazlitt;    though  he   reluctantly  adds,   "what   he   says   of  them 

is  very  true  : " — 

"  at.  'Faith,  v.-e  hear  fearful  news. 

1  at.  For  mine  own  part, 
When  I  said  banish  him,  I  said  'twas  pity. 

2  at.  And  so  did  I. 

3  at.  And  so  did  I ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  so  did 
very  many  of  us :  That  we  did  we  did  for  the  best ; 
and  though  we  willingly  consented  to  his  banish- 
ment, yet  it  was  against  our  will." 

When  Shakspere  made  Coriolanus  ask  the  freedom  of  the  poor  man  that  had  used  him  kindly  he 
showed  the  tenderness  that  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  proud  heart.  "SMien  Rome  is  beleaguered 
Cominius  reports  thus  of  his  unsuccessful  mission  to  her  banished  son  :— 

"  Com.  I  ofler'd  to  awaken  Iiis  regard 
For  his  private  friends  :  His  answer  to  me  was, 
He  could  not  stay  to  pick  them  in  a  pile 
Of  noisome  musty  chaff:  He  said,  't  was  folly 
For  one  poor  grain  or  two  to  leave  unburnt, 
And  still  to  nose  the  offence." 


His  old  general  and  companion  in  arms  touched  nothing  but  his  pride. 
Rome,"  undertakes  a  similar  mission.     The  answer  of  Coriolanus  is— 


Menenius,  his  "  belov'd  in 


"  Wife,  mother,  child,  I  know  not. 
Are  servanted  to  others." 


My  affairs 


But  the  moment  that  Coriolanus  has  declared  to  Aufidius 


"  Fresh  embassies 
Nor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends,  hereafter 
Will  1  lend  ear  to." 


his  mother,  his  wife,  his  child  appear.     But  he  will  stand 


"  As  if  a  man  were  author  of  himself. 
And  knew  no  other  kin." 

What  a  scene  follows  !  The  warrior  is  externally  calm,  as  if  he  were  a  god,  above  all  passions 
aud  affections.  The  wondrous  poetry  in  which  he  speaks  seems  in  its  full  hai-mony  as  if  it  held 
the  man's  inmost  soul  in  a  profound  consistency.     But  the  passion   is   coming.     "I  have  sat  too 

long  "  is  the  prelude  to 

"  O  mother,  mother, 
What  have  you  done?     Behold,  the  heavens  do  ope, 
The  gods  look  down,  and  this  unnatural  scene 
They  laugh  at.     O  my  mother,  mother  !     O  ! 
You  have  won  a  happy  victory  to  Rome : 
But,  for  your  son, — believe  it,  O,  believe  It, 
Most  dangerously  you  have  with  him  prevail'd. 
If  not  most  mortal  to  him." 

Volumnia  speaks  no  other  word.     The  mother  and  the  son,  the  wife  and  the  husband,  the  child 
and  the  father,  have  parted  for  ever.     The  death  of   Coriolanus  in  the  "goodly  city"  of  Antmm 

is  inevitable : — 

"  Cor.  Cut  me  to  pieces,  Voices;  men  and  lads, 

Stain  all  your  edges  on  me.— Boy  !  False  hound  ! 

If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  't  is  there, 

That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 

Flutter'd  your  Volcians  in  Corioli:    . 

Alone  I  did  it.— Boy  I 

'^  I ;; 
0«0 


SUPPUiiMENX^UiY  NOTICE 

Auj.  Why,  noble  lords, 

Will  you  be  put  in  mind  of  his  blind  fortune. 
Which  was  your  shame,  by  this  unholy  brajigart, 
'Fore  your  own  eyes  and  cars  \  , 

Con.  Let  him  die  for't." 

The  struggle  for  power  amougst  the  Classes  of  young  Rome  ends  in  the  death  of  the  proud  patrician 
by  the  swords  of  those  whom  he  had  conquered.     He  had  presented  his  throat  to  TuUus  Aufidiun, 

"  Which  not  to  cut  would  show  thee  but  a  fool." 

But  Aufidius  would  first  use  him  who  said  he  would  fight 

"  Against  my  canker'd  country  with  the  spleen 
Of  all  the  under  fiends." 

The  retribution  is  a  fearful  one.  Hazlitt  observes,  "  What  Shakspere  says  of  them  [the  rabble]  is 
ver}-  true ;  what  he  says  of  their  betters  is  also  very  true ;  though  he  dwells  less  tipon  it."  Shakspere 
teaches  by  action  as  well  as  by  words.  The  silly  rabble  escape  with  a  terrible  fright :  Coriolanus 
loses  his  home,  his  glory,  his  life,  for  his  pride  and  his  revenge. 


Years,  perhaps  centuries,  had  rolled  on.  Rome  had  seen  a  constitution  which  had  reconciled  the 
differences  of  the  patricians  and  the  plebeians.  The  two  orders  had  built  a  temple  to  Concord.  Her 
power  had  increased ;  her  territory  had  extended.  In  compounding  their  differences  the  patricians 
and  the  plebeians  had  appropriated  to  themselves  all  the  wealth  and  honours  of  the  state.  There  was 
a  neglected  class  that  the  social  system  appeared  to  reject,  as  well  as  to  despise.  The  aristocratic  party 
was  again  brought  into  a  more  terrible  conflict  with  the  impoverished  and  the  destitute.  Civil  war 
was  the  natural  result.  Sulla  established  a  short-lived  constitution.  The  dissolution  of  the  Republic 
was  at  hand  :  the  struggle  was  henceforth  to  be  not  between  classes  but  individuals.  The  death  of 
Juhus  Caesar  was  soon  followed  by  the  final  termination  of  the  contest  between  the  republican  and 
the  monarchical  principle.  Shakspere  saw  the  grandeur  of  the  crisis ;  and  he  seized  upon  it  for 
one  of  his  lofty  expositions  of  political  philosophy.  He  has  treated  it  as  no  other  poet  would  have 
treated  it,  because  he  saw  the  exact  relations  of  the  contending  principle  to  the  future  great  histoi-y 
of  mankind.  The  death  of  Caesar  was  not  his  catastrophe  :  it  was  the  death  of  the  Roman  Republic 
at  Philippi. 

Shakspere,  in  the  opening  scene  of  his  Julius  Caesar,  has  marked  very  distinctly  the  difference 
between  the  citizens  of  this  period,  and  the  former  period  of  Coriolanus.  In  the  first  play  they  are  a 
turbulent  body,  without  regular  occupation.  They  are  in  some  respects  a  military  body.  They  would 
revenge  with  their  pikes  :  the  wars  would  eat  them  up.  In  Julius  Cscsar,  on  the  contrary,  they  are 
"  mechanical" — the  carpenter  or  the  cobbler.  They  "  make  holiday  to  see  Ca3sar,  and  to  rejoice  in  his 
triumph."  The  speech  of  Marullus,  the  Tribune,  brings  the  Rome  of  the  hour  vividly  before  us. 
It  is  the  Rome  of  mighty  conquests  and  terrible  factions.  Pompey  has  had  his  triumphs ;  and  now 
the  men  of  Rome 

"  Strew  flowers  in  his  way 
That  comes  in  triumph  over  Pompey's  blood." 

But  the  triumphant  man  himself  appears.  When  he  speaks,  the  music  and  the  shouts  are  silent. 
When  he  speaks  not,  the  air  is  again  filled  with  sounds  of  greeting.  There  is  a  voice  in  the  crowd, 
"  shriller  than  the  music."  The  Soothsayer  cries,  "  Beware  the  Ides  of  March ; "  but  "  he  is  a 
dreamer."  The  procession  passes  on ;  two  men  remain  who  are  to  make  the  dream  a  reality.  Of  all 
Shakspere's  characters  none  require  to  be  studied  with  more  patient  attention  than  those  of  Brutuo 
and  Ca.Hsius,  that  we  may  understand  the  resemblances  and  the  differences  of  each.  The  leading 
distinctions  between  these  two  remarkable  men,  as  drawn  by  Shakspere,  appear  to  us  to  be  these  : 
Brutus  acts  wholly  upon  principle;  Cassius  partly  upon  impulse.  Brutus  acts  only  when  he  has 
reconciled  the  contemplation  of  action  with  his  speculative  opinions;  Cassius  allows  the  necessity 
of  lomc  action  to  run  before  and  govern  his  opinions.  Brutus  is  a  philosopher;  Cassius  is  a  par- 
tisan. Brutus  therefore  deliberates  and  spares;  Cassius  precipitates  and  denounces.  Brutus  is 
the  nobler  instructor ;  Cassius  the  better  politician.  Shakspere,  in  the  first  great  scene  between 
them,  brings  out  these  distinctions  of  character  upon  which  future  events  bo  mainly  depend. 
346 


TO   THE  ROT^IAX   PLAYS. 


Cassiiis  does  not,  like  a  merely  crafty  man,  use  only  the  arguments  to  conspii-acy  which  will  most 
touch  Brutus ;  but  he  mixes  with  them,  in  his  zeal  and  vehemence,  those  which  have  presented 
themselves  most  strongly  to  his  own  mind.  He  had  a  personal  dislike  of  Csesar,  as  Caesar  had  of  him. 
Cassius  begins  artfully  :  he  would  first  move  Brutus  through  his  affection,  and  next  through  his  self- 
love.  He  is  opening  a  set  discourse  on  his  own  sincerity,  when  the  shouting  of  the  people  makes 
Brutus  express  his  fear  that  they  "  choose  Caesar  for  their  king."  Cassius  at  once  leaves  his  prepared 
speeches,  and  assumes  that  because  Brutus  fears  it  he  would  not  have  it  so  : — 

"  I  Tvould  not,  Cassius ;  yet  I  love  him  well." 

Cassius  sees  that  the  love  which  Brutus  bears  to  Csesai-  will  be  an  obstacle ;  and  he  goes  on  to  disparage 
Caesar.     He  could  not  buffet  the  waves  with  Cassius ;  when  he  had  a  fever  in  Spain, 

"  Alas  !  it  cried,  '  Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius.'  " 

Brutus  answers  not :  but  marks  "  another  general  shout."     Cassius  then  strikes  a  different  note  : — 

"  Brutus  and  Cffisar :  What  should  be  in  that  Csesar  J 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded  more  than  yours  t  " 

At  last  Cassius  hits  upon  a  priTiciple : — 


"  O  !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 
There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brook'd 
The  eternal  devil  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome 
As  easily  as  a  king." 

The  Stoic  is  at  last  moved  ; — 

"  Brutus  had  rather  he  a  villager. 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome 
Under  these  hard  conditions,  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us." 

In  the  next  scene,  when  Csesar  is  returning  from  the  games,  the  great  dictator  describes  Cassius— 

the  Cassius  vath  "  a  lean  and  hungry  look,"  the  "  great  observer,"— as  one  whom  he  could  fear  if  he 

could  fear  anything.     In  the  subsequent  dialogue  with  Casca,  where  the  narrative  of  what  passed  at 

the  games  is  conducted  with  a  truth  that  puts  the  very  scene  before  us,  Cassius  again  strikes  in  with 

the  thought  that  is  uppermost  in  his  mind.     Brutus  says  that  Cassar  "hath  the  falUng-sickness  :"  the 

reply  of  Cassius  is  most  characteristic : — 

"  No,  Caesar  hath  it  not ;  but  you,  and  I, 
And  honest  Casca,  we  have  the  falling-sickness." 

Brutus  goes  home  to  meditate.     The  energy  of  Cassius  is  never  weary.     In  the  storm  he  is  still  the 
conspirator.     The  "  impatience  of  the  Heavens  "  furnishes  him  an  argument  agamst  the  man 

"  Prodigious  grown, 
And  feai-ful,  as  these  strange  irruptions  are." 

The  plot  is  maturing.     Brutus  especially  is  to  be  won. 

Coleridge,  who,  when  he  doubts  of  a  meaning  in  Shakspere,— or,  what  is  rarer,  suggests  that  there 
is  some  inconsistency  in  the  conduct  of  the  scene,  or  the  development  of  character,— has  the  highest 
claim  upon  our  deferential  regard,  gives  the  soliloquy  of  Brutus  in  the  begmning  of  the  second  act 
with  the  following  observations :-«  This  speech  is  singular;  at  least,  I  do  not  at  present  see  mto 
Shakspere's  motive,  his  rationale,  or  in  what  point  of  view  he  meant  Brutus'  character  to  appear.  For 
surely-(thi3  I  mean  is  what  I  say  to  myself,  with  my  present  quantum  of  insight  only  modified  by 
my  experience  in  how  many  instances  I  had  ripened  into  a  perception  of  beauties,  where  I  had  before 
descried  faults)-surely,  nothmg  can  seem  more  discordant  with  our  historical  preconceptions  of 
Brutus,  or  more  lowermg  to  the  intellect  of  the  Stoico-Platonic  tyrannicide,  than  the  tenets  here 
attributed  to  him-to  him,  the  stern  Roman  republican;  namely,-that  he  would  have  no  objection  to 
a  king,  or  to  Caesar,  a  monarch  in  Rome,  would  Caesar  but  be  as  good  a  monarch  as  h^  now  seems 
disposed  to  be  !  How,  too,  could  Brutus  say  that  he  found  no  personal  cause-none-m  C^sars  past 
conduct  as  a  man  ?  Had  he  not  passed  the  Rubicon  ?  Had  he  not  entered  Rome  as  a  conqueror  / 
Had  he  not  placed  his  Gauls  in  the  Seuate  ?-Shakspeare,  it  may  be  said,  has  not  brought  these  things 
forward.-True  ;-and  this  is  just  the  gi-ound  of  my  perplexity.     What  character  did  Shakspeare  mean 

Oil 


SUri^LEMENTARY  NOTICE 

his  Brutus  to  be  ?"*     To  this  question  we  venture  to  reply,  according  to  our  imperfect  conception  of 

the  character  of   Brutus.     Shakspere  meant  him  not  for  a  conspirator.     lie  has  a  terror  of  con- 

spiracy  : — 

"  Where  will  thou  flnd  a  cavern  dark  enough 
To  mask  thy  monstrous  visage  t " 

He  has  Leen  "  with  himself  at  war,"  speculating,  we  doubt  not,  upon  the  strides  of  Cocsar  towards 
absolute  power,  but  unprepared  to  resist  them.  Of  Coesar  he  has  said,"!  love  him  well;"  he  now 
says — 

"  I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him." 

We  are  by  no  means  sure  of  the  correct  punctuation  of  this  passage  as  it  id  U;;ually  given.  Brutus  has 
come  to  a  conclusion  in  the  watches  of  the  night : — 

"  It  must  be  by  his  death." 
He  disavows,  however,  any  pfersonal  hatred  to  Caesar  :— 


He  then  adds — 


"  And  for  my  part, 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him.' 


"  But  for  the  general— he  would  be  crown'd: 
How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there  's  the  question." 


He  goes  from  the  personal  cause  to  the  general  cause:  "He  would  be  crown'd."  As  a  triumvir,  a 
dictator,  Brutus  had  no  personal  cause  against  Caesar ;  but  the  name  of  king,  which  Cassius  poured 
into  his  ear,  rouses  all  his  speculative  republicauism.  His  experience  of  Ciesar  calls  from  him  the 
acknowledgment  that  Ca:sar's  affections  sway  not  more  than  his  reason ;  but  crown  him,  and  his  nature 
might  be  changed.  We  must  bear  in  mind  that  Brutus  ia  not  yet  committed  to  the  conspiracy.  The 
character  that  Shakspere  meant  his  Brutus  to  be  is  not  yet  fully  developed.  He  is  yet  irresolute ;  and 
bis  reasoniugs  are  therefore,  to  a  certain  extent,  inconsequential : — 

"  Since  Cassias  first  did  wket  me  against  Caesar 
I  have  not  slept. 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phanta^ma,  or  a  hideous  dream." 

He  is  instigated  from  without ;  the  principles  a-ssociated  with  the  name  of  Brutus  stir  him  from 
within  : — 

"  My  ancestors  did  from  the  streets  of  Rome 
The  Tarquin  drive,  when  he  was  call'd  a  king." 

The  "faction"  come,  Cassius  and  Brutus  speak  together  apart.  Let  us  turn  aside  for  a  moment 
to  see  how  Shakspere  fills  up  this  terrible  pause.  Other  poets  would  have  made  the  inferior  men 
exchange  oaths,  and  cross  hands,  and  whisper,  and  ejaculate.  He  makes  everything  depend  ujton  the 
determination  of  Biutus  and  Cassius;  and  the  others,  knowing  it  so  depends,  speak  thus:  — 

"  Dec.  Here  lies  the  east :  Doth  not  the  day  break  here? 

Casca.  No. 

Cin.  O,  pardon,  sir,  it  doth  :  and  yon  prt-y  lines 
That  fret  the  clouds  are  messengers  of  day. 

Caica.  You  shall  confess  that  you  are  both  deceiv'd. 
Here,  as  I  point  my  sword,  the  sun  arises ; 
Which  is  a  great  way  growing  on  the  south. 
Weighing  the  youthful  season  of  the  year. 
Some  two  months  hence,  up  higher  toward  the  north 
He  first  presents  his  fire;  and  the  high  cast 
Stands,  as  the  Capitol,  directly  here." 

Is  this  nature?    The  truest  and  most  profound  nature.     The  minds  of  all  men  thus  disencumber 


•  '  Literary  Remains,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  139. 


548 


TO   THE   EOMAJ^i    PLAYS. 

tliemselves,   in  the  moments  of  the  most  anxious  suspense,  from  the  pressure  of  an  overwhelmin" 
thought.     There  is  a  real  relief,  if  some  accidental  circumstance,  like 

"  The  grey  lii;es  that  fret  the  clouds," 

can  produce  this  disposition  of  the  mind  to  go  out  of  itself  for  an  instant  or  two  of  forgetfulness. 
But  Brutus  is  changed.  We  have  no  doubt  now  of  his  character.  He  is  the  leader,  Cassiua 
the  subordinate.  He  is  decided  in  his  course  :  he  will  not  "  break  with  "  Cicero ;  he  will  not  de- 
stroy Antony.  We  recognise  the  gentleness  of  his  nature  even  while  he  is  preparing  for  assassin- 
ation : — 

"  O,  that  we  then  could  come  by  Caesar's  spirit, 
And  not  dismember  Caesar!  " 

In  the  exquisite  scene  with  Portia  which  follows,  our  love  for  the  man  is  completed  ;  we  learn  what 

he  has  suffered  before  he  has  taken  his  resolution.     There  is  something  more  than  commonly  touching 

in  these  words  : — 

"  You  are  my  true  and  honourable  wife  ; 
As  dear  to  me  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart." 

The  pathos  in  some  degree  depends  upon  our  knowledge  of  the  situation  of  the  speaker,  which  Portia 
does  not  know. 

The  scenes  which  we  have  now  run  over  bring  us  to  the  end  of  the  second  act.  Nothing  can  be 
more  interesting,  we  think,  than  to  follow  Shakspere  with  Plutarch  in  hand ;  and  we  have  furnished 
the  ready  means  of  doing  so  in  our  Illustrations.  The  poet  adheres  to  the  facts  of  history  with  a 
remarkable  fidelity.  A  few  hard  figures  are  painted  upon  a  canvass ;  the  outlines  are  distinct,  the 
colours  are  strong;  but  there  is  no  art  in  the  composition,  no  grouping,  no  light  and  shadow.  This 
is  the  historian's  picture.  We  turn  to  the  poet.  We  recognise  the  same  figures,  but  they  appear 
to  live ;  they  are  in  harmony  with  the  entire  scene  in  which  they  move ;  we  have  at  once  the  reality 
of  nature,  and  the  ideal  of  art,  which  is  a  higher  nature.  Compare  the  dialogue  in  the  first  act 
between  Cassius  and  Brutus,  and  the  same  dialogue  as  reported  by  Plutarch,  for  an  example  of  the 
power  by  which  the  poet  elevates  all  he  touches,  without  destroying  its  identity.  When  we  arrive 
at  the  stirring  scenes  of  the  thii-d  act  this  power  is  still  more  manifest.  The  assassination  scene  is 
as  literal  as  may  be;  but  it  offers  an  example  apt  enough  of  Shakspei-e's  mode  of  dramatizing  a 
fact.  When  Metellus  Cimber  makes  suit  for  his  brother,  and  the  conspirators  appear  as  interces- 
sors, the  historian  says — "  Caesar  at  the  first  simply  refused  their  kindness  and  entreaties ;  but 
afterwards,  perceiving  they  still  pressed  on  him,  he  violently  thrust  them  from  him."  The  poet 
enters  into  the  mind  of  Cassar,  and  clothes  this  rejection  of  the  suit  in  characteristic  words.  Haz- 
litt,  after  noticing  the  profound  knowledge  of  character  displayed  by  Shakspere  in  this  play,  says — 
"  If  there  is  any  exception  to  this  remark,  it  is  in  the  hero  of  the  piece  himself.  We  do  not  much 
admire  the  representation  here  given  of  Julius  Cresar,  nor  do  we  think  it  answers  the  portrait  given 
of  him  in  his  *  Commentaries.'  He  makes  several  vapouring  and  rather  pedantic  speeches,  and  does 
nothing.  Indeed,  he  has  nothing  to  do.  So  far,  the  fault  of  the  character  is  the  fault  of  the  plot." 
The  echoes  of  this  opinion  are  many ;  and  the  small  critics  wax  bold  upon  the  occasion.  Boswell 
says — "  There  cannot  be  a  stronger  proof  of  Shakspeare's  deficiency  in  classical  knowledge  than 
the  boastful  language  he  has  put  in  the  mouth  of  the  most  accomplished  man  of  all  antiquity,  who 
was  not  more  admirable  for  his  achievements  than  for  the  dignified  simplicity  with  which  he  has 
recorded  them."  Courtenay  had  hazarded,  in  his  notice  of  Henry  VIII. ,  the  somewhat  bold  asser- 
tion "  that  Shakspeare  used  very  little  artifice,  and,  in  ti-uth,  had  rery  little  design,  in  the  construc- 
tion of  the  greater  number  of  his  historical  characters."  Upon  the  character  of  Julius  Caesar  he  says 
that  Plutarch  having  been  supposed  to  pass  over  this  character  somewhat  slightly  is  "a  corrobora- 
tion of  my  remark  upon  the  slight  attention  which  Shakspeare  paid  to  his  historical  characters. 
The  conversation  with  Antony  about  fat  men,  and  with  Calphuruia  about  her  dreams,  came  con- 
veniently into  his  plan ;  and  some  lofty  expressions  could  hardly  be  avoided  in  portraying  one 
who  was  known  to  the  whole  world  as  a  great  conqueror.  Beyond  this  our  poet  gave  himself  no 
trouble."  This  is  certainly  an  easy  way  of  disposing  of  a  complicated  question.  Did  Shakspere 
give  himself  no  trouble  about  the  chai'acterization  of  Brutus  and  Cassius  ?  In  them  did  he  indicate 
no  points  of  character  but  what  he  found  in  Plutarch?     Is  not  his  characterization  of  Caesar  himself 

349 


SUPPLEMENTAEY  KOTICE 

a  considerable  expaiisiou  of  what  he  found  set  down  by  the  Listoriau  ?  At  the  exact  "period  of 
the  action  of  this  drama,  Coosar,  possessing  the  reality  of  power,  was  haunted  by  the  weakness  of  pas- 
sionately desiring  the  title  of  king.  Plutarch  says — "The  chiefest  cause  that  made  him  mortally 
hated  was  the  covetous  desire  he  had  to  be  called  king."  This  is  the  pivot  upon  which  the  whole 
action  of  Shakspere's  tragedy  turns.  There  might  have  been  another  mode  of  treating  the  subject. 
The  death  of  Julius  Caesar  might  have  been  the  catastrophe.  The  republican  and  the  monarchical 
principles  might  have  been  exhibited  in  conflict.  The  republican  principle  would  have  triumphed 
in  the  fall  of  Caesar ;  and  the  poet  would  have  previously  held  the  balance  between  the  two  princi- 
ples, or  have  claimed,  indeed,  our  largest  sympathies  for  the  principles  of  Cajsar  and  his  friends,  by 
a  true  exhibition  of  Cwsar's  greatness  and  Cncsar's  virtues.  The  poet  chose  another  course.  And 
aie  we  then  to  talk,  with  ready  flippancy,  of  ignorance  and  carelessness — that  he  wanted  classical 
knowledge — that  he  gave  himself  no  trouble  ?  "  The  fault  of  the  character  is  the  fault  of  the  plot," 
says  Hazlitt  It  would  have  been  neai-er  the  truth  had  he  said — the  character  is  determined  by  the 
plot.  While  Casar  is  upon  the  scene,  it  was  for  the  poet,  largely  iut«i"preting  the  historian,  to 
show  the  inward  workings  of  "  the  covetous  desire  he  had  to  be  called  king ; "  and  most  admirably, 
according  to  our  notions  of  characterization,  has  he  shown  them.  Csesar  is  "  in  all  but  name  a  king." 
He  is  surrounded  by  all  the  external  attributes  of  power ;  yet  he  is  not  satisfied  : — 

"  Tlie  angry  spot  doth  glow  on  Cffisar's  brow." 

He  is  suspicious — he  fears.  But  he  has  acquired  the  policy  of  greatness — to  seem  what  it  is  not.  To 
hLs  intimate  friend  he  is  an  actor  : — 

"  I  rather  tell  thee  what  is  to  be  fear'd 
Than  wliat  I  fear:  for  always  I  am  Caesar." 

^\Tien  Calphurnia  has  recounted  the  terrible  portents  of  the  night — when  the  augurers  would  not 
that  Cajsar  should  stir  forth — he  exclaims — 

"  The  gods  do  this  in  sliaine  of  cowardice  : 
Caesar  should  be  a  beast  mthout  a  heart, 
If  he  should  stay  at  home  to-day  for  fear. 
No,  Caesar  shall  not:  Danger  knows  full  well 
That  Caesar  is  more  dangerous  than  he. 
We  -were  two  lions  litter'd  in  one  day, 
And  I  the  elder  and  more  terrible  ; 
And  Caesar  shall  go  forth." 

But  to  whom  does  he  utter  this,  the  "boastful  language,"  which  so  ofiFends  Boswell?  To  the 
servant  who  has  brought  the  message  from  the  augurers;  before  him  he  could  show  no  fear.  But 
the  very  inflation  of  his  language  shows  that  he  did  fear  ;  and  an  instant  after,  when  the  servant  no 
doubt  is  intended  to  have  left  the  scene,  he  says  to  his  wife — 

"  Mark  Antony  shall  say  I  am  not  well, 
And  for  thy  humour  I  will  stay  at  home." 

Read  Plutarch's  account  of  the  scene  between  Decius  and  Caesar,  when  Decius  prevails  against 
Calphurnia,  and  Caesar  decides  to  go.  In  the  historian  we  have  not  a  hint  of  the  splendid  charac- 
terization of  Ctesar  struggling  between  his  fear  and  his  pride.  Wherever  Shakspere  found  a 
minute  touch  in  the  historian  that  could  harmonize  with  his  general  plan,  he  embodied  it  in  his 
character  of  Caesar,  Who  does  not  remember  the  magnificent  lines  which  the  poet  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Caesar  J — 

"  Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  deaths  ; 
The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 
Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  ha%-e  heard, 
It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear  : 
Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end. 
Will  come  when  it  will  come." 


A.  very  slight  passage  in  Plutarch,  with  reference  to  other  circumstances  of  Cresar's  life,  suggested 
this : — "  When  some  of  his  friends  did  counsel  him  to  have  a  guard  for  the  safety  of  his  person,  and 
some  also  did  offer  themselves  to  serve  him,  he  would  never  consent  to  it,  but  said  it  was  better  to 
die  once  than  always  to  be  afraid  of  death."     We  have  already  noticed  the  skill  with  which  Shak- 


TO   THE  EOMAIS"  PLAYS. 

spere,  upou  a  very  bald  narrative,  has  dramatized  the  last  sad  scene  in  which  Ctcsar  was  an  actor. 
The  tone  of  his  last  speech  is  indeed  boastful — 

"  I  do  know  but  one 
That  unassailable  holds  on  his  rank, 
Uiishak'd  of  motion  :  and,  that  I  am  he. 
Let  me  a  little  show  it." 

That  Ca3sar  knew  his  power,  and  made  others  know  it,  who  can  doubt  ?  He  was  not  one  who,  in 
his  desire  to  be  king,  would  put  on  the  robe  of  humility.  Altogether,  then,  we  profess  to  receive 
Shakspere's  characterization  of  Cajsar  with  a  perfect  confidence  that  he  produced  that  character  upon 
fixed  j)rinciples  of  art.  It  is  not  the  prominent  character  of  the  play ;  and  it  was  not  meant  to  be  so. 
It  is  true  to  the  narrative  upon  which  Shaksjiiere  founded  it ;  but,  what  is  of  more  importancej 
it  is  true  to  every  natural  conception  of  what  Csesar  must  have  been  at  the  exact  moment  of  his 
fall. 

We  have  seen  the  stoic  Brutus — in  reality  a  man  of  strong  passions  and  deep  feelings — gradually 
warm  up  to  the  great  entei-prise  of  asserting  his  principles  by  one  tei-rible  blow,  for  triumph  or  for 
extinction.  The  blow  is  given.  The  excitement  which  succeeds  is  wondrously  painted  by  the  poet, 
without  a  hint  from  the  historian.  The  calm  of  the  gentle  Brutus  is  lifted  up,  for  the  moment,  into 
an  attitude  of  terrible  sublimity.     It  is  he  who  says — 

"  Stooj),  Romans,  stoop, 
And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood 
Up  to  the  elbows,  and  besmear  cur  swords  : 
Then  walk  we  forth,  even  to  tho  market-place ; 

And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads,  . 

Let's  all  cry,  Peace,  Freedom,  and  Liberty  !" 

From  that  moment  the  character  flags ;   the  calmness  returns ;   something  also  of  the  irresolution 

comes  back.     Brutus  is  too  high-minded  for  his  position.     Another  comes  upon  the   scene ;  anotlier 

of   different    temperament,   of  different    powers.       He   is    not    one    that,   like  Brutus,    will   change 

"offence"  to  "virtue  and  to  worthiness"  by  the  force  of  character.     He  is  one  that  "revels  long 

o'  nights."     But  he  possesses  courage,  eloquence,  high  talent,  and,  what  renders  him  most  dangerous, 

he   is   sufficieutly    unprincipled.     Cassius    knew    him,    and  would    have    killed    him.      Brutus    does 

not  know  him,  and  he  suffers  him  "to  bury  Cissar."     The  conditions  upon  which  Brutus  permits 

Antony  to  speak  are  Shakspere's  own ;  and  they  show  his  wonderful  penetration  into  the  depths  of 

character : — 

"  You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  fpeech  blame  us, 
But  speak  all  good  you  can  de;ise  of  Csesar; 
And  say  you  do 't  by  our  permission  ; 
Else  shall  you  not  have  any.  haad  at  all 
About  his  funeral :  And  you  shall  speak, 
In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  lam  going, 
After  my  speech  is  ended." 

The  opportunity  is  not  lost  by  Antony.  Hazlitt,  acute  enough  in  general,  appears  to  us  singularly 
ttuperficial  in  his  remarks  on  this  play  :— "  Mark  Antony's  speech  over  the  dead  body  of  Caesar  has 
been  justly  admired  for  the  mixture  of  pathos  and  art  in  it :  that  of  Brutus  certainly  is  not  so  good." 
In  what  way  is  it  not  so  good  ?  As  a  specimen  of  eloquence,  put  by  the  side  of  Antony's,  who  can 
doubt  that  it  is  tame,  passionless,  severe,  and  therefore  ineffective  ?  But  as  an  example  of  Shakspere's 
wonderful  power  of  characterization,  it  is  beyond  all  praise.  It  was  the  consummate  artifice  of 
Antony  that  made  him  say — 

"  I  am  no  orator  as  Brutus  is." 

Brutus  was  not  an  orator.  Under  great  excitement  he  is  twice  betrayed  into  oratoiy:  when  he 
addresses  the  conspirators—"  No,  not  an  oath  ;"  and  after  the  assassination — "  Stoop,  Romans,  stoop." 
He  is  a  man  of  just  intentions,  of  calm  understanding,  of  settled  purpose,  when  his  principles  are  to 
become  actions.     But  his  notion  of  oratory  is  this  : — 


'  I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 
And  show  the  reason  of  our  Ceesar's  death.' 


351 


SUPPLFJIEXTARY  KOTICE 

And  be  does  show  the  reason.  The  critics  he.ve  made  nmuaing  work  with  this  speech.  W'arbiirton 
Bays,  "  This  speech  of  Brutus  is  wrote  in  imitation  of  his  famed  laconic  brevity,  and  is  very  fine  in  its 
kind ;  but  no  more  like  that  brevity  than  his  times  were  like  Brutus'."  To  this  Mr.  Monck  Mason 
rejoins, — "  I  cannot  agree  with  Warburton  that  this  speech  is  very  fine  in  its  kind.  I  can  see  no 
degree  of  excellence  in  it,  but  think  it  a  very  paltry  speech,  for  so  great  a  man,  on  so  great  an 
occasion."  The  commentators  have  not  a  word  of  approbation  for  the  speech  of  Antony  to  counter- 
balance this.  There  w;u5  a  man,  however,  of  their  times,  Martin  Sherlock,  who  wrote  '  A  Fragment  on 
Shakspere,'  in  a  style  sufficiently  hyperbolical,  but  who  nevertheless  was  amongst  the  few  who  then 
ventured  to  think  that  "  the  bai-barian,"  Shakspere,  possessed  art  and  judgment.  Of  Antony's  speech 
he  thus  expresses  his  opinion : — "  Every  line  of  this  speech  deserves  an  eulogium  ;  and,  when  you 
have  examined  it  attentively,  you  will  allow  it,  and  will  say  with  me  that  neither  Demosthenes,  nor 
Cicero,  nor  their  glorious  rival,  the  immortal  Chatham,  ever  made  a  better."  There  may  be 
exaggerations  in  both  styles  of  criticism :  the  speech  of  Antony  may  not  be  equal  to  Demosthenes, 
and  the  speech  of  Brutus  may  not  be  a  very  paltry  speech.  But,  each  being  written  by  the  same  man, 
we  have  a  right  to  accept  each  with  a  conviction  that  the  writer  was  capable  of  making  a  good  speech 
for  Brutus  as  well  as  for  Antony ;  and  that  if  he  did  not  do  so  he  had  very  abundant  reasons.  It 
requires  no  gi*eat  refinement  to  understand  his  reasons.  The  excitement  of  the  great  assertion  of 
republican  principles,  which  was  to  be  acted  over, 

"  In  states  unborn,  and  accents  yet  unknown," 

had  been  succeeded  by  a  momentary  calm.  In  the  very  hour  of  the  assassination  Brutus  had  become 
ita  apologist  to  Antony  : — 


"  Our  reasons  are  so  fall  of  good  regard, 
That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Cxsar, 
You  should  be  satisfied.' 


He  is  already  preparing  in  mind  for  "  the  pulpit."     He  will  present,  calmly  and  dispassionately,  the 

"  reason  of  our  Ctesar's  death."     He  expects  that  Antony  will  speak  with  equal  moderation — all  good 

of  CKsar — no  blame  of  Caesar's  murderers ;  and  he  thinks  it  an  advantage  to  speak  before  Antony. 

He  knew  not  what  oratory  really  is.     But  Shakspere  knew,  and  he  painted  Antony,     Another  great 

poet  made  the  portrait  a  description  : — 

"  He  seem'd 
For  dignity  cornpos'd  and  high  exploit; 
But  all  was  false  and  hollow  ;  though  his  tongue 
Dropp'd  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  belter  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels  ;  for  his  thoughts  were  low; 
To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful :  yet  he  pleas'd  the  ear." 

The  end  of  Antony's  oratory  is  perfect  success  : — 

"  Now  let  it  work  !     Mischief,  thou  art  afoot ; 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt ! " 

The  rhetoric  has  done  its  work :  the  conflict  of  principles  is  coming  to  a  close ;  the  ojuflict  of 
individuals  is  about  to  begin;  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  republican  Rome,  or  monarchical  Rome. 
The  question  is  whether  it  shall  be  the  Rome  of  Antony,  or  the  Rome  of  Octavius ;  for  Lepidus  there 
is  no  chance  : 

"  This  is  a  slight  unmeritable  roan." 

But  even  he  is  ready  to  do  his  work.  He  can  proscribe ;  he  can  even  consent  to  the  death  of  his 
brother,  "  upon  conditions."  He  requires  that  "  Publius  shall  not  live."  Antony  has  no  scruples  to 
save  bis  "  sister's  son  :" — 

"  He  shall  not  live :  look,  with  a  spot  I  damn  him." 

Such  an  intense  representation  of  selfishness  was  never  before  given  in  a  dozen  lines.  What  power 
have  Brutus  and  Cassius  to  oppose  to  this  worldly  wisdom  ?  Is  it  the  virtue  of  Brutus  ?  Of  him 
who 


"  Condemn'd  and  noted  Lucius  Pella, 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians." 


352 


TO   THE   KOMi\:N"  PLAYS. 


Of  him  who 

thaa 

Of  him  who  si'.y: 


"  Had  rather  be  a  dog  and  bay  the  mooii  ' 
"  Contaminate  his  fingers." 


"I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection  !  " 

No;  the  man  of  principles  must  fall  before  the  men  of  expediency.  He  can  conquer  Cassius  by 
his  high-mindedness ;  for  Cassiua,  though  somewhat  politic,  has  nobility  enough  in  him  to  bow 
before  the  majesty  of  virtue.  Coleridge  says — "I  know  no  part  of  Shakspeare  that  more  im- 
presses on  me  the  belief  of  his  genius  being  superhuman  than  this  scene  between  Brutus  and 
Cassius."  This  language  has  been  called  idolatry:  some  critic  we  believe  says  "blasphemous;" 
yet  let  any  one  with  common  human  powers  ti-y  to  produce  such  a  scene.  The  wonderful  thing 
in  it,  and  that  which, — in  a  subsequent  sentence,  which  we  scarcely  dare  quote, —  Coleridge  points 
out,  is  the  complete  preservation  of  character.  All  dramatic  poets  have  tried  to  imitate  this 
scene.  Dryden  preferred  his  imitation,  in  the  famous  dialogue  between  Antony  and  Ventidius, 
to  anything  which  he  had  written  "  in  this  kind."  It  is  full  of  high  rhetoric,  no  doubt ;  but  its 
rhetoric  is  that  of  generalizations.  The  plain  rough  soldier,  the  luxurious  chief,  reproach  and 
weep,  are  angry  and  cool  again,  shake  bauds,  and  end  in  "hugging,"  as  the  stage  direction  has 
it.  They  say  aU  that  people  would  say  under  such  circumstances,  and  they  say  it  well.  But  the 
matchless  art  of  Shakspere  consists  as  much  in  what  he  holds  back  as  in  what  he  puts  forward. 
Brutus  subdues  Cassius  by  the  force  of  his  moral  strength,  without  the  slightest  attempt  to  com- 
mand the  feelings  of  a  sensitive  man.  When  Cassius  is  subdued  he  owns  that  he  has  been  hasty. 
They  are  friends  again,  hand  and  heart.  Is  not  the  knowledge  of  character  something  above  the 
ordinary  reach  of  human  sagacity  when  the  following  words  come  in  as  if  by  accident  ? — 

"  Bru.  Lucius,  a  bowl  of  wine. 

Cass.  I  did  not  think  you  could  have  been  so  angry. 

Bru.  O  Caisius,  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs. 

Ca.ts.  Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use. 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental  evils. 

Bru.  No  man  bears  sorrow  better: — Portia  is  dead. 

Cass.  Ha  !  Portia  1 

Bru.  She  is  dead. 

Cass.  How  'scap'd  I  killing  when  I  cross'd  you  so? " 

This  is  not  in  Plutarch. 

The  shade  of  Caesar  has  summoned  Brutus  to  meet  him  at  Philippi. 
republican  chiefs  before  the  battle  is  well  to  be  noted  : — 


The   conversation  of  the 


Teagedibs, — Vol.  II. 


"  Cass.  Now,  most  noble  Brutus, 

Tlie  gods  to-day  stand  friendly;  that  we  may, 
Lovers  in  peace,  lead  on  our  days  to  age ! 
But,  since  the  affairs  of  men  rest  still  uncertain. 
Let's  reason  with  the  worst  that  may  befall. 
If  we  do  lose  tliis  battle,  then  is  tliis 
The  very  last  time  we  shall  speak  together: 
What  are  you  then  determined  to  do  ? 

Bru.  Even  by  the  rule  of  that  philosophy 
liy  which  I  did  blame  tJato  for  the  death 
Which  he  did  give  himself: — I  know  not  how, 
But  I  do  find  it  cowardly  and  vile. 
For  fear  of  what  might  fall,  so  to  prevent 
The  time  of  life: — arming  myself  with  patience 
To  stay  the  providenoe  of  some  high  powers 
That  govern  us  below. 

Cusi.  Then,  if  we  lose  this  battle. 

You  are  contented  to  be  led  in  triumph 
Thorough  the  streets  of  Rome  ? 

Bru.  No,  Cassius,  no :  think  not,  thou  noble  Ro-.nanv 
That  ever  Brutus  will  go  bound  to  Rome; 
He  bears  too  great  a  mind." 
2  A 


SUPPLE^^lENTAiiY  KOTICE 


The  parallel  passage  in  Plutarch  is  as  follows  : — 

"  Then  Cassiiis  began  to  speak  first,  and  said— The  gods  grant  us,  0  Bnitus,  that  this  day  we  may  win 
the  field,  and  ever  after  to  live  all  the  rest  of  our  life  quietly,  one  with  another.  But  sith  the  gods  have  so 
ordained  it  that  the  greatest  and  chicfest  things  amongst  men  are  most  uncertain,  and  that,  if  the  battle  fall 
out  otherwise  to-day  than  wo  wish  or  look  for,  we  shall  hardly  meet  again,  what  art  thou  then  determined  to 
do — to  fly,  or  die  ?  Brutus  answered  him,  Being  yet  but  a  young  man,  and  not  over-grcatly  experienced  in 
the  world,  I  frtuit  (I  know  not  how)  a  certain  rule  of  philosophy,  by  the  which  I  did  greatly  blame  and 
reprove  Cato  for  killing  of  himself,  as  being  no  lawful  nor  godly  act  touching  the  gods,  nor  concerning  men 
valiant,  not  to  give  place  and  j"icld  to'Divine  Providence,  and  not  constantl}'  and  patiently  to  take  whatso- 
ever it  jileaseth  him  to  send  us,  but  to  di-aw  back  and  fly  :  but  being  now  in  the  midst  of  the  danger,  I  am 
.  of  a  contrary  mind  ;  for  if  it  be  not  the  will  of  God  that  this  battle  fall  out  fortunate  for  us,  I  will  look  no 
more  for  hope,  neither  seek  to  make  any  new  supply  of  war  again,  but  will  rid  me  of  this  miserable  world, 
and  content  mo  with  my  fortune." 

The  critics  say  that  Shakspere  makes  Brutus  express  himself  inconsistently.  He  will  await  the 
determination  of  Providence,  but  he  will  not  go  bound  to  Rome.  Mr.  Courtenay  explains  how 
"the  inconsistency  arises  from  Shakspeare's  misreading  of  the  first  speech;  for  Brutus, 'according 
to  North,  referred  to  his  opinion  against  suicide  as  one  that  he  had  entertained  in  his  youth,  but 
had  now  abandoned."  This  writer  in  a  note  also  explains  that  the  perplexity  consists  in  North 
saying  /  trust,  instead  of  using  the  past  tense.  He  then  adds, — "Shakspeare's  adoption  of  a  version 
contradicted  not  only  by  a  passage  immediately  following,  but  by  the  event  which  he  presently 
portrays,  is  a  striking  instance  of  his  careless  use  of  his  authorities."  *  Yeiy  triumphant,  no 
doubt.  Mo.st  literal  critics,  why  have  you  not  rather  confided  in  Shakspere  than  in  yourselves? 
Wlien  he  deserts  Plutarch  he  is  true  to  something  higher  than  Plutarch.  In  Brutus  he  has  drawn 
a  man  of  speculation ;  one  who  is  moved  to  kill  the  man  he  loves  upon  no  personal  motive,  but 
upon  a  theory ;  one  who  fights  his  last  battle  upon  somewhat  speculative  principles ;  one,  however, 
who,  from  his  gentleness,  his  constancy,  his  fortitude,  has  subdued  men  of  more  active  minds  to  the 
admii-ation  of  his  temper  and  to  the  adoption  of  his  opinions.  Cassius  never  reasons  about  suicide  : 
it  is  his  instant  remedy;  a  remedy  which  he  rashly  adopts,  and  ruins  therefore  his  own  cause. 
Brutus  reasons  against  it;  and  he  does  not  revoke  his  speculative  opinions  even  when  the  conse- 
quejices  to  which  they  lead  are  pointed  out  to  him.  Is  not  this  nature  ?  and  must  we  be  told  that 
this  nicety  of  characterization  resulted  from  Shakspere  carelessly  using  his  authorities ;  trusting  to 
the  false  tense  of  a  verb,  regardless  of  the  context?  "But  he  contradicts  himself,"  says  the  critic, 
"  by  the  event  which  he  presently  portrays."  Most  wonderfully  has  Shakspere  redeemed  his 
own  consistency.  It  is  when  the  mind  of  the  speculative  man  is  not  only  utterly  subdued  by  ad- 
verse circumstances,  but  bowed  down  before  the  pressure  of  supernatural  warnings,  that  he  deli- 
berately approaches  his  last  fatal  resolve.  WTiat  is  the  work  of  an  instant  with  Cassius  is  v.-ith 
Brutus  a  tentative  process.  Clitus,  Dardanius,  Volumnius,  Strato,  are  each  tried.  The  irresistible 
pressure  upon  his  mind,  which  leads  him  not  to  fly  with  his  friends,  is  the  destiny  which  hovera 
over  him : — 

"  Bru.  Come  hither,  good  Volumnius  r  list  a  word. 

Vol.  What  says  my  lord  ? 

Bru.  ^Vhy,  this,  Volumnius  : 

The  ghost  of  Ciesar  hath  appear'd  to  me 
Two  several  times  by  night :  at  Sardi;,  once  ; 
And,  this  last  night,  here  in  Philippi  fields. 
/  know  my  kour  is  come." 

The  exclamation  of  Brutus  over  the  body  of  Cassius  is- - 

"  The  last  of  all  the  Romans,  fare  thee  well  I  " 

Brutus  himself  is  the  last  assertor  of  the  old  Roman  pnnciples  :  — 

''  This  was  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all : 
All  the  conspirators,  save  only  he, 
Di'l  that  thpy  did  in  envy  of  great  Cicsar ; 
He  only,  in  a  general  honest  thought, 
And  common  good  to  all,  made  one  of  them." 


3.-t 


■  Commentaries  on  the  Historical  Plays,'  vol  ii.  p.  255. 


TO   THE  EOMAN  PLAYS. 

The  scene  is  changed.  The  boldest,  perhaps  the  noblest,  of  the  Roman  triumvirs  has  almost 
forgotten  Eome,  and  governs  the  Asiatic  world  with  a  magnificence  equalled  only  by  the  voluptu- 
ousness into  which  he  is  plunged.  In  Rome,  Octavius  Csesar  is  almost  supreme.  It  is  upon  the 
cards  which  shall  govern  the  entire  world.  The  history  of  individuals  is  henceforth  the  history 
of  Rome. 

"Of  all  Shakspeare's  historical  plays,"  says  Coleridge,  "Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  by  far  the 
most  wonderful."  He  again  says,  assigning  it  a  place  even  higher  than  that  of  being  the 
most  wonderful  of  the  historical  plays,  "  The  highest  praise,  or  rather  form  of  praise,  of  this  play, 
which  I  can  offer  in  my  own  mind,  is  the  doubt  Vv'hich  the  perusal  always  occasions  in  me, 
whether  the  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  not,  in  all  exhibitions  of  a  giant  power  in  its  strength  and 
Vigour  of  maturity,  a  formidable  rival  of  Macbeth,  Lear,  Hamlet,  and  Othello."  *  The  epithet 
"wonderful"  is  unquestionably  the  right  one  to  apply  to  this  drama.  It  is  too  vast,  too  gorgeous, 
to  be  approached  without  some  prostration  of  the  understanding.  It  pours  such  a  flood  of 
noonday  splendour  upon  our  senses,  that  we  cannot  gaze  upon  it  steadily.  We  have  read  it 
again  and  again ;  and  the  impression  which  it  leaves  again  and  again  is  that  of  wonder.  We 
can  comprehend  it,  reduce  its  power  to  some  standard,  only  by  the  analysis  of  a  part.  Mi's. 
Jameson  has  adopted  this  course  in  one  of  her  most  brilliant  '  Characteristics  of  Women.'  Tread- 
ing in  her  steps  timidly,  we  may  venture  to  attempt  a  companion  sketch  to  her  portrait  of 
'Cleopatra.'  It  is  in  the  spirit  of  the  play  itself,  as  the  last  of  the  Roman  series,  that  we  shall 
endeavour  to  follow  it,  by  confining  ourselves  as  much  as  may  be  to  an  individual.  We  use  the 
word  in  the  sense  in  which  Mr.  Hare  uses  it,  after  some  good-natured  ridicule  of  the  newspaper 
''individuals:" — a  man  "is  an  individual,  so  far  as  he  is  an  integral  whole,  difierent  and  distinct 
from  other  men ;  and  that  which  makes  him  what  he  is,  that  in  which  he  differs  and  is  distinguished 
from  other  men,  is  his  individuality,  and  individualizes  him."  + 

The  Antony  of  this  play  is  of  course  the  Antony  of  Julius  Caesar; — not  merely  the  historical 
Antony,  but  the  di'amatic  Antony,  drawn  by  the  same  hand.  He  is  the  orator  that  showed  dead 
Cscsar's  mantle  to  the  Roman  people ;  he  is  the  soldier  that  after  his  triumph  over  Brutus  said, 
"  This  was  a  man."  We  have  seen  something  of  his  character ;  we  have  learnt  a  little  of  his 
voluptuousness;  we  have  heard  of  the  "masker  and  the  reveller;"  we  have  beheld  the  unscru- 
pulous politician.  But  we  cannot  think  meanly  of  him.  He  is  one  great,  either  for  good  or  for 
evil.  Since  he  fought  at  Philippi  he  has  passed  through  various  fortunes  :  Cffisar  thus  apostrophizes 
him : — 

"  When  thou  once 

Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou  slew'st 

Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 

Did  Famine  follow;  -whom  thou  fought'st  against, 

Though  daintily  brought  up,  with  patience  more 

Than  savages  could  sufTer. " 

There  came  an  after-time  when,  at  Alexandria, 

"  Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  '  No '  woman  heard  speak. 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast; 
And,  for  his  ordinarj',  pays  his  heart." 

This  is  the  Antony  that   Shakspere,  in  the  play  before   us,  brings  upon  the  scene,     Rome  is  to 
him  nothing.     He  will  hear  not  its  ambassadon; : — 

"  There's  not  a  minute  of  our  lives  should  stretch 
Without  some  pleasure  now." 

But  "a  Roman  thought  hath  struck  him."     He  does  hear  the  messenger.     Labienus  has  overriui  AsLi. 
He  winces  at  the  thought  of  his  own  inertness,  but  he  will  know  the  truth : — 

"  Speak  to  me  home :  mince  not  the  general  tongue." 


'  Litert.ry  Remains,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  142. 
2  A  2 


t  '  Guesseb  at  Truth,'  p.  139. 


855 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE 


Another  messenger  comes.     Brief  is  his  news  : — 

"  Fulvia  thy  wife  is  dead  ;  " 
and  brief  is  the  question  which  follows  : — 

"  Where  died  she  t " 
The  comment  shows  the  man  : — 

"  There 's  a  great  spirit  gone :  thus  did  I  desire  it." 

We  learn  why  he  did  desire  it,  in  the  scene  with  Cleopatra,  in  which  he  announces  his  departure. 
Often  has  he  heard,  from  the  same  lips,  the  bitter  irony  of 

"  What  says  the  married  woman  !  " 

He  has  been  bound  to  Cleopatra  not  only  by  her  "iu'iinite  variety,"  but  by  her  caprice  and  her 
force  of  ridicule.  His  moral  power  is  as  weak  as  his  physical  courage  is  strong.  Cleopatra  paints 
the  magnificent  soldier  and  the  infatuated  lover  in  a  few  words : — 

"  The  demi-Atlas  of  this  earth,  the  arm 
And  burgonet  of  men.     He  's  speaking  now, 
Or  murmuring  '  Where  's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile  I ' 
For  to  he  calls  me." 

He  has  fled  from  Cleopatra,  but  he  sends  her  hi.?  messenger  :— 

"  All  the  east, 
Say  thou,  shall  call  her  mistress." 

In  this  temper  he  meets  Cscsar,  and  he  marries  Octavia. 

The  interview  between  Antony  and  Casar  is  most  masterly.  The  constrained  courtesy  on  each 
side — the  coldness  of  Cassar — the  frank  apologies  of  Antony — the  suggestion  of  Agrippa,  so 
opportune,  and  yet  apparently  so  unpremeditated — the  ready  assent  of  Antony — all  this — matttr 
for  rhetorical  flourishes  of  at  least  five  hundred  lines  in  the  hands  of  an  ordinary  dramatist — may 
be  read  without  a  start  or  an  elevation  of  the  voice.  It  is  soUd  business  throughout.  Autony, 
we  might  think,  was  a  changed  roan.  Enobarbus,  who  knows  him,  is  of  a  dififereut  opinion. 
Wonderfully  has  he  described  Cleopatra ;  and  when  Mecronas  says, 


the  answer  is  prophetic  : — 


'  Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly," 

"  Never;  he  will  not ; 
Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety." 


Against  this  power  Enobarbus  knows  that  the  "beauty,  wisdom,  modesty"  of  Octavia  will  be  a 
fragile  bond.     And  Antony  knows  this  himself.     He  knows  this  while  he  protests, 

"  I  have  not  kept  my  square ;  but  that  to  come 
Shall  all  be  done  by  the  rule." 

And  yet  he  is  not  wholly  .-v  dissembler.  Shakspere  has  moat  skilfully  introduced  the  soothsayer, 
at  the  moment  when  Antony's  moral  weakness  appears  to  have  put  on  some  show  of  strength. 
Ho  found  the  incident  in  Plutarch ;  but  ho  has  made  his  own  application  of  it : — 

"  Be  it  art,  or  hap, 
He  hath  spoken  true  :  The  very  dice  obey  liini ; 
And  in  our  sports  my  better  cunning  faints 
Under  his  chance  :  if  we  draw  lots,  he  speeds : 
lli't  cocks  do  win  the  battle  still  of  mine. 
When  it  is  all  to  nought ;  and  his  quails  ever 
Beat  mine,  inhoop'd,  at  odds." 


Therefore, 

356 


I  will  to  Egypt." 


TO   THE   ROMAN   PLAYS. 

To  ps-tablibh  an  independent  throne  ?— to  entrench  himself  against  the  power  of  Augustus  in  au 
Asiatic  empire  ?    No. 

"  And  though  I  make  this  marriage  for  my  peace, 
r  the  east  my  pleasure  lies." 

The  reckless,  short-sighted  voluptuaiy  was  never  drawn  more  truly.  His  entire  policy  is  shaped  by 
his  passion.  The  wonderful  scene  in  which  his  marriage  with  Octavia  ia  made  known  to  Cleopatra 
assures  us  that  in  the  extremest  intemperance  of  self-wOl  he  will  have  his  equal.  Cleopatra  would 
have  Antony  unmarried, 

"  So  half  my  Egypt  were  submerg'd,  and  made 
A  cistern  for  scal'd  snakes." 

According  to  Enobarbus,  the  unmanying  will  scarcely  be  necessary  for  her  gratification  : — 

"  Eno.  Octavia  is  of  a  holy,  cold,  and  still  conversation. 

Men.  Who  would  not  have  his  wife  so  ? 

Eno.  Not  he,  that  himself  is  not  so ;  which  is  Mark 
Antony." 

The  drinking  scene  between  the  Triumvirs  and  Pompey  is  one  of  those  creations  which  render 
Shakspere  so  entirely  above,  and  so  utterly  unlike,  other  poets.  Every  line  is  a  trait  of  character. 
We  here  see  the  solemn,  "  unmeritable "  Lepidus  ;  the  cautious  Csesar ;  the  dashing,  clever,  ge.iial 
Antony.  His  eye  dances;  his  whole  visage  "doth  cream  and  mantle;"  the  corners  of  his  mouth  are 
drawn  down,  as  he  hoaxes  Lepidus  with  the  most  admirable  fooling  : — 

"  Lep.  What  manner  o'  thing  is  your  crocodile  ? 

Ant.  It  is  shaped,  sir,  like  itself;  and  it  is  as  broad  as 
it  hath  breadth  :  it  is  just  so  high  as  it  is,  and  moves  with 
its  own  organs,"  &c. 
"  Lep.  'Tis  a  sharp  serpent." 

The  revelry  grows  louder  and  louder,  till  "  the  Egyptian  bacchanals  "  close  the  scene.     Who  can  doubt 
that  Antony  bears  "  the  holding"  the  loudest  of  all  ? — 

As  loud 
As  his  strong  sides  can  volley." 

These  are  not  the  lords  of  the  world  of  the  French  tragedy.  Grimm,  who,  upon  the  whole,  has  a 
leaning  to  Shakspere,  says — "  II  est  assez  ridicule  sans  doute  de  faire  pai-ler  les  valets  comme  lea 
heros  ;  mais  il  est  hesmcou-p  plus  ridicule  encore  de  faire  parler  aux  heros  le  langage  du  peuple."*  To 
make  them  drunk  is  worse  even  than  the  worst  of  the  ridiculous.  It  is  impossible  to  define  such  a 
sin.  We  think,  with  Dogberry,  it  is  "  flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed."  Upton  has  a  curious 
theory,  which  would  partly  make  Shakspere  to  belong  to  the  French  school.  The  hero  of  this  play, 
according  to  this  theory,  does  not  speak  "  the  language  of  the  people."  Upton  says — "  Mark  Antony, 
as  Plutarch  informs  us,  affected  the  Asiatic  manner  of  speaking,  which  much  resembled  his  own 
temper,  being  ambitious,  unequal,  and  very  rhodomontade.  ******  This  style  our  poet 
has  very  artfully  and  learnedly  inter.spersed  in  Antony's  speeches."  t  Unquestionably  the  language  of 
Antony  is  more  elevated  than  that  of  Enorbarbus,  for  example.  Antony  was  of  the  poetical 
temperament — a  man  of  high  genius — an  orator,  who  could  move  the  passions  dramatically — a  lover, 
that  knew  no  limits  to  his  devotion  because  he  loved  imaginatively.  When  sorrow  falls  upon  him,  the 
poetical  parts  of  his  character  are  more  and  more  developed ;  we  forget  the  sensualist.  But  even 
before  the  touch  of  grief  has  somewhat  exalted  his  nature,  he  takes  the  poetical  view  of  poetical 
things.  What  can  be  more  exquisite  than  his  mention  of  Octavia's  weeping  at  the  parting  with  her 
brother  ? — 


"  The  April's  in  her  eyes  :  it  is  love's  spring, 
And  these  the  showers  to  bring  it  on  " 


And,  higher  still  :- 


'  Correspondance  Litteraire,  Troisi^me  Partie,  tom.  i.  p.  129. 


♦  '  Critical  Observations,' p.  100. 
357 


SUPPLEAIENTARY  NOTICE 

"  Her  tongue  will  not  obey  her  heart,  nor  can 
Her  heart  inform  her  tongue  :  the  swan's  down  feather, 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  the  full  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines." 

This,  we  think,  is  not  "  the  Asiatic  manner  of  speaking.". 
Cold  is  Antony's  parting  with  Octavia  :  — 

"  Choose  your  own  company,  and  command  what  cost 
Your  heart  has  mind  to." 

Rapid  is  his  meeting  with  Cleopatra.     She  "  hath  nodded  him  to  her."     The  voluptuary  has  put  on  his 
eastern  magnificence : — 

"  I'  the  market-place,  on  a  tribunal  silver'd, 
Cleopatra  and  himself  in  chairs  of  gold 
Were  publicly  enthroned." 

He  rejects  all  counsel :— "  I  '11  fight  at  sea."    And  so 

"  The  greater  cantle  of  the  world  is  lost 
With  very  ignorance." 

Now  comes  the  generosity  of  his  character— of  the  same  growth  as  his  magnificence  and  his  reckless- 
ness.    He  exhorts  his  friends  to  take  his  treasure  and  fly  to  Caesar.     His  self-abasement  is  most 

profound  : — 

"  1  have  offended  reputation." 

But  he  has  not  yet  learnt  wisdom,     Cleopatra  is  present,  and  then— 

"  Pall  not  a  tear,  I  say  ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  or  lost :  Give  me  a  kiss  ; 
Even  this  repays  me." 

He  then   becomes   a  braggai-t ;    he  will  challenge  Csesar  "  sword  against  sword."     Profound  is  the 

comment  of  Euobarbus  : — 

"  1  see,  men's  judgments  are 
A  parcel  of  their  fortunes ;  and  things  outward 
Do  draw  the  inward  quality  after  them, 
To  suffer  all  alike." 

Ctesar's  ambassador  comes  to  Cleopatra.     He  tempts  her ; — aud  it  almost  looks  as  if  she  yielded  to  the 
temptation.     He  kisses  her  hand,  at  the  instant  Antony  enters : — 


Whip  him." 


"  Moon  and  stars  I 


This  is  partly  jealousy ;  partly  the  last  assertion  of  small  power  by  one  accustomed  to  unlimited 
command.     Truly  Enobarbus  says — 

"  'T  is  better  playing  with  a  lion's  whelp. 
Than  with  an  old  one  dying." 

Shakspere  makes  this  man  the  interpreter  of  his  own  wisdom  : — 

"I  see  still 
A  diminution  in  our  captain's  brain 
Restores  his  heart :  When  valour  preys  on  reason 
It  eats  the  sword  it  fights  with.     I  will  seek 
Some  way  to  leave  him." 

Enobarbus  dot-a  leave  him.     But  he  first  witnesses 


"  One  of  those  odd  tricks  which  sorrow  shoot.') 
Oat  of  the  mind." 


o53 


TO   THE  ROI^IAIs^   PLAYS. 

Antony  puts  forth  the  poetry  of  his  nature  in  his  touching  words  to  his  followers,  ending  in 

"  Let 's  to  supper,  come, 
And  droTvn  consideration." 

"When  he  hears  of  the  treachery  of  Enobarbus  he  again  tasks  the  generosity  of  his  spirit  to  the 
utmost : — 

Go,  Eros,  send  his  treasure  after;  do  it: 
Detain  no  jot,  I  charge  thee." 

He   has  driven   Cresar   "to   his  camp."     AH   Cleopatra's  trespass  is  forgotten  m  one  burst  of  en- 
thubiasm : — 

"My  nightingale, 
We  have  beat  them  to  their  beds.    What,  girl  ?  though  grey 
Do  something  mingle  with  o\ii  younger  brown ; 
Yet  ha'  we  a  brain  that  nourishes  our  nerves. 
And  can  get  goal  for  goal  of  youth." 

Another  day  comes,  and  it  brings  another  note  : — 


Cleopatra  says  truly — 


"  All  is  lost ; 
This  foul  Egyptian  hath  betrayed  me." 


"He  is  more  mad 
Than  Telamon  for  his  shield." 


The  sceuo  which  terminates  with  Antony  falling  on  his  sword  is  in  the  highest  style  of  Shak- 
spere — and  that  is  to  give  the  highest  praise.  Hazlitt  has  eloquently  said  of  its  magnificent 
opening — "  This  is,  without  doubt,  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  poetry  in  Shakspere.  The  splendour 
of  the  imagery,  the  semblance  of  reality,  the  lofty  range  of  picturesque  objects  hanging  over 
the  world,  their  evanescent  nature,  the  total  uncertainty  of  what  is  left  behind,  are  just  like  the 
mouldering  schemes  of  human  greatness."  But,  be  it  observed,  the  poetry  is  all  in  keeping  with 
the  character  of  the  man.     Let  us  once  more  repeat  it : — 

"  Ant.  Eios,  thou  yet  behold'st  me, 

Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord. 

Ant.  Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  that 's  dragonish  : 
A  vapour,  sometime,  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon  't,  that  nod  unto  the  world. 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air :  thou  hast  seen  these  signs ; 
They  are  black  vesper's  pageants. 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ant.  That  which  is  now  ahorse,  even  with  a  thought 
The  rack  dislimns ;  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

)»w  Anl.  My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 

Even  such  a  body ;  here  I  am  Antony, 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  visible  shape,  my  knave. 

The  images  describe  the  Antony  melting  into  nothingness ;  but  the  splendour  of  the  imagery  is 
the  reflection  of  Antony's  mind,  which,  thus  enshrined  in  poetry,  can  never  become  "  indistinct," 
— will  always  "hold  this  visible  shape."  Dryden  has  also  tried  to  produce  a  poetical  Antony, 
precisely  under  the  same  circumstances.     We  transcribe  a  passage  : — 


"  Ant.  My  eyes 

Are  open  to  her  falsehood  :  my  whole  life 
Has  been  a  golden  dream  of  Love  and  Friendship. 
But,  now  I  wake,  I  'm  like  a  merchant,  rous'd 
From  soft  repose,  to  see  his  vessel  sinking. 
And  all  his  wealth  cast  o'er.    Ingrateful  woman  ! 


359 


SUrPLE:MENTARY  NOTICE  TO   THE  ROMAN   PLAYS. 


Who  foUow'd  nie,  but  as  the  swallow  summer, 
Hatcliing  her  young  ones  in  my  kindly  beams, 
Singing  her  flatteries  to  my  morning  wake; 

But,  now  my  winter  comes,  she  spreads  her  wings, 

And  seeks  the  spring  of  Caesar." 

All  fur  Lore,  Act  V. 


We   hasten   to   the   end. 
spirit  : — 


The   magnificence   of    Antony's   character  breathe.'3   out  of    liis   parting 


'  The  miserable  change  now  at  my  end, 
Lament  nor  sorrow  at :  but  please  your  thoughts, 
In  feeding  them  with  those  my  former  fortunes 
Wherein  1  liv'd,  the  greatest  prince  o'  the  world. 
The  noblest:  and  do  now  not  basely  die. 
Nor  cowardly  put  oil"  my  helmet  to 
My  countryman,— A  Roman  nv  a  Romas 
Valiantly  vanquish'd." 


KXD  OF  THE  TRAGEDIFS 


'1 

I 


NOTICE. 


The  present  edition  of  the  Poems  of  Sliakspere  comprises  the  Yenus 
AND  Adonis,  The  Eape  op  Lucrece,  The  Passionate  Pilgrih,  The 
Lover's  Complaint,  and  the  Sonnets.  The  Songs  from  the  Plays  of 
Shakspere  are  necessarily  excluded  from  this  edition,  it  being  sufficient 
to  make  a  reference  to  the  Dramas  to  which  they  respectively  belong. 


"  Vilia  miretur  vulgus,  mihi  flavus  Apollo 
Pacula  Castalia  iileiia  miuistret  aqua." 

Ov:b 


TO   THE 

EIGHT   HONOUEABLE  HENEY  WEIOTHESLY, 

EAEL   CF   SOUTHAilPTOX  AND   BARON   OF   TITCHFIELD. 


Right  Honourable, 

I  know  not  how  I  shall  offend  in  dedicating  my  unpolished  lines 
to  your  Lordship,  nor  how  the  -^A'orld  will  censure  me  for  choosing  so 
strong  a  prop  to  support  so  weak  a  burthen  :  only  if  your  honour  seem  but 
pleased,  I  account  myself  highly  praised,  and  vow  to  take  advantage  of  all 
idle  hours  till  I  have  honoured  you  with  some  graver  labour.  But  if  the 
first  heir  of  my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  bo  sorry  it  had  so  noble 
a  godfather,  and  never  after  ear"  so  barren  a  land,  for  fear  it  yield  me 
still  so  bad  a  harvest.  I  leave  it  to  your  honourable  survey,  and  your 
honour^  to  your  heart's  content;  which  I  wish  may  always  answer  your 
own  wish,  and  the  world's  hopeful  expectation. 

Your  Honour's  in  all  duty, 

^VILLIAlr  Shakespeare. 

»  Bar— Plough. 

b  Honour.     As  a  duke  is  now  styled  "your  grace,"  so  "your  honour"  was  formerly  the  usual  mode  of 

address  to  nobleman  in  general. 

36/ 


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^v     y~-\j 


ymn^^uk'oojiis. 


-Even  as  the  sun  with  piu-ple-colour'd  face 
Had  ta'en  his  last  leave  of  the  weeping  mora, 
Rose-cheek'd  Adonis"  hied  him  to  the  chase ; 
Hunting  he  lov'd,  but  love  he  laugh'd  to  scorn; 
Sick-thotightcd  Venus  makes  amain  unto  liim. 
And  like  a  bold-fao'd  suitoi*  'gins  to  woo  him. 

'  Thrice  fairer  than  myself,'  thus  she  began, 
'  The  field's  chief  flower,  sweet  above  compare, 
Stain  to  all  nymphs,  more  lovely  than  a  man, 
More  white  and  red  than  doves  or  roses  are ; 
Nature  that  made  thee,  with  herself  at  strife, 
Saith  that  the  world  hath  ending  with  thy  life. 

'  Vouchsafe,  thou  wonder,  to  alight  thy  steed, 
And  rein  his  proud  head  to  the  saddle-bow ; 
If  thou  wilt  deign  this  favom-,  for  thy  meed 
A  thousand  honey-secrets  shalt  thou  know : 
Here  come  and  sit,  where  never  serpent  hisses. 
And  being  set  I'U  smother  thee  with  kisses ; 

'  And  yet  not  cloy  thy  lips  with  loath'd  satiety, 
But  rather  famish  them  amid  their  plenty, 


a  The  poem  of '  Hero  and  Leander,'  although  Marlowe's 
portion  of  it  was  not  puhlished  till  1598,  was  prol>ably  well 
known  in  the  poetical  circles.  The  following  lines  are  in 
the  first  sestyad  : — 

"  The  men  of  wealthy  Sestos  every  year, 
For  his  sake  whom  their  goddess  held  so  dear, 
Rote-cheek'd  Adonis,  kept  a  solemn  feast." 

Tragedies,  &c. — Vol.  II.         2  B 


Making  them  red  and  pale  with  fresh  variety. 
Ten  kisses  short  as  one,  one  long  as  twenty : 
A  summer's  day  will  seem  an  houi-  but  short, 
Being  wasted  in  such  time-beguiling  sport.' 

With  this  she  seizeth  on  his  sweating  palm. 
The  precedent  of  pith  and  livehhood. 
And,  ti-embHng  in  her  passion,  calls  it  balm. 
Earth's  sovereign  salve  to  do  a  goddess  good : 
Being  so  enrag'd,  desire  doth  lend  her  force. 
Courageously  to  pluck  him  from  his  horse. 

Over  one  arm  the  lustv  courser's  rein, 
Under  her  other  was  the  tender  boy. 
Who  blush'd  and  pouted  in  a  dull  disdain, 
With  leaden  appetite,  unapt  to  toy; 

She  red  and  hot  as  coals  of  glo\ving  fire. 
He  red  for  shame,  but  frosty  in  desire. 

The  studded  bridle  on  a  ragged  bough 
Nimbly  she  fastens ;  (0  how  quick  is  love !) 
The  steed  is  stalled  up,  and  even  now 
To  tie  the  rider  she  begins  to  prove : 

Backward  she  push'd  him,  as  she  woidd  be 

thrust, 
And  govern' d  him  in  strength,  though  not  in 
lust. 

So  soon  was  she  along,  as  he  was  down, 
Each  leaning  on  their  elbows  and  their  hips ; 

369 


VENUS  AND   ADONIS. 


KoTT  doth  she  stroke  his  cheek,  now  doth  he 

iro\yn. 
And  'gins  to  chide,  but  soon  she  stops  his  lips ; 
And    kissing  speaks,   ^Tith  lustful  language 

broken, 
•  If  thou  \rilt  chide,  thy  lips  shall  never  open.' 

He  burns  with   bashful  shame;   she  with  her 

tears 
Doth  quench  the  maiden  burning  of  liis  checks : 
llicn  with  licr  windy  sighs,  and  golden  liairs. 
To  fan  and  blow  them  dry  again  she  seeks : 
He  saith  she  is  immodest,  blames  her  'miss ; » 
What  follows  more  she  murders  with  a  kiss. 

Even  as  an  empty  eagle,  sharp  by  fast, 
Tires'"  with  her  beak  on  feathers,  flesh,  and  bone, 
Shaking  her  wings,  devoming  all  in  haste. 
Till  either  gorge  be  stuff'd,  or  prey  be  gone ; 

Even  so  she  kiss'd  his  brow,  his  cheek,  his 
chin, 

iVnd  where  she  ends  she  dotli  anew  begin. 

Forc'd  to  content,'  but  never  to  obey. 
Panting  he  lies,  and  breatheth  in  her  face ; 
She  feedeth  on  the  steam,  as  on  a  prey. 
And  calls  it  heavenly  moisture,  air  of  grace, 
Wishing   her  cheeks  were    gardens  fidl 

flowers. 
So    they  were    dcw'd    with    such 
showers. 


of 


distUling 


Look  how  a  bird  lies  tangled  in  a  net, 

So  fastened  in  i:cr  arms  Adonis  lies ; 

Pure  shame  and  aw'd  resistance  made  him  fret. 

Which  bred  more  beauty  in  liis  angry  eyes ; 
Kain  added  to  a  river  that  is  rank,"* 
Perforce  wiU  force  it  overflow  the  bank. 

Still  she  entreats,  and  prettily  entreats. 
For  to  a  pretty  ear    she  tunes  her  tale 

a  'Mum — amiss,  fault.    So  in  Sonnet  CLI. : — 

"  Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is  ; 
Yet  who  knows  not  conscience  is  bom  of  love? 
Then,  Rcntle  cheater,  urge  not  my  amiss, 
Lest  guilty  of  my  faults  thy  sweet  self  prove." 

b  rir-i— tears,  preys.  The  image  is  to  be  found  without 
variation  in  Henrj-  VI.,  Part  III.,  Act  i.,  Sc.  i. : — 

"  Reveng'd  may  she  be  on  that  hateful  duke  ; 
Whose  hauk:hty  spiri',  winjjed  with  desire. 
Will  cost  my  crown,  and,  like  an  empty  eagle, 
Tire  on  the  flesh  of  me  and  of  my  son." 

e  Con/f»i<— acquiescence. 

d  Rank—fM.  Rank  is  often  used  to  express  excess  or 
riolencc  generally:  and  rankness  is  applied  to  a  flood,  in 
King  John,  Act  v.  Sc.  iv. : — 

"  And  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood, 
Leavini;  our  rankneu  and  irregular  course." 

'■  EiT.    So  all  the  car. y  editions.     Mr.  Grant  White  las 
air. 

870 


Still  is  he  sullen,  still  he  low'rs  and  frets, 
'Twixt  crimson  shame,  and  anger  ashy  pale ; 

Being  red,  she   loves  liiin   best;   and  being 
white. 

Her  best  is  better'd  with  a  more  delight. 

Look  Iiow  he  can,  she  cannot  choose  but  love  ; 
j\jid  by  her  fair  immortal  hand  she  swears 
From  liis  soft  bosom  never  to  remove, 
Till  he  take  tnice  witli  her  contendinj;  teara 
Which  long  have  rain'd,  making  her  cheeks 

all  wet ; 
And  one  sweet  kiss  shall  pay  this  countless 
debt. 

Upon  this  promise  did  he  raise  his  chin, 
Like  a  dive-dapper  »  peering  tlirough  a  wave, 
Wlio,  being  look'd  on,  ducks  as  quickly  in ; 
So  offers  he  to  give  what  she  did  crave ; 
But  when  her  lips  were  ready  for  his  pay. 
He  winks,  and  turns  his  lips  another  way. 

Never  did  passenger  in  summer's  heat 

More  thirst  for  drink,  than  she  for  this  good 

turn : 
Her  help  she  sees,  but  help  she  cannot  get ; 
She  bathes  in  water,  yet  her  tire  nmst  bum : 

'  0,  pity,'  'gan  she  cry,  '  fluit-hearted  boy  ! 

'T  is  but  a  kiss  I  beg ;  why  art  thou  coy  ? 

'  I  have  been  woo'd,  as  I  entreat  thee  now. 
Even  by  the  stem  and  direful  god  of  war. 
Whose  sinewy  neck  in  battle  ne'er  did  bow, 
"\Mio  conquers  where  he  comes,  in  every  jar ; 
Yet  hath  he  been  my  captive  and  my  slave. 
And  begg'd  for  that  which  thou  unask'd  shalt 
have. 

'  Over  my  altars  hath  he  hung  his  lancc, 
His  batter'd  shield,  his  uncontrolled  crest, 
And  for  my  sake  hath  learn'd   to   sport  and 

dance, 
To  toy,  to  wanton,  dally,  smile,  and  jest ; 
Scorning  his  churhsh  chum,  and  ensign  red. 
Making  my  arms  his  field,  his  tent  my  bed. 

'  Thus  he  that  overrul'd  I  overswa/d. 
Leading  him  prisoner  in  a  red-rose  chain  : 


«  Dire-ihipper.  One  of  the  familiar  names  of  the  Dabchik 
is  dive  dapper,  or  di-dappcr;  .nnd  this  was  the  old  poetical 
name,  lleaumontand  Fletcher,  in  'The  Woman  Hater,  have 
a  comparison  of  the  mutability  of  fortune  with  this  nimbi* 
water-bird:  —  "  The  misery  of  roan  may  fitly  be  compared 
to  a  di-dapper,  who,  when  she  is  under  water  past  our  sipht, 
and  indeed  can  seem  no  more  to  us,  rises  again,  shakes  but 
herself,  and  is  the  same  she  was." 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


stronger 


strength 


Strong-temper'd    steel    his 
obey'd. 

Yet  was  he  servile  to  my  coy  disdain. 
O  be  not  proud,  nor  brag  not  of  thy  might, 
For  mastering  her  that  foU'd  the  god  of  fight! 

'  Touch  but  my  lips  with  those  fail'  lips  of  thine, 
(Though  mine  be  not  so  fail-,  yet  are  they  red,) 
The  kiss  shall  be  thine  own  as  well  as  mine  : — 
What  seest  thou  in  the  ground?  hold  up  thy 
head ; 
Look  in  miae  eyeballs,  there  thy  beauty  lies  : 
Then  why  not  Ups  on  lips,  since  eyes  in  eyes  ? 

'  Art  tliou  asham'd  to  kiss  ?  then  wink  again, 
And  I  will  wink,  so  shall  the  day  seem  night : 
Love  keeps  his  revels  where  there  are  but  twain ; 
Be  bold  to  play,  our  sport  is  not  in  sight : 
These  blue-vein' d  violets  whereon  we  lean 
Never  can  blab,  nor  know  not  what  we  mean. 

'  The  tender  spring  upon  thy  tempting  Hp 
Shows  thee  unripe;    yet  may'st  thou  well  be 

tasted ; 
Make  use  of  tune,  let  not  advantage  sUp ; 
Beauty  ^vitllin  itself  should  not  be  wasted : 
Fair  flowers  that  are  not  gather' d  in  their 

prime 
Rot  and  consume  themselves  in  little  time. 

'  Were  I  hard-favour' d,  foid,  or  wi-inkled-old, 
Ill-nurtur'd,  crooked,  churlish,  harsh  in  voice, 
O'er-worn,  despised,  rheumatic,  and  cold, 
Tliick-sighted,  barren,  lean,  and  lacking  juice. 

Then  mightst  thou  pause,  for  then  I  were  not 
for  thee ; 

But  having  no  defects,  why  dost  abhor  me  ? 

'  Thou  canst  not  see  one  wrinkle  in  my  brow ; 
Mine  eyes  are  grey,"  and  bright,  and  quick  in 

turning; 
My  beauty  as  the  spring  doth  yearly  grow. 
My  flesh  is  soft  and  plump,  my  man-ow  burning; 
My  smooth  moist  hand,  were  it  with  thy  hand 

felt. 
Would  in  thy  palm  dissolve,  or  seem  to  melt. 

'  Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear. 
Or,  Hke  a  fairy,  trip  upon  the  green, 
Or,  like  a  nymph,  with  long  disheveU'd  hair. 
Dance  on  the  sands,  and  yet  no  footing  seen : 

a  Grci)  is  said  to  be  here  used  as  blue.     We  have  subse- 
quently— 

"  Her  two  blue  windows  faintly  she  upheaveth." 
But  the  eye-lids  are  the  "  blue  windows." 

2B2 


Love  is  a  spirit  all  compact  of  fire, 

Not  gross  to  sink,  but  light,  and  wiU  aspire. 

'  Witness  this  primrose  bank  whereon  1  lie ! 
These  forceless  flowers  like  sturdy  trees  support 

me; 
Two  strengthless  doves  wUl  draw  me  through 

the  sky. 
From  morn  to  night,  even  where  I  list  to  sport 
me: 
Is  love  so  light,  sweet  boy,  and  may  it  be 
That  thou  shouldst  think  it  heavy  unto  thee  ? 

*  Is  thine  o^n  heart  to  thine  o^vn  face  aifected? 
Can  thy  right  hand  seize  love  upon  thy  left  ? 
Then  woo  thyself,  be  of  thyself  rejected. 

Steal  thine  own  freedom,  and  coraplaia  on  theft. 
Narcissus  so  himself  himself  forsook. 
And  died  to  kiss  his  shadow  in  the  brook. 

'  Torches  are  made  to  light,  jewels  to  wear. 
Dainties  to  taste,  fresh  beauty  for  the  use. 
Herbs  for  their  smell,  and  sappy  plants  to  bear ; 
Things    growing    to  themselves    are  growth's 
abuse : 
Seeds  spring  from  seeds,  and  beauty  breedeth 

beauty, 
Thou  wast  begot, — to  get  it  is  thy  duty. 

*  Upon  the  earth's  increase  why  shouldst  thou 

feed. 
Unless  the  earth  with  thy  increase  be  fed  ? 
By  law  of  Nature  thou  art  bound  to  breed, 
That  thine  may  live,  when  thou  thyself  art  dead; 
And  so  in  spite  of  death  thou  dost  survive, 
Li  that  thy  likeness  still  is  left  alive.' 

By  this  the  love-sick  queen  began  to  sweat. 
For,  where  they  lay,  the  shadow  had  forsook 

them. 
And  Titan,  'tu-ed"  in  the  mid-day  heat. 
With  burning  eye  did  hotly  overlook  them ; 
Wishing  Adonis  had  his  team  to  guide, 
So  he  were  like  him,  and  by  Venus'  side. 

And  now  Adonis,  with  a  lazy  spright, 

And  with  a  heavy,  dark,  disliking  eye. 

His  lowering  brows  o'erwhelming  his  fair  sight. 

Like  misty  vapours  when  they  blot  the  sky, 

Soui-ing  his  cheeks,  cries,  'Fie,  no  more  of 
love! 

The  sun  doth  biu-n  my  face ;  I  must  remove.' 

'Ah  me,'  quoth  Venus,  'young,  and  so  unkind ! 
A\Tiat  bare  excuses  mak'st  thou  to  begone  ' 


a    TiVfJ— attiied. 


37] 


1 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


I  '11  sijjh  celestial  breath,  whose  gentle  wind 
S!i:<ll  cool  the  Ileal  of  this  descending  sun; 

I'll  make  a  shadow  for  thee  of  my  liairs  ; 

]f  they  biun  too,  I'll  quench  them  with  my 
tears. 

'The  sun  that  shines  from  heaven  shines  but 

warm. 
And  lo,  I  lie  between  that  sun  and  thee : 
The  heat  I  have  from  thence  doth  little  harm, 
Thine  eye  darts  forth  the  fire  that  bunieth  me : 
And  were  I  not  immortal,  life  were  done. 
Between  this  heavenly  and  earthly  sun. 

'  Art  thou  obdurate,  flmty,  liard  as  steel. 
Nay,  more  than  flint,  for  stone  at  rain  rcleuteth? 
Art  thou  a  woman's  son,  and  canst  not  feel 
AVhat  't  is  to  love?  how  want  of  love  tormenteth? 
0  had  thy  mother  borne  so  hard  a  mind. 
She  had  Hot  brought  forth  thee,  but  died  un- 
kmd.* 

'  T\Tiat  am  I,  that  thou  shouldst  contenm  ^  me 

this? 
Or  what  great  danger  dwells  upon  my  suit  ? 
"What  were  thy  lips  the  worse  for  one  poor  kiss? 
Speak,  fair  J  but  speak  fair  words,  or  else  be 
mute : 
Give  me  one  kiss,  I  'U  give  it  thee  again. 
And  one  for  interest,  if  thou  "wilt  have  t^r.■iin. 

'  Fie,  lifeless  picture,  cold  and  senseless  stone. 
Well-painted  idol,  image  dull  and  dead. 
Statue  contenting  but  the  eye  alone. 
Tiling  like  a  man,  but  of  no  woman  bred ; 

Thou  art  no  man,  though  of  a  man's  com- 
plexion, 

For  men  will  kiss  even  by  their  own  direction.' 

This    said,    impatience    chokes     her    pleading 

tongue, 
And  swelling  passion  doth  provoke  a  pause ; 
Red  checks  and  fiery  eyes  blaze  forth  her  wrong; 
Being  judge  in  love,  she  cannot  right  her  cause : 
And  now  she  weeps,  and  now  she  fain  woidd 

speak. 
And  now  her  sobs  do  her  intendments '  break. 


»  Unkinrl.  Milton  applies  the  same  epithet,  in  the  same 
May.  in  his  '  Doctrine  of  Divorce  : '— "  The  desire  and  long- 
in;?  to  put  off  an  unkindly  solitariness  by  uniting  another 
Vmdy,  hut  not  withouta  (it  soul,  to  his,  in  the  cheerful  society 
of  wt'llock." 

b  Contemn  u  here  used  in  the  sense  of  throw  aside;  as 
Malone  explains  it,  "  Conteinptuously  refuse  this  favour." 

c  Intendmfnl.i—in\exnion.  So  in  Othello,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  il.  : 
— ;'  1  have  said  nothing  but  what  I  protest  intendment  of 
doing."  The  word  continued  to  bo  used  long  after  the  time 
of  Shak-pcre. 

372 


Sometunes   she  shakes  her  head,  and  then  hLs 

hand. 
Now  gazeth  she  on  him,  now  on  the  ground ; 
Sometimes  her  arms  infold  him  like  a  band  ; 
She  would,  he  will  not  in  her  arms  be  bound  ; 
And  when   from  thence  he  struggles  to  be 

gone. 
She  locks  her  lily  fingers  one  in  one. 

'Fondling,'   she  saith,   'smcc  I  liave  hemm'd 

thee  here. 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  ivory  pale, 
I  '11  be  a  park,  and  thou  shalt  be  my  deer ; 
Feed  where  thou  wilt,  on  mountain  or  in  dale : 
Graze  on  my  lips  ;  and  if  those  hiUs  be  dry. 
Stray  lower,   where    the  pleasant  fountains 
he. 

'  Within  this  limit  is  relief  enough, 

Sweet  bottom-grass,  and  high  delightful  plain. 

Round    rising    hillocks,    brakes    obscure    and 

rougli. 
To  shelter  thee  from  tempest  and  from  rain ; 
Then  be  my  deer,  since  I  am  such  a  park  ; 
No  dog  shall  rouse  thee,   tho'  a  thousand 
bark.' 

At  this  Adonis  smiles  as  in  disdain. 
That  in  each  cheek  appears  a  pretty  dimple : 
Love  made  those  hollows,  if  himself  were  slain. 
He  might  be  buried  in  a  tomb  so  simple ; 
Foreknowing  well  if  there  he  came  to  lie, 
"Why  there  Love  liv'd  and  there  he  could 
not  die. 

These   lovely   caves,    these    round    enchanting 

pits, 
Open'd  their  mouths  to  swallow  Venus'  liking  : 
Being  mad  before,  how  doth  she  now  for  wits  ? 
Struck  dead  at  first,  what  needs  a  second  strik- 
ing? 
Poor  queen  of  love,  in  thine  own  law  forlorn. 
To  love  a  cheek  that  smiles  at  thee  in  scorn  ! 

Now  which  way  shall  she  turn  ?  what  shall  she 

say? 
Her  words  are  done,  her  woes  the  more  mcreas- 

ing, 
The  time  is  spent,  her  object  will  away, 
And  from  her  twining  arms  doth  urge  releasing : 
'Pity' — she  cries, — 'some  favour — some  re- 
morse • — ' 
Away  he  springs,  and  hasteth  to  his  horse. 

»  Remorse— tenieraczs. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Bui  lo,  from  forth  a  copse  that  ueighbours  by, 
A.  breeding  jennet,  lusty,  young,  and  proud, 
Adonis'  trampling  courser  doth  espy, 
And  forth  she  rushes,  snorts,  and  neighs  aloud : 

The  strong-neck'd  steed,  bei:ig  tied  unto  <i 
tree, 

Breaketh  liis  rein,  and  to  her  straight  goes  he. 


Imperiously  he  leaps,  he  neighs,  he  bounds. 
And  now  his  woven  gii-ths  he  breaks  asunder ; 
The  bearing  earth  with  his  hard  hoof  he  wounds, 
Whose  hollow  womb  resounds    like   heaven's 
thunder ; 
The  u-on  bit  he  crashes  'tween  his  teeth. 
Controlling  what  he  was  controlled  with- 


'^^'' 


liis  cars  up  prick' d ;  his  braided  hanging  mane 
Upon  his  compass'd"  crest  now  stand  on  end ;'' 
His  nostrils  drink  the  air,  and  forth  again. 
As  from  a  furnace,  vapours  doth  he  send  : 
His  eye,  wliich  scornfully  glisters  like  lire. 
Shows  his  hot  courage  and  his  high  desire. 

Sometimes  he  trots,  as  if  he  told  the  steps. 
With  gentle  majesty,  and  modest  pride ; 
Anon  he  rears  upright,  curvets,  and  leaps. 
As  who  should  say,  lo!'=  thus  my  strength  is 
tried ; 

*  Compass'd — arch'd. 

h  Mane  is  here  used  as  a  plural  noun.     In  a  note  on 
Othello,  Act  II.,  Sc.  i.,  -ne  justified  the  adoption  of  a  new 
reading — 
''The  wind-shak'd  surge,  with  high  and  monstrous  mane" — 

upon  the  belief  that  in  this  line  we  have  a  picture  which  was 
probably  suggested  in  the  noble  passage  of  Job: — "Hast 
thou  given  the  horse  strength?  Hast  thou  clothed  liis  neck 
with  thunder?"  The  passage  before  us  shows  that  the  image 
was  familiar  to  the  mind  of  Shakspere,  of  the  majesty  of  tlie 
war-hoTse  erecting  his  mane  under  the  influence  of  passion. 
<^  This  is  a  faint  echo  of  the  wonderful  passage  in  Job — 
"  He  saith  among  the  trumpets.  Ha,  ha ! " 


And  thiii  I  do  to  captivate  the  eye 
Of  the  fair  breeder  that  is  standing  by. 

What  recketh  he  his  rider's  angiy  stir. 

His  flattering  'holla,'''  or  his  '  Stand,  I  say'? 

What  cares  he  now  for  curb,  or  pricking  spui-  ? 

For  rich  caparisons,  or  trapping  gay  ? 

He  sees  his  love,  and  nothing  else  he  sees. 
Nor  nothing  else  with  his  proud  sight  agrees. 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life. 
In  lunning  out  a  weU-proportion'd  steed, 
His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  shoidd  exceed ; 
So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one, 
In    shape,    in    corn-age,    colour,    pace,    and 
bone. 


a  Holla.  Ho  is  the  ancient  interjection,  giving  notice  tc 
stop.  The  word  before  us  is  certainly  the  same  as  tlis 
French  Hula,  and  is  explained  in  Cotgrave's  French  Diction- 
ary as  meaning  "enough,  soft,  soft,  no  more  of  that." 

