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•presented  to 

W^t  ^Ctbrarg 

of  % 

Pmiiergttg  of  ®oranto 


Wv^aju  B  Kna^p^ 


THE 

PLAYS    AND    POEMS 

OF 

SHAKESPEARE. 

VOL.  III. 


* 

\ 

4 


•SAM 


CONTENTS 


THIRD    VOLUME. 


PAGE 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  .  ;  ...''.'.  I  i 
MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  ..'..,,  t  115 
LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST  211 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


THIRD    VOLUME. 


ENGKA VINOS   ON    STEEL. 


PAOB 

1.  Robin   Goodfellow,  (Midsummer  Night's   Dream) 
from  a  Painting  by  Reynolds.    Frontispiece. 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 

2.  Shylock,  Jessica,  and  Launcelot.— Smirke.      .         .     40 

3.  Rassanio,  Portia,  and  Attendants. —  Westall.    .        .     65 

4.  Shylock,  Salanio,  Antonio,  and  Jailer. — Ditto.        .     72 

5.  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. — Hodges 104 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

6.  A  Wood.     Puck.— Fusel i 137 

7.  Titania,  Bottom,  Fairies,  &c— Ditto.        .         .         .  182 

8.  Oberon,  Titania,  Puck,  Bottom,  Fairies,  &c. — Ditto.  1S4 

• 

LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST. 

9.  Princess,  Rosaline,  Sec. — Hamilton.  .        .         .  256 

10.  Dull,  Holofernes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  Jaquenetta,  &c  — 
Wheatley 267 

11.  Princess  and  Ladies. — Ditto 299 


MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


SHAK.  in 


3 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE 


OF    TJ1K 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


It  is  generally  believed  that  Shakspeare  was  in- 
debted to  several  sources  for  the  materials  of  this 
admirable  play.  The  story  of  the  bond  is  taken  from 
a  tale  in  the  Fecorone  of  Ser  Giovanni,  a  Florentine 
novelist,  wno  wrote  in  1378,  three  years  after  the  death 
of  Boccace.  This  book  was  probably  known  to  our 
author  through  the  medium  of  some  translation  no 
longer  extant.  The  coincidences  between  these  pro- 
ductions are  too  striking  to  be  overlooked.  Thus,  the 
scene  bein&  laid  at  Venice  ;  the  residence  of  the  lady 
at  Belmont ;  the  introduction  of  a  person  bound  for 
the  principal ;  the  taking  more  or  less  than  a  pound  of 
flesh,  and  the  shedding  of  blood  ;  together  with  the 
incident  of  the  ring,  are  common  to  the  novel  and  th 
play. 

The  choice  of  the  caskets,  in  this  comedy,  is  borrowed 
from  chapter  49  of  the  English  Gesta  Romanorum, 
where  three  vessels  are  placed  before  the  daughter  of 
the  king  of  Apulia  for  her  choice,  to  prove  whether  she 
is  worthy  to  receive  the  hand  of  the  son  of  Anselmus, 
emperor  of  Rome.  The  princess,  after  praying  to  God 
for  assistance,  rejects  the  gold  and  silver  caskets,  and 
chooses  the  leaden,  which  being  opened,  and  found  to 
be  full  of  gold  and  preciou.-  stones,  the  emperor  informs 


4  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

her  that  she  has  chosen  as  he  wished,  and  immediately 
unites  her  to  his  son. 

The  love  and  elopement  of  Jessica  and  Lorenzo  have 
heen  noticed  by  Mr.  Dunlop  as  hearing  a  similitude  to 
the  fourteenth  tale  of  Massuccio  di  Salerno,  who 
florished  about  1470.  In  that  tale  we  meet  with  an 
avaricious  father,  a  daughter  carefully  shut  up,  her 
elopement  with  her  lover  by  the  intervention  of  a  ser- 
vant, her  robbing  her  father  of  his  money,  together 
with  his  grief  on  the  discovery;— a  grief,  divided 
equally  between  the  loss  of  his  daughter  and  the  loss  of 
his  ducats. 

Of  this  play  Dr.  Johnson  remarks,  that  '  the  style  is 
even  and  easy,  with  few  peculiarities  of  diction  or 
anomalies  of  construction.  The  comic  part  raises 
laughter,  and  the  serious  fixes  expectation.  The  pro- 
bability of  either  one  or  the  other  story  cannot,  be 
maintained.  The  union  of  two  actions  in  one  event  is 
in  this  drama  eminently  happy  Dryden  w.is  much 
pleased  with  his  own  address  in  connecting  the  two 
plots  of  the  Spanish  Friar,  which  yet,  I  believe,  the 
critic  will  find  excelled  by  this  play.  * 


6 


ARGUMENT. 


A  rich  and  beautiful  lieiress  residing  at  Belmont,  naniftd 
Portia,  is  compelled  by  the  will  of  her  deceased  father  to 
subject  every  suitor  to  the  choice  of  a  golden,  silver,  or 
leaden  casket :  in  the  "latter  is  enclosed  a  portrait  of  the 
lady,  who  is  to  become  the  wife  of  its  fortunate  possessor. 
Bassanio,  a  young  Venetian  gentleman,  at  length  obtains 
tbe  prize,  and  is  scarcely  united  to  his  bride,  when  be  re- 
ceives intelligence  from  Venice  that  his  dear  friend  Ant^-ni" 
from  whose  liberality  he  has  procured  the  means  of  prose- 
cuting his  suit,  is  completely  ruineo.  ;  and  th.it  a  bond, 
which  he  has  executed  with  a  Jew  for  the  payment  of  a 
sum  of  money  within  a  certain  period,  on  forfeiture  of  a. 
pound  of  flesh  nearest  his  heart,  is  now  demanded  by  his 
inexorable  creditor.  After  receiving  a  ring  from  his  bride 
with  professions  of  constancy,  Bassanio  flies  to  the  relief  of 
his  patron  :  tbe  lady,  in  the  mean  time,  procures  letters  of 
recommendation  from  an  eminent  civilian,  and,  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  doctor  of  laws,  is  introduced  to  the  Duke,  as  a 
person  well  qualified  to  decide  the  cause  pending  between 
the  merchant  and  the  Jew  ;  and  at  length,  by  her  ingenuity, 
the  unfortunate  debtor  is  delivered  from  his  savage  per- 
secutor. 'The  disguised  lawyer  persists  in  refusing  all 
pecuniary  recompense,  and  entreats  from  Bassanio  the  ring 
which  she  had  presented  to  him  at  his  departure,  which  he 
reluctantly  yields  :  the  same  expedient  is  successfully  tried 
by  the  waiting-maid,  disguised  as  a  lawyer's  clerk.  The 
lady  and  her  attendant  now  hasten  home;  and,  on  the  ar- 
rival of  their  husbands,  amuse  themselves  with  witnessing 
their  confusion  at  the  loss  of  their  love  tokens,  till  the 
stratagem  is  at  length  fully  explained.  The  remainder  of 
this  play  is  occupied  with  the  elopement  of  Jessica,  the 
daughter  of  the  Jew,  with  a  young  man,  named  Lorenzo, 
who  procures  from  his  father-in-law  the  reversion  of  hie 
whole  property. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


Duke  of  Venice. 

Prince  of  Morocco,  ^ 

r>  i  i  suitors  to  Portia. 

Prince  of  Arracon,  J 

Antonio,  the  merchant  of  Venice. 

Bassanio,  his  friend. 

Salanio,     1 

Salarino,  v  friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Gratiano,  J 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

Shylock,  a  Jew. 

Tubal,  a  Jew,  his  friend. 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  clown,  servant  to  Shylock. 

Old  Gobbo,  father  to  Launcelot. 

Salerio,  a  messenger  from  Venice. 

Leonardo,  servant  to  Bassanio. 

Balthazar,  ■) 

„  }■  servants  to  Portia. 

Stephano,     J 

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

Magnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  court  of  justice,  Jailer, 
Servants,  and  other  Attendants. 

Scene,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the  scat 
of  Portia,  on  the  continent. 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


-«*- 


ACT    I. 


cOfcivfc     1. 


Venice.    A  street 
Enter  antonio.  salarino,  and  salanio. 

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

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

Salar.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean  ; 
There,  where  your  argosies  1  with  portly  sail, — 
Like  £,igniors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  Mood, 
Or,  as  it  were  the  pageants  of  the  sea, — 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 
That  curtsy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 


'  Ships  of  large  burden. 


8  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT     I, 

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

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  Avhen  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run, 
But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats; 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand, 
Vailing  1  her  high-toj)  lower  than  her  ribs, 
To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church, 
And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone, 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks; 
Which,  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream ; 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks ; 
And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this, 
And  now  worth  nothing  ?     Shall  I  have  the  thought 
To  think  on  this  ;  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought, 
That  such  a  thing,  bechanced,  would  make  me  sad  ? 
But,  tell  not  me  ;   I  know,  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant.  Believe  me,  no :   1  thank  my  fortune  for  it. 


1  Lowering. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  9 

My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year  : 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  ms  not  sad. 

Salan.  Why  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie ! 

Salan.  Not  in  love  neither  ?    Then  let 's  say,  you 
are  sad, 
Because  you  are  not  merry  ;  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you,  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say  you  are  merry, 
Because  you    are    not    sad.     Now,  by    two-headed 

Janus, 
Nature  hath  framed  strange  fellows  in  her  time : 
Some,  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 
And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bagpiper ; 
And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 
That  they  '11  not  show  their  teeth  in  waj  of  smile, 
Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Enter  bassanio,  lorenzo,  ffJu/GRATiANo. 

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

Salar.  1  would  have   stay'd  till  1     had  made  you 
merry, 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.  Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 


10  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  ACT  I. 

Salar.   Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 
*  Bas.   Good  signiors   both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ? 

Say,  when  ? 
Vou  grow  exceeding  strange.     Must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.    We  '11    make    our    leisures    to    attend    on 
yours.  [Exeunt  Salarino  and  Salanio. 

Lor.  My  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  An- 
tonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you  ;  but,  at  dinner-time 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bas.  I  vvill  not  fail  you. 

Gra.  You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio  : 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world : 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 

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

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come  • 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes ;  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
1  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks. — ■ 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  an»l  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond ; 


fcCENE    I.  MERCHANT     OF     VENICE.  ll 

And  do  a  wilful  stillness  l  entertain, 

With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 

Oi  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 

As  who  should  say,  '  I  am  sir  Oracle, 

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

O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 

For  saying  nothing  ;  who,  I  am  very  sure. 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears. 

Which,    hearing    them,    would    call    their    brothers 
fools. 

I  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time  : 

But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 

For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 

Come,  good  Lorenzo  : — fare  ye  well  awhile  : 

I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you  chen  till  dinner-time: 

I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men. 

For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.    Well,    keep    me    company    but    two    years 
more, 

Thou    shalt    not    know    the    sound    of    thine    own 
tongue. 
Ant.  Farewell :   I  '11  grow  a  talker  for  this  sear. 
Gra.  Thanks,  i'  faith ;    for    silence  is   onlv    com- 
mendable 

In  a  neat's  tongue  dried,  and  a  maid  not  vendible. 

[Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo. 


•  Obstinate  silence. 


12  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    I 

Ant.  Is  that  any  thing  now  ?  l 

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

Ant.    Weil ;     tell    me    now,    what    lady    is    the 
srane 
To  whore  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-dav  promised  to  tell  me  of  ? 

Bus.  'lis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
1  han  mv  faint  means  would  grant  continuance : 
Nor  do  1  now  make  moan  to  be  abridged 
From  such  a  noble  rate ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is.  to  corne  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts, 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
rIo  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

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


*  Can  any  meaning  be  affixed  to  u  lint  lie  bos  a.nd  » 


SCENE     I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  13 

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

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

Bas.   In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues  :  sometimes  •  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia  ;  nothing  undervalued 


■    Ready  ;  from  the  French  word  pret.  s  Formerly. 


1  4  MERCHANT    uF    VENICE.  ACT  I. 

To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 

Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth  •, 

For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 

ltenowned  suitors  ;  and  her  sunny  locks 

I  lang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  ; 

Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand. 

And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

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

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

Ant.  Thou  know'st,   that  all   my  fortunes  are  at 
sea ; 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore  go  forth  ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do ; 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost, 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is ;  and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house 
Enter  portia  and  nerissa. 

Par.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa.  my  little  body  is  a- 
wesiry  of  this  great  world. 

A'er.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  mise- 
ries   were   in    the   same    abundance    as   your   good 


SCENE    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  15 

fortunes  are  :  and,  yet,  for  aught  I  see.  they  are  as 
sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve 
with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  happiness  therefore, 
to  he  seated  in  the  mean  :  superfluity  comes  sooner 
by  white  hairs,  but  competency  lives  longer. 

Por.   Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 

Ner.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

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

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous  ;  and  holy 
men,  at  their  death,  have  good  inspirations  :  there- 
fore, the  lottery,  that  he  hath  devised  in  these  three 
chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead,  (whereof  who 
chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you)  will,  no  doubt, 
never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one  who  you 
6nall   rightly  love.     But  what    warmth  is  there    in 


16  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    I. 

your  affection  towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors 
that  are  already  come  ? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  overname  them  ;  and  as  thou 
namest  them,  I  will  describe  them:  and,  according 
to  my  description,  level  at  my  affection. 

Ner.   First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

Por.  Ay,  that 's  a  colt,1  indeed,  for  he  do*h 
nothing  but  talk  of  his  horse  ;  and  he  makes  it  a 
great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts,  that  he 
can  shoe  him  himself.  I  am  much  afraid,  my  lady 
his  mother  played  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.  Then  is  there  the  county  -  palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown  ;  as  who  should 
fay,  'An  if  you  will  not  have  me,  choose.'  He 
hears  merry  tales,  and  smiles  not:  I  fear,  he  will 
prove  the  weeping  philosopher  when  he  grows  old 
being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth. 
I  had  rather  be  married  to  a  death's  head  with  a 
bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  ot  these.  God 
defend  me  from  these  two  ! 

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

Por.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass 
for  a  man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a 
mocker  ;  but,  he  !  why,  he  hath  a  hone  better  than 
Jie  Neapolitan's  ;  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning 
than  the  count  palatine  :  he  is  every  man  in  no 
man  :  if  a  throstle  3  sing,  he  falls  straight  a  capering ; 


1  A  witless,  gay  youngster.  -  Count.  *  Thrusb. 


SCENE     II.  MERCHANT    OK    VENICE.  17 

he  will  fence  with  his  own  shadow  :  if  I  should 
marry  him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands.  If  he 
would  despise  me,  I  would  forgive  him  ;  for  if  he 
love  me  to  madness,  I  shall  never  requite  him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

•  HAK.  III.  ■ 


18  MEUCHANl    OF    VENICK.  AC         , 

Ner.  If  lie  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the 
right  casket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  fa- 
ther's will,  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept  him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


SCENE     III.  MERCHANT     OF    VENICE.  1') 

Enter  a  servant. 

Ser.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to 
take  their  leave :  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come 
from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco  ;  who  brings 
word,  the  prince  his  master  will  he  here  to-night. 

Por.  If  I  could  hid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so 
good  heart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I 
should  be  glad  of  his  approach :  if  he  have  the 
condition  1  of  a  saint,  and  the  complexion  of  a  devil, 
I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than  wive  me. 
Come,  Nerissa. — Sirrah,  go  before. — Whiles  we 
shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks  at 
the  door.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III. 

Venice.     A  public  place. 
Enter  bassanio  and  shylock. 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats  ; — well. 

Bas.  Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.  For  three  months  ; — well. 

Bas.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio  shall 
be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound  ; — well. 

Bas.  May  you  stead  me  ?  Will  you  pleasure  me  ? 
Shall  T  know  your  answer  ? 


1  Temper,  qualities. 


'20  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    I. 

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

Bas.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bas.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  con- 
trary ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no  ; — my  meaning,  in  say- 
ing he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me, 
that  he.  is  sufficient :  yet  his  means  are  in  supposi- 
tion :  he  hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another 
to  the  Indies ;  I  understand  moreover  upon  the 
Rialto,   he  hath   a  third    at    Mexico,  a    fourth    for 

England, and  other  ventures  he  hath  squandered 

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

Bas.  Be  assured,  you  may. 

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

Bas.   If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

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


SCENE    III.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  21 

Enter  antonio. 

Bas.  This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shy.    [aside.']    How   like  a  fawning  publican  he 
looks  ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  ; 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip,1 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate. 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well- won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Bas.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

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

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

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 


1  In  allusion  to  The  pra<  tice  of  wrestlers. 


22  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  AC1     1 

Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  l  of  my  friend, 
I  '11  break  a  custom. — Is  he  yet  possess'd,- 
How  much  you  would  ? 

Sky.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducata 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 

Shy.   I  had  forgot, — three  months  ;  you  told  me  sn 

Well  then,  your  bond ;    and,   let  me  see  ; Bu 

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

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

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

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

Shy.   No,    not   take  interest ;    not,   as  you  woul 
say. 
Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 
When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromised, 
That  all  the  eanlings  which  were  streak'd  and  pied, 
Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire  ;  the  ewes,  being  rank. 
In  the  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams  : 
And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 
Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act, 
The  skilful  shepherd  peel'd  me  certain  wands. 
And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 


Wants  which  admit  no  farther  delay.  '  Informed. 


SCENE    III.  MKUCIIaWT    OF    VENICE.  23 

He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes ; 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 
Fall  parti-color'd  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  bless'd  : 
This  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

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

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

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio. 

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

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

Ant.   Well,   Shylock,    shall   we    be    beholding  w 
you  ? 

Shy    Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Ilialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies  and  my  usances.1 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug, 


1  Usury. 


24  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.         ACT  I. 

For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call  me — misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine,1 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help. 
Go  to  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
'  Shylock,  we  would  have  monies.'      You  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold :  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
*  Hath  a  dog  money  ?     Is  it  possible, 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ? '     Or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this  ; 

'  Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 
You  spurn'd  me  such  a  day  ;  another  time 
You  call'd  me — dog ;   and  for  these  courtesies 
I  '11  lend  you  thus  mucli  monies.' 

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


1  Course  frock,  or  outward  garment. 

1  [uterost  money  bred  from  the  principal. 


SCENE    III.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  25 

Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  stoim  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love  ; 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain'd  me  with  ; 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you  '11  not  hear  me. 
This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindness. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show. — 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary  ;  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond  ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums,  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  fiesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ant.  Content,  in  faith  :   I  '11  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say,  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bus.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me ; 
I  '11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

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

Shy.   O   father   Abraham,  what   these    Christians 
are ; 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others  !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this- 
If  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 


-8  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  aCT    II. 

A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man, 

Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 

As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 

To  buy  his  favor,  I  extend  this  friendship. 

If  he  will  take  it,  so  ;  if  not,  adieu  : 

And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  me  not. 

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

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

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew  : 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian  ;   he  grows  kind. 

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

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

\_Ejccu>it. 

ACT     II. 

SCENE    I. 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 

Florish  of  cornets.  Enter  the  prince  of  morocco. 
and  his  train ;  portia,  nerissa,  and  other  oj  fur 
Attendants. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 


1  No!  f.c  be  trustsi1 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OK    VENICE.  27 

The  shadow'd  livery  of  the  hurnish'd  sun, 

To  whom  I  am  a  neighbor,  and  near  bred. 

Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 

Where  Phoebus'  tire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 

And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love, 

To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine.* 

I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 

Hath  fear'd  •  the  valiant :  by  my  love,  I  swear, 

The  best-regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 

Have  loved  it  too.     I  would  not  change  this  hue, 

Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 

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

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you ; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets, 
To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar, — . 
That  slew  the  Sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince, 
1  hat  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman, — 
I  would  outstare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 


1  '  It  is  customary  in  the  East  for  lovers  to  testify  the  vio- 
lence of  their  passion  by  cutting  themselves  in  the  sight  of 
their  mistresses.'— Harris.  2  Terrified. 


28  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.         ACT  II. 

Outbrave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth, 

Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  from  the  she  bear, 

Yea,  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey, 

To  win  thee,  lady  :  but,  alas  the  while ! 

If  Hercules  and  Lichas  play  at  dice 

Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 

May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand  : 

So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page  ; 

And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me, 

Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain, 

And  die  with  grieving. 

Por.  You  must  take  your  chance  : 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all ; 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose, — if  you  choose  wrong, 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage  :  therefore  be  advised. 

Mor.  Nor  will  not  :    come,    bring   me    unto    my 
chance. 

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

Mor.  Good  fortune  then  !      [cornets. 

To  make  me  bless'd,  or  cursed'st  among  men. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Venice.     A  street. 

Enter  launcelot  gobbo. 

Laun.  Certainly,  my  conscience  will  serve  me  ro 
run  from  this  Jew  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine 
elbow  ;    and    tempts    me,    saying    to    me,    '  Gobbo 


SCENE  H.       MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  29 

Launcelot  Gobbo,  good  Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo, 
or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs,  take  the 
start,  run  away.'  My  conscience  says, — '  No ;  take 
heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo; 
or,'  as  aforesaid,  '  honest  Launcelot  Gobbo  ;  do  not 
run  ;  scorn  running  with  thy  heels.'  Well,  the 
most  courageous  fiend  •  bids  me  pack  :  '  via  !  '  says 
the  fiend :  '  away ! '  says  the  fiend,  '  for  the  hea- 
vens : '  '  rouse  up  a  brave  mind,'  says  the  fiend, 
'  and  run.'  Well,  my  conscience,  hanging  about 
the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  verv  wisely  to  me, — '  My 
honest  friend  Launcelot,  being  an  honest  man's  son,' 
— or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son; — for,  indeed, 
my  father  did  something  smack,  something  grow  to, 
he  had  a  kind  of  taste  : — well,  my  conscience  savs, 
'  Launcelot,  budge  not.'  '  Budge,'  says  the  fiend  ; 
'  budge  not,'  says  my  conscience.  'Conscience,'  say 
I,  '  you  counsel  well ; '  '  fiend,'  say  I,  '  you  counsel 
well.  To  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should  stay 
with  the  Jew  my  master,  who  (God  bless  the  mark  !) 
is  a  kind  of  devil ;  and,  to  run  away  from  the  Jew, 
I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your 
reverence,  is  the  devil  himself.'  Certainly,  the  Jew 
is  the  very  devil  incarnation ;  and,  in  my  con- 
science, my  conscience  is  but  a  kind  of  hard  con- 
science, to  offer  to  counsel  me  to  stay  with  the.  Jew. 
The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel :  I  will 
run,  fiend  ;  my  heels  are  at  your  commandment ;  I 
will  run. 


30  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACI     II. 

Enter  old  gorbo.  with  a  basket. 

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

Laun.  [aside.]  O  heavens  !  this  is  mv  tru^  he- 
gotten  father,  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind, 
high-gravel-blind,  knows  me  not.  I  will  try  con- 
clusions 1  with  him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


1  Experiments.  2  '  Sanctities  or  holiness.' — i.itson. 


SCENE    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  31 

Gob.  Of  Launcelot,  an 't  please  your  master- 
tliip. 

Luun.  Ergo,  master  Launcelot :  talk  not  of 
master  Launcelot,  father ;  for  the  young  gentleman 
(according  to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such  odd  say- 
ings, the  sisters  three,  and  such  branches  of  learning) 
is,  indeed,  deceased ;  or,  as  you  would  say,  in  plum 
terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

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

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

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

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  father  ? 

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

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

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

Laun.  Pray  vou,  let 's  have  no  more  fooling  about 
it,  but  give  me  your  blessing.  I  am  Launcelot, 
your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that  is,  your  child  that 
shall  be. 


32  MERCHANT    Ot    VENICE.  ACT    II. 

Gob.   I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

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

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed.  I  '11  be 
sworn,  if  thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own 
flesh  and  blood.  Lord  worshipped  might  he  be  ! 
what  a  beard  hast  thou  got !  Thou  hast  got  more 
hair  on  thy  chin,  than  Dobbin  my  phill-horse  l  has 
on  his  tail. 

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

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

Laun.  Well,  well ;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  as 
I  have  set  up  my  rest2  to  run  away  so  I  will  not  rest 
till  I  have  run  some  ground.  My  master's  a  very 
Jew.  Give  him  a  present !  give  him  a  halter :  I  am 
famished  in  his  service ;  yon  may  tell  every  finger  I 
have  with  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are 
come  ;  give  me  your  present  to  one  master  Bassanio, 
who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries  :  if  I  serve  not 
him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any  ground. —  O 
rare  fortune  !  here  comes  the  man  : — to  him,  father  ; 
for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 


1  For  tbill-hcrse,  i.  e.  shatt-horse.       -  Am  firmly  resolred. 


tCENE    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VKXICK.  33 

Enter   bassanio,   with    lbonardo,  and  other 
followers. 

Bus.  You  may  do  so  ; — but  let  it  be  so  hasted, 
that  supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of  the 
clock.  See  these  letters  delivered  ;  put  the  liveries 
to  making;  and  desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to  my 
lodging.  [Exit  Servant. 

Laun.  To  him,  father. 

Gob.   God  bless  your  worship  ! 

Bas.   Gramercy  !  l    Wouldst  thou  aught  with  me  ? 

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

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

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

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

Gob.  His  master  and  he  (saving  your  worship's 
reverence)  are  scarce  cater-cousins. - 

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

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

Laun.   In   very  brief,   the   suit  is   impertinent  to 


1  Contraction  for  '  gnnt  me  mercy  !  ' 

8  A  corruption  of  quat re- cousins,  distant  relatives. 


SH  A  K . 


34  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    II. 

myself,  as  your  lordship  shall  know  hy  this  honest 
old  man  ;  and,  though  I  say  it,  though  old  man,  yet, 
lioor  man,  my  father. 

Bus.   One  speak  for  both.— 'What  would  you  ? 

Laun.  Serve  you,  sir. 

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

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

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

Bus.  Thou  speak'st  it  well.      Go,  father,  with  thy 
son  : — 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 
My  lodging  out. — Give  him  a  livery 

[to  his  followers. 
More  guarded  l  than  his  fellows' :  see  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in. — I  cannot  get  a  service,  no; — 
I  have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head. — Well ;  [looking 
on  his  pa  I in. ,]  if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table,2 
which  doth  offer  to  swear  upon  a  book. — I  shall 
have  good  fortune.  Go  to  ;  here  's  a  simple  line  of 
life !  here  's  a  small  trine  of  wives !  Alas,  fifteen 
wives  is  nothing ;   eleven  widows,  and  nine  maids,  is 


1  Ornamented. 

'  Table  is  the  palm  uf  the  band  extended 


SCEN'E    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  35 

a  simple  coming-in  for  one  man  :  and  then,  to  'scape 
drowning  thrice ;  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with 
the  edge  of  a  feather-bed  ; — here  are  simple  'scapes  ! 
Well,  if  Fortune  be  a  woman,  she  's  a  good  wench 
for  this  gear. — Father,  come  ;  I  '11  take  my  leave  of 
the  Jew  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

[Exeunt  Launcelot  and  old  Gobbo. 

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

Leo.   My  best  endeavors  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  guatiano. 

Gra.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Leo.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  Leonardo~ 

Gra.   Signior  Bassanio, 

Bus.   Gratiano  ! 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bus.  You  have  obtain'd  it. 

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

Bus.  Why,  then  you  must. — But  hear  thee,  Gra- 
tiano : 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; — ■ 
Parte,  that  become  thee  happily  ecnigh, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults  : 
But  where   thou  art  not  known,    why,    there   they 
shew 


36  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    II. 

Something  too  liberal.1     Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit  ;  lest,   through  thy  wild  beha- 
vior, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
A  ad  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me  : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  babit, 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then : 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely  ; 
Nay,  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say,  amen  ; 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent2 
To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 

Bas.   Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing.3 

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

Bas.  No,  that  were  pity  : 

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

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


1  Licentious.  2  Grave  a]  pe;irunce. 

*  Deportment. 


SCENE    III,  MERCHANT    01     VENICE.  37 

SCENE    III. 

The  same.     A  room  in  Shyiock's  house. 
Enter  Jessica  and  launcelot. 

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

Laun.  Adieu  ! — tears  exhibit  my  tongue. — 
Most  beautiful  pagan  ! — most  sweet  Jew  !  If  a  Chris- 
tian do  not  play  the  knave,  and  get  thee,  I  am  much 
deceived.     But,  adieu  !  these  foolish  drops  do  some- 
what drown  my  manly  spirit  :  adieu  !  [Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot. — 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me, 
To  be  ashamed  to  be  my  father's  child  ! 
But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners.     O  Lorenzo, 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife ; 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thv  loving  wife.  [Exit. 


33 


MERCHANV    OP    TfcNICE.  ACT    II. 


SCENE    IV. 

The  same.     A  street. 
Enter  gratiano,  lorenzo,  salarino,  and  salanio. 

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

Gra.   We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

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

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

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

Enter  launcelot,  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what  *s  the  news  ? 

Laun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  ?.t 
shall  seem  to  signify. 

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

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.   By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.   Whither  goest  thou  ? 

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

Lor.   Hold  here,  take  this  : — tell  gentle  Jessica, 


SCENE    V.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  SO 

I  will  not  fail  her  ; — speak  it  privately  ;  go. — 
Gentlemen,  [Exit  Laun. 

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

Solar.  Ay,  marry,  I  '11  be  gone  about  it  straight 

Salan.  And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.  "Pis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salar.  and  Salan. 

Gra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

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

SCENE    V. 

The  same.     Before  Shylock's  house. 

Enter  shylock  and  lauxcelot. 

Shy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see  ;   thy  eyes  shall  be  thy 
judge, 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio : — 


40  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.         ACT  II. 

"What,  Jessica  ! — thou  shalt  not  gormandise, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me. — What,  Jessica  !— 
And  sleep,  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out. — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica  ! 

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

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

Enter  jessica. 

Jcs.  Call  you  ?    What  is  your  will  ? 

Shy.  I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica : 
There  are  my  keys. — But  wherefore  should  I  go  i 
I  am  not  bid  for  love  ;  they  flatter  me. 
But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house. — I  am  right  loath  to  go. 
There  is  some  ill  a  brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

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

Shy.   So  do  I  his. 

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

Shy.  What !    are  there    masks  ?     Hear  you  me, 
Jessica : 


^> 


Sraxlra^  sc 


?CENK    V.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  41 

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

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — 

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

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

ha? 
Jes.  His  words  were,  Farewell,  mistress  ;  nothing 

else. 
Shy.    The    parch    is    kind  enough ;    but  a    huge: 
feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More    than    the   wild    cat:    drones    hive    not  wit! 

me ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him  ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in; 
Perhaps,  I  will  return  immediately. 
Do  as  I  bid  you ; 

Shut  doors  after  you.     Fast  bind,  fast  find  ; 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Erit. 


4'2  MEHCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    II 

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

SCENE    VI. 

The  same. 
Enter  g rati an o  and  salarino  masked. 

Gra.    This   is  the  pent-house,   under  which  Lo- 
renzo 
Desired  us  to  make  stand. 

Salar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

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

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

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


'  The  vessel  decorated  with  flags. 


SCENE    VI.  MERCHANT    OK    VENICE.  4'.\ 

Enter  lorenzo. 

Salar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo  : — more  of  this  here- 
after. 
Lor.    Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for   my  long 
abode  ; 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs  have  made  you  wait. 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for  wivei, 
I  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach ; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew. — Ho  !  who  's  within  . 

Enter  Jessica  above,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Jes.  Who  are  you  ?  Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

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

Lor.  Heaven,  and  thy  thoughts,  are  witness  that 
thou  art. 

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

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

Jes.   What,  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames  ? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  are  too  too  light. 


44  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    II. 

Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love  ; 
And  I  should  be  obscured. 

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet. 

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

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 
And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

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

[Exit  from  abovt\ 

Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 

Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily  : 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her  ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true  ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  proved  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  jessica  below. 

vVhat,  art  thou  come  ? — On,  gentlemen ;  away  ! 
Our  masking  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit  xvith  Jcs.  and  Sal&r. 

Enter  antonio. 

Ant.  Who 's  there  ? 

Gra.  Signior  Antonio  ? 

Ant.  Fie,  fie,  Gratiano  !  where  are  all  the  rest  ? 
'Tis  nine  o'clock  ;  our  friends  all  stay  for  you : — 
No  mask  to-night  ;  the  wind  is  come  about. 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard  ; 


SCENE    VII.  MERCHANT    OF    VF.NICK.  43 

I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gru.  I  am  glad  on  't ;   I  desire  no  more  delight, 
Tli an  to  be  under  sail,  and  gone  to-night.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE    VII. 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 

Florish  of  cornets.     Enter  fortia,  with  the  prince 
of  Morocco,  and  both  their  trains. 

Por.   Go,  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 

The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince. — 

Now  make  your  choice. 

Mor.    The    first,    of   gold,    who    this    inscription 
bears ; — 

'  Who    chooseth    me,   shall  gain    what    many    men 
desire.' 

The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries  ; — 

'  Who   chooseth   me,    shall  get  as   much  as  he  de- 
serves.' 

This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt  ; — 

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

How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 

Por.  The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture,  prince  ; 

If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 

Mor.   Some  god  direct  my  judgment !  Let  me  see ; 

I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again. 

What  says  this  leaden  casket  ? 

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


4t>  MERCHANT     OF     VENICE.  ACT     II, 

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

This  casket  threatens.     Men,  that  hazard  all, 

Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages  : 

A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross  ; 

I  '11  then  nor  give  nor  hazard  aught  for  lead. 

What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 

'  Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  de- 
serves.' 

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

And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand ; 

If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 

Thou  dost  deserve  enough  ;  and  yet  enough 

May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady  ; 

And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving, 

Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 

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

I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 

In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 

But,  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 

What  if  I  stray'd  no  farther,  but  chose  here  ? 

Let 's  see  once  more  this  saying  graved  in  srold  : — 

'  Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  what  many  men 
desire.' 

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

From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal-breathing  saint. 

The  Hvrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  throughfares  now, 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia  : 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 


8CENK    VII.  MERCHANT     OF    VENICE.  47 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits  ;   but  they  come, 

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

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenl)  picture. 

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

To  think  so  base  a  thought ;  it  were  too  gross 

To  ril) x  her  cerecloth  in  the  obscure  grave. 

Or  shall  I  think,  in  silver  she  's  immured, 

Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  tried  gold  ? 

O  sinful  thought !    Never  so  rich  a  gem 

Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.    They  have  in  England 

A  coin,  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 

Stamped  in  gold  ;   but  that  's  insculp'd  -  upon  : 

But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 

Lies  all  within. — Deliver  me  the  key ; 

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

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

Mor.  O  hell !  what  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll  :   I  '11  read  the  writing ; — 

'  All  that  glisters  is  not  gold  ; 
Often  have  you  heard  that  told. 
Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold, 
But  my  outside  to  behold  : 
Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 
Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 
Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old, 


1   Enclose.  -  Engraven 


48  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    JI. 

Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroll'd  : 
Fare  you  well  ;   your  suit  is  cold.' 

Cold,  indeed,  and  labor  lost: 

Then,  farewell,  beat;   and  welcome,  frost. — 
Poitia,  adieu  !     1  have  too  grieved  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave  :  thus  losers  part.     [Exit. 
Por.  A  gentle  riddance. Draw   the  curtains; 


T<et  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE    VIII. 

Venice.     A  street. 
Enter  salarino  and  salanio. 

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

Salan.  The   villain  Jew  with  outcries  raised  the 
duke, 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

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

Salan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets  : — 
'  My  daughter! — O  my  ducats!— O  my  daughter! 


BCFNE    VIII.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  49 

Fled  with  a  Christian  ? — O  my  Christian  ducats  ! — 
Justice!   the  law!   my  ducats,  and  my  daughter! 
A  sealed  hag,  two  sealed  hags  of  ducats, 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter ! 
And  jewels ;     two    stones,    two    rich    and  precious 

stones, 
Stolen  by  my  daughter ! — Justice  !  find  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats !  ' 

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

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

Salar.  ■  Marry,  well  remember'd  : 

T  reason'd  1  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday  ; 
Who  told  me, — in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught : 
I  thought  upon  Antonio,  when  he  tcld  me  ; 
And  wish'd  in  silence,  that  it  were  not  his. 

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

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


'  Conversed.  *  To  slubber  is  to  do  any  thing  cmelfstdv. 

-IIAK.  Ill 


50  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    11. 

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

Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love  : 

lie  merry ;  and  employ  your  chiefest  thoughts 

To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  '  of  love 

As  shall  conveniently  become  ycu  there.' 

And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 

Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 

And  with  affection  wondrous  sensible 

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

Satan.   I  think,  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out  ; 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness  2 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  sr.  [Ea-eiriit. 

SCENE    IX. 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 

Enter  nerissa,  with  a  Servant. 

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

Yl orish  of  cornets.     Enter  the  prince  of  arragon. 
portia,  and  their  trains. 

For.  Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  prince-; 


shows,  tokens.  2  The  heaviness  which  lie  indulges. 


Rf.'EXE    IX.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  51 

If  ycu  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain'd, 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemnised  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  he  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

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

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

As.  And  so  have  I  address'd  1  me.     Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope ! — Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 
'  Who  chooseth  me,   must  give  and  hazard  all  he 

hath.' 
You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?  ha  !  let  me  see  :  — 
'  Who  chooseth   me,   shall    gain    what    many    men 

desire.' 
What  many  men  desire. — That  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  "  eye  doth  teach  ; 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet, 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall. 
Even  in  the  force  3  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire, 


1  Prepared.  s  Foolish.  3  Power. 


52  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    II. 

Because  I  will  not  jump '  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear  : — 
'  Who  chooseth   me,   shall  get   as  much  as  he  de- 
serves.' 
And  well  said  too ;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  Fortune,  and  be  honorable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?    Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
O,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices 
Were  not  derived  corruptly,  and  that  clear  honor 
Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 
How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare  ! 
How  many  be  commanded,  that  command ! 
How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean'd 
From  the  true  seed  of  honor ;  and  how  much  honor 
Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 
To  be  new  varnish'd  !     Well,  but  to  my  choice : — 
'  Who  chooseth  me,   shall  get  as  much  as  he  de« 

serves.' 
I  will  assume  desert. — Give  me  a  key  for  this, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

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

Ar.  What 's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  ?     I  will  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia ! 


Agree. 


SCENE    IX.  MERCHANT     OP    VENICE.  53 

How  much  unlike  my  hopes  and  my  deservings  ! 
'  Who  chooseth  me,    shall  have  as  much  as  he  de- 
serves.' 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  hetter  ? 

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

Ar.  What  is  here  ? 

'  The  fire  seven  times  tried  this  : 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is. 
That  did  never  choose  amiss. 
Some  there  be,  that  shadows  kiss ; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss  : 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis,1 
Silver'd  o'er ;  and  so  was  this. 
Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head : 
So  begone,  sir;  you  are  sped.' 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here  : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 

But  I  go  away  with  two. — 

Sweet,  adieu !    I  '11  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroath  ?  2 

[Exeunt  Arr.  and  train. 
Por.  Thus  hath  the  candle  singed  the  moth. 
O  these  deliberate  fools  !  when  they  do  choose, 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 


1  I  know.  5  Misfortune. 


54  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    I] 

Ner.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy ; — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
Por.   Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Ncrissa. 

Enter  a  servant. 

Ser.    Where  is  my  lady  ? 

Por.  Here  :  what  would  my  lord  ? 

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

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

Ner.  JSassanio,  lord  love,  if  thy  will  it  be ! 

[Exeunt. 


'  Salutations. 


ACT    III.  MERCHANT    OK    VENICE.  55 


ACT     III. 

SCENE    I. 

Venice.     A  street. 
Enter  salanio  and  salarino. 

Salan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

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

Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that, 
as  ever  knapped '  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbors 
believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third  husband. 
But  it  is  true, — without  any  slips  of  prolixity,  or 
crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, — that  the  good 

Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, O,  that   I   had  a 

title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name  company ! — 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

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

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


1  To  knap  is  to  break  short. 


56  MERCHANT    OF     VEX1CK  ACT    III. 

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

Enter  siiylock. 

How  now,  Shylock  ?   what   news   among  the  mer- 
chants ? 

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

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

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

Shy.   She  is  damned  for  it. 

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

Shy.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

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

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

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

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match  ;  a  bank- 
rupt, a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on 
the  Rialto  ; — a  beggar,  that  used  to  come  so  smug  l 

1  Spruce. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OK    VEN7CE.  57 

upon  the  mart ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond.  He  was 
wont  to  call  me  usurer  ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  : 
he  was  wont  to  lend  money  for  a  Christian  courtesy  • 
— let  him  look  to  his  bond. 

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

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal  :  if  it  will  feed  nothing 
else,  it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgraced 
me,  and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million ;  laughed  at 
my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation, 
thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated 
mine  enemies  ;  and  what 's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew. 
Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs, 
dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions  ?  fed  with 
the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject 
to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means, 
warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter  and  summer, 
as  a  Christian  is  ?  If  you  prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ? 
if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us, 
do  we  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not 
revenge  ?  If  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  re- 
semble you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian, 
what  is  his  humility  ?  revenge  :  if  a  Christian  wrong 
a  Jew,  what  should  his  sufferance  be  by  Christian 
example  ?  why,  revenge.  The  villany,  you  teach 
me,  I  will  execute  ;  and  it  shall  go  hard,  but  I  will 
better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  servant. 

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


58  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

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

Enter  tubal. 

Salan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe  :  a  third 
cannot  be  matched,  unless  the  devil  himself  turn 
Jew.  [Exeunt  Salan.  Salar.  and  Servant. 

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

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

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond 
gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort ! 
The  curse  never  fell  upon  our  nation  till  now  ;  I 
never  felt  it  till  now : — two  thousand  ducats  in  that, 
and  other  precious,  precious  jewels. — I  would,  my 
daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her 
ear  !  Would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and  the 
ducats  in  her  coffin  !  No  news  of  them  ? — Why,  so : 
— and  I  know  not  what 's  spent  in  the  search.  Why, 
thou  loss  upon  loss  !  the  thief  gone  with  so  much, 
and  so  much  to  find  the  thief ;  and  no  satisfaction, 
no  revenge  ;  nor  no  ill  luck  stirring,  but  what  lights 
o'  my  shoulders  ;  no  sighs,  but  o'  my  breathing ;  no 
tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

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

Shy.  What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 

Tub. — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from 
Tripolis. 

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


SCENE    I.  MK1.  CHANT    OF    VENICE.  59 

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

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

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

Shy.   Thou  stick'st   a  dagger  in   me  ; 1  shall 

never  see  my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sit- 
ting !  fourscore  ducats  ! 

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

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it  :  I  '11  plague  him  _:  I  '11 
torture  him  :   I  am  glad  of  it. 

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

Shy.  Out  upon  her  !  Thou  torturest  me,  Tubal : 
it  was  my  turquoise  :  l  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I  was 
a  bachelor.  I  would  not  have  given  it  for  a  wilder- 
ness of  monkeys. 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

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


A  precious  stone  •>. 


60  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

SCENE    II. 

Belmont.      A  room  in  Portia  s  house. 

Enter   rassanio,    portia,    gratiano,    nerissa,    and 
Attendants.     The  caskets  are  set  out. 

Por.   I  pray  you,  tarry  ;   pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  0110051115  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  ;  therefore,  forbear  awhile. 
There  's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love) 
I  would  not  lose  you  ;  and  you  know  yourself 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  : 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn  ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me  ; 
But  if  you  do,  you  '11  make  me  wish  a  sin, 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlook'd  me,  and  divided  me  : 
One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, — 
Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  youis, 
And  so  all  yours.      O  !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights ; 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so. 
Let  Fortune  go  to  hell  for  it, — not  I. 
I  speak  too  long  ;  but  'tis  to  peize  1  the  time  ; 


Delay. 


SCENE    II.  MERCHANT    OE    VENICE.  6 1 

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

Bas.  Let  me  choose  ; 

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

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

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

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

Bas.  Promise  me  life,  and  I  '11  confess  the  truth. 

Por.  Well  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bas.  Confess,  and  love. 

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

Por.  Away  then.     I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them : 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. — 
Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice ; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music  :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream, 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win ; 
And  what  is  music  then  ?     Then  music  is 
Even  as  the  florish,  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch  :  such  it  is, 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day, 


G'2  MERCHANT     OF    VENICE.  ACT     III. 

That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear 

And  summon  him  to  marriage.      Now  he  goes, 

With  no  less  presence,1  hut  with  much  more  love, 

Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 

The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 

To  the  sea-monster.      I  stand  for  sacrifice , 

The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 

With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 

The  issue  of  the  exploit.      Go,  Hercules  ! 

Live  thou,  I  live. — With  much,  much  more  dismay 

I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  makest  the  fray. 

Music,  ivhilst  Bassanio   comments  on   the   caskets   to 

himself. 

SONG. 

1.  Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  2  bred. 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ! 
How  begot,  how  norished  '! 

Reply,  reply  ! 

2.  It  is  engender'd  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed  ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell  ; 

I  '11  begin  it, Ding,  dong,  bell. 

All.      Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bas.   So  may  the  outward  shows  he  least  them- 
selves. 
The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornamen-^ 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  3  voice, 


1  Dignity  of  mien  3  Lo  -a.  3  Pleasing. 


SCENE    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  63 

Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion. 
.  What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk ! 
And  these  assume  but  valor's  excrement,1 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty, 
And  you  shall  see  'tis  purchased  by  the  weight ; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it  : 
So  are  those  crisped  2  snaky  golden  locks, 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind. 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  scull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  3  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea  ;  the  beauteous  scaif 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty;  in  a  word, 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gol(i 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee  ; 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man  :  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead, 


1  Beard.  s  CiMed  J  Treacherous 


64  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III 

Which  rather  threatenest,  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence, 
And  here  choose  I  :  joy  be  the  consequence  ! 

Por.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air. 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embraced  despair, 
And  shuddering  fear,  and  green-eyed  jealousy  ! 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy, 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

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

Bas.  What  find  I  here  ? 

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

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


1  ia'.zi >ss.  resemblance. 


1 — 


Vest  all   del 


TtfEE.  I'HAOTT    OF  VI 


BCCITK    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  65 

The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune  : — 

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

A  gentle  scroll ! — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave, 

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

Por.  You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand. 
Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone, 
1  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 
1  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself ; 
A  chousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  lime* 
More  rich  ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 
I  might,  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 
Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 


66  MERCITANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT     til. 

Is  sum  of  something ; J  which,  to  term  in  pros.*. 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractised  : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn  ;   happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn  ; 
Happiest  of  all,  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  converted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants. 
Queen  o'er  myself;   and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Are  yours,  my  lord :  I  give  them  with  this  ring  ; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love, 
And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

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


1  Ts  not  intirely  ideal.  *  Blended, 


FCEXii    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  67 

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

Gra.   My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me  :  * 
And  when  your  honors  mean  to  solemnise 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

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

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

Por.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleased  withal. 

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


'  None  that  I  sh;ill  lose  if  you  gain  it. 


68  MERCHANT    OF    VENICU.  ACT    HI. 

Gra.  Yes,  faith,  my  lord. 

Bus.   Our  feast  shall  he   much  honor'd  in   your 
marriage. 

Gra.  We  '11  play  with  them,   the  first  hoy,  for  a 
thousand  ducats. 

Ner.  What,  and  stake  down  ? 

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

stake  down. 

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

Enter  lorenzo,  jessica,  and  salerio. 

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

Pur.  So  do  I,  my  lord  : 

They  are  intirely  welcome. 

Lor.    I    thank    your    honor. — For    my    part,  my 
lord, 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 
He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Saler.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.      Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  [gives  Bas.  a  letter. 

Bas.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

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


BOIXE    II.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  59 

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

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

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

Por.     There   are  some   shrewd   contents  in   yon5 
same  paper, 
That  steal  the  color  from  Bassanio's  cheek. 
Some  dear  friend  dead  ;   else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  ? — 
With  leave,  Bassanio  ;   I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bas.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasantest  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper  !     Gentle  lady, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins  ;  I  was  a  gentleman  : 
And  then  I  told  you  true  :  and  yet,  dear  lady, 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.     When.l  told  you 
My  state    was   nothing,    I    should   then  have  told 
you 


70  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

That  I  was  worse  than  nothing;  for,  indeed, 

I  have  engaged  myself  to  a  dear  friend  ; 

Engaged  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy, 

To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady  : 

The  jjaper  as  the  hody  of  my  friend, 

And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 

Issuing  life-blood. — But  is  it  true,  Salerio  ? 

Have     all    his    ventures     fail'd  ?      What,     not    uu£ 

hit? 
From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  ? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 

Saler.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

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

Jes.  When   I  was  with    him,   I   have  heard  him 
swear 


1  The  chief  men. 


SCEXE    II.  MERCHANT     JF    VENICE.  71 

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

Por.    Is    it   your    dear   friend,    that   is    thus   in 

trouble  ? 
Bas.    The     dearest    friend    to   me,    the    kindest 
man, 
l'he  best  condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies  ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 
Por.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 
Bas.  For  me,  three  thousand  ducatg. 
Por.  What,  no  more  ? 

fay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Should  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife, 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.      You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over. 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa,  and  myself,  meantime, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.      Come,  away ; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day. 


72  MERCHANT     OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

Bid  your  friends  welcome  ;   show  a  merry  cheer  ; x 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bas.  [?'eads.']  '  Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have  all 
miscarried,  my  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is 
very  low,  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeit ;  and  since, 
in  paying  it,  it  is  impossible  I  should  live,  all  debts 
are  cleared  between  you  and  I,  if  I  might  but  see 
you  at  my  death  :  notwithstanding,  use  your  plea- 
sure. If  your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come, 
let  not  my  letter.' 

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

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

Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain. 

[Excvnt. 

SCENE    III. 

Venice.    A  street. 
Enter  sbvlock,  salanio,  antonio,  and  jailes. 
Shy.    Jailer,   look   to    him; tell    not   me   of 


mercy  : 

This  is  the  fool  that  lent  out  money  gratis  : — 
Jailer,  look  to  him. 

Ani.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 


1  Countenance. 


*  :-- --"-—' -TT   : : ;;-  ■- 


SCENE  III.      MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  73 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  speak  not  against  my 
bond : 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond  : 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog,  before  thou  hadst  a  cause ; 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs  : 
The  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder, 
Thou  naughty  jailer,  that  thou  art  so  fond  l 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shi/.  I  '11   have    my  bond ;  I    will  not  hear  thee 
speak : 
I  '11  have  my  bond ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eyed  fool, 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 
I  v0  have  no  speaking  :   I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit  Shyhck. 

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

Ant.  Let  him  alone  : 

I  '11  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
He  seeks  my  life ;  his  reason  well  I  know  : 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salan.  I  am  sure,  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.  The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law  ; 


>  Foolish. 


74  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  he  denied, 
"Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go  : 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'hated  me, 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  my  hloody  creditor. 

"Well,  jailer,  on. — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come, 
To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV. 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia  s  house. 
Enter   l'ORTiA,   nerissa,  Lorenzo,  jessica,  and 

BALTHAZAR. 

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

For.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 
Nor  shall  not  now  :  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love. 


SCEXE    IV.  MERCHANT     OF    VENICE.  7. 

There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 

Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit ; 

Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 

Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord, 

Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so, 

How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd, 

In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 

From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty  ! 

This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myseii ; 

Therefore,  no  more  of  it :  hear  other  thing*.— 

Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 

The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 

Until  my  lord's  return  :  for  mine  own  part, 

I  have  toward  Heaven  breathed  a  secret  vow. 

To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation, 

Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here, 

Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return  : 

There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off, 

And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  voir 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition  ; 

The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity, 

Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

Por.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 

And  will  acknowlege  you  and  Jessica 

In  place  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 

So  fare  you  well  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts  and  happv  hours  attend    >n 

you  ! 
Jes.  I  wish  your  ladvshiu  all  heart's  content. 


76  MERCHANT    OF    VF.NICE.  ACT    III. 

Por.    I   thank  you  for  your  -wish,  and  am    well 
pleased 
To  wish  it  hack  on  you  :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. — 

[Exeunt  Jes.  and  Lor. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 
So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavor  of  a  man, 
In  speed  to  Padua  :  see  thou  render  this 
Into  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Bellario ; 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he   doth  give 

thee, 
Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagined  speed 
Unto  the  tranect,1  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice  : — waste  no  time  in  words, 
But  get  thee  gone ;   I  shall  he  there  before  thee. 

Bal.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed. 

[Exit, 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa ;   I  have  work  in  hand, 
That  you  yet  know  not  of :  we  11  see  our  husbands 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us  ? 

Por.  They  shall,  Nerissa  ;  hut  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  what  we  lack.     I  'd  hold  thee  any  wager. 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace  ; 


1  A  pnssage-boat. 


SCENE    V.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  77 

And  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 

With  a  reed  voice  ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 

Into  a  manly  stride  ;  and  speak  of  frays, 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  ;   and  tell  quaint  lies, 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love, 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died  ; 

I  could  not  do  withal ; — then  I  '11  repent, 

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

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  '11  tell  ; 

That  men  shall  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth. — I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  jacks,1 

Which  I  will  practise. 

Ker.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men  ? 

Por.  Fie  !  what  a  question  's  that, 
If  thou  wert  near  a  lewd  interpreter ! 
But  come,  I  11  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    V. 

The  same.     A  garden. 

Enter  launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Latin.  Yes,  truly  : — for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the 
father  are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children  ;  therefore,  I 


1  Jack,  in  our  author's  time,  was  used  as  a  term  cf  c<fV' 
tempt. 


78  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    III. 

promise  you,  I  fear  you.  I  was  always  plain  with 
you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my  agitation  of  the  matter: 
therefore  be  of  good  cheer  ;  for,  truly,  I  think,  you 
are  damned.  There  is  but  one  hope  in  it  that  can 
do  you  any  good,  and  that  is  but  a  kind  of  bastard 
hope  neither. 

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

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

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

Laun.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damned  both  by 
father  and  mother  :  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla  your 
father,  I  fall  into  Charybdis  your  mother :  well,  you 
are  gone  both  ways. 

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

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

Enter  lorenzo. 

J??.  I  '11  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you 
gay  :  here  he  comes. 

Lor.  1  shall  grow  jealous  of  you  shortly,  Launce- 
lot, if  you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 


SCENE    V.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  T9 

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

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  common- 
wealth, than  you  can  the  getting  up  of  the  negro'* 
belly  :  the  Moor  is  with  child  by  you,  Launcelot. 

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

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

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

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

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

Lor.  Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 

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

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

Laun.   For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in  • 


80  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    11/. 

for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered  ;  for  your  co- 
ming in  to  dinner,  sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humors  and 
conceits  shall  govern.  [Exit  Launcelot. 

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

Jes.  Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet, 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life  ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth  ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  it 
Is  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,    if    two    gods    should   play    some     heavenly 

match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other  ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

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

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

Lor.   I  will  anon  ;  first,  let  us  go  to  dinner. 


1  Well-arranged- 


SCENE    V.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  81 

Jes.    Nay,    let  me   praise   you,   while   I  have  a 
stomach. 

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

Jes.  Well,  I  '11  set  you  forth.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE    I. 

Venice.     A  court  of  justice. 
Enter  the  duke;    the  Magnificoes ;    antonjo,  fl*&« 

8ANIO,  GRATIANO,  SALARINO,  SALANIO,  and  Otheif. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

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

Ant.  I  have  heard, 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  1  reach,  I  do  oppose 


1  Envy  in  this  place  means  hatred  or  malice. 
suae.  in.  F 


82  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    JV. 

My  patience  to  his  fury  ;  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

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

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

Enter  shylock. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our 
face. — 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Tlv^u  'It  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse  1  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty  : 
And,  where  •  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh) 
Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 
but,  touch 'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love. 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 
That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back ; 
Enough  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down, 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint ; 
From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 
To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 
We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 


1  Pity.  *  Whereas. 


SCENE  I.       MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  Ot 

Shy.   I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I    pur- 
pose ; 
And  hy  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn, 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You  '11  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  :  I  '11  not  answer  that ; 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humor  ;  is  it  answer'd  ? 
What,  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  f 
Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig ; 
Some,  that  are  mad,  if  they  behold  a  cat  ; 
And  others,  when  the  bagpipe  sings  i'  the  nose, 
Cannot  contain  their  urine  for  affection  : 
Masters  of  passion  sway  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes.    New,  for  your  answer : 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd, 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless,  necessary  cat  ; 
Why  he,  a  woollen  bagpipe  ;  but  of  force 
Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame, 
As  to  offend,  himself  being  offended  ; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 
More  than  a  lodged  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answer'd  ? 

Bas.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man, 
T  >  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 


84  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

Shy,   I  am  not  bound  to  please    thee    with   my 
answer. 

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

Shy.  Hates  any  man  the  thing  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bas.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.  What,   wouldst   thou   have  a  serpent   sting 
thee  twice  ? 

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

Bas.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

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

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rendering 
none  ? 


'  Converse. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  85 

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

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

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

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

Dvke.  Bring  us  the  letters  :   call  the  messenger. 

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

Ant.   1  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death  :  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground,  and  so  let  me. 


86  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.        ACT  IV". 

You  cannot  better  be  employ  d,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  nerissa,  dressed  like  a  lawyer  s  clerk. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 

Ner.  From   both,   my  lord  :  Bellario  greets  your 
grace.  [presents  a  letter. 

Bas.  Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  ? 

Shy.  To   cut   the   forfeiture   from  that  bankrupt 
there. 

Gra.  Not  on  thy   sole,  but    on    thy  soul,  harsh 
Jew, 
Thou  makest  thy  knife  keen  :  but  no  metal  can, 
No,  not  the  hangman's  axe,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  envy.1     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  i 

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

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


1  Anger  or  malice. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  87 

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

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

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you  '11  admit  him. 

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

[Clerk  reads.']  '  Your  grace  shall  understand, 
that,  at  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick : 
but  in  the  insfant  that  your  messenger  came,  in 
loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of 
Rome  ;  his  name  is  Balthazar.  I  acquainted  him 
with  the  cause  in  controversy  between  the  Jew  and 
Antonio  the  merchant  :  we  turned  o'er  many  books 
together  :  he  is  furnished  with  my  opinion  ;  which, 
bettered  with  his  own  learning,  (the  greatness 
whereof  I  cannot  enough  commend)  comes  with  him, 
at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  grace's  request  in 
my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years  be 
no  impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estima- 
tion ;  for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old 
a  head.  I  leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance 
whose  trial  shall  better  publish  his  commendation.* 


88  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

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

Enter  pobtia,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  lavs. 

Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 
Por.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :  take  your  place. 

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

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

Duke.    Antonio    and    old    Shylock,    both    stand 
forth. 

Por.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow  ; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,1  do  you  not  ? 

[to  Antonio. 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

Por.         Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that. 

Por.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd  : 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 


1  Keacb  or  control. 


SCENE    r.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  89 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes  : 
Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  : 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  • 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway : 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings ; 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself  ; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, ' 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this,— 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea  ; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must   needs    give    sentence   'gainst    the    merchant 
there. 

Shy.    My    deeds   upon    my   head!     I    crave    the 
law, 

The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 

For.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bas.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  him  in  the  court ; 
Yea,  twice  the  sum  :  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  suffice,  it  must  appear 


90  MERCHANT    OF    VKXICE.  ACT    IV. 

That  malice  bears  down  truth  : '  and  1  beseech  you, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority  ; 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong ; 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

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

Shy.  A  Daniel   come   to  judgment  !  yea,    a  Da- 
niel ! — 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honor  thee  ! 

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

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

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

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

Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

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

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor.-— 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge  ; 
Von  know  the  law  ;  your  exposition 


1  Malice  oppresses  hcnesty. 


SCENE  I.       MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  91 

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

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

Por.  Why  then,  thus  it  is  : 

You  must  prepare  your  besom  for  the  knife. 

Shy.  O  noble  judge!    O  excellent  young  man! 

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

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

Por.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast  : 

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

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

Shy.     I  have  them  ready. 

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

Shy.   Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

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

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

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


92  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

Ant.    But  little  ;  I  am  arm'd,  and  well  prepared. — ■ 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio  ;  fare  you  well ! 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you  ; 
For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use, 
To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth  ; 
To  view,  with  hollow  eye  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty  ;  from  which  lingering  penauee 
Of  such  misery  doth  she  cut  me  off. 
Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife  : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end  ; 
Say,  how  I  loved  you ;  speak  me  fair  in  death  •, 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

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

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

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

Ner.  Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back , 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  93 

The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 

Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands.     I  have  n 
daughter  ; 
Would,  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian ! 

[aside. 
We  trifle  time.     I  pray  thee,  pursue  sentence. 
Por.    A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is 
thine ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 
Shy.  Most  rightful  judge  ! 

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

Shy.   Most  learned  judge! — A  sentence!    come, 

prepare. 
Por.  Tarry  a  little  ; — there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  of  flesh. 
Take    then    thy   bond  ;     take    thou    thy    pound    of 

flesh: 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are,  by  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 
Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

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

judge ! 
Shy.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured, 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 


94  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

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

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

Bas.  Here  is  the  money. 

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

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

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

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

Tor.  Why   doth  the  Jew  pause  ?    take  thy  for- 
feiture. 

Shy.   Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  ^o. 

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

Tor.  He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court : 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

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

Shy.   Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

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


SCENE    I.  MKUCII/.NT    OF    VENICE.  95 

Shi/.   Why  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 
I  '11  stay  no  longer  question. 

Por.  Tarry,  Jew ; 

The.  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  he  proved  against  an  alien, 
That  hy  direct  or  indirect  attempts, 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive, 
Shall  seise  one  half  his  goods  ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state  ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

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

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


9G  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

Por.  Ay,  for  the  state  ;  not  for  Antonio.1 

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

Por.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio  ? 

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

Ant.  So  please   my  lord  the    duke,  and  all  the 
court, 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods  ; 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use, — to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter. 
Two  things  provided  more  ; — that,  for  this  favor, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian ; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd, 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

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

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

Shy.  I  am  content. 

Por.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.     I    pray    you,    give    me    leave    to    go    from 
hence : 


1  '  That  is,  the  state's  moiety  may  be  commuted    (or  a   (ik« 
but  not  Antonio's.'  -Maione. 


SCENE    I.  MBltCJIANT    OF    VENICB.  57 

I  am  nut  well :  send  the  deed  after  tue. 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christening  thou    shalt    have    two  god- 
fathers. 
Had    1  been  judge,    thou    shouldst   have   had   tec 

more,1 
To  bring  thee  to  the  ga'lows,  not  the  font. 

[Exit  Shylock. 

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

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

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

[Exeunt  Duke,  Magnijicoes,  and  train. 

Bas.   Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties  ;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope2  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

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

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


1  A  jury  oi  twelve  men.  '  P.ow*rd. 

SUAK.  Jl* 


98  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    IV. 

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

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

Por.  You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield. 
Give  me  your  gloves,  I  '11  wear  them  for  your  sake  ; 
And,  for  your  love,  I  '11  take  this  ring  from  you. — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  ;   I  '11  take  no  more 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

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

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

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

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

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

Por.  That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their 
gifts. 


SCENE  II.       MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  99 

An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 

And  know  how  well  I  have  deserved  this  rinsr. 

She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever, 

For  giving  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you ! 

[Exeunt  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

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

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

[Exit  Gratiano. 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently ; 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont.     Come,  Antonio.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    II. 

The  same.     A  street. 

Enter  portia  and  nerissa. 

Por.   Inquire  the  Jew's  house  out :  give  him  this 
deed, 
And  let  hira  sign  it ;  we  '11  away  to-night, 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home. 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  gratiano. 
Gra.  Fair  sir.  a-ou  are  well  overtaken  : 


]0(J  MERCHANT    Ot     VKMCK.  ACT    V. 

My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice,1 

Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring,  and  doth  entreat 

Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  he. 

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

Gra.  That  will  I  do. 

JSVr.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you. — 

1  '11  see  if  I  can  get  my  hushand's  ring,      [to  Portia. 
Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  mayst,  I  warrant.     We  shall  have  old 
swearing, 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we  '11  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away ;    make    haste  ;    thou    know'st    where  I   wil! 
tarry. 

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


A  C  T    V. 

SCENE    I. 

Belmont.     Avenue  to  Portias  house. 

.Enter  lorenzo  and  jessica. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines   hright.  —  In  such  a  night 
as  this, 


1  Hi-flection. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  10] 

When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise ;  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

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

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

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

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

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

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

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

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

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

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

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

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


102  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    T. 

Enter  stephano. 

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

Ste.  A  friend. 

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

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

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

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

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

Enter  launcelot. 

Laun.   Sola,  sola,  wo  ha,  ho,  sola,  ?ola  ! 
Lor.  Who  calls  ? 

Laun.    Sola!    did   you  see   master    Loienzo    aua 
mistress  Lorenzo  ?  sola,  sola  ! 
Lor.  Leave  hollaing,  man  :  here. 
Laun.  Sola !  where  ?  where  ? 
Lor.  Here. 
Laun.  Tell  him,  there  's  a  post  come  from  my 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  103 

master,  with  his  horn  full  of  good  news  :   my  master 
will  be  here  ere  morning.  [Exit. 

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

[Exit  Stephano. 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines1  of  bright  gold. 
There  's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young -eyed  cherubins  ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  : 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. — 

Enter  Musicians. 

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

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

[music. 


1  '  A  patine  is  the  small  flat  dish  or  plate  used  in  the  admi- 
nistration of  the  Eucharist.' — Malone. 


104  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    V. 

Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive  • 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music  :  therefore  the  poet 
Did    feign  that    Orpheus    drew   trees,    stones,    an 

floods ; 
Since  naught  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

Enter  portia  and  nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

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

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

Por.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less. 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 


-  '.-"s-Sx5; 


■ 


H 


!BtC 


SCENE    L  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  \(Jj 

Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !  hark  ! 

Ner.  It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 

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

Ner.   Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

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

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or  I  am  much  deceived,  of  Portia. 

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

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

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

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

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


'  '  Not  absolutely,  but  relatively  good,  as  it  is  modified  by 
circumstances.' — Johnson. 


106  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    V 

P'or.  Go  in,  Nerissa  ; 

Give  order  to  my  servants,  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence  ; — 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo  ; — Jessica,  nor  you. 

[a  tucltet l  sounds. 

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

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

Enter   bassanio,    antonio,    gratiano,    and   their 
followers. 

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

Por.  Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 
For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband. 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me. 
But  God  sort2  all! — You  are  welcome  home,  my 
lord. 
Bas.  I  thank  you,   madam  :  give  welcome   to  my 
friend. — 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 
Por.  You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound  to 
him, 


1  A  florish  on  a  trumpet. 

2  Reduce  to  order  from  a  state  of  confusion. 


SCENE  I.       MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  107 

For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  hound  for  you. 

Ant.  No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 

Por.  Sir,  you  are  very  welcome  to  our  house  : 
It  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words  ; 
Therefore  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy.1 

[Gra.  and  Nw.  seem  to  talk  apart, 

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

Por.  A  quarrel,  ho,  already  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 

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

Ner.  What  talk  you  of  the  poesy  or  the  value  ? 
You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you, 
That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death, 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave. 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths. 
You  should  have  been  respective,3  and  have  kept  it. 
Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk!— but  well  I  know, 
The    clerk  will   ne'er  wear  hair  on  his   face,   that 
had  it. 

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

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


1  This  verba!  complimentary  form. 

s  Knives  were  formerly  inscribed,  by  means  of  aqua  fortis, 

ith  short  sentences  in  distich.  3  Regardful. 


138  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    V. 

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

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

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

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

Por.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord  ? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  received  of  me. 

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

Por.  Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 


SCENE     I.  MERCHANT     or     VENICE.  109 

By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ner.  Nor  I  in  yours, 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bas.  Sweet  Portia, 

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

Por.   If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring, 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring, 
Or  your  own  honor  to  contain  '  the  ring, 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable, 
If  you  had  pleased  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 
To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony  ?  - 
Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe. 
I  '11  die  for  't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bas.   No,  by  mine  honor,  madam,  by  my  soul, 
No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor, 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me, 
And  begg'd  the  ring  ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 
And  suffer' d  him  to  go  displeased  away ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 


1  Retain. 

s  '  To  urge  the  demand  of  a  tLing  kept  on   an   account   in 
some  sort  religious  ■' — Johnson. 


110  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  ACT    V. 

Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say,  sweet  lady  ? 

I  was  enforced  to  send  it  after  him ; 

I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtesy  ; 

My  honor  would  not  let  ingratitude 

So  much  besmear  it.     Pardon  me,  good  lady  ; 

For,  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night, 

Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have  beirsr'd 

■J  «•  ._/  ^ 

The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.     Let  not    that    doctor  e'er    come    near    my 
house. 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  loved, 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you. 
I  '11  not  deny  him  any  thing  I  have, 
No,  not  my  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed. 
Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it. 
Lie  not  a  night  from  home  ;  watch  me  like  Argus: 
If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone, 
Now,  by  mine  honor,  which  is  yet  my  own, 
I  '11  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

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

Gra.  Well,  do  you  so :  let  not  me  take  him  then; 
For,  if  I  do,  I  '11  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.   I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

Por.   Sir,  grieve  not  you ;  you  are  welcome  not- 
withstanding. 

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


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VENICE.  Ill 

Por.  Mark  you  but  that  ! 

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

Bus.  Nay,  but  hear  me  : 

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

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

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

Por.  Then  you  shall  be  his  surety.   Give  him  ^iiis, 
And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

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

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

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

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

Gra.  Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  highways 
In  summer,  where  the  ways  are  fair  enough. 
What !  are  we  cuckolds,  ere  we  have  deserved  it  ? 

Por.   Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all  amazed, 
Here  is  a  letter ;  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 


1  Double  is  here  used  for,  full  of  duplicity. 
9  Advantage. 


112  MERCHANT    OK    VENICE.  ACT    V. 

It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  : 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  doctor, 
Nerissa.  there  her  clerk  :  Lorenzo  here 
Shall  witness,  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you, 
And  hut  even  now  retmn'd  ;   I  have  not  yet 
Enter'd  my  house.— Antonio,  you  are  welcome ; 
And  1  have  better  news  in  store  for  you 
Than  you  expect :  unseal  this  letter  soon ; 
There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 
Arc  richly  come  to  harbor  suddenly. 
You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Ant.  I  am  dumb. 

Bas.  Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you  nut  ? 

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

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

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

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

Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

Ner.  Ay,  and  I  '11  give  them  him  without  a  fee. — 
There  do  I  give  to  you  and  Jessica, 
From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift, 
After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 


SCENE    I.  MERCHANT    OF    VEXICE.  113 

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

Por.  It  is  almost  morning  ; 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 
Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in  ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  intergatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

Gra.  Let  it  be  so.     The  first  intergatory. 
That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on,  is, 
"Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay, 
Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day : 
But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  wish  it  dark. 
That  I  Avere  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 
Well,  while  I  live,  I  '11  fear  no  other  thing 
So  scie,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring.         \&jtc%nt 


bHAI.  H> 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


HISTORICAL   NOTICE 

or 

MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


The  Knight's  Tale,  in  Chaucer,  is  supposed  by  Steevcns 
to  have  been  the  prototype,  whence  Shakspeare  de- 
rived the  leading  features  of  this  play  :  the  same  writer 
conjectures  that  the  doggerel  verses  of  Bottom  and  his 
associates  are  nothing  more  than  an  extract  from  '  the 
boke  of  Perymus  and  Thesbye,'  printed  in  15G2  ;  while 
Mr.  Capell  thinks  our  author  indebted  to  a  fantastical 
poem  of  Drayton,  called  Nymphidia,  or  the  Court  of 
Fairy,  for  his  notions  of  those  aerial  beings. 

The  title  of  this  drama  was  probably  suggested  (like 
Twelfth  Night  and  The  Winter's  Tale)  by  the  season 
of  the  year  at  which  it  was  first  represented  :  no  other 
ground,  indeed,  can  be  assigned  for  the  name  which  it 
has  received,  since  the  action  is  distinctly  pointed  out 
as  occurring  on  the  night  preceding  May-day. 

Of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  there  are  two 
editions  in  quarto  ;  one  printed  for  Thomas  Fisher,  the 
other  for  James  Roberts,  both  in  1600.  Neither  of 
these  editions  deserve  much  praise  for  correctness. 
Fisher  is  sometimes  preferable  ;  but  Roberts  was  fol- 
lowed, though  not  without  some  variations,  by  Hemings 
and  Condell,  and  they  by  all  the  folios  that  succeeded 
them. 

4  Wild  and  fanciful  as  this  play  is,'  says  Dr   John 


Hw  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

son,  'all  the  parts  in  their  various  modes  are  well 
written,  and  give  the  kind  of  pleasure  which  the  author 
designed.  Fairies  in  his  time  were  much  in  fashion  : 
common  tradition  had  made  them  familiar,  and  Spen- 
ser's poem  had  made  them  great.' 


119 


ARGUMENT. 


Oberon,  king  of  the  fairies,  requests  his  queen  Titania  tc 
bestow  on  him  a  favorite  page  to  execute  the  office  of  ir.,in 
bearer ;  which  she  refusing,  he,  in  revenge,  moistens  her 
eyes  during  sleep  with  a  certain  liquor,  which  possesses  the 
singular  property  of  enamoring  her  of  the  first  person  she 
sees  :  the  object  which  her  eyes  first  encounter  is  an  igno- 
rant Athenian- weaver,  named  Bottom,  who,  together  with 
his  associates,  are  preparing  to  represent  a  play  at  the  ap- 
proaching nuptials  of  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  ;  when  a  wag- 
gish spirit  of  Oberon,  named  Puck,  covers  Bottom  with  the 
head  of  an  ass  ;— a  transformation,  which  terrifies  the  rustic 
swains,  and  fulfils  the  intention  of  his  master,  in  the  dotage 
of  his  queen.  During  this  period,  a  young  couple,  J.ysander 
and  Hermia,  flying  from  a  cruel  father,  and  the  rigor  of  the 
Athenian  laws,  which  forbid  their  union,  enter  the  en- 
chanted wood,  whither  they  are  pursued  by  Demetrius, 
whose  suit  is  favored  by  the  father  of  the  fugitive  damsel, 
and  who  is  himself  beloved  by  another  lady  following  him, 
named  Helena,  whom  he  treats  with  disdain.  Oberon,  in 
pity  to  Helena,  commands  Puck  to  anoint  the  eyes  of  the 
churlish  Demetrius  with  the  charmed  liquor  during  sleep; 
but  he  by  mistake  enchants  Lysander.  Demetrius  soon 
after  becomes  the  object  of  the  same  operation,  while  He- 
lena is  presented  to  each  of  the  awakened  lovers  :  the  object 
ot  their  affections  becomes  now  instantly  changed,  and  the 
hitherto  favored  Hermia  is  rejected  by  both  ;  till  Oberon  at 
length  disenchants  Lysander,  restores  the  weaver  to  his 
pristine  form,  and  becomes  reconciled  to  his  queen.  The 
play  concludes  with  the  union  of  Hippolyta  to  Theseus,  by 
whose  mediation  the  father  of  Hermia  consents  to  hia 
daughter's  marriage  with  Lysander,  while  Demetrius  be- 
comes the  husband  of  Helena. 


120 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Theseus,  duke  of  Athens. 

Eceus,  father  to  Hermia. 

Lysander,      )  .    ,  .  ,  ,, 

.„  >  in  Jove  with  Hermia. 

Demetrius,    ) 

Philostrate,  master  of  the  revels  to  Theseus. 

Quince,  the  carpenter. 

Snug,  the  joiner. 

Bottom,  the  wearer. 

Flute,  the  hellows-mender. 

Snout,  the  tinker. 

Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Hipr-OLYTA,  queen  of  the  Amazons,  betrothed  to  Theseue. 
Hermia,  daughter  to  Egeus,  in  love  with  Lysander. 
Helena,  in  love  with  Demetrius. 

Oberon,  king  of  the  fairies. 

Titania,  queen  of  the  fairies. 

Puck,  or  Robin-goodfellow,  a  fairy. 

Peas-blossom,      v. 

Cobweb,  f  ..  .  . 

Moth,  l*"™*' 

MUSTARD-SEED,     J 
PVRAMUS, 


TuiSBF  m 

vij,         '  (^  diameters  in  the  interlude  performed   by 

W  ALL,  /■  .11 

tlie  clowns. 
J 


moonshim 
Lion, 


Other  fairies  attending  their  king  and  queen. 
Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

Scene,  Athens,  and  a  wood  not  far  from  it. 


MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE    I. 

Athens.     A  room  in  the  palace  of  Theseus. 

Enter  theseus,    hippolyta,    philostrate,   and 
Attendants. 

The.  Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon :  but,  O,  methinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes !  she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame  or  a  dowager, 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hip.  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in 
nights  ; 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate. 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments  ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals : 


122  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    I. 

The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. — 

f Exit  Philostrate. 
Hippolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries ; 
But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,1  and  with  revelling. 

Enter  egeus,  hermia,  lysander,  and  demetrius. 

Ege.  Happy  he  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke  ! 

The.    Thanks,    good  Egeus.     What 's    the   news 
with  thee  ? 

Ege.  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. — 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius. — My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her : — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander ; — and,  my  gracious  duke, 
This  hath  bewitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child. 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  interchanged  love-tokens  with  my  child : 
Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love ; 
And  stolen  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,2  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats  ;  messengers 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth  : 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's  herit; 
Turn'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me, 


1  Shows.  B  Baubles* 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  1*23 

To  stubborn  harshness  : — and,  my  gracious  duke, 
Be  it  so  she  will  not  here  before  your  grace 
Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens. 
As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her ; 
Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman, 
Or  to  her  death  ;  according  to  our  law, 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

Tlie.    What  say  you,  Hermia?    be  advised,  fair 
maid  : 
To  you  your  father  should  be  as  a  god  ; 
One  that  composed  your  beauties  ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax, 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it.1 
Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.   So  is  Lysander. 

The.  In  himself  he  is  : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Her.    I  would  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eye9. 

The.  Rather  your  eyes  must   with  his  judgment 
look. 

Her.  I  do  entreat  your  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold  ; 
Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty, 
In  such  a  presence  here  to  plead  my  thoughts : 


1  You  owe  to  your  father  a  being  which  he  may  at  pi 
eontinuo  or  destroy. 


easur* 


124  MIDSUMMER    NIGUt's    DREAM.  ACT    I. 

But  I  beseech  your  grace,  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  may  befal  me  in  this  case. 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires, 
Know  of  your  youth,1  examine  well  your  blood  ; 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice. 
You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun ; 
For  aye  •  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd  ; 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they,  that  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage : 
But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distill'd, 
Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies,  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause :  and,  by  the  next  ne*r 
moon, 
(The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
For  disobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would ; 


1  Consider  your  youth.  *  For  ev«i. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM.  125 

Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest, 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Dem.    Relent,     sweet    Hermia ; — and.   Lvsander, 
yield 
Thy  crazed  titk  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.   You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius ; 
Let  me  have  Hermia's  :  do  you  marry  him. 

Ege.  Scornful  Lysander !   true,  he  hath  my  love  • 
And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him  : 
And  she  is  mine  ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  l  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  derived  as  he, 
As  well  possess'd  ;  "  my  love  is  more  than  his ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius' ; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 
I  am  beloved  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 
Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  ? 
Demetrius,  I  '11  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 
Upon  this  spotted3  and  inconstant  man. 

