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MIK1LIV 

LIBRARY 

yNIVERSITY  O9 
CALIFORNIA 


SHAKSPE  ARE'S 


DRAMATIC    WORKS. 


VOL.    II 


T  II  E 


DRAMATIC    WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE; 

ILLUSTRATED: 


B  MB  RACING 


A   LIFE   OF    THE    POET, 


AND 


NOTES, 

ORIGINAL    AND    SELECTED. 


VOL.    II. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON   AND   COMPANY. 

1850 


GIFT 


C  O  N  T  E  N  T  S 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM :i 

LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST 7.1 

MERCHANT    OF    VENICE ]<i7 

AS    YOU    LIKE    IT 253 

ALL'S    WELL    THAT    ENDS    WELL 31.1 

TAMING    OF    THE    SHREW 147 

VOL.    II.  1 


001 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


PRELIMINA KV    REMARKS. 

\V>:  may  presume  the  plot  of  this  play  to  have  been  the  invention  of 
Shakspeare,  ;us  the  diligence  of  his  commentators  has  Jailed  to  trace  tiie 
sources  from  whence  it  is  derived.  Steevens  says  that  the  hint  for  it  was 
probably  received  from  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale. 

"In  the.  Midsummer- Night's  Dream,"  says  Schickel,  ''there  flows  a 
luxuriant  vein  of  the  boldest  and  most  fantastical  invention:  the  most 
extraordinary  combination  of  the  most  dissimilar  ingredients  seems  to 
have;  arisen  without  eflort,  by  some  ingenious  and  lucky  accident,  and  the 
colors  are  of  such  clear  transparencv  that  \\  e  think  that  the  whole  of  the 
variegated  fabric  may  be  blown  away  with  a  breath.  The  fain*  world 
here  described  resembles  those  elegant  pieces  of  Arabesque,  where  little 
(Jenii,  with  butterfly  wings,  rise  lialf  embodied  above  tlie  flower  cups. 
Twiliuht,  moonshine,  de\v,  and  spring-perfumes  are  the  element  of  these 
tender  sj)irit.s:  they  assist  Nature  in  embroiderinji  her  carpet  with  preen 
leaves,  many-colored  flowers,  and  dazzling  insects;  in  the  human  world 
they  merely  sport  in  a  childish  and  way  ward  manner  with  their  beneficent 
or  noxious  influences.  Their  most  violent  rage  dissolves  in  good-natured 
raillery;  their  passions,  stripped  of  all  earthly  matter,  are  merely  an  ideal 
dream.  To  correspond  with  tins,  the  loves,  of  mortals  are  painted  as  a 
poetical  enchantment,  which,  by  a  contrary  enchantment,  may  be  imme 
diately  suspended,  and  then  renewed  afjain.  The  different  parts  of  the 
plot — the  wedding  of  Theseus  the  disagreement  of  ()her»n  and  Titania, 
the  flight  of  the  two  piir  of  lovers  and  the  theatrical  opontiun-  of  the 
mechanics — are  so  li^htlv  and  happily  interwoven,  that  they  serin  necr<- 
sary  to  each  other  for  the  fonnation  of  a  \\  hole.  ( >ben>n  is  desirous  ..f 
relieving  the  lovers  from  their  perplexities,  and  greatly  adds  to  them 
through  the  misapprehension  of  his  servant,  till  he  at  last  comes  to  the 
aid  of  their  fruitless  amorous  pain,  their  inconstancy  and  jealousy,  and 
restores  fidelity  to  its  old  rights.  The  extremes  of  fanciful  and  vulgar 
are  united  when  the  enchanted  Vitania  awakes  and  falls  in  love  with  a 
coarse  mechanic,  with  an  ass's  head,  who  represents,  or  rather  disfigures, 
the  part  of  a  tragical  lover.  The  droll  wonder  of  the  transmutation  of 
Hottom  is  merely  the  transmutation  of  a  metaphor  in  its  literal  sense  :  but, 
in  his  behavior  during  the  tender  homage  of  the  Fairy  Queen,  we  have  a 
most  amusing  proof  how  much  the  consciousness  of  such  a  head-dress 
heightens  the  effect  of  his  usual  folly.  Theseus  and  Hippolyta  are,  as  it 
were,  a  splendid  frame  for  the  picture  ;  they  take  no  part  in  the  action, 
but  appear  with  a  stately  pomp.  The  discourse  of  the  hero  and  his  Ama 
zon,  as  they  course  through  the  forest  with  their  noisy  hunting  train, 
works  u|>on  the  imagination  like  the  fresh  breath  of  morning,  before  which 
the  shapes  of  night  disappear."* 

This  is  a  production  of  the  youthful  and  vigorous  imagination  of  the 
poet.  Malone  places  the  date  of  its  composition  in  ].">!M.  There  are  two 
quarto  editions,  both  printed  in  1<K)();  one  by  Thomas  Fisher,  the  other 
by  James  Roberts. 

*  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literatim-,  vol.  li.  ;>.  17U. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


THESEUS,  Duke  of  Athens. 

EGEUS,  Father  to  Hermia. 

LYSANDER,     \  ^  ^  w[t]i  Hermm> 

DEMETRIUS,  ) 

PHILOSTRATE,  Master  of  the  Revels  to  Theseus. 

QUINCE,  the  Carpenter. 

SNUG,  the  Joiner. 

BOTTOM,  the  Weaver. 

FLUTE,  the  Bellows-mender. 

SNOUT,  the  Tinker. 

STARVELING,  the  Tailor. 

HIPPOLYTA,  Queen  of  the  Amazons,  betrothed  to  Theseus. 
HERMIA,  Daughter  of  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,     } 
COBWEB,  f     p  ..  . 

MOTH,  r 

MUSTARD-SEED,  ) 
PYRAMUS, 

i™  BE)         (Characters  in   the  Interlude  performed  by 


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    <>f 

Theseus. 


Enter   THESEUS,    HIPPOLYTA,    PHILOSTRATE,    and 

Attendants. 

Theseus.    Now,  lair  Ilippolvta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace  ;   four  happy  (lavs  brin^  in 
Another  moon.      Hut.  (),  methinks  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes!      She  lingers  inv  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager. 
.Lonij  withering  out  a  voumj.  m  m's  revenue. 

/////.     Four  davs  will    (juicklx    steep    themselves    in 

nights  : 

Four  nights  will  (piiekh  dream  awav  the  time  ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  how 
Now  hent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  ni^ht 
( )i'  our  solemnities. 

The.  ( Jo,  Philostrate, 

Stir  ii[)  tin4  Athenian  vonth  to  merriments  : 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  ; 
'Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals: 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. — 

\_fc.rit  PHILOSTRATE, 

Ilippolyta.  I  wooed  thee  with  mv  sword. 
And  won  thv  love,  doini;  thee  injuries; 
But  1  will  wed  thee  in  another  kev, 
With  pomp,  with  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  1. 


Enter  EGEUS,  HERMIA,  LYSANDER,  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Ege.    Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke  ! l 
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  bewitched2  the  bosom  of  my  child. 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 
And  interchanged  love  tokens  with  my  child ; 
Thou  hast  by  moon-light  at  her  window  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 
And  stolen  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds3,  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats  ;  messengers 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unhardened  youth. 
With  cunning  hast  thou  filched  my  daughter's  heart : 

O  J  O 

Turned  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me, 

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  lawr, 

Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

The.    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 

1  Duke,  in  our  old  language,  was  used  for  a  leader  or  chief,  as  the 
Latin  dux. 

2  The  old  copies  read,  "  This  man  hath  bewitched." 

3  Baubles,  toys,  trifles. 


SC.  I  j  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM.  7 

To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it. 

O  ' 

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. 

Hfi'.    I  would  mv  father  looked  hut  with  my  eyes. 

The.    Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment  look. 

Her.    \  do  entreat  vour  grace  to  pardon  me. 
I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 
Nor  how  it  mav  concern  mv  modesty, 
In  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  mv  thoughts: 

I  »/ 

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

The.     Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
Forever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Ilermia,  question  vour  desin  -, 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  vour  father's  choice, 
You  can  endure  the  liverv  of  a  nun; 
For  ave  to  be  in  shadv  cloister  mewed, 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  vour  life, 
Chanting  faint  hvmns  to  the  cold,  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  thev,  that  master  M>  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pil^rima^e  : 
But  earthlier  happv  is  the  rose  distilled, 
'Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.    So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  Jie,  m\  lord, 
Kre  I  will  vield  my  virgin  patent  u[> 
(Tnto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 
INIv  soul  consents  not  to  i;i\e  sovereignty. 

The.    Take1  time   to  pause  ;   and,  by   the    next  new 

moon, 

(The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
For  disobedience  to  vour  father's  will  ; 
Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would; 


8  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  I. 

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

Dem.   Relent,  sweet  Hermia  ; — and,  Lysander,  yield 
Thy  crazed  title  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 
1  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.    I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  derived  as  he, 
As  well  possessed :  my  love  is  more  than  his ; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  ranked, 
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'll  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  wron  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry. 
Upon  this  spotted  l  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 ; 
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) 
Tc  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. — 

*  o 

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. 

1  As  spotless  is  innocent,  so  spotted  is  wicked. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  9 

Ege.    With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 

[Exeunt    THESEUS,    HIPPOLYTA,    EGEDS, 
DEMETRIUS,    and  Train. 

Lys.    How    now,    my   love !      Why   is   your    cheek 

so  pale  .* 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.    Belike,  for  want  of  rain  ;   which  I  could  well 
Beteeni J  them  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  hi^h  to  be  enthralled  to  low! 

Lys.    Or  else  misgrafled,  in  respect  of  vear>. 

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

Lys.    Or  else  it  stood  ujx)ii  the  choice  of  friends. 

Her.    O  hell  !    to  choose  love  bv  another's  eve  ! 

Lys.    Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 
War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it  ; 
Making  it  momentany2  as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream, 
Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  eollied:<  niijit. 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, —  Behold! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up. 
So  (jiiick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

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

Lys.    A   good   persuasion;    therefore,  hear  me,  Her- 

mia. 

1  Inve  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  i;Teat  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child. 
Kroiii  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues; 

.',  or,  according  to  Stcevens,  pour  out. 


10  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  I. 

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  lov'st  me  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 
And  in  the  wrood,  a  league  without  the  town 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

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  burned  the  Carthage  queen,1 
When  the  false  Trojan  under  sail  was  seen ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
In  number  more  than  woman  ever  spoke  ; — 
In  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

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

Enter  HELENA. 

Her.    God  speed  fair  Helena!     Whither  away? 

Hcl.    Call  you  me  fair  ?     That  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fair.9     O  happy  fair ! 
Your  eyes  are  lode-stars  ;3  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  favor4  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. 

1  Shakspeare  forgot  that  Theseus  performed  his  exploits  before  the 
Trojan  war,  and,  consequently,  long  before  the  death  of  Dido. 

2  Fair    for    fairness,    beauty — very   common    in    writers    of    Shak- 
speare's  age. 

3  The  lode-star  is  the  leading  or  guiding  star,  that  is,  the  polar-star. 
The  magnet  is,  for  the  same  reason,  called  the  lode-stone. 

4  Countenance,  feature. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM.  11 

Wen;  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 
The  rest  I'll  give  to  be  to  you  translated.1 
O,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;   and  with  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

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

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

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

Hd.    O  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection  move! 

Her.    The  more  1  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 

Hd.    The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 

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

Hd.    None,    but    your    beauty.      'Would    that   fault 
were  mini; ! 

Her.    Take  comfort;   he  no  more  shall  see  mv  lace  ; 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. — 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seemed  Athens  like  a  paradise;  to  me. 
O,  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell, 
That  he  hath  turned  a  heaven  unto  hell ! 

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

Hfr.    And  in  the  wood,  where  often  von  and  I 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie. 
Fmptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet. 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet  : 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyi  s, 
To  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  HERMIA. 

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

[E.vit  LYSANDER. 

i  i.  c.  changed,  transformed. 


12  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  1 

Hcl.    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  winged  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  themselves  forswear, 
So  the  boy  Love  is  perjured  every  where ; 
For  ere  Demetrius  looked  on  Hermia's  eyne, 
He  hailed  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. 
I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight ; 
Then  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  back  again.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.     The  same.     A  Room  in  a  Cottage. 


Enter  SNUG,  BOTTOM,  FLUTE,  SNOUT,  QUINCE,  and 
STARVELING. 

Quin.    Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

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

Quin.  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. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  13 

Bol.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  yvhat  the  play 
treats  on;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors;  and  so 
grow  on  to  a  point.1 

Qui/i.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamentable 
comedy,  and  most  cruel  deatli  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbv. 

But.  \  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and 
r  a  merry. — Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  vour 
actors  by  the  scroll.  Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom, 
the  weaver. 

Bot.  Ready.  Name  what  part  1  am  for,  and  pro 
ceed. 

Quin.    You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pvramus. 

Bot.    What  is  Pyramus  r     A  lover,  or  a  tyrant: 

Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly 
for  love. 

Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  perform 
ing  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  raii'm^  rocks, 
With  shivering  shocks. 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison  iiate^  : 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 


The  foolish  fates. 


•• 


This  was   lofty! — Now   name   the  rest  ()f  the  plavcr> 
— This    is    Frcles'    vein,   a    tyrant's    vein  ;    a    lover   is 
more  condoling. 

Quin.    Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.    You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

1  Grow  on  to  a  point.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  first  folio,  and  is 
probably  a  misprint  for  £-0  on  to  appoint,  i.  e.  appoint  the  actors  to  their 
several  parts. 


14  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM  [ACT  I, 

Flu.    What  is  Thisby?     A  wandering  knight  ? 

Quin.    It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman ;  I  have 
a  beard  coming. 

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

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby 
too.  I'll  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice, — Thisne^ 
Thisne — Ah,  Pyramus^  my  lover  dear ;  thy  Thisby  dear  ! 
And  lady  dear  ! 

Quin.  No,  no  ;  you  must  play  Pyramus  ;  and,  Flute, 
you  Thisby. 

Bot.    Well,  proceed. 

Quin.    Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

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

Snout.    Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You,  Pyramus's  father ;  myself,  Thisby'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. 

Quin.  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  htm  roar  again, 
Let  him  roar  again. 

Quin.  An  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would 
fright  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would 
shriek ;  and  that  were  enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.    That  would  hang  MS  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  aggravate  my 
voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking 
dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an  'twere  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus ;  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-faced  man,  a  proper  man,  as  one 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DRKAM.  15 

shall  see  in  a  summer's  day.  a  most  lovely,  gentleman 
like  man  ;  therefore  you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

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

Quin.    Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  \  will  discharge  it  in  either  vour  straw-rolored 
heard,  your  orange-tawny  heard,  your  purple-in-grain 
beard,  or  vour  French-crown-color  beard,  vour  per 
fect  yellow. 

Quill.  Some  of  vour  French  crowns  have  no  hair 
at  all.  and  then  you  will  plav  hire-faced.  But.  me 
ters,  here  are  your  parts;  and  I  am  to  entreat  vou, 
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  moon-light.  There  will  we  rehearse  ; 
for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be  do^ed  with 
company,  and  our  devices  known.  In  the  mean  time, 
I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants. 
I  pray  you,  fail  me  not. 

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

Quin.    At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Hot.    Enough  ;   hold,  or  cut  bow-strings.1     [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE   1.     A  I  food  near  Athens. 

Enter  a  Fairy  at  one  door,  and  PUCK  at  another. 

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

Thorough  bush,  thorough  briar. 

I  To  meet  whether  boicstrinys  hold  or  are  nit  is  to  moot  in  all  events. 
But  the  origin  of  the  phrase  has  not  been  satisfactorily  explained. 


16  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  II.- 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire. 

I  do  wander  every  where, 

Swifter  than  the  moones  sphere ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs l  upon  the  green. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  2  be ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors ; 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 
1  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob3  of  spirits,  I'll  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  changeling ; 4 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forest  wild. 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy; 
And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green, 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  star-light  sheen,5 
But  they  do  square  ; 6  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fai.    Either    I    mistake    your   shape    and    making 

quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 

1  The  orls  here  mentioned  are  those  circles  in  the  herbage,  commonly 
called  fairy-rings,  the  cause  of  which  is  not  yet  certainly  known. 

2  The  allusion  is  to  Elizabeth's  band  of  gentlemen  pensioners,  who 
were  chosen  from  among  the  handsomest  and  tallest  young  men  of  family 
and  fortune ;  they  were  dressed  in  habits  richly  garnished  with  gold  lace. 

3  Lubber  or  clown.     Lol),  lobcock,  looby,  and  lubber,  all  denote  inac 
tivity  of  body  and  dulness  of  mind. 

4  A  changeling  was  a  child  changed  by  a  fairy :  it  here  means  one 
stolen  or  got  in  exchange. 

5  Shining.  c  Quarrel. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  17 

Called  Robin  Good-fellow.     Are  you  not  he, 
That  fright  the  maidens  of  the  village ry ; 
Skim  milk ;  and  sometimes  lal>or  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, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal ; 
And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab;2 
And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  withered  dew-lap  jx)iir  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  cries,3  and  falls  into  a  cough  ; 
And  then  the  whole;  quire  hold  their  hips,  and  loffe  : 
And  yexen  4  in  their  mirth,  and  nee/e,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there.— 
J>ut  room, Faery ; here  comes  Oberon. 

/•'<//.    And   here   niv  mistress. — "Would  that  he  were 


gone  ! 


1  A  quern  was  a  hand-mill.  ~  Wild  apple. 

:t  Dr.  Johnson  thought  he  remembered  to  have  heard  this  ludicrous  re 
clamation  upon  a  person's  seat  slipping  from  under  him.  He  that  slips 
from  his  chair  falls  as  a  tailor  squats  upon  his  board.  Ilanmcr  thought 
the  passage  corrupt,  and  proposed  to  read  "  rails  or  cries." 

'  The  old  copy  reads:  "And  n-axcn   in  their  mirth,"  Ovc.     It   s 
most  probable  that  we  should  read,  as  Dr.   Fanner  proposed,  yixcn.     To 
ycx  is  to  hiccup,  and  is  so  explained  in  all  the  old  dictionaries. 
VOL.    II.  3 


18  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [AC1  II 


SCENE  II. 

Enter   OBERON,    at    one   door,   with  his   Train,  and 
TITANIA,  at  another,  with  hers. 

Obe.    Ill  met  by  moon-light,  proud  Titania. 

Tita.   What,  jealous  Oberon  ?  Fairy,  skip  hence  ; 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.    Tarry,  rash  wanton.     Am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tita.    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  buskined  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  r^ 
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  ?  l 

Tita.    These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy  ; 
And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring,2 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturbed  our  sport. 
Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 


1  See  the  Life  of  Theseus  in  North's  Translation  of  Plutarch. 
Ariadne,  and  Antiopa,  were  all,  at  different  times,  mistresses  to  Theseus. 
The  name  of  Pcrigune  is  translated  by  North  Perigouna. 

2  Spring  seems  to  be  here  used  for  beginning.     The  spring  of  day  is 
used  for  the  dawn  of  day  in  K.  Henry  IV.  Part  II. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S    DREAM.  19 

As  in  revenge,  have  sucked  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  stretched  his  yoke  in  vain, 

The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 

Hath  rotted,  ere  his  vouth  attained  a  beard. 

The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 

And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock ; 

The  nine  men's  morris2  is  filled  up  with  mud; 

And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 

For  lack  of  tread,  are  [indistinguishable. 

The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  her' 

No  night  is  now  with  hvmn  or  carol  blessed. 

Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  tin;  air, 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  al>ound  ; 

And  through  this  distemperature,  we  see 

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,1  angrv  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries;   and  the  'ma/ed  world. 

By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which  : 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension. 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obc.    Do  you  amend  it,  then  ;  it  lies  in  you. 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  IK* u  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman.5 

1  i.  e.  paltry.     The  folio  reads  petty. 

2  A  rural  game,  played  by  making  holes   m  the  ground  in  the  angles 
ami  sides  of  a  square,  and  placing  stones  or  other  tilings  upon  them,  ac 
cording  to  certain  rules.     These  figures  are  called  nine  men's  morris,  or 
?»fm/.?,  because  each  party  playing  has  nine  men:  they  were  generally 
cut  upon  turf,  and  were,  consequently,  choked  up  with  mud  in  rainy  seasons. 

3  Theobald  proposed  to  read  "  their  tvinter  cheer.'" 

4  Autumn  producing  (lowers  unseasonably  upon  those  of  summer. 

5  Page  of  honor. 


20  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  II 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest, 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order ; 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossiped  by  my  side, 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking:  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 

O  ' 

When  we  have  laughed  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,) 
Would  imitate ;  and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  again, 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandise. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Obe.    How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  f 

Tita.    Perchance,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  see  our  moon-light  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. 

Tita.    Not  for  thy  fairy-kingdom. — Fairies,  away. 
We  shall  chide  down-right,  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; : 

O  O    ' 

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  could'st  not,) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed.     A  certain  aim  he  took 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  21 

! 

At  a  fair  vestal,1  throned  by  the  west ; 

And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts ; 

But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon ; 

And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free.2 

Yef  marked  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.3 

Fetch  me  that  flower;   the  herb  I  showed  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  thoti  here  again, 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.    Til  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes.  [Exit  Pi'CK. 

Obc.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I'll  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  lo\e. 
Arid  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  si^ht, 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb.) 
I'll  make  her  render  up  her  pa^e  to  me. 
But  who  comes  here  ?      I  am  invisible  ; 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

1  It  is  well  known  that  a  compliment  to  Queen  Elizabeth  was  intended 
in  this  very  beautiful  passage.     \Varburton  has  attempted  to  show,  that. 
by  the  mcrmai.l,  in  the  preceding  lines,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  was  intend 
ed.     It  is  argued  with  his  usual  fanciful  ingenuity,  but  will  not  bear  the 
test  of  examination,  and  has  been  satisfactorily  controverted.     It  appears 
to  have  been  no  uncommon  practice  to  introduce  a  compliment  to  Eliza 
beth  in  the  body  of  a  play. 

2  Exempt  from  the  power  of  love. 

3  The  tricolored  violet,  commonly  called  pansies,  or  hearts'  ease,  is 
here  meant;  one  or  two  of  its  petals  are  of  a  purple  color.     It  has  other 
fanciful  and  expressive  names. 


MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  II 


Enter  DEMETRIUS,  HELENA  following  him. 

Dem.    I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 
Where  is  Lysander,  and  fair  Hermia  ? 
The  one  I'll  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 
Thou  told'st  me,  they  were  stolen  into  this  wood, 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood l  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 ; 2 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel.     Leave  you  your  power  to  draw, 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dem.    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  me, 
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,) 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  do  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 3  your  modesty  too  much 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not ; 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night, 


1  Mad,  raving.     Wud  is  the  synonymous  Scotch  term. 

2  "  There  is  now  a  clayes  a  kind  of  adamant  which  draweth  unto  it 
fleshe,  and  the  same  so  strongly,  that  it  hath  power  to  knit  and  tie  to 
gether  two  mouthes  of  contrary  persons,  and  draw  the  Heart  of  a  man  out 
of  his  bodie  without  offending  any  part  of  him."     Ccrtaine  Secrete  Won 
ders  of  Nature,  by  Edward  Fenton,  15G9. 

3  i.  e.  bring  it  'into  question. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  23 

And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place, 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity 

Hel.    Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  lor  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  he  said,  I  am  alone, 
When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.    I'll  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the  brakes, 
And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

JIcl.    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  ilies. 

Dem.    I  will  not  stay  thy  questions.     Let  me  go; 
Or,  if  thou  follow  me,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

lid.    Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  tiie  field, 
You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex. 
We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  ma\  do; 
We  should  be  wooed,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I'll  follow  thee,  and  make  a  hea\en  of  hell, 
To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

[AV<  /////  I)I:.M.  and  \\\\\.. 

Obe.    Fare  thee  well,  nymph.      Kre  he  do  leave  this 


rove, 


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. 

Obc.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  whereon  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips1  and  the  noddinir  violet  "rows; 

1  o  O 

1  The  greater  cowslip. 


24  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  II. 

Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine. 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lulled  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enameled  skin, 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
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  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
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. 
Puck.    Fear  not,  my  lord,  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     Another  Part  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  TITANIA,  with  her  Train. 

Tita.    Come,  now  a  roundel,1  and  a  fairy  song, 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  rnusk-rose  buds ; 
Some,  war  with  rear-mice2  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. 

SONG. 

1  Fai.   You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen ; 
Newts,1  and  blindworms,5  do  no  w-rong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

1  The  roundel^  or  round,  as  its  name  implies,  was  a  dance  in  a  ring. 

2  Bats.  3  Sports.  4  Efts.  5  Slow-worms. 


SC.  III.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S    DREAM.  25 

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. 

2  Fai.    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence. 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

CHORUS.    Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 

1  Fai.    Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well. 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     TITANIA  sleeps. 

Enter  OBERON. 

Obe.    What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake, 

[Squeezes .the flower  on  TITANIA'S  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take. 
Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake. 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear. 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  [Exit. 

Enter  LYSANDER  and    HERMIA. 

Lys.    Fair  love,  you    faint   with   wandering  in  the 

wood  ; 

And  to  speak  troth,  I  have  forgot  our  way  ; 
We'll  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  bed, 
For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 

VOL.    II.  4 


26  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  II. 

Lys.    One  turf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both ; 
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. 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit ; 
So  that  but  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 2  my  manners  and  my  pride, 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say,  Lysander  lied. 
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 
pressed  !  [  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 ; 


1  i.  e.  "understand  the  meaning  of  my  innocence,  or  my  innocent  mean 
ing.    Let  no  suspicion  of  ill  enter  thy  mind." 

2  This  word  here  means  the  same  as  if  she  had  said,  "  Now  ill  befall 
my  manners,"  &c. 


SC.  III.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  27 

And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 

On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 

Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 

Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesy. 

Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 

All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe.1 

When  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbid 

Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 

So  awake,  when  I  am  gone ; 

For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  [Exit. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  HELENA,  running. 

Hcl.    Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 

Dem.    I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus. 

Hcl.    O,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?     Do  not  so. 

Dem.    Stay,  on  thy  peril  ;   I  alone  will  go. 

[Exit  DEMETRIUS. 

Hel.    O,  1  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fond  chase ! 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  lesser  is  my  grace. 
Happy  is  Hermia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies ; 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?     Not  with  salt  tears  ; 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  washed  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  ? 
J3ut  who  is  here? — Lysander!     On  the  ground! 
Dead?     Or  asleep?     I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lijs.    And   run   through  lire    I    will,    for   thy  sweet 
sake.  \JVaking. 

Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  shows  her  art,2 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 

1  Possess. 

2  The  quartos  have  only— "Nature  shows  art,"  The  first  folio— "Na 
ture  her  shows  art,"     The  second  folio  changes  her  to  here.     Malone 
thought  we  should  read,  "  Nature  shows  her  art" 


28  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  II. 

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  1  love. 
Who  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 
The  >vill  of  man  is  by  his  reason  swayed ; 
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, 
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. 
O,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refused, 
Should  of  another,  therefore,  be  abused !  [Exit. 

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 ! 

1  i.  e.  do  not  ripen  to  it 


SC.  III.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  29 

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  ate  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'll  find  immediately.  [Exit. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.     The  same.     The  Queen  of  Fairies  lying 

asleep. 

Enter  QUINCE,    SNUG,  BOTTOM,   FLUTE,   SNOUT,  and 
STARVELING. 

But.    Are  we  all  met  ? 

Quin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here's  a  marvellous  conve 
nient  place  for  our  rehearsal.  This  »reen  plot  shall 
be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake  our  tyring  house  ; 
and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we  will  do  it  before 
the  duke. 

Bot.    Peter  Quince1, — 

Quin.    What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus 
and  Thisby,  that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus 

1  By  all  that  is  dear. 


30  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself;  which  the  ladies 
cannot  abide.  How  answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.    By'rlakin,  a  parlous l  fear. 

Star.  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 
Pyramus  is  not  killed  indeed ;  and  for  the  more  better 
assurance,  tell  them,  that  I  Pyramus  am  not  Pyramus, 
but  Bottom  the  weaver.  This  will  put  them  out 
of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue ;  and  it 
shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six.2 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more ;  let  it  be  written  in 
eight  and  eight. 

Snout.    Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion  ? 

Star.    I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves. 
To  bring  in — God  shield  us  ! — a  lion  among  ladies,  is 
a  most  dreadful  thing ;  for  there  is  not  a  more  fearful 
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. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard 
things  ;  that  is,  to  bring  the  moon-light  into  a  chamber  ; 

1  Perilous  ;  used  for  alarming,  amazing. 

2  That  is,  in  alternate  verses  of  eight  and  six  syllables. 


SC.  1.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM.  31 

for  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by  moon 
light. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play 
our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar !  Look  in  the  alma 
nac;  find  out  moon-shine,  find  out  moon-shine. 

Quin.    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. 

Quin.  Ay ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush 
of  thorns  and  a  lanthorn,  and  say,  he  comes  to  dis 
figure,  or  to  present,  the  person  of  moon-shine.  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  lingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  shall  Pyramus 
and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come,  sit 
down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts. 
Pyramus,  you  begin.  When  you  have;  spoken  your 
speech,  enter  into  that  brake,1  and  so  every  one 
according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  PUCK  behind. 

Puck.    What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we    swag 
gering  here, 

So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  (nieen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward?     I'll  be  an  auditor; 
An  actor,  too,  perhaps,  if  1  see  cause. 

Quin.    Speak,  Pyramus. — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr.    Thisby,  thcjloiccrs  of  odious  savors  sweet, — 

Quin.    Odors,  odors. 

i  Thicket. 


32  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

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  played  here ! 

[Aside. — Exit. 

This.    Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quin.  Ay,  marry,  must  you ;  for  you  must  under 
stand,  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  tire, 
Ml  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  man.  Why,  you  must  not 
speak  that  yet;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus.  You 
speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues 2  and  all. — Pyramus, 
enter ;  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  never  tire. 

Re-enter  PUCK,  and  BOTTOM  with  an  ass^s  head. 

This.    O — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would 
never  tire. 

Pyr.    If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine. — 

Quin.  O  monstrous !  O  strange !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !  help  !  [Exeunt  Clowns. 

Puck.  I'll  follow  you,  I'll  lead  you  about  a  round, 

Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through 

brier : 
Sometime  a  horse  I'll  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. 

1  Young  man. 

2  The  cues  were  the  last  words  of  the  preceding  speech,  which  serve 
as  a  hint  to  him  who  was  to  speak  next. 


SC.  1.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  33 

Re-enter  SNOUT. 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed !  What  do  1 
see  on  thee  ? 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  You  see  an  ass's  head  of 
your  own  ;  do  you  ? 

Re-enter  QUINCE. 

Quin.  Bless  thee,  Bottom  !  Bless  thee  !  Thou  art 
translated.  [Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery !  This  is  to  make  an  ass 
of  me  ;  to  fright  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,  so  black  of  hue, 

With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 

The  wren  with  little  quill. 

Tita.    What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

[Waking. 

Bot.    The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark. 

The  plain-song  cuckoo1  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  tin;  lie,  though  he  cry  cuckoo, 
never  so  ? 

Tita.    I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sin^  again. 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamored  of  thv  note  : 
So  is  mine  eve  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,  vou  should  have  little  rea- 

1  The  cuckoo,  having  no  variety  of  note,  sings  in  plain  song  (piano 
cant  it),  by  which  expression  the  uniform  modulation  or  simplicity  of  the 
chant  was  anciently  distinguished  in  opposition  to  prick-song,  or  vari- 
ated  music  sung  by  note. 
VOL.  II.  5 


34  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

son  for  that;  and  jet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and 
love  keep  little  company  together  nowadays.  The 
more  the  pity,  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not 
make  them  friends.  Nay,  I  can  gleek1  upon  occasion. 

Tita.    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. 

Tita.    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'll  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  ! 

Enter  four  Fairies. 

1  Fai.   Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  And  I. 

All.    Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Tita.    Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries,2 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  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  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes. 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  i.  e.  jest  or  scoff. 

2  The  fruit  of  a  bramble  called  rubus  casius ;  sometimes  called  also 
the  blue-berry. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  35 

1  Fai.  Hail,  mortal ! 

2  Fai.  Hail! 

3  Fai.  Hail ! 
I  Fai.  Hail! 

Dot.  1  cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily. — I  be 
seech  your  worship's  name  ? 

Cob.    Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,1  good 
master  Cobweb.  If  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold 
with  you. — Your  name,  honest  gentleman  ? 

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  pa 
tience3  well.  That  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef 
hath  devoured  many  a  gentleman  of  your  house.  I 
promise  you,  your  kindred  hath  made  my  eyes  water 
ere  now.  I  desire  you  more  acquaintance,  good  mas 
ter  Mustard-seed. 

Tlta.    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. 

1  "  I  shall  desire  you  o/more  acquaintance."     This  kind  of  phraseology 
was  not  uncommon. 

2  A  squash  is  an  immature  peascod. 

3  The  words  are  spoken  ironically,  as  it  was  the  prevailing  opinion  in 
Shakspeare's  time,  that  mustard  excited  choler. 


36  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  III. 


Enter  PUCK. 

Here  comes  my  messenger. — How  now,  mad  spirit ! 
What  night-rule l  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, 
Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play, 
Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 
The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort,3 
Who  Pyramus  presented,  in  their  sport 
Forsook  his  scene,  and  entered  in  a  brake ; 
When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 
An  ass's  nowl 4  I  fixed  on  his  head  ; 
Anon,  his  Thisbe  must  be  answered, 
And  forth  my  mimic  comes.     When  they  him  spy, 
As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye, 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,5  many  in  sort, 
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,  thus 

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 ; 
WThen,  in  that  moment,  (so  it  came  to  pass,) 
Titania  waked,  and  straightway  loved  an  ass. 


1  Revelry.  2  A  patch  was  a  common  contemptuous  term. 

3  Barren  is  dull,  unpregnant.     Sort  is  company.  4  A  head. 

5  The  chough  is  a  bird  of  the  daw  kind. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT  rf   DREAM.  37 

Obe.    This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 
But  hast  thou  yet  latched  ]  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do  ? 

Puck.    I  took  him  sleeping, — that  is  finished,  too, — 
And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side ; 
That,  when  he  waked,  of  force  she  must  be  eyed. 

Enter  DEMETRIUS  and  HERMIA. 

Obc.    Stand  close  ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Puck.    Tliis  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

Dem.    O,  why  rebuke  you  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  cmx  . 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 
Being  o'er  shoos  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 
And  kill  me  too. 

Tin;  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day, 
As  he  to  me.     Would  he  have  stolen  away 
From  sleeping  llormia  ':     Til  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  b",  but  thou  hast  murdered  him: 
So  should  a  murderer  look,  so  dead,  so  urim. 

Dem.    So  should  the  murdered  look  ;   and  so  should  I, 
Pierced  through  the  heart  with  vour  stern  crueltv. 
Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear. 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  lilimmerin^  sphere. 

Her.    What's  this  to  my  Lysander:      When-  is  \\    : 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  <^ive  him  me  ~ 

Dem.    I  had  rather  give  his  carcass  to  mv  hounds. 

Her.    Out,  dog!     Out,  cur!     Thou  driv'st   me  past 

the  bounds 

Of  maiden's  patience.      Hast  thou  slain  him,  then? 
Henceforth  be  never  numbered  amon^  men! 

1  Latched  or  Ictrhcd,  licked  or  smeared  over. 


38  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

O !  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake. 
Durst  thou  have  looked  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  hast  thou  killed  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  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 

Dem.    You  spend  your  passion  on  a  misprised 2  mood. 
I  am  not  guilty  of  Ly Sander'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  a  while  I  will  remain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  grow, 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  sorrow  owe ; 
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  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turned,  and  not  a  false  turned  true. 

Puck.    Then  fate  o'errules ;  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-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer 3 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fresh  blood  dear.4 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here  ; 
I'll  charm  his  eyes,  against  she  doth  appear. 

Puck.    I  go,  I  go ;  look,  how  I  go ; 
Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.  [Exit. 

1  A  touch  anciently  signified  a  trick. 

2  "  On  a  misprised  mood,"  i.  e.  in  a  mistaken  manner. 

3  Cheer  here  signifies  countenance,  from  corn  (ItaL). 

4  Alluding  to  the  ancient  supposition,  that  every  sigh  was  indulged  at 
the  expense  of  a  drop  of  blood. 


SC.  II.]  .MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  39 

Obe.    Flower  of  this  purple  dye, 
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  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

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  pageant  see  ? 
Lord,  what  fools  these  mortals  be ! 

Obc.    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  befall  preposterously. 

Enter  LY SANDER  and  HELENA. 

Lys.    Why  should  you   think,  that   1   should  woo  in 

scorn  ? 

Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears. 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  wrcp;   and  vows  so  born 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these'  tilings  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true? 

If  el.    You     do     advance     your    cunning    more    and 

more. 

^  When  truth  kills  truth,  O  devilish  holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's.     Will  you  ^ive  her  o'er? 

^  WiMgh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh. 
Your  vows,  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh  ;  and  both  as  lidit  as  tales. 


40  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

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. 

Dem.    [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's  snow, 
Fanned  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  souls1  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, 
When,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  me  with  your  hearts. 
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 
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  bequeath, 
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. 

1  i.  e.  join  heartily,  unite  in  the  same  mind. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  41 

My  heart  with  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourned ; 
And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  returned, 
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.1 — 
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  make-  : 
Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense. 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompense.— 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eve,  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  Q  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st   thou   me  ?     Could    not    this   make1   thcc 

know, 
The  hate  I  bear  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so: 

Her.    You  speak  not  as  vou  think  ;   it  cannot  be. 

Hel.    Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy  ! 
Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoined,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me1. 
Injurious  Hermia  !   most  ungrateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspired,  have  you  with  these  contrived 
To  bate  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, — (3,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial 3  gods, 

l  Pay  dearly  for  it,  rue  it  ~  i.  c.  circles. 

3  i.  e.  ingenious,  artful — artificiosc  (Lai.). 

VOL.     II.  6 


4£  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III, 

Have  with  our  neelds l  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,2  like  coats  in  heraldry, 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  asunder, 
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, 


?Vho  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot,) 
o  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare, 
Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 


To  her  he  hates  ?     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? 

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, 

1  i.  c.  needles. 

2  Mr.  Douce  thus  explains  this  passage : — Helen  says,  "  we  had  two 
seeming  bodies,  but  only  one  heart."     She  then  exemplifies  the  position 
by  a  simile — "  we  had  two  of  the  first,  i.  e.  bodies,  like  the  double  coats  in 
heraldry  that  belong  to  man  and  wife  as  one  person,  but  which,  like  our 
single  heart,  have  but  one  crest"     Malonc  explains  the  heraldic  allusion 
differently,  but  not  so  clearly  nor  satisfactorily. 


SC.  JL]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  43 

Make  mows  ]  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  argument.2 
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. 

Dem.    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. 

Dem.    I  say  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.    If  thou  say  so,  withdraw  and  prove  it  too. 

Dem.    Quick,  come,— 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  all  this  ? 

Lys.    Away,  you  Ethiop  ! 

Dem.  No,  no,  he'll— Sir,3 

Seem  to  break  loose;   take  on  as  von  would  follow; 
But  yet  come  not.     You  are  a  tame  man,  »-o  ! 

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  ' 

1  Make  mouths. 

2  i.  P.  such  a  subject  of  light  merriment. 

3  This  arrangement  of  the  text  is  Malone's,  who  thus  explains  it: — The 
words  hell  are  not  in  the  ftiJio,  and  sir  is  not  in  the  quarto.     Demetrius, 
I  suppose,  would  say,  .Vo,  ?io,  //<7/  not  have  the  resolution  to  disengage 
himself  from  I lermia.     But  turning  to  Lysander,  he  addresses  him  iron 
ically:  "  Sir,  seem  to  break  loose,"  &c.  " 


44  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  111 

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'll  not  trust  your  word. 

Lys.    What,  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her 

dead  ? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I'll  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  ere  while. 
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. 
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  prevailed  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 ; 

1  A  worm  that  preys  on  the  leaves  or  buds  of  flowers. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  45 

How  low  am  I  ?     I  am  not  yet  so  low, 

But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Jfel.    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, 
That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower!   Hark,  again. 

TIcl.    Good  Ilermia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 
I  evermore  did  love  you,  Ilermia, 
Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wronged  you ; 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood. 
He  followed  you ;  for  love,  I  followed  him. 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence,  and  threatened  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too : 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 
To  Athens  wrill  I  bear  my  folly  back, 
And  follow  you  no  farther.     Let  me  go : 
You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond2  I  am. 

Her.    Why,  get  you  gone.     Who  is't  that   hinders 
you  ? 

Hcl.    A  foolish  heart  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.    What !  with  Lysander  * 

Hcl.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.    Be    not    afraid ;    she    shall    not    harm    thee, 
Helena. 

Dem.    No,  sir ;  she  shall  not,  though  you  take  her 
part. 

Hcl.    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  a^ain  ?     Nothing  but  low  and  little  ? — 
Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
Let  me  come  to  her. 

Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

l  L  e.  froward,  cross.  -  Foolish. 


46  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  III 

You  minimus  of  hind 'ring  knot-grass 1  made ; 
You  bead,  you  acorn. 

Dem.   You  are  too  officious 
In  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone  ;  speak  not  of  Helena ; 
Take  not  her  part ;  for  if  thou  dost  intend 2 
Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
Thou  shalt  aby  it.3 

Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not. 

Now  follow  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right, 
Or  thine,  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 

Dem.   Follow  ?     Nay,  I'll  go  with  thee  cheek  by  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  mistak'st, 
Or  else  committ'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Puck.    Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
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,4 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.    Thou  see'st,  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. 

1  Anciently  knot-grass  was  believed  to  prevent  the  growth  of  children. 

2  Pretend. 

3  Aby  it,  for  abide  it,  i.  e.  pay  dearly  for  it,  rue  it. 

4  Chance,  fall  out ;  from  sort  (French). 


SC.  II.]  MJDSUMMER-MGHT'S   DREAM.  47 

Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 

Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  hitter  wrong ; 

And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius; 

And  from  eaeh  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 

Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 

With  leaden  legs  and  battv  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  w;ike,  all  this  derision 

Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision  ; 

And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend 

With  league  whose  date  till  death  shall  never  end. 

Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ, 

I'll  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  l  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-wavs  and  floods  have  burial/2 
Already  to  their  wormv  beds  are  ^one  ; 
For  fear  lest  (lav  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  li^ht, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-browed  night. 

Obr.    Hut  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort. 
I  with  the  ]\Iorni  ilia's  love  :l  have  oft  made  sport; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  i^ate,  all  licrv  red, 


1  So  in  Cymbeline,  Act  ii.  Sc.  1 1  : 

"Swift,  swift,  yc  dragons  of  the  night" 
See  note  on  that  passage. 

~  The  ghosts  of  self-murderers,  who  are  buried  in  cross-roads;  and  of 
those  who,  being  drowned,  wore  condemned  (according  to  the  opinion  of 
the  ancients)  to  wander  for  a  hundred  years,  as  the  rites  of  sepulture  had 
never  been  regularly  bestowed  on  their  bodies. 

:*  Cephalus,  the  mighty  hunter,  and  paramour  of  Aurora,  was  here  prob 
ably  meant 


48  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt-green  streams.1 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  ;  make  no  delay : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day. 

[Exit  OBERON. 
Puck.    Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 

I  will  lead  them  up  and  down. 

I  am  feared  in  field  and  town; 

Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 


Enter  LYSANDER. 

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. 
Puck.  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, 

o  ' 

And  wilt  not   come?     Come,   recreant;    come,    thou 

child, 

I'll  whip  thee  with  a  rod.     He  is  denied, 
That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

Dem.  Yea  ;  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.    Follow    my   voice;    we'll    try    no   manhood 
here.  [Exeunt. 

1  Oberon  here  boasts  that  he  was  not  compelled,  like  meaner  spirits,  to 
vanish  at  the  first  dawn. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  49 


Re-enter  LY SANDER. 

Lys.    He  goes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on  ; 
When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gone. 
The  villain  is  much  lighter  heeled  than  I. 
I  followed  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly; 
That  fallen  am  I  in  dark,  uneven  way, 
And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day  ! 

[Lies  down. 

For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  gray  light, 
I'll  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.         [Sleeps. 

Re-enter  PUCK  and  DEMETRIUS. 

Puck.    Ho,   ho !    ho,    ho ! !      Coward,    why    com'st 

thou  not? 

Dem.    Abide  me,  if  thou  darst  ;  for  well  I  wot, 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place; 
And  dar'st  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, 

If  ever  I  thy  face  by  day-light  see. 
Now,  go  thv  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. — 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be;  visited. 

[Lies  down  and 

Enter  HELENA. 

Hel.    O  weary  night,  O  long  and  tedious  ni^lit, 
Abate  thy  hours.      Shine,  comforts,  from  the  cast  : 
That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  day-li»-ht. 
From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest.— 

1  This  exclamation  would  have  been  uttered  with  more  propriety  by 
Puck,  if  lie  were  not  now  playing1  an  assumed  character,  which  he  seems 
to  forget.  In  the  old  song  printed  by  Percy,  in  which  all  his  trumbols  are 
related,  he  concludes  every  stanza  with  ho!  ho!  ho!  It  was  also  the  es 
tablished  dramatic  exclamation  given  to  the  devil  whenever  lie  appeared 
on  the  stage,  and  attributed  to  him  whenever  lie  appeared  in  reality. 
VOL.  II.  7 


50  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  III. 

And,  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye, 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company.         [Sleeps. 
Puck.   Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more ; 

Two  of  both  kinds  makes  up  four. 

Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad. — 

Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad, 

Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

Enter  HERMIA. 

Her.   Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe, 

Bedabbled  with  the  dew,  and  torn  with  briers, 
I  can  no  farther  crawl,  no  farther  go ; 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 
Here  will  I  rest  me,  till  the  break  of  day. 
Heaven  shield  Lysander  if  they  mean  a  fray ! 

[Lies  down. 
Puck.     On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound. 
I'll  apply 
To  your  eye, 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

[Squeezing  the  juice  on  LYSANDER'S  eye. 
When  thou  wak'st, 
Thou  tak'st 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 

Of  thy  former  lady's  eye  ; 
And  the  country  proverb  known, 
That  every  man  should  take  his  own, 
In  your  waking  shall  be  shown. 
Jack  shall  have  Jill ; 
Nought  shall  go  ill; 

The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  shall  be 
well.1     [Exit  PUCK. — DEM.,  HEL.,  frc.  sleep. 

1  These  three  last  lines  are  to  be  found  in  Heywood's  Epigrams,  or 
Three  Hundred  Proverbs. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM.  51 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  same. 

Enter  TITAMA  and  BOTTOM,  Fairies  attending;  OBERON 
behind,  unseen. 

Tita.    Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 

While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy,1 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

But.    Where's  Peas-blossom  ? 

Peas.    Ready. 

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  yourself 
too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur  ;  and,  good  mon 
sieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not ;  I  would 
be  loath  to  have  you  overflown  with  the  honey-ba^, 
seignior.  Where's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  r 

Must.    Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,2  monsieur  Mustard-seed. 
Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Must.    What's  your  will  r 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  eavalero 
Cobweb  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  barber's,  monsieur; 
for,  methinks,  I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face1, 
and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle 
me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tita.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet 
love  ? 

1  To  coy  is  to  stroke  or  soothe  with  the  hand. 

2  i.  e.fet;  an  old  Scotch  word. 


52  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  IV. 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music.  Let 
us  have  the  tongs  and  the  bones.1 

Tita.    Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender ;  I  could  munch 
your  good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire 
to  a  bottle  of  hay :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

Tita.    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. 

Tita.    Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine,  the  sweet  honeysuckle, 
Gently  entwist, — the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  ringers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee !  how  I  dote  on  thee ! 

[  They  sleep. 

OBERON  advances.     Enter  PUCK. 

Obe.   Welcome,    good     Robin.       See'st    thou    this 

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,  begged  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 

1  The  old,  rough,  rustic  music  of  the  tongs.     The  folio  has  this  stage 
direction :  "  Musicke  Tongs,  Rurall  Music." 


SC.  I  j  MIDriL'.MMEK-MGirrs    DRKAM.  53 

To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  hoy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  ryes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain  ; 
That  he,  awaking  when  the  others  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  hack  n^ain  repair: 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  first   I  will  release  the  f  iirv  queen. 
l>e  thoii    is  thoii  wast  wont  to  he  ; 

[Touching  her  cycx  with  (in  1i<  ib. 
See  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see. 
Dian's  hud  '  o'er  Cupid's  (lower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania,  wake  you,  inv  sweet  queen. 

Titu.    Mv  Oberon!    what  visions  have  1  seen! 
Methought  I  was  enamored  of  an  ass. 
Ohc.    There*  lies  your  love. 

Titci.  How  came  these  things  to  pass? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loath  his  visage  now! 

Obc.    Silence,  awhile. — liobiu.  take  off  this  head. — 
Titania,  music  call;  and  strike1  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  live  the  sen^e. 
Titti.    .Music,  ho!    music;  such  as  channeth  sleep. 
Puck.    Xow    when    thou    wak'st,    with    thine   own 

tool's  eves  peep. 
Obc.    Sound,    music.       [-^/^    /////.v/r.]       Come,    inv 

queen,  take  hands  with  me. 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amitv  ; 
And  will,  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly, 
Dance  in  duke1  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity. 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollitv. 

Pack.    Fairy  kini:,  attend  and  mark; 
I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 

1  Dianas  bud  is  the  bud  of  the  .•Ignits  Castus. 


54  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  IV 

Obe.    Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad,1 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade. 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tita.    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  performed,2 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  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. — 
W"e  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  bayed  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta.     Never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ; 3  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seemed  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  flewed,4  so  sanded ; 5  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crook-kneed,  and  dew-lapped  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tunable 

1  Sad  here  signifies  only  grave,  serious. 

2  i.  e.  the  honors  due  to  the  morning  of  May. 

3  Chiding  means  here  the  cry  of  hounds.     To  chide  is  used  sometimes 
for  to  sound,  or  make  a  noise,  without  any  reference  to  scolding. 

4  Thejlews  are  the  large  chaps  of  a  deep-mouthed  hound. 

5  Sanded  means  of  a  sandy  color,  Avliich  is  one  of  the  true  denotements 
of  a  blood-hound. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  55 

Was  never  hollaed  to,  nor  cheered  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  Xedar'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  graee  of  our  solemnity. — 
But  speak,  Kgeus  ;   is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice? 

Ege.    It  is,  my  lord. 

The.    Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake   them  with  their 
horns. 

Horns   and   shout   within.       DEMETRIUS,    LYSANDER, 
HERMIA,  and  HELENA,  wake  and  start  u/>. 

The.    Good-morrow,    friends.       Saint    Valentine   is 

past ; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  mm  ? 

Lijs.    Pardon,  mv  lord. 

[7/6'  and  the  rest  kneel  to  Tin: si: us. 

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  enmitvr 

Lijs.    My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking.     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. — 


56  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  IV. 

They  would  have  stolen  away,  they  would,  Demetrius, 
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  followed  them ; 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy 1  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, 
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  I  loath  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, 
We'll  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. 
Come,  Hippolyta.  [Exeunt  THE.,  HIP.,  EGE.  and  Train. 

Dem.    These  things  seem  small  and  undistinguishable, 
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. 

x  Fancy  is  here  love,  or  affection,  and  is  opposed  to  fury. 


SC    II.]  MIDSUMMEIUNIGIIT  S   DREAM.  57 

Dem.  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  Ilippolyta. 

Lys.    And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 

Dem.  Why,  then  we  an;  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  1  will  an 
swer. — My  next  is.  Must  fair  Pyramus. — Ilrv,  ho! — 
Peter  Quince;  !  Flute,  tin;  bellows-mender!  Snout,  the 
tinker!  Starveling!  Clod's  my  life  !  stolen  hence,  and 
left  me  asleep!  I  have  had  a  most  rare  \i>ion.  I  have 
had  a  dream, — past  the  wit  of  man  to  >ay  what  dream 
it  was.  Man  is  but  an  ass,  if  he  go  about  to  expound 
this  dream.  Methought  I  was — then4  is  no  man  can 
tell  what.  Methought  I  was,  and  methought  I  had, — 
but  man  is  but  a  patched  fool,  if  he  will  offer  to  say 
what  methought  I  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.  1  \\illuct  IVter  Quince  to 
write  a  ballad  of  this  dream  :  il  shall  be  called  Bottom's 
Dream,  because  it  hath  no  bottom  :  and  I  will  sin^  it 
in  the  latter  end  of  a  plav,  before  the  duke.  Perad- 

1          •>    ' 

venture,  to  make  it  the  more  gracious,  1  shall  sing  it  at 
her  death.1  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.     Athens.     A  Room  in  Quince's  House. 

Enter  QUINCE,  FLUTE,  SNOUT,  and  STARVELING. 

Quin.    Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's   house?     Is  he 
come  home  yet  ? 


1  Meaning  the  death  of  Thisbe. 
VOL.   II.  8 


58  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  IV 

Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt,  he  is 
transported. 

Flu.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  marred.  It 
goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible.  You  have  not  a  man  in  all 
Athens  able  to  discharge  Pjramus  but  he. 

Flu.  No  ;  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any  handi 
craft  man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too ;  and  he  is  a 
very  paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say,  paragon.  A  paramour  is,  God 
bless  us,  a  thing  of  nought. 

Enter  SNUG. 

Snug.  Masters,  the  duke  is  coming  from  the  temple, 
and  there  is  two  or  three  lords  and  ladies  more  married. 
If  our  sport  had  gone  forward,  we  had  all  been  made 
men. 

Flu.  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'll  be  hanged  ; 
he  would  have  deserved  it.  Sixpence  a-day,  in  Pyra 
mus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  BOTTOM. 

Bot.    Where  are  these  lads  ?  Where  are  these  hearts  ? 

Quin.  Bottom  ! — O  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. 

Quin.   Let  us  hear,  sweet  Bottom. 

Bot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell  you,  is, 
that  the  duke  hath  dined.  Get  your  apparel  together ; 
good  strings  to  your  beards,  new  ribands  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  pre 
ferred.  In  any  case,  let  Thisby  have  clean  linen  ;  and 
let  not  him,  that  plays  the  lion,  pare  his  nails,  for  they 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS   DREAM.  59 

shall  hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And,  most  dear 
actors,  eat  no  onions,  nor  garlic,  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  I.     T/ie  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. 

77t€.    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  port. 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact.1 
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  Kuypt : 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rollini:. 
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  joy, 

1  i.  c.  composed. 


60  MIDSUMMER-SIGHTS   DREAM.  [ACT  V. 

It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy  ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear. 
How  easv  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear ! 

Hip.    But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 
And  all  their  minds  transfigured  so  together, 
More  witnessed!  than  fancy's  images. 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy  ; 
But,  howsoever,  strange  and  admirable. 

Enter  LYSANDER,  DEMETRIUS.  HERMIA.  and  HELENA. 

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  on  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed ! 

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-time  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
A Vha t  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 
Call  Philostrate^ 

Philost.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.    Say.    what  abridgment1    have    you    for    this 

evening  ? 

What  mask  ?  what  music  ?     How  shall  we  beguile 
The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Philost.    There  is  a    brief.2   how    manv  sports    are 

ripe : 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 

[Giving  a  paper. 

The.    [Reads.~\     The  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to  be 
sinig 

By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp. 
We'll  none  of  that :  that  have  I  told  my  love, 

1  An  abridgment  appears  to  mean  some  pastime  to  shorten  the  tedious 
eveninsr. 

2  Schedule. 


SC.  i.j  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  61 

Iii  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  played 
When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 

Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary. 
That  is  some  satire,  keen,  and  critical, 
Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 

And  his  loce  Thisbe :  very  tragical  mirth. 
Merrv  and  tragical  !      Tedious  and  brief! 
That  is,  hot  ice,  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord: 

Pliilost.    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  lon^. 
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; 
AVhich,  when  I  saw  rehearsed,  I  mu>t  confess. 
Made;  mine  ('yes  water;   but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.    What  are  they  that  do  plav  it  : 

Plidost.    Hard-handed    men,    that    work   in   Athens 

here, 

Which  never  labored  in  their  minds  till  now; 
And  now  have  toiled  their  unbreathed1  memories 
With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial. 

The.    And  we  will  hear  it. 

P ft  Host.  No.  mv  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you.      I  have  heard  it  o\er. 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world  ; 
Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents, 
Extremely  stretched,  and  conned  with  cruel  pain, 
To  do  you  service. 

1  i.  c.  unexcrciscd,  unpractised. 


62  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  V 

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  places,  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,  not  merit.1 
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  accent  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off, 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome ;  trust  me,  sweet, 
Out  of  this  silence,  yet,  I  picked  a  welcome ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much,  as  from  the  rattling  tongue 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity, 
In  least  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 

Enter  PHILOSTRATE. 

Philost.    So    please  your    grace,    the    prologue    is 

addrest.2 
The.    Let  him  approach.  [Flourish  of  trumpets. 


-  The  sense  of  this  passage  appears  to  be: — "  What  dutifulness  tries  to 
perform  without  ability,  regardful  generosity  receives  with  -complacency ; 
estimating  it,  not  by  the  actual  merit,  but  according  to  the  power  or  might 
of  the  humble  but  zealous  performers." 

2  Ready. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  63 


Enter  Prologue. 


- 


Prol.   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  arc  like  to  know. 

The.    Tliis  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 

Lys.  lie  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  this  prologue  like  a 
child  on  a  recorder;1  a  sound  but  not  in  government.9 

The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain  ;  nothing 
impaired,  but  all  disordered.  Who  is  next? 

Enter  PYRAMUS  and  THISBE,  Wall,  Moon-shine,  and 
Lion,  as  in  dumb  show. 

Prol.    "  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  Thisbv  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  moon-shine;  for,  if  you  will  know, 
"  By  moon-shine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

"  To  meet  at  Ninus'   tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 

1  A  kind  of  flageolet         2  i.  e.  not  regularly,  according  to  the  time. 


64  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  V, 

"  This  grisly  beast,  which  by  name  lion  hight, 
"  The  trusty  Thisby,  coming  first  by  night, 
"  Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright; 
"  And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  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. 
"Whereat  with  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 

"  He  bravely  broached  his  boiling  bloody  breast; 
"  And,  Thisby  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

"  His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
"  Let  lion,  moon-shine,  wall,  and  lovers  twain, 
"  At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain." 

\Exeunt  Prol.,  THISBE,  Lion,  and  Moon-shine. 

The.    I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 

Dem.   No  wonder,  my  lord.     One  lion  may,  when 
many  asses  do. 

Wall.    "  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befall, 
"  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  ? 

Dem.    It  is  the  wittiest  partition  that  ever  I  heard 
discourse,  my  lord. 

The.    Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall.     Silence  ! 

Enter  PYRAMUS. 
Pyr.    "  O    grim-looked  night !     O  night  with  hue 

so  black ! 

"  O  night,  which  ever  art,  when  day  is  not ! 
"  O  night,  O  night,  alack,  alack,  alack, 

"  I  fear  my  Thisby 's  promise  is  forgot ! — 
"  And  thou,  O  wall,  O  sweet,  O  lovely  wall, 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  G5 

"  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,  eourteous  wall.     Jove  shield  thee   well  for 

this ! 

"But  what  see  I  ?     No  Tliisby  do  I  see. 
"O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss. 
"  Curst  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me  !  " 
The.    The    wall,   methinks,   being   sensible,   should 
curse  again. 

Pijr.    No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.     Deceiving 
me.  is  Thisby's  cue.      She4  is  to  enter  now.  and    I   am 

J 

to  spy  her  through  the  wall.      You  shall  see,  it  will  fall 
pat  as  I  told  you. — Yonder  she  comes. 


Enter  THIS  HE. 

This.    "  O  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moans, 
"  For  parting  my  fair  Pyramus  and  me. 

"My  cherry  lips  have  often  kissed  thy  stones; 

"Thy  stones,  with  lime  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee." 
Pyr.    ii  I  see  a  voice  :   now  will  I  to  the  chink, 

"To  spy  an  I  can  hear  mv  Thisby's  face. 

"  Tliisby  !  " 

Tins.    "My  love!      Thou  art  mv  lo\e.  I  think/' 
Pyr.    "Think  what  thou  will.  I  am  thy  " 

"And  like  Lhnander  !  am  1  trusts  still." 

This.    "And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  me 

Pi/r.    "Not  Shafalus  to  Proems  was  so  trm 

This.    "  As  Shafalus  to  Proems,  1  to  you." 

Pyr.    "  O,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall." 

This.    "  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not    vour   lips  at  all."' 

Pyr.    "Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me  straight 


wa    ?  " 


This.    "  Tide  life,  tide  death,  1  come  without  delay. 


1  lAmandc.r  and  H<lcn,  blunderingly  for  Leandcr  and  Hero,  as  Sliafalus 
and  Proems  for  Ceplialus  and  Procris. 
VOL.    II.  9 


66  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  [ACT  V. 

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.1 

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 2  and  a  lion. 

Enter  Lion  and  Moon-shine. 

Lion.    "  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 
"  The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on  floor, 
"  May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  here, 
"  When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 

O  O 

"  Then  know,  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 
"  No  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  conscience. 

Dem.  The  very  best  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. 

1  This  alludes  to  the  proverb,  "  Walls  have  ears."    A  wall  between  al 
most  any  two  neighbors,  says  Johnson,  would  soon  be  down,  were  it  to  ex 
ercise  this  faculty  without  previous  warning. 

2  Theobald  altered  this  word  to  moon,  without  apparent  reason. 


SC.  1.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  67 

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  present. 
"  Myself  the  man  i'the  moon  do  seem  to  be." 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest. 
The  man  should  be  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,  by  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  I  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. 

This.    "This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.     Where  is  my 

love  ?  " 
Lion.    "Oh—." 

[The  Lion  roars. — THISBE  runs  off 
Dem.    Well  roared,  lion. 
The.    Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon. — Truly,  the  moon  shines 
with  a  good  grace. 

The.    Well  moused,9  lion. 

[The  Lion  tears  THISBE'S  mantle,  and  exit. 

1  An  equivoque.     Snuff  signifies  both  the  cinder  of  a  candle  and  hasty 
anger. 

2  To  mouse,  according  to  Malone,  signified  to  mammock,  to  tear  in 
pieces,  as  a  cat  tears  a  mouse. 


68  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  V, 

Dem.   And  so  comes  Pyramus. 
Lys.   And  so  the  lion  vanished. 

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 ; — 0  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,  stained  with  blood  f 
"  Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 
"  O  fates !     come,  come ; 
"  Cut  thread  and  thrum ; 1 
"  Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell ! J)  2 
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  lions  frame  ? 
"  Since  lion  vile  hath  here  defloured  my  dear : 
"  Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  fairest  dame, 
"  That  lived,  that  loved,  that  liked,  that  looked  with 

cheer.3 

"  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. 


1  Thrum  is  the  end  or  extremity  of  a  -weaver's  warp.    It  is  used  for 
any  collection  or  tuft  of  short  thread. 

2  Destroy.  3  Countenance. 


SC.  I.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  69 

"  Now  am  I  dead, 
"  Now  am  I  fled  ; 
"  My  soul  is  in  the  sky. 
"  Tongue,  lose  thy  light ! 
"  Moon,  take  thy  flight ! 
"  Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die." 

[Dies. — Exit  Moon-shine. 

Dem.    No  die,  but  an  ace,  lor  him  ;  for  he  is  hut  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  moon-shine  is  gone,  before  Thisbe 
comes  back  and  finds  her  lover: 

The.    She  will   find   him    by  star-light. — Here   she 
comes ;  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Enter  THISIU:. 

Hip.    Methinks,  she  should  not  use  a  long  one,  for 
such  a  Pyramus.     I  hope  she  will  be  brief. 

Dem.    A   mote  will  turn   the   balance,  which  Pyr 
amus,  which  Thisbe,  is  the  better. 

Lys.    She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet 
eyes. 

Dem.    And  thus  she;  moans,1  videlicet. 

This.    "  Asleep,  my  love  ? 
"  What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
"  O  Pyramus,  arise  ; 

"Speak,  speak.     Quite  dumb? 
"  Dead,  dead  ?     A  tomb 
"Must  cover  thv  sweet  eyes. 
"  These  lily  brows,2 
"  This  cherry  nose, 
"  These  yellow  cowslip  checks, 
"  Are  gone,  are  gone. 
"  Lovers,  make  moan  ! 


1  The  old  copies  read  means,  which  had  anciently  the  same  signifi 
cation  as  moans.     Theobald  made  the  alteration. 

2  The  old  copies  read  lips  instead  of  brows.     The  alteration  was  made 
for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme  by  Theobald. 


70  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  V 

"  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  a  word. — 
"  Come,  trusty  sword  ; 
"  Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue, 
"  And  farewell,  friends  ; — 
"  Thus  Thisby  ends. 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  adieu."  [Dies. 

The.   Moonshine  and  lion  are  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Dem.   Ay,  and  wall  too. 

Bot.  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  hanged  him 
self  with  Thisbe's  garter,  it  w^ould  have  been  a  fine 
tragedy  ;  and  so  it  is,  truly,  arid  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  outsleep  the  coining  morn, 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatched. 
This  palpable-gross  play  hath  well  beguiled 
The  heavy  gait  of  night. — Sweet  friends,  to  bed. 
A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity 
In  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.  [Exeunt 


1  A  rustic  dance  framed  in  imitation  of  the  people  of  Bergamasco  (a 
province  in  the  state  of  Venice),  who  are  ridiculed  as  being  more  clown 
ish  in  their  manners  and  dialect  than  any  other  people  of  Italy.  The  lin 
gua  rustica  of  the  buffoons,  in  the  old  Italian  comedies,  is  an  imitation 
of  their  jargon. 


SC.  Jl.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S   DREAM.  71 


SCENE  II. 

Enter  PUCK. 

Puck.    Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon ; 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  foredone.1 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  screech-owl,  screeching  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  hallowed  house  ; 
I  am  sent,  with  broom,  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door.2 

Enter  OBERON  and  TITAMA,  with  their  Train. 
Obc.    Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light, 

o  GO  DO* 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire. 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite, 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier ; 
And  this  ditty  after  me, 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tita.    First,  rehearse  this  song  by  rote. 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note, 

1  Overcome. 

2  Cleanliness  is  always  necessary  to  invite  tne  residence  or  favor  of 
the  Fairies. 


72  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  [ACT  V. 

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. 
To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we, 
Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be  ; 1 
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,2  such  as  are 
Despised  in  nativity, 
Shall  upon  their  children  be. — 
With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 
Every  fairy  take  his  gate  ; 3 
And  each  several  chamber  bless, 
Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace. 
E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest, 
And  the  owner  of  it  blest. 
Trip  away  ; 
Make  no  stay ; 
Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

[Exeunt  OBERON,  TITANIA,  and  Train 
Puck.   If  we  shadows  have  offended. 

Think  but  this,  (and  all  is  mended,) 

That  you  have  but  slumbered  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,  ive  will  mend. 

1  This  ceremony  was  in  old  times  used  at  all  marriages. 

2  Portentous.  3  Way,  course. 


SC.  II.]  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM.  73 

And,  as  Pm  an  honest  Puck, 

If  we  have  unearned  luck,1 

Now  to  ''scape  the  serpents  tongue? 

We  will  make  amends,  ere  long ; 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call. 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Give  me  your  hands,2  if  we  befriends, 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.  [Exit. 

i  L  e.  if  we  have  better  fortune  than  we  have  deserved. 

9  L  e.  hisses. 

3  Clap  your  hands ;  give  us  your  applause. 

VOL.  II.  10 


WILD  and  fantastical  as  this  play  is,  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  Spenser's  poem  had  made  them  great 

JOHNSON. 

JOHNSON'S  concluding  observations  on  this  play  are  not  conceived 
with  his  usual  judgment  There  is  no  analogy  or  resemblance  between 
the  fairies  of  Spenser  and  those  of  Shakspeare.  The  fairies  of  Spenser, 
as  appears  from  his  description  of  them  in  the  second  book  of  the  Faerie 
Queene,  canto  x.,  were  a  race  of  mortals  created  by  Prometheus,  of  the 
human  size,  shape,  and  affections,  and  subject  to  death.  But  those  of 
Shakspeare,  and  of  common  tradition,  as  Johnson  calls  them,  were  a 
diminutive  race  of  sportful  beings,  endowed  with  immortality  and  super 
natural  powers,  totally  different  from  those  of  Spenser. 

M.  MASON. 


LOVE'S    LABOR'S  LOST. 


PRELIMINARY   RE  M  A R  K  S  . 


THE  novel  upon  which  this  comedy  was  founded  has  hitherto  eluded 
the  research  of  the  commentators.  Mr.  Douce  thinks  it  will  prove  to  be 
of  French  extraction.  "The  Dramatis  Persona?  in  a  great  measure  de 
monstrate  this,  as  well  as  a  palpable  (iallicism  in  Act  iv.  Sc.  1  :  viz.  the 
terming  a  It  tier  a  rapon" 

This  is  one  of  Shakspeare's  early  plays,  and  the  author's  youth  is  cer 
tainly  perceivable,  not  only  in  the  style  and  manner  of  the  versification, 
but  in  the  lavish  superfluity  displayed  in  the  execution — the  uninterrupted 
succession  of  quibbles,  equivoques,  and  sallies  of  every  description. 
"The  sparks  of  Avit  fly  about  in  such  profusion  that  they  form  complete 
fireworks,  and  the  dialogue  for  the  most  part  resembles  the  bustling  col 
lision  and  banter  of  passing  masks  at  a  carnival."*  The  scene  in  which 
the  king  and  his  companions  detect  each  other's  breach  of  their  mutual 
vow,  is  capitally  contrived.  The  discovery  of  H  iron's  love-lotter  while 
rallying  his  friends,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  extricates  himself,  by 
lidiculing  the  folly  of  the  vow,  are  admirable. 

The  grotesque  characters,  don  Adrian  de  Armado,  Nathaniel  the  curate, 
and  Holofernes,  that  prince  of  pedants,  with  the  humors  of  Costard  the 
clown,  are  well  contrasted  with  the  sprightly  wit  of  the  principal  charac 
ters  in  tlie  play.  It  has  been  observed  that"Biron  and  Rosaline  suffer 
much  in  comparison  with  Benedick  and  Beatrice,"  and  it  must  be  confessed 
that  there  is  some  justice  in  the  observation.  Yet  Biron,  "that  merry 
mad-cap  L>rd,"is  not  overrated  in  Rosaline's  admirable  character  of  him — 

"  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  cr.tch, 
The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest; — 
So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse." 

Shakspeare  has  only  shown  the  inexhaustible  powers  of  his  mind,  in  im 
proving  on  the  admirable  originals  of  his  own  creation,  in  a  more  ma 
ture  age. 

Malone  placed  the  composition  of  this  play  first  in  loOl,  afterwards  in 
15!)4.  Dr.  Drake  thinks  we  may  safely  assign  it  to  the  earlier  period. 
The  first  edition  was  printed  in  1598. 

*  Schlegel. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

FERDINAND,  King  of  Navarre. 

BlRON,1  \ 

LONGAVILLE,  >  Lords,  attending  on  the  King. 

DUMAIN,  j 

OYET,       |  Lords,  attending  on  the  Princess  of  France. 

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,     \ 

MARIA,  >  Ladies,  attending  on  the  Princess. 

KATHARINE,  J 

JAQUENETTA,  a  Country  Wench. 

Officers  and  Others,  Attendants  on  the  King  and  Princess. 

SCENE.      Navarre. 

Thia  enumeration  of  Persons  was  made  by  Rowe. 
1  Berawne  in  all  the  old  editions. 


LOVE'S    LABOR'S    LOST. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.     Navarre.     A  Park  with  a  Palace  in  it. 

Enter  the  Kinjr,  BIRO.N,  LONG  AVI  LI, K,  mid  DUMAIN. 

King.    LET  fame,  that  all   hunt  after  in   their  lives, 
Live  registered  upon  our  bra/en  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  shall  bate  his  scythe's  keen  edge, 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors! — for  so  you  arc', 
That  war  against  your  own  affections, 
And  the  lui^e  armv  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  statute's, 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here. 
Your  oaths  are  p:ist,  and  now  subscribe  vour  names  ; 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honor  down, 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein. 
If  you  are  armed  to  do,  as  sworn  to  do, 
Subscribe  to  vour  deep  oath,  and  keep  it  too. 

Long.    I  am  resolved.      'Tis  but  a  three  years'  fast; 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine. 


78  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST  [ACT  I. 

Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bank'rout  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. 

Biron.    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  night, 
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. 
O,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep; 
Not  to  see  ladies — study — fast — not  sleep. 

King.    Your   oath    is    passed    to    pass    away    from 
these. 

Biron.    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. 

Long.   You  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the  rest. 

Biron.    By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  then  I  swore  in  jest. 
What  is  the  end  of  study  ?     Let  me  know. 

King.    Why,  that  to  know,  which   else  we  should 
not  know. 

Biron.    Things    hid    and    barred,  you    mean,  from 
common  sense  ? 

King.    Ay,  that  is  study's  godlike  recompense. 

Biron.    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; 


SC.  1.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  79 

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. 

Biron.    Why,  all  delights  an;  vain;    but  that  most 

vain, 

Which,  with  pain  purchased,  doth  inherit  pain. 
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.2 
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  bv. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-searched  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  nought  but  fame; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name.3 

King.    How    well     he's    read,     to    reason     against 
reading ! 

Dum.    Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding! 


1  Dishonestly,  treacherously. 

2  The  sense 'of  this  declamation  is  only  this,  that  a  man  by  too  close 
study  may  read  himself  blind. 

3  That  is,  too  much  knowledge  gives  no  real  solution  of  doubts,  but 
merely  fame,  or  a  name,  a  tiling  which  every  godfather  can  give. 


80  LOVE  S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  1. 

Long.    He  weeds  the  corn,  and  still   lets  grow  the 


weeding. 

Biron.    The  spring  is  near,  when  green   geese   are 
a-breeding. 

Dum.    How  follows  that  ? 

Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  time. 

Dum.    In  reason  nothing. 

Biron.  Something  then  in  rhyme. 

Long.    Biron  is  like  an  envious  sneaping  *  frost, 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 

Biron.    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 ; 2 
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 ! 

Biron.   No,  my   good  lord;    I   have  sworn  to  stay 

with  you : 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more, 

Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say, 
Yet  confident  I'll  keep  what  1  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'll  write  my  name. 

King.    How  well  this  yielding   rescues    thee  from 
shame ! 

Biron.    [Reads.]  Item,    That  no  woman  shall  come 
within  a  mile  of  my  court. — Hath  this  been  proclaimed? 

Long.    Four  days  ago. 

Biron.    Let's  see  the  penalty.     [Reads.'}     On  pain 
of  losing  her  tongue. — Who  devised  this  penalty? 

Long.  Marry,  that  did  I. 

Biron.    Sweet  lord,  and  why? 

1  i.  e.  nipping. 

2  By  these  shows  the  poet  means  May-games,  at  which  a  snow  would 
be  very  unwelcome  and  unexpected.     It  is  only  a  periphrasis  for  May. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  81 

Long.    To    fright    them    hence    with    that    dread 
penalty. 

Biron.    A  dangerous  law  against  gentility.1 

[Reads.]    Item,  If  any  man  be  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. 

Biron.    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  tiling  it  hunted  most, 
'Tis  won,  as  towns  with  fire;  so  won,  so  lost. 

Kin<r.    We  must,  of  force,  dispense  with  this  decree; 
She  must  lie2  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.    Necessity  will  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three    thousand    times    within    this    three   years' 
space. 

For  every  man  with  his  affects  is  born  : 

Not  by  might  mastered,  but  by  special  uracc. 
If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessity.  — 
So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  mv  name.    [Subscribes. 

And  he  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree, 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame. 

Suggestions3  are  to  others  as  to  me: 
But,  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loath, 

1  The  word  gentility  here  does  not  signify  that  rank  of  people  called 
gentry  ;  but  what  the  French  express  by  fccntilesse^  i.  e.  clegantia,  urbanitas 

2  That  is  rcti'le  here.  :*  Temtations. 


hat  is,  rcti'le  here.  :*  Temptations. 

VOL.    II.  1  1 


82  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  1 

1  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick 1  recreation  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,2  whom  right  and  wrong 

Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny. 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight, 

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.3 

Biron.    Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  owrn  knight. 

Long.    Costard    the   swain,    and    he,    shall    be    our 

o 

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  ? 

Biron.    This,  fellow.     What  would'st? 

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. 

Biron.    This  is  he. 

Dull.  Seignior  Arme  —  Arme  —  commends  you. 
There's  villany  abroad ;  this  letter  will  tell  you  more. 

Cost.    Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  are  as  touching  me. 

1  Lively,  sprightly. 

2  Complements  is  here  used  in  its  ancient  sense  of  accomplishments. 
Vide  Note  on  K.  Henry  V.  Act  ii.  Sc.  2. 

3  I  will  make  use  of  him  instead  of  a  minstrel,  whose  occupation  was 
to  relate  fabulous  stories. 

4  i.  e.  third-borough,  a  peace-officer. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABOR  S  LOST.  83 

King.    A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in  God 
for  high  words. 

Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  having!  God  grant 
us  patience ! 

Biron.    To  hear,  or  forbear  hearing?1 

Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  mode 
rately  ;  or  to  forbear  both. 

Biron.  Well,  sir,  be  it  as  the  style 2  shall  give  us 
cause  to  climb  in  the  merriness. 

Cost.  The  matter  is  to  me,  sir,  as  concerning  Ja- 
quenetta.  The  manner  of  it  is,  I  was  taken  with 
the  manner.3 

Biron.    In  what  manner? 

Cost.  In  manner  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  her  into 
the  park  ;  which,  put  together,  is,  in  manner  and  form 
following.  Now,  sir,  for  the  manner, — it  is  the  man 
ner  of  a  man  to  speak  to  a  woman ;  for  the  form, 
in  some  form. 

Biron.    For  the  following,  sir? 

Cost.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction ;  and  God 
defend  the  right! 

King.    Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  ? 

Biron.    As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Cost.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to  hearken 
after  the  flesh. 

K  i  n  ij.  [  Reads. ]  Great  deputy,  the  welkins  vir<  ^v  />  // ;. 
and  sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my  souVs  earth's  God, 
and  body's  fostering  patron. — 

Cost.    Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King.    So  it  is, — 

Cost.  It  may  be  so;  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  he  is, 
in  telling  true,  but  so,  so. 

1  "To  hear,  or  forbear  laughing?"  is  possibly  the  true  reading1. 

2  A  quibble  is  here  intended  between  a  stile  and  style. 

:*  That  is,  in  the  fart.  A  thief  is  said  to  be  taken  with  the  manner 
[mainour]  when  he  is  taken  with  the  tiling  stolen  about  him.  The  thin" 
stolen  was  called  mainour,  //lanour,  or  meinonr,  from  the  French  manier — 
manu  tractare. 


84  LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT    . 

King.    Peace. 

Cost.  — be  to  me,  and  every  man  that  dares  not  fight ! 

King.    No  words. 

Cost.  — of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King.  So  it  is,  besieged  with  sable-colored  melan 
choly^  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 
preposterous  event,  that  draweth  from  my  snow-white 
pen  the  ebon-colored  ink,  which  here  thou  viewest,  be- 
holdest,  surveyest,  or  seest.  But  to  the  place  where. — It 
standeth  north-north-east  and  by  east  from  the  west  cor 
ner  of  thy  curious-knotted  garden.1  There  did  I  see 
that  low-spirited  swain,  that  base  minnow  of  thy  mirth? 

Cost.   Me. 

King. — that  unlettered,  small-knowing  soul, 

Cost.    Me. 

King. — that  shallow  vassal, 

Cost.    Still  me. 

King. — which,  as  I  remember,  hight  Costard, 

Cost.    O  me ! 

King. — sorted  and  consorted,  contrary  to  thy  estab 
lished,  proclaimed  edict  and  continent  canon,  with — 
with, —  O  with — but  with  this  I  passion  to  say  where 
with, 

Cost.    With  a  wench. 

King. — with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve,  a  fe 
male  ;  or,  for  thy  more  sweet  understanding,  a  woman. 
Him  I  (as  my  ever-esteemed  duty  pricks  me  on)  have 


1  Ancient  gardens  abounded  with  knots  or  figures,  of  which  the  lines 
intersected  each  other.      In   the   old   books   of  gardening   are  devices 
for  them. 

2  i.  e.  the  contemptible   little   object,  that   contributes  to  thy  enter 
tainment 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  So 

sent  to  thee,  to  receive  the  meed  of  punishment,  by  thy 
sweet  graced  officer,  Antony  Dull ;  a  man  of  good  re 
pute,  carriage,  bearing,  and  estimation. 

Dull.    Me,  an't  shall  please  you  ;  I  am  Antony  Dull. 

Kin^. — For  Jatjitenctta,  (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  shall,  at 
the  least  of  thy  sweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial.  Thine, 
in  all  compliments  of  devoted  and  heart-burning  heat 
of  duty,  DON  ADIUANO  DE  An  MA  DO. 

Biron.  This  is  not  so  well  as  I  looked  tor,  but  the 
best  that  ever  I  heard. 

King.  Av,  the  best  for  the  worst.  l>nt.  Mrrah, 
what  say  you  to  this? 

Cost.    Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 

King.    Did  you  hear  the  proclamation  ? 

Cost.  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. 

Cost.  1  was  taken  with  none,  sir.  I  was  taken 
with  a  damosel. 

King.    Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damosel. 

Cost.  This  was  no  damosel  neither,  sir  ;  she  was  a 
virgin. 

King.  It  is  so  varied  too  ;  for  it  was  proclaimed, 
virgin. 

Cost.    If  it  wen4,  I  denv  her  virginity.      I  was  taken 

•>  &       «• 

with  a  maid. 

King.    This  maid  will  not  serve  vour  turn,  sir. 

Cost.    This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 

King.    Sir,  I  will  pronounce  vour  sentence  ; 
You  shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cost.  I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton  and 
porridge. 

King.    And   Don  Armado    shall    be  your  keeper. — 
My  lord  Biron,  see  him  delivered  o'er. — 
And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 

Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. — 

[Exeunt  King,  LONGAVILLE,  and  DUMAIN. 


86  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  I 

Biron.    I'll  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man's  hat, 
These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn. — 
Sirrah,  come  on. 

Cost.  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 
perity  !  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.1 

Moth.    No,  no ;   O  lord,  sir,  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melancholy, 
my  tender  Juvenal  ?  ^ 

Moth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working, 
my  tough  senior. 