373 


i 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Rouud-lioofd,  sbort-joiuted,  fetlocks  sliag  aud 

long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostril 

wide, 
lligli  crest,  short  cars,  straight  legs,  aud  passing 

strong, 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,   broad  buttock,  tender 

hide: 
Look  what  a  horse  should  have,  he  did  not 

lack, 
Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

Sometime  he  scuds  far  off,  and  there  he  stares ; 
Anon  he  starts  at  stirring  of  a  feather; 
To  bid  the  wind  a  base  *  he  now  prepares, 
And    whe'r    he    run,   or    fly,   they  knew    not 
whether ; 
For  thro'  his  mane  and  tail  the  high  wind 

sings. 
Fanning  the  hairs,  who  wave  like  feather'd 
wings. 

He  looks  upon  his  love  and  neighs  unto  her; 
She  answers  him  as  if  ste  knew  liis  mind : 
Being  proud,  as  females  are,  to  see  him  woo  her. 
She  puts  on  outward  strangeness,  seems  unkind; 

Spurns  at  his  love,  and  scorns  the  heat  he 
feels, 

Beating  his  kind  embracements  Avith  her  heels. 

Then,  like  a  melancholy  malecoutent. 
He  vails''  his  tail,  that,  like  a  falling  plume. 
Cool  shadow  to  his  melting  buttock  lent ; 
He  stamps,  and  bites  the  poor  flies  in  his  fume : 
His  love,  perceiving  how  he  is  enrag'd. 
Grew  kinder,  aud  his  fury  was  assuag'd. 

His  testy  master  goeth  about  to  take  him ; 
"WTien  lo,  the  unback'd  breeder,  full  of  fear, 
Jealous  of  catching,  swiftly  doth  forsake  him. 
With  her  the  horse,  and  left  Adonis  there : 
As  they  were  mad  unto  the  wood  they  hie 

them, 
Out-stripping  crows   that   strive   to  over-fly 
them. 

All  swoln  with  chasmg,  down  Adonis  sits. 
Banning  his  boisterous  and  uni-uly  beast ; 
And  now  the  happy  season  once  more  fits, 
lliat  love-sick  Love  by  pleading  may  be  blest ; 


»  In  tlie  Rainc  of  bate,  or  prison  bati;  one  runs  and  chal- 
lenges another  to  pursue.  "To  bid  the  wind  a  base"  is 
therefore-  to  challenRe  the  wind  to  speed.  We  have  the 
same  expression  in  tlic  tarly  iilay  of  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona : — 

"  Indeed,  I  bid  the  hate  for  Proteus." 

*>  failf — lowers. 


For  lovers  say  the  licart  hath  treble  wrong, 
When  it  is  barr'd  the  aidance  of  the  tongue. 

An  oven  that  is  stopp'd,  or  river  stay'd, 
Burneth  more  hotly,  swelleth  with  more  rage : 
So  of  concealed  sorrow  may  be  said  ; 
Free  vent  of  words  love's  (ire  doth  assuage  ; 
But  when  the  heart's  attorney"  once  is  mute, 
The  client  breaks,  as  desperate  in  his  smt 

He  sees  her  coming,  and  begins  to  glo\v. 
Even  as  a  dying  coal  revives  with  wind, 
And  with  his  bonnet  hides  his  angry  brow ; 
Looks  on  the  dull  earth  with  disturbed  mind 
Taking  no  notice  that  she  is  so  nigh, 
For  all  askauiice  he  holds  her  in  his  eye. 

O  what  a  sight  it  was,  wistly  to  view 

How  she  came  stealing  to  the  wayward  boy  ! 

To  note  the  fighting  conflict  of  her  hue ! 

How  white  and  red  each  other  did  destroy ! 
But  now  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  by  and  by 
It  flash'd  forth  fire,   as  lightning  from  the 
sky. 

Now  was  she  just  before  him  as  he  sat. 
And  like  a  lowly  lover  down  she  kneels  ; 
With  one  fair  hand  she  heaveth  up  his  hat, 
Her  other  tender  hand  his  fair  cheek  feels  : 

His  tenderer  cheek  receives  her  soft  hand's 
print. 

As  apt  as  new-faUcn  snow  takes  any  dint. 

0  what  a  war  of  looks  was  then  between  them  ! 

Her  eyes,  petitioners,  to  liis  eyes  suing ; 

His  eyes  saw  her  eyes  as  they  had  not  seen 

them; 
Her  eyes   woo'd  still,   his   eyes   disdain'd  the 

wooing : 
Aud  aU  this  dumb  play  had  his**  acts  made 

plain 
With  tears,  which,  choiiis-like,  her  eyes  did 

rain. 

Full  gently  now  she  takes  him  by  the  hand, 

A  lily  prison'd  in  a  gaol  of  snow, 

Or  ivory  in  an  alabaster  band ; 

So  white  a  friend  engirts  so  wlute  a  foe  : 
This  beauteous  combat,  wilful  and  unwilling, 
Show'd  like  two  silver  doves  that  sit  a  billing.. 

«  In  Richard  III.  we  have  — 

"Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words? 
Windy  cttorncys  to  their  client  woes." 
The  tongue,  in  the  passage  before  us,  is  the  atlorney  to  the 
heart, 
c  Hit  for  lit. 


*- J 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Once  more  the  engine  of  her  thoughts  began : 
'  0  fairest  mover  on  this  mortal  round, 
Would  thou  wert  as  I  am,  and  I  a  man. 
My  heart  all  whole   as   thine,   thy  heart    my 
wound ; " 
For  one  sweet  look  thy  help  I  would  assiu-e 

thee, 
Though  nothing  but  my  body's  bane  would 
cure  thee.' 

'  Give  me  my  hand,'  saith  he,  '  why  dost  thou 

feel  it?' 
'  Give  me  my  heart,'  saith  she,  *  and  thou  shalt 

have  it ; 

0  give  it  me  lest  thy  hard  heart  do  steel  it. 
And  being  steel'd,  soft  sighs  can  never  grave  it;'' 

Then  love's  deep  groans  I  never  shall  regard. 
Because  Adonis'  heart  hath  made  mine  hard.' 

*  For  shame,'  he  cries,  '  let  go^  and  let  me  go ; 
My  day's  delight  is  past,  my  horse  is  gone. 
And  'tis  your  fault  I  am  bereft  him  so ; 

1  pray  you  hence,  and  leave  me  here  alone : 
For  all  my  mind,  my  thought,  my  busy  care. 
Is  how  to  get  my  palfrey  from  the  mare.' 

Thus  she  replies  :  '  Thy  palfrey,  as  he  should, 
Welcomes  the  warm  approach  of  sweet  desire. 
Affection  is  a  coal  that  must  be  cool'd ; 
Else,  suffer' d,  it  ^vill  set  the  heart  on  fire : 
The  sea  hath  bounds,  but  deep  desire  hath 

none. 
Therefore  no  marvel  though   thy   horse   be 
gone. 

'  How  Uke  a  jade  he  stood,  tied  to  the  tree. 
Servilely  master'd  with  a  leathern  rein ! 
But  when  he  saw  his  love,  his  youth's  fair  fee. 
He  held  such  petty  bondage  in  disdain ; 

Throwing  the  base  thong  from  his  bending 
crest. 

Enfranchising  his  mouth,  his  back,  his  breast. 

'  "VAHio  sees  his  true  love  in  her  naked  bed. 
Teaching  the  sheets  a  whiter  hue  than  white. 
But,  when  his  glutton  eye  so  full  hath  fed. 
His  other  agents  aim  at  like  delight  ? 
Who  is  so  faint  that  dare  not  be  so  bold 
To  touch  the  fire,  the  weather  being  cold  ? 

•  Let  me  excuse  thy  coui'ser,  gentle  boy ; 
.ind  learn  of  him,  I  heartily  beseech  thee. 


«  M<-ilone  explains  this  "  thy  heart  wounded  as  mine  is." 
1)  (/ re  re— en  gravo. 


To  take  advantage  on  presented  joy  ; 

Though  I  were  dumb,  yet  his  proceedings  teach 
thee. 
0  learn  to  love ;  the  lesson  is  but  plain. 
And,  once  made  perfect,  never  lost  again.' 

'I  know  not   love,'  quoth  he,   'nor  will  not 

know  it. 
Unless  it  be  a  boar,  and  then  I  chase  it : 
'T  is  much  to  borrow,  and  I  will  not  owe  it ; 
My  love  to  love  is  love  but  to  disgrace  it ; 
For  I  have  heard  it  is  a  life  in  death. 
That  laughs,  and  weeps,  and  all  but  with  a 
breath. 

'  Who  wears  a  garment  shapeless  and  unfiuish'd? 
Who  plucks  the  bud  before  one  leaf  put  forth  ? 
If  springing  things  be  any  jot  diminish' d. 
They  wither  in  their  prime,  prove  nothing  worth: 

The  colt  that's  back'd  and  burthen' d  being 
young 

Loseth  his  pride,  and  never  waxeth  strong. 

'  You  hui-t  my  hand  with  wringing ;  let  us  part. 
And  leave  this  idle  theme,  this  bootless  chat : 
Remove  your  siege  from  my  unj-ielding  heart ; 
To  love's  alarm  it  will  not  ope  the  gate. 

Dismiss  your  vows,  your  feigned  tears,  your 

flattery ; 
For  where  a  heart  is  hard,  they  make   no 
battery.' 

'  What !  canst  thou  talk,'  quoth  she,  '  hast  'thou 
a  tongue  ? 

0  would  thou  hadst  not,  or  I  had  no  hearing ! 
Thy  mermaid's  voice*  hath  done  me    double 

wrong ; 

1  had  my  load  before,  now  press'd  with  bearing: 

Melodious  discord,  heavenly  tune  harsh 
sounding. 

Ear's  deep-sweet  music,  and  heart's  deep- 
sore  wounding. 

'  Had  I  no  eyes,  but  ears,  my  ears  would  love 

That  inward  beauty  and  invisible ; 

Or,  were  I  deaf,  thy  outward  parts  would  move 

Each  part  in  me  that  were  but  sensible : 

Though  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  to  hear  nor  see, 
Yet  should  I  be  in  love,  by  touching  thee. 

'  Say  that  the  sense  of  feeling  were  bereft  me. 
And  that  I  could  not  see,  nor  hear,  nor  touch, 

a  Mermaid's  voice.  Mcrmuid  and  syren  were  formerly 
used  as  synonymous;  So  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  Act  iii. 
Scene  ii. : 

"  O,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note. 
To  drown  me  in  thy  sister's  flood  of  tears 
Sing,  syren,  for  tliyself,  and  I  will  dote." 

375 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


And  nothing  but  the  very  smell  were  left  nie, 
Yet  would  mv  love  to  thee  be  still  as  mueh ; 
For  from  the  still'tory  of  thy  face  excelling 
Comes  breath  perfum'd,  that  breedeth  love 
by  smelling. 

'  But  O,  what  banquet  wert  thou  to  the  taste, 
Being  nurse  and  feeder  of  the  other  four  ! 
Would  they  not  wish  the  feast  might  ever  last, 
And  bid  Suspicion  double-lock  the  door  ? 
Lest  Jealousy,  that  sour  unwelcome  giiest, 
Should,  by  his  stealing  in,  disturb  the  feast.' 

Once  more  the  ruby-colour'd  portal  open'd, 
"\Miich  to  his  speech  did  honey  passage  yield ; 
Like  a  red  mom,  that  ever  yet  betoken'd 
Wreck  to  the  seaman,  tempest  to  the  field. 
Sorrow  to  shepherds,  woe  unto  the  birds, 
Gusts   and  foul  flaws  •'"  to  1  erdmen   and   to 
herds. 


This  ill  presage  advisedly  she  markcth  : 
Even  as  the  wind  is  hush'd  before  it  raiueth, 
Or  as  the  wolf  doth  grin  before  it  barketh, 
Or  as  the  berry  breaks  before  it  staineth. 
Or  like  the  deadly  bullet  of  a  gun. 
His  meaning  struck  her  ere  his  words  begun. 

And  at  his  look  she  flatly  fallcth  down. 
For  looks  kill  love,  and  love  by  looks  reviveth : 
A  smile  rceures  the  wounding  of  a  frown, 
But  blessed  bankrupt,  that  by  love  so  thriveth  ! 
The  silly  boy,  believing  she  is  dead. 
Claps  her  pale  cheek,  till  clapping  makes  it 
red;. 

And  all-amaz'd  brake  off  his  late  intent, 
For  sharply  he  did  think  to  reprehend  her, 
'Whicli  cunning  love  did  wittily  prevent : 
Fair  fall  the  wit  that  can  so  well  defend  her  ! 
For  on  the  grass  she  lies  as  she  were  slain, 
Till  his  breath  breatheth  life  in  her  again. 


X\ 


'i>. 


n 


* 
* 

j>-^-.- 


'■X- 


i«-:,-K^. 


He  wrings  her  nose,  he  strikes  her  on  the  cheeks. 
He  bends  her  fingers,  holds  her  pulses  hard ; 
He  chafes  her  lips,  a  thousand  ways  he  seeks 
To  mend  the  hurt  that  his  uukindness  marr'd  ; 
He  kisses  her ;  and  she,  by  her  good  ^vill, 
Will  never  rise  so  he  will  kiss  her  still, 

»  Flnxct  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  violent  blasts. 
376 


The  night  of  sorrow  now  is  tui-n'd  to  dav  : 
Her  two  blue  windows*  faintly  she  uphcavcth, 

»  The  window<j  are  doubtless  the  eyelids,  but  the  epithet 
blue  is  somewhat  startlinp.  We  must  remember  that 
Shaksperc  has  described  violets  as 

"Sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes." 

The  propriety  of  this  epithet  is  fully  noticed  by  us  in  Cyio 
beline,  Acf  ii.,  Scene  i<. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Like  the  fair  siui,  when  in  his  fresh  array 
He  cheers  the  mom,  and  all  the  world  relieveth : 
And  as  the  bright  sun  glorifies  the  sky, 
So  is  her  face  illumin'd  %Tith  her  eye ; 

Whose  beams  upon  his  hairless  face  are  fix'd, 
As  if  from  thence  they  borrow'd  all  their  sliine. 
Were  never  foxu-  such  lamps  together  mix'd, 
Had  not  his  clouded  with  his  brows'  repine " 

But  hers,  which  thro'  the  crystal  tears  gave 
light. 

Shone  like  the  moon  in  water  seen  by  night.'' 

'0,  where  am  I?'  quoth  she,  'in  earth  or  heaven. 
Or  in  the  ocean  drench' d,  or  in  the  fire  ? 
What  hour  is  this  ?  or  mom,  or  weary  even  ? 
Do  I  delight  to  die,  or  life  desire  ? 

But  now  I  liv'd,  and  life  was  death's  annoy ; 

But  now  I  died,  and  death  was  lively  joy. 

O  thou  didst  kiU  me ;— kill  me  once  agam  r 
Thy   eyes'    shi-ewd  tutor,   that    hard   heart    of 

thine, 
Hath  taught   them   scornful  tricks,   and  such 

disdain 
That  they  have  murder'd  this  poor  heai't  of  mine; 
And  these  mine  eyes,  trae  leaders  to  theii- 

queen. 
But  for  thy  piteous  lips  no  more  had  seen. 

'  Long  may  they  kiss  each  other,  for  this  cure  ! 

0  never  let  their  crimson  liveries  wear  ! 

And  as  they  last,  their  verdure  still  endure, 

To  drive  infection'  from  the  dangerous  year  ! 
That  the  star-gazers,  having  writ  on  death. 
May  say  the  plague  is  banished  by  thy  breath. 

'Pure  lips,   sweet    seals  in  my   soft  lips    im- 
printed. 
What  bai-gains  may  I  make,  still  to  be  sealmg  ? 
To  sell  myself  I  can  be  well  contented. 
So  thou  wilt  buy,  and  pay,  and  use  good  dealing; 
Which  purchase  if  thou  make,  for  fear  of 

Slips, 
Set  thy  seal-manual  on  my  wax-red  lips. 

^  Repim.  Used  as  a  substantive.  Chaucer  employs  yj/ne 
in  the  same  manner. 

b  In  Shakspere's  early  plays  we  frequently  meet  the  same 
image  that  is  found  in  these  early  poems.  Thus  in  Love's 
Labour  s  Lost : — 

"  Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 
Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light 
Thou  shin'st  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep." 
"  The  custom  of  strewing  houses  -with  fragrant  herbs  was 
universal  at  a -period  when  the  constant  recunence  of  the 
plague  habituated  famUies  to  the  use  of  what.they  considered 
preventives.  It  was  this  cause  which  rendered  Bucklersbury 
at  simpling  time  such  a  crowded  mart. 


*  A  thousand  kisses  buys  my  heart  from  me ; 
And  pay  them  at  thy  leisure,  one  by  one. 
WTiat  is  ten  hundred  touches  unto  thee  ? 
Are  they  not  quickly  told,  and  quickly  gone  ? 

Say,  for  non-payment  that  the  debt  should 
.double,* 

Is  twenty  hundred  kisses  such  a  trouble  ?  * 

'Fau'  queen,'  quoth  he,  'if  any  love  you  owe  me. 
Measiu'e  my  strangeness**  -nith  my  unripe  years  ; 
Before  I  know  myself  seek  not  to  know  me  ; 
No  fisher  but  the  ungrown  fry  forbears  : 

The  mellow  plum  doth  fall,  the  green  sticks 
fast. 

Or  being  early  pluck'd  is  sour  to  taste. 

'  Look,  the  world's  comforter,  with  weary  gait, 
His  day's  hot  task  hath  ended  in  the  west : 
The  owl,  night's  herald,  shrieks, — 't  is  very  late ; 
The  sheep  are  gone  to  fold,  birds  to  their  nest ; 

And  coal-black  clouds  that  shadow  heaven's 
Hght 

Do  summon  us  to  parr,  and  bid  good  night. 

'Now  let  me  say  "good  night,"  and  so  say  you ; 
If  you  will  say  so,  you  shall  have  a  kiss.' 
'Good  night,'    quoth  she;    and,   ere    he   says 

'  adieu,' 
The  honey  fee  of  parting  tender'd  is  : 

Her  arms  do  lenil  his  neck  a  sweet  embrace ; 
Incorporate  then  they  seem ;  face  grows  to 
face. 

Till,  breathless,  he  disjoin' d,  and  backward  di-ew 
The  heavenly  moisture,  that  sweet  coral  mouth, 
Wbose  precious  taste  her  thirsty  lips  well  knew, 
Whereon  they  surfeit,  yet  complain  on  drouth : 

He  with  her  plenty  press' d,  she  faint  with 
dearth, 

(Their  Ups  together  glued,)  fall  to  the  earth. 

Now   quick  Desu-e  hath  caught   the  yielding 

prey, 
And  glutton-like  she  feeds,  yet  never  filleth  ; 
Her  lips  are  conquerors,  his  lips  obey. 
Paying  what  ransom  the  insulter  willeth ; 

^Yhose  vulture  thought  doth  pitch  the  price  so 

high. 
That  she  will  draw  his  lips'  rich  treasure  dry. 

And  having  felt  the  sweetness  of  the  spoil. 
With  blindfold  fury  she  begins  to  forage  ; 


*  Here  is  one  of  the  many  traces  of  Shakspere's  legal 
studies— an  allusion  to  the  penalty  for  non-payment  which 
formed  the  condition  of  a  money-bond. 

*>  S<raKjfK£it— coyness  or  bashfulness. 

377 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Her  face  doth  reek  and  smoke,  her  blood  doth 

boil. 
And  caieless  lust  stirs  up  a  desperate  courage  ; 
PLintiug  ohiiviou,  bcatiug  reason  back. 
Forgetting  shame's  pure  blush,  and  honour's 
\vi"ack. 

Hot,  faint,  and  weary,  Mith  her  haid  embracing, 
Like  a  ^Tild  bird  being  tam'd  with  too  muck 

haudliug. 
Or  as  tlie  fleet-foot  roe  that's  tir'd  with  chasing, 
Or  like  the  fro\vai-d  infant  still'd  wth  dandling, 
He  now  obeys,  and  now  no  more  resistcth. 
While  she  takes  all  she  can,  not  all  she  listeth. 

What  wax  so  frozen  but  dissolves  with  temperiug, 
And  yields  at  last  to  every  light  impression  ?• 
Things  out  of  hope  are  compass'd  oft  with  ven- 
turing. 
Chiefly  in  love,  whose  leave''  exceeds  commis- 
sion: 
Affection  faints  not  like  a  pale-fac'd  coward. 
But  then  woos  best  when  most  Ids  choice  is 
froward. 

When  he  did  fro\vn,  0,  had  she  then  gave  over, 
Such  nectar  from  his  lips  sbe  had  not  suck'd. 
Foul  words  and  frowns  must  not  repel  a  lover ; 
■Wliat  though  the  rose  have  pricikles,  yet 't  is 
pluck' d : 
Were  beauty  under  twenty  locks  kept  fast, 
Yet  love  breaks  through,  and  picks  them  all 
at  last. 

For  pity  now  she  can  no  more  detam  nun  , 
The  poor  fool^  prays  her  that  he  may  depart : 
She  is  resolv'd  no  longer  to  restrain  him  ; 
Bids  liim  farewell,  and  look  well  to  her  heart, 
The  which,  by  Cupid's  bow  she  doth  protest. 
He  carries  tlience  incaged  in  his  breast. 


'  this  night  I'll  waste  in 


'  Sweet  boy,'  she  says, 

sorrow. 
For  my  sick  heart  commands  mine  eyes  to  watch. 
Tell  me,  love's  master,  shall  we  meet  to-morrow  ? 
Say,  shall  we  ?   shall  we  ?   wilt  thou  make  the 
match  ? ' 
He  tells  her,  no ;  to-morrow  he  intends 
To  hunt  the  boar  with  certain  of  his  friends. 


«  The  soft  wax  upon  which  the  seal  attached  to  a  legal 
Instrument  was  impressed  required  to  be  tempered  before 
the  impression  was  made  upon  it.  So  FalstafT  says  of  Justice 
Shallow— "I  have  him  already  tempering  between  my  finger 
and  my  thumb,  and  shortly  will  I  seal  with  him." 

b  Z.i-ar?— licence. 

r  No  reai'.cr  of  ,>hakspcre  can  forget  the  patho"i  with 
which  he  has  employed  this  expression  in  another  place — 
•'  And  my  poor  fool  is  hanged." 

37« 


'  The  boar ! '  quoth  she,  whereat  a  sudden  pale, 
Like  lawn  being  spread  upon  the  blushing  rose. 
Usurps  her  cheeks  ;  she  trembles  at  his  tale, 
And  on  his  neck  her  yoking  arms  she  throws  : 
She  buiketh  down,  still  hanging  by  his  neck, 
He  on  her  belly  falls,  she  on  her  back. 

Now  is  she  in  the  very  hsts  of  love. 

Her  champion  mounted  for  the  hot  encounter : 

All  is  imaginary  she  doth  prove. 

He    will   not  manage  her,  although  he  mount 
her  ; 
That  worse  than  Tantalus'  is  her  annoy, 
To  clip  Elysium,  and  to  lack  her  joy. 

Even    as    poor    birds,    deceiv'd    with    painted 

grapes," 
Do  sm-feit  by  the  eye,  and  pine  the  maw, 
Even  so  she  lauguisheth  iu  her  mishaps, 
As  those  poor  birds  that  helpless  ••  hemes  saw  : 
The   warm   effects  which   she  in  him  finds 

missing. 
She  seeks  to  kindle  with  continual  kissuig. 

But  all  in  vain ;  good  queen,  it  will  not  be  : 
She  hath  assay'd  as  much  as  may  be  prov'd  ; 
Her  pleading  hath  deserv'd  a  greater  fee  ; 
She's  Love,  she  loves,  and  yet  she  is  not  lov'd. 

'Fie,  fie,'  he  says,  '  you  crush  me  ;  let  mc  go; 

You  have  no  reason  to  withhold  me  so.' 

'  Thou  hadst  been  gone,'  quoth  she,  '  sweet  boy, 

ere  this. 
But  that  thou  told'st  me  thou  wouldst  hunt  the 

boar. 
0  be  advis'd  !  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is 
With  javelin's  point  a  churUsh  swine  to  gore. 
Whose  tushes  never    sheath'd    he   whettctli 

still. 
Like  to  a  mortal ■=  butcher,  bent  to  kill. 

'  On  his  bow-back  he  hath  a  battle  set 

Of  bristly  pikes,  that  ever  threat  his  foes  ; 

His   eyes  like  glowworms  sliine  when  he  doth 
fret : 

His  snout  digs  scpidclires  where'er  he  goes ; 
Being  mov'd,  he  strikes  wliate'or  is  in  his  wny, 
And  whom  he  strikes  his  cruel  tushes  slay 

'His  bra\vny  sides,  with  hairy  bristles  annM, 
Are  better  proof  than  tliy  spear's  point  can  enter; 

»  The  allusion  is  to  the  picture  of  Zeuxis,  mentioned  by 
Pliny.  We  may  observe  tliat  there  was  no  Knglish  tranda- 
lion  of  Pliny  so  early  as  the  date  of  this  poem. 

h  Helpless— that  atford  no  help. 

«  M'lTlal — deadly 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


His  short  tliick  neck  cannot  be  easily  harm'd  ; 

Being  u-eful  on  tte  lion  he  ^yill  venture  : 
The  thorny  brambles  and  embracing  bushes, 
As  fearful  of  him,  part;   through  whom  he 
rushes. 

'  Alas,  he  nought  esteems  that  face  of  thine. 
To  which  Love's  eyes  pay  tributary  gazes  ; 
Nor  thy  soft  hands,  sweet  lips,  and  crystal  eyne. 
Whose  full  perfection  all  the  world  amazes ; 
But  having  thee  at  vantage  (wondrous  dread!) 
Would  root  these  beauties  as  he  roots  the 
mead. 

'  0,  let  him  keep  his  loathsome  cabin  still ! 
Beauty  hath  nought    to    do    with    such    foul 

fiends  : 
Come  not  within  his  danger'  by  thy  -naU : 
They  that  thiive   well  take   counsel  of   their 
friends. 
Wlien  thou  didst  name  the  boar,  not  to  dis- 
semble, 
I  fear'd  thy  fortune,  and  my  joints  did  tremble. 

'Didst    thou  not  mark  my  face?     Was  it  not 

white  ? 
Saw'st  thou  not  signs  of  fear  lurk  in  mine  eye  ? 
Grew  I  not  faint  ?  And  fell  I  not  downright  ? 
Within  my  bosom,  whereon  thou  dost  lie, 

My  boding  heart  pants,  beats,  and  takes  no 

rest, 
But,  like  an  earthquake,  shakes  thee  on  my 
breast. 

'  For  where  Love  reigns,  disturbing  Jealousy 
Doth  call  himself  Affection's  sentinel ; 
Gives  false  alarms,  suggesteth  mutiny, 
And  in  a  peaceful  hour  doth  cry,  "  kDl,  kill ;  " 
Distempering  gentle  Love  in  his  desire, 
As  air  and  water  do  abate  the  fire. 

'  This  soui-  informer,  this  bate-breeding''  spy. 
This  canker  that  eats  up  love's  tender  spring,' 
This  carry-tale,  dissentious  jealousy, 
That  sometime  tnie  news,  sometime  false  doth 
bring. 
Knocks  at  my  heart,  and    whispers  in  mine 

ear, 
That  if  I  love  thee  I  thy  death  should  fear : 


■  Dn/ji/cr— power  of  doing  harm.     So  in  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  Act  iv.,  Scene  i. : — 

"  You  stand  within  his  danger." 
Bee  note  on  that  passage. 

■>  Bale — signifies  strife.  Mrs.  Quickly  S33'stliat  John  Rnj;l)y 
is  no  breed-bate. 

"  Spring — bud  or  young  shoot. 


'  i\jid,  more  tlian  so,  prcsenteth  to  mine  eye 
The  pictuj-e  of  an  angry-chafing  boar. 
Under  whose  sharp  fangs  on  liis  back  doth  lie 
An  image  like  thyself,  all  stain'd  w4th  gore  ; 
Whose  blood  upon  the  fresh  flowers  being 

shed 
Doth  make  them  droop  with  grief,  and  hang 
the  head. 

'  What  should  I  do,  seeing  thee  so  indeed, 

That  tremble  at  the  imagination  ? 

The  thought  of   it  doth  make  my  faint   heart 
bleed. 

And  fear  doth  teach  it  divination : 

I  prophesy  thy  death,  ray  living  sorrow. 
If  thou  encounter  with  the  boar  to-morrow. 

'  But  if  thou  needs  will  hunt,  be  nd'd  by  me ; 
Uncouple  at  the  timorous  flying  hare. 
Or  at  the  fox,  which  lives  by  subtilty. 
Or  at  the  roe,  wliich  no  encounter  dare : 

Pursue  these  fearful  creatiu-es  o'er  the  do-ivns, 
And  on  thy  weU-breath'd  horse  keep  with 
thy  hounds. 

'  And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare, 
Mark  the  poor  wreLch,  to  overshoot"  his  troubles, 
How  he  outiTins  the  wind,  and  with  what  care 
He  cranks'"  and  crosses,  with  a  thousand  doubles : 
The  many  musits'  through  the  which  he  goes 
Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 

'  Sometime  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep. 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell, 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep,'' 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell ; 

And  sometime  sorteth^  with  a  herd  of  deer ; 

Danger  deviseth  shifts ;  wit  waits  on  fear : 

'  For  there  his  smell  with  others  berug  mingled, 
The  hot   scent-snuffing  homids    are   driven  to 

doubt, 
Ceasmg  then-  clamorous  cry  tiU  they  have  singled 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out ; 
Then  do  tliey  spend  their  mouths :  Echo  rc- 

phes. 
As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

^  Overshoot.  Tlie  original  editions  read  ovcrshut.  This 
reading  is  retained  by  Malone. 

b  Cranks— vTiTiils.    So  in  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.  :— 
"  See  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in." 

"  Musils.  The  terra  is  explained  in  Markham's  '  Gentle- 
men's Academy,'  lJ9j  :  —  "  Wc  term  the  place  where  see 
[the  hare]  sitteth  her  form ;  the  place  through  which  she 
goes  to  relief  hermusit." 

i  Keep— dweW.  '  5or<f. 'ft— consorteth. 

379 


^;f-': 


■  By  tbis,  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a  Iiill, 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  car, 
To  hearken  if  his  foes  parsue  him  still ; 
Anon  their  loud  alaniras  lie  doth  hear ; 
And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 
To  one  sore  sick  that  hears  the  passing  bell. 

'Tlien  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedab])lcd  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way; 
Each  envious  briar  bis  weary  legs  doth  scratch. 
Each   shadow  makes  him   stop,   each   murmur 
stay: 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many 
And  being  low  never  rcliev'd  by  any. 

'  Lie  quietly,  and  hear  a  little  more ; 
Nay,  do  not  struggle,  for  thou  shalt  not  rise : 
To  make  thee  hate  the  hunting  of  the  boar, 
Unlike  myself  thou  hcar'st  me  moralize," 

Applying  this  to  that,  and  so  to  so ; 

For  love  can  comment  upon  every  woe. 

'Wbere  did  I  leave?' — 'No  matter  where,' 

quoth  he ; 
'  Leave  me,  and  then  the  story  aptly  ends  : 
The  night  is  spent.'— '"VVliy,  what  of  that?' 

quoth  she. 
'  I  am,'  quoth  he,  '  expected  of  my  friends  ; 
And  now  't  is  dark,  and  going  I  sh;dl  fall.' 
'  In  night,'  quoth  she,  '  desire  sees  best  of  all. 

'But  if  thou  fall,  0  then  imagine  this, 
The  earth  in  love  with  thee  thy  footing  trips. 
And  all  is  but  to  rob  thee  of  a  kiss. 
Rich  preys  make  true  men  thieves    so  do  thy 
lips 


880 


•  Moralize — cominenL 


Make  modest  Dian  cloudy  and  forlorn. 
Lest  she   should   steal  a  kiss,  and  die  for 
sworn. 

'  Now  of  this  dai-k  night  I  perceive  the  reason : 
Cynthia  for  shame  obscui'cs  her  silver  shine. 
Till  forging  natm-e  be  condemn'd  of  treason. 
For  stealing   moulds    from   heaven   that   were 
divine, 
Wlierein  she  fram'd  thee  in  high  heaven'si 

despite, 
To  shame  the  sun  by  day,  and  her  by  night. 

'  And  therefore  hath  she  brib'd  the  Destinies, 
To  cross  the  curious  M-orkmanship  of  natui-e. 
To  mingle  beauty  with  infirmities. 
And  piu'c  perfection  \nth  impm'C  defeature ; 
Making  it  subject  to  the  tyi'anny 
Of  mad  mischances  and  much  misery  ; 

'  As  burning  fevers,  agues  pale  and  faint, 
Life-poisoning  pestilence,  and  frenzies  wood,* 
The  marrow-eating  sickness,  whose  attaint 
Disorder  breeds  by  heating  of  the  blood : 

Surfeits,  imposthumes,  grief,  and  damn'd  de- 
spair. 

Swear  Natui^e's  death  for  framing  thee  so  fair. 

'  And  not  the  least  of  all  these  maladies, 
But  in  one  minute's  fight  brings  beauty  under : 
Both  favour,  savour,  hue,  and  qualities, 
Whereat  the  impartial  gazer  late  did  wonder, 
Arc  on  the  sudden  wasted,  tliaw'd,  and  done,* 
As   mountain-snow   melts   with   the    midday 
sun. 


•  W"of,J— mad. 


•>  Done — destroyed 


"VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


'  Therefore,  despite  of  fruitless  cliastity, 
Love-lacking  vestals,  and  self-loving  nuns, 
That  on  the  earth  would  breed  a  scarcity 
And  barren  dearth  of  daughters  and  of  sons, 
J3e  prodigal :  the  lamp  that  bums  by  night 
Dries  up  his  oH  to  lend  the  world  his  light. 

'  What  is  thy  body  but  a  swallowing  grave. 

Seeming  to  bury  that  posterity 

Which  by  the  rights  of  time  thou  needs  must 
have. 

If  thou  destroy  them  not  in  dark  obscurity  ? 
If  so,  the  world  will  hold  thee  iu  disdain, 
Sith  in  thy  pride  so  fair  a  hope  is  slain. 

'  So  in  thyself  thyself  art  made  away ; 

A  mischief  worse  than  civil  home-bred  strife. 

Or  theu's  whose  desperate  hands  themselves  do 
slay, 

Or  butcher-sire,  that  reaves  his  son  of  life. 
Foul  cankering  rust  the  hidden  treasure  frets. 
But  gold  that's  put  to  use  more  gold  begets.' 

•  Nay,  then,'  quoth  Adon,  '  you  will  fall  again 
Into  your  idle  over-handled  theme ; 

The  kiss  I  gave  you  is  bestow'd  iu  vain, 
And  all  in  vain  you  strive  against  the  stream ; 
For  by  this  black-fac'd  night,  desire's  foul 

tturse. 
Your  treatise  makes  me  like  you  worse  and 
worse. 

•  If  love  have  lent  you  twenty  thousand  tongues, 
And  every  tongue  more  moving  than  your  own, 
Bewitching  like  the  wanton  mermaid's  songs, 
Yet  from  mine  ear  the  temptiug  tune  is  blown ; 

For  know,  my  heart  stands  armed  iu  mine  ear, 
And  will  not  let  a  false  sound  enter  there ; 

'  Lest  the  deceiving  harmony  should  run 
Into  the  quiet  closure  of  my  breast ; 
And  then  my  little  heart  were  quite  imdone. 
In  his  bedchamber  to  be  ban-'d  of  rest. 
No,  lady,  no ;  my  heart  longs  not  to  groan. 
But  soundly  sleeps,  while  now  it  sleeps  alone. 

•  What  have  you  urg'd  that  I  caimot  reprove  ? 
The  path  is  smooth  that  leadeth  on  to  danger ; 
I  hate  not  love,  but  your  device  in  love. 
That  lends  embracements  unto  every  stranger. 

You  do  it  for  increase ;  O  strange  excuse ! 
When  reason  is  the  bawd  to  lust's  abuse. 

'  Call  it  not  love,  for  love  to  heaven  is  fled, 
Since  sweating  lust  on  earth  usui-p'd  his  name ; 


Under  whose  sunple  semblance  he  hath  fed 
Upon  fresh  beauty,  blotting  it  with  blame ; 

Which  the  hot  tyi-ant  stains,  and  soon 
reaves. 

As  caterpillars  do  the  tender  leaves. 


be 


'  Love  comforteth  like  sunshine  after  ram, 
But  lust's  effect  is  tempest  after  sun ; 
Love's  gentle  spring  doth  always  fresh  remain. 
Lust's  winter  comes  ere  summer  half  be  done. 
Love  surfeits  not ;  lust  like  a  glutton  dies : 
Love  is  all  tiiith ;  lust  full  of  forged  lies. 

'  More  I  could  tell,  but  more  I  dare  not  say ; 

The  text  is  old,  the  orator  too  green. 

Therefore,  in  sadness,  now  I  will  away ; 

My  face  is  full  of  shame,  my  heart  of  teen;* 
Mine  ears  that  to  your  wanton  talk  attended, 
Do  bum  themselves  for  having  so  offended.' 

With  this  he  breaketh  from  the  sweet  embrace 
Of  those  fair  arms  which  bound  him  to  her  breasi , 
And  homewai'd  through  the  dark  laund''  runs 

apace ; 
Leaves  Love  upon  her  back  deeply  distress'd. 
Look  how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky, 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye ; 

Which  after  him  she  darts,  as  one  on  shore 
Gazing  upon  a  late-embarked  friend, 
Till  the  wild  waves  will  have  him  seen  no  more, 
■Whose  ridges  with  the  meeting  clouds  contend ; 
So  did  the  merciless  and  pitchy  night 
Fold  iu  the  object  that  did  feed  her  sight. 

Whereat  amaz'd,  as  one  that  unaware 
Hath  dropp'd  a  precious  jewel  iu  the  flood. 
Or  'stonish'd  as  night-wanderers  often  are. 
Their  liarht  blown  out  in  some  mistrustful  wood ; 
Even  so  confounded  in  the  dark  she  lay. 
Having  lost  the  fair  discovery  of  her  way. 

And  now  she  beats  her  heart,  whereat  it  groans, 
That  all  the  neighboui--caves,  as  seeming  trou- 
bled. 
Make  verbal  repetition  of  her  moans ; 
Passion  on  passion  deeply  is  redoubled : 

'Ah  me!'  she  cries,  and  twenty  times,  'woe, 


woe 


I' 


And  twenty  echoes  twenty  times  cry  so. 

a  Teen— gxiet  . 

b  Laund— lav.n.  Camden  describes  a  lawn  as  a  plain 
among  trees,  and  the  epithet  dark  confirms  this  explanation 
We  have  such  a  scene  in  Henry  VI.,  Part  III.,  Act  in.  :- 

"  Under  this  thick-grown  brake  -nre'll  shroud  ouiselvcs, 

For  tluough  this  laund  anon  the  deer  will  come." 

381 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Slie,  marking  Ihein,  begins  a  wailing  note, 

And  sings  extemp'rally  a  woeful  ditty ; 

How  love  makes  young  men  tbrall,  and  old  men 
dote ; 

How  love  is  wise  in  folly,  foolish-witty ; 
Her  heavy  anthem  still  concludes  in  woe, 
And  still  the  clioir  of  echoes  answer'  so. 

Her  song  was  tedious,  and  outwore  the  night, 
For  lovers'  hours  are  long,  though  seeming  short : 
If  plcas'd  themselves,  others,  they  think,  delight 
In  such  like  circumstance,  with  such  like  sport : 
Their  copious  stories,  oftentimes  begun, 
End  without  audience,  and  are  never  done. 

For  who  hath  she  to  spend  the  night  ^vithal, 

But  idle  sounds  resembling  parasites. 

L!K.e  slirdl-tongued   tapsters    answering   every 

caU, 
Soothing  the  humour  of  fantastic  wits  ? 

She  says,    "tis  so:'  they  answer    all,  ''tis 

so;' 
And  would  say  after  her,  if  she  said  '  no.' 

Lo !  here  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 
From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high. 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 
The  sun  arisefh  in  his  majesty ; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 
The  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem  bumish'd  gold. 

Venus  salutes  him  with  this  fair  good-morrow : 
'  0  thou  clear  god,  and  patron  of  all  light. 
From  whom  each  lamp  and  shining  star  doth 

borrow 
Tlie  beauteous  influence  that  makes  liim  bright. 
There  lives   a  son,   that    suck'd  an  earthly 

mother, 
May  lend  thee  light,  as  thou  dost  lend  to 
other.' 

This  said,  she  hasteth  to  a  myrtle  grove. 
Musing  the  morning  is  so  much  o'erwom, 
And  yet  she  hears  no  tidings  of  her  love : 
She  hearkens  for  his  hounds,  and  for  his  honi : 


»  Antwer.  So  the  original — not  aniicert.  Xo  dount, 
according  to  tlie  nilea  of  modem  construction,  answers  i^ 
more  coirect,  and  Malone  talt.s  of  Shakxpere  having  fallen 
into  the  error  of  '"lia^ty  writem,  wh.  are  deceived  by  ihe 
noun  immediately  prectding  the  verb  beiii;;  in  llie  plural 
number."  We  hold  thai  to  be  a  false  relincnient  which 
destroy*  the  landmarks  of  an  age's  phraseology.  Den  Jonson, 
in  hii '  KngUsb  Oranimar,'  lays  down  a.s  a  rule  thai  "nouns 
■  ignifying  a  multitude,  tliuugh  they  be  of  the  singular 
Dumber,  require  a  verb  plural."  The  rule  would  appear 
still  more  reasonable  when  the  plural  is  more  apparently 
expressed  in  the  noun  of  multitude,  as  in  the  form  before 
us — "  the  choir  of  echoes." 

3S2 


Anon  she  hears  them  chant  it  lustily, 
And  aU  in  haste  she  coasteth*  to  the  ciy. 

And  as  she  runs,  the  bushes  in  the  way 
Some  catch  her  by  the  neck,  some  kiss  her  face, 
Some  twine  about  her  thigh  to  make  her  stay ; 
She  wildly  breaketh  from  their  strict  embrace, 

Like  a  milch  doe,  whose  swelling  dugs  do 
ache. 

Hasting  to  feed  her  fawii,  hid  in  some  brake. 

By  this  she  hears  the  hounds  are  at  a  bay. 
Whereat  she  starts,  like  one  that  spies  an  adder 
Wreath'd  up  in  fatal  folds,  just  in  his  way. 
The  fear  whereof  doth  make  him   shake   and 
shudder ; 
Even  so  the  timorous  yelping  of  the  liounds 
Appals  her  senses,  and  her  spright  confounds. 

For  now  she  knows  it  is  no  gentle  chase. 
But  the  blunt  boar,  rough  bear,  or  lion  proud. 
Because  the  cry  remaiaeth  in  one  place, 
Where  feai-fully  the  dogs  exclaim  aloud : 
Finding  their  enemy  to  be  so  curst. 
They  all  strain  court'sy  who  shall  cope  liim 
first. 

This  dismal  cry  rings  sadly  in  her  car. 
Through  which  it  enters  to  sui-prise  her  heai-t. 
Who,  overcome  by  doubt  and  bloodless  fear. 
With  cold-pale''  weakness  numbs  each  feeling 
part : 
Like  soldiers,  when  their  captain  once  doth 

yield. 
They  basely  fly,  and  dare  not  stay  the  field. 

Thus  stands  she  in  a  trembling  ecstasy ; 
Till,  cheering  up  her  senses  sore-dismay'd,* 
She  tells  them  't  is  a  causeless  fantasy. 
And  childish  error  that  they  are  afraid ; 

Bids  them  leave  quaking,  bids  them  fear  no 
more ; — 

And  with  that  word  she  spied  the  hunted  boar  ; 


"Whose  frothy  mouth,  bepaintcd  all  with  red, 
Like  milk  and  blood  being  mingled  both   to 

gether, 
A  second  fear  through  all  her  sinews  spread, 
Which  madly  hurries  her  she  knows  not  whither : 
This  way  she  runs,  and  now  she  will  no  further, 
But  back  retires,  to  rate  the  boar  for  murthcr, 

«  ron*/<7A— advanceth. 

i>  Cold-pale.  The  hyphen  denoting  the  compound  dJM- 
tive  is  marked  in  the  original  edition  of  1593. 

c  Sorr-dismnij'd.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  edition  of 
I59G      The  original  has  all  dismayed. 


A  thousand  spleens  bear  her  a  thousand  ways ; 

She  treads  the  path  that  she  nutreads  again ; 

Her  more  than  haste  is  mated*  •with  delays, 

Like  the  proceedings  of  a  di-uuken  brain. 
Full  of  respect,''  yet  nought  at  all  respecting, 
In  hand  \vith  all  things,  nought  at  all  efTect- 
ing. 

Here  kennell'd  in  a  brake  she  finds  a  hound, 
And  asks  the  weary  caitiff  for  his  master ; 
And  there  another  licking  of  his  wound, 
'Gainst    venom' d    sores    the     only    sovereign 
plaster ; 
And  here  she  meets  another  sadly  scowling. 
To  whom  she   speaks,  and  he  replies  with 
howling. 

When  he  hath  ceas'd  his  ill-resounding  noise. 
Another  flap-mouth'd  mourner,  black  and  gi'un. 
Against  the  welkin  volleys  out  his  voice ; 
Another  and  another  answer  him, 

Clapping  their  proud  tails  to  the  ground  be- 
low. 

Shaking  their  scratch'd  ears,  bleeding  as  thry 

go- 
Look,  hew  the  world's  poor  people  are  amaz'd 
At  apparitions,  signs,  and  prodigies, 

»  Maied — confounded.         b  Respect — circumspection. 


fearfid    eyes    thcj 


Jiave 


Whereon  with 
gaz'd. 

Infusing  them  with  dreadfid  propliecies : 

So  she  at  these  sad  signs  draws  up  her  breath, 
And,  sighing  it  again,  exclaims  on  Death. 

'  Hard-favoiu-'d  tyrant,  ugly,  meagre,  lean. 
Hateful    divorce    of    love,'    (thus    cliides    she 

Death,) 
'  Grim-giinning  ghost,  earth's  worm,  what  dost 

thou  mean 
To  stifle  beauty,  and  to  steal  his  breath. 

Who  when  he  liv'd,  his  breath  and  beauty  set 
Gloss  on  the  rose,  smell  to  the  violet  ? 

'  If  he  be  dead, — 0  no,  it  cannot  be. 
Seeing  his  beauty,  thou  shouldst  strike  at  it — 
0  yes,  it  may ;  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see. 
But  hatefully  at  random  dost  thou  hit. 
Thy  mark  is  feeble  age ;  but  thy  false  dart 
Mistakes  that   aim,  and  cleaves   an  infant's 
heart. 

'  Hadst  thou  but  bid  beware,  then  he  had  spoke. 
And  hearing  him  thy  power  had  lost  his »  power. 
The  Destinies  will  cui'se  thee  for  this  stroke  ; 
They  bid  thee  crop  a  weed,  thou  pluck"  st   a 
flower : 

a  His  for  its. 

883 


VENUS  AND  ADOXLS. 


Love's  golden  arrow  at  liiin  should  have  fled, 
And  not  Death's  ebon   dart,  to   strike  hini 
dead." 

'  Dost  thou  drink  teai-s,  that  thou  provok'st  such 
weeping  ? 

^\llat  may  a  heavy  groan  advantage  thee  ? 

Why  hast  thou  cast  into  eternal  sleeping 

Those  eyes  that  taught  all  other  eyes  to  sec  'r* 
Now  Nature  cares  not  for  thy  mortal  vigour, 
Since  her  best  work  is  ruin'd  with  thy  rigour.' 

Hero  overcome,  as  one  full  of  despair, 
She  vail'd""  her  eyelids,  who,  like  sluices,  stopp'd 
The  crystal  tide  that  from  her  two  checks  fail- 
In  the  sweet  channel  of  her  bosom  dropp'd ; 

But  through  the  floodgates  breaks  the  silver 
rain. 

And  with  his  strong  course  opens  tnem  again. 

O  how  her  eyes  and  tears  did  lend  and  boiTOw ! 
Her  eyes  seen  in  the  tears,  tears  in  her  eye ; 
Both  crystals,  where  they  view'd  each  other's 

sorrow. 
Sorrow,  that  fiiendly  sighs  sought  still  to  dry; 
But  like  a  stormy  day,  now  wind,  now  rain, 
Sighs  dry  her  cheeks,  tears  make  them  wet 
again. 

Variable  passions  throng  her  constant  woe. 
As  striving  who  should  best  become  her  grief; 
All  entertained,  each  passion  labours  so 
That  every  present  sorrow  seeracth  chief. 

But  none  is  best;  then  join  they  all  together, 
Like  many  clouds  consulting  for  foul  weather. 

By  this,  far  off  she  hears  some  huntsmen  hoUo :  <= 
A  nurse's  song  ne'er  pleas'd  her  babe  so  well : 
The  dire  imagination  she  did  follow 
This  sound  of  hope  doth  labour  to  expel ; 
For  now  reviving  joy  bids  her  rejoice. 
And  flatters  her  it  is  Adonis'  voice. 

Whereat  her  tears  began  to  turn  their  tide. 
Being  pnson'd  in  her  eye,  like  pearls  in  glass; 
Yet  sometimes  falls  an  orient  drop  beside, 
Which  her  cheek  melts,  as  scorning  it  should 
pass. 
To  wash  the  foul  face  of  the  sluttish  ground. 
Who  is  but  drunken  when  she  seemcth  drown'd. 

•  Boswell  has  quoted  a  passage  from  Massinxer's  'Virgin 
Martyr,'  alludin;;,  as  Shakspcre  here  does,  to  the  beautirul 
fable  of  Cupid  and  Death  exchanging  arrows  : — 

"  Strange  affection  ! 
Cupid  once  more  hath  chang'd  his  shafts  with  Death, 
And  kilh,  instead  of  giving  life." 

b  Vail'd — lowered. 

«  Hollo,  or  hollow,  is  not  quite  the  same  word  a.i  holla, 
■which  we  have  already  noticed,  although  the  usual  spelling 
of  this  word  la  the  passage  before  us  is  holla. 

384 


0  hard-l)clicving  love,  how  strange  it  seems 
Not  to  believe,  and  yet  too  credulous ! 

Thy  weal  and  woe  arc  both  of  ihem  extremes, 
Despair  and  hope  make  thee  ridicidous  : 

The  one  doth  flatter  thee  in  (houghts  unlikely, 
In  likely  thoughts  the  other  kills  thee  quickly. 

Now  she  miweaves   tlie   web    that    she    hath 

^vrought ; 
Adonis  lives,  and  Death  is  not  to  blame ; 
It  was  not  she  that  called  him  all-to  nancrhf : 
Now  she  adds  honours  to  his  hateful  name ; 
She  clepes  him  king  of  graves,  and  grave  for 

kings, 
Imperious  supreme  of  all  mortal  things. 

'No,  no,'  quoth  she,  'sweet  Death,  I  did  but 

jest; 
Yet  pardon  me,  I  felt  a  kind  of  fear, 
Whenas  I  met  the  boar,  that  bloody  beast. 
Which  knows  no  pity,  but  is  still  severe ; 
Then,  gentle  shadow  (truth  I  must  confess), 
I  rail'd  on  thee,  fearing  my  love's  decease. 

'  'T  is   not  my  fault :    the  boar  provok'd  ni} 

tongue ; 
Be  ■wreak'd  on  him,  invisible  commander ; 
'Tis    he,   foul  creature,   that    hath   done  thee 

\\Tong ; 

1  did  but  act,  he 's  author  of  thy  slander : 
Grief  hath  two  toncrues,  and  never  woman  vet 
Could  i-ule  them  both,  ^vithout  ten  women's 

wit.' 

Thus,  hoping  that  Adonis  is  alive. 
Her  rash  suspect  she  doth  extenuate ; 
And  that  his  beauty  may  the  better  thrive. 
With  Death  she  humbly  doth  insinuate ; 

Tells  him  of  trophies,   statues,  tombs;   and 
stories 

His  victories,  his  triumphs,  and  his  glories. 

'  O  Jove,'  quoth  she,  '  how  much  a  fool  was  I, 
To  be  of  such  a  weak  and  siUy  mind. 
To  wail  his  death  who-lives,  and  must  not  die. 
Till  nmtual  overthrow  of  mortal  kind ! 

For  he  being  dead,  with  him  is  beauty  slain, 
And,  beauty  dead,  black  chaos  comes  again.'' 

'  Fie,  fie,  fond  love,  thou  art  so  full  of  fear 

As  one  with  treasure  laden,  hemm'd  with  thieves, 


Shakspere  in   his   greater  works  was  not  ashamed 
recur  to  the  treasury  of  his  early  thoughts  : — 

"  Excellent  wretch  !  Perdition  catch  my  soul, 
But  I  do  love  thee !  and  when  I  love  thee  nut 
Chaos  is  come  again." 


'^ 


't 


I 

■« 

s 

B 


2-S 


>  I 


•5  -3 

OS  -; 


=■'-.2    3 


H  O 


a  o 

5  -a 


o 


P4 


O 

g 

O 
■< 

»5 
O 


O 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Trifles,  unwitnessed  with  eye  or  ear, 
Thy  coward  heart  with  false  bethinking  grieves.' 
Even  at  this  word  she  hears  a  merry  horn, 
Whereat  she  leaps  that  was  but  late  forlorn. 

As  falcon  to  the  lure  away  she  flies ; 
The  grass  stoops  not,  she  treads  on  it  so  light ; 
And  in  her  haste  unfortunately  spies 
The  foul  boar's  couquest  on  her  fair  delight ; 
Which  seen,  her  eyes,  as  murder' d  with  the 

view, 
Like  stars  asham'd  of  day,  themselves  with- 
drew. 

Or,  as  the  snail,  who'se  tender  horns  being  hit. 
Shrinks  backward  in  his  shelly  cave  with  pain, 
And  there,  all  smother'd  up,  in  shade  doth  sit. 
Long  after  fearing  to  creep  forth  again ; 
So,  at  his  bloody  view,  her  eyes  are  fled 
Lito  the  deep  dark  cabins  of  her  head ; 

Where  they  resign  their  ofiicc  and  their  light 
To  the  disposing  of  her  troubled  brain ; 
Who  bids  them  still  consort  with  ugly  night. 
And  never  wound  the  heart  with  looks  again ; 
Who,  Uke  a  king  perplexed  m  his  throne, 
By  their  suggestion  gives  a  deadly  groan, 

Whereat  each  tributary  subject  quakes  : 

As  when  the  wind,  hnprison'd  in  the  ground. 

Struggling     for     passage,    earth's     foundation 

shakes. 
Which  with  cold  terror  doth  men's  minds  con- 
found. 
The  nmtiny  each  part  doth  so  surprise. 
That  from  then:  dark  beds  once  more  leap  her 
eyes; 

And,  being  open'd,  threw  unwilling  light 
Upon  the  wide  wound  that  the  boar  had  trench'd 
In  his  soft  flank ;  whose  wonted  Uly  white 
With  pvirple  tears,  that   his  womid  wept,  was 
di-ench'd : 
No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf,  or 

weed. 
But  stole  his  blood,  and  seem'd  with  him  to 
bleed. 

This  solemn  sympathy  poor  Venus  noteth ; 
Over  one  shoulder  doth  she  hang  lier  head ; 
Dumbly  she  passions,  franticly  she  doteth ; 
She  thinks  he  could  not  die,  he  is  not  dead. 

Her  voice  is  stopp'd,  her  jomts  forget  to  bow; 

Her  eyes  are  mad  that  they  have  wept  tUl  now. 

Upon  his  hui't  she  looks  so  steadfastly, 
That  her  sight  dazzling  makes  the  wound  seem 
tluree ; 
TnAOEDiES.  &c.— Vol.  II.        2  C 


And  then  she  reprehends  ber  mangling  eye 
That  makes  more  gushes  where  no  breach  should 
be: 
His  face  seems  twain,  each  several  Unib  is 

doubled ; 
For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  bcmg 
troubled. 

'  My  tongue  caimot  express  my  grief  for  one, 
And  yet,'  quoth  she,  '  behold  two  Adons  dead ! 
My  sighs  are  blown  away,  my  salt  tears  gone, 
!Mine  eyes  are  turn'd  to  fire,  my  heai't  to  lead ; 

Heavy  heart's  lead  melt  at  mine  eyes'  red  fire! 

So  shall  I  die  by  di'ops  of  hot  desire. 

'  Alas,  poor  world,  what  treasure  hast  thou  lost ! 

"Wliat  face  remains  aHve  that's  worth  the  view- 
ing? ^ 

Whose  tonsrue  is  music  uow  ?  what  canst  thou 
boast 

Of  things  long  since,  or  anything  ensmng  ? 
The  flowers  are  sweet,  their  coloui's  fresh  and 

trim ; 
But  true-sweet  beauty  liv'd  and  died  with 
him. 

'  Bonnet  nor  veil  henceforth  no  creatui'C  wear ! 

Nor  sun  nor  wind  wiU  ever  strive  to  kiss  you : 

Having  no  fair"  to  lose,  you  need  not  fear; 

The  sun  doth  scorn  you,  and  the  wind  doth  hiss 
you: 
But  when  Adonis  hv'd,  sun  and  shai-p  air 
Lui'k'd  like  two  thieves  to  rob  him  of  his  fair ; 

*  And  therefore  would  he  put  his  bonnet  on. 
Under  whose  brun  the  gaudy  sun  would  peep ; 
The  wmd  would  blow  it  ofl",  and,  being  gone. 
Play  with  his  locks ;  then  would  Adonis  weep : 
And  straight,  in  pity  of  his  tender  years. 
They  both  would  strive  who  fii'st  should  dry 
his  tears. 

'  To  see  his  face  the  lion  walk'd  along 

Behind  some  hedge,  because  he  would  not  feai 

him: 
To  recreate  himself,  when  he  hath  sung. 
The  tiger  would  be  tame  and  gently  hear  him : 
If   he  had  spoke  the  wolf  would  leave  his 

prey, 
And  never  fright  the  silly  lamb  that  day. 

'  When  he  beheld  his  shadow  in  the  brook, 
The  fishes  spread  on  it  their-  golden  gills ; 
When  he  was  by,  the  birds  such  pleasure  took 
That  some  would  smg,  some  other  in  their  bills 


a  Fair — beautv. 


3S5 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


Would   bring   liim  miilbenics,   and  ripe-red 

cherries ; 
He  fed  them  with  his  sight,  they  him  \vith 

berries. 


But 


grim, 


and    urchin-snouted " 


this    foul, 
boar. 
Whose  doAvnward  eye  still  looketh  for  a  gi-avc, 
Ne'er  saw  the  beauteous  livery  that  he  wore  : 
Witness  the  entertainment  that  he  gave ; 
If  he  did  sec  liis  face,  why  then  I  know 
Ke  thought  to  kiss  him,  and  hath  kill'd  him  so. 

"Tis  true,  'tis  true;  thus  was  Adouis  slain; 
He  ran  upon  the  boar  with  his  sharp  spear, 
Who  did  not  whet  liis  teetli  at  him  again, 
But  by  a  kiss  thought  to  persuade  him  there ; 


And  nuzzling  in  liis  flank  the  loving  swine 
Sheath' d,  unaware,  the  tubk  in  his  soft  groin. 

'  Had  I  been  tooth'd  like  him,  I  must  confess 
With  kissinsr  him  I  should  have  kill'd  lum  first* 
But  he  is  dead,  and  never  did  he  bless 
My  youth  with  his ;  the  more  am  I  accurst.' 
With  tliis  she  falleth  in  the  place  she  stood, 
And  stains  her  face  with  his  congealed  blood. 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale ; 

She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold ; 

She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  heavy  tale. 

As  if  they  heard  the  woeful  words  she  told : 
She  lifts  the  coffer-lids  that  close  his  eyes, 
Wliere,  lo !  two  lamps,  burnt  out,  in  darkness 
lies: 


^^;i 


'ij:         I...    'iL    ,1, 


Two  glasses  where  herself  herself  beheld 
A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  reflect ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  excell'd. 
And  every  beauty  robb'd  of  his  effect : 

'  Wonder  of  time,'  quoth  she, '  this  is  my  spite, 
That  you  being  dead  the  day  should  yet  be 
light. 

'  Siace  thou  art  dead,  lo !  here  I  prophesy, 
Sorrow  on  love  hereafter  shall  attend ; 
It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy. 
Find  sweet  beginning  but  unsavoury  end ; 

a  Urehin-tnouted — with  the  snout  of  the  urchin,  or  hedge- 
hog. 

.386 


Ne'er  settled  equally,  but  high  or  low ; 
That  all  love's  pleasure  shall  not  match  his 
woe. 

'  It  shall  be  fickle,  false,  and  full  of  fraud ; 
Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing  while ; 
The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'erstraVd*    • 
With  sweets  that  shall  the  truest    sight  be 
guile: 
The  strongest  body  shall  it  make  most  weak, 
Strike  the  wise  dumb,  and  teach  the  fool  lo 
speak. 

■  O'frttrau/d—o'eistrc.w'd. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 


'It  shall  be  sparing,  and  too  fuU  of  riot, 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures  f 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  ia  quiet, 
Pluck  down  the  rich,  enrich  the  poor  -with  trea- 
sures : 
It  shall  be  raging  mad,  and  silly  mUd, 
Make  the  young  old,  the  old  become  a  child. 

'  It  shall  suspect  ■where  is  no  cause  of  fear ; 

It  shaU  not  fear  where  it  should  most  mistiiist ; 

It  shall  be  merciful,  and  too  severe. 

And  most  deceiving  when  it  seems  most  just ; 

Perverse  it  shall   be  where  it   shows  most 
toward. 

Put  fear  to  valour,  coui-age  to  the  coward. 

'It  shall  be  cause  of  war  and  dire  events. 
And  set  dissension  't^vixt  the  son  and  sire ; 
Subject  and  ser\-ile  to  all  discontents. 
As  di-y  combustious  matter  is  to  lire ; 

Sith  in  his  prime  death  doth  my  love  destroy. 
They  that  love  best  their  love  shall  not  enjoy. 

By  this,  the  boy  that  by  her  side  lay  kiU'd 
Was  melted  like  a  vapour  from  her  sight, 
And  in  his  blood  that  on  the  ground  lay  spill'd, 
4  purple    flower    spnmg    up,   chequer'd   with 
white. 
Resembling  well  his   pale   cheeks,    and  the 

blood 
"Wliich  in  round  drops  upon  their  whiteness 
stood. 

»  JUcaiures — grave  dances  suited  to  age. 


She  bows  her  head,  the  new-sprung  flower  to 

smell. 
Comparing  it  to  her  Adonis'  breath ; 
And  says,  within  her  bosom  it  shall  dwell, 
Since  he  himself  is  reft  from  her  by  death  : 
She  crops  the  stalk,  and  in  the  breach  appears 
Green  di-opping  sap,  which  she  compares  to 
tears. 

'Poor  flower,'  quoth  she,  'this  was  thy  father's 

guise, 
(Sweet  issue  of  a  more  sweet-smelUng  sire,) 
Por  every  little  grief  to  wet  his  eyes : 
To  gi-ow  unto  himself  was  his  desire. 

And  so  't  is  tliine ;  but  know,  it  is  as  good 
To  mther  in  my  breast  as  in  his  blood. 

'  Here  was  thy  father's  bed,  here  in  my  breast ; 
Thou  art  the  next  of  blood,  and  't  is  thy  right : 
Lo !  in  this  hollow  cradle  take  thy  rest. 
My  throbbing  heart  shall  rock  thee  day  and 
night; 
There  shall  not  be  one  minute  in  an  hour 
"Wherein  I  wUl  not  kiss    my  sweet    love's 
flower.' 

Thus  weary  of  the  world,  away  she  hies, 

And  yokes  her  silver  doves ;  by  whose  swift  aid 

Their  mistress,    mounted,   thi-ough   the  empty 

skies 
In  her  light  chai'iot  quickly  is  convey'd, 

Holding  their  course  to  Paphos,  where  their 

queen 
Means  to  immure  herself,  and  not  be  seen. 


kM 


V, '•?*■■• 


TO  THE 


RIGHT  HONOURABLE  HENRY  WRIOTHESLY, 

EARL  OF  SOUTHAMPTON,  AND  BARON  OF  TITCHFIELD. 


The  love  I  dedicate  to  your  Lordship  is  without  end ;  whereof  this 
pamphlet,  without  beginning,  is  but  a  superfluous  moiety.''  The  war- 
rant I  have  of  your  honourable  disposition,  not  the  worth  of  my  untutored 
lines,  makes  it  assured  of  acceptance.  Wliat  I  have  done  is  yours,  what 
I  have  to  do  is  youi-s ;  being  part  in  all  I  have,  devoted  yours..  Were 
my  worth  greater  my  duty  would  show  greater  :  meantime,  as  it  is,  it  is 
bound  to  your  Lordship,  to  whom  I  wish  long  life,  still  lengthened  with 
all  happiness. 

Your  Lordship's  in  all  duty, 

William  Shakespeare. 


a  Moiety.   In  Henry  IV.,  Pnit  I.,  and  in  Lear,  Shakspere  uses  moiety  as  it  is  here  used,  meaning  s 
jjortion,  not  a  half. 


THE    ARGUMENT. 


J: 


Lrrirs  TARaviNiDs  (for  his  excessive  pride  surnamed  Superbus),  after  he  had  caused  his  own  father  in 
law,  Servius  TulHus,  to  be  cruelly  murdered,  ar.d,  contrary  to  the  Roman  laws  and  customs,  not  requiring 
or  staying  for  the  people's  sutfrages,  had  possessed  himself  of  the  kingdom,  went,  accompanied  with 
his  sons  and  other  noblemen  of  Rome,  to  besiege  Ardea.  Puring  which  siege,  the  principal  men  of  the 
army  meeting  one  evening  at  the  tent  of  SextusTarquinius,  the  king's  son,  in  their  discourses  after  supper, 
every  one  commended  the  virtues  of  his  own  wife;  among  whom,  CoUatinus  extolled  the  incomparable 
.  liastity  of  his  wife  Lucretia.  In  that  pleasant  humour  they  all  posted  to  Rome;  and  intending  by 
tlietr  secret  and  sudden  arrival,  to  make  trial  of  that  whichever)'  one  had  before  avouched,  only  CoUatinus 
finds  his  wife  (though  it  were  late  in  the  night)  spinning  amongst  her  maids  ;  the  other  ladies  were  all 
found  dancing  and  revelling,  or  in  several  disports.  \Vhereupon  the  noblemen  yielded  CoUatinus  the  vic- 
tor}', and  his  wife  the  fame.  At  that  time  Sextus  Tarquinius,  being  inflamed  with  Lucrece's  beauty,  yet 
smotherinf:  his  passions  lor  the  present,  departed  with  the  rest  back  to  the  camp;  from  whence  he  shortly 
after  privily  withdrew  himself,  and  was  (according  to  his  estate)  royally  entertained  and  lodged  by 
Lucrece  at  CoUatium.  The  same  night  he  treacherously  stealeth  into  her  cham'oer,  violently  ravished  heri 
and  early  in  the  morning  speedeth  away.  Lucrece,  in  this  lamentable  plight,  hastily  despatcheth  messen- 
gers, one  to  Rome  for  her  father,  another  to  the  camp  for  Collatine.  They  came,  the  one  accompanied 
with  Junius  Brutus  the  o'her  with  Publius  Valerius;  and,  finding  Lucrece  attired  in  mourning  habit,  de. 
raanded  the  cause  of  her  sorrow.  She,  first  taking  an  oath  of  them  for  her  revenge,  revealed  the  actor  and 
whole  manner  of  his  dealing,  and  \i-ithal  suddenly  stabbed  herself.  Which  done,  with  one  consent  they  all 
vowed  to  root  out  the  whole  hated  family  of  the  Tarquins  ;  and,  bearing  the  dead  body  to  Rome,  Brutus 
acquainted  the  people  with  the  doer  and  manner  of  the  vile  deed,  with  a  bitter  invective  against  the 
tyranny  of  the  king;  wherewith  the  people  were  so  moved,  that  with  one  consent  and  a  general  acclamation 
the  Tarquins  were  all  exiled,  and  the  state  government  changed  from  kings  to  consuls. 


^  ->s^- 


THE  EAPE  OP  LUCEECE. 


From  the  besieged  Ai-dea  all  in  post, 
Borne  by  the  trastless  wings  of  false  desire, 
Lust-breathed  Tarqiun  leaves  the  Roman  host, 
And  to  Collatium  beai's  the  lightless  fire 
Which,  in  pale  embers  hid,  liu'ks  to  aspii'e, 
And  girdle  with  embracing  flames  the  waist 
Of  Collatine's  fair  love,  Lucrece  the  chaste. 

llaply  that  name  of  chaste  vuihapp'ly  set 
This  bateless  edge  on  his  keen  appetite ; 
When  Collatine  unwisely  did  not  let* 
To  praise  the  clear  unmatched  red  and  white 
Which  triumph' d  in  that  sky  of  his  delight. 

Where  mortal  stars,   as  bright  as  heaven's 
beauties, 

With  pure  aspects  did  him  peculiar  duties. 

For  he  the  night  before,  in  Tarquin's  tent, 
Unlock'd  the  treasure  of  his  happy  state, 
What  priceless  wealth  the  heavens  had  him  lent 
In  the  possession  of  his  beauteous  mate  ; 
Reckoning  his  fortune  at  such  high-proud  rate. 
That  kings  might  be  espoused  to  more  fame. 
But  king  nor  peer  to  such  a  peerless  dair.e. 

a  Zt'/— forbear. 


O  happiness  enjoy'd  but  of  a  few ! 
Aud,  if  possess'd,  as  soon  decay'd  and  done* 
As  is  the  morning's  sUver-melting  dew 
Agamst  the  golden  splendoirr  of  the  sun ! 
An  expir'd  date,  cancell'd  ere  well  begun : 
Honour  and  beauty,  in  the  owner's  arms. 
Are  weakly  fortress' d  from  a  world  of  harms. 

Beauty  itself  doth  of  itself  persuade 
The  eyes  of  men  without  an  orator ; 
What  needeth  then  apologies  be  made 
To  set  forth  that  which  is  so  singular  ? 
Or  why  is  Collatine  the  publisher 

Of  that  rich  jewel  he  should  keep  unknown 
From  thievish  ears,  because  it  is  his  own  ? 

Perchance  Ids  boast  of  Lucrece'  sovereignty 
Suggested''  this  proud  issue  of  a  king; 
For  by  our  eai-s  our  hearts  oft  tainted  be : 
Perchance  that  envy  of  so  rich  a  thing, 
Braving  compare,  disdainfully  did  sting 


a  Done.    The  word  is  here  used  as  in  a  previous  passage 
of  the  Venus  and  Adonis: — 

"Wasted,  thaw'd,  and  done, 
As  mountain-snow  melts  with  the  mid-day  sun." 
b  Suggested — tempted 

393 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


His  high-pitch'd  thoughts,  that  meiuier  men 

should  vaunt, 
That  golden  hap  wliich  then"  superiors  want. 

But  some  untimely  thought  did  instigate 
His  all-too-timcless  speed,  if  none  of  those : 
His  honour,  his  affairs,  his  friends,  his  state, 
Neglected  all,  with  swift  intent  he  gofs 
To  quench  the  coal  which  in  his  liver  glows. 
0  rash  false  heat,  ^vTapp■d  in  repentant  cold, 
Thy  hastv  spring  still  blasts,*  and  ne'er  grows 
old! 

When  at  Collatium  tliis  false  lord  arriv'd. 
Well  was  he  welcom'd  by  the  Roman  dame. 
Within  whose  face  beauty  and  vii'tue  striv'd 
Which  of  them  both  should  underprop  her  fame: 
Wlien  vu-tue  bragg'd,  beauty  would  blush  for 
shame ; 
Wlien  beauty  boasted  blushes,  in  despite 
Virtue  would  stain  that  ov^  with  silver  white. 

But  beauty,  iu  that  white  intituled,* 
From  Venus'  doves  doth  challenge  that  fair  field: 
Then  virtue  claims  from  beauty  beauty's  red, 
Which  wtue  gave  the  golden  age,  to  gild 
Their  silver  cheeks,  and  call'd  it  then  their  shield; 
Teaching  them  thus  to  use  it  in  the  fii^ht, — 
When  shame  assail' d,  the  red  shoidd  fence 
the  white. 

This  heraldry  in  Lucreee'  face  was  seen, 
Argued  by  beauty's  red,  and  vutue's  white : 
Of  cither's  colour  was  the  other  queen, 
Promg  from  world's  minority  their  right : 
Yet  their  ambition  makes  them  still  to  fight ; . 
The  sovereignty  of  either  being  so  great. 
That  oft  they  interchange  each  other's  seat. 

This  silent  war  of  hlies  and  of  roses 
"Which  Tarquin  view'd  in  her  fail-  face's  field. 
In  their  pure  ranks  his  traitor  eye  encloses ; 
"Wliere,  lest  between  tliem  both  it  should  be  kill'd. 
The  coward  captive  vanquished  doth  yield 

«  Blatli  is  here  used  as  a  verb  neuter.     It  is  so  usei!  ;a 
\lie  poem  ascribed  to  Raleigh,  entitled  '  The  Farewell :  '— 

•'  Tell  age,  it  daily  wasteth; 
Tell  honour,  how  it  alters  ; 
Tell  beauty,  that  it  btmlcth." 

Or.    The  line  usually  stands  thus  :— 

Virtue  would  stain  that  o'er  with  silver  white." 

The  original  h.is  ore.  Malone  has  suggested,  but  he  doea 
not  act  upon  the  suggestion,  that  "  the  word  intended  was 
perhaps  or,  i.e.  gold,  to  which  the  poet  compares  the  di'cp 
rolour  of  a  blush."  The  lines  in  the  subsequent  stanza 
complete  the  heraldic  allusion  :  — 

"  Then  virtue  claims  from  beauty  bciuty's  red, 
Which  virtue  gave  the  golden  age,  to  gild 
Their  iilver  checks,  and  call'd  it  then  their  gliield." 
e  /n/«7u/<d— having  a  title  to,  or  in. 
394 


To  tliosc  two  armies  that  would  let  him  go, 
Rather  tkan  triumph  in  so  false  a  foe. 

Now   tliinks    he    that    lier    husband's    shallo\\ 

tongue 
(The  niggard  prodigal  that  prais'd  her  so) 
in  that  liigh  task  liaih  done  her  beauty  wrong. 
Which  far  exceeds  his  barren  skill  to  show : 
Therefore  that  praise  which  CoUatine  doth  owe,  * 
Enchanted  Tarquin  answers  with  surmise. 
In  silent  wonder  of  still-gazing  eyes. 

This  earthly  saint,  adored  by  this  devil, 
Little  suspccteth  the  false  worshipper ; 
For  unstain'd  thoughts  do  seldom  dream  on  evil ; 
Birds  never  lim'd  no  secret  bushes  fear: 
So  guiltless  she  securely  gives  good  cheer 
And  reverend  welcome  to  her  princely  guest, 
"Wliose  inward  ill  no  outward  harm  express'd  : 

For  that  he  eolour'd  with  his  high  estate. 
Hiding  base  sin  in  plaits  of  majesty; 
That  nothing  i^i  him  seem'd  inordinate. 
Save  sometime  too  much  wonder  of  his  eyt;. 
Which,  having  all,  all  could  not  satisfy; 
But,  poorly  rich,  so  wanteth  in  his  store 
That  cloy'd  with  much  he  pineth  still  for  more 

But  she,  that  never  cop'd  with  stranger  eyes, 
CoiUd  pick  no  meaning    from  their   parling'' 

looks. 
Nor  read  the  subtle-shining  secrecies 
Writ  in  the  glassy  margeuts  of  such  books  ;•= 
Ska  toueh'd  no  unknown  baits,  nor  feai-'d  no 
hooks ; 
Nor  coiJd  she  moralize  ^  his  wanton  sight, 
!More  than  his  eyes  were  open'd  to  the  light. 

He  stories  to  her  cars  her  husband's  fame, 
Won  in  the  fields  of  fruitful  Italy ; 
And  decks  with  praises  Collatine's  high  name, 
Made  gloi-ious  by  his  manly  chivalry. 
With  biniised  arms  and  wreaths  of  victory ; 
Her  joy  with  hcav'd-up  hand  she  doth  ex 

press, 
^\jid,  wordless,  so  greets  heaven  for  his  sue 
cess. 

Far  from  the  purjiosc  of  his  coming  thither 
He  makes  excuses  for  his  being  there. 
No  cloudy  show  of  stonny  blustering  weather 
Doth  yet  in  his  fair  welkin  once  appear ; 
Till  sable  Night,  mother  of  Dread  and  Fear, 

»  The  object  of  praise  which  CoUatine  doth  po8se»E. 
^  i'ar/iHi/— speaking. 

=  See  Romeo  and  Juliet.     Illustrations  of  Act  I. 
J  J/ora/ise— interpret. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Upon  the  world  dim  darkness  dotlx  display, 
And  in  her  vaulty  prison  stows  the  day. 

For  then  is  Tarquin  brought  unto  his  bed. 
Intending"  weariness  with  heavy  spright ; 
For,  after  supper,  long  he  questioned'' 
With  modest  Lucrece,  and  wore  out  tlie  night : 
Now  leaden  slumber  with   life's  strength  doth 
fight; 
And  every  one  to  rest  themselves  betake, 
Save  thieves,  and  cares,  and  troubled  minds, 
that  wake. 

As  one  of  which  doth  Tarquin  lie  revolving 
The  snndi-y  dangers  of  his  wHl's  obtaimng ; 
Yet  ever  to  obtain  his  wHl  resolving. 
Though  weak-built   hopes  persuade  him  to  ab- 
staining ; 
Despau-  to  gain  doth  traffic  oft  for  gaining ; 
And  when  great  treasui-e  is  the  meed  pro- 

pos'd. 
Though  death  be  adjunct,  there's  no  death 
suppos'd. 

Those  that  much  covet  ai-e  with  gain  so  fond 
That  what    they  have    not,   that  which    they 

possess 
They  scatter  and  unloose  it  from  then  bond/ 
And  so,  by  hoping  more,  they  have  but  less ; 
Or,  gaining  more,  the  profit  of  excess 
Is  but  to  surfeit,  and  such  griefs  sustaia. 
That  they  prove  bankrupt   in  this  poor-rich 
gain. 

The  aim  of  aU  is  but  to  nui-se  the  Ufe 
With  honour-,  wealth,  and  case,  in  waning  age ; 
And  in  this  aim  there  is  such  thwarting  strife. 
That  one  for  all,  or  all  for  one  we  gage ; 
As  life  for  honour  in  feU  battles'  rage ; 

Honoui-  for  wealth ;  and  oft  that  wealth  doth 
cost 

The  death  of  all,*and  all  together  lost. 

*  Intending — pretending. 

^  Questioned— con\ersed. 

■^  This  is  tlie  reading  of  the  original  rtdition  of  1594.    That 
of  iei6  reads— 

"  are  with  gain  so  fond, 
That  oft  they  have  not  that  which  they  possess ; 
They  scatter  and  unloose  it." 
Malone  adopts  the  reading  of  the  original,  and  he  thus  ex- 
plains it :   "  Poetically  speaking,  they  may  be  said  to  scatter 
ivliat  they  have  not.  i.  e.  what  they  cannot  be  truly  said  to 
have;  what  they  do  not  enjo;/,  though posseweii  of  it."    This 
is  clearly  a  misinterpretation.    The  reasoning  of  the  two  fol- 
lowing stanzas  is  directed  against  the  folly  of  venturing  a 
certainty  for  an  expectation,  by  which  we  "  make  something 
nothing."   The  meaning  then,  though  obscurely  expressed, 
is  that  the  covetous  are  so  fond  of  gaining  what  they  have 
not,  that  they  scatter  and  unloose  from  their  bond  (safe 
hold)  that  which  they  possess. 


'  So  that  in  vent'ring  ill  we  leave  to  be 
The  things  we  are,  for  tliat  which  we  expect ; 
And  this  ambitious  foul  infii-mity. 
In  having  much,  torments  us  with  defect 
Of  that  we  have :  so  then  we  do  neglect 
The  thing  we  have,  and,  all  for  want  of  wit, 
Make  something  nothing,  by  augmenting  it. 

Such  hazard  now  must  doting  Tarquin  make, 
Pa\vuing  his  honour  to  obtain  his  lust ; 
And  for  himself  hunself  lie  must  forsake  : 
Then  where  is  truth  if  there  be  no  self-trust  ? 
"^Yhen  shall  he  think  to  find  a  stranger  just, 
When  he  himself  himself  confounds,"  betrays 
To  slanderous  tongues,  and  ^v^etched  hateful 
days  ? 

Now  stole  upon  the  time  the  dead  of  night, 
WTien  heavy  sleep  had  clos'd  up  mortal  eyes ; 
No  comfortable  star  did  lend  his  hght. 
No  noise  but  owls'  and  wolv&s' 


death-boding 


cries ; 


Now  serves  the  season  that  they  may  surprise 
The  siUy  lambs ;  pure  thoughts  are  dead  and 

stm, 

WMle  lust  and  murder  wake  to  stain  and 
kill. 

And  now  this  lustful  lord  leap'd  from  his  bed. 

Throwing  his  mantle  rudely  o'er  his  arm ; 

Is  madly  toss'd  between  desire  and  dread ; 

Th'  one  sweetly  flatters,  th'  other  feareth  harm ; 

But  honest  Fear,   bewitch'd   with  lust's   foiJ 
chai-m, 
Doth  too  too  oft  betake  him  to  retire. 
Beaten  away  by  brain-sick  rude  Desire. 

His  falchion  on  a  flint  he  softly  smiteth, 
That  from  the  cold  stone  sparks  of  fu-e  do  fly 
Whereat  a  waxen  torch  forthAvith  he  Ughteth, 
Which  must  be  lode-star  to  his  lustful  eye ; 
And  to  the  flame  thus  speaks  advisedly : 
'  As  from  this  cold  flint  I  enforc'd  this  fii'c. 
So  Lucrece  must  I  force  to  my  desire.' 

Here  pale  with  fear  he  doth  premeditate 
The  dangers  of  his  loathsome  entei-prisc. 
And  in  his  inward  mind  he  doth  debate 
WTiat  foUowiug  sorrow  may  on  this  arise ; 
Then  looking  scornfully,  he  doth  despise 
His  naked  armour  of  still-slaughter'd  lust, 
And  justly  thus  controls  his  thoughts  unjust : 


a  Confounds.  Malone  interprets  this  as  destmys;  but  the 
meaning  is  sufficiently  clear  if  we  accept  confounds  in  its 
usual  sense, 

395      . 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Fair  torch,  biini  out  thy  light,  and  lend  it  not 
To  darken  her  whose  light  excelleth  thine ! 
And  die  unhallow'd  thoughts,  before  you  blot 
With  your  uncleanness  that  which  is  divine ! 
Offer  pure  incense  to  so  pure  a  shrine : 
Let  fair  humanity  abhor  the  deed 
That  spots  and  stains  love's  modest  snow- 
white  weed.' 

•  0  shame  to  knighthood  and  to  shining  aims ! 
0  foul  dishonour  to  my  household's  grave ! 

0  impious  act,  including  all  foul  harms ! 
A  martial  man  to  be  soft  fancy's  slave  ;'• 
True  valour  still  a  true  respect  should  have ; 
Then  my  digression*  is  so  vile,  so  base. 
That  it  will  live  engraven  in  my  face. 

*  Yea,  though  I  die,  the  scandal  ^vill  survive, 
And  be  an  eyesore  in  my  golden  coat ; 

Some  loathsome  dash  the  herald  will  contrive,'' 


»  jr<*(i— garment.  The  word  is  more  commonly  used  in 
the  plural,  as  in  Milton's  '  Paradise  Regained:'— 

"  But  new  an  aged  man  in  rural  tceedt." 
But  in  the  same  scene  of  Coriolanus  (Act  ii.,  Scene  iii.)  we 
have  both  ueed  and  ireedt. 

b  Pancift  j/ar*— love's  slave. 

«  Digraiion  is  here  uieil  in  the  sense  of  trtinsgrctsion. 

J  Here  is  one  of  the  frequent  examples  with  which  the 
works  of  Shakspere  and  his  contemporaries  abound,  of  apply- 
ing the  usages  of  chivalry  to  the  more  remote  antiquity  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  The  poem  of  Lucrece  contains  many 
such  allusions.  In  particular,  towards  the  close  we  have 
thii  line  : — 

"  Knight  I  by  their  oaths  should  right  poor  ladies'  harms." 
This  was  indeed  an  anticipation  of  chivalry;  but  tl;e  poet 
could  in  no  way  so  forcibly  express  the  spirit  which  ani- 
mated the  avengers  of  Lucrece,  and  which  the  injured  lady 
here  invokes,  as  by  employing  the  languageof  chivalry.  The 
use  of  the  word  ladia  in  this  line  isasmuchan  anachronism 

S96 


To  cipher  me  how  fondly  I  did  dote ; 

That  my  posterity,  sham'd  with  the  note. 
Shall  curse  my  bones,  and  hold  it  for  no  sin 
To  wish  that  I  their  father  had  not  been. 

'  "What  win  I  if  I  gain  the  thing  I  seek  ? 

A  dream,  a  breath,  a  froth  of  fleeting  joy : 

WTio  buys  a  minute's  mirth  to  wail  a  week  ? 

Or  sells  eternity  to  get  a  toy  ? 

For  one  sweet  grape  who  will  the  ^•ine  destroy  ? 
Or  what  fond  beggar,  but  to  touch  the  crown. 
Would  with  tlie  sceptre  straight  be  strucken 
dowTi  ? 

'  If  Collatiuus  dream  of  my  intent, 
Will  he  not  wake,  and  in  a  desperate  rage 
Post  hither,  this  ^^le  pui-pose  to  prevent  ? 
This  siege  that  hath  engirt  his  marriage. 
This  blur  to  youth,  this  sorrow  to  the  sage. 
This  dying  virtue,  this  surviving  shame. 
Whose  crime  will  bear  an  ever-during  blame  ? 

'  O  what  excuse  can  my  invention  make 

When  thou  shalt  charge  me  with  so  black  a 

deed? 
WiU  not  my  tongue  be  mute,  my  frail  joints 

shake? 
Inline  eyes  forego  their  light,  my  false  heart 

bleed  ? 
The  guilt  being  great  the  fear  doth  still  exceed ; 
And  extreme  fear  can  neither  fight  nor  fly. 
But,  coward-like,  with  trembling  terror  die. 

as  that  of  A'ntpA<«;  tut  what  other  words  will  express  thtf 
meaning  intended  f 


'-■'A 


1 


i 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


•  Had  Collatinus  kill'd  my  son  or  sire, 
Or  lain  in  ambush  to  betray  my  life, 
Or  were  lie  not  my  dear  friend,  this  desire 
Might  have  excuse  to  work  upon  his  wife ; 
As  in  revenge  or  quittal  of  such  strife : 
But  as  he  is  my  kinsman,  my  dear  friend, 
The   shame  and  fault   finds   no   excuse 
end. 


nor 


'  Shameful  it  is ;— ay,  if  the  fact  be  known : 
Hateful  it  is ;— there  is  no  hate  in  loving ; 
I  '11  beg  her  love ;— but  she  is  not  her  own ;" 
The  worst  is  but  denial,  and  reproving : 
My  will  is  strong,  past  reason's  weak  removing. 
Who  fears  a  sentence  or  an  old  man's  saw 
Shall  by  a  pamted  cloth''  be  kept  in  awe.' 

Thus,  graceless,  holds  he  disputation 
'Tween  frozen  conscience  and  hot-burning  will, 
And  with  good  thoughts  makes  dispensation. 
Urging  the  worser  sense  for  vantage  still ; 
Which  in  a  moment  doth  confound  and  kill 
All  pure  effects,  and  doth  so  far  proceed, 
That  what  is  vile  shows  like  a  virtuous  deed. 

Quoth  he,  '  She  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand, 
And  gaz'd  for  tidmgs  in  my  eager  eyes, 
Fearing  some  hard  news  from  the  warlike  band 
Where  her  beloved  Collatinus  lies. 
0  how  her  fear  did  make  her  colour  rise ! 
First  red  as  roses  that  on  lawn  we  lay, 
Then  white  as  lawn,  the  roses  took  away.<^ 

'And  how  her  hand,  in  my  hand  being  lock'd, 
Forc'd  it  to  tremble  with  her  loyal  fear ; 
Which  struck  her  sad,  and  then  it  faster  rock'd. 
Until  her  husband's  welfare  she  did  hear ; 
Whereat  she  smiled  with  so  sweet  a  cheer, 
That  had  Narcissus  seen  her  as  she  stood, 
Self-love    had    never    drown' d    him    in    the 
flood. 

•  Why  hmit  I  then  for  coloui-  or  excuses  ? 

All  orators  are  dumb  when  beauty  pleadeth ; 

Poor  wretches  have  remorse  in  poor  abuses ; 

Love  thrives  not  in  the  heart  that   shadows 
drcadeth : 

Affection  is  my  captain,  and  he  leadeth ; 
And  when  his  gaudy  banner  is  display' d, 
The  coward  fights,  and  will  not  be  dismay'd. 

a  Malone  says  the  words  such  as  shameful  if  <•'  are  "  sup- 
posed to  be  spoken  by  some  airy  monitor."  Surely  the  poec 
only  meant  to  express  that  contest  of  thoughts  which  goes 
forward  in  a  mind  distracted  between  reason  and  passion; 
and  which  the  dramatic  poet  can  only  represent  by  soliloquy, 
ae  it  is  here  represented. 

b  As  You  Like  It,  Illustrations  of  Act  in. 

e  Took  ou'fli/— being  taken  away. 


'  Then,  cluldish  fear,  avaunt !  debating,  die ! 
Respect"  and  reason  wait  on  wruikled  ago ! 
My  heart  shall  never  countermand  mine  eye ; 
Sad"*  pause  and  deep  regard  beseem  the  sage ; 
My  part  is  youth,  and  beats  these   from  the 
stage : 
Desu-e  my  pilot  is,  beauty  my  pnze ; 
Then  who  fears  sinking  where  such  treasure 
lies?' 

As  com  o'ergrown  by  weeds,  so  heedful  fear 

Is  ahnost  chok'd  by  um-esisted  lust. 

Away  he  steals  with  opening  listening  ear. 

Full  of  foul  hope,  and  full  of  fond  mistrust; 

Both  wliich,  as  servitors  to  the  unjust. 

So  cross  him  ^vith  their  opposite  persuasion, 
That  now  he  vows  a  league,   and  now  in- 
vasion. 

Within  his  thought  her  heavenly  image  sits. 
And  in  the  selfsame  seat  sits  Collatine : 
That  eye  which  looks  on  her  confounds  his  \nis ; 
That  eye  which  him  beholds,  as  more  dime, 
Unto  a  view  so  false  will  not  incline ; 
But  with  a  pure  appeal  seeks  to  the  heart, 
Which  once  corrupted  takes  the  worser  part ; 

And  therein  heartens  up  his  sei-vile  powers. 
Who,  flatter'd  by  their  leader's  jocund  show, 
Stuff  up  his  lust,  as  minutes  fill  up  hours ; 
And  as  their  captain,  so  their  pride  doth  grow, 
Paying  more  slavish  tribute  than  they  owe. 
By  reprobate  desii-e  thus  madly  led, 
The  Roman  lord  marcheth  to  Lucrece'  bed. 

The  locks  between  her  chamber  and  his  will. 
Each  one  by  him  enforc'd  retires  his  ward; 
But  as  they  open  they  all  rate  his  ill. 
Which  di-ives  the  creeping  thief  to  some  regard; 
The  thi-eshold  grates  the  door  to  have  hun  heai-d; 

Night-wand'ring  weasels  shriek  to   see  him 
there ; 

They  fright  him,  yet  he  still  pursues  his  fear. 