The.   I  must  confess,  that  I  have  heard  so  much, 
And  with  Demetrius  thought  to  have  spoke  thereof; 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-affairs, 
My  mind  did  lose  it. — But,  Demetrius,  come ; 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  with  me  : 


1  Bestoiv.        s  Have  as  ample  possessions.        s  Wicked. 


i'26  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    1. 

I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  both. — ■ 

For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 

To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will ; 

Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 

(Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate) 

To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. — 

Come,  my  Hippolyta !  What  cheer,  my  love  ? — 

Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along : 

I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 

Against  our  nuptial ;  and  confer  with  you 

Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.  With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  The.  Hip.  Ege.  Dem.  and  train. 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  ?    Why  is  your  cheek  so 
pal-5  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.  Belike,  for  want  of  rain  ;  which  I  could  well 
Beteem  them  x  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes. 

Lys.  Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  ever  I  could  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 
But,  either  it  was  different  in  blood  ; 

Her.  O  cross  !  too  high  to  be  enthrall'd  to  low ! 

Lys.   Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years  ; 

Her.   O  spite  !  too  old  to  be  engaged  to  young ! 

Lys.  Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends ; 

Her.  O  hell !   to  choose  love  by  another's  eye  ! 

Lys.   Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice. 


1  Give   bestow  on  them. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  127 

"War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it ; 
Making  it  momentary   as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream ; 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  1  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  hoth  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, — Behold  ! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  hright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If  then  true  lovers  have  heen  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny  : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross  ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs, 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  "  followers. 

Lys.     A   good    persuasion ;     therefore,    hear    me, 
Hermia. 
I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child : 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lovest  me  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night; 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  M  ay, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 


1  Black,  *  Lore'i. 


128  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT   I. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander! 

I  swear  to  thee,  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow ; 
By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head ; 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves  ; 
By  that  which  knitteth  souls  and  prospers  loves ; 
And  by  that  fire  which  burn'd  the  Carthage  queen, 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke ; — 
Jn  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lys.     Keep    promise,    love.     Look,    here    cornea 
Helena. 

Enter  helena. 

Her.  God  speed  fair  Helena  !  Whither  away  ? 

Hei.   Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair.     O  happy  fair ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars  ;  l  and  your  tongue's  sweet 

air 
More  tunable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 
Sickness  is  catching  ;   O,  were  favor  •   so  ! 
Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go  ; 
My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated,3 
The  rest  I  '11  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 


1  Pole-stars.         3  Feature,  countenance* 


sCi'.NE    I.        MIDSUMMER    WIGHT'S    DBEAM.  129 

O,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;   and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.   I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hel.  O,  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles 
such  skill ! 

Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 

Hel.    O,   that  my  prayers    could   such    affection 
move ! 

Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hel.  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hatcth  me. 

Her.  His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 

Hel.  None,  hut  your  beauty.     Would  that  fault 
were  mine  ! 

Her.    Take    comfort  ;  he   no  more  shall  see  my 
face  ; 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. — 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  like  a  paradise  to  me : 
O  then,  Avhat  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell, 
That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  unto  hell ! 

Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold  : 
To-morrow  night,  when  Phcebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  watery  glass, 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devised  to  steal. 

Her.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose-beds  were  wont  to  lie, 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet; 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet ; 
And  thence,  from  Athens  turn  away  our  eyes, 

9BAE.  Til.  I 


130  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM.  ACT   I. 

I'o  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies. 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow  ;  pray  thou  for  us, 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! — 
Keep  word,  Lysander  :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

[Exit  Her. 

Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia. — Helena,  adieu  : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you !    [Exit  Lys. 

Hel.  How  happy  some  o'er  other  some  can  be  ! 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  what  of  that  ?     Demetrius  thinks  not  so  ; 
He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know  : 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities. 
Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 
Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 
Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind  ; 
And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind  : 
Nor  hath  Love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste  ; 
Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  unheedy  haste  : 
And  therefore  is  Love  said  to  be  a  child, 
Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguiled. 
As  waggish  boys  in  game  1  themselves  forswear, 
So  the  boy  Love  is  perjured  every  where- : 
F^r  ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  eyrie,6 
He  hail'd  down  oaths,  that  he  was  only  mine  ; 
And  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt. 
So  he  dissolved,  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 


Sport.  s  Eyes. 


SCENE     II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGUt's     DREAM.  1M1 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight  •. 

'l'hen  to  the  wood  will  he,  to-morrow  night. 

Pursue  her  ;   and  for  this  intelligence 

If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense  : ' 

But  herein  mean  I  to  enrich  my  pain, 

To  have  his  sight  thither  and  hack  again.  [Exit. 


SCENE     II. 

The  same.     A  room  in  a  cottage. 
Enter   snug,    bottom,    flute,    snout,    quince,    and 

STARVELING. 

Quince.   Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Bot.  You  were  bes;  to  call  them  generally,  man 
by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quince.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play  in 
our  interlude  before  the  duke  and  duchess,  on  his 
wedding-day  at  night. 

Bot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play 
treats  on  ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors  ;  and 
so  grow  to  a  point. 

Quince.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamentable 
comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  Pynimus  and 
Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you. 
and  a  merry. —  Now,  good  Peter   Quince,  call  forth 


!t  will  cost  him  much,   be  a   severe  constraint   on  rus 
feelings 


132  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    I. 

your  actors  by  the    scroll.     Masters,  spread  your- 
selves. 

Quince.  Answer,  as  I  call  you.     Nick  Bottom,  the 
weaver. 

Bot.    Heady.     Name   what   part   I   am    for,    and 
proceed. 

Quince.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Py- 
ramus. 

Bot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 
Qui?ice.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly 
for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  per- 
forming of  it.     If  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to 
their  eyes :   I  will  move  storms  ;    I  will  condole   in 
some  measure.     To  the  rest. — Yet  my  chief  humor 
is  for  a  tyrant :   I   could  play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part 
to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 
'  The  raging  rocks, 
With  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison-gate?  : 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far. 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  fates.' 
This  was  lofty  ! — Now  name  the  rest  of  the  player?;. 
— This  is  Ercles'  vein,   a   tyrant's  vein :  a  lover  is 
more  condoling. 

Quince.   Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flute.   Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quince.   You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 


SCENE    II.      MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  133 

Flute.  What  is  Tbisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 
Quince.   It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 
Flute.  Nay,   faith,  let  me   not   play  a  woman  :   I 
have  a  heard  coming. 

Quince.  That 's  all  one  ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a 
mask,  and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

But.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby 
too.  I  '11  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice ; — 
«  Thisne,  Thisne  ! — Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear ; 
thy  Thisby  dear  I  and  lady  dear  !  ' 

Quince.    No,   no ;    you  must  play  Pyramus,  and, 
Flute,  you,  Thisby. 
Bot.  Well,  proceed.  . 
Quince.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 
Starve.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quince.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby 's 
mother. — Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 
Snout.  Here   Peter  Quince. 

Quince.  You,  Pyramus's  father  ;  myself,  Thisbv's 
father ; — Snug,  the  joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part  : — 
and,  I  hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  pray 
you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quince.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing 
but  roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too  :  I  will  roar,  that  I 
will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me  :  I  will 
roar,  that  I  will  make  the  duke  say,  « Let  him  roar 
;iLiain,  let  him  roar  again.' 

Quince.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would 


134  MIDSUMMER    NIGH'f's    DREAM.  ACT    I. 

fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would 
shriek ;  and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.   That  would  hang  us  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should 
fright  the  ladies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would  have 
no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us  :  but  I  will  aggra- 
vate my  voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as 
any  sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an  'twere  i  any 
nightingale. 

Quince.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus  :  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man ;  a  proper  man,  &g 
one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day ;  a  most  lovely, 
gentleman-like  man  ;  therefore  you  must  needs  plav 
Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were 
I  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

Quince.  Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw- 
colored  beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your  pur- 
ple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  French-crown-color 
beard,  your  perfect  yellow. 

Quince.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no  hair 
at  all,  and  then  you  will  play  barefaced. — But, 
masters,  here  are  your  parts  :  and  I  am  to  entreat 
you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by  to- 
morrow night ;  and  meet  me  in  the  palace  wood,  a 
mile  without  the  town,  by  moonlight ;  there  will  we 


1  As  if  it  were. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    XK.'U'r's    DREAM.  135 

rehearse  :  for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be 
dogged  with  company,  and  our  devices  known.  In 
the  mean  time,  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,1  such 
as  our  play  wants.     I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

Hot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse 
more  obscenely  and  courageously.  Take  pains  ;  be 
perfect :  adieu. 

Quince.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough.     Hold,  or  cut  bowstrings.2 

[Exeunt. 

ACT    II. 

SCENE    I. 

A  wood  near  Athens. 

j  Enter  a  fairy  at  one  door,  and  puck  at  another. 

Puck.   How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fat.  Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
T  do  wander  every  where,  -  g-A- 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere  ;  aIa? 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green :  J 


b*^ 


1  Little  incidental  necessaries  appertaining  to  a  theatre. 

2  At  all  events. 

3  Circles  supposed  to  be  made  by  the  fairies  on  the  ground 
whose  verdure  proceeds  from  their  care  to  water  them. 


<" 


13G  MIDSUMMER    NIGHl's    DREAM.  ACT   II. 

Tlie  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see.  : 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors  ; 
L  In  those  freckles  live  their  savors : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  '  of  spirits  ;    I  '11  be  gone  : 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 

Puck.  The    king    doth    keep  his  revels    here   to- 
night ; 
Take  heed,  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight  : 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stolen  from  an  Indian  king ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  channeling: : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild : 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy. 
Crowns  him   with  flowers,   and  makes  him  all  her 

j°y : 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green, 
Bv  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen.2 
But  they  do  square  ; :J  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fed.  Either   I    mistake    your    shape   and   making 
quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Call'd  Robin  Good-fellow :  are  you  not  he, 


1  A  term  or  contempt.  2  Shining.  s  Quarrel. 


1 

i 


1 

' 

:     :■      !  i        !    .■■■••■■    !j  • 


iQJh?- 


MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S    BREAM 




Starling  sc 


8CENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'' S    DREAM.  13? 

That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  villagery  ; 
Skim  milk;  and  sometimes  lahor  in  the  quern,1 
And  bootless  make  the  breathless  housewife  churn  ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm  ;  • 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck  : 
Are  not  you  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile, 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Nei  shins?  in  likeness  of  a  fillv  foal : 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ;  3 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  wither'd  dewlap4  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me  ; 
Then  slip  I  from  her  bum  :   down  topples  she, 
And  tailor  5  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough  ; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  loffe 
And  waxen  6  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room,  fairy  :   here  comes  Oberon. 


i  Hand-mill.  -  Yeast.  3  V»'ild  apple. 

*   A  lip  flaccid  with  age. 

5  He  that  slips  beside  his  chair  falls  as  a  tailor  squats  on  hiB 
board  :  hence  the  custom  of  crying  '  tailor'  at  a  sudden  fall 
backwards.  6  Increase. 


! 


138  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT*  S    DREAM.  ACT    II. 

Fat.    And   here    my    mistress. — "Would    that    he 
were  gone  ! 

SCENE    II. 

Enter  oberon,  at  one  door,  with  his  train,  and 
titania,  at  another,  with  hers. 

Obe.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tit.  What,  jealous  Oberon  ?    Fairy,  skip  hence . 
1  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.  Tarry,  rash  wanton.     Am  not  I  thy  lord? 

Tit.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady :  but  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stolen  away  from  fairy  land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day, 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here, 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded ;   and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.  How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania. 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not   lead  him   through  the  glimmering 


night 


From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 

And  make  him  with  fair  ^Egle  break  his  faith, 

With  Ariadne,  and  Antiopa  ? 

Tit.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy  : 


6CENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  13(J 

And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring,1 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  hy  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 
Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain. 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs,  which  falling  in  the  land, 
Have  every  pelting  -  river  made  so  proud, 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents  :  : 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain  ; 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock : 
The  nine  men's  morris  *  is  nll'd  up  with  mud  ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green. 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  : 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  ;  5 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  bless' a  :— 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods. 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air. 
That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 


E 


1  The  beginning  of  the  middle  summer,  or  Midsummer. 
«  Petty.  3  Banks  that  contain  them. 

4  A  game  played  by  shepherds  in  the  midland  counties  of 
[ngland. 
1  '  Those  sports  with  which  country  people  are  accustomed 
leguile  a  winter's  evening.'— Malone. 


140  MIDSUMMER    XIGHT's    DREAM.  ACT  II. 

And,  thorough  this  distemperature,1  we  s-iO 

The  seasons  alter  :  hoary-headed  frosts 

Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 

And  on  old  Hyems'  chin,  and  icy  crown, 

An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 

Is,  as  in  mockery,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer. 

The  childing  "  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries ;  and  the  'mazed  world. 

By  their  increase,3  now  knows  not  winch  is  which : 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension  : 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it  then  ;  it  lies  in  you  : 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman.4 

*»•  Set  your  heart  at  rest  : 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  votaress  of  my  order  ; 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night. 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side  ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood  , 
When  we  have  laugh'd  to  see  the  sails  conceive. 
And  grow  big-bellied,  with  the  wanton  wind  : 
Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait, 
(Following  her  womb,  then  rich  with    my  young 
squire) 


1  '  Perturbation  of  the  elements.'—  Steevens. 

*  Teeming.  »  Produco.  *  pag0  of  honor 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHTS    DIIEAM.  14' 

Would  imitate  ;   and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  again, 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandise. 
But  she,  being  jaortal,  of  that  hoy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  hoy  ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Obe.   How    long    within   this    wood    intend    you 
stay  ? 

Tit.  Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-dav. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Obe.   Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tit.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom. — Fairies,  away  : 
We  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exeunt  Titania,  and  her  train. 

Obe.  Well,  go  thy  way  :   thou  shalt  not  from  this 
grove, 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remember' st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Obe.  That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst  not) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 


142  MIDSUMMER    NIGHTS    DREAM.  ACT   II. 

At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west  ;  l 

And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bnw, 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 

But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon  ; 

And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free.2 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 

Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound  ; — 

And  maidens  call  it,  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower  ;  the  herb  I  show'd  thee  once : 

The  juice  of  it,  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb  ;  and  be  thou  here  again, 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.   I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 

In  forty  minutes.  [Exit  Puck. 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I  '11  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 

And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes  : 

The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 

(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 

On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape) 

She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love  : 

And  ere  1  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight, 


1  Queen  Eli  inbeth.  s  Exempt  from  lore. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  1  J3 

(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb) 
I  '11  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here  ?  I  am  invisible  ; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

Etiter  Demetrius,  iielex a  following  him. 

Dem.   I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 
"Where  is  Lysander,  and  fair  Hermia  ? 
The  one  I  '11  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 
Thou  told'st  me,  they  were  stolen  into  this  wood, 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood1  within  this  wood, 
Because  I  cannot  meet  with  Hermia. 
Hence,  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

Hel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant  : 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
I9  true  as  steel.     Leave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Bern.  Do  I  entice  you  ?  Do  I  speak  you  fair  ? 
Or,  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you — I  do  not,  nor  I  cannot  love  you  ? 

Hel.  And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more. 
I  am  your  spaniel ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  me,  I  will  fawn  on  you  : 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  ne, 
Neglect  me,  lose  me ;  only  give  me  leave. 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
''And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me) 


1  Mad,  raving. 


1  -t-i  MIDSUMMER    NIGIIt's    DREAM.  ACT   II. 

Than  to  be  used  as  j'ou  do  use  your  dog  ? 

Dem.    Tempt    not    too    much   the   hatred   of  my 
spirit; 
For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 

Hel.  And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 
Dem.  You  do  impeach  l  your  modesty  too  *nuch, 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
•    Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not, 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night, 
And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place, 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 

Hel.   Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 
It  is  not  night,  when  I  do  see  your  face, 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night  : 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company  ; 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world. 
Then  how  can  it  be  said,  I  am  alone, 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.    I  '11  run  from   thee,  and  hide  me  in  the 
brakes, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.  The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  changed : 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase ; 
The  dove  pursues  the  griffin  ;  the  mild  hind 
Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger.     Bootless  speed ! 
When  cowardice  pursues,  and  valor  flies. 

Dem.   I  will  not  stay  thy  questions  :  let  me  go  : 


1  Bring  into  question. 


1 

SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  145 

Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  Dot  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

Hel.  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  and  field, 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex : 
We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do  ; 
We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I  '11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell, 
To  die  upon  l  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

[Exeunt  Dem.  and  Hel. 

Obe.  Fare  thee  well,  nymph  :  ere  he  do  leave  this 
grove, 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. — 

Re-enter  puck. 

Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?    Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips  2  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine  : 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lull'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamel' d  skin. 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I  '11  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 


1  By.  2  The  ox-lip  is  the  greater  cowslip. 

siiak.  in.  K 


146  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT  IJ.    1 

Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove : 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth  :   anoint  his  eyes  ; 
But  do  it,  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  he  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  mao. 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some    care,   that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love  : 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 
Fuck.  Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    III. 

Another  part  of  the  wood. 

Enter  titania,  with  her  train. 

Tit.   Come,  now  a  roundel,1  and  a  fairy  song"; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice  -  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small   elves  coats  ;    and  some,   keep 

back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.3     Sing  me  now  asleep ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 


1  A  kind  of  dance.  8  Bats.  3  Quaint  cpor'.s." 


SCENE  III.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  147 

SONO. 

t  Fai.  You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen  : 
Newts,'  and  blind-worms,2  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Chorus.  Philomel,  with  melody, 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby  ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby  ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby : 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  : 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

II. 

9  Fai.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here  : 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near  ; 
AVorm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Chorus.  Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 

I  Fai.  Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.    Tilania  sleeps. 

Enter  oberon. 

Obe.  What  thou  seest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 

{squeezes  the  flower  on  Tilania  s  eyelids. 
Do  it  fnr  thy  true  love  take  ; 
Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake  : 
Be  it  ounce,3  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 


*  Efts.  2  Slow-worms.  3  A  small  tiger. 


148  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT  H. 

When  thou  wakest,  it  is  thy  dear : 

Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  [Exit. 

Enter  lysaxder  and  hermia. 

Lys.    Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wandering  in  the 
wood ; 

And,  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way  : 
We  '11  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander  ;  find  you  out  a  hed, 
For  I  upon  this  hank  will  rest  my  head. 

Lys.  One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  hoth ; 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms,  and  one  troth. 

Her.  Nay,  good  Lysander  ;  for  my  sake,  my  dear. 
Lie  farther  off  yet ;   do  not  lie  so  near. 

Lys.   O,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence  ; l 
Love  takes  the  meaning,  in  love's  conference.2 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit ; 
So  that  hut  one  heart  we  can  make  of  it : 
Two  bosoms  interchained  with  an  oath  ; 
So  then,  two  bosoms,  and  a  single  troth. 
Then,  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny; 
For,  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 

Her.  Lysander  riddles  very  prettily. — 
Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say,  Lysander  lied. 


'  My  innocent  meaning. 

5  In   the   conversation  of  lovers,  not  suspicion, 
takes  the  meaning. 


SCENE   IH.        MIDSUMMER    MGHT's    DREAM.  149 

But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 

Lie  farther  off ;  in  human  modesty, 

Such  separation,  as,  may  well  be  said, 

Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid  : 

So  far  be  distant ;   and  good  night,  sweet  friend  .; 

Thy  love  ne'er  alter  till  thy  sweet  life  end ! 

Lys.  Amen,  amen  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I ; 
And  then  end  life  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed.      Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.  With  half  that  wish  the   wisher's  eyes  be 
press'd  !  [they  sleep. 

Enter  puck. 

Puck.     Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence  !  who  is  here  ? 
"Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear  : 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid  ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul  !   she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesv. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owt :  A 
When  thou  wakest,  let  Love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 

1  Possess. 


150  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT   II. 

So  awake,  when  I  am  gone ; 

For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  [Exit. 

Enter  demetrius  and  helena,  running. 

Hel.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Dent.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me 
thus. 

Hel.   O,  wilt  thou  darkling  '  leave  me  ?  do  not  so. 

Dem.   Stay,  on  thy  peril  ;  I  alone  will  go. 

[Exit  Demetrius. 

Hel.   O,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace.2 
Happy  is  Hermia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies ; 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?    Not  with  salt  tear*  : 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  wash'd  than  hers. 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear  ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me,  run  away  for  fear: 
Therefore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 
Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ? — 
But  who  is  here  ?     Lysander  !   on  the  ground  ! 
Dead,  or  asleep  ?   I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. — 
Lyscinuer,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Et/s.  And   run    through  tire  I  will,  for  thy  sweet 
sake,  \ioaking. 

Transparent  Helena  !      Nature  shows  her  art, 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 


'  In  the  dark.  *  The  favor  that  I  gain. 


SCENE  III.       MIDSUMMER    NIGIIt's    DREAM.  151 

Where  is  Demetrius  ?  O,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on.  my  sword  ! 

Hel.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysander ;  say  not  so  : 
What  though  he  love   your  Hermia  ?     Lord,  what 

though  ? 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you  :  then  be  content. 

Lys.   Content  with  Hermia  ?  No  :   I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena  now  I  love  : 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd  ; 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season  : 
So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason  ; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill,1 
Reason  becomes  the  marshal  to  my  will, 
And  leads  me  to  your  eyes  ;  where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories,  written  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.   Wherefore  was  I  to  this  keen  mockery  born  ? 
When,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  is  't  not  enough,  young  man, 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can, 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  from  Demetrius'  eye, 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufficiency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong,  good  sooth,  you  do, 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well :  perforce  I  must  confess. 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  true  gentleness. 


*  My  senses  being  now  at  the  utmost  height  of  perfection 


102  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT   II. 

O,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refused, 
Should  of  another  therefore  be  abused  !  IE-tit. 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia  : — Hermia,  sleep  thou 
there ; 
And  never  mayst  thou  come  Lysander  near  ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings  ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies,  that  men  do  leave, 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive  ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated,  but  the  most  of  me  ! 
And  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might, 
To  honor  Helen,  and  to  be  her  knight  !  [Exit. 

Her.   {starting,']   Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me  !  do 
thy  best, 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ah  me,  for  pity  ! — what  a  dream  was  here  ! 
Lysander,  look,  how  I  do  quake  with  fear. 
Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey. — 
Lysander  !  what,  removed  ?  Lysander,  lord  ! 
What,    out    of    hearing  ?    gone  ?    no    sound,    no 

word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?   speak,  an  if  you  hear ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  ; 1  I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ? — then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death  or  you  I  '11  find  immediately.         [Exit. 


1  By  all  that  is  dear. 


ACT    HI.  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  133 


ACT     III. 

SCENE    I. 

The  same.      The  queen  of  fairies  lying  asleep. 
Enter  quince,  snug,  bottom,    flute,    snout,    and 

STARVELING. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Quince.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here  's  a  marvellous  con- 
venient place  for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot 
shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake  our  tiring- 
house  ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we  will  do  it 
oefore  the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince, — 

Quince.  What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisby  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus 
must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself,  which  the  laches 
cannot  abide.     How  answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.  By'r  lakin,1  a  parlous  -  fear. 

Starve.  I  believe,  we  must  leave  the  killing  out, 
when  all  is  done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit  :  I  have  a  device  to  make  all 
well.  Write  me  a  prologue  ;  and  let  the  prologue 
seem  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our  swords ; 
and  that  Fvramus  is  not  killed  indeed  :    and,  for  the 


1  By  our  ladykin.  2  Perilous. 


154  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    III, 

more  better  assurance,  tell  them,  that  I  Pyramus  am 
not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver.  This  will  put 
them  out  of  fear. 

Quince.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue  ;  and 
it  shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six. 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  ;  let  it  be  written  in 
eight  and  eight. 

Snout.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afe-ard  of  the  lion  ? 

Starve.   I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  your- 
selves :  to  bring  in,  God  shield  us  !  a  lion  among 
ladies,  is  a  most  dreadful  thing ;  for  there  is  not  a 
more  fearful l  wild-fowl  than  your  lion,  living ;  and 
we  ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell,  he 
is  not  a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his 
face  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ;  and  he 
himself  must  speak  through,  saying  thus,  or  to  the 
same  defect : — '  Ladies,  or  fair  ladies,  I  would  wish 
you,  or,  I  would  request  you,  or,  I  would  entreat 
you,  not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble  :  my  life  for  yours. 
If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of 
my  life.  No,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man  as 
other  men  are  : ' — and  there,  indeed,  let  him  name 
his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug  the 
joiner. 

Quince.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.    But  there  is  two 


1  I'riithtful 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHx's    DREAM.  155 

hard  things ;  that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a 
chamber  :  for  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet 
by  moonlight. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play 
our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the  alma- 
nack ;  find  out  moonshine,  find  out  moonshine. 

Quince.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the 
great  chamber  window,  where  we  play,  open  ;  and 
the  moon  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quince.  Ay  ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush 
of  thorns  and  a  lantern,  and  say,  he  comes  to  dis- 
figure, or  to  present,  the  person  of  moonshine. 
Then,  there  is  another  thing  :  we  must  have  a  wall 
in  the  great  chamber;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall, 

Snug.  You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall. — What  say 
you,  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall  :  and 
let  him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some 
rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall ;  or  let  him 
hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  shall 
Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quince.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come, 
sit  down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  vonr 
parts.  Pyramus,  you  begin  :  when  you  have  spoKen 
your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake  ;  '  ana  so  every 
one  according  to  his  cue.2 


*  Thicket. 

•  A  cue,  in  theatrical  language,  signifies  the  last   words  of 


156  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Enter  puck  behind. 

Puck.   What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swag- 
gering here 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  ?     I  '11  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quince.   Speak,  Pyramus. — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr.     '  Thisby,     the    flowers    of    odious    savois 
sweet,' — 

Quince.   Odors,  odors. 

Pyr.   ' odors  savors  sweet : 

So  hath  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. — 
But,  hark,  a  voice  !   stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.'  [Exit. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd  here  ! 

[aside. — Exit. 

This.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quince.  Ay,  marry,-  must  you  :  for  you  must 
understand,  he  goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he 
heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 

This.   '  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of 
hue, 

Of  color  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier : 
Most  brisky  juvenal,1  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew; 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  lire, 
I  '11  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb.' 

Quince.  Ninus'   tomb,  man.     Why  you  must  nut 


tie  preceding  speech,  which  serve  as  a  him  10  him  who  i*  to 
Speak  nest. 
1  YouDg  man. 


SCENIC    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT  S    DKJKAM.  1  .-7 

speak  that  yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Py ramus.  You 
speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all. — Pyramus, 
enter ;  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  '  never  tire.' 

Re-enter  puck,  and  bottom  with  an  ass's  head. 

This.    0, — 'As   true   as   truest   horse,    that   yet 

would  never  tire.' 
Pyr.    '  If    I    were    fair,    Thisby,    I    were    only 

thine.' — 
Quince.  O  monstrous  !  0  strange  !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !  help  ! 

[Exeunt  Clowns. 
Puck.    I  '11  follow   you,    I  '11   lead   you   about   a 

round, 
Through    bog,    through    bush,    through    brake, 
through  brier ; 
Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and   bark,    and   grunt,    and  roar,   and 

burn, 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn. 

[Exit. 
Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away  ?  this  is  a  knavery 
of  them,  to  make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  snout. 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou   art  changed !  what  do  I  i 
see  on  thee  ? 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  you  see  an  ass's  head  of 
your  own ;  do  you  ? 


h')8  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT*S    DREAM.  ACT    HI. 

Re-enter  quince. 

Quince.  Bless  thee,  Bottom  !  bless  thee  !  thou  art 
translated.  [Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery :  this  is  to  make  an  ass 
of  me  ;  to  flight  me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will  not 
stir  from  this  place,  do  what  they  can :  I  will  walk 
up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall 
hear  I  am  not  afraid.  [sings. 

The  ousel-cock,1  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  2  with  his  note  so  true, 

The  wren  with  little  quill. 

Tit.  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

[waking. 
Bot.  The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo3  gray. 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
And  dares  not  answer,  nay  ; — 

for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a 
bird  ?  who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry, 
cuckoo,  never  so  ? 

Tit.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  ; 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamor'd  of  thy  note, 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should   have  iittle 


»  Cock  blackbird.  2  Thrush. 

■  The  cuckoo  with  his  uniform  note. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM.  159 

reason  for  that :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason 
and  love  keep  little  company  together  n<nv-a-days : 
the  more  the  pity  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not 
make  them  friends.    Nay,  I  can  gleek  x  upon  occasion. 

Tit.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so,  neither  :  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to 
get  out  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  mine 
own  turn. 

Tit.   Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate ;     ' 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee  :  therefore,  go  with  me ; 
I  '11  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 
Peas-blossom  !  Cobweb  !  Moth  !  and  Mustard-seed  i 

Enter  four  fairies. 

1  Fai.   Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  And  I. 

All.  Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Tit.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman; 
Kop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes  ; 

*  Joke. 


160  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT   III. 

Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries.1 
With  purple  grapes,  green  ligs,  and  mulberries  : 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night  tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise  : 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moon-beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.   Hail,  mortal ! 

2  Fai.  Hail ! 

3  Fai .  Hail ! 

4  Fai.  Hail ! 

Bot.  I  cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily. — I  be- 
seech your  worship's  name. 

Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance, 
good  master  Cobweb  :  if  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall 
make  bold  with  you. — Your  name,  honest  gentle- 
man ? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you,  commend  me  to  mistress  Squash,2 
your  mother,  and  to  master  Peascod,  your  father. 
Good  master  Peas-blossom,  I  shall  desire  you  of 
more  acquaintance  too. — Your  name,  I  beseech  you, 
sir? 

Mus.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.    Good  master   Mustard-seed,   I   know   your 


•  Gooseberries.  2  A  squash  is  an  immature  peascod. 


eCKNE  II.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DRKAM.  161 

patience  well :  that  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox- 
beef  hath  devoured  many  a  gentleman  of  your 
house  :  I  promise  you,  your  kindred  hatli  made  my 
eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you  more  acquaint- 
ance, good  master  Mustard-seed. 

Tit.  Come,    wait    upon    him ;     lead    him    to    my 
bower. 

The  moon,  methinks,  looks  with  a  watery  eye  ; 
And  when  she  weeps,  weeps  every  little  flower, 

Lamenting  some  enforced  chastity. 

Tie  up  my  lover's  tongue ;   bring  him  silently. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Another  part  of  the  wood. 
Enter  oberon. 

Obe.  I  wonder,  if  Titania  be  awaked ; 
Then,  what  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye. 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

Enter  puck. 

Here  comes  my  messenger. — How  now,  rnad  spirit  a 
What  night-rule1  now  about  this  haunted  grove? 

Puck.  My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower, 
While  she  was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches,2  rude  mechanicals, 
That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  stalls, 


1  Frolic  of  the  night.  2  Simple  fellows. 


162  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play, 

Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 

The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort,1 

Who  Pyramus  presented,  in  their  sport 

Forsook  his  scene,  and  enter'd  in  a  brake  : 

When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 

An  ass's  nowl  -  I  fixed  on  his  head  : 

Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered, 

And    forth   my    mimic 3    comes.     When    they   him 

spy. 

As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 

Or  russet-pated  choughs,4  many  in  sort,5 

Rising  and  cawing  at  the  gun's  report 

Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky  ; 

So,  at  his  sight,  away  his  fellows  fly  : 

And,  at  our  stamp,  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls ; 

He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 

Their  sense,  thus  weak,  lost  with   their  fears,  thud 

strong, 
Made  senseless  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong : 
For  briers  and  thorns  at  their  apparel  snatch  ; 
Some,  sleeves ;  some,  hats  :   from   yielders  all  things 

catch. 
I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear, 
And  left  sweet  Pyramus  translated  there  : 
When  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass) 
Titania  waked,  and  straightway  loved  an  ass. 
Obe.  This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 


1  Slupiil  company.  a  Head.  3  Actor. 

4  The  chough  is  a  bird  of  the  daw  kind.  s  Company. 


SCENE    It.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHTS    DREAM.  1G3 

But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd1  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  hid  thee  do  ? 

Puck.   I  took  him  sleeping, — that  is  finish'd  too, — 
And  the  Athenian  woman  hy  his  side ; 
Thnt,  when  he  waked,  of  force  she  must  he  eyed. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  hermia. 

Obe.   Stand  close  ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.  This  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

Dem.   O,  why  rebuke  vou  him  that  loves  you  so  ( 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Her.  Now   I   but  chide,   but   I  should  use  thee 
worse  ; 
For  thou.  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 
And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day, 
As  he  to  me.     Would  he  have  stolen  away 
From  sleeping  Hermia  ?     I  '11  believe  as  soon. 
This  whole  earth  may  be  bored ;  and  that  the  moon 
May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 
Her  brother's  noontide  with  the  Antipodes. 
It  cannot  be,  but  thou  hast  murder' d  him  : 
So  should  a  murderer  look;   so  dead,  so  grim. 

Dem.     So    should    the    murder'd    look ;     and    so 
should  I, 
Pierced  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty : 


1  Infected. 


1G4  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear. 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 

Her.  What 's  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  where  is  he  t 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 

Dem.   1  had  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  hounds. 

Her.   Out,    dog !   out,   cur !  thou  drivest  me  past 
the  bounds 
Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him  then  ? 
Henceforth  be  never  number'd  among  men ! 

0  !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake. 
Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  hast  thou  kill'd  him  sleeping  ?  O  brave  touch  ! l 
Could  not  a  worm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 

An  adder  did  it ;  for  with  doubler  tongue 
Than  thine,  thou  sequent,  never  adder  stung. 

Dem.  You   spend    your    passion   on    a    misprised 
mood  :  " 

1  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood ; 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 

Her.  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  then  that  he  is  well. 

Dem.  An  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  therefore  ? 

Her.  A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more  ; — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so. 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.     [Exit. 

Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein: 
Here,  therefore,  for  awhile  I  will  remain. 
►So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe ; 


1   Lxploit.  2  ]n  a  mistaken  manner. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHT*S    DREAM.  1 C.) 

Which  now  in  some  slight  measure  it  will  pay, 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay,    [lies  down. 
Obe.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  thou  hast  mistaken 
quite, 
And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true  love's  sight : 
Of  thy  misprision  l  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true  love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  turn'd  true. 
Puck.  Then  fate  o'er-rules  ;  that,  one  man  holding 
troth, 
A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 

Obe.  About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  wind. 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick2  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer* 
With   sighs    of  love,    that    cost    the    fresh,  blood 

dear. 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here : 
I  '11  charm  his  eyes,  against  she  do  appeal. 

Puck.  I  go,  I  go ;  look,  how  I  go ; 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.       [Exit. 
Obe.  Flower  of  this  purple  die, 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery, 
Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye  ! 
When  his  love  he  doth  espy, 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 

As  the  Venus  of  the  sky. 

When  thou  wakest,  if  she  be  by. 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 


1  Mistake.  a  Love-sick.  *  Countenance. 


1G6  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Re-enter  puck. 

Puck.   Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand  ; 
And  the  youth,  mistook  by  mc, 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee. 
Shall  we  their  fond  1  pageant  see  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

Obe.  Stand  aside  :  the  noise  they  make 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.  Then  will  two,  at  once,  woo  one  ; 
That  must  needs  be  sj^ort  alone  : 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me, 
That  befal  preposterously. 

Enter  lysander  and  helena. 

Lys.   Why  should  you  think  that  I  should  woo  in 
s«"orn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears  : 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep  ;  and  vows  so  born. 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.    You   do   advance  your  cunning  more  and 
more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O  devilish-holy  fray  ! 


1  i'oolish. 


SCENE    II.       MIDfUMMER    NXGHt's     DBEAM.  167 

These  vows  are  Hermia's ;  will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 

Weigh    oath  with  oath,    and    you    will    nothing 
weigh  : 
Your  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh  ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.   I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 

Hel.  Nor  none,  in  my  mind,   now  you  give  her 
o'er. 

Lys.    Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 

Detn.   [awakingj]   O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,   per- 
fect, divine  ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.      O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow ! 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand.     O,  let  me  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss  ! 

Hel.  O  spite  !   O  hell !   I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join,  in  souls,1  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so ; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
W  hen,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 


1  Heartily. 


166  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Re-enter  puck. 

Puck.   Captain  of  our  fairy  band, 
Helena  is  here  at  hand  ; 
And  the  youth,  mistook  by  me, 
Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee. 
Shall  we  their  fond  J  pageant  see  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be  ! 

Obe.  Stand  aside  :  the  noise  they  make 
Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake. 

Puck.  Then  will  two,  at  once,  woo  one  ; 
That  must  needs  be  sport  alone : 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me, 
That  befal  preposterously. 

Enter  lysander  and  helena. 

Lys.   Why  should  you  think  that  I  should  woo  in 
s«'orn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears  : 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep  ;  and  vows  so  born. 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true  ? 

Hel.     You    do    advance   your  cunning  more  and 
more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O  devilish-holy  frav  ! 


1  Foolish. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHTS     DREAM.  167 

These  vows  are  Hermia's ;  will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 

Weigh    oath  with  oath,    and    you    will    nothing 
weigh  : 
Your  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh  ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 

Lys.  I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 

Hel.  Nor  none,  in  my  mind,   now  you  give  her 
o'er. 

Lys.    Demetrius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 

Dent,   [awaking .]   O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,   per- 
fect, divine  ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 
Crystal  is  muddy.      O,  how  ripe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow ! 
That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand.     O,  let  me  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss  ! 

Hel.  O  spite  !   O  hell !   I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment. 
If  you  were  civil,  and  knew  courtesy, 
You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join,  in  souls,1  to  mock  me  too  ? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show, 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so ; 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
V\  hen,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 


1  Heartily. 


1G8  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    HI. 

You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia ; 

And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena : 

A  trim  exploit,  a  manly  enterprise, 

To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes. 

With  your  derision  !  none,  of  noble  sort,1 

Would  so  offend  a  virgin,  and  extort 

A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport, 

Lys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius  ;  be  not  so  ; 
For  you  love  Hermia  ;   this,  you  know,  I  know  : 
And  here,  with  all  good  will,  with  all  my  heart. 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeathe, 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  death. 

Hel.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 

Dem.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia ;  I  will  none  : 
If  e'er  I  loved  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  with  her  but,  as  guest-wise,  sojourn'd ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 
Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  abide  it  dear.2 — 
Look,  where  thy  love  comes ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 

Enter  hermia. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function 
takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes ; 


1  Degree  *  Pay  dearly  for  it. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER     NIGHTS    DREAM.  IG'J 

Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense, 
It  pays  the  hearing  donhle  recompense. — 
Thou  art  not  hy  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found  : 
Mine  ear,  I  thank  it,  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press 
to  go  ? 

Her.   What  love  could  press  Lysander  from  my 
side  ? 

Lys.    Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide. 
Fair  Helena ;  who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oes  l  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this   make   thee 

know, 
The  hate  I  hare  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 

Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think  ;  it  cannot  be. 

Hel.  Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy  ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia  !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspired,  have  you  with  these  contrived 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 
The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us, — O,  now,  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  •  gods, 


1  Circles  *  Imrenious,  artful. 


170  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Have  with  our  neelds  '  created  both  one  flower. 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key ; 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds, 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together. 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted ; 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  : 
So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  asundei, 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 
It  is  not  friendly,  'tis  not  maidenly  : 
Our  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it ; 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.  I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words  : 
I  scorn  you  not  ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hel.   Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
(Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot) 
To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  nates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul, 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection, 
But  by  your  setting  on,  by  your  consent  ? 


Needles. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  171 

What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you, 
So  hung  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate ; 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unloved  ? 
This  you  should  pity  rather  than  despise. 

Her.  I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this. 
Hel.  Ay,  do,  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 
Make  mows 1  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back  ; 
"Wink  at  each  other;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up  : 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners, 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  ar°niment. 
But  fare  ye  well :  'tis  partly  mine  own  fault, 
Which  death  or  absence  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.   Stay,  gentle  Helena  ;  hear  my  excuse  ; 
My  love,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena  ! 

Hel.  O  excellent ! 

Her.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Bern.  If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

Lys.  Thou  canst  compel  no  more  than  she  entreat : 
Thy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her  weak 

prayers. — 
Helen,  I  love  thee  ;  by  my  life,  I  do  : 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee, 
To  prove  him  false,  that  says  I  love  thee  not. 

Hem.  I  say,  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.  If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  prove  it  too. 

Hem.  Quick,  come,— 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this  ? 


1  Wry  faces. 


]7"2  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Lys.  Away,  you  Ethiop  ! 
Dcm.  No,  no,  he  '11 — Sir, 

Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on,  as  you  would  follow  ; 
But  yet  come  not :  you  are  a  tame  man ;  go ! 

Lys.  Hang  off,    thou  cat,   thou  burr  :  vile  thing, 
let  loose  ; 
Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me,  like  a  serpent. 

Her.  Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?  what  change 
is  this, 
Sweet  love  ? 

Lys.     Thy  love  ?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out ! 
Out,  loathed  medicine  !  hated  potion,  hence  ! 
Her.  Do  you  not  jest  ? 

Hel.  Yes,  sooth  ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.  Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee. 
Dem.  I  would,  I  had  your  bond  ;  for,  I  perceive, 
A  weak  bond  holds  you  ;   I  '11  not  trust  your  word. 
Lys.  What,  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her 
dead  ? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I  '11  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.  What,  can  you  do  me  greater   harm  than 
hate  ? 
Hate  me  !  wherefore  ?  O  me  !  what  news,  my  love  ? 
Am  not  I  Hermia  ?    Are  not  you  Lysander  ? 
I  am  as  fair  now,  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night  you  loved  me,  yet  since  night  you  left 

me  : 
Why,  then  you  left  me, — O,  the  gods  forbid  ! — 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life  : 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 


SCEKK    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGIIt's    DREAM.  173 

Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  doubt: 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer  ;   'tis  no  jest, 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Her.  O  me  !  you  juggler  !    you  canker-blossom  !  * 
You  thief  of  love  !  what,  have  you  come  by  night, 
And  stolen  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'  faith  ! 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame, 
No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?     What,  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie,  fie  !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you  ! 

Her.  Puppet !  why  so  ?    Ay,  that   way  goes  the 
game. 
Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures  ;   she  hath  urged  her  height  : 
And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage, 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with  him. — ■ 
And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem, 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish  and  so  low  ? 
How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?  speak  ; 
How  low  am  I  ?  I  am  not  yet  so  low, 
But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen. 
Let  her  not  hurt  me.     I  was  never  curst ;  - 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness  ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice  ; 
Let  her  not  strike  me  :  you,  perhaps,  may  think, 
Because  she  's  something  lower  than  myself. 


1   A  worm  that  preys  on  the  buds  of  flowers. 
8  Shrewish  or  mischievous 


174  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S     DREAM.  ACT   III. 

That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower  !   hark,  again, 

Hel.   Good  Hermia,  do  not  he  so  bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wrong' d  vou  ; 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood. 
He  follow'd  you  ;  for  love  I  follow'd  him  : 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence  ;  and  threaten'd  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 
To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back, 
And  follow  you  no  farther.      Let  me  go  : 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  '  I  am. 

Her.  Why,  get  you  gone.    Who  is  't  that  hinucrs 
you  ? 

Hel.  A  foolish  heart,  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.   What,  with  Lysander  ? 

Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.    Be  not    afraid  :     she  shall  not  harm  thee, 
Helena. 

Dem.  No,  sir,  she  shall  not,  though  you  take  her 
part. 

Hel.    O,    when    she 's    angry,    she    is    keen    and 
shrewd  : 
She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And,  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

Her.   Little  again  ?  nothing  but  low  and  little  ? — 


Foolish. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  175 

Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 

Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

You  minimus,  of  hindering  knot-grass  made  ; l 
You  head,  you  acorn. 

Dem.  You  are  too  officious, 

]n  her  hehalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone  ;  speak  not  of  Helena ; 
Take  not  her  part :  for  if  thou  dost  intend  - 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Thou  shalt  aby  it.3 

Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  darest,  to  try  whose  right, 
Or  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Dem.  Follow  ?  nay,  I  '11  go  with   thee,   check  bv 
jole.  [Exeunt  Lys.  and  Dem. 

Her.   You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  *  is  'long  of  you : 
Nay,  go  not  back. 

Hel.  I  will  not  trust  you,  I  ; 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Your  hands,  than  mine,  are  quicker  for  a  fray  ; 
My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away.  [Exit. 

Her.  I  am  amazed,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

[Exit,  pursuing  Helena. 

Obe.  This  is  thy  negligence  :   still  thou  mistakest. 
Or  else  commit'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puck.  Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 


J  Knot-grass  was  anciently  supposed  to  prevent  the  growth 
of  any  animal  or  child.  Q  Pretend. 

3  Pay  dearly  for  it.  *  Confusion,  tui»-ilr. 


17G  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    III. 

Did  not  you  tell  me,  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  had  on  ? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise. 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes : 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort,1 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.  Thou    seest,    these    lovers   seek  a  place   to 
fight : 
Hie  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
With  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron  ; 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray, 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus. 
'Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep  : 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye  ; 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property,'-' 
To  take  from  thence  all  error,  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eye -balls  roll  with  wonted  sight. 
When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 
Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision  ; 
And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend,3 
With    league,    whose    date    till    death    shall    never 
end. 


Happen.  2  Medicinal  efficacy.  '  lio. 


SCEXE    II.       MIDSUMMER    XIGHt's    DREAM.  177 

Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 
I  '11  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy ; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 
Puck.  My   fairy  lord,    this   must   be  done    with 

haste  ; 
For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger ; 
At    whose    approach,    ghosts,    wandering  here   and 

there, 
Troop  home  to  church-yards  :  damned  spirits  all, 
That  in  cross-ways  and  floods  have  burial, 
Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone  : 
For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black -brow'd  night. 

Obe.  But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort : 
I  with  the  morning's  love  l  have  oft  made  sport ; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery  red, 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;    make  no  delay : 
Wg  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day. 

[Exit  Oberom 
Puck.  Up  and  dove,  up  and  down  ; 
I  will  lead  them  up  and  down  : 


1  Cephalus,  tbe  paramour  of  Aurora. 

SRAK.  III. 


178  MIDSUMMKR    NIGHT*  S    DREAM.  ACT    III, 

I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town  : 
Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 


Enter  lysaxder. 

Lys.  Where  art    thou,  proud   Demetrius  ?  speak 

thou  now. 
Puck.  Here,   villain ;  drawn  and   ready.     Where 

art  thou  ? 
Lys.   I  will  be  with  thee  straight. 
Fuck.  Follow  me  then 

To  plainer  ground. 

[Exit  Lys.  as  following  the  voice. 

Enter  demetrius. 

Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  again. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 
Speak.     In  some  bush  ?     Where  dost  thou  hide  thy 
head  ? 
Puck.  Thou    coward,   art   thou  bragging    to    the 
stars, 
Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars, 
And  wilt  not  come?     Come,  recreant;  come,   thou 

child ; 
I  '11  whip  thee  with  a  rod.     He  is  defiled, 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

Dem.  Yea  ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.  Follow  mv  voice :  we  '11  try  no  manhood 
here.  [Extunt. 


SCENE    II.       MIDSLMMER    -VIGUt's     DREAM.  1  "J 

Re-enter  lysaxdkk. 

Lys.  He  sroes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on , 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter-heel'd  than  I  : 
I  follow  'd  fast,  but  faster  he  did  f.y  ; 
Fh  it  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way, 
And  here  will  res:  me.      Come,  thou  gentle  day  ! 

[lies  down. 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  gray  light, 
I  '11  hnd  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite,     [sleeps. 

Re-enter  puck  and  demetrius. 

Puck.   Ho,   ho !    ho,  ho !     Coward,    why    comes* 

thou  not  ? 
Dern.  Abide  me,  if  thou  darest ;  for  well  I  wot, 
Thou  run'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place ; 
And  darest  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  ? 

Puck.  Come  hither  ;  I  am  here. 

Dem.  Nay,  then  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou  shalt 
buy  this  dear, 
I:  evei  I  thy  face  by  daylight  - 
.\*:\v,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 
1o  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. — 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

[lies  domm  and  mmm 


182  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT*  S    DREAM.  ACT   IV. 

Bot.  Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom. — Where  's 
monsieur  Cobweb  ? 

Cob.   Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb  ;  good  monsieur,  get  your 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped 
humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle ;  and,  good  mon- 
sieur, bring  me  the  honey -bag.  Do  not  fret  your- 
self too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur ;  and,  good 
monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not ;  I 
would  be  loath  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey- 
bag,  signior. — Where  's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Mas.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,1  monsieur  Mustard-seed. 
Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Mus.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  cava- 
lero  Cobweb  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's, 
monsieur ;  for,  methinks,  I  am  marvellous  hairy 
about  the  face  :  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my 
hair  do  but  tickle  me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tit.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet 
love  ? 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music  :  let 
us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tit.  Or,  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 

Bot .  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender  ;  I  could  munch 
your  good  dry  oats.  Methinks,  I  have  a  great  de- 
sire to  a  bottle  of  hay  :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath 
no  fellow. 

'  Fi»t. 


- 


- 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT's    DREAM.  1  S3 

Tit.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried 
peas.  But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir 
me  ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

Tit.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arras. 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist ; — the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee ! 

{they  sleep, 

oberon  advances.     Enter  puck. 

Obe.  Welcome,    good    Robin.      Seest    thou    rh;a 
sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity  : 
For  meeting  her  of  late,  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  savors  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
"With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowerets'  eyes, 
Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 


184  MIDStTMMKR    NIGIIT's    DREAM.  ACT    IV. 

And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain ; 
That  he  awaking  when  the  other  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair ; 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents. 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be ; 

[touching  her  eyes  with  a  herb. 
See  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see  : 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania  ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tit.  My  Oberon  !    what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 
Methought,  I  was  enamor'd  of  an  ass. 
Obe.  There  lies  your  love. 

Tit.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now ! 

Obe.   Silence  awhile. — Robin,  take  off  this  head. 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tit.  Music,  ho  !  music  ;  such  as  charmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wakest,  with  thine  own 

fool's  eyes  peep. 
Obe.    Sound,   music,     [still  music.~\      Come,    my 
queen,  take  hands  with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity  ; 
And  will,  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly 


I 


SCENE    I.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  185 

Dance  in  duke  Theseus'  house  triumph antly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  prosperity  : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  he 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend,  and  mark  ; 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

Obe.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad,'' 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade  : 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tit.  Come,  my  lord  ;  and,  in  our  flight, 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night, 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found, 
With  these  mortals,  on  the  ground.       [Exeunt. 

[Horns  sound  within. 

Enter  theseus,  hippolyta,  egeus,  and  train. 

The.   Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester ; — ■ 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  : 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  2  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley  ;  go. — 
Despatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester. — 
We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top. 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 


1  In  sober  silence.  *  Fore  part. 


18G  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DKEAM.  ACT   IV. 

With  hounds  of  Sparta  :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  '  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  mutual  cry.     I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

The.    My  hounds  are   bred  out   of    the    Spartan 
kind, 
So  flew'd,-  so  sanded  ;  3  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crook-knee'd,  and  dew-lap'd  4  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tunable 
Was  never  halloo'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn. 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly. 
Judge    when    you  hear. — But,   soft:  what  nymphs 
are  these  ? 
Ege.  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep : 
And  this,  Lysander  ;  this  Demetrius  is ; 
This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena : 
I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 

The.  No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. — 
But  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day, 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 
Ege.   It  is,  my  lord. 


1  Sound. 

»  Flews  are  the  large  chaps  of  a  deep-mouthed  hound, 

>  Of  a  sandy  color. 

*  With  flesh  hanging  down  from  the  throat. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  1S7 

The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their 
horns. 

Horns,    and  shout    within,      demetrius,    lysandkr, 
uekmia,  and  Helena  wake  and  start  up. 

The.   Good-morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is 
past ; 1 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 

Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord. 

[he  and  the  rest  kneel  to  Theseus. 

The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know,  you  are  two  rival  enemies. 
How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy, 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.  My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  'sleep,  half  \v  aking  :  but  as  yet,  I  swear, 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here  : 
But,  as  I  think,  (for  truly  would  I  speak, — 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  so  it  is) 
I  came  with  Hermia  hither  :  our  intent 
Was,  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 
Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Ege.     Enough,    enough,    my    lord ;    you    have 
enough : 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head. — 
They  would  have   stolen    away,    they   would,  De- 
metrius, 


'  AUudinc  to  the  old  saying,  that  birds  begin  to  couple  on 
Saint  Valentine's  day. 


188  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT   IT. 

Thereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me : 
You  of  your  wife,  and  me  of  my  consent ; 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Dem.  My  lord,  fair  Helen  told  me  of  their  stealth, 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them, 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  '  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, 
(But  by  some  power  it  is)  my  love  to  Hermia, 
Melted  as  doth  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gawd,2 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon : 
And  all  the  faith,  the  virtue  of  my  heart, 
The  object,  and  the  pleasure  of  mine  eye, 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord, 
Was  I  betrothed  ere  I  saw  Hermia : 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  1  loathe  this  food : 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 
Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it, 
And  will  for  evermore  be  true  to  it. 

The.  Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon. — 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by,  with  us. 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit : 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn. 
Our  purposed  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. — 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens :  three  and  three, 


'  Lore.  *  Toy. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  189 

We  '11  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. — 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Exeunt  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Egeus,  and  train. 
Dem.  These  things  seem  small,  and  undistinguish- 
able, 
Like  far-off"  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her.  Methinks,   I   see  these   things  with  parted 
eye, 
When  every  thing  seems  double. 

Hel.  So  methinks : 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius  like  a  jewel, 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Dem.  Are  you  sure 

That  we  are  awake  ?     It  seems  to  me, 
That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  not  you  think, 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 
Her.  Yea  ;  and  my  father. 
Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 
Dem.  Why   then,   we   are    awake :    let 's   follow 
him ; 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams. 

[Exeunt. 

As  they  go  out,  Bottom  awakes. 

Bot.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will 
answer  : — my  next  is,  '  Most  fair  Pyramus.'-— Hey, 
ho ! — Peter  Quince  !  Flute,  the  bellows-mender  ! 
Snout,  the  tinker  !  Starveling  !  God  's  my  life  ! 
stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep !  I  have  had  a  mcst 
rare  vision.     I  have  had  a  dream, — past  the  wit  of 


190  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    IV. 

man  to  say  what  dream  it  was.  Man  is  but  an  ass, 
if  he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought 
I  was — there  is  no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought 
I  was,  and  methought  I  had, — But  man  is  but  a 
patched  fool,1  if  he  will  offer  to  say  what  methought 
1  had.  The  eye  of  man  hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of 
man  hath  not  seen ;  man's  hand  is  not  able  to  taste, 
his  tongue  to  conceive,  nor  his  heart  to  report,  what 
my  dream  was.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  write  a 
ballad  of  this  dream  :  it  shall  be  called  Bottom's 
Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom ;  and  I  will  eing 
it  in  the  latter  end  of  a  play,  before  the  duke. 
Peradventure,  to  make  it  the  more  gracious,  I  shall 
sing  it  at  her  death.2  [Exit. 

SCENE    II. 

Athens.     A  room  in  Quince's  house. 
Enter  quince,  flute,  snout,  and  starveling. 

Quince.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is  he 
come  home  yet  ? 

Starve.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt, 
he  is  transported. 

Flute.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred  :  it 
goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quince.  It  is  not  possible :  you  have  not  a  man 
in  all  Athens,  able  to  discharge  Pyramus,  but  he. 


1  A  fool  in  a  particolored  coat. 

s  Probably  meaning  the  death  of  Thisfcw. 


6CKNE  II.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  191 

Flute.  No ;  he  hath  simply  the  hest  wit  of  any 
handycraft  man  in  Athens. 

Quince.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too :  and  he  is 
a  very  paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flute.  You  must  say,  paragon :  a  paramour  i», 
God  bless  us  !  a  thing  of  naught. 

Enter  snug. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the  tem- 
ple, and  there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies  more 
married :  if  our  sport  had  gone  forward,  we  had  all 
been  made  men. 

Flute.  O  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hath  he  lost 
sixpence  a  day  during  his  life  ;  he  could  not  have 
'scaped  sixpence  a  day  :  an  the  duke  had  not  given 
him  sixpence  a  day  for  playing  Pyramus,  I  '11  be 
hanged  ;  he  would  have  deserved  it :  sixpence  a 
day,  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  bottom. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads  ?  where  are  these 
hearts  ? 

Quince.  Bottom  ! — 0  most  courageous  day !  O 
most  happy  hour ! 

Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders  :  but 
ask  me  not  what ;  for,  if  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  true 
Athenian.  I  will  tell  you  every  thing,  right  as  it 
fell  out. 

Quince.  Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot .  Not  a  word  of  me.     All  that  I  will  tell  you, 


192  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    V. 

is,  tliat  the  duke  hath  dined :  get  your  apparel  to- 
gether;  good  strings  to  your  beards,'  new  ribbons 
to  your  pumps  ;  meet  presently  at  the  palace  ;  every 
man  look  o'er  his  part ;  for,  the  short  and  the  long 
is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any  case,  let  Thisby 
have  clean  linen ;  and  let  not  him  that  plays  the 
lion  pare  his  nails,  for  they  shall  hang  out  for  the 
lion's  claws.  And,  most  dear  actors,  eat  no  onions 
nor  garlick,  for  we  are  to  utter  sweet  breath ;  and  I 
do  not  doubt  but  to  hear  them  say,  it  is  a  sweet 
comedy.     No  more  words  ;  away  ;  go,  away. 

[Exeunt, 

ACT    V. 

SCENE    X. 

The  same.     An  apartment  in  the  palace  of  Theseus. 

Enter  theseus,  hippolyta,  philostrate,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Hip.  'Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers 
speak  of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.  I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains. 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 


1  T»  prevent  them  from  frilling  off  during  the  representation. 


SCENE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  193 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact :  J 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold ; 

That  is  the  madman  :   the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance   from  heaven  to   earth,    from  earth  to 

heaven  ; 
And,  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation,  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination  ; 
That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  jcy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear ! 

Hip.   But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over. 
And  all  their  minds  transfigured  so  together, 
More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy  ; s 
but,  howsoever,  strange  and  admirable. 

Enter  lysander,  demetrius,  hermia,  and  helkka. 

The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth.-— 
Joy,  gentle  friends !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love, 
Accompany  your  hearts ! 

Lys.  More  than  to  us 

Wait  in  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed  1 


Ar«  made  of  mere  imagination.  *  Consistonej. 

SIIAK.  If!.  It 


jJH  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    V. 

The.   Come  now ;  what  masks,  what  dances  shall 
we  have, 
To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours, 
Between  our  after-supper  and  bed-tune  r 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 
Call  Philostrate. 

Phi.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.   Sav,   what  abridgment J   have    you   for  this 
evening  ? 
What  mask  ?  what  music  ?     How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Phi.  There  is  a  brief,"  how  many  sports  are  ripe. 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  hrst. 

[giving  a  paper. 
The.   [reads.']   '  The  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to 
be  sung 
By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp.' 
We  '11  none  of  that :   that  have  I  told  my  love, 
la  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 
'  The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 
Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage.' 
That  is  an  old  device  ;  and  it  was  play'd 
When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  concpieror. 

'  The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary.' 
That  is  some  satire,  keer  and  critical, 


1  Pastime.  *  Short  account. 


SCRUB    I.         MIDSUMMER    NIGHT  *S    DREAM.  J  95 

Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

'  A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth.' 
Merry  and  tragical  ?    Tedious  and  brief  ? 
That  is,  hot  ice,  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord  ? 

Phi.  A   play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ten  words 
long. 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play ; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long  ; 
Which  makes  it  tedious  :  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted : 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is ;     ^ 
For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself. 
Which,  when  I  saw  rehearsed,  I  must  confess, 
Made  mine  eyes  water  ;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.   What  are  they,  that  do  play  it  ? 

Phi.     Hard-handed    men,    that    work    in    Athens 
here, 
Which  never  labor'd  in  their  minds  till  now  ; 
And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreathed  x  memories 
With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptiai. 

The.   And  we  will  hear  it. 

Phi.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  vou  :   I  have  heard  it  over, 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ; 
Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents, 


'  Unexercised. 


106"  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT    V. 

Extremely  stretch'd,  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain, 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play : 

For  never  any  thing  can  be  amiss, 
When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 
Go,  bring  them  in ; — and  take  your  place?,  ladies. 

[Exit  Philostrate. 

Hip.   I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharged, 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

The.  Why,    gentle  sweet,  you   shall   see  no  such 
thing. 

Hip.  He  says,  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

The.  The   kinder  we,    to   give    them    thanks    for 
nothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be,  to  take  what  they  mistake  : 
And  what  poor  duty  cannot  do, 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,1  not  merit. 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerks  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  with  premeditated  welcomes ; 
Where  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale, 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences, 
Throttle  their  practised  ac<jbnt  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off,  . 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome.    Trust  me,  sweet. 
Out  of  this  silence  yet  I  pick'd  a  welcome  ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much,  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 


1  Kndearor. 


SCENE  I.  MIDSUMMER    NJGHt's    DREAM.  197 

Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity, 
In  least,  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 

Enter  PHILOSTRATE. 

Phi.   So  please  your  grace,   the  prologue   is  ad- 

dress'd.1 
Tlie.  Let  him  approach.  [  Jlorish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  prologue. 

Pro.  '  If  we  offend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 

That  you  should  think,  we  come  not  to  offend 
But  with  good  will.     To  show  our  simple  skill, 

That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider  then,  we  come  but  in  despite, 

We  do  not  come  as  minding  to  content  you, 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight, 

We  are   not   here.     That  you  should  here  repent 
you, 
The  actors  are  at  hand  ;  and,  by  their  show, 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  are  like  to  know.' 

The.  This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 

Lys.  -He  hath  rid  his  prologue,  like  a  rough  colt ; 
he  knows  not  the  stop.  A  good  moral,  my  lord  :  it 
is  not  enough  to  speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed  he  hath  played  on  his  prologue,  like 
a  child  on  a  recorder  ;  2  a  sound,  but  not  in  govern- 
ment. 

1  Ready.  '  Flagelet. 


1.98  MIDSUMMER    MGBT  S    DREAM.  ACT    V". 

The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain;  nothing 
impaired,  but  all  disordered.     Who  is  next  ? 

Enter  pyramus  and  thisbe,  wall,  moonshikb,  and 
lion,  as  in  dumb  show. 

Pro.  '  Gentles,    perchance,    you    wonder  at    this 
show  : 

But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know  ; 

This  beauteous  lady  Thisby  is,  certain. 
This  man,  with  lime  and  rough-cast,  doth  present 

Wall,    that    vile    wall    which    did    these    lovers 
sunder : 
And  through  wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  con- 
tent 

To  whisper  ;  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

Presenteth  Moonshine  :  for,  if  you  will  know, 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  by  name  lion  bight,1 
1  he  trusty  Thisby.  coming  first  by  night, 
Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright  : 
And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  sbe  did  fall ; 

Which  lion  vile  with  bloody  mouth  did  stain ; 
Anon  comes  Pyramus,  sweet  youth  and  tall, 

And  finds  his  trusty  Thisby's  mantle  slain  : 


i  Called. 


SCENE  I.  MIDSUMMER    NIGIIt's    DKEAM.  199 

Whereat,  with  hlade,  with  hlondy  hlameful  hlade, 
He  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast ; 
And,  Thisby  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
Let  Lion,  Moonshine,  Wall,  and  lovers  twain 
At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain.' 

[Exeunt  Pro.  Thisbe,  Lion,  and  Moonshine. 
The.   I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 
Bern.  No  wonder,  my  lord :  one  lion  may,  when 
many  asses  do. 

Wall.   ■  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befal, 
That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall ; 
And  such  a  wall,  as  I  would  have  you  think, 
That  had  in  it  a  crannied  hole,  or  chink, 
Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisby, 
Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
This    loam,   this    rough-cast,   and    this  stone,   doth 

show 
That  I  am  that  same  wall ;  the  truth  is  so : 
And  this  the  cranny  is,  right  and  sinister, 
Through  which  the  fearful  lovers  are  to  whisper.' 
The.   Would  you   desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak 
better  ? 

_  Bern.   It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard 
discourse,  my  lord. 

The.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall  :  silence  ! 

Enter  pyramus. 

Pyr.   '  0  grira-look'd  night !   O  night  with  hue  so 

black  ! 
O  night,  which  ever  art,  when  day  is  not ! 


200  MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  ACT   V. 

O  night,  O  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

I  fear  my  Thisby's  promise  is  forgot ! — 
And  thou,  O  wall,  O  sweet,  O  lovely  wall, 

That  stand'st  between  her  father's  ground   and 
mine ; 
Thou  wall,  O  wall,  O  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 

Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink   through  with  mine 
eyne.  [Wall  holds  up  his  fingers. 

Thanks,  courteous  wall.     Jove  shield  thee  well  for 
this! 

But  what  see  I  ?     No  Thisby  do  I  see. 
O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss  ; 

Cursed  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me ' ' 

The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should 
curse  again. 

Pyr.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.  '  Deceiving 
me  '  is  Thisby's  cue  :  she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am 
to  spy  her  through  the  wall.  You  shall  see,  it  will 
falJ  pat  as  I  told  you. — Yonder  she  comes. 

Enter  thisbe. 

This.    '  O   wall,  full  often  hast  thou    heard    my 

moans, 
For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me : 
My  cherry  lips  have  often  kiss'd  thy  stones ; 

Thy    stones    with    lime     and    hair    knit   up    ISJ 

thee."' 
Pyr.   '  I  see  a  voice  :   now  will  I  to  the  chick, 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 
Thisbv  !  ' 


6CENE   I.  MIDSUMMER    NIGHTS     DREAM.  "201 

This.   '  My  love  !   thou  art  my  love.  I  think.' 

Pyr.    '  Think  what  thou   wilt,   I  am  thy  lover's 
grace  ; 
And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still.' 

This.  '  And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  me  kill. ' 

Pyr.   '  Not  Shafalus  to  Proems  was  so  true.' 

This.  '  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you.' 

Pyr.  '  O,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile 
wall.' 

This.    '  I    kiss    the    wall's   hole,    not    your    lips 
at  all.' 

Pyr.    '  Wilt   thou    at   Ninny's    tomb    meet    me 
straightway  ?  ' 

This.  '  Tide  life,  tide  death,  I  come  without  delay.' 

Wall.  '  Thus  have  I,  wall,  my  part  discharged  so  ; 
And,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go.' 

[Exeunt  Wall,  Pyramus,  and  Thisbe. 

The.  Now  is  the  mural  down  between  the  two 
neighbors. 

Dem.  No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so 
wilful  to  hear  without  warning. 

Hip.  This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 

The.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows  ;  and 
the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend 
them. 

Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination  then,  and  not 
theirs. 

The.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them  than  they 
of  themselves,  they  may  pass  for  excellent  men. 
Here  come  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  man  and  a 
lion. 


202  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT    1 

Enter  lion  and  moonshine. 

Lion.  '  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do 
fear 

The   smallest    monstrcms    mouse    that  creeps    on 
floor, 
May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 

When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 
Then  know,  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 
A  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam  : 
For  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 
Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  on  my  life.' 

The.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  con- 
science. 

Detn.  The  very  hest  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that  e'er 
I  saw. 

Lys.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valor. 

The.  True ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 

Dem.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  for  his  valor  cannot  carry 
his  discretion ;  and  the  fox  carries  the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his 
valor  ;  for  the  goose  carries  not  the  fox.  It  is  well  : 
leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us  listen  to  the 
moon . 

Moon.   '  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon   pre- 
sent :  ' 

Dem.  He  should  have  worn  the  horns  on  his  head. 

The.  He  is  no  crescent,  and  his  horns  are  invisible 
within  the  circumference. 

Moon.   '  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  pre- 
sent ; 


SCENE    I.        MIDSUMMER    NIGHt's    DREAM.  20.3 

Myself  the  man  i'  th'  moon  do  seem  to  l)e.' 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest  :  the 
man  should  he  put  into  the  lantern  :  how  is  it  else 
the  man  i'  the  moon  ? 

Dem.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle  : 
for,  you  see,  it  is  already  in  snuff.1 

Hip.  I  am  aweary  of  this  moon.  Would,  he 
would  change  ! 

The.  It  appears,  hy  his  small  light  of  discretion, 
that  he  is  in  the  wane  :  but  yet,  in  courtesy,  in  all 
reason,  we  must  stay  the  time. 

Lys.  Proceed,  moon. 

Moon.  All  that  1  have  to  say,  is,  to  tell  you,  that 
the  lantern  is  the  moon  ;  I,  the  man  in  the  moon  , 
this  thorn-bush,  my  thorn-bush  ;  and  this  dog,  my 
dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern  ; 
for  they  are  in  the  moon.  But,  silence  ;  here  comes 
Thisbe. 

Enter  thisbe. 

Tills.  '  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb  :  where  is  my 

love  ?  ' 
Lion.   '  O —  ! '       \the  lion  roars.     Thisbe  runs  off. 
Dem.  Well  roamed,  lion. 
The.  Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon. — Truly,  the  moon  shines 
with  a  good  grace. 


1  A  quibble.     Snuff  signifies  both  the  cinder  of  a  candle  and 
hasty  anger. 


"204  mid>i;mmeu  night's   drham.  act  v. 

The.  Well  moused,  lion. 

[the  lion  tears  Thisbes  mantle,  and  exit. 
Dem.  And  so  comes  Py ramus. 
Lys.  And  then  the  moon  vanishes. 

Enter  pyramus. 

Pyr.  '  Sweet  moon,  I   thank  thee  for  thy  sunny 

beams  ; 
I  thank  thee,  moon,  for  shining  now  so  bright : 
For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  streams, 
I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisby's  sight. 
But  stay  ; — O  spite  ! 
But  mark  ; — Poor  knight  ! 
What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ? 
Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
How  can  it  be  ? 
O  dainty  duck  !   O  dear  ! 
Thy  mantle  good, 
What,  stain'd  with  blood  ? 
Approach,  ye  furies  fell  ! 
O  fates  !  come,  come  ; 
Cut  thread  and  thrum  ;  l 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell ! '  * 
The.  This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend, 
would  go  near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 

Hip.    Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 
Pyr.    '  O,   wherefore,   Nature,    didst    thou    liona 

frame  ? 
Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflour'd  my  dear; 


Course  yarn.  *  Destroy. 


SCRNE    I.         MIDSUMMER    NTGHT*S     DltKAM.  20.3 

Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  faires'  dame. 
That  lived,  that  loved,  that  liked,  that  looV  ?  with 
cheer.1 
Come,  tears,  confound  ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wound 
The  pap  of  Pyramus  ; 
Ay,  that  left  pap, 
Where  heart  doth  hop  : 
Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
Now  am  I  dead, 
Now  am  I  fled  ; 
My  soul  is  in  the  sky  : 
Tonsrue,  lose  thv  liffht ! 
Moon,  take  thy  flight  ! 
Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die.' 

[dies.      Exit  Moonshine. 
Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him  ;  for  he  is  but 
one. 

Lys.  Less   than  an  ace,  man  ;  for  he  is   dead,  he 
is  nothing. 

The.   With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,   he   might  yet 
recover,  and  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.     How    chance    Moonshine    is    crone,    before 
Thisbe  come?  back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.   Sbe  will  find  him   by   star-light.- — Here   ;■]  e 
comes  ;   and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 


1  Counter™  nc«. 


20G  MIDSUMMER    NIGHT'S    DREAM.  ACT  V. 

Enter  thisbe. 

Hip.  Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one  for 
such  a  Py  ramus.     I  hope,  she  will  he  hrief. 

Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  halance,  which  Pyra- 
mus,  which  Thishe,  is  the  hetter. 

Lys.   She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet 
eyes. 

Dem.  And  thus  she  moans,  videlicet : 

This.  '  Asleep,  my  love  ? 
What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
O  Pyramus,  arise, 

Speak,  speak.      Quite  dumb  ? 
Dead,  dead  ?    A  tomb 
A'lust  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 
These  lily  lips, 
This  cherry  nose, 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
Are  gone,  are  gone  : 
Lovers,  make  moan  ! 
His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 
O  sisters  three, 
Come,  come,  to  me, 
With  hands  as  pale  as  milk  ; 
Lay  them  in  gore, 
Since  you  have  shore 
With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
Tongue,  not  u  word  : — 
Come,  trusty  sword  ; 
Coire,  blade,  mv  breast  imbrue 


BUENB    I.  MIDSUMMER      MiUIT'S      DREAM.  2U7 

And  farewell,  friends 
Thus  Thisbe  ends  : 
Adieu,  adieu,  adieu.'  [d><-s. 

The.  Moonshine  and  Lion  are  left  to  bury  the 
dead. 

Dent.  A}*,  and  Wall  too. 

But.  No,  I  assure  you  ;  the  wall  is  down  that 
parted  their  fathers.  Will  it  please  you  to  see  the 
epilogue,  or  to  hear  a  Bergomask  dance,1  between 
two  of  our  company  ? 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you  ;  for  your  play 
needs  no  excuse.  Never  excuse;  for  when  the 
players  are  all  dead,  there  need  none  to  be  blamed. 
Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it  had  played  Pyramus,  and 
banged  himself  in  Thisbe's  garter,  it  would  have 
been  a  fine  tragedy  :  and  so  it  is,  truly,  and  very 
notably  discharged.  But  come,  your  Bergomask : 
let  your  epilogue  alone. 

[here  a  dance  of  Clowns. 
The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve  : — 
Lovers  to  bed  ;   'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear,  we  shall  out-sleep  the  coming  morn, 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  oerwatch'd. 
This  palpable-gross  play  hath  well  b2guiled 
The  heavy  gait  -  of  night. — Sweet  friends,  to  bed. — 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity, 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.  \Exeunt. 


1  A  dance  after  the  manner  of  the  peasants  of  Bergomasco,  n 
country  in  Italy  belonging  to  the  Venetians. 
8  Slow  passage. 


20S  MIDSUMAlftR    NIGHT  S    UKKAM.  ACT    V. 

SCENE    II. 

Enter  puck. 

Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  hehowls  the  moon  , 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone.1 
Now  the  wasted  hrands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl,  scritching  loud. 
Puts  the  wretch,  that  lies  in  woe, 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night, 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide : 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecat's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic  ;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  hou?e : 
I  am  sent,  with  broom,  before. 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  oberon  and  titania,  with  their  train. 

Obe.    Through  this  house  give    glimmering 
light, 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire  : 


1  Ovorome. 


SCENE    «.       MIDSUMMER    XWHTS    DREAM.  ^ 

Every  elf,  and  fairy  sprite, 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier  • 

And  this  ditty,  after  me, 

Sing,  and  dance  'it  trippingly. 

Tit.  First,  rehearse  this  song  by  rote: 

10  each  word  a  warbling  note, 

Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace 

Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place 

SONG    AND    DANCE. 

Obe.  Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 

Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 

lo  the  best  bride-bed  will  we 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be'; 

And  the  issue,  there  create. 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three 

Ever  true  in  loving  be  ; 

And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand  • 
Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar, 
Nor  mark  prodigious,*  such  as  are 
Despised  in  nativity, 
Shall  upon  their  children  be  — 
With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 
Every  fairy  take  his  gait ;  2 
And  each  several  chamber  bless. 
Through  this  palace  with  sweet'peace 

1  Portentous.  a  n,v,.„«  1  • 

inn.  Iu      D,r«ct  liis  stops. 


210  MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S    DREAM.  A(T    V. 

Ever  shall  in  safe-tv  rest. 

And  the  owner  of  it  bless'd. 
Trip  away  ; 
Make  no  stay ; 

Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

[Exeunt  Oberon,  Titaniu,  and  truin 
Puck.  If  we  shadows  have  offended, 

Think  but  this,  (and  all  is  mended) 

That  you  have  but  slumber'd  here. 

While  these  visions  did  appear  : 

And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 

No  more  yielding  but  a  dream, 

Gentles,  do  not  reprehend  : 

If  you  pardon,  we  will  merul ; 

And,  as  I  'm  an  honest  Puck. 

If  we  have  unearned  luck 

Now  to  'srape  the  serpent's  tongue,1 

We  will  make  amends,  ere  long  : 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call. 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends  ; 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.         {Exit. 


1  If  we  be  a»f  missed  without  hisses. 


LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST. 


213 
HISTORICAL  NOTICE 

OF 

LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST. 


No  traces  have  yet  been  discovered  of  any  novel  or 
tale  from  which  the  incidents  of  this  comedy  have  been 
borrowed.  The  fable,  however,  does  not  appear  to  be 
a  work  of  pure  invention,  and  most  probably  is  in- 
debted for  its  origin  to  some  romance,  now  no  longer 
in  existence.  The  character  of  Holofernes  is  supposed 
to  be  the  portrait  of  an  individual ;  and  some  of  his 
quotations  have  induced  commentators  lo  infer,  that 
John  Florio,  a  pedantic  teacher  of  Italian,  was  the 
object  of  the  poet's  satire. 

Malone  conjectures  that  Love's  Labor's  Lost  was 
first  written  in  1594,  of  which  no  exact  transcript  is 
preserved  ;  for  in  the  earliest  edition  which  has  hitherto 
been  found  of  this  play,  namely  that  of  1598,  it  is  said 
in  the  title  page  to  be  '  newly  corrected  and  augmented,' 
with  the  farther  information,  that  it  had  been  'pre- 
sented before  her  highness  the  last  Christmas  ; '  facts, 
which  show,  that  we  are  in  possession,  not  of  the  first 
draught  or  edition  of  this  comedy,  but  only  of  that  copy 
which  represents  it  as  it  was  revived  and  improved  for 
the  entertainment  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1597.  That 
this  was  one  of  Shakspeare's  earliest  essays  in  dramatic 
writing  is  clearly  proved  by  the  frequent  rhymes,  the 
imperfect  versification,  and  the  irregularity  of  the 
composition. 


214  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

'It  must  be  confessed,'  says  Dr.  Johnson,  '  that 
there  are  many  passages  in  this  play  mean,  childish, 
and  vulgar  ;  and  some  which  ought  not  to  have  been 
exhibited,  as  we  are  told  they  were,  to  a  maiden  queen. 
But  there  are  scattered  through  the  whole  many  sparks 
of  genius  ;  nor  is  there  any  play  that  has  more  evident 
marks  of  the  hand  of  Snakspearc* 


2lo 


AHQtiME  N  I . 