Arm.    Why  tough  senior?  why  tough  senior? 

Moth.    Why  tender  Juvenal  ?  why  tender  Juvenal  ? 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  Juvenal,  as  a  congruent 
epitheton,  appertaining  to  thy  young  days,  which  we 
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  say 
ing  apt  ?  or  I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.    Thou  pretty,  because  little. 

1  Imp  literally  means  a  graft,  slip,  scion,  or  sucker ;  and  by  metonymy 
is  used  for   a  child  or  boy.     Cromwell,  in  his  last  letter  to  Henry  VIII. 
prays  for  the  imp  his  son. 

2  i.  e.  youth. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  87 

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.    1  do  say,  thou  art  quick  in  answers. 
Thou  heatest  my  blcxxl. 

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  vrars  with 
the  duke. 

Moth.    You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.    Impossible. 

Moth.    How  many  is  one  thrice  told? 

Ann.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning ;  it  fitteth  the  spirit  of 
a  tapster. 

Moth.    You  are  a  gentleman,  and  a  gamester,  sir. 

Arm.  I  confess  both  ;  they  are  both  the  varnish  of 
a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then  1  am  sure1  you  know  how  much  the 
gross  sum  of  deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Ann.    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'll  thrice  wink : 
and  how  easy  it  is  to  put  years  to  the  word  three,  and 
studv  three  years  in  two  words,  the  dancing  horse3 
will  tell  you. 

Arm.    A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.    To  prove  you  a  cipher.  [Aside. 

1  By  crosses  he  means  money.     Many  coins  were  anciently  marked 
with  a  cross  on  one  side. 

2  This  alludes  to  the  celebrated  bay  horse  Morocco,  belonging  to  one 
Bankes,  who  exhibited  his  docile  and  sagacious  animal  through  Europe. 
Many  of  his  remarkable  pranks  are  mentioned  by  contemporary  writers: 
and  he  is  alluded  to  bv  numbers  besides  Shakspcare. 


88  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  1 

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  prisoner,  and  ransom 
him  to  any  French  courtier  for  a  new-devised  courtesy. 
I  think  scorn  to  sigh ;  methinks  I  should  outswear 
Cupid.  Comfort  me,  boy.  What  great  men  have 
been  in  love  ? 

Moth.    Hercules,  master. 

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  !  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 ! 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child ;  most  pretty, 
and  pathetical ! 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  89 

Moth.    If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 

Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known  ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  bv  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  jK>ssess  the  same, 

Which  native  she  doth  owe.1 

A  dangerous  rhyme,  master,  against  the  reason  of 
white  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and 
the  Beggar  .*  ~ 

Moth.  The  world  was  verv  guiltv  of  such  a  ballad 
some  three  a<res  since.  But,  I  think,  now  'tis  not  to 

O 

be  found;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  lor  the 
writing,  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  the  subject  newlv  \\rit  o'er,  that 
I  may  example  mv  digression3  bv  some  nnijitv  pre 
cedent.  Hoy,  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  vet  a  better  love  than 
my  master.  [Aside. 

Arm.    Sing,  bov  ;   mv  spirit  »TOWS  heavv  in  love. 

Moth.    And  that's  great  marvel,  loving  a  lii^ht  wench. 

Ann.    I  say,  sing. 

Moth.    Forbear  till  this  companv  be  past. 


Enter  Pru.,  COSTARD,  and  .1  wn:\i:n  A. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is.  that  vou  keep 
Costard  safe  ;  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  delight. 
nor  no  penance:  but  a'must  last  three  davs  a-week. 
For  this  damsel,  I  must  keep  her  at  the  park  :  she  is 
allowed  lor  the  day-woman.4  Fare  vou  well. 

1  Of  \vhioh  she  is  naturally  possessed. 

•  See  Percy's  Relieves  of  Antient  Poetry,  fourth  edition,  vol.  i.  p.  198. 

3  Digression  is  here  used  for  the  act  of  £<>in£  out  of  the  right  way — 
transgression. 

4  Taberna  cascaria  is  interpreted  in  the  old  dictionaries  a  dayc  house, 
where  cheese  is  made.     A  day-woman  is  therefore  a  dairy-woman*     John- 

VOL.     II.  lX> 


90  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  1. 

Arm.    I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing. — Maid — 

Jaq.   Man. 

Arm.    I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jag.    That's  hereby.1 

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. 

Cost.  Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do  it 
on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.    Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished. 

Cost.  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  ;  away. 

Cost.  Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir ;  I  will  fast, 
being  loose. 

Moth.  No,  sir ;  that  were  fast  and  loose.  Thou 
shalt  to  prison. 

Cost.  Well,  if  ever  I  do  see  the  merry  days  of 
desolation  that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see — 

Moth.    What  shall  some  see  ? 

Cost.  Nay,  nothing,  master  Moth,  but  what  they 
look  upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too  silent  in 
their  words ;  and,  therefore,  I  will  say  nothing.  I 
thank  God,  I  have  as  little  patience  as  another  man : 
and,  therefore,  I  can  be  quiet. 

[Exeunt  MOTH  and  COSTARD. 

son  says  day  is  an  old  word  for  milk.     A  dairy-maid  is  still  called  a  dcy 
or  day  in  tlie  northern  parts  of  Scotland. 

1  Jaquenetta  and  Armado  are  at  cross-purposes.  Hereby  is  used  by 
her  (as  among  the  common  people  of  some  counties)  in  the  sense  of  as  it 
may  happen.  He  takes  it  in  the  sense  oi'just  by. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  91 

Arm.  I  do  affect J  the  very  ground,  which  is  base, 
where  her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  by  her  foot, 
which  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forsworn, 
(which  is  a  great  argument  of  falsehood,)  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  lu;  had  an  excellent  strength.  Yet  was  Solomon 
so  seduced  ;  and  he  had  a  very  good  wit.  Cupid's 
butt-shaft2  is  too  hard  for  Hercules'  club,  and  therefor.- 
too  much  odds  for  a  Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and 
second  cause  will  not  serve4  mv  turn:3  the  passado  he 
respects  not,  the  duello  he  regards  not.  His  di^raee 
is  to  be  called  boy;  but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men. 
Adieu,  valor!  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  lor 
whole  volumes  in  folio.  [Exit. 


ACT    II 

SCENE   I.     Another  part  of  tin    same.      A   Pavilion 
and  Tents  at  a  distance. 

Enter    the    Princess    of    France,    ROSALINE,    MARIA, 
KATHARINE,  BOYET,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyct.    Now,    madam,    summon    up    your    dearest4 

spirits. 

Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends  : 
To  whom  he  sends ;  and  what's  his  embassy ; 


1  Love. 

3  A  kind  of  arrnw  used  for  shooting  at  butts  with.     The  butt  was  the 
place  on  which  the  mark  to  be  shot  at  was  placed. 

3  See  notes  on  the  last  act  of  As  You  Like  It,  also  note  to  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Act  ii.  JSc.  4. 

4  Best. 


92  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  II. 

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 

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  flourish  of  your  praise. 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye, 
Not  uttered  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 l  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. 

Boyet.    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, 

1  i.  e.  confident  of  it. 


SC.  I.]  LOVK  S   LABOR'S    LOST.  90 

Between  lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heir 

Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 

In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville. 

A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteemed  ; 

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  matched  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  mem  mocking  lord,  belike;-  is't  so? 

Mar.    Thev  sav  so  most,  that  most  his  humors  know. 

Prin.    Such  short-lived  wits  do  wither  as  they  grow. 
Who  are  the  rest  ? 

Kath.  The  voun^Dumain,a  well-accomplished  youth, 
Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  \irtue  loved: 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill  : 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape1  good, 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  duke  Aleiujon's  once  ; 
And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw, 
Is  my  report,  to  his  great  worthiness. 

7x06'.    Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him.      If  1  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  voluble  is  his  discourse. 

Prin.    Cod  bless  my  ladies  !   are  they  all  in  love, 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 

Mar.    Here  comes  Bo  vet. 


94  LOVE'S  LABOR  S  LOST.         [ACT  II. 


Re-enter  Bo  YET. 

Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord  ? 

Boyet.    Navarre  had  notice  of  jour  fair  approach ; 
And  he,  and  his  competitors  1  in  oath, 
Were  all  addressed2  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  1  came.     Marry,  thus  much  have  I  learnt; 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
(Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court,) 
Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath, 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Here  comes  Navarre.  [The  ladies  mask. 


Enter     KING,     LONGAVILLE,     DUMAIN,     BIRON,    and 
Attendants. 

King.  Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  ol 
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'll   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  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hear  your  grace  has  sworn-out  house-keeping. 
'Tis  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord, 
And  sin  to  break  it. 

But  pardon  me,  I  am  too  sudden-bold ;  - 
To  teach  a  teacher  ill  beseemeth  me. 

i  Confederates.  ~  Prepared. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  95 

Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 

And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit.      [Gives  a  paper. 

King.    Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 

Prin.    You  will  the  sooner,  that  1  were  away ; 
For  you'll  prove  perjured,  if  you  make  me  stay. 

Biron.    Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Ros.    Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Biron.  I  know  you  did. 

7xo.s'.  How  needless  was  it  then 

To  ask  the  question  ! 

Biron.  You  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Ros.    'Tis   'long   of  you    that    spur    me   with    such 
questions. 

Biron.    Your  wit's  too  hot ;  it  speeds  too  fast ;   'twill 
tire. 

Ros.    Not  till  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron.    What  time  o'  day  ? 

Ros.    The  hour  that  fools  should  ask. 

Biron.    Now  fair  befall  your  mask  ! 

Ros.    Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Biron.    And  send  you  many  lovers  ! 

Ros.    Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Biron.    Nay,  then  will  I  In;  gone. 

King.    Madam,  your  father  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns; 
Being  but  the  one  half  of  an  entire  sum, 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say,  that  lie,  or  we,  (as  neither  have,) 
Received  that  sum;  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more  ;   in  surety  of  the  which, 
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,  In;  little  purposeth, 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have;  repaid 
A  hundred  thousand  crowns ;  and  not  demands, 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 


96  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  II. 

To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitain ; 

Which  we  much  rather  had  depart 1  withal, 

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  much  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'll  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 

Prin.  We  arrest  your  word. — 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances, 
For  such  a  sum,  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  lather. 

King.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Boyet.    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. 
Mean  time,  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. 

1  To  depart  and  to  part  were  anciently  synonymous. 


SC.  I.J  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  97 

Biron.    Lady,    I    will    commend    you    to    my   own 

heart. 

Ros.    'Pray  you,   do   my  commendations ;   I   would 
be  glad  to  see  it. 

Biron.    I  would  you  heard  it  groan. 

Ros.    Is  the  fool  sick  : 

Biron.    Sick  at  the  heart. 

Ros.    Alack,  let  it  blood. 

Biron.    Would  that  do  it  good  ? 

Ros.    My  Physic  says,  I.1 

Biron.    Will  you  prick't  with  your  eye  ? 

Ros.    No  point*  with  inv  knife. 

Biron.    Now,  God  save  thy  life  ! 

Ros.    And  yours  from  long  living! 

Biron.    I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving.  [Rctiriti^. 

Dum.    Sir,  I    pra>  vou,  a  word.      What   ladv  is  that 

same  ? 

Boyct.    The  heir  of  Alencon,  Rosaline  her  name. 
Dum.    A  gallant  lady!     Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 
Long.    \  beseech  you,  a  word.     What  is  she  in  the 

white  ? 
Boyct.    A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in  the 

light. 
Long.    Perchance,  lii^ht   in   the   light.      I  desire   her 

name. 
Boyct.    She  hath  but  one  for  herself;   to  desire  that, 

were  a  shame. 

Long.    Prav  you,  sii%,  whose  daughter  ? 
Boyct.    Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

God's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 

Good  sir,  be  not  offended. 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Long.    Nay,  inv  choler  is  ended. 
She  is  a  most  sweet  ladv. 

Boyct.    Not  unlike,  sir  ;  that  may  be.      [Exit  LONG. 

1  The  old  spelling  of  the  affirmative  particle  ay  is  here  retained  for  the 
sake  of  the  rhyme. 

2  Point,  in  "French,  is  an  adverb  of  negation,  but,  if  properly  spoken,  is 
not  sounded  like  the  English  word.     A  quibble  was,  however,  intended. 

VOL.   II.  113 


98  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.          [ACT  II. 

Biron.    What's  her  name,  in  the  cap  ? 

Boyet.    Katharine,  by  good  hap. 

Biron.    Is  she  wedded,  or  no  ? 

Boyet.    To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 

Biron.    You  are  welcome,  sir  ;  adieu  ! 

Boyet.    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. 

Boyet.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Prin.    It  was  well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at  his 
W7ord. 

Boyet.    I  wfas  as  willing  to  grapple,  as  he  was  to 
board. 

Mar.    Two  hot  sheeps,  marry ! 

Boyet.  And  wherefore  not  ships  ? 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  W7e  feed  on  your  lips. 

Mar.    You  sheep,  and  I  pasture  ;    shall  that  finish 
the  jest? 

Boyet.    So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

[Offering  to  kiss  her. 

Mar.  Not  so,  gentle  beast ; 

My  lips  are  no  common,  though  several 1  they  be. 

Boyet.    Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Mar.  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. 

Boyet.     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  ? 

Boyet.    With  that  which  we  lovers  entitle,  affected. 

Prin.    Your  reason  ? 


1  A  quibble  is  hero  intended  upon  the  word  several,  which,  besides  its 
ordinary  signification  of  separate,  distinct,  signified  also  an  inclosed  pas 
ture,  as  opposed  to  an  open  field  or  common.  Bacon  and  others  used  it 
in  this  sense. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  99 

Boyet.    Why,  all  his  behaviors  did  make  their  retire, 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire ; 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impressed, 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  expressed ; 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see,1 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  eyesight  to  be  ; 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair. 
Methought,  all  his  senses  were  locked  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,    tend'ring    their    own   worth,   from    where    they 

were  glassed, 

Did  point  you  to  buy  them  along  as  you  passed. 
His  face's  own  margent2  did  quote  such  amazes, 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes. 
I'll  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— 

Boyct.    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'st 
skilfully. 

Mar.    He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  ncu ^ 
of  him. 

Ros.    Then   was   Venus   like   her   mother ;    for   her 
father  is  but  grim. 

Boyct.    Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wench<- 

Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What  then,  do  you  see? 

Ros.    Ay,    our  way  to  be  gone. 

Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

[Exeunt. 

1  Although  the  expression  in  the  text  is  extremely  odd,  yet  the  sense 
appears  to  be,  that  his  tongue  envied  the  quickness  of  his  eyes,  and  strove 
to  DC  as  rapid  in  its  utterance,  as  they  in  their  perception. 

2  In  Shakspeare's  time,  notes,  quotations,  &c.  wt?re  usually  printed  in 
the  exterior  margin  of  books. 


100  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  III. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I      Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  ARMADO  and  MOTH. 

Arm.  Warble,  child ;  make  passionate  my  sense  of 
hearing. 

Moth.    Concolinel 1 [Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air ! — Go,  tenderness  of  years,  take 
this  key,  give  enlargement  to  the  swain,  bring  him 
festinately  hither.  I  must  employ  him  in  a  letter  to 
my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  you  win  your  love  with  a  French 
brawl  ? 2 

Arm.    How  mean'st  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master ;  but  to  jig  off  a 
tune  at  the  tongue's  end,  canary 3  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  smell 
ing  love ;  with  your  hat  penthouselike  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,4  these  are  humors ;  these 
betray  nice  wenches — that  would  be  betrayed  without 
these ;  and  make  them  men  of  note,  (do  you  note, 
men  ?  5)  that  most  are  affected  to  these. 

1  A  song  is  apparently  lost  here.     In  old  comedies,  the  songs  are  fre 
quently  omitted.     On  this  occasion,  the  stage  direction  is  generally  Here 
<,hey  sing — or  Cantant. 

2  A  kind  of  dance;  spelled  bransle  by  some  authors;  being  the  French 
name  for  the  same  dance. 

3  Canary  was  the  name  of  a  sprightly  dance,  sometimes  accompanied 
by  the  castanets. 

4  i.  e.  accomplishments. 

5  One  of  the  modern  editors  proposes  to  read  "  do  you  note  me?" 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABOR  S  LOST.  101 

Arm.    How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience  ? 

Moth.    By  my  penny  of  observation.1 

Arm.    But  O, — but  O,— 

Moth.    — the  hobby-horse  is  forgot. 

Arm.    Callest  thou  my  love  hobby-horse  ? 2 

Moth.  No,  master;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a  colt, 
and  your  love  perhaps  a  hackney.  But  have  you 
forgot  your  love  ? 

Arm.    Almost  I  had. 

Moth.    Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.    By  heart,  and  in  heart,  Ixry. 

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,  by,  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. 

Ann.  Fetch  hither  the  swain ;  he  must  carry  me 
a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathized ;  a  horse  to 
be  an  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  I  go. 

Ann.    The  way  is  but  short ;  awav. 

Moth.    As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 

1  The  allusion  is  probably  to  the  old  popular  pamphlet,  "  A  Pennyworth 
of  Wit" 

~  The  Hobby-horse  was  a  personage  belonging  to  the  ancient  Morris 
dance,  when  complete.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  horse  fastened  round  the 
waist  of  a  man,  his  own  legs  going  through  the  body  of  the  horse,  and 
enabling  him  to  walk,  but  concealed  by  a  long  footcloth ;  while  false  legs 
appeared  where  those  of  the  man  should  be,  at  the  sides  of  the  horse. 
Latterly  the  Hobby-horse  was  frequently  omitted,  which  appears  to  have 
occasioned  a  popular  ballad,  in  which  was  this  line,  or  burden. 


102  LOVE'S  LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  IL, 

Arm.    Thy  meaning,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
Is  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. — 
I  shoot  thee  at  the  swain. 

Moth.  Thump  then,  and  I  flee. 

[Exit. 

Arm.    A  most  acute  Juvenal ;  voluble  and  free  of 

grace ! 

By  thy  favor,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy  face. 
Most  rude  melancholy,  valor  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  returned. 

Re-enter  MOTH  and  COSTARD. 

Moth.  A  wonder,  master  ;  here's  a  Costard l  broken 
in  a  shin. 

Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle.  Come, — thy 
V  envoy ; 2 — begin. 

Cost.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  P envoy ;  no  salve  in 
the  mail,3  sir.  O,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain ;  no 
V  envoy  i  no  Venvoy,  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain ! 

Arm.  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  Penvoy,  and  the 
word,  V envoy,  for  a  salve  ? 


1  i.  e.  a  head ;  a  name  adopted  from  an  apple  shaped  like  a  man's  head. 
It  must  have  been  a  common  sort  of  apple,  as  it  gave  a  name  to  the  deal 
ers  in  apples  who  were  called  costar-mongers. 

2  An  old  French  term  for  concluding  verses,  which  served  either  to 
convey  the  moral,  or  to  address  the  poem  to  some  person. 

3  A  mail  or  male  was  a  budget,  wallet,  or  portmanteau.     Costard,  mis 
taking  enigma,  riddle,  and  Venvoy  for  names  of  salves,  objects  to  the  appli 
cation  of  any  salve  in  the  budget,  and  cries  out  for  a  plantain  leaf.     There 
is  a  quibble  upon  salve  and  salve,  a  word  with  Avhich  it  was  not  unusual 
to  conclude  epistles,  &c.,  and  which  therefore  was  a  kind  of  V envoy. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  103 

Moth.    Do    the    wise    think    them    other?      Is    not 
V envoi]  a  salve  ? 

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  F  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  stayed  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  Venvoy,  ending  in  the  goose. 
Would  you  desire  more? 

Cost.    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.    By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a  shin. 
Then  called  you  for  the  Venvoy. 

Con.    True,  and  I  for  a   plantain;   thus   came  your 

argument  in. 

Then  the  boy's  fat  Venvoy,  the  goose  that  you  bought; 
And  he  ended  the  market.1 

Arm.    But  tell  me  ;  how  was  there  a  Costard2  broken 
in  a  shin  ? 

1  Alluding  to  the  proverb,  " Three  women  and  a  goose  make  a  markd* 
a  See  p.  102,  note  1. 


104  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  111. 

Moth.    I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it,  Moth ;  I  will 
speak  that  Venvoy. 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within, 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  broke  my  shin. 

Arm.    We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 

Cost.    Till  there  be  more  matter  in  the  shin. 

Arm.    Sirrah  Costard,  I  will  enfranchise  thee. 

Cost.  O,  marry  me  to  one  Frances. — I  smell  some 
P  envoy,  some  goose  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean,  setting  thee  at 
liberty,  enfrecdoming  thy  person  ;  thou  wert  immured, 
restrained,  captivated,  bound. 

Cost.  True,  true ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  purga 
tion,  and  let  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from  durance ; 
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,  rewarding  my  dependants. 
Moth,  follow.  [Exit. 

Moth.   Like  the  sequel,  I. — Seignior  Costard,  adieu. 

Cost.    My  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !    My  incony  1 
Jew ! —  [Exit  MOTH. 

Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remuneration! 
O,  that's  the  Latin  wrord  for  three  farthings :  three 
farthings — remuneration. — Whatfs  the  price  of  this 
inkle  ?  A  penny. — No,  Pll  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  BIRON. 

Biron.  O,  my  good  knave  Costard !  exceedingly 
well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation  riband 
may  a  man  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 


i  Inconyor  kony,  says  Warburton,  signifies,  in  the  norths/me  or  delicate. 
It  seems  to  be  substantially  the  same  with  canny,  a  familiar  Scotch  word. 


SC.  I  ]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  105 

Biron.    What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cost.    Marry,  sir,  half-penny  farthing. 

Biron.    O,  why,  then,  three  farthings  worth  of  silk. 

Cost.    I  thank  your  worship.     God  be  with  you  ! 

Biron.    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. 

Cost.    When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir  ? 

Biron.    O,  this  afternoon. 

Cost.    Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir.     Fare  you  well. 

Biron.    O,  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 

Cost.    I  shall  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 

Biron.    Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 

Cost.    I     will     come     to    your    worship     to-morrow 
morning. 

Biron.    It    must    be    done    this    afternoon.       Hark 
slave,  it  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  sealed-up  counsel.      There's  thy  guerdon;   IM>. 

[G'nv.v  ///'///  money. 

Cost.    Guerdon, — O    sweet    guerdon  !    better    than 

remuneration ;    eleven-pence   farthing     better.        Most 

sweet  guerdon  ! — I  will  do  it,  sir,  in    print.1 — Guerdon 

—remuneration.  [  fcxit. 

Biron.    O! — And  I,  forsooth,  in  love!      I,  that  have 
been  love's  whip  ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  si^h  ; 
A  critic  ;  nay,  a  night-watch  constable  : 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent !  ~ 
This  wimpled,:i  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy; 

1  With  the  utmost  nicety. 
~  Magnificent  here  means  ^loryin^,  boasting. 

3  To  wimple,  is  to  veil,  from  iruimplc  (Fr.).     Shakspeare  means  no  more 
than  that  Cupid  was  hood-winked. 
VOL.    II.  11 


106  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  III. 

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, 

Dread  prince  of  plackets,1  king  of  codpieces, 

Sole  imperator,  and  great  general 

Of  trotting  paritors 2 — O  my  little  heart — 

And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field,3 

And  wear  his  colors 4  like  a  tumbler's  hoop ! 

What  ?     I !    I  love  !    I  sue  !    T  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  watched  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  too  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,  W7rite,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  and  groan ; 

Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  some  Joan.     [Exit. 

1  Plackets  were  stomachers. 

2  The  officers  of  the  spiritual  courts  who  serve  citations. 

3  It  appears  from  Lord  Stafford's  Letters,  vol.  ii.  p.  199,  that  a  corporal 
of  the  field  was  employed,  as  an  aid-de-camp  is  noAv,  "in  taking  and  car 
rying  to  and  fro  the  directions  of  the  general,  or  other  higher  officers  of 
the  field." 

4  It  was  once  a  mark  of  gallantry  to  wear  a  lady's  colors.     So  in  Cyn 
thia's  Revels,  by  Jonson,  "  despatches  his  lacquey  to  her  chamber  early, 
to  know  what  her  colors  are  for  the  day."     It  appears  that  a  tumbler's 
hoop  was  usually  dressed  out  with  colored  ribands. 


SO.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  107 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE    I.     Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  the    Princess,    ROSALINE,  MARIA,     KATHARINE, 
Bo  YET,  Lords,  Attendants,  and  a  Forester. 

Iyrin.    Was  that  the  kinir,  that  spurred   his  horse  so 
hard 

Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 

Hoyc.t.    1  know  not:  hut  I  think  it  was  not  he. 

I*rin.    Whoe'er    he    was,    he    showed    a    mounting 

mind. 

Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch  : 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France.— 
Then,  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  hush, 
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.    1  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 
And  thereupon  tliou  speakest,  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.  Nav,  never  paint  me  now  ; 

W'here  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  i^lass,  take  this  for  telling  true  : 

[Giving  him  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.    Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  von  inherit. 

1 \)  v 

Prin.    See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  saved  by  merit. 
()  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days! 
A  "jvinij:  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; 
Not  wounding,  pitv  would  not  let  me  do't ; 


108  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  IV. 

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. 

Boyet.    Do  not  curst  wives  hold  that  self-sovereignty 
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  COSTARD. 

Here  comes  a  member  of  the  commonwealth.1 

Cost.    God  dig-you-den  2  all !      Pray  you,  which  is 
the  head  lady  ? 

Prin.    Thou    shalt    know    her,  fellow,  by  the    rest 
that  have  no  heads. 

Cost.    Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ? 

Prin.    The  thickest,  and  the  tallest. 

Cost.    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  ? 

Cost.    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.3 

1  Tho  princess  calls  Costard  a  member  of  the.  commonwealth,  because 
he  is  one  of  the  attendants  on  the  king  and  his  associates  in  their  new- 
modelled  society. 

2  A  corruption  of  God  give  you  good  even. 

3  i.  e.  open  this  letter.     The  poet  uses  this  metaphor  as  the  French  do 
their  poulet ;  which  signifies  both  a  young  fowl  and  a  love-letter. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE  S    LABOR'S    LOST.  109 

Boyct.  1  am  l>ouiid  to  serve.  — 

This  letter  is  mistook  ;    it  importeth  none  here. 
It  is  writ  to  Jaquenetta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear. 

Break  the  neek  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear. 

Boyct.  [Reads.]  By  Heaven,  that  than  art  fair,  is 
most  infallible  ;  true,  that  thou  art  beauteous  ;  truth 
it  self  i  that  thou  art  lovely.  More  fairer  than  fair,  beau 
tiful  than  beauteous  :  truer  than  truth  itself,  have  com 
miseration  on  thy  heroic  al  vassal  !  The  magnanimous 
and  most  illustrate  king  Cophetua  ]  set  eye  upon  the 
pernicious  and  indubitate  beggar  Zenelophon  ;  and  he 
it  was  that  might  rightly  say.  veni,  vidi,  vici  ;  which  to 
anatomize  in  the  vulgar*  (O  base  ami  obscure  vulgar  /) 
videlicet,  he  came,  saic,  and  orercamc  ;  he  came,  on<  : 
saw,  two;  overcame,  three,  ll'ho  came  '  The  Icin^. 
Why  did  he  come?  To  see.  Why  did  he  see/  Tu 
overcome.  To  whom  came  h(  }  To  the  beggar.  Jl'hat 
saw  he  f  The  beggar.  Who  overcame  he?  Th*  hc^ar. 
The  conclusion  is  victory.  On  whose  side?  The  /r///^'V. 
The  captice  is  enriched.  On  whose  side?  The  beggar'*. 
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  bf^'ftr:  fur 
so  witnesseth  t/uj  lowliness.  Shall  /  command  tin/  luv<  / 
/  maij.  Shall  I  enforce  thy  lore  ?  I  rui//</.  Slmll  /  entrt  at 
thy  lore?  I  will.  Wiat  shaft  thou  t-.reha/i^e  fur  ni^s  / 
Robes;  for  tittles,  titles;  for  thyself.  me.  VV/i/.s-.  c.r/icct- 
inL>'  tin/  rcplii,  f  profane  MI/  lips  on  tin/  fool,  my  eyes  on 
thy  picture,  and  my  heart  on  thy  erery  part. 

Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 

I)o\  AMKI  \M>  m:  AK.MADO. 


Tims  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

"Gainst  thee,  thou  lamh,  that   standest  as   his  prev  : 

Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 
And  he  from  forage  \\  ill  incline  to  play. 


1  The  ballad  of  King  Cophetua  mid  the  Begrjrar  Afaid  may  be  seen  ni 
the  Rcliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  vol.  i.  The  beggar's  name  was  Pi- 
ndophnn. 


110  LOVES    LABOR'S   LOST  [ACT  IV, 

But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then? 
Food  for  his  rage,  repasture  for  his  den. 

Prin.    What  plume  of  feathers  is  he,  that  indited 

this  letter  ? 
What  vane  ?    what  weathercock  ?    did  you  ever  hear 

better  ? 

Boyet.   I  am  much  deceived,  but  I  remember  the  style. 
Prin.    Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it  ere- 

while.1 
Boyet.    This    Armado   is   a    Spaniard,    that    keeps 

here  in  court ; 

A  phantasm,  a  Monarcho,2  and  one  that  makes  sport 
To  the  prince,  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou,  fellow,  a  word. 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cost.  1  told  you,  my  lord. 

Prin.    To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it  ? 

o 

Cost.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.    From  which  lord,  to  which  lady  ? 

Cost.    From  my  lord  Biron,  a  good  master  of  mine, 
To  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  called  Rosaline. 

Prin.    Thou  hast  mistaken  his  letter.     Come,  lords, 

away. 

Here,  sweet,  put  up  this ;   'twill  be  thine  another  day. 

[Exit  Princess  and  Train. 

Boyet.    Who  is  the  suitor  ?    who  is  the  suitor  ? 3 

Ros.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know  ? 

Boyet.    Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty. 

Ros.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow. 

Finely  put  off! 

Boyet.    My  lady   goes    to    kill   horns ;  but,  if  thou 

marry, 

Hang  me  by  the  neck,  if  horns  that  year  miscarry. 
Finely  put  on ! 

1  i.  e.  lately. 

2  The  allusion  is  to  a  fantastical  character  of  the  time.     "  Popular  ap 
plause  (says  Meres,  in  Wit's  Treasurie,  p.  178)  doth  nourish  some,  neither 
do  they  gape  after  any  other  thing  hut  vaine  praise  and  glorie, — as  in  our 
age  Peter  Shakerlye  of  Panics,  and  Monn.-cho  that  lived  about  the  court" 

3  An  equivoque  was  here   intended ;  it  should  appear  that  the  words 
shooter  and  suitor  were  pronounced  alike  in  Shakspeare's  time. 


BC    I  LOVES   LABORS   LOST.  Ill 

Ros.    Well  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 

Boijet.  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. 
Boyet.    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  Frame  was  a 
little  !K>V,  as  touching  the  hit  it  ': 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old,  that 
was  a  woman  when  (juecn  Guinever  oi  Britain  was  a 
little  wench,  as  touching  the  hit  it. 

Ros.    Thou  canst  not  /tit  it,  hit  it.  hit  it.       [Singing. 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 
Boyet.    An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot. 
An  J  cannot,  another  can. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  KATH. 
Cost.    By  my  troth,   most  pleasant !    how   both  did 

fit  it ! 
Mar.    A  mark   marvellous  well   shot  !   for   they  both 

did  hit  it. 
Boyet.    A  mark  !      O.  mark  but  that  mark.      A  mark, 

says  mv  ladv  ! 
Let    the    mark    have    a    prick    iift,    to    mete    at,  if   it 

may   be. 
Mar.    AVidc   o'  the  bow   hand!1      I'laith    your  hand 

is  out. 
Cost.    Indeed,  a' must  shoot  nearer,  or  he'll  ne'er  hit 

the  clout. 
J$oi/et.    An    if  mv   hand    be    out,    then,   belike   your 

hand  is  in. 

Cost.    Then    will    she    <:et    the    upshot    by  cleaving 
the  pin. 

1  This  is  a  term  in  archery  still  in  use,  si^nifyinjr  "a  good  deal  to  the 
loll  of  the  mark."  Of  the  other  expressions,  the  clout  was  the  white  mark 
at  which  archers  took  aim.  The  pin  was  the  wooden  nail  in  the  cen- 
tro  of  it. 


112  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.         [ACT  IV. 

Mar.    Come,  come,  you  talk  greasily;  your  lips  grow 

foul. 

Cost.    She's  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir ;  chal 
lenge  her  to  bowl. 

Boijet.    I  fear  too  much  rubbing.1     Good  night,  my 

good  owl.  [Exeunt  BOYET  and  MARIA. 

Cost.    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  ! — 

And  his  page  o'  t'  other  side,  that  handful  of  wit ! 
Ah,  Heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical 2  nit ! 
Sola,  sola  !       [Shouting  within.     Exit  COST,  running. 


SCENE  II.     The  same. 


Enter  HOLOFERNES,  SIR  NATHANIEL,  and  DULL. 

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,3  wrho  now  hangeth  like  a 
jewel  in  the  ear  of  ccelo,  the  sky,  the  welkin,  the 
heaven ;  and  anon  falleth,  like  a  crab,  on  the  face  of 
terra, — the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 

Nath.  Truly,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets  are 
sweetly  varied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least.  But,  sir, 
I  assure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head.4 

1  To  rub  is  a  term  at  bowls. 

2  Pathetical    sometimes   meant  passionate,   and    sometimes    passion- 
moving,  in  our  old  writers,  but  is  here  used  by  Costard  as  an  idle  ex 
pletive. 

3  Pomewater,  a  species  of  apple. 

4  In  the  Return  from  Parnassus,  1606,  is  the  following  account  of  the 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  113 

Hot.    Sir  Nathaniel,  hand  credo. 
Dull.    'Twas  not  a  haud  credo,  'twas  a  pricket. 
Hoi.    Most   barbarous    intimation !    yet    a    kind    of 
insinuation,  as  it  were,  in  via,  in  way,  of  explication  ; 
facere,  as  it  were,  replication, — or,  rather,  ostcntare, 
to   show,  as   it    were,   his    inclination, — after  his   un 
dressed,  unpolished,  uneducated,  unpruned,  untrained, 
or  rather  unlettered,  or,  ratherest,  unconfirmed  fashion, 
— to  insert  again  my  haud  credo  for  a  deer. 

Dull.  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  haud  credo ; 
'twas  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  bis  coctus! — O  thou 
monster,  ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou  look  ! 

Nat/i.  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  bcne,  say  I ;   beinj;  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  five 

weeks  old  as  yet  ? 
Hoi.    Dictynna,   good   man   Dull ;   Dictynna,2  good 

man  Dull. 

% 

different  appellations  of  deer  at  their  different  ages — "  Amoretto.  I  caused 
the  keeper  to  sever  the  rascal  dear  from  the  bucks  of  the  first  head.  Now, 
sir,  a  buck  is  the  first  year,  a.  fawn  ;  tho  second  year,  a  pricket ;  the  third 
year,  a  sorrel ;  the  fourth  year,  a  soare  ;  the  fifth,  a  buck  of  the  first  head; 
the  sixth  year,  a  complete  buck." 

i  The  meaning  is,  to  be  in  a  school  would  as  ill  become  a  patch,  or  low 
fellow,  as  folly  would  become  me. 

~  Shakspeare  might  have  found  this  uncommon  title  for  Diana  in  the 
second  book  of  Golding's  translation  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses. 
VOL.    II.  15 


114  LOVE'S   LABO1VS   LOST.  [ACT  IV. 

Dull.   What  is  Dictjnna  ? 

Natk.    A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 

Hoi.    The  moon  was  a  month  old,  when  Adam  was 

no  more  ; 
And   raught1   not   to    five  weeks,  when    he   eame   to 

fivescore. 
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  allusion 
holds  in  the  exchange. 

Dull.  And  1  say  the  pollution  holds  in  the  exchange  ; 
for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  old  :  and  I  say,  beside, 
that  'twas  a  pricket  that  the  princess  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. 

Nath.  Pcrge,  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  pricked  a  pretty 

pleasing  pricket ; 
Some  say,  a  sore ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  now  made  sore 

with  shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yell !     Put  I  to  sore,  then  sorel  jumps 

from  thicket ; 
Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  sorel ; 4  the  people  fall  a 

hooting. 
If  sore  be  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  ffty  sores ;   O 

sore  L! 
Of  one  sore  I  a  hundred   make,  by   adding  but  one 

more  L. 

1  Reached. 

2  i.  e.  the  riddle  is  as  good  when  I  use  the  name  of  Adam,  as  when  I 
use  the  name  of  Cain. 

3  i.  e.  I  will  use  or  practise  alliteration. 

4  For  the  explanation  of  the  terms  pricket,  sore  or  soar,  and  sorel,  in  this 
quibbling  rhyme,  the  reader  is  prepared,  by  the  extract  from  The  Return 
from  Parnassus,  in  a  note  at  the  beginning  of  the  scene. 


SC.  I!.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  115 

Nath.    A  rare  talent ! 

Dull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws  him 
with  a  talent.1 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple ;  a 
foolish,  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  forms,  figures,  shapes, 
objects,  ideas,  apprehensions,  motions,  revolutions. 
These  are  begot  in  the  ventricle  of  memory,  nourished 
in  the  womb  of  pia  mater,  and  delivered  ujxm  the 
mellowing  of  occasion ;  but  the  gift  is  good  in  those 
in  whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am  thankful  for  it. 

Nath.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  for  you ;  and  so  may 
my  parishioners ;  for  their  sons  are  well  tutored  In 
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  capable,  I 
will  put  it  to  them.  But,  vir  sapit,  qui  pauca  loquitur ; 
a  soul  feminine  salute th  us. 


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  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  ho  that  is  likest 
to  a  hogshead. 

Hoi.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead !  a  »ood  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  mo 
from  don  Armatho.  I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

Hoi.    Fauste,  precor  gelida  quando  pccus  omne  sub 

umbra 
Ruminat, — and  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Mantuan  ! a 


1  Talon  was  often  written  talent  in  Shakspeare's  time.     One  of  the 
senses  of  to  claw  is  to  flatter. 

2  The  Eclogues  of  Mantuanus  were   translated  before  the   time   of 
Shakspeare,  and  the  Latin  printed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  page  for  the 
use  of  schools.     In  15G7  they  were  also  versified  by  Tuberville. 


116  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  IV 

I  may  speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice : 

Vinegia ,  Vinegia , 

Chi  non  te  vede,  ei  non  te  pregia.1 

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  ? 
Nath.    Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 
Hoi.    Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse.     Lege, 
domine. 

Nath.    If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  swear 

to  love  ? 

Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vowed ! 

Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I'll  faithful  prove ; 

Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee  like  osiers 

bowed. 

Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes : 
Where  all  those  pleasures  live  that  art  would  com 
prehend  ; 

If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice ; 
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    earthly 

tongue ! a 

Hoi.    You  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  so  miss  the 
accent ;  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet.     Here  are  only 

1  This  proverb  occurs  in  Florio's  Second  Frutes,  1591,  where  it  stands 
thus:— 

"  Venetia,  chi  non  ti  vede  non  ti  pretia 
Ma  chi  ti  vede,  ben  gli  costa." 

2  These  verses  are  printed,  with  some  variations,  in  the  Passionate 
Pilgrim,  1599. 


SC.  II.]  LOVES  LABORS  LOST.  117 

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,  tin;  jerks  of  invention  ? 
Imitari,  is  nothing ;  so  doth  the  hound  his  master,  the 
ape  his  keeper,  the  tired  horse  l  his  rider.  But  damo- 
sella  virgin,  was  this  directed  to  you  : 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,2  one  of  the 
strange  queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  1  will  overbalance  the  superscript.  To  the 
snow-white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  lady  Rosaline. 
I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter,  for 
the  nomination  of  the  partv  writing  to  the  person 
written  unto. 

Your  ladyshij/s  in  (ill  desired  employment,  UNION. 
Sir  Nathaniel,  this  Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries  with 
the  king;  and  here  lie  hath  framed  a  letter  to  a  se 
quent  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,  Clod  save 
your  life  ! 

Cost.    Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

[/vVr/////  ( 'OST.  and  .1  w. 

Nath.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of  God, 
very  religiously;  and,  as  a  certain  lather  saith— 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  me  not  of  the  father;  I  do  fear  col 
orable  colors.3  But  to  return  to  the  verses — did 
they  please  you,  sir  Nathaniel  ? 

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 

1  i.  c.  the  horse  adorned  with  ribands ;  Bankes's  horse  is  here  probably 
alluded  to. 

2  Shakspeare  forirot  that  Jaquenetta  knew  nothing  of  Biron,  and  had 
said  just  before  that  the  letter  had  been  "sent  to  her  from  Don  .tf 

and  given  to  her  by  Costard." 

3  That  is,  specious  or  fair-seeming  appearances. 


118  LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  IV. 

privilege  I  have  with  the  parents  of  the  foresaid  child 
or  pupil,  undertake  jour  ben  venuto ;  where  I  will  prove 
those  verses  to  be  very  unlearned,  neither  savoring  of 
poetry,  wit,  nor  invention.  I  beseech  your  society. 

Nat/i.  And  thank  you  too ;  for  society  (saith  the 
text)  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

HoL  And,  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly  concludes 
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. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer;  I  am 
coursing  myself;  they  have  pitched  a  toil ;  I  am  toiling 
in  a  pitch ; l  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  as  Ajax.  It 
kills  sheep ;  it  kills  me,2  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,  1  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. 

1  Alluding  to  Rosaline's  complexion,  who  is  represented  as  a  black 
beauty. 

2  This  is  given  as  a  proverb  in  Fuller's  Gnomologia. 


SC.  III.]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  119 


Enter  the  King,  with  a  Paper. 


King.    Ah  me ! 

Biron.  [Aside. ~\  Shot,  by  Heaven  ! — Proceed,  sweet 
Cupid  ;  thou  hast  thumped  him  with  thy  bird-bolt  under 
the  left  pap. — 1 'faith,  secrets.— 

King.    [Reads.]    So   sweet   a  kiss   the  golden   sun- 
gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  npon  the  rosCj 
As  thy  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  hace  smote 

The  night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  doicnjlows; 
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  shiiSst  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep ; 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  th«  ; 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  inn  : 
Do  but  behold  the  fears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  thy  grief  will  show. 
But  do  not  love  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  Av/y; 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens,  how  far  dost  thou  e.vnl ! 
No  thought  can  think,  no  tongue  of  mortal  tell. — 

How  shall  she  know  mv  griefs?   Ill  drop  the  paper; 
Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.      Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

[Steps  aside. 


Enter  LONG  AVI  LLE,  with  a  Paper. 

What,  Longaville  !  and  reading!      Listen,  ear. 

Biron.    Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fool,  appear! 

[Aside. 

Long.    Ah  me  !   1  am  forsworn. 

Biron.    Why,  he   comes  in  like   a   perjure,1  wearing 
papers.  [Aside. 


i  The  ancient  punishment  of  a  perjured  person  was  to  wear  on  the 
breast  a  paper  expressing  the  crime. 


120  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         ACT  IV. 

King.    In  love,  I  hope  ;  sweet  fellowship  in  shame  ! 

[Aside. 

Biron.    One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 

[Aside. 

Long.    Am  I  the  first  thctt  have  been  perjured  so  ? 
Biron.    [Aside.]   I  could  put  thee  in  comfort;  not 

by  two,  that  I  know. 

Thou  mak'st  the  triumviry,  the  corner-cap  of  society, 

The  shape  of  love's  Tyburn l  that  hangs  up  simplicity. 

Long.    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. 

Biron.    [Aside.]    O,  rhymes  are  guards  on  wanton 

A       -17     i  J 

Cupid  s  hose ; 
Disfigure  not  his  slop.2 

Long.  This  same  shall  go. — 

[He  reads  the  sonnet. 
Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye 

(^Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argument) 
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  gained,  cures  all  disgrace  in  me. 
Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapor  is  : 

Then,  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost  shine, 
ExhaVst  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  ? 

Biron.    [Aside. ~\  This  is  the  liver  vein,3  which  makes 

flesh  a  deity ; 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess  ;  pure,  pure  idolatry. 

1  By  triumviri/  and  the  shave  of  love's  Tyburn,  Shakspeare  alludes  to 
the  gallows  of  the  time,  which  was  occasionally  triangular. 

2  Slops  were  wide-kneed  breeches,  the  garb  in  fashion  in  Shakspeare's 
time. 

3  It  has  been  already  remarked  that  the  liver  was  anciently  supposed 
to  be  the  seat  of  love. 


SC.  III.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  121 

God  amend  us,    God   amend  !    we   are    much   out  o' 
the  way. 

Enter  DUMAIN,  with  a  Paper. 

Long.    By  whom    shall    I    send    this? — Company! 
stay.  [Stepping  aside. 

Biron.    [Aside.']    All  hid,  all  hid,  an  old  infant  play.1 
Like  a  demi-god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 
And  wretched  fools'  secrets  needfully  o'er-eye. 
More  sacks  to  the  mill!   O  Heavens,  I  have  my  wish! 
Dumain  transformed  ;  four  woodcocks2  in  a  dish  ! 

Duin.    O  most  divine  Kate  ! 

Biron.  O  most  profane  coxcoml) ! 

[Aside. 

Dum.    By  Heaven,  the  wonder  of  a  mortal  eye  ! 

Biron.    By  earth,  she  is  hut  corporal;   there  you  lie. 

[As'nl< . 

Dum.    Her  amber  hairs  for  foul   have  amber  coted.' 

Biron.    An  amber-colored  raven  was  well  noted. 

[Aside. 

Dum.    As  upright  as  the  cedar. 
Biron.  Stoop,  I  say  : 

Her  shoulder  is  with  child.  [.lsi<l<. 

Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.    Ay,  as   some   days;    but   then   no   sun    imiM 
shine.  [Attid< . 

Dum.    O  thai  I  had  my  wish  ! 

Long.  And  I  had  mim> !      [Axidf . 

A7//1'-.    And  I  mine  too,  ^ood  Lord!  [Asidt . 

Biron.    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  remembered  be. 

1  The  allusion  is  to  the  play  of  hide  and  seek. 

2  A  icoo'lcock  moans  a  foolish  fellow;  that  bird  being  supposed  to  have 
710  brains. 

3  Coted  signifies  marked  or  noted.     Tho  word  is  from  colcr,  to  quote. 
The  construction  of  this  passage  will  therefore  be,  "Her  amber  hairs  have 
marked  or  shown  that  real  amber  is  foul  in  comparison  with  themselves." 
Steevens,  however,  assigns  to  cote  the  meaning  of  outstrip. 

VOL.    II.  16 


122  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  IV 

Biron.    A  fever  in  your  blood !  why,  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers  :  sweet  misprision  ! 

[Aside. 

Dum.    Once  more  I'll  read  the  ode  that  I  have  writ. 
Biron.    Once  more  I'll  mark  how  love  can  vary  wit. 

[Aside. 
Dum.    On  a  day,  (alack  the  day  /) 

Love,  iv hose  month  is  ever  May, 

Spied  a  blossom,  passing  fair, 

Playing  in  the  wanton  air. 

Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 

All  unseen,  ^gan  passage  find ; 

That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 

Wished  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. 

Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 

That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee  ; — 

Thee — -for  whom  Jove  would  swear,1 

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. 

Long.    Dumain,  [advancing.]  thy  love  is  far  from 

charity, 
That  in  love's  grief  desir'st  society. 

l  The  old  copy  reads — 

"  Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear." 
Pope  thought  this  line  defective,  and  altered  it  to 

"  Thou  for  whom  even  Jove  would  swear." 


SC.  Ill  ]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  123 

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  cast;  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  marked  you  both,  and  for  you  l>oth  did  blush. 
I  heard  your  guilty  rhvmes,  observed  your  fashion  ; 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  vou,  noted  well  your  passion. 
Ah  me  !   says  one  ;   O  Jove  !    tin;  other  cries  ; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  e\c>. 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth  ; 

[To  Lox;. 
And  Jove,  for  your  love,  would  infringe  an  oath. 

[To  DUMA  IN. 

What  will  Biron  sav,  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  bv  me. 

Biron.    Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy.— 
Ah,  good  mv  liege,  I  prav  thee  pardon  me  : 

[Descends  from  the  tree 

( I ood  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
'These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ': 
\our  eyes  do  make  no  coaches;  l   in  your  tears. 
'There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears. 
You'll  not  be  perjured  ;   'tis  a  hateful  thing  : 
'rush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
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. 

1  Alluding  to  a  passage  in  the  king's  sonnet — 

"  No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee." 


124  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  IV. 

0,  what  a  scene  of  foolery  I  have  seen, 

Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen ! l 

0  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat ! 2 

To  see  great  Hercules  whipping  a  gig, 

And  profound  Solomon  to  tune  a  jig, 

And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys, 

And  critic  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 

Where  lies  thy  grief,  O  tell  me,  good  Dumain  ? 

Arid  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  betrayed  thus  to  thy  over-view  ? 

Biron.    Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betrayed  to  you. 

1,  that  am  honest;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in  ; 

1  am  betrayed,  by  keeping  company 

With  moon-like  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 3  me  ?     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  ? 

Biron.    I  post  from  love  ;  good  lover,  let  me  go. 

Enter  JAQUENETTA  and  COSTARD. 
Jaq.    God  bless  the  king ! 

King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cost.    Some  certain  treason. 
King.  What  makes  treason  here  ?  4 

1  Grief. 

2  Gnat  is  the  reading  of  the  old  copy,  and  there  seems  no  necessity  for 
changing-  it  to  knot  or  any  other  word,  as  some  of  the  editors  have  been 
desirous  of  doing. 

3  A  bird  is  said  to  be  pruning  himself  when  he  picks  and  sleeks  his 
feathers. 

4  That  is—"  What  docs  treason  here  ?  " 


SC.  Ill  ]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  125 

Cost.    Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 

King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither, 

The  treason,  and  you,  go  in  peace  away  together. 

Jaq.    I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  he  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.    When;  hadst  thou  it  ? 

Cost.    Of  dun  Adramadio,  dun  Adramadio. 

Kin".    How  now!    what  is  in  YOU?    why  dost  thou 

5  .  -v  J  J 

tear  it  ? 
Biron.    A  toy,   my  liege,  a   tov  ;   vour  grace  needs 

not  fear  it. 
Long.    It  did   move   him   to   passion,  and   therefore 

let's  hear  it. 
Dum.    It  is  Biron's  writing,  and  here  is  his  name. 

[Picks  up  the  }>i<  <•<  s. 

Biron.    Ah,  you  whoreson  loggerhead.     [To  COS 
TARD.]     You  were  born  to  do  me   shame.— 
Ciuilty,  inv  lord,  guilty;    I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.    What? 
Biron.    That  you  three  fools  lacked  me  fool  to  make 

up  the  mess. 

lie,  he,  and  you,  mv  liege,  and  I. 
Are  pickpurses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
O,  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  vou  more. 
Dum.    Now  the  number  is  even. 
Biron.  True,  true  :   we  are  four. — 

Will  these  turtle's  be  gone  .' 

King.  Hence,  sirs  ;    away. 

Cost.    Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and   let   the;  traitors 
stay.  [Exeunt  COST,  and  JAQ. 

Biron.    Sweet  lords,  sweet  [overs,  O  let  us  embrace! 
As  true  we  are  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be. 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  How,  heaven  show  his  face  ; 

Young  blood  will  not  obey  an  old  decree. 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born  ; 

Therefore,  of  all  hands,1  must  we  be  forsworn. 

I 

1  i.  e.  at  any  rate,  at  all  events. 


126  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  IV. 

King.    What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  some  love  of 

thine  ? 

Biron.    Did  they,  quoth  you  ?     Who  sees  the  heav 
enly  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  ? 

O 

What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow, 
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. 
Biron.    My  eyes  are  then  no  eyes,  nor  I  Biron. 

O,  but  for  my  love,  day  would  turn  to  night ! 
Of  all  complexions  the  culled  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. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  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  doth  blot. 
A  withered  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. 
Biron.    Is  ebony  like  her  ?     O  wood  divine  ! 

A  wdfe  of  such  wrood  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. 

Biron.    Devils  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits  of 

light. 


SC.  III.]  LOVE'S    LABOR'S   LOST.  127 

O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  bo  decked, 

It  mourns,  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair, 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favor  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days; 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now; 
And  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 

Paints  itself  black,  to  imitate  her  brow. 

Dam.    To  look  like  her,  are  chimney-sweepers  black. 

Long.    And    since    her    time,    are    colliers    counted 
bright. 

King.    And  Ethiops  of  their  sweet  complexion  crack. 

Dnm.    Dark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  dark  is  li^ht. 

Q 

Biron.    Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain, 
For  fear  their  colors  should  he  washed  awav. 

King.    'Twere  good  yours  did  ;   for,  sir,  to   tell  you 

plain, 

I'll  find  a  fairer  face  not  washed  to-day. 
Biron.    I'll    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. 
Long.    Look,  here's  thy  love  ;  mv  foot  and    her   face 
see.  [Showing  his  shoe. 

Biron.    O,  if  the  streets  wen1  paved  with  thine  eves, 

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  walked  overhead. 
King.    But  what  of  this  ?    Are  we  not  all  in  lo\e: 
Biron.    O,  nothing  so  sure1;  and  therein  all  forsworn. 
King.    Then  leave  this  chat ;  and,  good   JJirun,  now 

prove 

Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 
Dum.    Ay,  marry,  there, — some  flattery  for  this  evil. 
Long.    O,  some1  authority  how  to  proceed ; 
Some  tricks,  some  quillets,1  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 
Dam.    Some  salve  for  perjury. 
Biron.  O,  'tis  more  than  need! — 

1  A  quillet  is  a  sly  trick  or  turn  in  argument,  or  excuse. 


128  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  IV. 

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  vowed  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. 

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,1 

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  books ; 2 

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  enriched  you  with  ? 

O^her  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain  ; 

1  This  hemistich  is  omitted  in  all  the  modern  editions  except  that  by 
Mr.  Boswell.     It  is  found  in  the  first  quarto  and  first  folio. 

2  i.  e.  our  true  looks,  from  which  we  derive  most  information ;  the  eyes 
of  woman. 


SC.  III.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  129 

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  ga/e  an  eagle  blind ; 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopped  ; 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft,  and  sensible, 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails  ; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste. 

For  valor,  is  not  love  a  Hercules, 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Ilesperides  P1 

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 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the1  harmony.2 

Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write, 

Until  his  ink  were  tempered  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  nourish  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  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love ; 


1  Shakspeare  had  read  of  "the  gardens  of  the  Hesperidcs"  and  thought 
the  latter  word  was  the  name  of  the  garden.     Some  of  his  contemporaries 
have  made  the  same  mistake. 

2  Few  passages  have  been  more  discussed  than  this.     The  most  plau 
sible  interpretation  of  it  is,  "  Whenever  love  speaks,  all  the  gods  join  their 
voices  in  harmonious  concert" 

VOL.     II.  17 


130  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  IV 

Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men  ; l 
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. 
It  is  religion  to  be  thus  forsworn  ; 
For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law  ; 
And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity  ? 

King.    Saint    Cupid,   then!     And,    soldiers,  to  the 
field  ! 

Biron.   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.2 

Long.    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 

o 

Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Biron.    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. 

Biron.   Allans!  Allons ! — Sowed  cockle  reaped  no 

corn ; 

And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  measure ! 
Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men  forsworn ; 
If  so,  our  copper  buys  no  better  treasure.  [Exeunt. 


1  i.  e.  that  is  pleasing  to  all  men.     So  in  the  language  of  the  time : — 
it  likes  me  well,  for  it  pleases  me. 

2  In  the  days  of  archery,  it  was  of  consequence  to  have  the  sun  at  the 
back  of  the  bowmen,  and  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.    • 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S   LABOR  S   LOST.  131 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  HOLOFERNES,  SIR  NATHANIEL,  and  DULL. 

IIol.    Satis  quod  sujficit. 

Nath.  I  praise  Cod  for  you,  sir.  Your  reasons1  at 
dinner  have  been  sharp  and  sententious  ;  pleasant 
without  scurrility,  witty  without  affection,  audacious 
without  impudency,  learned  without  opinion,  and 

strange  without  heresy.      I  did  converse  this  (iiionddui 

^  ,  . 

day  with  a  companion  of  the  king's,  who   is    intituled, 

nominated,  or  called,  Don  Adriano  de  Annado. 

IIol.  Novihominemtanquamte.  His  humor  is  lofty, 
his  discourse  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed.-  his  eye 
ambitious,  his  gait  majestical,  and  his  general  beha 
vior  vain,  ridiculous,  and  thrasonical.3  il«'  is  too 
picked,4  too  spruce,  too  affected,  too  odd,  as  it  were, 
too  peregrinate,  as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.    A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[YVAv.s-  out  his  table-book. 

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-devise5 
companions  ;  such  rackers  of  orthography,  as  to  speak, 
doubt,  line,  when  he  should  say,  doubt;  (let,  when 
lie  should  pronounce,  debt  :  d,  e,  b,  t. :  not,  d,  e,  t. 
He  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf ;  haf,  hauf :  neighbor,  rocatur, 
nebor,  neigh,  abbreviated,  ne.  This  is  abhominable, 
(which  he  would  call  abominable  ;)  it  insinuateth  me 
of  insanie.  Ne  intelUgis,  dominc  ?  To  make  frantic 
lunatic. 

1  Reason  here  signifies  discourse;    audacious  is  used  in  a  good  sense 
for  spirited,  animated,  confident ;  afectionis  a/ectalion ;  opinion  is  obsti 
nacy,  omnidtrett. 

2  Filed  is  polished. 

3  Thrasonical  is  vain-glorious,  boastful. 

4  Picked,  that  is,  too  nice  in  Ms  dress. 

5  A  common  expression  for  exact,  precise,  or  finical. 


132  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.          [ACT  V 

Nath.    Laus  deo,  bone  intelligo. 

Hoi.     Bone  ? bone,  for   bene ;  Priscian  a  little 

scratched ;  'twill  serve. 

Enter  ARMADO,  MOTH,  and  COSTARD. 

Nath.    Videsne  quis  venit  ? 

Hoi.    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  languages, 
and  stolen  the  scraps.  [To  COSTARD,  aside. 

Cost.  O,  they  have  lived  long  in  the  alms-basket  of 
words !  I  marvel  thy  master  hath  not  eaten  thee  for 
a  word ;  for  thou  art  not  so  long  by  the  head  as  hono- 
rificabilitudinitatibus ; l  thou  art  easier  swallowed  than 
a  flap-dragon.2 

Moth.    Peace  ;  the  peal  begins. 

Arm.   Monsieur,  [To  HOL.]  are  you  not  lettered? 

Moth.  Yes,  yes ;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn-book. 
What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backward  with  a  horn  on  his  head  ? 

Hoi.    Ba,  pueritia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn. — You 
hear  his  learning. 

Hoi.    Quis,  quis,  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 ;  o,  u. 

Arm.  Now  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediterraneum, 
a  sweet  touch,  a  quick  venew3  of  wit.  Snip,  snap, 
quick  and  home  :  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect ;  true  wit. 

1  This  word,  whencesoever  it  comes,  is  often  mentioned  as  the  longest 
word  known. 

2  A  flap-dragon  Avas  some  small  combustible  body  set  on  fire  and  put 
afloat  in  a  glass  of  liquor.     It  was  an  act  of  dexterity  in  the  toper  to  swallow 
it  without  burning  his  mouth. 

s  A  hit. 


SC.  I.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  133 

Moth.  Offered  by  a  child  to  an  old  man ;  which  is 
wit-old. 

Hoi.    What  is  the  figure  ?     What  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.    Horns. 

Hal.    Thou  disputes!  like  an  infant ;  go,  whip  thy  gig. 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and  1  will 
whip  about  your  infamy  circum  circa.  A  gig  of  a 
cuckold's  horn  ! 

Cost.  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.  < ). 
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  dunghill,  at  t!u-  I'miM'iV 
ends,  as  they  say. 

llol.    O,  I  smell  false  Latin:   dunghill  for  mi^nf/n. 

Arm.  Arts-man,  praambula ;  we  will  be  singled 
from  the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at  the 
charge-house1  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  : 

llol.    Or,  mons,  the  hill. 

Ann.    At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain. 

llol.    I  do,  sans  question. 

Ann.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure  and 
affection,  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her  pavilion, 
iu  the  posteriors  of  this  day;  which  the  rude  multitude 
call  the  afternoon. 

llol.  The  posterior  of  the  day.  most  ijenerous  sir.  is 
liable,  congruent,  and  measurable  for  the  afternoon. 
The  word  is  well  culled,  chose  ;  sweet  and  apt,  I  do 
assure  you.  sir.  I  do  assure. 

Ann.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman  ;  and  my 
familiar,  I  do  assure4  you,  very  «jood  friend. — For  what 
is  inward"  between  us,  let  it  pass. — I  do  beseech  thee, 
remember  thy  courtesy  ; 3 — 1  beseech  thee,  apparel  thy 

1  Freo-school.  2  Confidential. 

a  ]\y  remember  thi/  cou rte .<??/,  Annado  probably  means  "remember  that 
all  thi.s  time  thou  art  standing  with  thy  hat  off."  "The  putting  off  the 
hat  at  table  is  a  kind  of  courtesie  or  ceremonie  rather  to  be  avoided  than 
otherwise." — Mario's  Second  Prutcs,  1591. 


134  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V. 

head  ; — and  among  other  importunate  and  most  serious 
designs, — and  of  great  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  shoul 
der  ;  and  with  his  royal  ringer,  thus,  dally  with  my  ex 
crement,1  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  secrecy, — that  the  king 
would  have  me  present  the  princess,  sweet  chuck,  with 
some  delightful  ostentation,  or  show,  or  pageant,  or 
antic,  or  firework.  Now,  understanding  that  the  curate 
and  your  sweet  self  are  good  at  such  eruptions,  and 
sudden  breaking  out  of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  ac 
quainted  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. 

Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy  enough  to 
present  them  ? 

Hoi.  Joshua,  yourself;  myself,  or  this  gallant  gen 
tleman,  Judas  Maccabeus  ;  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 
Hercules  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- 

1  The  beard  is  called  valor's  excrement  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 


136  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V. 

Ros.    That  was  the  way  to  make  his  god-head  wax ; l 
For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 

Kaih.    Ay,  and  a  shrewd,  unhappy  gallows  too. 

Ros.    You'll  ne'er   be  friends  with  him :  he  killed 
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,    of  this 
light  word  ? 

Kath.    A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 

Ros.    We  need  more  light  to  find  your  meaning  out. 

Kath.    You'll  mar  the  light  by  taking  it  in  snuff:2 
Therefore  I'll  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. 

Prin.    Well    bandied    both;    a   set3   of    wit    well 

played. 

But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favor  too. 
Who  sent  it,  and  what  is  it? 

Ros.  I  would  you  knew ; 

And  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  yours, 
My  favor  were  as  great ;  be  witness  this. 
Nay,  J  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron ; 
The  numbers  true  ;  and,  were  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  ? 

Ros.    Much,  in  the  letters ;  nothing  in  the  praise. 

1  Grow. 

2  Snuff  is  here  used  equivocally  for  an^er,  and  the  snuff  of  a  candle. 
See  King  Henry  IV.  Act  i.  Sc.  3. 

3  A  set  is  a  term  at  tennis  for  a  game. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  137 

Prln.    Beauteous  as  ink;  a  good  conclusion. 

Katie.    Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 

Ros,    'Ware  pencils  ! l     How  !     Let  me  not  die  your 

debtor, 

My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter. 
O  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  O's  ! 

Kath.    A  pox  of  that  jest!    And  beshrew  all  shrows  ! 

Prin.    But  what  was  sent  to  you  from  fair  Dumain? 

Kath.    Madam,  this  glove. 

Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain? 

Kath.    Yes,  madam  ;   and  moreover, 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover; 
A  hu^e  translation  of  hvpocrisv, 

O  ^  ./    I  .     ' 

Vilely  compiled,  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.    This,  and  these  pearls,  to  me  sent  Longaville; 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  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. 

Ros.    They  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  I'll  torture  ere  I  go. 
O  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week!" 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  be^  and  seek, 
And  wait  the4  season,  and  observe  the  times. 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes; 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  mv  behests: 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests!3 
So  potent-like4  would  1  oYrswav  his  state. 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Prin.    Xone   are   so   surelv  caught,   when    they   are 

catched, 
As  wit  turned  fool.      Folly,  in  wisdom  hatched. 


1  She  advises  Katharine  to  Inwarc  of  drnwing  likenesses,  lest  she  should 

retaliate. 

~  Tliis  is  an  expression  taken  from  the  hirim:  of  servants  ;  moaning,  "I 
wish  I  knew  that  he  was  in  love  \vith  me,  or  my  WHY/??/,"  as  the  phrase  is. 

:i  The  meaning  of  this  obscure  line  seems  to  he,— I    would  make  him 
proud  to  flatter  me,  who  make  a  mock  of  his  flattery. 

4  The  old  copies  read  pcrtnunt-likc.     The  modern  editions  read,  with 
{Sir  T.  Ilanmer,  portent-like. 
VOL.    II.  16 


138  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  V 

Hath  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  such  excess, 
As  gravity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

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  Bo  YET. 

Prin.    Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Boyet.    O,  I  am  stabbed  with   laughter!     Where's 
her  grace  ? 

Prin.    Thy  news,  Boyet  ? 

Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare ! — 

Arm,  wenches,  arm  !     Encounters  mounted  are 
Against  your  peace.     Love  doth  approach  disguised, 
Armed  in  arguments.     You'll  be  surprised  : 
Muster  your  wits  ;  stand  in  your  own  defence  ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.    Saint    Dennis    to    saint    Cupid !     What   arc 

they, 
That  charge  their  breath  against  us  ?  say,  scout,  say. 

Boyet.    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  addressed 
The  king  and  his  companions.      Warily 
I  stole  into  a  neighbor  thicket  by, 
And  overheard  what  you  shall  overhear ; 
That,  by  and  by,  disguised  they  will  be  here. 
Their  herald  is  a  pretty,  knavish  page, 
That  well  by  heart  hath  conned  his  embassage. 
Action,  and  accent,  did  they  teach  him  there  ; 
Thus  must  thou  speak,  and  thus  thy  body  bear ; 
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. 


SC.  11.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  139 

Th (3  l)oy  replied,  An  angel  is  not  evil ; 

1  should  have  feared  her,  had  she  been  a  devil. 

With  that  all  laughed,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoul- 

der; 

Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 
One  rubbed  his  elbow,  thus ;  and  fleered,  and  swore, 
A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before  ; 
Another,  with  his  finder  and  his  thumb. 
Cried,  Via!  we  will  f/o'/,  come  what  will  come: 
The  third  he  capered,  and  cried,  All  goes  well ; 
The  fourth  turned  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  !  appears, 
To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tear*. 

7V//1.    But  what,  but  what,  come  thev  to  visit  us  ? 

Hoi/ft.    They  do,  they  do:  and  are  appareled  thus, 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians.-     As  I  guo-. 
The  purpose  is,  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance  : 
And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress ;  which  they'll  know 
By  favors  several,  which  thev  did  bestow. 

Prin.    And    will    they  so  :      The  gallants  shall  be 

tasked  : 

For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  masked  : 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  iM'aee, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  sec;  a  lad\"s  fare. — 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favor  thou  shalt  wear: 
And  then  the  kin*;  will  court  thee  for  his  dear; 
Hold,  ta-ke  thou  this,  mv  sweet,  and  <:ive  me  thine  : 
So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  your  favors  too;   so  shall  vour  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceived  by  these  removes. 

1  Spleen  ridiculous  is  a  ridiculous /?/  of  laughter.     The  spleen  was  an 
ciently  supposed  to  be  the  cause  of  laughter. 

2  In  the  first  year  of  K.  Henry  VI IT.  at  a  banquet  made  for  tho  foreign 
ambassadors  in  the  parliament  chamber  at  Westminster,  "  came  the  Lorde 
Henry  Earle  of  Wiltshire  and  the  Lorde  Fitzwater,  in  two  long  gownes 
of  yellow  satin  traversed  with  white  satin,  and  in  every  bend  of  white  was 
a  bend  of  crimosen  sattin  after  the  fashion  of  Russia  or  Ruslande,  with 
furred  hattes  of  grey  on  their  hcdes,  either  of  them  havyng  an  hatchet  in 
their  handes,  and  bootes  with  pykes  turned  up." — //a//,  Henry  VIII,  p.  6. 


140  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V 

Ros.    Come  on,  then  ;  wear  the  favors  most  in  sight. 

Kath.    But,  in  this  changing,  what  is  jour  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  so  be  mocked  withal, 
Upon  the  next  occasion  that  we  meet, 
With  visages  displayed,  to  talk  and  greet. 

Ros.    But  shall  we  dance,  if  they  desire  us  to't  f 

Prin.    No ;  to  the  death,  we  will  not  move  a  foot ; 
Nor  to  their  penned  speech  render  we  no  grace ; 
But  while  'tis  spoke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Boyet.   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. 
There's  no  such  sport,  as  sport  by  sport  overthrown ; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  own. 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game ; 
And  they,  well  mocked,  depart  away  with  shame. 

[Trumpets  sound  within. 

Boyet.    The  trumpet  sounds  ;  be  masked ;  the  mask 
ers  come.  [The  ladies  mask. 

Enter  the  King,  BIRON,  LONGAVILLE,  and  DOMAIN,  in 
Russian  habits,  and  masked ;  MOTH,  Musicians,  and 
Attendants, 

Moth.    All  hail,  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth  ! 
Boyet.    Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  taffeta.1 
Moth.    A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames, 

[The  ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  ever  turned  their — backs — to  mortal  views  ! 
Biron.    Their  eyes,  villain,  their  eyes. 
Moth.    That  ever  turned  their  eyes  to  mortal  views  ! 
Out — 

i  i.  e.  the  taffeta  masks  they  wore. 


SC.  ll.J  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  141 

Boyct.    True  ;   out,  indeed. 

Moth.    Out  of  your  fa  vors ,  h ea  cen ly  sp i  rits,  ro u ch safe 
Not  to  behold — 

Jiiron.    Once  to  behold,  rogue. 

Moth.    Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed  eyes, 
with  your  sun-beamed  eyes 

Boyct.    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. 

J>iron.    Is  this  vour  perfectness  ?   Begone,  \<>n  ro^ue. 

//as-.    What    would    these    strangers  :      know    their 

minds,  Bovet. 

If  ihev  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purpose. 
Know  what  they  would. 

Boi/ct.    What  would  you  with  the  princess  : 

Biron.    Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 

Ros.    What  would  they,  say  they; 

Boyet.    Nothing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 

AVs.    Why,  that  they  have  :  and  bid  them  so  be  gone. 

Boyet.    She  says,  you  have  it,  and  you  m;i\  be  ^one. 

Kinm.    Sav  to  her  we  have  measured  many  miles. 
To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  this  IMMSS. 

Bmiet.    They  say  that    they  have    measured    many  a 

«/  */  */ 

mile. 
To  tread  a  measure  '  with  you  on  tins  ^rass. 

AVs.     It  is  not  so.      Ask  them  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile  :    if  they  have  measured  many, 
The  measure  then  ot   one  is  easily  told. 

Boifet.    If  to  come  hither  von  have  measured  miles, 
And  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell 
Jlow  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile. 

Biron.    Tell  her  we  measure  them  hv  weary  steps. 

Boyct.    She  hears  herself. 

Ros.  llo\\-  many  weary  steps. 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  numbered  in  the  travel  of  one  mile; 

1  A  grave,  solemn  dance,  with  slow  and  measured  Ptep^,  like  the  minuet. 


142  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V. 

Biron.  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. 

Ros.    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  stars,  to  shine 
(Those  clouds  removed)  upon  our  watery  eyne. 

Ros.    O  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  plays. 
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's 
changed. 

King.    Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 
The  music  plays ;  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 

Ros.    Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 

King.  But  your  legs  should  do  it. 

Ros.    Since    you  are  strangers,  and  come   here  by 

chance, 
We'll  not  be  nice.     Take  hands ; — we  will  not  dance. 

King.    Why  take  we  hands,  then  ? 

Ros.  Only  to  part  friends. — 

Court's),  sweet  hearts ;  and  so  the  measure  ends. 

King.    More  measure  of  this  measure ;  be  not  nice. 

Ros.    We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 

King.    Prize  you  yourselves.     What  buys  your  corn- 
pan  v  ? 

Ros.    Your  absence  only. 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.    Then  cannot  we   be   bought ;  and  so  adieu  ; 
Twice  to  your  vizor,  and  half  once  to  you ! 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  143 

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. 

Biron.    White-handed    mistress,    one     sweet    word 
with  thee. 

Prin.    Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar;   there  is  three. 

Biron.    Nay  then,  two  treys,  (an  if  you  grow  so  nice,) 
Metheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey. — Well  run,  dice  ! 
There's  half  a  do/en  sweets. 

Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu! 

Since  you  can  cog,1  I'll  play  no  more  with  vmi. 

Biron.    One  word  in  secret. 

Prin.  Let  it  not  he  sweet. 

Biron.    Thou  griev'st  my  gall. 

Prin.  Gall?  Bitter. 

Biron.  Therefor*1  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  von, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I'll  hid  adieu. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Kath.    What,  was  your  visor  made  without  a  tongue  ? 

Long.    I  know  the  reason,  I;ulv.  whv  YOU  ;i>k. 

Kath.    O,  for  your  reason  !   quieklv,  sir;    I  long. 

Long.    You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your  mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half. 

Kath.    Veal,  quoth   the    Dutchman. — Is    not    veal    a 
calf? 

Long.    A  calf,  fair  lady  ? 

Kath.  No.  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.    Let's  part  the  word. 

Kath.  No,  I'll  not  be  your  half. 

Take  all,  and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox. 

1  To  cog  is  to  lie  or  cheat;  hence,  to  cog  the  dice. 


144  LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  V. 

Long.    Look  how  you  butt  yourself  in   these  sharp 

mocks ! 
Will  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady  ?  Do  not  so. 

Kath.    Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do  grow. 
Long.    One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die. 
Kath.    Bleat  softly,  then  ;  the  butcher  hears  you  cry 

[They  converse  apart 
Boyet.    The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  as  keen 

As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
Cutting  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,  swifter 

things. 
Ros.    Not  one   word   more,  my  maids ;    break    off, 

break  off. 

Biron.    By  Heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with  pure  scoff! 
King.    Farewell,  mad  wenches ;    you  have   simple 
wits.  [Exeunt  King,  Lords,  MOTH, 

Music,  and  Attendants. 

Prin.    Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites. — 
Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wondered  at? 

Boyet.    Tapers  they  are,  with  your  sweet  breaths 

puffed  out. 
Ros.   Well-liking 1   wits   they  have ;    gross,    gross ; 

fat,  fat. 

Prin.    O  poverty  in  wit,  kingly-poor  flout ! 
Will  they  not,  think  you,  hang  themselves  to-night  ? 

Or  ever,  but  in  visors,  show  their  faces  ? 
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?  quoth  I ;  my  servant  straight  was  mute. 

Kath.    Lord  Longaville  said,  I  came  o'er  his  heart ; 
And  trow  you  what  he  called  me  ? 

1  Well-liking  is  the  same  as  well-conditioned,  fat. 

2  No  point ;  a  quibble  on  the  French  adverb  of  negation,  as  before, 
Act  ii.  Sc.  1. 


SC.  II.]          LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  145 

Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.    Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness,  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.    Well,   better   wits   have    worn    plain    statute- 
caps.1 
But  will  you  hear;  The  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Prin.    And  quick  13 iron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 

Kath.    And  Longaville  was  for  mv  service  horn. 

Mar.    Duinain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  hark  on  tree. 

Boijf.t.    Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  nfivc  ear. 
Immediately  they  will  again  he  here? 
In  their  own  shapes:   for  it  can  never  he, 
Tliev  will  digest  this  harsh  indi^nitv. 

/Y//t.    Will  thev  return  ' 

Boy  ft.  They  N'ill.  they  will,  (iud  knows; 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  thev  are  lame  with  blows. 
Therefore,  change  favors;2  and.  when  thev  repair, 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.    How  blow:  how  blow?   Speak  to  be  under 
stood. 

fioyrt.    Fair  ladies,  masked,  are  roses  in  their  bud. 
Dismasked,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 
Are  angels  veiling  clouds. :i  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.    A  vaunt,  perplexity!      What  shall  we  do, 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo? 

AVs.    Good  madam,  if  bv  me  voifll  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  ^ear; 
And  wonder  what  thev  were  :   and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vilelv  penned, 
And  their  rou^h  carriage  so  ridiculous. 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

1  An  act  was  passed  the  Ittth  of  Elizabeth  (1571)  "lor  the  continu 
ance  of  making  and  wearing  woollen  caps,  in  behalf  of  the  trade  of  cap 
pers,  providing  that  all  above  the  ajje  of  six  years  (except  the  nobility  and 
some  othersj  should,  on  Sabbath  days  and  holidays,  wear  caps  of  wool, 
knit,  thicken,  and  dressed  in  England,  upon  penalty  often  groats." 

2  Features,  countenances. 

3  Lrulics  unnutskcit  are  like  angels  veiling  clnwh,  or  letting  those  clouds 
which  obscured  their  brightness  sink  before  them. 

VOL.   II.  19 


146  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.          [ACT  V. 

Boyet.    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  King,  BIRON,  LONGAVILLE,  and  DUMAIN,  in 
their  proper  habits. 

King.    Fair    sir,   God    save    you!     Where    is   the 
princess  ? 

Boyet.    Gone  to  her  tent.     Please  it  your  majesty, 
Command  me  any  service  to  her  thither  ? 

King.    That   she    vouchsafe    me    audience   for  one 
word. 

Boyet.    I  will ;  and  so  will  she,  I  know,  my  lord. 

[Exit. 

Biron.    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  by  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  been  Adam,  he  had  tempted  Eve. 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp.     Why  this  is  he 
That  kissed  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  mean 2  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 ; 3 

1  Wassds ;    festive  meetings,  drinking-bouts ;    from  the  Saxon  was- 
h&l,  be  in  health,  which  was  the  form  of  drinking  a  health ;  the  cus 
tomary  answer  to  which  was  drine-had,  I  drink  your  health.     The  ivassel- 
cup,  wasscl-lowl,  wassel-brcad,  wassel-candle,  were  all  aids  or  accompani 
ments  to  festivity. 

2  The  tenor  in  music. 

3  Whales  bone ;  the  Saxon  genitive  cas<\     It  is  a  common  comparison 
in  the  old  poets.     This  bone  was  the  tooth  of  the  horse-whale,  morse,  or 
walrus,  now  superseded  by  ivory. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  147 

And  consciences  that  will  not  die  in  debt, 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 

King.    A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  with  my  heart, 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  part ! 

Enter   the    Princess,    ushered   &*/  BOYET;    ROSALINE, 
MARIA,  KATHARINE,  and  Attendants. 

Biron.    See  where  it  comes  ! — Behavior,  what  wert 

thou, 

Till  this  man  showed  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou   now: 
King.    All  hail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  tinu'  of  day  ! 
Prin.    Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 
King.    Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you  may. 
Prin.    Then  wish  me  better;    I  will  uive  \ou  leave. 
King.    We   came   to   visit  you;    and    purpose    now 

To  lead  you  to  our  court;  vouchsafe  it  then. 
Prin.    This  field  shall  hold  me  ;  and  so  hold  your 

vow. 

Nor  God,  nor  I,  delight  in  perjured  men. 
King.    Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you  provoke  ; 

The  virtue  of  your  eye  must  break  my  oath. 
Prin.    You   nickname  virtue;   vice  voti   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  -urst; 
So  much  I  hate  a  breaking-cause  to  be 
Of  heavenly  oaths,  vowed  with  intrant  v. 
King.    O,  you  have  lived  in  desolation  here, 

Unseen,  unvisited,  much  to  our  shame. 
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  state. 

Ros.    Madam,  speak  true. — It  is  not  so,  my  lord ; 


148  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.          [ACT  V. 

My  lady,  (to  the  manner  of  the  days,1) 

In  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 

We  four,  indeed,  confronted  here  with  four 

In  Russian  habit.     Here  they  staid  an  hour, 

And  talked  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. 

Biron.    This  jest  is  dry  to  me. — Fair,  gentle  sweet, 
Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish ;  when  wre  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  my 
eye,— 

Biron.    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. 

Biron.    O,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 

Ros.  All  the  fool  mine  ? 

Biron.  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

Ros.    Which  of  the  visors  was  it  that  you  wore  ? 

Biron.    Where  ?    when  ?  what  visor  ?  why  demand 
you  this  ? 

Ros.    There,  then,  that  visor  ;  that  superfluous  case, 
That  hid  the  worse,  and  showed  the  better  face. 

King.    We  are  descried  ;  they'll  mock  us  now  down 
right. 

Dum.    Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 

Prin.    Amazed,  my  lord  ?     Why  looks  your  high 
ness  sad? 

Ros.    Help,  hold  his  brows !    he'll  swoon !      Why 

look  you  pale  ? — 
Sea-sick,  1  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 

Biron.    Thus    pour   the    stars    down    plagues   for 
perjury. 

Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out  ? — 

1  After  the  fashion  of  the  times. 


SC.  II.]          LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  149 

Here  stand  I,  lady;  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  hahit  wait. 
O!  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penned, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  schoolboy's  tongue  ; 
Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend;1 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  son:;. 
Tafleta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-piled2  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  mam^ot  ostentation. 
I  do  forswear  them,  and  I  here  protest. 

By  this  white  i^love,  (how  white  the  hand,  God 

knows  !) 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  expressed 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersev  noes. 
And,  to  begin,  wench, — so  God  help  me,  la! — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 

Jios.    Sans  SANS,  I  pray  you/' 

liiron.    Yet  I  have  a  trick 
Of  the  old  rage. — Mear  with  me;    I  am  sick; 
I'll  leave  it  by  decrees.      Soft,  let  us  see; — 
Writt.1,  Lord  have  nu  m/  on  //.v.1  on  those  three  ; 
The\  are  infected;    in  their  hearts  it  lit  ^: 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  vour  eves. 
These  lords  are  visited  ;  you  are  not  free, 
For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  .see. 

Priii.    No,  they  are  free,  that  gave  these1  tokens  to  us. 

Jiintn.    Our  states  are  forfeit:    seek  not  to  undo  us. 

lius.     It  is  not  so;  for  how  can  this  be  true, 
That  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue? 


3  5 


1   Mistress.  '-'  A  metaphor  from  the  pile  of  velvet. 

3  i.  o.  without  French  words,  I  pray  you. 