As  each  uu\villing  portal  yields  him  way. 
Through  little  vents  and  crannies  of  the  place 
The  wind  wars  mth  his  torch,  to  make  him  stay. 
And  blows  the  smoke  of  it  into  his  face, 
Extinguishing  his  conducf^  in  this  case ; 

But  his  hot  heart,  which  fond  desii-e  doth 
scorch. 

Puffs  forth  another  wind  that  fii-cs  the  torch : 

a  Respcct-vrvLdencs,-in  the  sense  of  the  originU  Latin, 
looking  again. 
b  Sarf— grave. 
>=  Conduct — conductor. 

337 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


.\nd  being  lighted,  by  tlie  light  he  spies 
Lucretia's  glove,  Avhercin  her  needle  sticks  ; 
He  takes  it  from  the  rushes  where  it  lies, 
And  griping  it,  the  neeld*  his  finger  pricks: 
As  who  should  sav,  this  glove  to  wanton  tricks 

Is  not  inur'd ;  return  again  in  haste ; 

Thou  seest  our  mistress'  ornaments  are  chaste. 

But  all  these  poor  forbiddings  could  not  stay  him ; 

He  in  the  worst  sense  constnies  their  denial : 

The  doors,  the  wind,  the  glove  that  did  dchvy 
him, 

He  takes  for  accidental  things  of  trial ; 

Or  as  those  bars  which  stop  the  houily  dial, 
Who  \rith  a  lingering  stay  his  course  doth  let,'' 
Till  every  minute  pays  the  hour  liis  debt. 

'  So,  so,'  quoth  he,  '  these  lets  attend  the  time, 
Like  little  frosts  that  sometime  threat  the  spi'ing. 
To  add  a  more  rejoiciug  to  the  prime, 
And  give  the  sneaped'=  birds  more  cause  to  sing. 
Pain  pays  the  income  of  each  precious  thuig ; 

Huge    rocks,    high    winds,    strong    pirates, 
shelves  and  sands, 

The  merchant  fears,  ere  rich  at  home  he  lands.' 

Now  is  he  come  unto  the  chamber  door 
That  shuts  him  from  the  heaven  of  his  thought, 
AYhieh  with  a  yielding  latch,  and  with  no  more, 
Hath   barr'd    him    from    the 

sought. 

So  from  himself  impiety  hath  wi'ought, 
That  for  his  prey  to  pray  he  doth  begui, 
As  if  the  heaven  should  countenance  his  sin. 

But  in  the  midst  of  his  unfruitful  prayer, 

Having  solicited  the  eternal  power, 

That  his  foul  thoughts  might  compass  his  fair 

fair, 
That  they  would  stand  auspicious  to  the  hoiu'. 
Even  there  he  starts  : — quoth  he,  '  I  must  de- 
flower ; 
The  powers  to  whom  I  pray  abhor  this  fact, 
How  can  they  then  a.ssist  me  in  the  act  ? 

'  Then  Love  and  Fortune  be  my  gods,  my  guide ! 

My  will  is  back'd  with  resolution  : 

Tlioughts  arc  but  dreams  till  their  effects  be  tried, 

The  blackest  sin  is  clear'd  with  absolution ; 

Against  love's  fire  fear's  frost  liath  dissolution. 
The  eye  of  heaven  is  out,  and  misty  night 
Covers  the  shame  that  follows  sweet  deliglit.' 

Jfeeld—need)e. 
>>  Ze<— obstruct. 

'  Sneaped— checked.    So  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Act  i., 
Scene  i. : — 

"  Biron  is  like  an  envious  snraping  frost, 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring." 

398 


blessed  thing  he 


This  said,  liis  guilty  hand  pluck'd  up  the  latch. 
And  with  his  knee  the  door  he  opens  wide : 
The  dove  sleeps  fast  that   this   night-owl  wili 

catch ; 
Thus  treason  works  ere  traitors  be  espied. 
Who  sees  the  lurking  serpent  steps  aside ; 
But    she,  sound   sleeping,    fearing   no    such 

tiling. 
Lies  at  tlio  incrcv  of  his  mortal  stiner. 

Into  the  chamber  wickedly  he  stalks,' 
And  gazetli  on  her  yet  unstained  bed. 
Tlie  curtains  being  close,  about  he  walks, 
Rolling  liis  greedy  eyeballs  in  Iiis  head : 
By  their  high  treason  is  his  heart  misled ; 

Which  gives  the  watchword  to  his  hand  full 
soon, 

To  draw  the  cloud  that  hides  the  silver  moon. 

Look,  as  the  fair  and  fiery -pointed  sun, 
Rushiug  from  forth  a  cloud,  bereaves  our  sight, ; 
Even  so,  the  curtain  drawn,  his  eyes  loegun 
To  wink,  being  blinded  mth  a  greater  light : 
Wliether  it  is  that  she  reflects  so  bright, 

Tliat  dazzlclh  them,  or  else  some  shame  sup- 
posed ; 
But  blind  they  are,  and  keep  themselves  en- 
closed. 

0,  had  they  in  that  darksome  prison  died. 
Then  had  they  seen  the  period  of  then-  iU ! 
Then  CoUatiuc  again  by  Lucrecc'  side 
In  his  clear  bed  might  have  reposed  still : 
But  they  must  ope,  this  blessed  league  to  kill ; 
And  holy-thoughted  Lucrecc  to  their  sight 
Must  sell  her  joy,  her  life,  her  world's  delight 

Her  lily  hand  her  rosy  cheek  lies  tmder, 
Cozening  the  pillow  of  a  lawfid  kiss  ; 
Who  therefore  angr\-,  seems  to  part  in  sunder, 
Swelling  on  either  side  to  want  his  bliss  ; 
Between  whose  hiUs  her  head  entombed  is  : 
Where,  like  a  virtuous  monument,  she  lies, 
To  be  adiiiir'd  of  lewd  unliaUow'd  eyes. 

a  .9/(7//,-.t— Malonc  says,  "That  tlic  pnct  meant  by  the  word 
stalk  to  convey  the  notion,  not  of  a  boisterous,  but  quiet 
movement,  appears  from  a  subsequent  passage: — 
'  For  in  the  dreadful  dark  of  deep  midnight 
With  shining  falcliion  in  my  chamber  came 
A  crrrping  creature.'" 
Malone  appears  from  a  subsequent  part  of  his  note  to  con- 
found stalk  with  stridn.     He  says,  "  A  person  apprehensive 
of  beinp  discovered  naturally  takes  long  steps,  the  sooner  to 
arrive  at  bis  point."    But  long  steps  are  noisy  steps  ;  and 
therefore  "Tarquin's  ravishing  strides  "  cannot  be  the  true 
reading  of  the  famous  passage  in  Macbeth.     But  stalk,  on 
the  contrar)',   literally  means,  to  go  ttarily  or  softh/.     It  is 
the  Anglo-Saxon  strrlcan — jicdctcntim  irr.     The  fowler  who 
creeps  upon  the  birds  stalks,  and  his  j(a//.in_7-horse  derives 
its  name  from  the  character  of  the  fowler's  movement. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCKECE. 


Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  -was, 
On  the  green  coverlet ;  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  au  Apiil  daisy  on  the  grass, 
With  pearly  sweat,  resembling  dew  of  night. 
Her  eyes,  like    marigolds,  had    sheath'd  their 
light. 
And  canopied  in.  darkness  sweetly  lay, 
Till  they  might  open  to  adorn  the  day. 


Her  hair,  like  golden  threads,  pla/d  with  her 

breath ; 
0  modest  wantons !  wanton  modesty ! 
Showing  life's  triumph  in  the  map  of  death. 
And  death's  dim  look  in  life's  mortality : 
Each  in  her  sleep  themselves  so  beautify. 

As  if  between  them  twain  there  were  no  strife, 
But  that  life  liv'd  in  death,  and  deatli  in  life. 


Her  breasts,  like  ivory  globes  cu-cled  with  blue, 
A  pair  of  maiden  worlds  unconquered. 
Save  of  their  lord  no  bearing  yoke  they  knew, 
jVnd  him  by  oath  they  truly  honoui'ed. 
These  worlds  in  Tarquin  new  ambition  bred : 
"Who  like  a  foul  usui-per  went  about 
Erom  this  fair  throne  to  heave  the  owner  out. 

What  coidd  he  see  but  mightily  he  noted  ? 
What  did  he  note  but  strongly  he  desir'd  ? 
What  he  beheld  on  that  he  firmly  doted, 
And  in  his  will  his  wilful  eye  he  tir'd.* 
With  more  than  admiration  he  admir'd 
Her  azure  veins,  her  alabaster  skin, 
Her  coral  lips,  her  snow-white  dimpled  chin. 

As  the  grim  lion  fawneth  o'er  his  prey. 
Sharp  hunger  by  the  conquest  satisfied, 
So  o'er  this  sleeping  soul  doth  Tarquin  stay, 
His  rage  of  lust  by  gazing  qualified ; 
Slack' d,   not   suppress'd;    for  standing    by  her 
side, 

»  Tir'd — satiated,  glutted — as  a  falcon  tires  on  his  prey. 


His  eye,  wliich  late  this  mutmy  restrains, 
Unto  a  greater  uproar  tempts  liis  veins : 

And    they,   hke    straggling  slaves    for   pillage 

fighting. 
Obdurate  vassals,  fell  exploits  effectuig, 
In  bloody  death  and  ravishment  delighting, 
Nor  cluldi'en's  tears,  nor   mother's  groans  re- 
specting. 
Swell  in  theii"  pride,  the  onset  still  expecting : 
Anon  his  beating  heart,  alarum  striking, 
Gives  the  hot  charge,  and  bids  them  do  thcii 
likinc:. 

His  drumming  heai't  cheers  up  his  burning  eye. 
His  eye  commends  the  leading  to  his  hand ; 
His  hand,  as  proud  of  such  a  dignity, 
Smoking  with  pride,  march'd  on  to  make  his 

stand 
On  her  bare  breast,  the  heart  of  all  her  land ; 
T\Tiose  ranks  of  blue  veins,  as  his  hand  did 

scale. 
Left  their  round  turrets  destitute  and  pale. 

399 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


They,  mustering  to  the  quiet  cabinet 
AVTiere  their  dear  governess  and  lady  lies. 
Do  tell  her  she  is  dreadfully  beset, 
And  fright  her  vrith  confusion  of  their  cries : 
She,   much   aniaz'd,  breaks   ope    her  lock'd-up 
eyes, 
"\Mio,  peeping  forth  this  tumult  to  behold, 
Are  by  his  flaming  torch  dinim'd  and  con- 
'troll'd. 

Imagine  her  as  one  in  dead  of  uisrht 
From  forth  dull  sleep  by  dreadful  fancy  waking, 
That  thinks  she  hath  beheld  some  ghastly  sprite, 
Whose  grim  aspect  sets  every  joint  a  shaking ; 
"What  terror  't  is  !  but  she,  in  Avorscr  takmg. 
From  sleep  disturbed,  hecdfully  doth  view 
The  sight  which  makes  supposed  terror  true. 

Wrapp'd  and  confounded  in  a  thousand  fears, 
Like  to  a  new-kill'd  bird  she  trembling  lies ; 
She  dares  not  look ;  yet,  •winking,  there  appears 
Quick-shifting  antics,  ugly  in  her  eyes : 
Such  shadows  are  the  weak  brain's  forgeries : 
Who,  angry  that  the  eyes  fly  from  their  lights. 
In  darkness  daunts  them  with  more  dreadful 
sights. 

His  hand,  that  yet  remains  upon  her  breast, 
(Rude  ram,  to  batter  such  an  ivory  wall !) 
May  feel  her  heart,  poor  citizen,  distress' d. 
Wounding  itself  to  death,  rise  up  and  fall. 
Beating  her  bulk,'  that  his  hand  shakes  withal. 
This  moves  in  him  more  rage,  and  lesser  pity, 
To  make  the  breach,  and  enter  this  sweet  city. 

First,  Uke  a  trumpet,  doth  his  tongue  begin 
To  sound  a  parley  to  his  heartless  foe, 
Who  o'er  the  white  sheet  peers  her  whiter  chin, 
The  reason  of  this  rash  alarm  to  know, 
AVhich  he  by  dumb  demeanour  seeks  to  show ; 
But  she  with  vehement  prayers  urgeth  still 
Under  what  colour  he  commits  tliis  ill. 

Thus  he  replies :  *  The  colour  in  thy  face 
(That  even  for  anger  makes  the  lily  pale. 
And  the  red  rose  blush  at  her  ovra  disgrace) 
Shall  plead  for  me,  and  tell  my  loving  talc : 
Under  that  colour  am  I  come  to  scale 

»  Bulk — the  body,  the  whole  masB.  Johnson,  however,  de- 
fines the  word  as  the  breast,  or  larfiest  part,  of  a  man; 
deriving  it  from  the  Dutch  hutckc.  A  passaRC  in  }Ianilet 
employs  the  word  in  the  same  way  as  in  the  text  before  us:  — 
"  He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound 
As  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk." 
Turbcrvile,  who  preceded  Shakspere  about  twenty  years, 
bM  this  line  :— 

"  My  liver  leapt  within  my  lulk." 
400 


Thy  never-conquer'd  fort ;  the  fault  is  tliine, 
For  those  thine  eyes  betray  thee  unto  mine. 

'  Thus  I  forestall  thee,  if  thou  mean  to  chide : 
Thy  beauty  hath  eusnar'd  thee  to  this  night, 
"Where  thou  with  patience  must  my  will  abide, 
My  A^ill  that  marks  thee  for  my  earth's  dehght, 
"Wliich  I  to  conquer  sought  with  all  iiiy  might ; 
But  as  reproof  and  reason  beat  it  dead. 
By  thy  bright  beauty  was  it  newly  bred. 

'  I  see  what  crosses  my  attempt  will  bring ; 
I  know  what  thorns  the  growing  rose  defends ; 
I  think  the  honey  guarded  with  a  sting : 
.'\J1  this,  beforehand,  counsel  comprehends : 
But  will  is  deaf,  and  hears  no  heedful  friends ; 
Only  he  hath  an  eye  to  gaze  on  beauty, 
And  dotes  on  what  he  looks,  'gainst  law  oi 
duty. 

'  I  have  debated,  even  in  my  soul, 

"Wliat  wrong,  what  shame,  what  sorrow  I  .''luill 

breed ; 
But  nothing  can  Affection's  course  control. 
Or  stop  the  headlong  fury  of  his  speed. 
I  know  repentant  tears  ensue  the  deed. 

Reproach,  disdain,  and  deadly  enmity ; 

Yet  strive  I  to  embrace  mine  infamy.' 

Tliis  said,  he  shakes  aloft  his  Roman  blade, 
^Yhich,  like  a  falcon  towering  in  the  skies, 
Coucheth*  the  fowl  below  with  liis  wing's  shade, 
"Whose  crooked  beak  threats  if  he  mount  he 

dies : 
So  imder  his  insulting  falchion  lies 

Harmless  Lucretia,  marking  what  he  tells 
With  trcmblmg  fear,  as   fowl    hear  falcon's 
beUs." 


this  night 


I  must  enjoy 


'Lucrece,'  quoth  he, 

thee: 
If  thou  deny,  then  force  must  work  my  way, 
For  in  thy  bed  I  pui-pose  to  destroy  thee ; 
That  done,  some  wortliless  slave  of  thine  I'll 

slay. 
To  kill  thine  honour  with  thy  life's  decay ; 
And  in  thy  dead  arms  do  I  mean  to  place  him. 
Swearing  I  slew  hmi,  seeing  thee  embrace  him. 

'  So  tliy  suiTiving  husband  shall  remain 

The  scornful  mark  of  every  open  eye ; 

Thy  kinsmen  hang  their  heads  at  tliis  disdain, 

•  Couchcth — causes  to  couch. 

^  We  have  the  same  image  in  Henry  VI.,  Part  III. :  — 
"  Not  he  that  loves  him  best 
D::7c3  «iir  a  wing  If  Warwick  thake  hit  beiu:' 


THE  KAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Thy  issue  bliuT'd  with  nameless  bastardy : 
And  thou,  the  author  of  their  obloquy, 
Shalt  have  thy  trespass  cited  up  in  rhymes, 
And  sung  by  childi-en  in  succeeding  times, 

'  But  if  thou  yield  I  rest  thy  secret  friend : 
The  fault  unknown  is  as  a  thought  unacted  j 
A  little  hann,  done  to  a  great  good  end, 
For  lawful  policy  remains  enacted. 
The  poisonous  simple  sometimes  is  compacted 

In  a  pure  conipoimd ;  being  so  applied, 

His  venom  in  effect  is  purified. 

'  Then,  for    thy    husband    and    thy   cliildren's 

sake. 
Tender*  my  suit :  bequeath  not  to  their  lot 
The  shame  that  from  them  no  device  can  take, 
The  blemish  that  wiU  never  be  forgot ; 
Worse    than    a    slavish  wipe,   or    bii'th-hour's 
blot:" 
For  marks  descried  in  men's  uati\dty 
Are  nature's  faults,  not  their  owti  infamy.' 

Here  with  a  cockatrice'  dead-killing  eye 

He  rouseth  up  himself,  and  makes  a  pause ; 

While  she,  the  picture  of  pure  piety. 

Like  a  white   hind  under   the   giype's'  sharp 

claws. 
Pleads  in  a  wUdeniess,  where  are  no  laws. 
To  the  rough  beast    that   knows   no  gentle 

right, 
Nor  aught  obeys  but  his  foul  appetite : 

But"*  when  a  black-fac'd  cloud  the  world  doth 

threat, 
In  his  dim  mist  the  aspiring  mountains  hiding, 
From  earth's  dark  womb  some  gentle  gust  doth 

crpt 

Which  blows  these  pitchy  vapours  fi'om  their 
biding. 

Hindering  their  present  faU  by  this  dividing ; 
So  his  unhaUow'd  haste  her  words  delays. 
And  moody  Pluto  winks  M-hile  Orpheus  plays. 

a  Tender — heed,  regard. 

b  Birth-hour's  6/o<— corporal  blemish.  So  in  A  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream : 

"  And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 
Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand ; 
Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 
Nor  mark  prodigious." 
c  Steevens  says  the  grype  is  properly  the  griffin.     But  in 
the  passage  before  us,  as  in  the  early  English  writers,  the 
word  is  applied  to  birds  of  prey, — the  eagle  especially. 

a  Malone,  who  has  certainly  made  very  few  deviations 
from  the  original  text  of  this  poem,  here  changes  but  to  look, 
•'  there  being  no  opposition  whatsoever  betwun  this  and  the 
l-receding  passage."  An  opposition  is  however  intended. 
I.ucretia  pleads  the"  rough  boast"  that  "  linows  no  right ;" 
but,  as  the  gentle  gust  divides  the  black  cloud, 

"  So  his  unhallow'd  haste  her  words  delays." 

Tii.\GEDiEs,  &c.— Vol.  II.        2  D 


Yet,  foul  night-waking  cat,  he  doth  bul  dally, 
While   in    his    holdfast   foot   the  weak  mouso 

panteth ; 
Her  sad  behanour  feeds  his  vulture  folly, 
A  swallowing  gulf  that  even  in  plenty  wanteth : 
His  ear    her    prayers    admits,  but    his    heart 

granteth 
No  penetrable  entrance  to  her  plaining : 
Tears  harden  lust,  though  marble  wear  with 

raining. 

Her  pity-pleading  eyes  are  sadly  fix'd 
In  the  remorseless  wrinkles  of  his  face ; 
Her  modest  eloquence  with  sighs  is  mix'd, 
Which  to  her  oratory  adds  more  grace. 
She  puts  the  period  often  from  his  place." 
And  'midst  the  sentence  so  her  accent  breaks, 
That  twice  she  doth  begm  ere  once  she  speaks. 

She  conjures  him  by  high  almighty  Jove, 

By  knighthood,  gentry,  and  sweet  friendship's 

oath. 
By  her  untimely  tears,  her  husband's  love. 
By  holy  human  law,  and  common  troth, 
By  heaven  and  earth,  and  all  the  power  of  both, 
That  to  his  borrow'd  bed  he  make  retire. 
And  stoop  to  honoui-,  not  to  foul  desire. 

Quoth  she,  '  Reward  not  hospitality 

With  such  black  payment  as  thou   hast    pre- 
tended ; '' 

Mud  not  the  fountam  that  gave  di-ink  to  thee ; 

Mar  not  the  thing  that  cannot  be  amended ; 

End  thy  ill  aim,  before  thy  shoot'  be  ended : 
He  is  no  woodman  that  doth  bend  his  bow 
To  strike  a  poor  unseasonable  doe. 

'  My  husband  is  thy  friend,  for  his  sake  spare 

me; 
Thyself  art  mighty,  for  thine  own  sake  leave  me; 
Myself  a  weakling,  do  not  then  ensnare  me ; 
Thou  look'st  not  Uke  deceit ;  do  not  deceive  me ; 
My  sighs,  like  whirlwinds,  labour  hence  to  heave 

thee. 


a  Shakspere,  whose  knowledge  of  the  outward  effects  of 
the  passions  was  universal,  makes  the  terror  of  poor  Lucrece 
display  itself  in  the  same  manner  as  that  of  "  great  clerks 
greeting  their  prince  with  "  premeditated  welcomes."    They 
also 

"  Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences, 
Throttle  their  practis'd  accent  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off.' 

(Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Act  v.,  Sc.  1., 

b  Pretended — proposed. 

e  Shoot.  Malone  says  that  the  author  intended  this  word 
to  be  taken  in  a  double  sense,  suit  and  shoot  being  in  his  tmie 
pronounced  alike.  We  doubt  this.  Suit  is  not  the  word 
that  the  indignation  of  Lucrece  would  have  used;  nor  is  the 
double  sense  carried  forward  at  all. 

•101 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


If  ever  man  were  mov'd  ^vith  woman's  moans, 
13e  moved  with  my  tears,  my  sighs,  my  groans : 

'  All  which  together,  Hke  a  troubled  ocean. 
Beat  at  thy  rocky  and  wieck-thi'eatcmng  heart ; 
To  soften  it  with  their  continual  motion; 
For  stones  dissolv'd  to  water  do  convert. 
0,  if  no  hai'der  than  a  stone  thou  ai-t, 

Melt  at  my  tears,  and  be  compassionate ! 

Soft  pity  enters  at  an  ii-ou  gate. 

'  In  Tai-quiu's  likeness  I  did  entertain  thee ; 
Hast  thou  put  on  his  shape  to  do  him  shame  ? 
To  all  the  host  of  heaven  I  complain  me. 
Thou  WTong'st  his  honour,  wound'st  his  princely 

name. 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st ;  and  if  the  same, 

Thou  seem'st  not  what  thou  art,  a  god,  a  king ; 

For  kings  like  gods  should  govern  evcrytldng. 

'  How  M'iU  thy  shame  be  seeded  in  thine  age. 
When  thus  thy  vices  bud  before  thy  spriug  ! 
If  in  thy  hope  thou  dar'st  do  such  outrage. 
What  dar'st  thou  not  when  once  thou  ai't  a  king ! 
O  be  remember'd,  no  outrn£rcous  tliins: 

From  vassal  actors  can  be  wip'd  away ; 

Then  kings'  misdeeds  cannot  be  hid  in  clay, 

'  This  deed  will  make  thee  only  lov'd  for  fear. 
But  happy  mouarchs  still  are  fear'd  for  love : 
With  foul  offenders  thou  perforce  must  bear. 
When  they  in  thee  the  hke  offences  prove : 
If  but  for  fear  of  this  thy  wiU  remove ; 
For  princes  are  the  glass,  the  school,  the  book, 
Where  subjects'  eyes  do  learn,  do  read,  do 
look. 

'  And  wilt  thou  be  the  school  where  Lust  shall 
Icam  ? 

Must  he  in  thee  read  lectui-es  of  such  shame  ? 

Wilt  thou  be  glass,  wherein  it  shall  discern 

Authority  for  sin,  warrant  for  blame. 

To  pri\-ilcge  dishonour  in  thy  name  ? 

Thou  baek'st  reproach  against  long-lived  laud, 
And  mak'st  fair  reputation  but  a  bawd. 

*  Hast  thou  command  ?  by  hhn  tliat  gave  it  thee. 
From  a  pure  heart  command  thy  rel)el  will : 
Draw  not  thy  sword  to  guard  iniquity, 
For  it  was  lent  thee  all  that  brood  to  kill. 
Thy  princely  office  how  canst  thou  fulfil, 

AVlicn,  pattem'd  by  thy  fault,  foul  Sin  may 

say, 
He  leam'd  to  sin,  and  thou  didst  teach  the 
way? 
402 


*  Think  "but  how  ^•ile  a  spectacle  It  were 
To  view  thy  present  trcsj)ass  in  another. 
Men's  faults  do  seldom  to  themselves  appear ; 
Their  own  transgressions  partially  they  smother  • 
This    guilt  would    seem   death-worthy  in  thy 
brother. 
0  how  arc  tJiey  wrapp'd  in  with  infamies. 
That  from  their  own  misdeeds  askaunce  their 
eyes! 

'  To  thee,  to  thee,  my  heav'd-up  hands  appeal. 

Not  to  seducing  lust,  thy  rash  rclier ; 

I  sue  for  exil'd  majesty's  repeal;* 

Let  him  return  and  flattering  thoughts  retii'C : 

His  true  respect  will  'prison  false  desire. 

And  wipe  the  dim  mist  from  thy  doting  eyne. 
That  thou  shalt  see  thy  state,  and  pity  mine,' 

'  Have  done,'  quoth  he ;  'my  uncontrolled  tide 
Tui-ns  not,  but  swells  the  higher  by  tliis  let. 
Small  liglits   are  soon  blown   out,  huge    fii-es 

abide. 
And  with  the  wind  in  greater  fui-y  fret :' 
The  petty  streams  that  pay  a  daily  debt 
To  their  salt  sovereign,  mth  their  fresh  falls' 

haste. 
Add  to  his  flow,  but  alter  not  his  taste.' 

'  Thou  art,'  quoth  she, '  a  sea,  a  sovereign  king ; 
And  lo,  there  falls  into  thy  boundless  flood 
Black  lust,  dishonour,  shame,  misgovermng, 
Wlio  seek  to  stain  the  ocean  of  thy  blood. 
If  all  these  petty  ills  shall  change  thy  good, 
Thy  sea  \vithin  a  puddle's  womb  is  hears' d. 
And  not  the  puddle  in  thy  sea  dispcrs'd. 

'So  shall  these  slaves  be  king,  and  thou  their 
slave ; 

Thou  nobly  base,  they  basely  dignified ; 

Thou  their  fair  life,  and  they  thy  fouler  grave ; 

Thou  loathed  in  their  shame,  they  in  thy  pride : 

The  lesser  thing  should  not  the  greater  hide ; 
The  cedar  stoops  not  to  the  base  slu-ub's  foot. 
But  low  shrubs  wither  at  the  cedar's  root. 

'  So  let  thy  thoughts,  low  vassals  to  thy  state ' — 
' No  more,'  quoth  he ;  'by  heaven,  I  will  not 

hear  thee : 
Yield  to  my  love ;  if  not,  enforced  hate. 
Instead  of  love's  coy  touch,  shall  rudely  tear 

thee; 
That  done,  despitcfuUy  I  mean  to  bear  thee 
Unto  the  base  bed  of  somo  rascal  groom, 
To  be  thy  partner  in  this  shameful  doom.' 

»  Repeal— Tccal ;  from  the  French  rappder 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


This  said,  be  sets  the  foot  upon  the  light, 
For  light  and  lust  are  deadly  enemies ; 
Shame  folded  up  in  blind  concealing  night, 
When  most  unseen,  then  most  doth  tyrannize. 
The  wolf  hath  seiz'd  his  prey,  the  poor  lamb  cries 

Till  ■with  her  own  white  fleece  her  voice  con- 
troU'd 

Entombs  her  outcry  in  her  lips'  sweet  fold : 

For  with  the  nightly  linen  that  she  wears 
He  pens  her  piteous  clamours  in  her  head; 
Coolins;  his  hot  face  in  the  chastest  tears 
That  ever  modest  eyes  with  sorrow  shed. 
0,  that  prone'*  lust  should  stain  so  pure  a  bed! 
The  spots  whereof  could  weeping  purify. 
Her  tears  should  drop  on  them  perpetually. 

But  she  hath  lost  a  dearer  thing  than  life, 
And  he  hath  won  what  he  would  lose  again. 
This  forced  league  doth  force  a  further  strife, 
This  momentary  joy  breeds  months  of  paia, 
This  hot  desii-e  converts  to  cold  disdain : 
Pure  Chastity  is  rifled  of  her  store, 
And  Lust,  the  thief,  far  poorer  than  before. 

Look,  as  the  full-fed  hound  or  gorged  hawk. 
Unapt  for  tender  smeU  or  speedy  flight. 
Make  slow  pursuit,  or  altogether  balk 
The  prey  wherein  by  natiu-e  they  delight ; 
So  siu-feit-takiug  Tarquin  fares  this  night : 
His  taste  dehcious,  in  digestion  souring. 
Devours  his  will  that  Uv'd  by  foul  devouring. 

0  deeper  sin  than  bottomless  conceit 

Can  comprehend  in  still  imagmation ! 

Drunken  desire  must  vomit  his  receipt. 

Ere  he  can  see  his  own  abomination. 

While  lust  is  in  his  pride  no  exclamation 
Can  curb  his  heat,  or  rein  his  rash  desire, 
Till,  like  a  jade,  self-will  himself  doth  tire. 

And  then  with  lank  and  lean  discolour'd  cheek. 
With  heavy  eye,  biit   brow,  and   streugthless 

pace. 
Feeble  desbre,  all  recreant,  poor,  and  meek, 
Like  to  a  banknipt  beggar  wails  his  case : 
The  flesh  being  proud,  desire  doth  fight  with 
grace, 
For  there  it  revels ;  and  when  that  decays, 
The  guilty  rebel  for. remission  prays. 

So  fares  it  with  this  faultful  lord  of  Rome, 
Who  this  accompUshment  so  hotly  chas'd ; 


For  now  against  himself  he  sounds  this  doom, 
That  through  the  length  of  times  he  stands  dis 

grac'd : 
Besides,  his  soul's  fah  temple  is  defac'd ; 
To  whose  weak  ruuis  muster  troops  of  cares. 
To  ask  the  spotted  princess  how  she  fares. 

She  says,  her  subjects  with  foul  insurrection 
Have  batter'd  down  her  consecrated  wall. 
And  by  their  mortal  fault  brought  in  subjection 
Her  immortality,  and  make  her  thrall 
To  living  death,  and  pain  perpetual ; 

Which  in  her  prescience  she  controlled  still. 
But  her  foresight  could   not  forestall  theii 
will. 


g  Prone— naving  inclination  or  propensity, 
willed,  headstrong. 

2D2 


and  so  self- 


Even  m  this  thought  through  the  dark  night  he 

stealeth, 
A  captive  victor  that  hath  lost  in  gain ; 
Bearing  away  the  wound  that  nothing  healeth, 
The  scar  that  will,  despite  of  cure,  remain. 
Leaving  his  spoil  perplex'd  in  greater  pain. 
She  bears  the  load  of  lust  he  left  behind, 
And  he  the  bui-then  of  a  guilty  mind. 

He  like  a  thievish  dog  creeps  sadly  thence ; 
She  like  a  wearied  lamb  lies  panting  there ; 
He  scowls,  and  hates  himself  for  his  offence ; 
She,  desperate,  with  her  nails  her  flesh  doth 

teai"; 
He  famtly  flies,  sweating  with  gnilty  fear ; 
She  stays,  exclaimmg  on  the  direful  night ; 
He  runs,   and    chides    his  vanish'd,  loath'd 
deUght. 

He  thence  departs  a  heavy  convertite ; 

She  there  remains  a  hopeless  castaway : 

He  ta  his  speed  looks  for  the  morning  hght ; 

She  prays  she  never  may  behold  the  day ; 

'  For  day,'  quoth  she,  '  night's  scapes  doth  open 

lay; 
And  my  true  eyes  have  never  practis'd  how 
To  cloak  offences  with  a  cunning  brow. 

'  They  tliink  not  but  that  every  eye  can  see 
The  same  disgrace  which  they  themselves  be- 
hold; 
And  therefore  would  they  still  in  darkness  be, 
To  have  their  unseen  sin  remain  untold ; 
For  they  their  guilt  with  weepmg  will  unfold. 
And  grave,  like  water,  that  doth  eat  in  steel,  ^ 
Upon  my  cheeks  what  helpless  shame  I  feel.' 

Here  slie  exclaims  against  repose  and  rest, 
And  bids  her  eyes  hereafter  still  be  bhnd. 
She  wakes  her  heart  by  beatmg  on  her  breast, 

403 


, 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


And  bids  it  leap  from  thence,  where  it  may  find 
Some  purer  chest,  to  close  so  pure  a  mind. 

Frantic  with  grief  thus  breathes  she  forth  her 
spite 

Against  the  unseen  secrecy  of  night : 

'  0  comfort-kiUing  night,  image  of  heU ! 

Dim  register  and  notary  of  shame ! 

Black  stage  for  tragedies  and  murders  fell ! 

Vast  sin-concealing  chaos !  nurse  of  blame ! 

Blind  muffled  bawd !  dark  harlioui-  for  defame ! 
Grim  cave  of  death,  whispering  conspii-ator, 
With  close-tongued  treason  and  the  ravisher ! 

'  0  hateful,  vaporous,  and  foggy  night, 
Since  thou  art  guilty  of  my  cureless  crime. 
Muster  thy  mists  to  meet  the  eastern  light, 
Make  war  against  proportion'd  course  of  time ! 
Or  if  thou  wilt  permit  the  sun  to  climb 
His  wonted  height,  yet  ere  he  go  to  bed. 
Knit  poisonous  clouds  about  his  golden  head. 

'  With  rotten  damps  ravish  the  morning  air ; 
Let  their  exhal'd  unwholesome  breaths  make 

sick 
The  life  of  purity,  the  supreme  fair, 
Ere  ho  arrive  his  weary  noontide  prick;' 
.Vnd  let  thy  misty  vapours  march  so  tliick, 

'  Noontult  prick— the  point  of  nooD- 
101 


That  in  their  smoky  ranks  his  smother'd  light, 
May  set  at  noon,  and  make  perpetual  night. 

'  Were  Tarquiu  night  (as  he  is  but  night's  child). 
The  silver-shining  queen  he  would  distain ; 
Her  tM-inkling  handmaids  too,  by  him  dcfil'd. 
Through  night's  black  bosom  should  not  peep 

agam ; 
So  should  I  have  copartners  m  m.y  pain : 
And  fellowship  in  woe  doth  woe  assuage. 
As  pahncrs'  chat  makes  short  their  pilgrim- 
age. 

'  Where"  now  I  have  no  one  to  blush  with  me. 
To  cross  theii-  arms,  and  hang  their  heads  with 

mine, 
To  mask  theii-  brows,  and  hide  their  infamy ; 
But  1  alone  alone  must  sit  and  pine. 
Seasoning  the  earth  with  showers  of  silver  brine, 
Mingling  my  talk  witli  tears,  my  grief  with 

groans. 
Poor  wasting  monuments  of  lasting  moans. 

'  0  night,  thou  furnace  of  foul-reeking  smoke. 
Let  not  tlie  jealous  day  behold  that  face 
"Which  underneath  thy  black  all-hiding  cloak 
Immodestly  lies  martyr'd  witli  disgrace ! 
Keep  still  possession  of  thy  gloomy  place, 

»  It'tire — whereas. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


That  all  tlie  faults  which   in  thy  reign  are 

made 
May  likewise  be  sepulchred"  in  thy  shade ! 

'  Make  me  not  object  to  the  tell-tale  day ! 
The  light  will  show,  eharacter'd''  in  my  brow, 
The  story  of  sweet  chastity's  decay. 
The  impious  breach  of  holy  wedlock  vow : 
Yea,  the  illiterate,  that  know  not  how 
To  'cipher  what  is  writ  in  learned  books. 
Will  quote  =  my  loathsome  trespass   in  my 
looks. 

'  The  nurse,  to  stHl  her  child,  wUl  tell  my  story, 
And    fright    her   crying   babe  with   Tarquin's 

name; 
The  orator,  to  deck  his  oratory, 
Will  couple  my  reproach  to  Tarquin's  shame : 
Feast-finding  minstrels,  tuning  my  defame. 
Will  tie  the  hearers  to  attend  each  line, 
How  Tarquin  wronged  me,  I  Collatine. 

'  Let  my  good  name,  that  senseless  reputation, 
For  CoUatine's  dear  love  be  kept  unspotted : 
If  that  be  made  a  theme  for  disputation, 
The  branches  of  another  root  are  rotted. 
And  undeserv'd  reproach  to  him  allotted. 
That  is  as  clear  from  this  attaint  of  mine, 
As  I,  ere  this,  was  pure  to  Collatine. 

'  0  unseen  shame !  invisible  disgrace ! 
0  unfelt  sore !  crest-wounding,  private  scar ! 
Reproach  is  stamp' d  in  Collatinus'  face. 
And  Tarquin's  eye  may  read  the  mof  afar, 
How  he  in  peace  is  wounded,  not  in  war. 
Alas,  how  many  bear  such  shameful  blows. 
Which  not  themselves  but  he  that  gives  them 
knows! 

'  If,  Collatine,  thine  honour  lay  in  me. 
From  me  by  strong  assault  it  is  bereft. 
My  honey  lost,  and  I,  a  drone-like  bee. 
Have  no  perfection  of  my  simamer  left, 
But  robb'd  and  ransack'd  by  injurious  theft : 
In  thy  weak  hive  a  wandering  wasp  hath  crept. 
And  suck'd  the  honey  which  thy  chaste  bee 
kept. 

a  Sepulchred.  Milton  uses  the  word  with  the  same  accent 
in  his  lines  on  Shakspere:— 

"  And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  does  lie, 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die." 

b  Character'd.  Here  again  is  an  accentuation  different 
from  the  present,  but  which  is  common  to  all  Shakspere's 
contemporaries.  Malone  has  observed  that  this  is  still  the 
pronunciation  of  the  Irir.h  people;  and  he  adds,  with  great 
truth,  that  much  of  the  pronunciation  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
age  is  yet  retained' in  Ireland. 

c  Quote — observe. 

•1  Met— uioUo. 


'  Yet  am  I  guilty  of  thy  honour's  wrack,'— 
Yet  for  thy  honour  did  I  entertam  him ;  ^ 
Coming  from  thee,  I  could  not  put  him  back, 
For  it  had  been  dishonour  to  disdain  him : 
Besides  of  weariness  he  did  complain  him. 
And  talk'd  of  virtue : — 0,  unlcck'd  for  evil. 
When  virtue  is  profan'd  in  such  a  devil ! 

'  Why  shoidd  the  worm  intrude  the  maiden  bud  ? 

Or  hateful  cuckoos  hatch  in  span-ows'  nests  ? 

Or  toads  infect  fair  founts  with  venom  mud  ? 

Or  tyrant  folly  lurk  in  gentle  breasts?' 

Or  kings  be  breakers  of  their  own  behests  ? 
But  no  perfection  is  so  absolute, 
That  some  impurity  doth  not  pollute. 

'  The  aged  man  that  coffers  up  his  gold 

Is  plagued  with  cramps,  and  gouts,  and  painfid 

fits, 
And  scarce  hath  eyes  his  treasure  to  behold. 
But  like  still-pining  Tantalus  he  sits. 
And  useless  bams  the  harvest  of  his  wits ; 
Having  no  other  pleasure  of  his  gaia 
But  torment  that  it  cannot  cnre  his  pam. 

'  So  then  he  hath  it,  when  he  cannot  use  it. 
And  leaves  it  to  be  master'd  by  his  young. 
Who  in  their  pride  do  presently  abuse  it : 
Their  father  was  too  weak,  and  they  too  strong, 
To  hold  their  cursed-blessed  fortime  long. 
The  sweets  we  wish  for  tm-n  to  loathed  sours. 
Even  in  the  moment  that  we  call  them  ours. 

'  Unruly  blasts  wait  on  the  tender  spring ; 
Unwholesome  weeds   take   root  with    precious 

ilowers ; 
The  adder  hisses  where  the  sweet  birds  sing ; 
What  virtue  breeds  iniquity  devours  : 
We  have  no  good  that  we  can  say  is  ours, 

a  JVrack.  Mr.  Hunter,  in  his  '  Disquisition  on  the  Tem- 
pest,' pointed  out  the  necessity  of  restoring  to  Shakspere  s 
text  the  old  word  wrack,  instead  of  the  modern  ureck.  He 
asks  "What  could  editors,  who  proceed  upon  prmciples 
which  lead  to  such  a  substitution,  do  with  this  couplet  of  the 
Lucrece : — 

'  O,  this  dread  night,  vrouldst  thou  one  hour  come  back. 
I  could  prevent  this  storm,  and  shun  thy  wrack  I 
In  this  particular  instance  they  have  preserved  the  original 
word :  but  in  that  before  us,  where  wrack  is  equally  required 
to  rhyme  with  back,  they  have  substituted  wreck.  Even 
Mr  I'vce  herein  copies  Malone  without  alteration.  Ihis  is 
probaWv  mere  carelessness ;  but  it  shows  the  danger  of  tam- 
pering with  an  original  reading.  J-  _„» 

b  This  is  again  an  instance  of  the  dramatic  crowdmg  of 
thought  upon  thought,  and  making  one  thought  answer  and 
repel  the  other,  which  render  Shakspere's  soliloquies  such 
matchless  revelations  of  the  heart.  .Malone,  not  perceiving 
this  dramatic  power,  changes  guil:y  to  yi'l'^fj  ^X'^^^^r  ,hl 
idea  of  the  first  Une  does  not  correspond  with  that  ot  tne 
second. 

c  Folly  is  Jiere  used  in  the  sense  of  wickedness ;  and  gentle 
in  that  of  well-born. 

405 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


But  ill-aiiucxcd  Opportunity 

Or  kills  his  life,  or  else  liis  quality, 

'  O  Opportunity !  thy  guilt  is  great : 

'Tis  thou  that  execut'st  the  traitor's  treason; 

Thou  sett'st  the  wolf  where  he  the  lamb  may 

get; 
"Whoever  plots  the  sin,  thou  'poiut'st  the  season ; 
'T  is  thou  that  spurn'st  at  right,  at  law,  at  reason; 
And  in  thy  shady  cell,  where  none  may  spy 

liim. 
Sits  Sin,  to  seize  the  souls  that  wander  by 

him. 

'  Thou  mak'st  the  vestal  violate  her  oath ; 

Thou  blow'st  the  fire  when  temperance  is  thaw'd ; 

Thou  smother'st  honesty,  thou  mui-ther'st  troth ; 

Tiiou  foul  abetter !  thou  notorious  bawd ! 

Thou  plantest  scandal,  and  displacest  laud : 
Thou  ravisher,  thou  traitor,  thou  false  thief. 
Thy  honey  tiu-ns  to  gall,  thy  joy  to  grief ! 

'  Thy  secret  pleasure  turns  to  open  shame, 

Thy  private  feasting  to  a  public  fast ; 

Thy  smoothing'  titles  to  a  ragged ''  name; 

Thy  sugar'd  tongue  to  bitter  wormwood  taste : 

Thy  violent  vanities  can  never  last. 
How  comes  it  then,  vile  Opportunity, 
Being  so  bad,  such  numbers  seek  for  thee  ? 

'When  wilt  thou   be  the   humble  suppliant's 

friend, 
And  bring  him  where  his  suit  may  be  obtain'd  ? 
When  wilt  thou  sort'  an  hour  great  strifes  to 

end? 
Or    free    that    soul   which   wretchedness    hath 

chain'd  ? 
Give  physic  to  the  sick,  ease  to  the  pain'd  ? 
The  poor,  lame,  blind,  halt,  creep,  ciy  out  for 

thee; 
But  they  ne'er  meet  with  Opportunity. 

'  ITie  patient  dies  while  the  physician  sleeps  ; 
The  orphan  pines  while  the  oppressor  feeds ; 
.Fusticc  is  feasting  while  the  widow  weeps ; 
Advice  is  sporting  while  infection  breeds ;"' 
Thou  grant'st  no  time  for  charitable  deeds : 


»  Smoothing — flatterinR. 

^  Ragged  it  here  ustil  in  the  sense  of  contemptible.  It 
means  something  broken,  torn,  and  therefore  worthless. 
See  Note  on  Henry  IV.,  I'art  II.,  Act  i.,  Scene  i. 

c  Sort — assign,  appropriate.     So  in  Richard  III. : — 
"  But  I  will  tort  a  pitchy  day  for  thee." 

■I  The  constant  allusions  of  the  Elizabethan  poets  to  that 
familiar  terror  the  plapue  show  how  completely  the  evil, 
whether  present  or  al  sent,  was  associated  with  the  habitual 
thoughts  of  the  people.    Advice  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of 

406 


Wrath,    envy,    treason,    rape,    and   murdei-'s 

rages, 
Thy  heinous  hours  wait  on    them   as   their 

pages. 

'  When  truth  and  virtue  have  to  do  with  thee, 
A  thousand  crosses  keep  them  from  thy  aid ; 
They  buy  thy  help :  but  Sin  ne'er  gives  a  fee, 
He  gratis  comes ;  and  thou  art  well  appay'd" 
As  well  to  hear  as  grant  what  he  hath  said. 
My  Collatine  would  else  have  come  to  me 
AVhen  Tarquin  did,  but  he  was  stay'd  by  thee, 

'  Guilty  thou  art  of  murder  and  of  theft ; 

Guilty  of  perjury  and  subornation  ; 

Guilty  of  treason,  forgery,  and  shift ; 

■Guilty  of  incest,  that  abomination : 

An  accessary  by  thine  inclination 

To  all  sins  past,  and  all  that  are  to  come, 
Frona  the  creation  to  the  general  doom. 

'  jNIis-shapen  Time,  copesmate  of  ugly  night. 
Swift  subtle  post,  canier  of  grisly  care. 
Eater  of  youth,  false  slave  to  false  delight, 
Base  watch  of  woes,  sin's  packhorse,  \-irtue's 

snare ; 
Thou  nursest  all,  and  muriherest  all  that  are. 

0  hear  nic  then,  injurious,  shifting  Time ! 

Be  guilty  of  my  death,  since  of  my  crime. 

'  Why  hath  thy  servant.  Opportunity, 
Betray'd  the  hom-s  thou  gav'st  me  to  repose  ? 
Cancell'd  my  fortunes  and  enchained  me 
To  endless  date  of  never-ending  woes  ? 
Time's  office  is  to  fine''  the  hate  of  foes; 
To  eat  up  en-ors  by  opinion  bred, 
Not  spend  the  dowry  of  a  lav.'ful  bed. 

'  Time's  glory  is  to  calm  contending  kings. 
To  unmask  falseliood,  and  bring  truth  to  light. 
To  stamp  the  seal  of  time  in  aged  things. 
To  wake  the  mom,  and  sentinel  the  night, 
To  wrong  the  MTongcr  till  he  render  right ; 
To  ruinate  proud  buddings  mth  thy  houi's. 
And  smear  with  dust  their  glittering  golden 
towers : 

'  To  fill  with  worm-holes  stately  monuments, 
To  feed  oblivion  with  decay  of  things. 
To  blot  old  books,  and  alter  their  contents, 

government,  municipal  or  civil;  and  the  line  too  correctly 
describes  fhecareles.'^ncssof  tho-;e  in  hiph  places,  who  abated 
not  their  feasting  and  th-ir  revelry  while  pestilence  was 
doing  its  terrible  work  around  them. 

a  yf/)pay (/—sacisfied,  pleased  WcUr.ppniinl,  ill  appayed, 
are  constantly  used  by  Chaucer  and  other  ancient  writers. 

>>  To  fine— to  bring  an  end 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


To  pluck  the  quills  from  ancient  ravens'  wings. 
To  dry  the  old  oak's  sap,  and  cherish  springs  ; " 
To  spoil  antiquities  of  hammer'd  steel, 
And  turn  the  giddy  round  of  fortune's  wheel; 

'To  show  the  beldan::e  daughters  of  her  daughter. 
To  make  the  child  a  man,  the  man  a  child, 
To  slay  the  tiger  that  doth  live  by  slaughter. 
To  tame  the  unicorn  and  lion  wild. 
To  mock  the  subtle,  in  themselves  beguil'd ; 
To    cheer    the    ploughman  with    increaseful 

crops, 
And  waste  huge  stones  with  little    water- 
di-ops. 

'  Why  work'st  thou  mischief  in  thy  pilgrimage. 
Unless  thon  couldst  return  to  make  amends  ? 
One  poor  retiring  ^  minute  in  an  age 
Would   pm'chase    thee   a    thousand    thousand 

friends. 
Lending  him  wit  that  to  bad  debtors  lends : 
O,  this  dread  night,  wouldst  thou  one  hour 

come  back, 
I   could  prevent   this   storm,  and   shun  thy 

wrack! 

'  Thou  ceaseless  lackey  to  eternity. 

With    some   mischance   cross    Tarquin    in    his 

flight : 
Devise  extremes  beyond  extremity. 
To  make  him  cui'se  this  cursed,  crimeful  night : 
Let  ghastly  shadows  his  lewd  eyes  affright. 
And  the  dire  thought  of  his  committed  evil 
Shape  every  bush  a  hideous  shapeless  devil. 

'  Distm-b  his  hour's  of  rest  with  restless  trances, 
Afllict  him  in  his  bed  with  bedrid  groans ; 
Let  there  bechance  hira  pitiful  mischances, 
To  make  him  moan,  but  pity  not  his  moans  : 
Stone  him   with   harden' d  hearts,  harder  than 
stones ; 
And  let  mild  women  to  him  lose  their  mildness. 
Wilder  to  him  than  tigers  in  their  wildness. 

'  Let  him  have  time  to  tear  his  curled  hair,^ 
Let  kim  have  time  against  himself  to  rave. 
Let  him  have  time  of  Time's  help  to  despair, 
Let  him  have  time  to  live  a  loathed  slave. 
Let  him  have  time  a  beggar's  orts  to  crave ; 
And  time  to  see  one  that  by  alms  doth  live 
Disdain  to  him  disdained  scraps  to  give. 

^  Springs — shoots,  saplings.  Time,  ■which  dries  up  the  old 
oak's  sap,  cherishes  the  plants. 

b  Retiring  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  coming  hack  again. 

«  Curled  hair  is  the  characteristic  of  Tarquin  as  it  was  of 
all  men  of  high  rank  in  Shakspere's  time.  Perhaps  it  im- 
plied a  notion  of  luxuriousness.  In  this  way  we  have  "  the 
curled  Antony ; "  and  in  Othello, 

"  The  wealthy  curled  darlings  of  our  nation." 


*  Let  him  have  time  to  see  hi.s  friends  his  foes, 
And  meiTy  fools  to  mock  at  him  resort ; 
Let  him  have  time  to  mark  how  slow  time  goes 
Li  time  of  sorrow,  and  how  swift  and  short 
His  time  of  folly  and  his  time  of  sport : 
And  ever  let  his  imrecaUing*  crime 
Have  time  to  waU  the  abusing  of  his  time. 

'  0  Time,  thou  tutor  both  to  good  and  bad. 
Teach  me  to  curse  him  that  thou  taught' st  this 

iU! 
At  his  own  shadow  let  the  thief  nm  mad ! 
Himself  himself  seek  every  hour  to  kiU  1 
Such    wi-etched    hands    such    wretched    blood 
should  spin : 
For  who  so  base  would  such  an  ofiice  have 
As  slanderous  death' s-man  to  so  base  a  slave  ? 


'  The  baser  is  he,  coming  from  a  king. 
To  shame  his  hope  with  deeds  degenerate. 
The  mightier  man,  the  mightier  is  the  thiog 
That  makes  him  honour' d,  or  begets  him  hate ; 
For  greatest  scandal  waits  on  greatest  state. 
The  moon  beiag  clouded  presently  is  miss'd. 
But  little  stars  may  hide   them  when  they 
list. 

'The  crow  may  bathe  his  coal-black  wings   in 

mire. 
And  unperceiVd  fly  with  the  filth  away. 
But  if  the  like  the  snow-white  swan  desii-e. 
The  stain  upon  his  silver  down  will  stay. 
Poor  grooms  are  sightless  night,  kings  glorious 
day. 
Gnats  are  unnoted  wheresoe'er  thev  flv, 
But  eagles  gaz'd  upon  with  every  eye. 

'  Out,  idle  words,  servants  to  shallow  fools  ! 
Unprofitable  sounds,  weak  arbitrators ! 
Busy  yourselves  in  skiU-contendiag  schoob, 
Debate  where  leisure  serves  with  dull  debaters  j 
To  trembKng  clients  be  you  mediators  : 
For  me,  I  force''  not  argument  a  straw. 
Since  that  my  case  is  past  the  help  of  bw. 

'  Li  vain  I  rail  at  Oppoiiunity, 
At  Time,  at  Tarquin,  and  \mcheerful  night ; 
In  vain  I  cavil  with  my  infamy, 
Li  vain  I  spurn  at  my  confirm'd  despite : 
This  helpless  smoke  of  words  doth  me  no  right. 
The  remedy  indeed  to  do  me  good. 
Is  to  let  forth  my  foi.d,  defiled  blood. 

Unrecalling — not  to  be  recalled.    The  elder  writers  uso 
the  participle  with  much  more  licence  tlian  we  do. 
b  Force  is  here  used  in  the  serme  of  value  or  regard. 

407 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


'  Poor  band,  why  quiver'st  thou  at  this  decree  ? 
Konour  thyself  to  rid  me  of  this  shame; 
For  if  I  die  my  honour  lives  in  thee. 
But  if  I  live  thou  liv'st  in  my  defame : 
Since  thou  couldst  not  defend  thy  loyal  dame, 
And  was  afeard  to  scratch  her  wicked  foe. 
Kill  both  thyself  and  her  for  yielding  so.' 

This  said,  from  her  betumbled  couch  she  startcth, 
To  find  some  desperate  instrument  of  death : 
But  this  no-slaughter-house  no  tool  imparteth, 
To  make  more  vent  for  passage  of  her  breath, 
Which  thronging  through  her  lips  so  vanisheth 
As  smoke  from  iEtna,  that  in  air  consumes, 
Or  that  which  from  discharged  cannon  fumes. 

'  In  vain,'  quoth  she, '  I  live,  and  seek  in  vain 
Some  happy  mean  to  end  a  hapless  life. 
I  fear'd  by  Tarquin's  falchion  to  be  slain, 
Yet  for  the  self-same  purpose  seek  a  knife  : 
But  when  I  fear'd  I  was  a  loyal  wife  ; 

So  am  I  now  : — 0  no,  that  cannot  be ; 

Of  that  true  type  hath  Tarquin  rifled  me. 


'0  1  that  is  gone  for  which  I  sought  to  live, 
And  therefore  now  I  need  not  fear  to  die. 
To  clear  this  spot  by  death,  at  least  I  give 
A  badge  of  fame  to  slander's  livery  ; » 
A  dying  life  to  living  infamy ; 

Poor  helpless  help,  the  treasure  stolen  away, 
To  burn  the  guiltless  casket  where  it  lay  ! 

'  Well,  well,  dear  Collatine,  thou  shalt  not  know 

The  stained  taste  of  violated  troth; 

I  will  not  wrong  thy  tnie  affection  so 

To  flatter  thee  with  an  infringed  oath ; 

This  bastard  graff  shall  never  come  to  growth  : 
He  shall  not  boast  who  did  thy  stock  pollute 
That  thou  ai-t  doting  father  of  liis  fruit. 

'  Nor  shall  he  smile  at  thee  in  secret  thought, 
Nor  laugh  with  his  companions  at  thy  state ; 
But  thou  shalt  know  thy  interest  was  not  bought 
Basely  with  gold,  but  stolen  from  forth  thy  gate. 
For  me,  I  am  the  mistress  of  my  fate, 
And  with  my  trespass  never  will  dispense, 
Till  life  to  death  acquit  my  forc'd  offence. 


'  1  will  not  poison  thee  vriih  my  attaint. 
Nor  fold  my  fault  in  cleanly-coin' d  excuses; 
My  sable  ground  of  sin  I  will  not  paint, 
To  hide  the  truth  of  this  fake  night's  abuses : 
^ly  tongue  shall  utter  all;  mine  eyes  like  sloiccs, 
As    from    a    mountain-spring    that    feeds   a 
dale. 

Shall  gush  pure  streams  to  pui"gc  my  impure 
tale.' 
4  OS 


By  this,  lamenting  Pliilomcl  bad  ended 
The  weU-tun'd  warble  of  her  nightly  son-ow. 
And  solemn  night  with  slow-sad  gait  descended 
To  ugly  hell ;  when  lo,  the  blushing  morrow 
Lends  light  to  all  fair  eyes  that  light  will  borrow: 
But  cloudy  Lucrcce  shames  herself  to  sec, 
And  therefore  stiU  in  night  would  cloister'd  be. 

•  An  allusion  to  the  badges  which  servants  or  retainers  cf 
families  of  rank  trore  on  their  liveries. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Revealing  day  througli  every  craiiny  spies, 
And   seems  to  point  her  out  where   she   sits 

weeping ; 
To  whom  she  sobbing  speaks  :  '  0  eye  of  eyes, 
Why  pryest  thou  thi-ough  my  window?    leave 

thy  peeping; 
Mock  with  thy  tickling   beams  eyes  that   are 

sleeping : 
Brand  not  my  forehead  with   thy  piercing 

Ught, 
For  day  hath  nought  to  do  what's  done  by 

night.' 

Thus  cavils  she  with  everything  she  sees  : 

True  grief  is  fond*  and  testy  as  a  child, 

Who  wayward  once,  his    mood  with    nought 

agrees. 
Old  woes,  not  infant  sorrows,  bear  them  nuld ; 
Continuance  tames  the  one ;  the  other  -uild. 
Like  an  unpractis'd  swimmer  plunging  still 
With  too  much  labour  drowns  for  want  of 
skill. 

So  she,  deep-drenched  in  a  sea  of  care. 
Holds  disputation  with  each  thing  she  views. 
And  to  herself  all  sorrow  doth  compare ; 
No  object  but  her  passion's  strength  renews ; 
And  as  one  shifts,  another  straight  ensues : 

Sometime   her   grief  is  dumb  and   hath  no 
words ; 

Sometime  'tis  mad,  and  too  much  talk  affords. 

The  little  birds  that  tune  their  morning's  joy 
Make  her  moans  mad  with  then-  sweet  melody. 
For  mirth  doth  search  the  bottom  of  annoy ; 
Sad  souls  are  slain  in  merry  company : 
Grief  best  is  pleas'd  with  grief's  society : 
True  sorrow  then  is  feelingly  suffic'd 
When  with  like  semblance  it  is  sympathiz'd. 

'T  is  double  death  to  drown  in  ken  of  shore ; 
He  ten  tunes  pines  that  pines  beholding  food ; 
To  see  the  salve  doth  make  the  wound  ache 

more; 
Great  grief  grieves  most  at  that  would  do  it 

good; 
Deep  woes  roll  forward  like  a  gentle  flood. 
Who,   being    stopp'd,    the    bounding    banks 

o'eiiiows : 
Grief  dalUed  with  nor  law  nor  limir  knows. 

'  You  mockmg  birds,'  quotli  she,  '  your  tunes 

entomb 
Withm  yom-  hollow-swelling  feather'd  breasts, 
And  in  my  hearing  be  you  mute  and  dumb ! 

Pond  -foolish. 


(My  restless  discord  loves  no  stops  nor  rests ;, 
A  woeful  hostess  brooks  not  merry  guests :) 

Relish  your  nimble  notes  to  pleasing  ears ; 

Distress  likes  dumps'  when  time  is  kept  with 
tears. 

'  Come,  Philomel,  that  sing'st  of  ra\ishment. 
Make  thy  sad  grove  in  my  dishevell'd  hair. 
As  the  dank  earth  weeps  at  thy  languishment. 
So  I  at  each  sad  strain  will  strain  a  tear. 
And  with  deep  groans  the  diapason  bear : 
For  burthen--n-ise  I  'U  hum  on  Tarquin  still, 
While  thou  on  Tereus  descant'st  better  skill. '' 

'And  whiles   against  a  thorn  thou  bear'st  tliy 

part. 
To  keep  thy  sharp  woes  waking,  wretched  I, 
To  imitate  thee  well,  against  my  heart 
Win  fix  a  sharp  knife,  to  affright  mine  eye ; 
'Who,  if  it  wink,  shall  thereon  fall  and  die. 
These  means,  as  frets  upon  an  instrument, 
Shall  tune  our  heartstrings  to  true  languish- 
ment. 

'  And  for,  poor  bii'd,  thou   sing'st  not  in  the 

day. 
As  shaming  any  eye  shoidd  thee  heboid. 
Some  dark  deep  desert,  seated  from  the  way. 
That  knows  nor  parching  heat  nor  freezing  cold, 
We  win  find  out ;  and  there  we  will  unfold 
To  creatures  stem  sad  tunes,  to  change  their 

kinds: 
Since  men  prove  beasts,  let  beasts  bear  gentle 

minds.' 

As  the  poor  frighted  deer,  that  stands  at  gaze. 
Wildly  determining  which  way  to  fly. 
Or  one  encompass'd  -nith  a  winding  maze, 
That  cannot  tread  the  way  out  readily ; 
So  with  herself  is  she  in  mutiny, 
To  live  or  die  which  of  the  twain  were  better, 
■\Yhen   life  is  sham'd,  and  Death  reproach's 
debtor. 

'  To  kill  myself,'  quoth  she, '  alack !  what  were  it, 
But  with  my  body  my  poor  soul's  pollution  ? 
They  that  lose  half  with  greater  patience  bear  it 
Than  they  whose  whole  is  swaUow'd  in  confusion. 
That  mother  tries  a  merciless  conclusion 

Who,  having   two  3weet  babes,  when  death 
takes  one, 

WiU  slav  the  other,  and  be  nui-sc  to  none. 


j       a  Dumps — melancholy  airs. 

b  BetUr  skill.    We  mu.^t  probably  here  understand  iciii 
I    better  skill. 
I  409 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


'  My  body  or  my  soul,  which  was  the  dearer  ? 
When  the  one  pure,  tlie  other  made  divine. 
\VTiose  love  of  either  to  myself  was  nearer  ? 
When  both  were  kept  for  heaven  and  CoUatinc. 
All  me  !  the  bark  peel'd  from  the  lofty  pine, 

His  leaves  will  either,  <iad  bis  sap  decay  ; 

So  must  my  soul,  her  bark  being  peel'd  away. 

'  Her  house  is  sack'd,  her  quiet  interrupted, 
Her  mansion  batter'd  by  the  enemy ; 
Her  sacred  temple  spotted,  spoil' d,  corrupted, 
Grossly  engirt  with  daring  infamy  : 
Then  let  it  not  be  call'd  impiety 
If  in  this  blemish'd  fort  I  make  some  hole 

I  may  convey  this  troubled 
soul. 


Through  wliich 


•  Yet  die  I  will  not  till  my  Collatine 
Have  heard  the  cause  of  my  untimely  death ; 
That  he  may  vow,  in  that  sad  hour  of  mine. 
Revenge  on  him  that  made  me  stop  my  breath. 
!My  stained  blood  to  Tarquin  I  '11  bequeath, 
Which  by  liim  tainted  shall  for  him  be  spent, 
And  as  his  due  writ  in  my  testament. 

'.My  honour  I  '11  bequeath  unto  the  knife 
That  wounds  my  body  so  dishonoured. 
'T  is  honour  to  deprive  dishonour' d  life ; 
The  one  will  live,  the  othei-  being  dead : 
So  of  shame's  ashes  jhall  my  fame  be  bred ; 
For  in  my  death  I  murther  shameful  scorn : 
My  shame  so  dead,  mine  honour  is  new-born. 

'  Dear  lord  of  that  dear  jewel  I  have  lost, 
WTiat  legacy  shall  I  bequeath  to  thee  ? 
My  resolution,  Love,  shall  be  thy  boast. 
By  whose  example  thou  reveng'd  niayst  be. 
How  Tarquin  must  be  used,  read  it  in  me : 

Myself,  thy  friend,  will  kill  myself,  thy  foe ; 

And,  for  my  sake,  serve  thou  false  Tarquin  so. 

'  This  brief  abridgment  of  my  wUl  I  make : 

My  soul  and  body  to  the  skies  and  ground ; 

My  resolution,  husband,  do  thou  take ; 

Mine  honour  be  the   knife's   that  makes   my 
wound; 

My  shame  be  his  that  did  my  fame  confound ; 
And  all  my  fame  that  lives  disbursed  be 
To  those  that  live,  and  think  no  shame  of  me. 

'Thou,  Collatine,  shalt  oversee  this  will;* 
How  was  I  overseen  that  thou  shalt  see  it ! 
My  blood  shall  wash  the  slander  of  mine  ill ; 

»  The  executor  of  a  ■will  was  sometimes  called  the  otrr- 
tirr ;  but  our  ancestors  often  appointed  overseers  as  well  as 
executors.  Shakspere'sown  will  contains  such  an  .ippoint- 
ment. 

410 


My  life's  foul  deed  my  life's  fair  end  shall  free  it. 
Faint  not  faint  heart,  but  stoutly  say,  "  so  be  it." 

Yield  to  my  hand ;  my  hand  shall  conquer 
thee ; 

Thou  dead,  both  die,  and  both  shall  victors  be.' 

This  plot  of  death  when  sadly  she  had  laid. 
And  wip'd  the  brinish  pearl  from  her  bright  eyes, 
With  untun'd  tongue  she  hoarsely  call'd  her  maid, 
AVhose  swift  obedience  to  her  mistress  hies  ; 
For  fleet-wing'd  duty  with    thought's  feathers 
flies. 
Poor  Lucrece'  cheeks  unto  her  maid  seem  so 
As  winter  meads  when  sun  doth   melt  their 
snow. 

Her  mistress  she  doth  give  demui-e  good-morrow. 
With  soft-slow  tongue,  true  mark  of  modesty. 
And  sorts  a  sad  look  to  her  lady's  sorrow, 
(For  why  ?  her  face  wore  sorrow's  livery,) 
But  durst  not  ask  of  her  audaciously 

Why  her  two  suns  were  cloud-eclipsed  so. 
Nor  why  her   fair  cheeks  over-wash'd  with 
woe. 

But  as  the  earth  doth  weep,  the  sun  being  set," 
Each  flower  moisten'd  like  a  melting  eye ; 
Even  so  the  maid  with  sweUiug  drops  'gan  wet 
Her  circled  eyne,  enforc'd  by  sympathy 
Of  those  fair  suns,  set  in  her  mistress'  sky. 
Who  in  a  salt-wav'd  ocean  quench  their  light, 
"ftTiich  makes  the  maid  weep  like  the  dewy 
night. 

A  pretty  while  these  pretty  creatures  stand, 
Like  ivoiy  conduits  coral  cisterns  filling : 
One  justly  weeps ;  the  other  takes  in  hand 
No  cause,  but  company,  of  her  di'ops  spilling : 
Their  gentle  sex  to  weep  are  often  willing ; 
Grieving  themselves  to  guess  at  others'  smartS; 


And  then  they  drown  their 
their  hearts. 


eyes. 


or 


break 


For  men  have  marble,  women  waxen  minds. 
And  therefore  are  they  form'd  as  marble  will;'' 
The  weak  oppress'd,  the  impression  of  strange 
kinds 

a  In  the  folio  edition  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  as  well  as  in 
the  quarto  of  1597,  we  find  the  line— 

"  When  the  sun  sets,  the  earth  doth  drizzle  dew." 
Here  the  image  completely  agrees  with  that  in  the  text 
before  us.  But  in  the  undated  quarto,  wliicli  the  modem 
editors  follow,  we  have  "  the  airdoth  drizzle  dcw."  Science 
was  long  puzzled  to  decide  whether  tlie  earth  or  the  air  pro- 
duced dew;  but  it  was  reserved  for  the  accurate  experi- 
ments of  modem  times  to  show  that  the  earth  and  the  air 
must  unite  to  produce  this  effect  under  particular  circum- 
stances of  temperature  and  radiation.  The  correction  of  the 
undated  edition  of  llomeo  and  Juliet  was  certainly  unneces- 
sary. 

b  MarbWUete  stands  for  men,  whose  minds  have  just  beta 
compared  to  marble. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Is  forni'd  in  them  by  force,  by  fraud,  or  skill : 
Then  call  them  not  the  authors  of  their  Ul, 

No  more  than  wax  shall  be  accounted  evil, . 

Wherein  is  stamp'd  the  semblance  of  a  devil. 

Their    smootlmess,    like    a    goodly    champaign 

plain. 
Lays  open  all  the  little  worms  that  creep ; 
In  men,  as  in  a  rough-grown  grove,  remain 
Cave-keeping  evils  that  obscurely  sleep : 
Through  crystal  walls  each  little  mote  will  peep  : 
Though  men  can  cover  crimes  with  bold  stern 

looks, 
Poor  women's  faces  are  their  own  faults'  books. 

No  man  inveigh  against  the  wither'd  flower. 
But  chide  rough  winter  that  the  flower  hath 

kiU'd! 
Not  that  devour' d,  but  that  which  doth  devour 
Is  worthy  blame.     O,  let  it  not  be  hild^ 
Poor  women's  faults  that  they  are  so  fulfill'd'' 
With  men's  abuses!    those  proud  lords,  to 

blame. 
Make   weak-made   women   tenants   to   their 
shame 

The  precedent  whereof  in  Lucrece  view, 
Assail'd  by  night  with  circumstances  strong 
Of  present  death,  and  shame  that  might  ensue 
By  that  her  death,  to  do  her  husband  wrong : 
Such  danger  to  resistance  did  belong, 

That  dymg  fear  through  all  her  body  spread ; 

And  who  cannot  abuse  a  body  dead  ? 

By  this,  mild  Patience  bid  fair  Lucrece  speak 
To  the  poor  counterfeit'^  of  her  complatuing: 
'  My  girl,'  quoth  she,  '  on  what  occasion  break 
Those  tears  from  thee,  that  down  thy  cheeks  are 

raiuing  ? 
If  thou  dost  weep  for  grief  of  my  sustaming. 
Know,  gentle  wench,  it  small  avails  my  mood : 
If  tears  could  help,  mine  own  would  do  me 
good. 

'  But  tell  me,  gii'l,  when  went ' — (and  there  she 

stay'd 
Till  after  a  deep  groan)  'Tarquin  from  hence?' 
'  Madam,  ere  I  was  up,'  replied  the  maid, 
'  The  more  to  blame  my  sluggard  negligence : 
Yet  with  the  fault  I  thus  far  can  dispense ; 
Myself  was  stirring  ere  the  break  of  day. 
And,  ere  I  rose,  was  Tarquin  gone  away. 

tt  Hild — held.    Such  a  change  for  the  sake  of  rhyme  is 
f-cquent  in  Spenser. 
1'  Fulfill' d—comv\&tt\y  filled, 
c  Counier/eit.    A  likeness  or  copy. 


'  But,  lady,  if  your  maid  may  be  so  bold. 
She  would  request  to  know  your  heaviness.' 
*  O  peace ! '  quoth  Lucrece ;  '  if  it  should  be  told, 
The  repetition  cannot  make  it  less ; 
Eor  more  it  is  than  I  can  well  express : 
Aud  that  deep  torture  may  be  call'd  a  hell. 
When  more  is  felt  than  one  hath  power  to  tell. 

'  Go,  get  me  hither  paper,  ink,  and  pen — 
Yet  save  that  labour,  for  I  have  them  here. 
What  should  I  say  ? — One  of  my  husband's  men 
Bid  thou  be  ready,  by  and  by,  to  bear 
A  letter  to  my  lord,  my  love,  my  dear ; 
Bid  Mm  with  speed  prepare  to  carry  it : 
The  cause  craves  haste,  and  it  will  soon  be 
writ.' 

Her  maid  is  gone,  and  she  prepares  to  write, 
Pirst  hovering  o'er  the  paper  with  her  quiU : 
Conceit  and  grief  an  eager  combat  fight ; 
What  wit  sets  down  is  blotted  straight  with  will ; 
This  is  too  civrious-good,  this  blunt  and  iU : 
Much  like  a  press  of  people  at  a  door, 
Throng  her  inventions,  which  shall  be  before. 

At  last  she  thus  begins : — '  Thou  worthy  lord 
Of  that  nnworthy  wife  that  greeteth  thee, 
Health  to  thy  person !  next  vouchsafe  to  afford 
(If  ever,  love,  thy  Lucrece  thou  wdt  see) 
Some  present  speed  to  come  and  visit  me : 
So  I  commend  me  from  our  house  in  grief;* 
My  woes  are  tedious,  though  my  words  are 
brief.' 

Here  folds  she  up  the  tenor  of  her  woe. 

Her  certain  sorrow  wi-it  uncertainly. 

By  this  short  schedule  Collatine  may  know 

Her  giief,  but  not  her  grief's  true  quality; 

She  dares  not  thereof  make  discovery. 
Lest  he  should  hold  it  her  own  gross  abuse. 
Ere  she  MJth  blood  had  stain'd  her  stain'd 
excuse. 

Besides,  the  life  and  feeling  of  her  passion 
She  hoards,  to  spend  when  he  is  by  to  hear  her ; 
When  sighs,  and  groans,  and  tears  may  grace 

the  fashion 
Of  her  disgrace,  the  better  so  to  clear  her 
From  that  suspicion  which  the  world  might  bear 

her. 


a  The  simplicity  of  this  letter  is  exquisitely  beautiful ; 
and  its  pathos  is  deeper  from  the  circumstance  that  it  is 
scarcely  raised  above  the  tone  of  ordinary  correspondence. 

"  So  I  commend  me  from  our  house  in  grief" 
is  such  a  formula  as  we  constantly  find  in  ancient  corre- 
ijondence.  In  the  '  Pastou  Letters'  we  have  such  conclusioni 
a^  this :  "  Written  at when  I  was  not  well  at  ease." 

411 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


To  shun  this  blot,  she  would  not  blot  the  letter 
With  words,  till  action  might  become  them 
better. 

To  see  sad  sights  moves  more  than  hear  them 

told; 
For  then  the  eye  interprets  to  the  ear 
llie  heavy  motion'  that  it  doth  behold, 
When  every  part  a  part  of  Moe  doth  bear. 
'T  is  but  a  part  of  sorrow  that  we  hear : 
Deep  sounds'"  make  lesser  noise  than  shallow 

fords. 
And  sorrow  ebbs,  being  blown  with  wind  of 
words. 

Her  letter  now  is  seal'd,  and  on  it  writ, 

*  At  Ardea  to  my  lord  with  more  than  haste  :* 

The  post  attends,  and  she  delivers  it, 


Charging  the  sour-fae'd  groom  to  hie  as  fast 
As  lagging  fowls  before  the  northern  blast. 

Speed  more  than  speed  but  dull  and  slow  she 
deems : 

Extremity  still  urgeth  such  extremes. 

The  homely  \Tllain  court'sics  to  her  low ; 
And  blushing  on  her,  with  a  steadfast  eye 
Receives  the  scroll,  without  or  yea  or  no, 
And  forth  with  bashful  innocence  doth  hie. 
But  they  whose  guilt  ^vithin  their  bosoms  lie 

Imagine  every  eye  beholds  their  blame ; 

For  Lucrece  thought  he  blush'd  to  see  her 
shame ; 

When,  silly  groom  !  God  wot,  it  was  defect 

Of  spirit,  life,  and  bold  audacity. 

Such  harmless  creatures  have  a  true  reqiect 


To  talk  in  deeds,  while  others  saucily 
Promise  more  speed,  but  do  it  leisurely : 
Even  so,  this  pattern  of  the  worn-out  age 
Pawn'd  honest  looks,  but  laid  no  words  to 
gage. 

•  Motion — dumb  show. 

*>  Sounds.  M  alone  proposes  to  read /ood».  This  Steevens 
resists,  and  says  that  iound  is  such  a  part  of  the  sea  as  may- 
be sounded.  To  this  Malone  replies  that  a  sound  cannot  be 
deep,  and  therefore  sounds  is  not  here  intended.  A  sound 
is  a  bay  or  frith ;  and  Dampier,  who  is  be"cr  authority  than 
the  commentators  on  nautical  matters,  niMitions  a  sound  as 
"  large  and  deep."  The  stillness  of  a  sound,  in  conscqut-nce 
of  bcin!,'  land-locked,  testifies  to  the  correctness  of  the  poets 
image. 

■112 


His  kindled  duty  kinillcd  her  mistruil. 

That  two  red  fires  in  both  their  faces  blaz'd ; 

She  tliought  he  blush'd  as  knowing  Tarquin's 
lust. 

And,    blushing    with     him,    wistly    on    him 
gaz'd; 

Her  earnest  eye  did  make  him  more  amaz'd : 
The  more  she  saw  the  blood  his  cheeks  re- 
plenish. 
The  more  she  thought  he  spied  in  hf>r  some 
blemiih. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


Rut  long  she  tliinks  till  lie  rctinu  again. 
And  yet  the  duteous  vassal  scarce  is  gone. 
The  weaiy  time  she  cannot  entertain, 
For  now  't  is  stale  to  sigh,  to  weep,  and  groan  : 
So  woe  hath  wearied  woe,  moan  tired  moan. 
That  she  her  plaints  a  little  while  doth  stay, 
Tansing  for  means  to  moui'n  some  newer  way. 

At  last  she  calls  to  mind  where  hangs  a  piece 
Of  skilful  painting,  made  for  Priam's  Troy ; 
Before  the  which  is  drawn*  the  power  of  Greece, 
For  Helen's  rape  the  city  to  destroy, 
Threat'ning  cloud-kissing  Ilion  with  annoy ; 
Which  the  conceited''  painter  drew  so  proud. 
As  heaven  (it  seem'd)  to  kiss  tlie  tim-ets  bow'd. 

A  thousand  lamentable  objects  there, 
[n  scorn  of  Natui-e,  Art  gave  Ufeless  life : 
Many  a  dry  di-op  seem'd  a  weeping  tear, 
Shed  for  the  slaughter'd  husband  by  the  wife : 
The  red  blood  reek'd  to  show  the  painter's  strife; 

And    dying   eyes   gleam'd   forth    their   ashy 
lights. 

Like  dying  coals  burnt  out  iu  tedious  nights. 

There  might  you  see  the  labouring  pioneer 
Begrim'd  with  sweat,  and  smeared  all  with  dust; 
And  from  the  towers  of  Troy  there  would  appear 
The  very  eyes  of  men  through  loopholes  thi-ust. 
Gazing  upon  the  Greeks  with  little  lust : 
Such  sweet  observance  in  this  work  was  had, 
That  one  might  see  those  far-off  eyes  look  sad. 

Ill  great  commanders  grace  and  majesty 
You  might  behold,  triumphing  in  their  faces ; 
In  youth,  quick  bearing  and  dexterity ; 
And  here  and  there  the  painter  interlaces 
Pale    cowards,    mai'ching    on    with    trembling 
paces ; 
Which  heartless  peasants  did  so  well  resemble, 
That  one  would  swear  he  saw  them  quake  and 
tremble. 

In  Ajax  and  Ulysses,  0  what  art 

Of  physiognomy  might  one  behold ! 

The  face  of  either  'cipher'd  cither's  heart ; 

Their  face  their  manners  most  expressly  told  : 

In  Ajax'  eyes  blunt  rage  and  rigour  roll'd ; 
But  the  mild  glance  that  sly  Ulysses  lent 
Showed  deep  regard  and  smiling  govermneut. 

There  pleading  might   you   see   grave  Nestor 

stand, 
As  't  were  encouraging  the  Greeks  to  fignt; 
Making  such  sober  action  with  his  hand 

n  Drawn.    Drawn  out  into  the  field, 
b  CottceiUd — ingenious,  imaginative 


That  it  beguil'd  attention,  charm'd  the  sight : 
In  speech,  it  seem'd,  his  beard  all  silver  white 
Wagg'd  up  and  down,  and  from  his  lips  did 

fly. 

Thin  winding  breath,  which  purl'd  up"  to  the 

sky. 

About  him  were  a  press  of  gaping  faces. 
Which  seem'd  to  swallow  up  liis  sound  advice ; 
All  jouitly  listening,  but  with  several  graces, 
As  if  some  mermaid  did  their  ears  entice ; 
Some  high,  some  low,  the  paiuter  was  so  nice : 
The  scalps  of  many,  almost  hid  behind, 
To  jump  up  higher  seem'd  to  mock  the  mind. 

Here  one  man's  hand  leau'd  on  another's  head, 
His  nose  being  shadow'd  by  Ids  neighboui-'s  car; 
Here  one  being  throng'd  bears  back,  all  boll'n'' 

and  red ; 
Another  smother'd  seems  to  pelf^  and  swear  ; 
And  in  their  rage  such  signs  of  rage  they  bear. 
As,  but  for  loss  of  Nestor's  golden  words, 
It   seem'd  they  would    debate    with    angry 
swords. 

For  much  imaginary  work  was  there  ; 
Conceit  deceitfid,  so  compact,  so  kind,"" 
That  for  Aclulles'  image  stood  his  spear, 
Grip'd  in  an  armed  hand ;  himself,  behind, 
Was  left  unseen,    save  to  the  eye  of  mind  : 
A  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  a  leg,  a  head. 
Stood  for  the  whole  to  be  imagined. 

Aiid  from  the  waUs  of  strong-besieged  Troy 
Wlien  then-  brave  hope,  bold  Hector,  march'd 

to  field. 
Stood  many  Trojan  mothers,  sharing  joy 
To    see   their  youthful    sons    bright    weapons 

wield; 
And  to  then-  hope  they  such  odd  action  yield. 
That  tlu-ough  their  Hght  joy  seemed  to  appear 
(Like  bright  things  stain' d)  a  kind  of  heavy 

fear. 

And,  from  the   strond  of  Dardan  where   they 

fought. 
To  Simois'  reedy  banks,  tlie  red  blood  ran. 
Whose  waves  to  imitate  the  battle  sought 

a  Purl'd.  The  meaning  of  purl  as  applied  to  a  sound  is 
famUiar  to  all.  Bacon,  in  speaking  of  the  sound  of  a  pipe, 
mentions  "  a  sweet  degree  of  sibilation  or  purling."  Thus, 
in  the  passage  before  us,  the  thin  winding  breath  of  Nestor, 
the  soft  flowing  words,  purl'd  up  to  the  sky.  But  the  com- 
mentators believe  that  purl'd  here  expresses  motion  and  not 
sound ;  and  Steevens  proposes  to  substitute  curl'd. 

b  Boll'n — swollen. 

5  Pell— to  be  clamorous,  to  discharge  hasty  words  as  pellets. 

<1  Kind — natural. 

413 


THE  RAPE  OF  LrCRECE. 


With,  swellinf^  ridges ;  anU  their  ranks  began 
To  break  upon  tlie  galled  shore,  and  than* 
Retire  again,  till  meeting  greater  ranks 
They  join,  and  shoot  their  foam  at  Simois' 
banks. 

To  this  well-painted  piece  is  Lucrece  come, 
To  find  a  face  where  all  distress  is  stel'd.'' 
Many  she  sees  wliere  cares  liave  carved  some. 
But  none  where  all  distress  and  dolour  dwell'd, 
Till  she  despairing  Hecuba  beheld. 

Staring  on  Priam's  wounds    with    her    old 

eves, 
Which   bleeding  under  Pyrrhua'  oroud  foot 
lies. 

In  her  the  painter  had  auatoraiz'd 

Time's  ruin,  beauty's  wrack,  and  giim   care's 

reign; 
Her  cheeks  with  chaps  and  wrinkles  were  dis- 

guis'd ; 
Of  what  she  was  no  semblance  did  remain : 
Her  blue  blood,  chang'd  to  black  in  every  vein, 
Wanting  the  spring  that  those  shrunk  pipes 

had  fed, 
Show'd  life  imprison'd  in  a  body  dead. 

On  this  sad  shadow  Lucrece  spends  her  eyes, 
And  shapes  her  son-ow  to  the  beldame's  woes, 
Wlio  nothing  wants  to  answer  her  but  cries, 
And  bitter  words  to  ban  her  cruel  foes : 
The  painter  was  no  god  to  lend  her  those ; 

And  therefore  Lucrece   swears  he   did  her 
wrong. 

To  give  her  so  much  grief,  and  not  a  tongue. 

'  Poor  instrument,'  quoth  she,  '  without  a  sound, 
I  '11  tune  thy  woes  with  my  lamenting  tongue  : 
And  drop  sweet  balm  in  Priam's  painted  wound. 


a  Than  uiei  {oT  then.    This  is  another  example  (we  had 
one  before  in  hild)  of  changing  a  termination  for  the  sake  of 
rhyme.    In  Fairfax's  '  Tasso' there  is  a  parallel  instance: — 
*  Time  was,  (for  each  One  hath  his  doting  time, 
These  silver  locks  were  golden  tresses  than,) 
That  countr)-  life  I  hated  as  a  crime, 
And  from  the  fore>t's  sweet  contentment  ran." 
b  SteFd.    A  passage  in  the  twenty-fourth    Sonnet  may 
explain  the  lines  in  the  text  :  — 

"  Mine  eye  hath  play'd  the  painter,  and  hath  iteFd 
Thy  heauty's  form  in  table  of  my  heart." 
The  word  sletd  in  both  instances  has  a  distinct  association 
with  something  painted  ;  but  to  ttcll  is  interpreted  as  to  fix, 
from  ttill,  a  fixed  place  of  abode.  It  appears  to  us  that  the 
worJ  is  connected  in  Shakspere's  mind  with  the  word  slilf, 
the  pencil  by  which  forms  are  traced  and  copied.  The  appli- 
cation does  not  appear  forced,  when  we  subsequently  find  the 
poet  uiing  the  expression  ofprncilFd  pensiveness."  We 
constantly  n^^e  the  term  ttile  as  applied  to  painting;  but  we 
all  know  that  ttile,  as  describing  the  manner  of  delineating 
foriii!.,  is  deriTcd  from  the  instrument  bv  wLich  chaTacfer* 
were  anciently  urttlen.  SteCd  is  probably  then  «»rrf,  the 
■word  being  slightly  changed  to  suit  the  tbyisc. 

414 


And  rail  on  Pyrrhus  that  hath  done  him  wrong, 
And  with  my  tears  quench  Troy  that  burns  so 
long; 
And  with  my  knife  scratch  out  the  angry  eyes 
Of  all  the  Greeks  that  arc  thine  enemies. 

'  Show  me  the  strumpet  that  began  this  s(ir. 
That  with  my  nails  her  beauty  I  may  tear. 
Thy  heat  of  lust,  fond  Paris,  did  incur 
This  load  of  wrath  that  burning  Troy  doth  bear; 
Thy  eye  kindled  the  fire  that  bumeth  here : 
And  here  in  Troy,  for  trespass  of  thine  eye, 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  dame,  and  daughter, 
die. 

'  "^Miy  should  the  private  pleasure  of  some  one 
Become  the  public  plague  of  many  mo  ?■ 
Let  sin,  alone  committed,  light  alone 
Upon  his  head  that  hath  transgressed  so. 
Let  guiltless  souls  be  freed  from  guilty  woe  : 
For  one's  offence  why  should  so  many  fall, 
To  plague  a  private  sin  in  general  ? 

*  Lo,  here  weeps  Hecuba,  here  Priam  dies, 
Here  manly  Hector  faints,  here  Troilus  swounds; " 
Here  friend  by  friend  in  bloody  channel  lies. 
And  friend  to  friend  gives -unadvised'  wounds. 
And  one  man's  lust  these  many  lives  confounds:* 
Had  doting  Priam  check'd  his  son's  desire, 
Troy  had  been  bright  with  fame,  and  not  with 
fii-e.' 

Here  feelingly  she  weeps  Troy's  pamted  woes  : 
For  sorrow,  like  a  heavy-hanging  bell. 
Once  set  on  ringing,  with  his  own  weight  goes ; 
Then  little  strength  rings  out  the  doleful  knell : 
So  Lucrece  set  a- work  sad  tales  doth  tell 

To  peneiU'd  pensiveness  and  colour'd  sorrow ; 

She  lends  them  words,  and  she  their  looks 
doth  borrow. 

She  throws  her  eyes  about  the  painting  round. 
And  whom  she  finds  forlorn  she  doth  lament : 
At  last  she  sees  a  wretched  image  bound. 
That  piteous  looks  to  Phrygian  shepherds  lent ; 
His  face,  though  full  of  cares,  yet  show'd  con- 
tent : 
Onward  to   Troy  with    the  blunt  swains  he 

goes. 
So  mild  that  Patience  seem'd  to   scorn  his 
woes. 


»  Mo—taon. 

b  5troBfu^— swoons.    It  is  probable  that  the  word  wag  so 
luually  pronounced.    In  Drayton  ticound  rhymM  to  woaitd. 
e  UnadrUsJ — Unknowing. 
<>  Confoandt  is  her°  used  in  the  sense  of  destroys. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


In  liini  the  painter  labour' d  Avith  his  skill 
To  hide  deceit,  and  give  the  harmless  show 
An  humble  gait,  calm  looks,  eyes  -wailiug  stiU, 
A  brow  unbent,  that  seem'd  to  welcome  woe ; 
Cheeks  neither  red  nor  pale,  but  mingled  so 
That  blushing  red  no  guilty  instance  gave. 
Nor  ashy  pale  the  fear  that  false  hearts  have. 

But,  like  a  constant  and  confii-med  devU, 
He  entertain'd  a  show  so  seeming  just, 
And  thereiu  so  ensconc'd  his  secret  evil. 
That  jealousy  itself  could  not  mistrust 
False-creeping  craft  and  perjui-y  should  thrust 
Into  so  bright  a  day  such  black-fac'd  storms. 
Or   blot   with  heU-bom   sin   such   saiut-like 
forms. 

The  weU-skiU'd  workman  this  mild  image  drew 
For  perjm-'d  Sinon,  whose  enchanting  story 
ITie  credulous  old  Priam  after  slew ; 
Whose  words,  like  wildfii'e,  bui'ut  the   shining 

glory 
Of  rich-built  Hion,  that  the  skies  were  sorry, 
And  little  stars  shot  from  then*  fixed  places. 
When  their  glass  fell  wherein  they  view'd  their 
faces.* 

This  picture  she  ad\dsedly''  perus'd, 
And  chid  the  painter  for  his  wondi'ous  skill ; 
Saying,  some  shape  in  Sinon's  was  abus'd. 
So  fail-  a  form  lodg'd  not  a  mind  so  iU ; 
And  stUl  on  him  she  gaz'd,  and  gazing  stiU, 
Such  signs  of  truth  in  his  plain  face  she  spied. 
That  she  concludes  the  picture  was  belied. 

'  It  cannot  be,'  quoth  she, '  that  so  much  guile ' — 
(She  would  have  said) '  can  lurk  in  such  a  look ;' 
But  Tarquin's  shape  came  in  her  mind  the  wlule. 
And  from  her  tongue  'can  Im-k'  from  'camiot' 
took; 

•  It  caimot  be '  she  in  that  sense  forsook. 

And  turn'd  it  thus :  '  It  ca;mot  be,  I  find, 
But  such  a  face  should  bear  a  wicked  mind : 

*  For  even  as  subtle  Sinon  here  is  painted, 
So  sober-sad,  so  weary,  and  so  mild, 

(As  if  with  grief  or  travail  he  had  fainted,) 


"  Malone  objects  to  this  image  of  Priam's  palace  being  the 
mirror  in  which  the  fixed  stars  beheld  themselves.  Boswell 
has  answered  Malone  by  quoting  Lydgate's  description  of  the 
same  wonderful  edifice : — 

"  That  verely  when  so  the  sonne  shone 
Upon  the  golde  meynt  amonge  the  stone, 
They  gave  a  lyght  withouten  any  were. 
As  doth  Apollo  in  his  mid-day  sphere." 
b  Advisedly — attentively. 


To  me  came  Tarquin  armed ;  so  beguil'd' 
With  outward  honesty,  but  yet  defil'd 

With  inward  vice :  as  Priam  him  did  cherish. 
So  did  I  Tarquin ;  so  my  Troy  did  perish. 