Ferdinand,  king  of  Navarre,  having  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  philosophy,  prevails  on  three  of  his  courtiers  to 
renounce  with  him  the  pleasures  of  society  ;  exacting  an 
oath  from  each,  that  for  the  space  of  three  years  they  would 
sedulously  attend  to  the  culture  of  their  minds,  separate 
themselves  intirely  from  the  company  of  females,  pnd  prac- 
tise the  utmost  simplicity  in  their  apparel  and  diet.  At  this 
critical  juncture  the  princess  of  France  arrives  at  the  palace 
of  Navarre  on  an  embassy  from  the  king  her  father,  attended 
by  three  ladies  in  her  train  :  her  personal  charms  and  mental 
endowments  soon  make  a  powerful  impression  on  the  heart 
of  the  secluded  monarch  ;  and  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  per- 
ceiving that  his  fellow  students  are  not  insensible  to  the 
attractions  of  the  ladies  of  the  French  court  ;  but  are  equally 
anxious  with  himself  to  obtain  a  dispensation  of  their  rash 
tow.  An  immediate  prosecution  of  their  suit  is  now  re- 
solved on,  which  exposes  them  to  the  raillery  of  their 
mistresses,  who.  after  reproaching  the  repentant  devotees 
with  their  perjury,  insist  on  subjecting  the  permanence  ot 
their  attachments  to  the  trial  of  a  whole  year  ;  at  the  ex- 
piration of  which  period  they  consent  to  become  their 
wires. 


216 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


Ferdinand,  king  of  Navarre. 

Biron,  -^ 

Loncaville,     \  lords  attending  on  the  king. 

DUMAIN,  J 

BOVET,  ]    ,  ,  .  __ 

».  >  lords  attending  on  the  princess  of  1-  ranee. 

iM  tRCADE)       * 

Don  Adriano  de  Armado,  a  fantastical  Spaniard. 

Sir  Nathaniel,  a  curate. 

Holofernes,  a  schoolmaster. 

Dull,  a  constable 

Costard,  a  clown. 

Moth,  page  to  Armado. 

A  Forester. 

Princess  of  France. 

Rosaline,       -j 

Maria,  >  Indies  attending  on  the  princess. 

Katharine,    3 

Jaquenetta,  a  country  wf  nrh. 

Officers  and  others,  attendants  on  the  king  and  prince**. 

Scene,  finrarre. 


LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST. 


ACT    I. 

scene  r. 

JSavarre.     A  park,  with  a  palace  in  it. 

Enter  the  king,  biron,  longaville,  and  dumain. 

King.  Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  register'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death ; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  time, 
The  endeavor  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honor,  which  sliall  bate  his  scythe's  keen  edge, 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors  ! — for  so  you  are, 
That  war  against  your  own  affections, 
And  the  huge  army  of  the  world's  desires, — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force  : 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world ; 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
Still  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three,  Biron,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me, 
My  fellow-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes, 


21 S  love's  labor's  lost.  act  I. 

That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here. 

Your   oaths   are   pass'd,    and   now   subscribe    your 

names ; 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honor  down, 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein. 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do,  as  sworn  to  do, 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oath,  and  keep  it  too. 

Lon.    I    am    resolved  :    'tis    but    a     three    years' 
fast; 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine  : 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates  ;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bankerout  Quite  the  wits. 

Dum.   My  loving  lord.  Dumain  is  mortified  ; 
The  grosser  manner  of  these  world's  delights 
He  throws  upon  the  gross  world's  baser  slaves : 
To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp,  I  pine  and  die ; 
With  all  these  living  in  philosophy. 

Bir.   I  can  but  say  their  protestation  over, 
So  much,  dear  liege,  I  have  already  sworn, 
That  is,  to  live  and  study  here  three  years. 
But  there  are  other  strict  observances  ; 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  in  that  term ; 
Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
And,  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food, 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside  ; 
The  which,  I  hope,  is  not  enrolled  there : 
And  then,  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  nighti. 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day  ; 
(When  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  all  night, 
And  make  a  dark  night  too  of  half  the  day) 
Which.  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there. 


BCBNB    I.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  219 

O,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep ; 
Not  to  see  ladies,  study,  fast,  not  sleep. 

King.  Your   oath   is   pass'd    to  pass  away  from 

these. 
Bir.  Let  me  say,  no,  my  liege,  an  if  you  please : 
I  only  swore  to  study  with  your  grace, 
And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years'  space. 
Lon.  You  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the  rest. 
Bir.  By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  then  I  swore  in  jest.  * 
W  hat  is  the  end  of  study  ?  kt  me  know. 

King.  Why,  that  to  know,  which  else  we  should 

not  know, 
Bir.    Things    hid    and  bar/d     you   mean,    from 

common  sense  ? 
King.  Ay,  that  is  study's  godlike  recompense. 
^  Bir.   Come  on  then,  I  will  swear  to  study  so ; 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know  : 
As  thus,— to  study  where  I  well  may  dine, 

When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid ; 
Or  study  where  to  meet  some  mistress  fine, 

When  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid ; 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath, 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth.' 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that,  which  yet  it  doth  not  know  : 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  will  ne'er  say  no. 

King.  These  be  the  stops  that  hinder  study  quite, 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Bir.  Why,  all  delights  are  vain ;  but  that  most 
vain, 
Which,  with  pain  purchased,  doth  inherit  pain  : 


22U  LOVE'S  LAUOR  's  LOST.         ACT  I. 

As,  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book. 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth ;  while  truth  the  while 
Doth  falsely  *  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look  : 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile  : 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Your  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  your  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye  ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 

And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep  search'd  with  saucy  looks  : 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star, 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights, 

Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know,  is  to  know  naught  but  fame ; 
And  every  godfather-can  give  a  name. 

King.    How   well   he 's   read,  to   reason  against 
reading ! 

Dum.  Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding  ! 

Lou.  He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still  lets  grow  the 
weeding. 

Blr.  The  spring  is  near,  when  green  geese  are  a 
breeding. 

Dum.  How  follows  that  ? 


1  Dishonestly,  treacherous!" 


SCEXK    I.  LOVE  S    LABOR    S    LOST. 


951 


Bir.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.   In  reason  nothing. 

Bir.  Something  then  in  rhyme 

Lon.  Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping1  frost, 
That  hites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 
Bir.  Well,  say  I  am ;  why  should  proud  summer 

boast, 
Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  to  sing  ? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  an  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose, 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows ; 
But  like  of  each  thing,  that  in  season  grows  : 
So  you,  to  study  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 

King.  Well,  sit  you  out :  go  home,  Biron  :  adieu! 
Bir.  No,  my  good  lord ;    I  have  sworn  to  stay 

with  you  : 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more 
Than  for  that  angel  knowlege  you  can  sav, 
Yet  confident  I  '11  keep  what  I  have  swore, 

And   bide    the  penance  of  each   three   years' 
day. 
Give  me  the  paper  ;  let  me  read  the  same  ; 
And  to  the  strict' st  decrees  I  '11  write  my  name. 
King.  How  well  this   yielding  rescues  thee  from 

shame  ! 
Bir.   [reads.]  '  Item,  that  no  woman  shall  corre 


*  Nipping. 


oog 


LOVE  S    LABOR    S    LOST.  ACT    1. 


within  a  mile  of  my   court.' — Hath   this  been  pro- 
claimed ? 

Lon.  Four  days  ago. 

Bir.  Let 's  see  the  penalty,    [reads.']    '  On  pain  of 
losing  her  tongue.' — Who  devised  this  penalty  ? 

Lon.  Marry,  that  did  I. 

Bir.  Sweet  lord,  and  why  ? 

Lon.    To    fright    them    hence    with    that     dread 
penalty. 

Bir.  A  dangerous  law  against  gentility  ! 

[reads.]   '  Item,  if  any  man  he  seen  to  talk  with  a 
woman    within    the    term    of  three  years,   he  shall 
endure  such  public  shame  as  the  rest  of  the  court 
can  possibly  devise.' — 
This  article,  my  liege,  yourself  must  break  ; 

For,  well  you  know,  here  comes  in  embassy 
The    French    king's    daughter,     with    yourself    to 
speak, — 

A  maid  of  grace,  and  complete  majesty, — 
About  surrender-up  of  Aquitain 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father  : 
Therefore  this  article  is  made  in  vain, 

Or  vainly  comes  the  admired  princess  hither. 

King.  What  say  you,  lords  ?  why,  this  was  quite 
forgot. 

Bir.  So  study  evermore  is  overshot : 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  would, 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should  ; 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunteth  most, 
"Tis  won,  as  towns  witt  fire  :  so  won,  so  lost. 


scene  i.  love's  labor's   LOST.  223 

King.    We   must,    of  force,    dispense    with  this 
decree : 
She  must  lie  l  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Bir.  Necessity  will  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three  thousand   times  within    this    three    yeara* 
space : 
For  every  man  with  his  affects  is  born ; 

Not  by  might  master'd,  but  by  special  grace  : 
If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity. — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name  : 

[subscribes. 

And  he,  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree, 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame  : 

Suggestions  2  are  to  others  as  to  me  : 
But,  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loath, 
I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  3  granted  ? 

King.  Ay,  that  there  is  :  our  court,  you  know,  is 
haunted 

With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain  ; 
A  man  in  all  the  world's  new  fashion  planted, 

That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain  : 
One,  whom  the  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish,  like  enchanting  harmony  ; 
A  man  of  complements,  whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny  : 


1  llesiile.  *  Temptations.  J  Lively  sprrt. 


224  love's  labor's  lost.  act  i. 

This  child  of  fancy,  that  Arm  ado  hight,1 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate, 
In  high-born  words,  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From  tawny  Spain,  lost  in  the  world's  debate. 
How  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I ; 
But,  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie, 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy.2 

Bir.  Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A  man  of  fire-new  3  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 

Lon.    Costard    the    swain   and    he    shall    be   our 
sport ; 
And,  so  to  study,  three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  dull  with  a  letter,  and  costard. 

Dull.  Which  is  the  duke's  own  person  ? 

Bir.  This,  fellow  !    What  wouldst  ? 

Dull.  I  myself  reprehend  his  own  person,  for  I 
am  his  grace's  tharborough :  4  but  I  would  see  his 
own  person  in  flesh  and  blood. 

Bir.  This  is  he. 

Dull.  Signior  Arme  —  Arme  —  commends  you. 
There  's  villany  abroad ;  this  letter  will  tell  you 
more. 


'  Called. 

*  '  I  will  make  a  minstrel  of  him,  whose  occupation  was  w 
relate  fabulous  stories.' — Douce. 

3  Words  newly  coined,  new  from  the  forge. 

*  Thirdborough,  a  peace  officer,  similar  to  a  headborough  or 
constable. 


sckkb  I.  love's   labor's   LOST.  225 

Cos.  Sir,  the   contempts  thereof  are   as  touching 

DOR. 

King.  A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Bir.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in  God 
for  high  words. 

Lon.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  having.  God  grant 
us  patience ! 

Bir.  To  hear,  or  forhear  hearing  ? 

Lon.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  mode- 
rately ;  or  to  forbear  both. 

Bir.  Well,  sir,  be  it  as  the  style  shall  give  us 
cause  to  climb  in  the  merriness. 

Cos.  The  matter  is  to  me,  sir,  as  concerning  Ja- 
quenetta  :  the  manner  of  it  is,  I  was  taken  with  the 
manner. 

Bir.   In  what  manner  ? 

Cos.  In  mannei  and  form  following,  sir  ;  all  those 
three :  I  was  seen  with  her  in  the  manor-house, 
sitting  with  her  upon  the  form,  and  taken  following 
ner  into  the  park ;  which,  put  together,  is,  in 
manner  and  form  following.  Now,  sir,  for  the 
manner, — it  is  the  manner  of  a  man  to  speak  to  a 
woman  ; — for  the  form, — in  some  form. 

Bir.  For  the  following,  sir  ? 

Cos.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction  :  and 
God  defend  the  right ! 

King.  Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  ? 

Bir.  As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Cos.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to  hearken 
after  the  flesh ! 

King,   [reads.]   '  Great  deputy,  the  welkin's  vice- 

£11 AK.  m.  v 


226  love's  labor  s  lost.  act  i 

gerent,  and  sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my  soul's 
earth's  god,  and  body's  fostering  patron,' — 

Cos.  Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King.  '  So  it  is,' — 

Cos.  It  may  be  so ;  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  he  is,  in 
telling  true,  but  so,  so. 

King.  Peace. 

Cos.  — be  to  me,  and  every  man  that  dares  not 
fight ! 

King.  No  words. 

Cos.  — r--of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King.  '  So  it  is,  besieged  with  sable-colored  me- 
lancholy, I  did  commend  the  black-oppressing  humor 
to  the  most  wholesome  physic  of  thy  health-giving 
air  ;  and,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  betook  myself  to 
walk.  The  time  when  ?  About  the  sixth  hour ; 
when  beasts  most  graze,  birds  best  peck,  and  men 
sit  down  to  that  nourishment  which  is  called  supper. 
So  much  for  the  time  when.  Now  for  the  ground 
which  ;  which,  I  mean,  I  walked  upon  :  it  is  ycleped  * 
thy  park.  Then  for  the  place  where ;  where,  I 
mean,  I  did  encounter  that  obscene  and  most  pre- 
posterous event,  that  draweth  from  my  snow-white 
pen  the  ebon-colored  ink,  which  here  thou  vie  west, 
beholdest,  surveyest,  or  seest.  But  to  the  place 
where, — it  standeth  north-north-east  and  by  east 
from  the  west  corner  of  thy  curious-knotted  garden. - 


«  Called. 

'  Garden  abounding  « i(h  figures,  the  lines  of  which   inter- 
sected u;icb  other  in  many  directions. 


scene   i.  love's   labor's   LOST.  227 

There  did  I  see  that  low-spirited  swain,  that  base 
minnow  1  of  thy  mirth/ 

Cos.  Me. 

King.  — '  that  unlettered,  small-knowing  soul,' 

Cos.  Me. 

King.  — '  that  shallow  vassal/ 

Cos.   Still  me. 

King.  — .'  which,  as  I  remember,  hight  2  Costard,' 

Co*.  O  me ! 

King.  — '  sorted  and  mnsorted,  contrary  to  th) 
established  proclaimed  edict  and  continent  canon 
with — with, — O  with — but  with  this  I  passion  to 
say  wherewith  :  ' 

Cos.  With  a  wench. 

King.  — 'with  a  child  of  t.u  grandmother  Eve,  a 
female  ;  or,  for  thy  more  sweet  understanding,  a 
woman.  Him  I  (as  my  ever-esteemed  duty  pricks 
me  on)  have  sent  to  thee,  to  receive  the  meed  of 
punishment,  by  thy  sweet  grace's  officer,  Antony 
Dull,  a  man  of  good  repute,  carriage,  bearing,  and 
estimation.' 

Dull.  Me,  an 't  shall  please  you ;  I  am  Antony 
Dull. 

King.  '  For  Jaquenetta,  (so  is  the  weaker  vessel 
called,  which  I  apprehended  with  the  aforesaid 
swain)  I  keep  her  as  a  vessel  of  thy  law's  fury  ;  and 
«hall,  at  the  least  of  thy  sweet  notice,  biing  her  to 


1  A  mi  anon-  is  ;i  verv  small  fish  s  Called. 


228  love's  labor's  lost.  act  i. 

trial.     Thine,  in   all    complements  of   devoted  and 
heart-burning  heat  of  duty, 

'  DON   ADRIAXO    DE  ARMAlll).' 

Bir.  This  is  not   so  well   as  I  looked  for,  but  the 
best  that  ever  I  heard. 

King.  Ay,   the  best  for  the   worst.     But,  sirrah, 
what  say  you  to  this  ? 

Cos.   Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 

King.  Did  you  hear  the  proclamation  ? 

Cos.    I  do  confess    much  of  the  hearing   it  but 
little  of  the  marking  of  it. 

King.   It  was  proclaimed    a  year's  imprisonment 
to  be  taken  with  a  wench. 

Cos.  I  was   taken  with   none,   sir;    I  was    taken 
with  a  damosel. 

King.  Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damosel. 

Cos.  This  was  no  damosel  neither,  sir ;   she  was  a 
virgin . 

King.  It  is  so  varied  too ;  for  it  was  proclaimed, 
virgin. 

Cos.   If   it   were,    I   deny    her    virginity :    I    was 
taken  with  a  maid. 

King.  This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 

Cos.  This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 

King.   Sir,  I  will  pronounce  your  sentence  :  you 
shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cos.   I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton  and 
porridge. 

King.  And  Don  Armado  shall  be  your  keeper  : — 
My  lord  Biron,  see  him  deUver'd  o'er; 


SCENE    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  229 

And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 

Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn.— 
p.      _  ,„  ,  ^Rreunt  Kin9>  Longaville,  and  Dumain. 
Bir.  I  U  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man's  hat, 
I  hese  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn.— 

oirrah,  come  on. 

Cos  I  suffer  for  the  truth,  sir;  for  true  it  is  I 
was  taken  with  Jaquenetta,  and  Jaquenetta  is  a  true 
girl;  and  therefore,  welcome  the  sour  cup  of  pros- 
penty .  Affliction  may  one  day  smile  again,  and 
till  then,  sit  thee  down,  Sorrow !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Another  part  of  the  same.     Armado's  house. 
Enter  armado  and  moth. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it,  when  a  man  of  great 

spirit  grows  melancholy  ? 

Moth.  A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad 
Arm    Why,    sadness   is    one    and   the    self-same 

thing,  dear  imp. 

Moth.  No,  no ;   O  lord,  sir,  no. 
Arm.  How  canst   thou  part  sadness  and  melan- 
choly, my  tender  juvenal  ?  i 

Moth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working 
my  tough  senior.  &' 

Arm.  Why  tough  senior  ?  why  tough  senior? 


1  Youth. 


230  LOVE  S  LABOR  S  LOST.  ACT  I. 

Moth.  Why  tender  juvenal  ?  why  tender  juvenal? 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  juvenal,  as  a  congruent 
epitheton,  appertaining  to  thy  young  days,  which  Ave 
may  nominate  tender. 

Moth.  And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertinent  title 
to  your  old- time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 

Arm.  Pretty,  and  apt. 

Moth.  How  mean  you,  sir  ?  I  pretty,  and  my 
saying  apt  ;  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.  Thou  pretty,  hecause  little. 

Moth.  Little  pretty,  because  little.  Wherefore 
apt  ? 

Arm.  And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.   Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 

Arm.  In  thy  condign  praise. 

Moth.  I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 

Arm..  What  ?  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 

Moth.  That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say,  thou  art  quick  in  answers.  Thou 
heatest  my  blood. 

Moth.   I  am  answered,  sir. 

Arm.  I  love  not  to  be  crossed. 

Moth.  He  speaks  the  mere  contrary ;  crosses  ' 
love  not  him.  [aside. 

Arm.  I  have  promised  to  study  three  years  with 
the  duke. 

Moth.  You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.   Impossible. 


1  A  cross  is  the  name  ot'a  coin  once  current. 


: 


SCEXE    II.  LOVE*S    LABOR    S     LOST.  231 

Moth.  How  many  is  one  thrice  told  ? 
Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning ;  it  fitteth  the   spirit 
of  a  tapster. 

Moth.   You  are  a  gentleman  and  a  gamester,  sir. 
Arm.   I  confess  hoth  ;   they  are  both  the  varnish 
of  a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure,  you  know  how  much  the 
gross  sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.  It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 
Moth.  Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three. ' 
Arm.  True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study  > 
Now  here  is  three  studied,  ere  you  '11  thrice  wink  : 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  put  years  to  the  word  three, 
and  study  three  years  in  two  words,  the  dancing 
horse  i  will  tell  you. 

Arm.  A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.  To  prove  you  a  cipher.  [aside. 

Arm.  I  will  hereupon  confess,  I  am  in  love  :  and,' 
as  it  is  base  for  a  soldier  to  love,  so  am  I  in  love 
with  a  base  wench.  If  drawing  my  sword  against 
the  humor  of  affection  would  deliver  me  from  the 
reprobate  thought  of  it,  I  would  take  Desire  pri- 
soner, and  ransom  him  to  any  French  courtier  for  a 
new-devised  courtesy.  I  think  scorn  to  sigh  ;  me- 
thinks,  I  should  out-swear  Cupid.  Comfort  me, 
boy.  What  great  men  have  been  in  love  ? 
Moth.  Hercules,  master. 


1  A  remarkable  horse  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare. 


232  love's  labor's  lost.  act  r. 

Arm.  Most  sweet  Hercules  ! — More  authority, 
dear  boy,  name  more  ;  and,  sweet  my  child,  let 
them  be  men  of  good  repute  and  carriage. 

Moth.  Samson,  master :  he  was  a  man  of  good 
carriage,  great  carriage  j,  for  he  carried  the  town- 
gates  on  his  back,  like  ~a  porter ;  and  he  was  in 
love. 

Arm.  O  Well-knit  Samson !  strong-jointed  Sam- 
son !  I  do/ excel  thee  in  my  rapier,  as  much  as  thou 
didst  me/in  carrying  gates.  I  am  in  love  too.  Who 
was  .Samson's  love,  my  dear  Moth  ? 

Moth.  A  woman,  master. 

Arm.   Of  what  complexion  ? 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the  two ; 
or  one  of  the  four. 

Arm.  Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion. 

Moth.  Of  the  sea-water  green,  sir. 

Arm.  Is  that  one  of  the  four  complexions  ? 

Moth.  As  I  have  read,  sir ;  and  the  best  of  them 
too. 

Arm.  Green,  indeed,  is  the  color  of  lovers :  but 
to  have  a  love  of  that  color,  methinks,  Samson  had 
small  reason  for  it.  He,  surely,  affected  her  for  her 
wit. 

Moth.  It  was  so,  sir  ;  for  she  had  a  green  wit. 

Arm.  My  love  is  most  immaculate  white  and  red. 

Moth.  Most  maculate  thoughts,  master,  are 
masked  under  such  colors. 

Arm.  Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 

Moth.  My  father's  wit.  and  my  mother's  tongue, 
assist  me  ! 


scene   II.  love's   labor's   LOST.  233 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child  !  most  pretty 
and  pathetical  ! 

Moth.  If  she  he  made  of  white  and  red, 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known  ; 

For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred, 
And  fears  by  pale-white  shown  : 

Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 
By  this  you  shall  not  know ; 

For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe.1 
A   dangerous  rhyme,  master,  against   the  reason  of 
Avhite  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and 
the  Beggar  ? 

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad 
some  three  ages  since  :  but,  I  think,  now  'tis  not  to 
be  found ;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  for 
the  writing  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  the  subject  newly  writ  o'er, 
that  I  may  example  my  digression  by  some  mighty 
precedent.  Boy,  I  do  love  that  country  girl,  that  I 
took  in  the  park  with  the  rational  hind  Costard  :  she 
deserves  well. 

Moth.  To  be  whipped  ;  and  yet  a  better  love  than 
my  master.  [aside. 

Arm.   Sing,  boy ;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love. 

Moth.  And  that 's  great  marvel,  loving  a  light 
wench. 


1  Of  which  she  is  naturally  possessed. 


234  love's  labor's  lost.  act  i. 

Arm.    I  say,  sing. 

Moth.   Forbear  till  this  company  be  passed. 

Enter  dull,  costard,  and  jaquenetta. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you  keep 
Costard  safe  :  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  delight, 
nor  no  penance ;  but  a'  must  fast  three  days  a  week. 
For  this  damsel,  I  must  keep  her  at  the  park ;  she  is 
allowed  for  the  day-woman.1      Fare  you  well. 

Arm.   I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing. — Maid. 

Jaq.   Man. 

Arm.  I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.  That 's  hereby. 

Arm.  I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jaq.  Lord,  how  wise  you  are  ! 

Arm.  I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 

Jaq.   With  that  face  ? 

Arm.  I  love  thee. 

Jaq.   So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.  And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.  Fair  weather  after  you  ! 

Dull.  Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

[Exeunt  Dull  and  Jaquenetta. 

Arm.  Villain,  thou  shalt  fast  for  thy  offences  ere 
thou  be  pardoned. 

Cos.  Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do  it 
on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.  Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 


1  Daiiv-woman. 


SCEXE    II.  LOVE  S    L.1BOR  'S     LOST.  235 

Cos.   I  am  more  bound  to  you    than  your  fellows, 
for  they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm.  Take  away  this  villain ;   shut  him  up. 
Moth.  Come,  you  transgressing  slave  ,  awav 

Cos    Let   me  not   be   pent   up,   sir;    I   will  fa*t 
being  loose. 

Moth.   No,   sir  :   that  were  fast  and  loose  :  thou 
shalt  to  prison. 

Cos.  Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merry  days  of  de- 
solation that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see—  ' 
Moth.  What  shall  some  see  ? 
Cos.  Nay,  nothing,  master  Moth,  but  what  thev 
look  upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too  silent 
m  their  words;  and  therefore  I  will  say  nothing  - 
I  thank  God,  I  have  as  little  patience  as  another 
man ;  and  therefore  1  can  be  quiet. 

{Exeunt  Moth  and  Costard 
Arm.  I  do  affect «  the  very  ground,  which  is  base 
where  her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  by  her  foot' 
winch  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forsworn' 
(which  is  a  great  argument  of  falshood)  if  I  love  • 
and  how  can  that  be  true  love,  which  is  falsely  at- 
tempted ?  Love  is  a  familiar  ;  love  is  a  devil  ■  there 
is  no  evil  angel  but  love.  Yet  Samson  was  so 
tempted,  and  he  had  an  excellent  strength-  yet 
was  Solomon  so  seduced,  and  he  had  a  verv  "ood 
wit.     Cupid's  butt-shaft^  is  too  hard  for  Hercules 


'  T.ove. 

2  An  arrow  to  shoot  nt  butts  with.     The  butt  was  tl»   «!.„ 
t>«  u  h,ch  the  mark  to  be  shot  at  was  placed.  *      " 


236  love's  labor's  lost.  act  ii. 

club,  and  therefore  too  much  odds  for  a  Spaniard's 
rapier.  The  first  and  second  cause  will  not  serve 
my  turn  ;  the  passado  1  he  respects  not,  the  duello  - 
he  regards  not :  his  disgrace  is  to  be  called  boy, 
but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men.  Adieu,  valor  i 
rust,  rapier  !  be  still,  drum  !  for  your  manager  is  in 
love  ;  yea,  he  loveth.  Assist  me,  some  extemporal 
god  of  rhyme,  for,  I  am  sure,  I  shall  turn  sonneteer. 
Devise  wit,  write  pen  ;  for  I  am  for  whole  volumes 
in  folio.  [Exit. 

ACT     II. 

SCENE    I. 

Another  part  of  the  same.     A  pavilion  and  tents  at  a 

distance. 

Enter  the  princess   of   France,    rosaline,    maria, 
Katharine,  boyet,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boy.    Now,    madam,  summon  up  your    dearest  ' 
spirits  : 
Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends, 
To  whom  he  sends,  and  what 's  his  embassy  : 
Yourself,  held  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe. 
Matchless  Navarre  ;  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 


'  A  push,  n  thrust.  =  Tue  law  of  duelling. 

3  Best. 


sck.ve  i.  love's  labor's  lost.  23? 

Than  Aquitain,  a  dowry  for  a  queen. 

Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace, 

As  Nature  was  in  making  graces  dear, 

When  she  did  starve  the  general  world  beside, 

And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Prin.   Good  lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,   though   but 
mean, 
Needs  not  the  painted  florish  of  your  praise  : 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye, 
Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues  : 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth, 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  tasker ; — good  Boyet, 
You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  Fame 
Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  study  shall  out-wear  three  years, 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court. 
Therefore  to  us  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  know  his  pleasure  ;  and  in  that  behalf, 
Bold  '  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor. 
Tell  him,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  France, 
On  serious  business,  craving  quick  despatch, 
Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste ;   signify  so  much  ;   while  we  attend, 
Like  humbly-visaged  suitors,  his  high  will. 


1  Confident. 


238  love's  labor's  lost.  act  n, 

Boy.  Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go.  [Exit. 

Prin.   All  pride  is  willing  pride,  and  yours  is  so. — 
Who  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords, 
That  are  vow-fellows  with  this  virtuous  duke  ? 

1  Lord.  Longaville  is  one. 

Prin.  Know  you  the  man  ? 

Mar.   I  know  him,  madam  :   at  a  marriage  feast, 
Between  lord  Perigort  and  the  heauteous  heir 
Of  Jaques  Falconbridge  solemnised, 
In  Normandy  saw  I  this  Longaville. 
A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteem'd  ; 
Well  fitted  in  the  arts,  glorious  in  arms  : 
Nothing  becomes  him  ill  that  he  would  well. 
The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss, 
(If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  with  any  soil) 
Is  a  sharp  wit  match'd  with  too  blunt  a  will  ; 
Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still  wills 
It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.   Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belike  ;   is  't  so  ? 

Mar.  They  say  so  most,   that  most  his  humors 
know. 

Prin.    Sucli    short-lived   wits  do    wither  as   they 
grow. 
Who  are  the  rest  ? 

Kath.   The    young  Dumain,    a  well-accomplish 'd 
youth, 
Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  virtue  loved  : 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill  ; 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good, 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  duke  Alencon's  once  : 


scene   t.  love's  labor  's   LOST.  235> 

And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw, 
Is  my  report  to  his  great  worthiness. 

Ros.  Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him  :  if  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him  ;   but  a  merrier  man, 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal  : 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit ; 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue  (conceit's  expositor) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words, 
That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished  ; 
So  sweet  and  voluhle  is  his  discourse. 

Prin.   God  bless  my  ladies  !   are  they  all  in  lo\e; 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 

Mar.  Here  comes  Boyet. 

Re-enter  boyet. 

Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord  ? 

Boy.  Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  approach  ; 
\nd  he,  and  his  competitors  1  in  oath, 
iVere  all  address'd  -  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  I  came.      Marry,  thus  much  I  have  learn'd  ; 
'  He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
(Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court) 


1  Confederates.  a  Prepared. 


'240  love's  labor  s  lost.  act  M. 

Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath, 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  [the  ladies  mask. 

Enter  king,    longaville,    dumain,    biro.v,    and 
Attendants. 

King.    Fair  princess,    welcome    to    the    court  of 
Navarre. 

Prin.  Fair  I  give  you  back  again,  and  welcome 
I  have  not  yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to 
be  yours,  and  welcome  to  the  wild  fields  too  base 
to  be  mine. 

King.    You    shall    be    welcome,    madam,    to    my 
court. 

Prin.  I  will  be  welcome  then :  conduct  me  thither. 

King.   Hear  me,  dear  lady  !   I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.   Our  lady  help  my  lord  !   he  '11  be  forsworn. 

King.  Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my  will. 

Prin.  Why,  will  shall  break  it  ;  will,  and  nothing 
else. 

King.  Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 

Prin.  Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise, 
Where  1  now  his  knowlege  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear,  your  grace  hath  sworn-out  housekeeping : 
"fis  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord. 
And  sin  to  break  it  : 
But  pardon  me,  I  am  too  sudden-boid  ; 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 


1  Whereas. 


bck.ne   i.  love's    labor's    lost.  O  J  j 

Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming 
/.ml  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit,    [gives  a  paper 
King.   Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 
Prin.   You  will  the  sooner,  that  I  were  away  • 
For  you  '11  prove  perjured  if  you  make  me  stay.  ' 
Bir.  Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ! 
Ros.    Did    not    I    dance   with    you    in    Brabp.nl 

once  ? 
Bir.  I  know,  you  did. 

_,  Ros-  How  needless  was  it  then 

l  o  ask  the  question  ! 

Btr'  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.  'Tis  'long  of  you  that  spur  me  with  sucb 
questions. 

Bir.  Your  wit 's  too  hot :  it  speeds  too  fast ;  'twill 
tire. 

Ros.  Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Bir.  What  time  o'  day  ? 

Ros.  The  hour  that  fools  should  ask. 

Bir.  Now  fair  befal  your  mask  ! 

Ros.  Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Bir.  And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 

Ros.  Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Bir.  Nay,  then  will  I  be  gone. 

King.  Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns  ; 
Being  but  the  one  half  of  an  intire  sum, 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say,  that  he,  or  we,  (as  neither  have) 
Received  that  sum ;  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more  ;  in  surety  of  the  which, 


STMK.  ln> 


242  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  it. 

One  part  of  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us, 

Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 

If  then  the  king  your  father  will  restore 

But  that  one  half  which  is  unsatisfied, 

We  will  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 

And  hold  fair  friendship  with  his  majesty. 

But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth, 

For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 

A  hundred  thousand  crowns ;  and  not  demands, 

On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 

To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain  ; 

Which  we  much  rather  had  depart  withal,1 

And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 

Than  Aquitain  so  gelded  as  it  is. 

Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 

From  reason's  yielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 

A  yielding,  'gainst  some  reason,  in  my  breast, 

And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.     You    do    the    king    my    father   too   mU'.'h 
wrong, 
And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name, 
In  so  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 
Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.  I  do  protest,  I  never  heard  of  it , 
And,  if  you  prove  it,  I  '11  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Prin.  We  arrest  your  word : — 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances. 


1  Would  part  with. 


scexe   i.  love's   labor's   LOST.  243 

For  such  a  sum,  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Boy.    So  please   your  grace,   the    packet  is   not 
come, 
Where  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound : 
To-morrow  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  them. 

King.   It  shall  suffice  me  ;  at  which  interview 
All  liberal  reason  I  will  yield  unto. 
Meantime,  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand, 
As  honor,  without  breach  of  honor,  may 
Make  tender  of  to  thy  true  worthiness. 
You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  in  my  gates ; 
But  here  without  you  shall  be  so  received, 
As  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodged  in  my  heart, 
Though  so  denied  fair  harbor  in  my  house. 
Your  own  good  thoughts  excuse  me,  and  farewell : 
To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin.  Sweet  health  and  fair  desires  consort  your 
grace  ! 

King.  Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every  place  ! 

[Exeunt  King  and  his  train. 

Bir.    Lady,    I    will   commend    you     to    my    own 
heart. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  <lo  my  commendations  :   I  would 
be  glad  to  see  it. 

Bir.  I  would,  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.  Is  the  fool  sick  ? 

Bir.   Sick  at  the  heart. 

Ros.  Alack,  let  it  blood. 

Bir.  Would  that  do  it  srood  ? 


SM4  love's  labor's  lost.  act  ii. 

Ros.  My  physic  says,  I.1 

Bir.  Will  you  prick 't  with  your  eye*"? 

Ros.  No poynt,-  with  my  knife. 

Bir.  Now,  God  save  thy  life  ! 

Ros.  And  yours  from  long  living  ! 

Bir.  I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving.  [retiring. 

Dum.  Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word.   What  lady  is  that 

same  ? 
Boy.  The  heir  of  Alencon,  Rosaline  her  name. 
Dum.  A  gallant  lady  !  Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 
Lon.  I  beseech  you,  a  word.     What  is  she  in  the 

white  ? 
Boy.  A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in  the 

light. 
Lon.  Perchance,  light  in  the  light.     I   desire  her 

name. 
Boy.   She  hath  but  one  for  herself;  to  desire  that, 

were  a  shame. 
Lon.  Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter  ? 
Boy.  Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 
Lon.   God's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 
Boy.   Good  sir,  be  not  offended : 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Lon.  Nay,  my  choler  is  ended.* 
She  is  a  most  sweet  lady. 

Boy.  Not  unlike,  sir ;  that  may  be. 

[Exit  Longaville. 


■  Ay,  yes. 

*  A  quibble  on  the  French  particle  of  negation. 


scene  i.  love's  labor  's  lost.  245 

Bir.   What 's  her  name,  in  the  cap  ? 

Boy.   Katharine,  by  good  hap. 

Bir.  Is  she  wedded,  or  no  ? 

Boy.  To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Bir.  You  are  welcome,  sir  :  adieu  ! 

Boy.  Farewell  to  me,  sir,  and  welcome  to  you. 

[Exit  Biron.     Ladies  unmask. 
Mar.  That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry  mad-cap  lord ; 
Not  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

^0y-  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Prm.  It  was  well  done  of  you,  to  take  him  at  his 

word. 
Boy.  I  was  as  willing  to  grapple  as  he  was   to 

board. 
Mar.  Two  hot  sheeps,  marry  ! 

B°y-  And  wherefore  not  ships  ? 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  your  lips. 
Mar.  You  sheep,  and  I  pasture.    Shall  that  finish 

the  jest  ? 
Boy.  So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

[offering  to  kiss  her. 
,flr-  Not  so,  gentle  beast: 

My  hps  are  no  common,  though  several J  they  be. 
Boy.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 

^ar-  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.   Good  wits  will  be  jangling  ;  but,   gentles, 
agree : 
The  civil  war  of  wits  were  much  better  used 
On  Navarre  and  his  book-men ;  for  here  'tis  abused. 


1  Private  property. 


246  love's    labor's    lost.  ACT  II. 

Boy.  If  my  observation,  (which  very  seldom  lies) 
By  the  heart's  still  rhetoric,  disclosed  with  eyes, 
Deceive  me  not  now,  Navarre  is  infected. 

Prin.  With  what  ? 

Boy.  With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle,  affected. 

Prin.  Your  reason  ? 

Boy.  Why,  all  his  behaviors  did  make  their  re- 
tire 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire  : 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impress'd, 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  express'd : 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see, 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eye-sight  to  be  : 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair. 
Methought,  all  his  senses  were  lock'd  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,  tendering  their  own  worth,  from  where  they 

were  glass'd, 
Did  point  you  to  buy  them,  along  as  you  pass'd. 
His  face's  own  margent  did  quote  such  amazes. 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes  : 
I  '11  give  you  Aquitain,  and  all  that  is  his, 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 

Prin.   Come,  to  our  pavilion.    Boyet  is  disposed — 

Boy.  But  to  speak  that  in  words,  which  his  eye 
hath  disclosed  : 
I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye, 
By  adding  a  tongue  which  I  know  will  not  lie. 

Ros.  Thou  art  an  old  love-monger,  and  speak'a* 
skilfully. 


SCENE  i.  love's   labuk  's  lost.  247 

Mar.  He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  news 

of  him. 
Eos.  Then  was  Venus  like  her  mother ;  for  her 

father  is  but  grim. 
Boy.  Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wenches  ? 
Mar.  No. 

Boy.  What  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  our  way  to  be  gone. 
Boy.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

[Exeunt. 

A  C  T     II  I. 

SCENE    I. 

Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter   armado    and   moth. 

Arm.  Warble,  child;  make  passionate  my  sense 
oi  Hearing. 

Moth.   Concollnel [singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air! — Go,  tenderness  of  years  ;  take 
this  key  ;  give  enlargement  to  the  swain  ;  bring  him 
festinately  l  hither ;  I  must  employ  him  in  a  letter 
to  my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  you  win  your  love  with  a 
French  brawl  ?  - 

Arm.   How  meanest  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 


Hastily.  *  A  kind  of  dance. 


248  loves    labor's    LOST.  ACT   III. 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master :  but  tr  jig  off  a 
tune  at  the  tongue's  end,  canary  1  to  it  with  your 
feet,  humor  it  with  turning  up  your  eyelids  ;  sigh  a 
note,  and  sing  a  note  ;  sometime  through  the 
throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  with  singing  love  ; 
sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed  up  love 
by  smelling  love  ;  with  your  hat  penthouse-like,  o'er 
the  shop  of  your  eyes ;  with  your  arms  crossed  on 
your  thin  belly-doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on  a  spit ;  or 
your  hands  in  your  pocket,  like  a  man  after  the  old 
painting ;  and  keep  not  too  long  in  one  tune,  but  a 
snip  and  away.  These  are  complements,  these  are 
humors ;  these  betray  nice  wenches — that  would 
be  betrayed  without  these ;  and  make  them  men  of 
note,  (do  you  note,  men  ?)  that  most  are  affected  to 
these. 

Arm.  How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience  ? 

Moth.  By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm.  But  O, — but  O,- — 

Moth.  — the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.  Callest  thou  my  love,  hobby-horse  ? 

Moth.  No,  master ;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a  colt, 
and  your  love,  perhaps,  a  hackney.  But  have  yoa 
forgot  your  love  ? 

Arm.  Almost  I  had. 

Moth.  Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.  By  heart,  and  in  heart,  boy. 


1  Canary  was  the  name  of  a  sprightly  dance. 


scene  I.  love's   labor  's   Lost.  249 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master  :  all  those  three 
I  will  prove. 

Arm.  What  wilt  thou  prove  ? 

Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live  ;  and  this,  hy,  in,  and 
without,  upon  the  instant.  By  heart  you  love  her, 
because  your  heart  cannot  come  by  her ;  in  heart 
you  love  her,  because  your  heart  is  in  love  with  her ; 
and  out  of  heart  you  love  her,  being  out  of  heart 
that  you  cannot  enjoy  her. 

Arm.  I  am  all  these  three. 

Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and  yet 
nothing  at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain  :  he  must  earn'  me 
a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathised;  a  horse  to 
be  ambassador  for  an  ass  ! 

Arm.  Ha,  ha  !   what  sayest  thou  ? 

Moth.  Marry,  sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon 
the  horse,  for  he  is  very  slow-gaited.     But  1  go. 

Arm.  The  way  is  but  short ;  away. 

Moth.  As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 

Arm.  Thy  meaning,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
I*  not  lead  a  metal  heavy,  dull,  and  slow  ? 

Moth.  Minime,  honest  master ;  or  rather,  master, 
no. 

Arm.  I  say,  lead  is  slow. 

Moth.  You  are  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so : 

Is  that  lead  slow  which  is  fired  from  a  gun  ? 

Arm.  Sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric ! 
He  reputes  me  a  cannon  ;  and  the  bullet,  that 's  he  : — 


250  love's  labor's  lost.  act  hi. 

I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump  then,  and  I  flee.     [Exit. 

Arm.  A  most  acute  juvenal ;  voluhle  and  free  of 
grace. 
By  thy  favor,    sweet  welldn,  I  must   sigh   in   thy 

face  : 
Most  rude  melancholy,  valor  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  return'd. 

Re-enter  moth  and  costard. 

Moth.  A  wonder,  master ;  here 's  a  Costard 1 
hroken  in  a  shin. 

Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle  :  come, — thy 
V envoy  ;  " — begin. 

Cos.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  V envoy ;  no  salve  in 
the  mad,3  sir.  O,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain  ;  no 
V envoy,  no  V envoy,  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain  ! 

Ann.  By  virtue,  thou  enforcest  laughter;  thy 
silly  thought,  my  spleen  ;  the  heaving  of  my  lungs 
provokes  me  to  ridiculous  smiling.  O,  pardon  me, 
my  stars !  Doth  the  inconsiderate  take  salve  for 
V envoy,  and  the  word,  V envoy,  for  a  salve  ? 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other?  is  not 
V envoy  a  salve  ? 


1  Head. 

a  A  term  borrowed  from  the  old  French  poetry,  which  either 
served  to  convey  the  moral,  or  to  address  the  poem  to  som« 
particular  person. 

s  Mail  signified  a  box  or  pncket :        m  the  French  malU. 


scene  i.  love's  labor  's  lost.  25] 

Arm.  No,  page  :  it  is  an  epilogue  or  discourse,  to 
make  plain 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been  sain. 
I  will  example  it : — 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three 
There  's  the  moral :  now  the  V envoy. 

Moth.   I  will  add  the  V envoy  :  say  the  moral  again. 
Arm.  The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three  : 
Moth.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 
And  stay'd  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Now  will   I  begin  your   moral,    and  do  you  follow 
with  my  V envoy. 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three  : 
Arm.   Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Moth.     A    good    V envoy,    ending    in    the     goose. 
Would  you  desire  more  ? 

Cos.  The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,   a  goose, 
that 's  flat. — 
Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be  fat. — 
To   sell  a  bargain  well,  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and 

loose  : 
Let  me  see  a  fat  V envoy ;  ay,  that 's  a  fat  goose. 
Arm.  Come  hither,  come  hither.     How  did  this 

argument  begin  ? 
Moth.  Bv  saving;,  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a 
shin. 


252  love's  labor's  lost.  act  hi. 

Then  call'd  you  for  the  V envoy. 

Cos.  True,  and  I  for  a  plantain  ;  thus  came  your 
argument  in  : 
Then    the   hoy's    fat   Venvoy,    the   goose    tnat   you 

bought ; 
And  he  ended  the  market. 

Arm.  But  tell  me ;  how  was  there  a  Costard 
broken  in  a  shin  ? 

Moth.   I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cos.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it,  Moth  ;  I  will 
speak  that  l' envoy  : — 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within, 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  hroke  my  shin. 

Arm.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 

Cos.  Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 

Arm.   Sirrah  Costard,  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 

Cos.  O,  marry  me  to  one  Frances  ; — I  smell  some 
Venvoy,  some  goose,  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean,  setting  thee  at 
liberty,  enfreedoming  thy  person  :  thou  wert  im- 
BOured,  restrained,  captivated,  hound. 

Cos.  True,  true  ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  purga- 
tion, and  let  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from  du- 
rance ;  and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee  nothing 
but  this.  Bear  this  significant  to  the  country  maid 
Jaquenetta  :  there  is  remuneration  ;  [giving  him 
money.']  for  the  best  ward  of  mine  honor  is,  re- 
warding my  dependents.     Moth,  follow. 

[Esit. 


scene  i.  love's  labor's  lost.  258 

Moth.  Like  the  sequel,  I. — Signior  Costard,  adieu. 

Cos.  Mv  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !  my  incony  ' 
Jew  ! —  [Exit  Moth. 

Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remunera- 
tion !  O,  that 's  the  Latin  word  for  three  farthings  s 
three  farthings — remuneration. — '  What 's  the  price 
of  this  inkle  ? '  - — '  A  penny.' — '  No,  I  11  give  you  a 
remuneration.'  Why,  it  carries  it. — Remuneration  ! 
— why,  it  is  a  fairer  name  than  French  crown.  I 
will  never  buy  and  sell  out  of  this  word. 

Enter  bikon. 

Bir.    O,   my  good  knaue  Costard !    exceedingly 
well  met. 

Cos.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much   carnation   ribbon 
may  a  roan  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 

Bir.  What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cos.  Marry,  sir,  halfpenny  farthing. 

Bir.  O,  why  then,  three-farthings-worth  of  silk. 

Cos.  I  thank  your  worship.      God  be  with  you ! 

Bir.   O,  stay,  slave  ;   I  must  employ  thee  : 
As  thou  wilt  win  my  favor,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cos.  When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir  ? 

Bir.   O,  this  afternoon. 

Cos.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir :  fare  you  well. 

Bir.  O,  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 

Cos.  I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 


Delightful.         2  An  inkle  was  a  narrow  fillet  of  tap*. 


254  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  nr. 

Bir.  Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

.Cos.     I    will    come    to    your    worship   to-morrow 
norning. 

Bir.  It  must  he  done  this  afternoon.  Hark,  slave, 
:t  is  but  this  : — 

The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park, 
And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady ; 
"When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her 

name, 
And  Rosaline  they  call  her  :  ask  for  her ; 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This  seal'd-up  counsel.    There  's  thy  guerdon  ;  J  go. 

[gives  him  money. 

Cos.  Guerdon, — O  sweet  guerdon  !  better  than 
remuneration  ;  eleven-pence  farthing  better.  Most 
sweet  guerdon  ! — I  will  do  it,  sir,  in  print.2 — Guer- 
don— remuneration.  [Exit. 

Bir.  O  ! — And  I,  forsooth,  in  love  !    I,   that  have 
been  love's  whip  ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  ; 
A  critic  ;  nay,  a  night-watch  constable  ; 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  wimpled,"5  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy  ; 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  ; 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms. 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 
Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents, 


1  Reward.  2  With  the  utmost  exactness. 

3  Hooded,  veiled 


SCE.VE    I. 


lovk's    labor's    LOST.  -55 


Dread  prince  of  plackets,1  king  of  cod-pieces, 

Sole  imperator,  and  great  general 

Of  trotting  paritors,c — O,  my  little  heart ! 

And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field, 

And  wear  his  colors  like  a  tumbler's  hoop  !  3 

What  ?  I  !   I  love  !   I  sue  !  I  seek  a  wife  ! 

A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock, 

Still  a  repairing,  ever  out  of  frame  ; 

And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch, 

But  being  watch'd  that  it  may  still  go  right  ? 

Nay,  to  be  perjured,  which  is  worst  of  all ; 

And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 

A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow, 

With  two  pitch  balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes ; 

Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed, 

Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard  : 

And  I  to  sigh  for  her !  to  watch  for  her  ! 

To  pray  for  her !     Go  to  ;   it  is  a  plague 

That  Cupid  will  impose  for  my  neglect 

Of  his  almighty  dreadful  little  might. 

Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  and  gro  1:1  : 

Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  some  Joan. 

[KrU. 


1  Petticoats. 

*  Officers  of  the  bishop's  court  who  serve  citations. 

'  The  hoop  of  a  tumbler  was  adorned  with  ribands. 


-j6  love's  labor's  lost.  act  it. 


A  0  T      I  V. 

SCENE    I. 

Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  the  princess,  rosaline,  maria,  Katharine, 
bo  yet,  Lords,  Attendants,  and  a  Forester. 

Prin.  Was   that  the  king,  that  spurr'd  his  horse 
so  hard 
Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 

Boy.   I  know  not ;  but,  I  think,  it  was  not  he. 

Prin.  Whoe'er  he  was,  he  show'd  a  mounting  mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch ; 
On  Saturday  we  Avill  return  to  France. — 
Then,  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  bush, 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in  ? 

For.  Here  by,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice  ; 
A  stand,  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

Prin.  I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot  ; 
And  thereupon  thou  speak'st,  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.    What,  what  ?    first   praise  me,    and   again 
say,  no  ? 
O  short-lived  pride  !    Not  fair?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.  Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now  : 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  glass,  take  this  for  telling  true  ; 

[giving  him  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 


- 

17^ 


scexe  i.  love's  labor's  lost.  2,57 

For.  Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  inherit. 

Prin.   See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  saved  by  merit. 
O  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days  ! 
A  giving  hand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  praise. — 
But  come,  the  bow. — Now  mercy  goes  to  kill, 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot : 
Nut  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do  't ; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise  than  purpose  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes ; 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes  ; 
When,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part, 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart  : 
As  I,  for  praise  alone,  now  seek  to  spill 
The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no  ill. 

Boy.    Do  not   curst x  wives   hold   that   self-sove- 
reignty 
Only  for  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  be 
Lords  o'er  their  lords  ? 

Prin.   Only  for  praise  :  and  praise  we  may  afford 
To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 

Enter  costaro. 

Prin.    Here    comes   a  member  of   the    common- 
wealth. 
Cos.  God  dig-you-den  all !  •     Pray  you,  which  i 
the  head  lady  ? 


I  Shrewish.  *  <Jod  give  you  all  qoot]  even. 

H.U.  III.  K 


258  love's  labor's  lost.  act  rv. 

Prln.  Thou  shalt  know  her,  fellow,  hy  the  refit 
that  have  no  heads. 

Cos.  Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ? 

Prin.  The  thickest  and  the  tallest. 

Cos.  The  thickest  and  the  tallest !  it  is  so  ;   truth 
is  truth. 
An  your  waist,  mistress,  were  as  slender  as  my  wit, 
One  of  these   maids'  girdles  for  your  waist  should 

be  fit. 
Are  not  you  the  chief  woman  ?  you  are  the  thickest 
here. 

Prin.  What 's  your  will,  sir  ?  what 's  your  will  ? 

Cos.  I  have  a  letter  from  monsieur  Biron,  to  one 
lady  Rosaline. 

Prin.   O,  thy  letter,  thy  letter;  he  's  a  good  friend 
of  mine  : 
Stand  aside,  good  bearer. — Boyet,  you  can  carve : 
Break  up  this  capon.1 

Boy.  I  am  hound  to  serve. — 

This  letter  is  mistook,  it  importeth  none  here ; 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenetta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear: 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear. 

Boy.  [reads.']  '  By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair,  is 
most  infallible  ;  true,  that  thou  art  beauteous  ;  truth 
itself,  that  thou  art  lovely.  More  fairer  than  fair, 
beautiful  than  beauteous,  truer  than  truth  itself, 
cave  commiseration   on  thy  heroical  vassal !     The 


1  Open  this  letter. 


SCENE  I.        LOVE  S  LABOR  a  LOST.  259 

magnanimous  and  most  illustrate  king-  Cophetua  set 
eye  upon  the  pernicious  and  indubitate  beggar 
Zenelophon,  and  he  it  was  that  might  rightly  say, 
veni,  villi,  vici ;  which  to  anatomise  in  the  vulgar, 
(O  base  and  obscure  vulgar!)  videlicet,  he  came, 
saw,  and  overcame  :  he  came,  one  ;  saw,  two  ;  over- 
came, three.  Who  came  ?  the  king  ;  why  did  he 
come  ?  to  see  ;  why  did  he  see  ?  to  overcome  :  to 
whom  came  he  ?  to  the  beggar  ;  what  saw  he  ?  the 
beggar ;  who  overcame  he  ?  the  beggar.  The  con- 
clusion is  victory ;  on  whose  side  ?  the  king's  :  the 
captive  is  enriched  ;  on  whose  side  ?  the  beggar's  : 
the  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial  ;  on  whose  side  ?  the 
king's  ? — no  ;  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both.  I  am 
the  king  ;  for  so  stands  the  comparison  :  thou  the 
beggar  ;  for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowliness.  Shall  I 
command  thy  love  ?  I  may.  Shall  I  enforce  thy 
love  ?  1  could.  Shall  I  entreat  thy  love  ?  I  will. 
What  shalt  thou  exchange  for  rags  ?  robes ;  for 
tittles,  titles  ;  for  thyself,  me.  Thus,  expecting  thy 
reply,  I  profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes  on 
thy  picture,  and  my  heart  on  thy  every  part. 

'  Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 

'  DON     ADlilANO     DE     ARMAUO.' 

Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standest  as  his  prey; 

Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 
And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play. 

But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 

Food  for  his  rnge,  repqpture  for  his  den. 


i2G0  love's  labor's  lost.  act  iv 

Prin.  What  plume  of  feathers  is  he,  that  indited 
this  letter  ? 
What  vane  ?  what  weather-cock  ?  Did  you  ever  hear 
hetter  ? 
Boy.  I  am  much   deceived,   but  I  remember  the 

style. 
Prin.  Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it  ere- 

while.1 
Boy.  This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps  here 
in  court ; 
A   phantasm,    a   monarcho ;  and    one    that   make9 

sport 
To  the  prince  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou,  fellow,  a  word. 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cos.  I  told  you  ;  my  lord. 

Prin.  To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it  ? 
Cos.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.  From  which  lord  to  which  lady  ? 
Cos.  From  my  lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of  mine, 
xo  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  call'd  Rosaline. 

Prin.    Thou    hast    mistaken    his    letter.      Come, 
lords,  away. 
Here,  sweet,  put  up  this ;   'twill   be   thine   another 
day.  [Exeunt  Princess  and  train. 

Boy.  Who  is  the  suitor  ?  who  is  the  suitor  ? 
Ros.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know  ? 

Boy.  Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty, 
Jtoff.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow, 


1  Just  now. 


SCENE    I.  LOVE'S    LABOR  's    LOST.  261 

Finely  put  off! 

Boy.  My  lady  goes  to  kill  homs ;  but,   if  tliou 
marry, 
Hang  me  by  the  neck,  if  horns  that  year  miscarry. 
Finely  put  on ! 

Ros,  Well,  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 
Boy.  And  who  is  your  deer  ? 

Ros.  If  we  choose  by  the  horns,   yourself:  come 
near. 
Finely  put  on,  indeed  ! — 

Mar.  You  still  wrangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and  she 

strikes  at  the  brow. 
Boy.  But  she  herself  is  hit  lower.     Have   I  hit 

her  now  ? 
Ros.  Shall  I  come  upon  thee  with  an  old  saying, 
that  was  a  man  when  king  Pepin   of  France  was  a 
little  boy,  as  touching  the  hit  it  ? 

Boy.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old,  that 
was  a  woman  when  queen  Guinever  of  Britain  *  was 
a  little  wench,  as  touching  the  hit  it. 

Ros.  '  Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  hit  it,  hit  it,  [singing. 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man.' 
Boy.   '  An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot, 
An  I  cannot,  another  can.' 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Kath. 
Co?.  By  my  troth,  most  pleasant !  how  both  did 

"fit  it  ! 
Mar.  A  mark  marvellous  well  shot ;  for  they  both 
did  hit  it. 


1  The  wife  of  king  Arthur 


2C2  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  iv. 

Boy.     A    mark !      O,    mark   but    that    mark ;     a 
mark,  says  my  lady ! 
Let  the  mark  have  a  prick  in't,   to   mete  at,   if  it 
may  be. 
Mar.  Wide  o'  the  bow  hand  !  I'  faith,  your  hand 

is  out. 
Cos.  Indeed,  a'  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he  '11  ne'er 

hit  the  clout. 
Boy.  An  if  my  hand  be   out,   then,  belike  your 

hand  is  in. 
Cos.  Then  will  she  get  the  upshot  by  cleaving  the 

pin. 
Mar.  Come,   come,  you  talk  greasily,  your  lips 

grow  foul. 
Cos.  She  's  too  hard  for  you  at  prick,  sir ;  chal- 
lenge her  to  bowl. 
Boy.  I  fear  too  much  rubbing ;  good  night,  my 
good  owl.  [Exeunt  Boy.  and  Mar. 

Cos.  By  my  soul,  a  swain  !  a  most  simple  clown  ! 
Lord,  lord  !    how  the  ladies  and  I  have  put  him 

down  ! 
O*  my  troth,  most  sweet  jests  !  most  incony  vulgar 

wit! 
When  it  comes  so  smoothly  off,  so  obscenely,  as  it 

were,  so  fit. 
Armatho     o'  the    one    side,  —  O,    a    most   dainty 

man  ! 
To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady,   and  to  bear  her 

fan! 
To  see  him  kiss   his  hand  !  and  how   most  sweetly 
a'  will  swear ! 


SCENE    II.  LOVES    LAUOR    S    LOST.  263 

And  his  page  o*  t'  other  side,  that  handful  of  wit ' 
Ah,  heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical  nit ! 

Sola,  sola  1  r.     .. 

Iskouhng  within. 

[Exit  Costard,  running. 

SCENE    II. 

The  same. 
Enter  holofeenes,  sis  Nathaniel,  and  dull. 
u    Sir  Nath.  Very  reverent  sport,  truly,    and  done 
in  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience.  ' 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  in  sanguis,— 
blood :  ripe  as  a  pomewater,*  who  now  hangeth  like 
a  jewel  in  the  ear  of  c*/0,_the  sky,  the  welkin,  the 
heaven;  and  anon  falleth  like  a  crab,  on  the  face  of 
terra,— the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 

Sir  Nath.  Truly,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets 
are  sweetly  varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least.     But 
air,  I  assure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head 
Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo. 
Bull    *Twas  not  a  haud  credo,  'twas  a  pricket.* 
_  tlol.  Most  barbarous  intimation  J  yet  a  kind  of  in- 
sinuation,  as  it  were,  in  via,  in  way,  of  explication ; 
Mere,  as  lt  wer6(  replication>   or>   ^^  ^ 

to  show,  as  it  were,  his  inclination,-after  his  un. 
dressed,  unpolished,  uneducated,  unpruned,  un- 
tramed,   or  rather  unlettered,  or,  ratherest,  unccn- 


'  A  species  of  apple  formerly  much  esteemed. 
J  A  buck  of  the  second  year. 


2G4  love"?  labor's  lost.  act  iv. 

firmed  fashion, — to  insert  again  my  hand  credo  for  a 
deer. 

Dull,  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  hand  credo  ;  'twas 
a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice-sod   simplicity,  bis  coctus !     O   thou 
monster  ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou  look ! 

Sir  Nath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties 
that  are  bred  in  a  book  ;  he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as 
it  were  ;  he  hath  not  drunk  ink  :  his  intellect  is  not 
replenished  ;  he  is  only  an  animal,  only  sensible  in 
the  duller  parts ; 
And  such  barren  plants  are  set  before  us,   that  we 

thankful  should  be 
(Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are)  for  those  parts 

that  do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he : 
For  as  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  indiscreet, 

or  a  fool, 
So,  were  there  a  patch  set  on  learning,  to  see  him  in 

a  school  : ] 
But,  omne  bene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  father's  mind, 
*  Many  can   brook  the   weather,    that  love  not  the 

wind.' 
Dull.  You  two  are  book-men.     Can  you  tell  by 

your  wit, 
What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that 's  not 

rive  weeks  old  as  yet  ? 
Hoi.  Dictynna,  goodman  Dull ;  Dictynna,  good- 
man  Dull. 


1  To  be  in  a  school  would  as  ill  become  a  patch,  or  lew 
fellow,  as  folly  would  become  me. 


scene  ii.  love's  labor's  LOST.  2G5 

Dull.  What  is  Dictynna  ? 

Sir  Nath.  A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 

Hoi.  The  moon    was  a  month  old,  when  Adam 
was  no  more ; 
And  raught 1  not  to  five  weeks,  when  he  came  to 

five  score. 
The  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange.2 

Dull.  'Tis  true  indeed ;  the  collusion  holds  in  the 
exchange. 

Hoi.  God  comfort  thy  capacity !  I  say,  the  allu- 
sion holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  And  I  say  the  pollusion  holds  in  the  ex- 
change ;  for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  old  : 
and  I  say  beside,  that  'tv*s  a  pricket  that  the  prin- 
cess killed. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extemporal 
epitaph  on  the  death  of  the  deer  ?  and,  to  humor  the 
ignorant,  I  have  called  the  deer  the  princess  killed, 
a  pricket. 

Sir  Nath.  Perge,  good  master  Holofernes,  perge ; 
so  it  shall  please  you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  affect  the  letter  ; 3  for  it 
argues  facility. 

*  The  praiseful  princess  pierced  and  prick'd  a  pretty 
pleasing  pricket ; 

Some  say,  a  sore ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  now  made 
sore  with  shooting. 


1  Reached. 

9  The  riddle  is  as  good  when  I  use  the  name  of  Adam  U 
when  I  use  the  name  of  Cain. 
'  I  will  practise  alliteration. 


26C  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  iv. 

The  dogs  did  yell ;  put  I  to  sore,  then  sorel 1  jumps 
from  thicket ; 

Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  sorel ;  the  people  fall  a 
hooting. 
If  sore  he  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores ;  •  O 

sore  L ! 
Of  one  sore  I  a  hundred  make,  hy  adding  but  one 
more  L.' 

Sir  Nath.  A  rare  talent ! 

Dull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws 
him  with  a  talent  !  3 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple  ;  a 
foolish  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms,  figures, 
shapes,  objects,  ideas,  apprehensions,  motions,  revo- 
lutions :  these  are  begot  in  the  ventricle  of  memory, 
nourished  in  the  womb  of  pia  mater,  and  delivered 
upon  the  mellowing  of  occasion.  But  the  gift  is  good 
in  those  in  whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am  thankful 
for  it. 

Sir  Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  for  you,  and  so 
may  my  parishioners  ;  for  their  sons  are  well  tutored 
by  you,  and  their  daughters  profit  very  greatly  under 
you  :  you  are  a  good  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

Hoi.  Mehercle,  if  their  sons  be  ingenious,  they 
shall  want  no  instruction  ;  if  their  daughters  be  ca- 
pable, I  will  put  it  to  them :  but,  vir  sapit  qui 
pauca  loquitur ;  a  soul  feminine  saluteth  us. 


1  A  buck  of  the  third  year. 

2  In  allusion  to  L  being  the  numeral  for  fifty. 

3  In  cur  author's  time   the  talon  of  a  bird  was  frequently 
written  '  talent.' 


-- 


whpa-: 


- 
jLxET  tceneM. 


taxiing  .-  - 


scene  ii.  love's  labor  's   LOST.  267 

Enter  jaquenetta  and  costard. 

Jaq.   God  give  you  good  morrow,  master  person. 
Hoi.  Master  person, — quasi  pers-on :  and  if  one 
should  be  pierced,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cos.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is  likest 
to  a  hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead !  a  good  lustre  of 
conceit  in  a  turf  of  earth  :  fire  enough  for  a  flint ; 
pearl  enough  for  a  swine  :  'tis  pretty :  it  is  well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  parson,  be  so  good  as  read  me 
this  letter  ;  it  was  given  me  by   Costard,  and  sent 
me  from  Don  Armatho.     I  beseech  you,  read  it. 
Hoi.  Fauste,  precor,  gelida  quando  pecus  omne  sub 
umbra 
Ruminat, — and  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Mantuan ! 
I  may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice  ; 

Vinegia,  Vinegia, 

Chi  non  te  vede,  ei  non  te  pregia. 
Old  Mantuan  !  old  Mantuan  !  Who  understandeth 
thee  not,  loves  thee  not. — Ut,  re,  sol,  la,  mi,  fa. — 
Under  pardon,  sir,  what  are  the  contents  ?  or, 
rather,  as  Horace  says  in  his — What,  my  soul, 
verses  ? 

Sir  Nath.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 
Hoi.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse.    Lege, 
domine ! 

Sir  Nath.  '  If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I 
swear  to  love  ? 
Ah,  never  faith   could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty 
vow'd ! 


26S  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  iv. 

Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  faithful 
prove ; 
Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee  like 
osiers  bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine 
eyes, 
Where  all  those  pleasures  live,  that  art  would 
comprehend : 
If  knowlege  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suf- 
fice; 
Well  learned  is  that  tongue  that  well  can  thee 
commend ; 
All  ignorant   that  soul,  that    sees    thee   without 
wonder ; 
(Which  is  to  me  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts 
admire) 
Thy  eye  Jove's   lightning   bears,    thy   voice   his 
dreadful  thunder, 
Which,  not  to  anger  bent,  is  music,  and  sweet 
fire. 
Celestial  as  thou  art,  O,  pardon,  love,  this  wrong. 
That  sings  heaven's  praise  with  such  an  earthlj 

tongue  ! ' 
Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so  miss 
the  accent :  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet.  Here 
are  only  numbers  ratified ;  but,  for  the  elegancy, 
facility,  and  golden  cadence  of  poesy,  caret.  Ovidius 
Naso  was  the  man :  and  why,  indeed,  Naso,  but  for 
smelling  out  the  odoriferous  flowers  of  fancy,  the 
jerks  of  invention  ?  Imitari,  is  nothing :  so  doth 
the  hound  his  master,  the  ape  his  keeper,  the  tired 


SCENE    II.  LOVE  S    LABOR    S    LOST.  269 

horse x  his   rider.     But,  damosella  virgin,  was  this 
directed  to  you  ? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one  of  the 
strange  queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript : — '  To  the 
snow-white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  Lady  Rosa- 
line.' I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of  the 
j'etter,  for  the  nomination  of  the  party  writing  to  the 
person  written  unto  :  —  *  Your  ladyship's  in  all 
desired  employment,  Biron.'  Sir  Nathaniel,  this 
Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries  with  the  king ;  and 
here  he  hath  framed  a  letter  to  a  sequent  of  the 
stranger  queen's,  which,  accidentally,  or  by  the 
way  of  progression,  hath  miscarried. — Trip  and  go, 
my  sweet ;  deliver  this  paper  into  the  royal  hand  of 
the  king ;  it  may  concern  much.  Stay  not  thy 
compliment ;   I  forgive  thy  duty  :  adieu. 

Jaq.  Good  Costard,  go  with  me. — Sir,  God  save 
your  life  ! 

Cos.   Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

[Exeunt  Cos.  and  Jaq. 

Sir  Natk.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of 
God,  very  religiously  :  and,  as  a  certain  father 
saith, 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  not  me  of  the  father ;  I  do  fear 
colorable  colors.2  But,  to  return  to  the  verses;  did 
they  please  you,  sir  Nathaniel  ? 


1   The  horse  adorned  with  ribands. 
a  Specious  appearances. 


270  love's  labor's  lost.  act  iv 

Sir  Nath.  Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Hoi.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a  certain 
pupil  of  mine,  where,  if,  before  repast,  it  shall  please 
you  to  gratify  the  table  with  a  grace,  I  will,  on  my 
privilege  I  have  with  the  parents  of  the  foresaid  child 
or  pupil,  undertake  your  ben  venulo  ;  where  I  will 
prove  those  verses  to  be  very  unlearned,  neither 
savoring  of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention.  I  beseech 
your  society. 

Sir  Nath.  And  thank  you  too  :  for  society,  saith 
the  text,  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And,  certes,1  the  text  most  infallibly  con- 
cludes it. — Sir,  [to  Dull.]  I  do  invite  you  too ;  you 
shall  not  say  me  nay :  pauca  verba.  Away :  the 
gentles  are  at  their  game,  and  we  will  to  our 
recreation.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III. 

Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  biron,  with  a  paper. 

Bir.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer ;  I  am 
coursing  myself  :  they  have  pitched  a  toil ;  I  am 
toiling  in  a  pitch  ;  •  pitch,  that  defiles  ;  defile  !  a 
foul  word.  Well,  set  thee  down,  sorrow !  for  so, 
they  say,  the  fool  said,  and  so  say  I,  and  I  the  fool. 
Well  proved,  wit !     By  the  lord,  this  love  is  as  mad 


1  In  truth. 

2  Alluding  to  the  dark  complexion  of  his  nii*treBS 


SCENE    III.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  271 

as  Ajax  :  it  kills  sheep  ;  it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep.  Well 
proved  again  on  my  side  !  I  will  not  love  :  if  I  do, 
hang  me  ;  i'  faith,  I  will  not.  O,  but  her  eye  ! — by 
this  light,  but  for  her  eye,  I  would  not  love  her ; 
yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well,  I  do  nothing  in  the 
world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat.  By  heaven,  I 
do  love ;  and  it  hath  taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to  be 
melancholy  ;  and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and  here 
my  melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  sonnets 
already ;  the  clown  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and  the 
lady  hath  it :  sweet  clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetest 
lady  !  By  the  world,  I  would  not  care  a  pin  if  the 
other  three  were  in.  Here  comes  one  with  a 
paper :  God  give  him  grace  to  groan  ! 

[gets  up  into  a  tree. 

Enter  the  king,  with  a  paper. 

King.  Ah  me ! 

Bir.  [aside.']  Shot,  by  heaven ! — Proceed,  sweet 
Cupid  :  thou  hast  thumped  him  with  thy  bird-bolt 
under  the  left  pap  : — i'  faith,  secrets. — 

King,   [reads.]   '  So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden   sun 
gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 
As  thy  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 

The  night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  down  flows  : 
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  shinest  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep. 


272  love's  labor  s  lost.  act  iv. 

No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee, 
So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe. 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show : 
But  do  not  love  thyself ;   then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens,  how  far  dost  thou  excel ! 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell.' — 
How  shall  she  know  my  griefs  ?  I  '11  drop  the  paper : 
Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.     Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

[steps  aside. 

Enter  longaville,  with  a  paper. 

"Vhat,  Longaville  !  and  reading  !  listen,  ear. 

Bir.  Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fool,  ap- 
pear !  [aside. 
Lon.  Ah  me  !  I  am  forsworn !  [aside. 
Bir.  Why,  he  comes  in  like  a  perjure,  wearing 
papers.1  [aside. 
King.  In  love,  I  hope  :  sweet  fellowship  in  shame ! 

[aside. 
Bir.  One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 

[aside. 
Lon.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjured  so  ? 

[aside. 

Bir.    I  could  put  thee  in  comfort :  not  by  two, 

that  I  know  :  [aside. 


1  The  punishment  of  perjury  was  to  wear  on  the  breast 
paper  expressing  the  crime. 


scene  in.         love's  labor's  lost.  273 

Thou    makest    the    triumviry,    the    corner-cap    of 

society, 

The   shape  of  love's  Tyburn  that  hangs  up   sim- 
plicity. 

Lon.    I  fear,  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power  to 
move. 
O  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love  ! 
These  numbers  will  I  tear,  and  write  in  prose. 

Bir.   O,  rhymes   are   guards  on  wanton   Cupid's 
hose  :  ■-     . , 

Disfigure  not  his  slop. 
Lon.  This  same  shall  go.— 

[he  reads  the  sonnet. 
JJid  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye, 
('Gainst  whom   the   world   cannot  hold  aro-u. 
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,    cures    all    disgrace 
in  me. 

Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapor  is  : 
Then  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost 
shine, 

Exhalest  this  vapor  vow ;  in  thee  it  is  : 
If  broken  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  ; 

If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise, 

To  lose  an  oath  to  win  a  paradise  } ' 


AK#  in. 


274  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  rv. 

Bir.   [aside.']   This  is  the  liver  vein,1  which  makes 

flesh  a  deity  ; 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess  :  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God  amend  us,  God  amend  !  we  are  much  out  o'  the 

way. 

Enter  dumain,  with  a  paper. 

Lon.    By  whom    shall  I  send  this  ? — Company ! 
stay.  [stepping  aside. 

Bir.   [aside.]   All  hid,  all  hid,2  an  old  infant  play  : 
Like  a  demigod  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 
And  wretched  fools'  secrets  heedfully  o'er- eye. 
More  sacks  to  the  mill !  O  heavens,  I  have  my  wish  ; 
Dumain  transform'd  :  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish  ! 

Dum.  O  most  divine  Kate  ! 

Bir.  O  most  profane  coxcomb  !  [aside. 

Dum.  By  heaven,  the  wonder  of  a  mortal  eye  ! 

Bir.  By  earth,  she  is  but  corporal ;    there  you  lie. 

[aside. 

Dum.  Her  amber  hairs  for  foul  have  amber  coted.3 

Bir.  An  amber-color'd  raven  was  well  noted. 

[aside. 

Dum.  As  upright  as  the  cedar. 

Bir.  Stoop,  I  say  ; 

Her  shoulder  is  with  child.  [aside, 

Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 


1  The  liver  was  anciently  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  lova. 
1  Children's  cry  at  hide  and  seek. 
3  Outstripped,  surpassed. 


scene   in.  love's   labor's  LOST.  '275 

Bir.  Ay,   as   some   days ;  but  then  no  sun  must 
shine.  [aside. 

Dum.  O  that  I  had  my  wish  ! 
Lon.  And  I  had  mine  !      [aside. 

King.  And  I  mine  too,  good  lord  !  [aside. 

Bir.  Amen,  so  I  had  mine.     Is  not  that  a  good 
word  ?  [aside. 

Dum.  I  would  forget  her ;  but  a  fever  she 
Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  remember'd  be. 

Bir.  A  fever  in  your  blood  ?  why,  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers.     Sweet  misprision  ? 

[aside. 
Dum.  Once  more  I  '11  read  the  ode  that  I  have  writ. 
Bir.  Once  more  I  '11  mark  how  love  can  vary  wit. 

[aside. 
Dum.  '  On  a  day,  (alack  the  day  !) 

Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 

Spied  a  blosscm,  passing  fair, 

Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 

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,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn. 

Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 

Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet ; 

Youth,  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 

Bo  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 

That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee , 


276  love's  labor's  lost.  act  iv. 

Thou,  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear, 
Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were  ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love.' — ■ 
This  will  I  send ;  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shall  express  my  true  love's  fasting  pain. 
O,  would  the  king,  Biron,  and  Longaville 
Were  lovers  too  !     Ill,  to  example  ill, 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  perjured  note ; 
For  none  offend,  where  all  alike  do  dote. 

Lon.  Dumain,    [advancing .~]  thy  love  is  fax  from 
charity, 
That  in  love's  grief  desirest  society : 
You  may  look  pale  ;  but  I  should  blush,  I  know. 
To  be  o'erheard,  and  taken  napping  so. 

King.  Come,  sir,   [advancing.']  you  blush ;  as  his 
your  case  is  such  ; 
You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much : 
You  do  not  love  Maria ;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile ; 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart. 
I  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush, 
And  mark'd  you  both,  and  for  you  both  did  blush. 
I  heard  your  guilty  rhymes,  observed  your  fashion ; 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion : 
'  Ah  me  !  '  says  one  ;  '  O  Jove  !  '  the  other  cries  ; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes  : 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth  ; 

[to  Longaville. 
And  Jove,  for  your  love,  would  infringe  an  oath. 

[to  Dumain. 


SCENE    III.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  277 

What  will  Biron  say,  when  that  he  shall  hear 
Faith  infringed,  which  such  zeal  did  swear  ? 
How  will  he  scorn  ?  how  will  he  spend  his  wit  ? 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap,  and  laugh  at  it  ? 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see, 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 

Bir.  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy.— 
Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee,  pardon  me. 

[descends  from  the  tree. 
Good  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches ;  in  your  tears, 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears : 
You  '11  not  be  perjured  ;  'tis  a  hateful  thing  : 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonnetin"-. 
But  are  you  not  ashamed  ?  nay,  are  you  not, 
All  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot  ? 
You    found    his    mote;    the    king   your    mote    did 

see  ; 
But  I  a  beam  do  find  in  each  of  three. 
O,  what  a  scene  of  foolery  I  have  seen, 
Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen  !  * 
O  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat  ! 
To  see  great  Hercules  whipping  a  fri«- 
And  profound  Solomon  to  tune  a  jig, 
And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys, 
And  critic  2  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 


1  Grief.  s  Cynic 


278  love's   labor's  lost.  act  iv. 

Where  lies  thy  grief,  O,  tell  me,  good  Dumain? 

And,  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain  ? 

And  where  my  liege's  ?  all  about  the  breast : — 

A  caudle,  ho ! 

King.         Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over-view  ? 

Bir.  Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betray'd  to  you ; 
I,  that  am  honest ;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in  ;— 
I  am  betray'd,  by  keeping  company 
With  moonlike  men,  of  strange  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme  ? 
Or  groan  for  Joan  ?  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  me  ? 1    When  shall  you  hear  that  I 
Will  praise  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye, 
A  gait,  a  state,  a  brow,  a  breast,  a  waist, 
A  leg,  a  limb  ? — 

King.  Soft.     Whither  away  so  fast  ? 

A  true  man,  or  a  thief,  that  gallops  so  ? 

Bir.  I  post  from  love  :  good  lover,  let  me  go. 

Enter  jaquenetta  and  costard. 

Jaq.  God  bless  the  king ! 

King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cos.  Some  certain  treason. 

King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Cos.  Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 


1  In  trimming  myself. 


scene  nr.         love's  labor's  lost.  279 

King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason,  and  you,  go  in  peace  away  together. 
Jaq.    I    beseech   your   grace,    let   this   letter   be 
read; 
Our  parson  misdoubts  it :  'twas  treason,  he  said. 

King.  Biron,  read  it  over.      [giving  him  the  letter. 
Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Jaq.  Of  Costard. 
King.  Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Cos.  Of  Dun  Adramadio,  Dun  Adramadio. 
King.  How  now  !  what  is  in  you  ?  why  dost  thou 

tear  it  ? 
Bir.  A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy;  your  grace  needs 

not  fear  it. 
Lon.  It  did  move  him  to  passion,  and  therefore 

let 's  hear  it. 
Bum.  It  is  Biron's  writing,  and  here  is  his  name. 

[picks  up  the  pieces. 
Bir.  Ah,  you  whoreson  loggerhead  !    [to  Costard.'] 
you  were  born  to  do  me  shame. — 
Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty ;  I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.   What? 

Bir.  That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me  fool  to  make 
upthe  mess : 
He,  he,  and  you,  and  you,  my  liege,  and  I, 
Are  pick-purses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
O,    dismiss    this    audience,    and   I    shall    tell   you 
more. 
Dum.  Now  the  number  is  even. 

"ir~  True,  true  ;  we  are  four ; 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone  ? 


280  love's  labor's  lost.  act  iv. 

King.  Hence,  sirs  ;  away. 