4  This  was  the  inscription  put  upon  the  doors  of  houses  infected  with 
the  plague.     The  toh-m  of  the  plague  were  the  first  spots  or  discolor- 
ations  of  the  skin. 

5  That  is,  how  can  those  be  liable  to  forfeiture  that  bejrin  the  process  ? 
The  quibble  lies  in  the  ambiguity  of  the  word  SMC,  which  signifies  to  pro 
ceed  to  law,  and  to  petition. 


J50  LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  V 

Biron.    Peace ;  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Ros.    Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 

Biron.    Speak  for  yourselves  ;  my  wit  is  at  an  end. 

King.    Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our  rude  trans 
gression, 
Some  fair  excuse. 

Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  here,  but  even  now,  disguised  ? 

King.    Madam,  I  was. 

Prin.  And  were  you  well  advised  ? 

King.    I  was,  fair  madam. 

Prin.  When  you  then  were  here, 

What  did  you  whisper  in  your  lady's  ear  ? 

King.  That  more  than  all  the  world  I  did  respect  her. 

Prin.    When  she  shall  challenge  this,  you  will  reject 
her. 

King.    Upon  mine  honor,  no. 

Prin.  Peace,  peace,  forbear, 

Your  oath  once  broke,  you  force  1  not  to  forswear. 

King.    Despise  me  when  I  break  this  oath  of  mine. 

Prin.    I  will ;  and  therefore  keep  it. — Rosaline, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear  ? 

Ros.    Madam,  he  swore  that  he  did  hold  me  dear 
As  precious  eyesight ;  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 ; 
I  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  ? 

Biron.    Neither  of  either  ;    I  remit  both  twain. — 

1  i.  e.  you  care,  not,  or  do  not  regard  forswearing. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  151 

I  sec  the  trick  oirt. — Here  was  a  consent1 

(Knowing  aforehand  of  our  merriment) 

To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy. 

Some  carry-tale,  some  please-man,  some  slight  zanv, 

Some    mumble-news,    some    trencher-knight,    some 

Dick,- 

That  smiles  his  check  in  jeers,2  and  knows  the  trick 
To  make  my  lady  laugh,  when  she's  disposed, — 
Told  our  intents  he  fore  ;  which  once  disclosed. 
The  ladies  did  change  favors;   and  then  we. 
Following  the  signs,  wooed  hut  the  sign  of  she. 
Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 
We  arc1  again  forsworn  ;  in  will  and  error. :: 
Much  upon  this  it  is. — And  might  not  vou   [Y'o  BOYET 
Forestall  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  : 
Do  not  you  know  mv  ladv's  foot  hv  the  squire, "* 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  tin:  lire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrilv  : 
You  put  our  page  out.      Co,  you  are  allowed  ; s 
Die  when  vou  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud. 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  .*      There's  an  eye 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boy<t.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manege,  this  career,  been  run. 

Biron.   Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight!    Peace;  1  have  done. 

i] ntcr  COST  uin. 

Welcome,  pure  wit  !      Thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cost.    O  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know, 
Whether  the  three  worthies  shall  come  in,  or  no. 

Biron.    What,  are  there  but  three  ': 

Coxt.  -V>,  sir;  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  ev^ry  one  pursents  three4. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 

1  An  agreement,  a  conspiracy.     See  As  You  Like  It,  Act  ii.  Sc.  2. 

2  The  old  copies  read  yearcs :  the  emendation  is  Theobald's. 

3  i.  e.  first  in  ipi//,  and  afterwards  in  error. 

*  From  csquierre  (Fr.),  n//e,  or  square.     The  sense  is  similar  to  the 
proverbial  saying — //(  has  got  the  length  of  her  foot. 

5  That  is,  you  are  an  allowed  or  a  licensed  fool  or  jester. 


152  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V. 

Cost.    Not  so,  sir;    under  correction,  sir;   I  hope  it 

is  not  so. 
You  cannot  beg  us,1  sir,  1  can  assure  you,  sir ;  we  know 

what  we  know. 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Biron.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.    Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil  it 
doth  amount. 

Biron.    By   Jove,  I  always   took   three    threes   for 

nine. 

Cost.    O  Lord,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  should  get  your 
living  by  reckoning,  sir. 
Biron.    How  much  is  it? 

Cost.    O   Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the  ac 
tors,  sir,   will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount.     For 
my  own  part,   I  am,  as  they  say,  but  to  parfect  one 
man, — e'en  one  poor  man.     Pompion  the  Great,  sir. 
Biron.    Art  thou  one  of  the  worthies  ? 
Cost.    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. 
Biron.    Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.    We  will  turn  it  finely  off,  sir ;  we  will  take 
some  care.  [Exit  COSTARD. 

King.    Biron,  they  will  shame  us  ;    let  them  not  ap 
proach. 
Biron.    We  are  shame-proof,  my  lord ;  and  'tis  some 

policy 
To   have  one   show  worse  than    the    king's   and   his 

company. 

King.    I  say,  they  shall  not  come. 
Prin.    Nay,    my   good    lord,    let    me    o'errule   you 

now ; 
That  sport  best  pleases  that  doth  least  know  how. 


1  In  the  old  common  law  was  a  writ  de  idiola  inquirendo,  under  which  if 
a  man  was  legally  proved  an  idiot,  the  profits  of  his  lands,  and  the  custo 
dy  of  his  person,  might  be  granted  by  the  king  to  any  subject.  Such  a 
person,  when  this  grant  was  asked,  was  said  to  be  begged  for  a  fool.  One 
of  the  legal  tests  appears  to  have  been,  tc  try  whether  the  party  could 
answer  a  simple  arithmetical  question. 


SC.  II.]  LOVES  LABOR'S  LOST.  153 

Where  /eal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  /eal  of  them  which  it  presents,1 
Their   form   confounded    makes    most   form    in    mirth, 
Wlirn  great  things  laboring  perish  in  their  birth. 
Biron.    A  right  description  of  our  sport,  mv  lord. 

Enter  A  KM  ADO. 

Ann.    Anointed,  I  implore  so  much   expense  of  thy 
royal  sweet  breath,  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  \\ords. 

[Aim ADO  conccrsc.s  tcilli  lite  King,  ami  delivers 

him  a  i>(ip( /-.] 

]ynn.    Doth  this  man  serve  (iod: 
Hiron.    \Vhv  ask  vou  ': 

/'/•///.     He  sj)eaks  not  like  a  man  of  ( iod's  niakin_. 
I  .-//•///.    That's   all   one.  mv    fair,  sweet,    honev    mon 

arch  :  for.  I  protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  exeeedini; 
fantastical;  too,  too  vain;  too.  too  vain.  I5ui  we  will  put 
it,  as  thev  sav,  to  fnrlnim  ddla  tfitrrra.  I  \\  i>h  \ou 
the  peace  ot  mind,  most  roval  coupleinent.2 

[/,V/V  A  KM  \no. 

A  ///if.     Here  is  like  to  be    a  LMMM!    presence    of  \\or- 
thies.      He  presents  Hector  ot  Trov   :  the*  swain,  Pom- 
pev  the  ( Ireat  :  the  parish  curate.  Alexander  :  Armado's 
pa^e,  Hercules:  the  pedant.  Judas  .Machahieus. 
And  if  these  lour  worthies  in  their  hrst  sho\\-  thrive. 
These  lour   will  change;  habits,  and    present   the   other 

five. 
J>iron.    There  is  li\e  in  t!ie  first  .sho\\". 

A///H'.     ^  oil  are  deceived.   Yi>   not   so. 

^    Tlie  old  co])ie-  read  — 

u  Dies  in  tlie  y.eal  of //////  whicli  it  : 

The    emendation    in   the    te\t    :  .  and  lie  thus  eiideavors  to    ijive 

this  obscure  ji:i^saLre  a   liieaiilllif.       Tile   \\ord   il,   I    believe,    refers    to    .V//O/7. 

leases   best,  \v!ien>  I  least 

skilful;   "here  /.eal  strives  to  pie  so,  and 
tempted,  perish   in  the  very  act  < 
of  those  who  present  the  sportive 
to  conltnfs,  and  that  word  mav  n 


lieniLT  produced,  frojii  the  ardent  /.eal 
entertainment.  //,  however,  niav  refer 
'an  the  most  material  j>art  of  the  exhi 


bition. 

-  Tliis  word  is  used  ajjain  by  Sliakspeare  in  his  2 1st  Sonnet: 

"Making  a  couple  me  nt  of  proud  compare." 
VOL.   II.  !^() 


154  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  V. 

Biron.    The  pedant,  the  braggart,  the  hedge-priest, 
the  fool,  and  the  boy, — 

A  bare  throw  at  novum ; l  and  the  whole  world  again, 
Cannot  prick  2  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his  vein. 
King.    The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she   comes 
amain. 

[Seats  brought  for  the  King,  Princess,  &c. 

Pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies. 

Enter  COSTARD  armed,  for  Pompey. 

Cost.    /  Pompey  am, — 

Boyet.  You  lie  ;  you  are  not  he. 

Cost.    1  Pompey  am, — 

Boyet.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee.3 

Biron.    Well  said,    old  mocker ;    I  must  needs    be 

friends  with  thee. 

Cost.    /  Pompey  am,  Pompey,  surnamed  the  Big, — 
Dmn.    The  Great. 

Cost.    It  is  Great,  sir ; — Pompey,  surnamed  the  Great ; 
That  oft  infield,  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. 
Cost.    'Tis  not  so  much  worth ;   but,  I  hope,  I  wras 
perfect.     I  made  a  little  fault  in  Great. 

Biron.    My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey  proves  the 
best  worthy. 

1  A  game  at  dice,  properly  called  novem  quinque,  from  the  principal 
throws  being  nine  and  Jive.     The  first  folio  reads  "Mate  throw,"  &.c. 
The  second  folio,  which  reads  "  A  bare  throw,"  is  evidently  right 

2  Pick  out 

3  This  alludes  to  the  old  heroic  habits,  which,  on  the  knees  and  shoul 
ders,  had  sometimes,  by  way  of  ornament,  the  resemblance  of  a  leopard's 
or  lion's  head.     See  Cotgravc's  Dictionary,  in  v.  Masquine. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  155 


Enter  NATHANIEL  armed,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.    IVJien  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  was  the  world's 

commander  : 
By  east,   west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  conquer- 

ing  might ; 
My  Scutcheon  plain  declares  that  I  am  Alisander. 

Boijct.    Your    nose    says,    no,    you   arc    not ;    for    it 
stands  too  right.1 

Biron.    Your  nose   smells,  no,  in    this,  most   tcnder- 
smelling  knight.- 

Prin.    The  conqueror  is  dismayed.      Proceed,  good 
Alexander. 

Nath.    ll'hcn  in  the  world  I  Herd.  I   was  lh<-   world's 
commander : — 

Boyet.    Most  true;  'tis  right ;  vou  wen-  M»,  Alisander. 

Biron.    Pompey  the  Great, 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror :  take  away  Ali 
sander. 

Cost.  O,  sir,  [To  NATH.]  vou  have  overthrown  Ali 
sander  the  conqueror!  You  will  he  scraped  out  of  the 
painted  cloth  for  this.  Your  lion,  that  holds  his  poll-a\e 
sitting  on  a  close-stool,3  will  he  gi\en  to  A-ja\ :  he 
will  he  the  ninth  worthy.  A  conqueror,  and  afcard  to 
speak!  Hun  away  lor  shame,  Alisander.  [NATH. 
retires.']  There,  au't  shall  please  \ on  :  a  foolish,  mild 
man;  an  honot  man.  look  you,  and  soon  dashed!  lie 
is  a  marvellous  good  ncighhor.  iu  sooth  :  and  a  very 
good  howler;  hut,  for  Alisander,  alas !  you  see  how 
'tis; — a  little  oYrparted. — I>ut  there  are  worthies  a 
coining  will  speak  their  mind  in  some  other  sort. 

Prin.    Stand  aside,  good  Pompev. 

1  It  should  be  remembered,  that  the  head  of  Alexander  was  obliquely 
placed  on  his  shoulders. 

-  "His  (Alexander's)  body  had  so  sweet  a  smell  of  itselfe  that  all  tho 
apparell  he  wore  next  unto  his  body,  tooke  thereof  a  passing  delightful 
savour,  as  if  it  had  been  perfumed."  J^'orth^s  I'littarch. 

3  This  alludes  to  the  arms  jriven,  in  the  old  history  of  the  Nine  Wor 
thies,  to  Alexander,  "  the  which  did  bear  geulcs  a  lion,  or,  seiante  in  a 
chayer,  holding  a  battle-axe  argent," 


156  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V 


Enter  HOLOFERNES  armed,  for  Judas,  and  MOTH  armed, 
for  Hercules. 

Hoi.    Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 

Whose  club  Jailed  Cerberus,  that  three-headed  canus, 

And,  when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp, 
Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  maims. 
Quoniam  he  seemeth  in  minority, 
Ergo  /  come  with  this  apology. — 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish.    [Exit  MOTH. 

Hoi.    Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.    A  Judas ! 

Hoi.    Not  Iscariot,  sir. — 
Judas  I  am,  ycleped  Machabceus. 

Dum.    Judas  Machaboeus  clipped  is  plain  Judas. 

Biron.    A  kissing    traitor! — How    art   thou  proved 
Judas  ? 

Hoi.    Judas  I  am,— 

Dum.    The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 

Hoi.    What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Boyet.    To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 

Hoi.    Begin,  sir;  you  are  my  elder. 

Biron.  Well  followed.    Judas  was  hanged  on  an  elder. 

Hoi.    I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.    Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.   What  is  this  ? 

Boyet.    A  cittern  head.1 

Dum.    The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.    A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Long.    The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce  seen. 

Boyet.    The  pommel  of  Caesar's  falchion. 

Dum.    The  carved-bone  face  on  a  flask. 

Biron.    St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Dum.    Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.    Ay,  and  worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth-drawer. 
And  now,  forward  ;  for  we  have  put  thee  in  counte 
nance. 

1  The  cittern,  a  musical  instrument  like  a  guitar,  had  usually  a  head 
grotesquely  carved  at  the  extremity  of  the  neck  and  finger-board. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  157 

Hol.    You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 
Biron.    False ;  we  have  given  thee  faces. 
Hol.    But  you  have  outfaced  them  all. 
Biron.    An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 
Boyet.   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. 
Biron.    For  the  ass  to   the  Jude  ?     Give  it  him  : — 

Jud-as,  away. 

Hol.    This  is  not  generous,  not  gentle,  not  humble. 
Boyet.    A  light  for  monsieur  Judas.      It  grows  dark; 

he  may  stumble. 
Prin.    Alas,  jx>or  Machabaeus,  how  hath    he    been 

baited  ! 


Enter  ARMADO  armed,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles ;  here  comes  Hec 
tor  in  arms. 

Dum.  Though  my  mocks  come  home  by  me,  I  will 
now  be  merry. 

King.    Hector  was  but  a  Trojan1  in  respect  of  this. 

Boyet.    But  is  this  Hector  ? 

Dum.    I  think,  Hector  was  not  so  clean-timbered. 

Long.    His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 

Dum.    More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.    No  ;   he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.    This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.  lle?s  a  god  or  a  painter ;  for  he  makes 
faces. 

Arm.  The  ar  mi  potent  Mars,  of  lances*  the  almighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift,— 

Dum.    A  gilt  nutmeg. 

Biron.    A  lemon. 

Long.    Stuck  with  cloves. 

Dum.    No,  cloven. 


1  Trojan  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  cant  term  for  a  thief.     It  was, 
however,  a  familiar  name  for  any  equal  or  inferior. 

2  i.  e.  lance-men. 


158  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  V. 

Arm.    Peace ! 
The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  almighty. 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  Ilion ; 
A  man  so  breathed,  that  certain  he  would  fight,  yea 

From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  flower, — 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Long.  That  columbine. 

Arm.    Sweet  lord  Longaville,  rein  thy  tongue. 

Long.  1  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  forward 
with  my  device.  Sweet  royalty,  [To  the  Princess.]  be 
stow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 

o 

[BiRON  whispers  COSTARD. 

Prin.    Speak,  brave  Hector  ;  we  are  much  delighted. 

Arm.    I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

Boyet.    Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Dum.    He  may  not  by  the  yard. 

Arm.    This  Hector  far  surmounted  Hannibal, — 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone,  fellow  Hector ;  she  is 
gone  ;  she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.    What  meanest  thou  ? 

Cost.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan,  the 
poor  wrench  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. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipped,  for  Jaquenetta 
that  is  quick  by  him  ;  and  hanged,  for  Pompey  that  is 
dead  by  him. 

Dum.    Most  rare  Pompey  ! 

Boyet.   Renowned  Pompey  ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great  Pom 
pey  !  Pompey  the  huge  ! 

Dum.    Hector  trembles. 


SC.  II.]          LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  159 

Biron.  Pompey  is  moved. — More  Ates,1  more  Ates ; 
Stir  them  on  !  Stir  them  on  ! 

Dum.    Hector  will  challenge  him. 

Biron.  Ay,  if  he  have  no  more  man's  blood  in's 
belly  than  will  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.    By  the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  will  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a  northern 
man ;  I'll  slash  ;  I'll  do  it  by  the  sword. — I  pray  you, 
let  me  l)orrow  my  arms  again. 

Dum.    Room  ibr  the  incensed  worthies. 

Cost.    I'll  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.    Most  resolute  Pompey! 

Moth.  Master,  let  me  take  you  a  buttonhole  lower. 
Do  you  not  see,  Pompey  is  uncasing  lor  the  combat? 
What  mean  you?  You  will  lose  your  reputation. 

Arm.  Gentlemen,  and  soldiers,  pardon  me  ;  I  will 
not  combat  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  You  may  not  deny  it.  Pompey  hath  made 
the  challenge. 

O 

Arm.    Sweet  bloods,  I  both  may  and  will. 

Biron.    What  reason  have  you  for't  ? 

Arm.  The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  shirt ;  I 
go  woolward  2  for  penance. 

Boyct.  True,  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome  for 
want  of  linen  ;  since  when,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  wore 
none,  but  a  dish-clout  of  Jaquenetta's  ;  and  that  he 
wears  next  his  heart  for  a  favor. 


Enter  a  Messenger,  MONSIEUR  MERCADE. 

Mcr.    God  save  you,  madam. 

Prin.    Welcome,  Mercade  ; 
But  that  tiiou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 

Mcr.    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. 

1  i.  e.  more  instigation.     Ate  was  the  goddess  of  discord. 

2  That  is,  clothed  in  wool,  and  not  in  linen  ;    a  penance  often  enjoined 
in  times  of  superstition. 


160  LOVE'S   LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  V. 

Biron.    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  opposition  of  our  spirits. 
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  a  humble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  so  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtained. 

King.    The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  form 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed  ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,2  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  ; 3 
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. 

Biron.    Honest,  plain  words  best  pierce   the  ear  of 

grief; 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 

1  Armado  probably  means  to  say,  in  his  affected  style,  that  "  he  had  dis 
covered  he  was  wronged."     "  One  may  see  day  at  a  little  hole,"  is  a 
proverb. 

2  Loose  may  mean  at  the  moment  of  his  parting ;  i.  e.  of  his  getting 
loose  or  away  from  us. 

3  i.  e.  which  it  fain  would  succeed  in  obtaining. 


SC.  II.]          LOVE'S  LABORS  LOST.  161 

For  your  fair  sakcs  have  we  neglected  time. 

Played  foul  play  with  our  oaths;  your  beautv,  ladies, 

Hath  much  deformed  us,  fashioning  our  humors 

Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents  ; 

And  what  in  us  hath  seemed  ridiculous, — 

As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains; 

All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain  ; 

Formed  by  the  eve,  and  therefore,  like  the  eve, 

Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits,  and  of  forms, 

Varying  in  subjects  as  the  eve  doth  roll 

•/  •'  ^ 

To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance  ; 
\\  Inch  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes, 
Have  inisbecomed  our  oaths  and  gravities, 
Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  fault>. 
Suggested  us  to  make.      Therefore,  ladii  -. 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 
Is  likewise  yours.      We  to  ourselves  prove  t.iU,  , 
By  being  once  false  forever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both, — fair  ladies,  you  ; 
And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin. 
Tims  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  uracc. 

7V//1.     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  courtesv, 
As  bombast,1  and  as  lining  to  the  time. 
But  more  devout  than  thi^.  in  our  respects, 
Have  we  not  been;   and  therefore  met  \oiir  loves 
In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment. 

J)um.    Our  letters,  madam.  sho\\vd  much  more  than 
jest. 

Loin?.    So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  \\  c  did  n()t  (juote0  them  so. 

King.    Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour, 
Grant  us  vour  loves. 

/V///.  A  time  methinks  too  short 

1  Thus  in  Docker's  Satiromastix  :  "  You  shall  swear  not  to  bombast  out 
a  new  play  with  the  old  linings  of  jests" 
•}  Regard. 

VOL.    II.  21 


162  LOVE'S  LABOR'S   LOST.  [ACT  V. 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in. 
No,  no,  my 'lord,  jour  grace  is  perjured  much, 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness  ;  and,  therefore  this, — 
[f  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me. 
Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 
To  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. 

O  O 

If  this  austere,  insociable  life 

Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood  ; 

If  frosts,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds,1 

Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love, 

But  that  it  bear  this  trial,  and  last  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 ; 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation, 

For  the  remembrance  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. 

JBiron.    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  honesty ; 
With  threefold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 

i  Clothing. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  163 

Dum.    O,  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.    Not  so,  my  lord. — A  twelvemonth  and  a  day 
I'll  mark  no  words  that  smooth-faced  wooers  say. 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come  ; 
Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I'll  give  you  some. 

Dum.    I'll  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.    Yet  swear  not,  lest  you  be  forsworn  again. 

Long.    What  says  Maria  ? 

Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end, 

I'll  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 

Long.    I'll  stay  with  patience  ;   but  the  time  is  long. 

Mar.    The  liker  you  ;  few  taller  are  so  young. 

Biron.    Studies  my  lady?  Mistress,  look  on  me  ; 
Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye, 
What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there. 
Im])ose  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; 
Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts; 
Which  you  on  all  estates  will  execute, 
That  lie  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit. 
To  weed  this  wormwood  from  your  fruitful  brain, 
And,  therewithal,  to  win  me,  if  you  please, 
(Without  the  which  I  am  not  to  be  won,) 
You  shall  this  twelvemonth  term  from  dav  to  day 
Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches ;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavor  of  your  wit, 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 

Biron.    To    move    wild    laughter    in   the    throat  of 

death  ? 

It  cannot  be  ;  it  is  impossible. 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Ros.    Why,  that's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing  spirit, 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  ijrace, 
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, 


164  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.         [ACT  V. 

Deafed  with  the  clamors  of  their  own  dear 1  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. 

Biron.    A  twelvemonth  ?      Well,    befall  what   will 

befall, 
I'll  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. 

Biron.    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. 

Biron.  That's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  ARM  ADO. 

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 
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  of  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  HOLOFERNES,  NATHANIEL, MOTH,  COSTARD, 
and  others. 

This  side  is  Hiems,  winter;  this  Ver,  the  spring;  the 
one  maintained  by  the  owl,  the  other  by  the  cuckoo. 
Ver,  begin. 

1  Dear ;  used  by  ancient  writers  to  express  pain,  solicitude,  &c. 


SC.  II.]  LOVE'S   LABOR'S   LOST.  165 

SONG. 
I. 

Spring.  When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue. 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds 1  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  a  married  ear ! 


II. 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  lar/cs  are  ploughmen'* s  clocks, 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 

The  cuckoo,  then,  on  every  tree, 

Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings  he, 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — O  word  of  fear, 

Unpleasing  to  a  married  car  ! 

III. 

Winter.  IVlicn  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  befoul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 

To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

1  Gerarde,  in  his  Herbal,  1597,  says  that  the/os  cucnli  rardamine,  &c. 
are  called  "  in  English  cuckoo  flowers,  in  Norfolk  Canterbury  bells,  and 
at  Namptwich,  in"Cheshire,  Isidic- smocks." 


166  LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST.  [ACT  V. 

IV. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs 1  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-who ; 

To-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot.2 

Arm.    The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the 
songs  of  Apollo.     You,  that  way ;  we,  this  way. 

[Exeunt. 

1  This  wild  English  apple,  roasted  and  put  into  ale,  was  a  very  favorite 
indulgence  in  old  times. 

2  To  keel,  or  kele,  is  to  cool. 


IN  this  play,  which  all  the  editors  have  concurred  to  censure,  and  some 
have  rejected  as  unworthy  of  our  Poet,  it  must  be  confessed  that  there  are 
many  passages  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  Shakspeare. 

JOHNSON. 


167 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE, 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

"  THE  Merchant  of  Venice,"  says  Schlegel,  "  is  one  of  Shakspeare'a 
most  perfect  works ;  popular  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  calculated 
to  produce  the  most  powerful  effect  on  the  stage,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
wonder  of  ingenuity  and  art  for  the  reflecting  critic.  Shylock,  the  Jew, 
is  one  of  the  inconceivable  masterpieces  of  characterization  of  which 
Shakspeare  alone  furnishes  us  with  examples.  It  is  easy  for  the  poet 
and  the  player  to  exhibit  a  caricature  of  national  sentiments,  modes  of 
speaking,  and  gestures.  Shylock,  however,  is  every  thing  but  a  common 
Jew ;  he  possesses  a  very  determinate  and  original  individuality,  and  yet 
we  perceive  a  slight  touch  of  Judaism  in  every  thing  which  he  says  or 
does.  We  imagine  we  hear  a  sprinkling  of  the  Jewish  pronunciation  in 
the  mere  written  words,  as  we  sometimes  still  find  it  in  the  higher  classes, 
notwithstanding  their  social  refinement.  In  tranquil  situations,  what  is 
foreign  to  the  European  blood  and  Christian  sentiments,  is  less  perceiv 
able  ;  but  in  passion,  the  national  stamp  appears  more  strongly  marked. 
All  these  inimitable  niceties  the  finished  art  of  a  great  actor  can  alone 
properly  express.  Shylock  is  a  man  of  information,  even  a  thinker  in  his 
own  way  ;  he  has  only  not  discovered  the  region  where  human  feelings 
dwell :  his  morality  is  founded  on  the  disbelief  in  goodness  and  magna 
nimity.  The  desire  of  revenging  the  oppressions  and  humiliations  suf 
fered  by  his  nation  is,  after  avarice,  his  principal  spring  of  action.  His 
hate  is  naturally  directed  chiefly  against  those  Christians  who  possess 
truly  Christian  sentiments;  the  example  of  disinterested  love  of  our 
neighbor  seems  to  him  the  most  unrelenting  persecution  of  the  Jews. 
The  letter  of  the  law  is  his  idol ;  he  refuses  to  lend  an  ear  to  the  voice 
of  mercy,  which  speaks  to  him  from  the  mouth  of  Portia  with  heavenly 
eloquence  ;  he  insists  on  severe  and  inflexible  justice,  and  it  at  last  recoils 
on  his  own  head.  Here  he  becomes  a  symbol  of  the  general  history  of 
his  unfortunate  nation.  The  melancholy  and  self-neglectful  magnanimity 
of  Antonio  is  afiectingly  sublime.  Like  a  royal  merchant,  he  is  surround 
ed  with  a  whole  train  of  noble  friends.  The  contrast  which  this  forms 


168  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

to  the  selfish  cruelty  of  the  usurer  Shylock,  was  necessary  to  redeem  the 
honor  of  human  nature.  The  judgment  scene  with  which  the  fourth  act 
is  occupied,  is  alone  a  perfect  drama,  concentrating  in  itself  the  interest 
of  the  whole.  The  knot  is  now  untied,  and,  according  to  the  common 
idea,  the  curtain  might  drop.  But  the  Poet  was  unwilling  to  dismiss  his 
audience  with  the  gloomy  impressions  which  the  delivery  of  Antonio, 
accomplished  with  so  much  difficulty,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  and 
the  punishment  of  Shyiock,  were  calculated  to  leave  behind;  he  has 
therefore  added  the  fifth  act  by  way  of  a  musical  after-piece  in  the  play 
itself.  The  episode  of  Jessica,  the  fugitive  daughter  of  the  Jew,  in 
whom  Shakspeare  has  contrived  to  throw  a  disguise  of  sweetness  over 
the  national  features,  and  the  artifice  by  which  Portia  and  her  companion 
are  enabled  to  rally  their  newly-married  husbands,  supply  him  with 
materials." 

"The  scene  opens  with  the  playful  prattling  of  two  lovers  in  a  summer 
moonlight, 

*  When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees.' 

It  is  followed  by  soft  music  and  a  rapturous  eulogy  on  this  powerful  dis 
poser  of  the  human  mind  and  the  world ;  the  principal  characters  then 
make  their  appearance,  and  after  an  assumed  dissension,  which  is  ele 
gantly  carried  on,  the  whole  ends  with  the  most  exhilarating  mirth." 

Malone  places  the  date  of  the  composition  of  this  play  in  1598.  Chal 
mers  supposed  it  to  have  been  written  in  1597,  and  to  this  opinion  Dr. 
Drake  gives  his  sanction. 

It  appears,  from  a  passage  in  Stephen  Gosson's  School  of  Abuse,  &c., 
1579,  that  a  play  comprehending  the  distinct  plots  of  Shakspeare's  Mer 
chant  of  Venice  had  been  exhibited  long  before  he  began  to  write. 
Ciosson,  making  some  exceptions  to  his  condemnation  of  dramatic  per 
formances,  mentions  among  others, — "  The  Jeiv  shown  at  the  Bull,  repre 
senting  the  greediness  of  worldly  choosers,  and  the  bloody  minds  of 
usurers. — These  plays,"  continues  he,  "  are  good  and  sweete  plays." 

It  cannot  be  doubted  that  Shakspeare,  as  in  other  instances,  availed 
himself  of  this  ancient  piece.  Mr.  Douce  observes,  "that  the  author  of 
the  old  play  of  The  Jew,  and  Shakspeare  in  his  Merchant  of  Venice,  have 
not  confined  themselves  to  one  source  only  in  the  construction  of  their 
plot,  but  that  the  Pecorone,  the  Gesta  Romanorum,  and  perhaps  the  old 
ballad  of  Gernutus,  have  been  respectively  resorted  to."  It  is,  however, 
most  probable  that  the  original  play  was  indebted  chiefly,  if  not  altogether, 
to  the  Gesta  Romanorum,  which  contained  both  the  main  incidents ;  and 
that  Shakspeare  expanded  and  improved  them,  partly  from  his  own  genius, 
and  partly  as  to  the  bond  from  the  Pecorone,  where  the  coincidences  are 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS.  169 

too  manifest  to  leave  any  doubt  Thus  the  scene  being  laid  at  Venice; 
the  residence  of  the  lady  at  Belmont;  the  introduction  of  the  person  bound 
for  the  principal ;  the  double  infraction  of  the  bond,  viz.  the  taking  more 
or  less  than  a  pound  of  flesh,  and  the  shedding  of  blood,  together  with 
the  after-incident  of  the  ring,  are  common  to  the  novel  and  the  play.  The 
whetting  of  the  knife  might  perhaps  be  taken  from  the  ballad  of  Gernutus. 
Shakspeare  was  likewise  indebted  to  an  authority  that  could  not  have  oc 
curred  to  the  original  author  of  the  play  in  an  English  form ;  this  was 
Silvayn's  Orator,  as  translated  by  Munday.  From  that  work  Shylock's 
reasoning  before  the  senate  is  evidently  borrowed ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  has  been  most  skilfully  improved.* 

There  are  two  distinct  collections  under  the  title  of  Gtsta  Ronianontm* 
The  one  has  bt-en  frequently  printed  in  Latin,  but  never  in  English  :  there 
is,  however,  a  manuscript  version,  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  among 
the  Ilarleian  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum.  This  collection  seems  to 
have  originally  furnished  the  story  of  the  bowl.  The  other  Gcsta  lias 
never  been  printed  in  Latin,  but  a  portion  of  it  has  been  several  times 
printed  in  English.  The  earliest  edition  referred  to  by  Warton  and 
Dr.  Farmer,  is  by  Wynken  de  Wordo,  without  date,  but  of  the  beginning 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  was  long  doubted  whether  this  early  edition 
existed;  but  it  has  recently  been  described  in  the  Retrospective  Review. 
The  latter  part  of  the  thirty-second  history  in  this  collection  may  have 
furnished  the  incidents  of  the  caskets. 

But  as  many  of  the  incidents  in  the  bond  story  of  the-  Merchant  of 
Venice  have  a  more  striking  resemblance  to  the  first  tale  of  the  fourth 
day  of  the  Pccoronc  of  Scr  Giovanni,  this  part  of  the  plot  was  most  prob 
ably  taken  immediately  from  thence.  The  story  may  have  boon  extant 
in  English  in  Shakspeare's  time,  though  it  has  not  hitherto  been  discovered. 

The  Pecorone  was  first  printed  in  ir>r>0,  (not  15,18,  as  erroneously  -stated 
by  Mr.  Steevcns,)  but  was  written  almost  two  centuries  before. 

After  all,  unless  we  could  recover  the  old  play  of  The  Jew,  mentioned 
by  Gosson,  it  is  idle  to  conjecture  how  far  Shakspeare  improved  upon  the 
plot  of  that  piece.  The  various  materials  which  may  have  contributed  to 
furnish  the  complicated  plot  of  Shakspearc's  play,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Variorum  Editions,  and  in  Mr.  Donee's  very  interesting  work. 


*  "The  Orator,  handling  a  hundred  several  Discourses,  in  form  of  Declamations,  &.c. ; 
written  in  French  by  Alexander  Silvnyn,  and  Englished  Ijy  L.  P.  (Lazarus  Pyol,  i.  e.  An 
thony  Munday.)  London:  printed  by  Adam  Islip,  ).r>%."  Declamation  95— "  Of  a  Jew 
who  would  for  his  debt  have  a  pound  of  flesh  of  a  Christian." 

VOL.  ii.  2*2 


170 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED.* 

DUKE  of  Venice. 

Prince  of  Morocco.  )  „  ., 

T,  •          c  A  f  Suitors  to  Portia. 

Prince  of  Arragon,  ) 

ANTONIO,  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

BASSANIO,  his  Friend. 

SALANIO,     \ 

SALARINO,    >  Friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

GRATIANO,  J 

LORENZO,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

SHYLOCK,  a  Jcic. 

TUBAL,  a  Jew,  his  Friend. 

LAUNCELOT  GOBBO,  a  Cloivn,  Servant  to  Shylock, 

OLD  GOBBO,  Father  to  Launcelot. 

SALERIO,  a  Messenger  from  Venice. 

LEONARDO,  Servant  to  Bassanio. 

BALTHAZAR,  )  «  ,    „    ,. 

STEPHANO,  '}  Servants  to  Port^ 

PORTIA,  a  rich  Heiress. 
NERISSA,  her  Waiting-maid. 
JESSICA,  Daughter  to  Shylock. 

Magnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers   of  the  Court  of  Justice, 
Jailer,  Servants,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,  partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the 
Seat  of  Portia,  on  the  Continent. 

This  enumeration  of  the  Dramatis  Personae  is  by  Mr.  Rowe, 


171 


MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  ANTONIO,  SALARINO,  and  SALANIO. 

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

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

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

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

1  Argosies  are  largo  ships  cither  for  merchandise  or  war.  The  word 
has  been  supposed  to  be  derived  from  the  classical  ship  Argo,  as  a  vessel 
eminently  famous ;  and  this  seems  the  more  probable  from  Argis  being 
used  for  a  ship  in  low  Latin. 


172  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  I. 

Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt, 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth, 

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

Ant.   Believe  me,  no.     I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year  ; 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 

Solan.    Why,  then,  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie ! 

Solan.   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, 

1  To  vail  is  to  lower,  to  let  fall',  from  the  French,  avctier. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  173 

That  they'll  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 
Thou 'ill  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 


Enter  BASSAMO,  LORENZO,  and  GRATIANO. 

Salan.    Here    comes    Bassanio,    your    most    noble 

kinsman, 

Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  you  well  ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  butter  company. 

Salar.    I    would    have    staid    till  I    had    made    you 

merry, 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.    Your  worth  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  the  occasion  to  depart. 
Salar.    Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 
Bass.    Good  seigniors  both,   when  shall  we  laugh  ? 

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

O 

Salar.    We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

[Exeunt  SALAR.  and  SALAN. 

Lor.    My    lord    Bassanio,    since    you    have    found 

Antonio, 

We  two  will  leave  you  ;  but,  at  dinner-time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.    \  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra.    You  look  not  well,  seignior  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.    1  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratiano; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part, 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool. 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come  ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 


174  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  [ACT  I. 

By  being  peevish  ?     1  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 

I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks, — 

There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 

Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond ; 

And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 

With  purpose  to  be  dressed  in  an  opinion 

Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 

As  who  should  say,  /  am  sir  Oracle, 

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

O,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 

That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 

For  saying  nothing ;  who,  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 

I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time ; 

But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 

For  this  fool's  gudgeon,  this  opinion. — 

Come,  good  Lorenzo. — Fare  ye  well,  awhile ; 

I'll  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

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

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

Ant.   Farewell.     I'll  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear.1 

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

[Exeunt  GRA.  and  LOR. 

Ant.    Is  that  any  thing  now  ? 

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

Ant.    Well ;  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  this  same 


1  Gear  usually  signifies  matter,  subject,  or  business  in  general.  It  is 
here,  perhaps,  a  colloquial  expression  of  no  very  determined  import.  It 
occurs  again  in  this  play,  Act  ii.  Sc.  2  :  "  If  Fortune  be  a  woman,  she's  a 
good  wench  for  this  gear." 


SC.  l.J  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  175 

To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promised  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.    'Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance. 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridged 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is,  to  come  fairly  oil*  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 
To  unburden  all  mv  plots,  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.    1  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  extremes!  means, 
Lie  all  unlocked  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.    In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one  shaft, 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch, 
To  find  the  other  forth ;  and,  by  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,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost, 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have. 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 


176  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  [ACT  1. 

That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest l  unto  it ;  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.    In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues.     Sometimes2  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors;  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

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

1  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift, 
That  1  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  racked,  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. 

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

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries 
were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are  ; 

1  Prest,  that  is,  ready ;  from  the  old  French  word  of  the  same  orthog 
raphy,  now  pret. 

2  Formerly. 


VOL.   II. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  179 

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,1  the  duke 
of  Saxony's  nephew? 

For.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober; 
and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  IK;  is  drunk. 
When  he  is  best,  he  is  little  worse  than  a  man ;  and 
when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little  better  than  a  beast ;  and 
the  worst  fall  that  ever  fell,  1  hope,  I  shall  make  shift 
to  go  without  him. 

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

For.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee, 
set  a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary 
casket;  for,  if  the  devil  be  within,  and  that  tempta 
tion  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 
determination ;  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. 

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

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

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

1  The  duke  of  Bavaria  visited  London,  and  was  made  a  knight  of  the 
Garter,  in  Shakspeare's  time.  Perhaps,  in  this  enumeration  of  Portia's 
suitors,  there  maybe  some  covert  allusion  to  those  of  queen  Elizabeth. 


180  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  1. 

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  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  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  be  here  to-night. 

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


SCENE  III.     Venice.     A  public  Place. 

Enter  BASSANIO  and  SHYLOCK. 

Shy.    Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

Bass.    Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Shy.    For  three  months, — well. 

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

Shy.    Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

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

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

Bass.   Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.    Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  con 
trary  ? 

Shy.    Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no ; — my  meaning,  in  saying 


SC.  III.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  181 

he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  understand  me,  that 
he  is  sufficient.  Yet  his  means  are  in  supposition  :  he 
hath  an  argosy  bound  to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  In 
dies ;  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  : — 1  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.    Be  assured  you  mav. 

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

Bass.    If  it  please?  you  to  dine  with  us. 

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


Enter  ANTONIO. 

Bass.    This  is  seignior  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, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails, 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  con£rre£ate, 

O         O  ' 

On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.  Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him. 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 


182  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  I. 

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

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

Ant.    Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants1  of  my  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom. — Is  he  yet  possessed,2 
How7  much  you  would  ? 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.    And  for  three  months. 

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

Well  then,  your  bond ;   and,  let  me  see, but  hear 

you; 

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

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

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

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

Shy.    No,  not  take  interest ;   not,  as  you  would  say, 
Directly  interest.     Mark  what  Jacob  did. 
WThen  Laban  and  himself  were  compromised, 
That  all  the  eanlings3  which  \vere  streaked,  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  peeled  me  certain  wands, 

1  Wants  come  to  the  height,  which  admit  no  longer  delay. 

2  Informed. 

3  Young  lambs  just  dropped,  or  eaned.    This  word  is  usually  spelled  yean, 
but  the  Saxon  etymology  demands  can.     It  is  applied  particularly  to  ewes. 


SC.  III.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  183 

And  ill  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind,1 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes ; 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  caning  time 
Fall  party-colored  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blessed; 
And  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  swayed,  and  fashioned,  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,  seignior. 

Ant.  Mark  vou  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  falsehood  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  beholden  to  you  ? 

Shy.    Seignior  Antonio,  ninny  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys,  and  my  usances.2 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug ,' 
For  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spit  upon  im  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help. 
Go  to,  then  ;  you  come  to  me,  and  vou  say, 
Shylock,  ice.  would  have  moneys :  you  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  ;   moneys  is  your  suit. 
What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  a  dog  money  ?  Is  it  possible 

1  i.  e.  of  nature.  2  Interest. 


184  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  I. 

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  spurned  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  called  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
Fll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys  ? 

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 1  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm ! 

1  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 
Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stained  me  with, 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  moneys ;  and  you'll  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 
Expressed  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

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

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

Ant.    Why,  fear  not,  man ;    I  will  not  forfeit  it. 
Within  these  two  months, — that's  a  month  before 

i  1.  e.  interest,  money  bred  from  the  principal. 


SC.  III.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  185 

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  ? 
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,  lor  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 

Ant.    Yes,  Shylock,  1  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  fearful1  guard 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  [Exit. 

Ant.  I  lie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian  ;  he  grows  kind. 

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

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

1  To /ear  was  anciently  to  g-ire  as  well  as  ftd  terrors.     So  in  K.  Henry 
IV.  Part  I. 

"  A  mighty  and  a  fearful  head  they  are.' 
VOL.  ii.  24 


136  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  II. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE   I.     Belmont.      A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 
Flourish  of  Cornets. 

Enter  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  and  his  Train ;  PORTIA, 
NERISSA,  and  other  of  her  Attendants. 

Mor.    Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 
The  shadowed  livery  of  the  burnished  sun, 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbor,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 
Where  Phoebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 
And  let  us  make  incision 1  for  your  love, 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  feared  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear, 
The  best  regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 
Have  loved  it  too.     I  w7ould  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  rny  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  fair, 
As  any  comer  I  have  looked  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  cimeter, — 
That  slew  the  sophy,  and  a  Persian  prince, 
That  won  three  fields  of  sultan  Solyman, — 

1  To  understand  how  the  tawny  prince,  whose  savage  dignity  is  well 
supported,  means  to  recommend  himseif  by  this  challenge,  it  must  be  re 
membered  that  red  blood  is  a  traditionary  sign  of  courage. 


SC.  11.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  187 

I  would  outstare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 
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. 

For.  You  must  take  your  chance  ; 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all, 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrnni:. 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage  ;  therefore  be  advised.1 

Mor.    Nor    will    not;     come,    bring     me     unto     mv 
chance. 

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

Mor.  Goovl  fortune  then  !    [Cornets. 

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


SCENE   II.     Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  LAUNCELOT  GOBBO.- 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run 
from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  el 
bow,  and  tempts  me,  saying  to  me,  Gobbo,  Launcclot 
Gobbo,  good  Launcclot,  or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Lann- 
celot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs,  take  the  start,  run  airaij. 
My  conscience  says, — no:  take  /iced,  honest  Launcr- 
lot;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo ;  or,  as  aforesaid,  honest 
Launcelot  Gobbo,  do  not  run  ;  scorn  running  with  tlnj 

1  i.  e.  be  considerate :  advised  is  the  word  opposite  to  rttsh. 

2  The  old  copies  read — Enter  the  Clown  alone;  and  throughout  the 
play,  this  character  is  called  the  Clown  at  most  of  his  entrances  or  exits. 


188  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  II. 

heels}  Well,  the  most  courageous  fiend  bids  me  pack ; 
via !  says  the  fiend  ;  away  !  says  the  fiend,ybr  the  heav 
ens  ;  rouse  up  a  brave  mind,  says  the  fiend,  and  run. 
Well,  my  conscience,  hanging  about  the  neck  of  my 
heart,  says  very  wisely  to  me, — my  honest  friend  Laun- 
celot,  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  says,  Launcelot,  budge  not :  budge, 
says  the  fiend  ;  budge  not,  says  my  conscience.  Con 
science,  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,  1  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your 
reverence,  is  the  devil  himself.  Certainly,  the  Jew  is 
the  very  devil  incarnation  ;  and,  in  my  conscience,  my 
conscience  is  but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience,  to  offer 
to  counsel  me  to  stay  with  the  Jew.  The  fiend  gives 
the  more  friendly  counsel.  I  will  run,  fiend  ;  my  heels 
are  at  your  commandment ;  I  will  run. 

Enter  old  GoBBO,2  with  a  Basket. 

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

Laun.  [Aside. ~\  O  Heavens,  this  is  my  true  be 
gotten  father  !  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,3  high- 
gravel  blind,  knows  me  not. — I  will  try  conclusions 
with  him. 

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

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

1  In  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  we  have  "  O  illegitimate  construction ! 
/ scorn  that  with  my  heels" 

2  It  has  been  interred  from  the  name  of  Gobbo,  that  Shakspeare  de 
signed  this  character  to  be  represerted  with  a  hump-back. 

3  "  Sand-blind ;  having  an  imperfect  sight,  as  if  there  was  sand  in  the 
eye,  myops"    Holyoke's  Dictionary. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  189 

Gob.  By  God's  sonties,1  '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  yon  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  }XK>r  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  1  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I  be 
seech  you  ;  talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ': 

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

Laun.    Ergo,   master   Launcelot  ;   talk   not  of   mas 
ter   Launcelot,   father;   for  the  young  gentleman   (at, 
cording  to  fates   and   destinies,  and   such   odd    savin"s. 

. 

the   sisters   three,  and   such   branches  of  learning)    is, 
indeed,  deceased;  or,  as  you  would  sav,  in  plain  terms, 


gone  to  heaven. 


Gob.  Marry,  God  forbid!  The  bov  was  the  verv 
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,  younu  uentle- 
nian  ;  but  I  prav  von,  tell  me,  is  mv  bov  ((!<M!  ivst  his 
soul !)  alive,  or  dead  ? 

Laun.    Do  you  not  know  me,  father.' 

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

IMUII.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  vour  eves.  \<>n 
might  fail  of  the  knowing  me.  It  is  a  wise  father 
that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old  man,  1  will  tell 
you  news  of  your  son.  Give  me  vour  blessing ;;  truth 
will  come  to  light  ;  murder  cannot  be  hid  lonu,  a  man's 
son  may  ;  but,  in  the  end,  truth  will  out. 

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

1  God's  soiitics  was  probably  a  corruption  of  God's  taints ;  in  old  lan 
guage,  saunctcs. 


190  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  JI 

Laun.  Pray  you,  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 

Gob.    I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

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

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed.  I'll  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  thill-horse,1  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail 
grows  backward ;  1  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  rest 2  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  fam 
ished  in  his  service  :  you  may  tell  every  finger  I  have 
with  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come  ;  give 
me  your  present  to  one  master  Bassanio,  who,  indeed, 
gives  rare  new  liveries  ;  if  I  serve  not  him,  I  will  run 
as  far  as  God  has  any  ground. — O  rare  fortune  !  here 
comes  the  man  ; — to  him,  father ;  for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I 
serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 

Enter  BASSANIO,  with  LEONARDO,  and  other  Followers. 

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

[Exit  a  servant. 

1  i.  e.  the  shaft-horse,  sometimes  called  the  thill-horse. 

2  "  Set  up  my  rest,"  i.  e.  determined.     See  note  on  All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well,  Act  ii.  Sc.  2 ;  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  iv.  Sc.  5. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  191 

Laun.    To  him,  father. 

Gob.    God  bless  your  worship  ! 

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

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

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

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

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

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  be 
stow  upon  your  worship ;  and  my  suit  is, 

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

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

Laun.    Serve  you,  sir. 

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

Bass.    I  knowthee  well;  thou  hast  obtained  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. 

Bass.  Thou  speakest  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  *  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  en 

1  L  e.  ornamented. 


1 92  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  ACT  II. 

his  palm.']  if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a  fairer  table, 
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  trifle  of  wives.  Alas,  fifteen  wives  is 
nothing ;  eleven  widows,  and  nine  maids,  is  a  simple 
coming-in  for  one  man,  and  then,  to  'scape  drowning 
thrice ;  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life  with  the  edge  of  a 
feather-bed  ; — here  are  simple  'scapes  !  Well,  if  for 
tune  be  a  woman,  she's  a  good  wench  for  this  gear. 
— Father,  come  ;  I'll  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

[Exeunt  LAUNCELOT  and  old  GOBBO. 

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

Leon.   My  best  endeavors  shall  be  done  herein. 

Enter  GRATIANO. 

Gra.    Where  is  your  master  ? 

Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  LEONARDO. 

Gra.    Seignior  Bassanio, — 

Bass.    Gratiano ! 

Gra.    I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtained  it. 

Gra.   You  must  not  deny  me  ;  I  must  go  with  you 
to  B  elm  out. 

Bass.   Why,    then    you    must ! — but     hear     thee, 

Gratiano  ; 

Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice  ; 
Parts  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults ; 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  they  show 
Something  too  liberal ; 1 — pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit ;  lest,  through  thy  wild   behavior, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

i  Gross. 


SC.  III.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  193 


Gra.  Seignior  Bassanio,  hear  me. 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 
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,1  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. 

Bass.    Well,  we  shall  see  vour  bearing. 

. 

Gra.    Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;  you  shall  not  gage  me 
13y  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity  ; 

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

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


SCENE  III.     The   same.      A   Room    in    Shylock's 
House. 


Enter  JESSICA  and  LAUNCEI.OT. 

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

Laun.    Adieu  ! — Tears    exhibit    my  tongue. — Most 
beautiful  pagan, — most  sweet  Jew !  If  a  Christian  did 


1  It  was  anciently  the  custom  to  wear  the  hat  during  dinner. 
a  i.  e.  grave  appearance.     Ostent  is  a  word  very  commonly  used  for 
ihow  by  old  dramatic  writers. 
VOL.  ii.  25 


194  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  II. 

not  play  the  knave,  and  get  thee,  I  am  much  deceived. 
But  adieu !  These  foolish  drops  do  somewhat  drown 
my  manly  spirit ;  adieu !  [Exit. 

Jess.    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  thy  loving  wife.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV.     The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  GRATIANO,  LORENZQ,  SALARINO,  and  SALANIO. 

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

Gra.    We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 

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

Solan.    'Tis  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  ordered ; 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

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

Enter  LAUNCELOT,  uiih  a  Letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news  ? 

Loun.    An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up 1  this,  it 
shall  seem  to  signify. 

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

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Loun.    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. 

1  To  break  up  was  a  term  in  carving. 


SC.  V.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  195 

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

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

Salar.    Ay,  marry,  I'll  be  gone  al>out  it  straight. 

Salan.    And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodging,  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.    'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  SALAR.  and  SALAN. 

Gra.    Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

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


SCENE  V.      The   same.     Before    Shylock's   House. 

Enter  SHYLOCK  and  LAUNCELOT. 

Shy.    Well,   thou   shalt   see,    thy  eyes  shall   be   thy 

judge, 

The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio. — 
What,  Jessica! — Thou  shalt  not  gormandize, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me  ; — what,  Jessica  !— 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out  ;— 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

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

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


196  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  IL 


Enter  JESSICA. 

Jes.    Call  you  ?     What  is  your  will  ? 

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

T  T     1.  1  •  & 

Laun.  1  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-Monday1  last  at  six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  fall 
ing  out  that  year  on  Ash  Wednesday,  was  four  year  in 
the  afternoon. 

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

Jessica. 

Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-necked  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street, 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnished  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 ; 

1  i.  e.  Easter-Monday.  It  was  called  Black-Monday  from  the  severity 
of  that  day,  April  14, 1360,  which  was  so  extraordinary,  that,  of  Edward  the 
Third's  soldiers,  then  before  Paris,  many  died  of  the  cold.  Anciently  a 
superstitious  belief  was  annexed  to  the  accident  of  Heeding  at  the  nose. 


SC.  VI.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  197 

There  will  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  patch1  is  kind  enough  ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat.     Drones  hive  not  with  me  ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him ;  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrowed  purse.     Well,  Jessica,  go  in ; 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 
Do,  as  I  bid  you, 

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

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


SCENE  VI.       The    same.      Enter    GRATIANO    and 
SALAR  INO,  masked. 

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

Salar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

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

Salar.    O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  ily 
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  un tread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  un  bated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?     All  things  that  are, 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoyed. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 

1  i.  e.  fool  or  simpleton. 


J98  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  II. 

Hugged  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 
How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return, 
With  over-weathered  ribs,  and  ragged  sails, 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggared  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 


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  wives, 
I'll  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'll  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.    Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

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

Lor.    Heaven,  and  thy  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  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For,  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

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

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

Lor.  So  are  you,  sweet. 

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


SC.  VII.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  199 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 
And  we  are  staid  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  above. 

Gra.    Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,1  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. 

What,  art  thou  come?  —  On,  gentlemen,  awav  : 
Our  masking  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit  with  JESSICA  and  SALARINO. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 
Ant.    Who's  there  ? 


Seignior  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. 
I  hnve  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.    I  am  glad  on't  ;   I  desire  no  more  delight, 
Than  to  be  under  sail  and  gone  to-night.          \_E.rt  •/////. 


SCENE  VII.     Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 
Flourish  of  Cornets. 

Enter  PORTIA,  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. 

1  A  jc.st  arising  from  the  ambiguity  of  Gentile,  which  signifies  both  a 
heathen  and  one  well  born. 


200  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  II. 

Mor.    The    first,    of     gold,    who    this    inscription 

bears ; — 

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

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

Mor.    Some  god  direct  my  judgment!    Let  me  see; 
I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again. 
What  says  this  leaden  casket  ? 
Who  chooseth  me,  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 
Must  give — for  what  ?  for  lead  ?  hazard  for  lead  ? 
This  casket  threatens.     Men,  that  hazard  all, 
Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages : 
A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross ; 
I'll  then  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  aught  for  lead. 
What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
As  much  as  he  deserves  ? — Pause  there,  Morocco, 
And  wreigh  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  strayed  no  further,  but  chose  here  ? — 
Let's  see  once  more  this  saying  graved  in  gold  ; 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  gain  tvJiat  many  men  desire 
Why,  that's  the  lady ;  all  the  world  desires  her. 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 
To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 
The  Hyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 
Of  wide  Arabia,  are  as  throughfares  now, 


SC.  VII.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  201 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia. 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come, 

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

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  picture. 

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

To  think  so  base;  a  thought ;   it  wen;  too  gross 

To  rib  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  insculped  upon  ; 

But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 

Lies  all  within. — Deliver  me  the  key; 

Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  1  mav  ! 

Por.    There,  take    it,   prince,    and   if  my    form    lie 

there, 
Then  I  am  yours.  [7/6'  unlocks  the  golden  casket. 

Mor.  O  hell !   what  have  we  here  : 

A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll.      I'll  read  the  writing. 

All  that  glisters  is  not  gold : 
Often  have  you  heard  that  told ; 
Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold, 
Jyiit  my  outside  to  heho/d : 
Gilded  timber  l  do  irorms  infold. 
Had  you  been  as  n:isc.  as  bold, 
You  tig  in  limits,  in  judgment  old, 
Your  answer  had  not  been  inscrol/cd. 
Fare  you  well :  your  suit  is  cold. 

Cold,  indeed  ;  and  labor  lost. 

Then,  farewell,  heat ;  and  welcome,  frost. — 
Portia,  adieu  !      I  have  too  grieved  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave  ;  thus  losers  part.  [Exit. 

1  This  is  the  reading  of  all  the  old  copies,  which  Mr.  Ro\vc  altered  to 
wood,  and  Dr.  Johnson  to  tombs 
VOL.  ii.  i>(5 


202  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IL 

Por.    A   gentle    riddance. Draw   the    curtains, 

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

SCENE  VIII.     Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  SALAR  IN  o  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! — 0  my  ducats! — 0  my  daughter ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian ! — 0  my  Christian  ducats ! — 
Justice  !     The  law  !     My  ducats,  and  my  daughter ! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats, 
Of  double  ducats,  stolen  from  me  by  my  daughter ! 
And  jewels  ;  two  stones,  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  remembered. 

I  reasoned l  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday ; 
Who  told  me,  in  the  narrow  seas,  that  part 

1  Conversed. 


SC.  IX.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  203 

The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught. 
I  thought  upon  Antonio,  when  he  told  me, 
And  wished  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his 

Salan.    You    were  best  to    tell   Antonio  what   you 

hear  ; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.    A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part. 
Bassanio  told  him,    he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return  ;  he  answered — Do  not  so  : 
Slubber  1  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time; 
And  for  the  Jcic*s  bond,  which  he  hath  of  me, 
Let  it  not  enter  into  your  mind  of  love. 
Be  merry  :  and  employ  your  chief cst  thoughts 
To  courtship  and  such  fair  osttnts-  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there. 
And  oven  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 
And,  with  affection  wondrous  sensible1, 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

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

Salar.  Do  we  so.         [Exeunt. 


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'cn  his  oath, 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

1  To  slubber  is  to  do  a  thing  carelessly.  2  Shows,  toKens. 


204  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  II. 

Flourish  of  Cornets. 

Enter  the  Prince  of  Arragon,  PORTIA,  and  their 
Trains. 

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

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

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

Ar.    And  so  have  I  addressed  *  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 2  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, 
Because  I  will  not  jump4  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house  ! 

1  Prepared. 

2  By  and  o/,  being  synonymous,  were  used  by  our  ancestors  indifferent 
ly  ;  Malone  has  adduced  numerous  instances  of  the  use  of  by,  in  a.11  of 
which,  by  substituting  o/,  the  senso  is  rendered  clear   to  the  modern 
reader. 

3  Power.  4  To  jump  is  to  agree  with. 


SO.  IX.]  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  205 

Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear. 

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

And  well  said  too ;  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honorable 

Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 

To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 

O          +/ 

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  gleaned 
From  the  true  seed  of  honor,  and  how  much  honor 
Picked  from  the  chaiT  and  ruin  of  the  times,1 
To  be  new  varnished!      Well,  but  to  my  choice. 
Who  chooseth  me,  shall  get  as  muck  as  he  deserves. 
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. 

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

Por.    To  offend,  and  judge,  arc4  distinct  nflici  s, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ac.  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  befools  alive,  I  ?n.sy 
Silvered  oVr;  and  so  was  this. 

1  The  meaning  is,  how  much  meanness  would  be  found  among  the 
great,  and  how  much  greatness  among  the  mean. 

2  Know. 


206  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  II 

Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed,1 
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'll  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroath.2 

[Exeunt  Arragon,  and  Tram. 
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. 
Ner.    The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy. — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  by  destiny. 
Por.    Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.   Where  is  my  lady  ? 

Por.  Here  ;  what  would  my  lord  ? 

Serv.    Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  the  approaching  of  his  lord ; 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets ; 3 
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, 


1  The  poet  had  forgotten  that  he  who  missed  Portia  was  never  to  marry 
any  other  woman. 

2  Wroath  is  used  in  some  of  the  old  writers  for  misfortune,  and  is  often 
Bpelled  like  ruth. 

3  Salutations. 


SC    1.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  207 

Thou  spend'st  such  high-day1  wit  in  praising  him.— 
Come,  come,  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  sc 


c 


Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

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


ACT   HI. 

SCENE  1.     Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  SALANIO  and  SALARINO. 

Salan.    Now,  what  news  on  the  Rial  to  ? 

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 
carcasses  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 2  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbors  be 
lieve  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. 

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

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

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

1  So  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor : 

" He  speaks  holiday." 

2  To  knap  is  to  break  short.     The  word  occurs  in  the  Common  Prayer. 
"He  knappeth  the  spear  in  sunder.'1 


208  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

Enter  SHYLOCK. 

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 ! 

Solan.    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  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  dis- 


SC.  l.J  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  209 

oases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled 
by  the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is  ? 
If  you.  prick  us,  do  wre  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  resemble  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,  re 
venge.  The  villany  you  teach  me,  I  will  execute  ; 
and  it  shall  go  hard,  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

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


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


Enter  TUBAL. 

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  can 
not  find  her. 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there  !  A  diamond 
gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort  !  Tin 
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  mv  daughter  were 
dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear  !  "\Yould 
she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  cof 
fin!  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  revenue  ;  nor  no  ill  luck 
stirring  but  what  lights  o'  mv  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, — 
VOL.  n.  27 


210  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

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

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

Shy.  I  thank  God,  1  thank  God! — Is  it  true?  is  it 
true  ? 

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

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

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  1  heard, 
one  night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Shy.  Thou  stickest  a  dagger  in  me. 1  shall  nev 
er  see  my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a  sitting ! 
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'll  plague  him;  I'll  tor 
ture  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  wilderness 
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  merchandise  I  will. 
Go,  go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at  our  synagogue  ;  go, 
good  Tubal ;  at  our  synagogue,  Tubal.  [Exeunt. 

1  The  turquoise  is  a  well-known  precious  stone  found  in  the  veins 
of  the  mountains  on  the  confines  of  Persia  to  the  east.  In  old  times,  its 
value  was  much  enhanced  by  the  magic  properties  attributed  to  it  in  com 
mon  with  other  precious  stones,  one  of  which  was,  that  it  faded  or  bright 
ened  its  hue  as  the  health  of  the  wearer  increased  or  grew  less. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 


SCENE   II.      Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 


Enter  BASSANIO,  PORTIA,  GRATIANO,  NERISSA,  and  At 
tendants.     The  Caskets  are  set  out. 

For.    1  pray  you  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while. 
There's  something  tells  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'll  make  me  wish  a  sin, 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlooked  l  me,  and  divided  me  ; 

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

Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 
And  so  all  yours;  O!  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  owners  and  their  rights, 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so, 
Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it, — not  I. 
I  speak  too  long  ;  but  'tis  to  peize  2  the  time  ; 
To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose, 

For  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

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

Bass.    None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love. 

1  To  be  oVr/oo£ef/,  forelooked,  or  eye-bitten,  was  a  term  for  being  le- 
witched  by  an  evil  eye. 

2  To  pieze  is  from  peser  (Fr.),  to  iccigh  or  balance. 


MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 

'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

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

Bass.    Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 

Por.    Well,  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess,  and  love, 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession. 

0  happy  torment,  when  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance  ! 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

Por.    Away  then  ;  I'm  locked  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  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch  ;  such  it  is, 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day, 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes, 
With  no  less  presence,1  but  with  much  more  love, 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin-tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster.     I  stand  for  sacrifice. 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  the  exploit.     Go,  Hercules ! 
Live  thou,  I  live. — With  much,  much  more  dismay 

1  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Music,  whilst  BASSANIO   comments  on  the  Caskets  to 

himself. 

i  i.  e  dignity  of  mien. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  213 


SONG. 

1.  Tell  me,  where  is  fancy1  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
Plow  begot,  how  nourished  ? 

Reply,  reply. 

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

Let  us  all  ring  fancy'' s  knell ; 
Pll  begin  it, Ding,  dong,  bell. 

All.    Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bass.    So  may  the  outward  shows   be  least   them 
selves  : 

The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament.2 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  seasoned  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  showr  of  evil?     In  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but.  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it3  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  searched,  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,  snaky,  golden  locks, 

1  Love. 

'-  Bassanio  begins  abruptly,  the  first  part  of  the  argument  having  passed 
in  his  mind. 

3  i.  e.  justify  it 

4  That  is,  what  a  little  higher  is  called  the  beard  of  Hercules. 


214  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  skull  that  bred  them,  in  the  sepulchre.1 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled 2  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty ;  in  a  word, 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee ; 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man ;  but  thou,  thou  meagre  lead, 
Which  rather  threat'nest,  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  paleness3  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 ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  ?     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  ? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  severed  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, 

1  Shakspeare  has  also  satirized  this  fashion  of  false  hair  in  Love's  La 
bor's  Lost. 

2  Guiled  for  guiling,  or  treacherous. 

3  In  order  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  the  epithet  pale,  Warburton  altered 
this  to  plainness,  and  he  has  been  followed  in  the  modern  editions ;  but 
the  reading  of  the  old  copy,  which  is  here  restored,  is  the  true  one. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  215 

And  leave  itself  unfurnished.1     Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. — Here's  the  scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

You  that  choose  not  by  the  view, 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true  ! 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  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  her. 

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

Por.    You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am.     Though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 
To  wish  myself  much  better  ;  yet  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  mvself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
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 
Is  sum  of  something ; 2  which,  to  term  in  gross, 

1  i.  e.  unfurnished  with  a  companion  or  fellow. 

2  The  folio  reads,  "Is  sum  of  nothing,"   which  may  probably  be  the 
true  reading. 


216  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  111. 

Is  an  unlessoned  girl,  unschooled,  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. 

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

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

Gra.    My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me  ; 1 
And,  when  your  honors  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

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

Gra.    I  thank  your  lordship;  you  have  got  me  one. 

l  That  is,  none  away  from  me ;  none  that  I  shall  lose,  if  you  gain  it 


s. 


SC.  II.]  MERCHANT   OF    VENICE.  217 

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  fall: 
For,  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again  ; 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love  ;  at  last, — if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here, 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  vour  fortune 
Achieved  her  mistress. 

Por.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

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

Bass.    And  do  \ou,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 

Gra.    Yes,  ?  faith,  my  lord. 

Buss.    Our   feast    shall    be    much    honored    in   your 
marriage. 

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

Ncr.    What,  and  stake  down  ? 

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

slake  down. 

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

Enter   LORENZO,  JESSICA,  and  SAIJ.KIO. 

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

Por.  So  do  I,  my  lord  ; 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.    I  thank  your  honor.      For  my  part,  my  lord, 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here  ; 
ttut  meetiii";  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 

»/  V         ' 

1  Pause,  delay. 
VOL.  ii.  28 


218  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay. 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sale.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Seignior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.  [Gives  BASSANIO  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

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

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

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

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

For.    There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same 

paper, 

That  steal  the  color  from  Bassanio's  cheek. 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of  any  constant1  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  ? — 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;     I  am  half  yourself, 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  fewT  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper !     Gentle  lady, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  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  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing ;  for,  indeed, 


1  It  should  be  remembered  that  steadfast,  sad, grave,  sober,  were  ancient 
synonymes  of  constant. 


SC.  11.]  .MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  219 

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  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend, 

And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 

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

Have  all  his  ventures  failed:      What,  not  one  hit? 

From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 

From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  ? 

And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 

Of  merchant-marring  rocks  : 

Sale.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

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

,A'.v.    \\  lieu  1  was  with  him,  I  have  heard  him  swear, 
To  Tukil,  and  to  Cluis,  his  countrymen, 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  ile.sh, 
Than  twentv  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him  ;   and  I  know,  mv  lord, 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deiiv  not, 
It  \\ill  n'o  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 

Por.    Is  it  vour  dear  friend,  that  is  thus  in  trouble: 

Bass.    The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  conditioned  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies;  and  one1  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Por.    What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bass.    For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Por.  AYhat,  no  more  ? 


220  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  III 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Should  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife ; 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over  ; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along ; 
My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself,  mean  time, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away ; 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day. 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer ; 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  w7ill  love  you  dear. — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  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  pleasure ;  if  your  love  do 
not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 

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

Bass.    Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 

I  will  make  haste ;  but,  till  I  come  again, 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay, 

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


SCENE  III.     Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  SHYLOCK,  SALANIO,  ANTONIO,  and  Jailer. 

Shy.    Jailer,  look  to  him. — Tell  not  me  of  mercy  ; — 
This  is  the  fool  that  lends  out  money  gratis. — 
Jailer,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.    I'll  have  my  bond  ;  apeak  not  against  my  bond  ; 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 


SC.  III.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 

Thou  call 'dst  me  dog,  before  lliou  hadst  a  cause  : 
But,  since  1  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs; 
Tlu;  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder, 
Thou  naughty  jailer,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.    I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

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

[Exit  SHY  LOCK. 

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

Ant.  Let  him  alone  ; 

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

Salan.  I  am  sure,  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.    The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 

J 

With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied, 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  state  ; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  ritv 
Consisted!  of  all  nations.      Therefore,  1^0  : 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me. 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  mv  bloodv  creditor. 

Well,  jailer,  on. — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 

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


222  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

SCENE  IV.  JBelmont.  A  Room  in  Portia's  House. 
Enter  PORTIA,  NERISSA,  LORENZO,  JESSICA,  and 
BALTHAZAR. 

Lor.    Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  presence, 
You  have  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  godlike  amity  ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  j'our  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. 

Por.    I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 
Nor  shall  not  now ;  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,1  of  manners,  and  of  spirit ; 
Which  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Bein£  the  bosom  lover2  of  mv  lord, 

o  J 

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

How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestowed, 

In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 

From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty ! 

This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself! 

Therefore,  no  more  of  it :  hear  other  things. 

Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 

The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house, 

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

I  have  toward  Heaven  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  you 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition ; 

1  The  word  lineaments  was  used  with   great   laxity   by  our   ancient 
writers. 

2  This  term  was  anciently  synonymous  with  friend. 


SC.  IV.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  223 

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

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

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

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

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

Por.    I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well  pleased 
To  wish  it  luck  on  you  ;   fare  you  well,  Jessica. — 

[Exeunt  JESSICA  and  LOKI:N/O. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true, 
So  lei  me  find  thee  still.      'Fake  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, 
Iking  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagined  speed1 
Unto  the  tranect,2  to  the  common  Jerry 
Which  trades  to  Venice. — Waste  no  time  in  words. 
But  get  thee  imne.      I  shall  he  there  before4  thee. 

Balth.    Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed. 

[Exit. 

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

Ner.  Shall  they  sec  us  : 

Por.    They  shall,  Nerissa  ;   but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  i hey  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  what  we  lack.      I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 

1  i.  o.  with  the  celerity  of  imagination. 

-  This  word  can  only  be  illustrated  at  present  by  conjecture.  It  evi 
dently  implies  the  name  of  a  place  where  the  passage-boat  set  out,  and  is 
in  some  way  derived  from  "tranarc  (Ital),  to  pass  or  swim  over:"  per 
haps,  therefore,  tranctto  signified  a  littlo  fording  place  or  ferry,  and 
hence  the  English  word  tranect;  but  no  other  instance  of  its  use  has  yet 
occurred. 


224  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  III 

I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 

And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace  ; 

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.1 — Then  I'll  repent, 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  killed  them. 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell, 

That  men  shall  swear,  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth. — I  have  within  my  mind 

A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 

Which  I  will  practise. 

Ner.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men  ? 

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


SCENE  V.     The  same.     A  Garden. 


Enter  LAUNCELOT  and  JESSICA. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly;  for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the 
father  are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children ;  therefore,  I 
promise  you,  I  fear  you.1  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. 

1  "  I  could  not  help  it." 

2  So  in  K.  Richard  III., 

"  The  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy, 
And  his  physicians  fear  him  mightily." 


SC.  V.]  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  225 

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  Seylla,  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  wnv 
Christians  enough  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could  well 
live,  one  by  another.  This  making  of  Christians  will 
raise  the  price  of  hogs ;  if  we  grow  all  to  be  pork-eat 
ers,  we  shall  not  shortly  have  a  rasher  on  the  coals 
for  money. 

Enter  LORENZO. 

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

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

Jes.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo  ;  Laun 
celot  and  I  are  out.  He  tells  me  flatly,  there  is  no 
mercy  for  me  in  heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's  daugh 
ter  ;  and  he  says  you  are  no  good  member  of  the  com 
monwealth  ;  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's 
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  si 
lence;  and  discourse  grow  commendable  in  none  only 
but  parrots. — Go  in,  sirrah;  bid  them  prepare  for 
dinner. 

VOL.  ii.  29 


226  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  III. 

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  instant  ? 
I  pray  thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  mean 
ing.  Go  to  thy  fellows ;  bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve 
in  the  meat,  and  we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  served  in  ;  for 
the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered  ;  for  your  coming  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  ! 3 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words ;  and  I  do  know 
A    many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnished  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 
Pawned  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

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

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

1  i.  e.  suited  or  fitted  to  each  other,  arranged. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  227 

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

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

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

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


ACT   IV. 

SCENE    I.     Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  the  Magnificoes;  ANTONIO,  BASSANIO, 
GRATIANO,  SALARINO,  SALANIO,  and  others. 

Duke.    What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.    Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

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

Ant.  I  have  heard 

Your  grace  hath  ta'cn  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 l  reach,  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury ;  and  am  armed 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

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

Solan.    He's  ready  at  the  door ;  he  comes,  my  lord. 

Enter  SHY  LOCK. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face. — 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 

1  Envy,  in  this  place,  means  hatred  or  malice. 


228  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 

To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 

Thou 'It  show  thy  mercy,  and  remorse,1  more  strange 

Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty  ; 

And  where 2  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 

(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh,) 

Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 

But,  touched  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 3  merchant  down, 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stubborn  Turks,  and  Tartars  never  trained 

To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 

We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.    I  have  possessed  your  grace  of  what  I  purpose , 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  I  sworn 
To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats.     I'll  not  answer  that  : 
But  say  it  is  my  humor  :     Is  it  answered  ? 
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  answered  yet  ? 
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,4 
Master  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 

J  Remorse,  in  Shakspeare's  time,  generally  signified  pity,  tenderness. 

2  Whereas. 

3  This  epithet  was  striking,  and  well  understood  in  Shakspeare's  time, 
when  Gresham  was  dignified  with  the  title  of  the  royal  merchant,  both 
from  his  wealth,  and  because  he  constantly  transacted  the  mercantile 
business  of  queen  Elizabeth. 

4  Jlffection  stands  here  for  tendency,  disposition ;  appetitus  animi. 


SC.  1.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  229 

Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your  answer. 

As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  rendered, 

Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 

Why  he,  a  harmless,  necessary  cat ; 

Why  he,  a  woollen l  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  answered  ? 

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

Shy.    I  am  not  bound  to  please  then  with  my  answer. 

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

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

Bass.    Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

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

Ant.    I  pray  you,  think  you  question2  with  the  Jew, 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height : 

O  * 

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. — Therefore1  I  do  beseech  you, 

Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means. 

But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  convenienry. 

Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.    For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

Shy.    If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 


1  It  was  usual  to  cover  with  woollen  cloth  the  bag  of  this  instrument 
The  old  copies  read  woollen  :  the  conjectural  reading  swollen  was  proposed 
by  sir  J.  Hawkins. 

2  Converse. 


230  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

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,  rend'ring 


none  ? 


Sky.    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  seasoned  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. 
1  stand  for  judgment :  answer  ;  shall  I  have  it  ? 

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

Salar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

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

Duke.   Bring  us  the  letters ;  call  the  messenger. 

Bass.    Good  cheer,   Antonio !     What,  man  ?    cour 
age  yet ! 

The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all, 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

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


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  231 


Enter  NERISSA,  dressed  like  a  Lawyers  Clerk. 

Duke.    Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bcllario  ? 

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

Bass.    Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  knife  so  earnestly  ? 

Shy.    To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt  there. 

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

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

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

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

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

Ner.  He  attendeth  here  hard  l>\, 

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

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

[Clerk  reads.]  Your  grace  shall  understand,  that, 
at  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  I  am  very  sick  ;  but  in  the 
instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation 
was  with  me  a  young  doctor  of  Rome  ;  his  name  is  Bal- 


232  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IV 

thasar.  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  opin 
ion  ;  which,  bettered  with  his  own  learning,  (the  great 
ness  whereof  I  cannot  enough  commend,)  comes  with 
him,  at  my  importunity,  to  Jill  up  your  graced  request 
in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years  be  no 
impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation ;  for  1 
never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head.  I  leave 
him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial  shall  better 
publish  his  commendation. 

Duke.    You  hear  the  learned  Bellario,  what  he  writes. 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

Enter  PORTIA  dressed  like  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 

Give  me  jour  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  thoroughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.    Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Por.    Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.    Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow  ; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn *  you,  as  you  do  proceed — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,2  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  strained; 

1  To  impugn  is  to  oppose,  to  controvert. 

2  i.  e.  within  his  reach  or  control.     The  phrase  is  thought  to  be  derived 
from  a  similar  one  in  the  monkish  Latin  of  the  middle  age. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  233 


It  droppcth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blessed  ; 

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. 

Por.    Is  he  not  able  to  discharge4  the  money  ? 

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

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

Will  rush  into  the  state.      It  cannot  be. 

i 

1  1.  e.  malice  oppressed  fioncshj  :  a  true  man,  in  old  language,  is  an  honest 
man.     We  now  call  the  jury  good  men  and  true. 
VOL.  ii.  30 


234  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

Shy.   A  Daniel  come  to  judgment !  Yea,  a  Daniel ! — 
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  offered  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  ; 
You  know  the  law ;  your  exposition 
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  bosom  for  his  knife. 

Shy.    O  noble  judge !     O  excellent  young  man  ! 

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

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

Por.    Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  his  breast  ; 

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

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

Shy.  I  have  them  ready. 

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


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  235 

Shy.    Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 

Par.  It  is  not  so  expressed  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you.  do  so  much  for  charity. 

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

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

Ant.    But  little ;  I  am  armed,  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  penance 
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'll  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

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

Par.    Your    wife   would   give   you   little    thanks   for 

that, 
If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

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

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

Shy.    These  be  the   Christian  husbands.     I  have  a 

daughter : 
'Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas 


236  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

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  shall  see  the  act; 

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

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

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

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

Por.  Soft ; 

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

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

Por.    Therefore  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh : 
Shed  thou  no  blood  ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh.     If  thou  tak'st  more, 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  237 

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. 

For.    Why  doth    the  Jew  pause?     Take    thy  for 
feiture. 

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

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

Por.    lie  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court ; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.    A  Daniel,  still  say  1  ; — a  second  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shy.    Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ': 

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

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

Por.  Tarry,  Jew  ; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien, 
That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts, 
lie  seek  the  life  of  any  citi/en, 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  lie  doth  contrive, 
Shall  sei/c  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  \oicr. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st  ; 
For  it  appears  bv  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;    and  thou  hast  incurred 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 

O  J          J 

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, 


238  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord ; 

Therefore,  thou  must  be  hanged  at  the  state's  charge. 

Duke.    That  thou  shalt  see  the    difference  of  our 

spirit, 

I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it. 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's  ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
Which  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

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

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,1 — 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  possessed, 
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 ; 
I  am  not  well :  send  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone  ;  but  do  it. 

Gra.    In    christening    thou    shalt    have    two    god 
fathers  ; 

1  Antonio's  offer  has  been  variously  explained.  It  appears  to  be  "  that 
he  will  quit  his  share  of  the  fine,  as  the  duke  has  already  done  that  portion 
due  to  the  state,  if  Shylock  will  let  him  have  it  in  use  (i.  e.  at  interest) 
during  his  life,  to  render  it  at  his  death  to  Lorenzo  " 


.  1.] 


MERCHANT   OF   VENICE. 


Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  have  liad  ten  more;1 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  to  the  font. 

[Exit  SHY  LOCK. 

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

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

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

[Exeunt  Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  Train 

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

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

For.    He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied  ; 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied, 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid  ; 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you,  know  me,  when  we  meet  again  , 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  mv  leave. 

Bass.    Dear   sir,   of  force  I   must    attempt  you  fur 
ther  ; 

Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute, 
Not  as  a  fee.      Grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you, 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

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

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

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


1  i.  e.  a  jury  of  twelve  men  to  condemn  him. 


240  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  IV. 

Bass.    There's  more   depends  on  this,  than  on  the 

value. 

The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  proclamation  ; 
Only  for  this,  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 

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  answered. 

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

Por.    That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their  gifts. 
An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserved  this  ring, 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  forever, 
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. 

JBass.    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  him  sign  it.     We'll  away  to-night, 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home. 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  241 

Enter  GRATIANO. 

Gra.    Fair  sir,  you  are  well  overtaken. 
My  lord  Bassanio,  u[K)ii  more  advice,1 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring ;  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be 

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

Gra.    That  will  I  do. 

Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you. — 

I'll  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,      [To  PORTIA. 
Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  forever. 

Por.    Thou  mayst,  I  warrant.     We  shall  have  old 2 

swearing, 

That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men  ; 
But  we'll  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
Away,  make  haste ;  thou  know'st  where  I  will  tarry. 

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


ACT  V. 

SCENE  1.     Belmont.     Avenue  to  Portia's  House. 

Enter  LORENZO  and  JESSICA. 

Lor.    The   moon  shines  bright. — In  such  a  night  as 

this, 

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

1  i.  e.  more  reflection. 

2  Of  this  once  common  augmentative  in  colloquial  language  there  are 
various  instances  in  the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  in  the  sense  of  abundant, 
frequent. 

VOL.   II.  31 


242  MERCHANT   OF   VENICE.  [ACT  V. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  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  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^Eson. 

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  come. 
But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  STEP  H  AN  o. 

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

Steph.    A  friend. 

Lor.    A  friend  ?     What  friend  ?     Your  name,  I  pray 
you,  friend  ? 

Steph.    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  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours.1 

1  So  in  the  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton : 

"  But  there  are  crosses,  wife :  here's  one  in  Waltham, 
Another  at  the  abbey,  and  the  third 
At  Ceston ;  and  'tis  ominous  to  pass 
Any  of  these  without  a  Paternoster." 
And  this  is  a  reason  assigned  for  the  delay  of  a  wedding. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  243 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

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

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


Enter  LAUNCELOT. 

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

Lor.    Who  calls? 

Lan?i.  Sola !  Did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  and 
mistress  Lorenzo  ?  Sola,  sola  ! 

Lor.    Leave  hollaing,  man  ;  here. 

Laun.    Sola!      Where?     Where? 

Lor.    Here. 

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

Lor.    Sweet  soul,  let's  in,  and  there   expect  their 


coming. 

o 


And  yet  no  matter ; — why  should  we  £o  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  patines  *  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  ; 

1  A  small,  flat  dish  or  plate,  used  in  the  administration  of  the  Eucha 
rist;  it  was  commonly  of  gold,  or  silver-gilt. 


244  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  V 

But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  us  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. — 1 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 

With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 

And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [Music. 