'  Look,  look,  how  listening  Priam  wets  his  eyes, 
To  see  those  bon-ow'd  tears  that  Sinon  sheds. 
Priam,  why  art  thou  old,  and  yet  not  vrise  ? 
For  every  tear  he  falls •>  a  Trojan  bleeds ; 
His  eye  drops  fii'c,  no  water  thence  proceeds ; 
Those  roimd  clear  pearls  of  his  that  move  thy 

pity 

Ai'c  balls  of  quenchless  fire  to  bm-n  thy  city. 

'  Such  devils  steal  effects  from  lightless  hell ; 
For  Sinon  in  his  fire  doth  quake  with  cold. 
And  in  that  cold  hot-bui-ning  fire  doth  dwell ; 
These  contraries  such  unity  do  hold 
Only  to  flatter  fools,  and  make  them  bold ; 
So   Priam's   trust   false   Sinon's    tears   doth 

flatter. 
That  he  finds  means  to  burn  his  Troy  with 
water.' 

Here,  all  em-ag'd,  such  passion  her  assails. 
That  patience  is  quite  beaten  from  her  breast. 
She  tears  the  senseless  Sinon  with  her  nails. 
Comparing  him  to  that  unhappy  guest 
Whose  deed  hath  made  herself  herself  detest ; 

At  last  she  simlingly  Avith  this  gives  o'er ; 

'Fool!    fool!'  quoth  she,   'his  wounds  \vill 
not  be  sore.' 

Thus  ebbs  and  flows  the  current  of  her  sorrow. 

And  time  doth  weary  time  with  her  complain- 
ing. 

She  looks  for  night,  and   then   she   longs  for 
moiTow, 

And  both  she  thmks  too  long  \vith  her  remain- 
in  "■  • 

Short  time  seems  long  in  sorrow's   sharp  sus- 
taining. 
Though  woe  be  heavy,  yet  it  seldom  sleeps ; 
And  they  that  watch  see  time  how  slow  it 
creeps. 

Which  all  this  time  hath  overslipp'd  her  thought. 
That  she  with  painted  images  hath  spent ; 
Being  from  the  feeling  of  her  o-wn  grief  brought 
By  deep  surmise  of  others'  detriment ; 
Losins:  her  woes  in  shows  of  discontent. 

a  So  beguifd.    The  oripinal  has  /o  beguiFd.    Beguiled  is 
masked  with  fraud.     In  Tlie  Jlerchant  of  Venice  we  have— 
"  Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea." 
b  Palls— lets  fall. 

415 


THE  liAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


It  easetli  some,  though  uono  it  over  cur'd, 
To  thiiik  their  dolour  others  have  cndm-'d. 

But  now  the  mindful  messenger,  come  back, 
]?rings  home  his  lord  and  other  company ; 
Who  finds  his  Luerece  clad  in  mourning  black  ; 
And  round  about  her  tear-distained  eje 
Blue  circles  stream'd,  like  rainbows  in  the  sky. 
These  water-galls"  in  lier  dim  element 
Foretell  new  storms  to  those  already  spent. 

"^Vhich  when  her  sad-beholding  husband  saw, 

Amazedly  in  her  sad  face  he  stares : 

Her  eyes,  though  sod  in  tears,  look'd  red  and 

raw, 
Her  lively  colour  kiil'd  with  deadly  cares. 
He  hath  no  power  to  ask  her  how  she  fai'es. 
But  stood  like  old  acquaintance  in  a  trance. 
Met  far  from  home,  wondering  each  other's 
chance. 

At  last  he  takes  her  by  the  bloodless  haiid, 
And  thus  begins  :  '  What  uncouth  iU  event 
Hath  thee  befallen,  that   thou  dost  trembling 

stand  ? 
Sweet   love,  wliat   spite   liath   thy  fair  colour 

spent  ? 
"\Yhy  art  thou  tlius  attii-'d  in  discontent  ? 
Unmask,  dear  dear,  this  moody  heaviness. 
And  tell  thy  grief,  that  we  may  give  redress.' 

Three  times  with  sighs  she  gives  her  sorrow  fire. 
Ere  once  she  can  discharge  one  word  of  woe : 
At  length  address'd*"  to  answer  his  desii-e, 
She  modestly  prepares  to  let  them  know 
Her  honour  is  ta'en  prisoner  by  the  foe ; 
"While  CoUatine  and  his  consorted  lords 
"With  sad  attention  long  to  hear  her  words. 

And  now  this  pale  swan  in  her  watery  nest 
Begins  the  sad  dirge  of  her  certain  ending : 
'Few  words,'  quoth  she,  'shall  fit  the  trespass 

best, 
Where  no  excuse  can  give  the  faidt  amending : 
In  me  more  woes  than  words  are  now  depending ; 
And  my  laments  would  be  drawn  out  too  long. 
To  tell  them  all  \nth  one  poor  tired  tongue. 

'  Then  be  this  all  the  task  it  hath  to  say : — 
Dear  husband,  in  the  interest  of  thy  bed 
A  stranger  came,  and  on  that  pillow  lay 
Where  thou  wast  wont  to  rest  tliy  weary  head; 
And  what  wrong  else  may  be  imagined 

»  H'aler-palli.    Steevens  says  the  word  is  current  among 
the  shepherds  on  Salisbury  Plain. 
*>  Add'ess'd — prepared. 

41  ff 


By  foul  enforcement  might  be  done  to  me, 
From  that,  alas  I  thy  Luerece  is  not  free. 

'  For  in  tlie  dreadful  dead  of  dai-k  midnight, 
"With  shining  falchion  in  my  chamber  came 
A  creeping  creature,  with  a  flaming  light, 
And  softly  cried,  A^vake,  thou  Roman  dame, 
And  entertain  my  love;  else  lasting  shame 
On  thee  and  thine  this  night  I  will  inflict. 
If  thou  my  love's  desire  do  contradict. 

'For  some  hard-favoui-'d  groom  of  thine,  quoth 

he, 
Unless  thou  yoke  thy  likiiij  to  my  wUl, 
I'll  miirder  straight,  and  then  I'U  slaughter  thee, 
And  swear  I  found  you  where  you  did  fulfil 
The  loathsome  act  of  lust,  and  so  did  kill 
The  lechers  in  their  deed :  this  act  will  be 
My  fame,  and  thy  perpetual  infamy. 

'  "With  this  I  did  begin  to  start  and  cry. 
And  then  a£?ainst  mv  licai-t  lie  set  his  sword, 
Swearing,  unless  I  took  all  patiently, 
I  should  not  live  to  speak  another  word : 
So  should  my  shame  still  rest  upon  record,. 
And  never  be  forgot  in  mighty  Rome 
The   adulterate   death  of  Luerece    and  her 
groom. 

'  Mine  enemy  was  strong,  my  poor  self  weak, 
And  far  the  weaker  with  so  strong  a  fear : 
My  bloody  judge  forbade  my  tongue  to  speak ; 
No  rightful  pica  might  plead  for  justice  there : 
His  scarlet  lust  came  evidence  to  swear 
That  my  poor  beauty  had  pui'loin'd  his  eyes, 
And  when  the  judge  is  robb'd,  the  prisoner 
dies, 

'  0  teach  me  how  to  make  mine  own  excuse ! 

Or,  at  the  least,  this  refuge  let  me  find ; 

Though  my  gross   blood   be   stain'd  with   this 
abuse. 

Immaculate  and  spotless  is  my  mind ; 

That  was  not  forc'd ;  that  never  was  inelin'd 
To  accessary  yieldings,  but  still  pure 
Doth  in  her  poison'd  closet  yet  endure.' 

Lo  here,  the  hopeless  merchant  of  this  loss, 
With  head  declin'd,  and  voice  damm'd  up  with 

woe. 
With  sad-set  eyes,  and  wretched  arms  across, 
From  lips  new-waxen  pale  begins  to  blow 
The  grief  away  that  stops  his  answer  so : 
But  wretched  as  he  is  he  strives  in  vain ; 
What  he  breathes  out   his  breath  drinks  up 
asaiji. 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


As  through  an  arch  the  violent  roaring  tide 
Outruns  the  eye  that  doth  behold  his  haste ; 
Yet  in  the  eddy  boundeth  in  his  pride 
Back  to  the  strait  that  forc'd  him  on  so  fast ; 
In  rage  sent  out,  recall'd  in  rage,  being  past : 
Even  so  he  sighs,  his  sorrows  make  a  saw, 
To    push  grief  on,  and  back  the  same  grief 
draw. 

Which  speechless  woe  of  his  poor  she  attendeth. 
And  his  untimely  frenzy  thus  awaketh  : 
'  Dear  lord,  thy  sorrow  to  my  sorrow  lendeth 
Another  power ;  no  flood  by  raining  slaketh". 
My  woe  too  sensible  thy  passion  maketh 
More  feeling-painful :  let  it  then  suffice 
To  drown  one  woe,  one  pair  of  weeping  eyes. 

'  And  for  my  sake,  when  I  might  charm  thee  so, 
For  she  that  was  thy  Lucrece, — ^now  attend  me ; 
Be  suddenly  revenged  on  my  foe. 
Thine,  mine,  his  own ;  suppose  thou  dost  defend 

me 
From   what  is  past :    the  help  that  thou  shalt 
lend  me 
Comes  all  too  late,  yet  let  the  traitor  die ; 
For  sparing  justice  feeds  iniquity, 

'  But  ere  I  name  him,  you,  fair  lords,'  quoth  she, 
(Speaking  to  those  that  came  with  Collatiue) 
'  Shall  plight  your  honourable  faiths  to  me, 
With  swift  pursuit  to  venge  tliis  wrong  of  mine; 
For  't  is  a  meritorious  fair  design 
To  chase  injustice  with  revengeful  arms  : 
Knights,  by  their    oaths,  should   right  poor 
ladies'  harms.' 

At  this  request,  with  noble  disposition 
Each  present  lord  began  to  promise  aid. 
As  bound  in  knighthood  to  her  imposition. 
Longing  to  hear  the  hateful  foe  bewray'd. 
But  she,  that  yet  her  sad  task  hath  not  said. 
The  protestation  stops.    '0  speak,'  quoth  she, 
'  How  may  this  forced  stain  be  wip'd  from  me? 

'  What  is  the  quality  of  mine  offence, 

Being  coustraia'd  with  dreadful  circumstance  ? 

May  my  pure  mind  with  the  foul  act  dispense. 

My  low-declined  honour  to  advance  ? 

May  any  terms  acquit  me  from  this  chance  ? 

The  poison'd  fountain  clears  itself  again; 

And  why  not  I  from  this  compelled  stain  ? ' 

With  this,  they  all  at  once  began  to  say. 
Her  body's  stain  her  mind  untainted  clears ; 
While  with  a  joyless  smile  she  turns  away 
Tbaqedies,  &c.— Vol.  II.        2  E 


The  face,  that  map  which  deep  impression  bears 
Of  hard  misfortune,  caiVd  in  it  with  tears. 

'No,  no,'  quoth  she,  'no  dame,  hereafter 
living, 

By  my  excuse  shall  claim  excuse's  giving.' 

Here  with  a  sigh,  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
She    throws   forth  Tarquin's  name:    'He,  he,' 

she  says. 
But  more  than  '  he '  her  poor  tongue  covld.  not 

speak ; 
Tin  after  many  accents  aad  delays. 
Untimely  breathings,  sick  and  short  assays. 
She  utters  this :  '  He,  he,  fair  lords,  't  is  he, 
That  guides  this  hand  to  give  this  wound  to 

me.' 

Even  here  she  sheathed  in  her  harmless  breast 
A  harmful  knife,  that  thence  her  soul  imsheath'd : 
That  blow  did  bail  it  from  the  deep  imrest 
Of  that  polluted  prison  where  it  breath'd : 
Her  contrite  sighs  unto  the  clouds  bequeath'd 

Her  winged  sprite,  and  through  her  wounds 
doth  fly 

Life's  lasting  date  from  cancell'd  destiny. 

Stone-still,  astonish'd  with  this  deadly  deed. 
Stood  Collatiue  and  all  his  lordly  crew ; 
Till  Lucrece's  father  that  beholds  her  bleed. 
Himself  on  her  self-slaughter'd  body  threw ; 
And  from  the  pui-ple  fountain  Brutus  drew 
The  mui-derous  knife,  and  as  it  left  the  place. 
Her  blood,  in  poor  revenge,  held  it  in  chase  ; 

And  bubbliug  from  her  breast,  it  doth  di^-ide 
Li  two  slow  rivers,  that  the  crimson  blood 
Circles  her  body  in  on  every  side. 
Who  like  a  late-sack'd  island  vastly"  stood 
Bare  and  unpeopled,  in  this  fearful  flood. 

Some  of  her  blood  still  pure  and  red  remain'd. 
And  some  look'd  black,  and  that  false   Tar- 
quin  stain'd. 

About  the  mourning  and  congealed  face 
Of  that  black  blood  a  watery  rigol"  goes, 
WT:ich  seems  to  weep  upon  the  tainted  place  : 
And  ever  since,  as  pitying  Lucrece'  woes, 
Corrupted  blood  some  watery  token  shows ; 
And  blood  untainted  still  doth  red  abide, 
Blushing  at  that  which  is  so  putrefied. 

'  Daughter,  dear  daughter,'  old  Lucretius  cries, 
'That  life  was  mine  wliich  thou  hast  here  de- 

priv'd. 
If  ia  the  child  the  father's  image  lies, 

a  Vastly— like  a  waste.  "  Rigcl—ciicle. 

417 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCIIECE. 


\VLere  shall  I  live  now  Lucrccc  is  uuliv'd  ? 

Thou  wast  not  to  this  end  from  me  dcriv'd. 
If  children  predecease  progenitors, 
TTc  arc  their  olTspring,  and  they  none  of  oms. 

'  Poor  broken  glass,  I  often  did  bcliold 
In  thy  sweet  semblance  my  old  age  new  born ; 
But  now  that  fair  fresh  mhror,  dim  and  old, 
Shows  me  a  barebon'd  death  by  time  outworn ; 
0,  from  thy  checks  my  image  thou  hast  torn  ! 
And  shiver'd  ;dl  the  beauty  of  my  glass, 
That  I  no  more  can  see  what  once  I  was. 

'  0  time,  cease  thou  thy  coui-se,  and  last  no  longer. 
If  they  surcease  to  be  that  should  survive. 
Shall  rotten  death  make  conquest  of  the  stronger, 
And  leave  the  faltering  feeble  souls  alive  ? 
The  old  bees  die,  the  young  possess  their  hive : 
Then  live,  sweet  Luercce,  live  again,  and  see 
Thy  father  die,  and  not  thy  father  thee  ! ' 

By  this  starts  CoUatine  as  from  a  di'eam, 
And  bids  Lucretius  give  his  sori'ow  place ; 
And  then  in  key-cold'  Luercce'  bleeding  stream 
He  falls,  and  bathes  the  pale  fear  in  his  face. 
And  counterfeits  to  die  with  her  a  space ; 
Till  manly  shame  bids  him  possess  his  breath, 
And  live,  to  be  revenged  on  her  death. 

The  deep  vexation  of  his  inward  soul 
Hath  seiVd  a  dumb  aiTcst  upon  his  tongue  : 
Who,  mad  that  sorrow  should  Ids  use  control. 
Or  keep  him  from  heart-easing  words  so.  long. 
Begins  to  talk ;  but  through  liis  hps  do  throng 

"Weak  words,  so  thick  come,  in  his  poor  heart's 
aid, 

That  no  man  could  distinguish  what  he  said. 

Yet  sometime  Tarquin  was  pronounced  plain. 
But    through   his    teeth,  as   if   the  name  he 

tore. 
This  windy  tempest,  till  it  blow  up  rain. 
Held  back  liis  sorrow's  tide,  to  make  it  more; 
At  last  it  rains,  and  busy  winds  give  o'er  : 
Tlien  son  and  father  weep  with  equal  strife, 
"Who  should  weep  most  for  daughter  or  for 
wife. 

The  one  doth  call  her  his,  the  other  his, 
Yet  neither  may  possess  the  claim  they  lay. 
The  father  says,  'She's  mine,'     'O,  mine  she 
is.' 

•  Key-cold.    So  in  Richard  III.,  Act  i.,  Scene  ii.:— 
"  Poor  key-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king." 


HepUes  her  husband  :  '  do  not  take  away 
!My  sorrow's  interest ;  let  no  mourner  say 
He  weeps  for  her,  for  she  was  oidy  mine. 
And  only  must  be  wail'd  by  Collatine.' 

'  0,'  quotli  Lucretius,  '  I  did  give  that  life 
Which  she  too  early  and  too  late"  hath  spill'd.' 
'Woe,    M'oe,'    quoth    CoUatine,    'she    was    my 

wife, 
I  ow'd  her,  and  't  is  miue  that  she  hath  kill'd.' 
'  My  daughter!'  and  'My  wife!'  with  clamours 

fill'd 
The  dispers'd  air,  who,  holding  Luercce'  Ufe, 
Answcr'd  theii'  cries,  'My  daughter!'  and  'My 

wife ! ' 

Brutus,  who  pluck'd   the  knife  from  Lucrecc' 

bide. 
Seeing  such  emulation  in  their  woe. 
Began  to  clothe  his  wit  in  state  and  pride, 
Burying  in  Luercce'  wound  his  folly's  show. 
He  with  the  Romans  was  esteemed  so 
As  siUy  jeering  idiots  arc  with  kings. 
For  sportive  words,  and  uttering  foolish  tilings. 

But  now  he  throws  that  shallow  habit  by, 
Wlierein  deep  policy  did  him  disguise ; 
And  arm'd  liis  long-hid  ^vits  advisedly. 
To  chock  the  tears  in  CoUatinus'  eyes. 
'Thou  -wronged  lord  of  Rome,'  quoth  he,  'arise ; 
Let  my  unsovmded  self,  suppos'd  a  fool. 
Now  set  thy  long-experienc'd  wit  to  school. 

'  AYliy,  Collatine,  is  woe  the  cui-e  for  woe  ? 

Do  womids  help  wounds,  or  grief  help  grievous 
deeds  ? 

Is  it  revenge  to  give  thyself  a  blow, 

lor  his  foul  act  by  whom  thy  fail*  wife  bleeds ? 

Such    childish  humour    from  weak  minds  pro- 
ceeds : 
Thy  wretched  wife  mistook  the  matter  so, 
To   slay  herself,  that   shoidd   have  slain  her 
foe. 

'  Courageous  Roman,  do  not  steep  thy  heart 
In  such  rclcntmg  dew  of  lamentations. 
But  kneel  with  me,  and  help  to  bear  thy  part. 
To  rouse  our  Roman  gods  with  invocations. 
That  they  will  suffer  these  abominations, 

(Since  Rome  herself  in  them  doth  stand  dis- 

grac'd,) 
By  our  strong  arms  from  fortli  hor  fair  streets 
chas'd. 

•  7*00  lr.U-  -too  rccentlj". 


THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE. 


'  Now,  by  the  Capitol  that  we  adore, 

And  by  this  chaste  blood  so  unjustly  staia'd, 

By  heaven's  fair  sun  that  breeds  the  fat  earth's 

store, 
By  aU  our  country  rights  in  Rome  maintain' d. 
And   by  chaste  Lucrece'  soul  that   late   com- 
plain'd* 
Her  wrongs  to  us,  and  by  this  bloody  knife, 
We  wiU  revenge  the  death  of  this  true  wife.' 

This  said,  he  struck  his  hand  upon  his  breast. 
And  kiss'd  the  fatal  knife  to  end  his  vow ; 
And  to  his  protestation  urg'd  the  rest. 


a  Complain'd  was  formerly  used  without  a  subjoined  pre- 
position. 


Who,  wondering  at  him,  did  his  words  allow ; ' 
Then  jointly  to  the  ground  their  knees  they  bow ; 
And  that  deep  vow  which  Brutus  made  before. 
He  doth  again  repeat,  and  that  they  swore. 

When  they  had  sworn  to  this  advised  doom, 
They  did  conclude  to  bear  dead  Lucrece  thence ; 
To  show  her  bleeding  body  thorough  Rome, 
And  so  to  publish  Tarquin's  foul  offence : 
Which  being  done  \vith  speedy  dihgence. 
The  Romans  plausibly''  did  give  consent 
To  Tarquin's  everlasting  banishment. 


«  Alloto— approve. 

*>  Plausibly — with  expressions  of  applause — withacclaraa 
tion.    Plausively,  applausively. 


i 


i 


% 

•I 

I 


n 


TO    .    THE    .    ONLIE    .     BEGETTER    .    OF  . 

THESE  .  INSUING  .  SONNETS  . 

MR.   W.    H.     ALL    .     HAPPII^ESSE  . 

AND  .  THAT  .  ETERNITIE  . 

PRO^nSED   . 

BY  . 

OUR   .   EVER  -  LIVING   .  POET  . 

WISHETH   . 

THE   .   •V^TBLL  -  WISHING   . 

ADVENTURER  .   IN   , 

SETTING  , 

FORTH  . 

T.   T. 


SONNETS. 


I. 

From  fairest  creatures  we  desire  increase. 

That  thereby  beauty's  rose  might  never  die. 

But  as  the  riper  should  by  time  decease, 

His  tender  heir  might  bear  his  memory : 

But  thou,  contracted  to  thiue  own  bright  eyes, 

Feed'st  thy  light's  flame  with  self-substantial 

fuel, 
Making  a  famine  where  abundance  lies. 
Thyself  thy  foe,  to  thy  sweet  self  too  cniel. 
Thou  that  art  now  the  world's  fresh  ornament. 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spring. 
Within  thine  own  bud  buriest  thy  content, 
Ajid,  tender  chiu'l,  mak'st  waste  in  niggardmg. 
Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be, 
To   eat  the  world's  due,  by  the  grave  and 
thee. 


n. 
When  fortv  wiaters  shall  besiege  thv  brow. 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gaz'd  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,*  of  small  worth  held  : 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies. 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  (lays : 
To  say,  within  thine  o-«"n  deep  sunken  eyes, 
Were  an  all-eating,  shame  and  thi-iftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserv'd  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer — 'This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count,  and  make  my  old  excuse — ' 
Prodng  his  beauty  by  succession  thine ! 

This  were  to  be  new-made  when  tliou  art  old, 
And  see  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  fcel'st  it 
cold. 


a  fTeed— gannent. 


423 


SONKETS. 


in. 

Look  in  thy  glass,  aiiil  tell  the  face  thou  vicwcst, 
Now  is  the  time  that  faee  should  form  another; 
Whose  fresh  repair  if  now  thou  not  rencwest, 
Thou  dost    beguile   the    world,   unblcss    some 

mother. 
For  where  is  she  so  fair  whose  unear'd*  womb 
Disdains  the  tillage  of  thy  husbandry  ? 
Or  who  is  he  so  fomP  will  be  the  tomb 
Of  his  self-love,  to  stop  posterity  ? 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  thee 
Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime  : 
So  thou  through  windows  of  thine  age  slialt  see, 
Despite  of  wrinkles,  this  thy  golden  time. 
Bat  if  thou  live,  remember'd  not  to  be. 
Die  single,  and  thine  image  dies  with  thee. 

IV. 

Unthrifty  loveliness,  why  dost  thou  spend 

Upon  thyself  thy  beauty's  legacy  ? 

Nature's  bequest  gives  nothing,  but  doth  lend, 

And,  beiujr  frank,  she  lends  to  those  are  free. 

Then,  beauteous  niggard,  why  dost  thou  abuse 

The  bounteous  largess  given  thee  to  give  ? 

Profitless  usui'cr,  why  dost  thou  use 

So  great  a  sum  of  sums,  yet  canst  not  live  ? 

For  havinor  traffic  with  thvself  alone. 

Thou  of  thyself  thy  sweet  self  dost  deceive. 

Then  how,  when  nature  calls  thee  to  be  gone. 

What  acceptable  audit  canst  thou  leave  ? 

The  unus'd  beauty  must  be  tomb'd  with  thee. 
Which,  used,  lives  th'  executor  to  be. 

V. 

Those  hours  that  with  gentle  work  did  frame 

The  lovely  gaze  where  every  eye  doth  dwell. 

Will  play  the  tyrants  to  the  very  same, 

And  that  unfair"  which  fairly  doth  excel ; 

For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 

To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there ; 

Sap  check'd  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite 

gone, 
Beauty  o'ersnow'd,  and  bareness  everywhere : 
Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left, 
A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass, 
Beau-ty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft. 
Nor  it,  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was. 

But  flowers  distill' d,  tliough  they  with  winter 
meet, 

Lcese"^  but  their  show;  their  substance  still 
lives  sweet. 


•  Vnear'd — unploufflipfl.  •>  Fond — foolish, 

e  Unfair — a  verb — deprive  of  fairness,  of  beauty. 
<•  Leeie—\oit. 

424 


VT. 

Then  let  not  winter's  ragged  hand  deface 

In  thee  thy  summer,  ere  thou  be  distill'd : 

Make  sweet  some  phial ;  treasure  thou  some  place 

AVith  beauty's  treasure,  ere  it  be  self-kill'd. 

That  use  is  not  forbidden  usury. 

Which  happics"  those  that  pay  the  willing  loan ; 

That 's  for  thyself  to  breed  another  thee. 

Or  ten  times  happier,  be  it  ten  for  one ; 

Ten  times  thyself  were  happier  than  thou  art. 

If  ten  of  thine  ten  times  refigur'd  thee : 

Then  what  eould  Death  do  if  thou  shouldst  depart. 

Leaving  thee  living  in  posterity  ? 

Be  not  self-will'd,  for  thou  art  much  too  fair 
To  be  Death's  conquest,  and  make  worms  thine 
heir. 

VII. 

Lo,  in  the  orient  when  the  gracious  light 
Lifts  up  his  burning  head,  each  under  eye 
Doth  homage  to  his  new-appearing  sight. 
Serving  with  looks  his  sacred  majesty ; 
And  having  climb'd  the  steep-up  heavenly  hill, 
Ilesembling  strong  youth  in  his  middle  age. 
Yet  mortal  looks  adore  his  beauty  still, 
Attending  on  his  golden  pilgrimage  ; 
But  when  from  high-most  pitch,  with  weary  car. 
Like  feeble  age,  he  reeleth  from  the  day. 
The  eyes,  'fore  duteous,  now  converted  are 
From  his  low  tract,  and  look  another  way  : 
So  thou,  thyself  outgoing  in  thy  noon, 
Unlook'd  on  diest,  unless  thou  get  a  son. 

VIII. 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  thou  music  sadly  ?•» 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 
Why  lov'st  thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not 

gladly? 
Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy  ? 
If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds. 
By  unions  married,  do  offend  thine  ear, 
Tliey  do  but  sweetly  chide  thee,  who  confounds 
In  singleness  the  parts  that  thou  shouldst  bear. 
Mark  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another. 
Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordering;" 
Ilesembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother. 
Who,  all  in  one,  one  pleasing  note  do  sing : 

Wliose  speechless  song,  being  many,  seeming 
one, 

Sings  this  to  thee,  'thou  single  w<M  prove  none.' 

*  ffiippirs—ma.V.es  hippy. 

b  Malone  tliun  explains  this  passage: — "  O  thou  whom  to 
hear  I-;  music,  why  hear'st  thou,"  Src. 

c  If  two  strings  are  tuned  in  perfect  unison,  and  one  only 
is  struck,  a  very  sensible  vibration  takes  place  iu  the  othei 
Th<8  is  called  sympathetic  vibration 


SONNETS. 


IX. 

Is  it  for  fear  to  wet  a  widow's  eye 

That  thou  consum'st  thyself  in  single  life  ? 

Ah  !  if  thou  issueless  shalt  hap  to  die, 

The   world   will  wad.  thee,   like    a  makeless"' 

wife  : 
The  world  will  be  thy  widow,  and  still  weep 
That  thou  no  form  of  thee  hast  left  behind, 
When  every  private  widow  well  may  keep. 
By  children's   eyes,   her    husband's    shape    in 

mind. 
Look,  what  an  unthrift  in  the  world  doth  spend 
Shifts  but  his  place,  for  still  the  world  enjoys  it ; 
But  beauty's  waste  hath  in  the  world  an  end, 
And  kept  unus'd,  the  user  so  destroys  it. 
No  love  toward  others  in  that  bosom  sits. 
That  on  himself  such  murderous  shame  com- 
mits. 


For  shame  !  deny  that  thou  bear'st  love  to  any, 
Who  for  thyself  art  so  unprovident. 
Grant  if  thou  wilt  thou  art  belov'd  of  many. 
But  that  thou  none  lov'st  is  most  evident ; 
For  thou  art  so  possess'd  with  murderous  hate, 
That  'gainst  thyself  thou  stick' st  not  to   con- 
spire. 
Seeking  that  beauteous  roof  to  ruinate. 
Which  to  repair  should  be  thy  chief  desire. 
0  change  thy  thought,  that  I  may  change  my 

mind  I 
Shall  hate  be  fairer  lodg'd  than  gentle  love  ? 
Be,  as  thy  presence  is,  gracious  and  kind. 
Or  to  thyself,  at  least,  kind-hearted  prove  ; 
Make  thee  another  self,  for  love  of  me, 
That  beauty  still  may  live  in  thine  or  thee. 

XI. 

As  fast  as  thou  shalt  wane,  so  fast  thou  grow'st 
In  one  of  thine,  from  that  which  thou  departest ; 
And  that  fresh  blood  which  youngly  thou  be- 

stow'st, 
Thou  mayst  call  thine,  when  thou  from  youth 

convertest. 
Herein  lives  wisdom,  beauty,  and  increase  ; 
Without  this  folly,  age,  and  cold  decay  : 
If  all  were  minded  so  the  times  should  cease. 
And  threescore  years  wodd   make  the  world 

away. 
Let  those  who:n  Nature  hath  not  made  for  store, 
Harsh,  featureless,  and  rude,  barrenly  perish : 


Look  whom  she  best  endow'd,    she  gave   the 

more ; 
Which  bounteous  gift  thou  shouldst  in  bounty 
cherish ; 
She  carv'd  thee  for  her  seal,  and  meant  thereby 
Thou  should'st  piint  more,  nor  let  that  copy 
die. 

XII. 

When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime. 
And  sable  curls,  all"^  silver'd  o'er  with  white  ; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves, 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd. 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  iu  sheaves. 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard  ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go. 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make 
defence 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee 
hence. 

XIII. 

O  that  you  were  yourself !  but,  love,  you  are 
No  longer  yours  than  you  yourself  here  live  : 
Against  this  coming  end  you  should  prepare. 
And  your  sweet  semblance  to  some  other  give. 
So  should  that  beauty  which  you  hold  in  lease 
Find  no  determination  :  then  you  were 
Yourself  again,  after  yourself's  decease, 
When  your  sweet  issue  your  sweet  form  should 

bear. 
Who  lets  so  fair  a  house  fall  to  decay, 
Which  husbandry  in  honour  might  uphold 
Against  the  stormy  gusts  of  winter's  day. 
And  barren  rage  of  death's  eternal  cold  ? 

0  !  none  but  unthrifts : — Dear  my  love,  you 
know 

You  had  a  father ;  let  your  son  say  so. 

XIV. 

Not  from  the  stars  do  I  my  judgment  pluck ; 
And  yet  methioks  I  have  astronomy. 
But  not  to  tell  of  good  or  evil  luck. 
Of  plagues,  of  dearths,  or  season's  quality  : 
Nor  can  I  fortune  to  brief  minutes  tell, 
Pointing  to  each  his  thunder,  rain,  and  wind, 
Or  say  \vith  princes  if  it  shall  go  well. 
By  oft  predict  that  I  in  heaven  find: 


a  Makeless — mateless. 
In  o;:r  elder  writers. 


Make  and  mate  are  synonymous 


8  .III.    The  original  has  cr. 


425 


SOXNETS. 


But  from  tliiuc  eyes  my  knowledge  I  derive, 
And  (eonstant  stars)  in  them  I  read  sueh  art, 
As  truth  and  beauty  shall  together  tl)rive, 
If  from  thyself  to  store  thou  wouldst  eonvert : 
Or  else  of  thee  tliis  I  prognostieate. 
Thy  end  is  truth's  and  beauty's  doom  and  date. 

XV. 

When  I  eonsider  every  tiling  tliat  grows 
Holds  in  perfeetion  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  state  presenteth  nought  but 

shows 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment ; 
When  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 
Cheered  and  check'd  even  by  the  selfsame  sky; 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease. 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory ; 
Then  the  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sets  you  most  rich  in  youth  before  my  sight, 
"Where  wasteful  time  debateth  with  decay. 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night ; 
And,  all  in  war  with  Time,  for  love  of  you, 
As  he  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. 

XVI. 

But  wherefore  do  not  you  a  mightier  way 
Make  war  upon  this  bloody  tyrant,  Time  ? 
And  fortify  yourself  in  your  decay 
With  means    more  blessed    than    my    barren 

rhyme  ? 
Now  stand  you  on  the  top  of  happy  hours ; 
And  many  maiden  gardens,  yet  unset. 
With  virtuous  wish  would  bear  your*  living 

flowers. 
Much  liker  than  your  painted  counterfeit : '' 
So  should  the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair, 
"Which  this,  Time's  pencil,  or  my  pupil  pen, 
Neither  in  inward  worth,  nor  outward  fair,'' 
Can  make  you  live  yourself  u>  eyes  of  men. 

To  give  away  yourself  keeps  youi'self  still ; 

And  you  must  live,  di-awu  by  your  own  sweet 
skiU. 

XVII. 

"Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come. 
If  it  were  fiU'd  with  your  most  high  deserts  ? 
Though  yet,  Ileaven  knows,  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 
"Which  hides  your  life,  and  shows  not  half  your 

parts. 
If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  eyes, 
Md  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  youi-  graces, 


»  Your.  The  ordinary  reading  is  jou,  Malone  conceiving 
that  vour  in  the  original  is  an  error  of  the  press. 

b  Counterfeit — portrait. 

c  fair— beauty.  The  word  is  used  in  the  same  sense  in 
the  18th  Sonnet. 

426 


The  age  to  come  would  say,  this  poet  lies, 
Such   heavenly   touches   ne'er  touch'd  earthly 

faces. 
So  should  my  papers,  yellow'd  with  their  age. 
Be  scorn'd,  like   old  men   of  less   truth  than 

tongue ; 
And  your  true  rights  be  torm'u  a  poet's  rage, 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song : 
But  were  some  child  of  vours  alive  that  time, 
You  should  live   twice; — in   it,  and  in  my 

rhyme. 

XVIII. 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  loMi-ly  and  more  temperate  : 
Hough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  bath  all  too  short  a  date : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  '^  shines. 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,   or  nature's   changuig  course,  uii- 

trimm'd ;  ^ 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade. 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest  ; 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

XIX. 

Devouring  Time,  blunt  thou  the  lion's  paws. 
And  make  the   earth   devour  her   own   sweet 

brood ; 
Pluck  the  keen  teeth  from  the  fierce  tiger's  jaws, 
And  bum  the  long-liv'd  phoenix  in  her  blood  ; 
Make  glad  and  sorry  seasons,  as  thou  fleets, 
And  do  whate'er  thou  wilt,  swift-footed  Time, 
To  the  wide  world,  and  all  her  fading  sweets ; 
But  I  forbid  thee  one  most  heinous  crime  : 
O  carve  not  with  thy  hours  my  love's  fair  brow, 
Nor  draw  no  lines  there  with  thine  antique  pen; 
Him  in  thy  course  untainted  do  allow, 
For  beauty's  pattern  to  succeeding  men. 

Yet,   do  thy  worst,  old  Time :   despite   thy 
wrong. 

My  love  shall  in  my  verse  ever  live  young. 

XX. 

A  woman's  face,  with  nature's  o^vn  hand  painted. 
Hast  thou,  the  master-mistress  of  my  passion  ; 
A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 
With  shifting  change,  as  is  false  women's  fashion; 

»  So  in  Richard  II.:— 

"  Wlieii  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Dchind  the  globe,  and  lights  the  lower  world." 
•>  I/n/rimm'd— undecorated. 


SONNETS. 


Aji  eye  more  bright  than  theu's,  less  false  in 

rolling, 
Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth  ; 
A.  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling, 
Which  steals   men's  eyes,  and  women's   souls 

amazeth. 
And  for  a  woman  wert  thou  first  created ; 
'fill  Nature,  as  she  wi'ought  thee,  fell  a-doting, 
And  by  addition  me  of  thee  defeated, 
By  adding  one  thing  to  my  purpose  nothing. 
But  since  she  prick'd  thee  out  for  women's 

pleasure. 
Mine  be  thy  love,  and  thy  love's  use  their 

treasure. 

XXI. 

So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  muse, 
Stirr'd  by  a  painted  beauty  to  his  verse ; 
Who  heaveu  itself  for  ornament  doth  use. 
And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse ; 
I^Iaking  a  couplement"'  of  proud  compare. 
With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's  rich 

gems. 
With   April's  first-born  flowers,  and  all  things 

rare 
That  heaven's  air  in  this  huge  rondure"^  hems. 
0  let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write. 
And  then  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 
As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 
As  those  gold  caudles  fix'd  in  heaven's  air  : 
Let    thetn    say   more  that  like   of    hearsay 

well; 
I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. 

XXII. 

My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old. 
So  long  as  youth  and  thou  are  of  one  date ; 
But  when  in  thee  time's  furrows  I  behold. 
Then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate. 
For  all  that  beauty  that  doth  cover  thee 
Is  but  the  seemly  raiment  of  my  heart. 
Which  in  thy  breast  doth  live,  as  thine  in  me  ; 
How  can  I  then  be  elder  than  thou  art  ? 
0  therefore,  love,  be  of  thyself  so  wary. 
As  I  not  for  myself  but  for  thee  will; 
Bearing  thy  heart,  which  I  will  keep  so  chai-y 
As  tender  nurse  her  babe  from  faring  ill. 

Presume   not    on    thy   heart   when  mine  is 
slain; 

Thou    gav'st    me    thine,   not    to  give  back 
again. 


a  Couplement — union.     So  in  Spenser: — 

"  Allied  with  bands  of  mutual  couplement." 
b  Rondure — circumference. 


XXIII. 


i\.s  an  unperfect  actor  on  the  stage, 
Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part, 
Or  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 
Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own 

heart ; 
So  I,  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite, 
And  in  mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'ercharg'd  with  burthen  of  mine  own  love's 

might. 
0  let  my  books  be  then  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presages  of  my  speaking  breast ; 
Who  plead  for  love,  and  look  for  recompence 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more 
express'd. 
0  learn  to  read  what  silent  love  hath  writ : 
To  hear  with  eves  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. 

XXIV. 

Mine   eye  hath   play'd  the  painter,   and  hath 

stell'd 
Thy  beauty's  form  in  table"  of  my  heart ; 
My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  't  is  held, 
And  perspective  it  is  best  painter's  art. 
Tor  through  the  painter  must  you  see  his  skill, 
To  find  where  your  true  image  pictm-'d  lies, 
Wliich  in  my  bosom's  shop  is  hanging  still. 
That  hath  his  windows  glazed  with  thine  eyes. 
Now  see  what  good  turns  eyes  for  eyes  have  done ; 
Mine  eyes  have  drawn  thy  shape,  and  thine  for 

me 
Are  windows  to  my  breast,  where-thi-ough  the 

Sim 
Delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  thee  ; 
Yet  eyes  this  curming  want  to  grace  their  art. 
They  draw  but  what  they  see,  know  not  the 

heart. 

XXV. 

Let  those  who  are  in  favour  with  their  stars, 
Of  pubHc  honour  and  proud  titles  boast. 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumph  bars, 
Unlook'd  for  joy  in  that  I  honour  most. 
Great  princes'  favourites  their  fair  loaves  spread 
But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye  ; 
And  in  themselves  then-  pride  lies  buried. 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 


.1  Table— so  in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  :— 
"  'T  was  pretty,  though  a  plague 
To  see  him  every  liour;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 
In  our  heart's  table." 
Table,  though  sometimes  used  in  tlie  sense  of  a  picture, 
more  commonly  means  the  tabular  surface  upon  which  a 
picture  is  painted. 

427 


SOXNETS. 


I 


The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight," 
After  a  thousand  victories  once  foil'd, 
Is  from  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd  : 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  bdov'd 
Where  I  may  not  remove,  nor  be  remov'd. 

XXVI. 

Lord  of  my  love,  to  whom  in  vassalage 

Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit. 

To  thee  I  send  this  written  embassage. 

To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  my  wit. 

Duty  so  great,  which  wit  so  poor  as  mine 

May   make   seem  bare,   in  wanting  words   to 

show  it ; 
But  that  I  hope  some  good  conceit  of  thine 
In  thy  soul's  thought,  all  naked,  will  bestow  it : 
Till  whatsoever  star  that  guides  by  moving, 
Points  on  me  graciously  with  fair  aspect, 
And  puts  apparel  on  my  tattcr'd  loving. 
To  show  me  worthy  of  thy  sweet  respect : 
Then  may  I  dare  to  boast  how  I  do  love  thee. 
Till    then,  not  show  my  head   where  thou 
mayst  prove  me. 

•  Fight.  The  original  has  worth.  Theobald,  who  saw 
that  the  alternate  rhyme  is  invariably  preserved  in  the  other 
Sonnets,  proposed  to  make  one  of  two  changes  ;  to  Tend  fight 
instead  of  tvorth,  or  forth  instead  of  quite.  We  arc  not  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  cither  change;  but  as  the  first  has  been 
adopted  in  most  modern  editions  we  will  not  attempt  lo  dis 
tnrb  the  received  readin^r,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  some 
error  is  involved  in  the  origioaL 

42S 


XXVII. 

Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed. 

The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tii-'d ; 

But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head. 

To  work  my  mind,  when  body's   work's   ex- 

pir'd : 
For  then  my  thoughts  (from  far  where  I  abide) 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  thee. 
And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide. 
Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see  : 
Save  tliat  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 
Presents  thy  shadow  to  my  sightless  view. 
Which,  like  a  jewel  himg  in  ghastly  night. 
Makes  black  niglit  beauteous,  and  her  old  face 

new. 
Lo,   thus,   by   day   my   limbs,  by  night  mj 

mind. 
For  tliee,  and  for  myself,  no  quiet  find. 


xxvni. 

How  can  I  then  return  in  happy  plight. 
That  am  debarr'd  the  benefit  of  rest  ? 
When  day's  oppression  is  not  cas'd  by  night. 
But  day  by  niglit  and  niglit  by  day  opprcss'd  ? 
And  each,  though  enemies  to  cither's  reigii, 
Do  in  consent  shake  hands  to  torture  mc. 
The  one  by  toil,  the  other  to  complain 
How  far  I  toil,  still  farther  off  from  thee. 


i\ 


SONNETS. 


I  tell  the  day,  to  please  him,  thou  art  bright. 
And  dost  ham  grace  when  clouds  do  blot  the 

heaven : 
So  flatter  I  the  swart-complexiou'd  night ; 
When  sparkling  stars  twire''  not,  thou  gild'st 
the  even. 
But  day  doth  daily  draw  ray  soitows  longer, 
And  night  doth  nightly  make  grief's  strength 
seem  stronger. 

XXIX. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featur'd  Uke  him,  like  hiiu  with  friends  possess' d, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 
Haply  I  think  on  thee, — and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen   earth)   sings  hymns   at    heaven's 

gate;!' 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth 

brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  ta  change  my  state  with 

kings. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  times' 

waste : 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unus'd  to  flow. 
For  precious   friends   hid  in  death's  dateless  ° 

night. 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancell'd  woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight.*^ 


a  Twire.  Malone  proposed  to  read  twirl,  and  Steevens 
conjectured  that  tivire  means  quire.  Gift'ord,  in  a  note  upon 
Ben  Jonson's  '  Sad  Shepherd,'  explains  that  in  the  passage 
before  us  the  meaning  is  "  when  tlie  stars  do  not  gleam  or 
appear  at  intervals."  He  adds,  "  Twire  should  not  have 
been  suffered  to  grow  obsolete,  for  we  have  no  word  now  in 
use  that  can  take  its  place,  or  be  considered  as  precisely  sy- 
nonymous with  it  in  sense :  leer  and  twinkle  are  merely 
shades  of  it."  Gilford  quotes  several  passages  from  Jonson 
and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in  confirmation  of  his  opinion. 
But  there  are  four  lines  in  Drayton's  '  Polyolbion  '  which 
contain  a  parallel  use  of  the  word : — 

"  Suppose  'twixtnoon'and  night  the  sun  is  half-way  wrought, 
(The  shadows  to  be  large,  by  his  descending  brought,) 
Who  with  a  fervent  eye  looks  through  the  twiring  glades, 
And  his  dispersed  rays  commixeth  with  the  shades." 

b  See  Cymbeline,  Illustrations  of  Act  ir. 

<:  Dateless — endless — having  no  certain  time  of  expiration. 

d  If  we  understand  expense  to  be  used  as  analogous  to 
passing  away,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  tliis  line.  What  we 
expend  is  gone  from  us  ;  and  so  the  poet  moans  the  expense 
of  many  a  vanished  sight.  Malone  thinks  that  siglit  is  used 
for  »igh ;  but  this  is  certainly  a  very  strained  conjecture. 


Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  j)aid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend. 

All  losses  are  restor'd,  and  sorrows  end. 

XXXI. 

Thy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts. 
Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead ; 
And  there  reigns  love  and  all  love's  loving  parts, 
And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  buried. 
How  many  a  holy  and  obsequious*  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stolen  from  mine  eye, 
As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 
But  things  remov'd,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie  ! 
Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth  live, 
Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give ; 
That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone  : 
Their  images  I  lov'd  I  view  in  thee. 
And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 

XXXII. 

If  thou  survive  my  well-contented  day. 

When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust 

shall  cover. 
And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover. 
Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time ; 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
Reserve^  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme. 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
0  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought ! 
'  Had  my  friend's  muse  grown  with  this  grow- 
ing age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 
But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theii-s  for  their  style  I'll  read,  liis  for  his  love. 

XXXIII. 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye. 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green. 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack''  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace : 


•1  Obsequious — funereal. 

l>  Reserve — the  same  as  preserve.    In  Pericles  we  have — 

"  Reserve  that  excellent  complexion." 
c  Rack.    Tooke,  in  his  full  discussion  of  the  meaning  of 
this  word  ('Diversions  of  Purley,'  Part  II.,   Chap.   IV.), 
holds  that  rack  means  "  merely  that  which  is  recked; "  and 

423 


SONNETS. 


Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  clid  shine 
With  all  triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow  ; 
But  out !  alack  !  lie  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  eloud  hath  rnask'd  him  from  nic  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's 
sun  staineth.'' 

Why  didst  thou  promise  sueh  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  eloidc, 
To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thv  braverv  in  their  rotten  smoke? 
'Tis  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou 

break. 
To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face, 
For  no  man  well  of  such  a  salve  can  speak, 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  eui-es  not  the  dis- 
grace : 
Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief; 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  still  the  loss : 
The  offender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross.'' 
Ah !  but  those  tears  are  pearl  which  thy  love 

sheds. 
And  they  are  rich,  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds. 

XXXV. 

No  more  be  griev'd  at  that  which  thou  hast 

done: 
Roses  have  thorns,  and  silver  fountains  mud ; 
Clouds  and  eclipses  stain  both  moon  and  sun. 
And  loathsome  canker  lives  in  sweetest  bud. 
All  men  make  faults,  and  even  I  in  this, 
Authorising  thy  trespass  with  compare, 
Myself  corrupting,  salving  thy  amiss," 
Excusing  thy  sins  more  than  thy  sins  are  : 
For  to  thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense, 
(Thy  adverse  party  is  thy  advocate,) 
And  'gainst  myself  a  lawful  plea  commence  : 
Such  eiul  war  is  in  my  love  and  hate. 
That  I  an  accessory  needs  must  be 
To  that  sweet  thief  which  sourly  robs  from  me. 

that  in  all  the  instances  of  its  use  by  Shakspcre  the  word 
signifies  rapoiir.  He  illustr.ites  the  passage  before  us  by 
quoting  tlie  lines  in  the  First  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  where  the 
Prince  in  some  degree  justifies  his  course  of  profligacy: — 

''Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun, 

Who  doth  permit  the  bate  contagious  cloudt 
To  fmother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world, 
That  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself. 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at, 
By  breaking  through  the/ou/  and  ugly  mists 
Of  vapours,  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him." 

a  Slain  and  staineth  are  here  used  with  the  signification 
of  a  verb  neuter.  Suns  of  the  world  may  be  stained  as 
heaven's  sun  is  stained 

b  Cross.  The  original  has  /o<>— evidently  a  mictake. 
Malone  substituted  cross. 

'  Amiss — fault. 

430 


XXXVI. 

Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain. 
Although  our  undivided  loves  arc  one  : 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain. 
Without  thy  help,  by  me  be  borne  alone. 
In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect. 
Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  "  spite, 
Wiich  Though  it  alter  nOt  love's  sole  effect, 
Yet  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 
I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee. 
Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame ; 
Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honour  me, 
Uidess  thou  take  that  honour  from  thy  name  : 
But  do  not  so ;  I  love  thee  in  sueh  sort. 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

xxxvii. 

As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 

To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth, 

So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  ^  spite. 

Take  aU  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth  ; 

For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit. 

Or  any  of  these  all,  or  all,  or  more. 

Entitled  in  thy  parts  do  crowned  sit, 

I  make  my  love  engrafted  to  this  store : 

So  tlien  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd. 

Whilst  that  this  shadow   doth  such  substance 

give. 
That  I  in  thy  abundance  am  suffic'd, 
And  by  a  part  of  all  thy  glory  live. 

Look  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  thee ; 

This  wish  I  have ;  then  ten  times  happy  me  ! 

XXXVIII. 

How  can  my  muse  want  subject  to  invent, 
'\Yhile  thou  dost  breathe,  that  pour'st  into  my 

verse 
Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 
For  every  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse  ? 
O,  give  thyself  the  thauks,  if  aught  in  mc 
Worthy  perasal  stand  against  thy  sight ; 
For  who 's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  thee. 
When  thou  thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 
Be  thou  the  tenth  muse,  ten  times  more  in  worth 
Thau  those  old  nine  which  rhymc'-s  invocate ; 
And  he  that  calls  on  thee,  let  him  bring  forth 
Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  loner  date. 

If  my  slight  muse  do  please  these   curious 


The 


days, 

pain  be 

praise. 


mine,  but  thine   shall  be  the 


'  Srparalilc — separating. 

h  Dearest.    So  in  Hamlet : — 

"  Would  I  had  met  ray  dearest  foe  in  Heaven  I  " 


SONNETS. 


XIDCE. 

0,  how  thy  -worth  with  maimers  may  I  sing, 

When  thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  me  ? 

What  can  mine  own  praise  to  mine  own  self  bring? 

And  what  is 't  but  mine  own,  when  I  praise  thee  ? 

Even  for  this  let  us  divided  live, 

And  oui"  dear  love  lose  name  of  single  one, 

That  by  this  separation  I  may  give 

ITiat  due  to  thee,  which  thou  deserv'st  alone. 

0  absence,  what  a  torment  wouldst  tliou  prove. 
Were  it  not  thy  soiu'  leisure  gave  sweet  leave 
To  entertain  the  time  with  thoughts  of  love, 
(Which  time  and  thoughts  so  sweetly  doth  de- 
ceive,) 

And  that   thou  teachest  how   to  make  one 

twain, 
By  praising  hun  here,  who  doth  hence  remain ! 

XL. 

Take  all  my  loves,  my  love,  yea,  take  them  all ; 
What  hast  thou  then  more  than  thou  hadst  before  ? 
No  love,  my  love,  that  thou  mayst  true  love  call ; 
All  mine  was  thine,  before  thou  hadst  this  more. 
Then  if  for  my  love  thou  my  love  receivest, 

1  cannot  blame  thee  for*  my  love  thou  usest ; 
But  yet  be  blam'd,  if  thou  thyself  deceivest 
By  wUful  taste  of  what  thyself  refusest. 

I  do  forgive  thy  robbery,  gentle  thief. 
Although  thou  steal  thee  all  my  poverty ; 
And  yet,  love  knows,  it  is  a  greater  grief 
To  bear  love's  wi-oug,  than  hate's  known  injury. 
Lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows. 
Kill  me  with  spites ;  yet  we  must  not  be  foes. 

XLI. 

Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits 
When  I  am  sometime  absent  from  thy  heart, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  years  full  well  befits. 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  thou  art. 
Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won, 
Beauteous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assail'd  ; 
And  when  a  woman  woos,  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  prevail'd  ? 
Ah  me  !  but  yet  thou  mightst  my  seat  forbear. 
And  chide  thy  beauty  and  thy  straying  youth. 
Who  lead  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  twofold  truth ; 
Hers,  by  thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  thee, 
Thine,  by  thy  beauty  being  false  to  me. 

XLII. 

That  thou  hast  her,  it  is  not  all  my  grief, 
And  yet  it  may  be  said  I  lov'd  her  dearly ; 

»  Far  here  signifies  because. 


That  she  hath  thee,  is  of  ray  wailing  chief, 
A  loss  in  love  that  touches  me  more  nearly. 
Loving  offenders,  thus  I  wOl  excuse  ye  : — 
Thou  dost  love  her,  because  thou  kncw'st  I  love 

her : 
And  for  my  sake  even  so  doth  she  abuse  mc, 
Suffering  my  friend  for  my  sake  to  approve  her. 
If  I  lose  thee,  my  loss  is  my  love's  gain, 
And,  losing  her,  ray  friend  hath  found  that  loss ; 
Both  find  each  other,  and  I  lose  both  twain, 
And  both  for  my  sake  lay  on  me  this  cross : 

But  here 's  the  joy ;  my  friend  and  I  are  one  ; 

Sweet  flattery  !  then  she  loves  but  me  alone. 

XLIII. 

When  most  I  wick,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see, 
Tor  all  the  day  they  view  thmgs  um-espected;'' 
But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee. 
And,  darkly  bright,  are  bright  in  dark  dii'ected ; 
Then  thou  whose  shadow  shadows  doth  make 

bright. 
How  would  thy  shadow's  form  form  happy  show 
To  the  clear  day  with  thy  nuich  clearer  liglit, 
When  to  unseeing  eyes  thy  shade  shines  so  ! 
How  would  (I  say)  mine  eyes  be  blessed  made 
By  looking  on  thee  in  the  living  day. 
When  iu  dead  night  thy  fair  imperfect  shade 
Tkrough  heavy  sleep  on  sightless  eyes  doth  stay  ? 
AH  days  are  nights  to  see,  tiU  I  see  thee. 
And  nights,   bright   days,   when  dreams   do 
show  thee  me.'' 

XLIV. 

If  the  didl  substance  of  my  flesh  were  thought. 
Injurious  distance  should  not  stop  my  way ; 
For  then,  despite  of  space,  I  would  be  brought 
From  limits  far  remote,  where  thou  dost  stay. 
No  matter  then,  although  my  foot  did  stand 
Upon  the  farthest  earth  remov'd  from  thee. 
For  nimble  thought  can  jump  both  sea  and  land. 
As  soon  as  think  the  place  where  he  would  be. 
But  ah !  thought  kills  me,  that  I  am  not  thought, 
To  leap  large  lengths  of  miles  when  thou  art  gone. 
But  that,  so  much  of  earth  and  water  wrought," 
I  must  attend  time's  leisure  with  my  moan; 
Eeceiviug  nought  by  elements  so  slow 
But  heavy  tears,  badges  of  cither's  woe : 


^  U^nrespee/erf— unrefrarded.  '>  Thee  mf— thee  lo  me. 

c  A  passage  in  Henry  V.  explains  this :— "  lie  is  pure  air 
and  fire;  and  the  dull  elements  of  earth  and  water  never 
appear  in  him."  The  thought  is  continued  in  the  first 
line  of  the  45th  Sonnet,  in  which  Sonnet  we  also  find  '  My 
life  being  made  of  four."  This  was  the  th?ory  of  life  m 
Shakspere'stime;  and  Sir  Toby,  in  Twelfth  Nisjlit,  speaks 
learnedly  when  he  says,  "  Does  not  our  life  consist  of  the 
four  elements?  "  Shakspere,  however,  somewhat  laushs  at 
the  theorv  when  he  makes  Sir  Andrew  reply,  "  Faitli,  so  they 
say,  but  I  think  it  rather  consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

431 


SONNETS. 


XLV. 


The  other  two,  slight  air  and  purging  fire, 
A.re  both  with  thee,  wherever  I  abide ; 
The  first  my  thought,  the  otlicr  my  desiro, 
These  prescut-abscut  with  swift  motion  bUde. 
For  when  these  quicker  elements  are  gone 
Tn  tender  embassy  of  love  to  thee, 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alone 
Sinks  down  to  death,  oppress'd  with  melancholy  ; 
Until  life's  composition  be  recur'd 
By  those  swift  messengers  retum'd  from  thee, 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assur'd 
Of  thy  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me : 
This  told,  I  joy  •,  but  then  no  longer  glad, 
I  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  gi'ow  sad. 

XLVI. 

Inline  eye  and  heart  are  at  a  mortal  w-ar, 
How  to  divide  the  conquest  of  thy  sight ; 
Mine  eye  my  heart  thy"  picture's  sight  would 

bar. 
My  heart  mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right. 
My  heart  doth  plead  that  thou  in  him  dost  lie, 
(A  closet  never  piere'd  with  crystal  eyes,) 
But  the  defendant  doth  that  plea  deny. 
And  says  in  him  thy  fair  appearance  lies. 
To  'cide^  this  title  is  impannellcd 
A  quest'  of  thoughts,  all  tenants  to  the  heart; 
And  by  their  verdict  is  determined 
The  clear  eye's  moiety,"!  and  the  dear  heart's 
part : 
As  thus ;  mine  eye's  due  is  thine  outward  part, 
And  my  heart's  right  thine  inward  love  of 
heart. 

XLvn. 

Betwixt  mine  eye  and  heart  a  league  is  took. 

And  each  doth  good  turns  now  unto  the  other : 

When  that  mine  eye  is  faralsh'd  for  a  look, 

Or  heart  in  love  with  sighs  hiiaself  doth  smother, 

■\Vith  my  love's  picture  then  my  eye  doth  feast. 

And  to  the  painted  banquet  bids  my  heart ; 

Another  time  mine  eye  is  my  heart's  guest, 

jVnd  in  his  thoughts  of  love  doth  share  a  part : 

So,  either  by  thy  picture  or  ray  love, 

Thyself  away  art  present  still  with  me ; 

For  thou  not  farther  than  my  thoughts  canst 

move. 
And  I  am  still  with  them,  and  they  with  thee ; 


»  Thu  The  oriRinal  has  iheir ;  and  it  is  remarkable  that 
the  same  typoRraphical  error  occurs  four  times  in  tins  one 
8onnct-a  pretty  convincii.R  proof  that  no  competent  or 
authorised  person  .superintended  the  publicatio-.i.  i-Tors  of 
thi«  sort  are  very  frequent  in  the  origmal;  but  we  ha\e  not 
thouRht  it  necessary  to  notice  them  when  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  the  mcaninR.  .  .•  „  „<•  j^ 

b  'Cide.  Malone  explains  thst  this  i»  a  contraction  of  de- 
cide.   The  oriRinal  reads  tide.  ,    .,  .  ,      „„rtinn 

c  Qucjf— inquest  or  Jur>-.  <^  Moiety— vorixon. 

432 


Or  if  they  sleep,  thy  picture  in  my  sight 
Awakes  my  heart  to  heart's  and  eye's  deUght. 

XLVIII. 

How  careful  was  I  when  I  took  my  way. 
Each  trifle  under  truest  bars  to  thrust, 
That,  to  my  use,  it  might  uuuscd  stay 
From  hands  of  falsehood,  in  sure  wards  of  trust ! 
But  thou,  to  whom  my  jewels  trifles  are, 
Iklost  worthy  comfort,  now  my  greatest  grief, 
Thou,  best  of  dearest,  and  mine  only  care. 
Art  left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief. 
Thee  have  I  not  lock'd  up  in  any  chest. 
Save  where  thou  art  not,  though  I  feel  thou  art. 
Within  the  gentle  closure  of  my  breast. 
From  whence  at  pleasure  thou  mayst  come  and 
part; 
And  even  thence  thou  wilt  be  stolen  I  fear, 
For  truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear." 

XXIX. 

Against  that  time,  if  ever  that  time  come, 
When  I  shall  see  thee  frown  on  my  defects, 
^Vbenas''  thy  love  hath  cast  his  utmost  sum, 
Call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'd  respects ; 
Against  that  time,  when  thou  shalt  strangely 

pass. 
And  scarcely  greet  me  with  that  sun,  thme  eye, 
When  love,  converted  from  the  thing  it  was, 
Shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity ; 
Against  that  time  do  I  ensconce"  me  here 
Within  the  knowledge  of  mine  own  desert. 
And  this  my  hand  against  myself  uprear. 
To  guard  the  lawful  reasons  on  thy  part : 

To  leave  poor  me  thou  hast  the  strength  of 
laws, 

Since,  why  to  love,  I  can  allege  no  cause. 

L. 

How  heavy  do  I  joumey  on  the  way. 
When  what  I  seek— my  weary  travel's  end- 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 
'  Thus  far  the  miles    are  measur'd  from  thy 

friend ! ' 
The  beast  that  bears  me,  tired  with  my  woe. 
Plods  dully  on,  to  bear  that  weight  in  me. 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know 
His  rider  lov'd  not  speed,  being  made  from  thcc : 
The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 
That  sometimes  anger  thrusts  into  his  hide. 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan, 
More  sharp  to  me  than  spurring  to  his  side ; 
For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  my  mind, 
My  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind. 


»  The  same  thought  is  in  Venus  and  Adonis:  — 
"  Rich  preys  make  true  men  thieves." 
b  n-Acnoj— when.  "=  Ensctnce-toiW.y. 


SONNETS. 


LI. 

Thus  can  my  love  excuse  the  slow  offence 
Of  my  dull  bearer,  when  from  thee  I  speed : 
From  where  thou  art  why  should  I  haste  me 

thence  ? 
Till  I  retiu-n,  of  postmg  is  no  need. 
O  what  excuse  will  my  poor  beast  then  find, 
When  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow  ? 
Then  should  I  spur,  though  mounted  on  the  wind; 
In  winged  speed  no  motion  shall  I  know  : 
Then  can  no  horse  with  my  desire  keep  pace  ; 
Therefore  desire,  of  perfect'st  love  beiug  made, 
Shall  neigh  (no  duU  flesh)  in  his  fiery  race ; 
But  love,  for  love,  thus  shall  excuse  my  jade  ; 
Since  from  thee  going  he  went  wilful  slow, 
Towards  thee  I  '11  nm,  and  give  him  leave  to 
.    go 

Lll. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare,* 
Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set, 


Like  stones  of  werfh  they  thinly  placed  are, 
Or  captain"'  jewels  in  the  carcanct.'' 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you,  as  my  chest, 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 
To  make  some  special  instant  special-blest. 
By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 

Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope. 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 

LIII. 

What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made. 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend  ? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one's  shade. 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit" 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you ; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new  : 
Speak  of  the  spring,  and  foison  of  the  year  ;  "^ 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show. 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear. 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part. 
But   you  like  none,  none  you,  for  cccsttut 
heart. 


['  Broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry.! 


'  There  h  a  somewhat  similar  thouglit  in  Henry  IV., 
Part  I.  :  — 

"My  state, 
Seldom  but  sumptuous,  show'd  like  a  feast, 
And  won  by  rareness  much  solemnity." 

Tkagedies,  &c. — Vol.  II.  2  F 


»  Captain— used  adjectively  for  chu/. 
l>  Carcanet — necklace, 
c  Counterfeit — portrait. 

d  Foisoo  is  plenty;  and  the  foisot  of  tht  year  i»  the  au- 
tumn, or  plentiful  season. 


SONNETS. 


LIV. 

0  bow  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  (nilli  doth  s:ivc! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deoin 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  *  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 
Ilang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
\7hen  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  dis- 
closes : 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show. 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  um'cspected  fade ; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made  : 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth. 
When  that  sh;dl  fade,  by  ^  verse  distils  your 
truth. 

LV. 

Not  marble,  not  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme ; 
But  you  shidl  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 
Than  unswept  stone,   besmear'd  with  sluttish 

time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry. 
Nor  Mars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall 

bui-n 
The  living  record  of  your  memory. 
'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  emnity 
Shall  you  pace  forth ;  your  praise  shall  stUl  find 

room. 
Even  iu  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise. 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

LVI. 

Sweet  love,  renew  thy  force  ;  be  it  not  said, 
Thy  edge  should  blunter  be  than  appetite, 
AVhich  but  to-day  by  feeding  is  alla/d, 
To-morrow  sharpen'd  iu  his  former  might : 
So,  love,  be  thou ;  although  to-day  thou  fill 
Thy  hungry   eyes,    even    tiU   they   wink  with 

fulness. 
To-morrow  sec  again,  and  do  not  kill 
The  spirit  of  love  witli  a  perpetual  dulness. 
Let  this  sad  interim  like  the  ocean  be 
Which  parts  the  shore,  where  two  contracted-new 
Come  daily  to  the  banks,  that,  when  they  see 
Return  of  love,  more  blest  may  be  the  view  ; 
Or  call  it  ■winter,  which,  being  full  of  care, 
Makes  summer's  welcome  thrice  more  wish'd, 
more  rarg. 

*  Canker-bloomi — the  flowers  of  the  canker  or  dog-rose. 
•>  Bii.    The  word  of  the  orif^inal  is  altered  by  Malune  to 
my.    The  change  is  certainly  not  wanted, 

434 


Lvir. 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire  ? 
1  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend, 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-witliout-end  hour. 
Whilst  1,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  von, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour, 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu  ; 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  tlinught 
AYliere  you  may  be,  or  your  allairs  suppose. 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought, 
Save,  where  you  are  how  happy  you  make  those  : 
So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
(Though  you  do  anythuig)  he  thinks  no  ill. 

Lvni. 

That  God  forbid,  tliat  made  me  first  your  slave, 
I  should  in  tliouglit  control  your  times  of  plea- 
sure. 
Or  at  your  hand  the  account  of  hours  to  crave. 
Being  your  vassal,  bound  to  stay  your  leisui-e  ! 
0,  let  nic  suffer  (being  at  your  beck) 
The  imprison'd  absence  of  your  liberty, 
And  patience,  tame  to  sufferance,  bide  each  check 
Without  accusing  you  of  injury. 
Be  where  you  list ;  your  charter  is  so  strong, 
That  you  yourself  may  privilege  your  time  : 
Do  what  you  will,  to  you  it  doth  belong 
Yourself  to  pardon  of  self-doing  crime. 

I  am  to  wait,  though  waiting  so  be  hell ; 

Not  blame  your  pleasure,  be  it  ill  or  well. 

iix. 

If  there  be  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 
Hath  been  before,  how  are  our  brains  beguil'd, 
Which  labouring  for  invention  beai"  amiss 
The  second  burthen  of  a  former  child  ! 
0,  that  record  could  with  a  backward  look. 
Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun, 
Show  me  your  image  in  some  antique  book, 
Since  mind  at  first  in  eharactor  was  done ! 
That  I  might  sec  what  tlie  old  world  could  say 
To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame ; 
Wlicthcr  we  arc  mended,  or  whc'r  "  better  they, 
Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 
0 !  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 
To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 

LX. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled 

shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  liaslcn  to  their  end  ; 

"  H'hc'r — whctlier. 


SONNETS. 


Each  changing  place  -with  that  which  goes  be- 
fore, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light,'' 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowu'd. 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time,  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flom-ish  set  on  youth. 
And  delves  the  parallels  ^  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  tnith. 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall 
stand, 

Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

LXI. 

Is  it  thy  will  thy  image  should  keep  open 
My  heavy  eyelids  to  the  weary  night  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  my  slumbers  should  be  broken. 
While  shadows,  like  to  thee,  do  mock  my  sight  ? 
Is  it  thy  spirit  that  thou  send'st  from  thee 
So  far  from  home,  into  my  deeds  to  pry ; 
To  find  out  shames  and  idle  hours  in  me. 
The  scope  and  tenor  of  thy  jealousy  ? 
0  no  !  thy  love,  though  much,  is  not  so  great ; 
It  is  my  love  that  keeps  mine  eye  awake ; 
Mine  own  true  love  that  doth  my  rest  defeat. 
To  play  the  watchman  ever  for  thy  sake  : 

For  thee  watch  I,  whilst  thou  dost  wake  else- 
where. 

From  me  far  off,  with  others  all-too-near. 

LXII. 

Sin  of  self-love  possesseth  all  mine  eye, 
And  all  my  soul,  and  all  my  every  part ; 
And  for  this  sin  there  is  no  remedy, 
It  is  so  grounded  inward  in  my  heart. 
Methinks  no  face  so  gracious "  is  as  mine. 
No  shape  so  true,  no  truth  of  such  account. 
And  for  myself  mine  own  worth  to  define, 
As  I  all  other  in  aU.  worths  surmount. 
But  when  my  glass  shows  mc  myself  indeed, 
Seated  ^  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity. 
Mine  own  self-love  quite  contrary  I  read, 
Self  so  self -loving  were  iniquity. 

'T  is  thee  (myself)  that  for  myself  I  praise. 
Painting  my  age  with  beauty  of  thy  days. 


*  Main  of  light.  As  the  main  of  waters  would  signify  the 
great  body  of  waters,  so  the  main  of  light  signifies  the  mass 
or  flood  of  light,  into  which  a  new-born  child  is  launched. 

b  Parallels.  We  have  exactly  the  same  idea  in  the  2n;l 
Sonnet : 

"  When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field." 

c  GraciOKS— beautiful. 

d  Sealed.  So  in  the  old  copy  ;  and  it  has  been  followed 
by  Malone.  He  suggests  that  the  true  word  may  be  bated ; 
but  he  receives  heated  as  the  participle  of  the  verb  to  beat. 

2F2 


LXIII. 

Against  my  love  shall  be,  as  I  am  now. 

With  Time's  injiu-ious  hand  crush'd  and  o'crwom; 

When  hours  have  drain'd  liis  blood,  and  fill'd 

hLs  brow 
With  lines   and  wrinkles;    when  his  youthful 

mom 
Hath  travoll'd  on  to  age's  stcepy  night ;  '^ 
And  all  those  beauties,  whereof  now  he 's  king, 
Are  vanishing  or  vanish'd  out  of  sight. 
Stealing  away  the  treasure  of  his  spring ; 
For  such  a  time  do  I  now  fortify 
Against  confounding  age's  cruel  knife. 
That  he  shall  never  cut  from  memory 
My  sweet  love's  beauty,  tliough  my  lover's  life. 
His  beauty  shall  in  these  black  Lines  be  seen. 
And  they  shall  live,  and  he  in  tliem,  still  green. 

LXIV. 

Whm.  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defac'd 
The  rich-proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age  ; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-ras'd. 
And  brass  eternal,  slave  to  mortal  rage ; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  wat'ry  main. 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store  ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay ; 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 

This   thought   is   as   a  death,  which  cannoC 
choose 

But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

LXV. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea. 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power. 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea. 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
0,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  seige  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout. 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays  ? 
0  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack ! 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie 

hid?'' 


••>  Sleepy  night.   It  has  been  proposed  to  read^leepy  night; 
but  in  the  7th  Sonnet  we  have  the  same  notion  of  man 
climbing  up  the  hill  of  age ;  and  here  the  idea  is  also  con- 
nected with  the  antithesis  of  morn  and  night. 
b  In  TroUus  and  Cressida,  Ulysses  says— 

"  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  u-allet  at  his  back. 
In  which  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion." 
Time's  chest  and  Time's  wallet  axe  the  same;  they  are  ths 
depositories  of  what  was  once  great  and  beautiful,  passed 
away,  perished,  and  forgotten. 

436 


SONNETS. 


Or  wlint  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot 
back? 

Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 
0  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 


bright. 


LXVI. 


Tir'd  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, — 
.\s,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
:Viid  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
.Vnd  purest  faith  unhappily  forswoni, 
.Vnd  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplac'd, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgrac'd, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority. 
And  folly  (doctor-like)  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity," 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill  : 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be 
gone. 

Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

Lxvir. 

\h  !  wherefore  with  infection  should  he  live. 
And  with  his  presence  grace  impiety. 
That  sin  by  him  advantage  should  achieve. 
And  lace ''  itself  with  his  society  ? 
"Why  should  false  painting  imitate  his  cheek, 
i\jid  steal  dead  seeing  of  his  living  hue  ? 
Why  should  poor  beauty  indirectly  seek 
Roses  of  shadow,  since  his  rose  is  tme  ? 
Why  should  he  live  now  Nature  bankrupt  is, 
Beggar'd  of  blood  to  blush  through  lively  veins  ? 
For  she  hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his, 
:Vnd,  proud  of  many,  lives  upon  his  gains. 

0,  him  she  stores,  to  show  what  wealth  she 
had 

In  days  long  since,  before  these  last  so  bad. 

Lxviir. 
Thus  is  his  cheek  the  map  of  days  outworn. 
When  beauty   liv'd  and  died    as    flowers    do 

now, 
Before  these  bastard  signs  of  fair*'  were  born, 
Or  durst  inhabit  on  a  living  brow ; 
Before  the  golden  tresses  of  the  dead. 
The  right  of  sepulchres,  were  shorn  away. 
To  live  a  second  life  on  second  head. 
Ere  beauty's  dead  fleece  made  another  gay  -."^ 


'  Simplicily  is  lierc  used  for  folly, 
b  Aoce— cmhcllish— ornan:ent. 
c  Fair — beauty. 

d  See  Merchant  of  Venice.  lilcstraMons  of  Act  in. 
•136 


In  him  those  holy  antique  hours  are  see:i, 
AVithout  all  ornament,  itself,  and  true, 
Making  no  summer  of  another's  green, 
Kobbing  no  old  to  dress  his  beauty  new ; 
And  him  as  for  a  map  doth  Nature  store, 
To  show  false  Art  what  beauty  was  of  yore. 

LXIX. 

Those  parts  of  thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth 

view 
Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts  can 

mend : 
All  tongues  (the  voice  of  souls)  give  thee  that 

due," 
Uttering  bare  truth,  even  so  as  foes  commend. 
Tliiue  outward  thus   with   outward    praise    is 

crown'd ; 
But  those  same  tongues  that  give  thee  so  thine 

own, 
In  other  accents  do  this  praise  confound, 
By  seeing  farther  than  the  eye  hath  shown. 
They  look  into  the  beauty  of  thy  mind, 
And  that,  in  guess,  they  measure  by  thy  deeds ; 
Then    (churls)    their   thoughts,   although  their 

eyes  were  kind. 
To  thy  fair  flower  add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds  : 
But  why  thy  odour  matcheth  not  thy  show. 
The  solve  ^  is  this, — that  thou  dost  common 

grow. 

LXX. 

That  thou  art  blam'd  shall  not  be  thy  defect, 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  suspect, "^ 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time  ; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love. 
And  thou  present'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of  young  days. 
Either  not  assail'd,  or  victor  being  charg'd ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise. 
To  tie  up  envy,  evermore  eularg'd : 


'  Due.  The  original  has  end.  Tyrwhitt  sagaciously  made 
the  change ;  knowing  that  such  a  typoRraphical  error  is  not 
unfrequent.  The  separate  letters  drop  out  at  the  press; 
and  the  workman,  who  does  not  stand  upon  niceties,  puts 
them  together  again  after  his  own  fashion.  By  the  inversion 
of  the  u  a  pretty  metamor|)hosi3  of  due  into  end  is  made; 
and  .such  feats  of  legerdemain  are  performed  with  a  dexterity 
which,  however  satisfactory  to  the  operator,  is  not  the  most 
agreeable  part  of  an  author's  experience,  if  he  should  ever 
indulge  himself  with  the  perusal  of  his  own  writings  after 
they  have  passed  the  printer. 

b  Solve.  The  original  has  solye.  Malone  reads  solve  in 
the  sense  of  lolulion.  We  have  no  parallel  example  of  the 
use  of  $olve  as  a  noun. 

<•■  Suspecl — suspicion.  So  in  King  Henry  IV.,  Part  II.  :  — 

"If  my  tutfect  be  false,  forgiTe  me." 


SON]STTS. 


If  some  suspect  of  iU  mask'd  not  thy  show. 
Then  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts  shouldst 
o\ye.^ 

LXXI. 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  nie  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O,  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse ; 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay : 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan. 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXII. 

O,  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  liv'd  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death, — dear  love,  forget  me  quite, 
For  you  in  me  can  nothing  worthy  prove  ; 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie, 
To  do  more  for  me  than  mine  own  desert, 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  1 
Than  niggard  truth  would  willingly  impart ; 
O,  lest  your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this. 
That  you  for  love  speak  well  of  me  untrue, 
My  name  be  buried  where  my  body  is, 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  me  nor  you. 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth. 
And  so  should  you,  to  love  things  nothing 
worth. 

LXSJII. 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds 

sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Wlaich  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 
This   thou  perceiv'st  which  makes  thy  love 

more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere 


long: 


«  Cu'f — era. 


is   hu 


LXXIV. 

But  be  contented  :  when  that  fell  arrest 
Without  all  bad  shall  carry  me  away. 
My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest. 
Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay 
When  thou  reviewest  this,  thou  dost  review 
The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee. 
The  earth  can  have  but  earth,   which 

due ; 
My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me : 
So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life, 
The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead  ; 
The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife, 
Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that,  is  that  which  it  contains. 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  thee  remains. 

LXXV. 

So  are  you  to  my  thoughts,  as  food  to  life. 
Or  as  sweet-season'd  showers  are  to  the  ground ; 
And  for  the  peace  of  you  I  hold  such  strife 
As  'twixt  a  miser  and  his  wealth  is  found  : 
Now  proud  as  an  enjoyer,  and  anon 
Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  treasure  ; 
Now  counting  best  to  be  with  you  alone. 
Then  better'd  that  the  world  may  see  my  plea- 
sure : 
Sometime  all  full  with  feasting  on  your  sight, 
And  by  and  by  clean  staiTcd  for  a  look  ; 
Possessing  or  pursuing  no  delight. 
Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  you  be  took. 

Thus  do  I  pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day. 

Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. 

LXXVI. 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride  ? 
So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change? 
Wliy,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To    new-found    methods    and    to    compounds 

strange  ? 
Why  wi-ite  I  stiU  all  one,  ever  the  same. 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed," 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name. 
Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  pro- 
ceed? 
O  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  write  of  you. 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ; 
So  all  ray  best  is  di-essiug  old  words  new, 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent ; 
For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old, 
So  is  my  love  still  telling  what  is  told. 

a  A  noted  weed — a  dress  known  and  familiar,  througi 
being  always  the  same. 

437 


SONNETS. 


tauglit  the  dumb  on  liigli  lo 


LXXVII. 

Tby  glass  will  show  thee  how  thv  beauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  waste  ; 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mijul's  inijiriut  will  bear, 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  niayst  thou  taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory  ; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  niayst  know 
Time's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain, 
Connnit  to  these  waste  blanks,  and  thou  slialt  find 
Those  children  nnrs'd,  deliver'd  from  thy  brain, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look. 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  book. 

LXXVIII. 

So  oft  have  I  invok'd  thee  for  my  muse. 
And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse, 
As  every  alien  pen  hath  got  my  use. 
And  under  thee  their  poesy  disperse. 
Thine  eyes,  that 

sing, 
And  heavy  ignorance  aloft  to  fly, 
Have  added  feathers  to  the  learned's  wina-, 
And  given  grace  a  double  majesty. 
Yet  be  most  proud  of  that  which  I  compile, 
AYliose  influence  is  thine,  and  born  of  thee : 
In  others'  works  thou  dost  but  mend  the  style. 
And  arts  \nth  thy  sweet  graces  graced  be ; 
But  thou  art  all  my  art,  and  dost  advance 
As  high  as  learning  my  rude  ignorance. 

LXXIX. 

Wliilst  1  alone  did  call  upon  thy  aid. 
My  verse  alone  had  aU  thy  gentle  grace ; 
But  now  my  gracious  numbers  are  deeay'd. 
And  my  sick  muse  doth  give  another  place. 
I  grant,  sweet  love,  thy  lovely  argument 
Deserves  the  travail  of  a  worthier  pen  ; 
Yet  what  of  thee  thy  poet  doth  invent, 
He  robs  thee  of,  and  pays  it  thee  agam. 
He  lends  thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  thy  behaviour ;  beauty  doth  he  give, 
And  found  it  in  thy  cheek  ;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  thee  but  what  in  thee  doth  live. 
Then  thaixk  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say, 
Since  what  he  owes  thee  thou  thyself  dost  pay. 

LXXX. 

0,  how  I  faint  when  I  of  you  do  write, 
Knowing  a  better  spirit  doth  use  your  name. 
And  in  the  praise  thereof  spends  all  his  might, 
To  make  me  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  your  fame ! 
43S 


But  since  your  wortli  (wide  as  the  ocean  isj 
The  humble  as  the  proudest  sail  doth  bear, 
My  saucy  bark,  inferior  far  to  his, 
On  your  broad  main  doth  wilfully  appear. 
Your  shallowest  help  will  hold  mc  up  afloat, 
^Yhilst  he  upon  your  soundless  deep  doth  ride  ; 
Or,  being  wreck'd,  I  am  a  worthless  boat. 
He  of  tall  building,  and  of  goodly  pi-ide  : 
Then  if  he  thrive,  and  I  be  cast  away. 
The  worst  was  this; — my  love  was  my  decay. 

LXXXI. 

0  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  niake. 

Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten  ; 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 
Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have. 
Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die  : 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  connnon  grave, 
When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse. 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read ; 
xVud  tongues  to  be,  your  being  shall  rehearse, 
When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  ; 
You  still  shall  live  (such  virtue  hath  my  pen) 
Where  breath  most   breathes, — even  in   the 
mouths  of  men. 

LXXXII. 

1  graut  thou  wert  not  married  to  my  muse, 
And  therefore  raayst  without  attaint  o'erlook 
The  dedicated  words  which  writers  use 

Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book. 
Thou  art  as  fair  in  knowledge  as  in  hue. 
Finding  thy  worth  a  limit  past  my  praise ; 
And  therefore  art  eufore'd  to  seek  anew 
Some  fresher  stamp  of  the  time-bettering  days. 
And  do  so,  love ;  yet  when  they  have  devis'd 
What  strained  touches  rhetoric  can  lend. 
Thou  truly  fair  wert  truly  sympathiz'd 
In  true  plain  words,  by  thy  true-telling  friend  ; 
And  their  gross  painting  might  be  better  us'd 
Where  cheeks  need  blood ;  in  thee  it  is  abus'd. 

LXXXIII. 

I  never  saw  that  you  did  painting  need. 
And  therefore  to  your  fail-  no  painting  set. 
f  found,  or  thought  T  found,  you  did  exceed 
The  b;u-ren  tender  of  a  poet's  debt : 
And  therefore  have  I  slept  in  your  report 
That  you  yourself,  l)cing  extant,  well  might  show 
How  far  a  modern*  quill  doth  come  too  short, 
Speaking  of  worth,  what  worth  in  you  doth  grow. 

n  .Iforfcrn— trite— common. 


SONNETS. 


ii 
1 1 


This  silence  for  my  sin  jou  did  impute, 
"Which  shall  be  most  my  glory,  being  dumb  ; 
For  I  impair  not  beauty  being  mute, 
When  others  would  give  life,  and  bring  a  tomb. 
There  lives  more  life  in  one  of  your  fair  eyes 
Than  both  your  poets  can  in  praise  devise. 

XXXIV. 

Who  is  it  that  says  most  ?  which  can  say  more 
Thau  this  rich  praise, — that  you  alone  are  you  ? 
In  whose  confine  immured  is  the  stoi'e 
Which  should  example  where  your  equal  grew  ? 
Lean  penmy  within  that  pen  doth  dwell, 
That  to  his  subject  lends  not  some  small  glory ; 
But  he  that  writes  of  you,  if  he  can  tell 
That  you  are  you,  so  dignifies  his  story. 
Let  him  but  copy  what  in  you  is  writ, 
Not  making  worse  what  nature  made  so  clear, 
And  such  a  counterpart  shall  fame  his  wit, 
Making  his  style  admired  everywhere. 

You  to  your  beauteous  blessings  add  a  curse. 
Being  fond    on    praise,   whicfi    makes  youi- 
praises  worse. 

LXXXV. 

My  tongue-tied  muse  in  manners  holds  her  stiD, 
While  comments  of  your  praise,  richly  compil'd, 
Beserve "•  their  character  with  golden  quill. 
And  precious  phrase  by  all  the  muses  fil'd. 
I  think  good  thoughts,  while  others  wi-ite  good 

VFords, 
And,  like  unlettered  clerk,  still  cry  '  Amen' 
To  every  hymn  that  able  spirit  affords, 
In  polish'd  form  of  well-refined  pen. 
Hearing  you  prais'd,  I  say,  '  'T  is  so,  't  is  true,' 
And  to  the  most  of  praise  add  something  more  ; 
But  that  is  in  my  thought,  whose  love  to  you. 
Though  words   come   hindmost,  holds  his  rank 
before. 
Then  others  for  the  breath  of  words  respect, 
Me  for  my  dumb  thoughts,  speaking  in  effect. 

LXXXVT. 

Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse. 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all-too-precious  you, 
That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  inhearse. 
Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they  grew  ? 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  me  dead  ? 
No,  neither  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished. 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost 
Which  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelligence,'^ 


^  Reserve  is  here  again  used  Xor  preserve. 
*>  Steevens  conjectures  that  this  is  an  allusion  to  Dr.  Bee's 
pretended  intercourse  with  a  familiar  spirit. 


As  victors,  of  my  silence  cannot  boast ; 

I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence. 

But  when  your  countenance  fil'd*  up  his  line, 
Then  lack'd  I  matter ;  that  enfeebled  mine. 

LXXXVII. 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting. 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  tby  own  worth   then  not 

knowing. 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking ; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing. 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter. 
In  sleep  a  kiug,  but,  waking,  no  such  matter. 

IXXXVIIT. 

When  thou  shalt  be  dispos'd  to  set  me  light. 
And  place  my  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn. 
Upon  thy  side  against  myself  I  '11  fight. 
And  prove  thee  virtuous,  though  thou  art  for- 
sworn : 
With  mine  own  weakness  being  best  acquainted, 
Upon  thy  part  I  can  set  down  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal' d,  wherein  I  am  attainted ; 
That  thou,  in  losing  me,  shalt  win  much  glory  : 
And  I  by  this  will  be  a  gainer  too  ; 
For  bending  aU  my  loving  thoughts  on  thee. 
The  injuries  that  to  myself  I  do, 
Doing  thee  vantasre,  double-vantaije  me. 
Such  is  my  love,  to  thee  I  so  belong. 
That  for  thy  right  myself  will  bear  all  ^vrong. 

LXXXIX. 

Say  that  thou  didst  forsake  me  for  some  fault, 
And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence  : 
Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt ; 
Against  thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 
Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  me  half  so  ill. 
To  set  a  form  upon  desired  change. 
As  I  'U  myself  disgrace  :  knowing  thy  will, 
I  wiU  acquaintance  strangle,''  and  look  strange  ; 


•1  Fil'd — gave  the  last  polish.  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  verses 
on  Shakspere,  speaks  of  his  , 

"  Well-torned  and  <rue-//ed  lines." 

b  Strangle.  Malone  gives  several  examples  of  the  use  of 
the  verb;  and  Steevens  adds.  "  This  uncouth  phrase  seems 
to  have  been  a  favourite  with  Shakspere."  Why  is  any 
word  called  uncouth  which  expresses  a  meaning  more  clearly 
and  forcibly  than  any  other  word  ?  The  miserable  affecta- 
tion of  the  last  age,  in  rejecting  words  that  in  sound  ap- 

439 


SONNETS. 


Be  absent  from  thy  walks ;  and  in  my  tongue 
Tliy  sweet-beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell ; 
Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong, 
And  haply  of  our  old  aequaintance  tell. 
For  thee,  against  myself  I'll  vow  debate, 
For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  thou  dost  hate. 

xc. 
Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt;  if  ever,  now  ; 
Now  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 
Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow. 
And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss  : 
Ah!    do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  scap'd  this 

SOITOW, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'd  woe ; 
Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow. 
To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last, 
TVben  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 
But  in  the  onset  come  ;  so  shall  I  taste 
At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might ; 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  whicli  now  seem 
woe, 

Corapar'd  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so. 

xci. 

Some  glory  in  their  birth,  some  in  their  skill. 
Some  in  their  wealth,  some  in  their  body's  force  ; 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled  ill ; 
Some  in  their  hawks  and  hounds,  some  in  their 

horse ; 
And  every  humour  hath  his  adjunct  pleasure, 
"Wberein  it  finds  a  joy  above  the  rest ; 
But  these  particulars  are  not  my  measure. 
All  these  1  better  in  one  general  best. 
Thy  love  is  better  than  high  birth  to  me. 
Richer    than  wealth,   prouder    than  garments' 

cost, 
Of  more  delight  than  hawks  and  horses  be ; 
And,  having  thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast. 
Wretched  in  this  alone,  that  thou  mayst  take 
All  this  away,  and  me  most  wretched  make. 

XCII. 

But  do  thy  worst  to  steal  thyself  away. 
For  term  of  life  thou  art  assured  mine  ; 
And  life  no  longer  than  thy  love  will  stay. 
For  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  thine. 
Then  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs, 
When  in  the  least  of  them  my  life  hath  end. 
I  see  a  better  state  to  me  belongs 
Than  that  which  on  thy  humour  doth  depend. 

peared  noltoliarmonisc  with  the  mincing  pretliness  of  polilc 
conver>ation,  emasculated  our  language;  and  it  will  take 
Home  time  to  restore  it  to  its  ancient  nervousness. 

HO 


Thou  canst  not  vox  me  with  inconstant  mind, 
Since  that  my  life  on  thy  revolt  doth  lie. 
0  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 
Happy  to  have  thy  love,  happy  to  die  ! 

But  what's  so  blessed-fair  that  fears  no  blot? — 
Thou  may'st  be  false,  and  yet  I  know  it  not : 

XCIII. 

So  shall  I  live,  supposing  thou  art  true, 
Like  a  deceived  husband ;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,  though  alter'dnew  ; 
Thy  looks  with  me,  thy  heart  in  other  place  : 
For  tliere  can  live  no  hatred  in  thine  eye. 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  thy  change. 
In  many's  looks  the  false  heart's  history 
Is   wi'it,  in  moods   and   fro^vns    and    wrinkles 

strange ; 
But  heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell ; 
Whate'er  thy  thoughts  or  thy  heart's  workings  be. 
Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence  but  sweetness 
tell.  ' 
How  like  Eve's  apple  doth  thy  beauty  grow, 
If  thy  sweet  virtue  answer  not  thy  show  ? 

xcrv. 
They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
T\1io,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone. 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow  ; 
They  rightly  do  inherit  Heaven's  graces. 
And  husband  natui-e's  riches  from  expense ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces. 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds : 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

xcv. 
How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame, 
AVhieli,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose. 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name ! 
0,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose  ! 
That  tongue  that  tells  the  story  of  thy  days. 
Making  lascivious  comments  on  thy  sj^ort. 
Cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  kind  of  praise  ; 
Naming  thy  name  blesses  an  ill  report. 
0,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got 
Which  for  their  liabitation  chose  out  thee  ! 
^Vliere  beauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot, 
.\nd  all  things  turn  to  fair,  tiiat  eyes  can  sec  ! 

Take  heed,  dear  heart,  of  this  large  privilege  ; 

The  hardest  knife  ill-used  doth  lose  his  edge. 


SONNETS. 


XCVI. 