Cos.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the  traitors 
stay.  [Exeunt  Costard  and  Jaquenett a 

Bir.  Sweet  lords,   sweet  lovers,   O,   let  us    em- 
brace ! 
As  true  we  are,  as  flesh  and  blood  can  he  : 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face  ; 

Young  blood  doth  not  obey  an  old  decree : 
"We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born ; 
Therefore  of  all  hands  must  we  he  forsworn. 

King.  What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  some  love 

of  thine  ? 
Bir.  Did  they,  quoth  you  ?     Who  sees  the  hea- 
venly Rosaline, 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde, 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east, 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head  ;  and,  strucken  blind. 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  hrow, 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty  ? 

King.  What  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspired  thee 
now  ? 
My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon  ; 

She,  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 
Bir.  My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Biron  : 
O,  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night ! 
Of  all  complexions  the  cull'd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek , 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity ; 

Where  nothing  wants,  that  want  itself  doth  seek. 


SCENE    III.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  2S1 

Lend  me  the  florish  of  all  gentle  tongues  ; 

Fie,  painted  rhetoric  !     O,  she  needs  it  not : 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs  ; 

She  passes  praise  :  then  praise  too  short  djlh 
blot. 
A  wither'd  hermit,  five  score  winters  worn, 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye  : 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
O,  'tis  the  sun,  that  maketh  all  things  shine  ! 
King.  By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 
Bir.  Is  ebony  like  her  ?    O  wood  divine  ! 
A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
O,  who  can  give  an  oath  ?    where  is  a  book  ? 

That  I  may  swear,  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look  : 

No  face  is  fair,  that  is  not  full  so  black. 
King.  O  paradox  !    Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 
The    hue    of    dungeons,    and    the    scowl    of 
night ; 
And  beauty's  crest  becomes  the  heavens  well. 

Bir.  Devils  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits  of 
light. 
O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deck'd, 

It  mourns,  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair,1 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 


\  Alluding  to  the  fashion  then  prevalent,  of  wearing  false 
aair,  or  periwigs. 


282  LOVE  S    LABOR  's    LOST.  ACT    IV. 

Her  favor  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days, 

For  native  hlood  is  counted  painting  now; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 
Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 
Dum.  To  look  like    her,    are    chimney-sweepers 

black. 
Lon.  And,  since  her  time,   are   colliers   counted 

bright. 
King.  And    Ethiops   of   their   sweet   complexion 

crack. 
Dum.  Dark  needs  no  candles    now,  for  dark  is 

light. 
Bir.  Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain. 
For  fear  their  colors  should  be  wash'd  away. 
King.  'Twere   good,  yours  did ;  for,  sir,   to    tell 
you  plain, 
I  '11  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-day. 
Bir.  I  '11   prove  her   fair,    or  talk  till   doomsday 

here. 
King.  No   devil  will  fright   thee  then  so  much  as 

she. 
Dum.  I  never  knew  man  hold  vile  stuff  so  dear. 
Lon.  Look,   here 's  thy    love :    my   foot    and  her 
face  see.  [shotcing  his  shoe. 

Bir.   O,  if  the  streets  were  paved  with  thine  eyes, 
Her  feet  were  much  too  dainty  for  such  tread  ! 
Dum.   O  vile  !  then  as  she  goes,  what  upward  lies 
The  street  should  see  as  she  walk'd  over  head. 
King.  But  what  of  this  ?  Are  we  not  all  in  love  ? 
Bir.  O,    nothing    so    sure ;  and  thereby   all  for- 
sworn. 


SCENE  III.      LOVE'S  LABOR  *S  LOST.  28.'J 

King.    Then   leave  this   chat ;    and,   good  Biron, 
now  prove 
Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 

Dum.  Ay,  marry,  there ; — some   flattery  for  this 
evil. 

Lon.  O,  some  authority  how  to  proceed ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets,1  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 

Dum.  Some  salve  for  perjury. 

Bir.  O,  'tis  more  than  need ! — > 

Have  at  you  then,  affection's  men  at  arms  : 
Consider,  what  you  first  did  swear  unto ; — 
To  fast, — to  study, — and  to  see  no  woman  ; — 
Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 
Say,  can  you  fast  ?  your  stomachs  are  too  young. 
And  abstinence  engenders  maladies  : 
And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords. 
In  that  each  of  you  hath  forsworn  his  book. 
Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look  ? 
For  when  would  you,  my  lord,  or  you,  or  you, 
Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence, 
Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face  ? 
From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 
They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  academes, 
From  whence  doth  spring  the  true  Promethean  fire. 
Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 
The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries  ; 
As  motion,  and  long-during  action,  tires 
The  sinewy  vigor  of  the  traveller. 


'  Law  chicane. 


2S4  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  it. 

Now,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  face, 
You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  eyes, 
And  study  too,  the  causer  of  your  vow  : 
For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world, 
Teaches  such  beauty  as  a  woman's  eye  ?  ' 
Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself, 
And  where  we  are,  our  learning  likewise  is. 
Then,  when  ourselves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes, 
With  ourselves, 

Do  we  not  likewise  see  our  learning  there  ? 
O,  we  have  made  a  vow  to  study,  lords ; 
And  in  that  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  booke  : 
For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you. 
In  leaden  contemplation,  have  found  out 
Such  fiery  numbers,-  as  the  prompting  eyes 
Of  beauteous  tutors  have  enrich'd  you  with i 
Other  slow  arts  intirely  keep  the  brain ; 
And  therefore,  finding  barren  practisers, 
Scarce  show    a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil : 
But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 
Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain ; 
But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements, 
Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power  ; 
And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power, 
Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 
It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye  ; 
A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 


1  i.e.  a  lady's  eyes  give  a  fuller  notion  of  beauty  tlnn  any 
author.  z  Poetical  tire. 


scexe   in.  love's   labor's   LOST.  285 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd  : 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft  and  sensible 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  l  snails  ; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste  : 

For  valor,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides  ? 

Subtle  as  sphinx  ;  as  sweet  and  musical, 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair ; 

And,  when  Love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Make  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write, 

Until  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  love's  sighs : 

O.  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire ; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes, 

That  show,  contain,  and  norish  all  the  world ; 

Else,  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent : 

Then  fools  you  were,  these  women  to  forswear; 

Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  you  will  prove  fools. 

For  wisdom's  salve,  a  word  that  all  men  love; 

Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men ;  * 

Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women  ; 

Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  are  men ; 

Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths  to  find  ourselves, 

Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths : 


Inshelled.  2  That  is  pleasing  to  all  men. 


286  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  iv. 

It  is  religion,  to  be  thus  forsworn  : 

For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law  ; 

\nd  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? 

King.    Saint  Cupid,  then  !    and,  soldiers,   to  the 
field! 

Bir.    Advance    your  standards,    and  upon  them, 
lords  ; 
Pell-mell,  down  with  them  !  but  be  first  advised, 
In  conflict  that  you  get  the  sun  of  them. 

Lon.  Now  to  plain-dealing  ;  lay  these  glozes  by. 
Shall  we  resolve  to  woo  these  girls  of  France  ? 

King.    And   win    them    too  :    therefore    let    us 
devise 
Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Bir.    First,  from  the   park  let  us   conduct  them 
thither ; 
Then,  homeward,  every  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress  :  in  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them, 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours, 
Fore-run  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 

King.  Away,  away  !  no  time  shall  be  omitted, 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 

Bir.    Allons  !    allons  ! — Sow'd   cockle  reap'd  no 
corn;  * 

And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  measure : 


1  A  proverbial  expression,  intimating  that,  beginning  with 
perjury,  they  can  expect  to  reap  nothing  but  iulshood. 


SCENE    III.  LOVE  S    LABOR   8    LOST.  2S7 

Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men  forsworn  ; 
If  so,  our  copper  buys  no  better  treasure. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE    I. 

Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  holofernes,  sir  Nathaniel,  and  dull. 

Hoi.  Satis  quod  sufficit.1 

Sir  Nath.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir :  your  reasons  i 
at  dinner  have  been  sharp  and  sententious ;  pleasant 
without  scurrility,  witty  without  affection,3  audacious 
without  impudency,  learned  without  opinion,  and 
strange  without  heresy.  I  did  converse  this  quon- 
dam day  with  a  companion  of  the  king's,  who  is 
intituled,  nominated,  or  called  Don  Adriano  de 
Armado. 

Hoi.  Novi  hominem  tanquam  te :  his  humor  is 
lofty,  his  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue  fded,  bis 
eye  ambitious,  his  gait  majestical,  and  his  general 
behavior  vain,  ridiculous,  and  thrasonical.4  He  is 
too  picked,5  too  spruce,  too  affected,  too  cdd,  as  it 
were,  too  peregrinate,  as  I  may  call  it 

Sir  Nath.  A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[takes  out  his  table-book. 


1  Enough  is  as  good  as  a  fenst.  2  Discourse. 

3  Affectation.  ••Boastful.  5  Showy  in  his  dress. 


288  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  v. 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity 
finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhor  such 
fanatical  phantasms,  such  insociable  and  point- 
devise  x  companions ;  such  rackers  of  orthography, 
as  to  speak,  dout,  fine,  when  he  should  say  doubt ; 
det,  when  he  should  pronounce  debt ;  d,  e,  b,  t ; 
not,  d,  e,  t :  he  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf ;  half,  hauf ; 
neighbor  vocatur  nebor ;  neigh  abbreviated  ne.  This 
is  abhominable ;  (which  he  would  call  abominable) 
it  insinuateth  me  of  insanie  ;  Ne  intelligis  domini  ? 
to  make  frantic,  lunatic. 

Sir  Nath.  Laus  Deo,  bone  intelligo. 

Hoi.  Bone  ? — bone,  for  bene.  Priscian  a  little 
scratched ;  'twill  serve. 

Enter  armado,  moth,  and  costard. 

Hoi.   Videsne  quis  venit  ? 

Sir  Nath.   Video,  et  gaudeo. 

Arm.  Chirra !  [to  Moth. 

Hoi.  Quare  Chirra,  not  sirrah  ? 

Arm.  Men  of  peace,  well  encountered. 

Hoi.  Most  military  sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  lan- 
guages, and  stolen  the  scraps.  [to  Costard  aside. 

Cos.  O,  they  have  lived  long  in  the  alms-basket2 
of  words !  I  marvel,  thy  master  hath  not  eaten  thee 
for  a  word  ;  for  thou  art  not  so  long  by  the  head  as 


1  linical.  '  Refuse. 


•CEXA    I.  LOVE'S     LABOR  's     LOST.  283 

honorificabilitudinitatibus  :  thou  art  easier  swallowed 
than  a  flap-dragon.1 

Moth.  Peace  ;  the  peal  begins. 

Arm.  Monsieur,  [to  Hoi.}  are  you  not  lettered  ? 

Moth.  Yes,  yes  ;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn-book 
— What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backward  with  the  horn  01 
his  head  ? 

Hoi.  Ba,  pueritia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn.  You 
hear  his  learning. 

Hoi.   Quis,  qitis,  thou  consonant  ? 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you  repeat 
them ;  or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hoi.  I  will  repeat  them,  a,  e,  i. — 

Moth.  The  sheep  :  the  other  two  concludes  it ; 
0,  u. 

Arm.  Now,  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediterra- 
neum,  a  sweet  touch,  a  quick  venew  2  of  wit :  snip, 
snap,  quick  and  home ;  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect : 
true  wit. 

Moth.  Offered  by  a  child  to  an  old  man  ;  which 
is  wit-old. 

Hoi.  What  is  the  figure  ?  what  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.   Horns. 

Hoi.  Thou  disputest  like  an  infant :  go,  whip  thy 

PS- 
Moth.  Lend  me  vour  horn  to  make  one,  and  I 


1  A  small  inflammable  substance  swallowed  in  a  glass  of 
Wine.  2  A  smart  Lit. 


9IIAK.  (11. 


290  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

will  whip  about  your  infamy  circum  circa  ;  a  gig;  of 
a  cuckold's  horn  ! 

Cos.  An  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world,  thou 
shouldst  have  it  to  buy  gingerbread  :  hold,  there  is 
the  very  remuneration  I  had  of  thy  master,  thou  half- 
penny purse  of  wit,  thou  pigeon-egg  of  discretion. 
O,  an  the  heavens  were  so  pleased,  that  thou  wert 
but  my  bastard  !  what  a  joyful  father  wouldst  thou 
make  me  !  Go  to  ;  thou  hast  it  ad  dune/hill,  at  the 
fingers'  ends,  as  they  say. 

Hoi.   O,  I  smell  false  Latin ;   dunghill  for  unguem. 

Arm.  Arts-man,  proeambula ;  we  will  be  singled 
from  the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at 
the  charge-house  1  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ? 

Hoi.   Or,  mons,  the  hill. 

Arm.  At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain. 

Hoi.  I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure  and 
affection,  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her  pavilion 
'in  the  posteriors  of  this  day,  which  the  rude  mul- 
titude call  the  afternoon. 

Hoi.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous  sir, 
is  liable,  congruent,  and  measurable  for  the  after- 
noon :  the  word  is  well  culled,  chose ;  sweet  and 
apt,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  I  do  assure. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman  ;  and  my 
familiar,  I  do  assure  you,  very  gojd  friend. — For 
what  is  inward"  between  us,  let  it  pass  : — I  do  be- 


1  Free  school.  *  l,on6<1entiil. 


scene   i.  love's   labor's   LOs/.  291 

seech  thee,  remember  thy  courtesy :  ' — I  beseech 
thee,  apparel  thy  head  ;— and,  among  other  impor- 
tunate and  most  serious  designs, — and  of  Teat 
import  indeed,  too  ; — but  let  that  pass  : — for  I  must 
tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace  (by  the  world) 
sometime  to  lean  upon  my  poor  shoulder;  and  with 
his  royal  .finger,  thus,  dally  with  my  excrement,2 
with  my  mustachio  :  but,  sweet  heart,  let  that  pass. 
By  the  world,  I  recount  no  fable  :  some  certain 
special  honors  it  pleaseth  his  greatness  to  impart  to 
Armado,  a  soldier,  a  man  of  travel,  that  hath  seen 
the  world  :  but  let  that  pass.— The  very  all  of  all  is, 
— but,  sweet  heart,  I  do  implore  secresy, — that  the 
king  would  have  me  present  the  princess,  sweet 
chuck,3  with  some  delightful  ostentation,  or  show, 
or  pageant,  or  antic,  or  fire-work.  Now,  under- 
standing that  the  curate  and  your  sweet  self  are 
good  at  such  eruptions,  and  sudden  breaking  out 
of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  acquainted  you  withal, 
to  the  end  to  crave  your  assistance. 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  nine 
worthies. — Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some  enter- 
tainment of  time,  some  show  in  the  posterior  of  this 
day,  to  be  rendered  by  our  assistance, — the  king's 
command,  and  this  most  gallant,  illustrate,  and 
learned  gentleman, — before  the  princess;  I  say, 
none  so  fit  as  to  present  the  nine  worthies. 


1  Remember  that  thou  art  standing  with  thy  hat  off. 
Heard.  3  Chicken  :  an  ancient  term  of  endenrmeut. 


292  LOVE'S    URdR   *S    LOST.  ACT    V. 

Sir  Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy 
enough  to  present  them  ? 

Hoi.  Joshua,  yourself;  myself,  or  this  gailant 
gentleman,  Judas  Maccaha?us ;  this  swain,  because 
of  his  great  limb  or  joint,  shall  pass  Pompey  the 
great  ;  the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.  Pardon,  sir,  error :  he  is  not  quantity 
enough  for  that  worthy's  thumb  :  he  is  not  so  big 
as  the  end  of  his  club. 

Hoi.  Shall  I  have  audience  ?  he  shall  present  Her- 
cules in  minority  :  his  enter  and  exit  shall  be  stran- 
gling a  snake  ;  and  I  will  have  an  apology  for  that 
purpose. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device  !  so,  if  any  of  the  au- 
dience hiss,  you  may  cry,  '  Well  done,  Hercules ! 
now  thou  crushest  the  snake  !  '  That  is  the  way  to 
make  an  offence  gracious ; 1  though  few  have  the 
grace  to  do  it. 

Arm.  For  the  rest  of  the  worthies  ? 

Hoi.  I  will  play  three  myself. 

T'oth.  Thrice-worthy  gentleman! 

Arm.   Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing  ? 

Hoi.  We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge  2  not,  an  antic. 
I  beseech  you,  follow. 

Hoi.  Via*  goodman  Dull  !  thou  hast  spoken  no 
word  all  this  while. 


•  To  convert  ;in  offence  ;ig;iinst  yourselves   into  a  dramatic 
ropriety.  2  Suit  *  Courage. 


BCHNE    II.  LOVE  S     LABOR  's    LOST.  203 

Dull.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 

Hoi.  Allans !  we  will  employ  thee. 

Dull.  I  '11  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so  ;  or  I  will 
play  on  the  tabor  to  the  worthies,  and  let  them 
dance  the  hay. 

Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull,  to  our  sport,  away. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Another  part  of  the  same.     Before  the  Princess's 
pavilion. 

Enter  the  princess,  Katharine,  rosaline,  and 

MARIA. 

Prin.  Sweet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we  de- 
part, 
If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in  . 
A  lady  wall'd  about  with  diamonds  ! — 
Look  you,  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 

Pos.  Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that? 
Prin.  Nothing  but   this  ?  yes,    as   much    love  in 
rhyme. 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides,  the  leaf,  margent,  and  all ; 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 

Ros.  That  was    the   way  to    make   his   godhead 
wax  ;  * 
For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 


(jrcnv, 


294  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

Kulh.  Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 
Ros.  You  '11  ne'er  be  friends  with  him ;  he  kill'd 

your  sister. 
Kath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy  ; 
And  so  she  died  :   had  she  been  light,  like  you, 
Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit, 
She  might  have  been  a  grandam  ere  she  died  : 
And  so  may  you  ;   for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 

Ros.  What 's  your  dark  meaning,  mouse,1  of  this 

light  word  ? 
Kath.  A  light  condition  in  a  beauty-  dark. 
Ros.  We   need  more  light  to  find  your  mearing 

out. 
Kath.    You  '11    mar    the   light,    by    taking    it    in 

snuff;  2 
Therefore  I  '11  darkly  end  the  argument. 

Ros.   Look,  what  you   do,  you  do   it  still    i'  the 

dark. 
Kath.   So  do  not  you  ;  for  you  are  a  light  wench. 
Ros.   Indeed,   I    weigh    not    you;    and    therefore 

light. 
Kath.   You  weigh  me   not! — O,   that's  you  care 

not  for  me. 
Ros.   Great  reason;    for,   Past  cure  is    still    past 

care. 
Vrin.    Well    bandied    both ;     a    set    of   wit    well 

play'd. 


1  'This  won]  was  formerly  u  term  of  endearment. 

3  In  anger. 


SCP.NE    II.  LOVE  S    LABOR    S    LOST.  295 

But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favor  too  : 
Who  sent  it  ?  and  what  is  it  ? 

Bos.  I  would,  you  knew. 

An  if  my  face  were  hut  as  fair  as  yours, 
My  favor  were  as  great ;  he  witness  thi9. 
Nay,  I  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron  : 
The  numbers  true  ;  and,  wer*  the  numbering  too. 
I  were  the  fairest  goddess  on  the  ground  : 
I  am  compared  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 
O,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter! 

Prin.   Any  thing  like  ? 

Bos.  Much  in  the  letters,  nothing  in  the  praise. 

Prin.   Beauteous  as  ink  ;   a  good  conclusion. 

Kath.   Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 

Bos.  'Ware  pencils  !    How  ?  let  me  not  die  your 
debtor, 
My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter. 
O,  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  Os  !  ' 

Kath.    A   pox  of   that  jest !     and  I  beshrew  an 
shrows ! 

Prin.  But,  Katharine,  what  was  sent  to  you  frori 
fair  Dumain  ? 

Kath.  Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  /ou  twain  } 

Kath.   Yes,  madam  ;  and  moreover, 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover : 
A  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy : 
Vilely  compiled,  profound  simplicity'. 


1  Marks  of  the  small  pox. 


296  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v 

Mar.  This,   and  these  pearls,  to  me  sent  Longa- 
ville  : 
The  letter  is  too  long  hy  half  a  mile. 

Prin.  I   think  no    less.     Dost   thou  not  wish  in 
heart, 
The  chain  were  longer,  and  the  letter  short  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  or  I  would  these  hands  might  never  part. 

Prin.  We  are  wise  girls,  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 

Rop.  They  are  worse  fools,  to  purchase  mocking  so 
That  same  Biron  I  '11  torture  ere  I  go. 
O,  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week  !  • 
Hew  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg,  and  seek ; 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes ; 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  behests  ; l 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests !  s 
So  portent-like  would  I  o'ersway  his  state, 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Prin.  None  are  so   surely  caught,  when  they  are 
catch'd, 
As  wit  turn'd  fool :  folly,  in  wisdom  hatch'd, 
Hatli  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school ; 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Ros.  The  blood  of  youth  burns  not  with  sucn  ex- 
cess, 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 


1  '  1  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  liis  service  for  any  time  limited 
as  if!  lind  hired  him.' — Steevens.  *  Commands. 

3  I  would  make  him  proud  to  flatter  me,  who  make  a  mock 
of  his  flattery. 


scfc.vE  ii.  love's  labor  's  lost.  297 

Mar.   Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  strong  a  note, 
As  foolery  in  the  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote ; 
Since  all  the  power  thereof  it  doth  apply, 
To  prove,  by  wit,  worth  in  simplicity. 

Enter  boyet. 

Prin.    Here   comes    Boyet,  and   mirth    is    in    hia 
face. 

Boy.  O,  I  am  stabb'd  with  laughter !    Where  's 
her  grace  ? 

Prin.  Thy  news,  Boyet  ? 

Boy.  Tiepare,  madam,  prepare! — 

Arm,  wenches,  arm !  encounters  mounted  are 
Against  your  peace.     Love  doth  approach  disguised, 
Armed  in  arguments  :  you  '11  be  surprised  : 
Muster  your  wits  ;  stand  in  your  own  defence  ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.  Saint   Denis    to   Saint    Cupid !     What  are 
they, 
That  charge  their  breath  against  us  ?  say,  scout,  say. 

Boy.  Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  sycamore, 
I  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour ; 
When,  lo  !   to  interrupt  my  purposed  rest, 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behold  address'd 
The  king  and  his  companions  :  warily 
I  stole  into  a  neighbor  thicket  by, 
And  overheard  what  y<k»  shall  overhear; 
That,  by  and  by,  disguised  they  will  be  here. 
Their  herald  is  a  pretty  knavish  page, 
That  well  by  heart  hath  conn'd  his  embassage  t 


298  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

Action  and  accent  did  they  teach  him  there  • 

'  Thus  must  thou  speak,  and  thus  thy  hody  hear  :  * 

And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt, 

Presence  majestical  would  put  him  out ; 

'  For,'  quoth  the  king,  '  an  angel  shalt  thou  see : 

Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously.' 

The  boy  replied,  '  An  angel  is  not  evil  : 

I  should  have  fear'd  her,  had  she  been  a  devil.' 

With    that    all    laugh'd,    and    clapp'd    him    on    f.he 

shoulder, 
Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 
One  rubb'd  his  elbow,  thus  ;  and  fleer'd,  and  swore, 
A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before  : 
Another,  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
Cried,  '  Via  !  we  will  do  't,  come  what  will  come  :  ' 
The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried,  '  All  goes  well  :  ' 
The  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell. 
With  that,  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 
With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound, 
That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  1  appears, 
To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 

Prin.  But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  U5  ? 

Boy.  They  do,  they  do;  and  are  apparel'd  thus — ■ 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians  :   as  I  guess. 
Their  purpose  i.s  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance : 
And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress,  which  they  '11  know 
By  favors  several,  which  they  did  bestow. 


1  This  ridiculous  fit  of  laujjbter. 


■ 
- 


Starting-  s 


scene   ii.  love's   labor  's   LOST.  299 

Prin.  And   will  they  so  ?    the  gallants    shall    be 
task'd  : — 
For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  mask'd  ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face. — 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favor  thou  shalt  wear  ; 
And  then  the  king  will  court  thee  for  his  dear  : 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me  thine  ; 
So  shall  Riron  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  you  favors  too ;  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceived  by  these  removes. 

Ros.    Come   on   then ;   wear   the  favors    most  in 
sight. 

Kath.  Rut,  in  this  changing,  what  is  your  intent  ? 

Prin.  The  effect  of  my  intent  is,  to  cross  theirs : 
They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment ; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 
To  loves  mistook ;   and  .jo  be  mock'd  withal, 
Upon  the  next  occasion  that  we  meet, 
With  visages  display'd,  to  talk  and  greet. 

Ros.  Rut  shall  we  dance  if  they  desire  us  to  't  ? 

Prin.  No  ;   to    the  death,    we    will    not    move  a 
foot ; 
Nor  to  their  penn'd  speech  render  we  no  grace ; 
Rut,  while  'tis  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Bay.   Why,  that  contempt  will   kill  the  speaker's 
heart, 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.  Therefore  I  do  it ;  and  I  make  no  doubt. 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in,  if  he  be  out. 


300  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

There  *s  no  sucli  sport,  as  sport  by  sport  o'erthrown  ; 
To  make  theirs  oars,  and  ours  none  but  our  own : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game ; 
And  they,  well  mock'd,  depart  away  with  shame. 

[trumpets  sound  within. 

Boy.    The    trumpet     sounds :    be    mask'd ;    the 

maskers  come.  [the  ladies  mask. 

Enter  the  king,  biron,  longaville,  and  dumain,  in 
Russian  habits,  and  masked ;  moth,  Musicians,  and 
Attendants. 

Moth.     '  All    hail,    the    richest   beauties    on    the 

earth  !  ' 
Boy.   Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  taffeta.1 
Moth.  '  A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames, 

[the  ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  ever  turn'd  their — backs — to  mortal  views  !  ' 
Bir.   '  Their  eyes,'  villain,  '  their  eyes.' 
Moth.  'That   ever   turn'd    their    eyes    to    mortal 
views ! 
Out  '— 

Boy.  True  ;  '  out,'  indeed. 

Moth.    '  Out    of   your    favors,    heavenly    spirit*, 
vouchsafe 
Not  to  behold  ' — 

Bir.  '  Once  to  behold,'  rogue. 


»    The   taffeta  masks  which   they  wore   to   conceal   th*iu- 
gel res. 


SCENE    II.  LOVE'S   LABOR  's    LOST.  301 

Moth.   'Once  to   behold    with    your    sun-beamed 
eyes, 

■ with  your  sun-beamed  eyes.' 

Boy.  They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet  • 
You  were  best  call  it,  daughter-beamed  eyes. ' 

Moth.  They  do  not  mark  me,  and  that  brings  me 

out. 
Bjr.  Is  this  yourperfectness  ?  be  gone,  you  rogue. 
Ros.  What  would    these  strangers?    know  their 
minds,  Boyet : 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes  : 
Know  what  they  would. 

Boy.  What  would  you  with  the  princess  ? 
Bir.  Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 
Ros.  What  would  they,  say  they  ? 
Boy.  Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation 
Ros.  Why,  that  they  have  ;  and  bid  them  so  be 
gone. 

Boy.   She    says,    you    have    it,    and  you  may  be 

gone. 
King.   Say  to  her,  we  have  measured  many  miles 
To  tread  a  measure  *  with  her  on  this  grass. 

Boy.  They  say,  that  they  have  measured  many  a 
mile, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Ros.   It  is  not  so  :  ask  them,  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile  :  if  they  have  measured  many, 


1  A  slow  and  solemn  dance. 


302  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

The  measure  then  of  one  is  easily  told. 

Boy.  If,  to  come  liitlier  you  have  measured  miles. 
And  many  miles  ;  the  princess  hids  you  tell, 
How  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile. 

Bit.  Tell  her,  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 

Boy.   She  hears  herself. 

Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile  ? 

Bir.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you : 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  account. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face, 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Bos.  My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  too. 

King.   Blessed  are  clouds,  to  do  as  such  clouds  do ! 
Vouchsafe,    bright   moon,    and    these  thy   starsv   to 

shine 
(Those  clouds  removed)  upon  our  water}7  eyrie. 

Ros.   0  vain  petitioner  !  beg  a  greater  matter  : 
Thou  now  request'st  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 

King.  Then,   in  our  measure  vouchsafe  but  one 
change : 
Thou  bid'st  me  beg ;  this  begging  is  not  strange. 

Ros.  Play,    music,    then :    nay,    you   must    do    it 

soon.  [music  ploys. 

Not  yet; — no  dance  : — thus  change  I  like  the  moon. 

King.  Will  you  not  dance  ?    How   come  you  thus 
estranged  ? 

Ros.  You  took  the  moon  at  full ;  but  now  she '» 
changed. 


SCENE    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  003 

King.   Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  music  plays ;  Vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 
Jtos.   Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  d>  it. 

Ros.   Since  you  are  strangers,  and  come  here  by 
chance, 
We  '11  not  he  nice:  take  hands ; — we  will  not  dance. 
King.  Why  take  we  hands  then  ? 
Ros.  Only  to  part  friends  : — - 

Courtesy,  sweet  hearts ;  and  so  the  measure  ends. 
King.  More  measure  of  this  measure  ;  he  not  nice. 
Ros.   We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  3  price. 
King.    Prize  you  yourselves.     What    huys    your 

company  ? 
Ros.  Your  absence  only. 
King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.  Then  cannot  we  be  bought  ;  and  so  adieu  ; 
Twice  to  your  visor,  and  half  once  to  you ! 
King.    If   you   deny   to    dance,   let 's    hold  more 

chat. 
Ros.  In  private  then. 
King.  I  am  best  pleased  with  that. 

[they  converse  apart. 
Bir.  White-handed  mistress,  one  sweet  word  with 

thee. 
Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar ;  there  is  three. 
Bir.    Nay  then,   two  treys,   (an   if  you  grow  so 
nice) 
vletheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey. — Well  run,  dice ! 
.There  's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 
Prin.  Seventh  swee*  adieu! 


304  love's  labor  *s  lost.  act  v. 

Since  you  can  cog,1  I  '11  play  nD  more  with  you. 
Bir.  One  word  in  secret. 
Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Bir.  Thou  grievest  my  gall. 
Prin.  Gall?  bitter. 

Bir.  Therefore  meet. 

[they  converse  apart. 
Dum.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a 

word  ? 
Mar.  Name  it. 
Dum.  Fair  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  ?  Fair  lord, — 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

Dum.  Please  it  you, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I  '11  bid  adieu. 

[they  converse  apart. 
Kath.    What,   was   your   visor   made   without   a 

tongue  ? 
Lon.  I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 
Kath.   O,  for  your  reason!  quickly,  sir;   I  long. 
Lon.    You    have    a   double    tongue   within    your 
mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half. 

Kath.  Veal,  quoth  the  Dutchman. — Is  not  veal  & 

calf? 
Lon.  A  calf,  fair  lady  ? 
Kath.  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Lon.   Let 's  part  the  word. 


1  Deceive.  lie. 


*CSSK    II.  x.ove'8    tABOE  -s    LQST  gos 

m  i       it        ,  No'  J  ]1  not  be  your  half- 

1  ake  all   and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox  " 

Lon.  Look   how  you  butt  yourself  in   these  sharp 
mocks !  l 

Wm  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady  ?  do  not  so 

Kath.  Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do  grow 
Lon  One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die.  ' 
Kath.  Bleat  softly  then;  the  butcher  hears  you 

Km,    ThJl  ,  ^fcy  converse  apart. 

Boy    The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  as  keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
tutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  be  seen  • 
Above  the  sense  of  sense :  so  sensible 
Seemeth  their  conference ;  their  conceits  have  wings 
Fleeter  than  arrows,  bullets,  wind,   thought,  swifS 
things. 

Bos.  Not  one  word  more,  my  maids  :  break  off 

break  off. 
Bir.  By  heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with  pure  scoff' 
Kzng.  Farewell,  mad  wenches  :  you  have  simp'e 

wits.  l 

[Ep2ntTin9l  LOrJS'  M°th>  MuSiC'  and  ^ndants. 
frin.  Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites—         . 
Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wonder'd  at  ? 

Boy.  Tapers  they  are,   with   your  sweet  breaths 
puff  d  out. 

*os.    Well  liking  wits  they  have;  gross,  gros, 
fat,  fat.  ° 

Wmll'   °  P°VT.y  ^  Wit'  ^^-Poor  flout ! 
Will  they  not  think  you,  hang  themselves  to-night? 
Ur  ever,  but  in  visors,  show  their  faces  ? 


»HAK-  in 


306  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

This  pert  Biron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 

Ros.   O,  they  were  all  in  lamentable  cases ! 
The  king  was  weeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 

Prin.  Biron  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 

Mar.  Dumain  was  at  my  service,  and  his  sword  : 
No  point,1  quoth  I  :  my  servant  straight  was  mute. 

Kath.  Lord  Longaville  said,  I  came  o'er  his  heart; 
And  trow  you,  what  he  call'd  me  ? 

Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.  Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.  Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain   statute- 
caps.2 
But  will  you  hear  ?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Prin.  And  quick  Biron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 

Kath.  And  Longaville  was  for  my  service  born. 

Mar.  Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on  tree. 

Boy.  Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear  : 
Immediately  they  will  again  be  here 
In  their  own  shapes  ;  for  it  can  never  be, 
They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

Prin.  Will  they  return  ? 

Boy.  They  will,  they  will,  God  knows  ; 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows: 
Therefore,  change  favors ;  and,  when  they  repair, 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.   How  blow  ?  how  blow  ?  speak  to  be  under- 
stood. 


1   A  quibble  on  the  French  adverb  of  negation. 
*  Better  wits  may  be  found  among  the  citizens. 


SCENE    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S     LOST.  3.)7 

Boy.  Fair  ladies,  mask'd,  are  roses  in  their  bud  : 
Dismask'd,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 
Are  angels  vailing  clouds,1  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.  Avaunt,  perplexity  !   What  shall  we  do, 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo  ? 

Ros.   Good  madam,  if  by  me  you  '11  be  advised, 
Let 's  mock  them  still,  as  well  known  as  disguised : 
Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguised  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear ; 
And  wonder  what  they  were  ;  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vilely  penn'd  ; 
And  their  rough  carriage  so  ridiculous, 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

Boy.   Ladies,  withdraw  ;    the  gallants  are  at  hand. 

Prin.  Whip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land. 

[Exeunt  Princess,  Ros.  Kath.  and  Maria. 

Enter  the  kixg,  birov,  lo.vgaville,   and  dtjmain  in 
their  proper  habits. 

Kino.     Fair   sir,    God  save   you  !     Where   is   the 

princess  ? 
Boy.   Gone  to  her  tent.      Please  it  vour  majesty, 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither  ? 

King.  That  she   vouchsafe    me   audience   for   one 

word. 
Boy.   I  will;  ana  so  wiil  she,  1  know,  my  lord. 

[Exit. 


'  '  Lettine  those   clouds,  which   obscured   their  brightness, 
sink  troii  before  them.' — Johnson. 


308  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

Bir.  This  fellow  pecks  up  wit,  as  pigeons  peas, 
And  utters  it  again  when  Jove  doth  please  : 
He  is  wit's  pedler  ;  and  retails  his  wares 
At  wakes  and  wassels,1  meetings,  markets,  fairs ; 
And  we  that  sell  hy  gross,  the  Lord  doth  know, 
Have  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  his  sleeve : 
Had  he  heen  Adam,  he  had  tempted  Eve. 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp.     "Why,  this  is  he, 
That  kiss'd  away  his  hand  in  courtesy : 
This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 
That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honorable  terms ;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean2  most  meanly;  and,  in  ushering, 
Mend  him  who  can  :   the  ladies  call  him,  sweet} 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet: 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one, 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whales  bone  ;  s 
And  consciences,  that  will  not  die  in  debt, 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 

King.    A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue, 
heart, 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  part  * 


1  Rustic  merry  meetings. 

4  '1  he  tenor  in  music. 

•  The  tooth  of  the  hcrse  whale,  or  w  ulru* 


*cE*k  rr.  LOVk'.  labor's   lost.  30g 

Enter  the  PRiNOESS,    ushered  by  boyet ;    R0S,VLINE 
maria.  Katharine,  and  Attendants. 

Sir.  See  where  it  eomes  !-Beliavior,   what  wert 
thou, 

Till   this    man  show'd    thee  ?    and    what   art    thou 
now  ? 
King.  AlUiail,   sweet  madam,   and  fair  time  of 

Prm.  Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 
fr?n  •  ^onstrue^7  seeches  better,  if  you  may. 

kZ   wT  me.better ;  *  Will^ve  y°u  kale. 

King    We  came  to  visit  you,  and  purpose  now 

lo  lead  you  to  our  court :  vouchsafe  it  then 

Prm.  This  field  shall  hold  me;  and  so  hold  your 


Nor  God  nor  I  delight  in  perjured  men. 
King.  Rebuke   me  not  for  that  which  you  pro 
voke ;  '        *"a 

PrlhG  V rtUG  ^  y°Ur  "^  mUSt  ^^  m?  0ath- 
Pnn.    You   ruck-name   virtue:    vice   you   should 

have  spoke ; 

For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth 
Now,  by  my  maiden  honor,  yet  as  pure 

As  the  unsullied  lily,  I  protest, 
A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure 

I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest : 
bo  much  I  hate  a  breaking  cause  to  be 
Ot  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integrity 
King.  O,  you  have  lived  in  desolation  here 

Unseen,  unvisited,  much  to  our  shame.   ' 


310  r*  love's  labor's  lost.  aci  v. 

Prin.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear : 
We    have    had     pastimes    here,    and    pleasant 
game. 
A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 

King.  How,  madam  ?  Russians  ? 

Prin.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord. 

Trim  gallants,  full  of  courtship  and  of  stale. 

Ros.   Madam,  speak  true. — It  is  not  so,  my  lord  : 
My  lady,  (to  the  manner  of  the  days)  l 
In  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 
We  four,  indeed,  confronted  were  with  four 
In  Russian  habit :  here  they  stay'd  an  hour, 
And  talk'd  apace ;   and  in  that  hour,  my  lord, 
They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 
I  dare  not  call  them  fools,  but  this  I  think ; 
When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have  drink. 

Bir.  This  jest  is  dry  to  me. — My  gentle  sweet, 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish  :  when  we  greet 
With  eyes  best  seeing  heaven's  fiery  eye, 
By  light  we  lose  light.      Your  capacity 
Is  of  that  nature,  that  to  your  huge  store 
Wise     things    seem    foolish,    and    rich    things    but 
poor. 

Ros.  This  proves  you  wise   and   rich  ;  for  in   wj 
eye, — 

Bir.  I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 

Ros.  But  that  you  take  what  doth  to  you  belong 
It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 


According  to  the  fashion  of  the  timos. 


SCEN'E    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  311 

Bir.  O,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 

Ros.  All  the  fool  mine  ? 

Bir.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Ros.    Which     of    the    visors    was    it,     that    you 

■wore  ? 
Bir.  Where  ?  when  ?    what  visor  ?   why   demand 

you  this  ? 
Ros.  There,    then,    that  visor ;    that    superfluous 

case, 
That  hid  the  worse,  and  show'd  the  better  face. 
King.    We   are    descried  :  they  '11    mock  us  now 

downright. 
Dum.  Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 
Prin.  Amazed,  my  lord  ?  Why  looks  your  high 

ness  sad  ? 
Res.  Help,  hold  his  brows  :  he  '11'  swoon  !    Why 

look  you  pale  ? — 
Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 

Bir.  Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for  per- 
jury- 
Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out  ? — 

Here  stand  I,  )ady  ;  dart  thy  skill  at  me  ; 

Bruise    me  with    scorn,  confound    me   with   a 
flout ; 
Thrust  thy  sharp  wit  quite  through  my  ignorance  ; 

Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit ; 
And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance, 

Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  wait. 
O  !  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn'd, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  school-boy's  tongue  ; 


312  love's  labor  s  lost.  act  v. 

Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend ;  l 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song : 
Taffeta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-piled  hyperboles,  spruce  affection,* 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation. 
I  do  forswear  them  :  and  I  here  protest 

By  this  white  glove,  (how  white  the  hand,  God 
knows !) 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes : 
And,  to  begin,  wench, — so  God  help  me,  la ! — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 
Eos.  Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 
Bir.  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  the  old  rage  : — bear  with  me  ;  I  am  sick  : 
I  'il  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft,  let  us  see  ; — 
Write,  '  Lord  have  mercy  onus!'3  on  those  three. 
They  are  infected  ;  in  their  hearts  it  lies  ; 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  eyes  : 
These  lords  are  visited  ;  you  are  not  free, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Prin,  No,  they  are  free,  that  gave  these  tokens 

to  us. 
Bir.  Our  states  are  forfeit;    seek   not   to  undo 

UB. 


'  Mistress.  ■  Affectation. 

3  In  allusion  to  the  inscription  set  on  houses  infected  with 
the  phigue. 


SCF.XE     n.  LOVB's    LABOR'S    LOST.  313 

Ros.   It  is  not  so ;  for  how  can  this  he  true 
I  hat  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue  ?  1 
Mr.  Peace  ;  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 
Ros.  Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 
Bir.  Speak  for  yourselves  ;  my  wit  is  at  an  end. 
Ktng.  Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our  rude  trans- 
gression 
Some  fair  excuse. 

?rm.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here,  but  even  now,  disguised? 
King.  Madam,  I  was. 

Jm'   .  „  And  were  you  well  advised  ? 

JLmg.  1  was,  fair  madam. 

ttu  Ti-j  When  you  then  were  here 

^  hat  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear  ? 

That  more  than  all  the  world  I  did  respect 

Prin.  When  she   shall   challenge    this,  you   will 
reject  her. 

King.  Upon  mine  honor,  no. 

Prin.  t> 

v  .,  -reace,  peace,  forbear  • 

Your  oath  „„oe  broke,  you  force  not  J  to  fo'rswJr  ■ 

Awy.    Desp.se  me,  when  I  break   this   oath   of 

minp 


wS    did  r  theref°re  kCeP  k  --Rosaline, 

What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 

Jios.  Madam,  he  swore  that  he  did  hold  me  dear 


1  Hot 


process!  *  ^  ^jf  t0  *!**»"  that  '^~—  *° 
■  Make  no  difficulty. 


ol4  LOVES    LABOR    S    LUST.  ACT    V. 

As  precious  eye-sight ;  and  did  value  me 
Above  this  world :  adding  thereto,  moreover. 
That  he  would  wed  me,  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.   God  give  thee  joy  of  him  !   the  noble  lord 
Most  honorably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.  What  mean  you,  madam  ?    By  my  life,  my 
troth, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath. 

Ros.  By  heaven,  you  did  ;  and  to  confirm  it  plain, 
You  gave  me  this  :  but  take  it,  sir,  again. 

King.  My  faith,  and  this,  the  princess  I  did  give  : 
1  knew  her  by  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.   Pardon  me,  sir ;  this  jewel  did  she  wear ; 
And  lord  Biron,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear. — 
What  ;  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again  ? 

Bir.  Neither  of  either;  I  remit  both  twain. — 
I  see  the  trick  on  't. — Here  was  a  consent,1 
(Knowing  aforehand  of  our  merriment) 
To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy : 
Some     carry-tale,    some     please-man,    some     slight 

zany,2 
Some    mumble-news,    some    trencher-knight,    some 

Dick,— 
That  smiles  his  cheek  in  jeers ;  and  knows  the  trick 
To  make  my  lady  laugh,  when  she  's  disposed. 
Told  our  intents  before  ;  which  once  disclosed. 
The  ladies  did  change  favors  ;  and  then  we, 
Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but-  the  sign  of  she. 


Conspiracy.  s  Buffoon. 


scene   ii.  love's  labor'"    i ost.  315 

Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror. 
We  are  again  forsworn  ;  in  will  and  error.1 
Much  upon  this  it  is  : — and  might  not  you 

[to  lioyet. 
Forestal  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 
Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire.* 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily  ? 
You  put  our  page  out :  go,  you  are  allow'd ; 3 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud. 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  ?  there  's  an  eye, 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boy.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  run. 

Bir.  Lo,   he   is  tilting  straight !     Peace ;    I    have 
done. 

Enter  costard. 

Welcome,  pure  wit  !   thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cos.   O  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know, 
Whether  the  three  worthies  shall  come  in,  or  no. 

Bir.  What,  are  there  but  three  ? 

Cos.  No,  sir ;  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Bir.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 


1  First  in  ""ill,  and  afterwards  in  error. 

*  Square,  ruie. 

*  You  may  say  what  you  will  ;  you  are  a  licensed  fo>J. 


316  love's  laboh's  lost,  act  v. 

Cos.  Not  so,  sir;  under  correction,  sir;   I  hope,  it 
is  not  so : 
You  cannot  beg  u?    sir,1  I  can  assure  you,  sir :  we 

know  what  we  know  : 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Bir.  Is  not  nine. 

Cos.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil 
it  doth  amount. 

Bir.  By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes  for  nine. 

Cos.  O  Lord,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should  get 
your  living  by  reckoning,  sir. 

Bir.  How  much  is  it  ? 

Cos.  O  Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the 
actors,  sir,  will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount: 
for  my  own  part,  I  am,  as  they  say,  but  to  parfect 
one  man, — ev'n  one  poor  man ;  Pompion  the  great, 
sir. 

Bir.  Art  thou  one  of  the  worthies  ? 

Cos.  It  pleased  them  to  think  me  worthy  of  Pom- 
pion the  great :  for  mine  own  part,  I  know  not  the 
degree  of  the  worthy ;  but  I  am  to  stand  for 
him. 

Bir.  Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cos.  We  will  turn  it  finely  off,  sir  ;  we  will  take 
some  care.  [Exit  Costard. 

King.  Biron,  they  will  shame  us  ;  let  them  not 
approach. 


1    'We  are   not  fools:  our  next  relations  cannot  beg  tb» 
wardship  of  our  persons  and  fortunes." — Johnson. 


scene  ir.  love's  labor's  lost.  317 

Bir.  We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord ;  and  'tis  some 
policy 

To  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's   and  Ins 
company. 
King.  I  say,  they  shall  not  come. 
Prin.  Nay,  my  good  lord,  let  me  o'er-rule  Vou 
now; 
That  sport  best  pleases,  that  doth  least  know  how  • 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  them  which  it  presents, 
Their  form  confounded  makes  most  form  in  mirth  • 
When  great  things  laboring  perish  in  their  birth.  ' 
Bir.  A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 

Enter  armado. 

Arm.  Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expense  of  thy 
royal  sweet  breath  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  words. 

[Armado  converses  with  the  King,  and  delivers 
him  a  paper. .] 

Prin.  Doth  this  man  serve  God  ? 

Bir.  Why  ask  you  ? 

Prin.  He  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God's  making. 

Arm.  That  *s  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey  mo- 
narch ;  for,  I  protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  exceeding 
fantastical ;  too,  too  vain  ;  too,  too  vain.  But  we 
Will  put  it,  as  they  say,  to  fortuna  delta  guerra.  I 
wish  you  the  peace  of  mind,  most  royal  couplement ! 

v~.  {Exit  Armado, 

King.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of  wor- 
thies.    He  presents   Hector   of   Troy;    the    swain, 


318  love's  labor's  lost.  aci  v. 

Pompey   the  threat ;   the  parish   curate,   Alexander ; 

Armado's  page,  Hercules  ;    the  pedant,  Judas  Ma- 

chaba?us. 

And    if    these     four  worthies    in    their    first    show 

thrive, 
These  four  will  change  habits,  and  present  the  other 
five. 

Bir.  There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 

King.  You  are  deceived  :   'tis  not  so. 

Bir.  The  pedant,  the   braggart,   the  hedge-priest, 
the  fool,  and  the  boy  : — 
Abate  a  throw   at  novum ;  x  and  the  whole  world 

again. 
Cannot    prick   out   five  such,  take  each   one  in  hi- 
vein. 
King.  The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she  comes 
amain.2 
[seats  brought  for  the  Kinq,  Princess,  8r,c. 

Pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies, 

Enter  costard  armed,  for  Pompey. 

Cos.   '  I  Pompey  am, ' 

Boy.  Von  lie  ;   you  are  not  he. 

Cos.  '  I  Pompey  am, ' 

Boy.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee.3 


1    A  tramp  nt  dice.  *   With  vigor. 

3  Alluding  to  the  old  hero'c  habits,  which  usually   had  a 
lion  or  leopard's  he;id  on  the  knees  and  shouldera 


SCENE    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR 'lb    LOST.  ii 1  D 

Bir.    Well  said,   old   mocker !    I    must   need?  be 
friends  with  thee. 

Cos.  '  I  Pompey  am,  Pompey  surnamed  the  big. — * 
Dum.  The  great. 

Cos.     It  is  great,   sir  ; — '  Pompey   surnamed    the 
great ; 
That  oft  in  field,  with  targe  and  shield,    did  make 

my  foe  to  sweat : 
And,  travelling  along  this  coast,  I  here  am  come  by 

chance  ; 
And  lay  my  arms  before  the  legs  of  this   sweet  lass 

of  France.' 
If  your  ladyship  would  say  '  Thanks,  Pompey,'  I  had 
done. 
Prin.   Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 
Cos.   'Tis  not  so  much  worth  ;  but,  I  hope,  I  was 
perfect  :   I  made  a  little  fault  in  '  great.' 

Bir.  My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey   proves  the 
best  worthy. 

r 

Enter  sir  Nathaniel  armed,  for  Alexander. 

Sir  Nath.  '  When  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  was  the 
world's  commander ; 

By  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  con- 
quering might : 
My  'scutcheon  plain  declares,  that  I  am  Alisander.' 

Boi/.    Your  nose   says,  no,   you   are  not ;    for  it 
stands  too  right. 

Bir.   Your  nose  smells,  no,   in  this,  most  tender- 
smelling  knight. 


320  love's  labor's  lost.  ajt  v. 

Prin.  The  conqueror  is  dismay'd.     Proceed,  good 
Alexander  ! 

Sir  Nath.  '  When  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  was  the 
world's  commander  ; —  ' 

Boy.  Most  true,  'tis  right ;  you  were  so,  Alisander. 

Bir.  Pompey  the  great, 

Cos.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Bir.  Take  away  the  conqueror ;  take  away  Ali- 
sander. 

Cos.  O,  sir,  [to  Sir  Nath.~\  you  have  overthrown 
Alisander  the  conqueror !  You  will  be  scraped  out  of 
the  painted  cloth  for  this  :  your  lion,  that  holds  his 
poll-axe  sitting  on  a  close-stool,  will  be  given  to 
A-jax  :  he  will  be  the  ninth  worthy.  A  conqueror, 
and  afeard  to  speak  !  run  away  for  shame,  Alisander. 
[Sir  Nath.  retires."]  There,  an  't  shall  please  you  :  a 
foolish  mild  man  ;  an  honest  man,  look  you,  and 
soon  dashed  !  He  is  a  marvellous  good  neighbor,  in 
sooth,  and  a  very  good  bowler  ;  but,  for  Alisander, 
alas,  you  see  how  'tis  ; — a  little  o'erparted.1 — But 
there  are  worthies  a  coming  will  speak  their  mind  in 
some  other  sort. 

Prin.  Stand  aside,  good  Pompey. 

Enter  holofernes  armed,  for  Judas,  and  moth 
armed,  for  Hercvlet. 

Hoi.  '  Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 
Whose  club  kill'd  Cerberus,  that  three-headed 
canus  ; 

1  The  part  allotted  to  him  in  this  piece  is  too  considerable. 


6CBXE    II.  LoVE's    LAIJOR  .^    LogT  ^ 

And   when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp, 

Quomam,  he  seemeth  in  minority. 
Ergo,  I  come  with  this  apology  '/— 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish. 

Hoi.  'Judas  I  am/-  [*■****. 

-Omw.   A  Judas ! 

Hoi.  Not  Iscariot,  sir. 

'Judas  I  am,  yclepedi  Machabams  ' 

Dum.  Judas  Machab.us  clipped,  is  plain  J«dttS. 
Juda^  trrJt0r-How    art   *°"   proved 

Hoi.  'Judas  I  am,' 

iW  The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 
tiol.    What  mean  you,  sir  ? 
Boy.  To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 
Hoi.  Begin,  sir;  you  are  my  elder 
Jr.    Well   followed:    Judas  was  "hanged  on   „ 

Hoi.   I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance 

*tr.   Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.   What  is  this  ? 

Boy.   A  cittern  2  head. 

Dum.  The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Bir.  A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Lon.  The  face  of  an  old  Roman  com,  scarce  seen.   - 

•Called.  'A  cittern  was  a  kind  of  harp. 

8"J,,l•  in.  x 


322  love's  labor  's  lost.  \ct  v. 

Boy.  The  pommel  of  Cresar's  falchion. 

Dum.  The  carved-bone  face  on  a  flask.1 

Bir.  St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Dum.   Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Bir.     Ay,     and    worn    in    the    cap    of    a    tooth- 
drawer  : 
And  now,  forward ;  for  we  have  put  thee   in   coun- 
tenance. 

lfol.   You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

Bir.   False;  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.   But  you  have  outfaced  them  all. 

Bir.   An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 

Boy.  Therefore,  as  he  is,  an  ass,  let  him  go. 
And   so  adieu,    sweet   .Jude  !     nay,    why   dost  thou 
stay  ? 

Dum.   For  the  latter  end  of  his  name. 

Bir.    For   the   ass   to   the  Jude ;    give  it  him : — 
Jud-as,  away. 

Hot.     This    is    not    generous,    not    gentle,     not 
humble. 

Boy.  A  light  for  monsieur  Judas  :  it  grows  dark ; 
he  may  stumble. 

prtn.  Alas,  poor  Machabseus,  how  hath  he  been 
baited  ! 

Enter  armado  armed,  for  Hector. 

Bir.   Hide  thy  head,  Achilles  ;  here  comes  Hector 
in  tsnjs. 


1  A  soldier's  i>o«der-liorn. 


SCENE     II.  LOVE*?     LABOR'S     LOST.  .'i_J'J 

Dum.  Though  my   mocks   come  home  hy  me,   I 
will  now  be  merry. 

King.    Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of  this. 

Boy.  But  is  this  Hector  ? 

Dum.   I  think,  Hector  was  not  so  clean- timbered. 

Lon.   His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 

Dum.   More  calf,  certain. 

Boy.   No ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Bir.  This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.   He  's  a  god    or   a  painter ;  for    he   makes 
faces. 

Arm.    '  The    armipotent    Mars,   of   lances 1    the 
almighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift,' — 

Dum.  A  gilt  nutmeg. 

Bir.  A  lemon. 

Lon.  Stuck  with  cloves. 

Dum.  No,  cloven. 

Arm.  Peace ! 
'  The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lance?  the  almighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  lii&u ; 
A    man    so   breathed,   that   certain  he   would  light 
yea, 
From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  flower,' — 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Lon.  That  columbine. 

Arm.  Sweet  lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 


1  i.  e.  of  luncemen 


324  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  v. 

Lon.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein  ;  for  it  runs 
against  Hector. 

Dum.  Ay,  and  Hector  's  a  greyhound. 

Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  and  rotten  ; 
sweet  chucks,  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried. 
When  he  breathed,  he  was  a  man — But  I  will  for- 
ward with  my  device.  Sweet  royalty,  [to  the  Prin- 
cess.']  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 

[Biron  whispers  Costard. 

Prin.   Speak,   brave    Hector ;    we    are    much   de- 
lighted. 

Arm.  I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

Boy.   Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Dum.  He  may  not  by  the  yard. 

Arm.   '  This  Hector  far  surmounted  Hannibal,' — 

Cos.  The  party  is  gone,  fellow  Hector ;  she  is 
gone  ;  she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.   What  meanest  thou  ? 

Cos.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan, 
the  poor  wench  is  cast  away :  she  's  quick ;  the 
child  brags  in  her  belly  already ;   'tis  yours. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  potentates  ? 
thou  shalt  die, 

Cos.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipped,  for  Jaque- 
netta  that  is  quick  by  him  ;  and  hanged,  for  Pompey 
that  is  dead  by  him. 

Dum.  Most  rare  Pompey  ! 

Boy.  Renowned  Pompey  ! 

Bir.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great  Pom- 
pey !     Pompey  the  huge  ! 

Dum.   Hector  trembles. 


Bir    Pompey  is  moved.-More  At»,J  more  Ates  » 
stir  them  on  !  stir  them  on  ! 

J>««.  Hector  will  challenge  him. 

Ar.  Ay,  if  he   have   no  more   man's   blood  in  ' 
belly  than  will  sup  a  flea.  wopttin   ., 

Arm    By -the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Bum    Room  for  the  incensed  worthies. 

i-os.   I  U  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  Most  resolute  Pompey  » 
JS/o«.  Maste,    to   me   take' vou   a  b„tt„„JloIe 
oi.  er.     Do  you   not  see,    Pompey  is  uncasi,,*  f„r 

££*'   Whatmean  —  ^uwinio^ot 

the^railelgrayn0tdenyit 

H-JrT*  bl°°ds'  l  both  ma-v  and  «BL 
-«*r.    What  reason  have  you  for  't  ? 

^m    The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  sliirt  ■  I 
go  woolward  *  for  penance.  * 


-  S;ti5a,i0"'    AtC  ™  the  goddess  of  discord. 
f  '•  With  woollen  next  the  skin. 


326  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  v. 

Boy.  True,  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome  for 
•want  of  linen  :  since  when,  I  '11  be  sworn,  he  wore 
none,  but  a  dish-clout  of  Jaquenetta's  ;  and  that  'a 
wears  next  his  heart,  for  a  favor. 

Enter  a  Messenger,  monsieur  mercade. 

Mer.   God  save  you,  madam  ! 

Prin.  Welcome,  Mercade  ; 
But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mer.   I  am  sorry,  madam  ;  for  the  news  I  bring 
Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.     The  king  your  father — 

Prin.  Dead,  for  my  life. 

Mer.  Even  so  ;  my  tale  is  told. 

Bir.   Worthies,  away  ;  the  scene  begins  to  cloud. 

Arm.  For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free  breath  : 
I  have  seen  the  day  of  wrong  through  the  little  hole 
of  discretion,1  and  I  will  right  myself  like  a  soldier. 

[Exeunt  Worthies. 

King.  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Prin.  Boyet,  prepare  ;   I  will  away  to-night. 

King.  Madam,  not  so  ;   I  do  beseech  you,  stay. 

Prin.     Prepare,    I    say. — I    thank    you,    gracious 
lords, 
For  all  your  fair  endeavors ;  and  entreat, 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe, 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse,  or  hide, 
The  liberal 2  opposition  of  our  spirits  : 


1  '  I  have  hitherto  looked  on  the  indignities  1  have  received 
with  the  eyes  of  discretion.' — Johnson.         2  Free  to  excess. 


SCEN'E    II.  LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST.  327 

If  over-boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  breath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it. — Farewell,  worthy  lord  ! 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  an  humble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd. 

King.  The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  form 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,1  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate : 
And  though  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince ; 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot, 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  it  purposed  ;  since,  to  wail  friends  lost, 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome,  profitable, 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.     I     understand    you    not ;     my    griefs    are 

double. 
Bir.   Honest  plain    words   best   pierce  the  ear  of 
grief; — 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time, 
Play'd    foul    play    with    our     oaths :    your    beauty. 

ladies, 
Hnth  much  deform'd  us,  fashioning  our  humor* 
Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents : 


1  At  the  moment  of  lus  parting. 


328  love's  labor  's  lost.  act  t. 

And  what  in  us  hath  seem'd  ridiculous, — 
As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains  ; 
All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain ; 
Form'd  by  the  eye,  and,  therefore,  like  the  eve. 
Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms. 
Varying  in  subjects  as  the  eye  doth  roll 
To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance  : 
Which  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes, 
Have  misbecomed  our  oaths  and  gravities, 
Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults. 
Suggested  l  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies, 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  make* 
Is  likewise  yours  :  we  to  ourselves  prove  false, 
By  being  once  false  for  ever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both, — fair  ladies,  you : 
And  even  that  falshood,  in  itself  a  sin, 
Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 

Prin.  We  have  received  your  letters,  full  of  love  ; 
Your  favors,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 
And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 
At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy, 
As  bombast,  and  as  lining  to  the  time  :  2 
But  more  devout  than  this,  in  our  respects, 
Have  we  not  been  ;  and  therefore  met  Arour  loves 


1  Tempted. 

9  'As  something  to  fill  out  life,  which  not  being  closely 
united  with  it,  may  be  thrown  away  at  pleasure.  Bombast 
was  a  kind  of"  loose  texture,  not  unlike  what  is  now  called 
wadding.' — Johnson. 


love's  labor  's  lost.  32u 

In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment 

Dum.     Our  letters,  madam,  show'd    much    more 

than  jest. 
Lon.  So  did  our  looks. 

*»■  We  did  not  quote  ■  them  so. 

King.   Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour 
Ixrant  us  your  loves. 

Prm.  A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

To  make  a  world -without- end  bargain  in 
No   no   my  lord  ;  your  grace  is  perjured  much. 
*ull  of  dear  gudtiness  ;  and,  therefore,  this  •- 
It  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
Yon  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me  • 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 
lo  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage, 
Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world  • 
There  stay,  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs  ' 
Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning 
If  this  austere,  insociable  life 
Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood  • 
If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds  * 
Wip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love 
But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  3  love'; 
Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year, 
Come,  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts  • 
And,  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  thine 
I  will  be  thine ;  and,  till  that  instant,  shut  ' 
My  woful  self  up  in  a  mourning  house; 


Reckon.  .  Clothing.  ,  Contb.e. 


330  love's  labor's   lost.  act  v. 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation, 
For  the  rememhrance  of  my  father's  death. 
If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  our  hands  part ; 
Neither  entitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

King.   If  this,  or  more  than  this,  I  would  deny. 
To  flatter  up  these  powers  of  mine  with  rest, 
The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye  ! 
Hence  ever  then  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Bir.   And  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  and  what  to  me  ? 

Ros.    You  must  be  purged  too  ;    your  sins   are 
rank ; 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury  : 
Therefore,  if  you  my  favor  mean  to  get, 
A  twelvemonth  shall  you  spend,  and  never  rest, 
But  seek  the  weary  beds  of  people  sick. 

Dum.    But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what  to 
me  ? 

Kath.    A  wife ! — A  beard,   fair  health,   and  ho- 
nesty ; 
With  three-fold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 

Dum.   O,  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.  Not  so,   my  lord  : — a  twelvemonth  and  a 
day 
I  '11  mark  no  words  that  smooth-faced  wooers  say. 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come  ; 
Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I  '11  give  you  some. 

Dum.  I  '11  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn  again. 

Lou.  What  says  Maria? 

Mar,  At  the  twelvemonth's  end, 

I  11  change  my  black  gn\n  for  a  faithful  friend. 


SCENE    II.  love's    LABOR'S    LOST.  331 

Lon.    I'll  stay   with  patience;    but   the   time    i8 
long. 

Mar    The  liker  you  :  few  taller  are  so  young 

R  fS  f'Udi?Sjm5r  Ia^?  Stress,  look  on  me]' 
Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eve  ; 
W  hat  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there  • 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love 

Ros.   Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  lord  Biron, 

Before  I  saw  you;  and  the  world's  large  tongue 

Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks  ; 

*  uJl  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts  ;  « 

W  Inch  you  on  all  estates  will  execute, 

I  hat  he  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit. 

An7lld  thIS  :VTW00d  frora  your  fruitful  brain. 
And    ther        hd>  tQ  w.n  me>  .f 

0*  ithout  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won) 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  day  to  day 
ViS,t  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches;  and  your  task  shall  be. 
JJ  ith  all  the  fierce  *  endeavor  of  Vour  wit 
lo  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile   ' 
Bir.    To    move    wild    laughter   in  the   throat   of 
death  ? 
It  cannot  be  ;  it  is  impossible  : 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony 

*».    Why,   that 's   the   way  to  choke    a  gibin* 

spirit,  B    ^" 

m°Se  iafluence  ^  hegot  of  that  loose  grace. 


Cutting  sarcasms.  9  yet 


ement. 


332  love's  labor's  lost.  act  v. 

Which  shallow  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools. 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it  :   then,  if  sickly  ears, 
Deaf'd  with  the  clamors  of  their  own  dear  groans, 
Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  then, 
And  I  will  have  you,  and  that  fault  withal : 
But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault, 
Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 

Bir.   A  twelvemonth  ?  well,  befal  what  will  befal, 
I  '11  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.  Ay,  sweet  my  lord  ;  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

[to  the  King. 

King.  No,  madam  :  we   will   bring  you  on  your 
way. 

Bir.   Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old  play  ; 
Jack  hath  not  Jill  :  these  ladies'  courtesy 
Might  well  have  made  our  sport  a  comedy. 

King.  Come,  sir,  it   wants  a  twelvemonth   and   a 
day, 
And  then  'twill  end. 

Bir.  That 's  too  long  for  a  piay. 

Enter  arm  a  no. 

Arm.  Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me, — 
Prin.  Was  not  that  Hector  ? 
Dum.  The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 
Arm.   I  will  kiss  thy  royal  finger,  and  take  leave. 
I  am  a  votary  ;   I  have  vowed  to  Jaquenetta  to   hold 


scene   ii.  love's  labor's   LOST,  333 

the  plough  for  her  sweet  love  three  years.  But, 
most  esteemed  greatness,  will  you  hear  the  dialogue 
that  the  two  learned  men  have  compiled,  in  praise  v»f 
the  owl  and  the  cuckoo  ?  it  should  have  followed  in 
the  end  of  our  show. 

King.   Call  them  forth  quickly  ;   we  will  do  so. 

Arm.   Holla  !  approach. 

Enter  iiolofehnes,  Nathaniel,  moth,  costard,  and 

others. 

This  side  is  Hiems,  winter  ;  this  Ver,  the  spring  ; 
the  one  maintained  hy  the  owl,  the  other  by  the 
cuckoo.     Ver,  begin. 

SONC. 

i. 

Spring     When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And   lady-smocks  sill  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds,  of  yellow  hue, 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight ; 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he: — 

Cuckoo  ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo,— O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  si  married  ear  ! 


When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks; 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws, 
And  maidens  blesich  their  summer  smocki; 

The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he  : — 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — O  word  of  fear, 

Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 


S34 


LOVES    LABOR'S    LOST. 


ACT    T. 


III. 

Winter.  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  bis  nai), 
And  Tom  bears  logs  info  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail  : 
When  blood  is  nipp'd,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl  : — 

To-who  : 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  '  the  pet. 

IV. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Mur.an's  nose  looks  red  and  raw  : 
When  roasted  crabs5  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl : — 

To-who  : 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note. 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


Ar*n.  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after   the 
songs  of  Apollo.     You,  that  way  ;  we,  this  way. 

r Exeunt 


1  Scum. 


'  Wild  apples. 


THE 

PLAYS    AND    POEMS 


OT 


SHAKESPEARE. 

VOL.  IV. 


Starling  sc 


1   ATT) ^  AEOHJT  Hf'QTHINGr 
Hero.  Ursula,  k.  Beatrice 
Act  M-  Scm 


THE 


PLAYS  AND  POEMS 


OF 


SHAKESPEARE. 


WITH 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FROM   DESIGNS   BY    EMINENT   ARTISTS. 


EDITED   BY 

A.  J.  VALPY,  A.M., 

FELLOW   OF   PEMBROKE   COLLEGE,    OXFORD. 


IN  FIFTEEN  VOLUMES. 
VOL.    IV. 


LONDON: 
BELL  &  DALDY,  YORK  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 

1878. 


Shakespeare  unites  in  his  existence  the  utmost  elevation  and 
the  utmost  depth;  and  the  most  foreign,  and  even  apparently 
irreconcilable  properties  subsist  in  him  peaceably  together.  The 
world  of  spirits  and  nature  have  laid  all  their  treasures  at  his 
feet ;  in  strength  a  demigod,  in  profundity  of  view  a  prophet, 
he  lowers  himself  to  mortalfi  as  if  unconscious  of  his  superiority, 
and  is  as  op^n  and  unassuming  as  a  child. 

A.  W.  Scblegel. 


CONTENTS 


OF    THE 


FOURTH     VOLUME. 


PAGE. 

TWELFTH  NIGHT 1 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING           .        .        .        .115 
AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 231 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


TO  THE 


FOURTH    VOLUME. 


EXGBAVTNGS  OX  STEKL. 


PAGE 

1.  Hero,  Ursula,  and  Beatrice,  (Much  Ado  about  No- 
thing,) from  a  Painting  by  Peters.    Frontispiece. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 

2.  Olivia,  Viola,  and  Maria. — Hamilton.     . 

3.  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria. — Ditto. 

4.  Olivio,  Maria,  Malvolio,  <tc. — Ramberg. 

5.  Sebastian,  Olivia,  and  Priest. — Hamilton. 

6.  Duke,  Viola,  Olivia,  <fcc. — Ditto. 


29 
39 
71 
96 
104 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

7.  Borachio,  Conrade,  and  Watchmen. —  Wheatley.    .  180 

8.  Leonato,  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  Hero,    <tc. — 

Hamilton 92 

9.  Dogberry,  Verges,  Borachio,  &c.—Smirke.      .         .  201 

10.  Claudio  Hero,  Benedick,  Beatrice,  &c. —  Wheatley.  226 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 

11.  Rosalind,  Celi a,  Orlando,  <fcc. — Downman.      .        .  252 

12.  Jaquea  and  Amiens — Hodges. 

13.  Orlando  and  Adam. — Smirke. 

14.  Orlando  and  Oliver. —  West. 

15.  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Oliver. — Smirke. 
1(3.  Duke  Senior,  Orlando,  Oliver,  Celia,  Rosalind,  Ac- 
Hamilton 345 


262 

27.5 
32S 
330 


TWELFTH  NIGHT? 


OK. 


WHAT  YOU  W1UL 


IV 


HISTORICAL   NOTICE 

or 

TWELFTH     NIGHT. 


The  comic  scenes  of  (his  play  appear  to  have  heen 
intirely  the  production  of  our  author  ;  while  the  serious 
part  is  founded  on  a  story  in  the  fourth  volume  of 
Jlelleforest's  Histoires  Tragiques,  which  lie  took  from 
iiandello.  Malone,  however,  is  of  ODinion  that  the 
plot  of  this  comedy  was  rather  derived  from  The 
Historie  of  Apolonius  and  Silla ;  which  tale  is  to  be 
found  in  a  collection,  by  Jianiaby  Rich,  which  first 
appeared  in  the  year  1583.  But  little  doubt  can  remain 
of  the  identify  of  the  story  of  liandello  with  the  inci- 
dents of  Twelfth  Night,  nfter  a  perusal  of  the  com- 
parison of  both  compositions  from  the  pen  of  Mrs. 
Lennox  : — 

'  Sebastian  and  Viola,  in  the  play,  are  the  same  with 
Paolo  and  Nicuola  in  the  novel  :  both  are  twins,  and 
both  remarkably  like  each  other.  Viola  is  parted  from 
her  brother  by  a  shipwreck,  and  supposes  him  fo  be 
drowned  ;  Nicuola  loses  her  brother  at  the  sacking  of 
Rome,  and  for  a  long  time  is  ignorant  whether  he  is 
alive  or  dead.  Viola  serves  the  duke,  with  whom  sl.e 
is  in  love,  in  the  habit  of  a  page  ;  Nicuola,  in  the  same 
disguise,  attends  Lattantio,  who  had  forsaken  her  for 
Catella.  The  duke  sends  Viola  to  solicit  his  mistress 
in  his  favor;  Lattantio  commissions  Nicuola  to  plead 
lor  him    with    Catella.     The    duke's  mistress  falls  in 


4  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

love  with  Viola,  supposing  lier  to  be  a  man;  and 
Catella,  by  flie  like  mistake,  is  enamored  of  Nicuola: 
and,  lastly,  the  two  ladies  in  the  play,  as  well  as  in  the 
novel,  marry  their  lovers  whom  they  had  waited  on  in 
disguise,  and  their  brothers  wed  the  ladies  who  had 
been  enamored  of  them.' 

4  This  play,'  says  Dr.  Johnson,  '  is  in  the  graver  part 
elegant  and  easy,  and  in  some  of  the  lighter  scenes  ex- 
quisitely humorous.  Ague-cheek  is  drawn  with  great 
propriety,  but  his  character  is,  in  a  great  measure, 
that  of  natural  fatuity,  and  is  therefore  not  the  proper 
prey  of  a  satirist.  The  soliloquy  of  Malvolio  is  truly 
comic:  he  is  betrayed  to  ridicule  merely  by  his  pride. 
The  marriage  of  Olivia,  and  the  succeeding  perplexitj  , 
though  well  enough  contrived  to  divert  on  the  stage 
wants  credibility,  and  fads  fo  produce  the  proper  in- 
struction required  in  the  drama,  as  it  exhibits  vo  jua! 
picture  of  life.' 


A  J?  (i  I)  M  E  N  T. 


Sebastian  and  Viola,  twin  children  of  a  gentleman  of  lUessa- 
iine,  and  remarkable  for  an  exact  resemblance  of  features, 
being  deprived  of  both  their  parents,  quit  their  native 
country  :  they  are  encountered  at  sea  by  a  violent  tempest, 
which  destroys  the  vessel  and  most  of  the  crew,  while  Viola, 
the  captain,  and  a  few  passengers  bet. ike  themselves  to  the 
boat,  which  conveys  them  in  safety  to  the  sea-coast  of  lllyria. 
Hie  lady,  thus  deprived  of  her  brother,  clothes  herself  iu 
male  attire,  and  enters  into  the  service  of  Prince  Orsino, 
who  is  at  this  time  engaged  in  the  unsuccessful  pursuit  of  a 
neighboring  lady,  named  Olivia.  The  talents  of  the  disguised 
page  soon  render  her  so  great  a  favorite  of  her  master,  that 
she  is  selected  to  intercede  with  the  obdurate  Olivia  ;  who, 
though  deaf  to  the  solicitations  of  the  prince,  is  seised  with 
a  sudden  passion  for  the  domestic,  which  meets  with  a  re- 
pulse. Viola,  on  her  return  home,  ts  waylaid  by  a  foolish 
suitor  of  Olivia,  favored  by  her  uncle,  who  persuades  him 
to  challenge  the  youth,  in  order  to  beget  in  his  mistress  a 
favorable  opinion  of  his  courage.  Viola,  as  may  well  be 
supposed,  is  averse  to  a  renconueof  this  description  ;  when 
she  is  rescued  from  her  embarrassment  by  the  arrival  of  a 
sea  captain,  who,  having  saved  her  brother  Sebastian  from 
the  wreck,  had  since  supplied  him  with  considerable  sums 
of  money  for  his  exigencies  ;  but,  in  consequence  of  an  un- 
expected arrest,  is  compelled  to  solicit  a  moiety  of  the  loan: 
he  accordingly  applies  to  Viola,  believing  that  he  is  ad- 
diessing  his  friend  ;  and,  when  she  denies  all  knowlege  of 
his  person,  reproaches  her  with  her  ingratitude.  In  the 
me  in  time,  Sebastian  arrives  ;  and  the  foolish  knight,  with 
nis  confederate,  supposing  him  to  be  the  page  of  Orsino, 
who  had  before  declined  the  combat,  assault  him  ;  but  their 
violence  is  repaid  with  interest,  and  the  combatants  are 
parted  by  Olivia,  whose  advances  to  the  supposed  page  are 
now  received  with  mutual  affection,  and  they  are  married 
without  delay.  Viola,  arriving  soon  after  with  her  master 
at  the  house  of  Olivia,  is  mistaken  by  the  lady  for  I  er  hus- 
band, by  whose  appearance  the  mystery  is  at  length  cleared 
t'ji,  and  Viola  is  united  to  the  prince. 


6 


PERSONS    REEK  ESEXTEI) 


Obsino,  duke  of  Illyria. 

Seisamtan,  a  young  gentleman,  brother  to  Viola. 
Antonio,  a  sea  captain,  friend  to  Sebastian. 
A  Sea  Captain,  friend  to  Viola. 

VAI  KNT1NE,       1 

fjUR10  ^    gentlemen  attending  on  the  Duke. 

Sin  Toby  Belch,  uncle  of  Olivia. 
Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 
Malvolio,  steward  to  Olivia. 
Fabian,    ) 
Clown,     »    servants  to  Olivia. 

Olivia,  a  rich  countess. 
Viola,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
Maria,  Olivia's  woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other. 
Attendants. 

Scene,  a  city  in  illyria,  and  the  sea-coast  near  it. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT; 

OR, 

WHAT  YOU  WILL. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE    I. 

An  apartment  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  duke,  curio,  Lords  ;  Musicians  attending. 

Duke.   If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on, 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;   that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. — 
That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  dying  fall. 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving  odor. — Enough  ;  no  more  ; 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  now,  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou ! 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  naught  enters  there, 
Of  what  validity  x  and  pitch  soe'er, 

Value. 


8  TWELFTH     NIUIIT.  ACT     I. 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical." 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have. 
O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought,  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence. 
That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er  since  pursue  me. — How  now  ?  what  news  from 
her  ? 

Enter  valentine. 

Vol-   So  please  my  lord,  I  might  nut  be  admitted. 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer  : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years  heat,5 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view  ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-ofFending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.   O,    she,    that    hath    a    heart  of    that    fine 
frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 


•  Fantastical  to  the  height.  '  ilea'ed. 


60KNK    II.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  9 

Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her  !   when  liver,  brain,  and  heart. 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd 
(Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self  king ! — 
Away  before,  ine  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  : 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with   bowers, 

[  Exeunt 

SCENE    II. 

The  sea-coast. 

Enter  viola,  captain,  and  Suiloj's. 

Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  This  is  Illyria,  lady. 

Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance,  he    is  not  drown'd. — What   think   you, 
sailors  ? 
Cap.    It    is    perchance,    that    you    yourself   were 

saved. 
Vio.   O  my  poor  brother  !  and  so,  perchance,  may 

he  be. 
Cap.    True,    madam  :    and,  to  comfort  you  with 
chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you,  and  that  poor  number  saved  with  you. 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea  ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 


10  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    I. 

I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
S».)  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there  's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.      Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 

Cap.    Ay,    madam,    well  ;    for    I    was    bred    and 
born 
Not  three  hours  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke  in  nature. 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Or  si  no. 

Vio.   Orsino  .'   J  nave  heard   my  father  name  him  : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  very  late  : 
For  but  a  month  a/;  I  went  from  hence; 
And  then  'twis  fresh  in  murmur,   (as,  you  know. 
What  great  ones  do,  the  less  will  prattle  of) 
That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.   What  's  she  ? 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving  her 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 
Who  shortly  also  died  ;   for  whose  dear  love. 
They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O,  that  I  served  that  lady ; 

And  might  not  be  deliver'd  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow. 


SCfcNE    H.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  I  I 

What  my  estate  is.1 

Cup.  That  were  hard  to  compass; 

because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit. 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behavior  in  thee,  captain 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pr'ythee,  (and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously) 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;   and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise,  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.      I  '11  serve  this  duke  : 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him  ; 
It  may  be  woith  thy  pains ;   for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music. 
That  will  allow  -  me  very  worth  his  service. 
What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.   Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I  '11  be  : 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see  ! 