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

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 ; 
Tf  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  turned  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music.     Therefore,  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods ; 
Since  nought  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. 

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

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

Por.    So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less. 

1  The  folio  editions,  and  the  quarto  printed  by  Roberts,  read — 
"Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  in  it,  we  cannot  hear  it." 


SC.  1.]  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  245 

[ 

A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !     Hark  ! 

Ner.    It  is  your  musie,  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  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection !- 
Peace,  hoa !     The  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awaked  !  [  J/i/sic  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  ladv,  welcome  home. 

Por.    We    have    been    praving    for    our    husbands' 

welfare, 

Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  returned  ? 

Lor.  Madam,  thev  are  not  vet ; 

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

Por.  Go  in,  Nerissa; 

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

[A  tucket2  sounds. 

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

1  Not  absolutely,  but  relatively  good,  as  it  is  modified  by  circumstances. 

2  Toccato  (Ital.),  a  flourish  on  a  trumpet. 


246  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  V. 

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


Enter    BASSANIO,    ANTONIO,     GRATIANO,    and    their 
Followers. 

Bass.    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  sort  all ! — You  are  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Bass.    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. 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  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.2 

[GRATJANO  and  NERISSA  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  D 

Gra.    About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me ;  whose  posy  was 
For  all  the  world  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,3  Love  me*  and  leave  me  not. 

Ner.    What  talk  you  of  the  posy,  or  the  value  ? 


1  Shakspcare  delights  to  trifle  with  this  word. 

2  This  verbal  complimentary  form,  made  up  only  of  breath,  i.  e.  words. 

3  « like  cutler's  poetry 

Upon  a  knife." 

Knives  were  formerly  inscribed,  by  means  ofaquafortis,  with  short  sen 
tences  in  distich. 


SC.  I.]  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  247 

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  respeetive,1  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. 

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

Gra.    Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth, — 
A  kind  of  boy;  a  little  scrubbed  boy, 
No  higher  than  thyself;  the  judge's  clerk; 
A  prating  boy,  that  begged  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  uift; 
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  ; 
I  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it, 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  masters.     Now,  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  give  your  wile  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.    Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  inv  left  hand  off. 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.  [J\/r//. 

Gra.    My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begged  it,  and,  indeed, 
Deserved  it  too;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  bemred  mine  : 

1  o '  OO 

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. 

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

1  Respective,  that  is,  considerate,  regardful ;  not  respectful  or  respecta 
ble,  as  Steevens  supposed. 


248  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE.  [ACT  V 

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

Ner.   Nor  I  in  yours, 
Till  I  again  see  mine. 

Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring, 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring, 
When  nought  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 1  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  ?  2 
Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe ; 
I'll  die  for't,  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 

Bass.    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  begged  the  ring ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 
And  suffered  him  to  go  displeased  away  ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
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  begged 
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, 

1  To  contain  had  nearly  the  same  meaning  with  to  retain. 

2  i.  e.  kept  in  a  measure  religiously,  or  superstitiously. 


SC.  I]  MERCHANT  OJ    VENICE.  249 

And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 

I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you. 

Til  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'll  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ncr.    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'll  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.    I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 

L*or.    Sir,  grieve  not  you;  you  are  welcome  notwith 
standing. 

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

For.  Mark  you  but  that ! 

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

Bass.  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  rinir, 

[77o  PORTIA. 

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

J 

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

Ant.    Here,  lord  Bassanio;  swear  to  keep  this  ring. 
Bass.    By  Heaven,  it  is  the  same  I  gave  the  doctor ! 

1  Double  is  hero  used  for  deceitful,  full  of  duplicity. 

2  i.  e.  for  his  advantage. 
VOL.  ii.  32 


250  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.  [ACT  V 

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

Ant.  I  am  dumb. 

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

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. 

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

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

Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 

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


SC.  J.j  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  251 

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

For.    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  inter'gatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

Gra.    Let  it  be  so.     The  first  inter'gatory 
That  my  Nerissa  shall  he  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  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 
Well,  while  I  live,  I'll  fear  no  other  thing 
So  sore,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring.  [[,.cfunt. 


252 


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

JOHNSON. 


253 


AS    YOU   LIKE   IT, 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

DR.  (IRF.Y  and  Mr.  Upton  asserted  that  this  play  was  certainly  borrowed 
from  the  Coke's  Tale  of  Gamelyn,  printed  in  Urry's  Chaucer;  but  it  is 
hardly  likely  that  Shakspeare  saw  tint  in  manuscript,  and  there  is  a  more 
obvious  source  from  whence  he  derived  his  plot,  viz.  the  pastoral  romance 
of  "  Rosalynde,  or  Euphucs'  Golden  Legacy,"  by  Thomas  Lodge,  first 
printed  in  15!K).  From  this  he  has  sketched  his  principal  character-,  :md 
constructed  his  plot ;  but  those  admirable  beings,  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
the  witty  Touchstone,  and  his  Audrey,  are  of  the  poet's  own  creation. 
Lodge's  novel  is  one  of  those  tiresome  (I  had  almost  said  unnatural)  pas 
toral  romances,  of  which  the  Euphues  of  Lyly  and  the  Arcadia  of  Sidney 
were  also  popular  examples.  It  has,  however,  the  redeeming  merit  of 
some  very  beautiful  verses  interspersed  ;  *  and  the  circumstance  of  its  hav- 

*  The  following  beautiful  Man/as  are  part  of  what  is  railed  "  llosalynd'a  Madrigal,"  and 
are  no',  unworthy  of  a  place  even  in  a  page  devoted  to  Shakspeare  : — 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

Doth  suck  his  sweet : 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  tVrt. 

Within  mine  ryes  he  makes  his  neat, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast  ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast  ; 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest 

Ah,  wanton,  will  ye  .' 
And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  tliplit, 
And  makes  a  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  livelong  nipht. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  Btring  ; 
He  music  plays,  if  so  I  sing ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thinp  ; 
Yet,  cruel,  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

Whist,  wanton,  still  ye? 


254  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT. 

ing  led  to  the  formation  of  this  exquisite  pastoral  drama,  is  enough  to 
make  us  withhold  our  assent  to  Steevens's  splenetic  censure  of  it  as 
"  worthless." 

"  Touched  by  the  magic  wand  of  the  enchanter,  the  dull  and  endless 
prosing  of  the  novelist  is  transformed  into  an  interesting  and  lively  dra 
ma;  the  forest  of  Arden  converted  into  a  real  Arcadia  of  the  golden  age. 
The  highly-sketched  figures  pass  along  in  the  most  diversified  succession : 
we  see  always  the  shady  dark-green  landscape  in  the  back  ground,  and 
breathe,  in  imagination,  the  fresh  air  of  the  forest.  The  hours  are  here 
measured  by  no  clocks,  no  regulated  recurrence  of  duty  or  toil ;  they  flow 
on  unnumbered  in  voluntary  occupation  or  fanciful  idleness.  One  throws 
himself  down  '  under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs,'  and  indulges  in 
reflection  on  the  changes  of  fortune,  the  falsehood  of  the  world,  and  the 
self-created  torments  of  social  life :  others  make  the  woods  resound  with 
social  and  festive  songs,  to  the  accompaniment  of  their  horns.  Selfish 
ness,  envy,  and  ambition,  have  been  left  in  the  city  behind  them :  of  all 
the  human  passions,  love  alone  has  found  an  entrance  into  this  sylvan 
scene,  where  it  dictates  the  same  language  to  the  simple  shepherd,  and 
the  chivalrous  youth  who  hangs  his  love  ditty  to  a  tree."  * 

"  And  this  their  life,  exempt  from  public  haunts, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing." 

How  exquisitely  is  the  character  of  Rosalind  conceived !  what  liveliness 
and  sportive  gayety,  combined  with  the  most  natural  and  affectionate  ten 
derness  !  the  reader  is  as  much  in  love  with  her  as  Orlando,  and  wonders 
not  at  Phebe's  sudden  passion  for  her  when  disguised  as  Ganymede ;  or 
Celia's  constant  friendship.  Touchstone  is,  indeed,  a  "  rare  fellow ;  he 
uses  his  folly  as  a  stalking-horse,  and  under  the  presentation  of  that,  he 
shoots  his  wit : "  his  courtship  of  Audrey,  his  lecture  to  Corin,  his  defence 
of  cuckolds,  and  his  burlesque  upon  the  "  duello  "  of  the  age,  are  all  most 
"  exquisite  fooling."  It  has  been  remarked,  that  there  are  few  of  Shak- 

*  Schlegel. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS.  2.jo 

speare's  plays  which  contain  so  many  passages  that  are  quoted  and  re 
membered,  and  phrases  that  have  become  in  a  manner  proverbial.  To 
enumerate  them  would  be  to  mention  every  scene  in  the  play.  And  I 
must  no  longer  detain  the  reader  from  this  most  delightful  of  Shakspeare's 
comedies. 

Malone  places  the  composition  of  this  play  in  ]~>W.  There  is  no 
edition  known  previous  to  that  in  the  folio  of  10*23.  But  it  appears  among 
the  miscellaneous  entries  of  prohibited  pieces  in  the  Stationers'  books, 
without  any  certain  date. 


256 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

Duke,  living  in  exile. 

FREDERICK,  Brother  to  the  Duke,  and  Usurper  of  his  Dominions. 

JAQUES  '  (  Lords  attending  upon  the  Duke  in  his  banishment. 

LE  BEAU,  a  Courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 

CHARLES,  his  Wrestler. 

OLIVER,      \ 

JAQUES,      >  Sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

ORLANDO,  j 

DENNI'S,  }  Servants  to  Oliver' 

TOUCHSTONE,  a  Clown. 

SIR  OLIVER  MAR-TEXT,  a  Vicar. 

}«*»•*• 

WILLIAM,  a  country  Fellow,  in  love  with  Audrey. 
A  Person  representing  Hyrnen. 

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  A  r  den. 


257 


AS   YOU   LIKE   IT. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  !.     An  Orchard  near  Oliver's  House. 

Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM. 

Orlando.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this 
fashion  bequeathed  me  l  by  will  ;  but  a  poor  thousand 
crowns  ;  and,  as  thou  sayest,  charged  my  brother,  on 
his  blessing,  to  breed  mo  well  ;  and  there  begins  mv 
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  bet 
ter  :  for,  besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding, 
they  are  taught  their  manage1,  and  to  that  (Mid  riders 
dearly  hired  ;  but  I,  his  brother,  ^ain  nothing  under 
him  but  growth  ;  for  the  which  his  animals  on  his  dung 
hills  are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Besides  this 
nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the  something 
that  nature  gave  me,  his  countenance  seems  to  take 
from  me  ;  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the 
place  of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mine's 
my  gentility  with  my  education.  This  is  it,  Adam, 
that  grieves  me ;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  1 

1  Sir  W.  Blackstonc  proposed  to  read,  "He  bequeathed,  &c."     War- 
burton  proposed  to  read,  ".Myfttihcr  bequeathed,  &c." 

3  The  old  orthography  states  was  an  easy  corruption  of  sties ;  which 
Warburton  thought  the  true  reading 
VOL.   II.  33 


258  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  I. 

think  is  within  me,  begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servi 
tude.  I  will  no  longer  endure  it,  though  yet  I  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  ?  1 

OrL    Nothing.     I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

Oli.    What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

OrL  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that 
which  God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours, 
with  idleness. 

Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught 
awhile.2 

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

Oli.    Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  f 

OrL    O,  sir,  very  well ;  here  in  your  orchard. 

Oli.    Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

OrL  Av,  better  than  he  3  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-bora  ;  but  the  same  tradition  takes  not 
away  my  blood,  were  there  twenty  brothers  betwixt  us. 
I  have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me,  as  you ;  albeit,  I  con 
fess,  your  coming  before  me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence.4 

OIL   What,  boy  ! 

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


1  i.  e.  what  do  you  here  ? 

2  Be  naught  awhile.     Warburton  justly  explained  this  phrase,  which, 
he  says,  "  is  only  a  north-country  proverbial  curse,  equivalent  to  a  mis 
chief  on  you" 

3  The  first  folio  reads  him,  the  second  hr,  more  correctly. 

4  Warburton  proposed  reading,  "  near  his  revenue,"  which  he  explains, 
"though  you  are  no  nearer  in  blood,  yet  it  must  be  owned,  that  you  are 
nearer  in  estate." 


SC.  I.]  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  259 

OH.    Wilt  them  lay  hands  on  mo,  villain  ? 

O/7.  I  am  no  villain.1  I  am  the  youngest  son  of 
Sir  Rowland  de  Bois  ;  he  was  my  father  ;  and  he  is 
thrice  a  villain,  that  says,  such  a  father  begot  villains. 
Wert.thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not  take  this  hand 
from  thy  throat,  till  this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue 
for  saving  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. 

Or/.  I  will  not,  till  J  please  ;  you  shall  hear  me. 
My  father  charged  vou  in  his  will  to  give  me  good 
education  :  voti  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  obscu 
ring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gentlemanlike  (jnalitics. 
The  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in  me.  and  1  will 
no  longer  endure  it  :  therefore  allow  me  such  exercises 
as  may  become  a  gentleman,  or  give  me  the  poor  allot- 
terv  my  father  left  me  by  testament  ;  with  that  I  will 
go  buy  my  fortunes. 

Oli.  And  what  wilt  thou  do?  Beg,  when  that  is 
spent?  Well,  sir,  get  you  in.  I  will  not  Inn^  be  trou 
bled  with  vou  :  you  shall  have  some  part  of  vour  will. 
I  pray  you,  leave;  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  oflend  vou  than  becomes  me 
for  my  good. 

Oli.    (Jet  vou  with  him.  vou  old  dou- 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?  .Most  true1,  I  have 
lost  my  teeth  in  your  service. — (Jod  be  with  my  old 
master!  lie  would  not  have  spoke  Mich  a  word. 

[Exeunt  ORLANDO  and  ADV.M. 

Oli.  Is  it  even  so?  Beir'm  you  to  grow  upon  me  : 
I  will  physic  your  rankness,  and  vet  ifivc  no  thousand 
crowns  neither.  Ilola,  Dennis! 

Enter  DENNIS. 

Den.    Calls  your  worship  ? 

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

1   Villain  is  used  in  a  double  sense;  by  Oliver  for  a  worthless  fellow 
and  by  Orlando  for  a  man  of  base  extraction. 


260  AS    YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  1. 

Den.  So  please  you,  ho  is  here  at  the  door,  and  im 
portunes  access  to  you. 

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


Enter  CHARLES. 

Cha.    Good  morroAV  to  your  worship. 

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

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

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

Cha.  O,  no ;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin, 
so  loves  her, — being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred  to 
gether, — 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  daugh 
ter  ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

OIL    Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Cha.  They  say,  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of 
Arden,2  a^-i  a  many  merry  men  with  him;  and  there 
they  \r"f  **  .e  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England.  They 
sav  -  as--  young  gentlemen  flock  to  him  every  day; 
ai  ^r  \,t3  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the 
golutu  world. 

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

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint 
you  with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to  under- 


1  "He  gives  them  good  leave."     As   often  as  this  phrase  occurs,  it 
means  a  ready  assent. 

2  Jlrdenne  is  a  forest  of  considerable  extent  in  French  Flanders,  lying 
near  the  river  Meuse,  and  between  Charlemont  and  Rocroy. 

3  Fleet,  i.  e.  tojiitte,  to  make  to  pass  or  flow. 


SC.  I  J  AS    YOU   LIKE   IT.  261 

stand,  that  vour  younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  dis 
position  to  conic  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,  tor 
inv  own  honor,  ii  he  come  in.  Therefore,  out  oi  inv 
love  to  you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  vou  withal  :  that 
either  vou  miijit  stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or  brook 
such  disgrace  well  as  lie  shall  run  into  ;  in  that  it  is  a 
tiling  of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against  inv 
will. 

Oil.  Charles.  I  thank  thee  for  thv  love  to  me,  which 
tliou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindlv  requite.  I  had  mv- 
self  notice  of  mv  brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have 
by  underhand  means  labored  to  divii  ide  him  from  it  : 
bin  he  is  resolute.  I'll  tell  thee.  ( 'harlcs, — it  is  the 
stubbornest  young  fellow  of  France  ;  full  of  ambition, 
an  envious  emulator  of  every  man's  uood  parts,  a  se 
cret  and  villanous  contriver  against  int.'  his  natural 
brother;  therefore  use  thy  discretion.  I  had  as  lief 
thou  didst  break  his  neck  as  his  linger:  and  thou  wert 
best  look  to't ;  for  it'  thou  dost  him  anv  slight  disgrace, 
or  if  he  do  not  mightily  i^race  himself  on  thee,  he  will 
practise  against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some 
treacherous  device,  and  never  leave  thee  till  he  hath 
ta'en  thv  life  by  some  indirect  means  or  other  ;  for,  I 
assure  thee,  and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  it,  there  is 
not  one  so  voun^  and  so  villanous  this  day  living.  I 
speak  but  brotherly  of  him:  but  should  I  aiu-  -  */e 
him  to  thee  as  he  i>.  I  must  blush  and  weep,  ai  (  .1011 
must  look  pale  and  wonder. 

did.  1  am  heartily  n'lad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If 
he  come  to-morrow,  I'll  uive  him  his  payment.  If  ever 
he  go  alone  again,  I'll  never  wrestle  for  pri/e  more; 
and  so,  God  keep  your  worship!  [Exit. 

Oli.  Farewell,  good  Charles. — Now  will  I  stir  this 
gamester;  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him;  for  my 
soul,  yet  I  know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than  lie. 
Yet  he's  gentle  ;  never  schooled,  and  yet  learned  ;  full 


262  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  I 

of  noble  device ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved ; 
and,  indeed,  so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  es 
pecially  of  my  own  people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I 
am  altogether  misprised  ;  but  it  shall  not  be  so  long  ; 
this  wrestler  shall  clear  all.  Nothing  remains,  but  that 
I  kindle  the  boy  thither,  which  now  I'll  go  about. 

[Exit. 


SCENE   II.     A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 

Cel.  1  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be 
merry. 

Ros.  Dear  Celia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am 
mistress  of;  and  would  you  yet  I  were  merrier?  Un 
less  you  could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished  father, 
you  must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember  any  extraor 
dinary  pleasure. 

Cel.  Herein,  I  see,  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the  full 
weight  that  I  love  thee.  If  my  uncle,  thy  banished 
father,  had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke  my  father,  so 
thou  hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my 
love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine  ;  so  would'st  thou,  if 
the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were  so  righteously  tem 
pered  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my  estate, 
to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know,  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor 
none  is  like  to  have  ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies,  thou 
shalt  be  his  heir ;  for  what  he  hath  taken  away  from 
thy  father  perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again  in  affection. 
By  mine  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  further  in 


SC.  II.J  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  263 

sport  neither,  than  with   safety   of  a  pure   blush  thou 
inayst  in  honor  come  off  again. 

Ros.    What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

Ccl.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife,  For 
tune,  from  her  wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  henceforth  be 
bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  I  would  we  could  do  so;  for  her  benefits  are 
mightily  misplaced  ;  and  the  bountiful  blind  woman 
doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Ccl.  'Tis  true  ;  for  those  that  she  makes  fair,  sin 
scarce  makes  honest ;  and  those  that  she  makes  hone.M. 
she  makes  very  ill-fa  voredly. 

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  To i: CUSTOM:. 

Ccl.  No  ?  When  nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature, 
may  she  not  by  fortune  fall  into  the  lire? — Though 
nature  hath  given  us  wit  to  flout  at  fortune,  hath  not 
fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off  the  argument? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  fortune  too  hard  for  nature; 
when  fortune  makes  nature's  natural  the  cutter  off  of 
nature's  wit. 

Ccl.  Peradventure,  this  is  not  fortune's  work  neither, 
but  nature's;  who,  perceiving  our  natural  wits  too  dull 
to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  hath  sent  this  natural  for 
our  whetstone;  for  always  the  dulnessof  the  fool  is  the 
whetstone  of1  his  wits. — How  now,  wit?  whither 
wander  you  ? 

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

Cel.    Were  you  made  the  messenger? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honor ;  but  I  was  bid  to  come 
for  you. 

Ros.    Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touch.    Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his  honor 

1  The  folio  reads  the  icits 


264  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  [ACT  I. 

they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honor 
the  mustard  was  naught;  now,  I'll  stand  to  it,  the  pan 
cakes  were  naught,  and  the  mustard  was  good  ;  and 
yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of  your 
knowledge  ? 

Ros.    Ay,  marry ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now  ;  stroke  your  chins, 
and  swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 

Cel.    By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were ; 
but  if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  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  mean'st  ? 

Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father, 
loves. 

Cel.1  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honor  him. 
Enough  !  speak  no  more  of  him  ;  you'll  be  whipped  for 
taxation,2  one  of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wisely  what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true ;  for  since  the 
little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little  foole 
ry  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  be  news-crammed. 

Cel.  All  the  better ;  we  shall   be  the  more  market- 


1  This   reply  to  the   clown,  in  the  old  copies,  is  given  to  Rosalind. 
Frederick  was,  however,  the  name  of  Celia's  lather,  and  it  is  therefore  most 
probable  the  reply  should  be  hers. 

2  i.  e.  censure,* punishment. 


SC.  II.]  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  265 

able.  Bon  jour,  monsieur  Le  Beau.  What's  the 
news  ? 

Lc  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good 
sport. 

Ccl.    Sport?     Of  what  color? 

Le  Beau.  What  color,  madam  ?  How  shall  1  an 
swer  you  ? 

Ros.    As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touch.    Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Ccl.   Well  said ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Touch.    Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, 

Ros.    Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Lc  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies.  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the 
sight  of. 

Ros.    Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  be-ginnini:,  and,  if  it 
please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end  ;  for  the 
best  is  yet  to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are 
coming  to  perform  it. 

Ccl.    Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

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

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

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  younir  men,  of  excellent 
growth  and  presence  ; 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks, — Be  it  known  unto 
all  men  by  these  presents, 

TJ€  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 
ladies  have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.    Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day!  It 
VOL.  ii.  34 


266  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  I. 

is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard,  breaking  of  ribs  was 
sport  for  ladies. 

CeL    Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken 
music  in  his  sides  ?  Is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon 
rib-breaking  ? — Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for  here  is 
the  place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are 
ready  to  perform  it. 

CeL  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming.  Let  us  now 
stay  and  see  it. 

Flourish.     Enter  DUKE  FREDERICK,  Lords,  ORLANDO, 
CHARLES,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be 
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  successfully. 

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

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

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can  tell 
you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men.  In  pity  of  the 
challenger's  youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he 
will  not  be  entreated.  Speak  to  him,  ladies ;  see  if 
you  can  move  him. 

CeL    Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.    Do  so  ;  I'll  not  be  by.    [Duke  goes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princesses 
call  for  you. 

OrL    I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles  the 
wrestler  ? 

OrL  No,  fair  princess  ;  he  is  the  general  challenger. 
I  come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength 
of  my  youth. 

CeL  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for 
your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  267 

strength  ;  if  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  know 
yourself  with  your  judgment,  the  fear  of  your  ad 
venture  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  enterprise. 
We  pray  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own 
safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir  ;  your  reputation  shall  not  there 
fore  he  misprised  ;  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  duke, 
that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Or/.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard 
thoughts;  wherein1  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  denv 
so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But  let  \< un 
fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  mv  trial: 
wherein,  if  I  be  foiled,  there;  is  but  one  shamed  that 
was  never  gracious ;~  if  killed,  but  one  dead  that  U 
willing  to  be  so.  I  shall  do  mv  friends  no  wronu;,  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  supplied  when  I  have  mad*  it 
empty. 

Rus.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were 
with  you. 

Ccl.    And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  Heaven,  I  be  deceived 
in  you ! 

Ccl.    Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  voiin^  gallant,  that  is  so 
desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  r 

Or/.  Ready,  sir;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more 
modest  working. 

Duke  F.    You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace;  you  shall  not  en 
treat  him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded 
him  from  a  first. 

O/7.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not 
have  mocked  me  before ;  but  come  your  ways. 

1  Johnson  thought  we  should  read  "  therein."     Mason  proposed  to  read 
herein. 

2  Gracious  was  anciently  used  in  the  sense  of  the  Italian  sratiato 
i.  e.  graced^  favored,  countenanced;  as  well  as  for  graceful,  comely,  well 
favored,  in  which  sense  Shakspeare  uses  it  in  other  places. 


268  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  1. 

Ros.   Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.    I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong 
fellow  by  the  leg.  [CtiA.  and  ORL.  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. 

OrL    Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace ;  I  am  not  yet  well 
breathed. 

Duke  F.    How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.    He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.    Bear  him  away.    [CHARLES  is  borne  out.'] 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Or/.    Orlando,  my  liege  ;  the  youngest  son   of  sir 
Eowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.    I   would   thou  hadst  been    son    to    some 

man  else. 

The  world  esteemed  thy  father  honorable, 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy. 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleased  me  with  this  deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth  ; 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

[Exeunt  DUKE  FRED.,  Train,  and  LE  BEAU. 

Cel.    Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 

0/7.    I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son, 
His  youngest  son  ; — and  would  not  change  that  calling,1 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Frederick. 

Ros.   My  father  loved  sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind. 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventured. 

Cel.  Gentle  cousin, 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him. 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well  deserved ; 


1  Calling  here  means  appellation ;  a  very  unusual  if  not  unprecedented 
use  of  the  word. 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  269 

If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 

But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  all  promise, 

Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.  Gentleman, 

[Giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck. 
Wear  this  for  me  ;  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune  ; ] 
That  could  give  more,  hut  that  her  hand  lacks  means. — 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Ccl.  Ay. — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentle-man. 

O/7.    Can  I  not  sav,  I  thank  you  ':     Mv  better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down,  and  that  which  here  stands  up, 
Is  but  a  quintain,2  a  mere  lifeless  block. 

Ros.    He   calls    us    back:    inv    pride    fell    with    my 

fortunes ; 

I'll  ask  him  what  he  would. — Did  you  call,  sir:— 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

Cel.  Will  you  go.  e<>/  : 

Ros.    Have  with  you. — Fare  you  well. 

[Flxcunt  ROSALIND  a/2</  CKLIA. 

Orl.    What  passion   hangs  these   weights    upon  my 

tongue  ? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  vet  she  ur^ed  conference. 

Re-enter  Li:    I>I:AI  . 

O  poor  Orlando!     Thou  art  overthrown  : 

Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

LtC  Brim.    Good  sir,  1  do  in  friendship  counsel  you 
To  leave  this  place.      Albeit  you  have  deserved 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love  : 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition/1 
That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humorous;   what  he  is,  indeed. 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  me  to  speak  of. 

Orl.    1  thank  you,  sir;  and,  pray  you,  tell  me  this: 


1  Out  of  suits  appears  here  to  signify  out  of  favor,  discarded  by  fortune. 
To  suit  witk  anciently  signified  to  agree  with. 

~  His  better  parts,  i.  e.  his  spirits  or  senses.  .1  quintain  was  a  figure 
set  up  for  tilters  to  run  at  in  mock  resemblance  of  a  tournament. 

3  i.  e.  temper,  disposition.     Humorous  is  capricious. 


270  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  ACT  I. 

Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke, 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling? 

Le  Beau.   Neither   his   daughter,  if  we  judge   by 

manners ; 

But  yet,  indeed,  the  smaller l  is  his  daughter. 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banished  duke, 
And  here  detained  by  her  usurping  uncle, 
To  keep  his  daughter  company ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you  that  of  late  this  duke 
Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece ; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument, 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well ; 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  than  this, 
I  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 

Or/.    I  rest  much  bounden  to  you  ;  fare  you  well ! 

[Ex  a  LE  BEAU. 

Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 
From  tyrant  duke,  unto  a  tyrant  brother. — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  CELIA  and  ROSALIND. 

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  be  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. 

1  The  old  copy  reads  taller,  which  is  evidently  wrong.     Pope  altered  it 
to  shorter.     The  present  reading  is  Malone's 


-   : 


- 


SC.  III.]  AS    YOU   LIKE   IT.  273 

And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.    She    is    too    subtle    tor    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  passed  upon  her;   she  is  banished. 

Ccl.    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  FREDERICK  and  Lords. 

Ccl.    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  J  am. 

Ron.    I  have  more  cause. 

Ccl.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin  : 

JVythee  be  cheerful.      Know'st  thou  not.  the  duke 
Hath  banished  me,  his  daughter  ? 

Yio.s*.  That  he  hath  not. 

Ccl.    No?      Hath  not?     Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 
Which  teaeheth  me  that  thou  and  I  are  one. 
Shall  we  be  sundered  ?      Shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  : 
No;  let  mv  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  vour  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out  : 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee. 

i  The  second  folio  reads  charge.  Malone  explains  it  "  to  take  your 
change  or  reverse  of  fortune  upon  yourself,  without  any  aid  or  partici 
pation." 

VOL.  ii.  35 


274  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  I. 

Eos.    Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.    To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 

Eos.    Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far ! 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

CeL    I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umber 1  smirch  my  face. 
The  like  do  you  ;  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Eos.  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 2  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will) 
We'll  have  a  swashing 3  and  a  martial  outside  ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have,, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

CeL    What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  .H 

Eos.    I'll  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own 

page, 

And  therefore,  look  you,  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  called  ? 

Cel.    Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state; 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Eos.   But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assayed  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

CeL    He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let's  away, 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together; 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we,  in  content, 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [Exeunt. 


1  "  A  kind  of  wm&er,"  a  dusky  yellow-colored  earth,  brought  from  Urn- 
bria  in  Italy,  well  known  to  artists. 

2  This  was  one  of  the  old  words  for  n  cutlass,  or  short,  crooked  sword 
coutelas  (French).     It  was  variously  spelled,  courtlas,  courtlax,  curtlax. 

3  i.  e.  as  we  now  say,  dashing. 


SC.  I.I  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  275 

ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     The  Forest  o/Arden. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  AMIENS,  and  other  Lords,  in  the 
dress  of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.    Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  not l  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  arc  counsellors, 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ;2 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  even  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,  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gored. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 


1  The  old  copy  reads  thus.     Theobald  proposed  to  read  but,  and  has 
been  followed  by  subsequent  editors. 

2  It  was  currently  believed,  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  that  the  toad  had 
a  stone  contained  in  its  head,  which  was  endued  with  singular  virtues. 
This  was  called  the  toad-stone. 


276  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II. 

And,  iii  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banished  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  sequestered  stag, 
That  from  the  hunter's  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  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.    O  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ; 
Poor  deer,  quoth  he,  tliou  mattst  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much.     Then,  being  alone, 
Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 
JTis  right,  quoth  he  ;  this  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company.     Anon,  a  careless  herd, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him;     Ay,  quoth  Jaques, 
Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
^Tis  just  the  fashion.     Wherefore  do  you  look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? 
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  assigned  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke  S.    And  did  you  leave    him  in    this  contem 
plation  ? 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  277 

2  Lord.    We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  commenting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place  ; 

I  love  to  eope  ]  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 
For  then  he's  full  of  matter. 

2  Lord.   I'll  bring  you  to  him  straight.          [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE   FREDERICK,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.    Can  it  be  possible  that  no  man  saw  them? 
It  cannot  be  ;  some  villains  of  my  court 
Are  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.    I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 

Saw  her  abed  ;  and,  in  the  morning  early, 

They  found  the  bed  untreasured  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.    My  lord,   the   roynish2   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 

o 

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  companx. 

Duke  F.    Send  to   his    brother;    fetch  that  gallant 

hither ; 

If  lie  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me ; 
I'll  make  him  find  him.      Do  this  suddenly ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 3 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  [Exeunt. 

1  i.  e.  to  encounter  him. 

2  " The  roynish  clown,"  mangy  or  scurvy,  from  roigneux  (French).    The 
word  is  used  by  Chaucer. 

3  "To  quail,"  says  Steevens,  "is  to  faint,  to  sink  into  dejection;"  but 
the  word  is  here  used  in  a  different  and  quite  obvious  sense. 


278  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  [ACT  II. 


SCENE   III.      Before  Oliver's  House. 

Enter  ORLANDO  and  ADAM,  meeting. 

Orl   Who's  there? 

Adam.   What !  my  young  master  ? — O,  my  gentle 

master, 

O,  my  sweet  master,  O,  you  memory 
Of  old  sir  Rowland !     Why,  what  make  you  here  ? 
Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 
Why  would  you  be  so  fond *  to  overcome 
The  bony  priser 2  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours  ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
Envenoms  him  that  bears  it! 

Orl.   Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O,  unhappy  youth, 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  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  I  was  about  to  call  his  father,) — 
Hath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 
To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie, 
And  you  within  it.     If  he  fail  of  that, 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off. 
I  overheard  him,  and  his  practices.3 
This  is  no  place, 4  this  house  is  but  a  butchery  ; 
Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 


1  i.  e.  rash,  foolish. 

2  A  prise  was  a  term  in  wrestling  for  a  grappling  or  hold  taken. 

3  i.  e.  treacherous  devices. 

4  Place  here  signifies  a  seat,  a  mansion,  a  residence :  it  is  not  yet  obso 
lete  in  this  sense. 


SC.  III.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  279 

Or/.    Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have  me 
go? 

Adam.    No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 

Or/.    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  1  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  debiliu  : 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly.     Let  me  go  with  you ; 
I'll  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Or/.    O  good  old  man  ;  how  well  in  tlree  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  ! 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times, 
Where  none  w^ill  sweat,  but  for  promotion  ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thec ; 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield, 

1  i.  e.  blood  turned  out  of  a  course  of  nature;  affections  alienated. 


280  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II. 

In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways,  we'll  go  along  together; 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent, 
We'll  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.    Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. — 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore, 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week. 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better, 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.     The  Forest  o/ Arden. 

Enter  ROSALIND  in  boy's  clothes,  CELIA  dressed  like  a 
Shepherdess,  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Eos.    O  Jupiter  !  how  weary1  are  my  spirits  ! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were 
not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's 
apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman  ;  but  I  must  comfort 
the  weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show 
itself  courageous  to  petticoat ;  therefore,  courage,  good 
Aliena. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  cannot  go  no 
farther. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with  you 
than  bear  you ;  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross, 2  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  1 

1  The  old  copy  reads  merry ;  perhaps  rightly.     Rosalind's  language,  as 
well  as  her  dress,  may  be  intended  to  have  an  assumed  character. 

2  A  cross  was  a  piece  of  money  stamped  with  a  cross ;  on  this  Shak- 
speare  often  quibbles. 


SC.  IV.]  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  281 

When  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place  ;  but  trav 
ellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone. — Look  you  who 
comes  here;  a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in  solemn  talk. 

Enter  CORIN  and  SILVIUS. 

Cor.    That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you  still. 

Sil.    O  Corin,  that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do  love  her ! 

Cor.    I  partly  guess;  for  I  have  loved  ere  now. 

Sil.    No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess, 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sighed  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  thec  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  SILVIUS. 

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  remem 
ber  the  kissing  of  her  batlet,1  and  the  cow's  dugs  that 
her  pretty  chopped  hands  had  milked  ;  and  I  remem 
ber  the  wooing  of  a  peascod 2  instead  of  her ;  from 

1  Batld,  the  instrument  with  which  washers  beat  clothes. 

2  A  peascod.    This  was  the  ancient  term  for  peas  growing  or  gathered, 
the  cod  being  what  we  now  call  the  pod. 

VOL.  ii.  36 


282  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  [ACT  II. 

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  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal l  in 
folly. 

Ros.   Thou  speak'st  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, 
Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves,  and  feed. 
Here's  a  young  maid  with  travel  much  oppressed, 
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  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality. 

l  In  the  middle  counties,  says  Johnson,  they  use  mortal  as  a  particle 
of  amplification,  as  mortal  tall,  mortal  little.  So  the  meaning  here  may 
be  "  abounding  in  folly." 


SC.  V.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  283 

Besides,  his  cote,1  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed, 
Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on  ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
And  in  my  voice  2  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

Ros.    What    is  he    that   shall    buy   his    flock    and 
pasture  ? 

Cor.   That   young  swain    that   you    saw    here   but 

erewhile, 
That  little  cares  for  buying  any  thing. 

Ros.    I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.    And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     I  like  this  place, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 

Cor.    Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold. 
Go  with  me;  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be, 
And  buy  it  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  turn 3  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. 

1  i.  e.  cot  or  cottage :  the  word  is  still  used  in  its  compound  form,  as 
eheepcote  in  the  next  line. 

2  In  my  voice,  as  far  as  I  have  a  voice  or  vote,  as  far  as  1  have  the 
power  to  Bid  you  welcome. 

3  The  old  copy  reads :  "  And  turnt  his  merry  note."  which  Pope  altered 
to  tune,  the  reading  of  all  the  modern  editions. 


284  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  [ACT  IT. 

Jaq.   More,  more,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.    It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur  Jaques, 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  pr'ythee,  more.  I  can 
suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs. 
More,  I  pr'ythee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged  ; 1  I  know,  I  cannot  please 
you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me,  I  do  desire 
you  to  sing.  Come,  more  ;  another  stanza.  Call  you 
them  stanzas  ? 

Ami.    What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  their  names  ;  they  owe  me 
nothing.  Will  you  sing  ? 

Ami.    More  at  your  request,  than  to  please  myself. 

Jaq.  Well  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I'll  thank 
you  :  but  that  they  call  compliment,  is  like  the  encoun 
ter  of  two  dog-apes ;  and  when  a  man  thanks  me 
heartily,  methinks  I  have  given  him  a  penny,  and  he 
renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks.  Come,  sing  ;  and 
you  that  will  not,  hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I'll  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover  the  while ; 
the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree. — He  hath  been  all 
this  day  to  look  you. 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  him. 
He  is  too  disputable2  for  my  company.  I  think  of  as 
many  matters  as  he  ;  but  I  give  Heaven  thanks,  and 
make  no  boast  of  them.  Come,  warble,  come. 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,     [All  together  here, 
And  loves  to  live  z'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

1  Ragged  and  rugged  had  formerly  the  same  meaning. 

2  i.  e.  disputatious. 


SC.  VI.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  285 

Jaq.    I'll  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that   I   made 
yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.    And  I'll  sing  it. 
Jaq.    Thus  it  goes  : 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame  ; l 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he* 
An  if  he  id  1 1  come  to  me. 

Ami.    What's  that  ducdame  ? 

Jaq.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into  a  cir- 
cle.  I'll  go  sleep  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot,  I'll  rail  against 
all  the  first-born  of  Egypt.* 

Ami.  And  I'll  go  seek  the  duke ;  his  banquet  is 
prepared.  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  VI.     The  same. 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  A  HAM. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  iro  no  farther.  O,  I  die 
for  food  !  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  im  irrave. 
Farewell,  kind  master. 

O/y.  Why,  how  now,  Adam  !  Xo  ^reater  heart  in 
thee  ?  Live  a  little  ;  comfort  a  little  ;  cheer  thvself  a 
little;  if  this  uncouth  forest  yield  anv  tiling  savage,  I 
will  either  be  food  for  it,  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee. 
Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death  than  thy  powers.  For  mv 
sake,  be  comfortable  ;  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's 
end.  I  will  here  be  with  thee  presently;  and  if  I  bring 

1  Sir  Thomas  Hanincr  reads  due  ad  me,  i.  c.  bring  him  to  me,  which 
reading  Johnson  highly  approves. 

2  "The  first-born  of  Egypt,"  a  proverbial  expression  for  high-born  per 
sons  ;  it  is  derived  from  Exodus  xii.  29. 


•286  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II, 

thee  not  something  to  eat,  I'll  give  thee  leave  to  die  ; 
but  if  thou  diest  before  I  come,  thou  art  a  mocker  of 
my  labor.  Well  said!  Thou  look'st  cheerily :  and  I'll 
be  with  thee  quickly. — Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air. 
Come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter  ;  and  thou  shalt 
not  die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  thing  in 
this  desert.  Cheerily,  good  Adam  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.     The  same.    A  Table  set  out. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  AMIENS,  Lords,  and  others. 

Duke  S.    I  think  he  be  transformed  into  a  beast ; 
For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 

1  Lord.    My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence. 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.    If  he,  compact  of  jars,1  grow  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. — 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him,  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  JAQUES. 

1  Lord.    He  saves  my  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. 

Jaq.    A  fool,  a  fool ! — I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ; — a  miserable  world  ! 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool ; 
Who  laid  him  down,  and  basked  him  in  the  sun, 
And  railed  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  fortune : 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke  ; 
And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 


1  i.  e.  made  up  of  discords.     In  the  Comedy  of  Errors  we  have  "  com,' 
pact  of  credit,"  for  made  up  of  credulity. 


SC.  VII.]  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  287 

Says,  very  wisely,  It  is  ten  o'clock. 

Thus  may  we  see,  quoth  lie,  how  the  world  wags  : 

'Tis  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine ; 

And  after  an  hour  more,  'twill  be  eleven ; 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  ice  ripe  and  ripe, 

And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot, 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.     When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  he  so  deep-contemplative  ; 

And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission, 

An  hour  by  his  dial. — O  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  tool !     Motley's  the  only  wear.1 

Duke  S.    What  fool  is  this  ': 

Jaq.    O  worthy  fool ! — One  that  hath  been  a  courtier  ; 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  younn;,  and  fair, 
They  have  the  gift  to  know  it ;  and  in  his  brain — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage — hi;  hath  strange  places  crammed 
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  shall  have  one. 

Jaq.  It  is  mv  only  suit;2 

Provided,  that  you  weed  your  betler  judgments 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 
That  I  am  wise.      I  must  have  liberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please  ;   for  so  fools  have  : 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 
They  most  must  laugh.     And  why,  sir,  must  they  so? 
The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church. 
He  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit, 
Doth  very  foolishly,  although  he  smart, 
3  Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not, 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomized 

1  The  fool  was  anciently  dressed  in  a  party-colored  coat. 
1  "  My  only  suit"  a  quibble  between  petition  and  dress  is  here  intended. 
3  The  old  copies  read  onlv,  seem  senseless.  &c.  not  to  were  supplied  by 
Theobald. 


288  AS    YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II. 

E'en  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. 

Jaq.    What,  for  a  counter,1  would  1  do,  but  good  ? 

Duke  S.    Most  mischievous,  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin ; 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting2  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. 

Jaq.    Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride, 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  as  hugely  as  the  sea, 
Till  that  the  very,  very  moans  do  ebb  ? 3 
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  wrhat  is  he  of  basest  function, 
That  says,  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, 
(Thinking  that  I  mean  him,)  but  therein  suits 
His  folly  to  the  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 
There   then ;    how  then,  what  then  ? 4     Let  me  see 

wherein 

My  tongue  hath  wronged  him ;  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  he  hath  wronged  himself;  if  he  be  free, 

1  About  the  time  when  this  play  was  written,  the  French  counters  (i.  e. 
pieces  of  false  money  used  as  a  means  of  reckoning)  were  brought  into 
use  in  England.     They  are  again  mentioned  in  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and 
in  the  Winter's  Tale. 

2  So  in  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  b.  i.  c.  xii. : — 

"  A  herd  of  bulls  whom  kindly  rage  jdoth  sting" 

3  The  old  copies  read — 

"Till  that  the  weary  very  means  do  ebb,"  &c. 
The  emendation  is  by  Pope. 

4  Malone  thinks  we  should  read,  J17icre  then?  in  this  redundant  line. 


SC.  VII  ]  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  289 

Why,  then,  my  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaimed  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here  ? 


Enter  ORLANDO,  with  his  sword  drawn. 

OrL    Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

Jaq.  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

OrL    Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  served. 

Jaq.    Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of? 

Duke  S.    Art    thou    thus    lx)ldened,    man,    by    thy 

distress  ; 

Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 
That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty? 

O/7.    You    touched    my   vein   at   first.      The   thornv 

point 

Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 
Of  smooth  civility  ;  yet  I  am  inland  bred,1 
And  know  some  nurture.     But  forbear,  I  say  ; 
He  dies,  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.    An  you  will   not   be   answered  with   reason,  1 
must  die. 

Duke  S.    What  would  you  have  ?     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,  1  pray  you. 
f  thought,  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here  : 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.      But,  whateVr  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  : 
If  ever  you  have  looked  on  better  days; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wiped  a  tear, 

1  Inland  here,  and  elsewhere  in  this  play,  is  opposite  to  outland,  or  up 
land.     Orlando  means  to  say  that  he  had  not  been  bred  among  cloivns. 
VOL.  ii.  37 


290  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II. 

And  know  what  'tis  to  pity,  and  be  pitied ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be  : 
In  the  which  hope,  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 

Duke  S.    True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days ; 
And  have  with  holy  bell  been  kriolled  to  church  ; 
And  sat  at  good  men's  feasts ;  and  wiped  our  eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engendered : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  command 1  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  ministered. 

Orl.    Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old,  poor  man, 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limped  in  pure  love  ;  till  he  be  first  sufficed, — 
Oppressed  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger, — 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orl.    I   thank  ye ;    and   be   blessed   for   your  good 
comfort !  [Exit. 

Duke  S.   Thou  seest,  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy; 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  we  play  in.2 

Jaq.  All  the  world's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players. 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms ; 
And  then,  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school ;  and  then,  the  lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 

O  O  ' 

Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow  ;  then,  a  soldier, 

1  i.  e.  at  your  own  command. 

2  Pleonasms  of  this  kind  were  by  no  means  uncommon  in  the  writers 
of  Shakspeare's  age ;  "  I  was  afearde  to  what  end  his  talke  would  come 
<o."     Baret. 


SC.  VII  ]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  291 

Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 

Jealous  in  honor,  sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel, 

Seeking  the  bubble  reputation 

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  l  instances, 

And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon  ; 

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, 

That  ends  this  strange,  eventful  history, 

Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion  ; 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

Re-enter  ORLANDO,  with  ADAM. 

Duke    S.    Welcome.      Set    down    your    venerable 

burden, 
And  let  him  feed. 

Or/.  1  thank  you  most  for  him. 

Adam.    So  had  you  need  ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  imself. 

Duke  S.    Welcome  ;  fall  to.      I  will  not  troub  e  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. 
Give  us  some  music  ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 


AMIENS  sings. 


SONG. 
I. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 

1  Trite,  common,  trivial. 


292  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  II. 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh,  ho  !    sing,  heigh,  ho  !    unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Then,  heigh,  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

II. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp,1 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp, 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh,  ho!  sing,  heigh,  ho!  &c. 

Duke  S.    If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Rowland's 

son, — 

As  you  have  whispered  faithfully  you  were  ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limned,  and  living  in  your  face, — 
Be  truly  welcome  hither.     I  am  the  duke, 
That  loved  your  father.     The  residue  of  your  fortune, 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man, 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is. 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand.          [Exeunt. 

1  "  Though  thou  the  waters  warp."  Mr.  Holt  White  has  pointed  out 
a  Saxon  adage  in  Hickes's  Thesaurus,  vol.  i.  p.  221,  Winter  shall  warp 
water ;  so  that  Shakspeare's  expression  was  anciently  proverbial. 


SC.  1  ]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  293 

ACT   III. 

i 
SCENE  1.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter    DUKE    FREDERICK,    OLIVER,    Lords,   and   At 
tendants. 

Duke  F.    Not  see  him  since  ?     Sir,   sir,  that  can 
not  be ; 

But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument1 
Of  my  revenge,  them  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  sei/urc,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands; 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thce,  by  thy  brother's  mouth, 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

OIL    O  that  your  highness  knew  my  heart  in  this ! 
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  extent2  upon  his  house  and  lands. 
Do  this  expediently,3  and  turn  him  going.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  Forest. 

Enter  ORLANDO,  with  a  paper. 

Or/.    Hang  there,  my  verso,  in  witness  of  my  love  ; 
And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 

1  The  argument  is  used  for  the  contents  of  a  book ;  thence  Shakspeare 
considered  it  as  meaning  the  subject,  and  then  used  it  for  subject  in  another 
sense. 

2  Seize  by  legal  process. 

3  i.  e.  erpeditiously.     Expedient  is  used  by  Shakspeare  throughout  his 
plays  for  expeditious. 


294  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 

Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  be  rny  books, 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I'll  character ; 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks, 
Shall  see  thy  virtue  witnessed  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve,  on  every  tree, 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive  1  she.         [Exit. 

Enter  CORIN  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Corin.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  mas 
ter  Touchstone  ? 

Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a 
good  life ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it 
is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I  like  it  very 
well ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private,  it  is  a  very  vile 
life.  Now,  in  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  sick 
ens,  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  com 
plain  of2  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, 

1  i.  e.  inexpressible. 

2  "  Of  good  breeding,"  &c.     The  anomalous  use  of  this  preposition 
has  been  remarked  on  many  occasions  in  these  plays. 


SC.  II.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  295 

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 ;  and 
wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is  damnation.  Thou  art  in 
a  parlous  state,  shepherd. 

Cor.  Not  a  whit,  Touchstone.  Those  that  are 
good  manners  at  the  court,  are  as  ridiculous  in  the 
country,  as  the  behavior  of  the  country  is  most  mock- 
able  at  the  court.  You  told  me,  you  salute 'not  at  the 
court,  but  you  kiss  your  hands ;  that  courtesy  would 
be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were  shepherds. 

Touch.    Instance,  briefly  ;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes;  and 
their  fells,  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat? 
and  is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as  the 
sweat  of  a  man  ?  Shallow,  shallow.  A  better  in 
stance,  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  sur 
gery  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.  Civet  is  of  a  baser  birth  than 
tar;  the  very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  .Mend  the  in 
stance,  shepherd. 

Cor.    You    have    too  courtly  a    wit  for  me;   Fll  rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned  ?  God  help  thee, 
shallow  man!  God  make  incision  in  thee!  thou 
art  raw.1 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  laborer.  1  earn  that  I  eat, 
get  that  I  wear ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's 

1  i.  e.  ignorant,  unexperienced. 


296  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

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  rams  together,  and  to  offer  to  get  your 
living  by  the  copulation  of  cattle  ;  to  be  bawd  to  a  bell 
wether;  and  to  betray  a  she-lamb,  of  a  twelvemonth  to 
a  crooked-pated,  old,  cuckoldy  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,1 
Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 
Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind, 
But  the  fair  ^  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I'll  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together , 
dinners,  and  suppers,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted ;  it 
is  the  ria;ht  butter-woman's  rank 3  to  market. 

Ros.  "Out,  fool ! 

Touch.    For  a  taste : — 


Jf  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 
Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 
If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 
So,  be  sure,  will  Rosalind. 

1  i.  e.  most  fairly  delineated. 

2  Fair  is  beauty. 

3  "The  right  butter-woman's  rank  to  market"  means  the  jog-trot  rate 
(as  it  is  vulgarly  called)  with  which  butter  women  uniformly  travel,  one 
after  another,  in  their  road  to  market.     In  its  application  to  Orlando's 
poetry,  it  means  a  set  or  string  of  verses  in  the  same  coarse  cadence  and 
vulgar  uniformity  of  rhythm. 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  297 

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  fold, 

Must  Jind  lovers  prick  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses.  Why  do  you 
infect  yourself  with  them? 

Ros.    Peace,  you  dull  fool ;   I  found  them  on  a  tree. 

Touch.    Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Ros.  I'll  graifit  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graft'  it 
with  a  medlar;  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  in  the 
country  ;  for  you'll  be  rotten  ere  you  be  half  ripe,  and 
that's  the  right  virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said  ;  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 1  he  ? 

For  it  is  unpeopled  ?     No ; 
Tongues  Fit  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil'2  sayings  show. 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 

Ruckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 

1  The  word  silent  is  not  in  the  old  copy.     Pope  corrected  the  passage 
by  reading 

"  Why  should  this  a  desert  be  ?  " 

The  present  reading  was  proposed  by  Tyrwhitt,  who  observes  that  the 
hanging  of  tongues  on  every  tree  would  not  "make  it  less  a  desert. 

2  uCiml"  says  Johnson,  "is  hore  used  in  the  same  sense  as  when  wo 
say,  civil  wisdom,  and  civil  life,  in  opposition  to  a  solitary  state.     This 
desert  shall  not  appear  unpeopled,  for  every  tree  shall  teach  the  maxims  or 
incidents  of  social  life." 

VOL.  ii.  38 


298  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  [ACT  111 

Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend ; 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write ; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little1  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  jilled  ' 
With  all  graces  wide  enlarged. 

Nature  presently  distilled 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty ; 
Atalanta's  better  part ; 2 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Rosalind  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devised ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts, 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  prized. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have, 

And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave. 

Ros.  O  most  gentle  Jupiter ! — What  tedious  homily 
of  love  have  you  wearied  your  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  CORIN  and  TOUCHSTONE. 

Cel.    Didst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too  ;  for 
some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  tne  verses 
would  bear. 

1  i.  e.  in  miniature. 

2  There  is  a  great  diversity  of  opinion  among  the  commentators  about 
what  is  meant  by  the  better  part  of  Atalanta,  for  which  the  reader,  who  is 
desirous  of  seeing  this  knotty  point  discussed,  is  referred  to  the  Variorum 
editions  of  Shakspeare. 


SC.  II.]  AS  YOU   LIKE  IT.  299 

CeL  That's  no  matter;  the  feet  might  bear  the 
verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not  bear 
themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore  stood  lamely 
in  the  Verse. 

CeL  But  didst  thou  hear  without  wondering  how 
thy  name  should  be  hanged  and  carved  upon  these 
trees  ? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  won 
der,  before  you  came;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a 
palm-tree ; 1  I  never  was  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythago 
ras'  time,  that  I  was  an  Irish  rat,2  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?3 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion  ! 4  dost  thou  think,  though 
I  am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose 
in  my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South 
sea  of  discovery.5  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  who  is  it  ? 
Quickly,  and  speak  apace.  I  would  thou  could'st 


1  A  palm-tree  in  the  forest  of  Arden  is  as  much  out  of  its  place  as  a 
lioness  in  a  subsequent  scene. 

2  This  fanciful  idea  probably  arose  from  some  metrical  charm  or  incan 
tation  used  there  for  ridding  houses  of  rats. 

3  To  whaop,  or  hoop,  is  to  cry  out,  to  exclaim  with  astonishment 

4  "  Good  my  complexion !  "     This  singular  phrase  was  probably  only  a 
little  unmeaning  exclamation. 

5  i.  e.  every  delay  is  as  irksome  as  a  voyage  of  discovery  in  the  South  sea. 


300  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT.  [ACT  III, 

stammer,  that  thou  might'st  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. 
T  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  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

CeL  It  is  young  Orlando ;  that  tripped  up  the  wres 
tler'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  my 
doublet  and  hose  ? — What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st 
him  ?  What  said  he  ?  How  looked  he  ?  Wherein 
went  he  ? 2  What  makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for 
me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with  thee  ? 
And  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again  ?  Answer  me  in 
one  word. 

CeL  You  must  borrow  me  Garagantua's3  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  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest, 
and  in  man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did 
the  day  he  wrestled  ? 

CeL    It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,  as  to  resolve  the 

1  "  Speak  sad  brow,  and  true  maid ; "  speak  seriously  and  honestly ;  or, 
in  other  words,  "  speak  with  a  serious  countenance,  and  as  truly  as  thou 
art  a  virgin." 

2  i.  e.  how  was  he  dressed  ? 

3  "  Garagantua ;"   the  giant  of  Rabelais,  who  swallowed  five  pilgrims, 
their  staves  and  all  in  a  salad. 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  301 

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  ! l  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythec  ;  it  cur 
vets  very  unseasonably.  He  was  furnished  like  a 
hunter. 

Ros.    O  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart.2 

CeL  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden  ;  thou 
bring'st  me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  When  I 
think,  I  must  speak.  Sweet,  say  on. 


Enter  ORLANDO  and  JAQUES. 

CeL    You  bring  me  out. — Soft!  comes  he  not  here  : 

Ros.    'Tis  he  ;  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

[CELIA  and  ROSALIND  retire. 

Jaq.    I    thank  you   for  your    company;     but,    U<><><1 
faith,  I  had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.    And  so  had  I ;   but  yet,  for  fashion's  s  ikr.    I 
thank  you  too  for  your  society. 

Jaq.    God  be  with  you  ;  let's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

O/7.    I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 

Jaq.    I   pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing- 
love-songs  in  their  barks. 

O/7.    I   pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with 
reading  them  ill-fa voredly. 


- 


Jaq.    Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ? 
Orl.   Yes,  just. 

1  Holla !    This  was  a  term  of  the  manage,  by  which  the  rider  restrained 
and  slopped  his  horse. 

2  A  quibble  between  hart  and  heart. 


302  AS    YOU  LIKE   IT.  [ACT  lit, 

Jaq.    I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Or/.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when 
she  was  christened. 

Jaq.    What  stature  is  she  of? 

Or/.    Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have  you  not 
been  acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and  conned 
them  out  of  rings  ? 

Or/.  Not  so ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,1 
from  whence  you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  think  it  was  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. 

Or/.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world,  but  my 
self;  against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaq.    The  worst  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love 

Or/.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best 
virtue.  1  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  1  was  seeking  for  a  fool,  when  I 
found  you. 

Or/.  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in  and 
you  shall  see  him. 

Jaq.    There  shall  I  see  mine  own  figure. 

Or/.    Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool,  or  a  cipher. 

Jaq.  I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you ;  farewell,  good 
seignior  love. 

Or/.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure  ;  adieu,  good  mon 
sieur  melancholy. 

[Exit  JAQ. — 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  ? 

Or/.    Very  well ;  what  would  you  ? 

Ros.    I  pray  you,  what  is't  o'clock  ? 

1  To  answer  right  painted  cloth,  is  to  answer  sententiously.  We  still 
say  she  talks  right  Billingsgate.  Painted  cloth  wa's  a  species  of  hangings 
for  the  walls  of  rooms,  which  has  generally  been  supposed  and  explained 
to  mean  tapestry ;  but  was  really  cloth  or  canvass  painted  with  various 
devices  and  mottos.  The  verses,  mottos,  and  proverbial  sentences  on 
such  cloths  arc  often  made  the  subject  of  allusion  in  our  old  writers. 


SC    II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  303 

Oii.  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. 

Or/.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time?  Had 
not  that  been  as  proper  ? 

Ros.  Jiv  no  means,  sir;  time  travels  in  divers  paces 
with  divers  persons.  Til  tell  you  who  time1  ambles 
withal,  who  time  trots  withal,  who  time  gallops  withal, 
and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Or/.    1  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  be 
tween  the  contract  of  her  marriage,  and  the  day  it  i> 
solemnized.  If  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  time's 
pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven  Near*. 

Or/.    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,  be 
cause  he  cannot  study;  and  the  other  lives  merrilx. 
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. 

Or/.    Who  doth  lie  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows;  for  though  he  go 
as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  then*. 

O/7.    Who  stays  it  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation  ;  for  tliev  sleep 
between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not 
how  time  moves. 

Or/.    Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister ;  hen1  in  the 
skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Or/.    Are  you  a  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  cony  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is 
kindled. 

Or/.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could 
purchase  in  so  removed  l  a  dwelling. 

1  i.  e.  sequestered. 


304  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

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  1  man  ;  one  that  knew  courtship 2 
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. 

Or/.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils 
that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all  like 
one  another,  as  half-pence  are ;  every  one  fault  seem 
ing  monstrous,  till  his  fellow  fault  came  to  match  it. 

Or/.    I  pr'ythee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  on 
those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest, 
that  abuses  our  young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on 
their  barks ;  hangs  odes  upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies 
on  brambles  ;  all,  forsooth,  deifying  the  name  of  Ros 
alind.  If  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger,  I  would  give 
him  some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quo 
tidian  of  love  upon  him. 

Or/.  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  prisoner. 

Or/.    What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not ;  a  blue  eye, 
and  sunken,  which  you  have  not ;  an  unquestionable 
spirit,3  which  you  have  not ;  a  beard  neglected,  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  ungartered,  your  bonnet 
unhanded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied, 


1  i.  e.  civilized.     See  note  on  Act  ii.  Sc.  7. 

2  Courtship  is  here  used  for  courtly  behavior,  courtiership.     See  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  Act  iii.  Sc.  3. 

3  i.  e.  a  spirit  averse  to  conversation. 
*  Having  is  possession,  estate. 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT  305 

and  every  thing  about  you  demonstrating  a  careless 
desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man  ;  you  are  rather 
point-device  l  in  your  accoutrements;  as  loving  your 
self,  than  seeming  the  lover  of  any  other. 

Or/.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe 
1  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it !  You  may  as  soon  make*  her 
that  you  love  believe  it ;  which,  1  warrant,  she;  is 
apter  to  do,  than  to  confess  she  does.  That  is  one  of 
the  points  in  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their 
consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that 
lianas  the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so 
admired  ? 

O/7.  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  vniir  rhwnes 
speak  ." 

Or/.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness  ;  and,  I  tell  von.  de 
serves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip,  as  madmen 
do;  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and 
cured,  is,  that  tin;  lunacy  is  so  ordinary,  that  the  whip- 
pers  are  in  love  too.  Yet  I  profess  curing  it  bv 
counsel. 

Or/.    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 
div  to  woo  me:  At  which  time  would  I.  bein^  but  a 
moonish  ~  youth,  grieve1,  be  effeminate,  changeable, 
longing,  and  liking;  proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow, 
inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles  ;  for  everv 
passion  something,  and  lor  no  passion  truly  any  tiling, 
as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this 
color;  would  now  like  him.  no\v  loathe  him;  then  en 
tertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ;  now  weep  for  him, 
then  spit  at  him;  that  1  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad 

1  i.  e.  precis?,  erart ;  dressed  with  finical  nicety. 

2  Moonish,  that  is,  as  changeable  as  the  moon. 
VOL.  ii.  39 


306  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

humor  of  love,  to  a  living  humor  of  madness ; l  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. 

Or/.    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. 

Or/.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  1  will.  Tell  me 
where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you ;  and 
by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you 
live.  Will  you  go  ? 

Or/.    With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Ros.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind. — Come, 
sister,  will  you  go  ?  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 

Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY  ;2   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? 

And.  Your  features  !  Lord  warrant  us  !  what  fea 
tures  ? 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the 
most  capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the 
Goths. 

Jaq.  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited !  worse  than  Jove 
in  a  thatched  house!  [Aside. 

Touch.    When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  understood, 


1  "  If,"  says  Johnson,  "  this  be  the  true  reading,  w.c  must  by  living  un 
derstand  lasting  or  permanent"  But  he  suspected  that  this  passage  was 
corrupt ;  that  originally  sonic  antithesis  was  intended,  which  is  now  lost. 

9  Jluilrey  is  a  corruption  of  EthdJrcda.  The  saint  of  that  name  is  so 
styled  in  ancient  calendars. 


FC.  III.]  AS   YOU    LIKE    11.  307 

nor  a  maifs  good  wit  seconded  with  the  forward  child, 
understanding,  it  strikes  a  man  more  dead  than  a  great 
reckoning  in  a  little  room.1  —  Truly,  I  would  the  gods 
had  made  thee  poetical. 

And.  \  do  not  know  what  poetical  is.  Is  it  honest 
in  deed,  and  word?  Is  it  a  true  thing? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the  incst 
feigning;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetrv;  and  what 
they  swear  in  poetrv.  mav  he  said,  as  lovers,  thev  do 
feign.2 

And.  Do  you  wish,  then,  that  the  gods  had  made 
me  poetical  ? 

Touch.  \  do,  truly  ;  for  thou  swearest  to  me  tliou 
art  honest;  no\v,  if  thou  wcrt  a  port.  I  mi^ht  have 
some  hope  thou  didst  feign. 

And.     Would  von  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No,  trnl  v,  unless  thou  wcrt  hard  favored  ;  for 
honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce  to 


sugar 


Jaq.    A  material  fool  !  '''  [Aside. 

And.  Well,  I  am  not  fair:  and  therefore  I  pray  the 
gods  make  me  honest  ! 

'Touch.  'Truly,  and  to  cast  awav  honesty  upon  a 
foul  slut,  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 

And.  \  am  not  a  slut,  though  1  thank  the  gods  I 
am  Ion!.4 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness! 
Slutt  ishncss  mav  come  hereafter.  But  be  it  as  it  mav 
he,  1  will  marrv  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  for 
est,  and  to  couple  us. 

Jd(j.    1  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  [/lsid<  . 

And.    Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  ! 

1  i.  e.  confounds  a  man,  like  an  mormons  bill  in  a  mean  place  of  enter 
tainment. 

2  This  should   probably  be  read—"  it   may  be  naid,  as  lovers,  they  do 
feicrn." 

:*  "A  material  fool  "  is  a  fool  with  matter  in  him. 

4  Audrey,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  here  "  thanks  the  gods  amiss  ;  " 
mistaJungybu/ness  for  some  notable  virtue,  or  commendable  quality. 


308  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT. 


[ACT  III. 


Touch.  Amen.  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fearful 
heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no 
temple  but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but  horn-beasts. 
But  what  though  ?  Courage  !  As  horns  are  odious, 
they  are  necessary.  It  is  said, — Many  a  man  knows 
no  end  of  his  goods ;  right ;  many  a  man  has  good 
horns,  and  knows  no  end  "of  them/  Well,  that  is  the 
dowry  of  his  wife ;  'tis  none  of  his  own  getting. 

Horns  ?     Even  so. Poor  men   alone  ? — No,  no  ; 

the  noblest  deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the  rascal.1  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  is  better 
than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a  horn  more  precious  than 
to  want. 

Enter  SIR  2  OLIVER  MAR-TEXT. 

Here  comes  sir  Oliver. — Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you  are 
wTcll  met.  Will  you  despatch  us  here  under  this  tree, 
or  shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

Sir  OH.    Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.    I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  OH.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage 
is  not  lawful. 

Jaq.  [Discovering  himself. ~]  Proceed,  proceed;  I'll 
give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  master  What  ye  calVt. 
How  do  you,  sir  ?  You  are  very  well  met.  God'ild 
you 3  for  your  last  company.  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you. — Even  a  toy  in  hand  here,  sir. — Nay ;  pray  be 
covered. 

Jaq.    Will  you  be  married,  Motley  ? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,  sir,  the  horse  his 
curb,  and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his  desires  ; 
and  as  pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be  nibbling. 

1  Lean  deer  are  called  rascal  deer. 

2  "  Sir  Oliver."     This  title,  it  has  been  already  observed,  was  formerly 
applied  to  priests  and  curates  in  general. 

3  i.  e.  God  yield  you,  God  reward  you. 


SC.  IV.]  AS   YOU   UKE   IT.  309 

Jay.  And  will  3011,  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  follow  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.    1  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  bein£  well  married,  it  will  be  a 
good  excuse  for  me  hereafter  to  leave  my  wife.  [Aside. 
Jd(j.    (Jo  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 — ()  sweet  Oliver, 

O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee  ; 
But — wind  away, 

Begone,  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee.1 

[Exeunt  JAQ.,  TOUCH.,  and  AUDREY. 

Sir  Oil.    'Tis  no    matter;    ne'er  a    fantastical   knave 

of  them  all  shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.  [Exit. 


SCENE  IV.      The  sam* .      Injure  a  Cottage. 

Enter  ROSALIND  and  CT.LIA. 

Never  talk  to  me  ;    I  will  weep. 

Ce/.  Do,  1  pr'ythee  ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  con 
sider,  that  tears  do  not  become  a  man. 

llos.    Hut  have  1  not  cause  to  weep  : 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  there 
fore  weep. 


1  The  ballad  of  "  O  swcrtc  Olyvcr,  leave  me  not  behind  tneo,"  and  the 
answer  to  it,  arc  entered  on  the  Stationers'  books  in  1584  and  1586. 
Touchstone  says  I  will  sing — not  that  part  of  the  ballad  which  says — 
"Leave  me  not  behind  thee;"  but  that  which  says — "Begone,!  say," 
probably  part  of  the  answer. 


310  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

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.    Pfaith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  color. 

Cel.  An  excellent  color  ;  your  chestnut  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 ; 
a  nun  of  winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not  more  religiously; 
the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
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 ;  but  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 ;  but  I  think  he  is  not  in. 

Ros.    You  have  heard  him  swear  downright,  he  was. 

Cel.  Was  is  not  is.  Besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is 
no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are  both 
the  confirmers  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends  here 
in  the  forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  ques 
tion  with  him.  He  asked  me  of  what  parentage  I  was  ; 
I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he  ;  so  he  laughed,  and  let  me 
go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when  there  is  such 
a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Cel.  O,  that's  a  brave  man  !  Pie  writes  brave  verses, 
speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths,  and  breaks 
them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart2  the  heart  of 
his  lover ; []  as  a  puny  tilter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but 
on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff  like  a  noble  goose  ;  but 

1  Judas  was  constantly  represented,  in  old  paintings  and  tapestry,  with 
red  hair  and  beard. 

2  When  the  tilter,  by  unsteadiness  or  awkwardness,  suffered  his  spear 
to  be  turned  out  of  its  direction,  and  to  be  broken  across  the  body  of  his 
adversary,  instead  of  by  the  push  of  the  point,  it  was  held  very  disgraceful, 

3  i.  e.  mistress. 


SC.  V.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  311 

all's   brave,    that    youth    mounts,   and   folly   guides. — 
Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  COR  IN. 

Cor.    Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquired 
After  the  shepherd  that  complained  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  played, 
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. 

l\os.  O,  come,  let  us  remove  ; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. — 
Bring  us  unto  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  SILVIUS  and  PIIKUK. 

Sit.    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  accustomed  sight  of  death  makes  hard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  nock, 
But  first  begs  pardon.      Will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives1  by  bloody  drops  ? 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CKLIA,  and  CORIN,  at  a  distance 

Phe.    I  would  not  be  thy  executioner ; 
1  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thoc. 
Thou  tell'st  me,  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye. 

1  i.  e.  he  who,  to  the  very  end  of  life,  continues  a  common  executioner. 


312  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III. 

'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  called  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  1  impressure 

Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now  mine  eyes, 

Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 

Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 

That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil.  O  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But,  till  that  time, 

Come  not  thou  near  me ;  and,  when  that  time  comes, 
Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks  ;  pity  me  not  ; 
As  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.    And  why,  I  pray  you  ?    [Advancing.]    Who 

might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over    the    wretched  ?     What     though    you    have    no 

beauty, 

(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed,) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ? 
Why,  what  means  this  ?     Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you,  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work. — Od's  my  little  life  ! 


1  Capable  is  probably  hero  used  in  the  sense  of  susceptible.     Some 
commentators  proposed  to  substitute  the  word  palpable. 


SC.  V.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  313 

I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too. 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'Tis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk-hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship.— 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man, 
Than  she  a  woman.     'Tis  such  fools  as  you, 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favored  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.1 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd. — Fare  you  well. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year  together ; 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her  foulness,  and  she'll 
fall  in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she 
answers  thee  with  frowning  looks,  I'll  sauce  her  with 
bitter  words. — Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

Phc.    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  bettor, 
And  be  not  proud  ;  though  all  the  world  could  see, 
None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he.2 
Come,  to  our  flock.        [Exeunt  Ros.,  CEL.,  ami  COR. 

1  That  is,  says  Johnson,  "  The  ugly  seem  most  ugly,  when,  though 
ugly,  they  are  scoffers." 

~  If  all  men  could  see  you,  none  could  he  so  deceived  as  to  think  you 
beautiful  but  he. 

VOL.  ii.  40 


314  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  III 

Phe.    Dead     shepherd !    now    I    find    thy   saw   of 

might ; 
Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? l 

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.    1  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was,  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not,  that  I  bear  thee  love ; 
But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  will  endure ;  and  I'll  employ  thee  too. 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense, 
Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employed. 

Sil.    So  holy,  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps.     Loose  now  and  then 
A  scattered  smile,  and  that  I'll  live  upon. 

Phe.    Know'st   thou  the   youth  that  spoke  to  me 
erewhile  ? 

Sil.    Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft  ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds, 
That  the  old  carlot2  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  1  for  words  ?     Yet  words  do  well, 

1  This  line  is  from  Marlowe's  beautiful  poem  of  Hero  and  Leander 
left  unfinished  at  his  death  in  1592,  and  first  published  in  1598,  when  it 
Became  very  popular. 

2  Carlot.     This  is  printed  in  Italics  as    a  proper   name    in  the   old 
edition.     It  is,  however,  apparently  formed  from  car/c,  a  peasant 

3  i.  e.  weak,  silly. 


SC.  V.]  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  315 

When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 

It  is  a  pretty  youth  ; — not  very  pretty  ;— 

But,  sure,  he's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him. 

He'll  make  a  proper  man ;  the  best  thing  in  him 

Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 

Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 

He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall : 

His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 

There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip ; 

A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mixed  in  his  cheek  ;  'twas  just  the  difference 

Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 

There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  marked  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  remembered,  scorned  at  me. 

I  marvel  why  I  answered  not  again ; 

But  that's  all  one ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 

I'll  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 

And  thou  shalt  bear  it.     Wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.    Phe be,  with  all  my  heart. 

Phe.  I'll  write  it  straight ; 

The  matter's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart ; 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short. 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeunt. 


316  AS  YOU  LIKE   IT.  [ACT  IV. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE  I.     The  same. 

Enter  ROSALIND,  CELIA,  and  JAQUES. 

Jaq.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better  ac 
quainted  with  thee. 

Ros.  They  say,  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.    I  am  so  ;   I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either,  are 
abominable  fellows ;  and  betray  themselves  to  every 
modern1  censure,  worse  than  drunkards. 

Jaq.    Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.    Why,  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  which 
is  emulation  ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ; 
nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud ;  nor  the  soldier's, 
which  is  ambitious  ;  nor  the  lawyer's,  which  is  politic  ; 
nor  the  lady's,  which  is  nice ; 2  nor  the  lover's,  which 
is  all  these  :  but  it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  com 
pounded  of  many  simples,  extracted  from  many  objects  ; 
and,  indeed,  the  sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels ; 
which,  by  often  rumination,  wraps  me  in  a  most  hu 
morous  sadness.3 

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. 

Jaq.    Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Enter  ORLANDO. 
Ros.    And  your  experience  makes  you  sad.     I  had 

1  i.  e.  common,  trifling. 

2  Nice  here  means  tender,  delicate,  and  not  silly,  trifling,  as  Steevens 
supposed. 

y  The  old  copy  reads  and  points  thus  : — "  and  indeed  the  sundry  con 
templation  of  my  travels,  in  which  %  often  rumination,  wraps  me  in  a 
most  humorous  sadness."  The  emendation  is  Malone's. 


SC.  I.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  317 

rather  have  a  fool  to  make  me  merry,  than  experience 
to  make  me  sad  ;  and  to  travel  for  it  too. 

0/7.    Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind ! 

Jaq.  Nay  then,  God  he  wi'  you,  an  you  talk  in 
blank  verse.  [Exit. 

Ros.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller.  Look,  you  lisp, 
and  wear  strange  suits ;  disable 1  all  the  benefits  of 
your  own  eountry  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativitv, 
and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you  that  countenance 
you  are  ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have1  swam  in  a 
gondola.2 — Why,  how  now,  Orlando !  Where  have 
you  been  all  this  while?  You  a  lover: — An  yon  serve 
me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in  inv  sight  more. 

O/7.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of 
my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love'  He  that 
will  divide4  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  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  wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orl.    Of  a  snail  : 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail  ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly, 
he  carries  his  house  on  his  brad  :  a  better  jointure, 
I  think,  than  you  can  m:tke  a  woman.  Besides,  he 
brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

O/7.    What's  that  ? 

Ros.  Why,  horns;  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to  be 
beholden  to  your  wives  for:  but  he  comes  armed  in 
his  fortune,  and  prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue1  is  no  horn-maker;  and  mv  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  leer3  than  you. 

J 

i 

1  i.  c.  undervalue.         2  i.  0>  ])oen  at  Venice.         3  i.  c.  complexion,  color 


318  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  IV. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me ;  for  now  I  am  in  a 
holiday  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  mis 
tress  ;  or  I  should  think  my  honesty  ranker  than  my  wit. 

OrL    What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Ros.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of  your 
suit.  Am  not  I  your  Rosalind  ? 

OrL  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would 
be  talking  of  her. 

Ros.    Well,  in  her  person,  I  say — I  will  not  have  you. 

OrL    Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world 
is  almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time 
there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person,  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.  Le- 
ander,  he  would  have  lived  many  a  fair  year,  though 
Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot  mid 
summer  night ;  for,  good  youth,  he  went  but  forth  to 
wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and,  being  taken  with  the 
cramp,  was  drowned ;  and  the  foolish  chroniclers 1  of 
that  age  found  it  was — Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are 
all  lies  ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms 
have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 


1  " The  foolish  chroniclers."     Sir  Thomas  Ilanmcr  reads  coroners;  and 
it  must  be  confessed  the  context  seems  to  warrant  the  innovation. 


SC.  I.]  AS   YOU   LIKi:    IT.  319 

Oil.  \  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind  ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But  come, 
now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  dis 
position  ;  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. 

Oii.    And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Ron.    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  u<><><] 
thing? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  he  the  priest,  and 
marry  us. — Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando. — What  do 
you  say,  sister  ? 

Orl.    Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Ccl.    I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.    You  must  be^in, Will  you,  Orlando, — 

Ccl.  Go  to. Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife 

this  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.    I  will. 

Ros.    Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.    Why  now  ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — /  take  t/«  r,  Rosalind, 
for  irifc. 

Orl.    I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wile. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  vou  for  your  commission;  but — I 
do  take  thee,  Orlando,  lor  mv  husband.  There  a  i^irl 
goes  before  the  priest ;  and,  certainly,  a  woman's  thought 
runs  before  her  actions. 

O/7.    So  do  all  thoughts  ;   they  arc  winded. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  lon^  you  would  have  her 
after  you  have  possessed  her. 

Orl.    Forever  and  a  day. 

7x05.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever.  No,  no.  Orlan 
do  ;  men  are  April  when  they  woo  ;  December  when 
they  wed  :  maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids,  but 
the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives.  I  will  be  more 


320  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  IV, 

jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbaiy  cock-pigeon  over  his 
hen ;  more  clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain  ;  more 
new-fangled  than  an  ape  ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires 
than  a  monkey.  I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana 
in  the  fountain  ; l  and  1  will  do  that  when  you  are  dis 
posed  to  be  merry ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyena,  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  the  doors  2  upon  a 
woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  casement ;  shut 
that,  and  'twill  out  at  the  key-hole ;  stop  that,  'twill 
fly  with  the  smoke  out  at  the  chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit,  he 
might  say, —  Wit.  whither  wilt  ? 3 

c*  J  '  ' 

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  that 
cannot  make  her  fault  her  husband's  occasion,4  let  her 
never  nurse  her  child  herself,  for  she  will  breed  it  like 
a  fool. 

Orl.  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, 


1  In  1598,  the  water  of  the  Thames  was  conveyed  to  a  fountain  in 
Cheapside,  and  flowed  out  through  a  statue  of  Diana. 
~  i.  e.  bar  the  doors. 

3  "Wit,  whither  wilt?"     This  was  a  kind  of' proverbial  phrase,  the 
origin  of  which  has  not  been  traced.     It  occurs  in  many  Avritcrs  of  Shak- 
speare's  time. 

4  i.  e.  represent  her  fault  as  occasioned  by  her  husband.     Ilanmcr 
reads,  her  husband's  accusation. 


SC.  I.]  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  321 

and  I  thought  no  less  ; — that  flattering  tongue  of  yours 
won  me  ; — 'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so, — come, 
death. — Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ': 

Orl.    Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ron.  J3y  my  troth  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  God 
mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  danger 
ous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise,  or  come  one 
minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pa- 
thetical 1  break-promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and 
the  most  unworthy  of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may 
be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful. 
Therefore  beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion,  than  if  thou  wert  indeed 
my  Rosalind.  So,  adieu. 

I\os.  Well,  time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all 
such  offenders,  and  let  time4  try.  Adieu  ! 

[Exit  ORLANDO. 

Ccl.  You  have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your  love- 
prate :  we  must  have  your  doublet  and  hose  plucked 
over  your  head,  and  show  the  world  what  the  bird 
hath  done  to  her  own  nest. 

Ro.s.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that  thou 
didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in  love  !  But 
it  cannot  be  sounded  ;  my  affection  hath  an  unknown 
bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Ccl.  Or  rather,  bottomless;  that  as  fast  as  von  pour 
affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus, 
that  was  begot  of  thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and 
born  of  madness;  that  blind  rascally  bov.  that  abuses 
every  one's  eyes,  because  his  own  arc  out,  let  him  be 
judge,  how  deep  I  am  in  love. — I'll  tell  thee.  Alicna,  I 
cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando.  I'll  »o  find  a 
shadow,2  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.    And  I'll  sleep.  [Exeunt. 

1  Pathctical  and  passionate  were  used  in  the  same  sense  in  Shakspeare's 
time. 

2  So  in  Macbeth  : — 

"  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 

Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty." 
VOL.   II.  41 


322  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT   IV. 


SCENE    II.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  JAQUES  and  Lords,  in  the  habit  of  Foresters. 

Jaq.    Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer  ? 

1  Lord.    Sir,  it  was  I. 

Jaq.  Let's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Roman 
conqueror;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the  deer's  horns 
upon  his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory. — Have  you  no 
song,  forester,  for  this  purpose  ? 

2  Lord.    Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it ;  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune,  so  it 
makes  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1 .  What  shall  he  have  that  killed  the  deer  f 

2.  His  leathern  skin,  and  horns  to  ivear. 

1 .    Then  sing  him  home.  \  T,  ,    „ 

m    7       ji  ul       7,  /   J- lie  leal  Mldll 

Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  me  horn ;     f  T         ,.   , 
T.  ,         ,j  ,7  /  oear  tms  uur- 

It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born  ;  (  , 

1.  Thy  father's  father  wore  it ;   ) 

2.  And  thy  father  bore  it. 

All.    The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn, 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.1  [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!2 

1  In  Playibrd's  Musical  Companion,  1673,  where  this  song  is  set  to 
music  by  John  Hilton,  the  words  "  Then  sing  him  home  "are  omitted  ;  and 
it  should  be  remarked  that  in  the  old  copy,  these  words,  and  those  which 
have  been  regarded  by  the  editors  as  a  stage  'direction,  are  given  in 
one  line. 

2  i.  e.  here  is  no  Orlando.     Much  was  a  common  ironical  expression  of 
doubt  or  suspicion,  still  used  by  the  vulgar  in  the  same  sense ;  as,  "  mucb 
of  that!" 


SC.  III.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  323 

Ccl.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troubled 
brain,  he  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is  gone 
forth — to  sleep.  Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  SILVIUS. 

Sil.    My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth. — 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this. 

[Giving  a  letter. 