Some  say,  thy  fault  is  youth,  some  waatouuess  ; 
Some  say,  thy  grace  is  youth  aud  gentle  sport ; 
Both  grace  and  faults  are  lov'd  of  more  and  less  : 
Thou  mak'st  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esleem'd  ; 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deem'd. 
How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray. 
If  like  a  lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate  ! 
How  many  gazers  mightst  thou  lead  away, 
If  thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy  state  ! 
But  do  not  so ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

XCTII. 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen  ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere ! 
And  yet  this  time  remov'd  ^  was  summer's  time ; 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime, 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease  : 


Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
Tor  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute  ; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  't  is  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's 
near. 

XCVIII. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring. 
When    proud-pied    April,    dress'd    in    all    hii 

trim. 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything. 
That  heavy   Saturn    laugh'd    and  leap'd   with 

him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odoui-  and  in  hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they 

grew : 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight. 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and  you,  away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play  : 


['  Proud-pied  April. 'J 


XCIX. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide ; — 

Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet 

that  smells, 
if  not  from  my  love's  breath  ?  The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 

»  Malone  explains  this  as,  "  This  time  in  which  I  was  re- 
mote or  absent  from  thee." 


In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dy'd. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  mai-joram  had  stolen  thy  hair  : 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despiiir ; 
A  thii-d,   nor  red  nor    white,    had   stolen 

both, 
Aud  to  his  robbery  had  annex'd  thy  breath ; 

441 


of 


SONNETS. 

But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 

Therefore,   like  her,   I    sometime    hold    my 

A  vengeful  canker  cat  him  up  to  death. 

tongue. 

"More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see, 

Because  I  would  not  dull  you  with  my  song. 

But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 

cm. 

c. 

Alack  !  what  poverty  my  Muse  brings  forth, 

Where  art  thou,  Muse,  that  thou  lorgett'st  so 

That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  pride. 

so  long 

The  argument,  all  bare,  is  of  more  worth, 

To  speak  of  that  which  gives  thee  all  thy  might  ? 

Than  when  it  hath  my  added  praise  beside. 

Spend'st  thou  thy  fury  on  some  worthless  song. 

0  blame  me  not  if  I  no  more  can  write ! 

Darkening  thy  power,  to  lend  liase  subjects  light  ? 

Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  appears  a  face 

Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 

That  over-goes  my  blunt  invention  quite. 

In  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent ; 

Dulling  my  lines,  and  doing  me  disgrace. 

Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  thy  lays  esteem 

Were  it  not  shiful  then,  striving  to  mend, 

.\nd  gives  thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 

To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well? 

Rise,  resty  Mnse,  my  love's  sweet  face  survey, 

For  to  no  other  pass  my  verses  tend, 

If  Time  have  any  wrinkle  graven  there  ; 

Than  of  your  graces  and  your  gifts  to  tell ; 

If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay, 

And  more,  much  more,  than  in  my  verse  can 

And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  everywhere. 

sit, 

Give  my  love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life; 

Your  own  glass   shows  you,  when  you  look 

So  thou  prevent'st  liis  scythe  and  crooked 

in  it. 

knife. 

CIV. 

CI. 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old. 

0  truant  Muse,  what  shall  be  thy  amends 

For  as  you  were  when  fii-st  your  eye  I  eyed. 

For  thy  neglect  of  truth  in  beauty  dy'd  ? 

Such  seems  your  beauty  still.    Three  winters' 

Both  truth  and  beauty  on  my  love  depends ; 

cold 

So  dost  thou  too,  and  therein  dignified. 

Have  from   the  forests  shook  three  sunnners' 

Make  answer.  Muse  :  wilt  thou  not  haply  say, 

pride ; 

'  Truth  needs  no  colour  with  his  colour  fix'd. 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  tum'd 

Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to  lay  ; 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen ; 

But  best  is  best,  if  never  intermix'd  ?  ' — 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd. 

Because  he  needs  no  praise,  wilt  thou  be  dumb  ? 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 

Excuse  not  silence  so  ;  for  it  lies  in  thee 

Ah !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial  hand, 

To  make  him  much  outlive  a  gilded  tomb. 

Steal  from  his  liguiT,  and  no  pace  percciv'd; 

And  to  be  prais'd  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks   still  doth 

Then  do  thy  ofBce,  Muse ;  I  teach  thee  how 

stand, 

To  make  him  seem  long  hence  as  he  shows 

Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceiv'd. 

now. 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred. 

Ere  you  were  born,   was  beauty's  summer 

CII. 

dead. 

My  love  is  strengthen' d,  though  more  weak  in 

fV 

seeming ; 

l^  V  . 

I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear ; 

Let  not  my  love  be  call'd  idolatry. 

That  love  is  mcrchandiz'd  whose  rich  esteeming 

Nor  my  beloved  as  an  idol  show. 

The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  everywhere. 

Since  all  alike  my  songs  and  praises  be. 

Our  love  was  new,  and  then  but  in  the  spring. 

To  one,  of  one,  still  such,  and  ever  so. 

When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays  ; 

Kind  is  my  love  to-day,  to-morrow  kind. 

As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing. 

Still  constant  in  a  wondi-ous  excellence; 

And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days  ; 

Therefore  my  verse,  to  constancy  confin'd, 

Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 

One  thing  expressing,  leaves  out  difierencc. 

Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the 

Fair,  kind,  and  true,  is  all  my  argument. 

night. 

Fair,  kind,  and  tnie,  varying  to  other  words  ; 

But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough, 

And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent. 

And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear  de- 

Three themes   iu   one,  which   wondrous   scope 

light. 
4*2 

affords. 

i 


SOKNETS. 


Fair,  kind,  and  true,  have  often  liv'd  alone, 
WTiich  three,  till  now,  never  kept  seat  in  one. 


cvi. 
When  in  the  chi-onicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights. 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme. 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes. 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 

Por  we,   which   now   behold    these    present 
days. 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 

CVII. 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come. 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Suppos'd  as  forfeit  to  a  confin'd  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endui-'d. 
And  the  sad  augers  mock  their  own  presage  ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,   and  Death  to   me  sub- 

'  scribes,'"^ 
Since  spite  of  him  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
AVhile  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes. 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are 
spent. 

CVIII. 

What 's  in  the  brain  that  ink  may  character, 
Which  hath  not  figur'd  to  thee  my  true  spirit  ? 
What's  new  to  speak,  what  new^  to  register. 
That  may  express  my  love,  or  thy  dear  merit  ? 
Nothing,  sweet  boy ;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divine, 
I  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same ; 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  thou  mine,  I  thine. 
Even  as  when  first  1  hallow'd  thy  fair  name. 
So  that  eternal  love  in  love's  fresh  case 
Weighs  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  age. 
Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place. 
But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page ; 


a  Sr/ftscrtiei— submits— acknowledges  as  ;i  superior, 
b  AVu>.    The  original  has  now. 


Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred, 
Where  time  and  outward  form  would  show  it 
dead. 

cix. 

0,  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify  ! 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart. 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie  : 
That  is  my  home  of  love  :  if  I  have  raug'd. 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again ; 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchang'd,^ 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood. 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd, 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sura  of  good; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call. 
Save  thou,  my  rose  ;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 

ex. 
Alas,  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 
And  made  myself  a  motley^  to  the  view, 
Gor'd^  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is 

most  dear. 
Made  old  oifences  of  affections  new. 
Most  true  it  is,  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely  ;  but,  by  all  above, 
These  blenches*'  gave  my  heart  another  youth. 
And  worst  essays  prov'd  thee  my  best  of  love. 
Now  all  is  done,  have<^  what  shall  have  no  end: 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  God  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd. 

Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  ilic 
best, 

Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving  breast. 

CXI. 

O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide, 
Than    public    means,    which    public    manners 
breeds. 


"  Motley.  Jaques,  in  As  You  Like  It,  exclaims,  "  Invest 
me  in  my  motley."  Motlev  was  the  dress  of  the  domestic 
fool  or  jester;  and  thus  tlie  buffoon  himself  came  to  be 
called  a  motley.  Jacques,  addressing  Touchstone,  says, 
"  Will  you  be  married.  Motley  ?  " 

b  Gnr'ct — wounded.    In  Hamlet  we  have— 

"  I  have  a  voice  and  precedent  of  peace 
To  keep  my  name  ungor'd." 

c  B/ewc/'«— deviations. 

d  Hare.  This  is  the  word  of  the  old  copy.  An  altered 
reading  is — 

"  Now  aU  is  done,  sare  what  shall  have  no  end.-' 
Malonesavs  theoriginal  reading  is  unintelligible.  Hisconjec- 
tural  reading,  which  Tyrwhitt  recommended,  appears  to  us 
more  so.  "  Now  ;ill  is  done  "  clearly  applies  to  the  blenches. 
the  worse  essays:  but  the  poet  then  adds,  "  Aarethou  what 
shall  have  no  end,"— ray  constant  affection,  my  undivided 
friendship.  jiq 


SONNETS. 


Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  tlie  dyer's  hand : 
Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd ; 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eysell,"  'gainst  my  strong  infection  ; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance,  to  eoiTect  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye, 
Even  that  your  piiy  is  enough  to  cure  me. 

CXIl. 

Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
AVLieh  vulgar  scandal  stanip'd  upon  my  brow ; 
for  what  care  I  who  calls  me  well  or  ill. 
So  you  o'ergreen  my  bad,  my  good  allow  ?  ^ 
You  are  my  all-the-world,  and  I  must  strive 
To  know  my  shames  and  praises  from  your 

tongue ; 
None  else  to  me,  nor  I  to  none  alive, 
That   my   steel'd  sense   or  changes,   right 


or 


wrong. 


In  so  profound  abysm  I  throw  all  care 
Of  other's  voices,  that  my  adder's  sense 
To  critic  and  to  flatterer  stopped  are. 
Mark  how  with  my  neglect  I  do  dispense ; — 
Y'ou  are  so  strongly  in  my  purpose  bred. 
That  all   the   world    besides   methinks    are 
dead.'^  • 

CXIII. 

Since  I  left;  you,  mine  eye  is  in  my  mind ; 
And  that  which  governs  me  to  go  about 
Doth  part  his  function,  and  is  partly  blind, 
Seems  seeing,  but  effectually  is  out ; 
For  it  no  form  delivers  to  the  heart 
Of  bird,  of  flower,  or  shape,  which  it  doth  latch  ; ' 
Of  his  quick  objects  hath  the  mind  no  part. 
Nor  his  own  vision  holds  what  it  doth  catch  ; 


*  Eycell — vinegar. 
<>  Allow — approve. 

e  Tliis  pa<isage  is  obscure,  and  there  is  probably  some 
•  light  misprint.  Steevens  says,  with  his  usual  amenity, 
"  The  meaning  of  this  purblind  and  obscure  stuff  seems  to 
be—'  you  are  the  only  person  who  lias  the  i>ower  to  change 
my  stubborn  resolution,  either  to  what  is  right,  or  to  what  is 
wrong.'''^  We  have  little  doubt  that  something  like  this  is 
the  meaning:  hut  why  has  not  this  great  rnnjectural  critic, 
in.stead  of  calling  out  "  purblind  and  obscure  stuff,"  tried  his 
hand  at  s'lmc  slight  emendation  \  He  is  venturous  enough 
when  the  text  is  clear.     We  might  read  thus : 

"  That  my  steel'd  sense  to  changes  right  or  wrong; " 
or  we  might  read,  as  Malone  has  proposed,  "  S>r  changes." 
<•  This  line  presents  in  the  old  copy  one  of  the  many  ex- 
amples of  how  little  thecontext  was  heeded.  We  there  find — 

"  That  all  the  world  besides  me  thinki  y'  are  dead." 
Malone  changes  this  to — 

"  That  all  the  woild  betidet  melhinkt  they  are  dead." 
We  adopt  Mr.  I)yrt'<  first  reading. 

•  Latch.  The  nrigiiia\  has  /ii/rt.  ilalone  substituted 
latck,  which  signifies  to  lay  hold'of. 

Hi 


For  if  it  see  the  rud'st  or  gentlest  sight. 
The  most  sweet  favour,"  or  deformed'st  creature, 
The  mountain  or  the  sea,  the  day  or  night. 
The  crow,  or  dove,  it  shapes  them  to  your  fea- 
ture. 
Incapable  of  more,  replete  with  you. 
My  most  true  mind  thus  maketh  mine  untrue.^ 

cxiv. 

Or  whether  doth  my  mmd   being  crown'd  with 

you. 
Drink  up  the  mouarch's  plague,  this  flattery, 
Or  whether  shall  I  say  mine  eye  saith  true. 
And  that  your  love  taught  it  tliis  alehymy. 
To  make  of  monsters  and  things  indigest 
Such  cherubin.s  as  your  sweet  self  resemble, 
Creating  every  bad  a  perfect  best. 
As  fast  as  objects  to  his  beams  assemble  ? 
0,  't  is  the  first ;  't  is  flattery  in  my  seeing, 
And  my  great  mind  most  kingly  drinks  it  up  : 
Mine  eye  well  knows  what  \A-ith  his  gust  is 

Agreeing, 
And  to  his  palate  doth  prepare  the  cup : 
If  it  be  poison'd,  't  is  the  lesser  sin 
That  mine  eye  loves  it,  and  doth  first  begin. 

cxv. 

Those  lines  that  I  before  have  writ,  do  lie  ; 
Even  those  that  said  I  could  not  love  you  deai'cr ; 
Yet  then  my  judgment  knew  no  reason  why 
My    most    full  flame    should    afterwards   bimi 

clearer. 
But  reckoning  time,  whose  milliou'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows,  and  change   decrees  of 

kings, 
Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp'st  intents. 
Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  altering 

thmgs ; 
Alas !  why,  fearing  of  Time's  tyranny, 
!Might  I  not  then  say,  '  Now  I  love  you  best,' 
When  I  was  certain  o'er  iueertainty. 
Crowning  flu;  present,  doubting  of  the  rest  ? 
Love  is  a  babe ;  then  might  I  not  say  so, 
To  give  full  growth  to  that  which  still  doth 


grow  .•' 


cxvi. 


Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds. 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : 


*  Favour — countenance. 

'•  Untrue  is  here  used  as  a  substantive.    So  in  Meas);ie 
for  Measure — 

"  Say -what  you  can,  my  false  outwelgl.s  your  /ru»." 


SOXXETS. 


0  no ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  marL, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

[t  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height 
be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and 
eheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  prov'd, 
J  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd. 

CXVII. 

Accuse  me  thus  ;  that  I  have  scanted  all 
Wherein  I  should  your  great  deserts  repay  ; 
Forgot  upon  your  dearest  love  to  call, 
"Whereto  aU  bonds  do  tie  me  day  by  day  ; 
That  I  have  frequent  been  with  unknown  minds. 
And  given  to   time  your   o\^ti  dear-purchas'd 

right ; 
That  I  have  hoisted  sail  to  all  the  winds 
Which  should  transport  me  farthest  from  your 

sight. 
Book  both  my  wilfulness  and  errors  down, 
And  on  just  proof  surmise  accumulate, 
Bring  me  within  the  level  of  your  frown, 
But  shoot  not  at  me  in  your  waken'd  hate  : 
Since  my  appeal  says,  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  constancy  and  virtue  of  your  love. 

CXVIII. 

Like  as,  to  make  our  appetites  more  keen. 
With  eager  *  compounds  we  our  palate  urge ; 
As,  to  prevent  our  maladies  unseen. 
We  sicken  to  shun  sickness,  when  we  purge ; 
Even    so,    being    full    of    your    ne'er-cloying 

sweetness. 
To  bitter  sauces  did  I  frame  my  feedhig. 
And,  sick  of  welfare,  found  a  kind  of  meetness 
To  be  discas'd,  ere  that  there  was  true  needing. 
Thus  poUcy  in  love,  to  anticipate 
The  ills  that  M^ere  not,  grew  to  faults  assured. 
And  brought  to  medicine  a  healthful  state. 
Which,  rank  of  goodness,  would  by  ill  be  cured. 
But  thence  I  learn,  and  find  the  lesson  true. 
Drugs  poison  him  that  so  fell  sick  of  you. 

CXIX. 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecs  foul  as  hell  within. 
Applying  fears  to  hopes,  and  hopes  to  fears. 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win  ! 

a  Eager—  sour ;  the  French  air/re 


'  WTiat  wretched  en-ors  hath  my  heart  committed. 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  ! 
IIow  have  mine  eyes  out  of  their  spheres  been 
fitted.^"  " 
1   In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever ! 
I   0  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 
i   That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better  ; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows    fairer  than  at  first,   more  strong,   far 
greater. 
So  I  return  rebidc'd  to  my  content, 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 

cxx. 

That  you  were  once  unkind,  befriends  me  now, ' 
,And  for  that  sorrow,  which  I  then  did  feel. 
Needs  must  I  under  my  transgression  bow, 
Unless  my  nerves  were  brass  or  hammer'd  steel. 
For  if  you  were  by  my  unkindness  shaken. 
As  I  by  yours,  you  have  pass'd  a  hell  of  time  : 
And  I,  a  tyrant,  have  no  leisure  taken 
To  weigh  how  once  I  suffer'd  in  your  crime. 

0  that  our  night  of  woe  might  have  remember'd'' 
My  deepest  sense,  how  hard  tnie  sorrow  hits. 
And  soon  to  you,  as  you  to  me,  then  tender'd 
The  humble  salve  which  wounded  bosoms  fits  I 

But  that  your  trespass  now  becomes  a  fee ; 
Mine  ransoms  yours,  and  yours  must  ransom 
me. 

cxxi. 

'T  is  better  to  be  vile  than  vile  esteem'd, 
"When  not  to  be  receives  reproach  of  being, 
And  the  just  pleasure  lost,  which  is  so  deem'd 
Not  by  our  feeling,  but  by  others'  seeing. 
For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eyes 
Give  salutation  to  my  sportive  blood  ? 
Or  on  ray  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies. 
Which  in  their  wUls  count  bad  what  I  thitk 

good  ? 
No. — I  am  that  I  am ;  and  they  that  level 
At  my  abuses,  reckon  up  their  own : 

1  may  be  straight,  though  they  themselves  be 

bevel ;° 
By  their  rank  thoughts  my  deeds  must  not  be 

shown; 
Unless  this  general  evil  they  maintain, — 
All  men  are  bad,  and  in  their  badness  reign. 

cxxn. 

Thy  gift,  thy  tables,  are  within  my  brain 
Full  character'd  with  lasting  memory, 


'  i'i/.'erf— subjected  to  fits.         b  Remember' d—Kudniei. 
c  Bevel — bent  in  an  .^nglc. 

445 


SONNETS. 


U'^bich  shall  above  that  idle  rank  reinaiu, 
Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity  : 
Or  at  the  least  so  long  as  brain  and  heart 
Have  faculty  by  natm-e  to  subsist ; 
Till  each  to  raz'd  oblivion  yield  his  part 
Of  thee,  thy  record  never  can  be  niiss'd. 
That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold/ 
Nor  need  I  tallies  thy  dear  love  to  score  ; 
Tlicrefore  to  give  them  from  me  was  I  bold, 
To  trust  tliose  tables  that  receive  thee  more  : 
To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  thee, 
Were  to  import  forgetfulness  in  me. 

CXXIII. 

No  !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do  change : 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  me  are  notliing  novel,  nothing  strange; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our  dates  arc  brief,  and  therefore  we  admire 
WTiat  thou  dost  foist  upon  iis  that  is  old ; 
.Ind  i-ather  make  them  born  to  our  desire, 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard  them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy, 
Not  wondering  at  the  present  nor  the  past ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie, 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste : 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and  thee  : 

cxxiv. 
If  my  dear  love  were  but  the  child  of  state. 
It  might  for  Fortune's  bastard  be  imfather'd. 
As  subject  to  Time's  love,  or  to  Time's  hate. 
Weeds   among  weeds,  or  flowers  with  flowers 

gather'd. 
No,  it  was  budded  far  from  accident ; 
It  suffers  not  in  smiling  pomp,  nor  falls 
Under  the  blow  of  thralled  discontent, 
Whereto  the  inviting  time  our  fashion  calls  . 
It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic. 
Which  works  on  leases  of  short-uumber'd  houi's, 
But  all  alone  stands  hugely  politic, 
That  it  nor  grows  with  heat,  nor  drowns  with 
showers. 
To  this  I  witness  call  the  fools  of  time. 
Which  die  for  goodness,  who  have  liv'd  for 
crime. 

cxxv. 

Were  it  aught  to  me  I  bore  tlic  canopy, 

AVitli  my  extern  the  outward  honouring, 

Or  laid  great  bases  for  eternity, 

Which  prove  more  short  than  waste  or  ruining  ? 


•  Malone  says,  "  That  poor  reUnlion  is  the  table-book  given 
to  him  by  his  friend,  incnpableofrelaininu,  or ratherof  con- 
taining, so  much  as  the  tablet  of  the  br£iu  " 

446 


Have  I  not  seen  dwellers  on  form  and  favour 
Lose  all,  and  more,  by  paying  too  much  rent, 
For  compound  sweet-foregoing  simple  savour, 
Pitiful  thrivcrs,  in  their  gazing  spent  ? 
No  ; — let  me  be  obsequious  in  thy  heart, 
And  take  thou  my  oblation,  poor  but  free, 
Which  is  not  mix'd  with  seconds,''   knows   no 

art, 
But  mutual  render,  only  me  for  thee. 

Hence,  thou  suborn'd  informer  !  a  true  soul. 

When  most  impeach'd,  stands  least  in  thy 
control. 

cxxvi. 

0  thou,  my  lovely  boy,  who  in  thy  power 
Dost  hold  Time's  Qckle  glass,  his  sickle,  hour ; 
Who  hast  by  waning  grown,  and  therein  show'st 
Thy  lovers  withering,  as  thy  sweet  self  grow'st ! 
If  Nature,  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack. 
As  thou  goest  onwards,  still  will  pluck  tliec 

back, 
Slic  keeps  thee  to  this  purpose,  that  her  skill 
May  time  disgrace,  and  wretched  minutes  kill. 
Yet  fear  her,  0  thou  minion  of  her  pleasure  ; 
She  may  detain,  but  not  still  keep  her  trea- 
sui'e  : 
Her  audit,  though  delay'd,  answer'd  must  be, 
iVnd  her  quietus  is  to  render  thee. 

CXXVII. 

In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair. 
Or  if  it  were,  it  bore  not  beauty's  name  ; 
But  now  is  black  beauty's  successive  heir. 
And  beautv  slander'd  with  a  bastard  shame  : 


»  Seconds.  The  only  note  on  the  passage  in  the  variorum 
(ditions  is  that  of  Steevens: — "I  am  just  informed  by  an 
Did  lady  that  sfconds  is  a  provincial  term  for  ihe  second  kind 
uf  flour,  which  is  collected  after  the  smaller  bran  is  sifted. 
That  our  author's  oblation  was  pure,  vnmixcd  wilh  baser 
-.^iattcr,  is  all  that  he  meant  to  say."  Mr.  Dyce  called  this 
note  "  preposterously  absurd."  Steevens,  however,  knew 
what  he  was  doing.  He  mentions  the  flour,  as  in  almost 
every  other  note  upon  the  Sonnets,  to  throw  discredit  upon 
compositions  with  which  he  could  not  sympathise.  He  had 
a  sharp,  cunning,  pettifog^iing  mind;  and  he  knew  many 
prosaic  things  well  enough.  He  knew  that  a  second  in  a 
iiutl,  a  seconder  in  a  debate,  a  secondary  in  ecclesiastical 
Qllairs,  meant  one  next  to  the  principal.  The  poet's  friend 
has  his  chief  oblation;  no  seconds,  or  inferior  persons,  are 
mixed  up  with  his  tribute  of  affection. 

Inthecopy  of  theSonnetsin  the  Dodleian  Library,  formerly 
belonging  to  Malone  (and  which  is  bound  in  the  same  volume 
with  the  ■  Lucrece,'  &c.),  is  a  very  cleverly  drawn  caricature 
representin  g  Shakspere  addressing  a  periwig-pated  old  fellow 
in  these  lines : — 

"  If  thou  coiildst,  Doctor,  cast 
The  water  of  my  Sonnets,  find  their  disease. 
Or  purge  my  Editor  till  he  understood  them, 
I  would  applaud  thee." 
Under  this  Malone  hasTritten,  "Mr.  Steevens  borrowed  this 
volume  from  me  in  1779,  to  peruse  the  '  Rape  of  I,ucrecc,'  in 
the  original  edition,  of  which  he  was  not  possessed.    When 
he  returned  it  he  made  this  drawing.     I  was  then  confined 
by  a  sore  throat,  and  attended  by  Mr.  Atkinson,  the  apothe- 
cary, of  whom  the  above  figure,  whom  Shakspeare  addresMb. 
is  a  caricature." 


SONNETS. 


for  since  each  Land  hath  put  on  nature's  power, 
Fairing  the  foul  with  art's  false  borrow'd  face, 
Sweet  beauty  liath  no  name,  no  holy  hour, 
But  is  profan'd,  if  not  lives  in  disgrace. 
Therefore  my  mistress'  eyes  are  raven  black. 
Her  eyes  so  suited  ;  and  tliey  mourners  seem 
At  such,  who,  not  born  fair,  no  beauty  lack, 
Slandering  creation  with  a  false  esteem  : 
Yet  so  they  mom'u,  becoming  of  their  woe, 
That  every  tongue  says,  beauty  should  look  so. 

CXXVIII. 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  nmsic  play'st, 
Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wii-y  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds. 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks,"  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand. 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest 

reap. 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ! 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips. 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait. 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

CXXIX. 

The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action ;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjiu''d,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 
Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust ; 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner,  but  despised  straight ; 
Past  reason  hunted ;  and  no  sooner  had, 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait, 
On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad : 
Mad  in  pm-suit,  and  in  possession  so ; 
Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme ; 
A  bliss  in  proof, — and  prov'd,  a  very  woe  ; 
Before,  a  joy  propos'd  ;  behind,  a  dream  : 

All  this   the  world  well  knows ;    yet  none 
knows  well 

To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

cxxx. 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun ; 
Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red  : 
If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun ; 
If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 


*  Jacks.  The  small  hammers,  moved  by  the  keys,  whicli 
strike  the  strings  of  a  virginal.  In  the  comedy  of  '  Ram 
Alley '  we  have — 

"  Where  be  these  rascals  that  skip  up  and  down 
T^ike  virginal  jacks  ?  " 


I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white, 
But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks ; 
And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 
Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 
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   (tic 
ground ; 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare. 

cxxxi. 
Thou  art  as  tyrannous,  so  as  thou  art, 
As  those   whose  beauties  proudly  make  them 

cruel ; 
For  well  thou  know'st  to  my  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel. 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  some  say  that  thee  behold, 
Thy  face  hath  not  the  •power  to  make  love 

groan  : 
To  say  they  err,  I  dare  not  be  so  bold. 
Although  I  swear  it  to  myself  alone. 
And,  to  be  sure  that  is  not  false  I  swear, 
A  thousand  groans,  but  thinking  on  thy  face, 
One  on  another's  neck,  do  witness  bear 
Thy  black  is  fairest  in  my  judgment's  place. 
In  nothing  art  thou  black,  save  in  thy  deeds. 
And  thence   this   slander,   as   I  think,   pro- 
ceeds. 

CXXXII. 

Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me, 

Knowing  thy  heart  torments  me  with  disdain, 

Have  put  on  black,  and  loving  mom-ners  be, 

Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my  pain. 

And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 

Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east, 

Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even 

Doth  half  that  glory  to  the  sober  west. 

As  those  two  mom-uing  eyes  become  thy  face : 

0,  let  it  then  as  well  beseem  thy  heart 

To  mourn  for  me,   since  mourning  doth  thee 

grace, 
And  suit  thy  pity  like  in  every  part. 

Then  will  I  swear  beauty  herself  is  black. 
And  all  they  foul  that  thy  complexion  lack. 

CXXXIII. 

Beshrew  that  heart   that  makes  my  heart  to 

groan 
For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  my  friend  and 

me ! 
Ts't  not  enough  to  torture  me  alone. 
But  slave  to  slavery  my  swect'st  friend  must  be  ? 

447 


1 


SONNETS. 


Me  from  myself  tliy  cruel  eye  hath  taken, 

And  my  next  self  thou  harder  hast  engross'd  ; 

Of  him,  myself,  and  thee,  I  am  forsaken ; 

A  torment  thrice  three-fold  tlius  to  be  cross'd. 

Prison  my  heart  in  thy  steel  bosom's  ward, 

But  tlien  my  friend's  heart  let  my  poor  heart  bail ; 

\Vlio  e'er  keeps  me,  let  my  heart  be  his  guard  ; 

Thou  canst  not  then  use  rigour  in  my  gaol : 
And  yet  thou  wilt ;  for  I,  being  pent  in  thee, 
Perforce  am  thine,  and  all  that  is  in  nic. 

cxxxiv. 

So  now  1  hare  confess'd  that  he  is  thine, 
And  I  myself  am  mortgag'd  to  thy  will ; 
Myself  I  "11  forfeit,  so  that  other  mine 
Thou  wilt  restore,  to  be  my  comfort  still : 
But  thou  wilt  not,  nor  he  will  not  be  free, 
For  thou  art  covetous,  and  he  is  kind; 
He  leam'd  but,  surety-like,  to  write  for  mc. 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind. 
The  statute"  of  thy  beauty  thou  wilt  take, 
Thou  usurer,  that  putt'st  forth  all  to  use, 
And  sue  a  friend,  came  debtor  for  my  sake ; 
So  him  I  lose  tlirough  my  unkind  abuse. 

Him  have  I  lost ;  thou  hast  both  him  and  me ; 

He  pays  the  whole,  and  yet  am  I  not  free. 

cxxxv. 

AThoever  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  will, 
.Ynd  will  to  boot,  and  will  in  over-plus ; 

a  Statute — security,  or  oblivion. 


More  than  enougli  am  1  that  vex  thcc  still, 
To  thy  sweet  will  making  addition  thus. 
Wilt  thou,  whose  will  is  large  and  spacious. 
Not  once  vouchsafe  to  hide  my  will  in  thine.  ? 
Shall  will  in  others  seem  right  gracious, 
And  in  my  will  no  fair  acceptance  shine  ? 
The  sea,  all  water,  yet  receives  rain  still. 
And  in  abundance  addeth  to  his  store  ; 
So  thou,  being  rich  in  will,  add  to  thy  will 
One  will  of  mine,  to  make  thy  large  will  more. 

Let  no  unkind,  no  fair  besceehers  kill ; 

Think    all    but    one,   and    me    iji    that    one 

jrni. 

CXXXVI. 

If  thy  soul  check  thee  that  I  come  so  near, 
Swear  to  thy  blind  soul  that  I  was  thy  IFill, 
And  will,  thy  soul  knows,  is  admitted  there  : 
Thus  far  for  love,  my  love-suit,  sweet,  fulfU. 
Wi/l  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  thy  love, 
Ay,  fill  it  full  with  wills,  and  my  will  one, 
In  things  of  great  receipt  with  ease  we  prove ; 
Among  a  number  one  is  reckou'd  none. 
Then  in  the  immber  let  me  pass  untold, 
Though  in  thy  stores'  account  I  one  must  be  ; 
For  nothing  hold  me,  so  it  please  thee  hold 
That  nothing  me,  a  something  sweet  to  thee ; 

Make  but  my  name  thy  love,  and  love  that 
still. 

And  then  thou  lov'st  me,— 'for  my  name  is 
Will. 


•> 


SONNETS. 


ex  XXVII. 

Thou  bliud  fool,  Love,  what  dost  thou  to  mine 

eyes, 
That  they  behold,  aud  see  not  what  they  see  ? 
They  know  what  beauty  is,  see  where  it  lies. 
Yet  what  the  best  is,  take  the  worst  to  br. 
If  eyes,  corrupt  by  over-partial  looks, 
Be  anchor'd  in  the  bay  where  all  meu  ride, 
\\'hy  of  eyes'  falsehood  hast  thou  forged  hooks, 
Whereto  the  judgment  of  my  heart  is  tied  ? 
Why  should    my  heart   think   that    a  several 

plot,'' 
Which  my  heart  knows  the  wide  world's  com- 

•  mon  place  ? 
Or  mine  eyes,  seeing  this,  say  this  is  not. 
To  put  fair  truth  upon  so  foul  a  face  ? 

Tu  things  right  true  my  heart  and  eyes  have 

err'd, 
And  to  this  false  plague  are  they  now  Irans- 

ferr'd. 

CXXXVIII. 

AVhen  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  tnitli, 
I  do  believe  her,  though  I  know  she  lies ; 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unleai-ned  iu  the  world's  false  subtleties. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  me  young, 
Although   she    knows   my   days    are   past    the 

best, 
Siuiply  I  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue ; 
On  both  sides  thus  is  simple  truth  supprest. 
But  wherefore  says  she  not  she  is  unjust  ? 
Aud  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  ? 
O,  love's  best  habit  is  iu  seeming  trust. 
And  age  in  love  loves  not  to  have  years  told  : 
Therefore  I  lie  with  her,  and  she  v/ith  me. 
And  in  our  faults  by  lies  we  flatter'd  be.'' 

CXXXIX. 

C,  cad  not  me  to  justify  the  wrong 
That  thy  unkindness  lays  upon  my  heart ; 

"  See  note  on  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Act  ii. ,  Sc.  i. 

1)  There  are  many  variations  in  the  copy  of  this  Sonnet  as 
origlnaUy  published  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim.  The  difier- 
ences  are  of  that  character  which  would  lead  us  to  believe 
that  the  author,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  years,  wrote  it  out  a 
second  tune  from  memory.  The  variations  are  certainly  not 
those  of  a  transcriber  : — 

"  When  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth, 
I  do  believe  her,  though  I  know  she  lies. 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unskilful  in  tlie  world's  faXse  forgeries. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  me  young. 
Although  /  know  my  years  be  past  the  best, 
/  smiling  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue, 
Outfacing  faults  in  love  with  love's  ill  rest. 
But  wherefore  says  tny  love  that  she  is  young! 
And  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  f 
O,  love's  best  habit  is  a  soolhing  tongue, 
And  age  in  love  loves  not  to  have  years  told. 

Therefore  I'll  lie  with  love,  and  love  with  me. 

Since  that  our  faults  in  love  t/ius  smollier'd  be." 

Teagkdies,  &c.~Yol.  II.        2  Q 


Wound  me  not  with  thine  tyc,  but  \nth  thy 
tongue  ; 

Use  power  with  power,  and  slay  me  not  by  art. 

Tell  me  thou  lov'st  elsewhere  ;  but  in  my  sight, 

Dear  heart,  forbear  to  glance  thine  eye  aside. 

What  need'st  thou  wound  with  cunning,  when 
thy  might 

Is  more  tlian  my  o'erpress'd  defence  can  'bide  ? 

Let  me  excuse  thee  :  ali !  my  love  well  knows 

Her  pretty  looks  have  been  mine  enemies ; 

And  therefore  from  my  face  she  turas  my  foes, 

That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries  : 
Yet  do  not  so  ;  but  since  I  am  near  slain. 
Kill  me  outright   with  looks,   and    rid    my 
pain. 

CXL. 

Be  wise  as  thou  art  cruel ;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience   with  too   much  dis- 
dain ; 
Lest  sorrow  lend  me  words,  and  words  express 
The  manner  of  my  pity-wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  thee  v.\t,  better  it  were, 
Though  not  to  love,  yet,  love,  to  tell  me  so  ; 
(As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near, 
No   news    but    health    from    their    physicians 

know;) 
For,  if  I  should  despaii-,  I  should  grow  mad. 
And  iu  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee : 
Now  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad. 
Mad  slanderers  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 
That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  thou  belied. 
Bear  thine  eyes  straight,  though  thy  proud 
heai-t  go  wide. 

CXLI. 

In  faith  I  do  not  love  thee  with  mine  eyes. 
For  they  in  thee  a  thousand  errors  note : 
But 't  is  my  heart  that  loves  what  they  despise, 
Who  m  despite  of  view  is  pleased  to  dote. 
Nor  are  mine  ears  with  thy  tongue's  tune  de- 
lighted ; 
Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone. 
Nor  taste  nor  smell,  desire  to  be  invited 
To  any  sensunl  feast  with  thee  alone  : 
But  my  five  wits,  nor  my  five  senses  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  tlicc. 
Who  leaves  uusway'd  the  likeness  of  a  man. 
Thy  proud  heart's  slave  aud  vassal  wretch  to  be : 
Only  my  plague  thus  far  I  count  my  gain. 
That  she  that  makes  mc  siu,  awards  me  paiu. 

CXLII. 

Love  is  my  siu,  and  thy  dear  virtue  hate, 
Hate  of  my  sin,  grounded  ou  siuful  loving  : 

449 


SOXKETS. 


O,  but  with  miue  compare  thou    thine  own 

state, 
^VnJ  thou  shall  find  it  merits  not  reproving; 
Or,  if  it  do,  not  from  those  lips  of  thine, 
That  have  profan'd  their  searlet  ornaments, 
.\iid  scal'd  false  bonds  of  love  as  oft  as  mine ; 
llobb'd  others'  beds'  revenues  of  their  rents. 
Be  it  lawfid  1  love  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  those 
AVhom  thine  eyes  avoo  as  mine  importuue  thee : 
Koot  pity  in  thy  heart,  that,  when  it  grows, 
Thy  pity  may  deserve  to  pitied  be. 

If  thou  dost  seek  to  have  what  thou  dost 
hide. 

By  self-example,  mayst  thou  be  denied  ! 

cxuii. 

Lo,  as  a  careful  housewife  runs  to  cateh 
One  of  her  feather'd  creatures  broke  away, 
Sets  down  her  babe,  and  makes  all  swift  de- 
spatch 
In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay  ; 
Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  cLacc, 
Cries  to  catch  her  whose  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flies  before  her  face, 
Not  pi-izing  her  poor  infant's  discontent ; 
So  nmn'st  thou  after  that  which  flics  from  thee. 
Whilst  I  thy  babe  chase  thee  afar  behind ; 
But  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  me, 
And  play  the  mothei^s  part,  kiss  me,  be  kind : 

So  will  I  pray  that   thou  mayst  have  thy 
Will, 

If  thou  turn  back,  and  my  loud  crying  still. 

cxxrs'. 

Two  lores  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair, 
Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  *  me  still ; 
The  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair. 
The  worser  spirit  a  woman,  colom'd  ill. 
To  win  me  soon  to  hell,  my  female  evil 
Tempteth  my  better  angel  from  my  side. 
And  would  corrupt  my  saint  to  be  a  devil. 
Wooing  his  purity  with  her  foul  pride. 
And  whether  that  my  angel  be  tum'd  fiend. 
Suspect  I  may,  yet  not  directly  tell ; 
But,  being  both  from  me,  both  to  each  friend, 
I  guess  one  angel  in  another's  liell. 

Yet  this  shall    I  ne'er  know,   but    live  in 
doubt, 

Till  my  bad  angel  fire  my  good  one  out.'' 


b  The  variations  in  the  copy  of  this  Soniiit  in  The  Pas- 
sionate Pilprini  are  very  tlight.  In  the  eifihth  line,  insti-ad 
of  foul  pride,  we  have /a/r  pride;  in  the  eleventh,  instead  of 
from  me,  we  have  lo  me;  in  the  thirteenth,  instead  of  Yet 
thii  thail  I  ne'er  know,  we  have  The  Irulh  I  ihall  not  know. 

450 


CXLV. 

Those  lips  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make 
Breath'd  forth  the  sound  that  said,  '  I  hate,' 
To  me  that  lauguish'd  for  her  sake  : 
But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  slate, 
Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come, 
Cliiding  that  tongue,  that  ever  sweet 
Was  used  in  giving  gentle  doom ; 
And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet : 
'  I  hate  '  she  alter'd  with  an  end, 
Tliat  foUow'd  it  as  gentle  day 
Doth  follow  night,  who  like  a  fiend 
From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away. 

'  I  hate '  from,  hate  away  she  threw,. 

And  sav'd  my  life,  saying— 'not  you.' 

CXLVI. 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array," 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  sufi'er  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?    Is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  houi-s  of  dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on 
men, 

And,  Death  once  dead,  there 's  no  more  dying 
then. 

CXLVII. 

My  love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 

For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease ; 

Feeding  on  that  which  doth  prcserv  e  the  ill. 

The  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please. 

My  reason,  the  physician  to  my  love. 

Angry  that  liis  prescript  ions  are  not  kept, 

Hath  left  me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve 

Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 

Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  pa.st  care, 

And  frantic  mad  with  evermore  unrest ; 

My  thoughts  and  my  discourse  as  mad  men's 

are. 
At  random  from  the  truth  vainly  express'd ; 

»  In  the  original  copy  wc  have  the  following  reading  : — 
"  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  cartli. 
My  tinful  earth  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array." 
The  received  readinf;  is  a  conjectural  emendation  by  Ma- 
lone.     When  the  chanpe  in  a  text  must  rest  wholly  on  con- 
jecture, and  some  chanpe  is  absolutely  necessary,  it  appears 
to  us  that  the  change  which  has  been  established  is  in  most 
cases  better  than  any  improvement. 


SONNETS. 


For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair,  and  thought  thee 

bright, 
Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  dark  as  night. 

CXLVIII. 

0  me  !  what  eyes  hath  lo\e  put  in  ray  head, 
Which  have  no  correspoudeuce  with  true  sight ! 
Oi-,  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled, 
Tliat  censures  ^  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 
If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote. 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so  ? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's  :  no, 
How  can  it  ?  0  how  can  Love's  eye  be  true. 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears  ? 
No  marvel  tlieu  though  I  mistake  my  view ; 
Tlie  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cuiuiiug  Love  !    with  tears  thou  keep'st  me 
blind. 

Lest  eyes  weH-seemg  thy  foul  faults  should 
fmd. 

CXLIX. 

Canst  thou,  0  cruel !  say  I  love  thee  not. 
When  I,  agaiust  myself,  with  thee  partake  ?  ^ 
Do  I  not  think  oti  thee,  when  I  forgot 
Am  of  myself,  all  tyrant,  for  thy  sake  ? 
Who  hateth  thee  that  I  do  call  my  friend  ? 
On  whom  frown'st  thou  that  I  do  fawn  upon  ? 
Nay  if  thou  low'vst  on  me,  do  I  not  spend 
Revenge  upon  myself  with  present  moan  ? 
"\A'hat  merit  do  I  iu  myself  respect. 
That  is  so  proud  thy  service  to  despise, 
When  all  my  best  doth  worship  thy  defect. 
Commanded  by  the  motion  of  tliine  eyes  ? 

But,  love,  hate  on,  for  now  I  know  thy  mind  ; 

Those'  that  can  see  thou  lov'st,  and  I  am  blind. 

CL. 

0,  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerful 

might. 
With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway  ? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  siglit. 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the 

day? 
Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill. 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  tliy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warrantise  of  skill, 
That  in  my  mind,  thy  worst  all  best  exceeds  ? 
AVho  taught  thee  how  to  make  me  love  thee  more. 
The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate  ? 
0,  though  I  love  what  others  do  abhor, 
AVith  others  thou  shouldst  not  abhor  my  state  ; 
If  thy  uuworthiness  rais'd  love  in  me. 
More  worthy  I  to  be  belov'd  of  thee. 

'  Censures — judges,  estimates. 

'"  Partake  -  take  part.     A  partaker  was  a  confederate. 

2G  2  I 


CLI. 

Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is  ; 
Yet  who  knows  not,  conscience  is  bom  of  love  r 
Then,  gentle  cheater,  urge  not  my  amiss,'' 
Lest  guilty  of  my  faults  thy  sweet  self  prove. 
For  thou  betraying  me,  I  do  betray 
My  nobler  part  to  my  gross  body's  treason ; 
My  soul  doth  tell  my  body  that  he  may 
Triumph  in  love;    flesh  stays   no  farther  rea- 
son; 
But,  rising  at  thy  name,  doth  point  out  thee 
As  his  triumphant  prize.     Proud  of  this  pride. 
He  is  contented  thy  poor  drudge  to  be. 
To  stand  in  thy  affairs,  fall  by  thy  side. 
No  want  of  conscience  hold  it  that  I  call 
Her — love,  for  whose  dear  love   I  rise  and 
fall. 

CLII. 

In  loving  thee  thou  know'st  I  am  forsworn. 
But  thou  art  twice  forsworn,  to  me  love  swear- 

ilirr  • 

In  act  thy  bed-vow  broke,  and  new  faith  torn, 
In  vowing  new  hate  after  new  love  bearing. 
But  why  of  two   oaths'   breach   do  I  accuse 

thee, 
■When  I  break  twenty  ?  I  am  perjur'd  most ; 
For  all  my  vows  are  oaths  but  to  misuse  thee. 
And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost : 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  thy  deep  kind- 
ness, 
Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy ; 
iVnd,  to  enlighten  thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness. 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thiug   they 
see; 
For  I  have  swoni  thee  fair:  more  perjur'd  I, 
To  swear,  against  the  truth,  so  foul  a  lie  ! 


CLTII. 

Cupid  lay  by  his  brand,  and  fell  asleep  : 

A  maid  of  Dian's  this  advantage  found. 

And  his  love-kindling  fire  did  quickly  steep 

In  a  cold  valley-fountain  of  tliat  ground  ; 

Which  borrow'd  from  this  holy  fii-e  of  love 

A  dateless  lively  heat,  still  to  endure. 

And  grew  a  seething  bath,    which    yet    men 

prove 
Against  strange  maladies  a  sovereign  cure. 
But  at  my  mistress'  eye  Love's  brand  ncw-fli-'d. 
The  boy  for  trial  needs  would  touch  my  breast ; 
],  sick  withal,  the  help  of  bath  desir'd, 
.\]id  thither  hied,  a  sad  distemper'd  guest. 


.Iniiss — fault. 


4F,\ 


SONNETS. 


But  fouud  no  cui'c  :    the  bath  for  uiy  help 

lies 
"Where   Cupid   got   new   fire, — my   mistress' 

ryes. 


CLIV. 


The  little  love-god,  lying  once  asleep 
Laid  by  his  side  his  heart-inflaming  brand, 
Whilst  many  nymphs  that  vow'd  ehaste  life  to 

keep 
Canic  tripping  by ;  but  in  her  uiaideu  hand 


The  fairest  votary  took  up  that  fire 

Which  many  legions  of  true  hearts  had  warmM  ; 

And  so  the  general  of  hot  desire 

Was  sleeping  by  a  virgin  hand  disann'd. 

This  brand  she  quenehed  in  a  cool  well  by, 

Whieh  from  Love's  fire  took  heat  perpetual, 

Growing  a  bath  and  healthful  remedy 

Tor  men  diseas'd  ;  but  I,  my  mistress'  thrall, 

Came   there   for  cure,   and   this   by   that    1 
prove. 

Love's  fire  heats  water,  water  cools  not  love. 


'/.  ■•■■'J  -     ■■      'f^'-;,' 


ILLUSTRATION   OP  THE   SONNETS. 


The  original  edition  of  this  collection  of  poems 
bore  the  following  title  :  '  Shake-speare's  Sonnets. 
Never  before  impi-inted.  At  London,  by  G.  Eld, 
for  T.  T.,  and  are  to  be  sold  by  John  Wright, 
dwelling  at  Christ  Church-gate.  1600.'  The  vo- 
lume is  a  small  quarto.  In  addition  to  the  Sonnets 
it  contains,  at  the  end,  '  A  Lover's  Complaint.  By 
William  Shake -speare.'  In  this  collection  the 
Sonnets  are  numbered  from  i.  to  CLiv.,  and  they 
follow  in  their  numerical  order,  as  in  the  text  we 
have  presented  to  our  readers.  But,  although  this 
arrangement  of  the  Sonnets  is  now  the  only  one 
adopted  in  editions  of  Shakspere's  Poems,  another 
occasionally  prevailed  up  to  the  time  of  the  publi- 
cation of  Steevens's  fac-simile  reprint  of  the  Sonnets 
in  1766.  An  interval  of  thirty-one  years  elapsed 
between  the  publication  of  the  volume  by  T.  T. 
(Thomas  Thorpe)  «-in  1609,  and  the  demand  for  a 
reprint  of  these  remarkable  poems.  In  1640  ap- 
peared 'Poems,  written  by  Wil.  Shrie-speare,  Gent. 
Printed  at  London  by  Tho.  Cotes,  and  are  to  be  sold 
by  John  Benson.'    This  volume,  in  duodecimo,  con- 


tains the  Sonnets,  but  in  a  totally  different  oi-der,  the 
original  arrangement  not  only  being  departed  from, 
but  the  lyrical  poems  of  The  Passionate  PDgrim 
scattered  here  and  there,  and  sometimes  a  single 
Sonnet,  sometimes  two  or  three,  and  more  rarely 
four  or  five,  distinguished  by  some  quaint  title.  No 
title  includes  more  than  five.  In  the  editions  of  tho 
Poems  which  appeared  during  a  century  afterwards, 
the  original  order  of  the  Sonnets  was  adopted  in  some 
— that  of  the  edition  of  1640  in  others.  Lintot's,  in 
1709,  for  example,  adheres  to  the  original ;  Curll's, 
in  1710,  follows  the  second  edition.  Cotes,  the 
printer  of  the  second  edition,  was  also  the  printer  of 
the  second  edition  of  the  plays.  That  the  principle 
of  an-angement  adopted  in  this  edition  was  altoge- 
ther arbitrary,  and  proceeded  upon  a  false  concep- 
tion of  many  of  these  poems,  we  have  no  hesitation 
in  beliering  ;  but  it  is  remarkable  that  ^^^thin 
twenty-four  years  of  Shakspere's  dea-th  an  opinion 
should  have  existed  that  the  original  arrangement 
was  also  arbitrary,  and  that  the  Sonnets  were  essen- 
tially  that    collection    of  fragments    which    Meres 

4o3 


ILLUSTRATIOX   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


describcnl  in  159S,  when  bo  wrote,  "  As  the  soul  of 
Euphorbus  was  thought  to  live  in  Pythagoras,  so 
the  sweet  witty  soul  of  Ovid  lives  in  mellifluous  and 
honoy-tongucil  Shakespeare  :  witness  liis  Venus  and 
Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugared  Sonnets  among 
his  private  friends."  Upon  the  ijucstion  of  the 
cordinuity  of  the  Sonnets  depend  many  important 
considerations  with  refei-enco  to  the  life  and  personal 
character  of  the  poet ;  and  it  is  necessary,  therefore, 
in  this  placo  to  examine  that  question  with  propor- 
tionate care. 

The  Sonnets  of  Shakspero  are  distinguished  from 
the  genei-al  character  of  that  class  of  poems  by  the 
continuit}'  manifestly  existing  in  many  successive 
stanzas,  which  form,  as  it  were,  a  group  of  flowers 
of  the  same  hue  and  fragrance.  Mr.  Hallam  has 
justly  explained  this  peculiarity  : — 

"  No  one  ever  cntei-ed  moi-o  fully  than  Shakspeare 
into  the  character  of  this  species  of  poetry,  which 
admits  of  no  expletive  imagery,  no  merely  orna- 
mental line.  But,  though  each  Sonnet  has  generally 
its  proper  unity,  the  sense — I  do  not  mean  the 
grammatical  construction — will  sometimes  be  found 
to  spread  from  one  to  another,  independently  of 
that  repetition  of  the  leading  idea,  like  variations 
of  an  air,  which  a  series  of  them  frequently  exhibits, 
and  on  account  of  which  they  have  latterly  been 
i-cckoned  by  some  rather  an  integral  poem  than  a 
collection  of  Sonnets.  But  this  is  not  uncommon 
among  the  Italians,  and  belongs,  in  fact,  to  those  of 
Petrarch  himself. " 

But,  although  a  series  may  frequently  exhibit  a 
"repetition  of  the  leading  idea,  like  variations  of 
an  air,"  it  by  no  means  follows  that  thej'  are  to  be 
therefore  considered  "rather  an  integral  poem  than 
a  collection  of  Sonnets."  In  the  edition  of  1610  the 
"variations"  were  arbitrarily  separated,  in  many 
cases,  from  the  "  air  ;"  but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
scarcely  conceivable  that  in  the  earlier  edition  of 
1609  these  verses  were  intended  to  be  presented  as 
"  an  integral  poem."  Before  we  examine  this  mat- 
ter let  us  inquire  into  some  of  the  circumstances 
connected  with  the  original  publication. 

The  first  seventeen  Sonnets  contain  a  "leading 
idea"  under  every  form  of  "variation."  They  are 
an  exhortation  to  a  friend,  a  male  friend,  to  marry. 
Who  this  friend  was  has  been  the  subject  of  infinite 
discussion.  Chalmers  maintains  that  it  was  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  that  there  was  no  impropriety  in 
Shakspcra  addressing  the  queen  by  the  masculine 
pronoun,  because  a  queen  is  a  prince ;  as  wo  still 
say  in  the  Liturgy,  "  our  queen  and  governor."  The 
reasoning  of  Chalmers  on  this  .subject,  which  may 
be  found  in  his  '  Supplementary  Apology,'  is  one  of 
the  most  amusing  pieces  of  learned  and  ingenious 
nonsense  that  ever  met  our  view.  We  believe  that 
we  must  very  summarily  dismiss  Queen  Elizabeth. 
But  Chalmers  with  more  reason  threw  over  the  idea 
that  the  dedication  of  the  bookseller  to  the  edition 
of  1609  implied  the  person  to  whom  the  Sonnets 
were  addressed.  T.  T.,  who  dedicates,  is,  as  wo 
have  mentioned,  Thomas  Thorpe,  the  publisher. 
W.  H.,  to  whom  the  dedication  is  addressed,  was, 
accoT6.\r\:t  to  the. earlier  critics,  an  humble  person. 
454 


He  was  either  William  Hartc,  the  poet's  nephew,  or 
William  Hews,  some  unknown  individual ;  but  Drake 
said,  and  said  tnily,  that  the  person  addressed  in 
some  of  the  Sonnets  themselves  was  one  of  i-ank  ; 
and  he  maintained  that  it  was  Lord  Southampton. 
"W.  n."  he  said,  ought  to  havj  been  H.  W.— 
Henry  Wriothesly.  But  Mr.  boaden  and  Mr. 
Brown  have  each  affirmed  that  "  W.  H."  is  William 
Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  who,  in  his  youth  and 
his  rank,  exactly  corresponded  witli  tlie  person 
addressed  hy  the  poet.  The  words  "begetter  of 
these  Sonnets,"  in  the  dedication,  must  mean,  it  is 
maintained,  the  person  who  was  the  immediate  cause 
of  their  being  written — to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
But  he  was  "the  only  begetter  of  these  Sonnets." 
The  latter  portion  of  the  Sonnets  are  unquestionably 
addressed  to  a  female,  which  at  once  disposes  of  the 
assertion  that  he  was  the  only  begetter,  assuming 
the  "begetter"  to  be  used  in  the  sense  of  inspirtr. 
Chalmers  disposes  of  this  meaning  of  the  word  very 
cleverly  :  "  W.  H.  was  the  bringer  forth  of  the  Son- 
nets. Beget  is  derived  by  Skinner  from  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  hegettan,  obtinere.  Johnson  adopts  this  deri- 
vation and  sense :  so  that  begetter,  in  the  quaint 
language  of  Thoi-pe  the  bookseller.  Pistol  the  an- 
cient, and  such  afiected  persons,  signified  the 
dbtainer:  as  to  get  and  getter,  in  the  present  day, 
mean  obtain  and  obtainer,  or  to  procure  and  the 
procurer."  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
held  that,  when  the  bookseller  wishes  Mr.  W,  H. 
"that  eternity  promised  by  our  ever-living  poet," 
he  means  promised  him.  This  inference  we  must 
think  is  somewhat  strained.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
material  question  to  examine  is  this — arc  the  greater 
portion  of  the  Sonnets,  putting  aside  those  which 
manifestly  apply  to  a  female,  or  females,  addressed 
to  one  male  friend  ?  Or  are  these  the  "  sugared 
Sonnets"  scattered  among  maiiy  "private  friends  ?" 
When  Meres  printed  his  '  Palladis  Tamia,' in  1598, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  then 
existing  only  in  manuscript,  had  obtained  a  reputa- 
tion in  the  literary  and  courtly  circles  of  that  time. 
Probably  the  notoriety  which  Meres  had  given  to 
the  "sugared  Sonnets"  excited  a  pubUsher,  in  1599, 
to  produce  something  which  should  gratify  the 
general  cm-iosity.  In  that  year  appeared  a  collection 
of  poems  beairing  the  name  of  Shakspere,  and  pub- 
lished by  W.  Jaggard,  entitled  '  The  Passionate  Pil- 
grinu'  This  little  collection  contains  two  Sonnets 
which  are  also  given  in  the  larger  collection  of  1609. 
They  are  also  numbered  cxxxviii.  and  CXLIV.  in 
that  collection.  In  the  modem  reprints  of  The 
Passionate  POgiim  it  is  usual  to  omit  these  two 
Sonnets  without  explanation,  because  they  have  been 
previously  given  in  the  larger  collection  of  Sonnets. 
But  it  is  esssential  to  bear  in  mind  the  fact  that  in 
1599  two  of  the  Sonnets  of  the  hundred  and  fifty- 
four  published  in  1609  were  printed ;  and  that  one 
of  them  especially,  that  numbered  CXLIV.,  has  been 
held  to  form  an  impoi-tant  part  of  the  supposed 
"  integral  poem."  Wo  may  therefore  conclude 
that  the  other  Sonnets  which  appear  to  relate  to  the 
same  persons  as  are  referred  to  in  the  144th  Sonnet 
were  also  in  existence.     Further,  the  publication  of 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


these  Sonnets  in  1599  tends  to  remove  the  impres- 
sion that  might  be  derived  from  the  tone  of  some  of 
those  in  the  larger  collection  of  1609, — that  they 
were  written  when  Shakspere  had  passed  the  middle 
period  of  life.     For  exami^le,  in  the  73rd  Sonnet  the 
poet  refers  to  the  autumn  of  his  years,  the  twilight 
of  his  day,  the  ashes  of  his  youth.     In  the  138th, 
printed  in  1599,  he  describes  himself  as  "past  the 
best " — as  "  old."     He  was  then  thirty-five.     Dante 
was  exactly  this  age  when  he  described  himself  in 
"  the  midway  of  this  our  mortal  life."     In  these  re- 
markable particulars,  therefore, — the  mention  of  two 
persons,  real  or  fictitious,  who  occupy  an  important 
position  in  the  larger  collection,  and  in  the  notice 
of  the  poet's  age, — the  two  Sonnets  of  The  Passionate 
Pilgrim  are  strictly  connected  with  those  published 
in  1609,  of  which  they  also  form  a  part ;  and  they 
lead  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  obtained  for 
publication  out  of  the  scattered  leaves  floating  about 
amongst  "private  friends."     The  publication  of  The 
Passionate   Pilgrim  was    unquestionably  lanauthor- 
ised  and  piratical.     The  publisher  got  all  he  could 
which  existed  in  manuscript  ;    and    he   took  two 
poems   out  of   Love's    Labour's    Lost,   which  was 
printed  only  the  year  before.     In  1609,  we  have  no 
hesitation  in  believing  that  the  same  process  was 
repeated  ;  that  without  the  consent  of  the  writer  the 
hundred  and   fifty-four   Sonnets  —  some  forming  a 
continuous  poem,  or  poems ;  others  isolated,  in  the 
subjects  to  which  they  relate,  and  the  persons  to 
whom  they  were  addressed — were  collected  together 
without  any  key  to  their  an-angement,  and  given  to 
the  public.     Believing  as  wo  do  that  "  W.  H.,"  be 
he  who  he  may,  who  put  these  poems  in  the  hands 
of  "T.  T.,"  the  publisher,  arranged   them   in  the 
most  arbitrary  manner  (of  which  there  are  many 
proofs),  we  believe  that  the  assumption  of  continuity, 
however  ingeniously  it  may  be  maintained,  is  alto- 
gether fallacious.      ^Vhere  is  the  difficulty  of  ima- 
gining, with  regard  to  poems  of  which  each  separate 
poem,  sonnet,  or  stanza,  is  either  a  "  leading  idea," 
or  its  "variation,"  that,  picked  up  as  we  think  they 
were  from  many  quarters,  the  supposed  connexion 
must  be  in  many  respects  fanciful,  in  some  a  result 
of  chance,  mixing  what  the  poet  wrote  in  his  own 
person,  either  in  moments  of  slation  or  depression, 
with  other  apparently  continuous  stanzas  that  painted 
an  imaginary  character,  indulging  in  all  the  warmth 
of  an  exaggerated  friendship,  in  the  complaints  of  an 
abused  confidence,  in  the  pictures  of  an  unhallowed 
and  unhappy  love  ;  sometimes  speaking  with  the  real 
earnestness  of  true  friendship  and  a  modest  estima- 
tion of  his  own  merits ;   sometimes  employing  the 
languag-e  of  an  extravagant  eulogy,  and  a  more  ex- 
travagant estimation  of  the  powers  of  the  man  who 
was  writing  that   eulogy?      Suppose,  for  example, 
that  in  the  leisure  hours,  we  will  say,  of  William 
Herbei-t  Earl  of  Pembroke,  and  William  Shakspere, 
the  poet  should  have  undertaken  to  address  to  the 
youth  an  argument  why  he  should  marry.     Without 
believing  the  Earl  to  be  the  W.  H.  of  the  Dedication, 
've  Wow  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Shakspere.     There 
is  nothing  in  the  first    seventeen    Sonnets  which 
might  not  have  been  written  in  the  artificial  tone  of 


the  Itahan  poetry,  in  the  working  out  of  this  .schcmo. 
Suppose,  again,  that  in  other  Sonnets  the  poet,  in 
the  same  artificial  spirit,  complains  that  the  friend 
has  robbed  him  of  his  mistress,  and  avows  that  ho 
forgives  the  falsehood.     There  is  nothing  in  all  this 
which  might  not  have  been  written  essentially  as 
a  work  of  fiction, — received  as  a  work  of  fiction, — 
handed  about   amongst  "private  friends"  without 
the  slightest  apprehension  that  it  would  be  regarded 
as  an  exposition   of  the  private   relations  of   two 
persons  separated  in  rank  as  they  probably  were  in 
their  habitual  intimacies, — of  very  different  ages, — 
the  one  an  avowedly  profligate  boy,  the  other  a 
matured    man.      But    this    supposition    does    not 
exclude  the  idea  that  the  poet  had  also,  at  various 
times,  composed,  in  the  same  measure,  other  poems, 
truly  expressing  his  personal  feehngs, — with  nothing 
inflated  in  their  tone,  perfectly  simple  and  natural, 
offering  praise,  expressing  love  to  his  actual  friends 
(in  the  language  of  the  time   "lovers"),  showing 
regi'et  in  separation,  dreading  unkindness,  hopeful 
of  continued  affection.      These  are  also  circulated 
amongst  "private  friends."    Some  "  W.  H."  collects 
them  together,  ten,  or  twelve,  or  fifteen  years  after 
they  have  been  written  ;  and  a  publisher,  of  course, 
is  found  to  give  to  the  world  any  productions  of  a 
man  so  eminent  as  Shakspere.     But  who  arranged 
them.  ?    Certainly  not  the  poet  himself  :   for  those 
who  believe   in  their  continuity  must   admit   that 
there  are  portions  which  it  is  impossible  to  regard  as 
continuous.    In  the  same  volume  with  these  Sonnets 
was  published  a  most  exquisite  narrative  poem,  A 
Lover's  Complaint.    The  form  of  it  entu-ely  prevents 
any  attempt  to  consider  it  autobiogi-aphical.      The 
Sonnets,  on  the  conti-arj',  are  personal  in  their  form  ; 
but  it  is  not  therefore  to  be  assumed  that  they  are 
all  personal  in  their  relation  to  the  author.* 

It  is  our  intention,  without  at  all  presuming  to 
think  that  we  have  discovered  any  real  order  in 
which  these  extraordinary  productions  may  bo  ar- 
ranged, to  offer  them  to  the  reader  upon  a  principle 
of  classification,  which,  on  the  one  hand,  does  not 
attempt  to  reject  the  idea  that  a  continuous  poem, 
or  rather  several  continuous  poems,  may  be  traced 


'^  Some  of  our  literary  journals  liavr  made  the  most  of 
what  they  consider  "  a  discovery  "  by  M.  Pliilarfete  Chasles. 
Without  attempting  any  controveisial  discussion  of  this 
matter,  we  translate,  from  tlie  article  on  Shakspere  in  the 
"Nouvelle  Biographic  Generale,"  the  opinion  of  one  who 
writes  sensibly  and  impartially.  In  directing  attention 
to  the  conjectures  of  Drake  and  Boaden  (p.  94  col.  2),  the 
French  biographer  says  :-"  We  must  bestow  more  attention 
upon  Boaden,  who  in  W.  H.  sees  William  Herbert,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  and  upon  Drake,  who  considers  them  to  point  to 
Henry  Wriotheslev,  Earl  of  Southampton  It  is  true  that 
William  Herbert,  born  in  1580,  was,  at  the  epoch  at  which 
these  Sonnets  were  composed,  only  from  fourteen  to  seven- 
teen years  of  ago.  It  was  not  to  him,  therefore,  that 
Shakspere  could  have  addressed  an  e:irnest  exhortation  to 
marry.  But  if  he  were  not  the  inspirer  of  these  Sonnets, 
could  he  not,  at  a  later  period,  have  been  the  conlidential 
depositary  and  finally  the  editor  of  these  poems  ?  In  this 
case  W.  H.  would  he,  according  to  a  very  ingenious  con- 
jecture of  >r.  Philarete  Chasks,  not  the  'only  bei;etter 
who  received  tlie  offering  of  the  collection,  but  the  editor 
who  had  collected  'the  sugared  sonnets  amongst  the 
friends  of  the  immortal  poet,  and  who  offers  them  to  the 
friend  who  had  inspired  them." 

455 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


throiifrhout  the  scries,  nor  adopt  the  bebcf  thnt  the 
whole'^can  bo  broken  up  into  frnpnicnts  ;  but  whicb, 
on  the  other  hand,  docs  no  violence  to  the  meaning 
of  the  author  by  a  pertinacious  adherence  to  a  prin- 
ciple of  continuity,  sometimes  obrious  enough. 


The  earliest  productions  of  a  youthful  poet  are 
commonly  Love-Sonnets,  or  Elegies  as  they  were 
termed  in  Shakspere's  time.  The  next  age  to  that 
of  the  schoolboy  is  that  of 

"  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  liis  mistress"  eyebrow." 

We  commence  our  series  with  three  Sonnets  which 
certainly  bear  the  marks  of  juvenility,  when  com- 
pared with  others  in  this  collection,  as  distinctly 
impressed  upon  them  as  the  character  of  the  poet's 
mind  at  different  periods  of  his  life  is  impressed 
upon  Love's  Labour's  Lost  and  JIacbeth  : — 

Whoever  hath  her  wish,  thou  hast  thy  iivill, 
And  will  to  boot,  and  will  in  ever-plus  ; 
More  than  enough  am  I  that  vex  thee  still. 
To  thy  sweet  will  making  addition  thus. 
Wilt  thou,  v.-hose  will  is  large  and  s]>aciou3. 
Not  once  vouchsafe  to  hide  my  will  in  thine  ? 
Shall  will  in  others  seem  right  gracious, 
And  in  my  will  no  fair  acceptance  shine  ? 
The  sea,  all  water,  yet  receives  rain  still. 
And  in  abundance  addeth  to  his  store  ; 
So  thou,  being  rich  in  will,  add  to  thy  will 
One  will  of  mine,  to  make  .thy  large  will  more. 

Let  no  unkind,  no  fair  beseechers  kill ; 

Think  all  but  one,  and  me  in  that  one  Will. — ^135. 

If  thy  soul  check  thee  that  I  come  so  near. 
Swear  to  thy  blind  soul  that  I  was  thy  Will, 
And  will,  thy  soul  knows,  is  admitted  there  ; 
Thus  far  for  love,  my  love-suit,  sweet,  fulfil. 
Will  will  fulfil  the  treasure  of  thy  love. 
Ay,  fill  it  full  of  wills,  and  my  will  one. 
In  things  of  great  receipt  with  ease  we  prove  ; 
Among  a  number  one  is  reckon'd  none. 
Then  in  the  number  let  me  pass  untold, 
Though  in  thy  stores'  account  I  one  mast  be  ; 
For  nothing  hold  me,  so  it  please  thee  hold 
That  nothing  me,  a  something  sweet  to  thee  : 
Make  but  my  name  thy  love,  and  love  that  still, 
And  then  thou  loVst  me, — for  my  name  is  Will. 

—130. 

I»,  as  a  careful  housewife  runs  to  catch 
One  of  her  feather'd  creatures  broke  away, 
Sets  down  her  babe,  and  makes  all  swift  despatch 
In  pursuit  of  the  thing  she  would  have  stay ; 


Whilst  her  neglected  child  holds  her  in  chacc, 
Cries  to  catch  her  whoso  busy  care  is  bent 
To  follow  that  which  flics  before  her  face. 
Not  prizing  her  poor  infant's  discontent ; 
So  runn'st  thou  after  that  which  flies  from  thee, 
Whilst  I  thy  babe  chase  thee  afar  behind  ; 
But  if  thou  catch  thy  hope,  turn  back  to  mo, 
And  play  the  mother's  part,  kiss  mo,  bo  kind  : 
So  will  I  pi-ay  that  thou  mayst  have  thy  Will, 
If  thou  turn  back,  and  my  loud  crjdng  still. 

—143. 


The  figures  which  we  subjoin  to  each  Sonnet 
show  the  place  which  it  occupies  in  the  collection 
of  1609.  If  the  reader  will  turn  to  our  reprint  of 
that  text,  he  will  see  where  these  Sonnets,  through 
each  of  which  the  same  play  upon  the  poet's  name 
is  kept  up  with  a  boyish  vivacity,  are  found. 
The  two  first  follow  one  of  those  from  which  Mr. 
Brown  derives  the  title  of  what  he  calls  ' '  The  Sixth 
Poem,"  being  "  To  his  Mistress,  on  her  Infidelity."* 
Mr.  Brown,  however,  qualifies  the  dissimilarity  of 
tone  by  the  following  admission  : — "  All  the  stanzas 
in  the  preceding  poems  (to  Stanza  126)  are  retained 
in  their  original  order  ;  the  printers,  without  disturb- 
ing the  links,  having  done  no  worse  than  the  joining 
together  of  five  chains  into  one.  But  I  suspect  the 
same  attention  has  not  been  paid  to  this  address  to 
his  mistress.  Indeed,  I  farther  suspect  that  some 
stanzas,  irrelevant  to  the  subject,  have  been  intro- 
duced into  the  body  of  it."  The  stanzas  to  which 
Mr.  Brown  objects  are  the  135th  and  13Gth  just 
given.  But  let  us  proceed.  The  poet  now  sings  the 
praise  of  those  eyes  which  so  took  his  brother-poet, 
Phineas  Fletcher  : — 

"  But  most  I  wonder  liow  that  jelty  ray, 
Which  those  two  blackest  suns  do  fair  display, 
Should  shine  so  bright,  and  night  should  make  so 
sweet  a  day." 

We  know  not  the  colour  of  Anne  Hathaway's  eyes  ; 
but  how  can  we  aflimi  that  the  following  three 
Sonnets  were  not  addressed  to  her  ? — 

In  the  old  age  black  was  not  counted  fair. 
Or,  if  it  were,  it  bore  not  beauty's  name ; 
But  now  is  black  beautj^'s  successive  heir. 
And  beauty  slander'd  with  a  bastard  shame  : 
For  since  each  hand  hath  put  on  nature's  power, 
Fau-ing  the  foul  with  art's  false  boiTow'd  face. 
Sweet  beauty  hath  no  name,  no  holy  hour. 
But  is  profan'd,  if  not  lives  in  disgrace. 
Therefore  my  mistress'  eyes  are  raven  black. 
Her  e}'es  so  suited  ;  and  they  mourners  seem 
At  such,  who,  not  born  fair,  no  beauty  lack, 
Slandering  creation  with  a  false  esteem  : 
Yet  so  they  mourn,  becoming  of  their  woe, 
That  every  tongue  saj's  beauty  should  look  so. 

—127. 


•  Shakspeare's  .\utobiographi<al  Poems,  p.  90. 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


'ITiou  art  as  tyrannous,  so  as  thou  art. 
As  those  whose  beauties  proudly  make  them  cruel : 
For  well  thou  know'st  to  my  dear  doting  heart 
Thou  art  the  fairest  and  most  precious  jewel. 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  some  say  that  thee  behold, 
Thy  face  hath  not  the  power  to  make  love  groan  : 
To  say  they  err,  I  dare  not  be  so  bold, 
Although  I  swear  it  to  myself  alone. 
And,  to  be  sure  that  is  not  false  I  sweai-, 
A  thousand  gi-oans,  but  thinking  on  thy  face. 
One  on  another's  neck,  do  witness  bear 
Thy  black  is  fairest  in  my  judgment's  place. 
In  nothing  art  thou  black,  save  in  thy  deeds. 
And  thence  this  slander,  as  I  think,  proceeds. 

—131. 


Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me. 
Knowing  thy  heart  torments  me  with  disdain, 
Have  put  on  black,  and  loving  mourners  be, 
Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my  pain. 
And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 
Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east, 
Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even. 
Doth  half  that  gloiy  to  the  sober  west. 
As  those  two  moiu-ning  eyes  become  thy  face  : 
0,  let  it  then  as  well  beseem  thy  heart 
To  mourn  for  me,  since  mourning  doth  thee  grace. 
And  suit  thy  pity  like  in  every  part. 

Then  will  I  swear  beauty  herself  is  black. 

And  all  they  foul  that  thy  complexion  lack.  — 132. 

But  the  two  last  immediately  precede  the  Sonnet 
Deginning 

"  Beshrew  that  heart  that  makes  my  heart  to  groan 
For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  my  friend  and  me  ; " — 

and  so  the  lady  of  the  "  moimiing  eyes  "  is  asso- 
ciated with  a  tale  of  treacheiy  and  sin.  The  line  of 
the  131st  Sonnet, 

"  In  nothing  art  thou  black,  save  in  thy  deeds," 

may  be  held  to  imply  something  atrocious.  The 
two  first  lines,  however,  show  of  what  the  poet-lover 
complains : — 

"  Thou  art  as  tyrannous,  so  as  thou  art, 
As  those  whose  beauties  proudly  make  them  cruel." 

The  128th  Sonnet  has  never  been  exceeded  in  airy 
elegance,  even  by  the  professed  writers  of  amatory 
poems : — 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st. 
Upon  that  blessed  w^ood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds. 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks,  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand. 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  haiwest  reap, 
l.t  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ! 


To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  thcii'  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips. 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait, 
Making  dead  wood  more  bless'd  than  living  lipj. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this. 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. — 123. 

The  130th,  too,  is  one  of  the  prettiest  vets  dt 
sodite  that  a  Suckling,  or  a  Moore,  could  have 
produced : — 

My  mistress'  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun  ; 

Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red  : 

If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun  ; 

If  hairs  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 

I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white. 

But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks  ; 

And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 

Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 

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,  w-hen  she  walks,  treads  on  the  ground  ; 
And  yet,  by  heaven,  1  think  my  love  as  rare 
As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare.— 130. 

And  of  what  character  is  the  129th  Sonnet,  which 
separates  these  two  playful  compositions?  It  is  a 
solemn  denunciation  aj^ainst  unlicensed  gratifica- 
tions— a  warning 

"  To  shun  the  heaveu  tliat  lends  men  to  this  hell." 

If  we  are  to  bring  those  Sonnets  in  apposition  whei-e 
the  "leading  idea"  is  repeated,  we  shall  have  to  go 
far  back  to  find  one  that  will  accord  with  the 
130th  :— 

So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  muse, 

Stii-r'd  by  a  painted  beauty  {o  his  vei-se  ; 

Who  heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use. 

And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse  ; 

Making  a  couplement  of  proud  compare. 

With  sun  and  moon,  with  earth  and  sea's  rich  gems. 

With  April's  first-born  flowers,  and  all  things  rare 

That  heaven's  air  in  this  huge  rondure  hems. 

0  let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write. 

And  then  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 

As  any  mother's  child,  though  not  so  bright 

As  those  gold  candles  fix'd  in  heaven's  air  : 

Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hearsay  well ; 

I  will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. — 21 . 

This  is  the  21st  Sonnet ;  and  it  has  as  mu.^h  tlio 
character  of  a  love-sonnet  as  any  we  have  just 
given. 

The  tyranny  of  which  the  poet  complains  in  the 
131st  Sonnet  forms  the  subject  of  the  three  fallow- 
ing.— 

0,  call  not  me  to  justify  the  wrong 
That  thy  unkiiidness  lays  upon  my  heart ; 
Wound  me  not  with  thine  eye,  but  with  thy  tongue  * 
Use  power  with  power,  and  slav  me  not  bv  art. 

457 


ILLUSTKATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


rell  me  tho\i  lov'st  elsewhere  ;  but  in  my  sight, 
Dear  heart,  forl^car  to  glance  thine  eye  aside. 
What  need'st  thou  wdund  with  cunning-,  when  thy 

mijrht 
Is  nioi-e  than  my  o'or]n-css'd  defence  can  'hide? 
Let  me  excuse  thee  :  ah  I  my  love  well  knows 
Her  pretty  looks  have  been  my  enemies  ; 
And  therefore  from  my  face  she  turns  my  foes, 
That  they  elsewhere  might  dart  their  injuries  ; 
Yet  do  not  so  ;  but  since  I  am  near  slain, 
Kill  mo  outright  with  looks,  and  rid  my  pain. 

—139. 

Be  wise  as  thou  art  cruel  ;  do  not  press 
My  tongue-tied  patience  with  too  much  disdain  ; 
Lest  son-ow  lend  mo  words,  and  words  express 
The  manner  of  my  pity-wanting  pain. 
If  I  might  teach  thee  wit,  better  it  were, 
Though  not  to  love,  yet,  love,  to  tell  me  so  ; 
(As  testy  sick  men,  when  their  deaths  be  near. 
No  news  but  health  from  their  physicians  know  ;) 
For,  if  I  should  despair,  I  should  grow  mad, 
And  in  my  madness  might  speak  ill  of  thee  : 
Now  this  ill-wresting  world  is  grown  so  bad. 
Mad  slanderei-s  by  mad  ears  believed  be. 
That  I  may  not  be  so,  nor  thou  belied. 
Bear  thine  eyes  straight,  though  thy  proud  heart 
go  wide. — 140. 

Canst  thou,  0  cruel !  say  I  love  thee  not, 
VTiicn  I,  against  myself,  with  thee  partake  ? 
Do  I  not  think  on  thee,  when  I  forgot 
Am  of  myself,  all  tj-rant,  for  thy  sake  ? 
Who  hateth  thee  that  I  do  call  my  friend  ? 
On  whom  frown'st  thou  that  I  do  fawn  upon  ? 
Xay  if  thou  low'rst  on  me,  do  I  not  spend 
Revenge  upon  mj'self  with  present  moan  ? 
What  merit  do  I  in  myself  respect. 
That  is  so  proud  thy  senice  to  despise, 
W'hen  all  my  best  doth  Worship  thy  defect, 
Commanded  by  the  motion  of  thine  eyes  ? 

But,  love,  hate  on,  for  now  I  know  thy  mind  ; 

Those  that  can  see  thou  lov'st,  and  I  am  blind. 

—149. 


And    yet    the    tyranny   is    meekly   borne   by   the 
lover : — 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire  ? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  si^end, 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end  hour. 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour. 
When  you  have  bid  your  sen-ant  once  adieu  ; 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought. 
Save,  where  j'ou  are  how  happy  yoii  make  those  : 
So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
(Though  you  do  anything)  he  thinks  no  ill. — 57. 

458 


That  God  forbid,  that  made  me  first  your  slave, 
I  should  in  thought  control  your  times  of  pleasure, 
Or  at  your  hand  the  account  of  hours  to  crave, 
Being  your  vassal,  bound  to  stay  your  leisure  ? 
0,  let  me  suffer  (being  at  your  lieck) 
The  imprison'd  absence  of  your  liberty. 
And  patience,  tamo  to  suffenmcc,  bide  each  check 
Without  accusing  you  of  injury. 
Be  where  you  list ;  your  charter  is  so  strong. 
That  you  yourself  may  privilege  }our  time  : 
Do  what  you  will,  to  you  it  doth  belong 
Yourself  to  i)ardon  of  self-doing  crime. 

I  am  to  wait,  though  w.iiting  so  be  hell ; 

Not  blame  your  pleasure,  be  it  ill  or  well.     f>8. 


Tlie  Sonnets  last  given  are  the  57lh  and  58th.  nicsc 
are  especially  noticed  by  Mr.  BrowTi  as  evidence  that 
the  person  to  whom  he  considers  the  Sonnets  are 
addressed — W.  H. — was  "a  man  of  rank."  He 
adds,  "Reproach  is  conveyed  more  forcibly,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  with  more  kindness,  in  their  strained 
humility,  than  it  would  have  been  by  direct  expos- 
tulation." The  reproach,  according  to  Mr.  Brown, 
is  for  the  "  coldness  "  which  the  noble  youth  had 
evinced  towards  his  friend.  The  "coldness"  is  im- 
plied in  these  stanzas,  and  in  that  which  precedes 
them : — 


Sweet  love,  renew  thy  force  ;  be  it  not  said 

Thy  edge  should  blunter  be  than  appetite. 
Which  but  to-day  by  feeding  is  allay'd, 
To-mon-ow  sharpen'd  in  his  former  might ; 
So,  love,  be  thou ;  although  to-day  thou  fill 
Thy  hungi-y  eyes,  even  till  they  wink  with  fulness 
To-moiTow  see  again,  and  do  not  kill 
The  spirit  of  love  with  a  perpetual  dulness. 
Let  this  sad  interim  like  the  ocean  be 
WTiich  parts  the  shore,  where  two  contracted-new 
Come  daily  to  the  banks,  that,  when  they  see 
Return  of  love,  more  bless'd  may  be  the  view  ; 
Or  call  it  winter,  which,  being  full  of  care. 
Make's    summer's  welcome  thrice  more   wish'd, 
more  rare. — 66. 


We  believe,  on  the  contrarj-,  that  the  three  Sonnets 
are  addressed  to  a  female.  It  ajipears  to  us  that  a 
lino  in  the  57th  is  decisive  upon  this  : — 

"  When  you  liave  bid  your  servant  once  adieu." 

The  lady  was  the  misfres.i,  the  lover  Uie  servant,  in 
the  gallantry  of  Shakspcre's  time.  In  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  'Scornful  Lady'  we  have,  "Was  I 
not  once  your  mistress,  and  you  my  servant  ? "  The 
three  stanzas,  56,  57,  58,  arc  completely  isolated 
from  what  precedes  and  what  follows  them  ;  and 
therefore  we  have  no  hesitation  in  transposing  them 
to  this  class. 

We  are  about  to  give  a  Sonnet  which  Mr.  Brown 
thinks  "should  be  expunged  from  the  poem."  We 
should  regret  to  lose  so  pretty  and  playful  a  Icvo- 
verso : — 


ILLUSTliATJOJvr   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


Those  lips  that  Lov-'s  own  Land  did  mala; 

BreatU'd  for^ii  the  ?onnd  that  said  /  luitc, 

To  nio  that  languish'd  for  her  sake  : 

But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  state, 

Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come, 

Chiding  that  tongue,  that  over  sweet 

Was  used  in  giving  gentle  doom  ; 

And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet ; 

/  hale  she  alter'd  with  an  end, 

That  follow'd  it  as  gentle  day 

Doth  follow  night,  who  like  a  fiend 

From  heaven  to  hell  is  flown  away. 
I  hate  from  hate  away  she  threw, 
And  sav'd  my  life,  saying — not  yoxi. — 145. 

It  is,  however,  strangel)'  opposed  to  the  theory  of 
continuity :  for  it  occurs  between  the  Sonnet  which 
first  appeared  in  The  Passionate  Pilgiim — 

"  Two  loves  I  have,  of  comfort  and  despair" — 

and  the  magnificent  lines  beginning 

"  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth." 

This  sublime  Sonnet  Mr.  Brown  would  also  expunge. 
This  is  a  hard  sentence  against  it  for  being  out  of 
place.  We  shall  endeavour  to  remove  it  to  fitter 
company. 

We  have  now  very  much  reduced  the  number 
of  stanzas  which  Mr.  Brown  assigns  to  the  Sixth 
Poem,  entitled  by  him,  "To  his  Mistress,  on  her 
Infidelity."  There  are  only  twenty-six  stanzas  in 
this  division  of  Mr.  Brown's  Six  Poems ;  for  he 
rejects  the  Sonnets  numbered  153  and  154,  as 
belonging  "to  nothing  but  themselves."  They 
belong,  indeed,  to  the  same  class  of  poems  as 
constitute  the  bulk  of  those  printed  in  The  Pas- 
sionate Pilgrim.  But,  being  printed  in  the  collection 
of  1609,  they  offer  very  satisfactory  evidence  that 
"the  begetter"  of  the  Sonnets  had  no  distinct 
principle  of  connexion  to  work  upon.  He  has 
printed,  as  already  mentioned,  two  Soimets  which 
had  previously  appeared  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim. 
But  if  they  were  taken  out  from  the  larger  col- 
lection no  one  could  say  that  its  continuity  would 
be  deranged.  There  are  other  Sonnets,  properly 
so  called,  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  which,  if 
they  were  to  be  added  to  the  larger  collection, 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  inserting  them,  so 
as  to  be  as  continuous  as  the  two  which  arc  common 
to  both  works.  We  have  no  objection  to  proceed 
^vith  our  analytical  classification  without  including 
the  two  Sonnets  on  "the  little  love-god ; "  because, 
if  we  were  attempting  here  to  present  all  Shakspere's 
love-verses  which  exist  in  print,  not  bemg  in  the 
plays,  we  should  have  to  insert  six  other  poems 
which  are  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim. 

What,  then,  have  we  left  of  the  Sonnets  from 
the  127th  to  the  152nd  which  may  warrant  those 
twenty-six  stanzas  being  regai-ded  (with  two  ex- 
ceptions pointed  out  by  Mr.  Brown  himselj")  as  a 
continuous  poem,  to  be  entitled,  "  To  his  Mistress, 
on  her  Infidehty"?  We  have,  indeed,  a  "leading 
idea,"   and  a  very  distinct  one,  of  some  delusion, 


once  cherished  by  the  poet,  against  the  power  r  f 
which  he  struggles,  and  which  his  better  reason 
finally  rejects.  But  the  complaint  is  not  wholly 
that  of  the  infidelity  of  a  mistress  ;  it  is  that  the 
love  which  he  bears  towards  her  is  incompatible 
with  his  sense  of  dutj-,  and  with  that  ti-anquillity 
of  mind  which  belongs  to  a  pure  and  lawful  affection. 
This  "leading  idea"  is  expressed  in  ten  stanzas, 
which  we  print  in  the  order  in  which  they  occur. 
They  are  more  or  less  strong  and  direct  in  their 
allusions ;  but,  whether  the  situation  which  the 
poet  describes  be  real  or  imaginary — whether  he 
speak  from  the  depth  of  his  own  feelings,  or  with 
his  wonderful  dramatic  power — there  are  no  verses 
in  our  language  more  expressive  of  the  torments  of 
a  passion  based  upon  unlawfulness.  Throes  such 
as  these  were  somewhat  uncommon  amongst  the 
gallants  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth  : — 


The  exi^ense  of  sj^irit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action  ;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjur'd,  murderous,  blood}-,  full  of  blame, 
Savage,  extreme,  i-ude,  ci-uel,  not  to  trust  ; 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner,  but  despised  straight  ; 
Past  reason  hunted  ;  and  no  sooner  had, 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait. 
On  pui-pose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad  : 
Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so  ; 
Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme  ; 
A  bliss  in  proof,— and  prov'd,  a  veiy  woe  ; 
Before,  a  joy  propos'd  ;  beliind,  a  dream  ; 

All  this  the  world  well  knows :  yet  none  knows 
well 

To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 

—129. 


Thou  blind  fool.    Love,    what  dost    thou   to  mine 

eyes, 
That  they  behold,  and  see  not  .what  they  see  ? 
They  know  what  beauty  is,  see  where  it  lies. 
Yet  what  the  best  is,  take  the  worst  to  be. 
If  eyes,  corrupt  by  over-partial  looks. 
Be  anchor'd  in  the  bay  where  all  men  ride. 
Why  of  eyes'  falsehood  hast  thou  forged  hooks. 
Whereto  the  judgment  of  my  heart  is  tied  ? 
Whj  should  my  heai-t  think  that  a  sevei-al  plot. 
Which  my  heart  knows  the  wide  world's  common 

place  ? 
Or  mine  eyes,  seeing  this,  say  this  is  not, 
To  put  fair  truth  upon  so  foul  a  face  ? 

In  things  right  true  my  heart  and  eyes  have  err'd, 
And  to  this  false  plague  are  they  now  ti-ansferr'd. 

—137. 

When  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  ti-uth, 
I  do  believe  her,  though  I  know  she  lies  ; 
That  she  might  think  me  some  untutor'd  youth, 
Unlearned  in  the  world's  false  subtleties. 
Thus  vainly  thinking  that  she  thinks  mo  young, 
Although  she  knows  my  days  are  past  the  best, 
Simply  I  credit  her  false-speaking  tongue  ; 
On  both  sides  thus  is  simple  tiuth  suppress'd. 

459 


ILLUSTRATION   OF    THE   SONNETS. 


Put  whcrefon.  says  sho  not  she  is  unjust? 

And  wherefore  say  not  I  that  I  am  old  ? 

0,  love's  best  habit  is  in  seeming  ti-ust, 

And  age  in  lore  loves  not  to  have  years  told  : 
Therefore  I  lie  wth  her,  and  she  with  mo, 
And  in  our  faults  by  lies  wo  flatter'd  be. — 138. 


In  faith  I  do  not  love  thee  with  mine  eyes. 
For  they  in  thoo  a  thousand  eiTOi-s  note  ; 
But 't  is  my  heart  that  loves  what  they  despise, 
Who  in  despite  of  view  is  plcas'd  to  dote. 
Nor  are  mine  cars  with  thy  tongue's  tune  delighted  ; 
Nor  tender  feeling,  to  base  touches  prone, 
Nor  taste  nor  smell,  desire  to  be  invited 
To  any  sensual  feast  with  thee  alone  : 
But  my  five  wits,  nor  my  five  sensos  can 
Dissuade  one  foolish  heart  from  serving  thee, 
Who  leaves  unsway'd  the  likeness  of  a  man, 
Tliy  proud  heart's  slave  and  vassal  wretch  to  be  ; 
Only  my  plague  thus  far  I  coitnt  my  gain, 
That  she  that  makes  me  sin  a\\ards  me  pain. 

—HI. 


Love  is  my  sin,  and  thy  deai*  \'irtue  hate. 
Hate  of  my  sin,  groxinded  on  sinful  loving : 
0,  but  with  mine  compare  thou  thine  own  state, 
And  thou  shalt  find  it  merits  not  reproving  ; 
Or  if  it  do,  not  from  those  lips  of  thine, 
That  have  profan'd  their  scailet  ornaments. 
And  seal'd  false  bonds  of  love  as  oft  as  mine  ; 
Robb'd  others'  beds'  revenues  of  their  rents. 
Be  it  lawful  I  love  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  those 
Whom  thine  eyes  woo  as  mine  importune  thee  : 
Root  pity  in  thy  heart,  that,  when  it  gi'ows, 
Thy  pity  may  deserve  to  pitied  be. 

If  thou  dost  seek  to  have  what  thou  dost  hide, 
By  self-example  mayst  thou  be  denied ! — 142. 


My  love  is  as  a  fever,  longing  still 

For  that  which  longer  nurseth  the  disease  ; 

Feeding  on  that  which  doth  preser\-e  the  ill. 

The  uncertain  sickly  appetite  to  please. 

My  reason,  the  physician  to  my  love. 

Angry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept, 

Hath  left  me,  and  I  desperate  now  approve 

Desire  is  death,  which  physic  did  except. 

Past  cure  I  am,  now  reason  is  past  care, 

And  frantic  mad  with  evermore  imrest ; 

My  thoughts  and  my  discourse  as  mad  men's  aio. 