Vio.   I  thank  thee.     Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt, 


1  '  1  wish  I  might  not  be  made  public  to  the  world,  with 
regard  to  the  state  of  my  birth  and  fortune,  till  ]  have  ^i:md 
a  ripe  opportunity  for  my  design.'  —Johnson. 

''  Approve. 


TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    £. 

SCENE    III. 

A  room  in  Olivias  house. 
Enter  sik  toby  belch  and  mama. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I  am  sure  care  's  an 
enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 
earlier  o'  nights  :  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great 
exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.   Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted.1 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within 
the  modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine  ?  I  '11  confine  myself  no  finer 
than  I  am  :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink 
in,  and  so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not,  let 
them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you : 
I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday  ;  and  of  a 
foolish  knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here, 
to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.   Who  ?     Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  ? 

Mar.   Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.   He  's  as  tall8    a  man  as  any  's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.   What 's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.   Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 


1  A  ludicrous  use  of  the  formal  law  phrase. 
*  Stout,  courageous. 


5CEXE    III.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  I'i 

Afar.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats  :  he  's  a  very  fool,  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you  '11  say  so  !  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gamboys,1  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 
word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good 
gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed, — almost  natural :  for, 
besides  that  he  's  a  fool,  he  's  a  great  quarreller  ;  and, 
but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the 
gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among  the 
prudent,  he  would  quickly  have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and 
substractors  that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they  ? 

Mar.  They  that  add  moreover,  he  's  drunk  nightly 
in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  :  I  '11 
drink  to  her,  as  long  as  there  's  a  passage  in  my 
throat,  and  drink  in  Illyria.  He  's  a  coward,  and  a 
coystril,2  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece,  till  his 
brains  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top.3  What., 
wench  ?  Castiliano  vulgo  ;  *  for  here  comes  sir  An- 
drew Ague-face. 


•  A  fashionable  musical  instrument  in  our  author's  time. 
4  A  coward -cock. 

s  A  large  top  was  formerly  kept  in  every  village,  to  l>e 
whipped  in  frosty  weather,  that  the  peasants  might  be  kept 
warm  by  exercise,  and  out  of  mischief,  while  they  could  not 
work. 

*  1'iobsibiy  a  c.int  term,  expressive  of  jollity  or  contempt. 


I 

V 

14  TWELFl         NIGHT.  APT    1. 

Enter  sir  an  drew  ague-cheek. 

Sir  An.    Sir  Toby    Belch !    How  now,  sir    J'oby 
Belch  ? 

Sir  To.   Sweet  sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  An.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.  Accost,  sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir  An.  What 's  that  ? 

Sir  To.  My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  An.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  ac- 
quaintance. 

Mar.   My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  An.   Good  mistress  Mary  Accost, 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  accost,  is,  front 
her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  An.  By  my  troth,  I  would  net  undertake  her 
in  this  company.     Is  that  the  meaning  ot  accost  ? 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  sir  Andrew,  would 
thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  An.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I  might 
never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you  think 
you  have  fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.   Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  An.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here  's 
my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  :  I  pray  you, 
bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar,1  and  let  it  drink. 


1  To  the  door  of  the  pantry. 


SCENE    Iir.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  15 

Sir  An.  Wherefore,  sweetheart?  what's  your 
metaphor  ? 

Mar.   It 's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  An.  Why,  I  think  so  :  I  am  not  such  an  ass, 
hut  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what  's  your 
jest  ? 

Mar.   A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  An.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends : 
marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  harren. 

[Exit  Maria. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lackest  a  cup  of  canary. 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir  An.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think,  unless  you 
see  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks,  sometimes  I 
have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian,  or  an  ordinary 
man  has  :  hut  I  am  a  great  eater  of  heef,  and,  I 
believe,  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.   No  question. 

Sir  An.  An  I  thought  that,  I  'd  forswear  it.  I  '11 
ride  home  to-morrow,  sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Pourquoy,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  An.  WThat  is  pourquoy  ?  do,  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues, 
that  I  have,  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting. 
O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts ! 

<S*>  7».  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head  ©1 
hair. 

Sir  An.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair  ? 

Sir  To.  Past  question  ;  for  thou  secst,  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 


]6  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  A.CT    I. 

Sir  An.  But  it  becomes  ine  well  enough,  does  't 
not  ? 

Sir  To.  Excellent  ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff; 
and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between 
her  legs,  and  spin  it  off. 

Sir  An.  Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow,  sir  Toby : 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it  's  four 
to  one  she  '11  none  of  me  :  the  count  himself,  here 
hard  by,  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She'll  none  o' the  count;  she  '11  not 
match  above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor 
wit ;  I  have  heard  her  swear  it.  Tut,  there  's  life 
in  't,  man. 

Sir  An.  I  '11  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow 
o'  the  strangest  mind  \  the  world :  I  delight  in 
masks  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws, 
knight  ? 

Sir  An.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be, 
under  the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will  not 
compare  with  an  old  man.1 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galiiard,* 
knight  ? 

Sir  An.  Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  An.  And,  I  think,  I  have  the  back-trick,  sim- 
ply as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.   Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  where* 


1   1  will  not  claim  much  experience. 
*  A  (■■priglitly  dance,  so  called. 


SCENR    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  17 

Cure  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them  ?  are  they 
like  to  take  dust,  like  mistress  Mall's  picture  ?  '  Why 
dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard,  and  come 
home  in  a  coranto  ? 3  My  very  walk  should  be  a 
jig;  I  would  not  so  much  as  make  v-ater,  but  in  a 
sink-a-pace.3  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  is  it  a  world 
to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did  think,  by  the  excellent 
constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star 
yf  a  galliard. 

Sir  An.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent 
well  in  a  flame-colored  stock.4  Shall  we  set  about 
some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  Were  we  not 
Lorn  under  Taurus  ? 

Sir  An.  Taurus  ?  that  *s  sides  and  heart.5 

Sir  To.  No,  sir  ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me 
»ee  thee  caper  :  ha  !  higher  :  ha,  ha  ! — excellent ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV. 

A  room  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  valentine,  and  viola  in  man's  attire. 

Vul.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favors  towards 
you,  C*sario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced  :  he 


1  Alluding  to  the  notorious   Mary   Frith,  commonly   railed 
Mall  Cutpurse.  2  A  jig. 

A  cinque-pace,  the  name  of  a  dance.  4  Stocking. 

4   In    allusion   to  the   medical  astrology  still  preseived  in 
aome  almanacks. 

SHAK.  it..  r 


IS  TWELFTH     NTGHT.  ACT    I. 

hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already  you  are 
no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humor  or  my  negligence, 
that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his  love. 
Js  lie  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favors  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Enter  duke,  curio,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.   I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord;  here. 

Duke.   Stand  you  awhile  aloof. — Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;   I  have  unclasp 'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait '  unto  her  '. 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  teii  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unproiited  return. 

Vio.     Say    I    do  speak  with  her,  my  lord  ;  what 
then  ? 

Duke.   O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love  ; 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith  : 
l.t  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 


1  Go  thy  ways. 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH     K1GHT.  19 

She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth, 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.    I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years. 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man.     Diana's  lip 
I9  not  more  smooth  and  rubious  ; J  thy  small  pipe 
Is.  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part.2 
I  know,  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair. — Some  four  or  five,  attend  bim  ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best, 
When  least  in  company. — Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best, 

To  woo  your  lady  :  yet,  [aside. ~\  a  barful  strife  !  3 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife. 

[Ed"*int, 

scene  v. 

A  room  in  Olivia's  house. 

Enter    maria   and   clown. 

Mar.  Nkv   either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been, 
or  i  will    not  open  my  lips,  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may 


1  liuddy. 

1  Tliy  proper  part  in  a  piny  would  be  a  woman's. 

s  A  contest  full  of  impediments. 


20  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    I. 

enter  in  way  of  thy  excuse :  my  lady  will  hang  thee 
for  thy  absence. 

Clown.  Let  her  hang  me :  he.  that  is  well  hanged 
in  this  world,  needs  to  fear  no  colors. 

Mar.  Make  that  good. 

Clown.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten '  answer :  I  can  tell  thee 
where  that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colors. 

Clown.   Where,  good  mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar.  In  the  wars  ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to 
say  in  your  foolery. 

Clown.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom,  that  have 
it ;  and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their 
talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  long 
absent  :  or,  to  be  turned  away ; — is  not  that  as  good 
as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

Clown.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad 
marriage  ;  and,  for  turning  away,  let  summer  beai 
it  out.2 

Mar.   You  are  resolute  then  ? 

Clown.  Not  so  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two 
points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold  •  or, 
if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall.3 


1   Short  :ind  spare. 

3  During  which  season    I  shall   find  employment  in  every 
nVId,  ana  lodging  under  every  hejge. 
3  Points  were  metal  hooks  fastening  the  hose  or  hreechus. 


SCENE    V. 


TWELFTH    NIG  LIT.  21 


Clown.  Apt,  in  good  faith  ;  very  apt !  Well,  go 
thy  way  ;  if  sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou 
wert  as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  lllyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o'  that ;  here 
comes  my  lady  :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were 
best.  [Exit. 

Enter  olivia  and  malvolio. 

Clown.  Wit,  an  't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good 
fooling !  Those  wits,  that  think  they  have  thee,  do 
very  oft  prove  fools;  and  I,  that  am  sure  i  luck 
thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man.  For  what  says  Qui- 
nopaius  ?  Better  a  witty  fool  than  a  foolish  wit. — 
God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

Oli.  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clown.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?  Take  away  the 
lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool  ;  I  '11  no  more  of 
you  :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clown.  Two  faults,  madonna,1  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  amend  :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then 
is  the  fool  not  dry ;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend 
himself ;  if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dishonest ;  if 
he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  him.  Any  thing 
that 's  mended,  is  but  patched  :  virtue,  that  trans- 
gresses, is  but  patched  with  sin  ;  and  sin,  that 
amends,  is  but  patched  with  virtue.  If  that  this 
simple  syllogism  will  serve,  so ;  if  it  will  not,  what 


1  Italian,  mistress,  dame 


22  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT     r. 

remedy  ?  As  there  is  no  true  cuckold  but  calamity, 
so  beauty  's  a  flower : — the  lady  bade  take  away  th« 
fool ;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take  her  away. 

OIL   Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clown.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  ! — Lady, 
Cucullus  non  facit  monachum  ;  that 's  as  much  as  to 
say,  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.  Good  ma- 
donna, give  me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

Oli.   Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clown.  Dexteriously,  good  madonna. 

OIL  Make  your  proof. 

Clown.  I  must  catechise  you  for  it,  madonna. 
Good  my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

Oli.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  1  'U 
bide  your  proof. 

Clown.  Good  madonna,  why  mournest  thou  ? 

OIL   Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clown.   I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

OIL   I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clown.  The  more  fool  you,  madonna,  to  mourn 
for  vour  brother's  soul  being  in  heaven. — Take  away 
the  fool,  gentlemen. 

OIL  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?  doth 
he  not  mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes  ;  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death 
shake  him.  Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth 
ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clown.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for 
the  better  increasing  your  folly!  Sir  Toby  will  be 
fcworn  that  I  am  no  fox,  but  he  will  not  pass  his 
wjrd  for  twopence  that  you  are  no  fool. 


SCENE    Y.  TWELFTH    WIGHT.  23 

OIL   How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such 
a  barren  rascal.  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day 
with  an  ordinary  fool,  that  has  no  more  brain  than  a 
stone.  Look  you  now,  he  's  out  of  his  guard  already  ; 
unless  you  laugh  and  minister  occasion  to  him,  he  id 
gagged.  I  protest,  I  take  these  wise  men,  that  crow 
so  at  these  set  kind  of  fools,  no  better  than  the 
fools'  zanies.1 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and 
taste  with  a  distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous, 
guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  those 
things  for  bird-bolts,2  that  you  deem  cannon-bullets. 
There  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed  fool,  though  he  do 
nothing  but  rail  ;  nor  no  railing  in  a  known  discreet 
man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clown.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,3 
for  thou  speakest  well  of  fools. 

Re-enter  maria. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gentle- 
man, much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

OIL  From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  ;  'tis  a  fair  young  man, 
and  well  attended. 

Oli.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.   Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OIL  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  ;  he  speaks  nothing 


1  Fools'  baubles.  *  Short  arrows.  *  I  ving. 


24  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    I. 

but  madman.  Fie  on  him  !  [Exit  Maria.']  Go  you, 
Malvolio :  if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count,  I  am  sick, 
or  not  at  home  ;  what  you  will,  to  dismiss  it.  [Exit 
Mulvolio.~]  Now  you  see,  sir,  how  your  fooling  grows 
old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Clown.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if 
thy  eldest  son  should  be  a  fool :  whose  scull  Jove 
cram  with  brains  ;  for  here  he  comes,  one  of  thy  kin, 
has  a  most  weak  pia  mater.1 

Enter  sir  toby  belch. 

Oli.  By  mine  honor,  half  drunk. — What  is  he  at 
the  gate,  cousin  ? 

Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 

Oli.  A  gentleman  ?     What  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  Tis  a  gentleman  here. — A  plague  o'  these 
pickle-herrings  !  2 — How  now,  sot  ? 

Clown.   Good  Sir  Toby, — 

Oli.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early 
by  this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  ?  I  defy  lechery.  There  's  one 
at  the  gate. 

Oli.   Ay,  many  ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 
not:  give  me  faith,  say  I.  Well,  it's  all  one.   [Exit.- 

Oli.   What 's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clown.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool,  and   a   mad- 


1   A  membnine  covering  the  substunce  of  the  braiii. 
*  Jack-puddings. 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  25 

man  :  one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ; 
the  second  inads  him  ;  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OIL  Go  thou,  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him 
sit  o'  my  coz  ;  for  he  's  in  the  third  degree  of  drink ; 
he  's  drowned  :    go,  look  after  him. 

Clown.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna,  and  the  fool 
shall  look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick  ;  he  takes 
on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore  comes 
to  speak  with  you  :  I  told  him  you  were  asleep  ;  he 
seems  to  have  a  foreknowlege  of  that  too,  and  there- 
fore comes  to  speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be  said 
to  him,  lady  ?  he  's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

OIL  Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he  '11 
stand  at  your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,1  and  be  the 
supporter  of  a  bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with  you. 

OIL  What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Why,  of  man  kind. 

OIL  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  mannev;  he'll  speak  with  you, 
will  you,  or  no. 

OIL   Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 


•  Kings'  proclamations  and  other  public  acts  wer€   formerly 
tffixed  to  posts  at  the  door  of  the  sheriff. 


16  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT     I. 

enough  for  a  boy  ;  as  a  squash  '  is  before  'tis  a  peas- 
cod,  or  a  codling8  when  'tis  almost  an  apple  :  'tis 
with  him  ev'n  standing  water,  between  boy  and 
man.  He  is  very  well-favored,  and  he  speaks  very 
shrewishly  :  one  would  think,  his  mother's  milk 
were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach.    Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.   Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  maria. 

Oli.   Give  me    my  veil  :  come,   throw  it  o'er  my 
face. 
We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  viola. 

Vio.  The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  ie 
she  ? 

Oli.  Speak  to  me,  I  shall  answer  for  her.  Yout 
will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty, — I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of 
the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loath  to 
cast  away  my  speech  ,  for,  besides  that  it  is  ex- 
cellently well  penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to 
son   it.      Good  beauties,   let  me  sustain  no  scorn  : 


1  An  immature  peascod. 

9  A  codling  anciently  meant  an  immature  apple.  The  fruit 
at  d resent  so  denominated  was  unknown  to  our  gardens  in  the 
time  of  Shakspe.ire. 


SCKNE    V.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  27 

I  am  very  comptible,1  even  to  the  least  sinister 
usage. 

Oli.  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied, 
and  that  question  's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance,  if  you  he  the  lady  of 
the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

Oli.  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the 
very  fangs  of  malice,  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play. 
Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Oli.   If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
vourself ;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow,  is  not  yours 
to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission  :  I  will 
on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show 
you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Oli.  Come  to  what  is  important  in  *t :  I  forgive 
you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned ;  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard,  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates ; 
and  allowed  your  approach,  rather  to  wondei  at  you 
than  to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone  ;  if 
you  have  reason,  be  brief :  'tis  not  that  time  of  moon 
with  me,  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  "  a  dialogue. 


1  Ready  to  give  account.  a  Wild,  inad. 


28  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    2. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your 
way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber ;  I  am  to  hull  here  a 
little  longer. — Some  mollification  for  your  giant, 
sweet  lady. 

Oli.  Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.  I  am  a  messenger. 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  de- 
liver, when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak 
your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no. 
overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  ;  I  hold  the 
olive  in  my  hand  :  my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as 
matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ? 
what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness,  that  hath  appeared  in  me, 
have  I  learned  from  my  entertainment.  What  I 
am,  and  what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maiden- 
head :  to  your  ears,  divinity ;  to  any  other's,  profa- 
nation. 

Oli.  Give  us  the  place  alone  :  we  will  hear  this 
divinity.  [Exit  Maria.']  Now,  sir,  what  is  your 
text? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, 

Oli.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be 
eaid  of  it.     Where  lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

OIL     In    his    bosom  ?     In    what    chapter    of    his 

DCS ODD  ? 


Ham:, 


Act  I  - 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  29 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,'  in  the  first  of 
his  heart. 

OH.  O,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you 
no  more  to  say  ? 

Vio.   Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

OH.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face  ?  You  are  now  out  of  your 
text :  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you 
the  picture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I  was  this 
present :  2  is  't  not  well  done  ?  [unveiling. 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

OH.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir;  'twill  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Vio.    'Tis   beauty   truly  blent,3    whose  red    and 
white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

OH.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted  ;  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty.  It  shall  be 
inventoried,  and  every  particle  and  utensil  labelled 
to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent  red ;  item, 
two  gray  eyes,  with  lids  to  them ;  item,  one  neck, 
one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent  hither  to 
praise  me  ? 

Vio.  I  see  you  what  you  are  :  you  are  too  proud  ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 


'  Methodically.  2  Probably,  presents,  i.  e.  represents. 

1  Blended,  mixed  together. 


30  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    t. 

My  lord  and  master  loves  you.    O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompensed,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

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

Oli.   Your  lord  does  know  my  mind  ;  I  cannot  love 
him. 
Vet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 
In  voices  well  divulged,1  free,  learn'd,  and  valiant; 
And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person  :  but  yet  1  cannot  love  him  : 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.   If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

Oli.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house  ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  "  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  3  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !   O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 


'    Well  spoken  of  by  the  world.  s  Cantos,  verse*. 

'  Kcfcoiog. 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH     NIGI1T.  31 

OU.   You  might  do   much.      What  is  your  parent- 


is 

? 


Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well  : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

OIL  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

1  cannot  love  him  :  let  him  send  no  more ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.   J  am  no  fee'd  post,1  lady  ;  keep  your  purse ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love ; 
And  let  your  fervor,  like  my  master's,  he 
Placed  in  contempt !    Farewell,  fair  cruelty.     [Exit, 

OU.  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
'  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman.' — I  '11  be  sworn  thou  art ; 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit 
Do   give   thee    five-fold    blazon.- — Not  too  fast  : — 

soft !  soft ! 
Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks,  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtile  stealth, 
fIo  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !— 

Re-enter  malvolio. 
Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  vour  service. 


1  Messenger.  2  Proclamation  of  thy  perfection*. 


32  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    I 

OH.   Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  county's  l   man  :   he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not:  tell  him,  I  '11  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  natter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes  ;   I  am  not  for  him : 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I  '11  give  him  reasons  for 't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mai.   Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Oil    I  do  I  know  not  what ;  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force.     Ourselves  we  do  not  owe  : 2 
What  is  decreed,  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so  !      [Exit. 


ACT     II. 

SCENE  I. 

The  sea-coast. 
Enter  antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  ?  nor  will  you  not, 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no  :  my  stars  shine  darkly 
over  me  ;  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  perhaps, 
distemper  yours ;  therefore  I  shall  crave  of  you  your 
leave,  that  I  may  bear  my  evils  alone.  It  were  a 
bad  recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay  any  of  them 
on  you. 


1  The  count's. 

*  J'ossess  ;  i.  e.  we  are  not  our  own  masters* 


RORNfc.    r.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  33 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  art 
bound. 

Seb.  No,  sooth,  sir  ;  my  determinate  voyage  13 
mere  extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so  excel- 
lent a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not  extort 
from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in  ;  therefore  it 
charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to  express  '  myself. 
You  must  know  of  me  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is 
Sebastian,  which  I  called  Rodorigo  ;  my  father  was 
that  Sebastian  of  Messaline,  whom  I  know  you 
have  heard  of:  he  left  behind  him  myself  and  a 
sister,  both  born  in  an  hour.  If  the  Heavens  haa 
been  pleased,  would  we  had  so  ended !  but,  you, 
sir,  altered  that ;  for,  some  hour  before  you  took  me 
from  the  breach  of  the  sea,  was  my  sister  drowned. 

Ant.  Alas  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  re- 
sembled me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful : 
but,  though  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable  wonder,c 
overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly  pub- 
lish her  ;  she  bore  a  mind  that  envy  could  not  but 
call  fair.  She  is  drowned  alrjuly,  sir,  with  salt 
water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  her  remembrance 
a<rain  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.   O,  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let 
me  be  your  servant. 


Reveal.  *  With  sucb  i-steem  anil  wonder. 

tHA».  IV.  C 


34  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    IT. 

Set).  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  rijne, 
that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire  it 
not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once  :  my  hosom  is  full  of 
kindness  ;  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  of  my 
mother,  that  upon  the  least  occasion  more,  mine 
eves  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  hound  to  the  count 
Orsino's  court :   farewell.  [Exit, 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee  ! 
J  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there. 
But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.     [Exit. 

SCENE    II. 

A  street. 
Enter'  viola,  malvolio  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countes9 
Olivia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 
since  arrived  hut  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir  :  you  might 
have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  your- 
self. She  adds  moreover,  that  you  should  put  your 
lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will  none  of  him. 
And  one  thing  more  ;  that  you  he  never  so  hardy  to 
come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it  be  to  report  youi 
lord's  taking  of  this.      Receive  '  it  so. 


1  Understau'l. 


SCENE    II.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  35 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me  !   I  '11  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ; 
and  her  will  is,  it  should  he  so  returned  •  if  it  he 
worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye  ;  if  not, 
he  it  his  that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.   I  left  no  ring  with  her.     What  means  this 
lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid,  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her  ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;   indeed,  so  much, 
That,    sure,    methought,    her    eyes    had    lost    her 

tongue, 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly.1 
She  loves  me,  sure  ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  !  why,  he  sent  her  nonp 
I  am  the  man. — If  it  be  so,    (as  'tis) 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy2  does  much. 
How  easy  is  it,  for  the  proper-false  3 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 
Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ; 
For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 
How  will  this  fadge  ?  4    My  master  loves  her  dearlv  : 
And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him; 
And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 


1   Her  fixed  and  eager  view  of  me  perverted  the  use  of  her 
tongue,  and  made  her  talk  distractedly. 
"  The  dexterous  riend,  or  enemy  of  mankind. 
3  The  fair  deceiver.  4  Suit- 


36  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II, 

What  will  become  of  this  ?     As  I  am  man, 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  masters  iove  ; 

As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day  ! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe ! 

O  Time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I  : 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.  [Exit. 

SCENE    III. 

A  room  in  Olivias  house. 
Enter  sir  toby  belch  and  sir  axdrew  ague-cheek. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  sir  Andrew  :  not  to  be  a-bed 
after  midnight,  is  to  be  up  betimes ;  and  diluculo 
suryere,1  thou  know'st, — 

Sir  An.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not  :  but  I 
know,  to  be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  :  I  hate  it  as  an  un- 
filled can.  To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to 
bed  then,  is  early ;  so  that,  to  go  to  bed  after  mid- 
night, is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Do  not  our  lives 
consist  of  the  four  elements  ? 

Sir  An.  Faith,  so  they  say  ;  but,  I  think,  it  rather 
«*-^sists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
und  drink.— Marian,  I  say  !— a  stoop  of  wine  ! 

Enter  clown. 
!Sir  An.   Mere  cumce  a,c  i'ool,  i'faith. 


S*iuc&Timum  est,  i.  e.  rally  rising  is  most  wholesome 


SCENE     III. 


TWEI.F1I1     NIGHT.  37 


Clown.  How  now,  my  hearts?  Did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  we  three  ?  1 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.     Now  let 's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  Au.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.2  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious 
fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogro- 
mitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of 
Queubus  ;  'twas  very  good,  i'  faith.  I  sent  tbee 
sixpence  for  thy  leman  ;  3  hadst  it  ? 

Clown.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity  ; 4  for  Mal- 
volio's  nose  is  no  whipstock.5  My  lady  has  a  white 
hand,  and  the  Myrmidons6  are  no  hottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  An.  Excellent  !  Why,  this  is  the  best  fooling, 
when  all  is  done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you  : 
let 's  have  a  song. 

Sir  An.  There's  a  testril7  of  me  too:  if  one 
knight  give  a — 

Clown.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life  ? 8 

Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 


'  Lojrgerbeads  be. 

*  Voice.  s  Mistress.  *  Impocket  thy  gratuity. 

s  A  whipstock  is  the  handle  of  a  whip,  round  which  a  strap 
of  leather  is  usually  twisted,  and  is  sometimes  put  for  the 
whip  itself. 

6  Myrmidon  was  a  cant  term  for  officers  of  justice. 
Sixpence.  *  A  son^  of  a  moral  turn. 


38  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

Sir  An.  Ay,  ay;   I  care  not  for  good  life. 


Cioum.  O  mistress  mine,  where  '.ire  you  rnamii'g' 
(J,  stay  and  hear  ;  your  true  love  's  cMnia* 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  farther,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  cloth  know. 

Sir  An.  Excellent  good,  i'  faith  ! 
Sir  To.   Good,  good. 

Clown.  What  is  love!  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twenty  : l 
Youth  's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

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

Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 

Sir  An.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  conta- 
gion. But  sball  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed  ?  '-' 
Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that  will 
draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  ?  3  shall  we  do 
that  ? 


to 


1   Probably  a  phrase  of  endearment. 

*  Drink  till  the  sky  seems  to  turn  round. 

5  Dr.  Warburton  conjectures  that  allusion  is  here  made  to 
tne  peripatetic  philosophy,  which  supposed  man  to  be  endowed 
with  three  souls  ;  the  vegetative  or  plastic,  the  animal,  and 
the  rational.  Our  author  represents  weavers  as  much  given 
to  harmony  in  his  time. 


Hasu2t.Jii  ,l»-l 


Stirling   jc 


TWELFTH  WltrHT 

■  ■     ■  ■ 


SCENE    II r.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  39 

Sir  Aii.  An  you  love  me,  let 's  do  't :  I  am  dog  at 
a  catch. 

Clown.  By  r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch 
well. 

Sir  An.  Most  certain :  let  our  catch  he.  '  Thou 
knave.' 

Clown.  '  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,'  knight  ?  I 
shall  he  constrained  in  't  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  An.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrained 
one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool ;  it  hegins,  '  Huld 
thy  peace.' 

Clown.   I  shall  never  hegin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  An.   Good,  i' faith  !    Come,  begin. 

{they  sing  a  catch. 

Enter  maria. 

Mar.  What  a  catterwauling  do  you  keep  here  ! 
If  my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward,  Malvolio, 
and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  ladv  's  a  Catalan,1  we  are  politicians  ; 
Malvolio  's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey,c  and  '  Three  merry  men 
be  we.'  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am  I  not  of 
her  blood  ?  Tilly-valley,'  lady  !  '  There  dwelt  a  man 
in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  !  '  [singing. 

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

Sir  An.  Ay,  he   does  well  enough,,  if  he  be  dis- 


1  Romancer.  8  The  name  of  an  old  song. 

3  An  interjection  of  contempt. 


40  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

posed,  and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better 
grace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  '  O'  the  twelfth  day  of  December,' — 

[singing. 
Mar.  For  the  love  o'  God,  peace. 

Enter  malvolio. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad,  or  what  are 
you  ?  Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but 
to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do  ye 
make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  hou.ee,  that  ye  squeak 
out  your  coziers'  l  catches  without  any  mitigation  or 
remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place,  per- 
sons, nor  time  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up  !  - 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My 
lady  bade  me  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbors  you 
as  her  kinsman,  she 's  nothing  allied  to  your  dis- 
orders. If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your  mis- 
demeanors, you  are  welcome  to  the  house  ;  if  not,  an 
it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very 
willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.   '  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs 
be  gone.' 

Mai.  Nay,  good  sir  Toby. 

Clown.  '  His  eyes   do  show  his   days  are    almost 
done.' 


1   '3otchers  of  old  clothes  and  shoes  were  called  cozieia. 
"  Go,  and  hang  yourself. 


SCENE    III.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  41 

Mu!.   Is  't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.   '  But  I  will  never  die.' 

Clown.   Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.   '  Shall  I  hid  him  go  ?  '  [singing 

Clown.   '  What  an  if  you  do  ?  ' 

Sir  To.  '  Shall  I  hid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? ' 

Clown.   '  O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not.' 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  time  ?  sir,  ye  lie. — Art  any  more 
than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  aie  ? l 

Clotcn.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne  ;  and  ginger  shall  be 
hot  i'  the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right. — Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain  with  crums.c — A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favor 
at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would  not 
give  means  for  this  uncivil  rule  :  3  she  shall  know  of 
it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit. 

Mar.   Go,  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  An.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 
a  man  's  hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the  field  ;  and 
then  to  break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a  fool  of 
hirn. 

Sir   To.  Do 't,  knight ;    I  '11    write    thee   a   chal- 


1  Tt  was  the  custom  on  holydays  to  feed  on  cakes  and  ale  in 
honor  ot  the  day. 

2  Stewards  were  accustomed  to  wear  a  gilt  chain,   the  hest 
method  of  cleaning  which  is  by  rubbing  it  with  crutns. 

3  ulethod  of  life. 


42  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

lenge,  or  I  '11  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by 
word  of  month. 

Mar.  Sweet  sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night; 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-dav  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur  Mal- 
volio,  let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I  do  not  gull  him 
into  a  nayword,1  and  make  him  a  common  recrea- 
tion, do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight 
in  my  bed.    I  know,  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,2  possess  us  ;  tell  us  something 
of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  pu- 
ritan. 

Sir  An.  0,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'd  beat  him  like  a 
dog. 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  puritan  ?  Thy  exquisite 
reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  An.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  't,  but  I 
have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  tiling 
constantly,  but  a  time-pleaser  ;  an  affectioned  3  ass, 
that  cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great 
swarths  :4  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  crammed, 
as  he  thinks,  with  excellences,  that  it  is  his  ground 
of  faith,  that  all,  that  look  on  him,  love  him ;  and 
on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find  notable 
cause  to  work. 


•  Ryword.  5  Inform  us.  s  Affected. 

*  A  swarth  i*  as  much  grass  or  corn  as  a  mower  cuts  d  jwd 
at  one  stroke  of  Ins  scvthe 


SCENE    III.  TWELFTH'     NIGHT.  43 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  ohscure  epistles 
of  love ;  wherein,  by  the  color  of  his  beard,  the 
shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expres- 
sure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall 
find  himself  most  feelingly  personated.  I  can  write 
very  like  my  lady,  your  niece  ;  on  a  forgotten  matter, 
we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !   I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  An.   I  have  't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  droj),  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that 
she  is  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  color. 

Sir  An.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an 
ass. 

Mar.   Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  An.   O,  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.   Sport   royal,   I   warrant  you :   I  know,  iny 
physic  will  work  with  him.      I  will  plant  you  two 
and  let   the  fool  make  a   third,  where  he  shall  hud 
the  lettpr ;  observe  his  construction  of  it.     For  this 
night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event.     Farewell. 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.   Good  night,  Penthesilea.1 

Sir  An.  Before  me,2  she  's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She  's  a  beagle,  true-bred,  and  one  that 
idores  me.    What  o'  that  ? 


1  Amazon.  *  A  popular  adjuration. 


44  \\t.i.    Til     NIGHT.  ACT     II. 

Sir  An.   I  was  adored  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let 's  to  bed,  knight. — Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

Sir  An.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast  her 
not  i'  the  end,  call  me  Cut.1 

Sir  An.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how 
you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come  ;  I  '11  go  burn  some  sack  ;  'tis 
too  late  to  go  to  bed  now  :  come,  knight ;  come, 
knight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    IV. 

A  room  in  the  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  duke,  viola,  curio,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  music. — Now,  good  morrow., 

friends : 

Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night ; 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much ; 
More  than  light  airs,  and  recollected  •  terms, 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times. 

Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that 
should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 


1  Horse.  2  Studied. 


SCENE     IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  45 

Car.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool,  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in :  he  is 
about  the  house. 

Duke.   Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[Exit  Curio. — Music. 
Come  hither,  boy.    If  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are  ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  beloved. — How  dost  thou  like  tins  tune  ? 

Vio.   It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly. 

My  life  upon  't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favor  '  that  it  loves  ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favor. " 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is  't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.   She  is  not  worth  thee  then.     What  year3, 
i'  faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven  !    Let  still  the  woman 
take 
An  elder  than  herself;  so  wears  she  to  hira ; 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart : 
Fcv,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 


1  Countennnce  3  Lear*. 


46  TWELFTH   NIGHT.  ACL'  [[. 

Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 

More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 

Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent  : 
For  women  are  as  rose?  ;   whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  display 'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are  :   alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Re-enter  curio,  and  clowx. 

Duke.    O    fellowr,    come ;    the    song    we    had    last 
night : — 
Mark  it,  Cesario  ;   it  is  old,  and  plain  : 
The  sninsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun. 
And  th  >  five  !  maids,   that   weave   their   thread  with 

bones, - 
Do  use  to  chant  it:   it  is  silly  sooth,'' 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
Like  the  old  age.4 

Clown.   Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 

Duke.   Ay  ;   pr'ythee,  sing.  [music. 

SONG. 

Clown.  Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress8  let  me  be  laid. 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  : 
X  am  slain  hy  a  fair  cruel  maid. 


1  Cheerful.  2  Lace-mak*r» 

3  It  is  plain,  simple  truth.  *  Ayes  f>,isf. 

»  In  a  shroud  of  cypress. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  47 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

(),  prepare  it : 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it.' 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
]\ly  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  throtrn: 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
S;id  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.  There  'a  for  thy  pains. 

Clown.  No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singirg, 
sir. 

Duke.   I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clown.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  one 
time  or  another. 

Duke.   Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clown.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee  ; 
and  the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable 
taffata,8  for  thy  mind  is  a  very  opal ! 3 — I  would 
have  men  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their 
business  might  be  every  thing,  and  their  intent 
every  where ;  for  that  'a  it,  that  always  makes  a 
good  voyage  of  nothing. — Farewell.        [Exit  Clown. 


1  '  Though  death  is  a  part  in  which  every  one  acts  his  share, 
yet  of  all  tnese  actors  no  one  is  so  true  as  I.'  -Jounsoo. 
*  A  species  of  thin  silk. 
'  A  precious  stone  of  various  color*. 


48  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

Duke.   Let  all  the  rest  give  place. ■ 

[Exeunt  Curio  and  All  aidants'. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yon'  same  sovereign  cruelty : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  nut  quantity  of  dirty  lands. 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune  : 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  '  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her  : 
You  tell  her  so ;   must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides, 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart  ;   no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much  :   they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much.     Make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 


I  Adorns. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  49 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too   well   what  iove    women   to    men    may 
owe  :  1 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man. 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  historv  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her  love 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more ;  but,  inueed. 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  litlle  in  our  love. 

Duke.   But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.   I   am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house. 
And  all  the  brothers  too ; — and  yet  I  know  not. — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that 's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste  ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.c  [Eievnt. 


1  Have.  8  Denial. 


•SAIL. 


60  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

SCENE    V. 

Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  sir  toby  belch,  sir  Andrew  ague-cheek,  and 

FABIAN. 

Sir  To.   Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  1 11  come  ;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this 
sport,  let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the 
niggardly  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable 
shame  ? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man  :  you  know,  he  brought 
me  out  of  favor  with  my  lady  about  a  bear-baiting 
here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we  '11  have  the  bear  again, 
and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue  : — shall  we  not, 
sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  An.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  maria. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain. — How  now, 
my  metal  of  India  ?  ' 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree.  Mal- 
volio  's  coming  down  this  walk  :  he  has  been  yonder 
i'  the  sun,  practising  behavior  to  his  own  shadow, 
this  half-hour  :  observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery; 
for,  I  know,  this  letter   will  make   a  contemplative 


My  wencu  of  gold. 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  51 

idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting  !  [the 
men  hide  themselves.]  Lie  thou  there  ;  [throws  down 
a  letter."]  for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be 
caught  with  tickling.  [Exit  Maria. 

Enter  malvolio. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune  ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once 
told  me,  she  did  affect  me  :  and  I  have  heard  herself 
come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,1  it  should  be 
one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she  uses  me  with 
a  more  exalted  respect  than  any  one  else  that 
follows  her.     What  should  I  think  on  't  ? 

Sir  To.  Here  's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare  tur- 
key-cock of  him.  How  he  jets  •  under  his  advanced 
plumes  ! 

Sir  An.   Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue ! — 

Sir  To.  Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.  To  be  count  Malvolio ; — 

Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  An.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him  ! 

Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  There  is  example  for 't :  the  lady  of  the 
strachy  3  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  An.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  O,  p^ace  !  now  he's  deeply  in:  look,  how 
imagination  blows  him.4 


1   Incline  to  love.  2  Struts. 

3  Probably,  robes,  from  tbe  Italian  word  straccie,  signifying 
clouts,  tatters.  4  Puff's  hi  in  up. 


52  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her, 
sitting  in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.  O,  for  a  stone-bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye! 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched 
velvet  gown  ;  having  come  from  a  day-bed,1  where 
1  left  Olivia  sleeping  • — 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humor  of  state  ;  and, 
after  a  demure  travel  of  regard, — telling  them,  1 
know  my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs : — 
to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby  : — 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.   O,  peace,  peace,  peace  !   now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start, 
make  out  for  him  :  I  frown  the  while  ;  and,  per- 
chance, wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my  some 
rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches  ;  courtesies  there 
to  me  : — 

Sir  To.   Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with 
cars,2  yet  peace. 

Mai.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching 
my  familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control :  — 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o' 
the  lips  then  ? 

Mai.   Saying,  '  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having 


1  Couch. 

*  Though  it  is  the  greatest  pain  for  us  to  keep  silence 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ^J> 

cast  me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  ot 
speech  : — ' 

Sir  To.  What,  what  ? 

Mai.  '  You  must  amend  your  drunkenness  ;' — 

Sir  To.   Out,  scah  ! 

Fab.  Nay,   patience,   or  we  break  the  sinews  of 
the  plot. 

Mai.  *  Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your 
time  with  a  foolish  knight ;  ' — 

Sir  An.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.   '  One  sir  Andrew.' 

Sir  An.  I  knew,  'twas  I  ;  for  many  do  call  me 
fool. 

Mai.   What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

[taking  up  the  letter. 

Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humors  inti- 
mate reading  aloud  to  him  ! 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand  :  these 
be  her  very  Cs,  her  L's,  and  her  Ts  ;  and  thus 
makes  she  her  great  Ps.  It  is,  in  contempt  of 
question,1  her  hand. 

Sir  An.  Her  Cs,  her  Us,  and  her  Ts.  Why 
that  ? 

Mai.  [reads.]  '  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this, 
and  my  good  wishes  : '  her  very  phrases  ! — By  your 
leave,  wax ! — Soft ! — and  the  impressure  her  Lucrece, 


1  Bevoi:d  ;ill  doubt. 


54  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

■with  which   she   uses   to   seal :     'tis  my   lady.     To 
whom  should  this  be  ? 

Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 
Mai.   [reads.]   '  Jove  knows  I  love  : 
But  who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move, 
No  man  must  know.' 
'  No  man  must  know.' — What  follows  ?  the  numbers 
altered  ! — '  No  man  must  know  : ' — if  this  should  be 
thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock !  1 
Mai.  '  I  may  command,  where  I  adore  : 
But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  : 
M,  O,  A,  I  doth  sway  my  life.' 
Fab.  A  fustian  riddle  ! 
Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 
Mai.  '  M,  O,  A,  I  doth  sway  my  life.' — Nay,  but 
first,  let  me  see, — let  me  see, — let  me  see.  . 

Fab.  What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  dressed  him  ! 
Sir  To.     And    with    what    wing    the     stannyel 2 
checks  3  at  it ! 

Mai.  '  I  may  command  where  I  adore.'  Why, 
she  may  command  me  :  I  serve  her ;  she  is  my  lady. 
Why,  this  is  evident  to  any  formal  capacity.4  There 
is  no  obstruction  in  this. — And  the  end  ; — what 
should  that  alphabetical  position  portend  ?  If  I  could 


1  Badger.  2  Hawk.  3  J 'lies. 

'  To  any  one  in  his  senses. 


SCENE    V. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT.  55 


make   that  resemble  something  in   me  ! — Softly  ! — 
«M;  0,  A,  I.— * 

Sir  To.  0,  ay !  make  up  that : — he  is  now  at  a 
cold  scent. 

Fab.  Sowter '  will  cry  upon  't,  for  all  this,  though 
it  be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mai.  M, — Malvolio ; — M, — why,  that  begins  my 
name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  say,  he  would  work  it  out  ?  The 
cur  is  excellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M, — But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the 
sequel  ;  that  suffers  under  probation :  A  should 
follow,  but  0  does. 

Fab.  And  0  shall  end,  I  hope. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make  him 
cry  0. 

Mai.  And  then  /  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you 
might  see  more  detraction  at  your  heels  than  for- 
tunes before  you. 

Mai.  '  M,  O,  A,  I.' — This  simulation  is  not  as 
the  former :  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would 
bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my 
name.  Soft !  here  follows  prose  : — '  Tf  this  fall  into 
thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I  am  above  thee  ; 
but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness  :  some  are  born 
great  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  great- 
ness thrust  upon  them.     Thy  fates  open  their  hands; 


1  The  name  of  ;i  hound. 


5G  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    II. 

let  thy  blood  and  spirit  embrace  them :  and,  to 
inure  thyself  to  what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy 
humble  slough,1  and  appear  fresh.  Be  opposite  • 
with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants :  let  thy  tongue 
tang  arguments  of  state  ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick 
of  singularity.  She  thus  advises  thee,  that  sighs  for 
thee.  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings,  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross- 
gartered  :  I  say,  remember.  Go  to  ;  thou  art  made, 
if  thou  desirest  to  be  so ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a 
steward  still,  the  fellow  of  servants,  and  not  wortby 
to  touch  Fortune's  fingers.  Farewell.  She,  that 
would  alter  services  with  thee, 

'  The  fortunate-unhappy.' 

Day -light  and  champian  3  discovers  not  more  :  this 
is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic  authors, 
I  will  baffle  sir  Toby,  I  will  wash  off  gross  acquaint- 
ance, I  will  be,  point-de-vice,4  the  very  man.  I  do 
not  now  fool  myself,  to  let  imagination  jade  me  ; 
for  every  reason  excites  to  this,  that  my  lady  loves 
me.  She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late, 
she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered  ;  and  ir. 
this  she  manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and,  with  a 
kind  of  injunction,  drives  me  to  these  habits  of  her 
liking.  I  thank  my  stars,  I  am  happy.  I  will  be 
strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stockings,  and  cross- 
gartered,    even   with   the   swiftness   of  putting   on, 


1  A  slough  signifies  the  skin  of  a  snake.  a  Hostile. 

*  Open  country.  *  With  the  utmost  exactness. 


SCENE    V.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  57 

Jove,  and  my  stars  be  praised  !— Here  is  yet  a  post- 
script. '  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  J 
am.  If  thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in 
thy  smiling  ;  thy  smiles  become  thee  well :  therefore 
in  my  presence  still  smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  pr'ythee.' 
Jove,  I  thank  thee. — I  will  smile  ;  I  will  do  every 
thing  that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a 
pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device  : — - 

Sir  An.   So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but 
ouch  another  jest. 

Enter  maria. 

Sir  An.  Nor  I  neither. 

Fab.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck . 

Sir  An.   Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip,1  and 
become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  An.  Y  faith,  or  I  either? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream, 
that,  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him,  he  must  run 
mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true  ;  does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.   Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.   If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport. 


1  Probably  some  game  at  tables,  or  draughts. 


5S  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

mark  Lis  first  approach  before  my  lady:  he  -will 
come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and  'tis  a  color  she 
abhors  ;  and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  detests  ; 
and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will  now  be  so 
unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being  addicted  to  a 
melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  iuto 
a  notable  contempt :  if  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

<S'/V  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  roost  excel- 
lent devil  of  wit  ! 

Sir  An.   I  '11  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 


A  C  T     1  I  I. 

SCENE    I. 

Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  viola,  and  clown  with  a  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music.  Dost  thou 
live  hy  thy  tabor  ? 

Clown.   No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Cloicn.  No  such  matter,  sir  :  I  do  live  by  the 
church  ;  for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house 
doth  stand  by  the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies x  by  a 
beggar,  if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him  ;  or,  the  church 
stands  by  the  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the 
church. 

'  Dwells. 


SCENE     I.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  59 

Clown.  You  have  said,  sir. — To  see  this  age  ! — A 
sentence  is  hut  a  cheveril '  glove  to  a  good  wit. 
How  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  he  turned  out- 
ward  ! 

Vio.  Nay,  that 's  certain  :  they,  that  dally  nicely 
with  words,  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clown.  I  would  therefore  my  sister  had  had  no 
name,  sir. 

Vio.  Why,  man  ? 

Clown.  Why,  sir,  her  name 's  a  word ;  and  to 
dally  with  that  word  might  make  my  sister  wanton. 
But,  indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds 
disgraced  them. 

Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clown.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without 
words  ;  and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath  tc 
prove  reason  with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant,  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest 
for  nothing. 

Clown.  Not  so,  sir;  I  do  care  for  something:  hut 
in  my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you  ;  if  that 
he  to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make 
you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clown.  No,  indeed,  sir;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly : 
she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married ;  and 
fools  are  as  like  husbands,  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings  ; 
the  husband  's  the  bigger :  I  am  indeed  not  her  fool 
but  her  corrupter  of  words. 

1  Kid. 


CO  TWELFTH    NIGUT.  ACT    MX. 

Vio.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's.     ' 

Clown.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb,  like 
the  sun  :  it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry, 
sir,  but  the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with  your  master 
as  with  my  mistress :  I  think,  I  saw  your  wisdom 
there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I  '11  no  more 
with  thee.     Hold,  there  's  expenses  for  thee. 

Cloicn.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair, 
send  thee  a  beard  ! 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  tell  thee  ;  I  am  almost  sick 
for  one,  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on  my 
chin.     Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Cloion.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.   Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clown.  I  would  play  lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia, 
sir,  to  bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.   I  understand  you,  sir ;   'tis  well  begged. 

Clown.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir, 
begging  but  a  beggar  ;  Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My 
lady  is  within,  sir.  1  will  construe  to  them  whence 
you  come;  who  you  are,  and  what  you  would,  are 
out  of  my  welkin  ;  I  might  say,  element ;  but  the 
word  is  over- worn.  [/•,„•■//. 

Vio.  This  fellow  's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool  ■ 
And,  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; 
And,  like  the  haggard,1  check-  at  every  feather 


•  An  ill -trained  hawk  '  Fly. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT  G\ 

That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice, 

As  full  of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art  : 

For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 

But  wise  men,  folly-fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

Enter  sir  toby  belch  and  sir  Andrew  ague-cheek 

Sir  To.   Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  An.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.  Et  vous  aussi ;  votre  serviteiir. 

Sir  An.   I  hope,  sir,  you  are  ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  "Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece 
is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  '  be  to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir :  I  mean,  she 
is  the  list  ~  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste'5  your  legs,  sir;  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than  I 
understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste  my 
legs. 

Sir  To.   I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance  : 
but  we  are  prevented. 

Enter  olivia  and  maria. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rain 
odors  on  you  ! 

Sir  An.  That  youth  's  a  rare  courtier !  '  Rail' 
odors  !  '  well. 


1  Business.  3  Boundary,  limit.  "*  Tiy. 


62  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  hut  to   your 
own  most  pregnant x  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  An.  '  Odors,'  '  pregnant,'  and  '  vouchsafed  :  ' 
• — I  '11  get  'em  all  three  all  ready. 

Oli.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me 
to  my  hearing. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria. 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

Oli.   What  is  your  name  ? 

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

OH.  My  servant,  sir  !   'Twas  never  merry  world, 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment  : 
V'ou  are  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.    And   he  is   yours,  and  his   must  needs   be 
yours ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

OH.   For  him,  I  think  not  on  him  :   for  his  thoughts. 
Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  till'd  with  me  ! 

Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf : — 

Oli.  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you  ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.   Dear  lady, — 

Oli.   Give  me  leave,  'beseech  vou.      I  did  send, 


Ready 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  G3 

After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here,1 

A  ring  in  chase  of  you  ;  so  did  I  abuse 

Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you  : 

Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 

To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning', 

Which  you  knew  none  of  yours.     What  might  you 

think  ? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honor  at  the  stake 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?     To  one  of  youT 

receiving  - 
Enough  is  shown  ;  a  Cyprus,3  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  heart.     So  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vlo.  I  pity  you. 

Oli.  That 's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grise  ;  4  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof,5 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

Oli.    Why,   then,   methinks,    'tis    time    to    smile 
again. 
O  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf !    [clock  strikes. 
The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth  !    I  will  not  have  you  : 
And,  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 
Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man : 


1  After  the  last  enchantment  your  presence  worked  in  my 
•fT«cuons.  s  Ready  apprehension. 

3  A  thin  transparent  stuff.  *  Step. 

*  The  experience  of  every  Jay  shows. 


R4  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-hoe  ! 

Grace  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship ! 
You  '11  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  hy  me  ? 

Oli.   Stay: 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think,  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

OIL   If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think  you  right ;    I  am  not  what  I  am. 

Oli.   I  would,  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  he  ! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

Oli.   O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is  noou. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honor,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  l  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit  nor  reason  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause. 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause ; 
But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter  : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  \outr» 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth, 
And  that  no  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 


1  In  spite  oi. 


SCENE    II.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  65 

And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OH.  Yet  come  again :  for  thou,   perhaps,   mr.yst 
move, 
That  heart,  which  now  ahhors,  to  like  his  love. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE     II. 

A  room  in  Olivia's  house. 

Enter  sir  toby  belch,  sir  andrew  ague-cheek, 
and  fabian. 

Sir  An.  No,  faith,  I  '11  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom,  give  thy  reason. 

Fab.  You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  sir  An- 
drew. 

Sir  An.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favors 
to  the  count's  serving-man,  than  ever  she  bestowed 
upon  me  ;   I  saw  't  i'  the  01  chard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  hoy  ?  tell 
me  that. 

Sir  An.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  An.   Slight !  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 
of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men, 
since  before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favor  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight,  only  to   exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dor- 

SHAK.  IV.  E. 


66  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

mouse  valor,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and  brim- 
stone in  your  liver.  You  should  then  have  accosce<l 
her  ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire-new  from 
the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the  youth  into 
dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at  your  hand,  and 
this  was  baulked  :  the  double  gilt  of  this  opportunity 
you  let  time  wash  off,  and  you  are  now  sailed  into 
the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion  ;  where  you  will 
hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's  beard,  unless 
you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt  either 
of  valor  or  policy. 

Sir  An.  And 't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with 
valor  ;  for  policy  I  hate  :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist l 
as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon 
the  basis  of  valor.  Challenge  me  the  count's  youth 
to  fight  with  him  ;  hurt  him  in  eleven  places  ;  my 
niece  shall  take  note  of  it :  and  assure  thyself,  there 
is  no  love-broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in 
man's  commendation  with  woman,  than  report  of 
valor. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  An.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge  to 
him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand  ;  be  curst  '* 
and  brief ;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  elo- 
quent, and  full  of  invention  :  taunt  him  with  the  li- 
cense of  ink  :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall 


1  Famous  separatists  in  '.lie  reign  of  Queen  t.lizibet.S. 
'  Petulant. 


SCEXE    II.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  C7 

not  be  amiss  ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in  thy 
sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big  enougn 
for  the  bed  of  Ware  l  in  England,  set  'em  down  :  go  ; 
about  it.  Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink ; 
though  thou  write  with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter. 
About  it. 

Sir  An.  Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.   We  '11  call  thee  at  the  atbiculo."  Go. 

[Exit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad ;  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  :  but 
you  '11  not  deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then  ;  and  by  all  means 
stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and 
wainropes3  cannot  hale  them  together.  For  An- 
drew, if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much 
blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I  '11 
eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  maria. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine  * 
comes. 


1  In  Hertfordshire,  large  enough  to  contain  forty  persons. 
1  Chamber.  3  Waggon-ropes. 

4   The  smallest  of  the   brood.     Maria  is  represented  of  di- 
mnutive  stature. 


68  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourselves  into  stitches,  follow  me  :  yon'  gull  Mal- 
volio  is  turned  heathen,  a  very  renegado  ;  for  there 
is  no  Christian,  that  means  to  he  saved  by  believing 
rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  impossible  passages  of 
grossness.     He  's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps 
a  school  i'  the  church. — I  have  dogged  him,  like  his 
murderer.  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter 
that  I  dropped  to  betray  him.  He  does  smile  his 
face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  new  map,  with 
the  augmentation  of  the  Indies:  you  have  not  seen 
such  a  thing  as  'tis  ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling 
things  at  him.  I  know,  my  lady  will  strike  him  :  if 
she  do,  he  '11  smile,  and  take  't  for  a  great  favor. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    III. 

A  street. 
Enter  antonio  and  Sebastian. 

&sb.  I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  farther  chide  you. 

Ant.   I  could  not  stay  behind  you  ;   my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth  ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  (though  so  much. 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage) 
But  jealousy  what  might  befal  your  travel, 


SCENE    III.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  G9 

Doing  skilless  in  these  parts  ;  which  to  a  stranger, 
Unguidetl  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Pough  and  unhospitable.     My  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but,  thanks, 
And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks.      Often  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay  : 
But,  were  my  worth,1  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     What 's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant .  To-morrow,    sir ;    best,    first,    go    see   your 
lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night. 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame, 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  Would,  you  'd  pardon  me. 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  count  his  galleys 
I  did  some  service ;  of  such  note,  indeed, 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Seb.  Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel, 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 


3  Wealth. 


70  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

"What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out : 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  x  in  this  j)lace, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.   It  doth   not  fit  me.     Hold,   sir,  here  's  my 
purse  : 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge.     I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time,  and  feed  your  know- 

lege 
With  viewing  of  the  town  :  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.  Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.   Haply,  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase  ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seb.  I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
an  hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant. —  * 

Seb.  I  do  remember.  [Ejmmt. 

SCENE    IV. 

Olivia's  garden. 

Enter  olivia  and  makia. 

Oli.  I  have  sent  after  him :    he  says,  he  '11  come 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  on  him  ? 


1  Caught. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  71 

For  youth  Is  bought  more  oft,  than  begg'd  or  bor- 
row'd. 

I  speak  too  loud. 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? — lie  is  sad  and  civil,  i 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes : — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He  's  coming,  madam  ;  but  in  very  strange 
manner.     He  is  sure  possessed,  madam. 

OH.   Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam,  he  does,  nothing  but  smile: 
your  ladyship  were  best  to  have  some  guard  about 
you,  if  he  come  ;  for,  sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in  's  wits. 

OH.   Go  call  him  hither. — I  'm  as  mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. — 

Enter  malvolio. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.   Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.         {smiles  fantastically, 

Oli.   Smilest  thou  ? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady?  I  could  be  sad.  This  does 
make  some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross- 
gartering  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  if  it  please  the  eye  of 
one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet  is  ; — . 
'Please  one,  and  please  all.' 

OH.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in  my 


1  Solemn  and  grave. 


72  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

legs.  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands  shall 
he  executed.  I  think,  we  do  know  the  sweet  Ro- 
man hand. 

OIL  Wilt  thou  go  to  hed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  To  hed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I  '11  come  to 
thee. 

OIL  God  comfort  thee !  Why  dost  thou  smile 
?o,  and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.  How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request  ?  Yes  ;  nightingales  answer 
daws. 

Mai'.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  hold- 
ness  hefore  my  lady  ? 

Mai.  'Be  not  afraid  of  greatness:' — 'T was  well 
writ. 

OIL  What  meanest  thou  hy  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.   '  Some  are  horn  great,' — 

OIL  Ha? 

Mai.  '  Some  achieve  greatness,' — 

OIL  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.  '  And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them.' 

OIL  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  '  Rememher,  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings,' — 

OIL  Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.   '  And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered/ 

OIL   Cross-gartered  ? 

Mai.  '  Go  to  :  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desireet  to 
be  so ; ' — 

OIL  Am  I  made  ? 

Mai.  '  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still.' 


i 


SC«5NE    IV.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  73 

OU.  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness.' 

Enter  servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count 
Orsino's  is  returned ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  him 
hack  :  he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

OIL  I  '11  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant.]  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  he  looked  to.  Where  's  my 
cousin  Tohy  ?  Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  special 
care  of  him  :  I  would  not  have  him  miscarry  for  the 
half  of  my  dowry.  \_Exeimt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mai.  Oh,  ho  !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  no 
worse  man  than  sir  Tohy  to  look  to  me  ?  This 
concurs  directly  with  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on 
purpose,  that  I  may  appear  stuhhorn  to  him  ;  for  she 
incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  '  Cast  thy  humhle 
slough,'  says  she ; — '  he  opposite  with  a  kinsman, 
surly  with  servants  ; — let  thy  tongue  tang  with  argu- 
ments of  state  ; — put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singu- 
larity ; ' and,  consequently,  sets  down  the  man- 
ner how  ;  as,  a  sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a  slow 
tongue,  in  the  hahit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so 
forth.  I  have  limed  her ;  "  hut  it  is  Jove's  doing, 
and  Jove  make  me  thankful !  And,  when  she  went 
away  now,  '  Let  this  fellow  he  looked  to,'  Fellow  !  i 
not    Malvolio,    nor    after    my    degree,    hut    fellow. 


1  Hot  weather  often  injures  the  brain,  to  which,  perhaps, 
allusion  is  here  made. 
8  Entangled  her,  as  a  bird  is  caught  with  birdlime. 
3  Companion. 


74  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III, 

Why,  every  thing  adheres  together ;  that  no  dram 
of  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  ohstacle,  no 

incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance, What  can  he 

said  ?  Nothing,  that  can  be,  can  come  between  me 
and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove, 
not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  maria,  with  sir  tobv  belch  and  fabianv 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanc- 
tity ?  If  all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and 
Legion  himself  possessed  him,  yet  I  '11  speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is. — How  is  't  with  you, 
sir  ?  how  is  't  with  you,  man  ? 

Mai.  Go  off;  I  discard  you  ;  let  me  enjoy  my 
private  :  go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within 
him !  did  not  I  tell  you  ? — Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays 
you  to  have  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.  Ah,  ha!  does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to  ;  peace,  peace,  we  must  deal 
gently  with  him  ;  let  me  alone.  How  do  you,  Mal- 
volio  ?  how  is  't  with  you  ?  What,  man  !  defy  the 
devil :  consider,  he  's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how 
he  takes  it  at  heart !  Pray  God,  he  be  not  be- 
witched ! 

Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow 
morning,  if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for 
more  than  I  '11  say. 


SCTKNE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  75 

Mai.  How  now,  mistress  ? 

Mar.   O  lord  '. 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace ;  this  is  not  the 
way.  Do  you  not  see,  you  move  him  ?  let  me 
alone  with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  hut  gentleness  ;  gently,  gently  :  the 
fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  he  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  ?  l  how  dost 
thou,  chuck  ? 

Mai.  Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,2  come  with  me.  What,  man  ! 
'tis  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit 3  with  Satan. 
Hang  him,  foul  collier  !  4 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ;  good  sir  Toby, 
get  him  to  pray. 

Mai.  My  prayers,  minx  ? 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  god- 
liness. 

Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle,  shal- 
low things  :  I  am  not  of  your  element ;  you  shall 
know  more  hereafter.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could 
condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 


'  A  corruption  for  beau  coq,  jolly  cock. 

9  Word  of  endearment. 

3  A  play  among  boys  of  pitching  cherry-stones  into  a  littla 
hole. 

*  A  term  of  the  highest  reproach  in  our  author's  time,  when 
eolhers  were  accounted  great  cheats. 


76*  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take 
air,  and  taint. 

Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  he  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we  '11  have  him  in  a  dark  room, 
and  bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that 
he  is  mad :  Ave  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure 
and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of 
breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him  ;  at  which 
time,  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar,  and  crown 
thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.     But  see,  but  see. 

Enter  sir  andrew  ague-cheek. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning.1 

Sir  An.  Here  's  the  challenge  ;  read  it :  I  warrant, 
there  's  vinegar  and  pepper  in  't. 

Fab.   Is 't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  An.  Ay,  is  it,  I  warrant  him  :  do  but  read. 

Sir  To,  Give  me.  \reads.~]  '  Youth,  whatsoever 
thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow.' 

Fab.   Good  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  '  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy  mind, 
why  1  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason 
forV 


1  When  metrical  interludes  and   morris-dances  were   «K» 
hibitea. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  77 

Fuh.  A  good  note  :  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow 
of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  '  Thou  contest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in 
my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly  :  but  thou  best  in 
thy  throat ;  that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee 
for.' 

Fab.   Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense-less. 

Sir  To.  '  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home  ;  where 
if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me, ' 

Fab.   Good. 

Sir  To.  '  Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a 
villain.' 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law. 
Good. 

Sir  To.  '  Fare  thee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy 
upon  one  of  our  souls !  He  may  have  mercy  upon 
mine  ;  but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself. 
Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy  sworn 
enemy, 

'ANDREW   AGUE-CHEEK.' 

Sir  To.  If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  can- 
not :    I  '11  give  't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for  't :  he  is 
now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will  by 
and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  sir  Andrew  ;  scout  me  for  him  at  the 
corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailiff:  so  soon  as 
ever  thou  seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou  drawest, 
swear  horrible  ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a  ter- 
rible oath,  with  a  swaggering  accent  sharply  twanged 


7S  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

off,  uivpp  manhood  more  approbation  than  ever  proof 
itself  would  have  earned  him.     Away. . 

Sir  An.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.       [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter :  for  the 
behavior  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be 
of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  his  employment  be- 
tween his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no  less  ;  there- 
fore this  letter,  being  so  excellently  ignorant,  will 
breed  no  terror  in  the  youth  :  he  will  find  it  comes 
from  a  clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his  challenge 
by  word  of  mouth ;  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a  notable 
report  of  valor ;  and  drive  the  gentleman  (as,  I 
know,  his  youth  will  aptly  receive  it)  into  a  most 
hideous  opinion  of  his  rage,  skill,  fury,  and  impe- 
tuosity. This  will  so  fright  them  both,  that  they 
will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 

Enter  olivia  and  viola. 

Fab.   Here  he  comes  with  your  niece  :  give  them 
way,  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.     I    will    meditate    the    while    upon    some 
horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian,  ami  Maria. 

OH.    I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary  '   out. 
There  's  something  in  me,  that  reproves  my  fault; 
But  such  a  headstrong,  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 


Uiicautiously. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  79 

Vio.  With    the   same   'havior   that    your  passion 
bears, 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

OIL  Here,  wear  this  jewel l  for  me  ;    'tis   my  pic- 
ture : 
Refuse  it  not ;    it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  : 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me,  that  I  '11  deny, 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.    Nothing  but    this,  your   true   love   for  my 

master. 
Oli.  How  with  mine  honor  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

Oli.    Well,   come  again    to-morrow.      Fare   thee 
well : 
A  fiend,  like  thee,  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.    [Exit. 

Re-enter  sir  toby  bei.ch  and  fabian. 

Sir  To.   Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to  't : 
of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him, 
I  know  not ;  but  thy  intercepter,  full  of  despite, 
hloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the  orchard 
end  :  dismount  thy  tuck,2  be  yare 3  in  thy  prepa- 
ration, for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and  deadly. 

Vio.   You  mistake,  sir ;    I  am   sure,   no   man   hath 


Ornament.  '  K;ii)ier.  3  Nimble. 


SO  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    III. 

any  quarrel  to  me  :  my  remembrance  is?  very  free 
and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any 
man. 

Sir  To.  You  '11  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you  : 
therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake 
you  to  your  guard ;  for  your  opposite  hath  in  him 
■what  youth,  strength,  skill,  and  wrath  can  furnish 
man  withal. 

Vio.   I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unhatched 
rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration ;  '  but  he  is  a 
devil  in  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he 
divorced  three ;  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment 
is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but  by 
pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre  :  hob  nob  is  his  word ; 
give  't  or  take  't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  desire 
some  conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter.  I  have 
heard  of  some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels  pur- 
posely on  others,  to  taste  their  valor :  belike,  this  is 
ft  man  of  that  quirk. - 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injury  ;  therefore,  get  you  on, 
and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the 
house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me,  which 
with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer  him  :  there- 
lore,  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked  ;   for  meddle 


1  No  soldier  by  profession,  but  created  a  knight  on  3ome 
festival  occasion,  when  the  person  thus  honored  received  the 
dignity  kneeling  on  a  carpet.  '-'  Sort. 


6CENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT. 

you  must,  that's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  ircr 
about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech 
you,  do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  tbe 
knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is  :  it  is  something 
of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you 
by  this  gentleman  till  my  return.        [Exit  Sir  Toby. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know,  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement ; x  but  nothing  of  the 
circumstance  more. 

Vio.   I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read 
him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the 
proof  of  his  valor.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skil- 
ful, bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  •  that  you  could 
possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria.  Will  you 
walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your  peace  with 
him,  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for 't :  I  am 
one,  that  had  rather  go  with  sir  priest  than  sir 
knight :   I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my  mettle. 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter  sir  toby  with  sir  andrew. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he  's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not 
seen  such  a  firago.3     I  had  a  pass  with  him,  rapier, 


'  Decision.  *  Adversary.  3  For  virago. 

SIIAK.  iv.  f 


82  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    lit. 

scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the  stuck-in,1 
with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is  inevitable ; 
and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your 
feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on.  They  saj*,  he  has 
been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  An.  Pox  on  't,  J  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified. 
Fabian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  An.  Plague  on  't !  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant,  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'd  have  seen  him 
damned  ere  I  'd  have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let 
the  matter  slip,  and  1 11  give  him  my  horse,  gray 
Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I  11  make  the  motion.  Stand  here  ;  make 
a  good  show  on 't :  this  shall  end  without  the  per- 
dition of  souls.  Marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse  as  well 
as  I  ride  you.  [aside. 

Re-enter  fabian  and  viola. 

I  have  his  horse  [/o  Fab.']    to  take  up  the  quarrel  : 
I  have  persuaded  him,  the  youth  's  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  a*  horribly  conceited  of  him  ;  •  and 
pants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  There  's  no  remedy,  sir ;  he  will  fight 
with  you  for  his  oath  sake  :  marry,  he  hath  better 
bethought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that  now 
scarce  to   be  worth   talking  of:   therefore  draw,  for 


1  Stoccata,  an  It;ili:in  term  in  fencing. 
4  lie  hus  as  horrid  a  conception  of  Lim. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  83 

the  supportance  of  his  vow :  he  protests,  he  will  not 
hurt  you. 

Vio.    Pray  God  defend  me  !     A  little  thing  would 
make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man. 

[aside. 

Fab.   Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.    Come,  sir  Andrew,  there  's  no  remedy 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honor's  sake,  have  one 
bout  with  you  :  he  cannot  by  the  duello  i   avoid  it : 
but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a 
soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.      Come  on  ;  to  't. 

Sir  An.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath  !  [draw's. 

Enter  antonio. 

Vio.  I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will,  [draws. 

Ant.  Put  up  your   sword. — If  this  young  gentle- 
man 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me  : 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.  [drawing. 

Sir  To.  You,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 

Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,2   I   am  for 
you.  [draws. 

Enter  two  officers. 

Fab.    O,  good  sir  Toby,    hold ;     here  come    the 
officers. 


1  By  the  laws  of  duelling. 

*  Take  on  yourself  another's  quarrel. 


84  TWELFTH    NIGII'l.  ACT    III. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon.  [to  Antonio. 

Vio.  Pray,  sir,  put  up  your  sword,  if  you  please. 

[to  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  An.  Marry,  will  I,  sir  ; — and,  for  that  I  pro- 
mised you,  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  word.  He  will 
bear  you  easily,  and  reins  well. 

1  Off.  This  is  the  man  ;  do  thy  office. 

2  Off.  Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;   I  know  your  favor  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head. — 
Take  him  away  :  he  knows,  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.     I    must    obey. — This    comes  with    seeking 
you  : 
But  there  's  no  remedy  ;   I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?     Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse.     It  grieves  me 
Much  more,  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
Than  what  befals  myself.     You  stand  amazed  ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money 

Vio.  What  money,  sir  ? 
For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here, 
And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble. 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I  '11  lend  you  something :  my  having  l  is  not  much. 


1  Fortune,  possessions. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  S5 

I  '11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you : 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is  't  possible,  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature. 
\  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man, 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves  ! 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you 
see  here, 
I  snatch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death ; 

Relieved  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love, 

And  to  his  image,  which,  methought,  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.  What 's  that  to   us  ?    The  time  goes  by ; 
away. 

Ant.     But,    O,     how    vile     an    idol    proves    tnis 

Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. 
In  nature  there  's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind  ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind : 
Virtue  is  beauty  ;  but  the  beauteous  evil 


S6  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    HI, 

Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflorish'd  1  by  the  devil. 

1  Off.  The  man  grows  mad  ;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.   Lead  me  on.     [Exeunt  Officers,  with  Antonio. 

Vio.  Methinks,  his  words   do  from  such  passion 

fly, 

That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  I.2 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight;  come  hither,  Fa- 
bian :  we  '11  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most 
sage  saws. 

Vio.   He  named  Sebastian  :   I  my  brother  know 
"V  er,  aving  in  my  glass  :  3  even  such,  and  so 
In  favor  was  my  brother  ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  color,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate.     O,  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love  ! 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest,  paltry  boy,  and  more  a 
coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appears,  in 
leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying 
him  ;   and  for  his  cowardship,  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  '.oward,  religious 
in  it. 


1  Ornamented. 

*  '  Probably,  I  do  not  believe  myst-f,  when,  from  this  a-. 
cident,  1  gather  hopes  of  my  brother's  life.' — Johnson. 

*  From  our  near  resemblance. 


SCENE    IV.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  87 

Sir  Aii.   Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy 
sword. 

Sir  An.  An  I  do  not, [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money,  'twill  be  nothing 
vet.  [Exeunt. 


ACT     I  V. 

SCENE    I. 

The  street  before  Olivia  s  house. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  clown. 

Clown.  Will  you  make  me  believe,  that  I  am  not 
sent  for  you  ? 

Seb.   Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow : 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clown.  Well  held  out,  i'  faith !  No,  I  do  not 
know  you ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady, 
to  bid  you  come  speak  with  her ;  nor  your  name  is 
not  master  Cesario  ;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither. 
— Nothing,  that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seb.   I  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else : 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clown.  Vent  my  folly  !     He  has  heard  that  word 

f  some   great   man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool. 

Vent  my  folly !     I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the 

world,  will  prove  a  cockney.1 — I  pr'ythee  now,  un« 


1  ASectalion  and  foppery  will  overspread  the  world. 


88  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    IV. 

gird  tliy  strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  vent 
to  my  lady.     Shall   I  vent    to    her,   that  thou  art 


ting  ? 


Seb.   I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,1  depart  from  me ; 
There  *s  money  for  thee  ;  if  you  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clown.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand. — 
These  wise  men,  that  give  fools  money,  get  them- 
selves a  good  report  after  fourteen  years'  purchase.* 

Enter  sir  Andrew,  sir  toby,  and  fabian. 

Sir  An.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there  's 
for  you.  [striking  Sebastian. 

Seb.  Why,  there  's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there. 
Are  all  the  people  mad  ?  [beating  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger  o'er 
the  house. 

Clown.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight.  I  would 
not  he  in  some  of  your  coats  for  twopence. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Sir  To.   Come  on,  sir  ;  hold.       [holding  Sebastian. 

Sir  An.  Nay,  let  him  alone  :  I  '11  go  another  way 
to  work  with  him  ;  I  '11  have  an  action  of  hattery 
against  him,  if  there  he  any  law  in  Illyria :  though 
I  struck  him  first,  yet  it 's  no  matter  for  that. 

Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.     Come, 


1   A  term  for  bawd  or  pander. 

*  The  highest  price  for  land  in  SbaLspeare's  time. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  89 

my  young   soldier,   put  up  your  iron  :  you  are  well 
fleshed  : '  come  on. 

Seb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.  What  wouldst  thou 
now  ? 
If  thou  darest.  tempt  me  farther,  draw  thy  sword. 

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

[draws. 

Enter  olivia. 

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

Sir  To.  Madam  ? 

Oil.  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?    Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where   manners  ne'er    were  preach'd !     out  of  my 

sight  ! 
Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario  : 


Rudesby,2  be  gone  ! — I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 3 
Against  thy  peace.      Go  with  me  to  my  house ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
Mayst  smile  at  this  :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go. 
Do  not  deny.     Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 


'  Initiated.  s  Uncivil  fellow.  '  Violence. 


90  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    IV. 

Seb.   What    relish    is    in    this  ? '    how    runs    the 
stream  ? 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream. — 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep : 
If  it  he  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep. 

Oli.  Nay,    come,   I   pr'ythee.     Would,    thou  'dst 

he  ruled  hy  me  ! 
Seb.  Madam,  I  will. 
Oli.  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  !   [JEatfiurf. 

SCENE    II. 

A  room  in  Olivia's  house. 
Enter    maria    and   clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown  and 
this  beard  ;  make  him  believe,  thou  art  sir  Topas 
the  curate  ;  do  it  quickly.  I  '11  call  sir  Toby  the 
whilst.  [Exit  Maria. 

Clown.  Well,  I  '11  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  2 
myself  in  't ;  and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever 
dissembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  fat  enough  to 
become  the  function  well,  nor  lean  enough  to  be 
thought  a  good  student  :  but  to  be  said,  an  honest 
man,  and  a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly,  as  to 
say,  a  careful  man,  and  a  great  scholar.  The  com- 
petitors 3  enter. 


1  How  does  this  taste?  what  judgment  am  I  to  make  ci* 
thie  1  3  Disguise.  3  Confederates. 


SCENE    H.  TWELFTH     NIGHT  (Jl 

Enter  sir  toby  belch  and  maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clown.  Bonos  dies,1  sir  Toby  :  for  as  the  old 
hermit  of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very 
wittily  said  to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  *  That, 
that  is,  is ; '  so  I,  being  master  parson,  am  master 
parson  :  for  what  is  that,  but  that ;  and  is,  but  is  ? 

Sir  To.   To  him,  sir  Topas. 

Clown.   What,  hoa,  I  say, — Peace  in  this  prison  ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ;  a  good 
knave. 

Mai.    [in  an  inner  chamber. .]   Who  calls  there  ? 

Clown.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit 
Malvolio  the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas,  good  sir  Topas,  go  to 
my  lady. 

Clown.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou 
this  man  ?    Talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged : 
good  sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad  ;  they  have 
laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clown.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan  !  I  call  thee 
by  the  most  modest  terms  ;  for  I  am  one  of  those 
gentle  ones,  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  witfl 
courtesy.     Say'st  thou,  that  house  is  dark? 

Mai.    \.s  hell,  sir  Topas. 


Good  fortune  befal  thee. 


92  TWELFTH     NIGIIT.  ACT    IV. 

Clown.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windoMS1  transparent 
as  barricadoes,  and  the  clear-stories 2  towards  the 
south-north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony ;  and  yet  com- 
plainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  sir  Topas :  I  say  to  you,  this 
house  is  dark. 

Clown.  Madman,  thou  errest  :  I  say,  there  is  no 
darkness,  but  ignorance  ;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled,  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell  ;  and  I  say, 
there  was  never  man  thus  abused  :  I  am  no  more 
mad  than  you  are ;  make  the  trial  of  it  in  any  con- 
stant question.'5 

Clown.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  con- 
cerning wild-fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clown.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  ap- 
prove his  opinion. 

Clown.  Fare  thee  well.  Remain  thou  still  in 
darkness :  thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pytha- 
goras, ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits ;  and  fear  to  kill 
a  woodcock,  lest  thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy 
grandam.     Fare  thee  well. 


1  Bow-windows. 

2  Clear-story  is  a  term  in  Gothic  architecture,  denoting  ■ 
row  of  windows  running  along  the  upper  part  of  a  lofty  hall, 
or  of  a  church,  over  the  arches  of  the  nave. 

3  A  regular  conversation. 


BCEXE    II.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  93 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas, — 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  sir  Topas  ! 

Clown.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters.1 

Mar.  Thou  mightst  have  clone  this  without  thy 
beard  and  gown  :  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me 
word  how  thou  findest  him  :  I  would,  we  were  well 
rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently 
delivered,  I  would  he  were ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in 
offence  with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot  pursue  with 
any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come  by  and 
by  to  my  chamber.  [Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clown.  '  Hey  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.'     [singing. 

Mai.  Fool, — 

Clown.  '  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy.'  2 

Mai.  Fool,— 

Clown.   '  Alas,  why  is  she  so  ?  ' 

Mai.   Fool,  I  say  ; — 

Clown.  '  She  loves  another.' — Who  calls,  ha? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  -wilt  deserve  well  at 
my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and 
paper :  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thank- 
ful to  thee  for  't. 

Clown.  Master  Malvolio  ! 

Mai.  Ay,  good  fool. 


1  I  can  turn  my  hand  to  any  thing. 

*  A  corruption  of  the  French  oath,  far  Diem. 


94  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    IV. 

Clown.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  live 
wits  ? 1 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
abused  :  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art. 

Clown.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if 
you  be  no  better  in  your  wits  tban  a  fool. 

Mul.  They  have  here  propertied  me ;  •  keep  me 
in  darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all 
they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clown.  Advise  you  what  you  say  ;  the  minister  is 
here. — Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens  re- 
store !  endeavor  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy  vain 
bibble  babble. 

Mai.   Sir  Topas, 

Clown.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow. 
— Who,  I,  sir  ?  not  I,  sir.  God  V  wi'  you,  good  sir 
Topas. — Marry,  amen. — I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mul.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say. 

Clown.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir  ? 
I  am  shent  3  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light  and  some 
paper  :  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clown.  Well-a-day, — that  you  were,  sir! 

Mul.  By  this  hand,  I  am.  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,   and  light,  nnd  convey  what  I  will  set  down 


1  Senses.  2  Tali  en  possession  of  ite. 

'■>  Reprimanded, 


SCENE    III.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  95 

to  my  lady ;  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever 
the  hearing  of  letter  did. 

Clown.   I    will   help   you   to 't.     But  tell  me  true, 

are  you  not  mad  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

Mai.   Believe  me,  I  am  not  ;   I  tell  thee  true. 