I  know  not  the  contents  ;   but  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow   and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
It  bears  an  angry  tenor.      Pardon  me, 
I  am  but  as  ;i  guiltless  messenger. 

7vo.s\    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; 
Phe be  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come*,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turned  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand  ;  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  freestone-colored  hand  ;   I  verily  did   think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands  ; 
She  has  a  housewife'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. 

/i0.s\    Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers.     Why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian  :   woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance. — \Vill  you  hear  the  lettei : 

Sil.    So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet; 
Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 


324  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT  [ACT  IV. 

Ros.    She  Phebes  me.     Mark  how  the  tyrant  writes. 

Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turned,  [Reads. 

That  a  maiden \s  heart  hath  burned  ? 
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  to  me — 
Meaning  me,  a  beast. — 

If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 1 

Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 

Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 

Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  f 

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  : 

And  by  him  seal  up  thy  mind; 

Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 2 

Will  the  faithful  offer  take 

Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make ; 

Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 

And  then  Til  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,3)  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  en 
treat  for  her. — If  you  be  a  true  lover,  hence,  and  not 
a  word ;  for  here  comes  more  company. 

[Exit  STLVIUS. 

1  Eyne  for  eyes. 

a  Kind,  for  nature,  or  natural  affections. 

3  A  poor  snake  was  a  term  of  reproach  equivalent  to  a  wretch  or  poor 
creature.     Hence,  also,  a  sneaking  or  creeping  fellow. 


SC.  III.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  325 


Enter  OLIVER. 

Oli.    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? 

Ccl.    West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbor  bot 

tom, 

The  rank  of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place  ; 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There's  none  within. 

Oli.    If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  I  should  know  you  by  description  ; 
Such  garments,  and  such  years.      The  boy  is  fair, 
Of  female  favor,  and  bestows  l  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  ? 

Ccl.    It  is  no  boast,  being  asked,  to  say  we  are. 

Oli.    Orlando  dotli  commend  him  to  you  both  ; 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
lie  sends  this  bloody  napkin.2     Are  you  he  : 

Ros.    I  am.     What  must  we  understand  by  this? 

Oli.    Some  of  my  shame  ;  if  you  will  know  of  me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkerchief  was  stained. 

Ccl.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Oli.    When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you, 
lie  left  a  promise  to  return  again 
Within  an  hour;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest, 
Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 
Lo,  what  befell  !      He  threw  his  eye  aside, 
And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 


i  i.  e.  acts  or  behaves  like,  &c. 

-  A  napkin  and  handkerchief  were  the  same  tiling  in  Shakspoare's  time, 
as  we  gather  from  the  dictionaries  of  Baret  and  Ilutton  in  their  expla 
nations  of  the  word  Ctpsitium  and  Siifhtriiun.  Napkin,  for  handkerchief, 
is  still  in  use  in  the  north. 


326  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  IV. 

Under  an  oak,1  whose  boughs  were  mossed  with  age, 

And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 

A  wretched,  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 

Lay  sleeping  on  his  back.      About  his  neck 

A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreathed  itself, 

Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approached 

The  opening  of  his  mouth ;  but  suddenly, 

Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlinked  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. 

Cd.    O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother  , 
And  he  did  render  2  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  'mong;st  men. 

O 

Oli.  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  sucked  and  hungry  lioness  ? 

Oli.    Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purposed  so : 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge, 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness, 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him ;  in  which  hurtling 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awaked. 

Cel.    Are  you  his  brother  ? 

Ros.  Was  it  you  he  rescued  ? 

CcL    Was't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him  ? 

Oli.    '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  ?— 

1  The  ancient  editions  read,  "  Under  an  old  oak,"  which  hurts  the  meas- 
are  without  improving  the  sense.     Tlio  correction  was  made  by  Steevens. 
y  i  e.  represent  or  render  this  account  of  him. 


SC.  III.]  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  327 

OIL  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bathed ; 

As,  how  I  came  into  that  desert  plaee  ; 

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  stripped  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  llesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;   and  now  he  fainted, 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  I  recovered  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  mi»-ht  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  uive  this  napkin. 

Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Ccl.    Why,   how   now,   Ganymede  ?     Sweet  Gany 
mede  ?  [R< }  s  A  i  AM)  faints. 

OIL    Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 

Ccl.    There  is  more  in  it. — Cousin — Ganymede! 

OIL    Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.  I  would  1  were  at  home. 

Ccl.    We'll  lead  you  thither.- 
I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  : 

OIL  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth. — You  a  man ! — 
You  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah.  sir.  a  bodv  would 
think  this  was  well  counterfeited  :  I  pray  YOU,  tell  your 
brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. — Heigh  ho! — 

OIL  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  passion 
of  earnest. 

Ros.    Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

OIL  Well,  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counterfeit 
to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do ;  but,  i'faith,  I  should  have  been  a 
woman  by  right. 


328  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V. 

Cel.    Come,  you   look   paler  and   paler;  pray  you, 
draw  homewards. — Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

OH.    That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back 
How  you  excuse  my  brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.    I  shall   devise   something ;    but,    I    pray  you, 
commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him. — Will  you  go  ? 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     The  same. 

Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey ;  patience, 
gentle  Audrey. 

And.  'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all  the 
old  gentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most 
vile  Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here  in 
the  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

And.  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. 

Will.    Good  even,  Audrey. 

And.    God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.    And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head, 
cover  thy  head ;  nay,  pr'ythee,  be  covered.  How  old 
are  you,  friend  ? 

Will.    Five-and-twenty,  sir. 

Touch.    A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William  ? 


SC    I.]  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  329 

Will.    A\  illiam,  sir.  . 

Touch.    A  fair  name.     Wast  born  i'  the  forest  here  ? 

Will.    Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

Touch.    Thank  God ; — a  good  answer.     Art  rich  ? 

Will.    'Faith,  sir,  so,  so. 

Touch.  So,  so,  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent 
good : — and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so  so.  Art  thou 
wise  ? 

Will.    Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  Why,  thou  say'st  well.  I  do  now  remem 
ber  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  ? 

mil.    I  do,  sir. 

Touch.    Give  me  your  hand.     Art  thou  learned  ? 

Will   No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me.  To  have,  is  to 
have ;  for  it  is  a  figure  in  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 
ipsc  is  he;  now  you  are  not  ipsc,  for  I  am  he. 

Will.    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  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  thce 
away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  liberty  into 
bondage.  I  will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  or  in  basti 
nado,  or  in  steel;  I  will  bandy  with  thee  in  faction  ; 
I  will  o'crrun  thee  with  policy;  I  will  kill  thee  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty  ways :  therefore  tremble  and  depart. 

Aud.    Do,  good  William. 

Will.    God  rest  you,  merry  sir.  [Exit. 

VOL.  ii.  42 


330  AS   YOU   LIKE  IT.  [ACT  V. 

Enter  CORIN. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you ;  come, 
away,  away. 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey. — I  attend, 
1  attend.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  same. 

Enter  ORLANDO  and  OLIVER. 

Or/.  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?1 

Oli.  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question, 
the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my  sudden 
wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consenting ;  but  say  with  me, 
I  love  Aliena ;  say  with  her,  that  she  loves  me ;  con 
sent  with  both,  that  we  may  enjoy  each  other.  It 
shall  be  to  your  good ;  for  my  father's  house,  and  all 
the  revenue  that  was  old  sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate 
upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 

Enter  ROSALIND. 

Orl.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding  be 
to-morrow :  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke,  and  all  his 
contented  followers.  Go  you,  and  prepare  Aliena; 
for,  look  you,  here  comes  my  Rosalind. 

Ros.    God  save  you,  brother. 

Oli.    And  you,  fair  sister.2 


1  Shakspeare,  by  putting  this  question  into  the  mouth   of  Orlando, 
seems  to  have  been  aware  of  the  improbability  in  his  plot  caused  by  de 
serting  his  original.     In  Lodge's  novel  the  elder  brother  is  instrumental 
in  saving  Aliena  from  a  band  of  ruffians  ;  without  this  circumstance  the 
passion  of  Aliena  appears  to  be  very  hasty  indeed. 

2  Oliver  must  be  supposed  to  speak  to  her  in  the  character  she  had  as 
sumed,  of  a  woman  courted  by  his  brother  Orlando,  for  there  is  no  evi 
dence  that  he  knew  she  was  one. 


I 


SC.  II.]  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  331 

Ros.  O,  my  dear  Orlando,  ho\v  it  grieves  me  to  see 
thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf. 

OrL    It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with 
the  claws  of  a  lion. 

OrL    Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited 
to  swoon,  when  he  showed  me  your  handkerchief? 

OrL    Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are. — Nay,  'tis  true  : 
there  never  was  any  thing  so  sudden,  but  the  light  of 
two  rams,  and  Caesar's  thrasonical  brag  of — /  came, 
saw,  and  overcame.  For  your  brother  and  my  sister 
no  sooner  met,  but  they  looked  ;  no  sooner  looked,  but 
they  loved;  no  sooner  loved,  but  they  sighed;  no 
sooner  sighed,  but  they  asked  one  another  the  reason  ; 
no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  but  they  sought  the  remedy: 
and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to 
marriage,  which  they  will  climb  incontinent,1  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  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-morrow  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.2  I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should  bear  a 

1  Incontinent  here  signifies  immediately,  without  any  stay  or  delay,  out 
of  hand ;  so  Baret  explains  it.  But  it  had  also  its  now  usual  signification, 
and  Shakspeare  delights  in  the  equivoque. 

'•-  donrcit,  in  the  language  of  Shakspeare's  age,  signified  wit ;  or  con 
ception,  and  imagination. 


332  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V. 

good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch,  I  say,  I 
know  you  are  ;  neither  do  I  labor  for  a  greater  esteem 
than  may  in  some  little  measure  draw  a  belief  from 
you,  to  do  yourself  good,  and  not  to  grace  me.  Be 
lieve  then,  if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things  ; 
I  have,  since  I  was  three  years  old,  conversed  with  a 
magician,  most  profound  in  this  art,  and  yet  not  dam 
nable.  If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as 
your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother  marries 
Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her.  I  know  into  what 
straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven ;  and  it  is  not  im 
possible  to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to 
set  her  before  your  eyes  to-morrow ;  human  as  she  is,1 
and  without  any  danger. 

Or/.    Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do,  which  I  tender  dearly,  though 
1  say  I  am  a  magician.  Therefore  put  you  in  your  best 
array  ;  bid  your  friends  ;  for  if  you  will  be  married  to 
morrow,  you  shall;  and  to  Rosalind,  if  you  will. 

Enter  SILVIUS  and  PHEBE. 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mine,  and  a  lover  of  hers. 

Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungentleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  jou. 

Ros.    I  care  not,  if  I  have ;  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you. 
You  are  there  followed  by  a  faithful  shepherd ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him ;  he  worships  you. 

Phe.    Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what  'tis  to  love. 

.Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.    And  I  for  Ganymede. 

0/7.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

i  "Human  as  she  is;"  that  is,  not  a  phantom,  but  the  real  Rosalind, 
without  any  of  the  danger  generally  conceived  to  attend  upon  the  rites  of 
incantation. 


SC.  II.]  AS   YOU   LIKE    IT.  33-3 

Plie.    And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Kos.    And  I  for  no  woman. 

Sil.    It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  obeisance  ; J — 
Arid  so  am  I  for  Flu; be. 

Phe.    And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.    And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.    And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  vou  ? 

[To  ROSALIND. 

Sil.    If  this  be  so,  whv  blame1  vou  me  to  love  you  ? 

[To  PHKIJI:. 

Orl.    If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you? 

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

Orl.    To  her  that  is  not  hero ;  nor  doth  not  hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this  ;  'tis  like  the  howl 
ing  of  Irish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I  will  help 
you,  [To  SILVIUS.]  if  I  can. — I  would  love  you,  [To 
PHEBE.]  if  I  could. — To-morrow  meet  me  all  together. 
— I  will  marry  you,  [To  PHKHE.]  if  ever  I  marry  wo 
man,  and  I'll  be  married  to-morrow. — I  will  satisfv 
you,  [To  ORLANDO.]  if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you 
shall  be  married  to-morrow. — I  will  content  vou,  [To 
SILVIUS.]  if  what  pleases  vou  contents  you,  and  vou 
shall  be  married  to-morrow. — As  you  [T'o  ORLANDO.] 
love  Rosalind,  meet ; — as  vou  [To  SILVIUS.]  love  Phebe. 
meet;  and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I'll  meet. — So  j-ire  vou 
well  ;  1  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.    I'll  not  fiil,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  I.     [Exeunt. 

1  "  Obeisance."  The  old  copy  roads  observance,  but  it  is  very  unlikely 
that  word  should  have  been  set  down  by  Shakspcarc  twice  so  close  to 
each  other.  Ritson  proposed  the  present  emendation.  Observance  is 
attention,  deference. 


334  AS   YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V, 


SCENE  III.     The  same. 


Enter  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey  ;  to 
morrow  will  we  be  married. 

And.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart ;  and  I  hope 
it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the 
world.1  Here  comes  two  of  the  banished  duke's 
pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.    Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.  Come,  sit,  sit,  and 
a  song. 

2  Page.    We  are  for  you  ;  sit  i'the  middle. 

1  Page.    Shall  we  clap  into't  roundly,  without  hawk 
ing,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse  ;  which  are 
the  only  prologues  to  a  bad  voice. 

2  Page.    I 'faith,  i'faith  ;  and  both  in  a  tune,  like  two 
gipsies  on  a  horse. 


SONG. 

I. 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino? 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  rank  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


1  i.  e.  a  married  woman.     So  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing1,  Beatrice 
says: — "Tims  every  one  goes  to  the  world  but  I." 

2  This  burden  is  common  to  many  old  songs.     Sec  Florio's  Ital.  Diet. 
Ed.  101 1,  sub  voce  Fossa. 

\ 


sc.  iv.j  AS  YOU  LIKK  IT.  33; 


II. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  ticj 

In  spring  time,  &c. 


This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  a  life  UYM  but  ajlow<r 
In  spring  time,  See. 

IV. 

And  therefore  take  (lie  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  ; 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  <Scc. 

Touch.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there  was 
no  great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note?  was  very 
untunable. 

I  Page.  You  are  deceived,  sir;  we  kept  time,  we 
lost  not  our  time. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes;  I  count  it  but  time  lost 
to  hear  such  a  foolish  son^.  CJod  be  with  YOU  ;  and 
God  mend  your  voices!  Come,  Audrev.  [F.ccunt. 


SCENE   IV.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  AMIKNS,  JAQLT.S,   ORLANDO,  Ou- 
VKR,  and  CKLIA. 

Duke  S.    Dost  thou    believe,  Orlando,  that   the   boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 


336  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V. 

Or/.    I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not ; 
As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear.1 

Enter  ROSALIND,  SILVIUS,  and  PHEBE. 

Ros.    Patience  once   more,  whiles  our  compact   is 

urged. — 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind,       [To  the  Duke. 
Yon  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke  S.   That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give  with 

her. 

Ros.    And  you  say,  you  will  have  her,  when  I  bring 
her?  [7^?  ORLANDO. 

Or/.    That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 
Ros.    You  say,  you'll  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing  ? 

[To  PHEBE. 

Phe.    That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.    But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 
You'll  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd  ? 
Phe.    So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.    You  say,  that  you'll  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 

[To  SILVIUS. 
Sit.   Though  to  have  her  and  death  were   both  one 

thing. 

Ros.    I  have  promised  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daughter; — 
You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter  : — 
Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you'll  marry  me  ; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd : — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you'll  marry  her, 
If  she  refuse  me  : — and  from  hence  I  go, 
To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  ROSALIND  and  CELIA. 
Duke  S.    I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favor. 

1  This  line  is  very  obscure,  and  probably  corrupt,     Henley  proposed  to 
point  it  thus : — 

"  As  those  that  fear ;  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear." 
Heath  proposes  this  emendation: — 

"  As  those  that  fear  their  hope,  and  know  their  fear." 


SC    IV.]  AS   YOU    LIKE    IT.  337 

0/7.    Mv  lord,  the   first  time    that    I  ever  saw  him, 
Methoug'ht  he  was  a  brother  to  jour  daughter: 
Hut.  my  "-ood  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born  ; 
And  hath  been  tutored  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  ALTDIU:V. 

Jttfj.  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. 

Toucli.    Salutation  and  "jeetinu;  to  vou  all  ! 

Jftfj.  Good  mv  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This  is  the 
motlev-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  ;  ]  \  have  flatter 
ed  a  lady;  I  have  been  politic  with  mv  friend,  smooth 
with  mine  enemv  ;  I  have  undone  three  tailors;  I  have 
had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have  fought  one1. 

J(t(/.    And  how  was  that  taYu  up? 

Touch.  'Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was 
upon  the  seventh  cause4. 

Jtt'/.  Ilo\v  seventh  cause?  —  Good  mv  lord-  like  this 
fellow. 

Dulse  S.    I  like  him  verv  well. 

Touch.  God'ild  you,  sir  ;  I  desire  vou  of  the  like." 
1  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  countrv  cop 
ulatives,  to  swear,  and  to  forswear  :  according  as  mar 
riage  binds,  and  blood  :i  breaks.  —  A  poor  virgin,  sir,  an 
ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own  :  a  poor  humor  ol 


i  A  mcrts:trt'  was  a  stately  (lance  peculiar  to  the  polished  part  of  soci 
ety,  as  the  minuet  in  later  times. 

~  "I  desire  you  of  the  like."  This  mode  of  expression  occurs  also  in 
the.  Merchant  of  Venice,  ;md  in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  It  is 
frequent  in  Spenser  : 

—  of  pardon  you  I  pray." 
;i  i.  e.  passion. 

43 


l  _. 


338  AS   YOU    LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V- 

mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that  no  man  else  will.  Rich  hon 
esty  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  senten 
tious.1 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such 
dulcet  diseases.2 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you  find 
the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed.3 — Bear 
your  body  more  seeming,4  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  W7as 
in  the  mind  it  was  :  this  is  called  the  Retort  courteous. 
If  I  send  him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would 
send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself:  this  is  call 
ed  the  Quip  modest.  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he 
disabled  my  judgment :  this  is  called  the  Reply  churl 
ish.  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  the  Lie 
circumstantial,  and  the  Lie  direct. 

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

Touch.  1  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  circum 
stantial,  nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  direct ;  and 
so  we  measured  swords,  arid  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of 
the  lie  ? 

Touch.    O,  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book;5  as 


1  i.  c.  prompt  and  pithy. 

~  "  Dulcet  diseases."     Johnson  thought  we  should  read  "  discourses." 

3  i.  e.  the  lie  removed  seven  times,  counting  backwards  from  the  last 
and  most  aggravated  species  of  lie,  viz.  the  lie  direct. 

4  Seemly. 

•r>  The  poet  has  in  this  scene  rallied  the  mode  of  formal  duelling,  then 

so  prevalent,  with  the  highest  humor  and   address ;  nor  could  he  have 

treated  it  with  a  happier  contempt  than  by  making  his  clown  so  conversant 

with  the  forms  and  preliminaries  of  it.     The  book  alluded  to  is  entitled, 

Of  Honor  and  Honorable  Quarrels,  by  Vincentio  Saviolo,*'  15'J4,  4to. 


j 


sr.  iv. j 


AS    YOU    LIKK    IT. 


you  have  books  for  jjood  manners.1  I  will  name  you 
the  decrees.  The  first,  the  Retort  courteous;  the 
second,  the  Quip  modest;  the  third,  the  Reply  churlish  ; 
the  fourth,  the  Reproof  valiant ;  the  filth,  the  Counter- 
cheek  quarrelsome  ;  the  sixth,  the  Lie  with  circum 
stance  ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie  direct.  All  these  you 
may  avoid,  but  the  lie  direct,  and  you  may  avoid  that 
too,  with  an  //.  I  knew  when  seven  justices  could 
not  take  up  a  quarrel  :  but  when  the  parties  were  iw\ 
themselves,  one  ol  them  thought  but  ot  an  //",  as  //  //(.•// 
said  so,  then  I  said  so;  and  they  shook  hands,  and 
swore  brothers.  Your  //is  the  only  peace-maker: 
much  virtue  in  //'. 

Jay.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  mv  lord:  He's  as 
good  at  any  thin^.  and  vet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  lolly  like  a  stalking-horse.'  and 
under  the  presentation  of  that,  he  shoots  his  wit. 


Enter  HYMKN,'  leading  UOSALI.ND  in  iromcn's  (lollies' 
and  CKLIA. 


Still  Music. 

Hym.    Then  is  there  mirth  in  hutren. 

When  earthly  things,  -made  en  n. 

Atone  4  together. 

Good  duke,  receive  thi/  daughter; 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  h<  r. 

Yea,  brought  her  hither  : 
'/'/tat  thou  mighfst  join  her  hand  //•////  his 
Whose  heart  irithin  h< r  bosom  is. 

1  The  Bookc  of  Nurture;  or,  Schoole  of  Good  .Manners  lor  .Men,  Ser 
vants,  and  Children,  with  stan?  }>it<r  n.l  nu  nsiini,  I'Jino.  \\itliout  d;it".  in 
black  lottor,  is  most  probably  the  work  referred  to.  It  was  written  by 
Ilnirh  Rhodes,  and  iirst  published  in  the  reijrn  of  Kdward  VI. 

-  "A  sUilkin^r  horse.*'  See  note  on  Much  Ado  about  Nothiiv.  Act  ii. 
Sc.  l\. 

:t  Rosalind  is  imagined  by  tin1  re>t  of  the  company  to  be  brouuflit  by 
enchantment,  and  is  therefore  introduced,  by  a  supposed  aerial  beinir,  in 
the  character  of  Hymen. 

4  i.  c.  at  one;  rtrco/v/,  or  agree  tonrether.  This  is  the  old  sense  of  the 
phrase,  "an  attonemcnt,  a  loving  a-jaine  alter  a  breach  or  falling  out 
Reditus  in  ^rrtia  cum  aliquot — Jlarct. 


340  AS   YOU   LIKE    IT.  [ACT  V. 

Ros.    To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours.— 

[To  Duke  S. 
To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  jours. 

[To  ORLANDO. 
Duke  S.    If   there  be    truth  in  sight,  you    are    my 

daughter. 

O/7.    If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are    my  Rosa 
lind. 

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

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

[To  Duke  S. 
I'll  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  ; — 

[To  ORLANDO. 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. — 

[To  PHEBE. 

Hym.    Peaee,  ho  !     I  bar  confusion. 
'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events  : 
Here's  ei^ht  that  must  take  hands, 

O  ' 

To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents.1 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  ORLANDO  and  ROSALIND. 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[To  OLIVER  and  CELIA. 
You  [To  PHEBE.]  to  his  love  must  accord, 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord : — 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[To  TOUCHSTONE  and  AUDREY. 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning;2 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

1  i.  e.  unless  truth  fails  of  veracity;  if  there  be  truth  in  truth. 

2  i.  e.  take  vour  fill  of  discourse. 


SC.  IV.]  AS    YOU   LIKE   IT.  311 


SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown; 

O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
'TYs  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  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  nir : 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Phc.    1  will  not   eat  in y  word,  now   thou  art    mine, 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 

[To  SILVILS. 

'Enter  JAQUES  DE  Bois. 

Jaq.  de  B.      Let    me  have  audience   for  a  word  or 

two ; 

1  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  «reat  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 

O 

Addressed  ]  a  mighty  power  ;  which  were  on  foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  hen1,  and  put  him  to  the  sword  : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came  : 
Where,  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise,  and  from  the  world  ; 
His  crown   bequeathing  to  his  banished  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  a^ain 
That  were  with  him  exiled.      This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duke  S.  Welcome^,  youn^  man  : 

Thou  offer 'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding  : 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld  ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 

1  i.  c.  prepared. 


342  AS  YOU   LIKE   IT.  [ACT  V. 

That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot ; 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number, 
That  have  endured  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-fallen  dignity, 
!         And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry. — 
I         Play 5  music  ; — and  you,  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heaped  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaq.    Sir,  by  your  patience ;  if  I  heard  you  rightly, 
The  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life, 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 
Jaq.  de  B.    He  hath. 

Jaq.    To  him  will  I  ;  out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learned. — 
You  to  your  former  honor  I  bequeath  :       [To  Duke  S. 
Your  patience  and  your  virtue  well  deserve  it : — 
You  [To  ORLANDO.]  to  a  love  that  your  true  faith  doth 

merit : — 
You  [To  OLIVER.]  to  your  land  and  love,  and  great 

allies  : — 

You  [To  SILVIUS.]  to  a  long  and  well  deserved  bed  : — 
And  you  [To  TOUCHSTONE.]  to  wrangling;  for  thy  lov 
ing  voyage 

Is  but  for  two  months  victualed. — So  to  your  pleasures; 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 
Duke  S.    Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 

Jaq.    To  see  no  pastime,  I. — What  you  would  have, 

I'll  stay  to  know  at  your  abandoned  cave.1  [Exit. 

\  Duke  S.    Proceed,  proceed.     We  will   begin  these 

rites, 

And  we  do  trust  they'll  end  in  true  delights.  [A  dance. 
I 

I  l  The  reader  feels  some  regret  to  take  his  leave  of  Jaques  in  this  man 

ner  ;  and  no  less  concern  at  not  meeting  with  the  faithful  old  Adam,  at 
the  close.  It  is  the  more  remarkable  that  Shakspeare  should  have  for 
gotten  him,  because  Lodge,  in  his  novel,  makes  him  captain  of  the  king's 
guard. 


AS    YOU    LIKE   IT.  3-13 


EPILOGUE. 

Rofi.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  sec  the  lady  the  epi 
logue  ;  but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome?,  than  to  see  the 
lord  the  prologue.  If  it  he  true,  that  good  wine  needs 
no  bush,1  'tis  true  that  a  good  plav  needs  no  epilogue  : 
yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use  good  hushes  ;  and  «jood 
j)lavs  prove  the  better  by  the  help  of  «jood  epilogue*. 
What  a  rase  am  I  in,  then,  that  am  nci'her  a  i^ood  epi 
logue,  nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the  behalf  of  a 
good  play  ?  I  am  not  furnished9  like  a  beggar;  therefore 
to  beg  will  not  become  me.  My  way  is,  to  conjure  \ou; 
and  I'll  begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you.  () 
women,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much 
of  this  plav  as  please  you:3  and  I  charge  \ou.  ()  men. 
for  the  love  you  bear  to  women,  (as  I  perceive,  by  voiir 
simpering,  none  of  you  hate  them,)  that  between  you 
and  the  women  the  play  may  please.  If  I  were  a  wo 
man,'1  I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had  beards  that 
pleased  me,  complexions  that  liked  me.''  and  breaths 
that  I  defied  not;  and  I  am  sure,  as  many  as  have  ^ood 
beards,  or  good  faces,  or  sweet  breaths,  will,  for  my 
kind  oiler,  when  I  make  courtesy,  bid  me  farewell. 

[Exeunt. 

1   It  was  formerly  the  Amoral  custom  in  En<rl:nid,  as  it  is  still  in  Franco 
and  the  Netherlands,  to  hang1  a  bush  of  ivy  at  the  door  of  a  vintner. 

'-'   Furnished^  dressed. 

:1  This   is  the  reading  of  the  old  copv,  which  Iris  been  alti  red  i 
much  of  this   play  as  please  Ihnn"  hut  surely  without  n-'coss.ty.      It   is 
only  the  omission  of  the  .<>  at  the  end  of  plrnse,  which  [fives  it  a  quaint  ap- 
poarancc;  but  it  was  the  practice  of  the  Poet's  a^o. 

•*  The  parts  of  women  were  performed  by  ui"ii  or  boys  in  Shuksprarr's 
time. 

5  i.  e.  that  I  liked. 


344 


Or  this  play  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  Jaques  is  natural  and  well  preserved.  The 
comic  dialogue  is  very  sprightly,  with  less  mixture  of  low  buffoonery  than 
in  some  other  plays ;  and  the  graver  part  is  elegant  and  harmonious. 
By  hastening  to  the  end  of  this  work,  Shakspeare  suppressed  the  dialogue 
between  the  usurper  and  the  hermit,  and  lost  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting 
a  moral  lesson,  in  which  he  might  have  found  matter  worthy  of  his  high- 

est  P°wers'  JOHNSON. 


345 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


P  R  E  L  I  M  I  N  A  R  Y    REMARKS. 

THK  fable  of  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  is  derived  from  the  story  of 
Gilletta  of  Xarbonne  in  Uie  Decamcrone  of  Boccaccio.  It  came  to  Shak- 
speare  through  the  medium  of  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  and  is  to  be 
found  in  the  first  volume,  which  was  printed  as  early  as  Wti.  The 
comic  parts  of  the  plot,  and  the  characters  of  the  Countess,  Lafeu, 
&c.  are  of  the  Poet's  own  creation,  and  in  the  conduct  of  the  fable  he  has 
found  it  expedient  to  depart  from  his  original  more  than  it  i.s  his  usual 
custom  to  do.  The  character  of  Helena  is  beautifully  drawn ;  she  is  a 
heroic  ami  patient  sufferer  of  adverse  fortune  like  OrisHda,  and  placed  in 
circumstances  of  almost  equal  difficulty.  Her  romantic  passion  for  Ber 
tram,  with  whom  she  had  been  brought  up  as  a  sister:  her  ^rirf  at  his  <!»•- 
partmv  for  the  emirt,  which  she  expresses  in  some  exquisitely  impassioned 
lines;  and  the  retiring,  anxious  modesty  with  which  she  conlides  her  pas 
sion  to  the  Countess,  are  in  the  Poet's  sweetest  stylo  of  writing,  \orare 
the  succeeding  parts  of  her  conduct  touched  with  a  less  delicate  and 
masterly  hand.  Placed  in  extraordinary  and  embarrassing  circumstances, 
there  is  a  propriety  and  delicacy  in  all  her  actions,  which  is  consistent 
with  the  guileless  innocence  of  her  heart. 

The  King  is  properly  made  an  instrument  in  the  denouement  of  the 
plot  of  the  play,  and  this  a  most  striking  and  judicious  deviation  from  the 
novel.     His  gratitude  and  esteem  for  Helen  are  consistent  and  honorable 
to  him  as  a  man  and  a  monarch. 
VOL.  ii.  44 


316  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL. 

Johnson  has  expressed  his  dislike  of  the  character  of  Bertram,  ;\:;s!  i;;o^t 
fair  readers  have  manifested  their  abhorrence  of  him,  and  have  thought. 
with  Johnson,  that  he  ought  not  to  have  gone  unpunished,  for  the  sake  not 
only  of  poetical  but  of  moral  justice.  Schlegel  has  remarked  that "  Shak- 
speare  never  attempts  to  mitigate  the  impression  of  his  unfeeling  pride 
and  giddy  dissipation.  He  intended  merely  to  give  us  a  military  portrait ; 
and  paints  the  true  way  of  the  world,  according  to  which  the  injustice  cf 
men  towards  women  is  not  considered  in  a  very  serious  light,  if  they  only 
maintain  what  is  called  the  honor  of  the  family."  The  fact  is,  that  the 
construction  of  his  plot  prevented  him.  Helen  was  to  be  rewarded  for 
her  heroic  and  persevering  affection,  and  any  more  serious  punishment 
than  the  temporary  shame  and  remorse  that  await  Bertram  would  have 
been  inconsistent  with  comedy.  It  should  also  be  remembered,  that  he 
was  constrained  to  marry  Helen  against  his  will.  Shakspeare  was  a 
good-natured  moralist;  and,  like  his  own  creation,  old  Lafeu,  though 
he  was  delighted  to  strip  off  the  mask  of  pretension,  he  thought  that 
punishment  might  be  carried  too  far.  Who,  that  has  been  diverted 
with  the  truly  comic  scenes  in  which  Parolles  is  made-  to  appear 
in  his  true  character,  could  have  wished  him  to  have  been  otherwise 
dismissed  ? — 

"  Though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat" 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  "  the  style  of  the  whole  play  is  more  con 
spicuous  for  sententiousness  than  imagery ; "  and  that "  the  glowing  colors 
of  fancy  could  not  have  been  introduced  into  such  a  subject."  May  not 
the  period  of  life  at  which  it  was  produced  have  something  to  do  with 
this  ?  Malone  places  the  date  of  its  composition  in  1GOG,  and  observes 
that  a  beautiful  speech  of  the  sick  king  has  much  the  air  of  that  moral 
and  judicious  reflection  that  accompanies  an  advanced  period  of  life: — 

" let  me  not  live  - 

After  my  flame  lacks  oi1,  to  be  the  snuff 

Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS.  347 

All  but  new  things  disdain;  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments;  whose  constancies 
Expire  before  their  fashions." 

It  appears  probable  that  the  original  title  of  this  play  Avas  "Love's  La 
bors  Wonne:"  at  least  a  piece  under  that  title  is  mentioned  by  Meres  in 
his  "Wit's  Treasune,"  in  1598;  but  if  this  was  the  play  referred  to,  what 
becomes  of  Malone's  hypothesis  relating  to  the  date  of  its  composition? 


348 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

King  of  France. 
Duke  of  Florence. 
BERTRAM,   Count  o/ Rousillon. 
L.AFEU,1  an  old  Lord. 
PAROLEES,*  a  follower  of  Bertram. 

Several  young  French  Lords,  that  serve  with  Bertram  in 
the  Florentine  war. 

Clown    '  (  &ervants  t°  the  Countess  of  Rousillon. 
A  Page. 

Countess  of  Rousillon,  Mother  to  Bertram. 
HELENA,  a  Gentlewoman  protected  by  the  Countess. 
An  old  Widow  of  Florence. 
DIANA,  Daughter  to  the  Widow. 

MARIANA  '  I  Neighbors  and  Friends  to  the  Widow. 

Lords,  attending  on  the  King;  Officers,   Soldiers,  fyc.t 
French  and  Florentine. 

SCENE,  partly  in  France,  and  partly  in  Tuscany. 

1  Sleevcns  says  that  we  should  write  Lcfeu  and  Paroles. 


349 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE    1.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 


Enter  BERTRAM,  the  Countess  of  Rousillon,  HKLI.N  \. 
and  LAFEU,  in  mourning. 

Countess.  IN  delivering  my  son  from  me,  I  btirv  a 
second  husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my  father's 
death  anew  :  but  I  must  attend  his  majesty's  command, 
to  whom  I  am  now  in  ward,1  evermore  in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  kin^  a  husband,  madam  ; 
—  you,  sir,  a  father.  He  that  so  general  I  v  is  at  all 
times  good,  must  of  necessity  hold  his  virtue  to  vou  : 
whose  worthiness  would  stir  it  up  where  it  wanted. 
rather  than  lack  it  where  there  is  such  abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's  amend 
ment? 

L((f.  He  hath  abandoned  his  phvsicians,  madam  ; 
under  whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time  with 
hope;  and  finds  no  other  advantage  in  the  process  but 
only  the  losing  of  hope  bv  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father  (() 
that/wrf/  how  sad  a  passage  'tis!)  whose  skill  was 
almost  as  great  as  his  honesty;  had  it  stretched  so  far, 
would  have  made  nature  immortal,  and  death  should 

1  The  heirs  of  great  fortunes  were  formerly  the  king's  wartfs.  This 
prerogative  was  a  branch  of  the  feudal  law. 


350  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  L 

have  play  for  lack  of  work.  'Would,  for  the  king's 
sake,  he  were  living !  I  think,  it  \vould  be  the  death 
of  the  king's  disease. 

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

Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession,  and 
it  was  his  great  right  to  be  so ;  Gerard  de  Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam ;  the  king 
very  lately  spoke  of  him,  admiringly,  and  mourningly. 
He  Avas  skilful  enough  to  have  lived  still,  if  knowledge 
could  be  set  up  against  mortality. 

Ber.  What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  languish 
es  of? 

Laf.    A  fistula,  my  lord. 

Ber.   I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  notorious. — Was  this 
gentlewoman  the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon  ? 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord  ;  and  bequeathed  to 
my  overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her  good,  that 
her  education  promises.  Her  dispositions  she  inherits, 
which  make  fair  gifts  fairer;  for  where  an  unclean 
mind  carries  virtuous  qualities,1  there  commendations 
go  with  pity,  they  are  virtues  and  traitors  too ;  in  her 
they  are  the  better  for  their  simpleness ;  she  derives 
her  honesty,  and  achieves  her  goodness. 

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

Count.  'Tis  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season  her 
praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father  never  ap 
proaches  her  heart,  but  the  tyranny  of  her  sorrows 
takes  all  livelihood 2  from  her  cheek.  No  more  of  this, 
Helena,  go  to,  no  more  ;  lest  it  be  rather  thought  you 
affect  a  sorrow,  than  to  have. 

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

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead, 
excessive  grief  the  enemy  to  the  living. 

1  Wo  feel  regret  even  in  commending  such  qualities,  joined  with  an 
evil  disposition ;  they  are  traitors,  because  they  give  the  possessors  power 
over  others ;  who,  admiring  such  estimable  qualities,  are  often  betrayed 
by  the  malevolence  of  the  possessors.     Helena's  virtues  are  the  better 
oecause  they  are  artless  and  open. 

2  All  appearance  of  life. 


SC.  I.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  351 

ij 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  ex 
cess  makes  it  soon  mortal.1 

Bcr.    Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.    How  understand  we  that  ? 

Count.    Be  thou  blessed  Bertram !  and   succeed  thy 

father 

In  manners,  as  in  shape  !     Thy  blood,  and  virtue, 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee  ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birthright !     Love  all,  trust  a  few, 
Do  wrong  to  none  :   be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use  ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key.     Be  checked  for  silence, 
But  never  taxed  for  speech.     What  Heaven  more  will 
That  thee  may  furnish,0  and  my  prayers  pluck  down, 
Fall  on  thy  head  !   Farewell. — My  lord, 
'Tis  an  unseasoned  courtier ;  good  my  lord. 
Advise  him. 

Laf.    He  cannot  want  the  best 
That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.    Heaven  bless  him  ! — Farewell,  Bertram. 

[Exit  Countess. 

Ber.  The  best  wishes,  that  can  be  forged  in  your 
thoughts  [To  HELENA.]  be  servants  to  you  !  Be  com 
fortable  to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make  much 
of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady.  You  must  hold  the 
credit  of  your  father.  [Exeunt  BERTRAM  and  LAEEU. 

Hcl.    O,  were  that  all ! — I  think  not  on  my  father, 
And  these  great  tears :}  ^race  his  remembrance  more 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.     What  was  he  like  ': 
I  have  forgot  him:  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favor  in  it,  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone;  there  is  no  living,  none, 
If  Bertram  be  away.      It  were  all  one, 

1  That  is,  "if  the  living  do  not  indulge  grief,  grief  destroys  itself  by  its 
own  excess." 

2  i.  e.  that  may  help  thee  with  more  and  better  qualifications. 

3  That  is,  Helen's  own  tears,  which  were  caused,  in  reality,  by  the  de 
parture  of  Bertram,  though  attributed  by  Lafeu  and  the  countess  to  the 
loss  of  her  father,  and  which,  from  this  misapprehension  of  theirs,  graced 
ins  memory  more  than  those  she  actually  shed  for  him. 


352  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  I 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself: 

The  hind,  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion, 

Must  die  for  love.     'Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague, 

To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 

In  our  heart's  table  ;  heart,  too  capable 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor : l 

But  now  he's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 

Must  sanctify  his  relics.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

One  that  goes  with  him :  I  love  him  for  his  sake  , 

And  yet  I  know  him  a  notorious  liar, 

Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely2  a  coward; 

Yet  these  fixed  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him, 

That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 

Look  bleak  in  the  cold  wind :  withal,  full  oft  we  see 

Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 

Par.    Save  you,  fair  queen. 

Hd.    And  vou,  monarch. 

Par.   No.  * 

Hel.    And  no. 

Par.    Are  you  meditating  on  virginity? 

Hel.  Ay.  You  have  some  stain 3  of  soldier  in  you ; 
let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Man  is  enemy  to  virginity; 
how  may  we  barricade  it  against  him  ? 

Par.    Keep  him  out. 

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

Par.  There  is  none  ;  man,  sitting  down  before  you, 
will  undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 


1  i.  c.  countenance,.  ~  i.  e.  altogether. 

3  That  is,  some  tincture,  some  little  of  the  hue  or  color  of  a  soldier. 


SC.  I.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  353 

Hd.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  underminers 
and  blowers  up ! — Is  there  no  military  policy,  how 
virgins  might  blow  up  men  ? 

Par.  Virginity  being  blown  down,  man  will  quick- 
lier  be  blown  up ;  marry,  in  blowing  him  down  again, 
with  the  breach  yourselves  made,  you  lose  your  city. 
It  is  not  politic  in  the  commonwealth  of  nature  to 
preserve  virginity.  Loss  of  virginity  is  rational  in 
crease  ;  and  there  was  never  virgin  got,  till  virginity 
was  first  lost.  That  you  wore  made  of,  is  metal  to 
make  virgins.  Virginity,  by  being  once  lost,  may  be 
ten  times  found  ;  by  being  ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost : 
'tis  too  cold  a  companion  ;  away  with  it. 

Hd.    I  will  stand  for't  a  little,  though  therefore  I  die 


a  virgin. 


Par.  There's  little  can  be  said  in't ;  'tis  against  the 
rule  of  nature.  To  speak  on  the  part  of  virginity,  is 
to  accuse  your  mothers;  which  is  most  infallible  diso 
bedience.  He  that  hangs  himself  is  a  virgin  :  virgin 
ity  murders  itself;  and  should  be  buried  in  highways, 
out  of  all  sanctified  limit,  as  a  desperate  offendress 
against  nature.  Virginity  breeds  mites,  much  like  a 
cheese  ;  consumes  itself  to  the  very  paring,  and  so  dies 
with  feeding  his  own  stomach.  Besides,  virginity  is 
peevish,  proud,  idle,  made  of  self-love4,  which  is  the 
most  inhibited  sin  in  the  canon.  Keep  it  not:  you 
cannot  choose  but  lose  by't.  Out  with't :  within  ten 
years  it  will  make  itself  two,1  which  is  a  goodly  in 
crease,  and  the  principal  itself  not  much  the  worse. 
Away  with't. 

Hd.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her  own 
likinir  ? 

O 

Par.  Let  me  see.  Marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that 
ne'er  it  likes.  'Tis  a  commodity  will  lose4  the  gloss 
with  lying ;  the  longer  kept,  the  less  worth.  Off 
with't,  while  'tis  vendible :  answer  the  time  of  re 
quest.  Virginity,  like  an  old  courtier,  wears  her  cap 
out  of  fashion  ;  richly  suited,  but  unsuitable  ;  just  like 


1  Hanmer  proposes  to  substitute  ten  for  tico. 
VOL.    II.  45 


354  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  1. 

the  brooch  and  toothpick,  which  wear1  not  now. 
Your  date2  is  better  in  your  pie  and  your  porridge, 
than  in  your  cheek  ;  and  your  virginity,  your  old  vir 
ginity,  is  like  one  of  our  French  withered  pears ;  it 
looks  ill ;  it  eats  dryly ;  marry,  'tis  a  withered  pear ;  it 
wras  formerly  better;  marry,  yet,  'tis  a  withered  pear. 
Will  you  any  thing  with  it? 

HeL    Not  my  virginity  yet.3 

There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phoenix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
A  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear; 
His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet, 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster ;  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptions  Christendoms,4 

That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he 

I  know  not  what  he  shall. — God  send  him  well ! — 

The  court's  a  learning-place  : — and  he  is  one 

Par.    What  one,  i'faith  ? 
HeL    That  I  wish  well.— Tis  pity- 
Par.   What's  pity  ? 

HeL    That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't, 
Which  might  be  felt ;  that  wfe,  the  poorer  born, 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think ; 5  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

1  The  old  copy  reads  were ;  Rowe  corrected  it     Shakspeare  here,  as  in 
other  places,  uses  the  active  for  the  passive. 

2  A  quibble  on  date,  which  means  age,  and  a  candied  fruit  then  much 
used  in  pies. 

3  Hanmer  and  Johnson  suggest  that  some  such  clause  as  "  You're  for 
the  court,"  has  been  omitted.     Something  of  the  kind  is  necessary  to  con 
nect  Helena's  rhapsodical  speech. 

4  i.  e.  a  number  of  pretty,  fond,  adopted  appellations  or  Christian  names, 
to  which  blind  Cupid  stands  godfather.     It  is  often  used  for  baptism  by 
old  writers. 

5  i.  e.  and  show  by  realities  what  we  now  must  only  think. 


SC.  I]  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  355 

It 

Enter  a  Page. 

Page.    Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  you. 

[Exit  Page. 

Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell  ;  if  I  can  remember 
thee,  I  will  think  of  thee  at  court. 

Hd.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a 
charitable  star. 

Par.    Under  Mars.  I. 

Hd.    I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.    Why  under  Mars? 

Hd.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  you 
must  needs  be  born  under  Mars. 

Par.    When  he  was  predominant. 

Hd.    When  he  was  retrograde,  I   think,  rather. 

Par.    Why  think  you  so  ? 

Hd.    You  go  so  much  backward,  when  you  fight. 

Par.    That's  for  advantage. 

Hd.  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  proposes  the 
safety;  but  the  composition,  that  your  valor  and  fear 
makes  in  you,  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing,1  and  I  like 
the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer  thee 
acutely.  I  will  return  perfect  courtier ;  in  the  which, 
my  instruction  shall  serve  to  naturali/e  thee,  so  thou 
wilt  be  capable2  of  a  courtier's  counsel,  and  understand 
what  advice  shall  thrust  upon  thee  ;  else4  thou  diest  in 
thine  unthankfulncss,  and  thine  ignorance  makes  thee 
away:  farewell.  When  thou  hast  leisure,  sav  tin 
prayers;  when  thou  hast  none,  remember  thy  friends; 
get  thee  a  good  husband,  and  use  him  as  he  uses  thee  : 
so  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hd.    Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  Heaven.      The  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope;  onlv,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we4  ourselves  are  dull. 


[  A  bird  of  good  icing  was  a  bird  of  swift  and  strong  flight 
2  Capable  and  susceptible  were  synonymous  in  Shakspcare's  time,  as 
appears  by  the  dictionaries. 


356  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  1. 

What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so  high ; 

That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye  ?  l 

The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 

To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things.2 

Impossible  be  strange  attempts,  to  those 

That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense ;  and  do  suppose. 

What  hath  been  cannot  be.     Who  ever  strove 

To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 

The  king's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me, 

But  my  intents  are  fixed,  and  will  not  leave  me.    [Exit. 


SCENE  II.     Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's  Palace. 
Flourish  of  Cornets. 

Enter  the  King  of  France,  with  letters;   Lords  and 
others  attending. 

King.    The  Florentines  and  Senoys 3  are  by  the  ears  ; 
Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

1  Lord.  So  'tis  reported,  sir. 

King.  Nay,  'tis  most  credible ;  we  here  receive  it 
A  certainty,  vouched  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 
For  speedy  aid ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 

Approved  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 
For  amplest  credence. 


1  She  means,  "  Why  am  I  made  to  discern  excellence,  and  left  to  long 
after  it  without  the  food  of  hope?" 

2  The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  is  a  licentious  expression  for  persons 
the  most  widely  separated  ly  fortune;  whom  nature  (i.  e.  natural  affection) 
brings  to  join  like  likes  (i.  e.  equals),  and  kiss  like  native  things  (i.  e.  and 
unite  like  tilings  formed  by  nature  for  each  other) ;  or,  in  other  words, 
"  Nature  often  unites  those  whom   fortune   or   inequality  of  rank  has 
separated." 

3  The  citizens  of  the  small  republic  of  which  Sienna  is  the  capital ; 
the  Sanesi,  as  Boccaccio  calls  them,  which  Painter   translates  Scnois, 
after  the  French  method. 


SC.  II.]  ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  357 

King.  He  hath  armed  our  answer, 

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

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 

A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 
For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  BERTRAM,  LAFEU,  and  PAROLLES. 

1  Lord.    It  is  the  count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord, 
Youn<r  Bertram. 

King.    Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face ; 
Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  composed  thee.     Thy  father's  moral  parts 
Mayst  thou  inherit  too !     Welcome  to  Paris. 

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

King.    I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness  now, 
As  when  thy  father,  and  myself,  in  friendship 
First  tried  our  soldiership !     He  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest.     He  lasted  long ; 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.      It  much  repairs1  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father.     In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe' 
To-day  in  our  young  lords  ;   but  they  may  jest, 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted. 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honor. J 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness  :  if  they  were, 
His  equal  had  awaked  them  ; :]  and  his  honor, 

1  To  repair,  in  these  plays,  generally  signifies  to  rcnovalc. 

-  That  is,  "cover  petty  faults  with  great  merit:"  honor  does  not  stand 
for  dignity  of  rank  or  birth,  but  aryuind  nftutatiuii.  "  This  is  an  excel 
lent  observation  (says  Johnson) ;  jocose  follies,  and  slight  offences,  are 
only  allowed  by  mankind  in  him  that  overpowers  them  by  great  qualities." 

3  JVbr  was  sometimes  used  without  reduplication.  "He  was  so  like  a 
courtier,  that  there  was  in  his  dignity  of  manner  nothing  contemptuous, 


358  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  1. 

Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 

Exception  bid  him  speak,  and,  at  this  time, 

His  tongue  obeyed  his l  hand.     Who  were  below  him, 

He  used  as  creatures  of  another  place  ; 

And  bowed  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks, 

Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 

In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  man 

Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times ; 

Which,  followed  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 

But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir, 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts,  than  on  his  tomb ; 
So  in  approof 2  lives  not  his  epitaph, 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.    'Would   I  were   with  him !     He  would  al 
ways  say, 

(Me thinks  I  hear  him  now ;  his  plausive  words 
He  scattered  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 
To  grow  there,  and  to  bear,)  Let  me  not  live, — 
Thus  his  good  melancholy  oft  began, 
On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime, 
When  it  was  out, — let  me  not  live,  quoth  he, 
After  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuff 
Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 
All  but  new  things  disdain ;  whose  judgments  are 
Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  ;3  whose  constancies 
Expire  before  their  fashions. — This  he  wished  : 
I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too, 
Since  I  nor  wrax,  nor  honey,  can  bring  home, 
I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive, 
To  give  some  laborers  room. 

2  Lord.  You  are  loved,  sir ; 

They  that  least  lend  it  you,  shall  lack  you  first. 


and  in  his  keenness  of  wit  nothing  bitter.  If  bitterness  or  contemptuous- 
ness  ever  appeared,  they  had  been  awakened  by  some  injury,  not  of  a  man 
below  him,  but  for  his  equal." 

1  His  for  its. 

2  The  approbation  of  his  worth  lives  not  so  much  in  Ms  epitaph  as  in 
your  royal  speech. 

3  Who  have  no  other  use  of  their  faculties  than  to  invent  new  modes 
of  dress. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  359 

King.    I   fill   a    place,    I    kno\v't. — How    long    is't, 

count, 

Since;  the  physician  at  jour  father's  died  : 
lie  was  much  famed. 

]>(r.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

A'intf.    If  he  were  living,  I  would  try  him  yet. — 
Lend  me  an  arm  : — the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  : — nature  and  sickness 
Dehate  it  at  their  leisure.      Welcome,  count : 
My  son's  no  dearer. 

Bcr.  Thank  your  majestv. 

focc  nnt.     Flo  u  rish . 


SCENE  III.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Count«  —  '- 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Clown.1 

Count.  I  will  now  hear;  what  say  you  of  this  gen 
tlewoman? 

Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your  con 
tent,2  I  wish  might  he  found  in  the  calendar  of  my  past 
endeavors  ;  for  then  we  wound  our  modesty,  and  make 

foul  the  clearness  of  our  dcservings,  when   of  ourselves 

~ 

we  publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  here  :  (let  vou  ^one, 
sirrah.  The  complaints  I  have  heard  of  vou.  I  do  not 
all  believe;  'tis  mv  slowness,  that  1  do  not  :  for,  I 
know,  \ou  lack  not  lollv  to  commit  them,  and  have 
ability  enough  to  make  such  knaveries  vours. 

Clo.  ?Tis  not  unknown  to  vou.  madam.  I  am  a  poor 
fellow. 

Count.    Well.  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  rtis  not  so  well,  that  I  am  poor  : 
though  many  of  the  rich  are  damned  ;  but,  if  I  may 

1  The  clown  in  this  comedy  is  a  domestic  fool  of  the  same  kind  as 
Touchstone.  Such  fools  were*  in  the  I'oet's  time,  maintained  in  all  great 
families,  to  keep  up  merriment  in  the  house. 

~  To  act  up  to  your  desires. 


360  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  I. 

have  your  ladyship's  good  will  to  go  to  the  world,1  Isa 
bel  the  woman  arid  I  will  do  as  we  may. 

Count.    Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar  ? 

Clo.    I  do  beg  your  good  will  in  this  case. 

Count.    In  what  case  ? 

Clo.  In  Isabel's  case,  and  mine  own.  Service  is 
no  heritage  ;  and,  I  think,  I  shall  never  have  the  bless 
ing  of  God,  till  I  have  issue  of  my  body  ;  for,  they  say, 
beams 2  are  blessings. 

Count.    Tell  me  thy  reason  why  thou  wilt  marry. 

Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it.  I  am 
driven  on  by  the  flesh;  and  he  must  needs  go,  that 
the  devil  drives. 

Count.    Is  this  all  your  worship's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons,  such 
as  they  are. 

Count.    May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature,  as 
you  and  all  flesh  and  blood  are ;  and,  indeed,  I  do  marry, 
that  I  may  repent. 

Count.    Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wickedness. 

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

Count.    Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  are  shallow,  madam  ;  e'en  great  friends ; 
for  the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am 
a  weary  of.  He  that  ears3  my  land,  spares  my  team, 
and  gives  me  leave  to  inn  the  crop  :  if  I  be  his  cuck 
old,  he's  my  drudge.  He  that  comforts  my  wife,  is  the 
cherisher  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ;  he  that  cherishes  my 
flesh  and  blood,  loves  my  flesh  and  blood ;  he  that 
loves  my  flesh  and  blood,  is  my  friend  :  ergo*  he  that 
kisses  my  wife,  is  my  friend.  If  men  could  be  con 
tented  to  be  what  they  are,  there  were  no  fear  in  mar 
riage  ;  for  young  Charbon  the  puritan,  and  old  Poysam5 


1  To  be  married.  2  Children.  3  Ploughs.  4  Therefore. 

5  Malone  conjectures  that  we  should  read  "Poisson  the  papist,"  allu 
ding  to  the  custom  of  eating  fish  on  fast  days:  as  'Charbon  the  puritan 
alludes  to  the  fiery  zeal  of  that  sect.  Tt  is  much  in  Shakspeare's  manner 
to  use  significant  names. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  361 

the  papist,  howsoever  their  hearts  are  severed  in  religion, 
their  heads  are  both  one;  they  mayjoll  horns  together, 
like  any  deer  i'the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and  ca 
lumnious  knave  ? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,  madam  ;  and  I  speak  the  truth 
the  next  way:1 

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

Your  marriage  comes  by  destiny, 
Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind.2 

Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir  ;  I'll  talk  with  vou  more 
anon. 

Stew.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  hid  Helen 
come  to  you  ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

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

Clo.    Was  this  fair  face  the  cause,  quoth  she, 

[Singing. 

]Vl\\j  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done?  done  fond, 

Was  this  kin*  Priam's  joy?4 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 

And  gave  this  sentence  then  ; 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 
There*  s  yet  one  good  in  ten. 

Count.  What,  one  good  in  ten  ?  Vou  corrupt  the 
song,  sirrah. 

Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam  ;  which  is  a 
purifying  o'the  song.  'Would  Cod  would  serve  the 


1  The  readiest  way.  -  i.  o.  mture.  n  Foolishly  done. 

4  The  name  of  Helen  brings  to  the.  clown's  memory  this  fragment  of 
an  old  ballad:  something  has  escaped  him,  it  appears;  for  Paris  "  w;u 
King  Priam's  only  joy,"  as  Helen  was  sir  Paries;  according  to  two  frag 
ment:?,  quoted  by  the  commentators. 
VOL.  ii.  46 


362  ALL'S  WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL.  [ACT  I. 

world  so  all  the  year !  We'd  find  no  fault  with  the 
tithe-woman,  if  I  were  the  parson.  One  in  ten,  quoth 
a' !  an  we  might  have  a  good  woman  born,  but  one  l 
every  blazing  star,  or  at  an  earthquake,  'twould  mend 
the  lottery  well ;  a  man  may  draw  his  heart  out,  ere 
he  pluck  one. 

Count.  You'll  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I  com 
mand  you  ? 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command, 
and  yet  no  hurt  done  ! — Though  honesty  be  no  puritan, 
yet  it  will  do  no  hurt ;  it  will  wear  the  surplice  of  hu 
mility  over  the  black  gown  of  a  big  heart.2 — I  am 
going,  forsooth  ;  the  business  is  for  Helen  to  come 
hither.  [Exit  Clown. 

Count.   Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentlewoman 
entirely. 

Count.  Faith,  I  do :  her  father  bequeathed  her  to 
me  ;  and  she  herself,  without  other  advantage,  may 
lawfully  make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she  finds. 
There  is  more  owing  her,  than  is  paid ;  and  more  shall 
be  paid  her,  than  she'll  demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her  than, 
I  think,  she  wished  me.  Alone  she  was,  and  did  com 
municate  to  herself,  her  own  words  to  her  own  ears  ; 
she  thought,  I  dare  vow  for  her,  they  touched  not  any 
stranger  sense.  Her  matter  was,  she  loved  your  son. 
Fortune,  she  said,  was  no  goddess,  that  had  put  such 
difference  betwixt  their  t\vo  estates  ;  Love,  no  god, 
that  would  not  extend  his  might,  only  where  qualities 
were  level ;  Diana,3  no  queen  of  virgins,  that  would 

i  Malone  proposes  to  substitute  on  for  one ;  but  this  would  not  materi 
ally  improve  the  passage. 

-  The  clown  answers,  with  the  licentious  petulance  allowed  to  the 
character,  that  "  if  a  man  does  as  a  woman  commands,  it  is  likely  he  will 
do  amiss ;"  that  he  does  not  amiss,  he  makes  the  effect  not  of  his  lady's 
goodness,  but  of  his  own  hontsty,  which,  though  not  very  nice  or  puritan 
ical,  will  do  no  hurt,  but,  unlike  the  puritans,  will  comply  with  the  injunc 
tions  of  superiors;  and  wear  the  "surplice  of  humility  over  the  black 
gown  of  a  big  heart;"  will  obey  commands,  though  not  much  pleased 
with  a  state  of  subjection. 

3  The  old  copies  omit  Diana.     Theobald  inserted  the  word. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL.  363 

suffer  her  poor  knight  to  be  surprised,  without  rescue, 
in  the  first  assault,  or  ransom  afterward.  This  she  de 
livered  in  the  most  bitter  touch  of  sorrow  that  e'er  I 
heard  virgin  exclaim  in  ;  which  I  held  my  duty  speed 
ily  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  sithence,1  in  the  loss  that 
may  happen,  it  concerns  you  something  to  know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly ;  keep  it 
to  yourself.  Many  likelihoods  informed  me  of  this 
before,  which  hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance,  that  1 
could  neither  believe,  nor  misdoubt.  Pray  you,  leave 
me  :  stall  this  in  your  bosom,  and  I  thank  you  for  youi 
honest  care.  I  will  speak  with  you  further  anon. 

[Exit  Steward. 

Enter  HELENA. 

Even  so  it  was  with  me,  when  I  was  youn^. 

If  we,2  are  nature's,  these  are  ours  ;   this  thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong; 

Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born ; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impressed  in  youth. 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults; — or  then  we  thought  them  none. 
Her  eye  is  sick  on't ;  I  observe  her  now. 

Hcl.    What  is  vour  pleasure,  madam  ': 

Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

Hcl.   Mine  honorable  mistress. 

Count.  Xay,  a  mother  ; 

Why  not  a  mother  ?     When  I  said,  a  mother, 
Methought  von  saw  a  serpent.     What's  in  mother, 
That  you  start  at  it  ?     I  sav,  I  am  vour  mother; 
And  put  von  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine.     'Tis  often  seen, 
Adoption  strives  with  nature;   and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds. 
You  ne'er  oppressed  me  with  a  mother's  groan, 

1  Since. 

2  The  old  copy  reads,  "If  cw  we  are  nature's."     The  correction  is 
Pope's. 


364  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  I. 

Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care  : — 
God's  mercy,  maiden  !  does  it  curd  thy  blood, 
To  say,  I  am  thy  mother?     What's  the  matter, 
That  this  distempered  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-colored  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye  ? 
Why  ? — That  you  are  my  daughter  ? 

Hel.  That  I  am  not. 

Count.    I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Hel.  Pardon,  madam 

The  count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my  brother : 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honored  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble  * 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live  and  will  his  vassal  die. 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother? 

Hel.    You   are    my  mother,   madam.     'Would   you 

were 

(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother) 
Indeed  my  mother ! — Or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for,1  than  I  do  for  Heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.     Can't  no  other,2 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother  ? 

Count.    Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in- 
law; 

God  shield,  you  mean  it  not !  daughter  and  mother 
So  strive 3  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catched  your  fondness  :  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,4  and  find 
Your  salt  tears'  head.     Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross, 
You  love  my  son  ;  invention  is  ashamed, 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say,  thou  dost  not.     Therefore,  tell  me  true  ; 
But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so : — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 

1  There  is  a  designed  ambiguity ;  i.  e.  I  care  as  much  for ;  I  wish  it 
equally. 

j  -  i.  e.  "  Can  it  be  no  other  way^  but  if  I  be  your  daughter,  he  must  be 

my  brother  ?  " 
3  Contend. 

I  4  The  old  copy  reads  loveliness.     The  emendation  is  Theobald's.     It 

has  been  proposed  to  read  lowliness. 


sc.  in.]          ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  365 

Confess  it,  one  to  the  other;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviors, 
That  in  their  kind  l  they  speak  it ;  only  sin 
And  hellish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue, 
That  truth  should  be  suspected.     Speak,  is't  so  ? 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clew  ; 
If  it  be  not,  forswear't :   howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  Heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail, 
To  tell  me  truly. 

HcL  Good  madam,  pardon  me  ! 

Count.    Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress  ! 

Count.    Love  you  my  son  ? 

lid.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.    Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in't  a  Ixjnd, 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note.      Come,  come,  disci* >>•• 
The  state  of  your  affection  ;   for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeached. 

Hel.  Then,  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  Heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  Heaven, 
I  love  your  son. — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest:  so's  my  love. 
Be  not  offended  ;  for  it  hurts  not  him, 
That  he  is  loved  of  me.      I  follow  him  not 
]]y  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit  ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him,  till  I  do  deserve  him  ; 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
1  know,  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope1 ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  ~  and  intenible  sieve, 
1  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still  ;   thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error.  I  adore 


1  In  their  language,  according  to  their  nrAurc. 

2  Johnson  is  perplexed  about  this  word  captious,  "  which  (says  he)  1 
never  found  in  this  sense,  yet  I   cannot  tell  what  to  substitute,  unless 
carious,  tor  rotten."     Fanner  supposes  captious  to  be  a  contraction  of 
capacious!     Steevcns  believes  that  rnjitioua  meant  recipient!  capable  of 
receiving!  and  intenible  incapable  of  holding  or  retaining: — he  rightly 
explains  the  latter  word,  which  is  printed  in  the  old  copy  intemible  by 
mistake. 


366  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  J 

The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam, 
Let  not  jour  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do ;  but,  if  yourself, 
Whose  aged  honor  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 
Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking, 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love  ; — O  then  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose  ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies, 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.    Had  you  not  lately  an  intent — speak  truly — 
To  go  to  Paris  ? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  Wherefore  ?     Tell  true. 

Hel.   I  will  tell  truth ;  by  grace  itself,  I  swear. 
You  know,  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  proved  effects,  such  as  his  reading, 
And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 
For  general  sovereignty ;  and  that  he  willed  me 
In  heedfulest  reservation  to  bestow  them, 
As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were, 
More  than  they  were  in  note.1     Amongst  the  rest, 
There  is  a  remedy  approved,  set  down, 
To  cure  the  desperate  languishes,  whereof 
The  king  is  rendered  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive 

For  Paris,  was  it  ?  speak. 

Hel.    My  lord  your  son  made  me  to  think  of  this  ; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king, 
Had,  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts, 
Haply,  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid, 
He  would  receive  it  ?     He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind  ;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him ; 


1  Receipts  in  which  greater  virtues  were  inclosed  than  appeared  to 
observation. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  367 

They,  that  they  cannot  help.     How  shall  they  credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Ernbowelled  of  their  doctrine,1  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

Hel.  There's  something  hints,2 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  greatest 
Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  he  sanctified 
By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven  ;  and  would  your  honor 
But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure, 
By  such  a  day  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  helieve't  ? 

Hcl.    Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.    Why,  Helen,  thou  shall   have  my  leave  and 

love, 

Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court.      I'll  stay  at  home, 
And  pray  God's  blessing  into3  thy  attempt. 
Be  gone  to-morrow  ;  and  he  sure  of  this, 
What  I  can  help  thee  to,  thou  shall  not  miss. 

[Exeunt. 

1  Exhausted  of  their  skill. 

2  The  old  copy  rends — iVf.     The  emendation  is  IlamnorV. 

3  //i/o  for  unto — a  common  form  of  expression  with  old  writers.     The 
third  folio  reads  unto. 


368  ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 


ACT   II. 


SCENE  I.     Paris.     A  Room  in  the  King's   Palace. 
Flourish. 


Enter  King,  with  young  Lords  taking  leave  for  the 
Florentine  war;  BERTRAM,  PAROLLES,  and  At 
tendants. 

King.    Farewell,   young  lord,1    these  warlike  prin 
ciples 

Do  not   throw   from  you ; — and  you,   my  lord,  fare 
well. — 

Share  the  advice  betwixt  you  ;  if  both  gain  all, 
The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  received, 
And  is  enough  for  both. 

1  Lord.  It  is  our  hope,  sir, 

After  well-entered  soldiers,  to  return 
And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.    No,  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.2     Farewell,  young  lords ; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen.     Let  higher  Italy 
(Those  'bated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy)  3  see,  that  you  come 
Not  to  WTOO  honor,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 
The  bravest  questant 4  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek, 
That  fame  may  cry  you  loud.     I  say,  farewell. 

1  In  this  and  the  following  instance  the  folio  reads  lords.     The  cor 
rection  was  suggested  by  Tynvhit.t. 

2  i.  e.  my  spirits,  by  not  sinking  under  my  distemper,  do  not  acknowl 
edge  its  influence. 

3  Johnson's  explanation  of  this  obscure  passage  is  preferable  to  any 
that  has  been  offered: — "Let  Upper  Italy,  where  you  are,  to  exercise  your 
valor,  see  that  you  come  to  gain  honor,  to  the  abatement,  that  is,  to  the 
overthrow,  of  those  who  inherit  but  the  fall  of  the  last  monarchy,  or  the 
remains  of  the  Roman  empire."     Baled  and  abated  are  used  elsewhere  by 
Shakspeare  in  a  kindred  sense. 

4  Seeker,  inquirer. 


SC.  I.]       ALL  S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         369 

2  Lord.    Health,   at   your   bidding,   serve  your  ma 
jesty  ! 

King.    Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them  ; 
They  say,  our  French  lack  language  to  deny, 
If  they  demand.     Beware  of  being  captives, 
Before  you  serve. 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warnings. 

King.    Farewell. — Come  hither  to  me. 

[The  King  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.    O  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay  behind 

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

2  Lord.  O,  'tis  brave  wars ! 
Par.    Most  admirable  :    I  have  seen  those  wars. 
Ber.    I  am  commanded  here,  and   kept  a  coil,1  with 

Too  young)  and  the  next  ycar^  and  7/.s%  too  curly. 

Par.    An    thy   mind    stand    to    it,    bov,    steal   away 
bravely. 

Her.    1  shall  stay  here  the  forehorse  to  a  smock, 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry, 
Till  honor  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn, 
But  one  to  dance  with  !     By  Heaven,  I'll  steal  away. 

1  Lord.    There's  honor  in  the  theft. 

Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

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

body.2 

1  Lord.    Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.    Sweet  monsieur  Parolles  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  vours  are  kin. 
Good  sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  ^ood  metals. — You 
shall  find  in  the  regiment  of  the  Spinii,  one  captain 
Spurio,  with  his  cicatrice,  an  emblem  of  war,  here  on 
his  sinister  cheek;  it  was  this  very  sword  entrenched 
it.  Say  to  him,  I  live  ;  and  observe  his  reports 
for  me. 

2  Lord.    We  shall,  noble  captain. 

1  To  be  kept  a  coil  is  to  be  vexed  or  troubled  with  a  stir  or  noise. 
a  «  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is,  as  it  were,  to  dissever  or  torture 
a  body." 

VOL.   ii.  47 


370  ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices  !  [Exeunt 
Lords.]  What  will  you  do  ? 

Ber.    Stay  ;  the  king [Seeing  him  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble 
lords :  you  have  restrained  yourself  within  the  list  of 
too  cold  an  adieu  ;  be  more  expressive  to  them ;  for  they 
wear  themselves  in  the  cap  of  the  time,1  there  do  mus 
ter  true  gait ;  ~  eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the  influence 
of  the  most  received  star ;  and  though  the  devil  lead 
the  measure,3  such  are  to  be  followed.  After  them, 
and  take  a  more  dilated  farewell. 

Ber.    And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  Worthy  fellows  ;  and  like  to  prove  most  sinewy 
sword-men.  [Exeunt  BERTRAM  and  PAROLLES. 

Enter  LAFEU. 

Laf.    Pardon,  my  lord,  [Kneeling.]  for  me  and  for 
my  tidings. 

King.    I'll  fee  thee  to  stand  up, 

Laf.  Then  here's  a  man 

Stands,  that  has  brought  his  pardon.     I  would  you 
Had  kneeled,  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy ;  and 
That,  at  my  bidding,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

King.  I  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate, 
And  asked  thee  mercy  for't. 

Laf.  Goodfaith  across : 

But,  my  good  lord,  'tis  thus :  Will  you  be  cured 
Of  your  infirmity  ? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  O,  will  you  eat 


*  They  are  the  foremost  in  the  fashion. 

2  It  would  seem  that  this  passage  has  been  wrongly  pointed  and  im 
properly  explained,  there  do  muster  true,  gait ;  if  addressed  to  Bertram,  it 
means  th ,cre  exercise  yourself  in  the  gait  of 'fashion  ;  eat,  &c.     But  per 
haps  we  should  read  //if?/  instead  of  there,  or  else  insert  they  after  gait ; 
either  of  these  slight  emendations  would  render  this  obscure  passage  per 
fectly  intelligible. 

3  The  dance. 

4  This  word,  which  is  taken  from  breaking  a  spear  across,  in  chivaliic 
exercises,  is  used  elsewhere  by  Shakspeare,  whore  a  pass  of  wit  miscar 
ries.     See  As  You  Like  It,  Act  iii-  Sc.  4. 


.  4 


SC.  J.]  ALLS   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  371 

No  grapes,  my  royal  fox  ?     Yes,  but  you  will, 

My  noble  grapes,  an  if  my  royal  fox 

Could  reach  them.      I  have  seen  a  medicine, 

That's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone  ; 

Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary,1 

With  spritely  fire  and  motion  ;   whose  simple  touch 

Is  powerful  to  araise  king  Pepin,  nay, 

To  give  great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  his  hand, 

And  write  to  her  a  love-line. 

King.  What  her  is  this  ? 

Laf.    Why,  doctor  she.     My  lord,  there's  one  arrived, 
If  you  will  see  her, — now,  by  my  faith  and  honor, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one,  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession,2 
Wisdom,  and  constancy,  hath  ama/ed  me  more 
Then  I  dare  blame  my  weakness.      Will  you  see  her, 
Tor  that  is  her  demand,)  and  know  her  business? 
""hat  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

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

"Laf.  Nay,  HI  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [^-r/'  \*\v\ :r. 

King.    Thus  he  his  special   nothing   ever   prologues. 

Re-enter  LA  FEU,  with  HELENA. 

Laf.    Nay,  come  your  ways. 

king.  This  haste  hath  wings  indeed. 

Laf.    Nay,  come  your  ways. 
This  is  his  majesty;   say  your  mind  to  him: 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like  ;   but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears.      I  am  Ciessid's  uncle,3 
That  dare  leave  two  together :   fare  you  well.       \Lxit. 


ffi 


1  It  has  been  before  observed  that  the  canary  was  a  kind  of  lively 
dance. 

2  By  profession  is  meant  her  declaration  of  the  object  of  her  coming. 

3  I  am  like  Pandarus.     See  Troilus  and  Cressida, 


372  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 

King.    Now,   fair   one,  does   your   business    follow 
us  ? 

Hel.    Ay,  my  good  lord.     Gerard  de  Narbon   was 
My  father ;  in  what  he  did  profess,  well  found. 

King.    I  knew  him. 

Hel.    The    rather  will  I   spare  my  praises  towards 

him ; 

Knowing  him,  is  enough.     On  his  bed  of  death 
Many  receipts  he  gave  me  ;  chiefly  one, 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  of  his  practice, 
And  of  his  old  experience  the  only  darling, 
He  bade  me  store  up,  as  a  triple  eye,1 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear.     I  have  so : 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touched 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honor 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance, 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden  ; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, — 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us ;  and 

The  congregated  college  have  concluded 

> 
That  laboring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 

From  her  inaidable  estate, — I  say  we  must  not 

So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope, 

To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 

To  empirics ;  or  to  dissever  so 

Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 

A  senseless  help,  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.    My  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains. 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one  to  bear  me  back  again 

King.    I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  called  grateful 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me ;  and  such  thanks  1  give, 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live  ; 
But,  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part ; 
I  knowing  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

1  A  third  eye. 


SC.  I.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         373 

Ilel.    What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest *  'gainst  remedy, 
lie  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister ; 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown, 
When  judges    have    been  babes.2     Great   Hoods   have 

flown 

From  simple  sources  ;  and  great  seas  have  dried, 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. — 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises,  and  oft  it  hits, 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 

King.    I  must   not  hear  thee  ;   fare    thee  well,  kind 

maid  ; 

Thy  pains,  not  used,  must  by  thyself  be  paid. 
Proffers,  not  took,  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Ilel.    Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barred. 
It  is  not  so  with  him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows ; 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us,  when 
The  help  of  Heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavors  give  consent ; 
Of  Heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim  ; 3 
But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure, 
My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

King.    Art  thou  so  confident  r      Within  what  space 
J  fop'st  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hcl.  The  grcatot  urace  lending  grace,4 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fierv  torcher  his  diurnal  rini;  ; 
Ere  twice-  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quenched  his  sleepv  lamp; 

1  i.  e.  "  Since  you  have  determined  or  made  up  your  mind  that  there  is 
no  remedy." 

-  An  allusion  to  Daniel  judging  the  two  elders. 

3  I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim  one  tiling  and  design  another, 
that  proclaim  a  cure  and  aim  at  a  fraud.     I  think  what  I  speak'. 

4  '   e.  the  divine  grace,  lending  me  grace  or  power  to  accomplish  it. 


374  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  11. 

Or  four-and-twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Hath  told  the  thievish  minutes  how  they  pass ; 
What  is  infirm  from  your  sound  parts  shall  fly, 
Health  shall  live  free,  and  sickness  freely  die. 

King.    Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence, 
What  dar'st  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, — 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, — 
Traduced  by  odious  ballads ;  my  maiden's  name 
Seared  otherwise  ;  ne  worse  of  worst  extended, 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended.1 

King.    Methinks  in   thee  some   blessed   spirit  doth 

speak ; 

His  powerful  sound  within  an  organ  weak  ; 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear  ;  for  all,  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life,  in  thee  hath  estimate ; 
Youth,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  virtue,  all 
That  happiness  and  prime  can  happy  call. 
Thou  this  to  hazard,  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 
Sweet  practiser,  thy  physic  I  will  try ; 
That  ministers  thine  own  death,  if  1  die. 

Hel.    If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 2 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die ; 
And  well  deserved.     Not  helping,  death's  my  fee ; 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  you  promise  me  ? 

King.    Make  thy  demand. 

Hel.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

King.    Ay,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  hopes  of  help.3 

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


1  Let  me  be  stigmatized  as  a  strumpet,  and,  in  addition  (although  that 
could  not  be  worse,  or  a  more  extended  evil  than  what  I  have  mentioned, 
the  loss  of  my  honor,  which  is  the  worst  that  could  happen),  let  me  die 
with  torture.  Ne  is  nor. 

3  Property  seems  to  be  used  here  for  perfoiinancc-  or  achievement,  sin 
gular  as  it  may  seem. 

3  Thirlby  proposes  to  read  hopes  ol  heaven. 


SC.  II.]  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL.  375 

Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 

To  choose  from  forth  the  royal  blood  of  France  ; 

My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 

With  any  branch  or  impage  of  thy  state ; } 

But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 

Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.    Here  is  my  hand  ;  the  premises  observed, 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  served  ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time  ;  for  I, 
Thy  resolved  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  1  question  thee,  and  more  I  must; 
Though  more  to  know,  could  not  be  more  to  trust , 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on, — but  rest 
Unquestioned  welcome,  and  undoubted  blessed. — 
Give  me  some  help  here,  ho! — If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.      K.n  unt. 


SCENE  II.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir;  I  shall  now  put  you  to  the 
height  of  your  breeding. 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed  and  lowly  taught. 
I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court  !  why,  what  place  make  yon 
special,  when  you  put  off  that  with  such  contempt  ': 
But  to  the  court ! 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man  any 
manners,  he  may  easily  put  it  off  at  court.  lie  that 
cannot  make  a  leg,  put  offs  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and 
say  nothing,  has  neither  leg,  hands,  lip,  nor  cap;  and, 
indeed,  such  a  fellow,  to  say  precisely,  were  not  for 

1  The  old  copy  reads  "  ima^c  of  thy  state."  Warburton  proposed  im- 
pctgc,  which  Steevens  rejects,  sayinjr,  unadvisedly,  "  there  is  no  such  word." 
It  is  evident  that  Shakspcarc  formed  it  from  "an  impc,  a  scion,  or  young 
slip  of  a  tree." 


376  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 

the  court :  but,  for  me,  I  have  an  answer  will  serve 
all  men. 

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

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,  that  fits  all  buttocks  ; 
the  pin-buttock,  the  quatch-buttock,  the  brawn-buttock, 
or  any  buttock. 

Count.    Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an  at 
torney,  as  your  French  crown  for  your  taffeta  punk,  as 
Tib's  rush  for  Tom's  fore-finger,1  as  a  pancake  for 
Shrove-Tuesday,  a  morris  for  May-day,  as  the  nail  to 
his  hole,  the  cuckold  to  his  horn,  as  a  scolding  quean 
to  a  wrangling  knave,  as  the  nun's  lip  to  the  friar's 
mouth ;  nay,  as  the  pudding  to  his  skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fitness 
for  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke,  to  beneath  your  con 
stable,  it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  monstrous 
size,  that  must  fit  all  demands. 

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

Count.  To  be  young  again,  if  we  could.  I  will  be 
a  fool  in  question,  hoping  to  be  the  wiser  by  your 
answer.  I  pray  you,  sir,  are  you  a  courtier  ? 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir.2 There's  a  simple  putting  off; 

— more,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

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

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

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

Clo.    O  Lord,  sir. — Nay,  put  me  to't,  I  warrant  you. 


1  The  rush  ring  seems  to  have  been  a  kind  of  love  token,  for  plighting 
of  troth  among  rustic  lovers. 

2  A  ridicule  on  this  silly  expletive  of  speech,  then  in  vogue  at  court. 
Thus  Clove  and  Orange,  in  Every  Man  in  his  Humor:  "You  conceive 
me,  sir  ? — O  Lord,  sir !  " 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL.  377 

Count.    You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.    O  Lord.  sir. — Spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  O  Lon/,  .9/V,  at  your  whipping, 
and  spare  not  me?  Indeed,  your  O  Lord,  sir,  is  very 
sequent  to  your  whipping;  you  would  answer  very 
well  to  a  whipping,  if  you  were  hut  bound  to't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  inv  life,  in  my — 
O  .Lord,  sir.  I  see,  things  may  serve  long,  hut  not 
serve  ever. 

Count.  I  plav  the  noble  housewife  with  the  time, 
to  entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

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

Count.    An  end,  sir,  to  your  business.      Give  Helen 

this, 

And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  buck. 
Commend  me  to  inv  kinsmen,  and  my  son  ; 
This  is  not  much. 

Clo.    Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you.  You  un 
derstand  me  ." 

Clo.    Most  fruitfully;    I  am  there  before  my  legs. 

Count.    Haste  you  again.  [l^cciint  severally. 


SCENE   111.      Paris.      A  Room  in  the   King's  Palace. 

Enter  BKUTRA.M.  L\n:r,  find   PAROU.KS. 

Lnf.  They  say,  miracles  are  past  ;  and  we  have  our 
philosophical  persons,  to  in. ike  modern  '  and  familiar 
things  supernatural  and  causeless.  Hence  is  it.  that 
we  make  trifles  ol  terrors;  ensconcing  ourselves  into 
seeming  knowledge,  when  we  should  submit  oursehcs 
to  an  unknown  tear.'-' 

Par.  Why,  'tis  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder,  that 
hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.    And  so  'tis. 

Laf.    To  be  relinquished  of  the  artists,— 

1  Common,  ordinary.  ~  Fear  moans  here  an  object  of  fear 

VOL.  ii.  48 


378  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS  WELL.  [ACT  II. 

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

Laf.    Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fellows, — 

Par.    Right ;  so  I  say. 

Laf.    That  gave  him  out  incurable, — 

Par.    Why,  there  'tis ;  so  say  1  too. 

Laf.    Not  to  be  helped, — 

Par.    Right :  as  'twere,  a  man  assured  of  an — 

Laf.    Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.    Just ;  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said. 

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

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

Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an  earthly 
actor. 

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

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin l  is  not  lustier :  'fore  me, 
1  speak  in  respect 

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

Laf.    Very  hand  of  Heaven. 

Par.    Ay,  so  I  say. 

Laf.    In  a  most  weak 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great  tran 
scendence  ;  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a  further  use 
to  be  made,  than  alone  the  recovery  of  the  king,  as  to 
be2 

Laf.    Generally  thankful. 

Enter  King,  HELENA,  and  Attendants. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.  Here 
comes  the  kinjr. 


1  The  dauphin  was  formerly  so  written,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether 
Lafeti  means  to  allude  to  the  prince  or  the  fish.  The  old  orthography  is 
therefore  continued. 