At  random  from  the  truth  vainly  cxjiress'd  ; 

For  I   h.ive   sworn   thee  fair,  and   though',  thao 
bright. 

Who  art  as  black  as  hell,  as  daik  as  night. 

-uy. 


0  me  !  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head, 
Which  have  no  correspondence  unth  true  sight  ? 
Or,  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled, 
Tbat  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 

4Cn 


If  that  bo  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote, 
Whatjneans  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so? 
If  it  bo  not,  then  love  dotli  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's :  no. 
How  can  it  ?     0  how  can  Love's  eye  bo  true, 
Tbat  is  so  ves'd  with  watching  and  with  tcai-s  ? 
No  marvel  then  though  I  mistake  my  view  ; 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

0   cunning    Love !    with   tears   thou   keep'st   mo 
blind. 

Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  fovil  faults  shoiJd  find. 

—1-18. 


0.  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  powerfid  might, 
With  insufiSciency  my  heart  to  sway  ? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  sight. 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the  day  ? 
Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill. 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There  is  such  strength  and  warrantise  of  skill. 
That  in  my  mind  thy  woi-st  all  best  exceeds  ? 
Who  taught  thee  how  to  make  me  love  thee  more, 
The  more  I  hear  and  see  just  cause  of  hate  ? 
0,  though  I  love  what  others  do  abhor. 
With  others  thou  shouldst  not  abhor  my  state  ; 
If  tby  unworthiness  rais'd  love  in  me, 
Moi-3  worthy  I  to  be  belov'd  of  thee. — 159. 


Love  is  too  young  to  know  what  conscience  is  ; 
Yet  who  knows  not  conscience  is  bom  of  love  ? 
Then,  gentle  cheater,  urge  not  my  amiss, 
Lest  guilt}'  of  my  faults  thy  sweet  self  prove. 
For  thou  betrajing  me,  I  do  betray 
My  nobler  part  to  my  gross  body's  treason  : 
My  soul  doth  tell  my  body  that  he  may 
Triumph  in  love  ;  flesh  staj's  no  forther  reason. 
But,  rising  at  thy  name,  doth  point  out  thee 
As  his  triumphant  prize.     Proud  of  this  pride, 
He  is  contented  thy  poor  drudge  to  be, 
To  stand  in  thy  affairs,  fall  by  thy  side. 
No  want  of  conscience  hold  it  that  I-  call 
Her — love,  for  whose  dear  love  I  rise  and  fall . 


—151. 


In  loving  thee  thou  know'st  I  am  foi-swora. 
But  thou  art  twice  forsworn,  to  mo  love  swearing  ; 
In  act  thy  bed-vow  broke,  and  new  faith  torn. 
In  vowing  new  hate  after  new  love  bearing. 
But  why  of  two  oaths'  breach  do  I  accuse  thee. 
When  1  break  twenty  ?     I  am  perjiu-'d  most : 
For  all  my  vows  are  oaths  but  to  misuse  thee, 
And  all  my  honest  faith  in  thee  is  lost ; 
For  I  have  sworn  deep  oaths  of  thy  deep  kind- 
ness. 
Oaths  of  thy  love,  thy  truth,  thy  constancy  ; 
And,  to  enlighten  thee,  gave  eyes  to  blindness. 
Or  made  them  swear  against  the  thing  they  see  ; 
For  I  have  sworn  thee  fair  :  more  jierjur'd  I, 
To  swear,  against  the  truth,  so  foul  a  lie  ! 

—155 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  TILE   S0N2^TS. 


We  have  only  three  Sonnets  left,  out  of  the  twenty- 
six  stanzas,  in  which  we  may  find  any  allusion  to  the 
"infideUty"  of  the  poet's  "mistress."  They  are 
these : — 


Beshrew  that  heart  that  makes  my  heai-t  to  groan 

For  that  deep  wound  it  gives  my  friend  and  me  ! 

Is't  not  enough  to  torture  me  alone, 

But  slave  to  slaverj'  mj-  sweet'st  friend  must  be  ? 

Me  from  myself  thy  cruel  eye  hath  taken. 

And  my  next  self  thou  harder  hast  engross'd  ; 

Of  him,  myself,  and  thee,  I  am  forsaken  ; 

A  torment  thiice  three-fold  thus  to  be  cross'd. 

Prison  my  heai-t  in  thy  steel  bosom's  ward. 

Cut    then   my  friend's    heart    let   my  poor  heait 

bail; 
Who  e'er  keeps  me,  let  mj^  heai-t  be  his  guai-d  ; 
Thou  canst  not  then  use  rigour  in  my  jail  : 
And  yet  thou  wilt ;  for  I,  being  pent  in  thee, 
Perforce  am  thine,  and  all  that  is  in  me. — 133. 


So  now  I  have  confess'd  that  he  is  thine. 
And  I  myself  am  mortgag'd  to  thy  wUl ; 
Myself  I'll  forfeit,  so  that  other  mine 
Thou  v-ilt  restore,  to  be  my  comfort  still : 
But  thou  wilt  not,  nor  he  will  not  be  free. 
For  thou  art  covetous,  and  he  is  kind  ; 
He  leam'd  but,  surety-like,  to  write  for  me. 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind . 
The  statute  of  thy  beauty  thou  wilt  take. 
Thou  usurer,  that  putt'st  forth  all  to  use. 
And  sue  a  friend,  came  debtor  for  my  sake  ; 
So  him  I  lose  through  my  unkind  abuse. 

Him  have  I  lost ;  thou  hast  both  him  and  me  ; 

He  pays  the  whole,  and  yet  am  I  not  free. — 13-1. 


Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despau-, 

Which  like  two  spirits  do  suggest  me  still ; 

The  better  angel  is  a  man  right  fair, 

The  worser  spirit  a  woman,  colour'd  ill. 

To  win  me  soon  to  hell,  my  female  evil 

Tempteth  my  better  angel  from  my  side. 

And  would  coiTupt  my  saint  to  be  a  devU, 

Wooing  his  purity  with  her  foul  pride. 

And  whether  that  my  angel  be  tum'd  fiend. 

Suspect  I  may,  but  not  directly  tell ; 

But  being  both  from  me,  both  to  each  friend, 

I  guess  one  angel  in  another's  hell. 

Yet  this  shall  I  ne'er  know,  but  Uve  in  doubt. 
Till  my  bad  angel  fire  my  good  one  out. — 144. 

The  144th,  we  must  again  point  out,  was  printed  in 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim  in  1599.  This  Sonnet,  then, 
referring,  as  it  appears  to  do,  to  private  circum- 
stances of  considerable  deUcacy,  was  public  enough 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  piratical  bookseller,  ten 
years  before  the  larger  collection  in  which  it  a 
second  time  appears  was  printed.  But  in  that 
larger  collection  the  poet  accuses  the  friend  as  well 
as  the  mistress.  We  have  no  means  of  knowing 
whether  the  six  Sonnets,  in  which  this   accusation 


appears,  existed  in  1599,  or  what  was  the  extent  of 
their  publicity ;  but  by  their  publication  in  1609  wo 
ai-e  enabled  to  compare  "the  better  angel"  wita 
"  the  worser  spirit :  " — 


Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye. 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  fp"een, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchj-my  ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
SteaUng  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace  : 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  mom  did  shine, 
With  all  triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow  ; 
But  out !  alack  !  he  was  but  one  horn-  mine. 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's  sua 
staineth. — 33. 


Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day. 

And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak, 

To  let  base  clouds  o'ertake  me  in  ray  way. 

Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke  ? 

'T  is  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou  bi-eak, 

To  dry  the  itiin  on  my  storm-beaten  face. 

For  no  man  weU  of  such  a  salve  can  speak. 

That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the  disgi-ace  : 

Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief; 

Though  thou  repent,  yet  I  have  stUl  the  loss  : 

The  ofiender's  sorrow  lends  but  weak  relief 

To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross. 

Ah !   but  those  tears  are  pearl  wliich  thy  love 
sheds. 

And  they  are  rich,  and  ransom  all  Ul  deeds. — 34. 


No  more  be  griev'd  at  that  which  thou  hast  done  : 
iloses  have  thorns,  and  silver  fountains  mud  ; 
Clouds  and  eclipses  stain  both  moon  and  sun. 
And  loathsome  canker  lives  in  sweetest  bud. 
AH  men  make  faults,  and  even  I  in  this, 
Authorising  thy  trespass  with  compare, 
Myself  coiTupting,  salving  thy  amiss. 
Excusing  thy  sins  more  than  thy  sins  are  : 
For  to  thy  sensual  fault  I  bring  in  sense, 
(Thy  adverse  party  is  thy  advocate,) 
And  'gainst  myself  a  lawful  plea  commence  : 
Such  civil  war  is  in  my  love  and  hate. 
That  I  an  accessoiy  needs  must  be 
To  that  sweet  thief  which  sourly  robs  fi-om  mo. 

—.35. 


Take  all  my  loves,  my  love,  yea,  take  them  all ; 
What  hast  thou  then  more  than  thou  hadst  before 
No  love,  my  love,  that  thou  mayst  true  love  call  ; 
All  mine  was  thine,  before  thou  hadst  this  more. 
Then  if  for  my  love  thou  mj'  love  receiveat, 
I  cannot  blame  thee,  for  my  love  thou  usest ; 
But  yet  be  blam'd,  if  thou  thyself  deceiyest 
By  wilful  taste  of  what  thyself  refusest. 

431 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


I  do  forgive  thy  robbery,  gentle  thief, 
Although  thou  steal  thee  all  my  poverty  ; 
And  yet,  love  knows,  it  is  a  greater  grief 
To  bear  love's  wrong  than  hate's  known  injury. 
Lascivious  grace,  in  whom  all  ill  well  shows. 
Kill  me  with  spites ;   yet  we  must  not  be  foes. 

—40. 

Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits, 
^Vhen  I  am  sometime  absent  from  thy  heart. 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  years  full  well  befits. 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  thou  art. 
Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won, 
Bea»i*eous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assail'd  ; 
And  when  a  woman  woos,  what  woman's  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  prevail'd  ? 
Ah  me  !  but  yet  thou  mightst  my  seat  forbear. 
And  chide  thy  beauty  and  thy  straying  youth, 
Who  lead  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
■Where  thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  twofold  truth  ; 
Hers,  by  thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  thee, 
Thine,  by  thy  beauty  being  false  to  me. — 41. 

That  thou  hast  her,  it  is  not  all  my  grief, 

And  yet  it  may  be  said  I  lov'd  her  deai'ly  ; 

That  She  hath  thee,  is  of  my  wailing  chief, 

A  loss  in  love  that  touches  me  more  nearly. 

Loving  offenders,  thus  1  will  excuse  ye  : — 

Thou  dost  love  her,    because  thou  knew'st  I  love 

her; 
And  for  my  sake  even  so  doth  she  abuse  me, 
Suffering  my  friend  for  my  sake  to  approve  her. 
If  I  lose  thee,  my  loss  is  mj'  love's  gain, 
And  losing  her,  my  friend  hath  found  that  loss  ; 
Both  find  each  other,  and  I  lose  both  twain. 
And  both  for  mj-  sake  lay  on  me  this  cross  : 

But  here  's  the  joy  ;  my  friend  and  I  are  one  ; 

Sweet  flattery  !  then  she  loves  but  me  alone. — 42. 

It  is  probably  to  the  same  friend  that  the  following 
mild  reflections  upon  the  general  faults  of  his  cha- 
racter are  addressed : — 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none. 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
^Vho,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone. 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow  ; 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces. 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense  ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces. 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet. 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds  ; 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. — 91. 


How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame. 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose, 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name  ! 
0,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose  ! 
462 


That  tongue  that  tells  the  story  of  thy  days, 
Making  lascivious  comments  on  thy  sport. 
Cannot  dispraise  but  in  a  kind  of  pi-aise  ; 
Naming  thj'  name  blesses  an  ill  report. 
0,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got. 
Which  for  their  habitation  chose  out  thee  ! 
Where  V»eauty's  veil  doth  cover  every  blot. 
And  all  things  turn  to  fair,  that  eyes  can  see  ! 

Take  heed,  dear  heart,  of  this  large  privilege  ; 

The  hardest  knife  ill-used  doth  lose  his  edge.— 9.5. 

Some  say,  thy  fault  is  youth,  some  wantonness ; 
Some  say,  thy  gi-ace  is  youth  and  gentle  sport ; 
Both  grace  and  faults  arc  lov'd  of  more  and  less  : 
Thou  mak'st  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a  throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteem'd  ; 
So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things  deem'd. 
How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray. 
If  like  a  lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate  ! 
How  many  gazers  mightst  thou  lead  away. 
If  thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy  state  ! 
But  do  not  so  ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 

—96. 


But  the  poet,  true  to  his  general  principle  of  morals, 
holds  that  forgiveness  should  follow  upon  repented 
transgressions : — 

Like  as,  to  make  our  appetites  more  keen. 
With  eager  compounds  we  our  palate  urge  : 
As,  to  prevent  our  maladies  unseen. 
We  sicken  to  shun  sickness,  when  we  purge ; 
Even  so,  being  full  of  your  ne'er-cloying  sweetness, 
To  bitter  sauces  did  I  frame  my  feeding. 
And,  sick  of  welfare,  found  a  kind  of  meetness 
To  be  diseas'd,  ere  that  there  was  true  needing. 
Thus  policy  in  love,  to  anticipate 
The  ills  that  were  not,  grew  to  faults  assur'd. 
And  brought  to  medicine  a  healthful  state, 
Which,  rank  of  goodness,  would  by  ill  bo  cur'd. 
But  thence  I  leai-n,  and  find  the  lesson  true. 
Drugs  poison  him  that  so  fell  sick  of  you. — 118. 

What  potions  have  I  drunk  of  Siren  teara, 
Distill'd  from  limbecs  foul  as  heU  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes,  and  hopes  to  fears. 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win  ! 
What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed. 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never  I 
How  have  mine  'cyes  out   of  their  spheres  been 

fitted. 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever  ! 
0  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better  ; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuk'd  to  mj'  content. 
And  gain  l>v  ill  thrice  more  than  I  ha^•c  spent. 

—119. 


ILLUSTEATIOX   OF  THE   SOXNETS. 


That  yon  were  once  unkinJ,  befriends  me  now, 
And  for  that  soitow,  which  I  then  did  feel, 
Needs  must  I  under  my  transgression  bow, 
Unless  my  nerves  were  brass  or  hammer'd  steel . 
For  if  you  were  by  my  unkindness  shaken, 
As  I  by  yours,  you  have  pass'd  a  hell  of  time  : 
And  I,  a  tyrant,  have  no  leisure  taken 
To  weigh  how  once  I  sufl'er'd  in  your  crime. 
0  that  our  night  of  woe  might  have  remember'd 
My  deepest  sense,  how  hard  true  sorrow  hits, 
And  soon  to  you,  as  you  to  me,  then  teuder'd 
The  humble  salve  which  wounded  bosoms  fits  ! 

But  that  yom"  trespass  now  becomes  a  fee  ; 

Mine  ransoms  yours,  and  youi-s  must  ransom  me. 

—120. 


II, 


We  have  thus  selected  all  the  Sonnets,  or  stanzas, 
that  appear  to  have  reference  to  the  subject  of  love, 
— whether  those  which  express  the  light  playfulness 
of  affection,  the  abiding  confidence,  the  distracting 
doubts,  the  reproaches  for  pride  or  neglect,  the  fierce 
jealousies,  the  complaints  that  another  is  prefen-ed. 
Much  of  this  may  be  real,  much  merely  di-amatic. 
But  it  appears  to  us  that  it  woidd  have  been  quite 
impossible  to  have  maintained  that  these  fragments 
relate  to  a  particular  incident  of  the  poet's  life — the 
indulgence  of  an  illicit  love,  with  which  the  equally 
illicit  attachment  of  a  youthfid  friend  interfered — un- 
less there  had  been  a  forced  association  of  the  whole 
series  of  Sonnets  ^rith  that  youthful  friend  to  whom 
the  first  seventeen  Sonnets  are  clearly  addi-essed. 
Mr.  Brown  groups  the  Sonnets  from  the  27th  to  the 
55th  as  the  "  Second  Poem,"  which  he  entitles, 
'  To  his  Friend — who  had  robbed  him  of  his  mis- 
tress— forginng  him.'  Now,  literally,  the  Sonnets 
we  have  already  given,  the  33rd,  34th,  35th,  40th,- 
■list,  and  42nd,  are  all  that  •nithin  these  limits  can 
be  held  to  have  reference  to  such  a  subject.  The 
27th  and  2Sth  Sonnets  have  not  the  slightest  allu- 
sion to  this  supposed  injury ;  and  we  shall  pre- 
sently endeavour  to  show  that  they  have  been  wrested 
from  their  proper  place.  The  29th,  30th,  31st,  and 
32nd  are  Sonnets  of  the  most  confiding  friendship, 
full  of  the  simplest  and  therefore  the  deepest  pathos, 
and  which  we  have  no  hesitation  in  classing  amongst 
those  which  are  strictly  f)ersonal — those  to  which 
the  lines  of  Wordsworth  apply  :  — 

"  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet:  Critic,  you  have  frown'd 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours.     With  this  key 
Shakspere  unlock'd  his  heart." 

The  following  exquisite  lines  are  familiar  to  most 
poetical  students  : — 

\Vhen  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  vrith  my  bootless  cries. 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fato, 


Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  LoiJC, 
Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  posscss'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising. 
Haply  I  think  on  thee, — and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  da\-  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hynms  at  heaven'.s  gate  ; 

For    thy    sweet    love    remsmber'd    such    wealth 
brings. 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

—29. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembi-ance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 

And  with  old  woes  new  waU  my  dear  times'  waste 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hi<l  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancell'd  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then  can  I  giieve  at  grievances  foregone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

Brvt  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restor'd,  and  sorrows  end. — 30. 


ITiy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts. 
Which  I  by  lacking  have  supposed  dead  ; 
And  there  reig^ns  love  and  all  love's  loving  parts. 
And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  bmied. 
How  many  a  holy  and  obseiiuious  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stolen  from  mine  eye, 
As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 
But  things  remov'd,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie  ? 
Thou  art  the  gi-ave  where  bviried  love  doth  live, 
Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone. 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give  ; 
That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone  ; 
Their  images  I  lov'd  I  view  in  thee, 
And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me.— &1. 


If  thou  sm'vive  ray  well-contented  day, 

^\^len  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust  shall 

cover. 
And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  nide  lines  of  thj'  deceased  lover. 
Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time  ; 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen. 
Reserve  them  for  mj'  love,  not  for  their  rhyme. 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
0  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought ! 
Had  my  friend's  muse  giown  with  this  glowing 

age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought. 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 
But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I  '11  read,  his  for  his  love. 

—31 
46S 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Immediately  succeeding  thcao  ai-c  tUo  tlirco  stanzas 
wo  have  already  quoted,  in  which  the  poet  is  held  to 
accuse  his  friend  of  haviag  robbed  him  of  his  mis- 
tress. In  these  stanzas  the  friend  is  spoken  of  in 
connexion  with  a  "sensual  favilt,"  a  "trespass," 
&c.  But  in  those  which  follow,  the  "  bewailed  guilt " 
belongs  to  the  poet — the  "worth  and  tnith  "  to  his 
friend.  Surely  these  are  not  continuous.  lu  the 
36th,  37th,  3Sth,  and  3<)th  Sonnets,  wo  have  the  ex- 
pression of  that  deep  humility  which  may  be  traced 
through  many  of  these  remarkable  compositions, 
and  of  which  we  find  the  fii-st  sound  in  the  29th 
Sonnet: — 


Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain, 
Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one  .' 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain, 
Without  thy  help,  by  mc  be  borae  alone. 
In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect, 
Though  in  our  lives  a  sepai-able  spite, 
Which,  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  effect, 
Yet  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 
I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee. 
Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame  ; 
Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honour  me. 
Unless  thou  take  that  honour  from  thy  name  : 
But  do  not  so  ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort, 
Ap,  thou  being  mine,  mme  is  thy  good  report. 


—36. 


.iVs  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 

To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth. 

So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite. 

Take  all  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth  ; 

For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit, 

Or  any  of  these  all,  or  all,  or  more. 

Entitled  in  thy  parts  do  crowned  sit, 

I  make  my  love  engrafted  to  this  store  ; 

So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despis'd. 

Whilst  that  this  shadow  doth  such  substance  give, 

That  I  in  thy  abundance  am  suflBc'd, 

And  by  a  part  of  all  thy  glory  live. 

Look  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  thee  ; 

This  wish  I  have ;  then  ten  times  happy  mo  ! — 37. 


How  can  my  muse  want  subject  to  invent. 

While  thou  dost  breathe,    that    pour'st    into    my 

verse 
Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 
For  evcrj-  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse  ? 
0,  give  thyself  the  thanks,  if  aught  in  me 
Worthy  perusal  stand  against  thy  sight ; 
For  who 's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  thee, 
When  thou  thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 
Be  thou  the  tenth  muse,  ten  times  more  in  worth 
Tlian  those  old  nine  which  rhymei-s  invocato  ; 
And  he  that  calls  on  theo,  let  him  bring  forth 
Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  long  date. 

If  my  slight  muse  do  please  these  c<irious  days. 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the  praise. 

-38. 
4^4 


0,  how  thy  worth  wiih  mannei-s  may  I  sing. 
When  thou  art  all  the  better  part  of  me  ? 
What  can  mine  own  praise  to  mine  own  self  bring  ? 
And  what  is't  but  mine  own,  when  I  praise  thee? 
Even  for  this  let  us  divided  live, 
And  ovu-  dear  love  lose  name  of  single  one. 
That  by  this  separation  I  may  give 
That  due  to  thee  which  thou  deserv'st  alone. 
0  absence,  what  a  torment  wouldst  thou  prove, 
Were  it  not  thy  sour  leisure  gave  sweet  leave 
To  entertain  the  time  with  thoughts  of  love, 
(Which  time  and  thoughts  so  sweetly  doth  deceive,) 
And  that  thou  teachest  how  to  make  one  twain, 
By  praising  him  here,  who  doth  hence  remain  ! 

-39 


The  40th,  41st,  and  42nd  Sonnets  return  to  tho  com- 
plaint of  his  friend's  faithlessness.  Surely,  then, 
tho  Sonnets  we  have  just  quoted  must  be  interpo- 
lated. The  43rd  is  entirely  isolated  from  what  pre- 
cedes and  what  follows.  But  in  the  39th  we  have 
allusions  to  "separation"  and  "absence  ;"  and  in 
the  44th  we  return  to  the  subject  of  "  injurious  dis- 
tance." With  some  alterations  of  arrangement  wo 
can  group  nine  Sonnets  together,  which  form  a 
connected  epistle  to  an  absent  friend,  and  which 
convey  those  sentiments  of  real  affection  which 
can  only  be  adequately  transmitted  in  language 
and  imagery  possessing,  as  these  portions  do,  the 
cbaiTn  of  nature  and  simpUcity.  The  tone  of  truth 
and  reality  is  remarkably  conti-asted  with  those 
artificial  passages  which  have  imparted  their  cha- 
nicter  to  the  whole  series  in  the  estimation  of 
many: — 

How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way, 
When  what  I  seek, — my  weary  travel's  end, — 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  saj', 
'  Tlius  far  the  miles  are  measur'd  from  thy  friend  ! ' 
The  beast  that  bears  me,  tired  with  my  woe, 
Plods  dully  on,  to  bear  that  weight  in  me. 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know 
His  rider  lov'd  not  speed,  being  made  from  thee  : 
The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 
That  sometimes  anger  thnists  into  his  hide, 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan, 
More  sharp  to  me  than  spuiring  to  his  side  ; 
For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  my  mind, 
Mj-  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind.  —5:"*. 


Th\is  can  my  love  excuse  the  slow  offence 
Of  my  dull  bearer,  when  from  thee  I  speed : 
From  where  thou  art  why  should  I  haste  me  thence  I 
Till  I  return,  of  posting  is  no  need. 
0  what  excuse  will  my  poor  beast  then  find, 
Wlicn  swift  extremity  can  seem  but  slow  ? 
Then  should  I  spur,  though  moimted  on  tho  wind ; 
In  winged  speed  no  motion  shall  I  know  : 
Then  can  no  horse  with  my  desire  keep  pace  ; 
Therefore  desire,  of  pcrfect'st  love  being  made, 
I    Shall  neigh  (no  dull  flesh)  in  his  fiery  race  ; 
But  love,  for  love,  thus  sbiU  excuse  my  jade  ; 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


Since  from  thee  going  he  went  wilful  slow, 
Towards  thee  I  'U  run,  and  give  him  leave  to  go. 

—51. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key- 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure. 
The  which  ho  will  not  every  hour  sun-ey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 
Since  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set. 
Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are, 
Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you  as  my  chest, 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 
To  make  some  special  instant  special  bless'd, 
By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 
Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 

—52. 

Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed, 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tir'd  ; 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head. 
To  work  my  mind,  when  body's  work 's  expir'd  ; 
For  then  my  thoughts  (from  far  where  I  abide) 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgiimage  to  thee. 
And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide. 
Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see  : 
Save  that  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 
Presents  thy  shadow  to  my  sightless  view, 
Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 
Makes  black  night    beauteous,   and    her   old   face 
new. 
Lo,  thus,  by  day  my  limbs,  by  night  my  mind. 
For  thee,  and  for  myself,  no  quiet  find. — 27. 

How  can  I  then  return  in  happy  plight, 

That  am  debarr'd  the  beneiit  of  rest  ? 

When  day's  oppression  is  not  eas'd  by  night. 

But  day  by  night  and  night  by  day  oppress'd  ? 

And  each,  though  enemies  to  cither's  reign. 

Do  in  consent  shake  hands  to  torture  me. 

The  one  by  toil,  the  other  to  complain 

How  far  I  toil,  still  farther  off  from  thee. 

I  tell  the  day,  to  please  him,  thou  art  bright, 

And    dost   him    grace    when    clouds    do  blot  the 

heaven : 
So  flatter  I  the  swart-complexion'd  night ; 
When  sparkling  stars  twu-e   not,  thou  gild'st  the 

even. 
But  day  doth  daily  draw  my  sorrows  longer, 
And  night  doth  nightly  make  grief's  strength  seem 

stronger. — 28. 

Is  it  thy  will  thy  image  should  keep  open 
My  heavy  eyelids  to  tLo  weary  night  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  my  slumbers  should  be  broken, 
While  shadows,  like  to  thee,  do  mock  my  sight  ? 
Is  it  thy  spu-it  that  thou  send'st  from  thee 
So  far  from  home,  into  my  deeds  to  i^ry  ; 
To  fi^nd  out  shames  and  idle  hours  in  me, 
llie  scope  and  tenor  of  thy  jealousy  ? 
TbaqedieSj  &c. — Vol,  II.        2  H 


0  no  !  thy  love,  though  much,  is  not  so  gi-eat ; 

It  is  my  love  that  keeps  mine  eye  awake  ; 

Mine  own  true  love  that  doth  my  rest  defeat, 

To  play  the  watchman  ever  for  thy  sake  : 

For  thee  watch  I,  whilst  thou  dost  wake  elsewhere, 
From  me  far  off,  with  others  all-too-near.— 61. 

When  most  I  wink,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see, 
For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected  : 
But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee. 
And,  darkly  bright,  are  bright  in  dark  directed  ; 
Then    thou    whose    shadow    shadows    doth    make 

bright. 
How  would  thy  shadow's  form  form  happy  show 
To  the  clear  day  with  thy  much  clearer  light. 
When  to  unseeing  eyes  thy  shade  shines  so  ? 
How  would  (I  say)  mine  eyes  be  blessed  mad  3 
By  looking  on  thee  in  the  li^-ing  day. 
When  in  dead  night  thy  fair  imperfect  shade 
Through  heavy  sleep  on  sightless  eyes  doth  stay  f 
All  days  are  nights  to  see,  till  I  see  thee. 
And  nights,  bright  days,  when  dreams  do  show 
thee  me.— 43. 


If  the  dull  substance  of  my  flesh  were  thought. 
Injurious  distance  should  not  stop  my  way  ; 
For  then,  despite  of  space,  I  would  be  brought 
From  Umits  far  remote,  where  thou  dost  stay. 
No  matter  then,  although  my  foot  did  stand 
Upon  the  farthest  earth  remoVd  from  thee. 
For  nimble  thought  can  jump  both  sea  and  land, 
As  soon  as  think  the  place  where  he  would  be. 
But  ah  !  thought  kills  me,  that  I  am  not  thought. 
To  leap  large  lengths  of  miles  when  thou  art  gone. 
But  that,  so  much  of  earth  and  water  wrought, 
I  must  attend  time's  leisure  with  my  moan  ; 
Receiving  nought  by  elements  so  slow 
But  heavy  tears,  badges  of  cither's  woe  :  —44. 


The  other  two,  slight  air  and  purging  fire. 
Are  both  with  thee,  wherever  I  abide  ; 
The  first  my  thought,  the  other  my  desire, 
These  present-absent  with  swift  motion  slide. 
For  when  these  quicker  elements  are  gone 
In  tender  embassy  of  love  to  thee, 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alone 
Sinks  down  to  death,  oppress'd  with  melancholy  ; 
Until  life's  composition  be  recur'd 
By  those  swift  messengers  return'd  from  thee. 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assur'd 
Of  thy  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me  : 
This  told,  I  joy ;  but  then  no  longer  glad, 
I  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  grow  sad. 

-45. 

The  transpositions  we  have  made  in  the  an-ange- 
ment  are  justified  by  the  consideration  that  in  the 
original  text  the  50tli,  51st,  and  52nd  Sonnets  are 
entirely  isolated  ;  that  the  27th  and  28th  arc  also 
perfectly  unconnected  with  what  precedes  and  what 
follows  ;    that  the  61st  stands  equally  alono  ;    and 

465 


I 


illustratio:n"  of  the  sonnets. 


that  tho  43ri.l,  44th,  and  45th  aro  in  a  similar  posi- 
tion. Wo  have  now  a  perfect  littlo  poem  describing 
the  joumej- — tho  restless  pilgrimage  of  thought — 
the  desiro  for  return. 

Tho  thoughts  of  a  temporary  separation  lead  to 
the  fear  that  absence  may  produce  estrangement : — 

How  careful  was  I,  when  I  took  my  way, 
Each  trifle  under  truest  bars  to  thrust. 
That,  to  my  use,  it  might  unused  stay 
From  hands  of  falsehood,  in  sure  wards  of  trust ! 
But  thou,  to  whom  my  jewels  trifles  ai-e. 
Most  worthy  comfort,  now  my  greatest  grief. 
Thou,  best  of  dearest,  and  mine  only  care. 
Art  left  the  prey  of  every  vulgar  thief. 
Thee  have  I  not  lock'd  up  in  any  chest. 
Save  where  thou  art  not,  though  I  feel  thou  art, 
Within  tho  gentlo  closui-e  of  my  bi'east, 
From  whence  at  pleasure   thou   mayst  come  and 
part ; 
And  even  thence  thou  wilt  be  stolen  I  fear, 
For  truth  proves  thievish  for  a  prize  so  dear. — 48. 

The  sentiment  is  somewhat  differently  repeated  in 
a  Sonnet  which  is  entirely  isolated  in  the  place 
where  it  stands  in  the  original : — 

So  aro  you  to  my  thoughts,  as  food  to  life. 
Or  as  sweet-seasou'd  showers  are  to  the  ground ; 
And  for  the  peace  of  you  I  hold  such  strife 
.As  'twist  a  miser  and  his  wealth  is  found  : 
New  proud  as  an  enjoyer,  and  anon 
Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  treasure  ; 
Now  counting  best  to  be  with  you  alone, 
Then  better'd  that  the  world  may  see  my  pleasure  : 
Sometime   all  full  with  feasting  on  your  sight, 
And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a  look  ; 
Possessing  or  pursuing  no  delight. 
Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  you  be  took. 
Thus  do  I  pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day. 
Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. — 75. 

But  the  49th  Sonnet  carries  forward  the  dread  ex- 
pressed in  the  48th  that  his  friend  will  "be  stolen," 
into  the  apprehension  that  coldness,  and  neglect, 
and  desertion  may  one  day  ensue  : — 

Against  that  time,  if  ever  that  time  come, 
Wlien  I  shall  see  thee  frown  on  my  defects, 
\Vhena3  thy  love  hath  cast  his  utmost  sum, 
Call'd  to  that  audit  by  advis'd  respects ; 
Against  that  time,  when  thou  shalt  strangely  pass. 
And  scarcely  greet  me  with  that  sun,  thine  eye, 
When  love,  converted  from  the  thing  it  was. 
Shall  reasons  find  of  settled  gravity  ; 
Against  that  timo  do  I  ensconce  mo  hero 
Within  the  knowledge  of  mine  own  desert. 
And  this  my  hand  against  myself  uprear. 
To  guar  1  tho  lawful  reasons  on  thy  part : 

To  leave  poor  me  thou  liast  the  strength  of  laws, 
Since,  why  to  lovo,  I  can  allege  no  cause. — 49. 
466 


This  Sonnet  is  also  completely  isolated ;  but  much 
further  on,  according  to  the  original  arrangement, 
wo  find  the  idea  here  conveyed  of  that  self-sacrificing 
humility  which  will  endure  imkindncss  without  com- 
plaint, worked  out  with  exquisite  tenderness : — 

When  thou  shalt  bo  dispos'd  to  set  mo  light. 
And  place  my  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn 
Upon  thy  side  against  myself  I  '11  fight, 
And  prove  thee  virtuous,  though  thou  art  forsworn. 
With  mine  own  weakness  being  best  acquainted. 
Upon  thy  part  I  can  sot  do\vn  a  story 
Of  faults  conceal'd,  wherein  I  am  attainted  ; 
That  thou,  in  losing  me,  shalt  win  much  glory  : 
And  I  by  this  will  be  a  gainer  too  ; 
For  bending  all  my  loving  thoughts  on  thee. 
The  injuries  that  to  myself  I  do, 
Doing  thee  vantage,  double-vantage  me. 
Such  is  my  love,  to  thee  I  so  belong. 
That  for  thy  right  myself  will  bear  all  wrong. 

—88. 

Say  that  thou  didst  forsake  me  for  some  fault. 
And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence  : 
Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt ; 
Against  thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 
Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  me  half  so  ill. 
To  set  a  form  upon  desu-ed  change. 
As  I  '11  myself  disgrace  :  knowing  thy  will. 
I  will  acquaintance  strangle,  and  look  sti-ange  ; 
Be  absent  from  thy  walks  ;  and  in  my  tongue 
Thy  sweet-beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell ; 
Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong. 
And  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell. 
For  thee,  against  myself  I  'II  vow  debate. 
For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  thou  dost  hate. 

—89. 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now  ; 
Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 
Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow. 
And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss  : 
Ah  !  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  scap'd  this  sorrow. 
Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conqucr'd  woe  ; 
Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow. 
To  linger  out  a  purpos'd  overthrow. 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last. 
When  other  petty  gfiuefs  have  done  theu*  spite. 
But  ia  tho  onset  come  ;  so  shall  I  taste 
At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might ; 
And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compar'd  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so. — 90. 


Some  glory  in  their  birth,  some  in  their  skill. 
Some  in  their  wealth,  some  in  their  body's  force ; 
Some  in  their  garments,  though  new-fangled  ill ; 
Some  in   their  hawks  and  hounds,  some  in  their 

horse  ; 
And  every  humour  hatli  his  adjunct  pleasure, 
AVlierein  it  finds  a  joy  above  the  rest ; 
But  theso  particulars  are  not  my  measure. 
All  these  I  better  in  one  general  best. 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Thy  love  is  better  than  high  bii-th  to  me, 
Richer  than  wealth,  prouder  than  gai-ments'  cost. 
Of  more  delight  tban  hawks  or  horses  be  ; 
And  having  thee,  of  all  men's  pride  I  boast. 
Wretched  in  this  alone,  that  thou  may'st  take 
All  this  awaj',  and  me  most  wretched  make.— 91. 

But  do  thy  worst  to  steal  thyself  away, 

For  term  of  life  thou  art  assured  mine  ; 

And  life  no  longer  than  thy  love  wiU  stay, 

For  it  depends  upon  that  love  of  thine. 

Then  need  I  not  to  fear  the  worst  of  wrongs. 

When  in  the  least  of  them  my  life  hath  end. 

I  see  a  better  state  to  me  belongs 

Than  on  which  that  thy  humour  doth  depend. 

Thou  canst  not  vex  me  with  inconstant  mind. 

Since  that  my  life  on  thy  revolt  doth  lie. 

0  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 

Happy  to  have  thy  love,  happy  to  die  ! 
But  what 's  so  blessed-fair  that  fears  no  blot  ? — 
Thou  mayst  be  false,  and  yet  I  know  it  not : — 92. 

So  shall  1  live,  supposing  thou  art  true, 
Like  a  deceived  husband  ;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,  though  alter'd-new  ; 
Thy  looks  with  me,  thy  heart  in  other  place  : 
For  there  can  live  no  hatred  in  thine  eye. 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  thy  change. 
In  many's  looks  the  false  heart's  history 
Is  writ,  in  moods  and  frowns  and  wiinkles  strange  ; 
But  Heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell ; 
Whate'er  thy  thoughts  or  thy  heart's  workings  be, 
Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence    but    sweetness 
teU. 
How  hke  Eve's  apple  doth  thy  beauty  grow, 
If  thy  sweet  virtue  answer  not  thy  show  !— 93. 

Separated  from  the  preceding  stanzas  by  three  Son- 
nets, the  94th,  95th,  and  96th,  which  we  have 
already  given — (they  are  those  in  which  a  friend  is 
mildly  upbraided  for  the  defects  in  his  chai-acter) — 
we  have  a  second  httle  poem  on  Absence.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  find  anything  more  pei-fect  in  our  own 
or  any  other  language  : — 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen  ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  everjTN^here  ! 
And  yet  this  time  remov'd  was  summer's  time ; 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase. 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime, 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lord's  decease  : 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  oi-phans,  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute  ; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  't  is  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter 's  near. 

—97. 

2H2 


From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April,  drcss'd  in  all  his  trim. 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything. 
That  heavy  Satum  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  storj*  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where   they 

grew : 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermiUon  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  dehght. 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play : — 98. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide  : — 

Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy  sweet  that 

smells. 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath  ?    The  purple  pride 
Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dy'd. 
The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair : 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand. 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair  ; 
A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both. 
And  to  his  robbery  had  annex'd  thy  breath  ; 
But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  aU  his  growth 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  coiild  see, 
But  sweet  or  colour  it  had  stolen  from  thee. — ^99. 

But  this  poem  is  quite  unconnected  with  what  pre- 
cedes it.     It  is  placed  where  it  is  upon  no  piinciplo 
of  continuity.    Are  we  then  to  infer  that  the  friend 
whose  "shame"  is  "like  a  canker  in  the  budding 
rose "  is  the  person  who  is  immediately  afterwards 
addi-essed  as  one  from  whom  every  flower  had  stolen 
"  sweet  or  colour?  "     If  we  read  these  three  stanzas 
without  any  impression    of   their  connexion   with 
something  that  has  gone  before,  we  shall  irresistibly 
feel  that  they  are  addressed  to  a  female.     They 
point  at  repeated  absences ;  and  why  may  they  not 
then  be   addressed  to  the  poet's  first  love?    The 
Earl  of  Southampton,  or  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  to 
whom  the  series  of  Sonnets  are  held  all  to  refer,  ex- 
cept when  they  specially  address  a  dark-haired  lady 
of   questionable  character,  would    not    have  been 
greatly  pleased  to  have  been  complimented  on  the 
sweetness  of  his  breath,  or  the  whiteness  of  his 
hand.     The  Sonnets  which  ai-e  unquestionably  ad- 
dressed to  a  male,  although  they  employ  the  term 
"beauty"  in  a  way  which  we  cannot  easily  compre- 
hend in  our  own  days,   have   always  reference  to 
manly   beauty.      The    comparisons    in    the    above 
Sonnets  as  clearly  relate  to  female  beauty.    They 
are  precisely  the  same  as  Spenser  uses  in  one  of  hw 
Amoretti,— the  64th ;  which  thus  concludes  :— 

"  Such  fragrant  flowers  do  give  most  odorous  smell, 
But  her  sweet  odour  did  them  all  excel." 

46r 


■s 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  THE  SONXETS. 


It  appears  to  us  that  in  both  the  poems  on  Absence, 
in  tho  stanzas  which  anticipate  neglect  and  coldness, 
and  in  othei-s  which  we  have  given  and  are  about  to 
give,  we  must  not  be  too  ready  to  connect  their 
images  with  the  person  who  is  addressed  in  the  fii-st 
seventeen  Sonnets ;  or  be  alwaj-s  prepared  to  "  seize 
a  clue  which  innumeralle  passages  give  us,"  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Hallam,  "and  supjxtse  that  they  allude 
to  a  youth  of  high  rank  as  well  as  personal  beauty 
and  accomplishment."  *  The  chief  characteristic  of 
those  passages  which  clearly  apply  to  that  "  im- 
known  youth  "  is,  as  it  appears  to  us,  extravagance 
of  admiration  conveyed  in  very  hyperboUcal  lan- 
guage. Much  that  we  have  quoted  oflfers  no  ex- 
ample of  the  justness  of  Mr.  Hallam's  complaint 
against  these  productions: — "There  is  a  weakness 
and  folly  in  all  excessive  and  misplaced  affection, 
which  is  not  i-edeemed  by  the  touches  of  nobler 
sentiments  that  abound  in  this  long  series  of  Son- 
nets." It  would  be  difficult,  we  think,  to  find  more 
forcible  thoughts  expressed  in  more  simple,  and 
therefore  touching  language,  than  in  the  following 
continuous  verses.  They  comprise  all  the  Sonnets 
numbered  from  109  to  125,  with  the  exception  of 
118,  119,  120,  121,  three  of  which  we  have  already 
printed  as  belonging  to  another  subject  than  the 
IX)et's  constancy  of  affection  ;  and  one  of  which  we 
shall  give  as  an  isolated  fragment : — 

0,  never  say  that  1  was  false  of  heart. 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify  ! 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart, 
As  fi-om  my  soul  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie : 
That  is  my  home  of  love  :  if  I  have  rang'd 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  retm  n  again  ; 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchang'd, — 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood. 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd. 
To  leave  for  nothing  alLtby  sum  of  good  ; 

For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
-  Save  thou,  my  rose  ;  in  it  thou  art  my  all. — 109. 

Alas,  't  is  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gor'd  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most 

dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new. 
Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely  ;  but,  by  all  above. 
These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth. 
And  worse  essays  prov'd  thee  my  best  of  love. 
Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  liave  no  end : 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  God  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confin'd. 
Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the  best. 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  mpst  most  loving  breast. 

-110. 


•  Literature  of  Europe,  vol.  iii.  p.  503. 
463 


0,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  fortune  chide, 
Tlie  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  pro\'ide. 
Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand : 
Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd  ; 
\\T2ilst,  hke  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eyscll,  'gainst  my  strong  infection  ; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye. 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. — ^111. 


Yoxir  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamp'd  upon  my  brow  ; 
For  what  care  I  who  calls  me  well  or  ill, 
So  you  o'er-green  my  bad,  my  good  allow  ? 
You  are  my  all-the-world,  and  I  mxist  strive 
To  know  my  shames  and  praises  from  your  ton^e ; 
None  else  to  me,  nor  I  to  none  alive. 
That  my  steel'd  sense  or  changes,  right  or  wrong. 
In  so  profound  abysm  I  throw  all  care 
Of  other's  voices,  that  my  adder's  sense 
To  critic  and  to  flatterer  stopped  are, 
Mark  how  with  my  neglect  I  do  dispense  : 
You  are  so  strongly  in  my  purpose  bred, 
That  all  the  world  besides  methinks  arc  dead. 

—112. 


Since  I  left  you,  mine  eye  is  in  my  mind ; 
And  that  which  governs  me  to  go  about 
Doth  part  his  function,  and  is  parti}'  blind, 
Seems  seeing,  but  effectually  is  out ; 
For  it  no  form  delivers  to  the  heart 
Of  bird,  of  flower,  or  shape,  which  it  doth  latch  ; 
Of  his  quick  objects  hath  the  mind  no  part. 
Nor  his  own  vision  holds  what  it  doth  catch  ; 
For  if  it  see  the  i-ud'st  or  gentlest  sight. 
The  most  sweet  favour,  or  deformed'st  creature. 
The  moimtain  or  the  sea,  the  day  or  night. 
The  crow,  or  dove,  it  shapes  them  to  your  feature. 
Incapable  of  more,  replete  with  you. 
My  most  true  mind  thus  maketh  mine  untrue. 

— iia 


Or  whether  doth   my  mind,   being   crown'd  with 

you, 
Drink  up  the  monarch's  plague,  this  flattery. 
Or  whether  shall  I  say  mine  eye  saith  true, 
And  that  your  love  taught  it  this  alchymy. 
To  make  of  monsters  and  things  indigest 
Such  cherubins  m  yonr  sweet  self  resemble 
Creating  every  bad  a  jjerfect  Ijcst, 
As  fast  as  objects  to  his  beams  assemble  ? 
0,  't  is  the  first ;  't  is  flatten,-  in  my  seeing, 
And  my  great  mind  most  kingl}'  drinks  it  up : 
Mine  eye  well  knows  what  with  his  gust  is  'grcc'::^, 
And  to  his  palate  doth  prepare  the  cup  : 


'1 

•J 

H 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   SOCKETS. 


If  it  be  poison' d,  't  is  the  lesser  sin 

That  mine  eye  loves  it,  and  doth  first  begin. 

—114. 

Those  lines  that  I  before  have  wiit,  do  lie  ; 
Even  those  that  said  I  could  not  love  you  dearer  ; 
Yet  then  my  judgment  knew  no  reason  why 
My  most  full  flame  should  afterwards  burn  clearer. 
But  reckoning  time,  whose  million'd  accidents 
Creep  in  'twixt  vows,  and  change  decrees  of  kings, 
Tan  sacred  beauty,  blunt  the  sharp'st  intents. 
Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  altering  things  ; 
Alas  !  why,  fearing  of  Time's  tyranny, 
Might  1  not  then  say,  '  Now  I  love  you  best,' 
When  I  was  certain  o'er  incertainty, 
Crowning  the  present,  doubting  of  the  rest  ? 
Love  is  a  babe  ;  then  might  I  not  say  so, 
To  g^ive  full  growth  to  that  which  stiU  doth  grow  ? 

—115. 


Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds. 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  ; 

0  no  ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark. 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth  's  unknown,  although  his  height  be 
taken. 

Love 's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 

Love  altei-s  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  prov'd, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  lov'd. — 116. 


Accuse  me  thus  ;  that  I  have  scanted  all 

Wherein  I  should  your  great  deserts  repay ; 

Forgot  upon  your  dearest  love  to  call. 

Whereto  all  bonds  do  tie  me  day  by  day  ; 

That  I  have  frequent  been  with  unknown  minds, 

And  given  to  time  j'our  own  dear-purchas'd  right ; 

That  I  have  hoisted  sail  to  all  the  winds 

Which   should  transport   me   farthest  from  your 

sight. 
Book  both  my  wilfulness  and  en-ors  down. 
And  on  just  proof  surmise  accumulate. 
Bring  me  within  the  level  of  your  frown. 
But  shoot  not  at  me  in  your  waken'd  hate  : 
Since  my  appeal  says,  I  did  strive  to  prove 
The  constancy  and  virtue  of  yo)ir  love. — 117. 


Thy  gift,  thy  tables,  are  within  my  brain 
Full  character'd  -with  lasting  memory, 
Which  shall  above  that  idle  rank  remain. 
Beyond  all  date,  even  to  eternity  : 
Or  at  the  least  so  long  as  brain  and  heart 
Have  faculty  by  nature  to  subsist ; 
Till  each  to  raz'd  oblivion  yield  his  part 
Of  thee,  thy  record  never  can  be  miss'd. 


That  poor  retention  could  not  so  much  hold, 
Nor  need  I  tallies  thy  dear  love  to  score  ; 
Therefore  to  give  them  from  mo  was  I  bold. 
To  trust  those  tables  that  receive  thee  more ; 
To  keep  an  adjunct  to  remember  thee, 
Were  to  import  forgotfulness  in  me. — 122. 


No  !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do  change  : 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might. 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange  ; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our  dates  are  brief,  and  therefore  we  admire 
What  thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old ; 
And  rather  make  them  born  to  our  desire, 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard  them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy. 
Not  wondeiing  at  the  present  nor  the  past ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie. 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste  : 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and  thee  : — 1 23 


If  my  dear  love  were  but  the  child  of  state. 
It  might  for  Fortune's  bastard  be  unfather'd, 
As  subject  to  Time's  love,  or  to  Time's  hate. 
Weeds  among  weeds,   or  flowers  with  flowers  ga 

ther'd. 
No,  it  was  builded  far  from  accident ; 
It  sufiers  not  in  smihng  pomp,  nor  falls 
Under  the  blow  of  thralled  discontent. 
Whereto  the  inviting  time  om-  fashion  calls  : 
It  fears  not  policy,  that  heretic. 
Which  works  on  leases  of  short-number'd  houi-s. 
But  all  alone  stands  hugely  poUtic, 
That  it  nor  grows    with  heat,   nor  drowns  with 
showers. 
To  this  I  witness  call  the  fools  of  time. 
Which  die  for  goodness,  who  have  Uved  for  crime. 

—124. 


Were  it  aught  to  me  I  bore  the  canopy. 
With  my  extern  the  outward  honouring. 
Or  laid  great  bases  for  eternity. 
Which  prove  more  short  than  waste  or  ruining  ? 
Have  I  not  seen  dwellers  on  foi-m  and  fiwour 
Lose  all,  and  more,  by  paying  too  much  rent. 
For  compound  sweet  foregoing  simple  savour, 
Pitiful  thi-ivers,  in  their  gazing  spent  ? 
No ; — let  me  be  obsequious  in  thy  heart. 
And  take  thou  my  oblation,  poor  but  free. 
Which  is  not  mii'd  with  seconds,  knows  no  ai-t. 
But  mutual  render,  only  me  for  thee. 

Hence,  thou  subom'd  informer  !  a  true  soul. 
When  most  impeach' d,  stands  least  in  thv  control. 

—125. 


Dr.  Drake,  in  maintaining  that  the  Sonnets,  from 
the  1st  to  the  126th,  wore  addressed  to  Lord  South- 
ampton, has  alleged,  as  "one  of  the  most  striking 
proofs  of  this  position,"  the  fact  "that  the  languae« 

.1C9 


ILLUSTEATIOX  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


of  the  Dedication  of  the  Rape  of  Lucrece,  and  that 
of  tho  26th  Sonnet,  ai-c  almost  precisely  the  same." 
If  the  reader  will  turn  to  this  Dedication,  ho  will  at 
onco  SCO  the  resemblance.  "The  love  I  dedicate  to 
j-our  lordship  is  without  end,"  shows  that,  in  tho 
Sonnets  as  in  tho  works  of  contemporary  writoi-s, 
the  perpetually  recurring  terms  of  love  and  lover 
wei-o  meant  to  convey  the  most  profound  respect  as 
well  as  the  strongest  aflection.  In  that  ago  friend- 
ship was  not  considered  as  a  mci-o  conventional  in- 
tercourse for  social  gratification.  There  was  depth 
and  strength  in  it.  It  partook  of  the  spiritual  energy 
wliich  belonged  to  a  higher  philosophy  of  the  affec- 
tions than  now  presides  over  clubs  and  dinner- 
parties. "  My  friend,"  or  "  my  lover,"  meant  some- 
thing more  than  one  who  is  ordinarily  civil,  returns 
our  calls,  and  shakes  hands  upon  great  occasions. 
Lord  Southampton,  is  held  m  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  a  Lord  Chancellor,  to  call  Shakspere  "  my  espo- 
cial  friend."  To  Lord  Southampton  Shakspere 
dedicates  "  love  without  end."  This  26th  Sonnet, 
wo  have  little  doubt,  is  also  a  dedication,  accom- 
panying some  new  production  of  the  mighty  di-a- 
matist,  in  accordance  with  his  declaration,  "  What 
I  have  done  is  yours,  what  I  have  to  do  is  yours, 
being  part  in  alll  have  devoted  yours :  " — 

Lord  of  icy  love,  to  whom  in  vassalage 
Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit, 
To  thee  I  send  this  written  embassage. 
To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  my  wit. 
Duty  so  great,  which  wit  so  iwor  as  mine 
May  make  seem  bare,  in  wanting  words  to  show  it ; 
But  that  I  hope  that  some  conceit  of  thine 
In  thy  soul's  thought,  all  naked,  will  bestow  it : 
Till  whatsoever  star  that  guides  by  moving. 
Points  on  mo  graciously  with  fair  a.spect, 
And  puts  apparel  on  my  tatterd  loving, 
To  show  me  worthy  of  thy  sweet  respect : 
Then  may  I  dare  to  boast  how  I  do  love  thee. 
Till  then,  not  show  my  head  where  thou  mayst 
prove  me. — 26. 

The  Sonnet  which  precedes  this  has  also  the  marked 
character  of  the  same  respectful  affection  ;  and,  like 
the  26th,  in  all  probability  accompanied  some  offer- 
ing of  friendship : — 

Let  those  who  are  in  favour  with  their  stars 
Of  pubUc  honour  and  proud  titles  boast, 
Whilst  I,  whom  fortune  of  such  triumph  bars, 
Unlook'd  for  joy  in  that  I  honour  most. 
Great  princes'  favourites  their  fair  leaves  spread 
But  as  the  marigold  at  the  sun's  eye  ; 
And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried. 
For  at  a  frown  they  in  their  gloiy  die. 
The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight. 
After  a  thousand  Nnctories  once  foil'd. 
Is  firora  the  book  of  honour  razed  quite, 
And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toil'd  : 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  belov'd, 
Where  I  may  not  remove,  nor  bo  remov'd. — 25. 
470 


Again,  the  23rd  Sonnet  is  precisely  of  the  same  cha- 
racter. All  these  appear  to  us  wholly  unconnected 
with  tho  poems  which  surround  them — little  gems, 
pei-fect  in  themselves,  and  wanting  no  setting  to  add 
to  their  beauty  : — 

As  an  unperfect  actor  on  the  stage. 
Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part. 
Or  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 
"Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own  heai-t ; 
So  I,  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  peifect  ceremony  of  love's  rite. 
And  in  mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'ercharg'd  with  burthen  of  mine  own  love's  might. 
0  let  my  books  be  then  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presages  of  my  speaking  breast ; 
Who  plead  for  love,  and  look  for  recompence. 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more  express'd. 
0  learn  to  read  what  silent  lo\c  hath  writ : 
To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. — 23. 


Between  the  23rd  and  25th  Sonnets,  which  we  have 
just  given — remarkable  as  they  are  for  the  most  ex- 
quisite simplicity  of  thought  and  diction — occurs  the 
following  conceit : — 

Mine  eye  hath  play'd  the  painter,  and  hath  stell'd 
Thy  beauty's  form  in  table  of  my  heart ; 
My  body  is  the  frame  wherein  't  is  held. 
And  perspective  it  is  best  painter's  art. 
For  through  the  painter  must  you  see  his  skill. 
To  find  where  your  true  image  pictm'd  lies. 
Which  in  my  bosom's  shop  is  hanging  still. 
That  hath  his  ■ndndows  glazed  with  thine  eyes. 
Now  see  what  good  turns  eyes  for  ej-es  have  done  ; 
Mine  eyes  have  dra\vn  thy  shape,  and  thine  for  mc 
Are  windows  to  my  breast,  where-through  the  sun 
Delights  to  peep,  to  gaze  therein  on  thee  ; 
Yet  e3"es  this  cunning  want  to  grace  their  art. 
They  draw  but  what  they  see,  know  not  the  heart. 

—24. 

But,  sepai-ated  by  a  long  interval,  we  find  two  varia- 
tions of  tho  air,  entirely  out  of  place  where  they 
occur.  Can  we  doubt  that  these  tlu'co  foim  one 
little  poem  of  themselves  ? — 

Mine  eye  and  heart  are  at  a  mortal  war. 
How  to  divide  the  conquest  of  thy  sight ; 
Mine  eye  my  heart  thy  picture's  sight  would  bar. 
My  heart  mine  eye  the  freedom  of  that  right. 
My  heart  doth  jjlead,  that  thou  in  him  dost  lie, 
(A  closet  never  pierc'd  with  crj'stal  eyes, ) 
But  the  defendant  doth  that  plea  deny. 
And  says  in  him  thy  fair  appearance  lies. 
To  'cide  this  title  is  impannelled 
A  quest  of  thoughts,  all  tenants  to  the  heart  ; 
And  by  their  verdict  is  detcnuined 
The  clear  eye's  moiety,  and  the  dear  heart's  part  : 
As  thus  ;  mine  eye's  due  is  thine  outward  part. 
And  my  heart's  right  thine  inward  love  of  heart. 

—46. 


ILLUSTEATIOIT  OF  THE  SONKETS. 


Betwixt  mine  eye  and  heai-t  a  league  is  took, 

And  each  doth  good  turns  now  unto  the  other : 

When  that  mine  eye  is  famish'd  for  a  look, 

Or  heart  in  love  with  sighs  himself  doth  smother. 

With  my  love's  picture  then  my  63^0  doth  feast. 

And  to  the  painted  banquet  bids  my  heart ; 

Another  time  mine  eye  is  mj'  heart's  guest. 

And  in  his  thoughts  of  love  doth  share  a  part : 

So,  either  by  thy  picture  or  my  love. 

Thyself  away  art  present  still  with  me ; 

For    thou    not    farther    than    my    thoughts    canst 

move. 
And  I  am  still  with  them,  and  they  with  thee ; 
Or  if  they  sleep,  thy  picture  in  my  sight 
Awakes  my  heart  to  heart's  and  eye's  dehght. 

—47. 

The  77th  Sonnet  interrupts  the  continxiity  of  a 
poem  which  we  shall  presently  give,  m  which  the 
writer  refers,  with  some  appeai-ance  of  jealousy, 
to  an  "alien  pen."  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
this  Sonnet  is  completely  isolated.  It  is  clearly 
intended  to  accompany  the  present  of  a  note- 
book ; — 

Thy  glass  will  show  thee  how  thy  beauties  wear, 
Thy  dial  how  thy  precious  minutes  w-aste  ; 
The  vacant  leaves  thy  mind's  imprint  will  bear. 
And  of  this  book  this  learning  mayst  thou  taste. 
The  wrinkles  which  thy  glass  will  truly  show, 
Of  mouthed  graves  will  give  thee  memory ; 
Thou  by  thy  dial's  shady  stealth  maj'st  know 

me's  thievish  progress  to  eternity. 
Look,  what  thy  memory  cannot  contain. 
Commit    to    these  waste    blanks,   and    thou   shalt 

find 
Those  children  nurs'd,  dehver'd  from  thy  bram, 
To  take  a  new  acquaintance  of  thy  mind. 
These  offices,  so  oft  as  thou  wilt  look. 
Shall  profit  thee,  and  much  enrich  thy  book. — 77. 

The  76th  to  the  87th  Sonnets  (omitting  the  77th 
and  81st)  have  been  held  to  refer  to  a  particular 
event  in  the  poetical  career  of  Shakspere.  He 
expresses  something  like  jealousy  of  a  rival  poet 
— a  "better  spirit."  By  some,  Spenser  is  sup- 
posed to  be  alluded  to;  by  othei-s,  Daniel.  But 
we  do  not  accept  these  stanzas  as  a  proof  that 
William  Herbert  is  the  person  always  addressed 
in  the  Sonnets,  for  the  alleged  reason  that  Daniel 
was  patronised  by  the  Pembroke  family,  and  that, 
in  1601,  he  dedicated  a  book  to  William  Herbert, 
to  which  Shakspere  is  held  to  aUude  in  the  82nd 
Sonnet,  by  the  expression  "  dedicated  words." 
This  is  Mr.  Boaden's  theory.  One  of  the  Sonnets 
supposed  also  to  refer  to  WilUam  Herbert  as 
"a.  man  right  fair"  was  pubhshed  in  1599,  when 
the  young  nobleman  was  only  19  years  of  age. 
But  in  the  stanzas  -which  relate  to  some  poetical 
rivalry,  real  or  imaginaiy,  the  person  addressed 
has 

"  added  feathers  to  the  learned's  v.-ing, 
And  given  grace  a  double  majesty." 

He  is 

"  as  fair  in  knowledge  as  in  hue." 


The  praises  of  the  "lovely  boy,"  be  ho  William 
Herbert  or  not,  are  always  confined  to  his  personal 
appearance  and  his  good  nature.  There  is  a  quiet 
tone  about  the  following  which  scpai'ates  them  from 
the  Sonnets  addressed  to  that  "unknown  j'outh;" 
and  yet  they  may  be  as  unreal  as  we  believe  most 
of  those  to  be  : — 

Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  priile  ? 

So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change  ? 

Why,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 

To  new-found  methods  and  to  compounds  strange  ? 

Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same, 

And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed. 

That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  mj'  name, 

Sho^ving  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  proceed  ? 

0  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  wTite  of  you. 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ; 
So  all  my  best  is  dressing  old  words  new. 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent : 

For  as  the  sun  is  dailj^  new  and  old. 

So  is  my  love  still  telling  -^vhat  is  told. — 76. 

So  oft  have  I  invok'd  thee  for  my  muse. 
And  found  such  fair  assistance  in  my  verse, 
As  everj'  ahen  pen  hath  got  my  use. 
And  under  thee  theh  poesy  disperse. 
Thine  ej'es,  that  taught  the  dumb  on  high  to  sing, 
And  heavy  ignorance  aloft  to  fly. 
Have  added  feathei-s  to  the  learned's  wing, 
And  given  grace  a  double  majesty. 
Yet  be  most  proud  of  that  which  I  compile. 
Whose  influence  is  thine,  and  born  of  thee  : 
In  other's  works  thou  dost  but  mend  the  style. 
And  arts  with  thy  sweet  graces  graced  be  ; 
But  thou  art  all  my  art,  and  dost  advance 
As  high  as  learning  my  rude  ignorance. — 78. 

Whilst  I  alone  did  call  upon  thy  aid, 
My  verse  alone  had  all  thy  gentle  grace  ; 
But  now  my  gi-acious  numbers  are  decay' d. 
And  my  sick  muse  doth  give  another  place. 

1  grant,  sweet  love,  thy  lovely  argument 
Deserves  the  travail  of  a  worthier  pen  ; 
Yet  what  of  thee  thy  j)oet  doth  invent. 
He  robs  thee  of,  and  pays  it  thee  again. 

He  lends  thee  virtue,  and  he  stole  that  word 
From  thy  behaviom* ;  beautj"^  doth  he  give 
And  found  it  in  thy  cheek ;  he  can  afford 
No  praise  to  thee  but  what  in  thee  doth  hvc. 
Then  thank  him  not  for  that  which  he  doth  say. 
Since  what  he  owes  thee  thou  thyself  dost  pay. 

—79 

0,  how  I  faint  when  I  of  you  do  write, 
Knowing  a  better  spirit  doth  use  your  name. 
And  in  the  pi-aise  thereof  spends  all  his  might. 
To  make  me  tongue-tied,  speaking  of  your  fame  ! 
But  since  your  worth  (wide,  as  the  ocean  is, ) 
The  humble  as  the  proudest  sail  doth  bear. 
My  saucy  bark,  inferior  fai-  to  his. 
On  your  broad  main  doth  wilfully  appear. 

471 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


Your  shallowest  bolp  will  hold  mo  up  afloat, 
Whilst  ho  upon  your  soundless  deep  doth  ride  ; 
Or,  iMjinfj  wrcck'd,  I  am  a  worthless  boat, 
no  of  till!  building,  and  of  goodly  pride : 
Then  if  he  thrive,  and  I  be  cast  away. 
The  woj-st  was  this  ; — my  love  was  my  docay. 


-80. 


I  grant  thou  wort  not  married  to  my  muse. 
And  therefore  mayst  without  attaint  o'erlook 
Tlio  de;licatcd  words  which  writers  uso 
Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book. 
Thou  art  as  fair  in  knowledge  as  in  hue, 
Finding  thy  worth  a  limit  past  my  praise  ; 
And  therefore  art  enforc'd  to  seek  anew 
Some  fresher  stamp  of  the  time-bettering  days. 
And  do  so,  love  ;  yet  when  they  have  dens'd 
WTiat  strained  touches  rhetoric  can  lend, 
Thou  truly  fair  wert  truly  sympathiz'd 
In  true  plain  words,  by  thy  tinic-telling  friend  ; 
And  their  gross  painting  might  be  better  us'd 
Where  cheeks  need  blood ;  in  thee  it  is  abus'd. 

—82. 


I  never  saw  that  you  did  painting  need. 
And  therefore  to  your  fair  no  painting  set. 
I  found,  or  thought  I  found,  you  did  exceed 
The  ban-en  tender  of  a  poet's  debt ; 
And  therefore  have  I  slept  in  your  report. 
That  j-ou  yourself,  being  extant,  well  might  show 
How  far  a  modem  quill  doth  come  too  short. 
Speaking  of  worth,  what  worth  in  you  doth  grow. 
This  silence  for  my  sin  you  did  impute, 
WTiich  shall  be  most  my  glory,  being  dumb  ; 
For  I  impair  not  beauty  being  mute. 
When  others  would  give  life,  and  bring  a  tomb. 
There  lives  more  life  in  one  of  your  fair  eyes 
Then  both  your  poets  can  in  praise  demise. — 83. 


Who  is  it  that  says  most  ?  which  can  say  more 
Than  this  rich  pi-aise,  —that  you  alone  are  you  ? 
In  whose  confine  immured  is  the  store 
Which  should  example  where  your  equal  grew. 
Lean  penury  within  that  pen  doth  dwell. 
That  to  his  subject  lends  not  some  small  glory  ; 
But  he  that  writes  of  you,  if  he  can  tell 
That  you  are  you,  so  dignifies  his  story. 
Let  him  but  copy  what  in  you  is  writ. 
Not  making  worse  what  nature  made  so  clear, 
And  such  a  counteqiart  shall  fame  his  wit. 
Making  his  style  admired  everj-where. 
You  to  your  beauteous  blessings  add  a  curse, 
Being  fond  on  praise,  which  makes  your  praises 
worse. — 84, 


My  tongue-tied  muse  in  manners  holds  her  still. 
While  comments  of  your  praise,  richly  compil'd, 
Reserve  their  character  with  golden  quill. 
And  precious  phrase  by  all  the  muses  til'd, 
172 


1    think  good  thoughts,   wliile  others   wTito  good 

words. 
And,  like  unlettcr'd  clerk,  still  cry  'Amen' 
To  every  hymn  that  able  spirit  affords. 
In  polish'd  form  of  well-refined  pen. 
Hearing  you  prais'd,  I  say,  "Tis  so,  'tis  true,' 
And  to  the  most  of  praise  add  something  more ; 
But  that  is  in  my  thought,  whose  love  to  you. 
Though    words    come    hindmost,    holds    his    rank 
before. 
Then  othei-s  for  the  breath  of  words  respect, 
Mo  for  my  dumb  thoughts,  speaking  in  effect. 

-86. 


Was  it  the  proud  full  sail  of  his  gi-eat  vci-sc. 
Bound  for  the  prize  of  all-too-precious  you, 
That  did  my  ripe  thoughts  in  my  brain  inheai-se. 
Making  their  tomb  the  womb  wherein  they  grew  ? 
Was  it  his  spirit,  by  spirits  taught  to  write 
Above  a  mortal  pitch,  that  struck  me  dead  ? 
No,  neither  he,  nor  his  compeers  by  night 
Giving  him  aid,  my  verse  astonished. 
He,  nor  that  affable  familiar  ghost 
Which  nightly  gulls  him  with  intelhgencc. 
As  victors,  of  my  silence  cannot  boast : 
I  was  not  sick  of  any  fear  from  thence. 
But  when  your  countenance  fil'd  up  his  line. 
Then  lack'd  I  matter :  that  enfeebled  mine. — S6. 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing. 

And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  ; 

The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing ; 

My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 

For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thj'^  granting  ? 

And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 

The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 

And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerv-ing. 

Thyself   thou    gav'st,    thy    own    worth    then    not 
knowing. 

Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking ; 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing. 

Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  .is  a  dream  doth  flatter. 
In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking  no  such  matter.— 87. 

We  cannot  trace  the  connexion  of  the  121st 
Sonnet  with  what  precedes  and  what  follows  it.  It 
may  stand  alone — a  somewhat  impatient  expression 
of  contempt  for  the  opinion  of  the  world,  which  too 
often  galls  those  most  who,  in  the  consciousness  of 
right,  ought  to  bo  best  prepared  to  be  indifferent  to 
it:— 


'T  is  better  to  bo  vile,  than  vile  esteem'd. 
When  not  to  be  receives  reproach  of  being, 
And  the  just  pleasure  lost,  which  is  so  deem'd 
Not  by  our  feeling,  but  by  oiliers'  seeing. 
For  why  should  others'  false  adulterate  eye3 
Give  s-ilutation  to  my  sportive  blood? 
Or  on  my  frailties  why  are  frailer  spies. 
Which  in  their  wills  count  bad  w!iat  I  think  g^ooi  ? 


fa 


* 


1 


ILLUSTEATiON   OF  THE   SONNETS. 


No. — I  am  that  I  am  ;  and  they  that  level 

At  my  abuscp,  reckon  up  their  own  : 

I   may  be    straight,    though    they   themselves    be 

bovel; 
By  their  rank  thoughts    my  deeds  must    not  be 
shown  ; 
Unless  this  general  evil  they  maintain, — 
All  men  are  bad,  and  in  their  badness  reign. — 121. 

Lastly,  of  the  Sonnets  entirely  independent  of  the 
other  portions  of  the  series,  the  following,  already 
mentioned,  furnishes  one  of  the  many  proofs  which 
we  have  endeavoured  to  produce  that  the  original 
arrangement  was  in  many  respects  an  arbitrary 
one : — 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Fool'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth. 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess. 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?     Is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 
Then,  soul,  Uve  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross  ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 
So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men. 
And,  death  once  dead,   there's  no   more   dying 
then.— 146. 


III. 

We  have  thus,  with  a  labour  which  we  fear  may 
be  disproportionate  to  the  results,  separated  those 
parts  of  this  series  of  poems  which  appeared  to  be 
manifestly  complete  in  themselves,  or  not  essen- 
tially connected  with  what  has  been  supposed  to  be 
the  "  leading  idea"  which  prevails  throughout  tho 
collection.  It  has  been  said,  with  great  eloquence, 
"  It  is  true  that  in  the  poetry  as  well  as  in  the  fic- 
tions of  early  ages  we  find  a  more  ardent  tone  of 
affection  in  the  language  of  friendship  than  has  since 
been  usual ;  and  yet  no  instance  has  been  adduced 
of  such  rapturous  devotedness,  such  an  idolatry  of 
admiring  love,  as  the  greatest  being  whom  nature 
ever  produced  in  the  human  form  pours  forth  to 
some  unknown  youth  in  the  majority  of  these  Son- 
nets." *  The  same  accomplished  critic  further  speaks 
of  the  strangeness  of  "  Shakspere's  humiliation  in 
addressing  him  (the  youth)  as  a  being  before  whose 
feet  he  crouched,  whose  frown  he  feared,  whose  in- 
juries, and  those  of  the  most  insulting  kind — the 
seduction  of  the  mistress  to  whom  we  have  alluded 
— he  felt  and  bewailed  without  resenting."  We 
should  agree  with  Mr.  Hallam,  if  these  circumstances 
were  manifest,  that,  notwithstanding  the  frequent 
beauties  of  these  Sonnets,  the  pleasure  of  their 
perusal  would  be  much  diminished.  But  we  believe 
that  these  impressions  have  been  in  a  great  degree 

♦  Hallam,  Literature  of  Europe,  vol.  iii.  p.  502. 


produced  by  regarding  tho  original  arrangement 
as  the  natural  and  proper  one — as  one  suggested 
by  the  dependence  of  one  part  upon  another,  in  a 
poom  essentially  continuous.  Mr.  Hallam,  with 
these  impressions,  adds,  somewhat  strongly,  "it  is 
impossible  not  to  wish  that  Shakspere  had  never 
written  them."  Lot  us,  however,  analyse  what  wo 
have  presented  to  tho  reader  in  a  different  order 
than  that  of  the  original  edition  ; — 


I. 


Wilt    . 

Black  eyes  . 

The  virginal 

False  compare 

Tyranny 

Slavery 

Coldness 

I  hale  not  you 

The  mile  love-god  {not 

Love  and  hatred 

Infidelity     . 

Injury 

A  friend's  faults 

Forgiveness 


reprinted) 


11. 


Confiding  friendship 

Humility    . 

Absence 

Estrangement 

A  second  absence 

Fidelity 

Dedications 

The  picture 

The  note-bock 

Rivalry 

Reputation 

The  soul      . 


3  Sonnets. 

3  „ 

1  ,. 

2  „ 

3  „ 
2  „ 
1  „ 

1  ,. 

2  „ 
10  „ 

3 

6  „ 

3  .. 

3  ,. 
—  43 

4 

4  ., 
9  „ 
9  „ 
3  „ 

13  „ 

3  „ 

3  „ 

1  .. 

10  „ 

1  ., 
1 

—  61 


We  have  thus  as  many  as  104  Sonnets  which,  if  they 
had  been  differently  an-anged  upon  their  original 
publication,  might  have  been  read  with  undimi- 
nished pleasure,  as  far  as  regards  the  strangeness  of 
their  author's  humiliation  before  one  unknown  youth, 
and  have  therefore  left  us  no  regret  that  he  had 
written  them.  If  we  ai-e  to  regard  a  few  of  these 
as  real  disclosures,  with  reference  to  a  "dark-haired 
lady  whom  the  poet  loved,  but  over  whose  relations 
to  him  there  is  thrown  a  veil  of  mystery,  allowing 
us  to  see  little  except  the  feeling  of  the  parties — that 
their  love  was  guilt," — we  are  to  consider,  what  is 
so  justly  added  by  the  writer  from  whom  we  quote, 
that  "much  that  is  most  unpleasing  in  the  circum- 
stances connected  with  those  magnificent  lyrics  is 
removed  by  the  air  of  despondency  and  remorse 
which  breathes  through  those  which  come  most 
closely  on  the  facts."*  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that,  in  an  age  when  the  ItaUan  models  of  poetrj- 
were  so  diligently  cultivated,  imaginary  loves  and 
imaginary  jealousies  were  freely  admitted  into  verses 
which  appeared  to  address  themselves  to  the  reader 
in  the  personal  character  of  tho  poet.  Regarding  a 
poem,  whether  a  sonnet  or  an  epic,  essentially  as  a 

*  Edinburgh  Review,  vol.  Ixxi.  p.  466. 

473 


ILLUSTEATION  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


work  of  art,  tho  artist  was  not  careful  to  separate  his 
own   identity  from  the  sentiments  and  situations 
which  ho  delineated — anj'  more  than  the  pastoral 
poets  of  the  next  century  were  solicitous  to  tell  their 
readers  that  their  Corydons  and  Phyllises  were  not 
absolutely  themselves  and   theu-  mistresses.      Tho 
'-Vmoretti'  of  Spenser,  for  example,  consisting  of 
ei;j:hty-eight  Sonnets,  is  also  a  puzzle  to  all  those 
who  regiird  such  productions  as  necessarily  autobio- 
graphical.   These  poems  were  published  in  1596 ;  in 
several  passages  a  date  is  tolerablj'  distinctly  marked, 
for  there  ore  lines  which  refer  to  the  completion  of 
the  first  six  Books  of  tho   '  Fairy  Queen,'  and  to 
Spenser's    appointment    to    tho  laureatship — "the 
badge  which  I  do  bear."    And  yet  they  are  full  of 
the  complaints  of  an  unrequited  love,  and  of  a  dis- 
dainful mistress,  at  a  period  when  Spenser  was  mar- 
ried, and  settled  with  his  family  in  Ireland.     Chal- 
mers is  here  again  ready  with  his  solution  of  the 
diflficulty.     They  were  addressed,  as  well  as  Shak- 
spere's  Sonnets,  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  We  believe  that, 
taken  as  works  of  art,  having  a  certain  degree  of 
continuity,  the  Sonnets  of  Si^enscr,  of  Daniel,   of 
Drayton,  of  Shakspere,  although  in  many  instances 
they  might  shadow  forth  real  feelings,  and  be  out- 
pourings of  the  inmost  heart,  were  presented  to  the 
world  as  exercises  of  fancy,  and  were  received  by  the 
world  as  such.     The  most  usual  form  which  such 
compositions  assumed  was  that  of  love-verses.   Spen- 
ser's *  Amoretti '  are  entirely  of  this  character,  as 
their  name  implies.     Daniel's,  which  are  fifty-seven 
in  number,  are  all  addressed  to  "DeUaJ;  "  Di-aj'ton's, 
which  he  calls  "  Ideas,"  are  somewhat  more  miscel- 
laneous in  their  character.     These  were  the  three 
great  poets  of  Shakspere's  day.s.     Spenser's  'Amo- 
retti' was  first  printed  in  1595  ;  Daniel's  'Delia'  in 
1592 ;  Drayton's  *  Ideas'  in  1594.     In  1593  was  also 
published  '  Licia,  or  Poems  of  Love  in  honour  of  the 
admirable  and  singular  virtues  of  his  Lady.'     This 
book  contains  fifty-two  Sonnets,  all  conceived  in  the 
language   of  passionate  affection  and  extravagant 
praise.     And  yet  the  author,  in  his  Address  to  the 
Reader,  says, — "  If  thou  muse  what  my  Licia  is, 
take  her  to  be  some  Diana,  at  the  least  chaste,  or 
some  Minerva,  no  Venus,  fairer  far.     It  may  be  she 
is  Learning's  image,  or  some  heavenly  wonder,  which 
the  precisest  maj'  not  mislike  :  perhaps  under  that 
name  I  have  shadowed  Discipline."     'Phis  fashion  of 
sonnet-writing  upon  a  continuous  subject  prevailed 
thus  about  the  period   of  the   pubUcation   of  the 
Venus  and  Adonis  and  the  Lucrece,  when  Shakspere 
had  taken  his  rank  amongst  the  poets  of  his  time — 
independent  of  his  dramatic  rank.     He  chose  a  new 
subject  for  a  series  of  Sonnets ;  he  addressed  them 
to  some  youth,  some  imaginary  person,  as  we  con- 
ceive ;  he  made  this  fiction  the  vehicle  for  stringing 
together  a  succession  of  brilliant  images,  exhausting 
every  artifice  of  language  to  present  one  idea  under 
a  thousand  different  forms — 

"  varying  to  other  words ; 
And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent." 

Coleridge,   with   his  usual   critical    discrimination, 
speaking  of-the  Italian  poets  of  tho  fifteenth  and  si.x- 
teenth  centuries,  and  glancing  also  at  our  own  of  the 
474 


same  period,  says,  "In  opposition  to  the  present  age, 
and  perhaps  in  as  faulty  an  extreme,  they  placed  the 
essence  of  poetry  in  tho  art.  The  excellence  at 
which  they  aimed  consisted  in  tho  exquisite  polish 
of  the  diction,  combined  with  perfect  simplicity."* 
This,  we  apprehend,  is  the  characteristic  excellence 
of  Shakspere's  Sonnets  ;  displaying,  to  the  careful 
reader,  "  the  studied  position  of  words  and  phrases, 
so  that  not  only  each  part  should  be  melodious  in 
itself,  but  contribute  to  the  harmony  of  the  whole." 
He  sought  for  a  canvas  in  which  this  elaborate  colour- 
ing, this  skilful  management  of  light  and  shade, 
might  bo  attempted,  in  an  address  to  a  young  man, 
instead  of  a  scornful  Delia  or  a  proud  Daphne  ;  and 
he  commenced  with  an  exhortation  to  that  young 
man  to  many.  To  allow  of  that  energy  of  language 
which  would  result  from  the  assumption  of  strong 
feeling,  THE  poet  links  himself  with  the  young  man's 
happiness  bj'  the  strongest  expressions  of  friendship 
— in  the  common  language  of  that  day,  love.  We 
say,  advisedly,  the  poet ;  for  it  is  in  this  character 
that  the  connexion  between  the  two  friends  is  pre- 
served throughout ;  and  it  is  in  this  character  that 
the  personal  beauty  of  the  young  man  is  made  a 
constantly  recurring  theme.  With  these  imperfect 
observations,  we  present  the  continuous  poem  which 
appears  in  the  first  nineteen  Sonnets  : — 

From  fairest  creatui-es  we  desire  increase. 
That  thereby  beautj^s  rose  might  never  die. 
But  as  the  riper  should  by  time  decease. 
His  tender  heir  might  bear  his  memorj' : 
But  thou,  contiactcd  to  thine  own  bright  eyes, 
Feed'st  thy  light'st  flame  with  self-substantial  fuel, 
Making  a  famine  where  abundance  lies, 
Thyself  thy  foe,  to  thy  sweet  self  too  cruel. 
Thou  that  art  now  the  world's  fresh  ornament. 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spiing, 
Within  thine  own  bud  buriest  thy  content. 
And,  tender  churl,  mak'st  waste  in  niggarding. 
Pity  the  world,  or  else  this  glutton  be, 
To  eat  the  world's  due,  by  the  grave  and  thee. — 1. 

When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  Hverj',  so  gaz'd  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held  : 
Then  being  .ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies, 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days  ; 
To  say,  within  thine  own  deeyi  sunken  ej-es. 
Were  an  all-eating  shame,  and  thiiftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserv'd  thy  beautj^'s  use, 
If  thou  could'st  answer  — '  This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count,  and  make  my  old  excuse — ' 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  thine  ! 
This  were  to  be  new-made  when  thou  art  old. 
And  see  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  feol'st  it  cold. 

2 

Look  in  thy  glass,  and  tell  the  face  thou  viewest, 
Now  is  the  time  that  face  should  form  another ; 
Whose  fresh  repair  if  now  thou  not  renewest. 
Thou  dost  beguile  the  world,  tmbless  some  mother. 

•  Biographia  Litcraria.  voLii.  p.  27. 


ILLUSTKATIOi^     OF  THE  SOm^ETS. 


For  wnere  is  she  so  fau*,  whose  unear'd  womb 
Disdains  the  tillage  of  thy  husbandry  ? 
Or  who  is  he  so  fond  wUl  be  the  tomb 
Of  his  self  love,  to  stop  posterity  ? 
Thou  art  thy  mother's  glass,  and  she  in  thee 
Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime  : 
So  thou  tlirough  windows  of  thine  age  shalt  see, 
Despite  of  wrinkles,  this  thy  golden  time. 
But  if  thou  Uve  remember'd  not  to  be. 
Die  single,  and  thine  image  dies  with  th^e. — 3. 

Uathrifty  loveliness,  why  dost  thou  spend 
Upon  thyself  thy  beauty's  legacy  ? 
Nature's  bequest  gives  nothing,  but  doth  lend, 
And,  being  frank,  she  lends  to  those  are  free. 
Then,  beauteous  niggard,  why  dost  thou  abuse 
The  bounteous  largess  given  thee  to  give  ? 
Profitless  usurer,  why  dost  thou  use 
So  great  a  sum  of  sums,  yet  canst  not  live  ? 
For  having  trafiic  with  thyself  alone. 
Thou  of  thyself  thy  sweet  self  dost  deceive. 
Then  how,  when  nature  calls  thee  to  be  gone. 
What  acceptable  audit  canst  thou  leave  ? 

Thy  unused  beauty  must  be  tomb'd  with  theo. 
Which,  used,  lives  th'  executor  to  be. — i. 

Those  hours  that  with  gentle  work  did  framo 
The  lovely  gaze  where  every  eye  doth  dwell. 
Will  play  the  tj'rants  to  the  very  same, 
And  that  unfair  which  fairly  doth  excel ; 
For  never-resting  time  leads  summer  on 
To  hideous  winter,  and  confounds  him  there 
Sap  check'd  with  frost,  and  lusty  leaves  quite  gone, 
Beauty  o'ersnow'd,  and  bareness  everywhere  : 
Then,  were  not  summer's  distillation  left, 
A  liquid  prisoner  pent  in  walls  of  glass. 
Beauty's  effect  with  beauty  were  bereft. 
Nor  it,  nor  no  remembrance  what  it  was. 

But  flowers  distill' d,    though    they  with  winter 
meet, 

Leese  but  their  show ;  their  substance  still  lives 
sweet. — 5. 

Then  let  not  winter's  i-agged  hand  deface 
In  thee  thy  summer,  ere  thou  be  distill'd  : 
Make  sweet  some  phial ;  treasure  thou  some  place 
With  beauty's  treasure,  ere  it  be  self-kill'd. 
That  use  is  not  forbidden  usury. 
Which  happies  those  that  pay  the  willing  loan ; 
That 's  for  thyself  to  breed  another  thee. 
Or  ten  times  happier,  be  it  ten  for  one  ; 
Ten  times  thyself  were  happier  than  thou  art. 
If  ten  of  thine  ten  times  refigur'd  thee  : 
Then,  what  could  Death  do  if  thou  shouldst  do- 
part. 
Leaving  the  living  in  posterity  ? 

Be  not  self-will' d,  for  thou  art  much  too  fair 
To  be  Death's  conquest,  and  make  worms  thine 
heir. — 6. 

Lo,  in  the  orient  when  the  gracious  light 
Lifts  up  his  burning  head,  each  under  eyo 
Doth  homage  to  his  now-appearing  sight. 
Serving  with  looks  his  sacred  majesty  ; 
And  having  chmb'd  the  steep-up  heavenly  hiU, 


Resembling  strong  youth  in  his  middle  age. 
Yet  mortal  looks  adore  his  beauty  still. 
Attending  on  his  golden  pilgrimage  ; 
But  when  from  high-most  pitch,  with  weary  car, 
Like  feeble  age,  he  reeleth  from  the  day. 
The  eyes,  'fore  duteous,  now  converted  are 
From  his  low  tract,  and  look  another  way : 
So  thou,  thyself  outgoing  in  thy  noon, 
Unlook'd  on  dicst,  unless  thou  get  a  son. — 7. 

Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  thou  music  sadly? 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy. 
Why  lov'st  thou  that  which  thou  receiv'st  not  gladly  ] 
Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasui-e  thine  annoy  ? 
If  the  true  concord  of  well-tuned  sounds. 
By  unions  manied,  do  oflend  thine  ear. 
They  do  but  sweetly  chide  thee,  who  confounds 
In  singleness  the  pai-ts  that  thou  shouldst  bear. 
Mark  how  one  string,  sweet  husband  to  another, 
Strikes  each  in  each  by  mutual  ordermg  ; 
Resembling  sire  and  child  and  happy  mother. 
Who  all  in  one,  one  pleasmg  note  do  sing : 

Whose  speechless    song,    being   many,    seeming 
one. 

Sings  this  to  thee,   '  Thou  single  wilt  prove  none. 

—8. 

For  shame  !  deny  that  thou  bear'st  love  to  any, 
Who  for  thyself  art  so  unpro^ddent. 
Grant,  if  thou  wilt,  thou  art  belov'd  of  many. 
But  that  thou  none  lov'st  is  most  evident ; 
For  thou  art  so  possess'd  with  murderous  hate, 
That  'gainst  thyself  thou  stick'st  not  to  conspii-e  ; 
Seeking  that  beauteous  roof  to  ruinate, 
Which  to  repah-  should  be  thy  chief  desire. 
0  change  thy  thought  that  I  may  change  my  mind 
Shall  hate  be  fau-er  lodg'd  than  gentle  love  ? 
Be  as  thy  presence  is,  gracious  and  kind. 
Or  to  thyself,  at  least,  kind-hearted  prove  ; 
Make  thee  another  self,  for  love  of  me. 
That  beauty  still  may  live  in  thine  or  thee.— 10. 

Is  it  for  fear  to  wet  a  widow's  eye. 
That  thou  consum'st  thyself  in  single  life? 
Ah  !  if  thou  issueless  shalt  hap  to  die. 
The  world  will  wail  thee,  hke  a  makeless  wife : 
The  world  will  be  thy  widow,  and  still  weep. 
That  thou  no  form  of  thee  hast  left  behind, 
When  every  private  widow  well  may  keep. 
By  children's  eyes,  her  husband's  shape  in  mind. 
Look,  what  an  un thrift  in  the  world  doth  spend, 
Shifts  but  his  place,  for  stUl  the  world  enjoys  it : 
But  beauty's  waste  hath  in  the  world  an  end. 
And  kept  unus'd,  the  user  so  destroys  it. 
No  love  toward  othei-s  in  that  bosom  sits, 
That  on  himself  such  murderous  shame  commite. 

—9 

As  fast  as  thou  shalt  wane,  so  fast  thou  grow'st 
In  one  of  thine,  from  that  which  thou  departest ; 
And  that  fresh  blood  which  youngly  thou  bestow'st, 
Thou  mayst  call  thine,  when  thou  from  youth  con- 

vertest. 
Herein  lives  wisdom,  beauty,  and  increase ; 

476 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Without  this,  folly,  ago,  and  cold  decay  : 
If  all  were  minded  so,  the  times  should  cease, 
A.nd  threescore  years  would  make  tho  world  away. 
Let  those  whom  Nature  hath  not  made  for  store, 
Harsh,  featureless,  antl  rude,  barrenly  perish  : 
Look,  whom  she  best  endowM,  she  gave  thee  more  ; 
^Vhich    bounteous    gift    thou    shouldst    in  bounty 
cherish  : 
She  carVd  thee  for  her  seal,  and  meant  thereby 
Thou  shouldst  print  more,  nor  let  that  copy  die. 

—11. 


Wlien  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time, 
And  see  tho  bravo  day  sunk  in  hideous  night ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime. 
And  sable  curls,  all  silver'd  o'er  with  white  ; 
\Vhen  lofty  trees  I  see  ban  en  of  leaves, 
\Vhich  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 
Borne  on  the  bier  wth  white  and  bristly  beard  ; 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  tho  wastes  of  time  must  go. 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake, 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make  de- 
fence 

Save  breed,   to  brave  him  when  he   takes  thee 
hence. — 12. 


0  that  you  wcro  yourself !  but,  love,  you  Are 
No  longer  yours  than  you  yourself  here  lire  : 
Against  this  coming  end  j'ou  should  prepare. 
And  youi'  sweet  semblance  to  some  other  give. 
So  should  that  beauty  which  you  hold  in  lease 
Find  no  determination  :  then  you  were 
Yourself  again,  after  yourself 's  decease, 
When  your  sweet  issue  your  sweet  fonn  should 

bear. 
Who  lets  so  fair  a  house  fall  to  decay. 
Which  husbandr}-  in  honour  might  uphold 
Against  the  stormy  gusts  of  winter's  day. 
And  barren  rage  of  death's  eternal  cold  ? 

0  !    none    but    unthrifts ; — Dear   my   love,    you 
know 

You  had  a  father ;  let  your  son  say  so. — 13. 


Not  from  the  stars  do  I  my  judgment  pluck  ; 
And  yet  methinks  I  have  astronomy. 
But  not  to  tell  of  good  or  evil  luck, 
Of  plagues,  of  dearths,  or  season's  quality  ; 
Nor  can  I  fortune  to  brief  minutes  tell. 
Pointing  to  each  his  thunder,  rain,  and  wind. 
Or  say,  with  princes  if  it  shall  go  well. 
By  oft  predict  that  I  in  heaven  find  : 
But  from  thine  eyes  my  knowledge  T  derive. 
And  (constant  stars)  in  them  I  read  such  art. 
As  truth  and  beauty  shall  together  thrive. 
If  from  thyself  to  store  thou  wouldst  convert : 
Or  else  of  thee  this  I  progrnosticate. 
Thy  end  ia  truth's  and  beauty's  doom  and  date. 