Clown.   Nay,    I  '11   ne'er   believe   a  madman,  till  I 

see  his  brains.     I  will  fetch  you   light,  and  paper. 

and  ink. 

Mai.   Fool,  I  '11  requite  it  in  the   highest  degree  : 
I  pr'ythee,  be  gone. 

Clown.  I  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
I  '11  be  with  you  again, 
In  a  trice, 

Like  to  the  old  vice,1 
Your  need  to  sustain  ; 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries,  ah,  ha  !   to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  hid, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad  : 

Adieu,  goodman  devil.  [Exit. 

SCENE   III. 

Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  Sebastian. 
Sib.  This  is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun ; 


1  The  vice  was  the  fool  of  the  old  moralities. 


9S  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ATT    IT. 

This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel 't  and  see  't : 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where  's  Antonio  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 
Yet  there  he  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit,1 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  sen-ice  : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness ; 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse,2 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes, 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust,3  but  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  else  the  lady  's  mad  ;  yet,  if  'twere  so, 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,    command  her  fol- 
lowers, 
Take,  and  give  back,  affairs,  and  their  despatch, 
"With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing, 
As  I  perceive,  she  does  :   there  's  something  in  't. 
That  is  deceivable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  olivia  and  priest. 

OIL  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.      If  you  mean 
well, 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry4  by:  there,  before  him, 


>  Information.  J  Example  and  reason. 

»  belief.  4  Little  chapel. 


■ 

- 

■ 

----- 


SCENE    III.  TWELFTH.    NIGHT.  97 

And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  douhtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace.     He  shall  conceal  it, 
Whiles  '  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note ; 
What  time  -  we  will  our  celehration  keep 
According  to  my  birth. — What  do  you  say  ? 

Seb.  I  '11  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

Oli.  Then  lead  the  way,  good   father ; — and  hea- 
vens so  shine, 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  ! 

[ExeuTit. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE    I. 

Tlte  street  before  Olivia's  house. 
Enter  clown  and  fabian. 

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

Clown.  Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another 
request. 

Fab.  Any  thing. 

Clown.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

Fab.  That  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and,  in  recompense, 
aesire  my  dog  again. 


'  Until.  '  A<  which  time. 

au  a  k.  i  \ . 


L?S  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

Enter  duke,  viola,  add  Attendants. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

Clown.  Ay,  sir ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well.  How  dost  thou,  iny 
good  fellow  ? 

Clown.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the 
worse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy 
friends. 

Clown.   No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clown.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an 
ass  of  me  ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly,  I  am  an 
ass  :  so  that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowlege 
of  myself,  and  by  my  friends  (  am  abused :  so  that, 
conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,  if  your  four  negatives 
make  your  two  affirmatives,  why,  then  the  worse  for 
my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.    Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clown.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no  ;  though  it  please  you 
to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  V.e  the  worse  for  me  :  there  's 
gold. 

Clown.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another! 

Duke.   O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clown.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a 
double-dealer  ;  there  's  another. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  .99 

Clown.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play  ; 
and  the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all  :  the 
triplex,  sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure,  or  the  bell* 
of  St.  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in  mind  ;  one,  two, 
three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at 
this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know,  I  am 
here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with 
you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty  farther. 

Clown.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty,  till  I 
come  again.  I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you 
to  think,  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of 
covetousness  :  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your  bounty 
take  a  nap ;  I  will  awake  it  anon.  [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  antonio  and  officers. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  '  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable  : 
With  which  such  scathful2  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet. 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss, 
Cried  fame  and  honor  on  him. — What 's  the  matter  ? 

1   Off.   Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio, 


1  Trifling  *  Mischievous. 


]Q0  TWKLl-1'H     NIGHT.  ACT     V. 

That    took    the    Phoenix    and    her    fraught'     from 

Candy  ; 
And  this  is  he,  that  did  the  Tiger  hoard, 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg  : 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state.  - 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir  ;  drew  on  my  side, 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me. 
I  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate  !  thou  salt-water  thief ! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear, 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

jnt  Orsino,  noble  sir. 

Be   pleased   that   I    shake    off    these    names    yon 


give  me  ; 


Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate, 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 
Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither  : 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side, 
From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem  ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint. 
All  his  in  dedication  :   for  his  sake, 
Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 
Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 

Freight.  ■  Inattentive  to  his  character  or  condition. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  101 

Drew  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset : 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 
And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing, 
While  one  would  wink  ;  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.   When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-day,   my  lord;    and  for   three    months 
before, 
(No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy) 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  olivia  and  Attendants. 

Duke.     Here  comes  the    countess ;     now  heaven 
walks  on  earth. — 
But  for  thee,  fellow  ;  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness: 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me  : 
But  more  of  that  anon. — Take  him  aside. 

Oil.   What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not 
have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 
Vio.   Madam? 
Duke.   Gracious  Olivia, — 
OH.     What    do    you    say,    Cesario  ? — Good    my 

lord, 

Vio.  My  lord  would  speak  ;  my  duty  hushes  me. 


10"J  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

Oli.   If  it  be  auglit  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 
It  is  as  fat  '  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear, 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.   Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What !   to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady. 
To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breathed  out, 
That  e'er  devotion  tender'd  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,   that  shall  be- 
come him. 

Duke.  Why  should  I  net,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief,2  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  I  love  ;  a  savage  jealousy, 
That  sometime  savors  nobly  ? — But  hear  me  this : 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favor, 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this,  your  minion,  whom,  I  know,  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  Heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. — 
Come,    boy,   with  me ;    my    thoughts   are   ripe    in 
mischief : 


'  Dull. 

2  Thyamis,  a  native  of  Memphis,  captured  a  young  lady, 
named  Chariclea,  whom  lie  loved,  and  concealed  in  his  cave. 
Being  soon  alter  overpowered,  he  determined  to  put  her  to 
death,  to  prevent  her  falling  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  103 

I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 

l'o  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  [going. 

Vio.   And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

[following. 

Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

Afore  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above, 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

Oli.  Ah,  me,  detested  !   how  am  I  beguiled  ! 

Vio.  Who  does  beguile   you  ?  who  does  do  you 
wrong  ? 

Oli.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself  ?    Is  it  so  long? — 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.  Come,  away.  [to  Viola. 

Oli.   Whither,  my  lord  ? — Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  husband.    Can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.   Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety.1 
Fear  not,  Cesario ;  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. — O,  welcome,  father ! 


Suppress  or  disown  thy  property. 


104  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT   T. 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  priest. 

Father,  T  charge  thee,  hy  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness,  what  occasion  now 
Reveals  hefore  'tis  ripe)  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  pass'd  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  ring?  ; ' 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Seal'd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony  : 
Since  when,   my  watch   hath  told  me,   toward  my 

grave 
I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 

Duke.   O,  thou  dissembling  cub!    what  wilt  thou 
be, 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? " 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet, 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

OIL  O,  do  not  swear : 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 


1  In  our  ancient  marriage  ceremony,  the  man   receired  aa 
well  as  gave  a  ring.  s  Skin. 


N  5  * 

tn  -:   ~ 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  105 

Enter  sir  Andrew  ague-cheek,  with  his  head  broke. 

Sir  An.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon :  send 
one  presently  to  sir  Toby. 

Oli.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  An.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has 
given  sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too  :  for  the  love 
of  God,  your  help  :  I  had  rather  than  forty  pound, 
I  were  at  home. 

Oli.  Who  has  done  this,  sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  An.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario  : 
we  took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he  's  the  very  devil 
incardinate. 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  An.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is  ! — You  broke 
my  head  for  nothing  ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set 
on  to  do  't  by  sir  Toby. 

Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?  I  never  hurt  vou  : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me  without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  An.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have 
hurt  me.  I  think,  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody 
coxcomb. 

Enter  sir  toby  belch,  drunk,  led  by  the  clown. 

Here  comes  sir  Toby  halting  :  you  shall  hear  more : 
but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have 
tickled  you  othergates  1  than  he  did. 


•  Otherwise. 


10G  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  ?  how  is  't  with  yon  ? 

Sir  To.  That 's  all  one  ;  he  has  hurt  me,  and 
there  's  the  end  on  't. — Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon, 
sot? 

Clown.  O,  he  's  drunk,  sir  Tohy,  an  hour  agone  ; 
his  eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he  's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy  measures 
pavin.1     I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

OH.  Away  with  him.  Who  hath  made  this 
havoc  with  them  ? 

Sir  An.  I  '11  help  you,  sir  Toby,  because  we  '11  be 
dressed  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  ? — An  ass-head,  and  a 
coxcomb,  and  a  knave  ;  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull  ? 

Oli.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 
\_Exeunt  Clown,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have   hurt  your  kins- 
man ; 
But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less,  with  wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and 
By  that  I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you. 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.  One   face,   one   voice,    one   habit,  and  two 
persons  ; 


'  Probably,  a  pavin  danced   out  of  time.     A   pavin   is  t.ia 
Bamc  of  a  grave  and  majestic  dance. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  107 

A  natural  perspective,  that  is,  and  is  not. 

Seb.  Antonio,  O  my  dear  Antonio  ! 
How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortured  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thee  ! 

Ant.   Sehastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.   How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself  ? — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

OH.   Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.  Do  I  stand  there  ?  I  never  had  a  brother : 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  every  where.      I  had  a  sister, 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devour'd. — 
Of  charity,1  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ?  [to  Viola. 

What  countryman  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  ? 

Vio.   Of  Messaline.      Sebastian  was  my  father  :     ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too  ; 
So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb  : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am,  indeed, 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad, 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say — Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola ! 
Vio.   My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 


Out  of  charity,  tell  me. 


108  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.    And  died  that  day  when   Viola    from    her 
birth 
Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 

Seb.   O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act, 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.   If  nothing  lets  l  to  make  us  happy  both, 
But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 
That  I  am  Viola :  which  to  confirm, 
I  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds  ;  by  whose  gentle  help 
I  was  preserved,  to  serve  this  noble  count  : 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb.   So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook  : 

[to  Olivia. 
But  Nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived : 
You  are  betrothed  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.  Be  not  amazed ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 
If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck. 
Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 

[to  Viola, 


1   Hinders. 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  109 

Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Vio.   And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear, 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul, 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent,  the  lire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand, 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.  The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore, 
Hath  my  maid's  garments  :  he,  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance  ;  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

OH.  He  shall  enlarge  him. — Fetch   Malvolio  hi- 
ther : — 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he  's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  clown,  with  a  letter. 

A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own  l 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish'd  his. — 
How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clown.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at  the 
stave's  end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do  :  he 
has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you  :  I  should  have  given 
it  you  to-day  morning ;  but  as  a  madman's  epistles' 
are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  -  not  much  when  they 
are  delivered. 

Oh.  Open  it,  and  read  it. 


'     A    frpnej,   that  drew  dip  away  from  every   tiling  but  its 
wn  oliject.  3  Matters. 


1  10  TWELFTH     NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

Clown.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the 
fool  delivers  the  madman. — '  By  the  Lord,  madam,' — 

OH.   How  now  !   art  thou  mad  ? 

Clown.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness :  an 
your  ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you 
must  allow  vox.1 

OIL   Pr'ythee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

Clown.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right 
wits,  is  to  read  thus  :  therefore  perpend,-  my  prin- 
cess, and  give  ear. 

Oil.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [to  Fabian. 

Fab.  [reads.']  '  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong 
me,  and  the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you  have 
put  me  into  darkness,  and  given  your  drunken  cou- 
sin rule  over  me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  my  senses 
as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I  have  your  own  letter 
that  induced  me  to  the  semblance  I  put  on  ;  with 
the  which  I  doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much  right* 
or  you  much  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I 
leave  my  duty  a  little  unthought  of,  and  speak  out 
of  my  injury. 

'  The  madly-used  Malvolio.' 

OIL  Did  he  write  this  ? 
Clown.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savors  not  much  of  distraction. 
OIL   See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian;   bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  Fabian. 


1   \  ou  must  allow  nie  to  read  it  in  character,  with   u  frantic 
'one.  2  Attend 


SCENE    I.  TWELFTH     X1GHT.  Ill 

My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  tilings  farther  thought 

on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on  't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I   am  most  apt   to    embrace  your 

offer. — 
Your  master  quits  you ;    [to  ViolaJ]   and,    for  your 

service  done  him, 
So  much  against  the  mettle  l  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand  ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister  ? — you  are  she. 

Re-enter  fabian  with  malvolio. 

Duke.   Is  this  the  madman  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrvng, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio  ?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,   you    have.     Pray    you,    peruse    that 
letter : 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand  : 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand  or  phrase  : 
Or  say,  'tis  not  your  seal  nor  your  invention. 


Frame  an*'  eonstitution. 


112  twelfth   Night. 


ACT    V. 


You  can  say  none  of  this.     Well,  grant  it  then  ; 

And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honor, 

Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favor , 

Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter'd  to  you, 

To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 

Upon  sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter  people  : l 

And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 

Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprisoned, 

Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 

And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  -  and  gull, 

That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 

OIL   Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character  : 
But,  out  of  question,  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First    told    me    thou    wast    mad ;     then    earnest   in 

smiling, 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee  ; 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak  ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.      In  hope  it  shall  not, 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 


1    People  of  less  dignity.  2  Fool. 


SCEXE    I.  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  112 

Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him.     Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  sir  Toby's  great  importance  ;  * 
In  recompense  whereof,  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  follow'd, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge, 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd, 
That  have  on  both  sides  pass'd. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  fool !  how  have  they  baffled 8 
thee ! 

Clown.  Why,  '  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
greatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon 
them.'  I  was  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude ;  one  sir 
Topas,  sir ;  but  that 's  all  one  : — '  By  the  Lord, 
fool,  I  am  not  mad.' — But  do  you  remember? 
'  Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  ? 
an  you  smile  not,  he 's  gagged.'  And  thus  the 
whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Mai.  I  '11  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[Exit. 

Oli.  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace  :— 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet : 
When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents,3 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls  :  meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  part  from  hence. — Cesario,  come  ; 


'   Importunity.  s  Imposed  on.  *  Shall  agree. 

SHAK.  IT.  H 


]  14  TWELFTH    NIGHT.  ACT    V. 

For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 

But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 

Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.       [Exeunt, 

SONC. 

Clown.  When  tbat  T  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gait, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas !  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  1  never  thrive, 
Fcr  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 
And  we  '11  strive  to  please  you  even'  d»v»        (  E«i(. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


117 

HISTORICAL  NOTICE 
or 

MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING. 


A  story  in  some  respects  similar  to  this  drama  may 
be  found  in  the  fifth  book  of  Orlando  Furioso,  and 
likewise  in  the  second  book  of  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen  ; 
but  it  is  most  probable  that  Shakspeare  derived  the 
principal  incident  of  this  comedy  from  a  version  of 
Belleforest,  who  copied  the  Italian  novelist  Bandello. 
In  the  22d  tale  of  the  first  part  of  Bandello,  and  the 
18th  history  of  the  third  volume  of  Belleforest,  a  story 
is  related,  the  events  of  which  nearly  resemble  those 
attendant  on  the  marriage  of  Claudio  and  Hero. 

As  this  play  was  printed  in  quarto  in  1600,  and  is 
not  mentioned  by  Meres  in  his  list  of  Shakspeare's 
works  published  about  the  end  of  15.08,  Mr.  Malone 
conjectures  that  the  year  1G00  may  be  accurately 
assigned  as  the  time  of  its  production.  It  is  reported 
to  have  been  formerly  known  under  the  name  of '  Bene- 
dick and  Beatrice.' 

'This  play,'  says  Steevens,  'may  be  justly  said  to 
cntain  two  of  the  most  sprightly  characters  that  Shak- 
speare ever  drew.  The  wit,  the  humorist,  the  gentle- 
man, and  the  soldier  are  combined  in  Benedick.  It 
is  to  be  lamented,  indeed,  that  the  first  and  most 
splendid  of  these  distinctions  is  disgraced  by  unneces- 
sary   profaneness  ;    for  the  goodness   of  his  heart  is 


118  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

hardly  sufficient  to  atone  tor  the  license  of  his  tongue. 
The  too  sarcastic  levity  which  flashes  out  in  the  con- 
versation of  Beatrice  may  he  excused  on  account  of  the 
steadiness  and  friendship  to  her  cousin,  so  apparent  in 
her  behavior,  when  she  urges  her  lover  to  risk  his  life 
by  a  challenge  to  Claudio.  In  the  conduct  of  the  fable, 
there  is  an  imperfection  similar  to  that  which  Dr. 
Johnson  has  pointed  out  in  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor : — the  second  contrivance  is  less  ingenious 
than  the  first ; — or,  to  speak,  more  plainly,  the  same 
incident  is  become  stale  by  repetition.  1  wish  some 
other  method  had  been  found  to  entrap  Beatrice,  than 
that  very  stratagem  which  before  had  been  successfully 
practised  on  Benedick/ 


119 


ARGUMENT. 


Leonnto,  a  gentleman  of  Messina,  has  an  only  daughter, 
named  Hero,  whose  b^uty  and  accomplishments  captivate 
the  affections  of  count  Claudio,  a  favorite  of  the  prince  then 
on  H  visit  to  her  father,  who  willingly  gives  his  consent  to  a 
union  so  promising.  In  tho  mean  time,  Don  John,  a  natural 
Brother  of  the  prince,  who  has  long  viewed  the  elevation  of 
Claudio  with  an  eye  of  jealousy,  accuses  the  lady  of  incon- 
stancy ;  and,  in  confirmation  of  his  assertion,  introduces  his 
brother  and  his  friend  to  her  chamber  window  at  midnight: 
the  artifice  of  an  attendant  of  Don  John,  named  Borachio, 
who  contrives  to  address  the  waiting-maid  stationed  at  the 
window  by  the  name  of  Hero,  appears  to  leave  no  room  for 
doubt,  and  the  enraged  lover  repudiates  his  affianced  bride 
at  the  very  moment  of  the  nuptials  :  Hero  faints  ;  and,  by 
the  advice  of  the  friar,  a  false  report  of  her  death  is  circu- 
lated. During  the  progress  of  these  events  Borachio  reveals 
the  success  of  his  machinations  to  a  fellow-servant  whom 
he  meets  in  the  street,  and  their  conversation  is  overheard 
by  the  watch,  who  convey  the  culprits  to  Leonato's  house, 
where  a  full  confession  is  made  by  the  repentant  Borachio. 
Claudio  now  entreats  forgiveness  from  the  insulted  father, 
which  is  granted  on  the  condition  of  his  union  with  a  cousin 
of  his  injured  mistress,  whose  face  he  is  not  permitted  to 
behold  till  the  completion  of  the  marriage  ceremony,  when 
his  happiness  is  made  perfect  hy  finding  himself  the  hus- 
band of  the  innocent  Hero.  The  remainder  of  this  play  is 
occupied  with  the  deception  which  is  practised  to  betray 
Benedick  and  Beatrice,  two  rival  wits  and  professed  mar* 
riage-haters,  into  a  mutual  passion  for  each  other,  which  is 
at  length  accomplished,  and  they  are  both  content  to  re« 
nounce  their  prejudices  against  marriage. 


120 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Don  Pedro,  prince  of  Arragon. 

Don  John,  his  bastard  brother. 

Claudio,  a  young  lord  of  Florence,  favorite  to  Don  Pedro. 

Benedick,  a  young  lord  of  Padua,   favorite  likewise  of  Don 

Pedro. 

Leonato,  governor  of  Messina. 

Antonio,  his  brother. 

Balthazar,  servant  to  Don  Pedro. 

Borachio,   )  ,  „       ,  , 

„  >   followers  of  Don  John. 

Lonhade,    > 

Dogberry,  )   twQ  fooligh  officera> 

Verges,       j 

A  Sextos 

A  Friaf. 

A  Boy. 

Hero,  daughter  to  Leonato. 

Beatrice,  niece  to  Leonato. 

Margaret,}  ,  ..  „  __ 

;-   gentlewomen  attending  on  Hero. 
Ursula,       J 

Messengers,  Watch,  and  Attendant*. 

Scene,  Messina. 


MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE    I. 


Before  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  leonato,  hero,  Beatrice,  and  others,  with  a 

MESSENGER. 

Leo.  I  learn  in  this  letter,  that  Don  Pedro  of 
Arragon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mes.  He  is  very  near  by  this  ;  he  was  not  three 
leagues  off  when  I  left  him. 

Leo.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this 
action  ? 

Mes.  But  few  of  any  sort,1  and  none  of  name. 

Leo.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  Don 
Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honor  on  a  young  Flo- 
rentine, called  Claudio. 

Mes.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally  re- 
membered bv  Don  Pedro.     He  hath  borne  himself 


'  Kind. 


122  wucn    ADO  ACT   I. 

beyond  the  promise  of  his  age  ;  doing,  in  the  figure 
of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion  :  he  hath,  indeed,  better 
bettered  expectation,  than  you  must  expect  of  me 
to  tell  you  how. 

Leo.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be 
very  much  glad  of  it. 

Mes.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and 
there  appears  much  joy  in  him  ;  even  so  much,  that 
joy  could  not  show  itself  modest  enough,  without  a 
badge  of  bitterness. 

Leo.  Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mes.  In  great  measure.1 

Leo.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness  :  there  are  no 
faces  truer  than  those  that  are  so  washed.  How 
much  better  is  it  to  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at 
■weeping ! 

Bea.  I  pray  you,  is  signior  Montanto  returned 
from  the  wars,  or  no  ? 

Mes.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady  :  there  was 
none  such  in  the  army  of  any  sort.2 

Leo.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.  My  cousin  means  signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 

Mes.  O,  he  is  returned,  and  as  pleasant  as  ever 
he  was. 

Bea.  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina,  and 
challenged   Cupid   at  the  flight ; 3    and  my  uncle's 


1   Abundance.  2  Rank. 

3  By  flight  is  here  meant  a  sort  of  shooting  called  roving, 
or  aiming  at  long  lengths,  dependent  on  the  strength  and  skill 
of  the  archer 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  123 

fool,  reading  the  challenge,  subscrihed  for  Cupid, 
and  challenged  him  at  the  bird-bolt.1 — I  pray  you, 
how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these  wars  ? 
But  how  many  hath  he  killed  ?  for,  indeed,  I  pro- 
mised to  eat  all  of  his  killing. 

Leo.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  signior  Benedick  too 
much  ;  but  he  '11  be  meet 2  with  you,  I  doubt  it 
not. 

Mes.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these 
wars. 

Bea.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to 
eat  it :  he  is  a  very  valiant  trencher-man  ;  he  hath 
an  excellent  stomach. 

Mes.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Bea.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady  ; — but  what  is 
he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mes.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man ;  stuffed 
with  all  honorable  virtues. 

Bea.  It  is  so,  indeed  ;   he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed 

man  :    but  for  the    stuffing, Well,    we    are    all 

mortal. 

Leo.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece  :  there 
is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  signior  Benedick  and 
her  :  they  never  meet,  but  there  is  a  skirmish  of  wit 
between  them. 

Bea.  Alas,  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last 
conflict,  four  of  his   five  wits  went  halting  off.  and 


1  A  short  thick  arrow  without  a  point,  used  by  fools  nnd 
inferior  archers ;  whence  the  proverb,  '  A  fool's  bolt  is  soon 
shot.'  2  Even. 


124  MUCH    ADO  ACT    I. 

now  is  the  whole  man  governed  with  one  :  so  that 
if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm,  let  him 
hear  it  for  a  difference  hetween  himself  and  his 
horse  ;  for  it  is  all  the  wealth  that  he  hath  left,  to 
he  known  a  reasonable  creature. — Who  is  his  com- 
panion now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn 
brother. 

Mes.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Bea.  Very  easily  possible  :  he  wears  his  faith  but 
ns  the  fashion  of  his  hat ;  it  ever  changes  with  the 
next  block.1 

Mes.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your 
books. 

Bea.  No ;  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study. 
But,  I  pray  you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there  no 
young  squarer  2  now,  that  will  make  a  voyage  with 
him  to  the  devil  ? 

Mes.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right 
noble  Claudio. 

Bea.  O  Lord  !  he  will  hang  upon  him  like  a 
disease :  he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence, 
and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.  God  help  the 
noble  Claudio  !  if  he  have  caught  the  Benedick,  it 
will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere  he  be  cured. 

Mes.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Bea.  Do,  good  friend. 

Leo.  You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Bea.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mes.  Don  Pedro  is  approached. 


1  Mould  for  a  hat.  '  Quarrelsome  fellow. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  125 

Enter  don   tedro,   attended  by   Balthazar  and 
others ;  don  John,  claudio,  and  benedick. 

D.  Pe.  Good  signior  Leonato,  you  are  come  to 
n.eet  your  trouble  :  the  fash'on  of  the  world  is  to 
avoid  cost,  and  you  encounter  it. 

Leo.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  like- 
ness of  your  grace  :  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort 
should  remain  ;  but,  when  you  depart  from  me, 
sorrow  abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pe.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly. — 
I  think,  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leo.  Her  motlier  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Ben.  Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ? 

Leo.  Signior  Benedick,  no ;  for  then  wer^  you  a 
child. 

D.  Pe.  You  have  it  full,  Benedick  :  we  may  guess 
by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Truly,  the  lady 
fathers  herself. — Be  happy,  lady  !  for  you  are  like 
an  honorable  father. 

Ben.  If  signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would 
not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders  for  all  Messina, 
as  like  him  as  she  is. 

Bea.  I  wonder,  that  you  will  still  be  talking, 
signior  Benedick  ;  nobody  marks  you. 

Ben.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet 
living  ? 

Bea.  Is  it  possible,  disdain  should  die,  while  she 
hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it,  as  signior  Benedick  ? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come 
in  her  presence. 


126  MUCH    ADO  ACT   I. 

Ben.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turn-coat :  but  it  is  cer- 
tain, I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted ; 
and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not 
a  hard  heart ;  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

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

Ben.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind  ! 
so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predes- 
tinate scratched  face. 

Bea.  Scratching  could  not  makfc  it  worse,  an 
'twere  such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Ben.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot- teacher. 

Bea.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast 
of  yours. 

Ben.  I  would,  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer  :  but  keep  your 
way,  o'  God's  name  ;  I  have  done. 

Bea.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  ;  I  know 
you  of  old. 

D.  Pe.  This  is  the  sum  of  all :  Leonato, — signior 
Claudio,  and  signior  Benedick, — my  dear  friend 
Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I  tell  him,  we  shall 
*tay  here  at  the  least  a  month  ;  and  he  heartily 
prays,  some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer :  I 
dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his 
heart. 

Leo.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  for- 
sworn.— Let  me  bid  yxi  welcome,  my   lord  :  being 


SCENE    I  ABOUT    NOTHING.  127 

reconciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  I  owe  you  all 
duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you  :  I  am  not  of  many  words, 
but  I  tbank  you. 

Leo.  Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pe.  Your  hand,  Leonato ;  we  will  go  to- 
gether. [Exeunt  all  but  Ben.  and  Clau. 

Clau.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  cf 
signior  Leonato  ? 

Ben.  I  noted  her  not,  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Clau.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Ben.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest  man 
should  do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment ;  or  would 
you  have  me  speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a  pro- 
fessed tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Clau.  No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judg- 
ment. 

Ben.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low  for  a 
high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too 
little  for  a  great  praise  :  only  this  commendation  I 
can  afford  her ;  that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she 
were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no  other  but  as  she 
is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Clau.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport :  I  pray  thee, 
tell  me  truly  how  thou  likest  her. 

Ben.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after 
her  ? 

Clau.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Ben.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak 
you    this  with    a    sad  brow  ?    or  do   you   play  the 


128  MUCH    ADO  ACT    I. 

flouting  jack,1  to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare- 
finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter  ? 2  Come,  in 
what  key  shall  a  man  take  you,  to  go  in  the  song  ? 

Clau.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  looked  on. 

Ben.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see 
no  such  matter  :  there  's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not 
possessed  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in 
beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  Decem- 
ber. But  I  hope,  you  have  no  intent  to  turn 
husband  ;  have  you  ? 

Clau.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  had 
sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Ben.  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'  faith  ?  Hath  not  the 
world  one  man,  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  sus- 
picion ? 3  Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore 
again  ?  Go  to,  i'  faith  ;  an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust 
thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh 
away  Sundays.*  Look,  Don  Pedro  is  returned  to 
seek  you. 

Re-enter  don  peduo. 

D.  Pe.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that 
you  followed  not  to  Leonato's  ? 


1  Jack,  in  our  author's  time,  was  a  term  of  contempt. 

1  '  Do  you  mean  to  amuse  us  with  improbable  stories  ] ' — 
Steevens. 

3  Subject  his  head  to  the  disquiet  of  jealousy1? 

*  '  A  proverbial  expression  to  signify  that  a  man  ha«  no  rest 
mt  all,  when  even  Sunday  is  passed  so  uncomfortably.  — War 
burton. 


ECKME    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING  129 

Ben.  I  would,  your  grace  would  constrain  me  to 
tell. 

D.  Pe.   I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Ben.  You  hear,  count  Claudio  :  I  can  he  secret 
is  a  dumh  man  ;  I  would  have  you  think  so  ;  hut 
an  my  allegiance, — mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance. 
■ — He  is  in  love.  With  who  ? — now  that  is  your 
[Trace's  part. — Mark,  how  short  his  answer  is. — 
With  Hero,  Leonato's  short  daughter. 

Clan.  If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Ben.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord  :  it  is  not  so,  nor 
'twas  not  so ;  but,  indeed,  God  forbid  it  should 
be  so. 

Clan.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  God  for- 
bid it  should  be  otherwi&e. 

D.  Pe.  Amen,  if  you  leve  her ;  for  the  lady  is 
sery  well  worthy. 

Clau.   You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Clau.  And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Ben.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord, 
i  spoke  mine. 

Clau.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pe.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Ben.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved, 
lor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opinion 
hat  fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me ;  I  will  die  in  it  at 
.lie  stake. 

D.  Pe.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in 
he  despite  of  beauty. 

9HAK.  IV.  J 


1?.0  MUCH    ADO  ACT   I. 

Clau.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in 
the  force  of  ins  will. 

Ben.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her ; 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most 
humble  thanks :  but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat  * 
winded  in  my  forehead,  or  hang  my  bugle  -  in  an 
invisible  baldrick,3  all  women  shall  pardon  me. 
Because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust 
any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none  ;  and 
the  fine  is,  (for  the  which  I  may  go  the  finer)  I  will 
live  a  bachelor. 

D.  Pe.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with 
love. 

•  Ben.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger, 
my  lord  ;  not  with  love  :  prove,  that  ever  I  lose 
more  blood  with  love  than  I  will  get  again  with 
drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad -maker's 
pen,  and  hang  me  up  at  the  door  of  a  brothel-house, 
for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pe.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this 
faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Ben.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and 
shoot  at  me  ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped 
on  the  shoulder,  and  called  Adam.4 

D.  Pe.  Well,  as  time  shall  try : 

*  In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke.' 


1  A  tune   sounded   by  the  huntsman  to  call  off  the  dnga 
from  a  wrong  scent.  -  Hunting-horn. 

*  Belt.  4  Tbe  name  of  a  fimous  arcner. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  131 

Bin.  The  savage  bull  may :  but  if  ever  the  sensi- 
ble Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bill's  horns,  and 
set  them  in  my  forehead  :  and  let  me  be  vilely 
painted ;  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  "write, 
'  Here  is  good  horse  to  hire,'  let  them  signify  under 
my  sign, — *  Here  you  may  see  Benedick,  the  mar- 
ried man.' 

Clau.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  wouldst  be 
horn-mad. 

J).  Pe.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  hia 
quiver  in  Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Ben.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

D.  Pe.  Well,  you  will  temporise  with  the  hours. 
In  the  mean  time,  good  signior  Benedick,  repair  to 
Leonato's  ;  commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him,  I  will 
not  fail  him  at  supper ;  for,  indeed,  he  hath  made 
great  preparation. 

Ben.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such 
an  embassage  ;  and  so  I  commit  you — 

Clau.  To  the  tuition  of  God :  from  my  house,  (if 
I  had  it)— 

D.  Pe.  The  sixth  of  July  :  your  loving  friend, 
Benedick. 

Ben.  Nay,  muck  not,  mock  not.  The  body  of 
your  discourse  is  sometime  guarded a  with  frag- 
ments,  and  the  guards2   are  but  slightly  basted  on 


•  Trimmed. 

'•  Uuards  were  ornamental  lace  or  borders. 


132  MUP.n     ADO  ACT  I. 

neither :  ere  you   flout   old  ends  '   any  farther,  exa- 
mine your  conscience  ;  -  aud  so  I  leave  you. 

[Exit  Benedick. 

Clan.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me 
good. 

D.  Pe.  My  love   is  thine  to  teach ;  teach  it  but 
how, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Clau.  Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

D.  Pe.  No  child  but  Hero  ;   she  's  his  only  heir ; 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Clau.  O  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  : 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires. 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is  ; 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pe.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently. 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words  : 
If  tbou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it  ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 


•  Antiquated  allusions. 

5   '  Bxamine   if  your   sarcasms   do    not   touch    yourself. 
Johnson. 


SCENE    II.  AlinUT    NOTHING.  133 

And  thou  shalt  have  her.     Was  't  not  to  this  end 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Clan.   How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion  ! 
Hut  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salved  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 

D.  Pe.  What  need  the  hridge  much  broader  than 

the  flood  ? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity. 
Look,    what    will    serve,    is    fit :     'tis    once,1    thou 

lovest ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know,  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night ; 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio  ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I  '11  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale  : 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break  ; 
And,  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine. 
Tn  practice  let  u.s  put  it  presently.  [Eaeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

A  room  in  Leonato's  house. 

Enter  leonato  and  antonio. 

Leo.    How    now,   brother  ?     Where  is  my  cousin 
your  son  ?     I  lath  he  provided  this  music  ? 


1   Oino  for  all. 


13  J  MUCH    ADO  ACT   I. 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brotber,  I 
can  tell  you  strange  news  tbat  you  yet  dreamed 
not  of. 

Leo.  Are  tbey  good  ? 

Ant .  As  the  event  stamps  them  ;  but  they  'nave 
a  good  cover :  they  show  well  outward.  The  prince 
and  count  Claudio,  walking  in  a  thick-pleached 1 
alley  in  my  orchard,  were  thus  much  overheard  by  a 
man  of  mine.  The  prince  discovered  to  Claudio, 
that  he  loved  my  niece  your  daughter,  and  meant  to 
acknowlege  it  this  night  in  a  dance ;  and,  if  he 
found  her  accordant,  he  meant  to  take  the  present 
time  by  the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you 
of  it. 

Leo.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit,  that  told  you  this  ? 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow  :  I  will  send  for  him, 
and  question  him  yourself. 

Leo.  No,  no ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream,  till  it 
appear  itself ;  but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter 
withal,  that  she  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an 
answer,  if  peradventure  this  be  true.  Go  you,  and 
tell  her  of  it.  [Several  persons  cross  the  stage."] 
Cousins,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do. — O,  I  cry 
you  mercy,  friend  ;  you  go  with  me,  and  I  will  use 
your  skill. — Good  cousin,  have  a  care  this  busy 
time.  [Exeunt. 


Thickly  interwoven. 


SCENK    III.  ABOUT     NOTHING.  133 

SCENE    III. 

Another    room    in    Leonato's    house. 
Enter  don  John  and  conrade. 

Con.  What  the  good  year  my  lord  !  why  are  you 
thus  out  of  measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion 
that  breeds  it,  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.  You  should  hear  reason. 

D.  John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  bless- 
ing bringeth  it  ? 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  yet  a  patient 
sufferance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder,  that  thou  being  (as  thou 
say'st  thou  art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to 
apply  a  moral  medicine  to  a  mortifying  mischief.  I 
cannot  hide  what  I  am  :  I  must  be  sad  when  I  have 
cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's  jests ;  eat  when  I  have 
stomach,  and  wait  for  no  man's  leisure  ;  sleep  when 
I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  to  no  man's  business ; 
laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  l  no  man  in  his 
humor. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show 
of  this  till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment.  You 
have  of  late  stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he 
hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his  grace ;  where  it  is 
impossible  you  should  take  true  root,  but  by  the  fair 

1  Flutter. 


136  MUCH    ADO  ACT    I. 

•weather  that  you  make  yourself  :  it  is  needful  that 
3'ou  frame  the  season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker l  in  a  hedge, 
than  a  rose  in  his  grace ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood 
to  be  disdained  of  all,  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to 
rob  love  from  any.  In  this,  though  I  cannot  be 
said  to  be  a  flattering  honest  man,  it  must  not  be 
denied  that  I  am  a  plain-dealing  villain.  I  am 
trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfranchised  with  a 
clog ;  therefore  I  have  decreed  not  to  sing  in  my 
cage.  If  I  had  my  mouth,  I  would  bite  ;  if  I  had 
my  liberty,  I  would  do  my  liking :  in  the  mean 
time,  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to  alter 
me. 

Con.   Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

D.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only.2 
Who  comes  here  ?     What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Enter  borachio. 

Bor.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper :  the 
prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by  Leo- 
nato  ;  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended 
marriage. 

D.  John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build 
mischief  on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool,  that  betrothe* 
himself  to  unquietness  ? 

Bor.  Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

D.  John.  Who  ?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 


1  The  dog-rose.        2  I  make  nothing  else  my  counsellor. 


SCENE    III. 


ABOUT    NOTHING,  137 


Bor.  Even  lie. 

D.  John.  A  proper  squire  !  And  who,  and  who  ? 
which  way  looks  he  ? 

Bor.  Marry,  on  Hero,  tne  daughter  and  heir  of 
Leonato. 

B.  John.  A  very  forward  March-chick !  How 
came  you  to  this  ? 

Bor.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was 
smoking  a  musty  room,  comes  me  the  prince  and 
Claudio,  hand  in  hand,  in  sad l  conference.  I 
whipped  me  behind  the  arras ;  and  there  heard  it 
agreed  upon,  that  the  prince  should  woo  Hero  for 
himself;  and,  having  obtained  her,  give  her  to  count 
Claudio. 

D.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither  ;  this  may 
prove  food  to  my  displeasure  :  that  young  start-up 
hath  all  the  glory  of  my  overthrow  :  if  I  can  cross 
him  any  way,  I  bless  myself  every  way.  You  are 
both  sure,-  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.  To  the  death,  my  lord. 

D.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper  ;  their  cheer 
is  the  greater,  that  I  am  subdued.  Would  the  cook 
were  of  my  mind  ! — Shall  we  go  prove  what  'a  to  be 
done  } 

Bor.   We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship.        [Exeunt. 


1  Serious.  *  Trusty. 


138 


MUCH   ADO  ACT    11, 


ACT      I   I. 
SCENE    I. 

A  hull  in  Leonato's  house. 

Enter  leonato,  antonio,  hero,  Beatrice,  and 
others. 

Leo.  Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper  ? 
Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Bea.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks !  I  never 
can  see  him,  hut  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Bea.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made 
just  in  the  midway  between  him  and  Benedick  :  the 
one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing  ;  and  the 
other  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore 
tattling. 

Leo.  Then  half  signior  Benedick's  tongue  in 
count  John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melan- 
choly in  signior  Benedick's  face, — 

Bea.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle, 
and  money  enough  in  his  purse  ;  such  a  man  would 
win  any  woman  in  the  world, — if  he  could  get  her 
good  will. 

Leo.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get 
thee  a  husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

Ant.  In  faith,  she  's  too  curst. 

Bea.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst :  I  shall  lessen 
God's  sending  that  way ;  for  it  is  said,  '  God  sends 


SCEXE     I.  ABOUT    NOTHIXG.  J  39 

a  curst  cow  short  horns ; '  but  to  a  cow  too  curst  hf 
sends  none. 

Leo.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you 
no  horns. 

Bea.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband  ;  for  the 
which  blessing,  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every 
morning  and  evening.  Lord  !  I  could  not  endure  a 
husband  with  a  beard  on  his  face  ;  I  had  rather  lie 
in  the  woollen. 

Leo.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath  no 
beard. 

Bea.  What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  dress  him  in 
my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting  gentle- 
woman ?  He  that  hath  a  beard,  is  more  than  a 
youth  ;  and  he  that  hath  no  beard,  is  less  than  a 
man  :  and  he  that  is  more  than  a  youth,  is  not  for 
me ;  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  not  for 
him  :  therefore  I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest 
of  the  bear-herd,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

Leo.  Well  then,  go  you  into  hell  ? 

Bea.  No,  but  to  the  gate  ;  and  there  will  the 
devil  meet  me,  like  an  old  cuckold,  with  horns  on 
his  head,  and  say,  '  Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get 
you  to  heaven ;  here  's  no  place  for  you  maids  :'  so 
deliver  I  up  my  apes,  and  away  to  Saint  Peter  for 
the  heavens  :  he  shows  me  where  the  bachelors  sit, 
and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  Well,  niece,  [to  Hero.']  I  trust,  you  will  be 
ruled  by  your  father. 

Bea.  Yes,  faith  ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make 
courtesy,  and  say,  '  Father   as  it  idease  you  : ' — but 


140  MUCH  ADO  ACT  II. 

yet  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  he  a  handsome 
fellow,  or  else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say, 
*  Father,  as  it  please  me.' 

Leo.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted 
with  a  hushand. 

Bea.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  he 
overmastered  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  to  make 
an  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ? 
No,  uncle,  I  '11  none  :  Adam's  sons  are  my  hrethren  ; 
and,  truly,  1  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kin- 
dred. 

Leo.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you  :  if 
the  prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know 
your  answer. 

Bea.  The  fault  will  he  in  the  music,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  wooed  in  good  time  :  if  the  prince  be  too 
important,1  tell  him,  there  is  measure  in  every 
thing,  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear  me, 
Hero :  wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a 
Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace  :  the  first 
suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as 
fantastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a 
measure  full  of  state  and  antientry ;  and  then  comes 
repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the 
cinque-pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sinks  into  his 
grave. 

Leo.   Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 


lmpor'unat* 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  141 

Bea.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a 
church  by  daylight. 

Leo.  The  revellers  are  entering,  brother ;  make 
good  room. 

Enter  don  pedro,  claudio,  benedick,  Balthazar, 

DON     JOHN,      BORACHIO,     MARGARET,     URSULA,     and 

others,  masked. 

D.  Pe.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your 
friend  ?  l 

Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and 
say  nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk  ;  and,  espe- 
cially, when  I  walk  away. 

D.  Pe.  With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.  I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

D.  Pe.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 

Hero.  When  I  like  your  favor;  for  God  defend,2 
the  lute  should  be  like  the  case. 

D.  Pe.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof ;  within  tbe 
house  is  Jove. 

Hero.  Why,  then  your  visor  should  be  thatched. 

D.  Pe.   Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[takes  her  aside. 

Ben.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Mar.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake ;  for  I 
have  many  ill  qualities. 

Ben.  Which  is  one  ? 

Mar.   I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

1  Lover.  3  1'uibid. 


i42  MUCH    ADO  ACT    It. 

Ben.  I  love  you  the  better;  the  hearers  may  cry 
Ainen. 

Mar.   God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer. 

Bal.  Amen. 

Mar.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight,  when 
the  dance  is  done  ! — Answer,  clerk. 

Bal.  No  more  words  ;  the  clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough :  you  are  aignior 
Antonio. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.   I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well,  unless 
you  were  the  very  man.  Here 's  his  dry  hand  up 
and  down  ;  you  are  he,  you  are  he. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come ;  do  you  think  I  do  not  know 
you  by  your  excellent  wit  ?  Can  virtue  hide  itself  ? 
Go  to  ;  mum ;  you  are  he :  graces  will  appear,  and 
there  's  an  end. 

Bea.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Ben.  No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Bea.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Ben.  Not  now. 

Bea.  That  I  was  disdainful, — and  that  I  had  my 
good  wit  out  of  the  '  Hundred  Merry  Tales  ?  ' 1 — ■ 
Well,  this  was  signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Ben.  What 's  he  ? 


1  A  popalar  jest-book  in  the  time  of  our  author. 


SCEVK    X.  ABOUT    NOTHIXG.  143 

Bea.  I  am  sure,  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Ben.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Bea.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Ben.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Bea.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester  :  a  very  dull 
fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  l  slan- 
ders :  none  but  libertines  delight  in  him ;  and  the 
commendation  is  not  in  his  wit,  but  in  his  villany ; 
for  he  both  pleaseth  men,  and  angers  them,  and 
then  they  laugh  at  him,  and  beat  him.  I  am  sure, 
he  is  in  the  fleet ;  I  would  he  had  boarded  2  me. 

Ben.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I  '11  tell  him 
what  you  say. 

Bea.  Do,  do :  he  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or 
two  on  me ;  which,  peradventure,  not  marked,  or 
not  laughed  at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy ;  and 
then  there  's  a  partridge'  wing  saved,  for  the  fool 
will  eat  no  supper  that  night,  [music  within.']  We 
must  follow  the  leaders. 

Ben.  In  every  good  thing. 

Bea.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them 
at  the  next  turning.  [dance.      Then  exeunt  all 

but  D.  John,  Bor.  and  Clau. 

D.  John.  Sure,  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero, 
and  hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him 
about  it.  The  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  visor 
remains. 


1  Incredible.  '  Accosted. 


144  MUCH    ADO  ACT    II. 

Bor.  And  that  is  Claudio  :  I  know  him  by  his 
bearing.1 

D.  John.  Are  not  you  signior  Benedick  ? 

Clau.  You  know  me  well  :  I  am  he. 

D.  John.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother 
in  his  love  :  he  is  enamored  on  Hero.  I  pray  you, 
dissuade  him  from  her  ;  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth  : 
you  may  do  the  part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Clau.  How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

D.  John.   I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bor.  So  did  I  too ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry 
ker  to-night. 

.D.  John.  Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

{Exeunt  D.  John  and  Bor. 

Clau.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. — 
"fis  certain  so  ; — the  prince  woos  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues  ; 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent :  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood.2 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof, 
Which  I  mistrusted  not  :  farewell  therefore,  Hero  \ 

Re-enter  benedick. 
Ben.   Count  Claudio  ? 


'  Carriage,  demeanor.  '  fusion. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHIXS.  145 

CI nu.  Yea,  the  same. 

Ben.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Clan.  Whither  ? 

Ben.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  ahout  your  own 
business,  count.  What  fashion  will  you  wear  the 
garland  of?  About  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain; 
or  under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf  ?  You 
must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince  hath  got  your 
Hero. 

Clau.  I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Ben.  Why,  that 's  spoken  like  an  honest  drover  ; 
so  they  sell  bullocks.  But  did  you  think  the  prince 
would  have  served  you  thus  ? 

Clau.   I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Ben.  Ho!  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man: 
'twas  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you  '11  beat 
the  post. 

Clau.  If  it  will  not  be,  I  '11  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Ben.  Alas,   poor  hurt   fowl !     Now  will  he  creep 

into  sedges. But,  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should 

know  me,  and  not  know  me  !  The  prince's  fool !  — 
Ha  !  it  may  be,  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am 
merry. — Yea  ;  but  so  ;  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong  : 
I  am  not  so  reputed  :  it  is  the  base,  the  bitter  dispo- 
sition of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into  her  per- 
son, and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I  '11  be  revenged 
as  I  may. 

Re-enter  don  pedro. 

D.  Pe.  Now,  signior,  where  's  the  count  ?  Did 
you  see  him  ? 

shak.  r».  K 


146  MUCH    ADO  ACT    rT. 

Ben.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of 
lady  Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a 
lodge  in  a  warren.  I  told  him,  and,  I  think,  I  told 
him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the  good  will  of 
this  young  lady  ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to 
a  willow  tree,  either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as  being 
forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as  being  worthy 
to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pe.  To  be  whipped  ?     What 's  his  fault  ? 

Ben.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy,  who, 
being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it 
his  companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

D.  Pe.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ? 
The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Ben.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss,  the  rod  had  been 
made,  and  the  garland  too ;  for  the  garland  he  might 
have  worn  himself ;  and  the  rod  he  might  have 
bestowed  on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it,  have  stolen  his 
bird's  nest. 

D.  Pe.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore 
them  to  the  owner. 

Ben.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my 
faith,  you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pe.  The  lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you  : 
the  gentleman,  that  danced  with  her,  told  her,  she  is 
much  wronged  by  you. 

Ben.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a 
block  :  an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would 
have  answered  her  ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume 
life,  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I 
had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester ;  that 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  J47 

I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw ;  huddling  jest  upon 
jest  with  such  impossible  conveyance  >  upon  me,  that 
I  stood  like   a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole  army 
shooting  at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and  everv  word 
stabs  :  if  her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  termina- 
tions,  there  were  no  living  near  her  •    she  would 
infect  to  the  north   star.     I  would  not  marry  her 
though  she  were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  had 
left  him   before  he   transgressed  :    she  would  have 
made  Hercules  have  turned  spit;  yea,  and  have  cleft 
his  club    to  make  the  fire  too.     Come,  talk  not  of 
her;  you  shall  find  her  the   infernal  Ate*  in  good 
apparel.     I  would  to  God,  some  scholar  would  con- 
jure her ;  for,  certainly,  while  she  is  here,   a  man 
may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sanctuary ;    and 
people  sin  upon   purpose,   because  they  would  go 
thither;  so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  pertur- 
bation follow  her. 

Enter  claudio,  Beatrice,  hebo,  and  leonato. 

D.  Pe.  Look,  here  she  comes. 

Ben.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service 
to  the  world's  end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest 
errand  now  to  the  Antipodes,  that  you  can  devise  to 
send  me  on  ;  I  will  fetch  you  a  toothpicker  now 
irom  the  farthest  inch  of  Asia ;  bring  you  the  length 
of  Prester  John's  foot ;  fetch  you  a  hair  off  the 
great  Cham's  beard ;  do  you  any  embassage  to  the 


'  Incredible  quickness.  >  The  goddess  of  discord. 


148  MUCH    ADO 


ACT    II. 


Pigmies,  rather  than  hold  three  words'  conference 
with  this  harpy. — You  have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

D.  Pe.  None,  hut  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Ben.  O  God,  sir,  here  's  a  dish  I  love  not ;  1  can- 
not endure  my  lady  Tongue.  [Exit. 

D.  Pe.  Come,  lady,  come  ;  you  have  lost  the 
heart  of  signior  Benedick. 

Bea.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile  ;  and 
I  gave  him  use  l  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single 
one :  marry,  once  before,  he  won  it  of  me  with 
false  dice ;  therefore  your  grace  may  well  say,  I  have 
lost  it. 

D.  Pe.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady,  you  have 
put  him  down. 

Bea.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord, 
lest  I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools.  I  have 
brought  count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 

D.  Pe.  Why,  how  now,  count  ?  wherefore  are 
you  sad  ? 

Clau.  Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  How  then  ?     Sick  ? 

Clau.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Bea.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry, 
nor  well ;  but  civil,  count ;  civil  as  an  orange,  and 
something  of  that  jealous  complexion. 

D.  Pe.  V  faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be 
true  ;  though,  I  '11  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit 
is  false.     Here,  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name, 


i  Interest. 


SCENE    I.  AU  ,VT    NOTHING.  149 

and  fair  Hero  is  Avon  :    I  have  broke  with  her  father 
and  his  good   will  obtained  :   name  the  day  of  mar- 
riage, and  God  give  thee  joy  ! 

Leo.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with 
her  my  fortunes  :  his  grace  hath  made  the  match, 
and  all  grace  say  Amen  to  it  ! 

Bea.   Speak,  count  :  'tis  your  cue.1 
Clan.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald   of  joy  •  I 
were   but  little   happy,   if  I  could  say  how  much.— 
Lady,   as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours  :    I  give   away 
myself  for-  you,  and  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Bea.   Speak,  cousin  ;   or,  if  you   cannot,    stop  hig 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak  neither. 
D.  Pe.   In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 
Bea.   Yea,  my  lord ;   I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps 
on  the  windy  side  of  care.— My  cousin  tells  him  in 
his  ear,  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 
Clau.  And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 
Bea.   Good  lord,   for  alliance  !— Thus   goes  even, 
one  to  the  world  *  but  I,   and   I    am  sun-burned  •  ' 
may  sit  in  a  corner,  and  cry,   heigh  ho!  for  a  hus. 
band. 

D.  Pe.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Bea.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's 
getting.  Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ? 
Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could 
come  by  tlipni. 

D.  Pe.   Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 


'  Turn  :  a  phrase  peculiar  to  player3. 
2  Every  one  gets  married. 


150  MUCH     ADO  ACT    II. 

Bea.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  anothei 
for  working-days  :  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  weai 
every  day.  But,  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon  me  ; 
I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

D.  Pe.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be 
merry  best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of  question,  you 
were  born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Bea.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried  ;  but 
then  there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I 
born. — Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leo.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told 
you  of? 

Bea.  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle. — By  your  grace's 
pardon.  [Exit  Bea. 

D.  Pe.  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady ! 

Leo.  There  's  little  of  the  melancholy  element  in 
her,  my  lord  :  she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she  sleeps  ; 
and  not  ever  sad  then  ;  for  I  have  heard  my  daughter 
say,  she  hath  often  dreamed  of  unhappiness,  and 
waked  herself  with  laughing. 

D.  Pe.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a  hus- 
band. 

Leo.  O,  by  no  means  :  she  mocks  all  her  wooers 
out  of  suit. 

D.  Pe.   She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick. 

Leo.  O  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week 
married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

D.  Pe.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go  te 
church  ? 

Clau.  To-morrow,  my  lord.  Time  goes  on 
crutches,  till  love  have  all  his  rites. 


SCEN'B    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  151 

Leo.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is 
hence  a  just  sevennight ;  and  a  time  too  brief  too, 
to  have  all  things  answer  my  mind. 

D.  Pe.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long  a 
breathing ;  but,  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the  time 
shall  not  go  dully  by  us  :  I  will,  in  the  interim, 
undertake  one  of  Hercules'  labors  ;  which  is,  to 
bring  signior  Benedick  and  the  lady  Beatrice  into 
a  mountain  of  affection,  the  one  with  the  other.  I 
would  fain  have  it  a  match  ;  and  I  doubt  not  but  to 
fashion  it,  if  you  three  will  but  minister  such  as- 
sistance as  I  shall  give  you  direction. 

Leo.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me 
ten  nights'  watchings. 

Clau.  And  I,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  And  you  too,  gentle  Hero  ? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to 
help  my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

D.  Pe.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest 
husband  that  I  know :  thus  far  can  I  praise  him ; 
he  is  of  a  noble  strain,1  of  approved  valor,  and  con- 
firmed honesty.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  humor 
your  cousin,  that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Bene- 
dick ; — and  I,  with  your  two  helps,  will  so  practise 
on  Benedick,  that,  in  despite  of  his  quick  wit  and 
his  queasy  •  stomach,  he  shall  fall  in  love  with 
Beatrice.  If  we  can  do  this,  Cupid  is  no  longer  an 
archer  ;  his  glory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  are  the  only 


1  Lineage.  *  Squeamish. 


152  MUCH    ADO  ACT  II. 

love-gods.      Go  in  with  me.  and  I  will   tell   you  my 
drift.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    II. 

Another  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter    don    john  and  borachio. 

D.  John.  It  is  so  :  the  count  Claudio  shall  marry 
the  daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bor.   Yea,  my  lord ;  but  I  can  cross  it. 

D.  John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment  will 
be  medicinable  to  me  :  I  am  sick  in  displeasure  to 
him  ;  and  whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  affection, 
ranges  evenly  with  mine.  How  canst  thou  cross 
this  marriage  ? 

Bor.  Not  honestly,  my  lord  ;  but  so  covertly,  that 
no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.   Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bor.  I  think,  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since, 
how  much  I  am  in  the  favor  of  Margaret,  the  wait- 
ing-gentlewoman to  Hero. 

D.  John.  I  remember. 

Bor.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the 
night,  appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber- 
window. 

D.  John.  What  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death  of 
this  marriage  ? 

Bor.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper. 
Go  you  to  the  prince  your  brother  ;  spare  not  to 
tell  him,  that  he  hath  wronged  his  honor  in   marry- 


SCENE    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  153 

ing  the  renowned  Claudio  (whose  estimation  do  vou 
mightily  hold  up)  to  a  contaminated  stale,  such  a 
one  as  Hero. 

D.  John.  What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that  ? 

Bor.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex 
Claudio,  to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato.  Look  you 
for  any  other  issue  ? 

D.  John.  Only  to  despite  them,  I  will  endeavor 
any  thing. 

Bor.  Go  then,  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  Don 
Pedro  and  the  count  Claudio  alone  :  tell  them,  that 
)rou  know  that  Hero  loves  me ;  intend l  a  kind  of 
zeal  hoth  to  the  prince  and  Claudio,  as, — in  love  of 
your  hrother's  honor  who  hath  made  this  match ; 
and  his  friend's  reputation,  who  is  thus  like  to  be 
cozened  with  the  semhlance  of  a  maid,  —  that  you 
have  discovered  thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe 
this  without  trial  :  offer  them  instances  ;  which  shail 
bear  no  less  likelihood,  than  to  see  me  at  her  cham- 
ber-window ;  hear  me  call  Margaret,  Hero  ;  hear 
Margaret  term  me  Borachio  ;  and  bring  them  to  see 
this,  the  very  night  before  the  intended  wedding  : 
for,  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  so  fashion  the  matter, 
that  Hero  shall  be  absent  ;  and  there  shall  appear 
such  seeming  truth  of  Hero's  disloyalty,  that  jealousy 
shall  be  called  assurance,  and  all  the  prejiaration 
overthrown. 

D.  John.   Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can, 


Pretend. 


1j4  much  ado  act  n. 

I  will  put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in  the  working 
this,  and  thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bor.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,  and  mj 
cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

D.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of 
marriage.  \_Exeiint. 

SCENE    III. 

Leonato's  garden. 
Enter  bexedick  and  a  boy. 

Ben.  Boy. 

Boy.   Signior. 

Ben.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book:  bring 
it  hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 

Boy.  I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Ben.  I  know  that ; — but  I  would  have  thee  hence, 
and  here  again.  [Exit  Boy.] — I  do  much  wonder, 
that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a 
fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will, 
after  he  hath  laughed  at  such  shallow  follies  in 
others,  become  the  argument  of  his  own  scorn,  by 
falling  in  love  :  and  such  a  man  is  Claudio.  I  have 
known,  when  there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the 
drum  and  fife ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the 
tabor  and  the  pipe.  I  have  known,  when  he  would 
have  walked  ten  mile  afoot  to  see  a  good  armor ; 
and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights  awake,  carvin<r  the 
fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  was  wont  to  speak 
plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest  man  and  a 


tCZSE    III.  ABOUT    .VOTIIIKG.  155 

soldier  ;  and  now  is  he  turned  orthographer ;  his 
word;  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet,  just  so  many 
strange  dishes.  May  I  be  so  converted,  and  see 
with  these  eves  ?  I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  not  :  I  will 
not  be  swcrn,  but  Love  may  transform  me  to  ar. 
oyster  ;  but  I  11  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have 
made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such 
a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair ;  yet  I  am  well :  -another 
is  wise  ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous  ;  yet  I  am 
well :  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one  woman,  one 
woman  shall  not  come  in  my  gTace.  Rich  she  shall 
be,  that 's  certain  ;  wise,  or  I  '11  none  ;  virtuous,  or 
I  11  never  cheapen  her  ;  fair,  or  I  '11  never  look  on 
her ;  mild,  or  come  not  near  me  ;  noble,  or  not  I  for 
an  an2-el ;  of  °rood  discourse,  an  excellent  musician, 
and  her  hair  shall  be  of  what  color  it  please  God. 
Ha  !  the  prince  and  monsieur  Love  !  I  will  hide  me 
in  the  arbor.  [tcithtlraws. 

Enter  dox  tedro,  leoxato,  and  claudio. 

D.  Pe.   Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 
Clau.   Yea,  my  good  lord. — How  still  the  ever.iur 
is, 
As  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  ! 

D.  Pe.   See   vou  where  Benedick  hath  hid  him- 
self }  ' 
Clau.   0,  very  well,  my  lord  :  the  music  ended, 
We  '11  fit  the  kid-fox  '  with  a  pennyworth. 


1  Cunning  fox. 


1     G  MUCH    ADO  ACT   IT. 

Enter  Balthazar,  with  music. 

D.  Pe.  Come,  Balthazar,  we  '11    hear  that    song 
again. 

But.   O  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  had  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pe.   It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection. — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Bal.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy  ;  yet  he  woos ; 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he- loves. 

D.  Pe.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come  : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Bal  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

There  's  not  a  note  of  mine  that 's  worth  the  noting. 

D.  Pe.  Why,  these   are  very   crotchets  that    he 
speaks ; 
Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  noting  !  [music. 

Ben.  Now,  '  Divine  air  !  '  now  is  his  soul  ra- 
vished !  Is  it  not  strange,  that  sheeps'  guts  should 
hale  souls  out  of  men's  bodies  ? — Well,  a  horn  for 
my  money,  when  all 's  done. 

Balthazar  sings. 

i. 

Sigh  no  more,  Indies,  sigh  no  more  ; 

.Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore  ; 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 


80ENK  III.        ABOUT  NOTHING.  157 

Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  honny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey,  nonny,  nonny. 


Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mc  ' 

Of  dumps2  so  dull  and  heavy  : 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 

Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so,  £tc. 

D.  Pe.  By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Bal.  And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  Ha  ?  no ;  no,  faith ;  thou  singest  well 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Ben.  [aside.']  An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that  should 
have  howled  thus,  they  would  have  hanged  him  : 
and,  I  pray  God,  his  bad  voice  bode  no  mischief !  I 
had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night-raven,  come  what 
plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

D.  Pe.  Yea,  marry,  [to  Claudio.~] — Dost  thou 
hear,  Balthazar  ?  I  pray  thee,  get  us  some  excellent 
music  ;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would  have  it  at 
the  lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 

Bui.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  Do  so  :  farewell.  [Exeunt  Balthazar  and 
music.']  Come  hither,  Leonato.  What  was  it  you 
told  me  of  to-day  ?  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in 
love  with  signior  Benedick? 


1  More.  *  A  dump  is  a  mournful  elegy. 


158  MUCH    ADO  ACT    II. 

Clau.  O,  ay  : — stalk  on,  stalk  on  :  the  fowl  sits.1 
[aside  to  Pedro. .]  I  did  never  think  that  lady  would 
have  loved  any  man. 

Leo.  No,  nor  I  neither ;  but  most  wonderful, 
that  she  should  so  dote  on  signior  Benedick,  whom 
she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviors  seemed  ever  to 
abhor. 

Ben.  Is  't  possible  ?    Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner  ? 

[aside. 

Leo.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to 
think  of  it ;  but  that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged 
affection, — it  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought.2 

£>.  Pe.  May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Clau.  Faith,  like  enough. 

Leo.  O  God !  counterfeit !  There  never  was 
counterfeit  of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  pas- 
sion, as  she  discovers  it. 

D.  Pe.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Clau.  Bait  the  hook  well :  this  fish  will  bite. 

[aside. 

Leo.  What  effects,  my  lord  ?  She  will  sit  you,— 
You  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Clau.  She  did,  indeed. 

JD.  Pe.  How,   how,  I  pray  you  ?    You  amaze  me  : 


1  '  This  is  an  (illusion  to  the  stalking-horse,  by  which  the 
fowler  sheltered  himself  from  the  sig!it  of  the  game.'  — 
Steevens. 

2  '  15ut  with  what  an  enraged  affection  she  loves  him,  it  is 
beyond  the  power  of  thought  to  conceive.' — Mulouc. 


SCENE    IIT.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  159 

I  would  have  thought  her  spirit  had  heen  invincible 
against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leo.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord  ;  espe- 
cially against  Benedick. 

Ben.  {aside.']  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that 
the  white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it :  knavery  cannot, 
sure,  hide  itself  in  such  reverence. 

Clau.  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  :  hold  it  up. 

[aside. 

D.  Pe.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to 
Benedick  ? 

Leo.  No  ;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that 's  her 
torment. 

Clau.  Tis  true,  indeed;  so  your  daughter  says. 
'  Shall  I,'  says  she,  '  that  have  so  oft  encountered 
him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  that  I  love  him  ? ' 

Leo.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to 
write  to  him  :  for  she  '11  be  up  twenty  times  a  night ; 
and  there  will  she  sit  in  her  smock,  till  she  have 
writ  a  sheet  of  paper  : — my  daughter  tells  us  all. 

Clau.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I  remem- 
ber a  pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leo.  O  ! — When  she  had  writ  it,  and  was  reading 
it  over,  she  found  Benedick  and  Beatrice  between 
the  sheet  ? — 

Clau.  That. 

Leo.  O  !  she  tore  the  sheet  into  a  thousand  half- 
pence :  railed  at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  im- 
modest to  write  to  one  that  she  knew  would  flout 
her.    '  1  measure  him,'  says  she,  '  by  my  own  spirit; 


iGO  MUCH    ADO  ACT    II. 

for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to  me  ;  yea,  though 
I  love  him,  I  should.' 

Cluu.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls, 
weeps,  sohs,  beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  pravs, 
curses ; — '  O  sweet  Benedick  !  God  givt  me  pa- 
tience ! ' 

Leo.  She  doth  indeed ;  my  daughter  savs  so : 
and  the  ecstasy  l  hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that 
my  daughter  is  sometime  afraid  she  will  do  a  de- 
sperate outrage  to  herself.     It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pe.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it 
by  some  other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Cluu.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport 
of  it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pe.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang 
him.  She  's  an  excellent  sweet  lady  ;  and,  out  of 
all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Clan.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pe.  In  every  thing,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leo.  O  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  combating  in 
so  tender  a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  one,  that 
blood  hath  the  victory.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I 
have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle  and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pe.  I  would,  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage 
on  me  :  I  would  have  daffed  2  all  other  respects,  and 
made  her  half  myself.  I  pray  you,  tell  Benedick  of 
it,  and  hear  what  he  will  say. 


1  Alienution  of  mind.  2  Thrown  off. 


BOENK    III.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  1G1 

Leo.  Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claa.  Hero  thinks  surely,  she  will  die  :  lor  she 
says,  she  will  die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will 
die  ere  she  makes  her  love  known ;  and  she  will  die 
if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  'bate  one  breath 
of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pe.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make 
tender  of  her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he  '11  scorn  it ; 
for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  contemptible  1 
sjiirit. 

Clan.  He  is  a  very  proper  -  man. 

D.  Pe.  He  hath,  indeed,  a  good  outward  hap- 
piness. 

Clau.  'Fore  God,  and,  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pe.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparks  that 
are  like  wit. 

Leo.  And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pe.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you  :  and  in  the 
managing  of  quarrels  you  may  say  he  is  wise ;  for 
either  he  avoids  them  with  great  discretion,  or 
undertakes  them  with  a  most  christian-like  fear. 

Leo.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily  keep 
peace  ;  if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to  enter  into 
a  quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

D.  Pe.  And  so  will  he  do ;  for  the  man  doth  fear 
God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him  by  some  large 
jests  he  will    make.     Well,   I    am    sorry    for    your 


■  Contemptuous.  2  Handsome. 

SHAK.  IV.  L 


1  62  MUCH    ADO 


ACT    IT. 


niece.  Shall  we  go  seek  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of 
her  love  ? 

Clau.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord ;  let  her  wear  it 
out  with  good  counsel. 

Leo.  Nay,  that 's  impossible ;  she  may  wear  her 
heart  out  first. 

D.  Pe.  Well,  we  will  hear  farther  of  it  by  your 
daughter;  let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick 
well ;  and  I  could  wish  he  would  modestly  examine 
himself,  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  to  have  so 
good  a  lady. 

Leo.  My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?  dinner  is  ready. 

Clau.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I  will 
never  trust  my  expectation.  [aside. 

D.  Pe.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread  for 
her  ;  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentle- 
woman carry.  The  sport  will  be,  when  they  hold 
one  an  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such 
matter :  that 's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which 
will  be  merely  a  dumb  show.  Let  us  send  her  to 
call  him  in  to  dinner.  [aside. 

[Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  Leonato. 

Benedick  advances  from  the  arbor. 

Ben.  This  can  be  no  trick :  the  conference  was 
sadly  borne.1 — They  have  the  truth  of  this  from 
Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the  lady :  it  seems,  her 
affections  have  their  full  bent.     Love  me  !  why,   it 


'  Seriously  carried  ou. 


SCENE    III.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  1G3 

must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured  :  they 
say,  I  will  bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the 
love  come  from  her ;  they  say  too,  that  she  will 
rather  die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection. — I  did 
never  think  to  marry  : — I  must  not  seem  proud. — 
Happy  are  they  that  hear  their  detractions,  and  can 
put  them  to  mending.  They  say,  the  lady  is  fair; 
'tis  a  truth  ;  I  can  bear  them  witness  :  and  vir- 
tuous ;  'tis  so  ;  I  cannot  reprove  it :  and  wise  ;  but 
for  loving  me. — By  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition  to 
her  wit ; — nor  no  great  argument  of  her  folly,  for  I 
will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her.  I  may  chance 
have  some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken 
on  me,  because  1  have  railed  so  long  against  mar- 
riage. But  doth  not  the  appetite  alter  ?  A  man 
loves  the  meat  in  his  youth,  that  he  cannot  endure 
in  his  age.  Shall  quips,1  and  sentences,  and  these 
paper  bullets  of  the  brain,  awe  a  man  from  the 
career  of  his  humor  ?  No :  the  world  must  bs 
peopled.  When  I  said,  1  would  die  a  bachelor,  I 
did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married. — ■ 
Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day,  she 's  a  fait 
lady  :   I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Bea.  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come 
in  to  dinner, 

Ben.  Fair  Beatrice,  1  thank  you  for  your  pains. 


1  Sarcasms. 


164  MUCH     ADO  ACT     til. 

Bea.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  than]  s,  than 
you  take  pains  to  thank  me  :  if  it  had  heen  painful, 
I  would  not  have  come. 

Ben.   You  take  pleasure  then  in  the  message  ? 

Bea.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a 
knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal. — You  have 
no  stomach,  signior ;   fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Ben.  Ha !  '  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  hid  you 
come  to  dinner.' — There  's  a  double  meaning  in 
that.  "  I  took  no  more  nains  for  those  thanks,  than 
you  took  pains  to  thank  me.' — That  "s  as  much  as 
to  say,  Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as 
thanks. — If  I  do  not  take  pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain  ; 
if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew.  I  will  go  get  her 
picture.  [Exit. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE    I. 

Leonato's  garden. 

Enter  hero,  margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.   Good  Margaret,  run  thee  to  the  parlor ; 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing1  with  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 


1  Conversing. 


SCENE  I.  ABOUT  NOTHING.  165 

Is  all  of  her ;  say,  that  thou  overheardst  us  ; 

And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  ]  bower, 

Where  honey-suckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun, 

Forbid  the  sun  to  enter ; — like  favorites, 

Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 

Against  that    power  that  bred  it : — there  will  she 

hide  her, 
To  listen  our  propose.2     This  is  thy  office : 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Mar.  I  '11  make  her  come,   I  warrant  you,  pre- 
sently. [Tftri/. 
Hero.  Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come. 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick. 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit : 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be,  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice  :  of  this  matter 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin ; 

Enter  Beatrice,  behind. 

For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.  The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice,  who  even  now 


1  Interwoven.  *  Discourse. 


166  MUCH    ADO  ACT    UK, 

Is  couched  In  the  woodbine  coverture. 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose 
nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it. — 

{they  advance  to  the  bower. 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful : 
I  know,  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
As  haggards  x  of  the  rock. 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  intirely  ? 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed 

lord. 
Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam  } 
Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it  : 
^ut  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so  ?  Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  u  bed, 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ? 

Hero.  O  god  of  love  !  I  know,  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man  : 
But  Nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  "  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  w:t 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 


•  Haggard  is  a  species  of  hawk.  *  T7DflerTilaing. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  1G7 

All  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot  love. 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endear'd. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth  :    I  never  yet  saw 
man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-faced. 
She  'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  Nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot :  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  an  agate 1  very  vilely  cut : 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds  ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.  No  :  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions. 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?  If  I  should  speak, 
She  'd  mock  me  into  air.     O,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself;  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks  ; 


1  A  precious  stone  of  the  lowest  class. 


1G8  MUCH    ADO  ACT    III. 

Which  is  as  had  as  die  with  tickling. 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.  No  ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion  : 
And,  truly,  I  '11  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with  :  one  doth  not  know, 
Hew  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.  O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift l  and  excellent  a  wit 
As  she  is  prized  to  have)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  signior  Benedick. 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray,  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy  :  signior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,2  and  valor, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.  Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 
Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it. — 
"When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.    Why,    every    day  ; — to-morrow.      Come, 
go  in; 
I  '11  show  thee  some  attires ;  and  have  thy  counsel. 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.    She 's   limed,3    I    warrant  you ;    we   have 
caught  her,  madam. 


1  Ready.  2  Conversation. 

s  Ensnared  as  with  bird-lime. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  169 

Hero,   if  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps ; 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 

Beatrice  advances. 

Bea.  What  fire  is  in  mine   ears  ? l    Can   this  be 
true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on ;   I  will  requite  thee, 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand: 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band : 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 

SCENE    II. 

A  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter   don    pedro,    claudio,    benedick,    and 

LEONATO. 

D.  Pe.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  con- 
summate, and  then  I  go  toward  Arragon. 

Clau.  I  '11  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you  '11 
vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pe.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the 


1  In  allusion  to  the  proverb,  that  our  ears  burn  when  others 
are  talking  of  us. 


170  MUCH     ADO 


ACT    III. 


new  gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his 
new  coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  will  only  be 
bold  with  Benedick  for  his  company  ;  for,  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all 
mirth  :  he  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow- 
string, and  the  little  hangman  dare  not  shoot  at  him  : 
he  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is 
the  clapper ;  for  what  his  heart  thinks,  his  tongue 
speaks. 

Ben.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leo.  So  say  I ;  methinks,  you  are  sadder. 

Clau.  I  hope,  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pe.  Hang  him,  truant ;  there  's  no  true  drop 
of  blood  in  him,  to  be  truly  touched  with  love  :  if 
he  be  sad,  he  wants  money. 

Ben.  I  have  the  tooth-ache. 

D.  Pe.  Draw  it. 

Ben.  Hang  it ! 

Clau.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  after- 
wards. 

D.  Pe.  What  ?  sigh  for  the  tooth-ache  ? 

Leo.  Where  is  but  a  humor,  or  a  worm  ? 

Ben.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief  but  he 
that  has  it. 

Clau.  Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pe.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  1  in  him, 
unless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  dis- 
guises ;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day,   a  Frenchman 


Love. 


SCENE    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  171 

to-morrow  ;  or  in  the  shape  of  two  countries  at 
once,  as,  a  German  from  the  waist  downward,  all 
slops,1  and  a  Spaniard  from  the  hip  upward,  no 
doublet.2  Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  foolery, 
as  it  appears  he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as  you 
would  have  it  appear  he  is. 

Clau.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman, 
there  is  no  believing  old  signs :  he  brushes  his  hat 
o'  mornings  ;  what  should  that  bode  ? 

D.  Pe.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's  ? 

Clau.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen 
with  him ;  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath 
already  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leo.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did  by  the 
loss  of  a  beard. 

JD.  Pe.  Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet :  can 
you  smell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Clau.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth  's 
in  love. 

D.  Pe.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Clau.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face  ? 

_D.  Pe.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which, 
I  hear  what  they  say  of  him. 

Clau.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit,  which  is  now 
crept  into  a  lutestring,3  and  now  governed  by  stops. 


1  Slops  are  large  loose  breeches. 
8  Or,  in  other  words,  all  cloak. 

a  Love  songs,  in  our  author's  time,  were  usually  sung  to  the 
music  of  the  lute. 


172  MUCH    »no  ACT  III. 

D.  Pe.   Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy   tale  for  him. 
Conclude,  conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Clau.  Nay,  hut  I  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pe.  That  would  I   know  too  :  I  warrant,  one 
that  knows  him  not. 

Clau.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions  ;  and,  in  despite 
of  all,  dies  for  him. 

D.  Pe.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  up- 
wards. 

Ben.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tooth-ache. — 
Old  signior,  walk  aside  with  me :  I  have  studied 
eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which 
these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

[Exeunt  Ben.  and  Leo. 

D.  Pe.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about 
Beatrice. 

Clau.  Tis  even  so.  Hero  and  Margaret  have  by 
this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice  ;  and  then  the 
two  bears  will  not  bite  one  another  when  they  meet. 

Enter  don  john. 

D.  John.  My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 
D.  Pe.   Good  den,1  brother. 

D.  John.  If  your  leisure  served,   I  would  speak 
with  you. 

D.  Pe.  In  private  ? 

D.  John.    If  it  please  you ;    yet   count   Ckudio 


1  Good  even. 


SCENE    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  1 73 

™y  hear:    for  what   I  would  speak   of,   concerns 

D.  Pe.   What 's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to- 
morrow ?  r,    „,     ,. 
r%   d     ir      1                                            l'°  ^taudio. 
1J.  fe.    You  know,  he  does. 

D.  John.  I  know  not  that,  when  he   knows  what 
1  know. 

Clou.   If  there  be    any  impediment,   I  pray  you 
discover  it.  '   ' 

D.  John.  You  may  think,  I  love  you  not :  let  that 
appear  hereafter  ;  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I 
now  will  manifest :  for  my  brother,  I  think,  he 
holds  you  well  ■  and  in  dearness  of  heart  hath  holp 
to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage:  surelv,  suit  ill 
spent,  and  labor  ill  bestowed  ! 

D.  Pe.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
D.  John.   I  came  hither  to  tell  you  ;  and,  circum- 
stances shortened,    (for  she    hath  been   too  Ion-  a 
talking  of )  the  lady  is  disloyal. 
Clau.   Who  ?    Hero  ? 

D.  John.  Even  she;  Leonato's   Hero,  your  Hero 
every  man's  Hero. 

Clau.  Disloyal  ? 

D   John.  The   word  is  too   good  to  paint  out  her 
wickedness ;     I    could   say,   she   were   worse ;  think 
you  of  a  worse  title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it      Won 
der  not  fall   farther  warrant :  go   but   with  me  to- 
night, you  shall   see   her  chamber- window  entered 
even  the  night  before  her  wedding-day  :  if  you  lovj 


174  MUCH    ADO  ACT    III. 

her  then,  to-morrow  wed  her  ;  but  it  would  better 
fit  your  honor  to  change  your  mind. 

Clau.  May  this  be  so  ? 

D.  Pe.  I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  con- 
fess not  that  you  know :  if  you  will  follow  me,  I 
will  show  you  enough ;  and  when  you  have  seen 
more,  and  heard  more,  proceed  accordingly. 

Clau.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night  why  I  should 
not  marry  her  to-morrow ;  in  the  congregation, 
where  I  should  wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

D.  Pe.  And,  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her,  I 
will  join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

D.  John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  farther,  till  you 
are  my  witnesses  :  bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight, 
and  let  the  issue  show  itself. 

D.  Pe.   O  day  untowardly  turned  ! 

Clau.  O  mischief  strangely  thwarting  ! 