~  Dr.  Johnson  thought  this  and  some  preceding  speeches  in  the  scene 
were  erroneously  given  to  Parolles  instead  of  to  Lafeu.  '  This  seems  very 
probable,  for  the  humor  of  the  scone  consists  in  Parolles's  pretensions  to 
knowledge  and  sentiments  which  he  has  not. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  379 

Laf.  Lustick,1  as  the  Dutchman  says.  I'll  like  a 
maid  the  better,  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head. 
W'hy,  he's  able  to  lead  her  a  coranto. 

Par.  Mori  du  Vinaigre!     Is  not  this  Helen? 

Laf.    'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 

King.    Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. — 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

Sit,  my  preserver,  bv  thy  patient's  side; 
And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banished  sense 
Thou  hast  repealed,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  m\   promised  gift, 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye.      This  youthful  parcel 

Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing, 

O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's  voice2 

I  have  to  use.     Thy  frank  election  make  ; 

Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 

lid.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 
Fall,  when  love  please! — Marry,  to  each,  but  one!3 

Laf.    I'd  give  bay  Curtal,4  and  his  furniture, 
My  mouth  no  more;  were  broken  than  these  boys', 
And  writ  as  little  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those,  but  had  a  noble  lather. 

Jfcl.    Gentlemen, 
Heaven  hath,  through  me,  restored  the   king  to  health. 

All.    We  understand  it,  and  thank  Heaven  for  vou. 

ILL    I  am  a  simple  maid  ;   and  therein  wealthiest, 
That,  I  protest,  I  simplv  am  a  maid.— 
Please  it  your  majestv,  I  have  done  alreadv. 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
We  blush,  that  thou  shouldst  choose :  but,  be  refused. 


1   Lustigh  is  thn  Dutch  lor  active,  pleasant,  playful,  sportive. 
-  They  were  wards  as  well  ;us  subjects. 

3  i.  e.  c.rcept  one,  meaning  Bertram  :  but  in  the  sense  of  be-out. 

4  A  citrtal  was  the  common  phrase  for  a  horse  ;  i.  c.  "  I'd  give  my  bay 
liorse,  &.c.  that  my  age   were  not  «rre:iter  than  these   boys':"    a  broken 
mouth  is  a  mouth  which  has  lost  part  of  its  teeth. 


3SO  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 

Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  forever ; 
We^il  ne'er  come  there  again.1 

King.  Make  choice  ;  and,  see, 

Who  shuns  thy  love,  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

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

1  Lord.    And  grant  it. 

o 

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

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice,  than  throw 
ames-ace  2  for  my  life. 

Hel.    The  honor,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes, 
Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies. 
Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love ! 

2  Lord.    No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel.  My  wish  receive, 

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

Laf.  Do  all  they  deny  her  ? 3  An  they  were  sons 
of  mine,  Pd  have  them  whipped ;  or  I  \vould  send 
them  to  the  Turk,  to  make  eunuchs  of. 

Hel.    Be  not  afraid  [To  a  lord.]  that  I  your  hand 

should  take ; 

I'll  never  do  you  wrong  for  your  own  sake. 
Blessing  upon  your  vows !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed ! 

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

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

4  Lord.    Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

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

1  Be  refused  means  the  same  as  "thou  being  refused,"  or  "be  thou  re 
fused."  The  white,  death  is  the  paleness  of  death. 

~  The  lowest  chance  of  the  dice. 

'3  The  scene  must  be  so  regulated  tha.t  Lafeu  and  Parolles  talk  at  a 
distance,  where  they  may  see  Avliat  passes  between  Helena  and  the  lords, 
but  not  hear  it ;  so  that  they  know  not  by  whom  the  refusal  is  made. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  331 

JIcL    I    durc   not  say,  I  take  you:   [To  BERTRAM.] 

but  I  give 

Me,  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live, 
Into  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man. 

King.    Why  then,  young  Bertram,   take   her;   she's 
thy  wile. 

Bcr.    My   wife,    my   lie^e  ?      I    shall    beseech    your 

highness, 

In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eves. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

What  she  has  done  lor  me  ? 

Bcr.  Yes,  mv  good  lord  ; 

But  never  hope  to  know  whv  I  should  mam  her. 

King.    Thou    know'st    she    has   raised    me    from   mv 
sicklv  bed. 

Bcr.    But  follows  it,  mv  lord,  to  hrinij  me  down 
Must  answer  for  vour  rising?      I  know  her  well  ; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge. 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  mv  wife! — Disdain 
Rather  corrupt  me  e\er! 

King.    'Tis   only  title '   thou  disdaiifst   in    her,   the 

which 

I  can  build  up.      Strange  is  it  that  our  bloods, 
Of  color,  weight,  and  heat,  poured  all  together, 
Would  <juite  confound  distinction,  vet  stand  off 
In  differences  so  miii'htv.      If  she  be 
All  that  is  virtuous,  (save  wlnt  thou  dislik'st, 
A  |)oor  physician's  daughter.)  thou  dislik'st 
Of  virtue  for  the  name.      But  do  not  so. 
From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed, 
The  place  is  dignified  bv  t!ie  doer's  deed; 
Where  great  additions'-  swell,  and  virtue  none, 
It  is  a  dropsied  honor.      ( lood  alone 
Is  good  ; — without  a  name,  vileness  is  so  :  * 


1  i.  e.  the  want  of  title. 

2  Titles. 

3  (lood  is  good,  independent  of  any  \vorldly  distinction  ;  and  so  vileness 
would  be  ever  vile,   did  not  rank,  po\ver,  and  fortune,  screen  il  from  op 
probrium. 


382  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  1J 

The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 

Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair; 

In  these  to  nature  she's  immediate  heir ; 

And  these  breed  honor ;  that  is  honor's  scorn, 

Which  challenges  itself  as  honor's  born,1 

And  is  not  like  the  sire.     Honors  best  thrive,2 

When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 

Than  our  fore-goers.     The  mere  word's  a  slave, 

Debauched  on  every  tomb ;  on  every  grave, 

A  lying  trophy,  and  as  oft  is  dumb, 

Where  dust  and  damned  oblivion  is  the  tomb 

Of  honored  bones  indeed.     What  should  be  said  ? 

If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 

I  can  create  the  rest.     Virtue,  and  she, 

Is  her  own  dower ;  honor  and  wealth  from  me. 

Her.    I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do't. 

King.    Thou  wrong'st  thyself,  if  thou  shouldst  strive 
to  choose. 

Hel.    That  you  are  well  restored,  my  lord,  I  am  glad  ; 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.    My  honor's  at  the  stake ;  which  to  defeat,3 
I  must  produce  my  power :  Here,  take  her  hand, 
Proud,  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift ; 
That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love,  and  her  desert ;  that  canst  not  dream, 
We,  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale, 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam ;  that  wilt  not  know, 
It  is  in  us  to  plant  thine  honor,  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow.     Check  thy  contempt : 
Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good  : 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 
Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right, 
Which  both  thy  duty  owes,  and  our  power  claims  ; 
Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  forever, 
Into  the  staggers  4  and  the  careless  lapse 


1  i.  e.  the  child  of  honor. 

2  The  first  folio  omits  best ;  the  second  folio  supplies  it. 

3  The  implication  or  clause  of  the  sentence  (as  the  grammarians  say) 
here  serves  for  the  antecedent — "  which  danger  to  defeat" 

4  The  allusion  appears  to  be  to  the  reeling  gait  of  intoxication. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   KNDS   WELL.  383 

Of  youth  and  ignorance;   both  my  revenge  and  hate, 
Loosing  upon  thee  in  the  name  of  justice, 
Without  all  terms  of  pity.      Speak  ;   thine  answer. 

Bci  .    Pardon,  my  gracious  lord  ;   for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes.      When  I  consider, 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honor, 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find,  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king  ;   who,  so  ennobled, 
Is,  as  'twere,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  bv  the  hand, 

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

Her.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.    Good  fortune,  and  the  favor  of  the  king, 
Smile  upon  this  contract  ;    whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  brief, 
And  be  performed  to-night:1   the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space, 
Expecting  absent  friends.      As  tiiou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love's  to  me  religious;   else,  does  err. 

[fc.ce  tint  King,  HKKTKAM,  HIJ.KNA,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Ldf.    Do  you  hear,  monsieur?     A  word  with  you. 

Par.    Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

Laf.    Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make  his   re 
cantation. 

Par.    Recantation!     My  lord  ?     My  master? 

Laf.    Ay;   is  it  not  a  language  I  speak.'' 

Par.    A  most  harsh  one  ;   and  not  to    he    understood 
without  bloody  succeeding.      My  master.' 

Laf.    Are  you  companion  to  the  count  Rousillon  ? 

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

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


1   Shakspeare  uses  expedient  and  erpediriitlif  in  the  sonsc  of  crpcdil 
lif  ;  and  brief  in  thr>  sense  of  a  short  note  or  intimation  concerning  any 
business,  and  sometimes  without  the  idea  of  writing. 


384  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II 

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

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

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

Laf.  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,1  to  be  a 
pretty  wise  fellow  ;  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent  of 
thy  travel;  it  might  pass:  yet  the  scarfs,  and  the  ban 
nerets,  about  thee,  did  manifoldly  dissuade  me  from  be 
lieving  thee  a  vessel  of  too  great  a  burden.  I  have 
now  found  thee  ;  when  I  lose  thee  again,  I  care  not. 
Yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing  but  taking  up  ;2  and  that 
thou  art  scarce  worth. 

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

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest 
thou  hasten  thy  trial ;  which  if — Lord  have  mercy  on 
thee  for  a  hen  !  So,  my  good  window  of  lattice,  fare 
thee  well ;  thy  casement  I  need  not  open,  for  I  look 
through  thee.  Give  me  thy  hand. 

Par.    My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious  indignity. 

Laf.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart ;  and  thou  art  worthy 
of  it. 

Par.    I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserved  it. 

Laf.  Yes,  good  faith,  every  dram  of  it ;  and  I  will 
not  bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.    Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  E'en  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast  to 
pull  at  a  smack  o'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou  be'st 
bound  in  thy  scarf,  and  beaten,  thou  shall  find  what  it 
is  to  be  proud  of  thy  bondage.  I  have  a  desire  to  hold 
my  acquaintance  with  thee,  or  rather  my  knowledge  ; 
that  1  may  say,  in  the  default/'  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable  vex 
ation. 

Laf.    I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  thy  sake,  and  my 

1  i.  e.  while  I  sat  twice  with  thee  at  dinner. 

2  To  take  iip  is  to  contradict,  to  call  to  account ;  as  well  as  to  pick  off 
the  ground. 

3  i.  e.  at  a  need. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS    WELL.  385 

poor  doing  eternal :  for  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by 
thee,  in  what  motion  age  will  give  me  leave.1  [Exit. 
Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  disgrace 
off  me  ;  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord! — Well,  I  must 
be  patient;  there  is  no  fettering  of  authority.  I'll  beat 
him,  by  my  life,  if  I  can  meet  him  with  any  conve 
nience,  an  he  were  double  and  double  a  lord.  I'll  have 
no  more  pity  of  his  age,  than  I  would  have  of — I'll 
beat  him,  an  if  I  could  but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter    LAFEU. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master's  married  ;  there's 
news  for  you  ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  1  most  imfeignedly  beseech  \oiir  lordship  to 
make;  some  reservation  of  your  wrongs.  lie  is  my 
good  lord;  whom  I  ser\e  above,  is  my  master. 

Laf.    Who?   CJod? 

Par.    Ay,  sir. 

Laf.    The  devil  it   is,  that's   thy  master.      \Vhv  dost 

*/  •/  J 

thou  garter  up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion  ?  Dost  make 
hose  of  thy  sleeves?  Do  other  servants  so?  Thou 
wert  best  set  thy  lower  part  where  thy  nose  stands. 
By  mine  honor,  if  I  were  but  two  hours  younger,  I'd 
beat  thee  ;  methinks  thou  art  a  general  offence,  and 
every  man  should  beat  thee.  I  think  thou  wast  cre 
ated  for  men  to  breathe3  themselves  upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my 
lord. 

\Aif.  (Jo  to,  sir;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for  pick 
in::  a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegranate  :  \oii  are  a  vagabond, 
and  no  true  traveller:  von  are  more  saucv  with  lords, 
and  honorable  personages,  than  the  heraldry  of  your 
birth  and  virtue  gives  you  commission.  ^  ou  are  not 
worth  another  word,  else  I'd  call  you  knave.  I  leave 
you.  [/•>//. 

1  There  is  a  poor  conceit  here  hardly  worth  explaining: — "Doing I  am 
vast"  says  La  feu,  "as  I  will  by  thee,"in  what  motion  age  will  give  me 
leave;"  i.  e.  "as  I  will  pass  by  thee  as  fast  as  I  am  able:"  and   he  im 
mediately  goes  out. 

2  Exercise. 

VOL.  ii.  49 


386  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II 

Enter  BERTRAM. 

Par.    Good,  very  good  ;  it  is   so  then. — Good,  very 
good  ;  let  it  be  concealed  awhile. 

Ber.    Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  forever  ! 

Par.    What  is  the  matter,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.    Although    before    the    solemn    priest    I    have 

sworn, 
I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.    What  ?  what,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.    O  my  Parolles,  they  have  married  me ! — 
I'll  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.    France  is  a  dog-hole,  and  it  no  more  merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot.     To  the  wars  ! 

Ber.    There's   letters  from  my  mother;    what  the 

import  is, 
I  know  not  yet. 

Par.    Ay,  that  would  be  known.     To  the  wars,  my 

boy,  to  the  wars ! 

He  wears  his  honor  in  a  box  unseen, 
That  hugs  his  kicksy-wicksy *  here  at  home , 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms, 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 

O 

Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions ! 
France  is  a  stable  ;  we,  that  dwell  in't,  jades ; 
Therefore,  to  the  war ! 

Ber.    It  shall  be  so  ;  I'll  send  her  to  my  house, 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her, 
And  wherefore  1  am  fled ;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak.     His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields 
Where  noble  fellows  strike.     War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house2  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.    Will  this  capricio  hold  in  thee,  art  sure  ? 

Ber.    Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I'll  send  her  straight  away.     To-morrow 
I'll  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 


1  A  cant  term  for  a  wife. 

9  The  dark  house,  is  a  house  made  gloomy  by  discontent. 


SC.  IV.]  ALL'S    WELL  THAT    ENDS   WELL.  387 

Par.    Why,  these  balls  bound  ;  there's  noise  in  it. — 

'Tis  hard  ; 

A  young  man,  married,  is  a  man  that's  marred : 
Therefore;  away,  and  leave  her  bravely ;   go. 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong;  but,  hush!     'tis  so. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.      The  same.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  UELKNA  and  Clown. 

Ilel.    My  mother  greets  me  kindly  ;   is  she  well  ? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well  ;  but  yet  she  has  her  health; 
she's  very  merry;  but  yet  she  is  not  well:  but  thanks 
be  given,  she's  very  well,  and  wants  nothing  i'the 
world  ;  but  yet  she  is  not  well. 

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

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

lid.    What  two  things? 

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

Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.    Bless  you,  my  fortunate  ladv! 

lid.  \  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have  mine 
own  good  fortunes. 

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

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

Par.    Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man  ;  for  many  a 
man's  tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing.  To  say 
nothing,  to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing,  and  to  have 
nothing,  is  to  be  a  great  part  of  your  title; ;  which  is 
within  a  very  little  of  nothing. 


388  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  II. 

Par.    Away;   thou'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a  knave  thou 
art  a  knave  ;  that  is,  before  me  thou  art  a  knave. 
This  had  been  truth,  sir. 

Par.    Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool,  I  have  found  thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir?  or  were  you 
taught  to  find  me  ?  The  search,  sir,  was  profitable  ; 
and  much  fool  may  you  find  in  you,  even  to  the  world's 
pleasure,  and  the  increase  of  laughter. 

Par.    A  good  knave,  i'faith,  and  well  fed.1 — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night ; 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  rite  of  love, 
Which,  as  your  due,  time  claims,  he  does  acknowledge  ; 
But  puts  it  off  by  a9  compelled  restraint; 
Whose  wrant,  and  whose  delay,  is  strewed  with  sweets, 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time, 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erfiow  with  joy, 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

Hel.  What's  his  will  else  ? 

Par.    That  you  will   take  your  instant  leave  o'  the 

king, 

And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 
Strengthened  with  what  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need.3 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he  ? 

Par.    That,  having  this  obtained,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hel.    In  every  thing  I  wait  upon  his  will. 

Par.    I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hel.  I  pray  you. — Come,  sirrah.     [Exeunt. 


i  Perhaps  the  old  saying,  "Better  fed  than  taught,"  is  alluded  to  here 
as  in  a  preceding  scene,  Avhere  the  clown  says,  "  I  will  show  myself 
highly  fed  and  lowly  taught" 

~  The  old  copy  reads,  "  to  a  compelled  restraint." 

3  A  specious  appearance  of  necessity. 


SC.  V.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         339 


SCENE  V.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  LAFEU  and  BERTRAM. 

Laf.  But  I  hope  jour  lordship  thinks  not  him  a 
soldier. 

Ber.    Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.    You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.    And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true  ;  I  took  this  lark 
for  a  bunting.1 

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

Laf.  I  have  then  sinned  against  his  experience,  and 
transgressed  against  his  valor;  and  my  state  that  wav 
is  dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  in  my  heart  to 
repent.  Here  he  comes  ;  I  pray  you,  make  us  friends  ; 
1  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.    These  things  shall  be  done,  sir. 

[To  BERTRAM. 

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

Par.    Sir? 

.Lfif.  O,  I  know  him  well ;  ay,  sir ;  he,  sir,  is  a  good 
workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.    Is  she  gone  to  the  king  ? 

[Aside  to  PAROLU:S. 

Par.    She  is. 

Ber.    Will  she  away  to-night  ? 

Par.    As  you'll  have  her. 

Ber.    I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure, 
Given  order  for  our  horses  ;  and  to-night, 
When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride,— 
And,  ere  I  do  begin, 

Luf*    A    good   traveller  is   something  at   the   latter 

1  The  bunting  nearly  resembles  the  sky-lark,  but  has  little  or  no  song1. 


390  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  ACT  II. 

end  of  a  dinner ;  but  one  that  lies  three  thirds,  and 
uses  a  known  truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with, 
should  be  once  heard,  and  thrice  beaten. — God  save 
you,  captain. 

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

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run  into 
my  lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  run  into't,  boots  and 
spurs  and  all,  like  him  that  leaped  into  the  custard ; J 
and  out  of  it  you'll  run  again,  rather  than  suffer  ques 
tion  for  your  residence. 

Ber.    It  may  be  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  his 
prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord ;  and  believe  this  of 
me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this  light  nut ;  the  soul 
of  this  man  is  his  clothes.  Trust  him  not  in  matter  of 
heavy  consequence  ;  I  have  kept  of  them  tame,  and 
know  their  natures. — Farewell,  monsieur.  I  have 
spoken  better  of  you,  than  you  have  or  will 2  deserve 
at  my  hand  ;  we  must  do  good  against  evil.  [Exit. 

Par.    An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.    I  think  so. 

Par.    Why,  do  you  not  know  him  ? 

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

Enter  HELENA. 

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

Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  will 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course, 
Which  holds  not  color  with  the  time,  nor  does 

1  It  was  a  piece  of  foolery  practised  at  city  entertainments,  when  an 
allowed  fool  or  jester  was  in  fashion,  for  him  to  jump  into  a  large,  deep 
custard  set  for  the  purpose,  to  cause  laughter  among  the  "  barren  spec 
tators." 

2  The  first  folio  reads,  "than  you  have  or  will  to  deserve." — Perhaps 
the  word  wit,  was  omitted :   the  second  folio  omits  to. 


SC.  V.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         391 

The  ministration  and  required  office 

On  my  particular :  prepared  I  was  not 

For  such  a  business ;  therefore  am  I  found 

So  much  unsettled.     This  drives  me  to  entreat  you, 

That  presently  you  take;  your  way  for  home  ; 

And  rather  muse,  than  ask,  why  I  entreat  you  ; 

For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem  ; 

And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need 

Greater  than  shows  itself,  at  the  first  view, 

To  you  that  know  them  not.     This  to  my  mother. 

[Giving  a  letter. 

'Twill  be  two  days  en;  I  shall  see  you  ;   so 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Hd.  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say, 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Bcr.    Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 

HcL  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that, 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  failed 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Bcr.    Let  that  go. 
My  haste  is  very  great  :   farewell  ;   hie  home 

Hd.    Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Bcr.  Well,  what  would  you  say? 

Hd.    I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe  ;  ] 
Nor  dare  I  sav,  'tis  mine  ;   and  vet  it  is  ; 
But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Bcr.  What  would  you  have' 

lid.    Something  ;   and    scarce   so  much  : — nothing, 

indeed, — 
I  would  not  tell   von  what  I   would.      Mv  lord — 'faith, 

yes  ;— 
Strangers  and  foes  do  sunder,  and  not  ki^. 

Ber.    I  pray  you  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse. 

Hd.    I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my  lord. 

Bcr.    Where  are   niv  other  men,  monsieur? — Fare 
well.  [Exit  HELENA. 

1  Possess,  or  own- 


392  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III. 

Go  thou  toward  home  ;  where  I  will  never  come, 
Whilst  I  can  shake  my  sword,  or  hear  the  drum. — 
Away,  and  for  our  flight. 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio  !    [Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 


SCENE    I.      Florence.      A    Room  in    the   Duke's 
Palace.     Flourish. 

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

Duke.    So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have  you 

heard 

The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war  ; 
Whose  great  decision  hath  much  blood  let  forth, 
And  more  thirsts  after. 

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

On  the  opposer. 

Duke.    Therefore    we    marvel    much,    our    cousin 

France 

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

2  Lord.  Good  my  lord, 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield,1 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man,2 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion  ; 3  therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it ;  since  I  have  found 

1  i.  e.  explain. 

2  One  not  in  the  secret  of  affairs ;  so  inward  in  a  contrary  sense. 

•'  Warburton  and  Upton  are  of  opinion  that  we  should  read,  "  By  self- 
unable  notion" 


SC.  II.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL  393 

Myself  iii  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 
As  often  as  I  guessed. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.    But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our  nature,1 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will,  day  by  day, 
Come  here  for  physic. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be  ; 

And  all  the  honors,  that  can  fly  from  us, 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places  well  ; 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell. 
To-morrow  to  the  field.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 


SCENE    II.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happened  all  as  I  would  have  had 
it,  save  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  take  my  young  lord  to  be  a 
very  melancholy  man. 

Count.    By  what  observance,  I  pray  you  ? 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing; 
mend  the  ruff,-  and  sing;  ask  questions,  and  sin0;;  pick 
his  teeth,  and  sing.  I  know  a  man  that  had  this  trick 
of  melancholy,  sold  a  goodly  manor  lor  a  soni^. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he 
means  to  come.  [O/icni/i^  u  IdUr. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbc-1,  since  1  was  at  court; 
our  old  ling  and  our  Isbels  o'  the  country  an*  nothing 
like  your  old  ling  and  your  Isbels  o'the  court.  Tin1 
brains  of  my  Cupid's  knocked  out  ;  and  I  br^in  to 
love,  as  an  old  man  loves  money,  with  no  stomach. 

Count.    What  have  we  here  : 

Clo.    E'en  that  you  have4  there.  [Exit. 

1  As  we  say  at  present,  our  young:  fellows. 

~  The  tops  of  the  boots,  in  Shakspeare's  time,  turned  down,  and  hung 
loosely  over  the  leg.     The  folding  part,  or  top,  was  the  ruff.     It  was  of 
softer  leather  than  the  hoot,  and  often  fringed. 
VOL.  ii.  50 


394  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III. 

Count.  [Reads.]  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law: 
she  hath  recovered  the  king,  and  undone  me.  I  have 
wedded  her,  not  bedded  her ;  and  sworn  to  make  the  not 
eternal.  You  shall  hear  I  am  run  away ;  know  it,  be 
fore  the  report  come.  If  there  be  breadth  enough  in  the 
world,  I  will  hold  a  long  distance.  My  duty  to  you. 
Your  unfortunate  son, 

BERTRAM. 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favors  of  so  good  a  king ; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head, 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder  is  heavy  news  within,  be 
tween  two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Count.    What  is  the  matter  ? 

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

Count.   Why  should  he  be  killed  ? 

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

Enter   HELENA  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.    Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.    Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  forever  gone. 

2  Gent.    Do  not  say  so. 

Count.    Think  upon  patience. — 'Pray  you,  gentle 
men, — 

I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief, 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start, 
Can  woman  me  unto't. — Where  is  my  soft,  I  pray  you: 
2  Gent.   Madam,  he's  gone   to  serve   the   duke  of 
Florence. 


SC.  II.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  395 

We  met  him  thitherward  ;  from  thence  we  came, 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court, 
Thither  we  bend  a^ain. 

O 

HeL    Look  on  his  letter,  madam ;   here's   my  pass 
port. 

[Reads.]  When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my 
finger  which  never  shall  come  off,  and  show  me  a 
child  begotten  of  thy  body,  that  I  am  father  to,  then 
call  me  husband ;  but  in  such  a  then  /  write  a 
never. 
This  is  a  dreadful  sentence  ! 

Count.    Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

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

Count.    I  pr'ythee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer; 
If  thou  engrosses!  all  the  griefs  are  thine,1 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety.     lie  was  my  son  ; 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood. 
And  thou  art  all  my  child. — Towards  Florence  is  he  ? 

2  Gent.    Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier  ? 

2  Gent.    Such  is  his  noble  purpose  ;  and,  believe't, 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honor 
That  <rood  convenience  claims. 

O 

Count.  Return  you  thither? 

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

speed. 
HeL    [Reads.]      Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing 

in  France. 
'Tis  bitter ! 

Count.    Find  you  that  there  ? 

Hcl.  Ay,  madam. 

1  Gent.    'Tis   but  the  boldness   of  his  hand,  haply, 

which 
His  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

Count.    Nothing  in  France,  until  he  have  no  wife! 
There's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him, 
But  only  she  ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord 

1  An  elliptical  expression  for  "  all  the  griefs  thai  are  thine." 


396  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III 

That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon, 

And  call  her,  hourly,  mistress.     Who  was  with  him  ? 

1  Gent.    A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was't  not  ? 

1  Gent.    Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.   A  very  tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wickedness. 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady, 
The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that,  too  much, 
Which  holds  him  much  to  have.1 

Count.    You  are  welcome,  gentlemen. 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son, 
To  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honor  that  he  loses.     More  I'll  entreat  you 
Written  to  bear  along. 

2  Gent.  We  serve  you,  madam, 
In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs. 

Count.    Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtesies.2 

Will  you  draw  near? 

[Exeunt  Countess  and  Gentlemen. 

Hel.    Till  I  have  no  ivife,  I  have  nothing  in  France. 
Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 
Thou  shalt  have  none,  Rousillon,  none  in  France ; 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.     Poor  lord  !  is't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war  ?     And  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets  ?     O  you  leaden  messengers, 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 
Fly  with  false  aim  ;  move  the  still-peering  air, 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord ! 


1  This  passage  as  it  stands  is  very  obscure ;  something  appears  to  be 
omitted  after  much.     Warburton  interprets  it,  "  That  his  vices  stand  him 
in  stead  of  virtues." 

2  The  countess  answers — no  otherwise  than  as  she  returns  the  same 
offices  of  civility. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  397 

Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there  ; 

Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 

I  am  the  caitiff,  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 

And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  1  am  the  cause 

His  death  was  so  effected  ;   better  'twere 

I  met  the  ravin  ]  lion  when  he  roared 

With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger;  better  'twere 

That  all  the  miseries,  which  nature  owes, 

Were  mint;  at  once.     No,  come  tliou  home,  Rousillon, 

Whence  honor  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar, 

As  oft  it  loses  all.2    I  will  be  gone  : 

My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence. 

Shall  I  stay  here  to  do't  ?     No,  no,  although 

The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 

And  angels  ofiiced  all  :    I  will  be  gone  ; 

That  pitiful  rumor  may  report  my  flight, 

To  consolate  thine  ear.      Come,  night;   (Mid,  day! 

For  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I'll  steal  away.       [Exit. 


SCENE   III.     Florence.     Before  the  Duke's  Palace 

Flourish. 

Enter  the   Duke  of  Florence,  BERTRAM,   Lords,   Offi 
cers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Dukr.    The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art ;   and  we, 
Great  in  our  hope,  lav  our  best  love  and  credence 
Upon  thv  promising  fortune. 

Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavv  for  mv  strength  ;    but  yet 
We'll  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake, 
To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth  ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thv  prosperous  helm, 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress! 

1  That  is,  the  ravenous  or  ravening1  lion. 

2  The  sense  is,  «  From  that  place,  where  all  the  advantages  that  honor 
usually  reaps  from  the  danger  it  rushes  upon,  is  only  a  scar  in  testimony 
of  its  braver}',  as,  on  the  other  hand,  it  often  is  the  cause  of  losing  all, 
even  life  itself." 


398  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III 

Ber.  This  very  day, 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file : 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts ;  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.    Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 
Might  you  not  know,  she  would  do  as  she  has  done, 
By  sending  me  a  letter  ?     Read  it  again. 

Stew.   /  am  Saint  Jaques1 1  pilgrim,  thither  gone ; 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended, 
That  barefoot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upon, 

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

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

His  name  with  zealous  fervor  sanctify. 
His  taken  labors  bid  him  me  forgive; 

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

Where  death  and  danger  dog  the  heels  of  worth. 
He  is  too  good  and  fair  for  death  and  me, 
Whom  I  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 

Count.    Ah,  what   sharp  stings  are   in   her  mildest 

words ! 

Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  advice 3  so  much, 
As  letting  her  pass  so;  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 

1  At  Orleans  was  a  church  dedicated  to  St.  Jnqucs,  to  which  pilgrims 
formerly  us:>d  to  resort,  to  adore  a  part  of  the  cross  pretended  to  be  found 
there.     See  Hevlin's  France  Painted  to  the  Life,  1C50',   p.  270 — G. 

2  Alluding  to  the  story  of  Hercules, 
a  i.  e.  discretion  or  thought. 


Wid. 


mar.    v^omc,  let's  return  a^ain,  ana  surncc  ourscivcs 


SC.  V.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  401 

The  rather,  for,  I  think,  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.    If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

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

Wid.    You  eame,  I  think,  from  France  ? 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

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

Hel.  1 1  is  name,  I  pray  you. 

Did.    The  count  Rousillon.      Know  you  such  a  one  ? 

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

Did.  Whatsoe'er  he  is, 

He's  bravely  taken  here.      Hi;  stole  from  France, 
As  'tis  reported,  for1  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking.     Think  you  it  is  so  : 

Hel.    Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth;    I  know  his  ladv. 

Did.    There  is  a  gentleman,  that  serves  the  count, 
Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 

Hel.  What's  his  name  ? 

Dia.    Monsieur  Parolles. 

I  {el.  O.  I  believe  with  him, 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated  :   all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examined.'3 

Dia.  Alas,  poor  ladv  ! 

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

Wid.    Av,  right;   i^ood  creature.  \\  lieivsoeYr  she  is,n 


1  For,  here  and  in  other  places,  signifies  because,  which  Tooke  says  is 
always  its  signification. 

2  That  is,  questioned,  doubted. 

3  The  old  copy  reads — 

"  /  icrite  good  creature,  wheresoe'er  she  is." 

Malone  once  deemed  this  an  error,  and  proposed,  ".?  right  good  creature," 
which  was  admitted  into  the  text,  but  he  subsequently  thought  that  the 
old  reading  was  correct. 

VOL.     II.  51 


402  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III. 

Her  heart  weighs  sadly  :  this  young  maid  might  do  her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleased. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean  ? 

May  be  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed  ; 

And  brokes1  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honor  of  a  maid  : 
But  she  is  armed  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 
In  honestest  defence. 


Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colors,  a  party  of  the  Floren 
tine  Army,  BERTRAM  and  PAROLLES. 

Mar.    The  gods  forbid  else! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  come. — 

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

Hel.  Which  is  the  Frenchman  ? 

Dia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume  :  'tis  a  most  gallant  fellow ; 
I  would  he  loved  his  wife :  if  he  were  honester, 
He  were   much  goodlier. — Is't  not  a  handsome  gen 
tleman  ? 

Hel.    I  like  him  well. 

Dia.    'Tis  pity  he  is  not  honest.     Yond's  that  same 

knave, 

That  leads  him  to  these  places ;  were  I  his  lady, 
I'd  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

Hel.  Which  is  he  ? 

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

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

Par.    Lose  our  drum  !     Well. 

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

Wid.    Marry,  hang  you  ! 

1  Deals  with  panders. 


SC.  VI.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         403 

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

[Exeunt  BERTRAM,  PAROLLES,  Officers, 
and  Soldiers. 

Wid.    The    troop    is   past.     Come,   pilgrim,    I   will 

bring  you 

Where  you  shall  host :  of  enjoined  penitents, 
There's  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jaques  hound, 
Already  at  my  house. 

lid.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Please  it  this  matron,  arid  this  gentle  maid, 
To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge,  and  thanking, 
Shall  be  for  me  ;  and,  to  requite  you  further, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  on  this  virgin. 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We'll  take  your  ofter  kindlv.      [E;cni/it. 


SCENE  VI.      Camp  before  Florence. 

Enter  BERTRAM  and  ihc  two  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.    Nay.  good   my  lord,  put   him   to't :  let  him 
h:ive  his  way. 

2  Lord.    If  your   lordship   find    him   not   a   hilding,1 
hold  me  no  more;  in  your  respect. 

1   Lord.    On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 

Bcr.    Do  you  think  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  ? 

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

2  Lord.    It  were   fit   you   knew   him  ;   lest,  reposing 
too  far  in   his  virtue,  which   he  hath   not,  he   might,  at 
some    great   and    trusty    business,    in    a    main    danger, 
fail  you. 

Bcr.    I  would  I   knew  in  what   particular  action  to 
try  him. 

1  Jl  hilling  is  a  paltry  follow,  a  coward. 


404  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his 
drum,  which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake 
to  do. 

1  Lord.    I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  sud 
denly  surprise   him ;   such    I  will   have,  whom,  I   am 
sure,  he   knows   not  from   the   enemy :  we  will  bind 
and  hoodwink  him  so,  that  he  shall  suppose  no  other 
but  that  he  is  carried  into  the  leaguer l  of  the  adver 
saries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our  tents.     Be  but  your 
lordship  present  at  his  examination ;  if  he  do  not,  for 
the  promise  of  his  life,  and  in  the  highest  compulsion 
of  base  fear,  offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliver  all  the 
intelligence  in  his  power  against  you,  and  that  with 
the  divine  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never  trust  my 
judgment  in  any  thing. 

2  Lord.    O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch 
his  drum  ;  he  says   he  has  a  stratagem  for't.     When 
your  lordship  sees  the  bottom  of  his  success  in't,  and 
to  what  metal  this  counterfeit  lump  of  ore 2  will  be 
melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John  Drum's  entertain 
ment,3  your  inclining  cannot  be  removed.     Here  he 
comes. 

Enter  PAROLLES. 

1  Lord.    O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not  the 
humor  of  his   design  ;   let  him   fetch  off  his  drum  in 
any  hand.4 

Ber.  How  now,  monsieur  ?  This  drum  sticks  sorely 
in  your  disposition. 

2  Lord.    A  pox  on't,  let  it  go ;  'tis  but  a  drum. 
Par.    But  a  drum  !     Is't  but  a  drum  ?     A  drum  so 

lost ! — There  was  an  excellent  command  !  To  charge 
in  with  our  horse  upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend  our 
own  soldiers. 

2  Lord.    That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  com- 


1  The  camp.     It  seems  to  have  been  a  new-fangled  term  at  this  time, 
introduced  from  the  Low  Countries. 

2  The  old  copy  reads  ours.     The  emendation  is  Theobald's. 

3  This  was  a  common  phrase  for  ill  treatment. 

4  A  phrase  for  at  any  rate — sometimes,  "  at  any  hand." 


SC.  VI.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         405 

maud  of  the  service  ;  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that. 
Caesar  himself  could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had 
been  there  to  command. 

Bcr.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  success. 
Some  dishonor  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum  ;  but  it 
is  not  to  be  recovered. 

Par.    It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.    It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered :  but  that  the  merit  of 
service  is  seldom  attributed  to  the  true  and  exact 
performer,  I  would  have  that  drum  or  another,  or 
hicjacet.1 

Bcr.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to't,  monsieur, 
if  you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  brin^  this 
instrument  of  honor  again  into  his  nathe  quarter, 
be  magnanimous  in  the  enterprise,  and  go  on.  I  will 
grace  the  attempt  for  a  worthy  exploit  ;  if  you  speed 
well  in  it,  the  duke  shall  both  speak  of  it,  and  extend 
to  you  what  further  becomes  his  greatnes>,  even  to  the 
utmost  syllable  of  your  worthiness. 

Par.    By  the*  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  undertake  it. 

Bcr.    But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I'll  about  it  this  evening;  and  I  will  presently 
pen  down  my  dilemmas,2  encourage  myself  in  my 
certainty,  put  myself  into  my  mortal  preparation,  and, 
bv  midnight,  look  to  hear  further  from  me. 

Bcr.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  grace  you  are 
gone  about  it  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord  ; 
but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Bcr.  I  know  thou  art  valiant;  and.  to  the  possi 
bility  of  thy  soldiership,  will  subscribe  for  thee.3 
Farewell. 

Par.    I  love  not  many  words.  [Exit. 

1  The  usual  commencement  of  an  epitaph. 

2  The  dilemmas  of  Parolles  are  the  difficulties  he  was  to  encounter. 
Mr.  Boswell  argues  that  the  penning  down  of  these  could  not  well  en 
courage  him  in  his  certainty;  but  why  are  those  distinct  actions  neces 
sarily  connected  ? 

:i  Bertram's  meaning  is,  that  he  will  vouch  for  his  doing  all  that  it  is 
possible  for  .soldiership  to  effect. 


406  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III. 

1  Lord.    No  more  than  a  fish  loves  water. — Is  not 
this  a   strange   fellow,   my  lord  ?   that  so  confidently 
seems  to   undertake   this   business,   which    he   knows 
is  not  to   be   done;   damns  himself  to  do,  and  dares 
better  be  damned  than  to  do't. 

2  Lord.   You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we  do : 
certain  it  is,   that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a  man's 
favor,  and,  for  a  week,  escape  a  great  deal  of  discov 
eries;  but  when  you  find  him  out,  you  have  him  ever 
after. 

Ber.    Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no  deed  at  all 
of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself  unto  ? 

1  Lord.    None  in  the  world  ;  but  return  with  an  in 
vention,  and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable  lies  : 
but  we  have  almost  embossed  him ; l  you  shall  see   his 
fall  to-night ;  for,  indeed,  he  is  not  for  your  lordship's 
respect. 

2  Lord.    We  will  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox, 
ere  we  case  him.2     He  was  first  smoked  by  the  old 
lord  Lafeu.     When  his  disguise  and  he  is  parted,  tell 
me  what  a  sprat  you  shall  find   him ;  which  you  shall 
see  this  very  night. 

1  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs  ;  he  shall  be  caught. 
Ber.    Your  brother,  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

1  Lord.    As't  please  your  lordship.     I'll  leave  you. 

[Exit. 

Ber.    Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and  show  you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But,  you  say,  she's  honest. 
Ber.    That's  all  the  fault.   I  spoke  with  her  but  once, 

And  found  her  wondrous  cold ;  but  I  sent  to  her, 
By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'the  wind,3 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  resend ; 


1  That  is,  almost  run  him  down.     An  embossed  stag  is  one  so  hard 
chased  that  it  foams  at  the  mouth. 

2  Before  we  strip  him  naked,  or  unmask  him. 

3  This  proverbial  phrase  is  noted  hy  Ray,  p.  21G,  ed.  1737.     It  is  thus 
explained  by  old  Cotgrave : — "  Estre  sur  vent,  to  be  in  the  wind,  or  to 
have  the  wind  of — to  get  the  wind,  advantage,  upper  hand  of;  to  have  a 
man  wider  his  /ee." 


SC.  VII.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  407 

And  this  is  all  I  have  done.     She's  a  fair  creature  : 
Will  you  go  see  her  ? 

2  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.     Florence.     A    Room  in   the  Widow's 

House. 

I 

Enter  HELENA  and  Widow. 

I  Hel.    If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 

I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further, 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon.1 

Wid.    Though  my  estate  he  fallen,  I  was  well  born, 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses ; 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

lid.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband  ; 
And  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken, 
Is  so,  from  word  to  word  ;   and  then  you  cannot, 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow, 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  believe  you  ; 

For  you  have  showed  me  that  which  well  approves 
You  are  great  in  fortune. 

IIcl.  Take  this  purse1  of  gold, 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 
Which  I  will  overpay,  and  pay  again, 
When    I    have    found   it.     The  count  he  wooes  your 

daughter, 

Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 
Resolves  to  carry  her;   let  her,  in  fine,  consent, 
As  we'll  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it, 
Now  his  important'2  blood  will  nought  deny 
That  she'll  demand.      A  ring  the  county  3  wears 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house, 


1  i.  e.  by  discovering  herself  to  the  count. 
2  i.  e.  importunate.  3  i.  o.  the  count. 


408  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  III 

From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice ;  yet,  in  his  idle  fire, 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

Wid.  Now  I  see 

The  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

HeL    You  see  it  lawful  then.     It  is  no  more, 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won, 
Desires  this  ring ;  appoints  him  an  encounter  ; 
In  fine,  delivers  me  to  fill  the  time, 
Herself  most  chastely  absent :  after  this, 
To  marry  her,  I'll  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

Wid.  I  have  yielded. 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  persever, 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawful, 
May  prove  coherent.     Every  night  he  comes 
With  musics  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  composed 
To  her  un worthiness.     It  nothing  steads  us 
To  chide  him  from  our  eaves ;  for  he  persists, 
As  if  his  life  lay  on't. 

HeL  Why,  then,  to-night 

Let  us  assay  our  plot;  which,  if  it  speed, 
Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed, 
And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act ; 
Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact.1 
But  let's  about  it.  [Exeunt. 

1  This  gingling'  riddle  may  be  thus  briefly  explained.  Bertram's  is  a 
wicked  intention,  though  the  act  he  commits  is  lawful.  Helen's  is  both  a 
lawful  intention  and  a  lawful  deed.  The  fact,  as  relates  to  Bertram,  was 
sinful,  because  he  intended  to  commit  adultery ;  yet  neither  he  nor  Hele 
na  actually  sinned. 


SC.  1.]  ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS  WELL.  409 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.      Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 

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

I  Lord.  He  can  come  no  othei  way  but  by  this 
hedge's  corner.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak 
what  terrible  language  you  will ;  though  you  under 
stand  it  not  yourselves,  no  matter  ;  for  we  must  not 
seem  to  understand  him  ;  unless  some  one  amon^  n-. 
whom  we  must  produce  for  an  interpreter. 

1  Sold.    Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

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

1  Sold.    No,  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

1  Lord.  But  what  linsey-woolsey  hast  thou  to  speak 
to  us  again? 

1  Sold.    Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

1  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers 
i'the  adversary's  entertainment.1  Now  he  hath  a 
smack  of  all  neighboring  languages  ;  therefore  we  must 
every  one  be  a  man  of  his  own  fancy,  not  to  know 
what  we  speak  one  to  another  ;  so  we  seem  to  know, 
is  to  know  straight  our  purpose:-  chough's  :i  language, 
gabble  enough  and  good  enough.  As  for  you,  inter 
preter,  you  must  seem  very  politic.  ]>ut  couch,  ho  ! 
here  he  comes  ;  to  beguile  two  hours  in  a  sleep,  and 
then  to  return  and  swear  the  lies  he  forces. 


Enter  PAROLLES. 

Par.  Ten  o'clock :  within  these  three  hours  'twill 
be  time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I  say  I  have 
done  ?  It  must  be  a  very  plausive  invention  that 

1  i.  o.  foreign  troops  in  the  enemy's  pay. 

3  The  sense  of  this  passage  is  obvious,  though  there  is  an  appaient 
imperfection  in  the  form  of  expression. 
3  A  bird  of  the  jack-daw  kind. 
VOL.  ii.  52 


410  ALLS   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV 

carries  it.  They  begin  to  smoke  me  ;  and  disgraces 
have  of  late  knocked  too  often  at  my  door.  I  find  my 
tongue  is  too  fool-hardy  ;  but  my  heart  hath  the  fear  of 
Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  creatures,  not  daring  the  re 
ports  of  my  tongue. 

1  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth,  that  e'er  thine  own 
tongue  was  guilty  of.  [Aside. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  undertake 
the  recovery  of  this  drum  ;  being  not  ignorant  of  the 
impossibility,  and  knowing  I  had  no  such  purpose?  I 
must  give  myself  some  hurts,  and  say  I  got  them  in 
exploit.  Yet  slight  ones  will  not  carry  it ;  they  will 
say,  Came  you  off  with  so  little  ?  and  great  ones  I  dare 
not  give.  Wherefore  ?  What's  the  instance  P1  Tongue, 
I  must  put  you  into  a  butterwoman's  mouth,  and  buy 
another  of  Bajazet's  mute,2  if  you  prattle  me  into  these 
perils. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  possible  he  should  know  what  he  is, 
and  be  that  he  is  ?  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would 
serve  the  turn ;  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

1  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  the  baring 3  of  my  beard ;  and  to  say,  it 
was  in  stratagem. 

1  Lord.    'Twould  not  do.  [Aside. 

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

1  Lord.    Hardly  serve.  [Aside. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the  window  of 
the  citadel — — 

1  Lord.    How  deep  ?  [Aside. 

Par.    Thirty  fathom. 

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

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

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

1  The  proof. 

'*  The  old  copy  reads  mule.     The  emendation  was  made  by  Warburton. 

3  i  e.  the  shaving  of  my  beard.     To  bare  anciently  signified  to  shave. 


SC.  I.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS    WELL.  411 

Par.    A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's  ! 

[Alarum  within 

1  Lord.    Thrbca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.    Cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.    O  !  ransom,  ransom. — Do  not  hide  mine  eyes 
[They  seize  him  and  blindfold  him 

1  Sold.    Boskos  ihromuldo  boskos. 

Par.    I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment, 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language. 
If  there  he  here  German,  or  Dane,  Low  Duteh, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me  ; 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado. — 

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

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.  Oh ! 

1  Sold.  O  pray,  pray,  pray. — 

Manka  rcvania  d niche. 

1  Lord.  Oscorbi  dnlchos  volicorca. 

1  Sold.    The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet; 
And,  hoodwinked  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee  ;   haply,  thou  mayst  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Par.  O,  let  me  live, 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I'll  show, 
Their  force,  their  purposes.     Nay,  I'll  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Par.    If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  linta. — 

Come  on,  thou  art  granted  space. 

[Exit,  with  PAROLLES  guarded. 

I  Lord.    Go,    tell     the     count    Rousillon,    and    my 

brother, 
We    have  caught  the  woodcock,   and  will   keep  him 

muffled, 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 


412  ALL'S    WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

1  Lord.    He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves ; — 
Inform  'em  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 

1  Lord.    Till   then,  I'll  keep  him  dark,  and  safely 
locked.  [Exeunt. 


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

House. 

Enter  BERTRAM  and  DIANA. 

Ber.    They  told  me  that  your  name  was  Fontibell. 

Dia.    No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Ber.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  worth  it,  with  addition !     But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality? 
If  the  quick  fire  of  youth  .light  not  your  mind, 
You  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument. 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stern  ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was, 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.    She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  No. 

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

Ber.  No  more  of  that ! 

I  pr'ythee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows : 1 
I  was  compelled  to  her ;  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  forever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us, 

Till  we  serve  you :  but  when  you  have  our  roses, 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves, 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

1  i.  e.  against  his  determined  resolution  never  to  cohabit  with  Helena. 


SC.  If]  ALLS    WELL   THAT    ENDS    WELL  -113 

7>Vr.  I  low  have  I  sworn  ? 

/)/«.    'Tis    not    the    many    oaths,    that     make    the 

truth  ; 

But  tin,'  plain,  single  vow,  that  is  vowed  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  bv, 
Hut  take  the  Highest  to  witness.1      Then  pray  you,  tell 

me, 

It  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 
I  loved  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  inv  oaths, 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?     This  has  no  holding, 
To  swear  by  Him  whom  I  protest  to  love, 
That    I    will    work    against     him.2       Therefore,    vour 

oaths 

Are  words,  and  poor  conditions,  but  unsealed  ; 
At  least,  in  mv  opinion. 

Ihr.  Change  it,  change  it  : 

J5e  not  so  holy-cruel.      Love  is  hol\  : 
And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts 
That  you  do  charge  men  with.      Stand  no  more  off, 
Hut  "five  thyself  unto  my  sick  desire-*. 
Who  then  recover:   say  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
Mv  love,  as  it  begins,  shall  so  persever. 

Did.    \  see  that  men  make  hopes,  in  such  a  war,3 
That  we'll  forsake  ourselves.      (Jive  me  that  rinu. 

Her.     I'll  lend  it  thee,  mv  dear,  but    ha\e    no   power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Did.  Will  vou  not.  inv  lord  ' 

/>Vr.    It  is  an  honor  'longing  to  our  house. 
Bequeathed  down  Irom  many  ancestors; 
\Vhich  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 


1  Tlio  sense  is,  we  never  swear  by  what  is  not  holy,  but  t:iko  to  wit 
ness  t.ho  Highest,  the  Divinity. 

-  This  passage  is  considered  obscure  by  some  commentator-:  but  the 
moaning  appears  to  l>e  very  obvious:  tin  oath  has  no  binding  force,  when 
we  swear  by  the  Deity,  whom  we  profess  to  love,  that  we  will  commit  a. 
deed  that  is  displeasing  to  him. 

:J  The  old  copy  reads,  "make  ropes  in  such  a  srarn ."  Rowe  changed 
it  to,  "make  hopes  in  such  affairs  ; "  and  Malone  to,  u  make  hopes  in  such 
a  scene."  But  affairs  and  scene  have  no  literal  resemblance  to  the  old 
wordsrarre:  trarre  is  always  so  written  in  the  old  coj>y  :  the  chanirt'  is 
therefore  less  violent,  and  more  probable. 


414  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV. 

Dia.  Mine  honor's  such  a  ring. 

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

Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring  : 

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

Dia.   When  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  chamber 

window ; 

I'll  order  take,  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth, 
When  you  have  conquered  my  yet  maiden  bed, 
Remain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me : 
My  reasons  are  most  strong  ;  and  you  shall  know  them, 
When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  delivered : 
And  on  your  finger,  in  the  night,  I'll  put 
Another  ring;  that  what  in  time  proceeds, 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu  till  then  ;  then,  fail  not.     You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 

Ber.    A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won,  by  wooing 
thee.  [Exit. 

Dia.    For  which  live  long  to  thank  both  Heaven 
and  me ! 

You  may  so  in  the  end. 

My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo, 
As  if  she  sat  in  his  heart ;  she  says,  all  men 
Have  the  like  oaths :  he  had  sworn  to  marry  me 
When  his  wife's  dead;  therefore  I'll  lie  with  him 
When  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid,1 
Marry  that  will,  I'll  live  and  die  a  maid : 
Only  in  this  disguise  I  think't  no  sin 
'  To  cozen  him  that  would  unjustly  win.  [Exit. 

1  i.  e.  false,  deceitful,  tricking,  beguiling. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  415 


SCENE  III.     The  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  the  two  French  Lords,  and  tico  or  three  Soldiers. 

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

2  Lord.    I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  sinee.     There 
is  something  in't  that  stings   his  nature ;   for,  on   the 
reading  it,  he  changed  almost  into  another  man. 

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

2  Lord.    Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  everlasting 
displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even  tuned  his  bounty 
to  sing  happiness  to  him.      I  will   tell  you  a  thin::,  hut 
you  shall  let  it  dwell  darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.    When  you   have  spoken  it,    'tis  dead,  and 
I  am  the  grave  of  it. 

O 

2  Lord.    lie  hath  perverted  a  young  gentlewoman 
here  in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste   renown  ;  and   this 
night  he  fleshes   his  will  in  the  spoil  of  her   honor;   lie 
hath  given  her  his  monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself 
made  in  the  unchaste  composition. 

1  Lord.    Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion  ;   as  we  are 
ourselves,  what  things  are  we  ! 

2  Lord.    Merely  our    own   traitors  :    and   as   in   the 
common  course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  see  them  reveal 
themselves,  till   they  attain  to   their  abhorred   ends,   so 
he  that  in  this  action  contrives  against  his  own  nobilitv, 
in  his  proper  stream  o'erflows  himself.1 

1  Lord.    Is    it   not    meant   damnable  ~   in   us    to    be 
trumpeters   of   our   unlawful    intents  ?     AYe    shall    not 
then  have  his  company  to-night. 

2  Lord.    Not  till  after  midnight ;   for  he  is  dieted  to 
his  hour. 

1  Lord.    That   approaches   apace ;    I   would    gladly 
have  him  see  his  company3  anatomized;  that  he  might 


1  i.  c.  betrays  his  own  secrets  in  his  own  talk. 

2  Damnable  for  damnably  ;  the  adjective  used  adverbially. 

3  Company  for  companion. 


416  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV. 

take   a  measure   of  his  own  judgment,1   wherein    so 
curiously  he  had  set  this  counterfeit.2 

2  Lord.    We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come  ; 
for  his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the  other. 

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

2  Lord.    I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.    Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 

2  Lord.    AYhat  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ?     Will 
he  travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France  ? 

O  '  O 

1  Lord.    I   perceive   by  this   demand,  you   are  not 
altogether  of  his  council. 

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

O 

1  Lord.    Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since,  fled 
from  his  house.     Her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage  to  Saint 
Jaques  le  Grand  ;  which  holy  undertaking,  with  most 
austere  sanctimony,  she  accomplished;  and,  there  re 
siding,  the  tenderness  of  her  nature  became  as  a  prey 
to  her  grief;  in  fine,  made  a  groan  of  her  last  breath, 
and  now  she  sings  in  heaven. 

2  Lord.    How  is  this  justified  ? 

1  Lord.    The  stronger  part  of  it  by  her  own  letters  , 
which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point  of  her 
death.     Her  death  itself,  which  could  not  be  her  office 
to  say,  is  come,  was  faithfully  confirmed  by  the  rector 
of  the  place. 

2  Lord.    Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence  ? 

1  Lord.    Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations,  point 
from  point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 

2  Lord.    I  am  heartily  sorry,  that  he'll  be  glad  of 
this. 

1  Lord.    How    mightily,   sometimes,   we    make    us 
comforts  of  our  losses  ! 

2  Lord.    And  how  mightily,  some  other  times,  we 

1  This  is  a  very  just  and  moral  reason.     Bertram,  by  finding  how  erro 
neously  he  has  judged,  will  be  less  confident,  and  more  easily  moved  by 
admonition. 

2  Counterfeit,  besides  its  ordinary  signification  of  a  person  pretending 
to  be  what  he  is  not,  also  meant  a  picture ;  the  word  set  shows  that  the 
word  is  used  in  both  senses  here. 


! 

SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  417 

drown  our  gain  in  tears !  The  great  dignity  that  his 
valor  hath  here  acquired  for  him,  shall  at  home  be  en 
countered  with  a  shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.    The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn, 
good  and  ill   together.     Our  virtues   would   be  proud, 
if  our  faults  whipped  them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would 
despair,  if  they  were  not  cherished  by  our  virtues. — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  ?   where's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke;  in  the  street,  sir,  of  whom 
he  hath  taken  a  solemn  leave  ;  his  lordship  will  next 
morning  for  France.  The  duke  hath  offered  him  let 
ters  of  commendations  to  the  kinir. 

O 

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

Enter  BERTRAM. 

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

Bcr.  I  have  to-night  despatched  sixteen  businesses, 
a  month's  length  apiece,  by  an  abstract  of  success.  I 
have  congeed  with  the  duke,  done  my  adieu  witli  his 
nearest ;  buried  a  wife,  mourned  for  her ;  writ  to  my 
lady  mother  I  am  returning ;  entertained  my  convoy ; 
and,  between  these  main  parcels  of  despatch,  effected 
many  nicer  needs  ;  the  last  was  the  greatest,  but  that 
I  have  not  ended  yd. 

2  Lord.    If  the    business   be   of  any  difficulty,  and 
this  morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste  of 
your  lordship. 

Bcr.  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fearing 
to  hear  of  it  hereafter.  But  shall  we  have  this  dialogue 

between   the    fool    and    the    soldier? Come,   bring 

forth  this  counterfeit  module  ; l  he  has  deceived  me, 
like  a  double-meaning  prophesier. 

1  Module  and  model  were  synonymous.     The  meaning1  is,  bring  forth 
this  counterfeit  representation  of  a  soldier. 
VOL.  ii.  53 


418  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL.  [ACT  IV 

2  Lord.  Bring  him  forth.  [Exeunt  Soldiers.]  He 
has  sat  in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  gallant  knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it,  in 
usurping  his  spurs1  so  long.  How  does  he  carry 
himself  ? 

1  Lor d.    I    have    told   jour   lordship    already ;    the 
stocks  carry  him.     But  to  answer  you  as  you  would 
be  understood ;  he  weeps  like  a  wench  that  had  shed 
her  milk  :  he  hath  confessed  himself  to  Morgan,  whom 
he  supposes  to  be  a  friar,  from  the  time  of  his  remem 
brance,  to  this  very  instant  disaster  of  his  setting  i'the 
stocks.     And  what  think  you  he  hath  confessed  ? 

Ber.   Nothing  of  me,  has  he  ? 

2  Lord.    His  confession  is   taken,  and   it  shall   be 
read  to  his  face :  if  your  lordship  be  in't,  as  I  believe 
you  are,  you  must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it. 

Re-enter  Soldiers  with  PAROLLES. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him!  Muffled!  he  can  say 
nothing  of  me  ;  hush  !  hush  ! 

1  Lord.    Hoodman 2  comes  ! — Porto  tartarossa. 

\  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures.  What  will  you 
say  without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  constraint ; 
if  ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no  more. 

1  Sold.    Bosko  chimurcho. 

2  Lord.   Boblibindo  chicurmurco. 

1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general. — Our  general 
bids  you  to  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out  of  a  note. 

Par.    And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  First  demand  of  him  hoiv  many  horse  the 
duke  is  strong  ?  What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand ;  but  very  weak  and 
unserviceable.  The  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the 
commanders  very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation  and 
credit,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.    Shall  1  set  down  your  ans\ver  so  ? 


1  An  allusion  to  the  degradation  of  a  knight  by  hacking  off  his  spurs. 

2  The  game  at  blind-man's-buff  was  formerly  called  Hoodman  blind. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  419 

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

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

1  Lord.    You   are  deceived,  my  lord  ;  this  is  mon 
sieur  Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist,  (that  was  his  own 
phrase,)  that   had  the  whole   theorick2  of  war  in  the 
knot  of  his  scarf,  and  the  practice  in   the  chape3  of 
his  dagger. 

2  Lord.    I  will  never  trust  a  man  ajjain  for  keeping 
his  sword  clean  ;   nor   believe1  he  can   have   every  thing 
in  him,  by  wearing  his  apparel  neatlv. 

1  Sold.    Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said. — \  will  say 
true  :  or  thereal>outs,  set  down,  for  I'll  speak  truth. 

1  Lord.    lie's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Bcr.  But  I  con  him  no  thanks4  fort,  in  the  nature 
he  delivers  it. 

Par.    Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

1  Sold.    Well,  that's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir:  a  truth's  a  truth, 
the  rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  Demand  of  A/w,  of  what  strength  they  are 
a- foot.  What  say  you  to  that  ' 

Par.  Bv  my  troth,  sir.  if  I  were  to  live  this  present 
hour/'  I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see  :  Spurio  a  hundred 
and  fifty,  Sebastian  so  manv,  Cornmbus  so  many, 
Jaques  so  many;  Guiltian,  Cosmo,  Lodowick.  and  (Jra- 
tii,  two  hundred  fifty  each  ;  mine  own  company.  Chito- 
pher,  Vaumond,  Bentii,  two  hundred  and  fifty  each; 
so  that  the  muster-file,  rotten  and  sound,  upon  tin  life, 
amounts  not  to  fifteen  thousand  poll  ;  half  of  which 
dare  not  shake  the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks.'''  lest 
they  shake  themselves  to  pieces. 

1  In  the  old  copy  these  words  are  given  by  mistake  to  Parolles. 

a  Theory. 

3  The  chape  is  the  catch  or  fastening  of  the  sheath  of  his  dagger. 


*  L  e.  I  am  not  beholden  to  him  for  it,  &c. 


5  Perhaps  we  should  read,  "  if  I  were  hut  to  live  this  present  hour;" 
unless  the  blunder  is  meant  to  show  the  fright  of  Parolles. 

6  "  Cassock* ;"  soldiers'  cloak-  or  uppor  garments. 


120  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV 

Ber.   What  shall  be  done  to  him? 

1  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  De 
mand  of  him  my  conditions,1  and  what  credit  I  have 
with  the  duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down.  You  shall  demand 
of  him,  whether  one  captain  Dumain  be  {''the  camp,  a 
Frenchman ;  what  his  reputation  is  with  the  duke,  what 
his  valor,  honesty,  and  expertness  in  wars ;  or  whether 
he  thinks  it  were  not  possible,  with  well-weighing  sums 
of  gold,  to  corrupt  him  to  a  revolt.  What  say  you  to 
this  ?  What  do  you  know  of  it  ? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  particular 
of  the  intergatories.2  Demand  them  singly. 

1  Sold.    Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumain  ? 

Par.  I  know  him :  he  was  a  botcher's  'prentice  in 
Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  getting  the 
sheriff's  fool3  with  child;  a  dumb  innocent,  that  could 
not  say  him  nay. 

[DUMAIN  lifts  up  his  hand  in  anger. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands ;  though 
I  know  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls.4 

1  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the  duke  of  Flor 
ence's  camp? 

Par.    Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy. 

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

1  Sold.    What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  ? 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a  poor 
officer  of  mine  ;  and  writ  to  me,  this  other  day,  to  turn 
him  out  o'the  band.  I  think  I  have  his  letter  in  my 
pocket. 

1  Sold.    Marry,  we'll  search. 

1  i.  e.  disposition  and  character. 

2  For  interrogatories. 

3  Female  idiots,  as  well  as  male,  though  not  so  commonly,  were  re 
tained  in  great  families  for  diversion. 

4  In  Whitney's  Emblems  there  is  a  story  of  three  women  who  threw 
dice  to  ascertain  which  of  them  should  die  first.     She  who  lost  affected 
to  laugh  at  the  decrees  of  fate,  when  a  tile  suddenly  falling  put  an  end 
to  her  existence.     This  book  was  certainly  known  to  Shakspeare.     The 
passages  in  Lucian  and  Plutarch  are  not  so   likely  to  have  met  the 
Poet's  eye. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  421 

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

1  Sold.  Here  'tis  ;  here's  a  paper !  Shall  I  read  it 
to  you  ? 

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

Ber.    Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

1  Lord.    Excellently. 

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

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

1  Sold.    Nav,  1*11  read  it  first,  by  your  favor. 

Par.  My  meaning  in't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest 
in  the  behalf  of  the  maid;  for  I  knew  the  young  count 
to  be  a  dangerous  and  lascivious  boy ;  who  is  a  whale 
to  virginity,  and  devours  up  all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Bcr.    Damnable,  both  sides  rogue  ! 

1  Sold.    JHicn  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold, 
and  take  it  ; 

After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score  : 
Half  won,  is  match  well  made;  match,  and  well  make 
it : ' 

He  ne'er  pays  after-debts;  take  it  before  ; 
And  say,  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thce  thi*. 
Men  are  to  m(H~  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss. 
Fur  count  of  this,  the  count's  afoul.  I  /enow  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  win  n  he  docs  owe  it. 
Thine,  as  he  voiced  to  tliee  i/i  thine  ear, 

PAROLLES. 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army  with 
this  rhyme  in  his  forehead. 


1  i.  e.  a  match  well  made  is  half  won  ;  make  your  match,  therefore,  hut 
make  it  well. 

2  The  meaning  of  the  word  mcU,  from  m<lcr  (French),  is  obvious.     To 
mell,  says  Ruddiman,  "to  fight,  contend,  meddle  or  have  to  do  with." 


422  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV. 

2  Lord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the  mani 
fold  linguist,  and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a  cat,  and 
now  he's  a  cat  to  me. 

I  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  the  general's  looks,  we 
shall  be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case  :  not  that  I  am  afraid 
to  die ;  but  that,  my  offences  being  many,  I  would  re 
pent  out  the  remainder  of  nature  ;  let  me  live,  sir,  in  a 
dungeon,  i'the  stocks,  or  any  where,  so  I  may  live. 

1  Sold.  We'll  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  con 
fess  freely  ;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  captain  Du- 
main :  You  have  answered  to  his  reputation  with  the 
duke,  and  to  his  valor ;  what  is  his  honesty  ? 

Par.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister  ;  for 
rapes  and  ravishments  he  parallels  Nessus.1  He  pro 
fesses  not  keeping  of  oaths ;  in  breaking  them,  he  is 
stronger  than  Hercules.  He  will  lie,  sir,  with  such 
volubility,  that  you  would  think  truth  were  a  fool. 
Drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue  ;  for  he  wTill  be  swine- 
drunk  ;  and  in  his  sleep  he  does  little  harm,  save  to  his 
bed-clothes  about  him  ;  but  they  know  his  conditions, 
and  lay  him  in  straw.  I  have  but  little  more  to  say, 
sir,  of  his  honesty :  he  has  every  thing  that  an  honest 
man  should  not  have ;  what  an  honest  man  should 
have,  he  has  nothing. 

1  Lord.    I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty  ?  A  pox 
upon  him  for  me  ;  he  is  more  and  more  a  cat. 

1  Sold.    What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  led  the  drum  before  the 
English  tragedians, — to  belie  him,  I  will  not, — and 
more  of  his  soldiership  I  know  not ;  except  in  that 
country,  he  had  the  honor  to  be  the  officer  at  a  place 
there  called  Mile  End,2  to  instruct  for  the  doubling  of 
files.  I  would  do  the  man  what  honor  I  can,  but  of 
this  I  am  not  certain. 

1  The  Centaur  killed  by  Hercules. 

2  Mile  End  Green  was  the  place  for  public  sports  and  exercises.     See 
K.  Henry  IV.  P.  II.  Act  iii.  Sc.  2. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  423 

1  Lord.  He  hath  ont-villained  villany  so  far,  that 
the  rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.    A  pox  on  him  !  he's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price,  I 
need  not  ask  you,  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir,  for  a  quart  d'ecu1  he  will  sell  the  fee-sim 
ple  of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it ;  and  cut  the 
entail  from  all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual  succession 
for  it  perpetually. 

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

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

Par.  Even  a  crow  of  the  same  nest ;  not  altogether 
so  great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater  a  great 
deal  in  evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a  coward,  yet 
his  brother  is  reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is.  In  a  re 
treat  he  outruns  any  lackey ;  marry,  in  coming  on  he 
has  the  cramp. 

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

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  count  Rou- 
sillon. 

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

Par.  I'll  no  more  drumming  ;  a  plague  of  all  drums  ! 
Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  beguile  the  sup 
position2  of  that  lascivious  young  boy  the  count,  have  I 
run  into  this  danger.  Yet  who  would  have  suspected 
an  ambush  where  I  was  taken  ?  [Asidr. 

I  Sold.  There  is  no  reined v,  sir,  but  you  must  die. 
The  general  says,  von,  that  have  so  traitorously  discov 
ered  the  secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such  pestifer 
ous  reports  of  men  very  nobly  held,  can  serve  the  world 
for  no  honest  use ;  therefore  yon  must  die.  Come, 
headsmen,  off  with  his  head. 

Par.  O  Lord,  sir;  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my  death! 

The  fourth  part  of  the  smaller  French  crown,  about  eight  pence. 
2  To  deceive  the  opinion. 


424  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV. 

1  Sold.    That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave  of  all 
your  friends.  [Unmuffling  him. 
So,  look  about  you :  Know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.    Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.    God  bless  you,  captain  Parolles. 

1  Lord.    God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.    Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my  lord 
Lafeu  ?  I  am  for  France. 

1  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a  copy  of 
the  sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf  of  the  count 
Rousillon  ?  An  I  were  not  a  very  coward,  I'd  compel 
it  of  you  ;  but  fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  BERTRAM,  Lords,  &c. 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain ;  all  but  your 
scarf,  that  has  a  knot  on't  yet. 

Par.    Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

1  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where  but 
women  were  that  had  received  so  much  shame,  you 
might  begin  an  impudent  nation.  Fare  you  well,  sir ; 
I  am  for  France  too ;  we  shall  speak  of  you  there. 

[Exit. 

Par.    Yet  am  I  thankful :  if  my  heart  were  great, 
'Twould  burst  at  this.     Captain  I'll  be  no  more ; 
But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall :  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall  make  rne  live.     Who  knows  himself  a  braggart, 
Let  him  fear  this ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass, 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword !  cool,  blushes !  and,  Parolles,  live 
Safest  in  shame  !     Being  fooled,  by  foolery  thrive  ! 
There's  place,  and  means,  for  every  man  alive. 
I'll  after  them.  [Exit. 


SC  IV.]      ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         425 


SCENE   IV.      Florence.      A  Room  in  the  Widow's 

House. 

Enter  HELENA,  Widow,  and  DIANA. 

Hel.     That    you    may    well    perceive    I    have    not 

wronged  you, 

One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall  he  my  surety ;   'fore  whose  throne  'tis  needful, 
Ere  1  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel. 
Time  was,  I  did  him  a  desired  office, 
Dear  almost  as  his  life  ;  which  gratitude 
Through  flinty  Tartar's  hosoni  would  pee})  forth, 
And  answer,  thanks.      I  duly  am  informed 
His  grace  is  at  Marseilles;1   to  which  place 
We  have  convenient  convoy.      You  must  know, 
1  am  supposed  dead  :   the;  army  breaking, 
My  husband  hies  him  home  ;   where,  Heaven  aiding, 
And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 
We'll  be,  before  our  welcome. 

IVid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

I  hi.  Xor  you,  mistress, 

Ever  a  friend  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labor 
To  recompense  your  love.      Doubt  not  but  Heaven 
Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower, 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  mv  motive- 
And  helper  to  a  husband.      But.  ()  strange  men! 
That  can  such  sweet  list;  make  of  what  thev  hate, 
When  saucy3  trusting  of  the  co/ened  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night !   So  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loathes,  for  that  which  is  away  : 
But  more  of  this  hereafter. You,  Diana, 

1  Marseilles,  in  the  old  copy,  is  written  Marcellffi  and  Marcellus. 

2  i.  e.  to  be  my  mover. 

3  Saury  was  used  in  the  sense  of  wanton.     We  have  it  with  the  same 
meaning  in  Measure  for  Measure. 

VOL.   ii.  54 


426"         ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL,     [ACT  IV. 

Under  my  poor  instructions,  yet  must  suffer 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,  I  am  yours,1 
Upon  your  will  to  surfer. 

Hel.  Yet,  I  pray  you,2 

But  with  the  word,  the  time  will  bring  on  summer, 

When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 

And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away ; 

Our  wagon  is  prepared,  and  time  revives  us. 

AWs  well  that  ends  ivell :  still  the  fine's  the  crown  ;3 

Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.     Rousillon.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 

Palace. 

Enter  Countess,  LAFEU,  and  Clown. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with  a  snipt- 
taffeta  fellow  there ;  whose  villanous  saffron 4  would 
have  made  all  the  unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of  a  na 
tion  in  his  color :  your  daughter-in-law  had  been  alive 
at  this  hour ;  and  your  son  here  at  home,  more  ad 
vanced  by  the  king,  than  by  that  red-tailed  humble-bee 
I  speak  of. 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  known  him !  It  was  the 
death  of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman,  that  ever  na- 

1  i.  e.  let  death,  accompanied  by  honesty,  go  with  the  task  you  impose, 
still  I  am  yours,  &c. 

2  The  reading  proposed  by  Blackstone, 

"  Yet  I  [fray  you 

But  with  the  word :  the  time  will  bring,  &c." 
seems  required  by  the  context,  arid  makes  the  passage  intelligible. 

3  A  translation  of  the  common  Latin  proverb,  Finis  coronal  opus ;  the 
orio-in  of  which  has  been  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Douce,  in  his  Illustrations, 
vol.  i.  p.  323. 

4  It  has  been  thought  that  there  is  an  allusion  here  to  the  fashion  of 
yellow  starch  for  bands  and  ruffs,  which  was  long  prevalent ;  and  also 
to  the  custom  of  coloring  paste  with  saffron.     The  pla'in  'meaning  seems 
to  be — that  Parolles's  vices  were  of  such  a  colorable  quality  as  to  be 
sufficient  to  corrupt  the  inexperienced  youth  of  a  nation,  and  make  them 
take  the  same  hue. 


SC.  V.]  ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  427 

ture  had  praise  for  creating  :  if  she  had  partaken  of  my 
flesh,  and  cost  me  the  dearest  groans  of  a  mother,  I 
could  not  have  owed  her  a  more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'Twas  a  good  lady,  'twas  a  good  lady :  we 
may  pick  a  thousand  salads,  ere  we  light  on  such 
another  herb. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet-marjorum  of  the 
salad,  or  rather  the  herb  of  grace.1 

Laf.  They  are  not  salad-herbs,  you  knave ;  they  are 
nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir;  I  ha\« 
not  much  skill  in  »rass.2 

O 

Laf.  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself;  a  knave,  or 
a  fool? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a  knave 
at  a  man's. 

Laf.    Your  distinction  ? 

Clo.  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  and  do  his 
service. 

L(if.    So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed. 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bawble,3  sir,  to 
do  her  service. 

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

Clo.    At  your  service. 

I^af.    No,  no,  no. 

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

Laf.    Who's  that  ?     A  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  he  has  an  Knijish  name;4  but  his 
phisnomy  is  more  hotter  in  France,  than  there. 


1  i.  c.  rue. 

2  The  old  copy  reads  grace.     The  emendation  is  Howe's ;  who  also 
supplies  the  word  salad  in  the  preceding  speech.     The  clown  quibbles  on 
grass  and  grace. 

3  The  fool's  bawble  was  "  a  short  sstick  ornamented  at  the  end  with  the 
figure  of  a  fool's  head,  or  sometimes  with  that  of  a  doll  or  puppet     To 
this  instrument  there  was  frequently  annexed  an  inflated  bladder,  with 
which  the  fool  belabored  those  who  offended  him,  or  with  whom  he  was 
inclined  to  make  sport     The  French  call  a  bawble,  marotte,  from  Mari 
onette." 

*  The  old  copy  reads  maim. 


428  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  IV 

Laf.    What  prince  is  that  ? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir;  alias,  the  prince  of  dark 
ness  ;  alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee,  there's  my  purse.  I  give  thee  not 
this  to  suggest  thee  from  thy  master  thou  talkest  of; 
serve  him  still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  that  always  loved 
a  great  fire ;  and  the  master  I  speak  of,  ever  keeps  a 
good  fire.  But,  sure,1  he  is  the  prince  of  the  world,  let 
his  nobility  remain  in  his  court.  I  am  for  the  house 
with  the  narrow  gate,  which  I  take  to  be  too  little  for 
pomp  to  enter :  some,  that  humble  themselves,  may ; 
but  the  many  will  be  too  chill  and  tender ;  and  they'll 
be  for  the  flowery  way,  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate, 
and  the  great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways  ;  I  begin  to  be  a-weary  of  thee  ; 
and  I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would  not  fall  out 
with  thee.  Go  thy  ways  ;  let  my  horses  be  well  looked 
to,  without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they  shall  be 
jades'  tricks ;  which  are  their  own  right  by  the  law  of 
nature.  [Exit. 

Laf.    A  shrewd  knave  and  an  unhappy.2 

Count.  So  he  is.  My  lord,  that's  gone,  made  him 
self  much  sport  out  of  him  :  by  his  authority  he  remains 
here,  which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for  his  sauciness ; 
and,  indeed,  he  has  no  pace,3  but  runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  like  him  well ;  'tis  not  amiss :  and  I  was 
about  to  tell  you,  since  I  heard  of  the  good  lady's  death, 
and  that  my  lord,  your  son,  wras  upon  his  return  home, 
I  moved  the  king,  my  master,  to  speak  in  the  behalf  of 
my  daughter ;  which,  in  the  minority  of  them  both,  his 
majesty,  out  of  a  self-gracious  remembrance,  did  first 
propose.  His  highness  hath  promised  me  to  do  it ; 
and,  to  stop  up  the  displeasure  he  hath  conceived 

1  Steevens  thinks,  with  Sir  T.  Hanmer,  that  we  should  read  since. 

2  i.  e.  mischievously  waggish,  unlucky. 

3  No  pace,  i.  e.  no  prescribed  course;  he  has  the  unbridled  liberty  of 
a  fool. 


SC.  V.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         429 

against  your  son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter.  How  does 
your  ladyship  like  it? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord,  and  I 
wish  it  happily  effected. 

Laf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of  as 
able  body  as  when  he  numbered  thirty  ;  he  will  be  here 
to-morrow,  or  I  am  deceived  by  him  that  in  such  intelli 
gence  hath  seldom  failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me,  that  I  hope  I  shall  see  him 
ere  I  die.  I  have  letters  that  my  son  will  be  here  to 
night  :  I  shall  beseech  your  lordship  to  remain  with 
me  till  they  meet  together. 

L(tf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking,  with  what  manners  1 
might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honorable  privi 
lege. 

L(if.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter  ;  but, 
I  thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder's  my  lord,  vour  son,  with  a 
patch  of  velvet  oil's  face;  whether  there  be  a  scar  un 
der  it,  or  no,  the  velvet  knows;  but  'tis  a  goodly  patch 
of  velvet :  his  left  cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two  pile  and  a 
half,  but  his  right  cheek  is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  LMKH! 
livery  of  honor;  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.    But  it  is  your  carbonadoed1  face. 

L<tf.  Let  us  go  see  vour  son,  I  prav  vou  ;  I  long  to 
talk  with  the  young,  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  'Faith,  there's  a  do/en  of  'em,  with  delicate, 
fine  hats,  and  most  courteous  feathers,  which  bow  the 
head,  and  nod  at  every  man.  [llxcunt. 

1  Carbonadoed  is  "slashed  over  the  face  in  a  manner  that  fetcheth  the 
flesh  with  it,"  metaphorically  from  a  carbonado  or  collop  of  meat. 


430  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     Marseilles.     A  Street. 

Enter  HELENA,  Widow,  and  DIANA,  with  two  Attend 
ants. 

Hel.   But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night, 
Must  wear  jour  spirits  low.     We  cannot  help  it; 
But,  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as  one, 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs, 
Be  bold,  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital, 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time  ; 

Enter  a  gentle  Astringer.1 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 

If  he  would  spend  his  power. — God  save  you,  sir. 

Gent.    And  you. 

HeL    Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France. 

Gent.    I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

HeL   I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions, 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 
The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continue  thankful. 

Gent.  What's  your  will  ? 

HeL    That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king  ; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Gent.    The  king's  not  here. 

HeL  Not  here,  sir  ? 

Gent.  Not,  indeed  : 

1  i.  e.  a  gentleman  falconer,  called  in  Juliana  Barnes's  Book  of  Hunt- 
yng,  &c.  Ostreger.  The  term  is  applied  particularly  to  those  that  keep 
goshawks. 


SC.  I.]       ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.         431 

lie  hence  removed  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains ! 

Hel.  AWs  well  that  ends  well,  yet; 
Though  time  seems  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit. — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 

Gent.    Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon  ; 
Whither  I  am  going. 

HeL  I  do  beseech  you,  sir, 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me, 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand  ; 
Which,  I  presume,  shall  render  \ou  no  blame, 
But  rather  make  you  thank  vour  pains  lor  it. 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means.1 

Gent.  This  1*11  do  for  \oii. 

ILL    And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well  thanked, 

Whatever   tails  more. We   must   to   horse   auain  ; — 

Go,  go,  provide.  [ 


SCENE    II.       Rousillon.      The     inner    Court    of  the 
Countess's 


Enter  Clown  and  PAHOLLI  •>. 

Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,2  j^ive  inv  lord  Lafeu 
this  letter.  I  have  ere  now.  >ir.  been  better  known  to 
you,  when  I  have  held  familiarity  with  fresher  clothes; 
but  I  am  now,  sir,  muddied  in  fortune's  inoo<l,:f  and 
smell  somewhat  Mroni:  ot  her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Trulv.  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish,  if 
it  smell  so  strong  as  thou  speakcst  of:  I  will  lience- 

1  i.  e.  "  they  will  follow  with  such  speed  as  the  means  which  they  have 
will  give  them  ability  to  exert." 

2  Perhaps  a  corruption  of  I^a  J'ache. 

3  Warburton  changed  mood,  the  reading  of  the  old  copy,  to  moat,  and 
was  followed  and   defended  by  SJteevens  ;  but  the  emendation  appears 
unnecessary.     Fortune's  mood  is  several  times  used  by  Shakspeare  for  the 


whimsical  caprice  of  fortune. 


432  ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V 

forth  eat  no  fish  of  fortune's  buttering.  Pr'ythee, 
allow  the  wind.1 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  stop  your  nose,  sir;  I 
spake  but  by  a  metaphor. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will  stop 
my  nose ;  or  against  any  man's  metaphor.  Pr'ythee, 
get  thee  further. 

Par.    Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.  Foh,  pr'ythee,  stand  away.  A  paper  from 
fortune's  close-stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman  !  Look, 
here  he  comes  himself. 

Enter  LA  FEU. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat,  (but 
not  a  musk-cat,)  that  has  fallen  into  the  unclean  fish 
pond  of  her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied 
withal.  Pray  you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may  ;  for 
he  looks  like  a  poor,  decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  ras 
cally  knave.  I  do  pity  his  distress  in  my  smiles 2  of 
comfort,  and  leave  him  to  your  lordship.  [Exit  Clown. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  wrhom  fortune  hath  cru 
elly  scratched. 

Laf.  And  what  \vould  you  have  me  to  do  ?  'Tis 
too  late  to  pare  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have  you 
played  the  knave  with  fortune,  that  she  should  scratch 
you,  who  of  herself  is  a  good  lady,  and  would  not  have 
knaves  thrive  long  under  her  ?  There's  a  quart  (Veen 
for  you.  Let  the  justices  make  you  and  fortune  friends ; 
I  am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honor  to  hear  me  one  single 
word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more :  come,  you 
shall  ha't.  Save  your  word. 