476 


When  I  consider  everything  that  grow.-} 
Holds  in  perfection  but  a  little  moment, 
That  this  huge  state  presenteth  nought  but  shows 
Whereon  the  stars  in  secret  influence  comment : 
^Vhen  I  perceive  that  men  as  plants  increase, 
Chcer'd  and  check'd  ever  by  the  selfsame  sky  ; 
Vaunt  in  their  youthful  sap,  at  height  decrease. 
And  wear  their  brave  state  out  of  memory ; 
Then  tho  conceit  of  this  inconstant  stay 
Sots  you  most  rich  in  yovith  before  my  sight, 
\Vhcro  wasteful  time  debateth  with  decay. 
To  change  your  day  of  youth  to  sullied  night ; 
And,  all  in  war  with  time,  for  love  of  you. 
As  ho  takes  from  you,  I  engraft  you  new. — 15. 


But  wherefore  do  not  you  a  mightier  way 

Make  war  upon  this  bloody  tyrant.  Time  ? 

And  fortify  yourself  in  your  decay 

With  means  more  blessed  than  my  barren  rhyme? 

Now  stand  j'ou  on  the  top  of  hai")py  hoirrs  ; 

And  many  maiden  gardens,  yet  unset, 

With  virtuous  wish  would  bear  your  living  flowers. 

Much  liker  than  your  painted  counterfeit  : 

So  should  the  lines  of  life  that  life  repair. 

Which  this.  Time's  pencil,  or  my  pupil  pen. 

Neither  in  inward  worth,  nor  outward  fair. 

Can  make  you  live  yourself  in  ej'cs  of  men. 

To  give  away  yourself,  keeps  youi-self  still ; 

And  you  must  live,  drawn  by  your  own  sweet  skill. 

—16. 


Who  will  believe  my  verse  in  time  to  come. 
If  it  were  fill'd  ^\-ith  youi-  most  high  deserts? 
Though  yet  Heaven  knows  it  is  but  as  a  tomb 
Which  hides  your  life,   and   shows  not  half  yo»ir 

parts. 
If  I  could  write  the  beauty  of  your  ej'Cs, 
And  in  fresh  numbers  number  all  your  graces. 
The  age  to  come  would  say,  this  poet  lies, 
Such  heavenly  touches  ne'er  touch'd  earthly  faces. 
So  should  my  papers,  yellow'd  with  their  age. 
Be  scom'd  like  old  men  of  less  truth  than  tongue  ; 
And  your  true  rights  bo  term'd  a  poet's  rage, 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song  : 
But  were  some  child  of  yours  alive  that  time. 
You  should  live  twice  ; — in  it,  aad  in  my  rhyme. 

—17. 


Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  d.iy  ? 

Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 

Rough  winds  do  shake  tho  darling  buds  of  May, 

And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  : 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines. 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd  ; 

And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines. 

By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd  ; 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 

Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade. 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest ; 


ILLUSTEATION   OF   THE  SONNETS. 


So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 

So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. — 18. 

Devouring  Time,  blunt  thou  the  lion's  paws. 
And  make  the  earth  devour  her  own  sweet  brood  ; 
Pluck  the  keen  teeth  from  the  fierce  tiger's  jaws, 
And  burn  the  long-liVd  phcenix  in  her  blood  ; 
Make  glad  and  sorry  seasons,  as  thou  fleets. 
And  do  whate'er  thou  wilt,  swift-footed  Time, 
To  the  wide  world,  and  all  her  fading  sweets ; 
But  I  forbid  thee  one  most  heinous  crime  ; 
0  carve  not  with  thy  hours  my  love's  fair  brow, 
Nor  draw  no  lines  there  with  thine  antique  pen ; 
Him  in  thy  course  untainted  do  allow, 
For  beauty's  pattern  to  succeeding  men. 

Yet,  do  thy  worst,  old  Time  :  despite  thy  wrong. 
My  love  shall  in  my  verse  ever  live  young. — 19. 

That  this  series  of  Sonnets,  powerful  as  they  are, 
displaying  not  only  the  most  abundant  variety  of 
imagery,  but  the  gi-eatest  fehcity  in  making  the 
whole  harmonious,  constitutes  a  poem  ambitious 
only  of  the  honours  of  a  work  of  Art,  is  we  think 
manifest.  If  it  had  been  addressed  to  a  real  person, 
no  other  object  could  have  been  proposed  than  a 
display  of  the  most  brilliant  ingenuity.  In  the 
next  age  it  would  have  been  called  an  exquisite 
"copy  of  verses."  But  in  the  next  age,  probably — 
certainly  in  our  own — the  author  would  have  been 
pronounced  arrogant  beyond  measure  in  the  anti- 
cipation of  the  immortaUty  of  his  rhymes.  There  is 
a  show  of  modesty,  indeed,  in  the  expressions 
"barren  rhyme"  and  "pupil  pen;"  but  that  is 
speedily  east  off,  and  "eternal  summer"  is  promised 
through  "  eternal  lines ;"  and 

"  So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee." 

Eegarding  these  nineteen  Sonnets  as  a  continuous 
poem,  wound  up  to  the  climax  of  a  hyperbolical 
promise  of  immortaUty  to  the  object  whom  it 
addresses,  we  receive  the  20th  Sonnet  as  the  com- 
mencement of  another  poem  in  which  the  same 
idea  is  retained.  The  poet  is  bound  to  the  youth 
by  ties  of  strong  affection ;  but  nature  has  called 
upon  the  possessor  of  that  beauty 

'  Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls  amazeth," 

to  cultivate  closer  ties.  This  Sonnet,  through  an 
utter  misconception  of  the  language  of  Shakspere's 
time,  has  produced  a  comment  suflBciently  odious 
to  throw  an  impleasant  shade  over  much  which 
follows.  The  idea  which  it  contains  is  continued 
in  the  53rd  Sonnet;  and  we  give  the  two  in 
connexion : — 

A  woman's  face,  with  nature's  own  hand  painted, 
Hast  thou,  the  master- mistress  of  my  passion ; 
A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 
With  shifting  change,  as  is  false  women's  fashion  ; 


An  eye  more  bright  than  theu-s,  less  false  in  rolling, 

Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth  ; 

A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling. 

Which    steals    men's    eyes,    and    women's    soubi 

amazeth. 
And  for  a  woman  wert  thou  first  created  ; 
TiU  Nature,  as  she  wrought  tliee,  fell  a-doting. 
And  by  addition  me  of  thee  defeated. 
By  adding  one  thing  to  my  purpose  nothing. 

But    since    she    prick'd    theo    out    for    women's 

pleasure. 
Mine    be    thy    love,    and    thy   love's    use    their 
treasure. — 20. 

What  is  yovu:  substance,  whereof  are  j'ou  made. 
That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend  ? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one's  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you  ; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set. 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new  : 
Speak  of  the  spring  and  foizon  of  the  year ; 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show. 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear. 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part, 
But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant  heart. 

-53. 

Between  the  20th  Sonnet  and  the  53rd  occur, 
as  it  appears  to  us,  a  number  of  fragments  which 
we  have  variously  classified ;  and  which  seem  to 
have  no  relation  to  the  praises  of  that  "unknown 
youth"  who  has  been  supposed  to  preside  ovei 
five-sixths  of  the  entire  series  of  verses.  We  have 
little  doubt  that  the  "  begetter "  of  the  Sonnets 
was  not  able  to  beget,  or  obtain,  all ;  and  that 
there  is  a  considerable  hiatus  between  the  20th 
Sonnet  and  the  second  hyperboUcal  close,  which 
he  filled  up  as  well  as  he  could,  from  other 
"sugared  sonnets  amongst  private  friends : " — 

0  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem. 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give  ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  Uve. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses. 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses : 
But,  for  their  \-irtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd  and  unrespected  fade  ; 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made : 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
^Vhen  that  shall  fade,  by  verse  distils  your  truth. 

—51. 

Not  marble,  not  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme  ; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 
Than  unswept  stone,  besraear'd  with  sluttish  time. 

477 


I 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 

Nor  JIars  his  sword  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  bum 

The  Unng  record  of  youi"  memory. 

'Gainst  death  and  all  oblivious  enmity 

Shall  you  pace  forth ;   your  praise  shall  still  find 
room. 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So  till  the  judgment  that  yoiuself  arise. 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. — 55. 

Wherever  we  meet  with  these  magnificent  pro- 
mises of  the  immortaUty  which  the  poet's  vci-ses 
are  to  bestow,  wo  find  them  associated  with  that 
personage,  the  representative  at  once  of  "Adonis" 
and  of  "Helen,"  who  presents  himself  to  us  as 
the  unreal  coinage  of  the  fancy.  In  many  of  the 
lines  which  we  have  given  in  the  second  division 
of  this  inquiry,  the  reader  w^ll  have  noticed  the 
affecting  modesty,  the  humility  without  abasement, 
of  the  great  poet  comparing  himself  with  othei-s. 
Here  Shakspere  indeed  speaks.  For  example,  take 
the  whole  of  the  32nd  Sonnet.  "We  should  scarcely 
imagine,  if  the  poem  were  continuous  as  Mr.  Brown 
believes,  that  the  last  stanza  of  the  second  portion 
of  it  in  his  classification  would  conclude  with  these 
lines: — 

"  Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  Ihis  powerful  rhyme." 

They  contrast  remarkably  witli  the  tone  of  the  32nd 
Sonnet, — 

"  These  poor  rude  Una  of  thy  deceased  lover." 

Mercs   has    a   passage :    "  As    Ovid    saith    of  his 
works — 

'  Jamque  opus  exegi  quod  nee  Jovis  ira,  nee  ignis, 
Nee  poterit  ferrum,  ncc  edax  abolere  vetustas; ' 

and  as  Horace  saith  of  his, 

'  Exegi  monumentum  aere  perennius,'  S;c. ; 

so  say  /  severally  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's,  Spenser's, 
Daniel's,  Drayton's,  Shakespeare^ s,  and  Warner's 
works."  What  Ovid  and  Horace  said  is  imitated 
in  the  55th  Sonnet.  But  wo  greatly  doubt  if  what 
Meres  would  have  said  of  Shakspere  he  would  have 
said  of  himself,  except  in  some  assumed  character, 
to  which  we  have  not  the  key.  Ben  Jonson,  to 
whom  a  boastful  spirit  has  with  some  justice  been 
objected,  ne^•er  said  anything  so  strong  of  his  own 
writings ;  and  ho  wrote  with  too  much  reliance,  in 
this  and  other  particulars,  upton  classical  examples. 
But  Jonson  was  not  a  writer  of  Sonnets,  which, 
pitched  in  an  artificial  key,  made  this  boastful 
tone  a  constituent  part  of  the  whole  performance. 
The  man,  who  never  once  speaks  of  his  own 
merits  in  the  greatest  productions  of  the  human 
intellect,  when  ho  put  on  the  imaginary  character 
in  which  a  poet  is  weaving  a  fiction  out  of  his 
supposed  personal  relations,  did  not  hesitate  to 
conform  himself  to  the  pi-actice  of  other  masters 
478 


of  the  art.  Shakspere  hero  adopted  the  tone 
which  Spenser,  Daniel,  and  Drayton  had  adopted. 
The  parallel  appears  to  us  very  remarkable ;  and 
we  must  beg  the  indulgence  of  our  readers  while 
we  present  them  a  few  passages  from  each  of 
these  writers. 

And  first  of  Spenser.  His  27th  Sonnet  will 
furnish  an  adequate  notion  of  the  general  tono 
of  his  'Amorctti,'  and  of  the  self-exaltation  which 
appears  to  belong  to  this  species  of  poem  : — 

"  Fair  Proud  1  now  tell  me,  why  should  fair  be  proud, 
Sith  all  world's  glory  is  but  dross  unclean. 
And  in  the  shade  of  death  itself  shall  shroud. 
However  now  thereof  ye  little  ween ! 
That  goodly  idol,  now  so  gay  beseen, 
Shall  doff  her  flesh's  borrow'd  fair  attire ; 
And  be  forgot  as  it  had  never  been  ; 
That  many  now  much  worship  and  admire  ! 
Ne  any  then  shall  after  it  inquire, 
Ne  any  mention  shall  thereof  remain. 
But  what  tliis  verse,  that  never  shall  expire. 
Shall  to  you  purchase  with  her  thankless  pain  ! 
Fair!  be  nn  longer  proud  of  that  shall  perish. 
But  that,  which  shall  you  make  immortal,  cherish." 

And  the  69th  Sonnet  is  still  more  like  the  model 
upon  which  Shakspere  formed  his  55  th  : — 

"  The  famous  warriors  of  the  antique  world 
Used  trophies  to  erect  in  stately  wise. 
In  which  they  would  the  records  have  enroU'd 
Of  their  great  deeds  and  valorous  emprise. 
What  trophy  then  shall  I  most  fit  devise. 
In  which  I  may  record  the  memory 
Of  my  love's  conquest,  peerless  beauty's  prize 
Adorn'd  with  honour,  love,  and  chastity? 
Even  this  verse,  vow'd  to  eternity, 
ShaU  be  thereof  immortal  monument ; 
And  tell  her  praise  to  all  posterity. 
That  may  admire  such  world's  rare  wonderment ; 
The  happy  purchase  of  my  glorious  spoil, 
Gotten  at  last  with  labour  and  long  toil." 

Spenser's  75th  Sonnet  also  thus  closes : — 

"  My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  6tcrnize, 
And  in  the  heavens  write  j'our  glorious  name. 
Where,  when  as  Death  shall  all  the  world  subdue. 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew." 

Of  Daniel's  Sonnets,  the  41st  and  42nd  furnish 
examples  of  the  same  tone,  though  somewhat  moro 
subdued  than  in  Shakspere  or  Spenser  : — 

"  Be  not  displeas'd  that  these  my  papers  should 
Bewray  unto  the  world  how  fair  thou  art ; 
Or  that  my  wits  have  show'd  the  best  they  could 
(The  chastest  flame  that  ever  wanned  heart  1) 
Think  not,  sweet  Delia,  this  shall  be  thy  shame. 
My  muse    should    sound    thy  praise  with  mournful 

warble; 
IIow  many  live,  the  glory  of  whose  name 
Shall  rest  in  ice,  when  thine  is  grav'd  in  marble! 
Thou  mayst  in  after  ages  live  esteem'd, 
Unburied  in  these  lines,  rcscrv'd  in  pureness ; 
These  shall  entomb  those  eyes,  that  have  redeera'd 
Me  from  the  vulgar,  thee  from  all  obscurcncss. 
Although  my  c.ircful  accents  never  mov'd  thee, 
Yet  count  it  no  disgrace  that  I  have  lov'd  thee.'' 


4 


1 


•* 


'i 

4 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Delia,  these  eyes,  that  so  admire  thine, 

Have  seen  those  walls  v,-hich  proud  ambition  rear'd 

To  check  the  world ;  liow  they  entomb'd  have  lien 

Within  themselves,  and  on  them  ploughs  have  ear'd. 

Yet  never  found  that  barbarous  hand  attain'd 

The  spoil  of  fame  deserv'd  by  virtuous  men ; 

Whose  glorious  actions  luckily  had  gain'd 

The  eternal  annals  of  a  happy  pen. 

And  therefore  grieve  not  if  thy  beauties  die ; 

Though  time  do  spell  thee  of  the  fairest  veil 

That  ever  yet  covei'd  mortality; 

And  must  enstar  the  needle  and  the  raU. 

That  grace  which  dolh  more  than  enwoman  thee, 
Lives  in  my  lines,  and  must  eternal  be." 

But  Drayton,  if  he  display  not  the  energy  of 
Shakspere.  the  fancy  of  Spenser,  or  the  sweetness  of 
Daniel,  is  not  behind  either  in  the  extravagance  of 
his  admiration,  or  his  confidence  in  his  own  power. 
The  6th  and  the  44th  "  Ideas  "  are  sufiBcient  exam- 
ples ; — 

"  How  many  paltry,  foolish,  painted  things. 
That  now  in  coaches  trouble  every  street, 
Shall  be  forgotten,  whom  no  poet  sings. 
Ere  they  be  well  wrapp'd  in  their  winding-sheet ! 
When  I  to  thee  eternity  shall  give. 
When  nothing  else  remaineth  of  these  days. 
And  queens  hereafter  shall  be  glad  to  live 
Upon  the  alms  of  thy  superfluous  praise; 
Virgins  and  matrons,  reading  these  my  rhymes. 
Shall  be  so  much  delighted  with  thy  story, 
That  they  shall  grieve  they  liv'd  not  in  these  times, 
To  have  seen  thee,  their  sex's  only  glory  : 
So  thou  Shalt  fly  above  the  vulgar  throng. 
Still  to  sur^'ive  in  my  immortal  song." 

"  Whilst  thus  my  pen  strives  to  eternize  thee, 
Age  rules  my  lines  with  wrinkles  in  my  face, 
Where,  in  the  map  of  all  my  misery. 
Is  modell'd  out  the  world  of  my  disgrace ; 
Whilst  in  despite  of  tyrannizing  rhymes, 
Medea-like,  I  make  thee  young  again, 
Proudly  thou  scorn'st  my  world-outwearing  rhymes. 
And  murther'st  virtue  with  thy  coy  disdain ; 
And  though  in  youth  my  youth  untimely  perish, 
To  keep  thee  from  oblivion  and  the  grave. 
Ensuing  ages  yet  my  rhymes  shall  cherish, 
Where  I  entomb'd  my  better  part  shall  save ; 
And  though  this  earthly  body  fade  and  die. 
My  name  shall  mount  upon  eternity." 

We  now  proceed  to  what  appears  another  continu- 
ous poem  amongst  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  addressed 
to  the  same  object  as  the  first  nineteen  stanzas  were 
addressed  to,  and  devoted  to  the  same  admu-ation 
of  his  personal  beauty.  The  leading  idea  is  now 
that  of  the  spoils  of  Time,  to  be  repaired  only  by 
the  immortality  of  vei-se  : — 

Where  art  thou,  Muse,  that  thou  forgett'st  so  long 
To  speak  of  that  wHch  gives  thee  aU  thy  might  ? 
Spend' st  thou  thy  fury  on  some  worthless  song,_ 
Darkening  thy  power,  to  lend  base  subjects  light  ? 
Return,  forgetful  Muse,  and  straight  redeem 
In  gentle  numbers  time  so  idly  spent ; 
Sing  to  the  ear  that  doth  thy  lays  esteem, 
And  gives  thy  pen  both  skill  and  argument. 


Rise,  resty  Muse,  my  love's  sweet  face  survey. 
If  Time  have  any  wrinkle  graven  there  ; 
If  any,  be  a  satire  to  decay, 
And  make  Time's  spoils  despised  everywhere. 

Give  my  love  fame  faster  than  Time  wastes  life  ; 

So  thou  prevent' st  his  scythe  and  crooked  knife. 

—100. 


0  truant  Muse,  what  shall  be  thy  amends 
For  thy  neglect  of  truth  in  beauty  dy'd  ? 
Both  tnith  and  beauty  on  my  love  depends ; 
So  dost  thou  too,  and  therein  dignified. 
Make  answer.  Muse  :  wilt  thou  not  haply  say, 
'  Truth  needs  no  colour  with  his  colour  fix'd, 
Beauty  no  pencil,  beauty's  truth  to  lay  ; 
But  best  is  best,  if  never  intermix'd  ? ' 
Because  he  needs  no  praise,  wilt  thou  be  dumb  ? 
Excuse  not  silence  so  ;  for  it  Hes  in  thee 
To  make  him  much  outlive  a  gilded  tomb, 
And  to  be  prais'd  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

Then  do  thy  ofiice,  liluse  ;  I  teach  thee  how 
To  make  him  seem  long  hence  as  he  shows  now. 

—101. 


My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seem- 
ing; 
I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear  ; 
That  love  is  merchandis'd  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  everywhere. 
Our  love  was  new,  and  then  but  in  the  spring. 
When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays  ; 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing. 
And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days  : 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the  night. 
But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough. 
And  sweets  gi-own  common  lose  their  dear  delight. 
Therefore,  Uke  her,  I  sometime  hold  my  tongue. 
Because  I  would  not  dtill  you  with  my  song.— 102. 


Alack  !  what  poverty  my  Muse  brings  forth, 
That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  pride. 
The  argument,  all  bare,  is  of  more  worth. 
Than  when  it  hath  my  added  praise  beside. 
0  blame  me  not  if  I  no  more  can  write  ! 
Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  appears  a  face 
That  overgoes  my  bl\mt  invention  quite, 
Dulling  my  lines,  and  doing  me  disgrace. 
Were  it  not  sinful  then,  striving  to  mend, 
To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well  ? 
For  to  no  other  pass  my  verses  tend, 
Than  of  your  graces  and  your  gifts  to  tell ; 

And  more,  much  more,  than  in  my  verse  can  sit. 
Your  own  glass  shows  you,  when  you  look  m  it. 


To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyod, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  stUl.     Three  winters'  cold 
Have  from  the  forest  shook  three  summers'  pnde  ; 

479 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  THE  SONNFIS. 


Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  tuni'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 

Tlirce  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  bum'd, 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 

Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial  hand. 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceiv'd  ! 

So    your    sweet    hue,    which    methinks    still    doth 

stand. 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceiv'd. 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred. 
Ere  you  were  bom,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

-^104. 


Let  not  my  love  be  called  idolatry, 
Nor  my  beloved  as  an  idol  show, 
Since  all  alike  my  songs  and  praises  be. 
To  one,  of  one,  still  such,  and  ever  so. 
Kind  is  my  love  to-daj',  to-moiTOw  kind, 
Still,  constant  in  a  wondrous  excellence  ; 
Therefore  my  verse,  to  constancy  confin'd. 
One  thing  expressing,  leaves  out  difference. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  is  all  my  argument. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  varying  to  other  words ; 
And  in  this  change  is  my  invention  spent. 
Three  themes  in  one,  which  wondrous  scope  affoi-ds. 
Fair,  kind,  and  true,  have  often  liv'd  alone, 
Which  three,  till  now,  never  kept  seat  in  one. 

—105. 


WTien  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme. 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefigviring ; 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  di\'ining  eyes. 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing  : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

—106. 


Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  Goul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come. 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  lore  control, 
Suppos'd  as  forfeit  to  a  confin'd  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endur'd. 
And  the  sad  augvirs  mock  their  own  presage  ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assur'd. 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  subscribes, 
Since  spite  of  him  I  '11  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
W"  ile  he  in.snlt3  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes. 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  mqnumont, 
^\'hen  tj-rants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 

-107. 
480 


What 's  in  the  bi-ain  that  ink  may  character. 
Which  hath  not  figur'd  to  thee  my  true  spirit  ? 
What's  now  to  speak,  what  new  to  register, 
That  may  express  my  love,  or  thy  dear  merit  ? 
Nothing,  sweet  boy  ;  but  yet,  like  prayers  divino, 
I  must  each  day  say  o'er  the  very  same  ; 
Counting  no  old  thing  old,  thou  mine,  I  thine, 
Even  as  when  fii-st  I  hallow'd  tby  fair  name. 
So  that  eternal  love  in  love's  fresh  ca.se 
Weiglis  not  the  dust  and  injury  of  ago, 
Nor  gives  to  necessary  wrinkles  place, 
But  makes  antiquity  for  aye  his  page  ; 

Finding  the  first  conceit  of  love  there  bred, 
Where  time  and    outward   form  would  show  it 
dead.— 108. 


If  there  bo  nothing  new,  but  that  which  is 
Hath  been  before,  how  are  our  brains  beguil'tl, 
Which  labouring  for  \n^  ention  'oear  ami.'is 
The  second  burthen  of  a  former  child  ! 
0,  that  record  could  with  a  backward  look. 
Even  of  five  hundred  courses  of  the  sun, 
Show  me  your  image  in  some  antique  book. 
Since  mind  at  first  in  character  was  done  ! 
That  I  might  see  what  the  old  world  could  say 
To  this  composed  wonder  of  your  frame  ; 
Whether  we  are  mended,  or  whe'r  better  they, 
Or  whether  revolution  be  the  same. 

Oh  !  sure  I  am,  the  wits  of  former  days 

To  subjects  worse  have  given  admiring  praise. 

-59. 


Like    as    the   waves    make    towards    the    pebbled 

shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before. 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown' d, 
Crooked  ecUpses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  sot  on  youth. 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow  ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth. 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow. 
And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verso  shall  stand. 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. — 60. 


Of  these  eleven  stanzas  nine  are  consecutive  in  the 
original,  being  numbered  100  to  108.  The  other 
two,  the  69th  and  COth,  are  certainly  isolated  in  the 
fii-st  an-angemcnt ;  but  the  idea  of  the  lOSth  glides 
into  the  COth,  and  closes  appropriately  with  the 
GOth.  But  there  is  a  short  poem  which  stands  com- 
pletely alone  in  the  original  edition,  the  12Cth  ;  and 
it  is  remarkable  for  being  of  a  different  metrical 
character,  wanting  the  distinguishing  feature  of  the 
Sonnet  in  its  number  of  lines.  Its  general  tendency, 
however,  connects  it  with  those  which  we  have  just 
given : — 


ILLUSTEATION  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


0  thou,  my  lovely  boy,  who  in  thy  power 
Dost  hold  Time's  fickle  glass,  his  sickle,  hour  ; 
Who  hast  by  waning  grown,  and  therein  show'st 
Thy  lovers  withering,  as  thy  sweet  self  grow'st ! 
If  Nature,  sovereign  mistress  over  wrack, 
As  thou  goest  onwards,  still  will  pluck  thee  back, 
She  keeps  thee  to  this  pm-pose,  that  her  skill 
May  time  disgrace,  and  -ivretched  minutes  kill. 
Yet  fear  her,  0  thou  minion  of  her  pleasure  ; 
She  may  detain,  but  not  stUl  keep  her  treasure  : 
Her  audit,  though  delay'd,  answer'd  must  be. 
And  her  quietus  is  to  render  thee. — 126. 


There  is  an  enemy  as  potent  as  Time,  who  cuts 
down  the  pride  of  youth  as  the  flower  of  the  field. 
That  enemy  is  Death ;  and  the  poet  most  skilfully 
presents  the  images  of  mortality  to  his  "  lavely  boy" 
in  connexion  with  the  decay  of  the  elder  friend.  In 
this  portion  of  the  poem  there  is  a  touching  simplicity, 
which,  however,  is  intermingled  with  passages  which, 
denoting  that  the  Poet  is  still  speaking  in  character, 
take  the  stanzas,  in  some  degree,  out  of  the  lunge  of 
the  real : — 


My  glass  shall  not  persuade  me  I  am  old. 
So  long  as  youth  and  thou  are  of  one  date  ; 
But  when  in  thee  time's  furrows  I  behold, 
Then  look  I  death  my  days  should  expiate. 
For  all  that  beauty  that  doth  cover  thee 
Is  but  the  seemly  raiment  of  my  heart, 
Which  in  thy  breast  doth  li^■e,  as  thine  in  me ; 
How  can  I  then  be  elder  than  thou  art  ? 
0  therefore,  love,  be  of  thyself  so  waiy. 
As  I  not  for  myself  but  for  thee  will ; 
Bearing  thy  heart,  which  I  will  keep  so  chary 
As  tender  nurse  her  babe  from  faring  ill. 

Presume  not  on  thy  heart  when  mine  is  slain ; 

Thou  gav'st  me  thine,  not  to  give  back  again. — 22. 


Sin  of  self-love  possesseth  Jill  mine  eye, 
And  all  my  soul,  and  all  my  every  pai-t ; 
And  for  this  sia  there  is  no  remedy. 
It  is  so  gi-ounded  inward  in  my  heart. 
Methinks  no  face  so  gracious  is  as  mine. 
No  shape  so  true,  no  truth  of  such  account, 
And  for  myself  mine  own  worth  do  define, 
As  I  all  other  in  all  worths  sm-mount. 
But  when  my  glass  shows  me  myself  indeed, 
Beated  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity, 
Mine  own  self-love  quite  contrary  I  read. 
Self  so  self -loving  were  iniquity. 
'T  is  thee  (myself)  that  for  myself  I  pi-aise, 
Painting  my  age  with  beauty  of  thy  days.— 62. 


Against  my  love  shaU  be,  as  I  am  now. 

With  Time's  injurious  hand  crush'd  and  o'erwom  ; 

When  hours  have  drain'd  his  blood,  and  fill'd  his 

brow 
With  lines  and  wrinkles  ;  when  his  youthful  mom 


'rRAOEDiES,  &c. — Vol.  II. 


21 


Hath  travell'd  on  to  age's  steepy  ni^ht ; 

And  all  those  beauties,  whereof  now  Le'e  king. 

Are  vanishing  or  vanish'd  out  of  sight. 

Stealing  away  the  treasure  of  his  spring ; 

For  such  a  time  do  I  now  fortify 

Against  confovmding  age's  cruel  knife. 

That  ho  shall  never  cut  from  memory 

My  sweet  love's  beauty,  though  my  lover's  life. 
His  beauty  shall  in  these  black  lines  be  seen. 
And  they  shall  live,  and  he  in  them,  still  green. 

—63. 


^Vhen  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defac'd 
The  rich-proud  cost  of  outworn  bui-ied  age  ; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  sec  down-ras'd, 
And  brass  eternal,  slave  to  mortal  rage ; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  wat'ry  main. 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store  ; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state. 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay  ; 
Paiin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  i-uminate — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. — 64. 


Since  brass,   nor  stone,   nor  earth,  nor  boundless 

sea, 
But  sad  moi-taUty  o'ereways  their  power. 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
0,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
"Wlien  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout. 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  deca}*s  ? 
0  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack  ! 
Shall    Time's    best   jewel    from    Time's    chest    lie 

hid? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 
0  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might. 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  stiU  shine  bright. 

—65. 


Tir'd  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, — 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  bom. 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'din  jollity. 
And  piirest  faith  unhappily  forawom, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplac'd. 
And  maiden  wtue  rudely  .^trumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgrac'd, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled. 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly  (doctor-like)  controlling  skill. 
And  simple  tmth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 

Tir'd  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. — QQ. 


ILLUSTEATIOX  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Ah  !  wherefore  with  infection  should  ho  live, 
And  wth  his  presence  grace  impiety, 
That  sin  by  bim  advantage  should  achieve, 
And  luce  itself  with  bis  society  ? 
Why  should  false  painting  imitate  his  cheek, 
And  steal  dead  seeing  of  his  living  hue  ? 
Why  should  poor  beauty  indirectly  seek 
Roses  of  shadow,  since  his  rose  is  true  ? 
Why  should  he  live  now  Nature  bankrupt  is, 
Beggar'd  of  blood  to  blush  through  lively  veins  ? 
For  she  hath  no  exchequer  now  but  his. 
And,  proud  of  many,  lives  upon  his  gains. 

0,  him  she  stores,  to  show  what  wealth  she  had, 
In  days  long  since,  before  these  last  so  bad. — 67. 


Thus  4s  his  cheek  the  map  o'f  days  outworn. 
When  beauty  liv'd  and  died  as  flowei-s  do  now. 
Before  these  bastard  signs  of  fair  were  born, 
Or  durst  inhabit  on  a  living  brow  ; 
Before  the  golden  tresses  of  the  dead. 
The  right  of  sepulchres,  were  shorn  awa}-, 
To  live  a  second  life  on  second  head. 
Ere  beauty's  dead  fleece  made  another  gay  : 
In  him  those  holy  antique  hours  are  seen, 
Without  all  ornament,  itself,  and  true, 
Making  no  summer  of  another's  green, 
Robbing  no  old  to  dress  his  beauty  new ; 
And  him  as  for  a  map  doth  Nature  store. 
To  show  false  Art  what  beauty  was  of  yore. — OS. 


Those  parts  of  thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth  view 
Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  heaits  can  mend  : 
All  tongues  (the  voice  of  souls)  give  thee  that  due. 
Uttering  bai-e  truth,  even  so  as  foes  commend. 
Thine  outward  thus  with  outward  praise  is  crown'd  ; 
But  those  same  tongues  that  give  thee  so  thine  own. 
In  other  accents  do  this  praise  confound. 
By  seeing  farther  than  the  eye  hath  shown. 
They  look  into  the  beauty  of  thy  mind, 
And  that,  in  guess,  they  measure  by  tliy  deeds  ; 
Then  (churls)  their  thoughts,   although  their  eyes 

were  kind, 
To  thy  fair  flower  add  the  rank  smell  of  weeds  : 
But  why  thy  odour  matcheth  not  thy  show, 
The  solve  is  this, — that  thou  dost  common  grow. 

—69. 

That  thou  art  blam'd  shall  not  be  thy  defect. 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  susi^ect, 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time  : 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love, 
And  thou  prescnt'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of  young  days. 
Either  not  assail'd,  or  victor  being  charg'd ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise. 
To  tie  up  envy,  evermore  enlarg'd  : 
If  some  suspect  of  ill  mask'd  not  thy  show. 
Then  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts  shonldst  owe. 

—70. 
482 


No  longer  mouni  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  j'ou  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  lied 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  lino,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe, 
0,  if  (I  sa}')  you  look  upon  this  verse. 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  claj', 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse  ; 
But  lot  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay  : 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  j'ou  with  me  after  I  am  gone. — 71. 


0,  lest  the  world  should  task  you  to  recite 
What  merit  Uv^d  in  me,  that  you  should  love 
After  my  death, — dear  love,  forget  me  quite. 
For  J'OU  in  mo  can  nothing  worthy  prove  ; 
Unless  you  would  devise  some  virtuous  lie. 
To  do  more  for  me  than  mine  o^^^l  desert. 
And  hang  more  praise  upon  deceased  I 
Than  niggard  truth  would  willingly  impart  : 
0,  lost  your  true  love  may  seem  false  in  this. 
That  you  for  love  speak  well  of  me  untrue. 
My  name  be  buried  where  my  body  is, 
And  live  no  more  to  shame  nor  me  nor  you. 
For  I  am  sham'd  by  that  which  I  bring  forth. 
And  so  should  you,  to  love  things  nothing  worth. 

—72 


That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  mo  behold 
When  yellovsr  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold. 
Bare  ruin'd  chou'S,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twiUght  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  awaj'. 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  mth  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

—73, 

But  be  contented  :  when  that  fell  an-est 

Without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away, 

My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest. 

Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay. 

When  thou  reviewcst  this,  thou  dost  review 

The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee. 

The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due  ; 

My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  i)art  of  me. 

So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  hfe. 

The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead  ; 

The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife. 

Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that,  is  that  which  it  contains. 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  thee  remains— 7^. 


ILLUSTEATION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 
Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten  ; 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 
Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  Ufe  shall  have, 
Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die  : 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  gi-ave, 
^Vhen  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  Ue. 
Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse. 
Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read  ; 
And  tongues  to  be,  your  being  shall  reheai-se, 
^\^len  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead  ; 
You  still  shall  live  (such  virtue  hath  my  pen) 
Where  breath  most  breathes, — even  in  the  mouths 
of  men. — 81. 


Thirteen  of  these  stanzas,  the  62nd  to  the  74th,  follow 
in  their  original  order.  The  first  of  the  fifteen,  the 
22nd  Sonnet,  stands  quite  alone,  although  its  idea  is 
continued  in  the  62nd.  The  last  of  the  series,  the 
81st,  not  only  stands  alone,  but  actually  cuts  ofi"  the 
undoubted  connexion  between  the  SOth  and  the  82nd 
Sonnets.  The  71st  to  the  74th  Sonnets  seem  bursting 
from  a  heart  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  its  own  un- 
worthiness,  and  smrendered  to  some  overwhelming 
misery.  There  is  a  line  in  the  74th  which  points  at 
suicide.  We  cling  to  the  belief  that  the  sentiments 
here  expressed  are  essentially  di-amatic.  In  the  32nd 
Sonnet,  where  we  recognise  the  man  Shakspere  speak- 
ing in  his  own  modest  and  cheerful  spirit,  death  is  to 
come  across  his  "well-contented  day."  The  opinion 
which  we  have  endeavoured  to  sustain  of  the  probable 
admixture  pf  the  artificial  and  the  real  in  the  Sonnets, 
arising  from  their  supposed  original  fragmentary 
state,  necessarily  leads  to  the  belief  that  some  are 
accurate  illustrations  of  the  poet's  situation  and 
feelings.  It  is  collected  from  these  Sonnets,  for 
example,  that  his  profession  as  a  player  was  dis- 
agreeable to  him  ;  and  this  complaint  is  foimd 
amongst  those  portions  which  we  have  separated 
from  the  series  of  verses  which  appeal*  to  us  to  be 
written  in  an  artificial  character;  it  might  be  ad- 
dressed to  any  one  of  his  family,  or  some  honoured 
fi-iend,  such  as  Lord  Southampton  ; — 

"  O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 

But  if  from  his  professional  occupation  his  nature 
was  felt  by  him  to  be  subdued-to  what  it  worked  in, 
— if  thence  his  name  received  a  brand, — if  vulgar 
scandal  sometimes  assailed  him,  —  he  had  high 
thoughts  to  console  him,  such  as  were  never  before 
imparted  to  mortal.  This  was  probably  wi-itten  in 
some  period  of  dejection,  when  his  heart  was  ill  at 
ease,  and  he  looked  upon  the  world  with  a  slight 
tinge  of  indifference,  if  not  of  dislike.  Every  man 
of  high  genius  has  felt  something  of  this.  It  was 
reserved  for  the  highest  to  throw  it  off,  "hke  dew- 

212 


drops  from  the  lion's  mane."  But  the  profound  self- 
abasement  and  despondency  of  the  74th  Sonnet, 
exquisite  as  the  diction  is,  appear  to  us  unreal,  as  a 
representation  of  the  mental  state  of  William  Shak- 
spere ;  written,  as  it  most  probably  was,  at  a  period 
of  his  life  when  he  revels  and  luxuriates  (in  the 
comedies  which  belong  to  the  close  of  the  sixteenth 
century)  in  the  spirit  of  enjoyment,  gushing  from  a 
heart  full  of  love  for  his  species,  at  peace  %vith  itself 
and  with  all  the  world. 

We  have  thus,  if  we  have  not  been  led  away  by 
imaginary  associations,  connected  the  verses  ad- 
dressed to 

"  The  world's  fresh  ornament, 
And  only  herald  to  the  gaudy  spring," 

in  a  poem,  or  poems,  of  fifty  stanzas,  written  upon  a 
plan  by  which  it  is  obviously  presented  as  a  work  of 
fiction,  in  which  the  poet  displays  his  art  in  a  style 
accordant  with  the  existing  fashion  and  the  example 
of  other  poets.     The  theme  is  the  personal  beauty  of 
a  wonderful  youth,  and  the  strong  affection  of  a  poet. 
Beauty  is  to  be  perpetuated  by  marriage,  and  to  be 
immortalized  in  the  poet's  verses.     Beauty  is  gradu- 
ally to  fade  before  Time,  but  is  to  be  still  immor- 
talized.    Beauty  is  to  yield  to  Death,  as  the  poet 
himself  yields,  but  its  memorj-  is  to  endure  in  '•eter- 
nal lines."     Separating  from  this  somewhat  monoto- 
nous theme  those  portions  of  a  hundred  and  fifty-four 
Sonnets  which  do  not  appear  essentially  to  belong  to 
it,  we  sepai-ate,  as  we  believe,  more  or  less,  what  has 
a  personal  interest  in  these  compositions  from  what 
is  meant  to  be  dramatic — the  real  from  the  fictitious. 
Our  theory,  we  well  know,  is  liable  to  many  objec- 
tions ;  but  it  is  based  upon  the  unquestionable  fact 
that  these  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  Sonnets  cannot 
be  received  as  a  continuous  poem  upon  any  other 
principle  than  that  the  author  had  ^Titten  them 
continuously.     If  there  are  some  parts  which  are 
acknowledged  interpolations,  may  there  not  be  othei 
parts  that  are  open  to  the  same  beUef  ?    If  there  ai-e 
parts  entirely  difierent  in  their  tone  from  the  bulk  oi 
these  Sonnets,  may  we  not  consider  that  one  portion 
was  meant  to  be  artificial  and  another  real, — that  the 
poet  sometimes  spoke  in    an    assumed  character, 
sometimes  in  a  natural  one  ?    This  theory  we  know 
could  not  hold  if  the  poet  had  himself  arranged  the 
sequence  of  these  verses  ;  but  as  it  is  manifest  that 
two   stanzas    have    been  introduced  from  a  poem 
printed  ten  years  earlier,— that  others  are  acknow- 
ledged to  be  out    of  order,    and  others  positively 
dragged  in  without  the  slightest  connexion,— may 
we  not    carry    the    separation    still    further,    and, 
believing    that  the    "  begetter  "—the    getter-up— of 
these  Sonnets  had  leaded    contributions    upon   all 
Shakspere's    "  private    friends,"— assume    that    he 
was  indifi'erent  to   any  arrangement  which  might 
make  each  portion  of  the  poem  tell  its  own  history? 
There  is  one  decided  advantage  in   the  separation 
which  wo  have  proposed— the  idea  with  which  the 
series  opens,  and  which  is  carried,  here  and  there, 
in  the    original,    through    the    fii-st    hundred    and 
twenty-six    Sonnets,    does    not    now  over-ride  the 
whole  of  the  series.     The   separate   parts   may  be 

483 


ILLUSTEATIOX  OF  THE  SOI^NETS. 


road  with  more  pleasure  when  they  are  relieved 
from  this  strained  and  exaggerated  association. 


There  are  three  points  connected  with  the  opinion 
wo  have  fonned  with  regard  to  the  entire  scries  of 
Sonnets,  which  wo  must  briefly  notice  before  we 
leave  the  subject. 

The  first  is,  the  inconsistencies  which  obviously 
present  themselves  in  adopting  the  theory  that  the 
series  of  Sonnets — or  at  least  the  first  hundred  and 
twent^-'Six  Sonnets — are  addressed  to  one  person.  It 
is  not  our  intention  to  discuss  the  question  to  whom 
they  were  addressed,  which  question  depends  upon 
the  adoption  of  the  theory  that  thay  are  addi-cssed  to 
one.  Diuke's  opinion  that  they  were  addressed  to 
Lord  Southampton  rests  upon  the  belief  that  Shak- 
spere  looked  up  to  some  friend  to  whom  they  point, 
"with  reverence  and  homage."  The  later  theory, 
that  William  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  was  theu- 
object,  is  supported  by  the  facts,  derived  from  Claren- 
don and  othei-s,  that  he  was  "  a  man  of  noble  and 
gallant  character,  though  alwaj^s  of  a  licentious 
life."  W.  H.  is  held  to  be  WiUiam  Herbert;  and 
Mr.  Hallam  says,  "  Proofs  of  the  low  moi-al  character 
of  'W.  H.'  are  continual."  We  venture  to  think 
that  the  term  "  continual "  is  somewhat  loosely  ap- 
plied. The  one  "  sensual  fault,"  of  which  tho  poet 
complauis,  is  obscurely  hinted  at  in  the  33rd,  34th, 
35th,  40th,  41st,  and  42nd  stanzas ;  and  the  general 
faults  of  his  friend's  character,  from  which  the  injury 
proceeded,  are  summed  up  in  the  94th,  95th,  and 
96th.  We  shall  search  in  vain  throughout  the  hun- 
dred and  fifty-four  Sonnets  for  any  similar  indica- 
tions of  the  "low  moral  character"  of  the  person 
addressed.  But  tho  supposed  continuity  of  the  poem 
impUes  arrangement,  and  therefore  consistency,  in 
the  author.  In  the  41st  stanza  the  one  fiiend,  accord- 
ing to  this  theory,  is  reproached  for  the  treachery 
which  is  involved  in  the  indulgence  of  his  passions. 
The  poet  says  "  thou  noightst 

"  chide  thy  beauty  and  thy  straying  youth, 
Who  led  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  thou  art  forc'd  to  break  a  two-fold  truth." 

Again,  in  the  95th  stanza  we  have  these  lines : — 

"  How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame, 
_    Which,  like  a  canker  in  tlie  fragrant  rose. 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name  !' 

And, 

"  O,  what  a  mansion  have  those  vices  got, 
Which  for  tbeii  habitation  chose  out  thee  1 " 

Here  are  not  only  secret  "  vices,"  but  "  shame  "  de- 
facing the  character.  " Tongues "  make  "lascivious 
comments"  on  the  story  of  his  days.  Is  it  to  this 
jxjrson  that  in  the  69th  Sonnet  we  have  these  lines 
addres.scd  ? — 

"  Those  parts  of  thee  that  the  world's  eye  doth  view 
Want  nothing  that  the  thought  of  hearts  can  mend." 

Is  it  to  this  person  that  the  70th  Sonnet  is  devoted,  in 
wluch  are  these  remarkable  words  ? — 
484 


"  Thou  present'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of'young  days. 
Either  not  assaiVd,  or  victor  being  charg'd." 

Those  hues,  bo  it  remembered,  occur  between  tho 
fii"st  reproof  for  licentiousness  in  the  41st  stanza,  and 
tho  repetition  of  tho  blame  in  tho  95th.  Surely,  if 
tho  poem  is  to  bo  taken  as  continuous,  and  as  ad- 
dressed to  owe  person,  such  contradictions  would  make 
us  believe  that  tho  whole  is  based  on  unreality,  and 
that  the  poet  was  satisfied  to  utter  the  wildest  incon- 
sistencies, merely  to  produce  verses  of  exquisite 
beauty,  but  of  "  true  no-meaning." 

The  second  point  to  which  wo  would  briefly  re- 
quest attention  is  the  supposed  date  of  tho  series  of 
Sonnets.  The  date  must,  it  is  evident,  be  settled  in 
some  measiu-e  according  to  the  presiding  belief  in 
the  person  to  whom  they  arc  held  to  bo  addressed. 
Mr.  Hallam,  who  thinks  tho  hypothesis  of  William 
Herbert  suflSciently  proved  to  demand  our  assent, 
says,  "  Pembroke  succeeded  to  his  father  in  1601 : 
I  incline  to  think  that  tho  Sonnets  were  written  about 
that  time,  some  i)robably  earlier,  some  later."  Pem- 
broke was  bom  in  1580.  Now,  in  the  eai'lier  Sonnets, 
according  to  the  hj'pothesis,  he  might  bo  called 
"beauteous  and  lovely  youth,"  or  "sweet  boy;" 
but  Southampton  could  not  be  so  addressed  unless 
the  earlier  Sonnets  were  written  even  before  tho  de- 
dication of  the  Venus  and  Adonis  to  him,  in  1593  ; 
for  Southampton  was  bom  in  1573.  Further,  it  is 
said  that,  whilst  the  pei-son  addressed  was  one  who 
stood  "  on  the  top  of  happy  hours,"  the  poet  who 
addressed  him  was 

"  Beated  and  chopp'd  with  tann'd  antiquity," 

as  in  the  62nd  Sonnet ; 

"  With  Time's  injurious  hand  crush'd  and  o'crworn, 

as  in  the  63rd ;  and  approaching  the  termination  of 
his  career,  as  so  exquisitely  described  in  the  73rd  : — 

'•  That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  afcer  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  takeaway, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  dealh-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 
strong 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long." 

Most  distinctly  in  this  pai-ticular  portion  of  tho 
Sonnets  the  extreme  youth  of  the  person  addressed 
is  steadily  kept  in  view.  But  some  are  written 
earlier,  ,somc  later ;  time  is  going  on.  In  tho  104th 
Sonnet  the  poet  says  that  three  winters,  three 
springs,  and  three  summers  have  passed 

"  Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green.' 


ILLUSTEATIOX  OF  THE  SONNETS. 


But,  carrying  on  the  principle  of  continuity,  we  find 
that  in  the  138th  Sonnet  the  poet's  "days  are  past 
the  best ; "  and  he  adds — 

"  And  wherefore  say  not  1  that  I  am  oldf" 

That  Sonnet,  we  have  here  to  repeat,  was  pub- 
lished in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  when  the  poet  was 
thirty-five.  But  let  us  endeavour  to  find  one  more 
gleam  of  light  amidst  this  obscurity.  In  one  of  the 
Sonnets  in  which  the  poet  upbraids  his  friend  with 
his  licentiousness,  the  94th,  we  have  these  lines  : — 

"  The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds." 

The  thought  is  here  quite  perfect,  and  the  image  of 
the  last  line  is  continued  from  the  11th  and  12th, 
ending  in  a  natural  climax.  But  we  have  precisely 
the  same  line  as  the  last  in  a  play  of  Shakspere's 
age,  one,  indeed,  which  has  been  attributed  to  him- 
self, 'The  Eeign  of  King  Edward  III.'  Let  us  tran- 
scribe the  passage  where  it  occurs,  in  the  scene 
where  Warwick  exhorts  his  daughter  to  resist  the 
dangerous  addresses  of  the  King : — 

"  That  sin  doth  ten  times  aggravate  itself 
That  is  committed  in  a  holy  place  : 
An  evil  deed  done  by  authority 
Is  sin  and  subornation :  Deck  an  ape 
In  tissue,  and  the  beauty  of  the  robe 
Adds  but  the  greater  scorn  unto  the  beast. 
A  spacious  field  of  reasons  could  I  urge 
Between  his  glory,  daughter,  and  thy  shame  : 
That,  poison  shows  worst  in  a  golden  cup  ; 
Dark  night  seems  darker  by  the  lightning  flash  ; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds; 
And  every  glory  that  inclines  to  sin, 
The  shame  is  treble  by  the  opposite." 

We  doubt,  exceedingly,  whether  the  author  of  the 
94th  Sonnet,  where  the  image  of  the  festering  lilies 
is  a  portion  of  the  thought  which  has  preceded  it, 
would  have  transplanted  it  from  the  play,  where  it 
stands  alone  as  an  apophthegm.  It  seems  more  pro- 
bable that  the  author  of  the  play  would  have  bor- 
rowed a  line  from  one  of  the  "sugared  sonnets 
amongst  private  friends."  The  extreme  fastidious- 
ness required  in  the  composition  of  the  Sonnet,  ac- 
cording to  the  poetical  notions  of  that  day,  would 
not  have  warranted  the  adaptation  of  a  line  from  a 
drama  "  sundry  times  played  about  the  city  of  Lon- 
don," as  the  title-page  teUs  us  this  was ;  but  the 
play,  without  any  injury  to  its  poetical  reputation 
(to  which,  indeed,  in  the  matter  of  plays,  little  re- 
spect was  paid),  might  take  a  line  from  the  Sonnet. 
Our  reasoning  may  be  defective,  but  our  impression 
of  the  matter  is  very  strong.  The  play  was  published 
in  1596,  after  being  "sundry  times  played"  in  dif- 
ferent theatres.  William  Herbert  must  have  begun 
his  cai-eer  of  licentiousness  uniisually  early,  and 
have  had  time  to  make  a  friend  and  abuse  his  con- 
fidence before  he  was  fifteen — if  the  line  is  original 
in  the  Sonnet. 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim  contains  a  Sonnet,  not  in 
the  larger  collection — not  forming,  it  would  be  said, 
any  part  of  that  continuous  poem : — 

"  If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree. 
As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother, 
Then  must  the  love  be  great  'twixt  thee  and  me, 
Because  thou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense ; 
Spenser  to  me,  whose  deep  conceit  is  such 
As,  passing  all  conceit,  needs  no  defence. 
Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 
That  Phoebus'  lute,  the  queen  of  music,  makes  ; 
And  I  in  deep  delight  am  chiefly  drown'd, 
.  Whenas  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 

One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign  ; 

One  knight  loves  both,  and  both  in  thee  remain." 

Now,  poor  Spenser  died,  heart-broken,  in  January, 
1599.     The  first  three  books  of  the  '  Fairy  Queen, 
to  which  the  words  "  deep  conceit"  are  supposed  to 
allude,  were  printed  in  1590,  the  three  other  books 
in  1596.     Spenser,   pressed  down  by  pubUc  duties 
and  misfortunes,  published  nothing  after.     The  Son- 
net speaks  of  a  living  composer,  Dowland,  who  was 
in  repute  as  early  as  1590  ;  and  it  was  probably  writ- 
ten during  the  first  burst  of  the  glory  which  a  living 
poet  derived  from  his  greatest  work.  The  "getter-up" 
of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  found  it,  as  he  found 
others,    circulating  amongst  Shakspere's   "private 
friends."    But  how  did  it  part  company  vrith  many 
in  the  larger  collection  which  resemble  it  in  tone? 
Why  was  it  not  transfen-ed  to  the  larger  collection, 
as  two  other  Sonnets  were  transferred  ?    Because,  in 
1598,  it  was  published  in  a  collection  of  poems  writ- 
ten by  Richard  Barnefield,  and  the  "getter-up"  of 
the  Sonnets  knew  not  whether  to  assign  it  to  Shak- 
spere  or  not.     That  it  bears  the  mark  of  Shakspere's 
hand  we  think  is  imquestionable.    And  this  leads  us 
to  the  last  point  to  which  we  shall  very  briefly  draw 
the  reader's  attention — the  doubt  which  has  been 
stated  whether  the  hundred  and  fifty-four  Sonnets 
published  in  1609  were  the  same  as  Meres  mentioned, 
in  1598,  as  amongst  the  compositions  of  Shakspere, 
and  familiar  to  his  "private  friends."     Mr.  HalLxu 
thinks  they  are  not  the  same,  "  both  on  account  of 
the  date,  and  from  the  peculiarly  personal  allusions 
they  contain."  One  of  the  strongest  of  the  "personal 
allusions"  is  contained  in  the  144th,  originally  printed 
in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim.    Where  could  the  printer 
of  The  Passionate  PDgrim  have  obtained  that  Sonnet 
except    from    some    one    of   Shakspere's   "private 
friends  ? "    If  he  so  obtained  it,  why  might  not  the 
collector  of  the  volume  of  1609  have  obtained  others 
of  a  similar  character  from  a  similar  source  ?  Would 
such  productions  have  been  circulated  at  all  if  they 
had  been  held  to  contain  "  peculiarly  personal  allu- 
sions? "    If  these  are  not  tho  Sonnets  which  circu- 
lated amongst  Shakspere's  "private  friends,"  where 
are  those  Sonnets?    Would  Meres  have  spoken  of 
them  as  calling  to  mind  the  sweetness  of  Ovid  if 
only  those  published  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  had 
existed,  many  of  which  were  "Verses  to  Music," 
afterwards  printed  as  such  ?    ^Vhy  should  those  Son- 
nets only  have  been  printed  which  contain,  or  aro 

485 


ILLUSTKATIOX  OF  THE  SONKETS. 


suj)ix)sed  to  contain,  "peculiarly  personal  allusions?" 
The  title-page  of  the  collection  of  1609  is  '  Shakc- 
Boearo's  Sonnets.'  We»can  only  reconcile  those  mat- 
ters with  oxir  belief  that  in  1609  were  printo<l,  with- 
out the  cognizance  of  the  author,  all  the  Sonnets 
which  could  bo  found  attributed  to  Shakspere  ;  that 
some  of  these  formed  a  group  of  continuous  poems  ; 
that  some  were  detached  ;  that  no  exact  order  could 
be  preserved  ;  and  that  accident  has  arranged  them 
in  the  form  in  which  they  first  were  handed  down 
to  us. 

If  we  have  succeeded  in  producing  satisfactorj' 
evidence  that  many  of  the  Sonnets  are  not  presented 
in  a  natui-al  and  proper  order  in  the  original  edition, 
— if  we  have  shown  that  there  is  occasionally  not 
only  a  digression  from  the  prevailing  train  of  thought, 
by  the  introduction  of  an  isolated  Sonnet  amongst  a 
groitp,  but  a  jarring  and  unmeaning  interruption  to 
that  train  of  thought, — we  have  established  a  case 
that  the  original  arrangement  is  no  part  of  the  poet's 
work,  because  that  arrangement  violates  the  prin- 
ciples of  art,  which  Shakspere  clings  to  with  such 
marvellous  judgment  in  all  his  other  productions. 
The  inference,  therefore,  is  that  the  author  of  the 
Sonnets  did  not  sanction  their  publication — certainly 
did  not  superintend  it.     This,  we  think,   may  be 
proved  bj'  another  course  of  argument.     The  edition 
of  1609,  although,  taken  as  a  whole,  not  very  inac- 
curate, is  full  of  those  typographical  errors  which 
invariably  occur  when  a  manuscript  is  put  into  the 
bands  of  a  printer  to  deal  with  it  as  he  pleases,  with- 
out reference  to  the  author,  or  to  any  comp>etent 
editor,  upon  any  doubtful  points.     Malone,  in  a  note 
upon  the  77th  Sonnet,  very  ti-uly  caj's,  "  27tw,  their 
and  thy  are  so  often  confounded  in  these  Sonnets, 
that  it  ia  only  by  attending  to  the  context  that  we 
can  discover  which  was  the 'author's  word."     He  is 
3f)eaking  of   the   original    edition.      It  is  evident, 
therefore,  that  in  the  progress  of  the  book  through 
the  press  there  was  no  one  capable  of  deciphering 
the  obscurity  of  the  manuscript  by  a  regard  to  the 
context.     The  manuscript,   in   all  probability,  was 
nade  up  of  a  copy  of  copies ;  so  that  the  printer 
sven  was  not  responsible  for  those  errors  which  so 
ilearly  show  the  absence  of  a  presiding  mind  in  the 
jonduct  of  the  printing,     ilalone  has  suggested  that 
these  constantly  recurring  mistakes  in   the   use  of 
this,  their,  thy,  and  tlune,  probably  originated  in  the 
words  being  abbreviated  in  the  manuscript,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  the  time.     But  this  species  of 
mistake  is  by  no  means  uniform.     For  example  : 
from  the  43rd  to  the  4Sth  Sonnet  these  errors  occur 
with  remarkable  frequency  :  in  one  Sonnet,  the  46th, 
this  species  of  mistake  happens  four  times.     But  we 
read  on,  and  presently  find  that  we  may  trust  to  the 
printed  copy,  which  does  not  now  violate  the  con- 
text.    What  can  we  infer  from  this,  but  that  the 
separate  poems  were  printed  from  different  manu- 
scripts  in  which  various  systems   of  writing  were 
employed, — some  using  altbreviations,  some  reject- 
ing them?    If  the  orie  poem,  as  the  first  hundred 
and  twenty-six  Sonnets  are  called,  Iwid  been  printed 
either  from  the  author's  manuscript,  or  from  an  uni- 
form copy  of  the  author's  manuscript,  such  differ- 
4SG 


encos  of  systematic  error  in  some  places,  and  of 
systematic  correctness  in  others,  would  have  been 
very  unlikely  to  have  occitrred.  If  tho  poem  had 
been  printed  under  the  author's  eye  their  existence 
would  have  been  impossible. 

The  theory  that  tho  first  hundred  and  twenty- 
six  Sonnets  were  a  continuous  poem,  or  poems,  ad- 
dressed to  one  person,  and  that  a  verj'  young  man — 
and  that  tho  greater  portion  of  tho  remaining  twenty- 
eight  Sonnets  had  reference  to  a  female,  with  whom 
there  was  an  illicit  attachment  on  the  part  of  the  poet 
and  the  young  man — involves  some  higher  difficulties, 
if  it  is  assumed  that  tho  publication  was  authorized 
by  the  author,  or  by  the  person  to  whom  they  are 
held  to  be  addressed.  Could  Shakspere,  in  1609, 
authorize  or  sanction  their  publication  ?  He  was 
then  living  at  Stratford,  in  the  enjoyment  of  wealth  ; 
ho  was  forty-five  years  of  age ;  he  wa-s  naturally 
desirous  to  associate  ■with  himself  all  those  <ar- 
cumstances  which  constitute  respectability  of  cha- 
racter. If  the  Sonnets  had  regard  to  actual  circum- 
stances connected  with  his  previous  career,  would 
he,  a  husband,  a  father  of  two  daughters,  have 
authorized  a  publication  so  calculated  to  degrade 
him  in  the  eyes  of  his  family  and  his  associates, 
if  the  verses  could  bear  the  construction  now  put 
upon  them?  We  think  not.  On  the  other  hand, 
did  the  one  person  to  whom  they  are  held  to  be  ad- 
dressed sanction  their  publication  ?  Would  Lord 
Pembroke  have  suffered  himself  to  be  styled  "W. 
H.,  the  only  begetter  of  these  ensuing  Sonnets" — 
plain  Mr.  W.  H. — he,  a  nobleman,  with  all  the  pride 
of  birth  and  i-ank  about  him — and  represented  in  these 
poems  as  a  man  of  licentious  habits,  and  treacherous 
in  his  licentiousness?  The  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in 
1609,  had  attained  gi-eat  honours  in  his  political  and 
learned  relations.  In  the  first  year  of  James  I.  he 
was  made  a  Knight  of  the  Gartfir ;  in  1G05,  upon  a 
visit  of  James  to  Oxford,  he  received  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts ,  in  1607  he  was  appointed  Governor 
of  Portsmouth ,  and  more  than  all  these  honoui-s,  he 
was  placed  in  tho  highest  station  by  public  opinion  ; 
he  was,  as  Clarendon  describes,  "  the  most  univer- 
sally beloved  and  esteemed  of  any  man  of  that  age." 
Was  this  the  man,  in  his  mature  years,  distinctly  to 
sanction  a  publication  which  it  was  undei-stood  re- 
corded his  profligac}-  ?  He  was  of  "excellent  parts, 
and  a  graceful  speaker  upon  any  subject,  having  a 
good  proportion  of  learning,  and  a  ready  wit  to  apply 
to  it,"  says  Clarendon.  Is  there  in  the  Sonnets  the 
slightest  allusion  to  tho  talents  of  the  one  person  te 
whom  they  are  held  to  bo  addressed  ?  If,  then,  tho 
publication  was  not  authorized,  in  either  of  the  modes 
assumed,  wc  havo  no  warrant  whatever  for  having 
regard  to  the  original  order  of  the  Sonnets,  and  in 
assuming  a  continuity  lecause  of  that  order.  What 
then  is  tho  alternative  ?  That  tho  Sonnets  were  a 
collection  of  "Sib)iline  leaves"  rescued  from  tho 
perishableness  of  their  written  state  by  some  person 
who  had  access  to  tho  high  and  brilliant  circle  in 
which  Shaksjiero  was  esteemed ;  .and  that  this  per- 
son's scrap-book,  necessarily  imperfect,  and  pretend- 
ing to  no  order,  found  its  way  to  the  hands  of  a 
bookseller,  who  was  too  happy  to  give  to  that  age 


ILLUSTRATIOX   OF  THE   SOCKETS. 


what  its  most  distingiiished  man  had  ■written  at 
various  periods,  for  his  own  amusement,  and  for  the 
gratification  of  his  "private  friends." 


II 


We  subjoin,  for  the  more  ready  information  of 
those  who  may  be  disposed  to  examine  for  themselves 
the  question  of  the  order  of  Shakspere's  Sonnets  (and 
it  really  is  a  question  of  great  interest  and  rational 
curiosity),  the  results  of  the  two  opposite  theories — 
of  their  exhibiting  almost  perfect  continuity,  on  the 
one  hand  ;  and  of  their  being  a  mere  collection  of 
fragments,  on  the  other.  The  one  theory  is  illus- 
trated with  much  ingenuity  by  Mr.  Brown  ;  the 
other  was  capriciously  adopted  by  the  editor  of  the 
collection  of  1640. 

Mb.  Brown's  Division  into  Six  Poems. 

First  Poem.— Stanzas  i.  to  sisyi.  To  his  Friend, 
persuading  him  to  Many. 

Second  Poem.— Stanzas  xxvii.  to  Iv.  To  his  Friend, 
who  had  robbed  him  of  his  Mistress— forgivmg 
him. 

Third  Poem.— Stanzas  Ivi.  to  Ixxvii.  To  his  Friend, 
complaining  of  his  Coldness,  and  warning  him 
of  Life's  Decay. 

Fourth  Pom.— Stanzas  Ixxviii.  to  ci.  To  his  Friend, 
complaining  that  he  prefers  another  Poet's 
Praises,  and  reproving  him  for  faults  that  may 
injure  his  character. 

Fifth  Poem.— Stanzas  cii.  to  cxxvi.  To  his  Friend, 
excusing  himself  for  having  been  some  time  si- 
lent, and  disclaiming  the  charge  of  Inconstancy. 

Sixth  Poem.- Stanzas  cxxvii.  to  cUi.  To  his  I\Iis- 
tress,  on  her  Infidelity. 

Abbangesient  of  the  Edition  of  1640. 

•»*  In  this  arrangement  the  greater  part  of  the 
Poems  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  are  blended, 
and  are  here  marked  P.  P.  In  this  Collection 
the  following  Sonnets  are  not  found  :— 18,  19, 
43,  56,  75,  76,  96,  126. 

The  Glory  of  Beauty.     [67,  68,  69.] 

Injurious  Time.     [60,  63,  64,  65,  66.] 

True  Admiration.     [53,  54.] 

The  Force  of  Love.     [57,  58.] 

The  Beauty  of  Nature.     [59.] 

Love's  Cruelty.     [1,  2,  3.] 

Youthful  Glory.     [13,  14,  15.] 

Good  Admonition.     [16,  17.] 

Quick  Prevention.     [7-] 

Magazine  of  Beauty.     [4,  5,  6.] 

An  Invitation  to  Marriage.     [8,  0,  10,  11,  12.] 

False  BeHef.     [138.] 

A  Temptation.     [144.] 

Fast  and  Loose.     [P.  P.  1-] 

True  Content.     [21.] 

A  bashful  Lover.     [23.] 


Strong  Conceit.     [22.] 
A  sweet  Provocation,     [P.  P.  11.] 
A  constant  Vow.     [P.  P.  3.] 
The  Exchange.     [20.] 
A  Disconsolation.     [27,  28,  29.] 
Cruel  Deceit.     [P.  P.  4.] 
The  Unconstant  Lover.     [P.  P.  5.] 
The  Benefit  of  Friendship.     [30,  31,  32.] 
Friendly  Concord.     [P.  P,  6.] 
Inhumanity.     [P.  P.  7.] 
A  Congratulation.     [38,  39,  40.] 
Loss  and  Gain.     [41,  42.] 
Foolish  Disdain.     [P.  P.  9.] 
Ancient  Antipathy.     [P.  P.  10.] 
Beauty's  Valuation.     [P.  P.  11.] 
Melancholy  Thoughts.     [44,  45.] 
Love's  Loss,     [P.  P.  8.] 

Love's  EeUef.     [33,  34,  35.]  * 

Unanimity.     [36,  37.] 
Loth  to  Depart.     [P.  P.  12,  13.] 
A  Masterpiece.     [24.] 
Happiness  in  Content.     [25.] 
A  Dutiful  Message.     [26.] 
Go  and  come  quickly.     [50,  51.] 
Two  Faithful  Friends.     [46,  47.] 
Careless  Neglect.     [48.] 
Stout  Eesolution.     [49.] 
A  Duel.     [P.  P.  14.] 
Love-sick.    [P.  P.  15.] 
Love's  Labour  Lost.     [P.  P.  16.] 
Wholesome  Counsel.     [P.  P.  17.] 
Sat  fuisse.     [62.] 
A  hving  Monument.     [55.] 
Familiarity  breeds  Contempt     [52.] 
Patiens  Annatus.     [61.] 
A  Valediction.     [71,  72,  74.] 
Nil  magnis  Invidia .     [70.] 
Love-sick.     [80,  81.] 
The  Picture  of  true  Love.     [116.] 
In  Praise  of  his  Love.     [82,  83,  84,  85.] 
A  Resignation.    [86,  87.] 
Sympathising  Love.     [P.P.  18.] 
A  Request  to  his  Scornful  Love.    [88,  89,  90,  91.] 
A  Lover's  Affection,  though  his  Love  prove  Uncon- 
stant.    [92,  93,  94,  95.] 

Complaint  for  his  Lover's  Absence.     [97,  98,  99.] 

An  Invocation  to  his  INIuse.     [100,  101.] 

Constant  Affection.     [104,  105,  106.] 

Amazement.    [102,  103.] 

A  Lover's  Excuse  for  his  long  Absence.     [109,  110.1 

A  Complaint.     [Ill,  112.] 

Self-flattery  of  her  Beauty.     [113,  114,  115.] 

A  Ti-ial  of  Love's  Constancy.     [117,  118,  119.] 

Agood  Construction  of  his  Love's  Unkindness.  [120.] 

Error  in  Opinion.     [121.] 

Upon  the  Receipt  of  a  Table-Book  from  his   Mis- 
tress.   [122.] 

A  Vow.     [123.] 

Love's  Safety.     [124.] 

An  Entreaty  for  her  Acceptance.    [125.] 

Upon  her  playing  upon  the  Virginals.     [128.] 

Immoderate  Lust.     [1-9.] 

In  praise  of  her  Beauty,  though  Black.    [127,  130, 

i  131, 132.] 

487 


ILLUSTliiVTION   OF  THE  SONNETS. 


Unkind  Abuse.    [133,  134.] 

Love-suit.     [135,  136.] 

His  Heart  wounded  by  her  Eye.     [137,  139,  110.] 

A  Protestation.     [Ill,  M2.] 

An  Allusion.     [113.] 

Life  and  Death.     [145.] 

A  Consideration  of  Death.     [146.] 


Immoderate  Passion.     [147.] 

Love's  powerful  Subtilty.     [148,  149,  150.] 

Rctiliation.     [78,  7t).] 

Sunset.     [73,  77.] 

A  Monument  to  Fame.    [107,  108.' 

Perjury.     [151,  152.] 

Cupid's  Ti-caohery.     [153, 15  L] 


.,  i^^'^'ty 


From  off  a  hill  whose  concave  womb  re-worded'' 
A  plaintful  story  from  a  sistering  vale, 
My  spirits  to  attend  this  double  voice  accorded, 
An'd  down  I  laid  ^  to  list  the  sad-tun'd  talc : 
Ere  long  espied  a  fickle  maid  fuU  pale, 
Tearing  of  papers,  breaking  rings  a-twain, 
Storming  her  world  with  sorrow's  wind  and  rain. 

Upon  her  head  a  platted  hive  of  straw. 
Which  fortified  her  visage  from  the  sun. 
Whereon  the  thought  might  think  sometime  it 

saw 
The  carcase  of  a  beauty  spent  and  done. 
Time  had  not  scythed  all  that  youth  begun, 
Nor  youth  all  quit ;  but,  spite  of  Heaven's  fell 

rage, 
Some  beauty  peep'd  through  lattice  of  sear'd 

age. 

a  Re- worded — echoed. 

^  Laid.  So  the  original.  But  it  is  usually  more  correctly 
printed  lay.  Tlie  idiomatic  grammar  of  ShaUspere's  age 
ought  not  to  be  removed. 


Oft  did  she  heave  her  napkin  ^  to  her  cyne. 
Which  on  it  had  conceited  chai-acters,'' 
Laund'ring "  the  silken  figures  in  the  brine 
That  season'd  woe  had  pelleted  ^  in  tears. 
And  often  reading  what  contents  it  bears  ; 
As  often  shrieking  undistinguish'd  woe. 
In  clamours  of  all  size,  both  high  and  low. 

Sometimes  her  Icvell'd  eyes  their  carriage  ride, 
As  they  did  battery  to  the  spheres  intend ;  * 
Sometimes  diverted  their  poor  balls  are  tied 
To  th'  orbed ^eartli :  sometimes  they  do  extend 
Their  view  right  on ;  anon  their  gazes  lend 

»  2V(7pA-;n— handkerchief.  Emilia  says,  of  Desdcmona's 
fatal  handkerchief — 

"  I  am  slad  I  have  found  this  napkin." 

b  Conceited  characters — fanciful  figures  worked  on  the 
handkerchief. 

c  Laund'riMi — washing:. 

d  Pelleted— iormed  into  pellets,  or  small  balls. 

e  Shakspere  often  employs  the  metaphor  of  a  piece  of 
ordnance;  but  what  in  his  jdays  is  generally  a  sliphl  allusion 
here  becomes  a  somewhat  quaint  conceit. 

f  Th'  orbed.  We  retain  orbed  as  a  dissyllabic,  according 
to  the  original.     Mr.  Dyce  has  the  orb'd. 

491 


A  LOVER'S   COMPLAINT. 


To  every  place  at  once,  and  nowhere  Gx'd, 
The  mind  and  sigl>t  distractedly  coinnnx.'d. 

Her  hair,  nor  loose,  nor  tied  hi  formal  plat, 
Proclauu'd  iu  her  a  careless  hand  of  pride  ; 
For  some,  untuck'd,   descended  her  sheaY'd*^ 

hat, 
Hanging  her  pale  and  pined  cheek  beside ; 
Some  in  her  threadcn  fillet  still  did  bide. 
And,  true  to  bondage,  would  not  break  from 

thence, 
Though  slackly  braided  in  loose  negligence. 

A  thousand  favours  from  a  maund^  she  di'cw 
Of  amber,  crystal,  and  of  bedded  jet,' 
AYliich  one  by  one  she  in  a  river  threw, 
Upon  whose  weeping  margcut  she  was  set ; 
Like  usury,  applying  wet  to  M-et, 
Or  monarch's  hands,  that  let  not  bounty  fall 
Where  want  cries   'some,'  but   where  excess 
begs  all. 

Of  folded  schedules  had  she  many  a  one, 
WTiich  she  perus'd,  sigh'd,  tore,  and  gave  the 

flood; 
Crack'd  many  a  ring  of  posied  gold  and  bone. 
Bidding  them  find  their  sepulchres  in  mud ; 
found  yet  mo<^  letters  sadly  penn'd  in  blood, 
AVith  sleided  silk  ®  feat  and  affectedly 
Enswath'd,  and  seal'd  to  curious  secresy. 

These  often  bath'd  she  in  her  fluxive  eyes, 
And  often  kiss'd,  and  often  gave  ^  to  tear ; 
Cried,  '  0  false  blood  !  thou  register  of  lies, 

"  5/ieaf'(f— made  of  straw,  collected  from  sheaves. 

i"  Maund—a  basket.  The  word  is  used  in  the  old  transla- 
tion of  the  Bible. 

c  Bedded.  So  the  original,  the  word  probably  meaning 
jet  imbedded,  or  set,  in  some  other  substance.  Steevens  has 
beaded  jet,— id  formed  into  beads;  which  Mr.  Dyce  adopts. 

d  J/o — more.  This  word  is  now  invariably  printed  more. 
It  occurs  in  subsequent  stanzas.  Why  should  we  destroy 
this  little  archaic  beauty  by  a  rage  for  modernizing  ? 

o  Sleided  silk.  The  commentators  explain  this  as  "un- 
twisted bi.k."  In  the  chorus  to  the  fourth  act  of  Pericles, 
Marina  is  pictured — 

"  When  she  weav'd  the  sleided  silk 
With  fingers  long,  small,  white  as  milk." 
Percy,  in  a  note  on  this  passage,  says,  "  untwisted  silk,  pre- 
pared to  be  used  in  the  weaver's  sley."  The  first  part  of  this 
description  is  certainly  not  correct.  The  silk  is  not  un- 
twisted, for  it  must  be  spun  before  it  is  woven ;  and  a  strong 
twisted  silk  is  exactly  what  was  required  when  letters  were 
to  be  sealed  "  feat  "  (neatly)  "  to  curious  secresy."  In  Mr. 
Ramsay's  Introduction  to  liis  valuable  edition  of  the  Paston 
Letters,  the  old  modeofsealinga  letteris clearly  described: — 
"  It  was  carefully  folded,  and  fastened  at  the  end  by  a  sort 
of  paper  strap,  upon  which  the  seal  was  affixed ;  and  under 
the  seal  a  string,  a  silk  thread,  or  even  a  straw,  was  fre- 
quently placed  running  around  the  letter." 

f  Gave.  So  the  original.  Malone  changes  the  word  to 
'gan.  7'his  appears  to  ua,  although  it  has  the  sanction  of 
Mr.  Dyce's  adoption,  an  unnecessary  change ;  gave  is  here 
used  in  the  scn^e  of  gave  the  mind  to,  contemplated,  made 
a  movement  towards,  inclined  to.  Shakspere  has  several 
times  "  my  mind  gave  me;  "  and  the  word  may  therefore, 
we  think,  stand  alone  here  as  expressing  inclination. 

492 


What  unapproved  witness  dost  thou  bear  ! 

Ink  would  have  scem'd  more  black  and  damned 

here ! ' 
This  said,  in  top  of  rage  the  lines  she  rents, 
Big  discontent  so  breaking  their  contents. 

A  reverend  man  that  graz'd  his  cattle  nigh. 

Sometime  a  blusterer,  that  the  rufllc  knew 

Of  court,  of  city,  and  had  let  go  by 

The  swiftest  hours,  observed  as  they  flew," 

Towards  this  afllicted  fancy  ^  fastly  drew  ; 

And,  privileg'd  by  age,  desires  to  know 

In  brief,  the  grounds  and  motives  of  her  woe. 

So  slides  he  down  upon  his  grained  bat,*' 
And  comely-distant  sits  he  by  her  side  ; 
When  he  again  desii-es  her,  being  sat. 
Her  grievance  with  his  hearing  to  dinde  : 
If  that  from  him  there  may  be  aught  applied 
"VYhich  may  her  suffering  ecstasy  assuage, 
'T  is  promis'd  iu  the  charity  of  age. 

'  Father,'  she  says,  '  though  in  me  you  behold 
The  injury  of  many  a  blasting  hour. 
Let  it  not  tell  your  judgment  I  am  old ; 
Not  age,  but  sorrow,  over  me  heth  power: 
I  might  as  yet  have  been  a  spreading  flower, 
I'resh  to  myself,  if  I  had  self-applied 
Love  to  myself,  and  to  no  love  beside. 

'  But  woe  is  me  !  too  early  I  attended 
A  youthful  suit  (it  was  to  gain  my  grace) 
Of  one  ^  by  uatiu'c's  outwards  so  commended. 
That  maiden's  eyes  stuck  over  all  his  face : 
Love  lack'd    a    dwelling,   and  made  him  hci 

place  ; 
And  when  in  his  fair  parts  she  did  abide, 
She  was  new  lodg'd,  and  newly  deified. 

'  His  browny  locks  did  hang  in  crooked  curls  ; 
And  every  light  occasion  of  the  \vind 
Upon  his  lips  their  silken  parcels  hurls. 
What 's  sweet  to  do,  to  do  will  aptly  Cud : 
Each  eye  that  saw  him  did  enchant  the  mind  ; 


*  Malone,  by  making  the  sentence  parenthetical  which 
begins  at  "sometime  a  blusterer,"  and  ends  at  "  swiftest 
hours,"  causes  the  reverend  man's  attention  to  be  drawn  to 
the  scattered  fragments  of  letters  as  they  flew — a  very  snow 
storm  of  letters.     Surely  this  is  nonsense  I 

"The  swiftest  hours,  observed  as  they  flew," 

clearly  show  that  the  reverend  man,  although  he  had  been 
engaged  in  the  ruffle,  in  the  turmoil,  of  the  couit  and  city, 
had  not  suffered  the  swiftest  hours  to  pass  unoh-ierved.  lie 
was  a  man  of  experience,  and  was  thus  qualified  to  give 
advice. 

b  i'orcy— is  often  used  by  Shakspere  in  the  sense  ot  lovi ; 
but  here  it  means  one  that  is  possessed  by  fancy. 

c  Bo/— club. 

<i  0/  one— the  original  reads  0  one. 


A   LOVER'S   COMPLAINT. 


For  on  liis  visage  was  in  little  dra'wn, 
What  largeness  thinks  in  paradise  was  sawn.'' 

'  Small  show  of  man  was  yet  upon  his  chin ; 
His  phoenix  down  began  but  to  appear, 
Like  unshorn  velvet,  on  that  termless  skin, 
Whose  bare  out-bragg'd  the  web  it  seem'd  to 

wear ; 
Yet  show'd  his  \asage  ^  by  that  cost  more'"  dear ; 
And  nice  affections  wavering  stood  in  doubt 
If  best 't  were  as  it  was,  or  best  without. 

'  His  qualities  were  beauteous  as  his  form. 
For  maiden-tongued  he  was,  and  thereof  free  ; 
Yet,  if  men  mov'd  him,  was  he  such  a  storm 
As  oft  'twixt  May  and  April  is  to  see, 
When  winds    breathe    sweet,    um-uly    though 

they  be. 
His  rudeness  so  with  his  authoriz'd  youth 
Did  livery  falseness  in  a  pride  of  truth. 

•  Well  could  he  ride,  and  often  men  would  say 
That  horse  his  mettle  from  his  rider  takes  : 
Proud  of  subjection,  noble  by  the  sway, 
What  rounds,  what  bounds,  what  course,  what 

stop  he  makes  ! 
And  controversy  hence  a  question  takes. 
Whether  the  horse  by  him  became  his  deed, 
Or  he  his  manage  by  the  well-douig  steed. 

'  But  quickly  on  this  side  the  verdict  went ; 
His  real  habitude  gave  life  and  grace 
To  appertainiugs  and  to  oi-nameut, 
Accomphsh'd  in  himself,  not  in  his  case  :  •* 
All  aids,  themselves  made  fairer  by  their  place, 
Can^  for  additions ;  yet  their  purpos'd  trim 
Piec'd  not  his  grace,  but  were  all  grac'd  by  him. 

'  So  on  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue 
All  kind  of  arguments  and  question  deep, 
All  replication  prompt,  and  reason  strong, 
For  his  advantage  still  did  wake  and  sleep  : 
To  make  the  weeper  laugh,  the  laugher  weep, 
He  had  the  dialect  and  different  skill. 
Catching  all  passions  m  his  craft  of  will ; 

»  Sawn.  Malone  explains  this  as  seen;  but  Boswell  says 
that  the  word  means  sown,  and  that  it  is  still  so  pronounced 
in  Scotland.  .  ,      i       j 

b  Visage  is  the  inverted  nominative  case  to  showed. 

c  More.  So  the  original :  in  all  the  modern  editions  we 
have  most. 

d  Caie— outward  show.  j    ,  ,„ 

e  Can  is  the  odginal  reading;  but  Malone  changed  it  to 
ca»ie,  and  he  justifies  the  change  by  a  passage  in  Macbeth, 
Act  I  ,Sc.  III. .wherehe  supposes  the  same  mistake  occurrea. 
In  that  passage  we  did  not  receive  the  proposed  correction  ; 
nor  do  we  think  it  necessary  to  receive  it  here  Can  is  con- 
stantly used  by  the  old  writers,  especially  by  Spenser,  iiitUe 
senseof  6e?an;  and  that  sense,  began  for  additions,  is  as  intel- 
ligible as  came  for  additions.    For  is  used  in  the  sense  of  as. 


'  That  he  did  in  the  general  bosom  reign 
Of  young,  of  old  ;  and  sex.cs  both  enchanted. 
To  dwell  with  him  in  thoughts,  or  to  remain 
In  personal  duty,  following  where  he  haunted  : 
Consents  bewitch'd,  ere  be  desire,  have  granted  ; 
And  dialogued  for  him  what  he  would  say, 
Ask'd  their  own  wills,  and  made  their  wills 
obey. 

•  Many  there  were  that  did  his  picture  get, 
To  serve  their  eyes,  and  in  it  put  their  mind  ; 
Like  fools  that  in  the  imagination  set 
The  goodly  objects  which  abroad  they  find 
Of  lands  and  mansions,  theirs  m  thought  as- 

sign'd ; 
And  labouring  in  mo  pleasures  to  bestow  them, 
Than  the  true  gouty  landlord  which  doth  owe 

them :  * 

'  So  many  have,  that  never  touch'd  his  hand. 
Sweetly  suppos'd  them  mistress  of  his  heart. 
My  woeful  self,  that  did  in  freedom  stand, 
And  was  my  own  fee- simple,  (not  in  part,) 
"What  with  his  heart  in  youth,  and  youth  in  art. 
Threw  my  affections  in  his  charmed  power, 
Reserv'd  the  stalk,  and  gave  him  all  my  flower. 

'  Yet  did  I  not,  as  some  my  equals  did, 

Demand  of  him,  nor  being  desired  yielded ; 

Finding  myself  in  honour  so  forbid. 

With  safest  distance  I  mine  honour  shielded  : 

Experience  for  me  many  bulwarks  builded 

Of    proofs    new-bleeding,  which    remain'd   the 

foil 
Of  this  false  jewel,  and  his  amorous  spoil. 

'  But  ah !  who  ever  shunn'd  by  precedent 
The  destiu'd  ill  she  must  herself  assay  ? 
Or  forc'd  examples,  'gainst  her  own  content, 
To  put  the  by-pass'd  perils  m  her  way  ? 
Counsel  may  stop  a  while  what  will  not  stay ; 
For  when  we  rage,  advice  is  often  seen 
By  blunting  us  to  make  our  wits  more  keen. 

'  Nor  gives  it  satisfaction  to  our  blood, 
That  we  must  curb  it  upon  others'  proof, 
To  be  forbid  the  sweets  that  seem  so  good, 
For  fear  of  harms  that  preach  in  our  behoof. 
O  appetite,  from  judgment  stand  aloof ! 
The  one  a  palate  hath  that  needs  will  tiistc, 
Though  reason  weep,  and  cry  It  is  thy  last, 

»  There  is  a  similar  sarcastic  thought  in  Tm»on,  where  the 
misanthrope,  addressing  himself  to  the  gold  he  had  found, 

'^^  ^  "  Thou  'It  go,  strong  thief,  ^^ 

When  gouty  keepers  of  thee  cannot  stand. 

493 


A  lo\t:r's  complaint. 


•For  further  I  coald  say.  This  man 's  iiiitruc, 
And  knew  the  patterns  of  his  foul  beguiluigi 
Heard  Avhere    his    plants  in  others'    orchards 

gre\v. 
Saw  how  deceits  were  gilded  in  his  smiling ; 
Knew  vows  were  ever  brokers  to  dcliliug  ; 
Thought "  characters  and  words,  merely    but 

art, 
A.ud  bastards  of  his  foul  adulterate  heart. 

'  And  long  upon  these  terms  I  held  my  city, 
Till  thus  he  'gan  besiege  me :  Gentle  maid. 
Have  of  my  suffering  youth  some  feeling  pity, 
And  be  not  of  my  holy  vows  afraid : 
That 's  to  you  sworn,  to  none  was  ever  said  ; 
for  feasts  of  love  I  have  been  call'd  unto. 
Till  now  did  ne'er  invite,  nor  never  vow. 

'  All  my  offences  that  abroad  you  sec 
Are  errors  of  the  blood,  none  of  the  mind ; 
Love  made  them  not;  with  aeture''  they  may 

be, 
TVTiere  neither  party  is  nor  true  nor  kind  : 
They  sought  their  shame  that  so'  their  shame 

did  find ; 
And  so  much  less  of  shame  in  me  remains, 
By  how  much  of  me  their  reproach  contains. 

'  Among  the  many  that  mine  eyes  have  seen. 
Not  one  whose  flame  my  heart  so  much  as 

warm'd. 
Or  my  affection  put  to  the  smallest  teen," 
Or  any  of  my  leisures  ever  charm'd  : 
Harm  have  I  done  to  them,   but  ne'er    was 

harm'd ; 
Kept  hearts  in  liveries,  but  mine  own  was  free. 
And  reign' d,  commanding  in  his  mouarcliy. 

'  Look  here  what  tributes  wounded  fancies  sent 

me. 
Of  paled  pearls,  and  rubies  red  as  blood  ; 
Figuring  that  they  their  passions  likewise  lent 

me 
Of  grief  and  blushes,  aptly  imderstood 
In  bloodless  white  and  the  encrimson'd  mood  ; 
Effects  of  terror  and  dear  modesty, 
Encamp'd  in  hearts,  but  fighting  outwardly. 


!»  Malonc — and  he  is  followed  in  all^jiiodern  editions — 
puts  a  conimaafter  thnur/ht,  and  says,  "  if'is  here,  I  believe, 
a  substantive."  Surely //iob<;/i<  is  a  verb.  We  have  a  regular 
sequence  of  verbs — heard — saw — knew — thought.  How  can 
thought  be  art  ?  the  iirt  is  in  the  expression  of  the  thoughts 
by  "characters  and  words."  He  who  said  "words  were 
given  us  to  conceal  our  thoughts  "  is  a  better  commentator 
upon  the  passage  than  Malone. 

b  Aclure  is  explained  as  synonymous  with  action. 

'  Teen — gritf. 

494 


'  And  lo !  behold  ihe  talents  ^  of  their  hair, 
With  twisted  uietid  amorously  inipleach'd,'' 
I  have  rcceiv'd  from  many  a  several  fair, 
(Their  kind  acceptance  weepingly  beseech'd,) 
With  the  annexions  of  fair  gems  enrieh'd. 
And  deep-brain'd  sonnets  that  did  amplify 
Each  stone's  dear  nature,  worth,  and  qudity. 

'  The  diamond,  why  'twas  beautifid  and  hard. 
Whereto  his  invis'd  °  properties  did  tend  ; 
The  deep-green   emerald,  in  whose    fresh    re- 
gard 
Weak  sights  then-  sickly  radiance  do  amend  ; 
The  hcaven-hued  sapphire  and  the  opal  blend 
With  objects  manifold ;  each  several  stone. 
With  wit  well  blazon'd,  smil'd  or  made  some 
moan. 

'  Lo  !  all  these  trophies  of  affections  hot, 
Of  pensiv'd  and  subdued  desires  the  tender. 
Nature  hath  charg'd  me  that  I  hoard  them 

not. 
But  yield  them  up  ^^herc  I  myself  must  ren- 
der. 
That  is,  to  you,  my  origin  and  ender : 
For  these,  of  force,  must  your  oblations  be. 
Since  I  their  altar,  you  enpatron  me. 

'  0    then   advance    of    yours    that    phraseless 

hand. 
Whose  white  bears   down    the    airy  scale    of 

praise ; 
Take  aU  these  similes  to  your  own  command, 
Hallow'd   with   sighs   that  burrung  lungs    did 

raise ; 
What  me  your  minister,  for  you  obeys. 
Works  under  you ;  and  to  your  audit  comes 
Their  distract  parcels  in  combined  sums. 

'  Lo !  this  device  was  sent  me  from  a  nun. 

Or  sister  sanctified  of  holiest  note ; 

Which  late  her  noble  suit  ^  in  court  did  shun. 

Whose  rarest  havings  *  made  the  blossoms ' 
dote; 

For  she  was  souglit  by  spirits  of  richest  coat,  ^ 

But  kept  cold  distance,  and  did  thence  re- 
move. 

To  spend  her  living  in  eternal  love. 


*  Talents  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  something  precious. 

^  Impleach'd^hxtctviovcw. 

c  InvWd — invisible. 

J  Suit.  "The  noble  suit  in  court"  is,  we  think,  the  suit 
made  to  her  in  court.     Mr.  Dyce  says  suitort. 

0  JIavinffs.  Malonc  receives  this  as  accomplishmenit — Mr 
Dyce  as  fortune. 

f  /i/oisomi— young  men  ;  the  flower  of  the  nobility. 

e   Of  richest  coat — of  higljcst  descent. 


A   LOVER'S   COMPLAINl'. 


'  But  0,  my  sweet,  what  laboiir  is 't  to  leave 
The  thmg  we  have  not,  mastering  what  not 

strives  ? 
Paling*  the  place  which  did  no  fonn  receive, 
Playing  patient  sports  in  unconstrained  gyves  : 
She  that  her  fame  so  to  herself  contrives, 
The  scars  of  battle  'scapeth  by  the  flight. 
And  makes  her  absence  valiant,  not  her  might. 

'  0  pardon  me,  in  that  my  boast  is  true ; 
The  accident  which  brought  me  to  her  eye. 
Upon  the  moment  did  her  force  subdue, 
And  now  she  would  the  caged  cloister  fly : 
Religious  love  put  out  religion's  eye : 
Not  to  be  tempted,  would  she  be  immur'd, 
And  now,  to  tempt  all,  liberty  procur'd. 

'  How  mighty  then  you  are,  0  hear  me  teU  ! 

The  broken  bosoms  that  to  me  belong 

Have  emptied  all  their  fountains  in  my  well. 

And  mine  I  pour  your  ocean  all  among : 

I  strong  o'er  them,   and  you  o'er  me  being 

strong. 
Must  for  your  victory  us  all  congest. 
As  compound  love  to  physic  your  cold  breast. 