D.  John.   O  plague  right  well  prevented  ! 
So  will  you  say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE     III. 

A  street. 

Enter  dogbekry  and  verges,  witk  the  watch. 

Dog.  Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 
Ver.   Yea,  or  else   it  were   pity  but   they  should 
Buffer  salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dog.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for 


SCBNK    lit.  ABOUT    >OTHING.  175 

them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them, 
being  chosen  for  the  prince's  watch. 

Ver.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor 
Dogberry. 

Dog.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartlesa 
man  to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ; 
for  they  can  write  and  read. 

Dog.  Come  hither,  neignbor  Seacoal  :  God  hath 
blessed  you  with  a  good  name  :  to  be  a  well-favored 
man  is  the  gift  of  fortune,  but  to  write  and  read 
comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable,- 

Dog.  You  have  ;   I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer. 

Well,  for  your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and 
make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for  your  writing  and 
reading,  let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of 
such  vanity.  You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most 
senseless  and  fit  man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch  ; 
therefore  bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge  ; 
you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men ;  you  are  to 
bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.   How,  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let 
him  go ;  and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch 
together,  and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Ver.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he 
is  none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Dog.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none 
but  the  prince's  subjects. — You  shall  also  make  no 


176  MUCH     ADO  ACT    III. 

noise  in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  hahble 
and  talk,  is  most  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk  :  we 
know  what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dog.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  antient  and  most 
quiet  watchman ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping 
should  offend :  only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  '  be 
not  stolen. — Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  ale- 
houses, and  bid  those  fttat  are  drunk  get  them  to 
bed. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are 
sober  ;  if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer, 
you  may  say,  they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them 
for. 

2  Watch.  Well,  sir. 

Dog.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him, 
by  virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man  ;  and, 
for  such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make 
with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  wc 
not  lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dog.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may ;  but,  I 
think,  they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled  :  the 
most  peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief, 
is,  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out 
of  your  company. 


1  Weapons  of  the  watchmen. 


SCKNE    III.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  1/7 

Ver.  You    have    been    always    called   a   merciful 
man,  partner. 

Dog.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ; 
much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Ver.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you 
must  call  to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How,  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  wih 
not  hear  us  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the 
child  wake  her  with  crying :  for  the  ewe  that  will 
not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  baes,  will  never  answer  a 
calf  when  it  bleats. 

Ver.  'Tis  very  true. 

Dog.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  con- 
stable, are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person :  if 
you  meet  the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  etay 
him. 

Ver.  Nay  by  'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Dog.  Five  shillings  to  one  on  't,  with  any  man 
that  knows  the  statues,  he  may  stay  him  :  marry, 
not  without  the  prince  be  willing ;  for,  indeed,  the 
watch  ought  to  offend  no  man,  and  it  is  an  offence 
to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Ver.   By  'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dog.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Well,  masters,  good  night :  an 
there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me  : 
keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and  gooa 
night. — Come,  neighbor. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge  :  let 
us  go  sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  tiii  two,  and 
then  all  to  bed. 

8Iii>&.  IV.  M 


178  MUCH    ADO  ACT    III. 

Dog.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors  :  I  pray 
you,  watch  about  signior  Leonato's  door ;  for  the 
wedding  being  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great 
coil J  to-night.     Adieu  ;  be  vigitant,  I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  Dog.  and  Ver. 

Enter  borachio  and  conrade. 

Bor.  What !   Conrade, — 

Watch.  Peace,  stir  not.  [aside. 

Bor.  Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.  Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bor.  Mass,  and  my  elbow  itched ;  I  thought 
there  would  a  scab  fol'ow. 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that ;  and 
now  forward  with  thy  tale. 

Bor.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent-house, 
for  it  drizzles  rain ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard, 
utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch,  [aside.']  Some  treason,  masters ;  yet 
stand  close. 

Bor.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  Don  John 
a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be  so 
dear  ? 

Bor.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible 
any  villany  should  be  so  rich ;  for  when  rich  villains 
have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what 
price  they  will. 

>  Bustle. 


80KNE    III.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  179 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bor.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed.1  Thou 
k  no  west,  that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or 
a  cloak,  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bor.  I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bor.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool 's  the 
fool.  But  seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this 
fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed ;  he  has  been  a 
vile  thief  this  seven  year ;  he  goes  up  and  down  like 
a  gentleman  :   I  remember  his  name. 

Bor.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.  No ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bor.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief 
this  fashion  is  ?  how  giddily  he  turns  about  all  the 
hot  bloods  between  fourteen  and  five  and  thirty  ? 
sometime  fashioning  them  like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in 
the  reechy  painting ;  -  sometime  like  god  Bel's 
priests  in  the  old  church  window ;  sometime  like 
the  shaven  Hercules  in  the  smirched3  worm-eaten 
tapestry,  where,  his  cod-piece  seems  as  massy  as  his 
club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see ;  and  see,  that  the  fashion 
wears  out  more  apparel  than  the  man.  But  art  not 
ihou   thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou 


1  Unpractised  in  the  ways  of  the  world. 

3  In  the  painting  discolored  bv  smoke.  3  Soiled» 


ISO  MUCH    ADO  ACT    III. 

hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Bor.  Not  so  neither :  but  know,  that  I  have  to- 
night wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentlewo- 
man, by  the  name  of  Hero  :  she  leans  me  out  at  her 
mistress'  chamber-window,  bids  me  a  thousand 
times  good  night, — I  tell  this  tale  vilely  : — I  should 
first  tell  thee,  how  the  prince,  Claudio,  and  my 
master,  planted,  and  placed,  and  possessed  by  my 
master  Don  John,  saw  afar  off  in  the  orchard  this 
amiable  l  encounter. 

Con.  And  thought  they,  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

Bor.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio ; 
but  the  devil  my  master  knew  she  was  Margaret ; 
and  partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possessed  them ; 
partly  by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  them ; 
but  chiefly  by  my  villany,  which  did  confirm  any 
slander  that  Don  John  had  made,  away  went 
CJaudio  enraged  ;  swore  he  would  meet  her,  as  he 
was  appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and 
there,  before  the  whole  congregation,  shame  her 
with  what  he  saw  over-night,  and  send  her  home 
again  without  a  husband. 

1  Watch.  We  charge  you,  in  the  prince  's  name, 
stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable.  We 
have  here  recovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of 
lechery  that  ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealth. 


'  Amorous. 


Wheatley  SeL 


Starling  sc 


iDUCHL  ADC  ABOUT    KOT      I 
Borachtc,  Corvraaa  &Wa£  -: 
Act  JR 


*CENE    IV. 


ABOUT    NOTHING.  181 


1  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  ot  them  :  I 
know  him  ;   he  wears  a  lock. 

Con.  Masters,  masters, — 

2  Watch.  You  '11  he  made  bring  Deformed  forth, 
I  warrant  you. 

Con.  Masters, — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak  :  we  charge  you,  let  us 
obey  you  to  go  with  us. 

Bor.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity, 
being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,1  I  warrant  you. 
Come,  we  '11  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

s^EjnH    IV. 

A  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice,  and 
desire  her  to  rise. 

Urs.   I  will,  lady. 

Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.  Well.  [Exit  Urs. 

Mar.  Troth,  I  think,  your  other  rabato2  were 
better. 

Hero.  No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I  '11  wear  this. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  it's  not  so  good ;  and,  I  war- 
rant, your  cousin  will  say  so. 


1  A  commodity  subject  to  judicial  trial  or  examination. 
*  A  kind  of  ruff 


182  MUCH     ADO  ACT    HI, 

Hero.  My  cousin  's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another  : 
I  '11  wear  none  but  this. 

Mar.  I  like  the  new  tire  '  within  excellently,  if 
the  hair  were  a  thought  browner  :  and  your  gown  's 
a  most  rare  fashion,  i'  faith.  I  saw  the  duchess  of 
Milan's  gown,  that  they  praise  so. 
Hero.  O,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 
Mar.  By  my  troth,  it 's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect 
of  yours.  Cloth  of  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced  with 
silver ;  set  with  pearls,  down  sleeves,  side-sleeves, 
and  skirts  round,  underborne  with  a  blueish  tinsel  : 
but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful,  and  excellent  fashion, 
yours  is  worth  ten  on  't. 

Hero.   God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart 
is  exceeding  heavy ! 

Mar.  'Twill  be  heavier  soon,  by  the  weight  of  a 
man. 

Hero.  Fie  upon  thee  !  art  not  ashamed  ? 
Mar.  Of  what,  lady  ?  of  speaking  honorably  ?  Is 
not  marriage  honorable  in  a  beggar  ?  Is  not  your 
lord  honorable  without  marriage  ?  I  think,  you  would 
have  me  say,  saving  your  reverence, — '  a  husband  :  ' 
an  bad  thinking  do  not  wrest  true  speaking,  I  '11 
offend  nobody.  Is  there  any  harm  in — '  the  heavier 
for  a  husband  ?  '  None,  I  think,  an  it  be  the  right 
husband  and  the  right  wife ;  otherwise,  'tis  light, 
and  not  heavy.  Ask  my  lady  Beatrice  else :  here 
she  comes. 


1   H«"jH-f1r«?ss. 


SCENE    IV.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  183 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Hero.   Good  morrow,  coz. 

Bea.   Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.  Why,  how  now  !  do  you  speak  in  the  sick 
tune  ? 

Bea.  I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 

Mar.  Clap  us  into — 'Light  o'  love;'1  that  goes 
without  a  hurden ;    do  you  sing  it,  and  I  '11  dance  it. 

Bea.  Yea,  '  Light  o'  love,'  with  your  heels  ! — then 
it  your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you  '11  see  he 
shall  lack  no  barns.2 

Mar.  O  illegitimate  construction  !  I  scorn  that 
with  my  heels. 

Beu.  "Lis  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin ;  'tis  time 
you  were  ready.  By  my  troth,  I  am  exceeding  ill : 
■ — heigh  ho  ! 

Mar.  For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Bea.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H.3 

Mar.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk,  there  's 
no  more  sailing  by  the  star. 

Bea.  What  means  the  fool,  trow  ? 

Mar.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one  their 
heart's  desire  ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me,  they  are 
an  excellent  perfume. 


1  Tbe  name  of  an  old  tune. 

8  Quibble  between  barns,  repositories  of  corn,  and  bairns, 
ibe  old  word  for  children. 
3  i.  e    for  an  ache  or  pain. 


184  MUCH    ADO  ACT    III. 

Bea.  I  am  stuffed,  cousin  ;   I  cannot  smell. 

Mar.  A  maid,  and  stuffed  !  there  's  goodly  catch- 
ing of  cold. 

Bea.  O,  God  help  me  !  God  help  me  !  hew  long 
have  you  professed  apprehension  ? 

Mar.  Ever  since  you  left  it.  Doth  not  my  wit 
become  me  rarely  ? 

Bea.  It  is  not  seen  enough  ;  you  should  wear  it 
in  your  cap. — By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Mar.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Carduus 
Benedictus,  and  lay  it  to  your  heart ;  it  is  the  only 
thing  for  a  qualm. 

Hero.  There  thou  prickest  her  with  a  thistle. 

Bea.  Benedictus !  why  Benedictus  ?  you  have 
some  moral 1  in  this  Benedictus. 

Mar.  Moral  ?  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral 
meaning ;  I  meant,  plain  holy-thistle.  You  may 
think,  perchance,  that  I  think  you  are  in  love  :  nay, 
by  'r  lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list ; 
nor  I  list  not  to  think  what  I  can  ;  nor,  indeed.  I 
cannot  think,  if  I  would  think  my  heart  out  of 
thinking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that  you  will  be  in 
love,  or  that  you  can  be  in  love  :  yet  Benedick  was 
such  another,  and  now  is  he  become  a  man  :  he 
swore  he  would  never  marry ;  and  yet  now  in 
despite  of  his  heart,  he  eats  his  meat  without 
grudging :  "  and  how  you  may  be  converted,  I  know 


1  Secret  meaning. 

*  '  He  feeds  on  love,  and  likes  bis  food.' — Malone. 


SCENE    V.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  185 

not ;    but,  methinks,   you  look  with  your  eyes   as 
other  women  do.1 

Bea.  What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ? 

Mar.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw  ;  the  prince,  the  count, 
signior  Benedick,  Don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of 
the  town,  are  come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg, 
good  Ursula.  {Exeunt. 

scene  v. 

Another  room  in  Leonato's  house. 

Enter  leonato,  with  dogberry  and  verges. 

Leo.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbor  ? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence 
vith  you,  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leo.  Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for,  you  see,  'tis  a  busy 
time  with  me. 

Dog.  Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Ver.  Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leo.  What  is  it,  nvy  good  friends  ? 

Dog.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off  the 
matter  :  an  old  man,   sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so 


1  •  You  direct  your  eyes  towards  the  same  object,  i.  e.  a 
husband.' — Steevens. 


186  MUCH    ADO  AC7    III. 

blunt,  as,  God  help,  I  would  desire  they  were  ;   but, 
in  faith,  honest,  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Ver.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any 
man  living,  that  is  an  old  man,  and  no  honester 
than  I. 

Dog.  Comparisons  are  odorous :  palabras,}  neigh- 
bor Verges. 

Leo.  Neighbors,  you  are  tedious. 

Dog.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we 
are  the  poor  duke's  officers ;  but,  truly,  for  mine 
own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find 
in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

Leo.  All  thy  tediousness  on  me  !  ha  ! 

Dog.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  times  more  than 
'tis :  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  wor- 
ship as  of  any  man  in  the  city ;  and  though  I  be 
but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Ver.  And  so  am  I. 

Leo.  I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Ver.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting 
your  worship's  presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple  of  as 
arrant  knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

Dog.  A  good  old  man,  sir ;  he  will  be  talking ; 
as  they  say,  When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out. 
God  help  us  !  it  is  a  world  to  see  !  - — Well  said, 
i'  faith,  neighbor  Verges  : — .well,  God  's  a  good  man  : 
an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must  ride  behind. — 
An  honest  soul,  i'  faith,  sir;  by  my  troth,  he   is,  aa 


1  Oa  my  word.  2  It  is  wonderful  to  see. 


SCEXE   V.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  187 

ever  broke  bread :  but  God  is  to  be  worshipped. 
All  men  are  not  alike  :  alas,  good  neighbor ! 

Leo.  Indeed,  neighbor,  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 

Dog.   Gifts,  that  God  gives. 

Leo.   I  must  leave  you. 

Dog.  One  word,  sir :  our  watch,  sir,  have,  in- 
deed, comprehended  two  aspicious  persons,  and  we 
would  have  them  this  morning  examined  before 
your  worship. 

Leo.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring 
it  roe.  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear 
unto  you. 

Dog.   It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leo.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go :  fare  you  well. 

Enter  a  messenger. 

•     Mes.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leo.  I  will  wait  upon  them  :   I  am  ready. 

[Exeunt  Leo.  and  Mes. 

Do j.  Go,  good  partner,  go  ;  get  you  to  Francis 
Seacoal ;  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the 
jail :  we  are  now  to  examination  these  men. 

Ver.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dog.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you ; 
here 's  that  [touching  his  forehead.']  shall  drive  some 
of  them  to  a  non  com  :  only  get  the  learned  writer 
to  set  down  our  excommunication,  and  meet  me  at 
the  jail.  [Exeunt. 


188  MUCH     ADO  ACT    IV. 


ACT     IV. 

SCENE    I. 

The  inside  of  a  church. 
Enter   don    pedro,    don  john,  leonato,   friajl, 

CLAUDIO,  BENEDICK,   HERO,  BEATRICE,  S,C. 

Leo.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief :  only  to  the 
plain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their 
particular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this 
lady  ? 

Clau.  No. 

Leo.  To  be  married  to  her,  friar ;  you  come  to 
marry  her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to 
this  count  ? 

Hero.  I  do. 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impedi- 
ment why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge 
you,  on  your  souls,  to  utter  it. 

Clau.  Know  you  any,  Hero  ? 

Hero.  None,  my  lord. 

Friar.  Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leo.  I  dare  make  his  answer ;  none. 

Clau.  O,  what  men  dare  do  !  what  men  may  do! 
what  men  daily  do  !  not  knowing  what  they  do ! 


SCENK    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING. 


1S9 


Ben.  How  now  ?  Interjections  ?    Why,  then  some 
be  of  laughing,  as,  ha  !  ha  !  he  ! 

Clau.    Stand    thee    by,    friar. — Father,    by    your 
leave ; 
Will  you,  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul, 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter  ? 

Leo.  As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Clau.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose 
worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

D.  Pe.  Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 

Clau.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thankful- 
ness.— 
There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again  ; 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend  : 
She  's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honor. — 
Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here. 
O,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 
Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence, 
To  witness  simple  virtue  ?  Would  you  not  swear. 
All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 
By  these  exterior  shows  ?    But  she  is  none  : 
She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  l  bed  : 
Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leo.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Clau.  Not  to  be  married. 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 


1  Lascivious. 


190  MUCH    ADO  ACT   IV 

Leo.  Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof 
Have  vanquish'd  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Clau.    I  know  what  you  would  say ;    if   1   have 
known  her, 
You  '11  say,  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin. 
No,  Leonato ; 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large  :  * 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  show'd 
.Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 

Hero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  ? 

Clau.   Out  on  thy  seeming !    I  will  write  against  it. 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb  ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown  : 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 

Hero.    Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth   speak   so 
wide  ?  2 

Leo.   Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 

D.  Pe.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

I  stand  dishonor'd,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leo.  Are  these  things  spoken,  or  do  I  but  dream  ? 

D.  John.   Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these  things 
are  true. 

Ben.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 


•  Licentious.        2  bo  remotely  from  the  present  business. 


6CENK    T.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  iyl 

Hero.  True,  O  God  ! 

Clau.   Leonato,  stand  I  here  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?    Is  this  the  prince's  brother  ? 
Is  this  face  Hero's  ?  Are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 

Leo.  All  this  is  so  ;  but  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Clan.    Let   me   but  move   one   question  to  your 
daughter ; 
And,  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  x  power 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leo.  I  charge  thee,  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child. 

Hero.  O  God,  defend  me  !  how  am  I  beset ! — 
What  kind  of  catechising  call  you  this  ? 

Clau.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero.  Is  it  not  Hero  ?    Who  can  blot  that  naiie 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Clau.  Marry,  that  can  Hero  ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 
What  man  was  he  talk'd  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord, 

D.  Pe.  Why,  then  are  you  no  maiden. — Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear.     Upon  mine  honor, 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count, 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night, 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber- window ; 
Who  hath,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  villain;8 
Confess'd  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 


1   Natural.  s  A  villain  free  of  tongue. 


192  MUCH    ADO  ACT    IV. 

A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

D.  John.  Fie,  fie  !  they  are 

Not  to  be  named,  my  lord,  not  to  be  spoke  of: 
There  is  nut  chastity  enough  in  language, 
Without  offence,  to  utter  them.     Thus,  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Clau.   O  Hero  !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 
About  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 
But,  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair !  farewell. 
Thou  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity ! 
For  thee  I  '11  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  1  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious.2 

Leo.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me  f 

[Hero  swoons. 

Bea.  Why,  how  now,  cousin  ?  wherefore  sink  you 
down  ? 

D.  John.    Come,  let  us  go  :  these  things,   come 
thus  to  light, 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  D.  Pe.,  D.  John,  and  Clau. 

Ben.  How  doth  the  lady  ? 

Bea.  Dead,  I  think. — Help,  uncle  :— 

Hero  !    why,  Hero  ! — uncle  ! — signior  Benedick  !— 
friar ! 

Leo.  O  Fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  ! 


Suspicion.  >  Attractive,  lovely. 


«CENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  193 

Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame. 
That  may  be  wish'd  for. 

Bea.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  ? 

Friar.  Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leo.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.  Yea  ;  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 

Leo.  Wherefore  ?    Why,  doth  not  every  earthly 
thing 
Cry  shame  upon  her  ?    Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? — ■ 
Do  not  live,  Hero  ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes  : 
For  did  1  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 
Thought  1  vhy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames. 
Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 
Strike  at  thy  life.      Grieved  I,  I  had  but  one  ? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  fi  gal  nature's  frame  ? l 
O,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 
Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates  ; 
Who  smirched  •  thus,  and  mired  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said,  '  No  part  of  it  is  mine ; 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins  ?  ' 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praised. 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on  ;  mine  so  mucn, 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 
Valuing  of  her  ;  why,  she — O,  she  is  fatten 
Into  a  pit  of  ink  ;  that  the  wide  sea 


1  Disposition  of  things.  *  Sullied. 

shu,  iv  a 


194  MUCH    ADO  ACT    IV. 

Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again ; 
And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 
To  her  foul  tainted  flesh  ! 

Ben.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient : 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Bea.  O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied ! 

Ben.  Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Bea.  No,  truly,  not ;  although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leo.  Confirm'd,   confirm'd !     O,   that  is  stronger 
made, 
Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron  ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie, 
Who  loved  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Wash'd  it  with  tears  ?  Hence  from  her ;  let  her  die. 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little  ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady  :  I  have  mark'd 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth. — Call  me  a  fool ; 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations, 
Which  with  experimental  seal  doth  warrant 
The  tenor  of  my  book ;  '   trust  not  my  age. 


1  AVh;it  1  have  read. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  195 

My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leo.  Friar,  it  cannot  be  : 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left, 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury  ;  she  not  denies  it. 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused  ol  } 

Hero.  They   know,    that  do  accuse  me  ;   I  know 
none  : 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive, 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy  ! — O  my  father. 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  conversed 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision 1  in  the 
princes. 

Ben.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  2  of  honor ; 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leo.  I  know  not :  if  they  speak  but  truth  of  her. 
These   hands    shall   tear   her ;    if   they   wrong   her 
honor, 


'  Misconception.  5  Tbe  utracst  dcgre 


196  MUCH     ADO  ACT    IT. 

The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  Wood  of  mine. 
Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Nor  fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means. 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  they  shall  find,  awaked  in  such  a  kind. 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends, 
To  quit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  awhile, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead : 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it,  that  she  is  dead  indeed ; 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation  ; 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leo.  What  shall  become  of  this  ?     What  will  this 
do? 

Friar.    Marry,    this,  "well    carried,    shall    on    her 
behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good  : 
But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course, 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accused, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excused 
Of  every  hearer  :   for  it  so  falls  out, 
Tliat  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth. 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it  ;   but  being  lack'd  and  lost. 


SOENE    I.  AtoJUT    NOTHINO. 


107 


Why,  then  we  rack  l  the  value ;  then  we  find 

The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us 

Whiles  it  was  ours: — so  will  it  fare  with  Ciaudio: 

When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  -  his  words, 

The  idea  of  her  life  s,hall  sweetly  creep 

Into  his  study  of  imagination  ; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparel'd  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed  : — then  shall  he  mourn, 

(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver  3) 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her ; 

No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 

Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 

Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 

Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 

But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  level'd  false. 

The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 

Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy  : 

And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 

(As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation) 

In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 

Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Ben.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you : 
And  though,  you  know,  my  inwardness  4  and  love 
la  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Ciaudio, 


1  Overrate.  2  By. 

*  The  liver  was  formerly  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  love. 

*  Intimacy. 


198  MUCH    ADO  ACT    IV 

Yet,  by  mine  honor,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leo.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.  'Tis  well  consented  ;  presently  away  ; 
For  to  strange  sores  strangely   they  strain  the 
cure. — 
Come,  lady,  die  to  live  :  this  wedding  day, 

Perhaps,  is  but  prolong'd  :  have  patience,  and 
endure.  [Exeunt  Friar,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 

Ben.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this 
while  ? 

Bea.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  awhile  longer. 

Ben.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Bea.  You  have  no  reason  ;   I  do  it  freely. 

Ben.  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wrronged. 

Bea.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of 
me,  that  would  right  her  ! 

Ben.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 

Bea.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Ben.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Bea.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Ben.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as 
you  ;  is  not  that  strange  ? 

Bea.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not :  it  were 
as  possible  for  me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as 
you  :  but  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not :  I  con- 
fess nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing. — I  am  sorry  for 
my  cousin. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  199 

Ben.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Bea.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Ben.  I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me  :  and  I 
will  make  him  eat  it,  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Bea.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Ben.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.  I 
protest,  I  love  thee. 

Bea.  Why  then,  God  forgive  me  ! 

Ben.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Bea.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour :  I  waa 
about  to  protest,  I  loved  you. 

Ben.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Bea.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that 
none  is  left  to  protest. 

Ben.  Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Bea.  Kill  Claudio. 

Ben.  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Bea.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it :  farewell. 

Ben.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Bea.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here ; l — there  is  no 
love  in  you.     Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Ben.  Beatrice, — 

Bea.  In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Ben.  We  '11  be  friends  first. 

Bea.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than 
fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Ben.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Bea.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain, 


1  'My  affection  is  withdrawn  from  ycu,  though  I  am  yet 
here.' — Mulone. 


200  MUCH    ADO  ACT    IV. 

that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kins- 
woman ? — O,  that  I  were  a  man  ! — What !  bear  her 
in  hand  l  until  they  come  to  take  hands  ;  and  then 
with  public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmiti- 
gated rancor, — O  God,  that  I  were  a  man !  I  would 
eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

Ben.  Hear  me,  Beatrice  ; — 

Bea.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  ! — a  proper 
saying ! 

Ben.  Nay,  but,  Beatrice  ; — 

Bea.  Sweet  Hero  ! — she  is  wronged,  she  is   slan- 
dered, she  is  undone. 

Ben.  Beat — 

Bea.  Princes  and  counties ! 2  Surely,  a  princel) 
testimony,  a  goodly  count-confect ;  3  a  sweet  gallant 
surely !  O,  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake,  or  that 
I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But 
manhood  is  melted  into  courtesies,4  valor  into  com- 
pliment, and  men  are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and 
trim  ones  too  :  he  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercules,  that 
only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it. — 1  cannot  be  a  man 
with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with 
grieving. 

Ben.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice.     By  this  hand,  I  love 
thee. 

Bea.  Use  it   for  my  love   some  other  way  than 
swearing  by  it. 


1  Delude  her  by  fair  promises.  *  Noblemen. 

'  A  specious  nobleman  made  out  of  sugar. 
*  Ceremony. 


BCENE  II.         ABOUT  NOTHING.  201 

Ben.  Think  you,  in  your  soul,  the  count  Claudio 
hath  wronged  Hero  ? 

Bea.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul. 

Ben.  Enough ;  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  challenge 
hirn  ;  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you.  By 
this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account : 
as  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort 
your  cousin :  I  must  say,  she  is  dead ;  and  so,  fare- 
well. [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

A  prison. 

Enter   dogberry,   verges,  and  sexton,    in  goirns  % 
and  the  Watch,  with  conrade  and  borachio. 

Dog.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Ver.   O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton ! 

Sex.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dog.  Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Ver.  Nay,  that  's  certain ;  we  have  the  exhibition 
to  examine. 

Sex.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be 
examined  ?  Let  them  come  before  master  constable. 

Dog.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me. — 
What  is  your  name,  friend  ? 

Bor.  Borachio. 

Dog.  Pray  write  down — Borachio.    Yours,  sirrah? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is 
Conrade. 


902  MUCH    ADO  ACT    IV. 

Dog.  Write  down — master  gentleman  Conrade. 
Masters,  do  you  serve  God  ? 

Cm.  Bor.  Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dog.  Write  down — that  they  hope  they  serve 
God :  and  write  God  first ;  for  God  defend,  hut 
God  should  go  before  such  villains  !  Masters,  it  is 
proved  already  that  you  are  little  better  than  false 
knaves,  and  it  will  go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly. 
How  answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dog.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you ; 
but  I  will  go  about  with  him.  Come  you  hither, 
sirrah ;  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir.  I  say  to  you,  it  is 
thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bor.  Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dog.  Well,  stand  aside.  'Fore  God,  they  are 
both  in  a  tale.  Have  you  writ  down — that  they  are 
none  ? 

Sex.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the  way  tc 
examine ;  you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are 
their  accusers. 

Dog.  Yea,  marry,  that 's  the  eftest J  way.  Let 
the  watch  come  forth.  Masters,  I  charge  you,  in 
the  prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the 
prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dog.  Write  down — prince  John  a  villain.  Why 
this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother  villain. 


1  Quickest. 


BCENK    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  203 

Bor.   Master  constable — 

Dog.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace  ;  I  do  not  like  thy 
look,  I  promise  thee. 

Sex.  What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.  Many,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand 
ducats  of  Don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero 
wrongfully. 

Dog.  Flat  burglary,  as  ever  was  committed. 

Ver.  Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sex.  What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean, 
upon  his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole 
assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Dog.    O  villain !    thou    wilt  be   condemned  into 
everlasting  redemption  for  this. 
Sex.  What  else  ? 

2  Watch.  This  is  all. 

Sex.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can 
deny.  Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen 
away ;  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused,  in  this 
very  manner  refused,  and,  upon  the  grief  of  this, 
suddenly  died.  Master  constable,  let  these  men  be 
bound,  and  brought  to  Leonato's ;  I  will  go  before, 
and  show  him  their  examination.  [Exit. 

Dog.  Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Ver.  Let  them  be  in  the  liands. 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb ! 

Dog.  God 's  my  life !  where  's  the  sexton  ?  let 
him  write  down  the  prince 's  officer  coxcomb  — ■ 
Come,  bind  them  : thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Con.  Away !  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 


204  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

Dog.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  Dost  thou 
not  suspect  my  years  ? — O,  that  he  were  here  to 
write  me  down  an  ass ! — but,  masters,  remember, 
that  I  am  an  ass ;  though  it  be  not  written  down, 
yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass. — No,  thou  villain, 
thou  art  full  of  piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee 
by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow ;  and,  which 
is  more,  an  officer ;  and,  which  is  more,  a  house- 
holder ;  and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a  piece  of 
flesh  as  any  is  in  Messina ;  and  one  that  knows  the 
law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to  ;  and  a 
fellow  that  hath  had  losses  ;  and  one  that  hath  two 
gowns,  and  every  thing  handsome  about  him. 
Bring  him  away.  O,  that  I  had  been  writ  down 
an  ass !  [Exeunt. 


A  CT    V. 

SCENE    I. 

Before  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  leonato  and  antonio. 

Ant.  If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 
And  'tis  not  wisdom,  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  yourself. 

Leo.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve :  give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 


SCEXE    I.  ABOUT    NOTIIIVrs.  205 

Bring  me  a  father,  that  so  loved  his  child, 

Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine. 

And  bid  him  speak  of  patience ; 

Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain ; 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 

In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form. 

If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard  ; 

Cry — sorrow,    wag !    and    hem,    when    he    should 

groan ; 
Patch  grief  with  proverbs  ;  make  misfortune  drunk 
With  candle-wasters  ;  1  bring  him  yet  to  me, 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 
But  there  is  no  such  man  :  for,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Which  they  themselves  not  feel  ;  but,  tasting  it, 
Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 
Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 
No,  no ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow ; 
But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency, 
To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 
The  like  himself :  therefore  give  me  no  counsel : 
My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement.2 

Ant.    Therein    do    men    from    children    nothing 
differ. 


Drunkards.  *  Admonition. 


206  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

Leo.  I   pray   thee,    peace ;    1    will    be   fledh    and 
blood ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher, 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ache  patiently, 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods, 
And  made  a  pish  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself; 
Make  those,  that  do  offend  you,  suffer  too. 

Leo.    There    thou    speak'st    reason :    nay,   I    will 
do  so. 
My  soul  doth  tell  me,  Hero  is  belied ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know,  so  shall  the  prince, 
And  all  of  them  that  thus  dishonor  her. 

Enter  don  pedro  and  claudio. 

Ant.  Here  comes  the  prince  and  Claudio,  hastily. 

D.  Pe.  Good  den,  good  den.1 

Clau.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leo.  Hear  you,  my  lords, 

D.  Pe.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leo.   Some  haste,  my  lord  ? — well,  fare  you  well, 
my  lord : — 
Are  you  so  hasty  now  ? — Well,  all  is  one. 

D.  Pe.  Nay,    do    not  quarrel  with  us,   good  old 
man. 

Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarreling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Clau.  Who  wrongs  him  : 


1  Good  even. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  207 

Leo.    Marry,    thou    dost    wrong    me ;     thou    dis- 
sembler, thou. — 

Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword  ; 

I  fear  thee  not. 

Clau.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand. 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear. 

In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 
Leo.   Tush,  tush,  man,   never  fleer  and  jest  at 
me. 

I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool; 

As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 

What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do 

Were  I  not  old.     Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head, 

Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine7  innocent  child  and  me, 

That  I  am  forced  to  lay  my  reverence  by ; 

And,  with  gray  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 

Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 

I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child  ; 

Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through   her 
heart, 

And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors ; 

0  !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  framed  by  thy  villany. 

Clau.  My  villany  ? 

Leo.  Thine,  Claudio ;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pe.  You  say  not  right,  old  man. 

Leo.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

1  '11  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare  ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice. 
His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustyhood. 

Clau.  Away ;  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 


208  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

Leo.   Canst  thou  so  daflf  me  ? l    Thou  hast  kill'd 
my  child  : 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed : 
But  that 's  no  matter  ;  let  him  kill  one  first ;  — 
"Win  me  and  wear  me ; — let  him  answer  me. 
Come,  follow  me,  boy ;  come,  sir  boy,  come,  follow 

me  : 
Sir  boy,  I  '11  whip  you  from  your  foining  2  fence  ; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leo.  Brother, 

Ant.  Content  yourself:    God  knows,  I  lovtu  tuy 
niece ; 
And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains ; 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed, 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue  ; 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  jacks,  milksops  ! — 

Leo.  Brother  Antony, 

Ant.  Hold   you   content.     What,    man  !     I  know 
them,  yea. 
And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple  : 
Scambling,3  out-facing,  fashion-mongering  boys, 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander, 
Go  anticly,  and  show  outward  hideousness,4 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words, 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies  if  they  durst, 
And  this  is  all. 


1  Put  rue  off.  *  Thrusting.  s  Turbulect. 

4  Martial  appearance. 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  209 

Leo.  But,  brother  Antony, 


Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter ; 

Do  not  you  meddle  ;  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pe.   Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not   wake  your 
patience. 
My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death ; 
But,  on  my  honor,  she  was  charged  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leo.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

D.  Pe.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leo.  No  ? 

Come,  brother,  away  : — I  will  be  heard  ; — 

Ant.  And  shall, 

Or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

[Exeunt  Leo.  and  Ant. 

Enter  benedick. 

D.  Pe.  See,   see ;  here  comes  the  man  we  went 
to  seek. 

Clau.  Now,  signior  !  what  news  ? 

Ben.   Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pe.  Welcome,  signior :  you  are  almost  come 
to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Clau.  We   had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapped  off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

D.  Pe.  Leonato  and  his  brother.     What  thinktfc*- 
thou  ?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt,  we  should  have  been 
too  young  for  them. 

Ben.   In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no   true  valor.     I 
came  to  seek  you  both 

SUAE.  IV.  O 


210  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

Clau.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee  ; 
for  we  are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain 
have  it  beaten  away.     Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 

Ben.  It  is  in  my  scabbard  ;  shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pe.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  ? 

Clau.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have 
been  beside  their  wit.  I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we 
do  the  minstrels ;  draw,  to  pleasure  us.1 

D.  Pe.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale. — 
Art  thou  sick  or  angry  ? 

Clau.  What !  courage,  man  !  What  though  care 
killed  a  cat,2  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill 
care. 

Ben.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit,  in  the  career,  an 
you  charge  it  against  me.  I  pray  you,  choose 
another  subject. 

Clau.  Nay,  then  give  him  another  staff;  this  last 
was  broke  cross.3 

D.  Pe.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and  more. 
I  think,  he  be  angry  indeed. 

Clau.  If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle.4 

Ben.   Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear? 

Clau.   God  bless  me  from  a  challenge  ! 

Ben.  You  are  a  villain. — I  jest  not : — I  will  make 
it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  and 
■•"ben  you  dare.     Do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your 


'  '  I  will  bid  thee  draw  thy  sword,  as  we  bid  the  minstrels 
uraw  the  bows  of  their  fiddles,  to  amuse  us.' — Malone. 
a  A  proverbial  expression.  3  An  allusion  to  tilting. 

4  To  give  a  challenge. 


SCENE  I.  ABOUT  NOTHING.  211 

cowardice.  You  have  killed  a  sweet  lady,  and  hei 
death  shall  fall  heavy  on  you.  Let  me  hear  from 
you. 

Clau.  Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good 
cheer. 

D.  Pe.  What,  a  feast  ?  a  feast  ? 

Clau.  F  faith,  I  thank  him ;  he  hath  bid  2  me  to  a 
calf  's-head  and  a  capon  ;  the  which  if  I  do  not  carve 
most  curiously,  say,  my  knife  's  naught.  Shall  I  not 
find  a  woodcock  too  ?  • 

Ben.   Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 

D.  Pe.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit 
the  other  day.  I  said,  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit ; 
*  True,'  says  she,  '  a  fine  little  one  :' — '  No,'  said  I ; 
'  a  great  wit ;  ' — '  Right,'  says  she  ;  '  a  great  gross 
one  :  ' — '  Nay,'  said  I ;  *  a  good  wit ;  ' — '  Just,'  said 
she  ;  '  it  hurts  nobody  :  ' — '  Nay,'  said  I ;  '  the 
gentleman  is  wise  ; ' — '  Certain,'  said  she  ;  '  a  wise 
gentleman  : ' — *  Nay,'  said  I  ;  'he  hath  the  tongues  ;' 
— '  That  I  believe,'  said  she  ;  '  for  he  swore  a  thing 
to  me  on  Monday  night,  which  he  forswore  on 
Tuesday  morning ;  there  's  a  double  tongue  ;  there  's 
two  tongues.' — Thus  did  she,  an  hour  together, 
trans-shape  thy  particular  virtues ;  yet,  at  last,  she 
concluded,  with  a  sigh,  tnou  wast  the  properest 3 
man  in  Italy. 


1  Invited. 

8  A  woodcock,  beins  supposed  to  Lave  nn  brains,  was  a 
proverbial  term  for  a  foolish  fellow.  3  Handsomest. 


212  MUCH    ADO 


ACT  V. 


Clau.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said, 
she  cared  not. 

D.  Pe.  Yea.  that  she  did  ;  but  yet,  for  all  that, 
an  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love 
him  dearly :   the  old  man's  daughter  told  us  all. 

Clau.  All,  all ;  and  moreover,  ■  God  saw  him  when 
he  was  hid  in  the  garden.' 

D.  Pe.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  hull's 
horns  on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Clau.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  '  Here  dwells 
Benedick,  the  married  man  ?  ' 

Ben.  Fare  you  well,  boy  ;  you  know  my  mind ; 
I  "will  leave  you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humor  : 
you  break  jests  as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  which, 
God  be  thanked,  hurt  not.  My  lord,  for  your  many 
courtesies  I  thank  you :  I  must  discontinue  your 
company  :  your  brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled  from 
Messina :  you  have,  among  you,  killed  a  sweet  and 
innocent  lady.  For  my  lord  Lack-beard  there,  he 
and  I  shall  meet ;  and,  till  then,  peace  be  with  him. 

[Exit  Ben. 

D.  Pe.  He  is  in  earnest. 

Clau.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and,  I  '11  warrant 
you,  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pe.  And  hath  challenged  thee  ? 

Clau.  Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pe.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he 
goes  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit! 

Clau.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape :  but  then  is 
an  ape  a  doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pe.    But,   soft  you ;    let  be ;    pluck    up,    my 


SCENE    I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  2l3 

heart,  and  be  sad !  ]    Did   he  not  say,   my  brother 
was  fled  ? 


Enter  dogberry,  verges,  and  the  Watch,  with 
conrade  and  borachio. 

Dog.  Come,  you,  sir ;  if  justice  cannot  tame  you, 
she  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  her  balance : 
nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must 
be  looked,  to. 

D.  Pe.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men 
bound  ?    Borachio,  one  ? 

Clau.  Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord  ! 
D.  Pe.    Officers,  what    offence    have   these  men 
done  ? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  re- 
port ;  moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths  ;  secon- 
darily, they  are  slanders  ;  sixth  and  lastly,  they  have 
belied  a  lady;  thirdly,  they  have  verified  unjust 
things ;  and,  to  conclude,  they  are  lying  knaves. 

D.  Pe.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done ; 
thirdly,  I  ask  thee  what 's  their  offence ;  sixth  and 
lastlv,  why  they  are  committed ;  and,  to  conclude, 
what  you  lay  to  their  charge. 

Clau.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division ; 

and,  by  my  troth,  there  's  one  meaning  well  suited.2 

D.   Pe.   Who   have   you  offended,    masters,    that 

you  are  thus  bound  to   your  answer  ?  this  learned 


1  Serious.  a  Put  into  many  different  dresses. 


214  MUCH     ADO 


ACT    V. 


constable  is  too  cunning  to  be  understood.     What 's 
your  offence  ? 

Bor.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  farther  to  mine 
answer ;  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me. 
I  have  deceived  even  your  very  eyes :  what  vour 
wisdoms  could  not  discover,  these  shallow  fools  have 
brought  to  light,  who,  in  the  night,  overheard  me 
confessing  to  this  man,  how  Don  John  your  brother 
incensed  1  me  to  slander  the  lady  Hero  ;  how  you 
were  brought  into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court 
Margaret  in  Hero's  garments ;  how  you  disgraced 
her,  when  you  should  marry  her :  my  villany  they 
have  upon  record,  which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my 
death,  than  repeat  over  to  my  shame.  The  lady  is 
dead  upon  mine  and  my  master's  false  accusation  ; 
and,  briefly,  I  desire  nothing  but  the  reward  of  a 
villain. 

D.  Pe.  Runs  not  this   speech  like  iron   through 
your  blood  ? 

Clau.   I  have  drunk  poison,  whiles  he  utter'd  it. 

D.  Pe.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this  ? 

Bor.   Yea,   and  paid    me  richly  for  the  practice 
of  it. 

D.  Pe.  He  is  composed  and  framed  of  treachery; 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villany. 

Clau.   Sweet  Hero  !  now   thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  loved  it  first. 

Dog.    Come,  bring  away   the  plaintiffs :  by  this 

1  Incited. 


SCEXE    I.  ABOUT    XOTHIXG.  215 

time  our  sexton  hath  reformed  signior  Leonato  of 
the  matter.  And,  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify, 
when  time  and  place  shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Ver.  Here,  here  comes  master  signior  Leonato, 
and  the  sexton  too. 

Re-enter  leonato  and  axtoxio,  with  the  sexton. 

Leo.  Which  is  the  villain?    Let  me  see  his  eyes; 
I  "hat  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him.      Which  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bor.  If  you  would  know   your  wronger,   look  on 
me. 

Leo.  Art  thou   the  slave,    that   with  thy  breath 
hast  kill'd 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

Bor.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leo.  Xo,  not  so,  villain ;  thou  beliest  thyself. 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honorable  men  ; 
A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it. — 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death ; 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds  : 
"f  was  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Clau.  I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience, 
Yet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  x  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin  :  yet  sinn'd  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 

D.  Pe.  By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 


1  Command  me  to  undergo. 


21 G  MICH    ADO  ACT    V. 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he  '11  enjoin  me  to. 

Leo.   I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live ; 
That  were  impossible  :  but,  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess  1  the  people  in  Messina  here 
How  innocent  she  died  ;   and,  if  your  love 
Can  labor  aught  in  sad  invention, 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 
And  sing  it  to  her  bones  ;   sing  it  to-night : — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house  ; 
And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law, 
Be  yet  my  nephew :   my  brother  hath  a  daughter, 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that  's  dead, 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us  : 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousui. 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Clau.  O,  noble  sir, 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me ! 
I  do  embrace  your  offer ;    and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leo.  To-morrow  then  I  will  expect  your  coming ; 
To-night  I  take  my  leave. — This  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Who,  I  believe,  was  pack'd  -  in  all  tins  wrong, 
Hired  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bar.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  me  { 


1  Acquaint.  *  An  accomplice. 


SCENE     I.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  217 

But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous, 
In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dog.  Moreover,  sir,  (which,  indeed,  is  not  under 
white  and  black)  this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did 
call  me  ass :  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  remembered  in 
his  punishment  :  and  also,  the  watch  heard  them 
talk  of  one  Deformed  :  they  say,  he  wears  a  key  in 
his  ear,  and  a  lock  hanging  by  it,  and  borrows 
money  in  God's  name  ; x  the  which  he  hath  used  so 
long,  and  never  paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard- 
hearted, and  will  lend  nothing  for  God's  sake. 
Pray  you,  examine  him  upon  that  point. 

Leo.   I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dog.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful 
and  reverend  youth  ;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leo.  There  's  for  thy  pains. 

Dog    God  save  the  foundation  !  • 

Leo.  Go ;  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I 
thank  thee. 

Dog.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship ; 
which,  I  beseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself, 
for  the  example  of  others.  God  keep  your  worship  ; 
I  wish  your  worship  well ;  God  restore  you  to 
health.  I  humbly  give  you  leave  to  depart ;  and  if 
a  merry  meeting  may  be  wished,  God  prohibit  it. — 
Come,  neighbor.  [Exeunt  Dog.  Ver.  and  Watch. 

Leo.   Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 


'  Is  n  common  beggar. 

2  The  customary  phrase  of  those  who  received   alms  at  the 
gates  of  religious  houses. 


218  much  ado 


ACT    V. 


Ant.  Farewell,   my  lords  ;    we   look  for  you  to- 
morrow. 
JD.  Pe.  We  will  not  fail. 

Clau.  To-night  I  '11  mourn  with  Hero. 

[Exeunt  D.  Pe.  and  Clau. 
Leo.  Bring  you  these  fellows  on  :  we  '11  talk  with 
Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  *  fellow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

Leonato's  garden. 
Enter  benedick  and  margaret,  meeting. 

Ben.  Pray  thee,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  deserve 
well  at  my  hands,  hy  helping  me  to  the  speech  of 
Beatrice. 

Mar.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise 
of  my  beauty  ? 

Ben.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man 
living  shall  come  over  it ;  for,  in  most  comely  truth, 
thou  deservest  it. 

Mar.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me  ?  Why,  shall 
I  always  keep  below  stairs  ? 

Ben.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's 
mouth  ;  it  catches. 

Mar.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils, 
which  hit,  but  hurt  not. 


Wicked. 


SCENE    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  219 

Ben.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  will  not 
hurt  a  woman  ;  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call  Beatrice  : 
I  give  thee  the  hucklers. 

Mar.  Give  us  the  swords,  we  have  hucklers  of 
our  own. 

Ben.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must  put  in 
the  pikes  with  a  vice ;  and  they  are  dangerous 
weapons  for  maids. 

Mar.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who,  1 
think,  hath  legs.  [Exit  Margaret. 

Ben.  And  therefore  will  come. 

'  The  god  of  love,  [singing. ~] 

That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  and  knows  me, 
How  pitiful  I  deserve, —  ' 1 

i  mean,  in  singing ;  but  in  loving, — Leander  the 
good  swimmer,  Troilus  the  first  employer  of  panders, 
and  a  whole  book  full  of  these  quondam  carpet- 
mongers,  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the  even 
road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were  never  so  truly 
turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor  self,  in  love. 
Many,  I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme  ;  I  have  tried  :  I 
can  find  out  no  rhyme  to  '  lady '  but  *  baby  ; '  an 
innocent  rhyme  :  for  '  scorn,'  '  horn  ; '  a  hard  rhyme: 
for  '  school,'  '  fool ; '  a  babbling  rhyme  :  very  omi- 
nous endings.  No,  I  was  not  born  under  a  rhyming 
planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in  festival  terms. °- — 


1    The  beginning  of  a  song  popular   in  Shakspeire's  time. 
■J  1  ji  splendid  phraseology. 


220  MUCH    ADO  ACT    v. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  called 
thee  ? 

Bea.  Yea,  signior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Ben.   O,  stay  but  till  then  ! 

Bea.  '  Then '  is  spoken ;  fare  you  well  now  : — 
and  yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came  for ; 
which  is,  with  knowing  what  hath  passed  between 
you  and  Claudio. 

Ben.  Only  foul  words  ;  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss 
thee. 

Bea.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind 
is  but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome ; 
therefore  I  will  depart  unkissed. 

Ben.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right 
sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit.  But,  I  must  tell  thee 
plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  l  my  challenge ;  and  either 
I  must  shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe 
him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray  thee  now,  tell  me,  for 
which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first  fall  in  love 
with  me  ? 

Bea.  For  them  all  together;  which  maintained  so 
politic  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any 
good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for  which 
of  my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Ben.  '  Suffer  love  ;  '  a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer 
love,  indeed  ;  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 


1  Is  subject  to. 


SCENE    II.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  221 

Bea.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think ;  alas,  poor 
heart !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it 
for  yours ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which  my 
friend  hates. 

Ben.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceahly. 

Bea.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession :  there 's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty,  that  will  praise 
himself. 

Ben.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived 
in  the  time  of  good  neighbors  : l  if  a  man  do  not 
erect  in  this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall 
live  no  longer  in  monument,  than  the  bell  rings,  and 
the  widow  weeps. 

Bea.  And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Ben.   Question  ? Why,    an    hour    in    clamor, 

and  a  quarter  in  rheum  :  therefore  it  is  most  expe- 
dient for  the  wise  (if  Don  Worm,  his  conscience, 
find  no  impediment  to  the  contrary)  to  be  the  trum- 
pet of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself.  So  much 
for  praising  myself,  who,  I  myself  will  bear  witness, 
is  praiseworthy :  and  now  tell  me,  how  doth  your 
cousin  ? 

Bea.  Very  ill. 

Ben.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Bea.  Very  ill  too. 

Ben.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend  :  there  will  I 
leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 


*  In  the  golden  age. 


222  MUCH    ADO 


Enter  Ursula. 


ACT   V. 


Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle  ;  yon- 
der 's  old  coil 1  at  home  :  it  is  proved,  my  lady  Hero 
hath  been  falsely  accused,  the  prince  and  Claudio 
mightily  abused  ;  and  Don  John  is  the  author  of  all, 
who  is  fled  and  gone.     Will  you  come  presently  ? 

Bea.  Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior  ? 

Ben.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and 
be  buried  in  thy  eyes  ;  and,  moreover,  I  will  go  with 
thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [    xeunt. 


SCENE    III. 

The  inside  of  a  church. 

Enter  don  pedro,  claudio,  and  Attendants,  icith 
music  and  tapers. 

Clau.  Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 

Att.  It  is,  my  lord. 

Clau.   \_reads  from  a  scroll.'] 

'Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies  : 
Death,  in  guerdon  "  of  her  wrongs, 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies : 
So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 


1  A  bustle.  *  Reward. 


SCENE    III.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  223 

Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb,        [riffximj  it. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb.' — - 

Now,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 


SONG. 

Pardon,  goddess  of  the  night, 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight, 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 

.Midnight,  assist  our  moan  ; 

Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 
Heavily,  heavily. 

Graves,  yawn,  and  yield  your  dead, 

Till  death  be  uttered, 
Heavily,  heavily. 

Clau.  Now  unto  thy  bones  good  night ! 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pe.  Good  morrow,  masters ;  put  your  torches 
out  : 
The  wolves  have  prey'd ;  and  look,  the  gentle 
day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  gray. 
Thanks  to  you  all ;  and  leave  us  :  fare  you  well. 
Clau.  Good  morrow,  masters ;  each  his  several  way. 
D.  Pe.   Come,  let  us   hence,   and  put    on    other 
weeds ; 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 

Clau.     And     Hymen    now     with    luckier     issue 
speeds, 
Than  this   for  whom  we  render'd  up  this  woe ! 

[Exeunt. 


224  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

SCENE    IV. 

A  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  leonato,  antonio,  benedick,  Beatrice, 

URSULA,   FRIAR,  and  HERO. 

Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 
Leo.   So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  accused 
her, 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated. 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this ; 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.  Well,   I  am   glad   that  all   things  sort l   so 
well. 

Ben.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforced 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leo.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd. 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me. — You  know  your  office,  brother  ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm'd  countenance. 

Ben.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.  To  do  what,  signior  ? 

Ben.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me  ;    one  of  them. — 


•  Turn  out. 


SCENB    IV.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  225 

Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  signior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favor. 

Leo.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her ;  'tis  most 
true. 

Ben.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

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

Ben.  Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 
In  the  estate  of  honorable  marriage ; — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leo.  My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  -  And  my  help. 

Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio. 

Enter  don  pedro  and  claudio,  with  Attendants. 

D.  Pe.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leo.   Good  morrow,  prince ;  good  morrow,  Claudio : 
We  here  attend  you.     Are  you  yet  determined 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 

Clan.  I  '11  hold  my  mind,  were  she  an  Ethiope. 

Leo.    Call  her  forth,   brother ;    here 's  the   friar 
ready.  [Exit  Ant. 

D.  Pe.   Good  morrow,   Benedick.     Why,  what 's 
the  matter, 
That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 

SHAK.  IV. 


226  MUCH    ADO 


ACT    V. 


Clau.  I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull. 
Tush,  fear  not,  man  :  we  '11  tip  thy  horns  with  gold  ; 
And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee, 
As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 

Ben.  Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low ; 
And  some  such  strange  bull  leap'd   your  father's 

cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat, 
Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

Re-enter  antonio,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Clau.  For  this  I  owe  you :  here  come  other  reck- 
onings. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seise  upon  ? 

Ant.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 
Clau.  Why,  then  she  's  mine.     Sweet,  let  me  see 

your  face. 
Leo.  No,  that  you  shall  not,   till   you  take  her 
hand 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

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

Hero.  And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife ; 

[unmasking. 
And  when  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 
Clau.  Another  Hero  ? 
Hero.  Nothing  certainer: 

One  Hero  died  defiled  ;  but  I  do  live  ; 
And,  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 


Wheail^-dcL 


Aa  V  ScenelV. 


SCE.VE    IV.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  227 

D.  Pe.  The  former  Hero  !  Hero  that  is  dead  ! 
Leo.  She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander 

lived. 
Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify  ; 
When,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I  '11  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death  : 
Meantime,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Ben.  Soft  and  fair,  friar. Which  is  Beatrice  ? 

Bea.  I  answer  to  that  name,    \unmasking ,~\    What 

is  your  will  ? 
Ben.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bea.  Why,  no  more  than  reason. 

Ben.  Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and 
Claudia 
Have  been  deceived  ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 
Bea.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Ben.  Troth,  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Bea.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula 
Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did, 
Ben.  They   swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for 

me. 
Bea.  They  swore   that  you  were  well-nigh  dead 

for  me. 
Ben.  'Tis  no   such    matter. — Then,   you  do  not 

love  me  ? 
Bea.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 
Leo.  Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gen- 
tleman. 
Clau.  And  I  '11  be  sworn  upon 't,  that  he  loves 
her; 


228  MUCH    ADO  ACT    V. 

For  here  's  a  paper,  -written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here  's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Ben.  A  miracle !  here 's  our  own  hands  against 
our  hearts! — Come,  I  will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this 
light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Bea.  I  would  not  deny  you ; — but,  by  this  good 
day,  I  yield  upon  great  persuasion ;  and,  partly,  to 
save  your  life ;  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  con- 
sumption. 

Ben.  Peace  ;   I  will  stop  your  mouth. — 

[kissing  her. 
D.   Pe.  How   dost   thou,  Benedick,   the   married 

man  .' 
Ben.   I  '11  tell  thee  what,  prince  ;  a  college  of  wit- 
crackers  cannot  flout  me  out   of  my  humor.     Dost 
thou  think,  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  an  epigram  ?    No  : 
if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,   he   shall  wear 
nothing  handsome  about  him.     In  brief,  since  I  do 
propose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  pur- 
pose that  the  world   can   say  against  it ;   and  there- 
fore never  flout  at  me  for  what  I   have  said  against 
,    it  ;   for  man  is  a   giddy  thing,   and  this   is   my   con- 
clusion.     For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have 
beaten  thee  ;  but  in  that l  thou  art  like  to  be   my 
kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and  love  my  cousin. 

1  rMnce, 


PCENB   IV.  ABOUT    NOTHING.  229 

Chiu.  I  had  well  hoped,  thou  wouldst  have 
denied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgeled  thee 
out  of  thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a  double  dealer ; 
-which,  out  of  question,  tnou  wilt  he,  if  my  cousin 
do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Ben.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends  : — let 's  have  a 
dance  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our 
own  hearts,  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leo.  "We  '11  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Ben.  First,  o'  my  word  ;  therefore,  play,  music. — 
Prince,  thou  art  sad  ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a 
wife  :  there  is  no  staff  more  reverend  than  one  tipped 
with  horn. 

Enter  a  messenger. 

Mes.    My  iora,    your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in 
flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Ben.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow  ;  I  '11  devise 
thee  brave  punishments  for  him.     Strike  up,  pipers. 

[dance. 
[Exeunt. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


233 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE 


AS    YOU    LIKE     IT. 


The  plot  of  this  beautiful  and  romantic  comedv  lias 
been  attributed  by  Dr.  Grey  and  Mr.  Upton  to  the 
Coke's  Tale  of  Gamely n,  erroneously  called  Chaucer's  ; 
but  no  printed  edition  of  that  work,  made  its  appear- 
ance till  near  a  century  after  the  death  of  our  author, 
who  contented  himself  with  borrowing  his  story  from  a 
novel,  or  rather  pastoral  romance,  intitled  Euphues' 
Golden  Legacy,  written  in  a  very  fantastical  style  by 
Dr.  Thomas  Lodge,  and  by  him  first  published  in  1590. 
In  addition  to  the  fable,  which  is  pretty  exactly  fol- 
lowed, the  outlines  of  the  principal  characters  may  be 
traced  in  the  novel,  with  the  exception  of  Jaques, 
Touchstone,  and  Audrey,  who  are  generally  admitted  to 
be  the  creation  of  the  poet. 

The  first  publication  of  As  You  Like  It  appears  to 
have  been  the  folio  of  1G23.  It  is  supposed  by  Malone 
to  have  been  written  after  1596,  and  before  1G00.  We 
learn  by  tradition  that  Shakspeare  himself  performed 
the  part  of  Adam. 

'Of  this  play,'  says  Dr.  Johnson,  'the  fable  is  wild 
and  pleasing.  I  know  not  how  the  ladies  will  approve 
the  facility  with  which  both  Rosalind  and  Celia  give 
away  their  hearts.  To  Celia  much  may  be  forgiven 
for  the  heroism  of  her  friendship.     The  character  of 


2'6-i  HISTORICAL    NOTICE. 

Jaques  is  natural  and  well  preserved.  The  comic  dia- 
logue is  very  sprightly,  with  less  mixture  of  low 
buffoonery  than  in  some  other  plays  ;  and  the  graver 
part  is  elegant  and  harmonious.  By  hastening  to  the 
end  of  his  work,  Shakspeare  suppressed  the  dialogue 
between  the  usurper  and  the  hermit,  and  lost  an  op- 
portunity of  exhibiting  a  moral  lesson,  in  which  he 
might  have  found  matter  worthy  of  his  highest  powers.' 


23a 


ARGUMENT. 


A  Duke  of  France,  being  dispossessed  of  his  dominions  by 
Frederick,  his  younger  brother,  retires  to  the  forest  of  Ar- 
den  with  a  few  faithful  adherents,  leaving  behind  him  his 
daughter  Rosalind,  who  is  detained  at  the  court  of  the 
usurper  to  be  a  companion  to  her  cousin  Celia.  While  here, 
Rosalind  becomes  enamored  of  young  Orlando,  who  sig- 
nalises himself  in  wrestling  before  the  court.  The  accom- 
plishments and  popularity  of  Rosalind  soon,  however,  excite 
the  apprehensions  of  her  uncle,  who  banishes  her  from  his 
territories  :  the  affection  of  Celia  prompts  her  to  accompany 
her  kinswoman,  and  she  makes  her  escape  in  the  disguise 
of  a  shepherdess,  while  Rosalind  assumes  the  habit  of  a 
man.  Arrived  at  the  forest  of  Arden,  the  two  friends  pur- 
chase a  house  and  grounds,  where  they  reside  for  some  time 
as  brother  and  sister  :  here  they  are  agreeably  surprised  at 
the  presence  of  Orlando,  who,  in  order  to  guard  his  lifo 
from  the  machinations  of  Oliver,  his  elder  brother,  is  com- 
pelled to  join  the  company  of  the  banished  Duke.  Rosalind, 
after  satisfying  herself  of  the  attachment  of  her  lover,  and 
the  willingness  of  her  father  to  consent  to  their  union,  re- 
assumes  her  female  apparel,  and  bestows  her  hand  on  Or- 
lando, while  Celia  becomes  the  wife  of  the  repentant  Oliver, 
whose  life  is  preserved  from  the  fury  of  a  lion  by  the  bravery 
of  his  injured  brother.  In  the  mean  time,  Duke  Frederick, 
jealous  of  the  increasing  numbers  of  his  opponents,  arrives 
with  a  large  army  for  the  purpose  of  exterminating  them: 
on  the  skirts  of  the  forest  he  is  encountered  by  an  old  her- 
mit, who  dissuades  him  from  the  prosecution  of  his  cruel 
enterprise.  Struck  with  remorse,  he  voluntarily  resigns  his 
dukedom,  and  retires  from  the  world,  while  the  exiles  are 
reinstated  in  their  former  dignities. 


236 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 


Ditke,  living  in  exile. 

Frederick,  brother  to  the  Duke,  and  usurper  of  his  dominions. 

1-        '    '  >  lords  attending  upon  the  Duke  in  his  banishment. 

J Ayt'is,   y 

Le  Beau,  a  courtier  attending  upon  Irederick. 

Charles,  his  wrestler. 

Oliver,     -^ 

Jaques,      >sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Orlando,  * 

Adam,      > 

DS  servants  to  Oliver. 
ennis,   $ 

Touchstone,  a  clown. 

Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  a  vicar. 

Corin,      i 

„  >  shepherds. 

Sylvius,  $ 

William,  a  country  fellow,  in  love  with  Audrey. 

A  person  representing  Hymen. 

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

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

The  Scene  lies,  first,  near  Oliver's  house  ;  afterwards,  partly 
in  the  usurper's  court,  and  partly  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 


AS   YOU    LIKE   IT. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE    I. 

An  orchard,  near  Oliver  s  house. 

Enter  orlando  and  adam. 

0/7.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this 
fashion.  He  bequeathed  me  by  will  but  a  poor 
thousand  crowns ;  and,  as  thou  say'st,  charged  my 
brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well  :  and 
there  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother  Jaques  he 
keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his 
profit :  for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at  home, 
or,  to  speak  more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home 
unkept :  for  call  you  that  keeping  for  a  gentleman 
of  my  birth,  that  differs  not  from  the  stalling  of  an 
ox  ?  His  horses  are  bred  better ;  for,  besides  that 
they  are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught 
their  manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired  : 
but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but 
growth,  for  the  which  his  animals  on  his  dunghills 
are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this 
nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the  some- 


23S  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  ACT    I. 

thing  that  nature  gave  me,  his  countenance  seems  to 
take  from  me  :  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars 
me  the  place  of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him 
lies,  mines  my  gentility  with  my  education.  This 
is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves  me  ;  and  the  spirit  of  my 
father,  which  I  think  is  within  me,  begins  to  mutiny 
against  this  servitude  :  I  will  no  longer  endure  it, 
though  yet  1  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 

Enter  oliver. 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

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

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

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

OH.  What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

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

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

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

Oli.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

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

Oli.   Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 


•  What  do  you  here  1 


SCENE    I.  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  239 

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

Oli.  What,  boy ! 

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

Oli.  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain  :  x  I  am  the  youngest  son  of 
sir  Rowland  de  Bois  :  he  was  my  father  ;  and  he  is 
thrice  a  villain,  that  says,  such  a  ftther  begot  vil- 
lains. Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take 
this  hand  from  thy  throat,  till  this  other  had  pulled 
out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so  :  thou  hast  railed  on 
thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your 
father's  remembrance,  be  at  accord. 

Oli.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear  me. 
My  father  charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good 
education :  you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  ob- 
scuring and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like 
qualities  :  the  spirit  of  my   father  grows  strong  in 


1  The  word  villain  is  used  by  Oliver  for  a  worthless  fellow, 
and  by  Orlando  for  a  man  of  base  extraction. 


240  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  It :  therefore  allow 
me  such  exercises  as  may  hecome  a  gentleman,  or 
give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  hy  tes- 
tament :  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

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

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

Oli.   Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

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

[Exeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

OH.  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ? 
I  will  physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thou- 
sand crowns  neither.     Holla,  Dennis  ! 

Enter  dennis. 

Den.  Calls  your  worship  ? 

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

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and 
importunes  access  to  you. 

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

Enter  charles. 
Charles.   Good  morrow  to  your  worship. 


eCBSTB    I.  AS    YOU     LIKK     IT.  241 

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

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

Oli.  Can  you  tell,  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's  daugh- 
ter, be  banished  with  her  father  ? 

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

Oli.  Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Charles.  They  say,  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of 
Arden,1  and  a  many  merry  men  with  him ;  and 
there  they  live  like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England  : 
they  say,  many  young  gentlemen  flock  to  him  every 
day ;  and  fleet  the  time  carelessly ,"  as  they  did  in 
the  golden  world. 

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

Charles.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint 


1   Ardennc,  a  large  forest  in  Flanders. 
'  Live  merrily. 
MM  *.  IV. 


242  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

you  with  a  mutter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to 
understand,  that  your  younger  brother,  Orlando, 
hath  a  disposition  to  come  in  disguised  against  me 
to  try  a  fall.  To-morrow,  sir,  I  wrestle  for  my 
credit ;  and  he  that  escapes  me  without  some  broken 
limb,  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother  is  but 
young  and  tender ;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would  be 
loath  to  foil  him,  as  I  must,  for  my  own  honor,  if  he 
come  in  :  therefore,  out  of  my  love  to  you,  I  came 
hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  that  either  you  might 
stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or  brook  such  dis- 
grace well  as  he  shall  run  into ;  in  that  it  is  a 
thing  of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against  my 
will. 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me, 
which  thou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I 
had  myself  notice  of  my  brother's  purpose  herein, 
and  ha^e  by  underhand  means  labored  to  dissuade 
him  from  it ;  but  he  is  resolute.  I  '11  tell  thee, 
Charles, — it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow  of 
France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emulator  of 
every  man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous  con- 
triver against  me  his  natural  brother ;  therefore  U9e 
thy  discretion.  I  had  as  lief  thou  didst  break  his 
neck  as  his  finger :  and  thou  wert  best  look  to  't ; 
for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  if  he  do 
not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will  practise 
against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  Dy  some  trea- 
cherous device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath 
ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  or  other :  for 
I   assure  thee,   and   almost  with   tears   I   speak  it. 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  243 

there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villanous  this  day 
living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him  ;  but  should  I 
anatomise  him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and 
weep,  and  thou  must  look  pale  and  -wonder. 

Charles.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you. 
If  he  come  to-morrow,  I  '11  give  him  his  payment : 
if  ever  he  go  alone  again,  I  '11  never  wrestle  for 
prize  more  :  and  so,  God  keep  your  worship  ! 

[Exit. 

Oli.  Farewell,  good  Charles. — Now  will  I  stir 
this  gamester.1  I  hope,  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ; 
for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why,  hates  nothing 
more  than  he.  Yet  he 's  gentle ;  never  schooled, 
and  yet  learned  ;  full  of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts  2 
enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed,  so  much  in  the 
heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my  own  people, 
•^  ho  best  kuow  him,  that  I  am  altogether  mis- 
prised : 3  but  it  shall  not  be  so  long ;  this  wrestler 
shall  clear  all :  nothing  remains,  but  that  I  kindle 
the  boy  thither,  which  now  I  '11  go  about.  [Exit. 

SCFNE    II. 

A  lawn  before  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  rosalixd  and  celia. 

Cel.  1  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be 
merry. 


1  Frolicksoiue  fellow.  s  Of  all  ranks  of  men, 

•  Undervalued. 


244  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am 
mistress  of;  and  would  you  yet  I  were  merrier? 
Unless  you  could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished 
f  ither,  you  must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember  any 
extraordinary  pleasure. 

Cel.  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the 
full  weight  that  I  love  thee.  If  my  uncle,  thy  ba- 
nished father,  had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my 
father,  so  thou  hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could 
have  taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine  ;  so 
wouldst  thou,  if  the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were  so 
righteously  tempered  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my 
estate,  to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I, 
nor  none  is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies, 
thou  shalt  be  his  heir :  for  what  he  hath  taken 
away  from  thy  father  perforce,  1  will  render  thee 
again  in  affection  ;  by  mine  honor,  I  will ;  and  when 
I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster  :  therefore, 
my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be  merry. 

Ros.  From  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise 
sports.  Let  me  see ;  what  think  you  of  falling  in 
love  ? 

Cel.  Marry,  I  pr'ythee,  do,  to  make  sport  withal : 
but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  farther  in 
sport  neither,  than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou 
mayst  in  honor  come  off  again. 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

*W.  Let  us   sit  and  mock   the   good  housewife, 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  245 

Fortune,  from  her  -wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  hence- 
forth be  bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  I  would,  Ave  could  do  so ;  for  her  benefits 
are  mightily  misplaced ;  and  the  bountiful  blind 
woman  doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  'Tis  true ;  for  those  that  she  makes  fair  she 
scarce  makes  honest,  and  those  that  she  makes 
honest  she  makes  very  ill-favoredly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  Fortune's  office 
to  Nature's  :  Fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world, 
not  in  the  lineaments  of  Nature. 

Enter  touchstone. 

Cel.  No  ?  When  Nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature, 
may  she  not  by  Fortune  fall  into  the  fire  ? — Though 
Nature  hath  given  us  wit  to  flout  at  Fortune,  hath 
not  Fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off  the  argu- 
ment ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  Fortune  too  hard  for  Nature  ; 
•when  Fortune  makes  Nature's  natural  the  cutter  off 
of  Nature's  wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure,  this  is  not  Fortune's  work 
neither,  but  Nature's ;  who  perceiveth  our  natural 
wits  too  dull  to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  and  hath 
pent  this  natural  for  our  whetstone  :  for  always  tiie 
dulness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of  his  wits. — 
How  now,  wit  ?  whither  wander  you  ? 

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

Cel.   Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 


246  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honor ;  but  I  was  bid  to  come 
for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  bis 
honor  they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his 
honor  the  mustard  was  naught :  now,  I  '11  stand  to 
it,  the  pancakes  were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was 
good  ;  and  yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  ot 
your  knowlege  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now ;  stroke  your 
chins,  and  swear  by  your  beards  tbat  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  tbem,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were  : 
but  if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  for- 
sworn :  no  more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his 
honor,  for  he  never  had  any ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had 
sworn  it  away,  before  ever  he  saw  those  pancakes  or 
that  mustard. 

Cel.  Pr'ythee,  who  is  't  that  thou  meanest  ? 

Touch.   One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 

Cel.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honor  him. 
Enough  !  speak  no  more  of  him  ;  you  '11  be  whipped 
for  taxation,1  one  of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wisely,  what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  sayest  true  :  for  since  the 


1  Censure   sati» 


SCENE    II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  247 


little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little 
foolery  that  wise  men  have  makes  a  great  show. 
Here  comes  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Enter  le  beau. 

Ros.  With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons  feed 
their  young. 

Ros.  Then  shall  we  he  news-crammed. 

Cel.  All  the  better;  we  shall  he  the  more  market- 
able. Bon  jour,  monsieur  le  Beau :  what 's  the 
news  ? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good 
sport. 

Cel.   Sport  ?     Of  what  color  ? 

Le  Beau.  What  color,  madam  ?  How  shall  I  an- 
swer you  ? 

Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touch.   Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.  Well  said  ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel.1 

Touch.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, 

Ros.  Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze2  me,  ladies:  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the 
sight  of. 

Ros.  Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,   if  it 


1  '  A  good  round   hit.,  thrown  in  without  judgment  or  de- 
Bigu.'—  Hit  sou.  *  Perplex. 


248  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end,  for  the 
hest  is  yet  to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are 
corning  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and 
buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man  and  his  three 


sons, 

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

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent 
growth  and  presence  ; • 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks, — '  Be  it  known 
unto  all  men  by  these  presents,' 

Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with 
Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler;  which  Charles  in  a 
moment  threw  him,  and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  that 
there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  :  so  he  served  the 
second,  and  so  the  third  :  yonder  they  lie  ;  the  poor 
old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful  dole  over 
them,  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with 
weeping. 

Ros.  Alas! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the 
ladios  have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day  !  It 
is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard,  breaking  of  ribs 
was  sport  for  ladies. 

Cel.   Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken 
music  in  his  sides  ?  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon 
rib-breaking  ? — Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 


BCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  24fl 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for  here  is 
the  place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are 
ready  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming :  let  us  now 
stay  and  see  it. 

Florish.     Eater   duke  Frederick,  Lords,  Orlando, 
Charles,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on  ;  since  the  youth  will  not  he 
entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.   Is  yonder  the  man  ? 

Le  Beau.  Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas,  he  is  too  young  !  yet  he  looks  success- 
fully. 

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

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

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can 
tell  you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men.  In  pity  of 
the  challenger's  youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him, 
hut  lie  will  not  he  entreated.  Speak  to  him,  ladies ; 
see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel.  Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.  Do  so ;   I  '11  not  be  by. 

[Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princesses 
call  for  you. 

Orl.  I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles 
the  wrestler  r 


250  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    i. 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess ;  he  is  the  general  chal- 
lenger: I  come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him 
the  strength  of  my  youth. 

Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold 
for  your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this 
man's  strength  :  if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes, 
or  knew  yourself  with  your  judgment,  the  fear  of 
your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal 
enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to 
embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this  at- 
tempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir ;  your  reputation  shall  not 
therefore  be  misprised :  '  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to 
the  duke,  that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  1  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your 
hard  thoughts ;  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty, 
to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing  :  but 
let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to 
my  trial  ;  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there  is  but  one 
shamed  that  was  never  gracious  ;  if  killed,  but  one 
dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so  :  I  shall  do  my  friends 
no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me  ;  the  world 
no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing  :  only  in  the 
world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  sup- 
plied when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  woidd  it 
were  with  you. 

Cel.  And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 


1  Undervalued. 


SCENE    II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  2.51 


Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  Heaven,  I  be  deceived 
in  you. 

Cel.   Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you  ! 

Charles.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that 
is  so  desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

0/7.  Ready,  sir  ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more 
modest  working. 

Duke  F.  You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Charles.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace ;  you  shall  not 
entreat  him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  per- 
suaded him  from  a  first. 

0/7.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should 
not  have  mocked  me  before  :  but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.  Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man ! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong 
fellow  by  the  leg.  [Charles  and  0/7.  wrestle. 

Ros.  O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can 
tell  who  should  down.        [Charles  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  F.  No  more,  no  more. 

0/7.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace :  I  am  not  yet 
well  breathed. 

Duke  F.  How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.  He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away.  [Charles  is  borne  out. 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

0/7.  Orlando,  my  liege ;  the  youngest  son  of  sir 
Rowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.   I  would,   thou  hadst  been  son  to  some 
man  else. 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honorable, 


2ol2  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    X. 

But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy : 

Thou    shouldst    have    hetter    pleased  me  with   this 

deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
Hut  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth  : 
I  would,  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

{Exeunt  Duke  F.  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 

Cel.   Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

Orl.   I  am  more  proud  to  he  sir  Rowland's  son, 
His    youngest   son ; — and   would    not    change    that 

calling,1 
To  he  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.   My  father  loved  sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind  : 
Had  1  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventured. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him  : 
Mv  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart.  —  Sir,  you  have  well  deserved: 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love, 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise, 
Your  mistress  shall  he  happy. 

Mos.  Gentleman, 

{(jiving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me,  one  out  of  suits  with  Fortune  ;  2 
That    could    give    more,    but    that    her  hand   lacks 
means. — 


Appellation.  3  Turned  out  of  her  service. 


SCEVK    II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  '2o3 


Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Cel.  Ay: — fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

0/7.   Can  I   not   say,    I    thank    you  ?     My    better 
parts 
Are  all  thrown  down  ;  and  that  which  here  stands 

up, 
Is  hut  a  quintaine,1  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.  He   calls  us  back.     My  pride  fell  with  my 
fortunes  : 
I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would. — Did  vote  call,  sir? — 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.  Have  with  you. — Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Cel. 
Orl.  What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon  my 
tongue  ? 
1  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urged  conference. 

Re-enter  le  beau. 

O  poor  Orlando  !  thou  art  overthrown  : 

Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.   Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel  yctt 
To  leave  this  place.     Albeit  you  have  deserved 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love ; 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition,2 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  vou  have  done. 


1  A  post  or  butt  set  up  for  martial  exercises* 
*  Temper,  disposition. 


254  AS   YOU    LIKE    II.  ACT    I. 

The  duke  is  humorous ; »  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.   I  thank  you,   sir:   and,   pray  you,    tell   me 
this  ; 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke, 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling:  ? 

Le  Beau.  Neither  his  daughter,   if   we  judge  by 
manners ; 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  shorter  is  his  daugnter  : 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  duke, 
And  here  detain'd  by  her  usurping  uncle, 
To  keep  his  daughter  company  ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you,  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece ; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument, 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well  : 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowlege  of  you. 

Orl.   I  rest  much  bounden  to  you :  fare  you  well ! 

{Exit  Le  Beau, 
Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 
From  tyrant  duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother  : — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  \Exit. 


1  Capricious. 


SCENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  255 

SCENE    III. 

A  room  in  the  palace. 
Enter  celia  and  kosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin  ;  why,  Rosalind ; — Cupid  have 
mercy  ! — Not  a  word  ? 

Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  are  too  precious  to  he  cast 
away  upon  curs  ;  throw  some  of  them  at  me  :  come, 
lame  me  with  reasons. 

Ros.  Then  there  were  two  cousins  laid  up ;  when 
the  one  should  be  lamed  with  reasons,  and  the  other 
mad  without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  child's  father.  O, 
how  full  of  briers  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Cel.  They  are  hut  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee 
in  holyday  foolery ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the  trodden 
paths,  our  very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat :  these  bura 
are  in  my  heart. 

Cel.  Hem  them  away. 

Res.  I  would  try ;  if  I  could  cry  hem,  and  have 
him. 

Cel.   Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler 
than  myself. 

Cel.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  you  will  try  in 
time,  in  despite  of  a  fall. — But,  turning  these  jests 
out  of  sendee,  let  us   talk  in  good  earnest.     Is  it 


256  AS    YOU    UKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so 
strong  a  liking  with  old  sir  Rowland's  joungest 
son  ? 

Ros.  The  duke  my  father  loved  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue,  that  you  should  love 
his  son  dearly  ?  By  this  kind  of  chase,1  I  should 
hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father  dearly ;  2 
yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cel.  Why  should  I  not  ?  doth  he  not  deserve 
well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  lore 
him  because  I  do. — Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Cel.  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.  Mistress,  despatch  you  with   your  safest 
haste, 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Ros.  Me,  uncle  ? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin  : 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowlege  of  my  fault  bear  with  me. 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires ; 


1  By  this  train  of  argument.  s  Inveterately. 


6CENK    III. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  257 


If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, 
(As  1  do  trust  I  am  not)  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never,  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn, 
Did  I  offend  your  highness. 

Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors ; 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself. 
Let  it  suffice  thee,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor. 
Tell  me,  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter ;  there  'a 
enough. 

Ros.  So  was    I,   when   your   highness    took   bis 
dukedom ; 
So  was  I,  when  your  hisrhness  banish'd  him. 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What 's  that  to  me  ?     My  father  was  no  traitor. 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake, 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  ranged  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay ; 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse.1 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her ; 
But  now  I  know  her :  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Whv  so  am  I :  we  still  have  slept  together, 


'  Compassion. 

SHAK.  IV. 


258  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    I. 

Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  wrent  coupled  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.    She  is  too    subtle    for    thee ,     and    her 
smoothness, 
Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name  ; 
And  thou  wilt   show  more   bright,   and   seem  more 

virtuous, 
When  she  is  gone  :  then  open  not  thy  lips ; 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her  :  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.    Pronounce  that   sentence  then   on  me,   my 
liege  : 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Duke  F.    You    are  a  fool. — You,   niece,  provide 
yourself ; 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  mine  honor, 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  Duke  F:  and  Lords. 

Cel.   O  my  poor  Rosalind  !   whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?  I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin. 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  me  his  daughter  ? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No  ?  hath  not  ?  Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one. 


SCENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  259 

Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  Ave  part,  sweet  girl  ? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me,  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us  : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I  '11  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ! 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.   I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber  x  smirch  2  my  face  ; 
The  like  do  you  :  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  3  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand  ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will) 
We  '11  have  a  swashing  4  and  a  martial  outside  ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 


1  Umber  is  a   dusky,  yellow-colored   earth,   brought   from 
Umbria,  in  Italy.  *  Soil.  3  Cutlass. 


*  Swaggering. 


260  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II 

Cel.    What    shall    1   call  thee,  when   thou  art  a 
man  ? 

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own 
page, 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? 

Cel.     Something    that    hath    a    reference    to    my 
state  ; 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.  He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let  '3  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together ; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we  in  content, 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [Exeunt. 


ACT     II. 

SCENE    I. 

The  forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  duke  senior,  amiens,  and  other  Lords,  in  the 
dress  of  foresters. 

Duke  S.    Now,    my   co-mates,  and    brothers    in 
exile. 


SCENE    I.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  e2Q\ 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 

Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?  Are  not  these  woods 

More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 

Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 

The  seasons'  difference ;  as,  the  icy  fang, 

And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind  ; 

Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 

Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold ;  I  smile,  and  say, — 

This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  counsellers 

That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 

Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 

Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head : 

And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Ami.    I   would  not   change  it.     Happy   is  your 
grace, 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,1  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads8 
Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 


1  It  gives  ine  pain.  *  Barbed  arrows. 


2G2  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish 'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens,  and  myself, 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood  : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralise  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.   O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ;  * 
'  Poor  deer,'  quoth  he,  '  thou  makest  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much.'     Then,  being  there 

alone, 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 
*  'Tis  right,'  quoth  he  ;   '  thus  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  comjiany.'     Anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 


1  The  stream  that  needed  not  such  a  supply  of  moktsll( 


5  J    8 


«  r  n 


; 


- 


SCENE    II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  263 


And  never  stays  to  greet  him  ;  '  Ay,'  quoth  Jaques, 

'  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 

'Tis  just  the  fashion  :  wherefore  do  you  look 

Unon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? ' 

Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  country,  city,  court, 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life  ;   swearing,  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse, 

To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up, 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contem- 
plation ? 

2   Lord.    We   did,  my  lord,   weeping   and   com- 
menting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place  : 

I  love  to  cope  x  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he  's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.   I  '11  bring  you  to  him  straight.     \Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

A  room  in  the  palace, 

Enter  duke  Frederick,  lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.    Can  it   be  possible  that   no  man  savi 
them  ? 
It  cannot  be  :  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 


1  Encounter. 


264  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

1  Lord.   I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamher, 

Saw  her  a-bed ;  and,  in  the  morning  early, 
They  found  the  bed  untreasured  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the   roynish  l   clown,  at  whom 

so  oft 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Hesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman, 
Confesses,  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 
Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 
The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles ; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 
That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 

Duke  F.   Send  to  his  brother ;  fetch  that  gallant 
hither ; 
If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me; 
I  '11  make  him  find  him  :  do  this  suddenly ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail  " 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III. 

Before  Oliver  s  house. 

Enter  orlando  and  adam,  meeting. 

Orl.  Who  's  there  ? 

Adam.  What !  my  young  master  ? —  O,  my  gentle 
master ! 


1  Scurvy  3  Faint,  be  wanting, 


8CENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  2G.5 

O,  my  sweet  master!     O,  you  memory1 

Of  old  sir  Rowland  !   why,  what  make  you  here  ? 

Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  vou  ? 

And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 

Why  would  you  he  so  fond  2  to  overcome 

The  hony  priser :i  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 

Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  vou. 

Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 

Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 

No  more  do  yours ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 

Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 

O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 

Envenoms  him  that  bears  it  ! 

Orl.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth. ! 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  graces  lives  : 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother  ;  yet  the  son — 
Yet  not  the  son ; — I  will  not  call  him  son 
Of  him  1  was  about  to  call  his  father) — 
Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie. 
And  you  within  it :  if  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off: 
I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices. 
This  is  no  place,4  this  house  is  but  a  butchery : 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 


1  Memorial.  «  Indiscreet. 

3  Prize-fighter.  «  Mansion,  residence. 


2GG  AS     YOU     LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

0/7.   Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouhfet  thou  have  me 
go? 

Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

0/7.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my 
food ; 
Or,  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword,  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do ; 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can : 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood,1  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.    But   do    not   so :    I    have   five    hundred 
crowns, 
The  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store,  to  be  my  foster-nurse, 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown  : 
Take  that ;  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !    Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant : 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty ; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood ; 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly  :  let  me  go  with  you  ; 


1  Blood  turned  out  of  the  course  of  nature. 


SCENE    UK  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  2(57 

I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orl.   O  good  old  man,  how  weH  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  !  l 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  will  sweat,  but  for  promotion  ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prunest  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield, 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways  ;  we  '11  go  along  together ; 
And,  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent, 
We  '11  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.   Master,  go  on  ;  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. — 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week  : 
Yet  Fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better, 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 

[Exeunt. 


1  Iteward. 


~GS  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


ACT    II, 


SCENE    IV. 

The  forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Rosalind  in  hoy's  clothes,  celia  dressed  like  a 
shepherdess,  and  touchstone. 

Ros.   O  Jupiter !  how  weary  are  my  spirits  ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were 
not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my 
man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman  :  hut  I  must 
comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as  douhlet  and  hose 
ought  to  show  itself  courageous  to  petticoat :  there- 
fore, courage,  good  Aliena ! 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  cannot  go  no 
farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  hear  with  you, 
than  hear  you :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross  x  if  I  did 
bear  you ;  for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money  in  your 
purse. 

Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden,  the  more  fool  I  . 
when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place ;  but 
travellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. — Look  you, 
who  comes  here ;  a  young  man  and  an  old,  in 
solemn2  talk. 


1  A  piece  of  money  stamped  with  a  cross.  a  Seriuu9. 


SCENE  IV. 


AS    VOL'    LIKE    IT.  2t)9 


Enter  corin  and  silvius. 


Cor.    That   is   the   way   to   make   her    scorn  you 
still. 

Sil.   O    Corin,    that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do  love 
her  ! 

Cor.   I  partly  guess  ;  f<r  I  have  loved  ere  now. 

Sil.  No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess ; 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow  : 
But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, 
(As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so) 
How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily : 
If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 
Thou  hast  not  loved  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 
Wearying  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praise, 
Thou  hast  not  loved  : 
Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company 
Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 
Thou  hast  not  loved. — O  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe  ! 

[Exit  Silvias. 

Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  !  searching  of  thy  wound, 
I  have,  by  hard  adventure,  found  mine  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine  :  I  remember,  when  I  was  in 
love,  I  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid  him 
take  that  for  coming  anight  to  Jane   Smile  ;   and  I 


270  AS    YOU     L.KK    IT.  ACT    II. 

remember  the  kissing  of  her  ballet,1  and  the  cow's 
dugs  that  her  pretty  chapped  hands  had  milked  : 
and  I  remember  the  wooing  of  a  peascod  instead  of 
her ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods,  and,  giving  her 
them  again,  said  with  weeping  tears,  ■  Wear  these 
for  my  sake.'  We,  that  are  true  lovers,  run  into 
strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal  in  nature,  so  xs 
all  nature  in  love  mortal "  in  folly. 

Ros.  Thou  speakest  wiser  than  thou  art  'ware  of. 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine   own 
wit,  till  I  break  my  shins  against  it. 

Ros.  Jove  !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 

Touch.  And  mine ;  but  it  grows   something  stale 
with  me. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man. 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food. 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla  ;  you,  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool  !  he  's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.   Who  calls  ? 

Touch.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say. 

Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.   I  pr'ythee,  shepherd,  if  that  love  or  gold 


1  An  instrument  with  which  washers  beat  clothes 

'  Abounding. 


PCFNE    IV.  AS     YOTT     LIKE     IT.  271 

Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed : 
Here  's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  oppress'd, 
And  faints  for  succor. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her, 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  mine  own. 
My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her : 
But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man, 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze. 
My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition, 
And  little  recks  1  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality  : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale  ;  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
And  in  my  voice2  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.  What    is  he    that   shall   buy   his   flock  and 

pasture  ? 
Cor.  That  young  swain   that  you  saw  here  but 

erewhile,3 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

Ros.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     I  like  this 

place, 


1  Cares.        9  As  far  a*  I  have  power  to  bid  you  welcome. 
'  A  short  time  since. 


272  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 
Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  he  sold. 
Go  with  me  :  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly.   [Exeunt. 


SCENE    V. 

The  same. 
Enter  amiens,  jaques,  and  others. 

SONG. 

Ami.  Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaques.  More,  more ;  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur 
Jaques. 

Jaques.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more.  1 
can  suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weazel  sucks 
eggs.     More,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged ; x  I  know,  I  cannot 
please  you. 


1  Broken  and  unequal. 


BCE.VE    V.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  273 

Jaques.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me ;  I  do 
desire  you  to  sing-.  Come,  more  ;  another  stanza. 
Call  you  them  stanzas  ? 

Ami.  What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaques.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names ;  they 
owe  me  nothing.     Will  you  sing  ? 

Ami.  More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  my- 
self. 

Jaques.  Well,  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I  '11 
thank  you  :  hut  that  they  call  compliment,  is  like 
the  encounter  of  two  dog-apes;  and  when  a  man 
thanks  me  heartily,  methinks,  I  have  given  him  a 
penny,  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks. 
Come,  sing;  and  you  that  will  not.  hold  your 
tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  1 11  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover  the 
while ;  the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree  : — ne 
hath  been  all  this  day  to  look  you. 

Jaques.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid 
him.  He  is  too  disputable l  for  my  company :  1 
♦hink  of  as  many  matters  as  he  ;  but  I  give  Heaven 
thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  them.  Come,  warble, 
come. 


SOXG. 


Who  doth  ambition  shun,      [all  together  kt-e. 

Ana  loves  to  lire  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 


1  Disputatious. 

»■**.  IT. 


274  AS    TOO    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

Come  1  ither,  come  hither,  come  hither  : 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jagues.   I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I 
made  yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  1  '11  sing  it. 
Jaques.  Thus  it  goes  : — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame:1 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Ami.  What 's  that  ducdame  ? 

Jaques.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into 
a  circle.  I  '11  go  sleep  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot,  I  '11 
rail  against  all  the  first-horn  of  Egypt.2 

Ami.  And  I  '11  go  seek  the  duke ;  his  banquet  is 
prepared.  [Exeunt  severally. 


1  '  Ducdame  is  evidently  a  -word  coined  for  the  nonce.'— 
Farmer. 
*  A  proverbial  expression  for  high-born  persons. 


I 


Smu^ce  del 


Starling  ! 


as  t: 

J.! 


SCE.VE    VII.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  '2 1  0 

SCENE    VI. 

The  same. 
Enter  orlando  and  adam. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther :  O,  I 
die  for  food !  Here  lie  I  clown,  and  measure  out  my 
grave.     Farewell,  kind  master  ! 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam  !  no  greater  heart  in 
thee  ?  Live  a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thyself 
a  little.  If  this  uncouth  forest  yield  any  thing  sa- 
vage, I  will  either  he  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food 
to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than  thy 
powers.  For  my  sake,  be  comfortable ;  hold  death 
awhile  at  the  arm's  end  :  I  will  here  be  with  thee 
presently ;  and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to  eat, 
I  '11  give  thee  leave  to  die ;  but  if  thou  diest  before 
I  come,  thou  art  a  mocker  of  my  labor.  Well  said  I 
thou  lookest  cheerily ;  and  I  '11  be  with  thee  quickly. 
— Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air.  Come,  I  will  bear 
thee  to  some  shelter ;  and  thou  shalt  not  die  for 
lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  thing  in  this 
desert.     Cheerly,  good  Adam  !  [Exeunt . 

SCENE    VII. 

The  same.     A  table  set  out. 

Enter  duke  senior,  amiens,  lords,  and  others. 

Duke  S.   I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast ; 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 


27  G  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

1    Lord.    My   lord,    he    is   but    even   now    gone 
hence : 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact »  of  jars,  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. — 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him,  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  j agues. 

1  Lord.  He  saves  my  labor  by  his  own  approach. 

Duke  S.  Why,  how   now,  monsieur  ?  what  a  life 
is  this, 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  your  company  ! 
What!  you  look  merrily. 

Jaques.  A   fool,   a  fool ! 1    met   a  fool  i'  the 

forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  " — a  miserable  world ! — 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool, 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 
And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms. 
In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
•  Good-morrow,  fool !'   quoth  I  :   '  No,  sir,'  quoth  he, 
'  Call  me  not  fool,  till   Heaven  hath  sent    me  for- 
tune :' 3 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says,  very  wisely,  '  It  is  ten  o'clock. 


1  Made  up. 

s  The  fool  was  anciently  dressed  in  a  parti-colored  cott. 
■  Alluding  to  the  common  saying,  that  fools  are   i'ortune'i 
favorites. 


SCENE    VII.  AS    YOU    LIKE    II.  277 

Thus  may  we  see,'  quoth  he,  '  how  the  world  wags. 

'Tis  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine, 

And  after  one  hour  more  'twill  be  eleven  ; 

And  so  from  hour  to  hour  we  ripe  and  ripe, 

And  then  from  hour  to  hour  we  rot  and  rot, 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.'     When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

Tnat  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative ; 

And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 

An  hour  by  his  dial. — O  noble  fool  ! 

A  worthy  fool !    Motley  's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaques.    O  worthy  fool ! — One  that  hath  been  a 
courtier ; 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it  :  and  in  his  brain, — ■ 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage, — he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forms. — O,  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 

Jaques.  It  is  my  only  suit ; 

Provided,  that  you  weed  your  better  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please  ;  for  so  fools  have  : 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 
Thej  most  must  laugh  :  and  why,  sir,  must  they  sc  ? 


278  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church. 

He,  that  a  fool  doth   very  wisely  hit. 

Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 

Not  to  seem  senseless-  of  the  bob  :  if  not, 

The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomised 

Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 

Invest  me  in  my  motley;  give  me  leave 

To  speak  my  mind ;  and  I  will  through  and  through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 

If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke    S.     Fie    on    thee !     I   can  tell  what    thou 
wouldst  do. 

Jaques.    What,  for  a  counter,  would    I  do,  but 
good  ? 

Duke  S.  Most   mischievous  foul  sin,   in  chiding 
sin : 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 
And  all  the  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils, 
That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world. 

Jaques.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  very  very  means  do  ebb  ? 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name, 
When  that  I  say,  the  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say,  that  I  mean  her, 
When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbor? 
Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function. 


8CENE    VII.  A?    YOU    LIKE    IT.  279 

That  says,  his  bravery  1  is  not  on  my  cost, 
(Thinking  that  I  mean  him)  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There  then ;    how  then,   what  then  ?    Let  me   see 

wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right. 
Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free. 
Why  then  my  taxing,e  like  a  wild  goose,  flies 
Unclaim'd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  orlando,  with  his  sword  drawn. 

Orl.  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaques.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orl.  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  served. 

Jaques.   Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.  Art   thou  thus  bolden'd,   man,   by  thy 
distress ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 

Orl.  You   touch'd   my  vein   at  first ;  the   thorny 
point 
Of  here  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland  bred,3 
And  know  some  nurture.4     But  forbear,  I  say ; 
He  dies,  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaques.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason, 


Fine  apparel.  2  Satire. 

3  Well  brought  up.  *  Good  manners. 


280  AS    YOU    LIKH    IT.  ACT    II. 

I  must  die. 

Duke  S.   What  would  you  have  r   Your  gentleness 
shall  force, 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orl.  I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke  S.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to  our 
table. 

Orl.   Speak  you  so   gently  ?     Pardon   me,   I  pray 
you  : 
I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here, 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'er  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  houghs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  ; 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast  ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wiped  a  tear, 
And  know  what  'tis  to  pity  and  be  pitied  ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be  : 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  daya. 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church, 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts,  and  wiped  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd  : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  minister'd. 

Orl.  Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 


*CENE    VII.  A*     VCTJ    LIKK     IT.  281 

And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love  :  till  he  be  first  sufficed, — 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger, — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go,  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Oil.  I   thank  ye ;    and  be  bless'd  for  your  good 
comfort !  [Exit. 

Duke  S.  Thou   seest,   we   are   not  all   alone  uq- 
happy : 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in. 

Jaques.  All  the  world  's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players  : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms  : 
Then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel. 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school:   and  then,  the  lover; 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eye -brow :   then,  a  soldier; 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard ; 
Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  J  and  quick  in  quarrel ; 
Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 


1  Violent. 


282  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    II. 

Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth  :  and  then,  the  justice  ; 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined  ; 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut; 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  J  instances ; 

And  so  he  plays  his  part :  the  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon  ;  2 

With  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side ; 

His  youthful  hose  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 

For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  big  manly  voice, 

Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 

And  whistles  in  his  sound :  last  scene  of  all, 

Tbat  ends  this  strange,  eventful  history, 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion ; 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thinjr. 

Re-enter  orlando,  with  adam. 

Duke  S.    Welcome.     Set  down   your   venerable 
burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.  So  had  you  need  ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.    Welcome  ;     fall   to  :    I    will   not    trouble 
you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. — 
Give  us  some  music ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 


'  Trite,  common. 

2  In  allusion  to  a  character  in  tlie  Italian  comedy  called  li 
I'antakne,  wlio  is  a  thin  emaciated  old  man  in  slippers. 


6CKNK    VII.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  283 

Amiens  sings. 

SONG. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind. 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude  ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
He'gh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !   unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  . 

Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

n. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remember'd  '  not. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  &c. 

Duke  S.    If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Rowland's 
son, — 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully,  you  were ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd,  and  living  in  your  face, — 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :   I  am  the  duke 
That  loved  your  father  :  the  residue  of  your  fortune, 


Remembering 


9C4  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

Go  to  my  ca^e,  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man. 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is. — 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.       [Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE    I. 

A  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter    duke    Frederick,    Oliver,    Lords,    and   At- 
tendants. 

Duke  F.  Not  see  him  since  ?    Sir,  sir,  that  cannot 
be: 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it ; 
Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is ; 
Seek  him  with  candle  ;   bring  him  dead  or  living, 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 
Thy  lands,  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine. 
Worth  seisure,  do  we  seise  into  our  hands ; 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee1  by  thy  brother's  mouth, 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

01%.  O,   that   your  highness   knew   my  heart  in 
this ! 


1  Acquit  thyself. 


SCENE    II.  AS     YOU     L1KK    IT.  285 

I  never  loved  my  brother  in  my  life. 

Duke  F.   More  villain  thou. — Well,  push  him  out 
of  doors ; 
And  let  my  officers  of  such  a  nature 
Make  an  extent l  upon  his  house  and  lands. 
Do  this  expediently,2  and  turn  him  going.     [Exeunt. 


SCENE    II. 

The  forest. 
Enter  orlakdo,  with  a  paper. 

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

And,  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,3  survey 
"With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind  !   these  trees  shall  be  my  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I  '11  character ; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks, 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve,  on  every  tree, 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  4  she.     [Exit. 

Enter  corin  and  touchstone. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  master 
Touchstone  ? 


1  Selsure.  2  Expeditiously. 

3  Alluding  to  the  triple  appellation  of  Proserpine,  Cynthia, 
and  Diana.  4  Inexpressible. 


2SG  -AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a 
good  life  ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life, 
it  is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it 
very  well ;  hut  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a 
very  vile  life.  Now  in  respect  it  is  in  the  fields,  it 
pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect  it  is  not  in  the 
court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare  life,  look  you, 
it  fits  my  humor  well ;  but  as  there  is  no  more 
plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my  stomach.  Hast 
any  philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one 
sickens,  the  worse  at  ease  he  is ;  and  that  he  that 
wants  money,  means,  and  content,  is  without  three 
good  friends  ; — that  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet, 
and  fire  to  burn  ;  that  good  pasture  makes  fat  sheep, 
and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night  is  lack  of  the 
sun ;  that  he  that  hath  learned  no  wit  by  nature  nor 
art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding,  or  comes  of  a 
very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher. 
Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damned. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope, 

Touch.  Truly,  thou  art  damned ;  like  an  ill-roasted 
egg,  all  on  one  side. 

Cor.  For  not  being  at  court  ?    Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court,  thou 
never  saw'st  good  manners ;  if  thou  never  saw'st 
good  manners,  then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked ; 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  287 

and  wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is  damnation.      Thuu 
art  in  a  parlous  1  state,  shepherd. 

Cor.  Not  a  whit,  Touchstone  :  those,  that  are 
good  manners  at  the  court,  are  as  ridiculous  in  the 
country,  as  the  behavior  of  the  country  is  most 
mockable  at  the  court.  You  told  me,  you  salute 
not  at  the  court,  hut  you  kiss  your  hands  :  that 
courtesy  would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were  shep- 
herds. 

Touch.  Instance,  briefly ;   come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes ;  and 
their  fells, -  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat? 
and  is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as 
the  sweat  of  a  man  ?  Shallow,  shallow  !  A  better 
instance,  I  say  ;  come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner.  Shal- 
low, again  !     A  more  sounder  instance  ;  come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over  with  the 
surgery  of  our  sheep  ;  and  would  you  have  us  kiss 
tar  ?  The  courtier's  hands  are  perfumed  with  civet. 

Touch.  Most  shallow  man  !  Thou  worms-meat,  in, 
respect  of  a  good  piece  of  flesh  !  Indeed  ! — Learn  of 
the  wise,  and  perpend  :  3  civet  is  of  a  baser  birth 
than  tar ;  the  very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  Mend 
the  instance,  shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me  ;  I  '11  rest. 


1  Perilous.  *  Hides.  »  Consider  attentively. 


288  AS    YOU    LIKK    IT.  ACT    III. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned  ?  God  help  thee, 
shallow  man  !  God  make  incision  in  thee  ! 1  Thou 
art  raw.2 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  laborer :  I  earn  that  I  eat, 
get  that  1  wear  ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's 
happiness ;  glad  of  other  men's  good,  content  with 
my  harm ;  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is,  to  see 
my  ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs  suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you ;  to 
bring  the  ewes  and  the  rams  together,  and  to  offer 
to  get  your  living  by  the  copulation  of  cattle  :  to  be 
bawd  to  a  belwether ;  and  to  betray  a  she-lamb  of 
a  twelvemonth  to  a  crooked-pated,  old,  cuckoldly 
ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If  thou  be'st  not 
damned  for  this,  the  devil  himself  will  have  no 
shepherds ;  I  cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst 
'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  master  Ganymede,  my 
new  mistress's  brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  '  From  the  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind  : 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  the  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Rosalind : 
All  the  pictures,  fairest  lined,3 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 


'  Make  tbee  to  understand.  *  Ignorant. 

1  Most  fairly  delineated. 


SCEXli     II.  AS     YOU     LIKE     IT.  289 

Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  '  of  Rosalind.' 

Touch.  I  '11  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together 
dinners,  and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted  : 
it  is  the  right  butter-woman's  rate  to  market. 

Ros.  Out,  fool ! 

Touch.  For  a  taste  : 

*  If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind  : 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind. 

Winter-garments  must  be  lined, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap,  must  sheaf  and  bind ; 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind ; 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find, 

Must  find  love's  prick,  and  Rosalind.' 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses  :  why  do  you 
infect  yourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace,  3rou  dull  fool ;   I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I  '11  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff 
it  with  a  medlar :   then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  in 


1  Complexion,  beauty. 

•MlrtK.  IV. 


290  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III 

the  country ;  for  you  '11  be   rotten   ere   you  be  half 
ripe,  and  that 's  the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no, 
let  the  forest  judge. 

Enter  celia,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  Peace  ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading  ;  stand  aside. 

Cel.  '  Why  should  this  desert  silent  be  ? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?    No  ; 
Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil 1  sayings  show  : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age  : 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend  I 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  Nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  fill'd 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged : 

Nature  presently  distill'd 


1  Civilised. 


SCE.VE     II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  21)1 


Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty ; 
Atalanta's  better  part ; 

Sad  Lueretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  a  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave.' 

Ros.  0  most  gentle  Jupiter! — what  tedious  homily 
of  love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners  withal, 
and  never  cried,  '  Have  patience,  good  people  ! ' 

Cel.  How  now  !  back,  friends  ! — Shepherd,  go  off 
a  little  : — go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  honorable 
retreat ;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage,  yet  with 
scrip  and  scrippage.  [Exeunt  Cor.  and  Touch. 

Cel.  Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  0,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too ;  for 
some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses 
would  bear. 

Cel.  That 's  no  matter ;  the  feet  might  bear  the 
verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not 
bear  themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore 
stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 


'  Features. 


'292  AS     ,r0U     LIKE     IT.  ACT    III. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear,  without  wondering,  how 
thy  name  should  be  hanged  and  carved  upon  these 
trees  ? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the 
wonder,  before  you  came;  for  look*  here  what  I 
found  on  a  palm-tree  :  I  was  never  so  berhymed 
since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat, 
which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you,  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Ros.   Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his 
neck.     Change  you  color  ? 

Ros.   I  pr'ythee,  who  ? 

Cel.  O  lord,  lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends 
to  meet ;  but  mountains  may  be  removed  with 
earthquakes,  and  so  encounter. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 

Cel.   Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most  petitionary 
vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful 
wonderful,  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that 
out  of  all  whooping  ! l 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion !  •  dost  thou  think, 
though  I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a 
doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of 
delay  more  '9  a  South-sea  of  discovery.     I  pr'ythee, 


1  °nt  of  all  measure. 
nn  ejaculation,  analogous  to  '  good   gracious  !  '  or  '  bless 
me  !  ' 


SCEN'K     II. 


AS     YOU    LIKE    IT.  293 


tell  me,  who  is  it  ?  quickly,  and  speak  apace :  I 
would  thou  couldst  stammer,  that  thou  mightst 
pour  this  concealed  man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine 
comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouthed  bottle ;  either  too 
much  at  once,  or  none  at  all.  I  pr'ythee,  take  the 
cork  out  of  thy  mouth,  that  I  may  drink  thy 
tidings. 

Cel.  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making  ?  What  manner  of 
man  ?  Is  his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth  a 
beard  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Ros.  Why,  God  will  send  more  if  the  man  will 
be  thankful :  let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if 
thou  delay  me  not  the  knowlege  of  his  chin. 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up  the 
wrestler's  heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking ;  speak  sad 
brow,  and  true  maid.1 

Cel.  I'  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Ros.   Orlando  ? 

Cel.   Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day !    what   shall   I  do  with   m 
doublet  and  hose  ? — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw's 
him  ?     What  said  he  ?     How  looked  he  ?     Wherein 
went  he  ?  -    What  makes  he  here  ?     Did  he  ask  for 
me  ?     Where    remains    he  ?     How    parted    he  with 


1  Speak  seriously  and  honestly. 
4  How  was  be  dressed  1 


294  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

thee  ?  and  when  sha.lt  thou  see  him  again  ?    Answer 
me  in  one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's  '  mouth 
first :  'tis  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this 
age's  size.  To  say,  ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars, 
is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  aoth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest 
and    in  man's   apparel  ?     Looks  he   as  freshly  as  he 
did  the  day  he.  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,c  as  to  resolve 
the  propositions  of  a  lover :— but  take  a  taste  of  my 
finding  him,  and  relish  it  with  a  good  observance.  I 
found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a  dropped  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it 
drops  forth  such  fruit. 

Cel.   Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretched  along,  like  a  wounded 
knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it 
well  becomes  the  ground. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla !  to  3  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee  ;  it 
curvets  very  unseasonably.  He  was  furnished  like 
a  hunter. 

Ros.   O  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden; 
thou  bringest  me  out  of  tune. 


'  The  giant  in  Rabelais.  *  Motes. 

3  Restrain. 


SCENE    ir. 


as  you  like  it.  295 


Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  When 
I  think,  I  must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  orlando  and  jaqtjes. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out. — Soft!  comes  he  not 
here  ? 

Ros.  'Tis  he  :  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[Cel.  and  Ros.  retire. 

Jaques.  I  thank  you  for  your  company  ;  but.  good 
faith,  I  had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

0/7.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake,  I 
thank  you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaques.  God  be  with  you  ;  let 's  meet  as  little  aa 
we  can. 

Orl.   I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaques.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with 
writing  love-songs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with 
reading  them  ill-favoredly. 

Jaques.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 

0/7.  Yes,  just. 

Jaques.  I  do  not  like  her  name.     . 

0/7.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you  when 
she  was  christened. 

Jaques.  What  stature  is  she  of  ? 

0/7.  Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaques.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers  :  have  you 
not  been  acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and 
conned  them  out  of  rings  ? 

0/7.  Not  so ;   but   I   answer   you   right   painted 


29C  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT   III. 

cloth,1   from   whence   you  have   studied  your  ques- 
tions. 

Jaques.  You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  think  'twas 
made  of  Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with 
me  ?  and  we  two  will  rail  against  our  mistress  the 
world,  and  all  our  misery. 

0/7.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world  but 
myself,  against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaques.  The  worst  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in 
love. 

0/7.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best 
virtue.      I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaques.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool, 
when  I  found  you. 

0/7.  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in, 
and  you  shall  see  him. 

Jaques.  There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a  cipher. 

Jaques.  I  '11  tarry  no  longer  with  you :  farewell, 
good  signior  love. 

0/7.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure  :  adieu,  good 
monsieur  melancholv. 

[Exit  Jaques. — Cel.  and  Ros.  come  forward. 

Ros.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lackey,  and 
under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him. — Do  you 
hear,  forester  ? 

0/7.   Very  well ;  what  would  you  ? 


1  In  allusion  to  the  moral  sentences  issuing  from  the  mouths 
of  figures  on  old  tapestry  hangings. 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  297 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is  't  o'  clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'  day ; 
there  's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ; 
else  sighing  every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour, 
would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time,  as  well  as  a 
clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  Had 
not  that  been  as  proper  ? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers 
paces  with  divers  persons.  I  '11  tell  you  who  Time 
ambles  withal,  who  Time  trots  withal,  who  Time 
gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl,  I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid, 
between  the  contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day  it 
is  solemnised :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight, 
Time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of 
seven  years. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  Time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich 
man  that  hath  not  the  gout :  for  the  one  sleeps 
easily,  because  he  cannot  study ;  and  the  other  lives 
merrily,  because  he  feels  no  pain  :  the  one  lacking 
the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning ;  the  other 
knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury.  These 
Time  ambles  withal. 

0/7.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ,  for  though  he 
go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too 
soon  there. 


208  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT. 


ACT    II  r. 


Orl.   Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they 
sleep  between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  per- 
ceive not  how  time  moves. 

Orl.  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister,  here  in 
the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon   a  petticoat. 

Orl.  Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  coney,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she 
is  kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you 
could  purchase  in  so  removed  J  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many :  but,  indeed, 
an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak, 
who  was  in  his  youth  an  inland  -  man  ;  one  that 
knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he  fell  in  love.  I 
have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it ;  and 
I  thank  God,  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touched  with 
so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally  taxed 
their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils 
that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all 
like  one  another,  as  halfpence  are ;  every  one  fault 
seeming  monstrous,  till  his  fellow  fault  came  to 
match  it. 

Orl.   I  pr'ythee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No  ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on 


1  Remote,  sequestered.  2  Civilised. 


SCENE    II. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  299 


those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the 
forest,  that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving 
Rosalind  on  their  barks  :  hangs  odes  upon  haw- 
thorns, and  elegies  on  brambles ;  all,  forsooth, 
deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind  :  if  I  could  meet  that 
fancy-monger,1  I  would  give  him  some  good  coun- 
sel ;  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon 
him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked  :  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon 
you  :  he  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  ;  in 
which  cage  of  rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  pri- 
soner. 

Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not ;  a  blue 
eye,c  and  sunken,  which  you  have  not ;  an  unques- 
tionable spirit,3  which  you  have  not ;  a  beard  neg- 
lected, which  you  have  not : — but  I  pardon  you  for 
that ;  for,  simply,  your  having  4  in  beard  is  a  younger 
brother's  revenue.  Then  your  hose  should  be  un- 
gartered,  your  bonnet  unhanded,  }-our  sleeve  un- 
buttoned, your  shoe  untied,  and  every  thing  about 
you  demonstrating  a  careless  desolation.  But  you 
are  no  such  man;  you  are  rather  point-device5  in 
your  accoutrements,  as  loving  yourself,  than  seeming 
the  lover  of  any  other. 


'  Dealer  in  love.  2  A  blueness  about  the  eyes. 

3  A  spirit  not  inquisitive.  ■*    Estate. 

s  Over-exact. 


300  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  be- 
lieve  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  helieve  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her 
that  you  love  helieve  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is 
apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she  does  :  that  is  one  of 
the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to 
their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he 
that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  •wherein  Rosa- 
lind is  so  admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of 
Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you, 
deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip,  as  mad- 
men do :  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  pu- 
nished and  cured,  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary, 
that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too :  yet  I  profess 
curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.   Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one ;  and  in  this  manner :  he  was  to 
imagine  me  his  love,  his  mistress  ;  and  I  set  him 
every  day  to  woo  me  :  at  which  time  would  I,  being 
but  a  moonish  J  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  change- 
able, longing,  and  liking  ;  proud,  fantastical,  apish, 
shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles ;  for 


1  Variable. 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  301 

every  passion  something,  and  for  no  passion  truly 
anv  thing,  as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most  part 
cattle  of  this  color  ;  would  now  like  him,  now  loathe 
him  ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ;  now 
weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him ;  that  I  drave  my 
suitor  from  his  mad  humor  of  love  to  a  living  humor 
of  madness  ; x  which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream 
of  the  world,  and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic : 
and  thus  I  cured  him  ;  and  this  way  will  I  take 
upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean  as  a  sound 
sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of 
love  in  't. 

0/7.   I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Ros.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call 
me  Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and 
woo  me. 

0/7.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will  :  tell 
me  where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I  '11  show  it  you ; 
and,  by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the 
forest  you  live.     Will  you  go  ? 

0/7.   With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind. — Come, 
sister,  will  you  go  ?  \Rxewai. 


'  •  A  humor  of  living  madness  ;  i.  e.  a  mad  humor  of  life.'— 
iki  alone. 


302  AS    YOU     LIKE     IT.  ACT    III. 


SCENE    III. 

Enter  touchstone  and  audrey  ;  jaques  at  a   dis- 
tance, observing  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey ;  I  will  fetch 
up  your  goats,  Audrey.  And  how,  Audrey  ?  Am  I 
the  man  yet  ?    Doth  my  simple  feature  content  you  ? 

Aud.  Your  features !  Lord  warrant  us !  what 
features  ? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the 
most  capricious  x  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the 
Goths. 

Jaques.  O  knowlege  ill-inhabited ! 2  worse  than 
Jove  in  a  thatched  house !  [aside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  under- 
stood, nor  a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the  for- 
ward child,  understanding,  it  strikes  a  man  more 
dead  than  a  great  reckoning  in  a  little  room.3 — 
Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee  poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is.  Is  it  hone9t 
in  deed  and  word  ?     Is  it  a  true  thing  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly ;  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the 
most  feigning ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry  ;  and 
what  they  swear  in  poetry,  may  be  said,  as  lover9, 
thev  do  feign. 


1  Lascivious.  'J  Ill-lodged. 

3  Where  the   entertainment  is  mean,  and  the  bill  extraTa- 
ganl. 


SCENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  o0<3 

Aud.  Do  you  wish  then,  that  the  gods  had  made 
me  poetical  ? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly  ;  for  thou  swearest  to  me,  thou 
art  honest :  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might  have 
some  hope  thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.  Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard-favored: 
for  honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a 
sauce  to  sugar. 

Jaques.  A  material  fool ! x  [aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  and  therefore  I  pray 
the  gods  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a 
foul  slut,  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean 
dish. 

And.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods,  I 
am  foul.2 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  ! 
sluttishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be  it  as  it 
may  be,  I  will  marry  thee ;  and  to  that  end,  I  have 
been  with  sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  the  vicar  of  the  next 
village,  who  hath  promised  to  meet  me  in  this  place 
of  the  forest,  and  to  couple  us. 

Jaques.  I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  [aside 

Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  ! 

Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fear- 
ful heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have 
uo   templ°   but  the  wood,    no  assembly   but   horn 


1  A  fool  with  matter  in  him  *  Homely. 


304  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

beasts.  But  what  though  ?  i  Courage  !  As  horns 
are  odious,  they  are  necessary.  It  is  said, — Many  a 
man  knows  no  end  of  his  goods :  right ;  many  a 
man  has  good  horns,  and  knows  no  end  of  them. 
Well,  that  is  the  dowry  of  his  wife  ;   'tis  none  of  his 

own  getting.    Horns  ?  Even  so. Poor  men  alone? 

No,  no ;   the  noblest  deer  hath  them  as  huge  as 

the  rascal.-  Is  the  single  man  therefore  blessed  ? 
No :  as  a  walled  town  is  more  worthier  than  a 
village,  so  is  the  forehead  of  a  married  man  more 
honorable  than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor  ;  and  by 
how  much  defence  3  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so 
much  is  a  horn  more  precious  than  to  want. 

Enter  sir  oliver  mar-text. 

Here  comes  sir  Oliver.  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you 
are  well  met :  will  you  despatch  us  here  under  this 
tree,  or  shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

Sir  Oli.   Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.   I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage 
is  not  lawful. 

Jaques.  [discovering  himself.']  Proceed,  proceed ; 
i  '11  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  master  What  ye  call 't ! 
How  do  you,  sir  ?    You  are  very  well  met :   God  'ild4 


1  What  then?  2  Lean  deer  are  called  rascal  deer. 

3  The  art  of  fencing. 

'  (Jul  yield,  i.  e.  reward 


SCENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  305 

you  for  your  last  company  :  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you. — Even  a  toy  in  hand  here,  sir. — Nay;  pray, be 
covered. 

Jaques.   Will  you  be  married,  motley  ? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his-  bow,1  sir,  the  horse  hi- 
curb,  and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his  do 
sires ;  and  as  pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nib- 
bling. 

Jaques.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your 
breeding,  be  married  under  a  bush,  like  a  beggar  ? 
Get  you  to  church,  and  have  a  good  priest  that  can 
tell  you  what  marriage  is  :  this  fellow  will  but  join 
you  together  as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one  of  you 
will  prove  a  shrunk  panel,  and,  like  green  timber, 
warp,  warp. 

Touch.  I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better  to 
be  married  of  him  than  of  another ;  for  he  is  not 
like  to  marry  me  well :  and  not  being  well  married, 
it  will  be  a  good  excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave 
my  wife.  [aside. 

Jaques.   Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 

Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey  ; 
We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver  ! 

Not — O  sweet  Oliver, 

O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee  : 


1  Yoke. 

SHAK.  IV. 


306  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  ACT    III. 

But — Wind  away  ; 
Begone,  I  say  : 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee. 

[Exeunt  Jaques,  Touch,  and  Aud. 

Sir  OIL   Tis  no  matter  ;  ne'er  a  fantastical  knave 

of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.      [Exit. 


SCENE    IV. 

The  same.    Before  a  cottage. 
Enter    rosalind    and   celia. 

Ros.  Never  talk  to  me  ;  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  pr'ythee  ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to 
consider,  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire  ;  there- 
fore weep. 

Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  color. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's  :  1  marry, 
his  kisses  are  Judas's  own  children. 

Ros.   V  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  color. 

Cel.  An  excellent  color :  your  chesnut  was  ever 
the  only  color. 

Ros.  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  as  the 
touch  of  holy  bread. 

Cel.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  cast  lips  of  Diana: 


1    Judas  Iscariot  was    constantly   represented   in    ancient 
paintings  or  tapestry  with  reu  iiair. 


SCENE    IV 


AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  307 


a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not  more  reli- 
giously :  the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  the-m. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
morning,  and  comes  not  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Cel.  Yes  :  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse  nor  a 
horse-stealer ;  hut  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think 
him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet  or  a  worm-eaten 
nut. 

Ros.  Not  true  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Yes,  when  he  is  in  ;  hut  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright,  he 
was. 

Cel.  Was  is  not  is  :  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover 
is  no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are 
both  the  confirmers  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends 
here  in  the  forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much, 
question1  with  him.  He  asked  me,  of  what  pa- 
rentage I  was ;  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he ;  so  he 
laughed,  and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fa- 
thers, when  there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Cel.  O,  that 's  a  brave  man !  he  writes  brave 
verses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and 
breaks  them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart  the 
heart  of  his  lover  ;  2  as  a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his 
horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble 


•  Conversation.  2  Mistress. 


30S  AS    YOTI    LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

goose  :  but  all 's  brave,  tbat  youth  mounts,  and  folly 
guides.     Who  conies  here  ? 

Enter  corin. 

Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love ; 
Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd. 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove  ; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love  : — 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I  '11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  [Exeunt* 

scene  v. 

Another  part  of  the  forest. 

Enter    silvius    and   phebe. 

Sil.    Sweet  Phebe,   do    not    scorn    me;     do  not, 

Phebe : 
Say,  that  you  love  me  not,  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes 

hard, 


SCENE    V.  AS     YOU    LIKE    IT.  309 

Fall?  J  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck, 
But  first  begs  pardon.  Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloodv  drops  ? 

Enter  rosalind,  celia,  and  coiu.v,  at  a  distance. 

Phe.  I  would  not  be  thy  executioner : 
I  fiy  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  me,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye  : 
'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 
That  eyes,- — that  are  the  frail' st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, — - 
Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers  ! 
Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
And,  if  mine  eyes  can   wound,   now  let  them   kill 

thee  ; 
Now  counterfeit  to  swoon  ;   why  now  fall  down  ; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  O,  for  shame,  for  shame, 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murderers. 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee. 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps  :  but  now  mine  eyes 
Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil.  0  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 


1  Drops.  s  Motes. 


310  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ATT    III. 

You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy,1 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  Love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But,  till  that  time, 

Come   not   thou    near   me :    and,    when    that    time 

comes, 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As,  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  And  why,    I  pray  you  ?    [advancing.'}    Whr. 

might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched  ?    What  though   you  have   mo  s 

beauty, 
(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this  ?    Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  Nature's  sale-work.3 — Od's  my  little  life  ! 
I  think,  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too  ! — 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it  : 
"Pis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black-silk  hair, 
Your  bugle  eye-balls,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. — 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her. 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  4  man 


1  Love.  2  More. 

3    Those   works    which    Nature    makes   up   carelessly,  and 
without  exactness  4   Handsomer. 


SCENE    V.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  311 

Than  she  a  woman.  'Tis  such  fools  as  you, 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favor'd  children  : 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper, 
Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. — 
But,    mistress,    know    yourself;     down     on     your 

knees, 
And     thank    Heaven,    fasting,    for    a    good    man's 

love ; 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, — 
Sell  when  you  can ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets  : 
Cry  the  man  mercy ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer ; 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 
So,  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ; — fare  you  well. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  1  pray  you,  chide  a  year  to- 
gether : 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Kos.  He  's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and 
she  '11  fall  in  love  with  my  anger  :  if  it  be  so,  as  fast 
as  she  answers  thee  with  frowning  looks,  I  '11  sauce 
her  with  bitter  words. — Why  look  you  so  upon 
me  ? 

Phe.  For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,    I  like    you    not.     If   you    will    know   my 

house 
'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by. 
Will  you  go,  sister  ? — Shepherd,  ply  her  hard : — 
Come,  sister. — Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 


312  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  ACT    III. 

A  iid  be  not  proud  :   though  all  the  world  could  see, 

None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he.1 

Come,  to  our  flock.       [Exeunt  Ros.  Celia,  mid  Corin. 

Phe.    Dead    shepherd !    now    I    find    thy   saw    of 
might ; — 
*  Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? ' 

Sil.   Sweet  Phebe, — 

Phe.  Ha  !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.   Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.  Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 

Sil.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be  : 
If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 
By  giving  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 
Were  both  extermined. 

Phe.  Thou  hast  my  love  :  is  not  that  neighborly  ? 

Sil.  I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetuusness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was,  that  I  hated  thee  ; 
And  yet  it  is  not,  that  I  bear  thee  love  : 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure  ;  and  I  '11  employ  thee  too  : 
But  do  not  look  for  farther  recompense, 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ 'd. 

SH.   So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 


'  'Though  all  mankind  could  loolc  on  you,  none  could  bo  so 
deceived  as  to  think  iou  beautiful  but  he.'— Johnson. 


SCENE    IV.  A6    YOU    LIKE    IT.  313 

That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 

To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 

That  the  main  harvest  reaps  :  loose  now  and  then 

A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I  '11  live  upon. 

Phe.  Know'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me 
erewhile  ?  l 

Sil.   Not  very  well,  hut  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds. 
That  the  old  carlot  -  once  "was  master  of. 

Phe.  Think  not  I  love    him,    though    I    ask    for 
him  : 
'Tis  but  a  peevish  3  boy  ; — yet  he  talks  well : — 
But  what  care  I  for  word?  ?  yet  words  do  well, 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth  : — not  very  pretty : — 
But,  sure,  he  's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes 

him. 
He  '11  make  a  proper4  man.    The  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion  ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall  : 
His  leg  is  but  so  so  ;  and  yet  'tis  well. 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek :  'twas  just  the  differ- 
ence 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 


1  A  short  time  since.  s  Peasant.  3  Silly. 

*  Handsome. 


314  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  ACT     IV. 

There  be  some   women,   Silvius,    had   they  mark'd 

him 
In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  in  love  with  him  :  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 
I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him  : 
For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 
He  said,  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black : 
And,  now  I  am  rememher'd,  scorn'd  at  me  : 
I  marvel,  why  I  answer'd  not  again  : 
But  that 's  all  one  ;   omittance  is  no  quittance. 
I  '11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it ;   wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I  '11  write  it  straight : 

The  matter 's  in  my  head  and  in  my  heart : 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short. 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Eaeunt. 


ACT     IV. 

SCENE    I. 

The  same. 

Enter  rosalind,  celia,  and  jaques. 

Jaques.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  thee. 

Ros.  They  say,  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 
Jaques.  I  am  so  ;  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 


SCKNE 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  315 


Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either  are 
abominable  fellows,  and  betray  themselves  to  every 
modern  censure  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jerques.   Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Res.  Why,  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaques.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy, 
which  is  emulation ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is 
fantastical ;  nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud ;  nor 
the  soldier's,  which  is  ambitious  ;  nor  the  lawyer's, 
which  is  politic;  nor  the  lady's,  which  is  nice;1 
nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these :  but  it  is  a 
melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many  sim- 
ples, extracted  from  many  objects ;  and,  indeed,  the 
sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels,  which,  by 
often  rumination,  wraps  me  in  a  most  humorous 
sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller !  By  my  faith,  you  have  great 
reason  to  be  sad.  I  fear,  you  have  sold  your  own 
lands  to  see  other  men's  ;  then,  to  have  seen  much, 
and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor 
hands. 

Jaques.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Enter  orlando. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad :  I  had 
rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  expe- 
rience to  make  me  sad  ;   and  to  travel  for  it  too. 

0/7.   Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind ! 

«  Trifling. 


316  AS     VOTJ     LIKE     IT.  ACT    IV. 

Jaques.  Nay  then,  God  be  \vi'  you,  an  you  talk  in 
blank  verse.  [Exit. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller.  Look,  you 
lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits  ;  disable  !  all  the  bene- 
fits of  your  own  country ;  be  out  of  love  with  your 
nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making-  you  that 
countenance  you  are;  or  I  will  scarce  think  yeu 
have  swam  in  a  gondola.2 — Why,  how  now,  Or- 
lando !  where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a 
lover  ?  An  you  serve  me  such  another  trick,  never 
come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of 
my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and 
break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him,  that 
Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  'Jl 
warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 
Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come   no  more   in 
my  sight ;   I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 
Orl.   Of  a  snail  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly, 
he  carries  his  house  on  his  head  ;   a  better  jointure, 
I  think,  than  you  can  make   a  woman.      Besides,  he 
brings  his  destiny  with  him. 
Orl.  What 's  that  ? 


•   UicJeiv;due.  »  been  at  Venice. 


SCENE    I. 


AS    YOU     LIKE     IT.  317 


Ros.  Why,  horns,  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to 
he  beholden  to  your  wives  for :  but  he  comes  armed 
in  his  fortune,  and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind 
is  virtuous. 

Ros.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath  a 
Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  l  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in  a 
holyday  humor,  and  like  enough  to  consent. — What 
would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your  very  very 
Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  first ;  and  when 
you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter,  you  might 
take  occasion  to  kiss.  Very  good  orators,  when 
they  are  out,  they  will  spit ;  and  for  lovers,  lacking 
(God  warn  us !)  matter,  the  cleanliest  shift  is  to 
kiss. 

Orl.  How,  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there 
begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved 
mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your 
mistress,  or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker  than 
my  wit. 

Orl.   What,  of  my  suit  ? 


1  Complexion. 


818  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    IV. 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of 
your  suit.     Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I 
would  be  talking  of  ber. 

Ros.  Well,  in  ber  person,  I  say — I  will  not  bave 
you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world 
is  almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time 
there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person,  vide- 
licet, in  a  love  cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed 
out  with  a  Grecian  club,  yet  he  did  what  he  could 
to  die  before ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns  of  love. 
Leander,  he  would  have  lived  many  a  fair  year, 
thousrh  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
a  hot  midsummer  night :  for,  good  youth,  he  went 
hut  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and,  being 
taken  with  the  cramp,  was  drowned,  and  the  foolish 
chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was — Hero  of  Ses- 
tos.  But  these  are  all  lies :  men  have  died  from 
time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not 
for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  bave  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind  ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But 
come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more 
coming-on  disposition  ;  and  ask  me  what  you  will, 
I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith,  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays, 
and  all. 


?CENE    I. 


AS    YOU     LIKE     IT.  319 


Orl.   And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ros.   Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.   I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a 
good  thing  ? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  he  the  priesr, 
and  marry  us. — Giva  me  your  hand,  Orlando. — 
What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 

Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.   You  must  begin, '  Will  you,  Orlando, — ' 

Cel.  Go  to : — Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife 
this  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  1  will. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why,  now,  as  fast  as  she.  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — '  I  take  thee,  Rosalind, 
for  wife.' 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ;  but, 
— I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband.  There 
a  girl  goes  before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly,  a 
woman's  thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.   So  do  all  thoughts ;  they  are  winged. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have  her, 
after  you  have  possessed  her. 

Orl.  For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever.  No,  no,  Or- 
lando ;  men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December 
when   they  wed  ;  maids  are   May  when  they   are 


320  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    IV. 

maids,  but  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives.  I 
will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock- 
pigeon  over  his  hen,  more  clamorous  than  a  parrot 
aghinst  rain,  more  new-fangled  than  an  ape,  more 
giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey  :  I  will  weep 
for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will 
do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry ;  I  will 
laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when  thou  art  inclined 
to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.   O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do 
this  :  the  wiser,  the  waywarder.  Make  l  the  doors 
upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  case- 
ment ;  shut  that,  and  'twill  out  at  the  key-hole ; 
stop  that,  'twill  fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the 
chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he 
might  say, — '  Wit,  whither  wilt  ? ' 

Ros.  Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it,  till 
you  met  your  wife's  wit  going  to  your  neighbor's 
bed. 

Orl.  And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse 
that? 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say, — she  came  to  seek  you  there. 
You  shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless 
you  take  her  without  her  tongue.     O,  that  woman 


«  B«r. 


SCENE    I.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  321 

that  cannot  make  her  fault  her  husband's  occasion,1 
let  her  never  nurse  her  child  herself,  for  she  will 
oreed  it  like  a  fool. 

0/7.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave 
thee. 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

0/7.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner :  by  two 
o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways ; — I  knew 
what  you  would  prove ;  my  friends  told  me  as 
much,  and  I  thought  no  less  : — that  flattering  tongue 
of  yours  won  me  : — 'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so, 
— come,  death. — Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

0/7.  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so 
God  mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not 
dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  or 
come  one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you. 
the  most  pathetical  break-promise,  and  the  most 
hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  her  you  call 
Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band 
of  the  unfaithful  :  therefore  beware  my  censure,  and 
keep  your  promise. 

0/7.  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  wert  in- 
deed my  Rosalind  :  so,  adieu. 

Ros.   Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice  that  examine 
all  such  offenders,  and  let  Time  try.     Adieu  ! 

[Exit  Orlando 


1    Represent  her  fault  as  occasioned  by  her  husband. 
61IAF  it.  Jt 


322  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    IV. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your 
love-prate  :  Ave  must  have  your  doubiet  and  hose 
plucked  over  your  head,  and  show  the  world  what 
the  bird  hath  done  to  her  own  nest. 

Itos.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz.  that 
thou  didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  1  am  in 
love  !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded  ;  my  affection  hath 
an  unknown  bottom,  like  the  hay  of  Portugal. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as  you 
pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus, 
that  was  begot  of  thought,1  conceived  of  spleen,  and 
born  of  madness ;  that  blind  rascally  boy,  that 
abuses  every  one's  eyes,  because  his  own  are  out ; 
let  him  be  judge,  how  deep  I  am  in  love. — I  '11  tell 
thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Or- 
lando :   I  '11  go  find  a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.  And  I  '11  sleep.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE    II. 

Another  part  of  the  forest. 

Enter  jaques  and  Lords,  in  the  habit  of  foresters. 

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

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


1  Melancholy. 


SCENE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  323 

deer's  horns  upon  his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory. — • 
Have  you  no  song,  forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.   Yes,  sir. 

Jaques.   Sing  it :   'tis  no  matter  how  it  he  in  tune 
to  it  make  noise  enough. 


SONG. 

1.  What  shall  he  have,  that  kill'd  the  deer? 

2.  His  leather  skin,  and  horns  to  wear. 

1.  Then  sing  him  home. 
Take  tliou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn  :    j  The  rest  shall 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born.  (J  bear  this  burdt*o. 

1.  Thy  father's  father  wore  it, 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it. 

All.  'Ihe  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn, 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  [Exeunt, 


SCENE    III. 

The  forest. 
Enter  rosalind  and  celia. 

Ros.  How  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not  past  two 
o'clock  ?    and  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love  and  troubled 
brain,  he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is  gone 
forth — to  sleep.     Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  silvius. 

Sil.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth  ; — - 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this. 

[giving  a  Utter. 


324  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    IV. 

I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow,  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenor  :  pardon  me,; 
I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Ros.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter, 
And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all. 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair ;  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud ;  and,   that   she  could  not  love 

me 
Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix.      Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt. 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ? — Well,  shepherd,  well, 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

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

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turn'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand  :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  freestone-color'd  hand.      I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands , 
She  has  a  huswife's  hand  ;  but  that 's  no  matter. 
I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter  : 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  his  hand. 

Sil.   Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Ros.  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers  :   why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian  :  woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention. 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 


SCEVE    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  32.5 

Than    in    their    countenance. — Will    you   hear  the 
letter  ? 
Sil.   So  please  you  ;  for  I  never  heard  it  yet, 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Ros.     She    Phebes    me :     mark    how    the    tyrant 
writes. 

'  Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd,  [reads. 

That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd  ? — ' 

Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.   Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Ros.  '  Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart  ? 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? — 

'  Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  me. 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  x  to  me. — * 

Meaning  me  a  beast. — 

'  If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne  2 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  ? 
Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love ; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  ? 
He,  that  brings  this  love  to  thee, 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me : 


i  Misclref  2  Eyes. 


S2(^  AS    YOU     LIKE     IT.  ACT    IV. 

And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind  ; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind  ■= 
Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  I  '11  study  how  to  die.' 

Sil.   Call  you  this  chiding  ? 

Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  ! 

Ros.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity. 
Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman  ? — What,  to  make 
thee  an  instrument,  and  play  false  strains  upon 
thee  !  not  to  be  endured  !— Well,  go  your  way  to 
her,  (for,  I  see,  love  hath  made  thee  a  tame  snake) 
and  say  this  to  her ; — '  That  if  she  love  me,  I  charge 
her  to  love  thee  :  if  she  will  not,  I  will  never  have 
her,  unless  thou  entreat  for  her.' — If  you  be  a  true 
lover,  hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes  more 
company.  [Exit  Silvius. 

Enter  Oliver. 

OIL   Good-morrow,  fair  ones.     Pray  you,  if  you 
know 
Where,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenced  about  with  olive-trees  ? 

Cel.  West  of  this  place,   down  in  the  neighbor 
bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 


'  Nature 


SCENIC     III. 


AS    YOU    LIKK    IT.  327 


Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place  : 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There  'a  none  within. 

OH.   If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description  ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years  :   '  The  boy  is  fair 
Of  female  favor,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  ripe  sister;  but  the  woman  low, 
And  browner  than  her  brother.'     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  ? 

Cel.   It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say,  we  are. 

OIL   Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both  ■ 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.     Are  you  he  ? 

Ros.   I  am  :  what  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 

OIL   Some  of  my  shame,  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stain'd. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

OIL  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from 
you, 
He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour; 1  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy,1 
Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 
Under  an   old  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  with 
age, 


Within  a  certain  time.  2  Love. 


328  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    IV 

And  high  top  hakl  with  dry  antiquity, 

A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 

Lay  sleeping  on  his  hack :  about  his  neck 

A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself, 

Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach' d 

The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly, 

Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself, 

And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 

Into  a  bush  ;  under  which  bush's  shade 

A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 

Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike  watch, 

When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 

The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 

To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 

This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man, 

And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 

Cel.   O,    I    have    beard  him   speak  of  that  same 
brother ; 
And  he  did  render x  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  'mongst  men. 

OH.  And  well  he  might  so  do. 

For. well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.   But,  to  Orlando  : — did  he  leave  him  there, 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

OIL  Twice  did  he   turn  his  back,  and  purposed 
so : 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 


1  JJt'Sciibe. 


- 

- 


8CEXK    III.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  329 

Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 

Who  quickly  fell  before  him  j  in  which  hurtling ' 

From  miserable  slumber  I  awaked. 

Cel.  Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescued  ? 

Cel.  Was 't  you  that  did   so  oft  contrive  to  kill 
him? 

OIL  'Twas  I ;  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 

Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? ■ 

Oh.  Bv  and  bv. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bathed, 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place ; 

In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke, 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment, 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love  ; 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave ; 

There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled ;  and  now  he  fainted, 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  1  recover' d  him  ;  bound  up  his  wound ; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart. 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 


1  Scuffle. 


530  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


ACT  IV. 


Died  in  this  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  how  now,    Ganymede  ?    sweet  Gany- 
mede? [Ros.  faints. 

Oli.  Many   will    swoon  when    they  do    look    on 
blood. 

Cel.  There  is  more  in  it. — Cousin — Ganymede  ! 

OH.  Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.   I  would,  I  were  at  home. 

Cel.  We  '11  lead  you  thither. — 

I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

Oli.  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth. — You  a  man? — 
You  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sir,  a  body  would 
think  this  was  well  counterfeited :  I  pray  you,  tell 
your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. — Heigh 
ho! 

Oli.  This  was  not  counterfeit;  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion 
of  earnest. 

Ros.   Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oli.  Well  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counter- 
feit to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do  :  but,  i'  faith,  I  should  have  been  a 
woman  by  right. 

Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler :  pray  you, 
draw  homewards.      Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

Oli.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something :  but,  I  pray  you, 
commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him,     Will  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt. 


JlS  ~yo~u  use  it 

■     d&j  ir  Oliver 


ACT    V.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  331 


ACT    V. 

SCENE    I. 

The  same. 
Enter  touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey;  patience, 
gentle  Audrey. 

Aud.  Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all 
the  old  gentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey ;  a  most 
vile  Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here 
in  the  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis ;  he  hath  no  interest 
in  me  in  the  world :  here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

Enter  william. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a  clown. 
By  my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits  have  much  to 
answer  for :  we  shall  be  flouting ;  we  cannot  hold. 

Wil.  Good  even,  Audrey. 

Aud.   God  ye  goud  even,  William. 

Wil.  And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head, 
cover  thy  head  ;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered.  How 
old  are  you,  friend  ? 

Wil.  Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Touch.  A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William  ? 


332  as   you  like  it.  act  v. 

Wil.  William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  fair  name.  Wast  born  i'  the  forest 
here  ? 

Wil.  Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touch.  '  Thank  God  ;'  —  a  good  answer.  Art 
rich  ? 

Wil.  Faith,  sir,  so  so. 

Touch.  '  So  so,'  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent 
good  : — and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so  so.  Art  thou 
wise  ? 

Wil.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  re- 
member a  saying ;  '  The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise, 
but  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.'  The 
heathen  philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire  to  eat  a 
grape,  would  open  his  lips  when  he  put  it  into  his 
mouth ;  meaning  thereby,  that  grapes  were  made  to 
eat,  and  lips  to  open.     You  do  love  this  maid  ? 

Wil.  I  do,  sir. 

Touch.   Give  me  your  hand.     Art  thou  learned  ? 

Wil.  No,  sir  ? 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me  :  To  have,  is  to 
have ;  for  it  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink,  being 
poured  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling  the  one 
doth  empty  the  other:  for  all  your  writers  do 
consent,  that  ipse  is  he ;  now  you  are  not  ipse,  for  I 
am  he. 

Wil.  Which  he,  sir  ? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman : 
therefore,  you  clown,  abandon. — which  is  in  the 
vulgar,  leave, — the  society, — which  in  the  boorish 


SCENE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  333 

is,  company, — of  this  female, — which  in  the  common 
is, — woman,  which  together  is,  abandon  the  society 
of  this  female  ;  or,  clown,  thou  perishest ;  or,  to  thy 
better  understanding,  diest ;  or,  to  wit,  I  kill  thee, 
make  thee  away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy 
liberty  into  bondage.  I  will  deal  in  poison  with 
thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel;  I  will  bandy1 
with  thee  in  faction  ;  I  will  o'errun  thee  with  policy; 
I  will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways ;  therefore 
tremble,  and  depart. 

And.  Do,  good  William. 

Wil.   God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Exit. 

Enter  corin. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you ;  come, 
away,  away. 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey;  trip,  Audrey: — I  attend, 
I  attend.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II. 

The  same. 

Enter  orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is  't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance 
you  should  like  her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should 
love  her  ?  and,  loving,  woo  ?  and,  wooing,  she 
should  grant  ?     And  will  you  persever  to  enjoy  her  ? 


Contend. 


4  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    V. 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question, 
the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my 
sudden  wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consenting  ;  hut  say 
with  me,  I  love  Aliena ;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves 
me;  consent  with  hoth,  that  we  may  enjoy  each 
other:  it  shall  be  to  your  good;  for  my  father's 
house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  sir  Row- 
land's, will  I  estate  *  upon  you,  and  here  live  and 
die  a  shepherd. 

Enter  rosalind. 

Oil.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  weddine 
be  to-morrow:  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke,  and 
all  his  contented  followers.  Go  you,  and  prepare 
Aliena ;  for,  look  you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.   God  save  you,  brother. 

OH.  And  you,  fair  sister. 

Ros.  O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to 
see  thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf  ! 

Oil.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with 
the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Oil.   Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counter- 
feited to  swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  hand- 
kerchief? 

Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.   O,  I  know  where  you   are.     Nay, 'tis   true: 

1  Bestow. 


SCF.NE    II.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  33o 

there  Avas  never  any  thing  so  sudden,  hut  the  fight 
of  two  rams,  and  Ca?sar's  thrasonical  brag  of — '  I 
came,  saw,  and  overcame :'  for  your  brother  and 
my  sister  no  sooner  met,  hut  they  louked ;  no 
sooner  looked,  but  they  loved  ;  no  sooner  loved,  but 
they  sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked  one 
another  the  reason ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but 
they  sought  the  remedy  :  and  in  these  degrees  have 
they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage,  which  they 
will  climb  incontinent,  or  else  be  incontinent  before 
marriage  :  they  are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and 
they  will  together;   clubs  cannot  part  them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  I  will 
bid  1  the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But,  O,  how  bitter 
a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another 
man's  eyes !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I  to-mor- 
row be  at  the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by  how 
much  I  shall  think  my  brother  happy,  in  having 
what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your 
turn  for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then  with  idle 
talking.  Know  of  me  then,  (for  now  I  speak  to 
some  purpose)  that  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman  of 
good  conceit  :  1  speak  not  this,  that  you  should 
bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  knowlege,  insomuch,  I 
say,  I  know  you  are  ;  neither  do  I  labor  for  a  greater 


1  Invite. 


?38  AS    YOU    LIKE     IT.  ACT    V. 

Orl.    1  o  her,  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this;  'tis  like  the 
howling  of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will 
help  you,  [to  SilJ]  if  I  can  : — I  would  love  you,  [to 
Phe .1  if  I  could.  To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. 
I  will  rrarry  you,  [to  Phe.~]  if  ever  I  marry  woman, 
and  I  '11  be  married  to-morrow  : — I  will  satisfy  you, 
[to  Orl.~]  if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be 
married  to-morrow : — I  will  content  you,  [to  SiL] 
if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be 
married  to-morrow.  As  you  [to  Orl.]  love  Rosa- 
lind, meet ;— as  you  [to  SiL]  love  Phebe,  meet ; — 
— and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I  '11  meet.  So.  fare  vou 
well ;   I  have  left  you  commands. 

SiL  I  '11  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE    III. 

The  same. 
Enter  touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey  ;  to- 
morrow will  we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart :  and  I  hope 
it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of 
the  world.1  Here  come  two  of  the  banished  duke's 
pages. 


1  A  married  woman. 


SCENE    III.  AS     YOU    LIKE    IT.  339 

Enter  two  pages. 

1  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.  Come,  sit,  sit, 
and  a  song. 

2  Page.  We  are  for  you :  sit  i'  the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into 't  roundly,  without 
hawking,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse, 
which  are  the  only  prologues  to  a  had  voice  ? 

2  Page.  V  faith,  i'  faith  :  and  hoth  in  a  tune,  like 
two  gipsies  on  a  horse. 


SONG. 

I. 

It  was  a  lover,  and  Lis  lasa, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  rank  tim, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  , 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

n. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  ucnino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

in. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  ».ey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  ike. 


340  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    V. 


IV. 


And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nouino  ; 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

Touch.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there 
■was  no  great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was 
very  untunahle.1 

1  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir ;  we  kept  time  j 
we  lost  not  our  time. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes;  I  count  it  but  time 
lost  to  hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be  with  you ; 
and  God  mend  your  voices  ! — Come,  Audrey. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENB    IV. 

Another  part  of  the  forest. 

Enter  duke  senior,  amiens,  jaques,  orlando, 
Oliver,  and  celia. 

Duke  S.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.  I   sometimes  do   believe,  and  sometimes  do 

not ; 
those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 


2 


'  «  Though  the  words  of  the  song  were  trifling,  the  musio 
was  not  good  enough  to  compensate  their  defect.'— Steevens. 

2  'As  those  who  iear,— they,  even  those  very  persons,  en- 
tertain hopes  that  their  fears  will  not  be  realised  ;  and  yet  at 
the  same  time  know  that  there  is  reason  for  their  fears.' — 
il  alone. 


SCENE    IV 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  341 


Enter  hosamnd,  silvius,  and  phebe. 

Ros.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compact  ia 

urged. 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,     [to  the  Duke. 
You  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with 

her. 
Ros.  And  you   say,  you   will  have  her,  when  I 
bring  her  ?  [to  Orl. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 
Ros.  You  say,  you  '11  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing  ? 

[to  Phe. 
The.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.  But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You  '11  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ? 
Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say,  that  you  '11  have  Phebe  if  she  will  ? 

[to  Sil. 
Sil.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one 

thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promised  to  make    all  this   matter 
even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daughter; — ■ 
Vou  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter : — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you  '11  marry  me  ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd : — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you  '11  marry  her, 
If  she  refuse  me  : — and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Ros  and  Cel. 


342  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  ACT    V. 

Duke  S.   I  do  remember  in  this  sliepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor.1 

Orl.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter. 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born  ; 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest 

Enter  touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Jaques.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and 
these  couples  are  coming  to  the  ark !  Here  comes  a 
pair  of  very  strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are 
called  fools. 

Touch.   Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaques.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This  is 
the  motley-minded  gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often 
met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he 
swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to 
my  purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure ;  •  I  have 
nattered  a  lady ;  I  have  been  politic  with  my  friend, 
smooth  with  mine  enemy ;  I  have  undone  three 
tailors ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  haT.  e 
fought  one. 

Jaques.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 


Countenance.  s  A  stately,  solemn  dance. 


SCENE    IV. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  343 


Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was 
upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jaques.  How  seventh  cause  ? — Good,  my  lord,  like 
this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  God  ild x  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the 
like.  I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the 
country  copulatives,  to  swear  and  to  forswear, 
according  as  marriage  hinds  and  hlood  breaks.  A 
poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine 
own  ;  a  poor  humor  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that 
no  man  else  will.  Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a 
miser,  sir,  in  a  poor  house,  as  your  pearl  in  your 
foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sen- 
tentious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such 
dulcet  diseases.2 

Jaques.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you 
find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed :  (bear 
your  body  more  seeming,3  Audrey  !)  as  thus,  sir. 
I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard : 
he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut 
well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  this  is  called  the 
retort  courteous.     If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was 


1   Reward. 

3  Maione   thinks  that  this  word   is   capriciously  used  by 
Shakspeure  for  sayings. 
J  Seemly. 


342  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


ACT    V. 


Duke  S.   I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor.1 

Orl.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter. 
But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born  ; 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest 

Enter  touchstone  and  audrey. 

Jaques.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and 
these  couples  are  coming  to  the  ark !  Here  comes  a 
pair  of  very  strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues  are 
called  fools. 

Touch.   Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaques.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  Tins  is 
the  motley-minded  gentleman,  that  I  have  so  often 
met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he 
swears. 

Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to 
my  purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure ;  •  I  have 
flattered  a  lady ;  I  have  been  politic  with  my  friend, 
smooth  with  mine  enemy ;  I  have  undone  three 
tailors ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  ha",  e 
fought  one. 

Jaques.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 


•  Countenance.  2  A  stately,  solemn  dance. 


8CEXE    IV.  AS    YOD    LIKE    IT.  343 

Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was 
upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jagues.  How  seventh  cause  ? — Good,  my  lord,  like 
this  fellow. 

Duke  S.   I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  God  ild *  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the 
like.  I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the 
country  copulatives,  to  swear  and  to  forswear, 
jiceoruing  as  marriage  hinds  and  blood  breaks.  A 
poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine 
own ;  a  poor  humor  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that 
no  man  else  will.  Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a 
miser,  sir,  in  a  poor  house,  as  your  pearl  in  your 
foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sen- 
tentious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such 
dulcet  diseases.2 

Jagues.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you 
find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed  :  (bear 
your  body  more  seeming,3  Audrey  !)  as  thus,  sir. 
I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard : 
he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut 
well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  this  is  called  the 
retort  courteous.     If  I  sent  him  word  again,  it  was 


1   Reward. 

s  Maione   thinks  that  this  word   is   capriciously   used   by 
Shakspeare  for  sayings. 
'  Seemly. 


344  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT. 


ACT    V. 


not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to 
please  himself :  this  is  called  the  quip  modest.  If 
again  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment: 
this  is.  called  the  reply  churlish.  If  again  it  was 
not  well  cut,  he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  true : 
this  is  called  the  reproof  valiant.  If  again  it  was 
not  well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie  :  this  is  called  the 
countercheck  quarrelsome  :  and  so  to  the  he  cir- 
cumstantial, and  the  lie  direct. 

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

Touch.  I  durst  go  no  farther  than  the  lie  circum- 
stantial, nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  lie  direct ; 
and  so  we  measured  swords,  and  parted. 

Jaques.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  de- 
grees of  the  lie  ? 

Touch.  O,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book,1 
as  you  have  books  for  good  manners  :  I  will  name 
you  the  degrees.  The  first,  the  retort  courteous ; 
the  second,  the  quip  modest ;  the  third,  the  reply 
churlish ;  the  fourth,  the  reproof  valiant ;  the  fifth, 
the  countercheck  quarrelsome ;  the  sixth,  the  lie 
with  circumstance ;  the  seventh,  the  lie  direct.  All 
these  you  may  avoid,  but  the  lie  direct ;  and  you 
may  avoid  that  too,  with  an  if.  I  knew  when  seven 
justices  could  not  take  up  a  quarrel  ;  but  when  the 
parties  were   met  themselves,   one  of  them  thought 


1  Shakspeare  is  here  supposed  to  allude  to  a  formal  treatise 
on  duelling,  by  Vincentio  Saviolo,  printed  in  1J91. 


SCENE    IV.  AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  345 

but  of  an  if,  as,  '  if  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so ;  * 
and  they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your 
'if'  is  the  only  peace-maker ;  much  virtue  in  '  if.' 

Jaques.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  He  'a 
as  good  at  any  thing,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse ; 1 
and,  under  the  presentation  of  that,  he  shoots  his 
wit. 

Enter  hymen,  leading  rosalind  in  women's  clothes ; 
and  celia. 

Still  music. 

Hymen.  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 
Good  Duke,  receive  thy  daughter; 
Hymen  from  heaven  hrought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither  ; 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his. 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours : 

[to  Duke  S. 

To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.  [to  Or  I. 

Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my 

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


1  'A  horse  either  real  or   fictitious,  by  which  the   fowler 
sheltered  himself  from  the  sight  of  the  game.' — Steevens. 


346  as  you  l:ke  it.  act  v 

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

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he  : 

[to  Duke  S. 
I  '11  have   no   husband,   if  you  be  not  he ; — 

[to  Orl. 
Nor    ne'er  wed  woman,   if  you  be  not  she. 

[to  The. 
Hymen.  Peace,  ho  !   I  bar  confusion  : 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  ; 
Here  's  eight  that  must  take  hands, 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 
If  truth  holds  true  contents.1 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part ; 

[to  Orl.  and  Ros 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[to  OIL  and  Ccl. 
You  [to  Phe.']  to  his  love  must  accord, 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord  : — 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[to  Touch,  and  Aud. 
As  the  winter  to-  foul  weather. 
"Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 


1  Unless  truth  fail  of  veracity. 


bOEXE    IV. 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  347 


SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown. 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town: 

Hign  wedlock  then  be  honored. 
Honor,  high  honor  and  renown, 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town! 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome   thou  art  to 
me  ; 
Even  daughter  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phe.  I   will    not    eat    my    word ;    now    thou    art 
mine  ; 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  l  to  thee  doth  combine.5 

[to  SU. 

Enter  jaques  ue  bois. 

Jaques  de  Bois.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  woid 
or  two. 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly. — 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd3  a  mighty  power,  which  were  on  foot. 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword  : 
A.ud  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
A7here,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question4  with  him,  was  converted 


1  Love.         2  Bind.  *  Prepared.  '  Conversation. 


34  8  AS    YOU     LIKE    IT.  ACT    V. 

Both  from  his  enterprise  and  from  the  world, 
His  crown  bequeathing1  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exiled.     This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engrave  mv  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  man  : 

Thou  offer'st  fairlv  to  thv  brothers'  wedding ; 
To  cne,  his  lands  withheld ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun  and  well  begot ; 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number, 
That  have  endured  shrewd  days  and  nights  witi 

us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fallen  dignirv, 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry. 
Play,  music  ! — and  you,  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaques.  Sir,  by  your  patience  : — if  I  heard  you 
rightly, 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 

Jaques  de  Bois.  He  hath. 

Jaques.  To  him  will  I  :  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. 
You  t-  your  former  honor  I  bequeathe  ;    [to  Duke  S. 
Your  patience,  and  your  virtue,  well  deserves  it : — 
You   [to  Or/.]   to  a  love  that   your  true  faith  doth 
merit : — 


SCENE    IV.  AS    YOU    LIKE    IT.  349 

You   [to   Oil.']    to  yoiu    laud,    and   love,  and  great 

allies  : — 
You   [to  Sil.~\   to  a  long  and  well-deserved  bed : — 
And  you   [to  Touch.]   to  wrangling ;  for   thy  loving 

voyage 
Is  hut  for  two  months  victual'd. — So  to   your  plea- 
sures ; 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 
.Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 
Jaques.  To  see  no  pastime,  I  : — what  you  would 
have 
I  '11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.         [Exit, 
Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed :  we  will  begin  these 
rites, 
And  we  do  trust  they  '11  end,  in  true  delights. 

[A  dance. 


S50  AS    YOU    LIRA    IT. 


EPILOGUE. 


Ros.  It  Is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the  epi- 
logue ;  hut  it  is  no  more  unhandsome,  than  to  see 
the  lord  the  prologue.  If  it  he  true,  that  good  wine 
needs  no  hush,  'tis  true,  that  a  good  play  needs  no 
epilogue  :  yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use  good 
hushes  ;  and  good  plays  prove  the  hetter  hy  the  help 
of  good  epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in  then,  that 
am  neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insinuate 
with  you  in  the  behalf  of  a  good  play  ?  I  am  not 
furnished  '  like  a  beggar,  therefore  to  beg  will  not 
become  me  :  my  way  is.  to  conjure  you  ;  and  I  '11 
begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you,  O  women, 
for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  mucn  cf 
this  play  as  please  you ;  and  I  charge  you,  O  men, 
for  the  love  you  bear  to  women,  (as  I  perceive,  by 
your  simpering,  none  of  you  hate  them)  that  be- 
tween you  and  the  women,  the  play  may  please. 
If  I  were  a  woman,  I  wc-uld  kiss  as  many  of  you  as 
had  beards  that  pleased  me,  complexions  that  liked 
me,c  and  breaths  that  I  defied  not :  and,  I  am  sure, 
as  many  as  have  good  beards,  or  good  faces,  or 
sweet  breaths,  will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make 
courtesy,  bid  me  farewell.  [Exeunt. 


1  Dressed.  -  That  1  liked. 


END    OF    vol,.    iv. 


I 


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