Par.    My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  one  word  then.3 — Cox'  my 
passion  !  give  me  your  hand. — How  does  your  drum  ? 

1  i.  e.  stand  to  the  leeward  of  me. 

2  Warburton  says  we  should  read,  "similes  of  comfort,"  such  as  calling 
him  fortune's  cat,  carp,  &c. 

3  A  quibble  is  intended  on  the  word  Parottes,  which,  in  French,  sig 
nifies  words. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  433 

Par.  O  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that  found 
me. 

Laf.  Was  1,  in  sooth  ?  and  I  was  the  first  that 
lost  thee. 

Par.  It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in  some 
grace,  for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave  !  dost  thou  put  u]>oii 
me  at  once  botli  the  office  of  God  and  the  devil  ?  One 
brings  thee  in  grace4,  and  the  other  brings  thee  out. 
[Trumpets  sound.]  The  king's  coming,  I  know  by 

his  trumpets. Sirrah,  inquire  further  after  me:  1 

had  talk  of  you  last  night:  though  you  are  a  fool  and  a 
knave,  you  shall  eat ;  go  to,  follow. 

Par.    I  praise  God  for  you.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   III.      The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Countess's 
Palace.     Flourish. 

Enter    King,    Countess,     LAFEU,   Lords,    Gentlemen, 
Guards,  frc. 

King.    We  lost  a  jewel  of  her  ;  and  our  esteem1 
Was  made  much  poorer  by  it :   but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lacked  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home.9 

Count.  'Tis  past,  my  liege: 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'the  blade  :'  of  youth  ; 
When  oil  and  lire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
Overbears  it,  and  burns  on. 

King.  AFv  honored  lady, 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all  ; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him. 
And  watched  the  time  to  shoot. 

Laf.  This  I  must  say, 

1  i.  c.  in  losing  her  we  lost  a  large  portion  of  our  esteem,  which  she 
possessed. 

2  Completely,  in  its  full  extent. 

3  Theobald  proposes  to  read  blaze. 

VOL.  ii.  55 


434  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL.  [ACT  V. 

But  first  I  beg  my  pardon, — The  young  lord 

Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady, 

Offence  of  mighty  note  ;  but  to  himself 

The  greatest  wrong  of  all.     He  lost  a  wife 

Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 

Of  richest  eyes ; 1  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive  , 

Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorned  to  serve, 

Humbly  called  mistress. 

King.  Praising  what  is  lost, 

Makes    the    remembrance    dear. Well,    call    him 

hither ; 

We  are  reconciled,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition.2 — Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon : 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead, 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  do  we  bury 
The  incensing  relics  of  it.     Let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender  ;  and  inform  him, 
So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[Exit  Gentleman. 

King.   What  says  he  to  your  daughter?     Have  you 
spoke  ? 

Laf.    All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your  highness. 

King.    Then  shall  we  have  a  match.     I  have  letters 

sent  me, 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  BERTRAM. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on't. 

King.    I  am  not  a  day  of  season,3 
For  thou  mayst  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once ;   but  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way ;  so  stand  thou  forth, 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

1  So  in  As  You  Like  It . — to  have  «  seen  much  and  to  have  nothing,  is 
to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands." 

2  i.  e.  the  first  interview  shall  put  an  end  to  all  recollection  of  the  past. 

3  i.  e.  a  seasonable  day :  a  mixture  of  sunshine  and  hail,  of  winter  and 
summer,  is  unseasonable. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S    WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL.  435 

Ber.  My  high-repented  blames, 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All  is  whole  ; 

Not  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 
Let's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top  ; 
For  we  are  old,  and  on  our  quick'st  decrees 
The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  affect  them.     You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Bcr.    Admirably,  my  liege  :  at  first 
I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue  ; 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 
Which  warped  the  line  of  every  other  favor  ; 
Scorned  a  fair  color,  or  expressed  it  stolen  ; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions 
To  a  most  hideous  object.     Thence  it  came, 
That  she,  whom  all  men  praised,  and  whom  myself, 
Since  I  have  lost,  have  loved,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excused  : 

That  thou  didst  love  her,  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  compt.     But  love,  that  comes  too  late, 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried, 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence, 
Crying,  that's  good  that's  gone.     Our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have, 

Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave. 

• 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 

Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust. 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what's  done, 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon.1 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin  ; 
The  main  consents  are  had  ;  and  here  wre'll  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

1  This  obscure  couplet  seems  to  mean,  that  "  Our  love  awaking  to  the 
worth  of  the  lost  object,  too  late  lamen's  ;  our  shameful  hate  or  dislike 
having  slept  out  the  period  when  our  fault  was  remediable." 


436  ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V 

Count.    Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear  Heaven, 

bless ! 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature,  cease ! 

Laf.    Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favor  from  you, 
To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter, 
That  she  may  quickly  come. — By  my  old  beard, 
And  every  hair  that's  on't,  Helen,  that's  dead, 
Was  a  sweet  creature  ;  such  a  ring  as  this, 
The  last  that  e'er  I  took  her  leave  at  court,1 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Ber.  Hers  it  was  not. 

King.    Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine  eye, 
While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fastened  to't. — 
This  ring  was  mine,  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helen, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortune  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 
I  would  relieve  her.     Had  you  that  craft  to  reave  her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most  ? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

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

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

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

Laf.  I  am  sure  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.    You  are  deceived,  my  lord  ;  she  never  saw  it. 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me 
Wrapped  in  a  paper,  which  contained  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it ;  noble  she  was,  and  thought 
I  stood  ingaged ; 2  but  when  I  had  subscribed 3 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  informed  her  fully, 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honor 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceased, 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

King.  Plutus  himself, 

1  "  The  last  time  that  ever  /  took  leave  of  her  at  court" 

2  Ingaged,  i.  e.  pledged  to  her,  having  received  her  pledge. 

3  Subscribed,  i.  e.  submitted. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL.  437 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  medicine, 

Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science, 

Than  I  have  in  this  ring  :  'twas  mine,  'twas  Helen's, 

Whoever  gave  it  you.     Then  if  you  know 

Tiiat  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself, 

Confess  'twas  hers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 

You  got  it  from  her.     She  called  the  saints  to  surety, 

That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger 

Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, 

(Where  you  have  never  come,)  or  sent  it  us 

Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Bcr.  She  never  saw  it. 

K'niL^.    Thou  speak'st  it  falsely,  as  I  love  mine  honor, 
And  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me, 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out.      If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman,  —  'twill  not  prove  so  ;  — 
And  yet  I  know  not:  —  thou  didst  hate  her  deadly, 
And  she  is  dead  ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe, 
More  than  to  see  this  ring.  —  Take  him  awav.  — 

[Guards  seize  BERTRAM. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  mailer  fall, 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly  feared  too  little.1  —  Awav  with  him;  — 
We'll  sift  this  matter  further. 

Bcr.    If  you  shall  prove 
This  rin«;  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easv 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence1. 
Where     et  she  never  was. 


Enter  a  Gentleman. 

King.    I  am  wrapped  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Gent.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame,  or.no,  I  know  not; 
Here's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 


1  The  proofs  which  J  have  ru'reaily  ha-l  aro  sufficient,  to  show  that  my 
fears  were  not  rain  and  irnitioir.il.     1  have  unreasonably  feared  too  little. 


438  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V. 

Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,1  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquished  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know, 
Is  here  attending.     Her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage  ;  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Reads.]  Upon  his  many  protestations  to  mar 
ry  me,  ivhen  his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it,  he 
won  me.  Now  is  the  count  Rousillon  a  widower ;  his 
vows  are  forfeited  to  me,  and  my  honors  paid  to  him. 
He  stole  from  Florence,  taking  no  leave,  and  I  follow 
him  to  his  country  for  justice.  Grant  it  me,  O  king ; 
in  you  it  best  lies ;  otherwise  a  seducer  flourishes,  and 
a  poor  maid  is  undone. 

DIANA  CAPULET. 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  toll  2 
for  this  ;  I'll  none  of  him. 

King.    The    Heavens    have  thought  well   on   thee, 

Lafeu, 

To  bring  forth  this  discovery. — Seek  these  suitors. — 
Go,  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[Exeunt  Gentleman,  and  some  Attendants. 
I  am  afeard,  the  life  of  Helen,  lady, 
Was  foully  snatched. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers ! 

Enter  BERTRAM,  guarded. 

King.    I  wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  monsters  to  you,3 
And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them  lordship, 
Yet  you  desire  to  marry.     What  woman's  that  ? 

1  Removes  are  journeys  or  post  stages;  she  had  not  been  able  to  over 
take  the  king  on  the  road. 

2  The  second  folio  reads : — "  I  -.vill  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and 
toll  for  him :  for  this,  I'll  none  of  him." 

3  The  first  folio  reads  :— 

"  I  wonder,  sir,  sir ;  wives,"  &c. 

The  emendation  is  Mr.  Tyrwhitt's.     As  in  the  succeeding  line  means  as 
soon  as. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S    WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  439 


Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  Widow  and  DIANA. 

Did.    I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capulet. 
My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know, 
And  therefore  know  how  far  1  may  be  pitied. 

Wld.    I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  honor 
Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 
And  both  shall  cease,1  without  your  remedy. 

King.    Come   hither,  count.     Do  you  know  these 
women? 

ficr.    My  lord,  I  neither  can  nor  will  deny 
But  that  I  know  them.      Do  they  charge  me  further:1 

Dia.    Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  uife  J 

Bcr.    She's  none  of  mine,  mv  lord. 

Diet.  If  \ou  .shall  marry, 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine  ; 
You  give  away  Heaven's  vows,  and  tho>e  are  mine  ; 
You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine  ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  imbodied  yours, 
That  she,  which  marries  you,  must  marry  me, 
Either  both  or  none. 

Laf.    Your   reputation    [To   BKKTKAM.]    comes   too 
short  for  mv  daughter;  you  arc  no  husband  for  her. 

/>(r.    My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  creature, 
Whom  sometimes  I  have  laughed  with:  let  your  high 
ness 

Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honor, 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 

A'ing.    Sir,   for   mv  thoughts,  vou   have   them   ill   to 

friend, 

Till  your  deeds  gain  them.      Fairer  prove  your  honor, 
Than  in  my  thought  it  li<^  ! 

Dia.  (Jood  my  lord, 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  4iot  my  virginity. 

1  Decease,  die. 


440  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V. 

King.    What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Per.  She's  impudent,  my  lord; 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 

Dia.    He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord  ;  if  I  were  so, 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price. 
Do  not  believe  him:  O,  behold  this  ring, 
Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  validity,1 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  o'  the  camp, 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.         He  blushes,  and  'tis  it :  2 
Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferred  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue, 
Hath  it  been  owned  and  worn.     This  is  his  wife  : 
That  ring's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought  you  said 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Dia.    I  did,  my  lord,  but  loath  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument ;  his  name's  Parolles. 

Laf.    I  saw  the  man  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

King.    Find  him,  and  bring  him  hither. 

Ber.  What  of  him  t 

He's  quoted  3  for  a  most  perfidious  slave, 
With  all  the  spots  o'  the  world  taxed  and  deboshed ; 4 
Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth. 
Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  wrhat  he'll  utter, 
That  will  speak  any  thing  ? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.    I  think  she  has :  certain  it  is,  I  liked  her, 
And  boarded  her  i'the  wanton  way  of  youth. 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Maddening  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  fancy  ;  and,  in  fine, 


1  i.  e.  value. 

2  Malonc  remarks  that  the  old  copy  reads,  'tis  hit,  and  that  in  many  of 
our  old  chronicles  he  had  found  hit  printed  instead  of  ?7. 

3  Noted. 

4  Debauched. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  441 

Her  insult  coming  with  her  modern  jjraco,1 
Subdued  me  to  her  rate.     She  got  the  ring  ; 
And  1  had  that,  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Dia.  I  must  lie  patient ; 

You  that  turned  off  a  first  so  noble  wife, 
May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you,  yet, 
(Since  you  lack  virtue,  I  will  lose  a  husband,) 
Send  for  your  ring ;   I  will  return  it  home  ; 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Bcr.  I  have  it  not. 

King.    What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you  ? 

Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

King.    Know  you  this  ring?     This  riii£  was  his  of 
late. 

Did.    And  this  was  it  I  gave  him.  being  abed. 

King.    The  story  then  goes  false,  you  threw  it  him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Dia.  I  have  spoke  the  truth. 


Enter  PAROLLES. 

Bcr.    Mv  lord,  I  do  confess  the  riiii^  w;is  hers. 

King.    You    boggle   shrewdly;    everv   feather  starts 

you.— 
Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Dia.  \y,  my  lord. 

King.    Tell  me,   sirrah,   but   tell  me   true,  I    chaise 

you, 

Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  vour  master, 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceeding,  I'll  keep  off.) 
By  him,  and  by  this  woman  here,  what  know  von  ? 

Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath  been 
an  honorable  gentleman;  tricks  he  hath  had  in  him, 
which  gentlemen  have. 

1  "Every  thing  that  obstructs  /ore  is  an  occasion  by  which  love  ia 
heightened,  and,  to  conclude,  her  solicitation  concurring  with  her  common 
or  ordinary  grace,  stie  got  the  n»i#." 
VOL.    ii.  5G 


442  ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V. 

King.    Come,  come,  to   the  purpose.     Did  he  love 
this  woman? 

Par.    'Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  her  :  but  how  ? 

King.    How,  I  pray  you  ? 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a 
woman. 

King.    How  is  that  ? 

Par.    He  loved  her,  sir,  and  loved  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  knave,  and  no  knave. — What 
an  equivocal  companion ]  is  this  ! 

Par.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's  com 
mand. 

Laf.  He's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a  naughty 
orator. 

Dia.    Do  you  know  he  promised  me  marriage  ? 

Par.    'Faith,  I  know  more  than  I'll  speak. 

King.    But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  know'stf 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty.  I  did  go  be 
tween  them,  as  I  said ;  but  more  than  that,  he  loved 
her, — for,  indeed,  he  was  mad  for  her,  and  talked  of 
Satan,  and  of  limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I  know  not 
what :  yet  I  was  in  that  credit  with  them  at  that  time, 
that  I  knew  of  their  going  to  bed,  and  of  other  motions, 
as  promising  her  marriage,  and  things  that  would  de 
rive  me  ill  will  to  speak  of;  therefore  I  will  not  speak 
what  I  know. 

King.    Thou  hast  spoken   all  already,  unless  thou 
canst  say  they  are  married.     But  thou  art  too  fine 2  in 
thy  evidence  :  therefore  stand  aside. — 
This  ring,  you  say,  was  yours  ? 

Dia.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.    Where  did  you  buy  it  ?  or  who  gave  it  you  ? 

Dia.    It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy  it. 

King.    Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

King.    Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Dia.  I  found  it  not. 

1  i.  e.  fellow.  ~  In  the  French  sense,  tropfne. 


SC.  III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS   WELL.  443 

King.    If  it  wore  jours  by  none  of  all  these  ways, 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Diet.  I  never  gave  it  him. 

Laf.    This  woman's  an  easy  glove,   my  lord  ;   she 
goes  off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.    This  ring  was  mine  ;   I  gave  it  his  first  wife. 

Dia.    It  might  be  yours,  or  hers,  for  aught  I  know. 

King.    Take  her  away;  I  do  not  like  her  now; 
To  prison  with  her  .   and  away  with  him.  — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring, 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Dia.  I'll  never  tell  you. 

King.    Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I'll  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.    I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer.1 

Dia.    By  Jove1,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  'twas  you. 

Kin.    Wherefore    hast    thou    accused    him   all  this 


while 

Dia.    Because  he's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty  : 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he'll  swear  to't  : 
I'll  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life  ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointing  to  LAFEU. 

King.    She  does  abuse  our  ears;  to  prison  with  her. 

Dia.    Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.  —  Stav,  royal  sir  ; 

[/•>//  Widow. 

The  jeweller  that  owes  ~  the  ring  is  sent  for, 
And  he  shall  surety  me.      But  for  this  lord, 
Who  hath  abused  me,  as  he  knows  himself, 
Though  yet  he  never  harmed  me,  here  I  quit  him. 
lie  knows  himself  my  bed  he  h  all  defiled; 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child  : 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  one  kick  ; 
So  there's  my  riddle,  One  that's  dead  is  quick. 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

1  i.  c.  common  woman,  with  whom  any  one  may  be  familiar. 

2  Owns. 


444  ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS   WELL.  [ACT  V. 


Re-enter  Widow,  with  HELENA. 

King.  Is  there  no  exorcist 

Beguiles  the  truer  office  of  mine  eyes? 
Is't  real  that  I  see  ? 

Hel.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see, 
The  name,  and  not  the  thing. 

Ber.  Both,  both.     O,  pardon! 

Hel.    O  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like  this  maid, 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind.     There  is  your  ring, 
And,  look  you,  here's  your  letter.     This  it  says, 
When  from  my  finger  yon  can  get  this  ring, 
And  are  by  me  with  child,  &,c. — This  is  done  : 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.    If  she,  my  liege,   can  make  me  know   this 

clearly, 
I'll  love  her  dearly ;  ever,  ever  dearly. 

Hel.    If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue, 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you ! 
O  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  ? 

Lctf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions ;  I  shall  weep  anon. 
— Good  Tom  Drum,  [To  PAROLLES.]  lend  me  a  hand 
kerchief.  So,  I  thank  thee  ;  wait  on  me  home.  I'll 
make  sport  with  thee.  Let  thy  courtesies  alone  ;  they 
are  scurvy  ones. 

King.    Let  us  from  point  to  point  this  story  know, 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  flow. — 
If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh,  uncropped  flower, 

[To  DIANA. 

Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I'll  pay  thy  dower  : 
For  I  can  guess,  that,  by  thy  honest  aid, 
Thou  kept'st  a  wife  herself,  thyself  a  maid. — 
Of  that,  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  less, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express ; 
All  yet  seems  well ;  and  if  it  end  so  meet, 
The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet. 

[Flourish. 


SC    III.]  ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS    WELL.  445 

Advancing. 

The  King^s  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done : 
All  is  well  ended,  if  this  suit  be  won, 
That  you  express  content ;  which  we  will  pay, 
With  strife  to  please  you,  day  exceeding  day. 
Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts; l 
Your  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts. 

[Exeunt. 

1  i.  e.  hear  us  without  interruption,  and  take  our  parts,  i.  e.  support  and 
defend  us 


446 


THIS  play  has  many  delightful  scenes,  though  not  sufficiently  probable, 
and  some  happy  characters,  though  not  new,  nor  produced  by  any  deep 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  Parolles  is  a  boaster  and  a  coward,  such 
as  has  always  been  the  sport  of  the  stage,  but  perhaps  never  raised  more 
laughter  or  contempt  than  in  the  hands  of  Shakspeare. 

I  cannot  reconcile  my  heart  to  Bertram — a  man  noble  without  generos 
ity,  and  young  without  truth ;  who  marries  Helen  as  a  coward,  and  leaves 
her  as  a  profligate ;  when  she  is  dead  by  his  unkindness,  sneaks  home  to 
a  second  marriage,  is  accused  by  a  woman  he  has  wronged,  defends  him 
self  by  faisenood,  and  is  dismissed  to  happiness. 

The  story  of  Bertram  and  Diana  had  been  told  before  of  Mariana  and 
Angelo,  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  scarcely  merited  to  be  heard  a  sec 
ond  time. 

JOHNSON. 


447 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

i  • 

!  THERE  is  an  old  anonymous  play  extant,  with  the  same  title,  first 

printed  in  1500,  which  (as  in  the  case  of  King  John  an.l  Henry  V.}  Shak- 
epeare  rewrote,  "  adopting  the  order  of  the  scenes,  and  inserting  little 
more  than  a  few  lines  which  he  thought  worth  preserving,  or  was  in  too 
much  haste  to  alter."  Malonc,  with  great  probability,  suspects  the  old 

•  play  to  have  been  the  production  of  George  Peele  or  Robert  (Ireene.* 

Pope  ascribed  it  to  Shakspeare,  and  his  opinion  was  current  for  many 
j 

years,  until  a  more  exact  examination  of  the  original  piece  (which  is  of 

1  extreme  rarity)  undeceived  those  who  were  better  versed  in  the  literature 

i  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth  than  the  poet.     It  is  remarkable  that  the  Induc 

tion,  as  it  is  called,  has  not  been  continued  by  Shakspeare  so  as  to  com 
plete  the  story  of  Sly,  or  at  least  it  has  not  come  down  to  us  ;  and  Pope, 
therefore,  supplied  the  deficiencies  in  this  play  from  the  elder  perform- 
j  ance  :  they  have  been  degraded  from  their  station  in  the  text,  as  in  some 

places  incompatible  with  the  fable  and  Dramatis  Prrsonn-  of  Shakspeare ; 

the  reader  will,  however,  be  pleased  to  find  them  subjoined  to  the  notes. 

I, 

The    origin    of  this    amusing    fiction    may    probably    be    traced    to    the 

sleeper  awakened  of  the  Arabian  Niirhts:  but  similar  stories  are  told 
of  Philip  the  good  Duke  of  Uurgundy,  and  of  the  Krnperor  Clnrles  tip; 
Fifth.  Marco  Polo  relates  something  similar  of  the  Ismaelian  Prince 
Alo-eddin,  or  chief  of  the  mountainous  ro<jion,  whom  he  calls,  in  common 

*  There  was  a  second  edition  of  the  anonymous  play  in  1'07;  rind  the  curious  render 
may  consult  it,  in  "Six  Old  Plays  upon  which  Fliakspoare  founded,"  &r..  published  l.y 
Steevens. 


448  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW. 

with  other  writers  of  his  time,  " the  old  man  of  the  mountain"  Warton 
refers  to  a  collection  of  short  comic  stories  in  prose,  "  set  forth  by  maister 
Richard  Edwards,  master  of  her  majesties  revels,"  in  1570  (which  he  had 
seen  in  the  collection  of  Collins  the  poet),  for  the  immediate  source  of  the 
fable  of  the  old  drama.  The  incident  related  by  Heuterus  in  his  Renim 
Btirgund.,  lib.  iv.,  is  also  to  be  found  in  Goulart's  Admirable  and  Memo 
rable  Histories,  translated  by  E.  Grimeston,  4to.  ]607.  The  story  of 
Charles  V.  is  related  by  Sir  Richard  Barckley,  in  a  Discourse  on  the 
Felicitie  of  Man,  printed  in  1598;  but  the  frolic,  as  Mr.  Holt  White  ob 
serves,  seems  better  suited  to  the  gayety  of  the  gallant  Francis,  or  the 
revelry  of  our  own  boisterous  Henry. 

Of  the  story  of  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew  no  immediate  English  source 
has  been  pointed  out.  Mr.  Douce  has  referred  to  a  novel  in  the  Piace- 
voli  Notti  of  Straparola,  notte  8,  fav.  2,  and  to  El  Conde  Lucanor,  by  Don 
Juan  Manuel,  Prince  of  Castile,  who  died  in  1362,  as  containing  similar 
stories.  He  observes  that  the  character  of  Petruchio  bears  some  re 
semblance  to  that  of  Pisardo  in  Straparola's  novel,  notte  8,  fav.  7. 

Schlegel  remarks  that  this  play  "  has  the  air  of  an  Italian  comedy  ; " 
and,  indeed,  the  love  intrigue  of  Lucentio  is  derived  from  the  Suppositi  of 
Ariosto,  through  the  translation  of  George  Gascoigne.  Johnson  has  ob 
served  the  skilful  combination  of  the  two  plots,  by  which  such  a  variety 
and  succession  of  comic  incident  is  insured  without  running  into  per 
plexity.  Petruchio  is  a  bold  and  happy  sketch  of  a  humorist,  in  which 
Schlegel  thinks  the  character  and  peculiarities  of  an  Englishman  are 
visible.  It  affords  another  example  of  Shakspeare's  deep  insight  into 
human  character,  that  in  the  last  scene  the  meek  and  mild  Bianca  shows 
she  is  not  without  a  spice  of  self-will.  The  play  inculcates  a  fine  moral 
lesson,  which  is  not  always  taken  as  it  should  be. 

Every  one,  who  has  a  true  relish  for  genuine  humor,  must  regret  that 
we  are  deprived  of  Shakspeare's  continuation  of  this  Interlude  of  Sly,* 

*  Dr.  Drake  suggests  that  some  of  the  passages  in  which  Sly  is  introduced  should  be 
adopted  from  the  old  drama,  and  connected  with  the  text,  so  as  to  complete  his  story  j 
making  very  slight  alteration,  and  distinguishing  the  borrowed  parts  by  some  mark. 


PRELIMINARY   REMARKS.  449 

"  who  is  indeed  of  kin  to  Sancho  Panza."  We  think,  with  a  late  elegant 
writer,  "  the  character  of  Sly,  and  the  remarks  with  which  he  accom 
panies  the  play,  as  good  as  the  play  itself." 

It  appears  to  have  been  one  of  Shakspeare's  earliest  productions,  and 
is  supposed  by  Malone  to  have  been  produced  in  151)4. 


Characters  in  the  Original  Play  of  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew,  entered  on 
the  Stationers'1  Books  in  1594,  and  printed  in  quarto  in  1607. 

A  Lord,  &c.  ) 

'»  ",.,'      .  >  Perso7is  in  the  Induction. 

Page,  Players,  Huntsmen,  <fcc.J 


Ai.moNSUS,  a  Merchant  o/"  Athens. 

JKKOBKI.,  Duke  of  Ccstus. 

AURKLIUS,  his  Son,~) 

FKRANDO,  >  Suitors  to  (lie  Daughters  of  Alj>honsus. 

PoMDOR,  ) 

VALERIA,  Serrcnt  to  Aurelius. 
SANDKR,  Sen-ant  to  Fcraiulo. 
PHYI.OTUS,  a  Merchant  ir/to  personates  the  Dnkc. 

KATE,        ^ 

EMKI.IA,     >  Daughters  to  Alphonsus. 

PHYI.KMA,  ) 

Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Servants  to  Fcrando  and  Alphonsus. 
SCENE,  Athens  ;  and  snmctiiiirs  Fcramlo's  Country- 1 /i>u*f. 

VOL.  ii.  57 


450 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

I 

i 


A  Lord. 

CHRISTOPHER  SLY,  a  drunken  Tinker. 
Hostess,  Page,  Players,  Huntsmen,  and 
other  Servants  attending  on  the  Lord. 


Persons  in  the 
Induction. 


BAPTISTA,  a  rich  Gentleman  of  Padua. 
VINCENTIO,  an  old  Gentleman  of  Pisa. 
LUCENTIO,  Son  to  Vincentio,  in  love  with  Bianca. 
PETRUCHIO,  a  Gentleman  of  Verona,  a  Suitor  to  Kath- 
arina. 


TRANIO, 


BlONDLLO, 

CURTIS°;  }  Scrvants  to 

PEDANT,  an  old  fellow  set  up  to  personate  Vincentio. 


Widow. 


Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Servants  attending  on  Baptista 
and  Petruchio. 


SCENE,  sometimes  in   Padua;    and  sometimes   in 
Petruchio' s  House  in  the  Country. 


451 


TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


INDUCTION. 

SCENE  I.     Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 

Enter  Hostess  and  SLY. 

Sly.    I'LL  phecse  *  you,  in  faith. 

Host.    A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 

Sly.  Y'are  a  baggage ;  the  Slies  are  no  rogues : 
Look  in  the  chronicles  ;  we  came  in  with  Richard  Con 
queror.  Therefore,  paucas  pallabris;-  let  the  world 
slide.  Sessa!3 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you  have 
burst  ? 

Sly.  No,  not  a  denier.  Go  by,  says  Jeronimy ; — 
Go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  warm  thee.4 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy ;  I  must  go  fetch  the 
thirdborough.5  [£.*•//. 

Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I'll  answer 
him  by  law.  I'll  not  budge  an  inch,  boy ;  let  him 
come,  and  kindly. 

[Lies  down  on  the  ground,  and  falls  asleep. 

1  So  again  in  Troilus  and  Cressida,   Ajax  says   of  Achilles: — "I'll 
phcesc  his  pride."     And  in  Ben  Jonson's  Alchemist : — 

"  Come,  will  you  quarrel  ?     I'll  ftize  you,  sirrah." 

2  Pocas  palahras  (Span.),  few  words. 

3  Cessa(/ta/.),  be  quiet 

4  This  line  and  the  scrap  of  Spanish  is  used  in  burlesque  from  an  old 
play  called  Hieronymo,  or  the  Spanish  Tragedy.     The  old  copy  reads: — 
'  S.  Jeronimy."     The  emendation  is  Mason's. 

5  An  officer  whose  authority  equals  that  of  a  constable. 


452  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [INDUC. 

Wind   Horns.      Enter  a   Lord  from  Hunting,   with 
Huntsmen  and  Servants. 

Lord.    Huntsman,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well  my 

hounds : 

Brach  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  is  embossed,1 
And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouthed  brach.2 
Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  corner,  in  the  coldest  fault  ? 
I  would  not  lose  the  dog  for  twenty  pound. 

1  Hunt.   Why,  Belman  is  as  good  as  he,  my  lord ; 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss, 
And  twice  to-day  picked  out  the  dullest  scent. 
Trust  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dog. 

Lord.    Thou  art  a  fool ;  if  Echo  were  as  fleet, 
I  would  esteem  him  worth  a  dozen  such. 
But  sup  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all ; 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hunt.    I  will,  my  lord. 

Lord.   What's  here  ?   one  dead,   or  drunk  ?     See, 
doth  he  breathe  ? 

2  Hunt.     He   breathes,    my   lord.      Were   he    not 

warmed  with  ale, 
This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 

Lord.    O  monstrous  beast!    how  like  a  swine  he 

lies! 
Grim  death,  how  foul  and  loathsome  is  thine  image ! 

Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man. 

What  think  you  if  he  were  conveyed  to  bed. 
Wrapped  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his  fingers, 
A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed, 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  wakes ; 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself? 

1  Hunt.    Believe  me,  lord,  I  think  he  cannot  choose. 


1  "  Embossed"  says  Philips,  in  his  World  of  Words,  "  is  a  term  in  hunt 
ing,  when  a  deer  is  so  hard  chased  that  she  foams  at  the  mouth;  it  comes 
from  the  Spanish  desembocar,  and  is  metaphorically  used  for  any  kind  of 
weariness." 

2  Brach  originally  signified  a  particular  species  of  dog  used  for  the 
chase.     It  was  a  long-eared  dog,  huuting  hy  the  scent. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  453 

2  Hunt.    It  would  seem  strange  unto   him  when  he 

waked. 
Lord.     Even    as    a    flattering    dream,  or  worthless 

fancy. 

Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest : — 
Carry  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber, 
And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures : 
Balm  his  foul  head  with  warm  distilled  waters, 
And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet : 
Procure  me  music  ready  when  he  wakes, 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound  : 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 
And,  with  a  low,  submissive  reverence, 
Say, — What  is  it  your  honor  will  command  ? 
Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  basin, 
Full  of  rose-water,  and  bestrewed  with  flowers  ; 
Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper  ; 
And    say, — Will't    please    your    lordship    cool    your 

hands  ? 

Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit, 
And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear ; 
Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse, 
And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease  : 
Persuade  him  that  he  hath  been  lunatic. 
And,  when  he  says  he  is — ,  say  that  he  dreams, 
For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 
This  do  and  do  it  kindly,1  gentle  sirs ; 
It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 
If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty.2 

1  Hunt.    My   lord,    I    warrant   you,   we'll    play  our 

part, 

As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence, 
He  is  no  less  than  what  wr  say  he  is. 

Lord.    Take  him  up  gently,  and  to  bed  with  him, 
And  each  one  to  his  office  when  he  wakes.— 

[Some  bear  out  SLY.     A  trumpet  sounds. 
Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  'tis  that  sounds:— 

[Exit  Servant. 

1  Naturally.  -  Moderation. 


454  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [INDUC 

Belike,  some  noble  gentleman,  that  means, 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. 

Re-enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  ?  who  is  it  ? 

Serv.  An  it  please  your  honor, 

Players  that  offer  service  to  your  lordship. 

Lord.    Bid  them  come  near. — 


Enter  Players. 

Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 

1  Play.    We  thank  your  honor. 

Lord.    Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night  ? 

2  Play.    So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our  duty.1 
Lord.     With    all    my  heart. — This    fellow    I    re 
member, 

Since  once  he  played  a  farmer's  eldest  son ; — 

'Twas  where  you  wrooed  the  gentlewoman  so  well. 

I  have  forgot  your  name ;  but,  sure,  that  part 

Was  aptly  fitted,  and  naturally  performed. 

1  Play.    I  think  'twas  Soto  that  your  honor  means.2 
Lord.    'Tis  very  true  ; — thou  didst  it  excellent. — 

Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time ; 

The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand, 

Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 

There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night : 

But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties; 

Lest,  over-eyeing  of  his  odd  behavior, 

(For  yet  his  honor  never  heard  a  play,) 

You  break  into  some  merry  passion, 

And  so  offend  him ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs, 

If  you  should  smile,  he  grows  impatient. 


1  It  was  in  old  times  customary  for  players  to  travel  in  companies,  and 
offer  their  service  at  great  houses. 

9  The  old  copy  prefixes  the  name  of  Sincldo  to 'this  line,  who  was  an 
actor  in  the  same  company  with  Shakspeare.  Soto  is  a  character  in 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Woman  Pleased ;  he  is  a  farmer's  eldest  son, 
but  he  does  not  woo  any  gentlewoman. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  455 

1  Play.    Fear   not,    my   lord ;   we   can   contain  our 
selves. 
Were  ho  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world.1 

Lord.    Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery,2 
And  give  them  friendly  welcome;  every  one  : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords. — 

[Exeunt  Servants  and  Players. 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Bartholomew  my  page, 

[To  a  Servant. 

And  see  him  dressed  in  all  suits  like  a  lady  : 
That  done,  conduct  him  to  the  drunkard's  chamber, 
And  call  him — Madam,  do  him  obeisance. 
•          Tell  him  from  me  (as  he  will  win  my  love) 
He  bear  himself  with  honorable  action, 
Such  as  he  hath  observed  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished. 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do, 
With  soft,  low  tongue,  and  lowly  courtesy  ; 
And  say, — What  is't  your  honor  will  command, 
Wherein  your  lady  and  your  humble  wife 
May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love  ? 
And  then — with  kind  embracements,  tempting  kisses, 
And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom, — 
Bid  him  shed  tears,  as  beini;  overjoyed 
To  see  her  noble  lord  restored  to  health, 
Who,  for  twice3  seven  years,  hath  esteemed  him4 
No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  be^ar. 
And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift, 
To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears. 
An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift ; 
Which,  in  a  napkin  berni:  close  conveyed, 

1  In  the  old  play  the  dialogue  is  thus  continued:— 

"  San.    [To  the  nthn:]     (10  net  a  dishrlout  to  make  rleyno  your  shooes, 
and  lie  speak  for  the  properties.     [/-J.nV  Player.]     My  lord,  we  must  have 
a  shoulder  of  mutton  tor  a  property,  and  "a  little  vinegre  to  make  our 
1  divell  roar." 

2  Pope  remarks,  in  his  preface  to  Shakspcarc,  that  "the  top  of  the  pro 
fession  were  then  mere  players,  not  jrentlemen  of  the  stajje ;  they  were 
led  into  the  buttery,  not  placed  at  the  lord's  table,  or  the  lady's  toilet." 

15  The  old  copy  reads  this.     The  emendation  is  Theobald's. 
4  Him  is  used  for  himself,  as  in  Chapman's  Banquet  of  Sense,  1595: — 
"The  sense  wherewith  he  feels  him  deified." 


456  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [INDUC. 

Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 

See  this  despatched  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst ; 

Anon  I'll  give  thee  more  instructions. 

[Exit  Servant. 

I  know  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace, 
Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman. 
I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard  husband ; 
And  how  my  men  will  stay  themselves  from  laughter, 
When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 
I'll  in  to  counsel  them;  haply,  my  presence 
May  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen, 
I        Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes.    [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  A  Bedchamber  in  the  Lord's  House. 
SLY  is  discovered  in  a  rich  night-gown,  with  Attend 
ants  ;  some  with  apparel,  others  with  basin,  ewer, 
and  other  appurtenances. 

Enter  Lord,  dressed  like  a  Servant.1 

Sly.    For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

1  Serv.    Will't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup  of 

sack  ? 

2  Serv.    Will't   please    your   honor   taste   of    these 

conserves  ? 

3  Serv.    What  raiment  will  your  honor  wear  to-day  ? 
Sly.    I  am  Christophero  Sly;  call  not  me — honor, 

nor  lordship ;  I  never  drank  sack  in  my  life ;  and  if 
you  give  me  any  conserves,  give  me  conserves  of  beef. 
Ne'er  ask  me  what  raiment  I'll  wear ;  for  I  have  no 
more  doublets  than  backs,  no  more  stockings  than  legs, 
nor  no  more  shoes  than  feet;  nay,  sometimes,  more 
feet  than  shoes,  or  such  shoes  as  my  toes  look  through 
the  over-leather. 

Lord.    Heaven  cease  this  idle  humor  in  your  honor ! 

1  From  the  original  stage  direction  in  the  first  folio,  it  appears  that  Sly 
and  the  other  persons  mentioned  in  the  Induction  Avere  intended  to  be 
exhibited  here,  and  during  the  representation  of  the  comedy,  in  a  balcony 
above  the  stage. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  451 

O,  that  a  mighty  man  of  such  descent, 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem, 
Should  be  infused  with  so  foul  a  spirit ! 

Sly.  What,  would  YOU  make  me  mad  ?  Am  not  I 
Christopher  Sly,  old  Sly's  son  of  Burton-heath  ;  by 
birth  a  pedler,  by  education  a  card-maker,  by  trans 
mutation  a  bear-herd,  and  now  by  present  profession 
a  tinker?  Ask  Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  ale-wife  of 
Wincot,1  if  she  know  me  not :  if  she  say  I  am  not 
fourteen  pence  on  the  score  for  sheer  ale,2  score  me 
up  for  the  lyingest  knave  in  Christendom.  What,  I 
am  not  bestraught.3  Here's 

1  Scrv.    O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  ladv  mourn. 

J 

2  Serv.    O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants  droop. 
Lord.    Hence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  shun  your 

house, 

As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
O  noble  lord,  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth  ; 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banishment, 
And  banish  hence  these  abject,  lowly  dreams. 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee, 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck. 
Wilt  thou  have  music  ?     Hark  !     Apollo  plays, 

[Music. 

And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing. 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep  ?     We'll  have  thee  to  a  couch, 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose;  trimmed  up  for  Semiramis. 
Sav,  thou  wilt  walk  ?  we  will  bestrew  the  ground. 

•*    '  O 

Or  wilt  thou  ride  ?     Thy  horses  shall  be  trapped, 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  irold  and  pearl. 

o  I 

Dost  thou   love  hawking?     Thou  h;ist  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark.      Or  wilt  thou  hunt  ? 


1  If'ilnccottc,  says  Warton,  is  a  village   in  Warwickshire,  with  which 
S'.iakspeare  was  well  acquainted,  near  Stratford.     The  house  kept  by  our 
genial  hostess  still  remains,  but  is  at  present  a  mill.     There  is  a  village 
also  called  Barton  on  the  heath  in  Warwickshire. 

2  Sheer  ale  has  puzzled  the  commentators;  but  none  of  the  conjectures 
offered  appear  satisfactory.     Sheer  nle  may  mean  nothing  more  than  ale 
unmixed,  mere  a/r,  or  pure  nle.     The  word  sheer  is  still  used  for  me  re,  pure. 

3  i.  e.  distraught,  distracted. 

VOL.  ii.  58 


458  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [INDUC 

Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them, 
And  fetch  shrill  eehoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.    Say,  thou  wilt  course ;  thy  greyhounds  are 

as  swift 
As  breathed  stags ;  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

2  Serv.    Dost  thou  love   pictures  ?     We   will  fetch 

thee  straight 

Adonis,  painted  by  a  running  brook ; 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid ; 
Which  seem  to  move  and  wanton  with  her  breath, 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord.    We'll  show7  thee  lo,  as  she  was  a  maid ; 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surprised, 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

3  Serv.    Or,  Daphne  roaming  through  a  thorny  wood, 
Scratching  her  legs  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds ; 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep, 

So  workmanly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

Lord.    Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a  lord. 
Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 

1  Serv.    And,  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed  for  thee, 
Like  envious  floods,  o'erran  her  lovely  face, 

She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world  ; 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Sly.    Am  I  a  lord,  and  have  1  such  a  lady  ? 
Or  do  I  dream  ?     Or  have  I  dreamed  till  now  ? 
I  do  not  sleep  ;   I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak ; 
I  smell  sweet  savors,  and  I  feel  soft,  things : — 
Upon  my  life,  I  am  a  lord,  indeed  ; 
And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christophero  Sly. — 
Well,  bring  our  lady  hither  to  our  sight ; 
And  once  again,  a  pot  o'the  smallest  ale. 

2  Serv.    Wili't  please  your  mightiness  to  wash  your 

hands  ? 

[Servants  present  a  ewer,  basin,  and  napkin 
O,  how  we  joy  to  see  your  wit  restored ! 
O,  that  once  more  you  knew  but  what  you  are  ! 
These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream  ; 
Or,  when  you  waked,  so  waked  as  if  you  slept. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  459 

Sly.    Those  fifteen  years  !     By  my  fay,1  a  goodly  nap 
But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time  ? 

1  Serv.    O,  yes,  my  lord  ;  but  very  idle  words. — 
For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber, 
Yet  would  you  say,  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door ; 
And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house  ; 
And  say,  you  would  present  her  at  the  leet,2 
Because  she  brought  stone  jugs  and  no  sealed  quarts. 
Sometimes  you  would  eall  out  for  Cicely  Ilacket. 

Sly.    Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house. 

3  Serv.    Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor  no  such 

maid, 

Nor  no  such  men  as  you  have  reckoned  up, — 
As  Stephen  Sly,  and  old  John  Naps  of  (ireece,3 
And  Peter  Turf,  and  Henry  Pimpernel!  ; 
And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  tin  -<  . 
Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 

Sly.    Now,  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends ! 

AIL    Amen. 

Sly.    I  thank  tliee ;  thou  shalt  not  lose  by  it. 

Enter  the  Page1,  as  a  Lady,  with  Attendants. 
Page.    ITow  fares  mv  noble  lord  ? 

(_5  J 

Sly.    Marry,  I  fare  well ;  for  here  is  cheer  enough. 
Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page.    Here,  noble  lord.     What  is  thy  will  with  her? 

S/y.    Are    you    m'y  wife,    and    will    not    call    me — 

husband  ? 
Mv  men  should  call  me — lord  :   I  am  your  good  man. 

Putfc.    Mv    husband    and    my    lord,    mv    lord    and 

husband. 
I  am  your  wile  in  all  obedience. 

Sly.    I  know  it  well. — What  must  I  call  her? 

Lord.    Madam. 

1  A  contraction  of  by  my  faith. 

~  That  is,  at  the  court  'leet,  where  it  was  usual  to  present  such  matters, 
as  appears  from  Kitchen  on  Courts: — "Also  if  tiplers  sell  by  cups  and 
dishes,  or  measures  sealed  or  not  sealed,  is  inquirable." 

y  Blackstone  proposes  to  read,  "old  John  Naps  o'tiie  Green."  The 
addition  seems  to  have  been  a  common  one. 


460  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [INDUC 

Sly.    Al'ce  madam,  or  Joan  madam  ? 

Lord.    Madam,  and  nothing  else  ;  so  lords  call  ladies. 

Sly.    Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dreamed  and 

slept 
Above  some  fifteen  year  and  more. 

Page.    Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me  ; 
Being  all  this  time  abandoned  from  your  bed. 

Sly.    'Tis    much. Servants,  leave    me    and    her 

alone. — 
Madam,  undress  you,  and  come  now  to  bed. 

Page.    Thrice  noble  lord,  let  me  entreat  of  you 
To  pardon  me  yet  for  a  night  or  two ; 
Or,  if  not  so,  until  the  sun  be  set ; 
For  your  physicians  have  expressly  charged, 
[n  peril  to  incur  your  former  malady, 
That  I  should  yet  absent  me  from  your  bed. 
I  hope  this  reason  stands  for  my  excuse. 

Sly.  Ay,  it  stands  so,  that  I  may  hardly  tarry  so 
long.  But  I  would  be  loath  to  fall  into  my  dreams 
again ;  I  wrill  therefore  tarry,  in  despite  of  the  flesh 
and  the  blood. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.   Your  honor's  players,  hearing  your  amendment, 
Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy, 
For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet ; 
Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congealed  your  blood, 
And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy, 
Therefore  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play, 
And  frame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  merriment, 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms,  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  Marry,  I  will ;  let  them  play  it.  Is  not  a  com- 
monty1  a  Christmas  gambol,  or  a  tumbling  trick? 

Page.    No,  my  good  lord ;  it  is  more  pleasing  stuff. 

Sly.    What,  household  stuff? 

Page.    It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Well,  we'll  see't.  Come,  madam  wife,  sit  by 
my  side,  and  let  the  world  slip;  we  shall  ne'er  be 
younger.  [They  sit  down. 

i  For  comedy. 


SC.  I.J  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  461 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.     Padua.     A  public  Place. 

Enter  LUCENTIO  and  TRAMO. 

Luc.    Tranio,  since  —  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts  — 
I  am  arrived  for  fruitful  Lombardj, 
The  pleasant  garden  of  ifreat  Italy; 

J  O  •/      * 

And,  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  armed 
With  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company, 
Most  trusty  servant,  well  approved  in  all  ; 
Here  let  us  breathe,  and  happily  institute 
A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious1  studies. 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens, 
Gave  me  mv  being,  and  my  father  first, 
A  merchant  of  great  traffic  through  the  world, 
Vincentio,  come  of  the  Bentivolii. 
Vincentio's  son,  brought  up  in  Florence, 
It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceived,3 
To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds  : 
And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study, 
Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 
Will  I  apply,:i  that  treats  of  happiness 
15  v  virtue  'specially  to  be  achieved. 
Tell  me  thy  mind  ;   for  I  have  Pisa  left, 
And  am  to  Padua  come;   as  he  that  leaves 
A  shallow  plash,'1  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep, 
And  with  satietv  srrks  to  <|iiench  his  thirst. 
Tra.    Ml  perdonate,5  gentle  master  mine, 
I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself; 


*  Ingenious  and  ingenuous  were  very  commonly  confounded  by    ;ld 
writers. 

~  i.  e.  to  fulfil  the  expectation?  of  his  friends. 

3  Jlpplt/  for  ply  is  frequently  used  by  old  writers.     Thus  Baret:  —  ''with 
diligent  endeavour  to  applie  their  studies."     And  in  Turbcrville's  Tragic 
Tales:  —  "How  she  her  wliccle  applydc" 

4  Small  piece  of  water. 

5  Pardon  me. 


462  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  I. 

Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve, 

To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy. 

Only,  good  master,  while  we  do  admire 

This  virtue,  and  this  moral  discipline, 

Let's  be  no  stoics,  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray ; 

Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  ethics,1 

As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjured : 

Balke 2  logic  with  acquaintance  that  JTOU  have, 

And  practise  rhetoric  in  your  common  talk : 

Music  and  poesy  use  to  quicken  you  ; 

The  mathematics,  and  the  metaphysics, 

Fall  to  them  as  you  find  your  stomach  serves  you ; 

No  profit  grows  where  is  no  pleasure  ta'en. — 

In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect. 

Luc.    Gramercies,  Tranio,  well  dost  thou  advise. 
If,  Biondello,  thou  wert  come  ashore, 
We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness ; 
And  take  a  lodging  fit  to  entertain 
Such  friends  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 
But  stay  awhile  ;  What  company  is  this  ? 

Tra.    Master,  some  show,  to  welcome  us  to  town. 


Enter  BAPTISTA,   KATHARINA,  BIANCA,  GREMIO,  and 
HORTENSIO.     LUCENTIO  and  TRANIO  stand  aside. 

Bap.    Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  further, 
For  how  I  firmly  am  resolved  you  know ; 
That  is — not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter, 
Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder. 
If  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 
Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well, 
Leave  shall  you  have  to  court  her  at  your  pleasure. 

Gre.    To  cart  her  rather ;  she's  too  rough  for  me. — 
There,  there,  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife? 

1  The  old  copy  reads  Aristotle's  checks.     Blackstone  suggests  that  we 
should  read  ethics,  and  the  sense  seems  to  require  it ;  it  is  therefore  ad 
mitted  into  the  text. 

2  The  modern  editions  read,  "  Talk  logic,  &c.     The  old  copy  reaas 
Bfdke,  which  Mr.  Boswell  suggests  may  be  right,  although  the  meaning1 
of  the  word  is  now  lost. 


,  j 


SC.  1.]  TAMING   OF   THE    SHREW.  463 

Kath.    I  pray  you,  sir,  [To  BAP.]  is  it  your  will 
To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  .' 

lloi .    Mates,  maid  !   how  mean   von  that  ?   no  mates 

for  you, 
Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 

Kath.    I'faith,  sir,  vou  shall  never  need  to  fear; 
I  wis,1  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart : 
Hut  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be; 
To  comb  your  noddle  with  a  three-legged  stool, 
And  paint  your  faee,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

lloi '.    From  all  such  devils,  good  Lord  deliver  us  ! 

Grc.    And  me  too,  good  Lord  ! 
i  Tra.    Hush,    master!    here    is   some    ^ood    pastime 

toward  ; 
That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  froward. 

Luc.    But  in  the  other's  silence  I  do  see 
Maid's  mild  behavior  and  sobriety. 
Peace,  Tranio. 

Tra.    Well  said,  master;   mum!   and  gaze  your  fill. 

Bttp.    Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 
What  I  have  said, — Bianca.  uet  you  in: 
And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  imod  Bianca  : 
For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  mv  girl. 

Kuth.    A  prettv  peat!2  'tis  best 
,         Put  linger  in  the  eve, — an  she  knew  whv. 
!  Bian.    Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. — 

Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  1  subscribe. 
My  books,  and  instruments,  shall  be  mv  company  ; 
On  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 

Luc.    Hark,     Tranio!     thou     ma\st    hear    Minerva 
speak.  [Aside. 

Hor.    Seignior  Baptista,  will  vou  be  so  strange? 
Sorry  am  I  that  our  good  will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

G-rc.  Why,  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Seignior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell, 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 

Bap.    Gentlemen,  content  ye  :   I  am  resolved. — 
Go  in,  Bianca.  [Exit  BIANCA. 

1  Think.  2  pet 


464  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  1 

And  for  I  know  she  taketh  most  delight 

In  music,  instruments,  and  poetry, 

Schoolmasters  will  I  keep  within  my  house, 

Fit  to  instruct  her  youth. — If  you,  Hortensio, 

Or,  seignior  Gremio,  you,  know  any  such, 

Prefer1  them  hither;  for  to  cunning2  men 

I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 

To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing  up ; 

And  so  farewell.     Katharina,  you  may  stay  ; 

For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.  [Exit. 

Kath.    Why,  and  I  trust,  I  may  go  too,  may  I  not? 
What,  shall  I  be  appointed  hours ;  as  though,  belike, 
I  knew  not  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave  ?     Ha ! 

[Exit. 

Gre.  You  may  go  to  the  devil's  dam  :  your  gifts 3  are 
so  good,  here  is  none  will  hold  you.  Their4  love  is  not 
so  great,  Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our  nails  to 
gether,  and  fast  it  fairly  out ;  our  cake's  dough  on  both 
sides.  Farewell — yet,  for  the  love  I  bear  my  sweet 
Bianca,  if  I  can  by  any  means  light  on  a  fit  man  to 
teach  her  that  wherein  she  delights,  I  will  wish5  him 
to  her  father. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  seignior  Gremio  :  but  a  word,  I  pray. 
Though  the  nature  of  our  quarrel  yet  never  brooked 
parle,  know  now,  upon  advice,  it  toucheth  us  both, — 
that  we  may  yet  again  have  access  to  our  fair  mistress, 
and  be  happy  rivals  in  Bianca's  love, — to  labor  and 
effect  one  thing  'specially. 

Gre.    What's  that,  I  pray? 

Hor.    Marry,  sir,  to  get  a  husband  for  her  sister. 

Gre.    A  husband  !     A  devil. 

Hor.    I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.    I    say,    a    devil.      Think'st    thou,    Hortensio, 


1  Recommend. 

2  Cunning  had  not  yet  lost  its  original  signification  of  knowing,  learned, 
as  may  be  observed  in  the  translation  of  the  Bible. 

3  Endowments. 

4  It  seems  that  we  should  read — Your  love.     yr.  in  old  writing  stood 
for  either  their  or  your.     If  their  love  be  right,  it  must  mean — the  good  will 
of  Baptista  and  Bianca  towards  us. 

s  i.  e.  I  will  recommend  him. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING    OF   THE   SHREW.  465 

though  her  father  be    very  rich,   any  man  is  so  very  a 
fool  to  be  married  to  hell  ." 

Hoi.  Tush,  CJremio,  though  it  pass  your  patience 
and  mine,  to  endure  her  loud  alarums,  why,  man,  there 
be  good  fellows  in  the  world,  an  a  man  could  light  on 
them,  would  take  her  with  all  faults,  and  money 
enough. 

(jrc.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her  dowry 
with  this  condition, — to  be  whipped  at  the  high-cross 
every  morning. 

Ilor.  'Faith,  as  you  say,  there's  small  choice  in  rot 
ten  apples.  But  come  ;  since  this  bar  m  law  makes 
us  friends,  it  shall  be  so  far  forth  friendlv  maintained, — 
liil  by  helping  Baptism's  eldest  daughter  to  a  husband, 
we  set  his  youngest  Iree  lor  a  husband,  and  then 
have  to't  afresh. — Sweet  Bianca  ! — Happy  man  be  his 
dole!  He  that  runs  fastest,  gets  the  rin^.1  How  say 
you,  seignior  Gremio? 

Gre.  1  am  agreed  ;  and  'would  I  had  i;iven  him  the 
best  horse  in  Padua  to  be^in  his  wooing,  that  would 
thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her.  and  bed  her,  and  rid  the 
house  of  her.  Come  on. 

[L.ct  unt  (iiir.Mio  und  [JoRTENSio. 

Tra.    [Advancing.]      I  prav,  >ir,  irll  me, — 1>  it  pos- 

sible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold? 

Luc.    ()  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 
1  never  thought  it  possible,  or  likelv: 
But  see!      \Vhile  idlv  I  stood  looking  on. 
i  found  the  elfect  ol  love  in  idleness  : 
And  no\v  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee, — 
That  art  to  me  as  secret,  and  as  dear, 
As  Anna  to  the  queen  ol  Carthage;  was, — 
Tranio,  1  burn,  I   pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  this  voun^  modest  »'irl. 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  tor  I  know  thou  canst; 
Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 


1  The  allusion  is  probably  to  the  sport  of  running  at  the  ring,  or  some 

similar  <jfuiii(\ 

VOL.  ii.  59 


466  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  I 

Tra.    Master,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now ; 
Affection  is  not  rated1  from  the  heart: 
If  love  have  touched  you,  nought  remains  but  so, — 
Redime  te  captum  quam  queas  minim o? 

Luc.    Gramercies,  lad  ;  go  forward  :  this  contents  ; 
The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel's  sound. 

Tra.    Master,  you  looked  so  longly3  on  the  maid, 
Perhaps  you  marked  not  what's  the  pith  of  all. 

Luc.    O  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  her  face, 
Such  as  the  daughter4  of  Agenor  had, 
That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her  hand, 
When  with  his  knees  he  kissed  the  Cretan  strand. 

Tra.    Saw  you  no  more  ?     Marked  you  not  how  her 

sister 

Began  to  scold,  and  raise  up  such  a  storm, 
That  mortal  ears  might  hardly  endure  the  din  ? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move, 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air; 
Sacred,  and  sweet,  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.    Nay,   then,    'tis    time    to    stir    him    from    his 

trance. 

I  pray,  awake,  sir ;  if  you  love  the  maid, 
Bend   thoughts    and    wits    to  achieve   her.       Thus  it 

stands  : 

Her  elder  sister  is  so  curst  and  shrewd, 
That,  till  the  father  rids  his  hands  of  her, 
Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home : 
And  therefore  has  he  closely  mewed  her  up, 
Because  she  shall  not  be  annoyed  with  suitors. 

Luc.    Ah,  Tranio,  what  a  cruel  father's  he ! 
But  art  thou  not  advised,  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  schoolmasters  to  instruct  her  ? 

Tra.    Ay,  marry,  am  I,  sir ;  and  now  'tis  plotted. 

Luc.    I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand, 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

1  Is  not  driven  out  by  chiding. 

2  This  line  is  quoted  as  it  appears  in  Lilly's  Grammar,  arid  not  as  it  is 
in  Terence.     See  Farmer's  Essay  on  th3  Learning  of  Shakspeare. 

3  Longingly.  4  Europa, 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  4b'7 

Luc.    Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster, 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid. 

i^* 

Hint's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is.     May  it  be  done? 

Trtt.    Not  possible.      For  who  shall  bear  your  part, 
And  be  in    Padua  here  Vincentio's  son: 
Keep  house,  and  ply  his  book:   welcome  his  friends; 
Visit  his  countrymen,  and  banquet  them? 

Luc.    Basta  ;  }   content  thee,  for  I  have  it  full. 
\\  e  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house  ; 

Nor  can  we  be  distinguished  bv  our  faces, 

.  *" 
For  man,  or  master:   then  it  follows  thus: — 

Thou  shall  be  master, Tranio,  in  my  .stead, 
Keep  house,  and  port,2  and  servants,  as  I  should. 
1  will  some  other  be;   some  Florentine, 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 
'Tis  hatched,  and  shall  be  so.      Tranio.  at  once 
Uncase  thee  ;  take  my  colored  hat  and  cloak  : 
When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee  : 
But  I  will  c,harm  him  first  to  keep  his  tongue. 

Tra.    So  had  you  need.  [They  exchange  habits. 

In  brief  then,  sir,  sith  3  it  your  pleasure  is, 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient, 
(For  so  your  father  charged  me  at  our  parting; 
/>(  serviceable  to  my  ,s*0/z,  quoth  he  ; 
Although,  I  think,  'twas  in  another  sense  ;) 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 
Because  so  well  I  love4  Lucentio. 

Luc.    Tranio.  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves; 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  to  achieve  that  maid, 
Whose  sudden  sight,  hath  thralled  mv  wounded  eye. 

llntcr  BIONDELLO. 

Mere  comes  the  ro^ue. — Sirrah,  where  have  you  been? 
Bion.    Where  have  I  been  ?    Nay,  how  now?  where 
are  you  ? 


1   It  is  enough  (Ital.). 

%  Port  is  figure,  show,  appearance.  3  Since. 


468  TAMING   OF  THE    SHREW.  [ACT    . 

Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stolen  your  clotnes  ? 
Or  you  stolen  his  ?  or  both  ?     Pray  what's  the  news  ? 

Luc.    Sirrah,  come  hither;   'tis  no  time  to  jest, 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 
Your  fellow  Tranio  here,  to  save  my  life, 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  countenance  on, 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  killed  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried  : 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes, 
While  I  make  way  from  hence  to  save  my  life. 
You  understand  me  ? 

Bion.  I,  sir,  ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.    And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth  ; 
Tranio  is  changed  into  Lucentio. 

Bion.    The  better  for  him.     'Would  I  were  so  too ! 

Tra.    So  would  I,  faith,  boy,  to  have  the  next  wish 

after, — 

That  Lucentio  indeed  had  Baptista's  youngest  daughter. 
But,  sirrah, — not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master's — I 

advise 

You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of  com 
panies. 

When  I  am  alone,  why  then  I  am  Tranio ; 
But  in  all  places  else,  your  master  Lucentio. 

Luc.    Tranio,  let's  go. — 
One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute  ; — 
To  make  one  among  these  wooers.     If  thou  ask.   me 

why,— 
Sufficeth,  my  reasons  are  both  good  and  weighty. 

[Exeunt.1 

1  Scrv.  My  lord,  you  nod;  you  do  not  mind  the 
play. 

Sly.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne,  do  I.  A  good  matter, 
surely.  Comes  there  any  more  of  it? 


1  Here,  in  the  old  copy,  we  have,  "The  presenters  above  speak;" 
meaning  Sly,  &c.,  who  were  placed  in  a  balcony  raised  at  the  back  of  the 
stage.  After  the  words  "  Would  it  were  done,"  the  marginal  direction  is, 
They  sit  and  mark. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING    OF  THE   SHREW.  469 

Page.    My  lord,  his  but  begun. 
Sly.    'YY.v  a  very  excellent  piece   of  ivorJc,  madam 
lady.     ^  Would  'twere  done! 


SCENE  II.     The  same.     Before  Hortensio's  House. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  GRUMIO. 

Pet.    Verona,  for  a  while  I  take  my  leave, 
To  see  my  friends  in  Padua  ;   but,  of  all, 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  his  house. — 
Here,  sirrah  Gruinio;   knock,  I  say. 

Gru.    Knock,    sir !      Whom    should    I    knock  ?      Is 
there  any  man  has  rebused  your  worship  : 

Pet.    Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly. 

Gru.    Knock  you  here,  sir?     Why,  sir,  what   am   I, 
sir,  that  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir?1 

Pet-    Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate, 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I'll  knock  your  knave's  pate. 

Grit.    My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome.      I    should 

knock  you  first, 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  b\  the  worst. 

Pet.    Will  it  not  be  : 

'Faith,  sirrah,  an  you'll  not  knock.  I'll  wring  it; 
I'll  try  how  you  can  sol,  fa,  and  sin^  it. 

[lie  irriii»'x  (Jia.Mio  by  the  cars. 

Gru.    Help,  masters,  help!      Mv  master  is  mad. 

Pet.    Xow,  knock  when  I  bid  \ou;   sirrah!   villain! 


1] tit <T  I  loRTr.xsm. 

//or.  How  now  :  what's  the  matter? — My  old 
friend  Grumio,  and  mv  ^ood  friend  lYtruchio! — How 
do  you  all  at  Verona  ! 


1  Malone  remarks  that  (irumio's  pretensions  to  wit  have  a  strong  re 
semblance  to  Dromio's,  in  The  Comedy  of  Errors;  and  the  two  plays 
were  probably  written  at  no  great  distance  of  time  from  eacli  other. 


470  TAMING   OF   THE    SHREW.  [ACT  1. 

Pet.  Seignior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the  fray  ? 
Con  tutto  il  core  bene  trovato,  may  I  say. 

Hor.  Alia  nostra  casa  bene  venuto, 
Molto  honor  ato,  signor  mio  Petruchio.1 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise  ;  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 

Gru.  Nay,  'tis  no  matter  \vhat  he  leges2  in  Latin. 
— If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me  to  leave  his  ser 
vice, — Look  you,  sir,  he  bid  me  knock  him,  and  rap 
him  soundly,  sir.  Well,  was  it  fit  for  a  servant  to  use 
his  master  so ;  being,  perhaps,  (for  aught  I  see,)  two 
and  thirty, — a  pip  out?3 

Whom,  'would  to  God,  I  had  well  knocked  at  first  ; 
Then  had  not  Grumio  come  by  the  worst. 

Pet.    A  senseless  villain  ! — Good  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate, 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Gru.    Knock  at  the  gate  ? — O  Heavens  ! 
Spake  you  not  these  words   plain, — Sirrah,  knock  me 

here, 

Rap  me  here,  knock  me  well,  and  knock  me  soundly  ? 
And  come  you  now7  with — knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pet.    Sirrah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 

Hor.    Petruchio,  patience  ;   I  am  Grumio's  pledge. 
Why,  this  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you  ; 
Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant,  Grumio. 
And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend, — W7hat  happy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua  here,  from  old  Verona  ? 

Pet.    Such  wind  as  scatters  young  men  through  the 

world, 

To  seek  their  fortunes  farther  than  at  home, 
Where  small  experience  grows.     But,  in  a  few,4 
Seignior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me. — 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceased  ; 


1  Gascoigne,  in  his  Supposes,  has  spelled  this  name  correctly  Pctrucio ; 
but  Shakspeare  wrote  it  as  it  appears  in  the  text,  in  order  to  teach  the 
actors  how  to  pronounce  it. 

2  i.  e.  Avhat  he  alleges  in  Latin.     Grumio  mistakes  the  Italian  spoken 
for  Latin. 

3  The  allusion  is  to  the  old  game  of  B^nc-acc,  or  om-and-iliirty.     A  pip 
is  a  spot  upon  a  card.     The  old  copy  has  itpecpe. 

4  In  short,  in  a  few  words. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  471 

And  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 
Haply  to  wive,  and  thrive,  as  best  I  inav. 
Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  homo, 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Jlor.    Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee, 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favored  wife  ? 
Thou'dst  thank  me  but  ;i  little  for  my  counsel  ; 
And  yet  I'll  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich, 
And  very  rich. — But  thou'rt  too  much  my  friend, 
And  Fll  not  wish  thee  to  her. 

Pet.    Seignior  Ilortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  as  we, 
Few  words  suffice  ;  and,  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petruchio's  wife, 
(As  wealth  is  burden  of  my  wooing  dance,) 
Be  she  as  foul  as  was  FJorentius'  love,1 
As  old  as  Sibyl,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse, 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least, 
Affection's  edge  in  me;  were  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swelling  Adriatic  seas. 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua  ; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 

Grit.  Nay,  look  von,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what  his 
mind  is.  Why,  give  him  gold  enough,  and  many  him 
to  a  puppet,  or  an  aglet-baby  ;2  or  an  old  trot  withneYr 
a  tooth  in  her  head,  though  she  have  as  many  diseases 
as  two-and -fifty  horses:3  why,  nothing  comes  amiss,  so 
money  comes  withal. 

I  for.    Petruchio,  since  we  have  stepped  thus  far  in. 
{  will  continue  that   I  broached  in  jest. 
1  can,   Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  \\itc 
With  wealth  enough,  and  voting,  and  beauteous; 
Brought  up  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman  ; 
Her  only  fault  (and  that  is  faults  enough) 

1  This  allusion  is  to  a  story  told  by  (lower  in  the  first  book  of  his  (\m- 
fcssio  Amantis.     Florcnl  H  "the  name  of  a  knight  who  bound  himself  to 
marry  a  deformed  Ing  provided  she  taught  him  The  solution  of  a  riddle  on 
which  his  life  depended. 

2  An  aglet-baby  \vas  a  dhninufii'e  figure  carved  on  an  aght  orjciccl. 

:!  Thejifty  (lisc.ases  of  a  /jor.fr  see'ms  to  be  proverbial;   of  which,  prob 
ably,  the  text  is  only  ah  exaggeration. 


472  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  I. 

Is, — that  she  is  intolerably  curst, 

And  shrewd,  and  fro  ward ;  so  beyond  all  measure, 

That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 

I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  of  gold. 

Pet.    Hortensio,    peace;    thou   know'st   not  gold's 

effect. 

Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  'tis  enough  ; 
For  I  will  board  her,  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  autumn  crack. 

Hor.    Her  father  is  Baptista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman. 
Her  name  is  Katharina  Minola, 
Renowned  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.    I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not  her ; 
And  he  knew  my  deceased  father  well. 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you, 
To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter, 
Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the  humor 
lasts.  O'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him  as  well  as  I  do, 
she  would  think  scolding  would  do  little  good  upon 
him.  She  may,  perhaps,  call  him  half  a  score  knaves 
or  so  :  why,  that's  nothing ;  an  he  begin  once,  he'll  rail 
in  his  rope-tricks.1  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir, — an  she 
stand 2  him  but  a  little,  he  will  throw  a  figure  in  her 
face,  and  so  disfigure  her  with  it,  that  she  shall  have 
no  more  eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat.3  You  know 
him  not,  sir. 

Hor.    Tarry,  Petruchio  ;  I  must  go  with  thee  ; 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is. 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  life  in  hold, 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca ; 
And  her  withholds  from  me,  and  other  more 

1  i.  P.  roguish  tricks.     Ropery  is  used  by  Shakspeare  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet  for  roguery.     A  rope-ripe,  is  one  for  whom  the  gallows  groans,  ac- 
cordino-  to  Cotgrave. 

2  Withstand. 

3  Mr.  Boswell  remarks  "that  nothing  is  more  common  in  ludicrous  or 
playful   discourse  than  to  use  a   comparison  where  no  resemblance   is 
intended." 


SC.  II.]  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  473 

Suitors  to  her,  and  rivals  in  my  love: 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible, 
(For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehearsed,) 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  wooed  ; 
Therefore  this  order  hath  Baptista  ta'en  ; — 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca ; 
Till  Katharine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Gru.    Katharine  the  curst ! 
A  title  for  a  maid,  of  all  titles  the  worst. 

Hor.    Now  shall  my  friend  Petruchio  do  me  grace; 
And  offer  me,  disguised  in  sober  robes, 
To  old  Baptista  as  a  schoolmaster 
Well  seen  ]  in  music  to  instruct  Bianca. 
That  so  I  may  by  this  device,  at  least, 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her, 
And,  unsuspected,  court  her  by  herself. 

Enter  GREMIO  ;  with  him  LUCENTIO,  disguised,  with 
books  under  his  arm. 

Gru.  Here's  no  knavery !  See,  to  beguile  the  old 
folks,  how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  together! 
Master,  master,  look  about  you.  Who  goes  there?  ha  ! 

I  lor.  Peace,  Grumio  :  'tis  the  rival  of  my  love. — 
Petruchio,  stand  by  a  while. 

Gru.    A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous  ! 

[  They  retire. 

Grc.    O,  very  well ;   I  have  perused  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir;   I'll  have  them  very  fairly  bound  : 
All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  anv  hand  ;  ~ 
And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her: 
You  understand  me. — Over  and  beside* 
Seignior  Baptista's  liberality, 

I'll  mend  it  with  a  largess.      Take  your  papers  too, 
And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfumed  ; 
For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself, 
To  whom  they  go.     What  will  you  read  to  her? 

Luc.    Whate'er  I  read  to  her,  I'll  plead  for  you, 

1  To  be  wdl  seen  in  any  art  was  to  be  well  skillnl  in  it  2  Rate. 

VOL.  ii.  60 


474  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  I. 

As  for  my  patron,  (stand  you  so  assured,) 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place ; 
Yea,  and  (perhaps)  with  more  successful  words 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  sir. 

Gre.    O  this  learning!  w7hat  a  thing  it  is! 

Gru.    O  this  woodcock !  what  an  ass  it  is  ! 

Pet.    Peace,  sirrah. 

HOT.    Grumio,  mum ! — God  save  you,  seignior  Gre- 
mio ! 

Gre.    And    you're    well    met,    seignior    Hortensio. 

Trow  you 

Whither  1  am  going  ? — To  Baptista  Minola. 
I  promised  to  inquire  carefully 
About  a  schoolmaster  for  fair  Bianca; 
And,  by  good  fortune,  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man  ;  for  learning  and  behavior, 
Fit  for  her  turn ;  well  read  in  poetry 
And  other  books, — good  ones,  I  warrant  you. 

HOT.    'Tis  well  ;  and  I  have  met  a  gentleman, 
Hath  promised  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician  to  instruct  our  mistress ; 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  beloved  of  me. 

Gre.   Beloved  of  me, — and  that  my  deeds  shall  prove. 

Gru.    And  that  his  bags  shall  prove.  [Aside. 

Hor.    Gremio,  'tis  now  no  time  to  vent  our  love. 
Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 
I'll  tell  you  news  indifferent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met, 
Upon  agreement  from  us  to  his  liking, 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curst  Katharine  ; 
Yea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowry  please. 

Gre.    So  said,  so  done,  is  well. 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults  ? 

Pet.    I  know  she  is  an  irksome,  brawling  scold ; 
If  that  be  all,  masters,  I  hear  no  harm. 

Gre.   No  !   Say'st  me  so,  friend  ?  What  countryman  ? 

Pet.    Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son ; 
My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me  ; 
And  I  do  hope  good  days,  and  long,  to  see.  l 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  475 

Gre.    O  sir,  such   a  life,  with   such    a    wife,   were 


strange  : 


But,  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to't,  o'  God's  name ; 
You  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But  will  you  woo  this  wild  cat  ? 

Pet.  Will  I  live  ? 

Gru.    Will  he  woo  her?     Ay,  or  I'll  hang  her. 

[Aside. 

Pet.    Why  came  I  hither,  hut  to  that  intent  ? 
Think  you  a  little  din  can  daunt  mine  ears  ? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lions  roar  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  puffed  up  with  winds, 
Rage  like  an  angry  boar,  chafed  with  sweat  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  great  ordnance  in  the  field, 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies  : 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard 
Loud  'larums,  neighing  steeds,  and  trumpets'  clang? 
And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tongue, 
That  gives  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  the  ear, 
As  will  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's  fire  ? 
Tush  !   tush  !   fear  boys  with  bugs.1 

Gnt.  For  lie  tears  none. 

Gre.    Hortensio,  hark  ! 
This  gentleman  is  happily  arrived. 
My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  ii'ood,  and  vours. 

I  lor.    I  promised  we  would  be  contributors, 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsoe'er. 

Gre.    And  so  we  will;   provided  that,  he  win  her. 

Gru.    1  would  1  were  as  sure  o!'  a  ^ood  dinner. 

[Aside. 

Enter  TRAMO,  bravely  apparelled;   and   BIONDELLO. 

Tra.    Gentlemen,  God  save  vou  !   If  1  may  be  bold, 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  vou,  which  is  the  readiest  way 
To  the  house  of  seignior  Baptista  Minola? 

Bion.    He    that   lias   the   two   fair   daughters ; — is't 
[Aside  to  TRANIO.]  he  you  mean  ? 

1  Fright  boys  '.vith  bugbears. 


476  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  ACT  I, 

Tra.   Even  he,  Biondello. 

Gre.    Hark  you,  sir;  you  mean  not  her  to ] 

Tra.    Perhaps  him  and   her,  sir.     What  have  you 
to  do  ? 

Pet.    Not  her  that  chides,  sir ;  at  any  hand,  I  pray. 

Tra.    I  love  no  chiders,  sir. — Biondello,  let's  away. 

Luc.   Well  begun,  Tranio.  [Aside. 

Hor.    Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go. — 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea  or  no  ? 

Tra.    An  if  I  be,  sir,  is  it  any  offence  ? 

Gre.    No ;  if,  without  more  words,  you  will  get  you 
hence. 

Tra.   Why,  sir,  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as  free 
For  me  as  for  you  ? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

Tra.    For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Gre.    For  this  reason,  if  you'll  know, 

That  she's  the  choice  love  of  seignior  Gremio. 

Hor.    That  she's  the  chosen  of  seignior  Hortensio. 

O 

Tra.    Softly,  my  masters!     If  you  be  gentlemen, 
Do  me  this  right, — hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman, 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown ; 
And,  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is, 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers ; 
Then  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have  : 
And  so  she  shall ;   Lucentio  shall  make  one, 
Though  Paris  came,  in  hope  to  speed  alone. 

Gre.    Wliat !     This  gentleman  will  outtalk  us  all. 

Luc.    Sir,  give  him  head  ;  I  know  he'll  prove  a  jade. 

Pet.    Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words  ? 

Hor.    Sir,  let  rne  be  so  bold  as  ask  you, 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter? 

Tra.    No,  sir ;  but  hear  I  do  that  he  hath  two ; 
The  one  as  famous  for  a  scolding  tongue, 
As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 


1  This  hiatus  is  in  the  old  copy ;  it  is  most  probable  that  an  abrupt 
sentence  was  intended. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  477 

7V/.    Sir,  sir,  the  first's  for  me  ;   let  her  go  by. 

(iic.    Yea,  leave  th.it  labor  to  great  Hercules; 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 

P(t.    Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me,  in  sooth  ;  — 
The  youngest  daughter,  whom  you  hearken  for, 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  aeeess  of  suitors, 
And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man, 
Until  the  elder  sister  first  be  wed. 
The  younger  then  is  free,  and  not  before. 

Tra.    If  it  be  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  amoni;  the  rest  ; 
An  if  you  break  the  iee,  and  do  this  feat,— 
Aehieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free 
For  our  aeeess,  —  whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  her, 
Will  not  so  graceless  be,  to  be  in^rate. 

Jlor.    Sir,  you  say  well,  and  well  do  you  conceive  ; 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor, 
You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholden. 

Tra.    Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack  :   in  sign  whereof, 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  '  this  afternoon, 
And  (juaiT  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health  ; 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  I  tw,  — 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 

Grc.  J)ioii.     O  excellent  motion  !     Fellows,0  let's  be 
gone. 

/for.    The  motion's  i^ood  indeed,  and  be  it  so  ;  — 
Petruchio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  rcnuto.  I'j. 


1  To  rnnlrifc  is  to  wear  out,  to  pr,9.<?  mmy,  from  coittrivi,  the  prelrrit 
of  ro/f/^ro,  0110  of  the  disused  Latinisms. 

-  l-Mhncs  means  coniftnnions,  and  not  f('l!o\v-scrv;i!its,  as  Maloti*1 
supposed. 


478  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  II. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.    The  same.    A  Room  in  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  KATHARINA  and  BIANCA. 

Bian.    Good  sister,  wrong  me  not,  nor  wrong  your 
self, 

To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me ; 
That  I  disdain :  but  for  these  other  gawds, 
Unbind  my  hands,  I'll  pull  them  off  myself, 
Yea,  all  my  raiment,  to  my  petticoat ; 
Or,  what  you  will  command  me,  will  I  do, 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kath.    Of  all  thy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee,  tell 
Whom  thou  lov'st  best.     See  thou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.    Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
I  never  yet  beheld  that  special  face 
Which  I  could  fancy  more  than  any  other. 

Kath.    Minion,  thou  liest.     Is't  not  Hortensio  ? 

Bian.    If  you  affect 1  him,  sister,  here  I  swear, 
I'll  plead  for  you  myself,  but  you  shall  have  him. 

Kath.    O  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more  ; 
You  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair. 

Bian.    Is  it  for  him  you  do  envy  me  so? 
Nay,  then  you  jest ;  and  now  I  well  perceive, 
You  have  but  jested  with  me  all  this  while. 
I  pr'ythee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands. 

Kath.    If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so. 

[Strikes  her. 

Enter  BAPTISTA. 

Bap.   Why,  how  now,  dame  !  whence  grows  this 

insolence  ? — 

Bianca,  stand  aside  ; — poor  girl !  she  weeps.— 
Go,  ply  thy  needle  ;  meddle  not  with  her. — 

1  Love. 


SC.  1.]  TAMING    OF   THE    SHREW.  481 

music  and  mathematics.     His  name  is  Cambio ;  pray, 
accept  his  service. 

Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  seignior  Gremio  ;  welcome, 
good  Cambio. — But,  gentle  sir,  [To  TRAMO.]  methinks 
you  walk  like  a  stranger.  May  I  be  so  bold  to  know 
the  cause;  of  your  coming  ? 

Tra.    Pardon  me,  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine  own  ; 
That,  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here, 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter, 
Unto  Bianca,  fair  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me, 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister. 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request,— 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo, 
And  free  access  and  favor  as  the  rest. 
And  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
1  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument, 
And  this  small  package  of  Greek  and  Latin  books.1 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.    Lucentio  is  your  name?     Of  whence,  I  pray? 

Tra.    Of  Pisa,  sir;  son  to  Vincentio. 

J><ij).    A  mighty  man  of  Pisa,  bv  report 
I  know  him  well  :  you  are  very  welcome,  sir. — 
'Take  you  [To  Hon.]  the  lute,  and  you  [To  Luc.]  the 

set  of  books ; 

You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holla,  within  ! 

Enter  a   Servant. 

Sirrah,  lead 

These  gentlemen  to  mv  daughters,  and  tell  them  both, 

These  are  their  tutors;    bid  them  use  them  well. 

[fcxil  Servant,  tcith  HORTKNSIO,  LUCENTIO, 

and  BIONDELLO. 
We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard, 

I  In  the  roijrn  of  Eli/.ahot.h,  the  younsr  lilies  of  quality  were  usually 
instructed  in  the  learned  lan^uu^es,  if  any  pains  wore  bestowed  upon 
their  minds  at  all.  The  queen  herself,  lady  Jane  Grey,  and  her  sisters, 
&c.  are  trite  instances. 

VOL.     II.  61 


482  TAMING    OF   THE    SHREW.  [ACT  II 

And  then  to  dinner.     You  are  passing  welcome, 
And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 

Pet.    Seignior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh  haste, 
And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo. 
You  knew  my  father  well ;  and  in  him,  me, 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods, 
Which  I  have  bettered  rather  than  decreased. 
Then  toll  me,  if  I  get  your  daughter's  love, 
What  dowry  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife  ? 

Bap.    After  my  death,  the  one  half  of  my  lands ; 
And,  in  possession,  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pet.    And  for  that  dowry,  I'll  assure  her  of1 
Her  widowhood, — be  it  that  she  survive  me, — 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever. 
Let  specialties  be  therefore  drawn  between  us, 
That  covenants  may  be  kept  on  either  hand. 

Bap.    Ay,  when  the  special  thing  is  well  obtained ; 
This  is, — her  love ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 

Pet.    Why,  that  is  nothing ;  for  I  tell  you,  father, 
I  am  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded; 
And  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 
They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury : 
Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind, 
Yet  extreme  gusts  will  blow  out  fire  and  all. 
So  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me ; 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 

Bap.   Well   mayst    thou   woo,    and    happy    be  thy 

speed ! 
But  be  thou  armed  for  some  unhappy  words. 

Pet.    Ay,  to  the  proof;  as  mountains  are  for  winds, 
That  shake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  HORTENSIG,  ivith  his  head  broken. 

Bap.    How  now,  my  friend  ?     Why  dost  thou  look 

so  pale  ? 

Hor.    For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 
Bap.  What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good  musician  ? 

1  Perhaps  we  should  read  on.     Of  and  on  are  frequently  confounded 
by  the  negligence  of  printers,  in  the  old  copy. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING    OF   THE    SHREW.  433 

j 

Hor.    I  think  she'll  sooner  prove  a  soldier  ; 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Bap.    Why  then   thou   canst   not    break   her   to  the 
lute  ? 

Hor.    Why.  no  ;   for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her,  she  mistook  her  frets,1 
And  bowed  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering, 
When,  with  a  most  impatient,  devilish  spirit, 
Frets,  calls  you  these  ?  quoth  she  ;  I'll  fume  with  them  ; 
And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way  ; 
|          And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  a  while4, 

As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute  ; 

While  she  did  call  me, — rascal  fiddler, 

And, — twan<din<r  Jack  :   with  twenty  such  vile  terms, 

o          O  J 

As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

Pe.t.   Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench ; 

I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did. 