'  My  parts  had  power  to  charm  a  sacred  sun, 
Who,  disciplin'd  and  dieted''  in  grace, 
Believ'd  her  eyes  when  they  to  assail  begun. 
All  vows  and  consecrations  giving  place. 
0  most  potential  love !  vow,  bond,  nor  space. 
In  thee  hath  neither  sting,  knot,  nor  confine. 
For  thou  art  all,  and  all  things  else  are  thine. 

'  When  thou  impressest,  what  are  precepts  worth 
Of  stale  example  ?    When  thou  wilt  inflame, 
How  coldly  those  impediments  stand  forth. 
Of  wealth,  of  filial  fear,  law,  kindred,  fame  ! 
Love's  arms  are  peace,  'gainst  rule,  'gainst  sense, 

'gaiust  shame, 
And  sweetens,  in  the  suffering  pangs  it  bears. 
The  aloes  of  all  forces,  shocks,  and  fears. 

•  Now  all  these  hearts  that  do  on  mine  depend. 
Feeling  it  break,   with  bleeding    groans  they 

pine. 
And  supplicant  their  sighs  to  you  extend. 
To  leave  the  battery  that  you  make  'gaiust  mine, 
Lending  soft  audience  to  my  sweet  design, 
And  credent  soul  to  that  strong-bonded  oath, 
That  shall  prefer  and  undertake  my  troth. 


*  Paling.  In  tlie  old  copy  playing. _  Malone's  emendation 
of  paling  is  sensible  as  well  as  ingenious. 

b  And  dieted.  The  old  copy  reads /rfied.  A  correspondent 
suggested  the  change  to  Malone. 


'  This  said,  his  watery  eyes  he  did  dismount, 
Wliose  sights  till  then  were  levell'd  on  my  face  ; 
Each  cheek  a  river  running  from  a  fount 
With  brinish  current  downward  flow'd  apace : 
O  how  the  channel  to  the  stream  gave  grace ! 
Who,   glaz'd  with  crystal,   gate*  the  glowing 

roses 
That  flame  through  water  which  their  hue  en- 
closes. 

'  0  father,  M'hat  a  hell  of  witchcraft  lies 
In  the  small  orb  of  one  particular  tear  ! 
But  with  the  inundation  of  the  eyes 
'V\1iat  rocky  heart  to  water  wiU  not  wear  ? 
What  breast  so  cold  that  is  not  wanned  here  ? 
0  cleft  effect  l**  cold  modesty,  hot  wrath. 
Both    fire    from    hence    and    chill    extincture 
hath! 

'  For  lo !  his  passion,  but  an  art  of  craft. 
Even  there  resolv'd  my  reason  into  tears ; 
There  my  white  stole  of  chastity  I  daff'd, 
Shook  off  my  sober  guards,  and  civil"  fears ; 
Appear  to  him,  as  he  to  me  appears, 
AH  melting;  though  our  drops  this  difference 

bore. 
His  poison'd  me,  and  mine  did  him  restore. 

'  In  liim  a  plenitude  of  subtle  matter, 

Applied  to  cautcls,"^  all  strange  forms  receives. 

Of  burning  blushes,  or  of  weeping  water. 

Or  swooning  paleness ;  and  he  takes  and  leaves, 

In  cither's  aptness,  as  it  best  deceives. 

To  blush  at  speeches  rank,  to  weep  at  woes, 

Or  to  turn  wliite  and  swoon  at  tragic  shows ; 

'  That  not  a  heart  which  in  his  level  came 
Could  scape  the  hail  of  his  aU-hurting  aim, 
Showing  fair  nature  is  both  kind  and  tame ; 
And,  veU'd  iu  them,  did  win  M'hom  he  would 

maim  : 
Against  the  thing  he  sought    he   would   ex 

claim ; 
When  he  most  bum'd  in  heart-wish'd  luxury. 
He  preach'd  pure  maid,  and  prais'd  cold  chas- 
tity. 

'  Thus  merely  with  the  garment  of  a  Grace 
The  naked  and  concealed  fiend  he  cover'd. 
That  the  unexperieuc'd  gave  the  tempter  pbce. 


"  Gatc—goU  procured. 

i)  0  cleft  effect.     The  reading  of  the  original  is  Or,  cleft 
effect.    Malone  substituted  "  0  cleft  effect." 


c  Civil — decorous. 

d  Caulels — deceitful  purposes 


495 


A  LOVER'S  COMPLAIIST. 


VThich,  like  a  cherubin,  above  them  hover'd. 
AVho,  young  and  simple,  would  not  be  so  lover'd : 
Ah  me  !  I  fell ;  and  yet  do  question  make 
\yhat  I  should  do  again  for  such  a  sake. 

'  0,  that  infeeted  moisture  of  his  eye, 

0,  that  false  fire  which  in  his  cheek  so  glow'd. 


0,  that  fore'd  thunder  from  his  heart  did  fly, 
0,  that  sad  breath  his  spongy  lungs  bestow'd, 
0,  all  that  borrow'd  motion,  seeming  ow'd," 
Would  yet  again  betray  the  fore-betray'd, 
And  new  pervert  a  reconciled  maid ! ' 


•  Oir'd— owned ;  liis  owu. 


■^r^'T 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Did  not  the  heavenly  rlietoric  of  thine  eye, 
'Gainst  -whom  the  world  could  not  hold  argu- 
ment, 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 
Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 
Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee  : 
My  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love  ; 
Thy  grace  being  gain'd  cui-es  all  disgrace  in  me. 
My  vow  was  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  ; 
Then,  thou  fair  sun,  that  on  this  earth  doth  shine, 
Exhale  this  vapour  vow ;  in  tliee  it  is  : 
If  broken,  then  it  is  no  faiilt  of  mine. 
If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise 
To  lose  an  oath,  to  wia  a  paradise  ?" 

'  The  foregoing  Sonnet  appears,  with  some  variations,  in 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  the  first  edition  of  which  was  printed 
in  159S.    We  give  the  lines  in  which  the  variations  occur: — 
"  'Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argument." 
"  Vows  are  but  breath,  and  hreath  a  vapour  is  ;" 
'  Then  thou  fair  sun,  which  on  mu  earth  dost  shine, 
Exhal'st  this  vapour  vow;  in  thee  it  is." 
The  text  of  the  play  is  evidently  superior  to  that  in  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim. 

Ti;agedie8,  &c.— Vol.  II.        2  K 


11. 

Sweet  Cytherea,  sitting  by  a  brook 
With  yoimg  Adonis,  lovely,  fresh,  and  green. 
Did  court  the  lad  with  mauy  a  lovely  look. 
Such  looks   as  none   could  look  but  beauty's 

queen. 
She  told  him  stories  to  delight  his  ear ; 
She  show'd  him  favours  to  allure  his  eye ; 
To  win  his  heart,  she  touch' d  him  here  and  there  : 
Touches  so  soft  still  conquer  chastity. 
But  whether  unripe  years  did  want  conceit. 
Or  he  refus'd  to  take  her  figur'd  proffer. 
The  tender  nihbler  would  not  touch  the  bait, 
But  smile  and  jest  at  every  gentle  offer  : 

Then  fell   she   on  her  back,  fair  queen,  and 
toward ; 

He  rose  and  ran  away ;  ah,  fool  too  froward ! 


in. 
If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  swear 

to  love  ? 
0  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vow'd : 

497 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM. 


Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  constant 

prove ; 
Those  thoughts,  to  me  like  oaks,  to  thcc  like 

osiers  bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thme 

eyes, 
"Where   all  those   pleasures    live    that   art  can 

comprclicud. 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall 

suiEce ; 
Well  learned  is  that  tongue  that  well  cau  thee 

commend ; 
All  ignorant   that  soul  that  sees  thee  without 

wonder ; 
"\Yhicli  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts 

admire : 
Thine  eye  Jove's  lightning  seems,  thy  voice  his 

dreadful  thunder, 
Wliicli  (not  to  anger  bent)  is  music  and  sweet 

fire. 
Celestial  as  thou  art,  0   do  not  love  that 

wi'ong. 
To  sing  the  heavens'  praise  with  such  an 

earthly  tongue. "^ 

IV. 

Scarce  had  the  sun  dried  up  the  dewy  morn, 
And  scarce  the  herd  gone  to  tlie  hedge  for  shade. 
When  Cytherea,  all  in  love  forlorn, 
A  longing  tarrianee  for  Adonis  made. 
Under  an  osier  growing  by  a  brook, 
A  brook  where  Adon  used  to  cool  his  spleen. 
Hot  was  the  day ;  she  hotter  that  did  look 
For  his  approach,  that  often  there  had  been. 
Anon  he  comes,  and  throws  his  mantle  by, 
And  stood   stark  naked  on  the  brook's  green 

brim  ; 
The  sun  look'd  on  the  world  with  glorious  eye, 
Yet  not  so  wistly  as  this  queen  on  him  : 

He,  spying  her,  boune'd  in,  whereas  he  stood ; 

O  Jove,  quoth  she,  why  was  not  I  n  flood  ? 


fair  is  my  love,  but  not  so  fair  as  fickle  ; 

Mild  as  a  dove,  but  neither  true  nor  trusty  ; 

Brighter  than  glass,  and  yet,  as  glass  is,  brittle ; 

Softer  than  wax,  and  yet,  as  iron,  rusty  : 
A  lily  pale,  witli  damask  die  to  grace  her, 
None  fairer,  nor  none  falser  to  deface  her. 


a  This  Sonnet  also  occurs  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  in 
which  copy  there  are  variations  in  several  lines.  In  the  se- 
cond we  read,  "Ah,  never  faith;"  in  the  third,  "faithful 
prove;"  ill  the  fourth,  "ifere  oaks,"  in  the  sixth,  "would 
comprehend;"  in  the  eleventh,  "liehtning  bears."  The 
eoncludinf;  lines  are  as  fallows  : — 
'  Celestial  as  thou  art,  oh  pardon,  love,  this  wrong. 
That  tinijt  heaven's  praise  with  such  an  earthly  tongue." 
493 


Her  lips  to  mine  how  often  hath  she  join'd, 
Between  each  kiss  her  oaths  of  true  love  swear- 
ing ! 
How  many  talcs  to  please  me  hath  she  coin'd. 
Dreading  any  love,  the  loss  thereof  still  fearing  ! 
Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  her  pure  pretestings, 
Hor  faitli,  her  oaths,  her  tears,  and  all  weie 
jesiiiigs. 

She  burn'd  with  love,  as  straw  with  fire  flameth. 
She  buni'd  out  love,  as  soon  as  straw  out  burn- 

eth; 
She  fram'd  the  love,  and  yet  she  foil'd  the  fram- 

She  bade  love  last,  and  yet  she  fell  a  turning. 
Was  this  a  lover,  or  a  lecher  whether  ? 
Bad  in  the  best,  though  excellent  in  neither. 

VI. 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree. 

As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother, 

Then  must   the  love  be  great  'twixt  thee  an.i 

me. 
Because  tliou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense ; 
Spenser  to  me,  whose  deep  conceit  is  such, 
As,  passing  all  conceit,  needs  no  defence. 
Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 
That  Phoebus'  lute,  the  queen  of  music,  makes ; 
And  I  in  deep  delight  am  chiefly  drown' d, 
Whenas  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 
One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign ; 
One  knight  loves  both,  and  both  in  thee  re- 
main. 

VII. 

Fair  was  the  morn,  when  the  fair  queen  of  love," 

^i-  *  *  *  -X-  *  * 

Paler  for  sorrow  than  her  milk-white  dove. 
For  Aden's  sake,  a  youngster  proud  and  wild ; 
Her  stand  she  takes  upon  a  steep-up  hill : 
Anon  Adonis  comes  with  horn  and  hounds ; 
She,  silly, queen,  with  more   than  love's  good 

will. 
Forbade    the   boy  he   shoidd  not  pass   those 

grounds ; 
Once,  quoth  she,  did  I  sec  a  fair  sweet  youth 
Here  in  tliese  brakes  decp-woundcd  with  a  boar, 
Deep  in  the  tliigh,  a  spectacle  of  ruth ! 
See  in  my  thigli,  quoth  siie,  here  was  the  sore  : 
She  sliowed  hers ;  he  saw  more  wounds  than 

one. 
And  blushing  fled,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

a  The  second  line  is  lost. 


THE  PASSI017ATE  PILGRIM. 


VIII. 

Sweet  rose,  fair  flower,  untimely  pluck' d,  soon 

vaded,  '^ 
Pluck'd  in  the  bud  aud  vaded  in  the  spring ! 
Bright  orient  pearl,  alack  !  too  timely  shaded ! 
B'air  creature,  kill'd  too  soon  by  death's  sharp 
sting ! 
Lilce  a  green  plum  that  hangs  upon  a  tree, 
And  falls,  tlu'ough  wind,    before    the    fall 
should  be. 

I  weep  for  thee,  and  yet  no  cause  I  have ; 
For  why  ?  thou  left'st  me  nothing  in  thy  will. 
And  yet  thou  left'st  me  more  than  I  did  crave  ; 
For  why  ?  I  craved  nothing  of  thee  siiU  : 

0  yes,  dear  friend,  I  pardon  crave  of  thee ; 

Thy  discontent  thou  didst  bequeath  to  me. 

IX. 

Venus,  with  Adonis'*  sitting  by  her, 

Under  a  myrtle  shade,  began  to  woo  him : 

Slie  told  the  youngling  how  god  Mars  did  try 

her. 
And  as  he  fell  to  her,  she  fell  to  him. 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  the  warlike  god  embrac'd 

me; 
And  then  she  clipp'd  Adonis  in  her  anns  : 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  the  warlike  god  unlac'd 

me ; 
As  if  the  boy  should  use  like  loving  charms. 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  he  seized  on  my  lips. 
And  ^vith  her  lips  on  his  did  act  the  seizure ; 
And  as  she  fetched  breath,  away  he  skips. 
And  would  not  take  her  meaning  nor  her  plea- 

sui'e. 
Ah !  that  I  had  my  lady  at  this  bay, 
To  kiss  and  cUp  me  tUl  I  run  away  ! 


Crabbed  age  and  youth 

Cannot  live  together ; 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance. 

Age  is  fidl  of  care  : 
Youth  like  summer  morn. 

Age  nke  winter  weather ; 
Youth  like  summer  brave. 

Age  like  winter  bare. 


a  Tarfecf— faded.  This  form  of  the  word  often  occurs  in 
Shakspere,  and  has  been  loo  frequently  changed  in  reprints. 

b  This  Sonnet  is  found  in  'Fidessa,'  by  B.  Griiiin,  1596. 
There  are  great  variations  in  that  copy,  for  which  see  Illus- 
trations. Amongst  others  we  have  the  epithet  young  before 
Adonis.  If  we  make  a  pause  after  Venus,  tlie  epithet  is  not 
necessary  to  the  metre.  The  fourth  line  is  given  more  me- 
trically ill  '  Fidessa : ' — 

"  And  as  ke  fell  to  her,  so  she  fell  to  him." 
2K2 


Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short. 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame  : 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold. 
Age  is  weak  and  cold ; 

Youth  is  NAild,  and  age  is  tan.e. 
Age,  I  do  ablior  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee  ; 

0,  my  love,  my  love  is  young ! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee  ; 
0  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

XI. 

Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good, 
A  shining  gloss,  that  vadeth  suddenly  ; 
A  flower  that  dies,  when  first  it  'gins  to  bud  , 
A  brittle  glass,  that  's  broken  presently  : 
A  doubtful  good,  a  gloss,  a  glass,  a  flower, 
Lost,  vaded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour. 

And  as  goods  lost  are  seld  or  never  foimd, 
As  vaded  gloss  no  rubbing  will  refresh. 
As  flowers  dead  lie  wither'd  on  the  ground. 
As  broken  glass  no  cement  can  redress,* 
So  beauty,  blemish'd  once,  for  ever's  lost. 
In  spite  of  physic,  painting,  pain,  and  cost. 

XII. 

Good  night,  good  rest.      Ah !   neither  be  mj 

share : 
She  bade  good  night,  that  kept  my  rest  away ; 
And  dafiF'd  me  to  a  cabin  hang'd  with  care. 
To  descant  on  the  doubts  of  my  decay. 

Farewell,   quoth  she,    and    come    again  to- 
morrow ; 
Fare  well  I  could  not,  for  I  supp'd  with  sorrow 

Yet  at  my  parting  sweetly  did  she  smile. 
In  scorn  or  friendship,  nill  I  construe  whether  : 
'T  may  be,  she  joy'd  to  jest  at  my  exile, 
'T  may  be,  again  to  make  me  wander  thither  : 
jrander,  a  word  for  shadows  Hke  myself. 
As  take  the  pain,  but  cannot  pluck  the  pelt. 

XIII. 

Lord,  how  mine  eyes  throw  gazes  to  the  east ! 
My  heart  doth  charge  the  watch ;   the  morning 
rise 


a  I,n  the  twenty-ninth  volume  of  the  '  Gontlemtin's 
Magazine'  a  copy  of  this  poem  is  given,  as  from  an  ancient 
manuscript,  in  which  there  are  the  following  variations  :— 

"  And  as  goods  lost  are  sold  or  never  found. 
As  faded  gloss  no  rubbing  will  excite. 
As  flowers  dead  lie  wither'd  on  the  ground, 
As  broken  glass  no  cement  can  unite.", 

490 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGEBI. 


Doth  cite  each  moving  sense  from  idle  rest. 

Not  daring  trust  the  office  of  mine  eyes, 
"Wliile  Philomela  sits  and  sings,  I  sit  and  mark, 
And  wish  her  lays  were  tuned  like  the  lark  ; 

For  she  doth  welcome  daylight  with  her  ditty, 
And  drives  away  dark  disnml-dreamiug  night : 
The  night  so  pack'd,  I  post  unto  my  pretty ; 
Heart  hath  his  hope,  and  eyes  their  wished  sight ; 
Sorrow  chang'd  to  solace,  solace  mix'd  with 

sorrow ; 
For  why  ?  she  sigh'd,  and  bade  me  come  to- 
morrow. 


Were  I  with  her,    the   night   would    post  too 

soon ; 
But  now  are  minutes  added  to  the  hours ; 
To  spite  me  now,  each  minute  seems  a  moon ;  " 
Yet  not  for  me,  shine  sun  to  succour  flowers  ! 
Pack  night,    peep    day ;   good  day,    of  night 

now  borrow ; 
Short,  night,  to-night,  and  length  thyself  to- 
morrow. 


■  A  moon.  The  original  has  an  io?/r— evidently  a  mis- 
print. The  emendation  of  vioon,  in  the  sense  of  month,  is 
by  Steevens,  and  it  ought  to  atone  for  some  faults  of  the 
commentator. 


SOIS^NETS 


TO 


SUNDEY    NOTES    OF    MUSIC. 


XIV. 

It  was  a  lording's  daughter,  the  fairest  one  of 

three. 
That  liked  of  her  master  as  well  as  well  might  be. 
Till  looking  on  an  Englishman,  the  fairest  that 

eye  could  see. 
Her  fancy  fell  a  turning. 
Long  was  the  combat  doubtful,  that  love  with  I 

love  did  fight. 
To  leave  the  master  loveless,  or  kill  the  gallant 

knight : 
To  put  in  practice  either,  alas  it  was  a  spite 

Unto  the  silly  damsel. 
But  one  must  be  refused,  more  mickle  was  the 

pain. 
That  nothing  could  be  used,  to  turn  them  both 

to  gain. 
For  of  the  two  the  trusty  knight  was  wounded 

with  disdain : 
Alas,  she  could  not  help  it ! 
Thus  art,  with  arms  contending,  was  victor  of 

the  day. 
Which  by  a  gift  of  learning  did  bear  the  maid 

away; 
Then  lullaby,  the  learned   man    hath   got  the 

lady  gay; 
For  now  my  song  is  ended. 

XV. 

On  a  day  (alack  the  day !), 
Love,  whose  month  was  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair, 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air  : 
500 


Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind. 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alas,  my  hand  hath  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet. 
Youth,  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were  ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Tui-ning  mortal  for  thy  love.* 


XVT. 


My  flocks  feed  not. 
My  ewes  breed  not, 
My  rams  speed  not. 

All  is  amiss : 
Love  is  dying, 
Faith  's  defying. 
Heart 's  denying, 

Causer  of  this. '' 


a  This  beautiful  little  poem  also  occurs  in  Love's  Labour 's 
Lost.  In  that  copy  in  the  second  line  vre  find  "  is  erety 
May:"  every,  which  is  repeated  in  the  folio  of  1C2.'5,  is 
clearly  a  mistake.     In  tlie  eleventh  line  we  have — 

"  But,  alack,  my  hand  u  sworn." 

In  the  play  there  is  a  couplet  not  found  in  The  Passionate 
rilgrim:  — 

"  Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee.** 

These  lines  precede  "  Thou  for  whom." 

b  We  have  two  other  ancient  copies  of  this  poem — one  in 
'  England's  Helicon,'  ICOO;  the  other  in  a  collection  Of  Ma- 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGEIM. 


All  my  merry  jigs  are  quite  forgot. 
Ml  my  lady's  love  is  lost,  Grod  wot : 
Where  her  faith  was  fii-mly  fix'd  in  love, 
There  a  nay  is  plac'd  without  remove. 
One  silly  cross 
Wrought  all  my  loss ; 

O  frowning  Fortune,  cursed,  fickle  dame  ! 
For  now  I  see. 
Inconstancy 

More  in  women  than  in  men  remain. 

In  black  mourn  I, 
All  fears  scorn  I, 
Love  hath  forlorn  me, 

Living  in  thrall : 
Heart  is  bleeding. 
All  help  needing, 
(0  cruel  speeding !) 

Fraughted  with  gall. 
My  shepherd's  pipe  can  sound  no  deal,* 
My  wether's  bell  rings  doleful  knell ; 
My  curtail  dog,  that  wont  to  have  play'd, 
Plays  not  at  all,  but  seems  afraid  ; 
With  sighs  so  deep. 
Procures  ^  to  weep. 

In  howling-wise,  to  see  my  doleful  plight. 
How  sighs  resound 
Through  heartless  ground, 

Like  a  thousand  vanquish'd  men  in  bloody 
tight! 

Clear  wells  spring  not. 
Sweet  bu-ds  sing  not, 
Green  plants  bring  not 

Forth  ;  they  die  :  ° 
Herds  stand  weeping. 
Flocks  all  sleeping. 
Nymphs  back  peeping 

Fearfully. 
All  our  pleasure  known  to  us  poor  swains, 
All  our  merry  meetings  on  the  plains. 
All  our  evening  sport  from  us  is  fled. 
All  our  love  is  lost,  for  Love  is  dead. 
Farewell,  sweet  lass,'^ 
Thy  like  ne'er  was 

drigals  by  Thomas  Weelkes,  1597.    In  '  England's  Helicon' 
these  lines  are  thus  given  : — 

"  Love  is  denying,  Faith  is  defying  ; 
Hearts  renging  (renying),  causer  of  this." 

■  No  deal — in  no  degree  :  some  deal  and  no  deal  were  com- 
mon expressions. 

b  Procures.    The  curtail  dog  is  thenominative  case  to  this 
verb. 

c  The  reading  in  Weellies's  Madrigals  is  an  improvement 
of  this  passage: — 

"  Loud  bells  ring  not 
Cheerfully." 

i  Lass.    This  is  the  reading  of  Weellics.    The  Passionate 
Pilgrim  has  love. 


For 


content, 
,  a 


the   cause  of  all    mj 


a  sweet 
moan 
Poor  Coridon 
Must  live  alone, 

Other  help  for  him  I  see  that  there  is  none. 

XTII. 

Whenas  thine  eye  hath  chose  the  dame, 
And  stall'd  the  deer  that  thou  shouldst  strike," 
Let  reason  rule  tilings  worthy  blame. 
As  well  as  fancy,  partial  might :" 
Take  counsel  of  some  wiser  head. 
Neither  too  young,  nor  yet  unwed. 

And  when  thou  com'st  thy  tale  to  tell. 
Smooth  not  thy  tongue  with  filed  talk, 
Lest  she  some  subtle  practice  smell ; 
(A  cripple  soon  can  find  a  halt :) 
But  plainly  say  thou  lov'st  her  well. 
And  set  her  person  forth  to  sell.'' 

What  though  her  frowning  brows  be  bent 

Her  cloudy  looks  wiU  calm  *  ere  night ; 

And  then  too  late  she  will  repent. 

That  thus  dissembled  her  delight ; 
And  twice  desire,  ere  it  be  day. 
That  which  with  scorn  she  put  away, 

Wliat  though  she  strive  to  try  her  strength, 
And  ban  and  brawl,  and  say  thee  nay, 
Her  feeble  force  will  yield  at  length, 
When  craft  hath  taught  her  thus  to  say  : 
'  Had  women  been  so  strong  as  men. 
In  faith  you  had  not  had  it  then,' 

And  to  her  will  frame  all  thy  ways ; 
Spare  not  to  spend, — and  chiefly  there 
'\Vhere  thy  desert  may  merit  praise. 
By  ringing  in  thy  lady's  ear  : 

The  strongest  castle,  tower,  and  town. 

The  golden  bullet  beats  it  down. 

Serve  always  with  assured  trust, 
And  in  thy  suit  be  humble,  true  ; 


'  *  Moan.  This  is  the  reading  in '  England's  He.lcon.'  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim  has  woe. 

b  Strike.  So  the  original.  Mr.  Dyce,  who  seldom  in- 
dulges in  conjectural  emendation,  alters  the  word  to  smile, 
"  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme."  This  we  think  is  scarcely 
allowable;  for  there  are  many  e.xamples  of  loose  rhymes  in 
these  little  poems.  In  the  seventh  stanza  of  this  poem  we 
have  nought  to  rhyme  with  oft. 

c  jFanci/ is  here  used  asiofe,  andmi^Aiaspoicfr.  Steevens, 
mischievously  we  should  imagine,  changed  partial  might  to 
partial  tike;  and  Malone  adopts  this  reading,  which  makes 
Cupid  abuU-dog. 

d  Sell.  The  reading  of  The  Passion.ite  Pilgrim  is  tale.  A 
manuscript  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Lysons  gives  us  sell. 

e  Calm  is  the  reading  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim ;  the  ma- 
nuscript just  mentioned  has  clear. 

501 


THE  PASSIONATE  PILGEIj\r. 


Unless  thy  lady  prove  unjust, 
Press  never  thou  to  choose  anew : 

"VVhcn  time  shall  servCj  be  tliou  not  slack 
To  proffer,  though  she  put  thee  back. 

The  wiles  and  guiles  that  women  work, 
Dissembled  with  an  outward  show, 
The  tricks  and  toys  that  in  them  lurk. 
The  cock  that  treads  them  shall  not  know. 
Have  you  not  heard  it  said  full  oft, 
A  woman's  nay  doth  stand  for  nought  ? 

Think  women  still  to  strive  with  men. 
To  sin,  and  never  for  to  saint : 
There  is  no  heaven,  by  holy  then, 
"When  time  with  age  shall  them  attaint." 
Were  kisses  all  the  joys  in  bed, 
One  woman  would  another  wed. 

But  soft ;  enough, — too  much  I  fear. 
Lest  that  my  mistress  hear  ray  song ; 
She  '11  not  stick  to  round  me  i'  th'  ear. 
To  teach  my  tongue  to  be  so  long  : 
Yet  will  she  blush,  here  be  it  said. 
To  hear  her  secrets  so  bewrav'd. 


XVIIl. 

Live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields. 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yields. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks;. 
By  shallow  rivers,  by  whose  falls 
!Melodious  bu-ds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  a  bed  of  roses. 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


*  These  four  lines  are  thus  given  la  Mr.  Lysons's  manu- 
script : — 

"  Think,  women  love  to  match  with  men, 
And  not  to  live  so  like  a  ^aint: 
Here  is  no  heaven  ;  they  holy  then 
Begin,  when  age  doth  them  attaint.'" 

The  one  copy  is  somewhat  more  intelligible  tli;in  the  other. 

50*2 


Love's  Answer. 
If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
Aid  tmth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love." 

XIX. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Which  a  grove  ^  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing. 

Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring  : 

Everything  did  banish  moan. 

Save  the  nightingale  alone  : 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lcan'd  her  breast  up-till  °  a  thorn. 

And  there  sung  the  dolefuU'st  ditty, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity  : 

Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry, 

Teru,  Teru,  by  and  by  : 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain. 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah !  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain  ; 

None  take  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  bears,"^  they  will  not  cheer  thcc. 

King  Paudion,  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead  ; 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing. 

[Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee. 

None  alive  will  pity  me.^] 

Whilst  as  fickle  fortune  smil'd. 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguil'd. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy  like  the  wind; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend. 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend  ; 

But  if  store  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 


*  We  insert  this  poem  in  the  order  in  which  it  appears  in 
The  Passionate  Pilp;rim.  The  variations  ofotlier  copies  wi)> 
be  found  in  our  Illustrations. 

t"  This  poem  is  also  incompletely  printed  in  '  Enpland's 
Helicon  ;  '  where  it  bears  the  signature  Ignoto.  There  are 
some  variations  in  the  twcnty-eiglit  lines  there  given,  as  in 
the  case  before  us,  of  ;7roi'(.Mn  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  which 
in  '  England's  Helicon  '  is  group. 

c  Up-till.    This  is  given  against  in  '  England's  Helicon.' 

<1  Bears.     In  '  England's  Helicon'  beasts. 

8  The  poem  in  'England's  Helicon'  here  ends;    hut  th? 
two  lines  with  which  it  concludes  are  wauling  in  The  Pss 
sionate  Pilgrim. 


m 


THE   PASSIONATE  PlLGEnr. 


If  that  one  be  prodigal, 
Bountiful  they  ■will  him  call : 
And  with  such-Hke  flatteriug, 
•  Pity  but  he  were  a  kiag.' 
If  he  be  addict  to  vice. 
Quickly  him  they  \\all  entice ; 
If  to  women  he  be  bent, 
They  have  hiui  at  conimandement ; 
But  if  fortune  once  do  fro^vn, 
Then  farewell  liis  great  renown  : 


They  that  fawn'd  on  him  before. 
Use  his  company  no  more. 
He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 
He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need  ; 
If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep ; 
If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep  : 
Thus  of  every  grief  in  heart 
He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 
These  are  certain  signs  to  know 
Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 


SONG. 


Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away. 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn. 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day. 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 

But  my  kisses  bring  again. 

Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain. 


Hide,  oh,  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 
"\Thich  thy  frozen  bosom  bears 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears. 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee." 


"  The  collection  entitled  The  Passionate  Piljirim,  &c.,  ends  ^vith  the  Sonnet  to  Sundry  Notes  of  JIusic  which  we  havtr 
numbered  xix.  Malone  adds  to  the  collection  this  exquisite  song  of  which  we  find  the  first  verse  in  Measure  for  lleasure 
tSes  Illustrations.) 


:  J  ^■■.  '-  **, 


ym^-y^-^ 

^^^y:^-r''i-.-'&^i4 

^    ■ 

j^^^^0^^- 

.w 

'^^KtSKK^F  ^■'' 

:* 

^-M&^ 

^^^^^^m'  :Af  : 

< 

%-'v<?-.T.. 


'*>v 


rC*^^ 


VEESES  AMONG  THE  ADDITIONAL  POEMS  TO   CHESTER'S 

LOVE'S  MAETYE,   1601. 


Let  the  bird  of  loudest  lay, 
On  the  sole  Arabian  tree,* 
Herald  sad  and  trumpet  be, 
To  whose  sound  chaste  wings  obey. 

But  tliou,  shrieking  harbinger, 
Foul  pre-currer  of  the  fiend, 
Augur  of  the  fever's  end, 
To  this  troop  come  thou  not  near. 

From  this  session  interdict 
Every  fowl  of  tyrant  wing. 
Save  the  eagle,  fcather'd  king : 
Keep  the  obscquy  so  strict. 


•  There  is  a  curious  coincidence  in  a  passage  in  the  Tem- 
pest;— 

"  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns;  that  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenls'  throne." 

504 


Let  the  priest  in  surplice  wliite, 
That  defunctive  music  can,'' 
Be  the  death-divining  swan. 
Lest  the  requiem  lack  his  riglit. 

And  thou,  treble-dated  crow, 

That  thy  sable  gender  mak'st 

With  the  breath  thou  giv'st  and  tak'ot, 

'Mongst  our  mourners  shalt  thou  go. 

Here  the  anthem  doth  commence : 
Love  and  constancy  is  dead ; 
Phoenix  and  the  turtle  fled 
In  a  mutual  flame  from  hence. 

So  they  lov'd,  as  love  in  twain 
Had  the  essence  but  in  one  ; 
Two  distinets,  division  none  : 
Number  there  in  love  was  slain. 

•  Can — knows. 


VEPtSES. 


\ 


Hearts  remote,  yet  not  asunder ; 
Distance,  and  no  space  was  seen 
'T  wixt  the  turtle  and  Ms  queen ; 
But  in  them  it  were  a  wonder. 

So  between  them  love  did  shine, 
That  the  turtle  saw  his  right 
Flaming  in  the  phoenix'  sight : 
Either  was  the  other's  mine. 

Property  w.;  ^  thus  appall' d, 
That  the  sell'  was  not  the  same  ; 
Single  naturt  's  double  name 
Neither  two  nor  one  was  call'd. 

Keason,  in  itself  confounded, 
Saw  div  sion  grow  together ; 
To  themselves  yet  either-neither. 
Simple  were  so  well  compounded 

That  it  cried  how  true  a  twain 
Seemeth  this  concordant  one  ! 
Love  hath  reason,  reason  none, 
If  what  parts  can  so  remain. 


Whereupon  it  made  this  threne  * 
To  the  phoenix  and  the  dove, 
Co-supremes  and  stars  of  love ; 
As  chorus  to  their  tragic  scene. 

Threnos. 

Beauty,  truth,  and  rarity, 
Grace  in  all  simplicity. 
Here  enclos'd  in  cinders  lie. 

Death  is  now  the  phoenix'  nest ; 
And  the  turtle's  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest, 

Leaving  no  posterity  :-- 
'Twas  not  their  infirmity. 
It  was  married  chastity. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  c;inuot  be  : 
Beauty  brag,  but 't  is  not  she  ; 
Truth  and  beauty  buried  be. 

To  this  um  let  those  lepair 
That  are  either  true  oi  fair ; 
For  these  dead  birds  sigh  a  prayer 
»  TArene— funereal  song. 


^  , 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


OP 


A  LOVER'S   CO]\irLAINT,   THE  PASSIONATE  PILGKIM,  &c. 


A  Lover's  Complaint  was  first  printed  with  tlie 
Sonnets  in  1609.  It  was  reprinted  in  1G40,  in  that 
collection  called  Shakspere's  Poems,  in  which  the 
original  order  of  the  Sonnets  was  entirely  disre 
garded,  some  were  omitted,  and  this  poem  was 
thrust  in  amidst  translations  from  Ovid  which  had 
been  previously  claimed  by  another  writer.  Of  these 
we  shall  have  presently  to  speak.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  the  genuineness  of  A  Lover's  Complaint. 
It  is  distinguished  by  that  condensation  of  thought 
and  outpouring  of  imagery  which  are  the  charac- 
teristics of  Shakspere's  poems.  The  effect  conse- 
quent upon  these  qualities  is,  that  the  language  is 
sometimes  obscure,  and  the  metaphors  occasionally 
appear  strange  and  forced.  It  is  very  different 
from  any  production  of  Shakspere's  contempoi'aries. 
As  in  the  case  of  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the 
Lucrece,  we  feel  that  the  power  of  the  writer  is 
in  perfect  subjection  to  his  art.  He  is  never  carried 
away  by  the  force  of  his  own  conceptions.  We 
mention  these  attributes  merely  with  reference  to 
the  undoubted  character  of  the  poem  as  belonging 
to  the  Shaksperian  system  :  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  notice  it  again. 


The  Passionate  Pilgrim  was  originally  pub- 
lished in  1599,  by  William  Jaggard,  with  the  name 
of  Shakspere  on  the  title-page.  A  reprint,  with  some 
additions  and  alterations  of  arrangement,  appeared 
in  1612,  bearing  the  following  title:  'The  Pas- 
sionate Pilgrime,  or  c^rtaine  amorous  Sonnets,  be- 
tweene  Venus  and  Adonis,  newly  corrected  and  aug- 
mented. By  W.  Shakespeare.  The  third  Edition. 
Whereunto  is  newly  added  two  Love-Epistles,  the 
fii-st  from  Paris  to  Hellen,  and  Hellen's  Answere 
backe  again  to  Paris.  Printed  by  W.  Jaggard, 
1612.'  The  second  edition  was,  in  all  probability, 
a  mere  reprint  of  the  first  edition  ;  but  in  the  third 
edition  there  are,  as  the  title-page  impUes,  import- 
ant alterations.  There  is  one  alteration  which  is 
not  expressed  in  the  title-page.  A  distinction  is 
established  in  the  character  of  the  poems  by  classi- 
lying  six  of  them  under  a  second  title  page,  "Son- 
nets to  Sundry  Notes  of  Musick."  This  distinction 
we  have  preserved.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  we  ap- 
prehend, that  the  "newly  added  two  Love-Epistles, 
the  first  from  Paris  to  Hellen,  and  Hellen's  Answere 
backe  again  to  Paris,"  were  not  written  by  Shak- 
spere. There  is  the  best  evidence  that  they  were 
written  bj-  Thomas  Heywood.  In  1 609  that  writer 
published  a  folio  volume  of  considerable  preten- 
sion, entitled  '  Troia  Critanica,  or  Great  Britaine's 
Troy.'  In  this  volume  appear  the  two  translations 
from  Ovid  which  William  Jajrgard  published  as 
Shakspere's  in  1612.  Heywood  in  that  year  pub- 
lished a  treatise  entitled  '  An  Apology  for  Actors ; ' 
to  which  is  prefixed  <an  epistle  to  his  bookseller, 
Nicholas  Okes.  The  letter  is  a  curious  morsel  in 
literary  history  : — 

"  To  my  approved  good  friend,  Mr.  Nicholas  Okes. 
"  The  infinite  faults  escaped  in  my  book  of 
Britain's  Troy,  by  the  negligence  of  the  printer,  as 
506 


the  misquotations,  mistaking  of  syllables,  mis- 
placing half-Hues,  coining  of  strange  and  never- 
heard-of  w'ords  :  these  being  without  number,  when 
I  would  have  taken  a  particular  account  of  the 
errata,  the  printer  answered  me,  he  would  not 
publish  his  own  disworkmauship,  but  i-ather  let 
his  own  fault  lie  upon  the  neck  of  the  author  : 
and  being  fearful  that  others  of  his  quality  had 
been  of  the  same  nature  and  condition,  and  finding 
you,  on  the  contrary,  so  careful  and  industrious, 
so  serious  and  laborious,  to  do  the  author  all  the 
rights  of  the  press,  I  could  not  choose  but  gratulate 
your  honest  endeavours  with  this  short  remem- 
brance. Here,  likewise,  I  must  necessarily  insert 
a  manifest  injury  done  me  in  that  work,  by  taking 
the  two  Epistles  of  Paris  to  Helen,  and  Helen  to 
Paris,  and  printing  them  in  a  less  volume,  under 
the  name  of  another,  which  may  put  the  world  in 
opinion  I  might  steal  them  from  him,  and  he,  to  do 
himself  right,  hath  since  published  them  in  his  own 
naoie  :  but  as  I  must  acknowledge  my  lines  not 
worthy  his  patronage  under  whom  he  hath  pub- 
lished them,  so  the  author  I  know  much  offended 
with  M.  Jaggard  that  (altogether  unknown  to  him) 
presumed  to  make  so  bold  with  his  name.  These, 
and  the  like  dishonesties,  I  know  you  to  be  clear 
of;  and  I  could  wish  but  to  be  the  happy  author  of 
so  worthy  a  work  as  I  could  willingly  commit  to 
your  care  and  workmanship. 
"  Yom's  ever, 

"  Thomas  Hetwood." 

Jaggard,  upon  the  publication  of  this,  appears  to 
have  been  compelled  to  do  some  sort  of  justice  to 
Heywood,  however  imperfect.  He  cancelled  the 
title-page  of  the  edition  of  The  Passionate  Pil- 
grim of  1612,  removing  the  name  of  Shakspere, 
and  printing  the  collection  without  any  author's 
name.  Malone  had  a  copy  of  the  book  with  both 
title-pages.  This  transaction  naturally  throws  great 
discredit  on  the  honesty  of  the  publisher;  and  might 
lead  us  to  suspect  that  Heywood's  was  not  the  only 
case  in  which  Shakspere  was  "much  offended  with 
M.  Jaggard,  that  (altogether  unknown  to  him)  pre- 
sumed to  make  so  bold  with  his  name."  There  are 
other  pieces  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  that  have 
been  attributed  on  reasonable  gi'ounds  to  other 
authors  thau  Shakspere.  It  may  be  well,  therefore, 
that  we  should  run  through  the  whole  collection, 
offering  a  few  brief  obseiTations  on  the  authenticity 
of  these  poems. 

The  two  first  Sonnets  in  Jaggard's  edition  of 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  are  those  which,  with 
some  alterations,  appear  as  the  138th  and  the  144th 
in  the  collect-on  of  Sonnets  published  in  1609.  The 
variations  of  those  Sonnets,  as  they  appeared  in 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  are  given  in  our  foot- 
notes at  pages  89  and  90.  The  third  Sonnet  in  the 
collection  (the  first  in  our  reprint)  is  found  in 
Love's  Labour 's  Lost.  The  fourth  is  one  of  the 
four  Sonnets  on  the  subject  of  Venus  and  Adonis. 
In  Malone's  first  edition  of  these  poems  (1780),  he 
followed  the  order  of  the  original,  as  we  now  do ; 


ILLUSTEATIONS   OF  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIIM,  &c. 


but  in  his  posthumous  edition,  by  Boswell,  that 
order  is  changed,  and  the  four  Sonnets  on  the 
subject  of  Venus  and  Adonis  are  placed  togetlier, 
the  first  in  the  series.  Malone's  opinion,  which 
he  did  not  subsequently  alter,  was,  that  "  several 
of  the  Sonnets  in  this  collection  seem  to  have  been 
essays  of  the  author  when  he  first  conceived  the 
notion  of  writing  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  Venus 
and  Adonis,  and  befoi-e  the  scheme  of  his  work 
was  completely  adjusted."  Boswell  justly  says 
that  some  doubt  is  thrown  upon  Malone's  conjec- 
ture by  the  circumstance  that  one  of  these  four 
Sonnets,  with  some  variations,  is  found  in  a  volume 
of  poems  published  before  The  Passionate  Pilgrim, 
namely,  '  Fidessa  more  Chaste  than  Kiude,'  by  B. 
Griffin,  1596.  In  GriflBn'slittle  volume,  which  has 
been  repi'inted,  the  Sonnet  stands  as  follows  ; — 

"  Venus,  with  young  Adonis  sitting  by  her, 

Under  a  myrtle  shade  began  to  woo  him; 
She  told  the  youngling  how  god  Mars  did  try  her, 

And  as  lie  fell  to  her,  so  fell  she  to  him. 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  tlie  wanton  god  embrac'd  me ; 

And  thus  she  clasp'd  Adonis  in  her  arms  : 
Even  thus,  quoth  she,  the  warlike  god  unlac'd  me, 

As  if  the  boy  should  use  like  loving  charms. 
But  he,  a  wayward  boy,  refus'd  her  offer. 

And  ran  away,  the  beauteous  queen  neglecting; 
Showing  both  folly  to  abuse  her  proffer. 

And  all  his  se.x  of  cowardice  detecting. 
Oh,  that  I  had  my  mistress  at  that  bay, 
To  kiss  and  clip  me  till  I  ran  away !  " 

The  variations  between  this  Sonnet  and  that  printed 
in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  are  very  remarkable ; 
but  there  can  be  no  doubt  we  should  think  that  the 
authorship  belongs  to  Grifi&n.  This  volume  was  not 
published  anonymously ;  and  it  is  dedicated  "  to 
Mr.  Wm.  Essex,  of  Lambourne,  Berks,  and  to  the 
Gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court."  It  is  not  likely 
that  he  would  have  adopted  a  Sonnet  by  Shakspere 
floating  about  in  society,  and  made  it  his  own  by 
these  changes. 

The  fifth  poem  in  Jaggard's  collection  is  Biron's 
Sonnet  in  Love's  Labour 's  Lost.  The  seventh, 
"Fair is  my  love,"  stands  as  Shakspere's,  without 
any  rival  to  impugn  Jaggard's  authority.  The 
eighth  is  not  so  fortunate.  It  would  be  pleasant  to 
believe  that  the  Sonnet  commencing 

"  If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree  " 

was  written  by  Shakspere.*  It  would  be  satisfactory 
that  the  gi-eatest  dramatic  poet  of  the  world  should 
pay  his  homage  to  that  great  contemporary  from 
whose  exhaustless  wells  of  imagination  every  real 
lover  of  poetry  has  since  drawn  waters  of  "  deep 
delight."  But  that  Sonnet  is  claimed  by  another; 
and  we  believe  that  the  claim  must  be  admitted. 
There  was  another  publisher  of  the  name  of  Jag- 
gard — John  Jaggard  ;  and  he,  in  1598,  printed  a 
volume  bearing  this  title  : — '  Encomion  of  Lady 
Pecunia  ;  or  the  Praise  of  Money  :  the  Complaint 
of  Poetrie  for  the  Death  of  Liberalitie  :  /.  e.  The 
Combat  betweene  Conscience  and  Covetousness  in 
the  Minde  of  Man  :  with  Poems  in  divers  Humors.' 
The  volume  bears  the  name,  as  author,  of  Richard 
Barnfield,  graduate  of  Oxford,  who  had  previously 

•  We  have  previously  expressed  an  opinion  that  it  was 
written  by  Shakspere :  it  has  been  generally  attributed  to 
him ;  and  we  had  adopted  the  received  opinion,  lookmg 
p.hieiiy  at  the  cnaracter  of  tbe  Sonnet.    See  page  125 


published  a  volume  entitled  '  Cynthia.'  The  vo- 
lume of  1598  contains  a  Sonnet  "addressed  to  hi.s 
friend  Master  1\.  L.,  in  praise  of  IMusic  and  Poetry." 
This  is  the  Sonnet  that  a  year  after  William  Jag- 
gard prints  with  the  name  of  Shakspere.  But  Bam- 
field's  volume  contains  another  poem,  which  the 
publisher  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  also  assigns 
to  Shakspere,  amongst  the  '  Sonnets  to  Sundry 
Notes  of  Music ' — the  last  in  the  collection — 

"  As  it  fell  upon  a  day." 

It  is  remarkable  that,  after  the  publication  of  Barn- 
field's  volume  in  1598,  and  Tlie  Passionate  Pil- 
grim in  1599,  a  lar^e  portion  of  this  poem  was,  in 
1600,  printed  in  'England's  Helicon,'  with  the 
signature  of  "  Ignoto."  It  there  follows  the  poem 
which  is  the  18th  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim — 

"  My  flocks  feed  not." 

That  poem  bears  the  title  of  'The  Unknown  Shep- 
herd's Complaint,'  and  is  also  signed,  in  'Eng- 
land's Helicon,'  "  Ignoto."  "As  it  fell  upon  a  day" 
is  entitled  'Another  of  the  same  Shepherd's.'  Both 
the  poems  in  'England's  Helicon'  immediately 
follow  one  bearing,'  the  signature  of  "  W.  Shake- 
speare," the  beautiful  Sonnet  in  Love's  Labour's 
Lost — 

"On  a  day,  alack  the  day" — 

which  is  given  as  one  of  the  Sonnets  to  Music  in 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim. 

For  the  following  poems  in  The  Passionate  Pil- 
grim no  claim  of  authorship  has  appeared  further 
to  impugn  the  credibility  of  W.  Jaggard  : — 

"  Sweet  rose,  fair  flower." 

"  Erabbed  age  and  youth." 

"  Beauty  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good." 

•'  Good  night,  good  rest." 

"  Lord,  how  mine  eyes." 

"  It  was  a  lording's  daughter." 

"  Whenas  thine  eye." 

But  there  is  a  poem,  imperfectly  printed  in  Tho 
Passionate  Pilgrim  (and  which  we  have  reprinted, 
that  the  reader  may  have  before  him  what  that  work 
originally  contained),  of  a  higher  reputation  than 
any  poem  in  the  collection. 

"  Live  with  me,  and  be  my  love" 

is  printed  in  'England's  Hehcon'  with  the  signa- 
ture of  "  Chr.  Marlow,"  and  the  copy  there  given  is 

as  follows  : — 

The  Passionate  SunpHEno  to  his  Love. 
Come  live  with  me.  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks. 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 

And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  : 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold  : 

507 


ILLUSTEATIOXS   OF  THE  PASSIONATE  PILGRIM,  &c 


A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  sluds. 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Tlie  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delights  each  May-morning; 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Cur.  Marlow. 

In  that  collection  it  ia  immediately  succeeded  by 
another  poem,  almost  equally  celebrated,  bearing 
the  signature  of  "  Iguoto  : " — 

The  Nymph's  Reply  to  the  Shepherd. 
If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold. 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb  ; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  .spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs. 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love.         ' 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed. 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Ignoto 

In  our  Illustrations  of  The  MeiTy  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, Act  III.,  we  have  already  noticed  the  probable 
authorship  of  these  poems.  Warburton,  upon  the 
authority  of  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  assigns  "Come 
live  with  me"  to  Shakspere.  But  we  fear  that  Mr. 
William  Jaggard's  authority  is  not  quite  so  much 
to  be  relied  upon  as  that  of  '  England's  Helicon  : ' 
and,  moreover,  there  was  an  honest  witness  living 
some  fifty  years  after,  whose  traditionary  evidence 
must  go  far  to  settle  the  point.  We  cannot  resist 
the  pleasure  of  transcribing  dear  Izaak  Walton's 
testimony  : — "  Look  !  under  that  broad  beech-tree 
I  sat  down  when  I  was  last  this  way  a-fishing. 
And  the  birds  in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to 
have  a  friendly  contention  with  an  echo,  whose 
dead  voice  seemed  to  live  in  a  hollow  tree  near  to 
the  brow  of  that  primrose-hill.  There  I  sat  view- 
ing the  silver  streams  glide  silently  towards  their 
centre,  the  tempestuous  sea;  but  sometimes  opposed 
by  rugged  roots  and  pebble-stones,  which  broke 
their  waves,  and  turned  them  into  foam.  And 
sometimes  I  beguiled  time  by  viewing  the  harmless 
lambs — some  leaping  securely  in  the  cool  shade, 
while  others  sported  themselves  in  the  cheerful 


£08 


sun  ;  and  saw  others  craving  comfort  from  the 
swollen  udders  of  their  bleating  dams.  As  thus  I 
sat,  these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully  possessed 
my  soul  with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet 
hiis  happily  expressed  it, 

'  I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth, 
And  possess'd  joys  not  promis'd  in  my  birth.' 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into  the  next  field, 
a  second  pleasure  entertained  me  :  't  was  a  hand- 
some milkmaid,  that  had  not  yet  attained  so  much 
age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  minds  with  any  fears 
of  many  things  that  will  never  be,  as  too  many  men 
too  often  do  ;  but  she  cast  away  all  care,  and  sung 
like  a  nightingale  :  hervoice  was  good,  and  the  ditty 
fitted  for  it ;  it  was  that  smooth  song  which  was 
made  by  Kit  Marlow,  now  at  least  fifty  years  ago. 
And  the  milkmaid's  mother  sang  an  answer  to  it, 
which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  his 
younger  days. 

"  They  were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely 
good  ;  I  think  much  better  than  the  strong  lines 
that  are  now  in  fashion  in  this  critical  age.  Look 
yonder !  on  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be  a-milking 
again.  I  will  give  her  the  chub,  and  persuade  them 
to  sing  those  two  songs  to  us." 

We  have  now  gone  though  all  the  poems  of  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim ;  and,  taking  away  the  five 
poems  which  are  undoubtedly  Shakspere's,  but 
which  are  to  be  found  in  the  Sonnets  and  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  and  considering  at  least  as  apocry- 
phal those  which  have  been  assigned  to  other  au- 
thors, there  is  not  a  great  deal  left  that  posterity 
may  thank  Mr.  William  Jaggard  for  having  rescued 
from  oblivion. 

There  are  two  other  poems  that  usually  follow 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  though  they  form  no  part 
of  that  collection.  The  fii-st  is  the  celebrated  song  of 

"Take,  O  take  those  lips  away." 

Our  readers  are  aware  that  the  first  stanza  is  found 
in  Measure  for  Measure,  as  sung  by  a  boy  to 
Mariana,  who  says  "Break  off  thy  song."  The  two 
stanzas  are  in  the  tragedy,  ascribed  to  Fletcher,  of 
'  RoUo,  Duke  of  Normandy.'  There  is  no  possi- 
bility, we  apprehend,  of  deciding  the  authorship  of 
the  second  stanza  (see  Illustrations  of  Measure  for 
Measure,  Act  iv.).     The  other  poem,  beginning 

"  Let  the  bird  of  loudest  lay," 

is  found  with  Shakspere's  name  in  a  book  printed 
in  1601,the  greater  part  of  which  consists  of  a  poem 
translated  from  the  Italian  by  Robert  Chester,  en- 
titled '  Love's  Martyr  ;  or  Rosalin's  Complaint : 
allegorically  shadowing  the  Truth  of  Love,  in  the 
constant  Fate  of  the  Phoenix  and  Turtle.'  There  is 
a  second  title  to  this  volume  prefixed  to  some  sup- 
plementary verses  :  '  Hereafter  follow  diverse  Poet- 
ical Essaies  on  the  former  Subject,  viz.  the  Turtle 
and  Phoenix.  Done  by  the  best  and  chiefest  of  our 
modern  Writers,  with  their  Names  subscribed  to 
their  particular  Works.  Never  before  extant.'  The 
name  "  Wm.  .Shakeispeare "  is  subscribed  to  this 
poem,  in  the  same  way  that  the  names  of  Ben  Jon- 
son,  Marston,  and  Chapman  are  subscribed  to  other 
poems. 


''^'i./J   /Mil 

0    JJ-r    >  '       ! 


c^nS  J\  WV<y    fflii^^^- 


_<i- 


rs^ 


STJPPLEMENTAUY  NOTICE  TO  THE  POEMS. 


"  If  the  first  heir  of  my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had  so  noble  a  godfather." 
These  are  the  words  which,  in  relation  to  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  Shakspere  addressed,  in  1593,  to 
the  Earl  of  Southampton.  Are  we  to  accept  them  literally?  Was  the  Venus  and  Adonis  the  first 
production  of  Shakspere's  imagination  ?  Or  did  he  put  out  of  his  view  those  dramatic  performances 
which  he  had  then  unquestionably  produced,  in  deference  to  the  critical  opinions  which  regarded  plaj'5 
as  works  not  belonging  to  "  invention  "  ?  We  think  that  he  used  the  words  in  a  literal  sense.  We 
regard  the  Venus  and  Adonis  as  the  production  of  a  very  young  man,  improved,  perhaps,  considenibly 
in  the  interval  between  its  first  composition  and  its  publication,  but  distinguished  by  pecuharities 
which  belong  to  the  wild  luxuriance  of  youthful  power, — such  power,  however,  as  few  besides 
Shakspere  have  ever  possessed. 

A  deep  thinker  and  eloquent  writer,  Julius  Charles  Hare,  thus  describes  "the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice," 
as  applied  to  poetry  : — 

"  The  might  of  the  imagination  is  manifested  by  its  launching  forth  from  the  petty  creek,  where 
the  accidents  of  birth  moored  it,  into  the  wide  ocean  of  being, — by  its  going  abroad  into  the  world 
around,  passing  into  whatever  it  meets  with,  animating  it,  and  becoming  one  with  it.  This  com- 
plete union  and  identification  of  the  poet  with  his  poem, — this  suppression  of  his  own  individual 
insulated  consciousness,  with  its  narrowness  of  thought  and  pettiness  of  feeling, — is  what  we  admire 
in  the  great  masters  of  that  which  for  this  reason  we  justly  call  classical  poetry,  as  representing  that 
which  is  symbolical  and  universal,  not  that  which  is  merely  occasional  and  peculiar.  This  gives 
them  that  majestic  calmness  which  still  breathes  upon  us  from  the  statues  of  their  gods.  This 
invests  their  works  with  that  lucid  transparent  atmosphere  wherein  every  form  stands  out  in  perfect 
definiteness  and  distinctness,  only  beautified  by  the  distance  which  idealizes  it.  This  has  delivered 
those  works  from  the  casualties  of  time  and  space,  and  has  lifted  them  up  like  stars  into  the  pure 
firmament  of  thought,  so  that  they  do  not  shine  on  one  spot  alone,  nor  fade  like  earthly  flowers, 
but  journey  on  from  clime  to  clime,  shedding  the  light  of  beauty  on  generation  after  generation. 
The  same  quality,  amounting  to  a  total  extinction  of  his  own  selfish  being,  so  that  his  spirit  became 
a  mighty  organ  through  which  Nature  gave  utterance  to  the  full  diapason  of  her  notes,  is  what  we 

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1 


SUPPLEMENTAEY  NOTICE  TO  THE  POEMS. 

wonder  at  in  our  own  great  dramatist,  and  is  the  groundwork  of  all  his  other  powers  :  for  it  is 
only  when  purged  of  selfishness  that  the  intellect  becomes  fitted  for  receiving  the  inspirations  of 
genius."  * 

What  Mr.  Hare  so  justly  considers  as  the  great  moving  principle  of  "classical  poetry," — what 
he  further  notes  as  the  pre-eminent  characteristic  of  "our  own  great  dramatist," — is  abundantly 
found  in  that  great  dramatist's  earliest  work.  Coleridg*  was  the  first  to  point  out  this  pervading 
quality  in  the  Venus  and  Adonis ;  and  he  has  done  this  so  admirably,  that  it  would  be  profanation 
were  we  to  attempt  to  elucidate  the  point  in  any  other  than  his  own  words  : — 

"  It  is  throughout  as  if  a  superior  spirit,  more  intuitive,  more  intimately  conscious,  even  than 
the  characters  themselves,  not  only  of  every  outward  look  and  act,  but  of  the  flux  and  reflux  of 
the  mind  in  all  its  subtlest  thoughts  and  feelings,  were  placing  the  whole  before  our  view ;  himself 
meanwhile  unparticipating  in  the  passions,  and  actuated  only  by  that  pleasurable  excitement  which 
had  resulted  from  the  enei-getic  fervour  of  his  own  spirit  in  so  vividly  exhibiting  what  it  h.ad  so 
accurately  and  profoundly  contemplated.  I  think  I  shonld  have  conjectured  from  these  poems, 
that  even  then  the  great  instinct  which  impelled  the  poet  to  the  drama  was  secretly  working  in  him, 
prompting  him  by  a  series  and  nevei'-broken  chain  of  imagery,  always  vivid,  and,  because  unbroken, 
often  minute, — by  the  highest  effort  of  the  picturesque  in  words  of  which  words  are  capable,  higher 
perhaps  than  was  ever  realized  by  any  other  poet,  even  Dante  not  excepted, — to  provide  a  substi- 
tute for  that  visual  language,  that  constant  intervention  and  running  comment  by  tone,  look,  and 
gesture,  which  in  his  dramatic  works  he  was  entitled  to  expect  from  the  players.  His  Venus  and 
Adonis  seem  at  once  the  characters  themselves,  and  the  whole  representation  of  those  characters 
by  the  most  consummate  actors.  You  seem  to  be  told  nothing,  but  to  see  and  hear  everything. 
Hence  it  is,  that,  from  the  perpetual  activity  of  attention  required  on  the  part  of  the  reader, — 
from  the  rapid  flow,  the  quick  change,  and  the  playful  nature  of  the  thoughts  and  images, — and, 
above  all,  from  the  alienation,  and,  if  I  may  hazard  such  an  expression,  the  utter  aloofness  of 
the  poet's  own  feelings  from  those  of  which  he  is  at  once  the  painter  and  the  analyst, — that 
though  the  very  subject  cannot  but  detract  from  the  pleasure  of  a  delicate  mind,  yet  never  was 
poem  less  dangerous  on  a  moral  account."  + 

Coleridge,  in  the  preceding  chapter  of  his  'Literary  Life,'  says,  "During  the  first  year  that 
yiv.  Wordsworth  and  I  were  neighbours,  our  conversations  turned  frequently  on  the  two  cai-dinal 
points  of  poetry — the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  by  a  faithful  adherence  to 
the  ti-uth  of  nature,  and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colours  of 
imagination."  In  Coleridge's  '  Litei-ary  Remains '  the  Venus  and  Adonis  is  cited  as  furnishing  a 
signal  example  of  "that  affectionate  love  of  nature  and  natural  objects,  without  which  no  man 
could  have  obsei'ved  so  steadily,  or  painted  so  truly  and  passionately,  the  very  minutest  beauties 
of  the  external  world."  The  description  of  the  hare-hunt  is  there  given  at  length  as  a  specimen 
of  this  power.  A  remarkable  proof  of  the  completeness  as  well  as  accuracy  of  Shakspere's  descrip- 
tion lately  presented  itself  to  our  mind,  in  ninning  through  a  little  volume,  full  of  talent,  published  in 
1825 — 'Essays  and  Sketches  of  Character,  by  the  late  Richard  Ayton,  Esq.'  There  is  a  paper  on 
hunting,  and  especially  on  hare-hunting.  He  says — "  I  am  not  one  of  the  perfect  fox-hunters  of  these 
realms ;  but  having  been  in  the  way  of  late  of  seeing  a  good  deal  of  various  modes  of  hunting,  I 
would,  for  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated,  set  down  the  results  of  my  observations."  In  this  matter  he 
•writes  with  a  perfect  unconsciousness  that  he  is  describing  what  any  one  has  described  before.  But  as 
accurate  an  observer  had  been  before  him  : — 

"She  (the  hare)  generally  returns  to  the  seat  from  which  she  was  put  up,  running,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  in  a  circle,  or  something  sometimes  like  it,  we  had  better  say,  that  we  may  keep  on  good  terms 
with  the  mathematical.  At  starting,  she  tears  away  at  her  utmost  speed  for  a  mile  or  more,  and  dist.ances 
the  dogs  half-way :  she  then  returns,  diverging  a  little  to  the  right  or  left,  that  she  may  not  nm  into  the 
mouths  of  her  enemies — a  necessity  which  accounts  for  what  we  call  the  circularity  of  her  course.  Her 
flight  from  home  is  direct  and  precipitate ;  but  on  her  way  back,  when  she  has  gained  a  little  time  for 
consideration  and  stratagem,  she  describes  a  curious  labyrinth  of  short  turnings  and  windings,  as  if  to 
perj)lex  the  dogs  by  the  intricacy  of  her  track." 


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'  1  \e  Victory  of  Faith ;  and  other  Sermons.'    By  Julius  Charles  Hare,  M.A. 
t  '  Biographia  Literaria,'  1817,  vol.  ii.,  p.  15. 


1810.     P.  277. 


SUPPLEMEXTAEY  NOTICE  TO   THE   POEMS. 


Compare  this  with  Shakspere  :- 


And  wlien  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  liare, 
Mark  the  poor  wretch,  to  overshoot  his  troubles, 
How  he  outruns  the  wind,  and  with  what  care 
He  cranks  and  crosses,  with  a  thousand  doubles  ; 
The  many  musits  through  the  which  he  goes 
Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes." 


Mr.  Ayton  thus  goes  on  : — 


"  Tho  hounds,  whom  we  left  in  full  cry,  continue  their  music  without  remission  as  long  as  they  are  faithful 
to  the  scent ;  as  a  summons,  it  should  seem,  like  the  seaman's  cry,  to  pull  tog-ether,  or  keep  together,  and  it 
is  a  certain  proof  to  themselves  and  their  followers  that  they  are  in  the  riglit  way.  On  the  instant  that  they 
are 'at  fault,' or  lose  the  scent,  they  are  silent.  *  *****  The  weather,  in  its  impression  on  the 
scent,  is  the  great  father  of  'faults  ;'  but  they  may  arise  from  other  accidents,  even  when  the  day  is  in  every 
respect  favourable.  The  intervention  of  ploughed  land,  on  which  the  scent  soon  cools  or  evaporates,  is  at 
least  perilous  ;  but  sheep-stain;?,  recently  left  by  a  flock,  are  fatal :  they  ctit  off  the  scent  irrecoveraVjly — 
making  a  gap,  as  it  were,  in  the  clue,  in  which  the  dogs  have  not  even  a  hint  for  their  guidance." 

Compare  Shakspere  again  ; — 

"  Sometime  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep. 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell, 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep. 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell ; 
And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  herd  of  deer; 
Danger  deviseth  shifts;  wit  waits  on  fear; 

"  For  there  his  smell  with  others  being  mingled, 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt, 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry  till  they  have  singled 
With  nmch  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out; 

Then  do  they  spend  their  mouths :  Echo  replies, 

As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies." 

One  more  extract  from  Mr.  Ayton  : — 

"Suppose  then,  after  the  usual  rounds,  that  you  see  the  hare  at  last  (a  sorry  mai-k  for  so  many  foes)  sore'.y 
beleaguered — looking  dark  and  draggled — and  limping  heavily  along ;  then  stopping  to  listen — again 
tottering  on  a  little — and  again  stofiping ;  and  at  every  step,  and  every  pause,  hearing  the  death-cry  grow 
nearer  and  louder." 

One  more  comparison,  and  we  have  exhausted  Shakspere's  description  : — 

"  By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a  hill, 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear. 
To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still ; 
Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear ; 

And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 

To  one  sore  sick  that  hears  the  passing-bell. 

"  Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-debabbled  wretch 
Turn  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way  ; 
Each  envious  briar  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay  : 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many. 
And  being  low  never  reliev'd  by  any." 

Here,  then,  be  it  observed,  are  not  only  the  same  objects,  tho  same  accidents,  the  same  movement, 
in  each  description,  but  the  very  words  employed  to  convey  the  scene  to  the  mind  are  often  the  same 
in  each.  It  would  be  easy  to  say  that  Mr.  Ayton  copied  Shakspere.  We  believe  he  did  not.  There  is 
a  sturdy  ingenuousness  about  his  writings  which  would  have  led  him  to  notice  the  Venus  and  Adonis 
if  he  had  had  it  in  his  mind.  Shakspere  and  he  had  each  looked  minutely  and  practically  upon  the 
same  scene ;  and  the  wonder  is,  not  that  Shakspere  was  an  accurate  describer,  but  that  in  him  the 
accurate  is  so  thoroughly  fused  with  the  poetical,  that  it  is  one  and  the  same  life. 

Tho  celebrated  description  of  the  courser  in  the  Venus  and  Adoni.?  is  another  remarkable  instance 
of  the  accuracy  of  the  young  Shakspere's  observation.  Not  the  most  experienced  dealer  ever  knew 
the  points  of  a  horse  better.     The  whole  poem  indeed  is  full  of  evidence  that  the  circumstances  by 

5il 


We  feel  that  this  is  true. 


STJPPLE]\IENTAEY  NOTICE  TO  THE  POEMS. 

which  the  writer  was  surroundeJ,  in  a  country  district,  had  entered  deeply  into  his  mind,  and  were 
reproduced  in  the  poetical  form.  The  bird  "tangled  in  a  net" — the  "di-dappcr  peering  through  a 
wave" — the  "blue-veined  violets" — the 

"  lied  mom,  that  ever  yet  betoken'd 
■Wreck  to  the  seaman,  tempest  to  the  field  " — 

the  fisher  that  forbears  the  "ungrowu  fry" — the  sheep  "gone  to  fold" — the  caterpillars  feeding  on 
"  the  tender  loaves  " — and,  not  to  weary  with  examples,  that  exquisite  image, 

"  Look  how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky, 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye  " — 

all  these  Dcspeak  a  poet  who  had  formed  himself  upon  nature,  and  not  upon  books.  To  understand 
tlie  value  as  well  as  the  rarity  of  this  quality  in  Shakspere,  we  should  open  any  contemporary  poem. 
Take  Marlowe's  'Hero  and  Leander'  for  example.  We  read  line  after  line,  beautiful,  gorgeous, 
running  over  with  a  satiating  luxuriousncss ;  but  we  look  in  vain  for  a  single  familiar  image. 
Shakspere  describes  what  he  has  seen,  throwing  over  the  real  the  delicious  tint  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion. Marlowe  looks  at  Nature  herself  very  rarely;  but  he  knows  all  the  conventional  images  by 
which  the  real  is  supposed  to  be  elevated  into  the  poetical.  His  most  beautiful  things  are  thus 
but  copies  of  copies.     The   mode  in   which   each   poet   describes   the   morning  will  illu.'sirate  our 

"  Lo  !  here  the  gentle  lark,  woary  of  rest, 
From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 
The  sun  arisetli  in  his  majesty; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 

The  cedar-fops  and  hills  seem  burnish'd  gold." 

Compare — 

"  By  this  Apollo's  golden  harp  began 
To  sound  forth  music  to  the  ocean; 
AVliich  watchful  Hesperus  no  sooner  heard 
But  he  the  day's  bright-bearing  car  prepar'd, 
And  ran  before,  as  harbinger  of  light, 
And  with  his  flaring  beams  mock'd  ugly  Night, 
Till  she,  o'ercomc  with  anguish,  shame,  and  rage, 
Dang'd  down  to  hell  her  loathsome  carriage." 

We  are  taught  that  tliis  is  classical. 

Coleridge  has  observed  that,  "  in  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  the  first  and  most  obvious  excellence  is  the 
perfect  sweetness  of  the  versification ;  its  adaptation  to  the  subject ;  and  the  power  displayed  in 
varying  the  march  of  the  v^ords  without  passing  into  a  loftier  and  more  majestic  rhythm  than  was 
demanded  by  the  thoughts,  or  permitted  by  the  propriety  of  preserving  a  sense  of  melody  pre- 
dominant."* This  self-controlling  power  of  "varying  the  march  of  the  words  without  passing 
Into  a  loftier  and  more  majestic  rhythm  "  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  signal  instances  of  Shakspere's 
consummate  mastery  of  his  art,  even  as  a  very  young  man.  He  who,  at  the  proper  season,  knew 
how  to  strike  the  grandest  music  within  the  compass  of  our  own  powerful  and  sonorous  language, 
in  his  early  productions  breathes  out  his  thoughts 

"  To  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  '.oft  recorder." 

The  sustained  sweetness  of  the  versification  is  never  cloying;  and  yet  there  are  no  violent  contrasts,  no 
sudden  elevations  :  all  is  equable  in  its  infinite  variety.  The  early  comedies  are  full  of  the  same  rare 
oeauty.  In  Love's  Labour's  Lost — The  Comedy  of  Errors— A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream— we  have 
verses  of  alternate  rhymes  formed  upon  the  same  model  as  those  of  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and 
producing  the  same  feeling  of  placid  delight  by  their  exquisite  harmony.  The  same  principles  on 
which  he  built  the  versification  of  the  Venus  and  Adu'iis  exhibited  to  him  the  grace  which  these 
elegiac  harmonies  would  impart  to  the  scenes  of  repose  in  the  juogress  of  a  dramatic  action. 

We  proceed  to  the  Lucrece.  Of  that  poem  the  date  of  the  composition  is  fixed  as  accurately  as 
we  can  desire.     In  the  dedication  to  the  Venus  and  Adonis  the  poet  says — "If  your  honour  seem 


612 


'  Biographia  Literaria,'  tO'   ii.,  p.  14. 


supplejmentaey  notice  to  the  poems. 

but  pleased  I  account  myself  higlily  praised,  and  vow  to  take  advantage  of  all  idle  hours  till  I 
have  honoured  you  with  some  graver  labour."  lu  1594,  a  year  after  the  Venus  and  Adonis, 
Lucrece  was  published,  and  was  dedicated  to  Lord  Southampton.  This,  then,  was  undoubtedly 
the  "graver  labour;"  this  was  the  produce  of  the  "idle  hours"  of  1593.  Shakspere  was  then 
nearly  thirty  years  of  age — the  period  at  which  it  is  held  by  some  he  first  began  to  produce  any- 
thing original  for  the  stage.  The  poet  unquestionably  intended  the  "graver  labour"  for  a  higher 
effort  than  had  produced  the  "first  heir"  of  his  invention.  He  describes  the  Venus  and  Adonis 
as  "unpolished  lines" — lines  thrown  off  with  youthful  laxuriousness  and  rapidity.  The  verses 
of  the  Lucrece  are  "untutored  lines" — lines  formed  upon  no  established  model  There  is  to  our 
mind  the  difference  of  eight  or  even  ten  years  in  the  aspect  of  these  poems — a  difference  as  manifest 
as  that  which  exists  between  Love's  Labour's  Lost  and  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Coleridge  has 
marked  the  great  distinction  between  the  one  poem  and  the  other  : — 

"  The  Venus  and  Adonis  did  not  perhaps  allow  the  display  of  the  deeper  passions.  But  the 
story  of  Lucretia  seems  to  favour,  and  even  demand,  their  intensest  workings.  And  yet  we  find  in 
Shakespeare's  management  of  the  tale  neither  pathos  nor  any  other  dramatic  quality.  There  is  the 
same  minute  and  faithful  imagery  as  in  the  former  poem,  in  the  same  vivid  colours,  inspirited  by 
the  same  impetuous  vigour  of  thought,  and  diverging  and  contracting  with  the  same  activity  of  the 
assimilative  and  of  the  modifying  faculties ;  and  with  a  yet  larger  display,  a  yet  wider  range  of 
knowledge  and  reflection :  and,  lastly,  with  the  same  perfect  dominion,  often  domination,  over 
the  whole  world  of  language."  * 

It  is  in  this  paragraph  that  Coleridge  has  marked  the  difference — which  a  critic  of  the  very  high- 
est order  could  alone  have  pointed  out — between  the  power  which  Shakspere's  mind  possessed  of 
going  out  of  itself  in  a  narrative  poem,  and  the  dramatic  power.  The  same  mighty,  and  to  most 
unattainable,  power,  of  utterly  subduing  the  self-conscious  to  the  imiversal,  was  essential  to  the 
highest  excellence  of  both  species  of  composition, — the  poem  and  the  drama.  But  the  exercise  of 
that  power  was  essentially  different  in  each.  Coleridge,  in  another  place,  says,  "in  his  very  first 
production  he  projected  his  mind  out  of  hia  own  particular  being,  and  felt,  and  made  others  feel,  on 
subjects  no  way  connected  with  himself  except  by  force  of  contemplation,  and  that  sublime  facvdty 
by  which  a  gi'eat  mind  becomes  that  on  which  it  meditates."  "t*  But  this  "  sublime  faculty "  went 
greatly  farther  when  it  became  dramatic.  In  the  narrative  poems  of  an  ordinaiy  man  we  per- 
petually see  the  narrator.  Coleridge,  in  a  passage  previouly  quoted,  has  shown  the  essential 
superiority  of  Shakspere's  narrative  poems,  where  the  whole  is  placed  before  our  view,  the  poet 
unparticipating  in  the  passions.  There  is  a  remarkable  example  of  how  strictly  Shakspere  adhered 
to  this  principle  in  his  beautiful  poem  of  A  Lover's  Complaint.  There  the  poet  is  actually  present  to 
the  scene  : — 

"  From  off  a  hill  whose  concave  womb  re-worded 
A  piaintful  story  from  a  sistering  vale, 
My  spirits  to  attend  this  double  voice  accorded, 
And  down  I  laid  to  list  the  sad-tun'd  tale." 

But  not  one  word  of  comment  does  he  offer  upon  the  revelations  of  the  "fickle  maid  full  pale." 
The  dramatic  power,  however,  as  we  have  said,  is  many  steps  beyond  this.  It  dispenses  with  narra- 
tive altogether.  It  renders  a  complicated  story,  or  stories,  one  in  the  action.  It  makes  the  characters 
reveal  themselves,  sometimes  by  a  word.  It  trusts  for  everything  to  the  capacity  of  an  audience  to 
appreciate  the  greatest  subtleties,  and  the  nicest  shades  of  passion,  through  the  action.  It  is  the 
very  reverse  of  the  oratorical  power,  which  repeats  and  explains.  And  how  is  it  able  to  effect  this 
prodigious  mastery  over  the  senses  and  the  understanding  ?  By  raising  the  mind  of  the  spectator, 
or  reader,  into  such  a  state  of  poetical  excitement  as  corresponds  in  some  degree  to  the  excitement 
of  the  poet,  and  thus  clears  away  the  mists  of  our  ordinary  vision,  and  irradiates  the  whole  complex 
moral  world  in  which  we  for  a  time  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being,  with  the  brightness  of  hia 
own  intellectual  simlight.  Now,  it  appears  to  us  that,  although  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the 
Lucrece,  do  not  pretend  to  be  the  creations  of  this  wonderful  power— their  forms  did  not  demand 
its  complete  exercise — they  could  not  have  been  produced  by  a  man  who  did  not  possess  the  power, 


*  '  Biographia  Literatia,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  21. 
TiiZGEDiES,  &c.— Vol.  XL        2  L 


t  'Literary  Remains,'  vol.  ii.,  p.  54. 


518 


SUPPLEiMENTARY  NOTICE  TO   THE  POEMS. 


and  had  assiduously  cultivated  it  iu  its  own  proper  field.  In  the  second  poem,  more  especially,  do  we 
think  the  power  has  reached  a  hij^her  development,  indicating  itself  in  "a  yet  wider  range  of  know- 
ledge and  reflection." 

Malone  says,  "  I  have  observed  that  Painter  has  inserted  the  story  of  Lucrece  in  the  first  volume  of 
his  'Palace  of  Ple.-isure,'  1567,  on  which  I  make  no  doubt  our  author  formed  his  poem."  Be  it  so. 
The  story  of  Lucrece  in  Painter's  novel  occupies  four  pages.  The  first  page  describes  the  circumstances 
that  preceded  the  unholy  visit  of  Tarquin  to  Lucrece ;  nearly  the  whole  of  the  last  two  pages  detail 
the  events  that  followed  the  death  of  Lucrece.  A  page  and  a  half  at  most  is  given  to  the  tr.agedy. 
This  is  proper  enough  in  a  narrative,  whose  business  it  is  to  make  all  the  circumstances  intelligible. 
But  the  naiTative  poet,  who  was  also  thoroughly  master  of  the  dramatic  power,  concentrates  all  the 
interest  upon  the  main  circumstances  of  the  etory.  He  places  the  scene  of  those  circumstances 
before  our  eyes  at  the  very  opening : — 

"  From  the  besieged  Ardca  all  in  post, 
Borne  by  the  trustless  wings  of  false  desire, 
Lust-breathed  Tarquin  leaves  the  Roman  host, 
And  to  Collatium  bears,"  &c. 

The  preceding  circumstances  which  impel  this  journey  are  then  rapidly  told.  Again,  after  the 
crowning  action  of  the  tragedy,  the  poet  has  done.  He  tells  the  consequences  of  it  with  a  brevity 
and  simplicity  indicating  the  most  consummate  art : 

"  Wlien  they  had  sworn  to  this  advised  doom, 
They  did  conclurie  to  bear  dead  Lucrece  thence; 
To  show  her  bleeding  body  thorough  Rome, 
And  so  to  publish  Tarquin's  foul  offence  : 
Wliich  being  done  with  speedy  diligence, 

The  Romans  plausibly  did  give  consent 

To  Tarquin's  everlasting  banishment." 

He  has  thus  cleared  away  all  the  encumbrances  to  the  progress  of  the  main  action.  He  would  have 
done  the  same  had  he  made  Lucrece  the  subject  of  a  drama.  But  he  has  to  tell  his  painful  storj' 
and  to  tell  it  all :  not  to  exhibit  a  portion  of  it,  as  he  would  have  done  had  he  chosen  the  subject 
for  a  tragedy.  The  consummate  delicacy  with  which  he  has  accomplished  this  is  beyond  all  praise, 
perhaps  above  all  imitation.  He  puts  forth  his  strength  on  the  accessaries  of  the  main  incident. 
He  delights  to  make  the  chief  actors  analy.se  their  own  thoughts, — reflect,  explain,  expostulate. 
All  this  is  essentially  uudramatic,  and  he  meant  it  to  be  so.  But  then,  what  pictures  does  he  paint 
of  the  progress  of  the  action,  which  none  but  a  great  dramatic  poet,  who  had  visions  of  future 
Macbeths  and  Othellos  before  him,  could  have  painted  !  Look,  for  example,  at  that  magnificent 
Bcene,  when 

'  No  comfortable  star  did  lend  his  light," 

of  Tarquin  leaping  from  his  bed,  and,  softly  smiting  his  falchion  on  a  flint,  lighting  a  torch 

"  Which  must  be  lode-star  to  his  lustful  eye." 

Look,  again,  at  the  exquisite  domestic  incident  which  tells  of  the  quiet  and  gentle  occupation  of  his 
devoted  victim  : — 

"  By  the  light  he  spies 

Lucretia's  glove,  wherein  her  needle  sticks; 

He  takes  it  from  the  rushes  where  it  lies." 

The  hand  to  which  that  glove  belongs  is  described  in  the  very  perfection  of  poetry : — 

"  Without  the  bed  her  other  fair  hand  was, 
On  the  preen  coverlet;  whose  perfect  white 
Show'd  like  an  April  daisy  on  t'he  grass." 

In  the  chamber  of  innocence  Tarquin  Ls  painted  with  terrific  grandeur,  which  is  overpowering  by  the 
force  of  contrast : — 

"  This  said  he  shakes  aloft  his  Roman  blade. 

Which,  like  a  falcon  towering  in  the  skies, 

Couchtth  the  fowl  below  with  his  wings'  shade." 

The  complaint  of  Lucrece  after  Tarquin  has  departed  was  meant  to  be   undramatic.     The   action 
advances  not     The  character  develops  not  itself  in  the  action.     But  the  poet  makes  his  heroine 
514 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE  TO   THE  POEI^Ls. 

bewail  her  fate  iu  every  variety  of  lament  that  his  boundless  command  of  imagery  could  furnish. 
The  letter  to  CoUatiue  is  written ; — a  letter  of  the  most  touching  simplicity  : 

"  Thou  worthy  lord 
Of  that  unworthy  wife  that  greeteth  thee, 
Health  to  thy  person  !     Next  vouchiaCe  to  affortl 
(If  ever,  love,  thy  Lucrece  thou  wilt  see) 
Some  present  speed  to  come  and  visit  me : 

So  I  commend  me  from  our  house  in  grief; 

My  woes  are  tedious,  though  my  words  are  brief.' 

Again  the  action  languishes,  and  again  Lucrece  surrenders  herself  to  her  grief.     Tha 

"  Skilful  painting,  made  for  Priam's  Troy  " 

is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  passages  of  the  poem,  essentially  cast  in  an  undramatic  mould.  But  this 
is  but  a  prelude  to  the  catastrophe,  where,  if  we  mistake  not,  a  strength  of  passion  is  put  forth  which 
is  worthy  him  who  drew  the  terrible  agonies  of  Lear  : — 

"  Here  with  a  sigh,  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
She  throws  forth  Tarquin's  name:  '  He,  he,'  she  says, 
But  more  than  '  he'  her  poor  tongue  could  not  speak; 
Till  after  many  accents  and  delays. 
Untimely  breathings,  sick  and  short  assays, 

She  utters  this :  '  He,  he,  fair  lords,  't  is  he, 

That  guides  this  hand  to  give  this  wound  to  me." 

Malone,  in  his  concluding  remarks  upon  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  Lucrece,  says,  "We  should  do 
Shakspeare  injustice  were  we  to  try  them  by  a  comparison  with  more  modern  and  polished  productions, 
or  with  our  present  idea  of  poetical  excellence."  This  was  written  in  the  year  1780 — the  period  which 
rejoiced  in  the  "polished  productions"  of  Hayley  and  Miss  Seward,  and  founded  its  "idea  of  poetical 
excellence  "  on  some  standard  which,  secure  in  its  conventional  forms,  might  depart  as  far  as  possible 
from  simplicity  and  nature,  to  give  us  words  without  thought,  arranged  in  verses  without  music.  It 
would  be  injustice  indeed  to  Shakspere  to  try  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  Lucrece,  by  such  a  standard 
of  "poetical  excellence."  But  we  have  outlived  that  period.  By  way  of  apology  for  Shakspere, 
Malone  adds,  "that  few  authors  rise  much  above  the  age  in  which  they  live."  He  further  says,  "the 
poems  of  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece,  whatever  opinion  may  be  now  entertained  of 
them,  were  certainly  much  admii-ed  in  Shakspeare's  lifetime."  This  is  consolatory.  In  Shakspere's 
lifetime  there  were  a  few  men  that  the  woi'ld  has  since  thought  somewhat  qualified  to  establish  an 
"idea  of  poetical  excellence" — Spenser,  Drayton,  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Chapman,  for  example.  These 
were  not  much  valued  in  Malone's  golden  age  of  "  more  modern  and  polished  productions ;  " — but  let 
that  pass.  We  are  coming  back  to  the  opinions  of  this  obsolete  school ;  and  we  venture  to  think  the 
majority  of  readers  now  will  not  require  us  to  make  au  apology  for  Shakspere's  poems. 

If  Malone  thought  it  necessary  to  solicit  indulgence  for  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  Lucrece,  he 
drew  even  a  more  timid  breath  when  he  ventured  to  speak  of  the  Sonnets.  "  I  do  not  feel  any  great 
propensity  to  stand  forth  as  the  champion  of  these  compositions.  However,  as  it  appears  to  me  that 
they  have  been  somewhat  iinderrated,  I  think  it  incumbent  on  me  to  do  them  that  justice  to  which 
they  seem  entitled."  No  wonder  he  speaks  timidly.  The  great  poetical  lawgiver  of  his  time — the 
greater  than  Shakspere,  for  he  undertook  to  mend  him,  and  refine  him,  and  make  him  fit  to  be  tolerated 
by  the  super-elegant  intellects  of  the  days  of  George  III. — had  pronounced  that  the  Sonnets  were  too 
bad  even  for  his  genius  to  make  tolerable.  He,  Steevens,  who  would  take  up  a  play  of  Shakspere's  in 
the  condescending  spirit  with  which  a  clever  tutor  takes  up  a  smart  boy's  verses— altering  a  word  here, 
piecing  out  a  line  there,  commending  this  thought,  shaking  his  head  at  this  false  prosody,  and  acknow- 
ledging upon  the  whole  that  the  thing  is  pretty  well,  seeing  how  much  the  lad  has  yet  to  learn — he 
sent  forth  his  decree  that  nothing  less  than  an  act  of  iwrliament  could  compel  the  reading  of  Shak- 
spere's Sonnets.  For  a  long  time  mankind  bowed  before  the  oracle ;  and  the  Sonnets  were  not  read. 
Wordsworth  has  told  us  something  about  this  : — 

"  There  is  extant  a  small  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems  in  which  Shakspeare  expresses  his  feelings 
in  his  own  person.  It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  that  the  editor,  George  Steevens,  should  have  been 
insensible  to  the  beauties  of  one  portion  of  that  volume,  the  Sonnets ;  though  there  is  not  a  part  of 

515 


SUPPLEMENTiVEi^  NOTICE   TO   THE  POEMS. 

tli-3  writings  of  tliis  poet  where  is  found,  in  an  equal  compass,  a  greater  number  of  exquisite  feelings 

felicitously  expressed.     But,  from  regard  to  the  critic's  own  credit,  he  would  not  have  ventured  to  talk 

of  an  act  of  parliament  not  being  strong  enough  to  compel  the  perusal  of  these,  or  any  production  of 

Shakspeare,  if  he  had  not  known  that  the  people  of  England  were  ignorant  of  the  treasures  contained 

in  those  little  pieces."  • 

That  ignorance  has  been  removed ;  and  no  one  has  contributed  more  to  its  removal,  by  creating  a 

school  of  poetry  founded  upon  Truth  and  Nature,  then  Wordsworth  himself.     The  critics  of  the  last 

century  have  passed  away  : — 

"  Peor  and  Baiilim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim." 

By  the  operation  of  what  great  sustaining  principle  is  it  that  we  have  come  back  to  the  just  api^recia- 
tion  of  "the  treasures  conUiined  in  those  little  pieces?"     The  poet-critic  will  answer  : — 

"  There  never  has  been  a  period,  and  perhaps  never  will  be,  in  which  vicious  jjoetry,  of  some  kind  or 
other,  has  not  excited  more  zealous  admiration,  and  been  far  more  generally  read,  than  good  ;  but  this 
advantage  attends  the  good,  that  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  species,  survives  from  ago  to  age ; 
whereas,  of  the  depraved,  though  the  species  be  immortal,  the  individual  quickly  penshes  ;  the  object 
of  present  admiration  vanishes,  being  supplanted  by  some  other  as  easilj'  produced,  which,  though  no 
better,  brings  with  it  at  least  the  irritation  of  novelty, — with  adaptation,  more  or  less  skilful,  to  the 
changing  humours  of  the  majority  of  those  who  are  most  at  leisure  to  regard  jioetical  works  when  they 
first  solicit  their  attention.  Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer,  the 
judgment  of  the  people  is  not  to  be  respected?  The  thought  is  most  injurious;  and,  could  the  charge 
be  brought  against  him,  he  would  repel  it  with  indignation.  The  i^eople  have  already  been  justified, 
and  their  eulogium  pronounced  by  implication,  when  it  is  said,  above — that,  of  good  poetry,  the  indi- 
vidual, as  well  as  the  species,  survives.  And  how  does  it  survive  but  through  the  people  ?  what 
preserves  it  but  their  intellect  and  their  wisdom  ? 

'  Past  and  future  are  the  wings 
On  whose  support,  harmoniously  conjoin'd, 
Moves  the  great  spirit  of  human  knowledge.' — MS. 

The  voice  that  issues  from  this  spirit  is  that  vox  popidi  which  the  Deity  inspires.  Foolish  must  he  be 
who  can  mistake  for  this  a  local  acclamation,  or  a  transitory  outcry — tran.sitory  though  it  be  for  years, 
local  though  from  a  nation  !  Still  more  lamentable  is  his  error  who  can  believe  that  there  is  anything 
of  divine  infallibility  in  the  clamour  of  that  small  though  loud  portion  of  the  community,  ever 
governed  by  factitious  influence,  which  under  the  name  of  the  Public,  passes  itself,  upon  the  unthink- 
ing, for  the  People."  + 

It  is  this  perpetual  mistake  of  the  public  for  the  people  that  has  led  to  the  belief  that  there  was  a 
period  when  Shakspere  was  neglected.  He  was  always  in  the  heart  of  the  people.  There,  in  that 
deep,  rich  soil,  have  the  Sonnets  rested  during  two  centuries;  and  here  and  there  in  remote  places 
have  the  seeds  put  forth  leaves  and  flowers.  All  young  imaginative  minds  now  rejoice  in  their 
hues  and  their  fragrance.  But  this  preference  of  the  fresh  and  beautiful  of  poetical  life  to  the  pot- 
pourri of  the  last  age  must  be  a  regulated  love.  Those  who,  seeing  the  admiration  which  now 
prevails  for  these  outpourings  of  "exquisite  feelings  felicitously  expressed,"  talk  of  the  Sonnets 
as  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  the  greatest  of  the  poet's  mighty  dramas,  compare  things  that  admit 
of  no  comparison.  AVho  would  speak  in  the  same  breath  of  the  gem  of  Cupid  and  Psyche,  and 
the  Parthenon  ?  In  the  Sonnets,  exquisite  as  they  are,  the  poet  goes  not  out  of  himself  (at  least 
in  the  form  of  the  composition),  and  he  walks,  therefore,  in  a  narrow  cii'cle  of  art.  In  the  Venus 
and  Adonis,  and  the  Lucrece,  the  circle  widens.  But  in  the  Dramas,  the  centre  is  the  Human 
Soul,  the  circumference  the  Universe. 


Preface  to  Poetical  Works. 


t  Ibid. 


END  OF  THE  POE^JS. 


516 


i^^  1  ■  ■«   1*0^  ' 


1  n  >i#   «       —  ^^      1«#v^p 


R 

PR 

Shakespeare,  William 

H 

2753 

The  pictorial  edition 

H 

K5 

1 

1867 

1 

V.7 

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