O,  how  I  long  to  have  some  chat  with  her  ! 

Bap.    Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  discomfited. 

Proceed  in  practice  with  my  younger  daughter  ; 

She's  apt  to  learn,  and  thankful  for  good  turns. — 

Seignior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us  f 

Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 
I  Pet.    I  pray  you,  do  ;   I  will  attend  her  here, — 

[Exeunt  IVu'n.sTA,  GRF.MIO,  TIIANIO, 

and  HORTENSIO. 
!  And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 

Sav,  that  she  rail  ;   why,  then  I'll  tell  her  plain. 

She  sillies  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale. 
\          Sav,  that  she  frown;    I'll  say  she  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  washed  with  dew. 

Say,  she  he  mutt1,  and  will  not  speak  a  word  ; 

Then  I'll  commend  her  volubility, 

And  say — she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence. 

If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I'll  give  her  thanks, 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week. 


1    fVrfa  arc  the  points  at  which  a  string  is  to  be  stopped,  formerly 
marked  on  the  neck  of  such  instruments  as  the  lute  or  guitar. 


484  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  II 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I'll  crave  the  day 

When  I  shall  ask  the  bans,  and  when  be  married. 

But  here  she  comes  ;  and  now,  Petruchio,  speak. 

Enter  KATHARINA. 

Good-morrow,  Kate ;  for  that's  your  name,  I  hear. 

Kath.    Well  have  you  heard,  but  something  hard1 

of  hearing ; 
They  call  me — Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 

Pet.    You  lie,  in  faith  ;  for  you  are  called  plain  Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst; 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Hall,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates ;  and  therefore,  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  ; — 
Hearing  thy  mildness  praised  in  every  town, 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauties  sounded, 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,) 
Myself  am  moved  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Kath.   Moved !  in  good  time  ;  let  him  that  moved 

you  hither, 

Remove  you  hence.     I  knew  you  at  the  first, 
You  were  a  movable. 

Pet.  Why,  what's  a  movable  ? 

Kath.    A  joint-stool. 

Pet.  Thou  hast  hit  it;  come,  sit  on  me. 

Kath.    Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 

Pet.    Women  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 

Kath.    No  such  jade,  sir,  as  you,  if  me  you  mean. 

Pet.    Alas,  good  Kate,  I  will  not  burden  thee  ; 
For  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light, — 

Kath.    Too  light  for  such  a  swain  as  you  to  catch  ; 
And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  weight  should  be. 

Pet.    Should  be  ?  should  buzz. 

Kath.  Well  ta'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.    O,  slow-winged  turtle  !  shall  a  buzzard  take 
thee  ? 

1  This  is  a  poor  quibble  upon  heard,  which  was  then  pronounced  hard, 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  485 

Kath.    Ay,  for  a  turtle  ;  as  he  takes  a  buzzard.1 
Pet.    Come,  come,   you  wasp  ;  i 'faith,  you  are  too 

angry. 

Kath.    If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  my  sting. 
Pet.    My  remedy  is,  then,  to  pluck  it  out. 
Kath.    Ay,  if  the  fool  could  find  it  where  it  lies. 
Pet.    Who  knows  not  where  a  wasp  doth  wear   his 

sting? 
In  his  tail 

Kath.          In  his  tongue. 
Pet.  Whose  tongue  ? 

Kath.    Yours,  if  you  talk  of  tails;  and  so  farewell. 
Pet.    What,    with    my  tongue  in  your   tail  ?     Nay, 

come  again, 
Good  Kate  ;   I  am  a  gentleman. 

Kath.  That  I'll  try. 

[Striking  him. 

Pet.    I  swear  I'll  cuff  you,  if  you  strike  again. 
Kath.    So  may  you  lose  your  arms. 
If  you  strike  me,  you  are  no  gentleman  ; 
And  if  no  gentleman,  why,  then  no  arms. 

Pet.    A  herald,  Kate  ?     O,  put  me  in  thy  books. 
Kath.    What  is  your  crest?     A  coxcomb? 
Pet.    A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  my  hen. 
Kath.    No    cock    of    mine,    you    crow    too    like    a 

craven.2 
Pet.    Nay,  come,  Kate,  come  ;  you  must  not  look  so 

sour. 

Rath.    It  is  my  fashion  when  I  sec  a  crab. 
Pet.    Why,  here's  no   crab  ;   and  therefore   look   not 

sour. 

Kath.    There  is,  there  is. 
Pet.    Then  show  it  me. 

Kath.  Had  I  a  glass,  I  would. 

Pet.    What,  you  mean  mv  face  ? 

1  This  kind  of  expression  seems  to  have  been  proverbial.     So  in  The 
Three  Lords  of  London,  151)0  : 


hast  no  more  skill 


Than  takt  a  falcon  for  a  buzzard." 
2  A  cowardly,  degenerate  cock. 


486  TAMING   OF  THE    SHREW.  [ACT  II. 

Kath.  Well  aimed  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.    Now,  by   Saint   George,  I  am  too  young  for 
you. 

Kath.    Yet  you  are  withered. 

Pet.  'Tis  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.    Nay,  hear  you,  Kate  ;  in  sooth  you  'scape   not 
so. 

Kath.    I  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry  ;  let  me  go. 

Pet.    No,  not  a  whit  ;  I  find  you  passing  gentle. 
'Twas  told  me,  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and  sullen, 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar  ; 
For  thou  art  pleasant,  gamesome,  passing  courteous  ; 
But  slow  in  speech,  yet  sweet  as  spring-time  flowers. 
Thou  canst  not  frown,  thou  canst  not  look  askance, 
Nor  bite  the  lip  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk  ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers, 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report,  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 
O  slanderous  world !     Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig, 
Is  straight  and  slender :  and  as  brown  in  hue 

O 

As  hazel-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
O,  let  me  see  thee  walk ;  thou  dost  not  halt. 

Kath.    Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  command. 

Pet.    Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove, 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 
O,  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate  ; 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful ! 

Kath.    Where  did  you  study  all  this  goodly  speech  ? 

Pet.    It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Kath.    A  witty-mother  !  witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.    Am  I  not  wise  ? 

Kath.  Yes  ;  keep  you  warm.1 

Pet.    Marry,  so  I  mean,  sweet  Katharine,  in  thy  bed; 
And  therefore,  setting  all  this  chat  aside, 
Thus  in  plain  terms  : — Your  father  hath  consented 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife  ;  your  dowry  'greed  on  ; 


1  This  appears  to  allude  to  some  proverb. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  437 

And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn  ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, 
(Thy  beauty,  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well,) 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me  ; 
For  I  am  he,  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate, 
And  bring  you  from  a  wild  Kate  to  a  Kate  l 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father  ;  never  make  denial ; 
I  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 

Re-enter  BAPTISTA,  GREMIO,  and  TRANIO. 

Bap.    Now. 

Seignior  Petruchio,  how  speed  you  with 
My  daughter  ? 

Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well  ? 

It  were  impossible  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.    Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine  ;  in  your 
dumps  ? 

Kath.    Call  you  me  daughter  ?    Now,  I  promise  you, 
You  have  showed  a  tender,  fatherly  regard, 
To  wish  me  wed  to  one  half  lunatic  ; 
A  mad-cap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
That  thinks  with  oaths  to  face;  thr  matter  out. 

Pet.    Father,  'tis  thus: — Yourself  and  all  the  world, 
That  talked  of  her,  have  talked  amiss  of  her; 
If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy  ; 
For  she's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove  ; 
She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn  ; 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  (iris-el:" 
And  Roman   Lucrece  for  her  chastitx  ; 
And  to  conclude, — we  have  ?^reed  so  well  together, 
That  upon  Sundav  is  the  wedding-dav. 

Kath.    Fll  see  thee  hanged  on  Sunday  first. 


i  Thus  the  first  folio.  Thn  second  folio  reads: — "a  wild  Kat  to  a 
Kate;"  the  modern  editors,  ua  wild  a//." 

-  The  story  of  Griselda,  so  beautifully  related  by  Chaucer,  was  taken 
ny  him  from  Boccaccio.  It  is  thought,  to  be  older  than  the  time  of  the 
Florentine,  as  it  is  to  be  found  among  the  o\<\.  fabliaux. 


488  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  II. 

Gre.    Hark,    Petruchio !    she    says   she'll    see    thee 
hanged  first. 

Tra.    Is  this  your  speeding  ?    Nay,  then,  good  night 
our  part ! 

Pet.    Be    patient,    gentlemen ;    I    choose    her    for 

myself. 

If  she  and  I  be  pleased,  what's  that  to  you  ? 
'Tis  bargained  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
That  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  tell  you,  'tis  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me.     O,  the  kindest  Kate ! — 
She  hung  about  my  neck ;  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  so  fast,  protesting  oath  on  oath, 
That  in  a  twink,  she  won  me  to  her  love. 
O,  you  are  novices !     'Tis  a  world  to  see,1 
How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 
A  meacock 2  wretch  can  make  the  curstest  shrew. — 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate !  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gainst  the  wedding-day. — 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests ; 
I  will  be  sure  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Bap.    I  know  not  what  to  say ;  but  give  me  your 

hands ; 
God  send  you  joy,  Petruchio  !  'tis  a  match. 

Gre.    Tra.    Amen,  say  we  ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Pet.    Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu  ; 
I  will  to  Venice ;   Sunday  comes  apace.— 
We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate  ;  we  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

[Exeunt  PET.  and  KATH.  severally. 

Gre.    Was  ever  match  clapped  up  so  suddenly  ? 

Bap.    Faith,   gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's 

part, 
And  venture  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Tra.    'Twas  a  commodity  lay  fretting  by  you. 
'Twill  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Bap.    The  gain  I  seek  is — quiet  in  the  match. 

1  This  phrase,  which  frequently  occurs  in  old  writers,  is  equivalent  to, 
it  is  a  wonder,  or  a  matter  of  admiration  to  see. 

2  A  tame,  dastardly  creature,  particularly  an  over-mild  hushand. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  489 

Gre.    No  doubt,  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. 
But  now,  Baptista,  to  your  younger  daughter; — 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for ; 
I  am  your  neighbor,  and  was  suitor  first. 

Tra.    And  I  am  one  that  love  Bianca  more 
Than  words  can  witness,  or  your  thoughts  can  guess. 

Grc.    Youngling!   thou  canst  not  love  so  dear  as  I. 

j  '  O          o 

Tra.    Gray-beard  !   thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.  But  thine  doth  fry. 

Skipper,  stand  back;   'tis  age  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.    But  youth,  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flourished!. 
,1  Bap.    Content  you,  gentlemen  ;   I'll  compound  this 

strife. 

'Tis  deeds  must  win  the  prize  ;  and  he,  of  both, 
That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower, 
Shall  have  Bianca's  lovef— 
Say,  seignior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her? 

Grc.    First,  as  you  know,  my  house  within  the  city 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold  ; 
Basins,  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands ; 
My  hangings  all  of  Tyrian  tapestry ; 
In  ivory  coffers  I  have  st  tilled  my  crowns  ; 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints,1 
Costly  apparel,  tents,2  and  canopies  ; 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  bossed  with  pearl, 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needle-work, 
Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 

'  O  o 

To  house,  or  house-keeping.     Then,  at  my  farm, 
1  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  mv  stalls, 
And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 
Ahself  ;:m  struck  in  years.  I   miiM  confess; 
And,  if  I  die  to-morrow,  this  is  hers, 
If,  whilst  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine. 

Tra.    That  only  came  well  in. Sir,  list  to  me. 

I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  only  son  : 

If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 

1  Coverings  for  beds ;  now  called  counterpanes. 

~  Te.nl*  were  hangings,  tcntcs  (French),  probably  so  named  from  the 
tenters  upon  which  they  were  hung. 
VOL.  ii.  62 


490  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  Jl 

I'll  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good, 
Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 
Old  seignior  Gremio  has  in  Padua ; 

o  ' 

Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year, 

Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure.— 

What,  have  I  pinched  you,  seignior  Gremio  ? 

Gre.    Two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year,  of  land  ! 
My  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  all : 
That  she  shall  have  ;  besides  an  argosy, 

That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road. 

What,  have  I  choked  you  with  an  argosy  ? 

Tra.    Gremio, 'tis  known  my  father  hath  no  less 
Than  three  great  argosies ;  besides  two  galliasses,1 
And  twelve  tight  galleys.     These  I  will  assure  her, 
And  twice  as  much,  whate'er  thou  offer'st  next, 

Gre.    Nay,  I  have  offered  all ;   I  have  no  more  ; 
And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have. — 
If  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 

Tra.    Why,  then    the    maid    is    mine   from  all  the 

world, 
By  your  firm  promise  ;   Gremio  is  outvied. 

Bap.    I  must  confess,  your  offer  is  the  best ; 
And,  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance, 
She  is  your  own ;  else,  you  must  pardon  me. 
If  you  should  die  before  him,  w here's  her  dower  ? 

Tra.    That's  but  a  cavil ;  he  is  old,  I  young. 

Gre.    And  may  not  young  men  die,  as  well  as  old  ? 

Bap.    Well,  gentlemen, 

I  am  thus  resolved. — On  Sunday  next,  you  know, 
My  daughter  Katharine  is  to  be  married : 
Now,  on  the  Sunday  following,  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance  ; 
If  not,  to  seignior  Gremio. 
And  so  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both.       [Exit. 

Gre.    Adieu,  good  neighbor. — Now,  I  fear  thee  not ; 
Sirrah,  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  give  thee  all,  and,  in  his  waning  age, 

1  A  galiass  (fraleazza,  Ital.)  was  a  great  or  double  galley.     The  masts 
were  three,  and  the  number  of  seats  for  rowers  thirty -two. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  491 

Set  foot  under  thy  table.     Tut !  a  toy  ! 

An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy.  [Exit, 

Tra,    A  vengeance  on  your  crafty  withered  hide  ! 
Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten.1 
'Tis  in  inv  head  to  do  my  master  good  : — 
I  see  no  reason,  but  supposed  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father,  called — supposed  Vincentio  ; 
And  that's  a  wonder.     Fathers,  commonly, 
Do  get  their  children  :   but,  in  this  cast,'  of  wooing, 
A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  fail  not  of  my  cunning. 

[Exit* 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  Baptism's 

Enter  LUCENTIO,  HORTENSIO,  and  BIANCA. 

Luc.    Fiddler,  forbear;  you  grow  too  forward,  sir. 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcomed  you  withal? 

Hor.    But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony. 
Then  give  me  leave  to  have  prerogative  : 
And  when  in  music  we  have  spent  an  hour. 
Vour  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

1  This  phrase,  which  often  occurs  in  old  writers,  was  nm-t  probahly 
derived  from  some  <rame  at  cards,  wherein  the  standing  boldly  upon  a  tat 
was  often  successful. 

~  Alter  this  Mr.  Pope  introduced  the  following  speechr-  of  the  pre 
senters,  as  they  are  called  :  from  the  old  play  : — 

Site.    When  will  the  tool  come  attain?*- 

•SYm.   Anon,  my  lord. 

Slic.  Give  some  more  drink  horc ;  where's  the  tapster?  Here,  Sim, 
eat.  some  of  these  things. 

Sim.   I  do,  my  lord. 

Slic.   Here,  Sim,  I  drink  to  thee. 

*  This  probably  alludes  to  the  custom  of  filling  ii|i  tlir  vacancy  of  tlic  staRe  between  the 
nets  |>y  the,  appearance  of  a  fool  on  the  stase  ;  unices  Sly  meant  Sindir,  tiic  servant  to 
Ferando,  in  tlic  old  piece,  which  seems  likuly  from  a  subsequent  passage. 


492  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  III. 

Luc.    Preposterous  ass  !  that  never  read  so  far 
To  know  the  cause  why  music  was  ordained! 
Was  it  not  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man, 
After  his  studies,  or  his  usual  pain  ? 
Then  give  me  leave  to  read  philosophy, 
And,  while  I  pause,  serve  in  your  harmony. 

Hor.    Sirrah,  I  will  not  bear  these  braves  of  thine. 

Bicin.    Why,  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double  wrong, 
To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice. 
T  am  no  breeching  scholar  in  the  schools ; 
I'll  not  be  tied  to  hours,  nor  'pointed  times, 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And,  to  cut  oif  all  strife,  here  sit  we  down. — 
Take  you  your  instrument,  play  you  the  whiles ; 
His  lecture  will  be  done  ere  you  have  tuned. 

Hor.    You'll  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune  ? 
[To  BIANCA. — HORTENSIO  retires. 

Luc.    That  will  be  never ! — Tune  your  instrument. 

Elan.    Where  left  we  last  ? 

Luc.    Here,  madam. 

Hac  ibat  Simois ;  hie  est  Sigeia  tellus ; 
Hie  sieterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis. 

Elan.    Construe  them. 

Luc.  Hac  ibat,  as  I  told  vou  before,1 — Simois,  I  am 
Lucent  io, — hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  of  Pisa, — Sigeia 
tellus,  disguised  thus  to  get  your  love ; — Hie  steterat, 
and  that  Lucentio  that  comes  a  wooing,  Priami,  is  my 
man  Tranio, — regia,  bearing  my  port, — celsa  senis,  that 
we  might  beguile  the  old  pantaloon. 

Hor.    Madam,  my  instrument's  in  tune.   [Returning. 

Bian.    Let's  hear. —  [HORTENSIO  plays. 

0  fie!      The  treble  jars. 

Luc.    Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 
Bian.    Now  let  me  see   if  I  can  construe  it.     Hac 
ibat  Simois,   I   know  you    not ; — hie  est  Sigeia  tellus, 

1  trust  you  not ; — Hie  stcterat  Priami,  take  heed  he 


1  This  species  of  humor,  in  Avhich  Latin  is  translated  into  English  of  a 
perfectly  different  meaning,  is  to  be  found  in  two  plays  of  Middleton, 
The  Witch,  arid  The  Chaste  Maid  of  Cheapside ;  and  in  other  writers. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  493 

hear  us  not ; — regia^  presume  not ; — celsa  scnis,  despair 
not. 

Hor.    Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 

Luc.  All  but  the  b:ise. 

Hor.    The  base  is   right ;   ?tis  the   base   knave   that 

jars. 

flow  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  ! 
Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  eourt  my  love. 
Pedascule,1  I'll  watch  you  better  yet. 

Bian.    In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  mistrust. 

Luc.    Mistrust  it  not ;   for  sure,  /Eacides 
Was  Ajax,2 — called  so  from  his  grandfather. 

Bian.    I   must  believe   my  master ;   else.   I   promise 

you, 

I  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt. 
But  let  it  rest. — Now,  Licio,  to  you. — 
Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray, 
That  I  have  been  thus  pleasant  with  you  both. 

Hor.    You  may  go  walk,  [To  LUCK.NTIO.]  and  give 

me  leave  awhile  ; 
My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 

Luc.    Are  you  so  formal,  sir?      \Vell,  I  must  wait, 
And  watch  withal;   for,  but3  1  be  deceived, 
Our  fine  musician  "Towcth  amorous.  \ Aside. 

Hor.    Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instrument, 
To  learn  the  order  of   my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art  ; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort, 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual, 
Thau  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  mv  trade. 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 

Bum.    \\  hv,  I  am  past  mv  ^amut  lonu"  a^n. 

Hor.    Vet  read  the  iramut  of  Hortensio. 


1  Pedant 

2  "Tliis  is  only  said  to  deceive  ITortensio,  who  is  supposed  to  ho  lis 
tening.     The  pedigree  of  Ajax,  however,  is  properly  made  out.  and  mi^ht 
have  been  taken  from  (foldings  Version  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  book 
xiii."  or,   it  may  be  added,  from  any   historical  and   poetical   dictionary, 
such  as  is  appended  to  Cooper's  Latin  Dictionary,  and  others  of  that  time. 

;J  But  is  here  used  in  its  exceptive  sense  of  lx.-oul,  without. 


494  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  III. 

Bian.   [Reads.']    Gamut  /  am,  the  ground  of  all 

accord. 

A  re,  to  plead  Hortensio's  passion ; 
B  mi,  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 

C  faut,  that  loves  with  all  affection ; 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  I; 
E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this — gamut  ?     Tut !  I  like  it  not : 
Old  fashions  please  me  best ;  I  am  not  so  nice, 
To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.    Mistress,   your  father  prays  you  leave  your 

books, 

And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up ; 
You  know  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day. 

Bian.    Farewell,  sweet   masters   both  ;    I   must  be 

gone.  [Exeunt  BIANCA  and  Servant. 

Luc.    'Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause  to  stay. 

[Exit. 

Hor.    But  I  have  cause  to  pry  into  this  pedant ; 
Methinks  he  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love. — 

O 

Yet  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble, 
To  cast  thy  wandering  eyes  on  every  stale,1 
Seize  thee  that  list.     If  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing.      [Exit. 


SCENE    II.     The  same.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  BAPTISTA,  GREMIO,  TRANIO,  KATHARINA,  BI 
ANCA,  LUCENTIO,  and  Attendants. 

Bap.     Seignior  Lucentio,  [To  TRANIO.]  this  is  the 

'pointed  day, 
That  Katharine  and  Petruchio  should  be  married, 


1  A  stale  was  a  decoy  or  bait.     Stale  here  may,  however,  only  mean 
every  common  object. 


SU.  II.]  TAMING    OF   THE    SHREW.  495 

And  jet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-law. 
What  will  be  said  ?     What  mockery  will  it  be, 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage  ! 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Kath.    No   shame1    but   mine.      I   must,  forsooth,  be 

forced 

To  give  my  hand,  opposed  against  my  heart, 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen;1 
Who  wooed  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  leisure. 
1  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool, 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behavior; 
And  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 
He'll  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage. 
Make  friends,  invite  them,2  and  proclaim  the  bans  : 
Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  wooed. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine. 
And  say, — Lo,  there  is  mad  Pctruchio's  wife, 
If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her. 

Tra.    Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  Baptista  too. 
Upon  my  life,  Petruchio  means  but  well, 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word  ; 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wi>c  : 
Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he's  honest. 

Kttth.     'Would     Katharine     had     never    seen     him 

though  ! 
[Exit,  weeping,  followed  by  BIANCA  and  others. 

Bap.    Go,  girl;   I  cannot  blame  thee  now  to  weep; 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  very  saint, 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humor. 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Bion.    Master,  master !  news,  old  news,3  and  such 
newrs  as  you  never  heard  of! 

1  Humor,  caprice,  inconstancy. 

2  Them  is  not  in  the  old  copy  ;  it  was  supplied  by  Malone :  the  second 
folio  reads — yes. 

3  Old  news.     These  words  were  added  by  Rowe,  and  necessarily,  as 
appears  by  the  reply  of  Baptista.     Old,  in  the  sense  of  abundant,  as,  "old 
turning  the  key,"  &c.  occurs  elsewhere  in  Shakspeare. 


496  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  III. 

Bap.    Is  it  new  and  old  too  ?     How  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news  to  hear  of  Petruchio's 
coming  ? 

Bap.    Is  he  come  ? 

Bion.    Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.    What  then  ? 

Bion.    He  is  coming. 

Bap.    When  will  he  be  here  ? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  sees  you 
there. 

Tra.    But,  say,  what. — To  thine  old  news. 

Bion.  Why,  Petruchio  is  coming,  in  a  new  hat  and 
an  old  jerkin;  a  pair  of  old  breeches,  thrice  turned;  a 
pair  of  boots  that  have  been  candle-cases,  one  buckled, 
another  laced ;  an  old  rusty  sword  ta'en  out  of  the 
town  armory,  with  a  broken  hilt  and  chapeless ;  with 
two  broken  points.1  His  horse  hipped  with  an  old 
mothy  saddle,  the  stirrups  of  no  kindred  :  besides,  pos 
sessed  with  the  glanders,  and  like  to  mose  in  the 
chine;  troubled  with  the  lampass,  infected  with  the 
fashions,2  full  of  windgalls,  sped  with  spavins,  raied 
with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives,3  stark  spoiled 
with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with  the  bots ;  swayed  in 
the  back,  and  shoulder-shotten ;  ne'er  legged  before  ; 
and  with  a  half-checked  bit,  and  a  head-stall  of  sheep's 
leather ;  which,  being  restrained  to  keep  him  from 
stumbling,  hath  been  often  burst,  and  now  repaired 
with  knots ;  one  girt  six  times  pieced,  and  a  woman's 
crupper  of  velure,4  which  hath  two  letters  for  her  name, 
fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced  with 
packthread. 

Bap.    Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Bion.  O  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned 
like  the  horse  ;  W7ith  a  linen  stock  on  one  leg,  and  a 
kersey  boot-hose  on  the  other,  gartered  with  a  red  and 

1  Points  were  tagged  laces  used  in  fastening  different  parts  of  the 
dress. 

2  i.  e.  the  farcy,  called/«,9/i?"ons  in  the  west  of  England. 

3  Vives ;  a  distemper  in  horses,  little  differing  from  the  strangles 

4  Velvet. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  497 

blue  list;  an  old  hat,  and  The  /tumor  of  forty  fancies,1 
pricked  in't  for  a  feather :  a  monster,  a  very  monster 
in  apparel ;  and  not  like  a  Christian  footboy,  or  a  gen 
tleman's  lackey. 

Tra.    'Tis    some    odd    humor    pricks    him     to    this 

fashion  ! — 
Yet  oftentimes  lie  goes  but  mean  apparelled. 

Bap.    I  am  glad  he  is  come,  howsoever  he  comes. 

Bion.    Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 

Bap.    Didst  thou  not  say,  he  comes  ? 

Bion.    Who  ?  that  Petruchio  came  ? 

Bap.    Ay,  that  Petruchio  came. 

Bion.    No,  sir;   I  say,  his  horse  comes  with   him  on 
his  back. 

Bap.    Why,  that's  all  one. 

Bion.    Nay,  by  Saint  Jamy,  I  hold  you  a  penny, 
A  horse   and   a    man    is    more    than   one,  and   yet   not 
many. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  GRUMIO. 

Pet.    Come,  where  be   these   gallants  ?     Who   is  at 
home  ? 

Bap.    You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.    And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparelled 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.    Were  it  better,  1  should  rush  in  thus. 
Hut  where  is  Kate?      Where  is  mv  lovrlv  bride? — 
JIow  does  my  father? — Gentles,  methinks  you  frown. 
And  wherefore  ga/e  this  goodly  company, 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy? 

Bap.    Why,  sir,  you  know,  this  is  your  wedding  day. 

1  Warburton's  supposition,  that  Shakspeare  ridicules  some  popular, 
cheap  hook  of  this  title,  by  making  IVtruchio  prick  it  up  in  his  fool  boy's 
hat  instead  of  a  feather,  has  been  well  supported  by  Stcevcns ;  lie  ob 
serves  that  "a  penny  book,  containing  forty  short  poems,  would,  properly 
managed,  furnish  no  unapt  plume  of  feathers  for  the  hat  of  a  humorist's 
servant." 

VOL.  ii.  (53 


498  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  III. 

First  were  wre  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come  ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fie  !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  your  estate, 
An  eye-sore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

Tra.  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detained  you  from  your  wife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  unlike  yourself? 

Pet.    Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear  : 
Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word, 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress;1 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But  where  is  Kate  ?  I  stay  too  long  from  her  ; 
The  morning  wears  ;  'tis  time  we  were  at  church. 

Tra.    See  not  your  bride  in  these  unreverent  robes  ; 
Go  to  my  chamber;  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.    Not  I,  believe  me  ;  thus  I'll  visit  her. 

Bap.    But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 

Pet.    Good  sooth,  even  thus  ;  therefore  have   done 

writh  words  ; 

To  me  she's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes. 
Could  I  repair  what  she  will  wear  in  me, 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 
'Twere  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
But  what  a  fool  am  I  to  chat  w^ith  you, 
When  I  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride, 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss  ! 

[Exeunt  PET.,  Gnu.,  and  BION. 

Tra.    He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire. 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible, 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.     I'll  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this. 

[Exit. 

Tra.    But,  sir,  to  her2  love  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking  ;  which  to  bring  to  pass, 
As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 


1  i.  e.  to  deviate  from  my  promise. 

2  The  old  copy  reads,  "  But,  sir,  love  concerneth  us  to  add,  Her  father's 
liking1."     The  emendation  is  Mr.  Tyrwhitt's.     The  nominative  case  to 
the  verb  conccrntth  is  here  understood. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  499 

I  am  to  get  a  man, — whate'er  he  be, 

It  skills1  not  much  ;  we'll  fit  him  to  our  turn, — 

And  he  shall  be  Vincentio  of  Pisa  ; 

And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 

Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised, 

So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope, 

And  marry  sweet  Bianea  with  consent. 

Luc.    Were  it  not  that  my  fellow  schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 
'Twere  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage  ; 
Which  once  performed,  let  all  the  world  say — no, 
I'll  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.    That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into, 
And  watch  our  vantage  in  this  business. 
We'll  overreach  the  graybeard,  Gremio, 
The  narrow-prying  father,  Minola  ; 
The  quaint2  musician,  amorous  Licio ; 
All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio. — 

Re-enter  GREMIO. 

Seignior  Gremio !  came  you  from  the  church  ? 

Grc.    As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 

Tra.     And    is    the    bride    and    bridegroom    coming 
home  ? 

Grc .    A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?    'Tis  a  groom  indeed, 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 

Tra.    Curster  than  she  ?     Why,  'tis  impossible. 

Gra.    Why,  he's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 

Tra.    Why,  she's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 

Grr.    Tut !   she's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 
I'll  tell  you,  sir  Lucentio;   when  the  priest 
Should  ask — il  Katharine  .should  be  his  wife, 
Ay,  by  gogs-wouns,  quoth  he:  and  swore  so  loud, 
That,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book: 
And,  as  he  stooped  again  to  take  it  up, 
The  mad-brained  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff, 


1  "It  matters  not  much,"  it  is  of  no  importance. 

2  Quaint  had  formerly  a  more  favorable  meaning  than  strange,  awk 
ward,  fantastical,  and  was  used  in  commendation,  as  neat,  elegant,  dainty* 
dexterous. 


500  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  III. 

That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and  priest. 
Now  take  them  up,  quoth  he,  if  any  list. 

Tra.    What  said  the  wench,  when  he  arose  again  ? 

Gre.    Trembled  and   shook  ;    for  why,  he  stamped 

and  swore, 

As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done, 
He  calls  for  wine. — A  health,  quoth  he  ;  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm  ; — quaffed  off  the  muscadel, 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face ; 
Having  no  other  reason,- — 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  hungerly, 
And  seemed  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck, 
And  kissed  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack. 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  ; 
And  after  me,  I  know,  the  rout  is  coming. 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before ; 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  the  minstrels  play.  [Music. 

Enter    PETRUCHIO,    KATHARINA,   BIANCA,   BAPTISTA 
HORTENSIO,  GRUMIO,  and  Train. 

Pet.    Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you  for  your 

pains. 

I  know  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day, 
And  have  prepared  great  store  of  wedding  cheer ; 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence. 
And  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.    Is't  possible  you  will  away  to-night  ? 

Pet.    I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  come. — 
Make  it  no  wonder;  if  you  knew  my  business. 
You  wrould  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
And,  honest  company,  1  thank  you  all, 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife. 
Dine  with  rny  father,  drink  a  health  to  me  ; 
For  I  must  hence,  and  fare.1  well  to  you  all. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  501 

Tra.    Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.    It  may  not  he. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.    It  cannot  be. 

Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.    I  am  content. 

Kath.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Pet.    \  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay, 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.    Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horses. 

Gru.    Ay,  sir,  they  he  ready ;  the  oats  have   eaten 
the  horses. 

Kath.    Nay,  then, 

Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day  ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir;   there  lies  your  way; 
You  may  he  jogging  whiles  your  hoots  are  green  : 
For  me,  I'll  not  he  gone  till  I  please  myself. — 
'Tis  like  you'll  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Pet.    O,  Kate,  content  thee  ;   pr'ythee  he  not  angry. 

Kath.    I  will  he  angry.      What  hast  thou  to  do  ? 
Father,  he  quiet ;   he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.    Ay,  mam,  sir;   now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.    Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner. — 
I  see  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool, 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.    They  shall  go  forward.  Kate,  at  thv  command. 
Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her  : 

«/  '    */ 

(10  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer.1 

Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead, 

Be  mad  and  merry,—  —or  im  hani:  yourselves; 

But  for  niv  bonuv  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 

Nay,  look  not  big.  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret; 

I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own. 

She  is  my  goods,  mv  chattels;    she  is  my  house, 

My  household-stuff,   mv  field,  my  barn, 

1  That  is.  bluster  or  swagger. 


502  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV 

My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  any  thing ; 
And  here  she  stands ;   touch  her  whoever  dare  ; 
I'll  bring  my  action  on  the  proudest  he 

That  stops  my  way  in  Padua. Grumio, 

Draw  forth  thy  weapon  ;  we're  beset  with  thieves  ; 
Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man. — 
Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate ; 
I'll  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exeunt  PET.,  KATH.,  and  Gnu. 

Bap.    Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones ! 

Ore.    Went    they    not    quickly,   I    should    die  with 
laughing. 

Tra.    Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like  ! 

Luc.    Mistress,  what's  your  opinion  of  your  sister  ? 

Bian.    That,  being  mad  herself,  she's  madly  mated. 

Gre.    I  warrant  him,  Petruchio  is  Kated. 

Bap.    Neighbors  and  friends,  though  bride  and  bride 
groom  wants 

For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table, 
You  know  there  wants  no  junkets  at  the  feast. — 
Lucentio,  you  shall  supply  the  bridegroom's  place, 
And  let  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room. 

Tra.    Shall  sweet  Bianca  practise  how  to  bride  it  ? 

Bap.    She  shall,  Lucentio. — Come,  gentlemen,  let's 
o-o.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   IV 

SCENE   1.     A  Hall  in  Petruchio's  Country- House. 

Enter  GRUMIO. 

Gru.  Fie,  fie  on  all  tired  jades,  on  all  mad  masters, 
and  all  foul  ways  !  Was  ever  man  so  beaten  ?  Was 
ever  man  so  rayed  ? ]  Was  ever  man  so  weary  ?  I 

i  Bewrayed,  dirty. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  503 

am  sent  before  to  make  a  fire,  and  they  are  coming- 
after  to  warm  them.  Now,  were  not  I  a  little  pot,  and 
soon  hot,  my  very  lips  might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  my 
tongue  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  my  heart  in  my  bellv, 
ere  I  should  eome  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me. — But  I,  with 
blowing  the  fire,  shall  warm  myself;  for,  considering 
the  weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will  take  cold.  Hol 
la  !  hoa  !  Curtis  ! 

Enter  CURTJS. 

Curt.    Who  is  that  calls  so  coldly  ? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice.  If  thoti  doubt  it,  thou  mayst 
slide  from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no  greater 
run  but  my  head  and  my  neck.  A  fire,  good  Curtis. 

Curt.    Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming,  Grumio  ? 

Gru.  O,  ay,  Curtis,  ay ;  and  therefore  fire,  lire  , 
cast  on  no  water.1 

Curt.    Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she^  reported  ? 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost ;  but 
thou  knowcst,  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and  beast ; 
for  it  hath  tamed  my  old  master,  and  my  new  mistress, 
and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.    Away,  thou  three-inch  fool!     1  am  no  beast! 

Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  Why,  thy  horn  is  a 
loot;  and  so  long  am  I,  at  the  least.  But  wilt  thou 
make  a  fire,  or  shall  I  complain  on  thee  to  our  mistress, 
whose  hand  (she  being  now  at  hand)  thou  shalt  soon 
feel,  to  thy  cold  comfort,  for  being  slow  in  thy  hot 
office  ? 

Curt.  I  pr'ythee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me,  how  goes 
the  world  ? 

Gru.  \  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office4  but  thine; 
and,  therefore,  fire.  Do  thy  duty,  and  have  thy  duty; 
for  my  master  and  mistress  are  almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curt.  There's  lire  ready;  and,  therefore,  good  Gru 
mio,  the  news  ? 

1  There  is  an  old  popular  catch  of  thrco  parts  in  these  words: — 
"  Scotland  burneth,  Scotland  burneth, 
Fire,  fire ; —    — Fire,  tire, 
Cast  on  more  water." 


504  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

Gru.  Why,  Jack  boy !  ho  boy!1  and  as  much  news 
as  thou  wilt. 

Curt.    Come,  you  are  so  full  of  cony-catching. — 

Gru.  Why,  therefore,  fire  ;  for  I  have  caught  ex 
treme  cold.  Where's  the  cook  ?  Is  supper  ready,  the 
house  trimmed,  rushes  strewed,  cobwebs  swept ;  the 
serving-men  in  their  new  fustian,  their  white  stockings, 
and  every  officer  his  wedding  garment  on  ?  Be  the 
jacks  fair  within,  the  Jills  2  fair  without,  the  carpets 
laid,3  and  every  thing  in  order  ? 

Curt.    All  ready ;  and  therefore  I  pray  thee,  news. 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired ;  my  master 
and  mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.    How  ? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt ;  and  there 
by  hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.    Let's  ha't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.    Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt.    Here. 

Gru.    There.  [Striking  him. 

Curt.    This  is  to  feel  a  tale,  not  to  hear  a  tale. 

Gru.  And  therefore  'tis  called  a  sensible  tale ;  and 
this  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and  beseech 
listening.  Now  I  begin.  Imprimis,  we  came  down 
a  foul  hill,  my  master  riding  behind  my  mistress ; — 

Curt.    Both  on  one  horse  ? 

Gru.    What's  that  to  thee  ? 

Curt.    Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale. But  hadst  thou  not 

crossed  me,  thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her  horse 
fell,  and  she  under  her  horse;  thou  shouldst  have 
heard  in  how  miry  a  place  ;  how  she  was  bemoiled  ; 4 
how  he  left  her  with  the  horse  upon  her;  how  he 
beat  me  because  her  horse  stumbled  ;  how  she  waded 
through  the  dirt  to  pluck  him  off  me  ;  how  he  swore  ; 

1  This  is  the  beginning  of  an  old  round  in  three  parts;  the  music  is 
given  in  the  Variorum  Shakspeare. 

2  It  is  probable  that  a  quibble  was  intended.     Jack  and  jill  signify  two 
drinking  vessels,  as  well  as  men  and  maid-servants. 

3  The  carpets  were  laid  over  the  tables.     The  floors,  as  appears  from 
the  present  passage  and  others,  were  strewed  with  rushes. 

4  i.  e.  bedraggled,  bemired. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  505 

how  she  prayed — that  never  prayed  before  ;  how  I 
cried  ;  how  the  horses  ran  away  ;  how  her  bridle  was 
burst ;  how  I  lost  my  crupper  ; — with  many  things  of 
worthy  memory ;  which  now  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and 
thou  return  unexperienced  to  thy  grave. 

Curt.    By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew  than  she. 

Gni.  Ay ;  and  that  thou  and  the  proudest  of  you 
all  shall  find,  when  he  comes  home.  But  what  talk  I 
of  this  ? — Call  forth  Nathaniel,  Joseph,  Nicholas,  Phil 
ip,  Walter,  Sugarsop,  and  the  rest ;  let  their  heads 
be  sleekly  combed,  their  blue  coats '  brushed,  and  their 
garters  of  an  indifferent  knit ;  let  them  curtsey  with 
their  left  legs;  and  not  presume  to  touch  a  hair  of  mv 
master's  horse-tail,  till  they  kiss  their  hands.  Are  thrv 
all  ready  ? 

Curt.    They  are. 

Gru.    Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho  ?  You  must  meet  my  mas 
ter  to  countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.    Why,  she  hath  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.    Who  knows  not  that  ? 

Gru.  Thou,  it  seems  ;  that  callest  for  company  to 
countenance  her. 

Curt.    I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.    Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of  them. 

Enter  several  Servants. 

Ndtli.    Welcome  home,  Grumio. 

Phil.    ITow  now.  Grumio? 

Jos.    What,  Grumio  ! 

JV/V//.    Fellow  Grumio  ! 

Xuth.     How  now.  old  lad  ? 

Grit.  Welcome,  you  ; — how  now,  you  ;  what,  you  : 
— fellow,  you; — and  thus  much  for  greeting.  Now, 
my  spruce  companions,  is  all  ready,  and  all  things 
neat  ? 


1  filitc  coats  were  the  usual  habits  of  servants.     Scott,  in  Marmion, 
speaks  of  the  "old  blue-coated  serving-man." 
VOL.  ii.  64 


506  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV 

Nath.    All  things  is  ready.    How  near  is  our  master? 

Gru.  E'en  at  hand,  alighted  by  this ;  and  therefore 

be  not Cock's  passion,  silence  ! 1  hear  my 

master. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO  and  KATHARTNA. 

Pet.    Where  be  these  knaves  ?     What,  no  man   at 

door, 

To  hold  my  stirrup,  nor  to  take  my  horse ! 
Where   is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip? 

All  Serv.    Here,  here,  sir  ;  here,  sir. 

Pet.    Here,  sir  !  here,  sir  !  here,  sir  !  here,  sir  ! — 
You  logger-headed  and  unpolished  grooms  ! 
What,  no  attendance  ?  no  regard  ?  no  duty  ? 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before  ? 

Gru.    Here,  sir  ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 

Pet.    You  peasant  swain  !  you  whoreson,  malt-horse 

drudge  ! 

Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park, 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee  ? 

Gru.    Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made, 
And  Gabriel's  pumps  were  all  unpinked  i'the  heel ; 
There  was  no  link  l  to  color  Peter's  hat, 
And  Walter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing. 
There  were  none  fine,  but  Adam,  Ralph,  and  Gregory; 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 

Pet.    Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in. — 

[Exeunt  some  of  the  Servants. 
Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led  ? — 2  [Sings. 

Where  are  those sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. 

Soud,  soud,  soud,  soud  ! 3 

1  Green,  in  his  Mihil  Mumchance.  says,  "  This  cozenage  is  used  like 
wise   in  selling  old  hats  found  upon  dunghills,  instead  of  newe,  blackt 
over  with  the  srnoake  of  an  olde  link" 

2  This  ballad  was  well  suited  to  Petruchio,  as  appears  by  the  answer 
in  A  Ilandeful  of  Pleasant  Delites,  1584;  which  is  called  "Dame  Beau- 
tie's  replie  to  the  lover  late  at  libertie,  and  now  complaineth  him  to  be 
her  captive,"  entitled,  "  Where  is  the  life  thai  late  I  led'}" 

3  A  word  coined  by  Shakspeare  to  express  the  noise  made  by  a  person 
heated  and  fatigued. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  507 

Re-enter  Servants,  with  supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say? — Nay,  good,  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues,  you  villains.     When  ? 

It  was  the  friar  of  orders  gray?  [Sings. 

As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way, — 

Out,  out,  you  rogue  !  you  pluck  my  foot  awry  : 
Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  off  the  other. — 

[Strikes  him. 

Be  merry,  Kate. — Some  water,  here  ;  what,  ho  ! 
Where's  my  spaniel  Troilus  ? — Sirrah,  get  you  hence, 
And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither  ;— 

[E.rit  Servant. 
One,    Kate,   that  you    must  kiss,  and    be    acquainted 

with. — 
Where  are  my  slippers? — Shall  I  have  sonic  wati-r? 

[A  basin  /\  [in  s<  ntrd  to  him, 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heart ilv. — 

[Servant  lets  the  ewer  fall. 
You  whoreson  villain  !  will  you  let  it  fall  ? 

[Strikes  him. 

Kath.    Patience,  I  pray  you  ;  'twas  a  fault  unwilling. 
Pet.   A  whoreson,  beetle-headed,   flap-eared  knave  ! 
Come,  Kate,  sit  down  ;    I  know  vou  have  a  stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate  ;  or  else  shall  I  ? — 
What  is  this  ?  mutton  ? 
1  Serv.  Ay. 

Pet.  Who  brought  it  ? 

1  Serv.  I. 

Pet.    'Tis  burnt  ;   and  so  is  all  the  meat. 
What  doii's  an1  these  ! — Where  is  the  rascal  cook? 
How  durst  you,  villains,  brini;  it  from  the  dresser. 
And  serve4  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not: 
There,  take  it  to  vou,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all  : 

[Th roirs  the  meat,  &-c.  about  the  stage. 


1   Dr.  Percy  has  constructed  his  beautiful  ballad,  "The  Friar  of  Orders 
Gray,"  from  the  various  fragments  and  hints  dispersed  through  Shak 
speare's  plays,  with  a  few  supplemental  stanzas. 


508  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

You  heedless  joltheads,  and  unmannered  slaves  ! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?     I'll  be  with  you  straight. 

Kath.    I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet ; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.    I  tell  thee,  Kate,  'twas  burnt  and  dried  away  ; 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it, 
For  it  engenders  choler,  planteth  anger  ; 
And  better  'twere  that  both  of  us  did  fast, — 
Since,  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  choleric, — 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended, 
And,  for  this  night,  we'll  fast  for  company. — 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

[Exeunt  PET.,  KATH.,  and  CURT. 

Nath.    [Advancing."]    Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 

Peter.    He  kills  her  in  her  own  humor. 

Re-enter  CURTIS. 

Gru.    Where  is  he  ? 

Curt.    In  her  chamber, 
Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her ; 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates  ;  that  she,  poor  soul, 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak  ; 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away !  for  he  is  coming  hither.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  PETRUCHIO. 

Pet.    Thus  have  I  politicly  begun  my  reign, 
And  'tis  my  hope  to  end  successfully. 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  passing  empty ; 
And,  till  she  stoop,  she  must  not  be  full-gorged, 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure.1 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard,2 
To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call, 
That  is, — to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites 


1  The  lure  was  a  thing  stuffed  to  look  like  the  game  the  hawk  was  to 
pursue ;  its  use  was  to  tempt  him  back  after  he  had  flown. 

IJ  A  haggard  is  a  wild  hawk ;  to  man  her  is  to  tame  her.  To  watch  or 
wake  a  hawk  was  one  part  of  the  process  of  taming. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHRKW.  509 

That  bate,1  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 

She  ate  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat ; 

Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  shall  not ; 

As  with  the  meat,  some  undeserved  fault 

I'll  find  about  the  making  of  tin,1  bed; 

And  here  I'll  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 

This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets. — 

Ay,  and  amid  this  burly,  I  intend  2 

That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her  ; 

And,  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night  ; 

And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I'll  rail  and  brawl, 

And  with  the  clamor  keep  her  still  awake. 

This  is  a  way  to  kill  a  wile  with  kindness  ; 

And  thus  I'll  curb  her  mad  and  headstrong  humor. 

lie  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew. 

Now  let  him  speak;   'tis  charity  to  show.  [A,'./1//. 


SCENE  II.     Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  TRANIO  and  HORTENSIO. 

Tra.    Is't  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  Bianca 
Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Lueentio  : 
I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

//or.    Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 
Stand  by,  and  mark  the  manner  of  his  teaching. 

[T/n  i/  stand  <isi<l<  . 

Enter  BIANCA  and  LITKN  no. 

Luc.    Now,  mistress,  profit  vou  in  what  vou  read  ? 
Bum.    What,  master,  read    you  :      First    resolve   me 

that. 

LAIC.    I  read  that  I  profess,  the  art  to  love. 
Bum.    And  may  you  prove,  sir,  master  of  your  art  ! 
Luc.    While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove   mistress   of  my 

heart.  The    retire. 


1  To  bate   is  to  flutter  the  wings  as  preparing  fur  flight  (butter  I'alc, 
Italian). 

-  Intend  is  used  for  pretend. 


510  TAMNIG   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

Hor.    Quick  proceeders,  marry!    Now,   tell  Hie,  1 

pray, 

You  that  dost  swear  that  your  mistress  Bianca 
Loved  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 

Tra.    O  despiteful  love  !  unconstant  womankind  ! 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.    Mistake  no  more.     I  am  not  Licio, 
Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be  ; 
But  one  that  scorn  to  live  in  this  disguise, 
For  such  a  one  as  leaves  a  gentleman, 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cullion.1 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  called — Hortensio. 

Tra.    Seignior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  your  entire  affection  to  Bianca ; 
And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 
I  will  with  you — if  you  be  so  contented — 
Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  forever. 

Hor.    See,  how  they  kiss  and  court ! — Seignior  Lu 
centio, 

Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow7 — 
Never  to  woo  her  more ;  but  do  forswear  her, 
As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favors 
That  I  have  fondly  flattered  her  withal. 

Tra.    And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, — 
Ne'er  to  marry  with  her  though  she  would  entreat. 
Fie  on  her !   see,  how  beastly  she  doth  court  him. 

Hor.    'Would  all  the  world,  but  he,  had  quite  for 
sworn  ! 

For  me, — that  I  may  surely  keep  mine  oath, — 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow, 
Ere  three  days  pass ;  which  hath  as  long  loved  me, 
As  I  have  loved  this  proud,  disdainful  haggard. 
And  so  farewell,  seignior  Lucentio. — 
Kindness  in  women,  not  their  beauteous  looks, 
Shall  win  my  love  ; — and  so  I  take  my  leave, 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

[Exit  HORTENSIO. — LUCENTIO  and  BIANCA 
advance. 

1  "  Coglione,  a  cuglion,  a  gull,  a  meacock,"  says  Florio.     It  is  equiva 
lent  to  a  great  booby. 


SC.  II.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  511 

Tra.    Mistress  Bianca,  bless  you  with  such  grace 
As  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  ! 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love  ; 
And  have  forsworn  you,  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.    Tranio,  you  jest.     But    have  you   both  for 
sworn  me  ? 

Tra.    Mistress,  we  have. 

Luc.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.    ['faith,  he'll  have  a  lusty  widow  now, 
That  shall  be  wooed  and  wedded  in  a  day. 

Bian.    God  give  him  joy  ! 

Tra.    Ay,  and  he'll  tame  her. 

Bian.  He  says  so,  Tranio. 

Tra.    'Faith,  he  is  gone  unto  tin;  taming-school. 

Bian.    The  taming-school !    what,    is  there  such  a 
place  ? 

Tra.    Ay,  mistress,  and  Petruchio  is  the  master ; 
That  teacheth  tricks  eleven-and-twenty  long,— 
To  tame  a  shrew,  and  charm  her  chattering  tongue. 


- 


Enter  BIONDELLO,  running. 

Blon.    O  master,  master,  I  have  watched  so  long 
That  I'm  dog-weary  ;   but  at  last  I  spied 
An  ancient  anirel l  cominir  down  the  hill 

O  o 

Will  serve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.    Master,  a  mercatante,  or  a  pedant,2 
1  know  not  what ;   but  formal  in  apparel, 
In  gait,  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 

Luc.    And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 

Tra.    If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
Til  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio ; 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 

1  For  angel,  Theobald,  and  afler  him  Ilanmcr  and  Warburton,  read 
en  gle ;  which  Hanmer  calls  n  g-H/7,  deriving  it  from  enpluer  (French),  to 
catch  with  bird-lime ;  but  without  sufficient  reason.     Mr.  Gifford,  in  a 
note  on  Jonson's  Poetaster,  is  decidedly  in  favor  of  enghlc  with  Han- 
nier's  explanation,  and  supports  it  by  referring  to  Gascoigne's  Supposes, 
from  which  Shakspcare  took  this  part  of  his  plot. 

2  i.  e.  a  merchant  or  a  schoolmaster. 


512  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 

Take  in  jour  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[Exeunt  LUCENTIO  and  BIANCA 

Enter  a  Pedant. 

Ped.    God  save  you,  sir  ! 

Tra.  And  you,  sir  !     You  are  welcome. 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  farthest  ? 

Ped.    Sir,  at  the  farthest  for  a  week  or  two. 
But  then  up  farther ;  and  as  far  as  Rome ; 
And  so  to  Tripoly,  if  God  lend  me  life. 

Tra.    What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 

Ped.  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.    Of  Mantua,  sir  ? — Marry,  God  forbid  ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life  ? 

Ped.    My  life,    sir !    how,    I    pray  ?    for  that   goes 
hard. 

Tra.   'Tis  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua.     Know  you  not  the  cause  ? 
Your  ships  are  stayed  at  Venice  ;  and  the  duke 
(For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him) 
Hath  published  and  proclaimed  it  openly. 
'Tis  marvel ;  but  that  you're  but  newly  come, 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaimed  about. 

Ped.    Alas,  sir,  it  is  worse  for  me  than  so ; 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.    Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy, 
This  will  I  do,  and  this  will  I  advise  you. — 
First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa  ? 

Ped.    Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been ; 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.    Among  them,  know  you  one  Vincentio  ? 

Ped.    I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him  ; 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.    He  is  my  father,  sir  ;  and  sooth  to  say, 
In  countenance  somewhat  doth  resemble  you. 

Bion.    As  much   as  an  apple  doth  an  oyster,  and 
all  one.  [Aside. 


SC.  III.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  513 

Tra.    To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 
This  favor  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake ; 
And  think  it  not  the  worst  of  all  your  fortunes, 
That  you  are  like  to  sir  Vincentio. 
His  name  and  credit  shall  you  undertake, 
And  in  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodged. — 
Look,  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should  ; 
You  understand  me,  sir ; — so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city. 
If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  it. 

Ped.    O  sir,  I  do ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty. 

Tra.    Then  go  with  me,  to  make  the  matter  good. 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand  ; — 
My  father  is  here  looked  for  every  day, 
To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower  in  marriage 
Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here. 
In  all  these  circumstances  I'll  instruct  you  : 
Go  with  me,  sir,  to  clothe  you  as  becomes  you. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE   III.  A  Room  in  Petruchio's  House. 

Enter  KATHARINA  and  GRUMIO. 

Gru.    No,  no ;  forsooth ;   I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Kath.    The  more  my  wrong,  the  more  his  spite   ap 
pears. 

What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me  ? 
Beggars  that  come  unto  my  father's  door, 
Upon  entreaty,  have  a  present  alms  ; 
If  not  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity: 
Hut  I — who  never  knew  how  to  entreat — 
Am  starved  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep ; 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed  : 
And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants, 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love  ; 
As  who  should  say, — if  I  should  sleep,  or  eat, 
'Twerc  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death. — 
VOL.  ii.  65 


514  TAMING   OF  THE    SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

I  pr'ythee  go,  and  get  me  some  repast ; 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.    What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ? 

Kath.    'Tis  passing  good ;  I  pr'ythee  let  me  have  it. 

Gru.    I  fear  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat. — 
How  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broiled  ? 

Kath.   I  like  it  well ;  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.    I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  'tis  choleric. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef,  and  mustard  ? 

Kath.    A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.    Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kath.    Why,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 

Gru.    Nay,  then  I  will  not ;  you  shall  have  the  mus 
tard, 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kath.    Then  both,  or  one,  or  any  thing  thou  wilt. 

Gru.    Why,  then  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 

Kath.    Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false,  deluding  slave, 

[Beats  him. 

That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat. 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you. 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery  ! 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO,  with  a   dish   of  meat ;  and   HOR- 

TENSIO. 

Pet.    How   fares    my  Kate  ?     What,  sweeting,   all 
amort  ? 1 

HOT.    Mistress,  what  cheer  ? 

Kath.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.    Pluck  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully  upon  me. 
Here,  love  ;  thou  see'st  how  diligent  I  am, 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee. 

[Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 

I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word  ?  Nay  then,  thou  lov'st  it  not ; 


1  That  is,  all  sunk  and  dispirited.     This  Gallicism  is  frequent  in  many 
of  the  old  plays. 


SC.  III.]  TAMING   OF   THE    SHREW.  515 

And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  'proof.1  — 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  Pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.    The  poorest  service;  is  repaid  with  thanks  ; 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.    I  thank  you,  sir. 

j  HOT.    Seignior  Petruchio,  fie  !  you  are  to  blame  ! 

Tome,  mistress  Kate,  I'll  bear  you  company. 

Pet.    Eat  it  up  all,  llortensio,  if  thou  lov'st  rue.  — 

[Aside. 

Much  izood  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart  ! 
Kate,  eat  apaee.  —  And  now,  my  honey  love, 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house'  ; 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best, 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings, 
With  mils,  and  eutFs,  and  farthingales,  and  things  ; 
With  scarfs,  and  fans,  and  double  change  of  bravery,2 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knavery. 
What,  hast  thou  dined  ?     The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure, 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  milling  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 
Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments  ; 

Enter  Haberdasher. 
Lay  forth  the  gown.  —  What  news  with  you,  sir? 

[fab.    Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 

Pet.    Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer! 
A  velvet  dish;  —  lie,  lie!    'tis  lewd  and  filthy. 
Why,  'tis  a  cockle,  or  a  walnut-shell, 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  b.iby's  cap. 
Away  with  it  ;   come,  let  me  have;  a  bigger. 


1  "And  all  my  labor  has  ended  in  nothing,  or  proved  nothing,"  says 
Johnson.     This  can   hardly  be  right.     Mr.   Donee's  suggestion,  that  it 
means  "all  my  labor  is  alnptr.l  to  no  npnrwf?  is  much  better;  indeed, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  we  should  read  "proof  with  a  mark  of  elision 
tor  approof;  but  sort  is  used  in  the  sense  of  sorter  (French),  to  issue,  to 
terminate."     "  It  sorted  not"  is  frequently  used  by  writers  of  that  period 
for,  It  did  not  end  so  :  or,  It  did  not.  answer.     Shakspeare  uses  sort  for  lot, 
r'l.rtT,  more  than  once. 

2  Pinery. 


5L6  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV 

Kath.    I'll  have  no  bigger  ;  this  doth  fit  the  time, 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.   When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one  too, 
And  not  till  then. 

Hor.  That  will  not  be  in  haste.   [Aside. 

Kath.    Why,  sir,  I  trust  I  may  have  leave  to  speak , 
And  speak  I  will ;  I  am  no  child,  no  babe. 
Your  betters  have  endured  me  say  my  mind  ; 
And,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart; 
Or  else  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break  ; 
And,  rather  than  it  shall,  I  will  be  free 
Even  to  the  uttermost,  as  I  please,  in  words. 

Pet.    Why,  thou  say'st  true  ;  it  is  a  paltry  cap, 
A  custard-coffin,1  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie. 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.    Love  me,  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap ; 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.    Thy  gown  ?  why,   ay. — Come,   tailor,  let  us 
see't. 

0  mercy,  God  !  what  masking  stuff  is  here  ? 
What's  this  ?  a  sleeve  !  'tis  like  a  demi-cannon. 
What !  up  and  down,  carved  like  an  apple-tart  ? 
Here's  snip,  and  nip,  and  cut,  and  slish,  and  slash, 
Like  to  a  censer  2  in  a  barber's  shop. — 

Why,  what,  o'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this  ? 

Hor.  I  see,  she's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor  gown. 

[Aside. 

Tai.    You  bade  me  make  it  orderly  and  well, 
According  to  the  fashion,  and  the  time. 

Pet.    Marry,  and  did  ;   but  if  you  be  remembered, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go,  hop  me  over  every  kennel  home, 
For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir. 
I'll  none  of  it;  hence,  make  your  best  of  it. 

Kath.    I  never  saw  a  better-fashioned  gown, 

1  A  coffin  was  the   culinary   term   for   the   raised   crust   of  a   pie  or 
custard. 

a  These  censers  resembled  our  brasiors  in  shape  ;  they  had  pierced 
convex  covers. 


SC.  III.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  517 

More  quaint,1  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commendable  ; 
Belike,  you  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.    Why,  true  ;  he  means  to  make  a   puppet  of 
thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  worship  means  to  make  a  pup 
pet  of  her. 

Pet.    O    monstrous    arrogance!     Thou    liest,    thou 

thread, 

Thou  thimble, 

Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail, 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou. — 
Braved  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread ! 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant ; 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  2  thee  with  thy  yard, 
As  thou  shal t  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  liv'st ! 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marred  her  gown. 

Tai.    Your  worship  is  deceived ;  the  gown  is  made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction. 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Gru.    I  gave  him  no  order ;  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tai.    But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 

Gru.  Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tai.    But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 

Gru.  Thou  hast  faced  many  things.3 

Tai.    I  have. 

Gru.  Face  not  me ;  thou  hast  braved  4  many  men, 
brave  not  me ;  I  will  neither  be  faced  not  braved. 
I  say  unto  thee, — I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the  gown  ; 
but  \  did  not  bid  him  cut  it  to  pieces  :  ergo,  thou  liest. 

Tai.  Whv,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify. 

Pet.   Read  it. 

Gru.   The  note  lirs  in  his  throat,  if  he  say  I  said  so. 

Tai.  Imprimis,  a  loose-bodied  gown : 

Gru.   Master,  if  over  I  said  loose-bodied  gown,  sew 


1  Quaint  was  used  as  a  term  of  commendation  by  our  ancestors.  It 
seems,  when  applied  to  dress,  to  have  meant  spruce,  trim,  neat,  like  the 
French  cointe. 

~  Be-measure. 

*  Turned  up  many  garments  with  facings. 

4  Grumio  quibbles  upon  to  brave,  to  make  fine,  as  he  does  upon  facing. 


518  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 

me  in  the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death  with  a 
bottom  of  brown  thread.     I  said,  a  gown. 

Pet.    Proceed. 

Tai.   With  a  small  compassed  cape ; l 

Gru.    I  confess  the  cape. 

Tai.    With  a  trunk  sleeve ; 

Gm.    I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.    The  sleeves  curiously  cut. 

Pet.    Ay,  there's  the  villany. 

Gru.  Error  i'the  bill,  sir ;  error  i'the  bill.  I  com 
manded  the  sleeves  should  be  cut  out,  and  sewed  up 
again ;  and  that  I'll  prove  upon  thee,  though  thy  little 
finger  be  armed  in  a  thimble. 

Tai.  This  is  true,  that  I  say ;  an  I  had  thee  in 
place  where,  thou  shouldst  know  it. 

Gru.  I  am  for  thee  straight.  Take  thou  the  bill,2 
give  me  thy  mete-yard,  and  spare  not  me. 

Hor.  God-a-mercy,  Grumio !  then  he  shall  have 
no  odds. 

Pet.    Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.    You  are  i'the  right,  sir ;  'tis  for  my  mistress. 

Pet.    Go,  take  it  up  unto  thy  master's  use. 

Gru.  Villain,  not  for  thy  life.  Take  up  my  mis 
tress'  gown  for  thy  master's  use  ! 

Pet.    Why,  sir,  what's  your  conceit  in  that  ? 

Gru.    O,  sir,  the  conceit  is  deeper  than  you  think  for. 
Take  up  my  mistress'  gown  to  his  master's  use ! 
O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Pet.    Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see  the  tailor  paid. — 

[Aside. 
Go,  take  it  hence  ;  be  gone,  and  say  no  more. 

Hor.    Tailor,  I'll  pay  thee  for  thy  gown  to-morrow. 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words : 
Away,  I  say ;  commend  me  to  thy  master. 

[Exit  Tailor. 

Pet.    Well,   come,    my   Kate ;    we    will    unto    your 
father's, 

1  A  round  cape. 

2  A  quibble  is  intended  between  the  written  bill  and  the  bill  or  weapon 
of  a  foot-soldier. 


SC.  III.]  TAMING   OF   THE    SHREW.  519 

Even  in  these  honest,  mean  habiliments. 

Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor ; 

For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  bod}  rich  : 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 

Because  his  leathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 

Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 

Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eyr? 

O,  no,  good  Kate  ;   neither  art  tliou  the  worse 

For  this  poor  furniture,  and  mean  array. 

If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me  : 

And  therefore,  frolic  ;   we  will  hence  forthwith, 

To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house.— 

Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him  ; 

And  bring  our  horses  unto  Long-lane  end  ; 

Then;  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot. 

Let's  see  ;    I  think  'tis  now  some  seven  o'clock. 

And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner  time. 

Kath.    I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  'tis  almost  two ; 
And  'twill  be  supper  time,  ere  you  come  there. 

Pet.    It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse  ; 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do, 
You  are  still  crossing  it.      Sirs,  let't  alone. 
I  will  not  go  to-day  ;  and  ere  I  do, 
It  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is. 

I  for.    WIiv,  so!   This  gallant  will  command  the  sun. 

[Exeunt.1 

1  Aller  this  crmnt  the  characters  before  whom  the  play  is  suppose, 1  to 
be  exhibited,  were  introduced,  from  the  old  play,  by  .Sir.  Pope  in  hn 
edition. 

u  Lonl.  Who's  within  there  ?  [Enter  Servants.]  A.-lcrp  a^am!  do 
take  him  easily  up,  and  put  him  in  his  own  apparel  again.  But  see  you 
wake  him  not  in  any  case. 

Sen:    It  shall  be  done,  my  lord ;  come,  help  to  bear  him  hence. 

[They  bear  of  Sly: 
Johnson  thought  the  fifth  act  should  begin  here. 


520  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV. 


SCENE  IV.     Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 


Enter   TRANIO,    and    the   Pedant   dressed  like   Vm- 

CENTIO. 

Tra.    Sir,   this  is  the  house.      Please  it  you  that 
I  call  ? 

Ped.    Ay,  what  else  ?     And,  but  I  be  deceived, 
Seignior  Baptista  may  remember  me, 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa,  where 
We  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus. 

Tra.  'Tis  well ; 

And  hold  your  own,  in  any  case,  with  such 
Austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 

Enter  BIONDELLO. 

Ped.    I  warrant  you.     But,  sir,  here  comes  your  boy, 
'Twere  good  he  were  schooled. 

Tra.    Fear  you  not  him.     Sirrah,  Biondello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you ; 
Imagine  'twere  the  right  Vincentio. 

Bion.    Tut !  fear  not  me. 

Tra.    But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Baptista  ? 

Bion.    I  told  him,  that  your  father  was  at  Venice ; 
And  that  you  looked  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 

Tra.    Thou'rt  a  tall l  fellow  ;  hold  thee  that  to  drink. 
Here  comes  Baptista. — Set  your  countenance,  sir. — 

Enter  BAPTISTA  and  LUCENTIO. 

Seignior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met. — 
Sir,  [To  the  Pedant.] 
This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of; 
I  pray  you,  stand  good  father  to  me  now, 
Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 
Ped.    Soft,  son! — 

i  i.  e.  a  high  fellow,  a  brave  boy. 


SC.  IV.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  521 

Sir,  by  your  leave  :   Having  come  to  Padua 

To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son  Lucentio 

Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 

Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himself: 

And, — for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you  ; 

And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter, 

And  she  to  him, — to  stay  him  not  too  long, 

I  am  content,  in  a  good  father's  care, 

To  have  him  matched  ;  and, — if  you  please  to  like 

No  worse  than  I,  sir, — upon  some  agreement, 

Me  shall  you  find  most  ready  and  most  willing 

With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestowed  ; 

For  curious  J  1  cannot  be  with  you, 

Seignior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

Bap.    Sir,  pardon  me  in  what  I  have  to  say. — 
Your  plainness,  and  your  shortness,  please  me  well. 
Rijrlit  true  it  is,  your  son  Lucentio  here 
Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him, 
Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  affections ; 
And,  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  this, 
That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  with  him, 
And  pass2  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower, 
The  match  is  fully  made,  and  all  is  done  : 
Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent. 

Tra.    I  thank  you,  sir.     Where  then  do  you  know 

best, 

We  be  afified;3  and  such  assurance  ta'en, 
As  shall  with  either  part's  agreement  stand  ? 

Bap.    Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio;  for  you  know, 
Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  servants. 
Besides,  old  Gremio  is  hearkening  still ; 
And,  h  ippily,4  we  might  be  interrupted. 

Tni.    Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you,  sir. 
There  doth  my  father  lie;   and  there,  this  night, 
We'll  pass  the  business  privately  and  well. 
Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here  ; 

1  i.  c.  scrupulous. 

2  Assure  or  convey ;  a  law  term. 

3  Betrothed. 

4  Happily,  in  Shakspearc's  time,  signified  peradventure,  as  well  as  for 
tunately  ;  we  now  write  it  haply. 

voi,.    n.  66 


522  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  IV 

My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 
The  worst  is  this, — that,  at  so  slender  warning, 
You're  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 

Bap.    It  likes  me  well. — Cambio,  hie  you  home, 
And  bid  Bianca  make  her  ready  straight. 
And,  if  you  will,  tell  what  hath  happened  ; 
Lucentio's  father  is  arrived  in  Padua, 
And  how  she's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife. 

Luc.    I  pray  the  gods  she  may,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Tra.    Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Seignior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way? 
Welcome  !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer. 
Come,  sir ;  we'll  better  it  in  Pisa. 

Bap.  I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  TRANIO,  Pedant,  and  BAPTISTA. 

Bion.    Cambio, — 

Luc.  What  say'st  thou,  Bion  del  lo  ? 

Bion.    You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh  upon  you  ? 

Luc.    Biondello,  what  of  that  ? 

Bion.  'Faith,  nothing ;  but  he  has  left  me  here 
behind,  to  expound  the  meaning  or  moral  of  his  signs 
and  tokens. 

Luc.    I  pray  thee,  moralize  them. 

Bion.  Then  thus.  Baptista  is  safe,  talking  with 
the  deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

Luc.    And  what  of  him  ? 

Bion.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brought  by  you  to 
the  supper. 

Luc.    And  then  ? — 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  St.  Luke's  church  is  at 
your  command  at  all  hours 

Luc.    And  what  of  all  this? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell ;  except l  they  are  busied  about; 
a  counterfeit  assurance.  Take  you  assurance  of  her, 
cum privilegio  ad  imprimendum  solum?  to  the  church; 
— take  the  priest,  clerk,  and  some  sufficient  honest 
witnesses : 

1  The  first  folio  reads  expect. 

2  These  were  the  words  of  the  old  exclusive  privilege  for  imprinting  a 
book.     A  quibble  is  meant. 


SC.  V.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  523 

If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more  to  say, 
But  bid  Bianca  farewell  forever  and  a  day.         [Going. 

Luc.    Ilcar'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  I  cannot  tarry.  I  knew  a  wench  married  in 
an  afternoon  as  she  went  to  the  garden  for  parsley  to 
stuff  a  rabbit;  and  so  may  you,  sir;  and  so  adieu,  sir. 
My  master  hath  appointed  me  to  go  to  Saint  Luke's, 
to  bid  the  priest  be  ready  to  come  against  you  come 
with  your  appendix.  [Exit. 

Luc.    I  may,  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented. 
She  will  be  pleased,  then  wherefore  should  I  doubt  ? 
I  lap  what  hap  may,  I'll  roundly  go  about  her. 
It  shall  go  hard,  if  Cambio  go  without  her.          [Exit.1 


SCENE  V.     A  public  Road. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,  and  HORTENSIO. 

Pet.    Come  on,  o'  God's  name  ;  once  more  toward 

our  father's. 
Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  ! 

Kath.    The  moon  !   the  sun  ;    it  is  not  moonlight  now. 

Pet.    I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright. 

Kath.    I  know  it  is  the  sun  that  shines  so  bright. 

Pet.    Now,  by  my  mother's  son,  and  that's  myself, 
It  shall  be  moon  or  star,  or  what  I  list, 
Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house. — 
Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. — 
Evermore  crossed,  and  crossed  ;  nothing  but  crossed. 

I  for.    Say  as  he  savs,  or  we  shall  never  go. 

Kath.    Forward,  I  prav.  since  we   have  come  so  far, 
And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please. 
And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle, 
Henceforth  1  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

1  Here  in  the  old  play,  the  Tinker  speaks  again : — 
"  Slie.   Sin»,  must  they  be  married  now  ?  " 
Lord.    I,  my  lord. 

Enter  Ferando  and  Sander. 
Slic.    Look,  Sim,  the  fool  is  come  again  now." 


524  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  fACT  IV 

Pet.    I  say  it  is  the  moon. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  the  moon. 

Pet.    Nay,  then  you  lie  ;  it  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Kath.    Then,  God  be  bless'd,  it  is  the  blessed  sun. — 
But  sun  it  is  not  when  you  say  it  is  not ; 
And  the  moon  changes  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  named,  even  that  it  is ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so,1  for  Katharine. 

Hor.    Petruchio,  go  thy  ways  ;  the  field  is  won. 

Pet.    Well,  forward,  forward ;  thus  the  bowl  should 

run, 

And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias. — 
But  soft ;  what  company  is  coming  here  ? 

Enter  VINCENTIO,  in  a  travelliiig  dress. 

Good-morrow,  gentle  mistress.     Where  away  ? — 

[To  VINCENTIO 

Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too,2 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  ? 
What  stars  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty, 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face  ? 
Fair,  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee  ! 
Swreet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.    'A  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a  woman 
of  him. 

1  We  should  probably  read,  "  And  so  it  shall  be  still,  for  Katharine." 

2  In  the  first  sketch  of  this  play  are  two  passages  worth  preserving, 
ind  which  Pope  thought  to  be  from  the  hand  of  Shakspeare. 

"  Faire,  lovely  maiden,  young  and  affable, 
More  clear  of  hue,  and  far  more  beautiful, 
Than  precious  sardonyx  or  purple  rocks 
Of  amethists,  or  glistering  hyacinth — 
— Sweete  Kate,  entertaine  this  lovely  woman. — 

Kath.    Fair,  lovely  lady,  bright  and  chrystalline, 
Beauteous  and  stately  a.=  trie  eye-trained  bird ; 
As  glorious  as  the  mor  *nng  washed  with  dew, 
Within  whose  eyes  sne  takes  her  dawning  beams, 
And  golden  summer  sleeps  upon  thy  cheeks! 
Wrap  up  thy  radiations  in  some  cloud, 
Lest  that  thy  beauty  make  this  stately  town 
Inhabitable,  like  the  burning  zone, 
With  sweet  reflections  of  thy  lovely  face." 


SC.  V.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  525 

Kath.    Young,   budding  virgin,  fair,   and  fresh,  and 

sweet, 

Whither  away  ;  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child ! 
Happier  the  man  whom  favorable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bed-fellow  !  * 

Pet.    Why,   how   now,  Kate !   I   hope   thou  art   not 

mad ; 

This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  withered  ; 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

Kath.    Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes, 
That  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun, 
That  every  thing  I  look  on  seemeth  green.9 
Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

Pet.    Do,    good    old    grandshv ;     and   withal    make 

known 

Which  way  thou  travellest;   if  along  with  us, 
We  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  company. 

Vin.    Fair  sir, — and  you,  my  merry  mistress, — 
That  with  your  strange  encounter   much   ama/cd   me  ; 
My  name  is  called — Vincentio  ;   my  dwelling — Pisa; 
And  bound  I  am  to  Padua  ;   there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.    What  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle;  sir. 

Pet.    Happily  met;   the  happier  lor  thv  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee — my  loving  father; 
The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman, 
Thy  sou  by  this  hath  married.      Wonder  not, 
Nor  be  not  grieved  ;   she  is  of  good  esteem, 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth; 
Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 


1  This  is  from  the  fourth  hook  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  by  Golding, 
158(5,  j).  5(>.  Ovid  borrowed  his  ideas  from  the  sixth  book  of  the  Odys 
sey,  154,  &.c. 

-  Another  proof  of  Shakspeare's  accurate  observation  of  natural  phe- 


526  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V. 

Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio : 

I  * 

\         And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son, 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 

Vin.    Bnt  is  this  true  ?     Or  is  it  else  your  pleasure, 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upon  the  company  you  overtake  ? 

Hor.    I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 
Pet.    Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  hereof; 
For  our  first  merriment  hath  made  thee  jealous. 

[Exeunt  PET.,  KATH.,  and  VIN. 
Hor.    Well,  Petruchio,  this  hath  put  me  in  heart. 
Have  to  my  widow ;  and  if  she  be  froward, 
Then  hast  thou  taught  Hcrtensio  to  be  untoward. 

[Exit. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     Padua.     Before  Lucentio's  House. 

Enter  on  one  side  BIONDELLO,  LUCENTIO,  and  BIANCA; 
GREMIO  walking  on  the  other  side. 

Bion,    Softly  and  swiftly,  sir  ;  for  the  priest  is  ready. 

Luc     I  fly,  Biondello  ;  but  they  may  chance  to  need 
thee  at  home  ;   therefore  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  faith,  I'll  see  the  church  o'your  back  ; 
and  then  come  back  to  my  master1  as  soon  as  I  can. 

[Exeunt  Luc.,  BIAN.  and  BION. 

Gre.    I  marvel  Cam  bio  comes  net  all  this  whik*. 

Enter  PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,  VINCENTIO,  and  At 
tendants. 

Pet.    Sir,  here's  the  door  ;   this  is  Lucentio's  house  : 
My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market-place  ; 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  you,  sir. 

1  The  old  editions  read  mistress.  The  emendation  is  Theobald's,  who 
rightly  observes,  that  by  master,  Biondello  moans  his  pretended  master 
Tranio. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  527 

Vin.   You  shall  not  choose,  but  drink  before  you  go ; 
I  think  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here, 
And,  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward. 

[Knocks 

Gre.  They're  busy  within,  you  were  best  knock 
louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above,  at  a  window. 

Fed.  What's  he  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat  down 
the  gate  ? 

Vin.    Is  seignior  Lucentio  within,  sir  ? 

Pcd.    lie's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken  withal. 

Vin.  What  if  a  man  bring  him  a  hundred  pound  or 
two,  to  make  merry  withal  ': 

Pcd.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself;  lie 
shall  need  none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  1  told  you  your  son  was  beloved  in 
Padua. — Do  you  hear,  sir  : — To  leave  frivolous  circum 
stances, — I  pray  you,  tell  seignior  Lucentio,  that  his 
father  is  come  from  Pisa,  and  is  here  at  the  door  to 
speak  with  him. 

Pcd.  Thou  First.  His  father  is  come  from  Pisa,1 
and  hen*  looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vin.    Art  thou  his  father  ? 

Pcd.  Ay,  sir ;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may  be 
lieve  her. 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  gentleman!  [To  VINCENT.] 
Why,  this  is  flat  knavery,  to  take  upon  you  another 
man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain  ;  I  believe  'a  means 
to  co/en  somebody  iu  this  city  under  my  countenance. 

Re -enter  BIONDELLO. 
J3ion.    I    have   seen    them    in    the    church    together. 

O 

God  send  'cm  good  shipping  !-— But  who  is  here? 
my  old  master,  Viiicentio?  Now  we  are  undone, 
and  brought  to  nothing. 

Vin.    Come  hither,  crack-hemp. 

[Seeing  BIONDELLO. 

1  The  old  copy  reads  Padua. 


528  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V. 

Bion.    I  hope  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Yin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue.  What,  have  you  for 
got  me  ? 

Bion.  Forgot  you  ?  no,  sir.  I  could  not  forget 
you,  for  I  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 

Fin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou  never 
see  thy  master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.    What,  my  old,  worshipful  old  master  ?     Yes, 
l         marry,  sir ;  see  where  he  looks  out  of  the  window. 

Vin.    Is't  so  indeed  ?  [Beats  BIONDELLO. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help !  here's  a  madman  will 
murder  me.  [Exit. 

Peel.    Help,  son  !     help,  seignior  Baptista  ! 

[Exit,  from  the  window. 

Pet.  Pr'ythee,  Kate,  let's  stand  aside,  and  see  the 
end  of  this  controversy.  [They  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant,  below ;  BAPTISTA,  TRANIO,  and  Ser 
vants. 

Tra.   Sir,  what  are  you  that  offer  to  beat  my  servant  ? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir  ?  Nay,  what  are  you,  sir  ? — 
O  immortal  gods  !  O  fine  villain  !  A  silken  doublet ! 
a  velvet  hose  !  a  scarlet  cloak !  and  a  copatain 
hat ! 1 — O,  I  am  undone  !  I  am  undone  !  While  I  play 
the  good  husband  at  home,  my  son  and  my  servant 
spend  all  at  the  university. 

Tra.    How  now  !    what's  the  matter  ? 

Bap.    What,  is  the  man  lunatic ! 

Tra.  Sir,  you  seem  a  sober,  ancient  gentleman  by 
your  habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  madman. 
Why,  sir,  what  concerns  it  you,  if  I  wear  pearl  and 
gold  ?  I  thank  my  good  father,  I  am  able  to  main 
tain  it. 

Vin.  Thy  father  ?  O  villain  !  He  is  a  sail-maker 
in  Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir ;  you  mistake,  sir.  Pray, 
what  do  you  think  is  his  name  ? 

1  A  sugar-loaf  hat,  a  coppid-tanke  hat ;  ^alerus  accuminatus. — Junius's 
Nomenclator,  1585. 


SC.  I.]  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  529 

Vin.  His  name  ?  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name ;  1 
have  brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  three  years  old, 
and  his  name  is — Tranio. 

Pcd.  Away,  away,  mad  ass!  His  name  is  Lueen- 
tio ;  and  lie  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the  lands  of 
me,  seignior  Vineentio. 

Vin.  Lueentio!  O,  he  hath  murdered  his  master! 
— Lay  hold  on  him,  I  charge  you  in  the  duke's  name. 
— O,  my  son,  my  son  ! — Tell  me,  thou  villain,  where 
is  my  son  Lueentio  ? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer.1  [Enter  one  with  (in 
Officer.']  Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  jail.  Father 
Baptista,  I  charge  you  see  that  he  be  forth  coming. 

Vin.    Carry  me  to  the  jail ! 

Gre.    Stay,  officer ;   he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.  Talk  not,  seignior  Gremio.  I  say,  he  shall 
go  to  prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  seignior  Baptista,  lest  you  be 
cony-catched 2  in  this  business;  I  dare  swear,  this  is 
the  right  Vineentio. 

Ped.    Swear,  if  thou  darest. 

Grc.    Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say,  that  I  am  not  Lu 
eentio. 

Gre.    Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  seignior  Lueentio. 

Bap.    Away  with  the  dotard:   to  the  jail  with   him. 

fin.  Thus  strangers  may  be  haled  and  abused. — 
O  monstrous  villain  ! 

1  Here,  in  the  original  play,  the  Tinker  speaks  again  :— 

".SY/Y.    f  say,  weele  have  no  sending  to  prison. 

lard.    My  lord,  this  is  but  the  play;  they're  but  in  jest 

.S'/jY.    I  tell  thee,  Sim,  weele  have  no  sending 
To  prison,  that's  flat;  why,  Sim,  am  I  not  Don  Christo  Vari? 
Therefore,  I  say,  they  sha'll  not  goe  to  prison. 

Lord.    No  more  they  shall  not,  my  lord: 
They  be  runno  away. 

Slie.    Are  they  run  away,  Sim?  that's  well: 
Then  gis  some  more  drinkc,  and  let  them  play  againe. 

Lord.   Here,  my  lord." 

2  i.  e.  deceived,  cheated. 

VOL.    ii.  (57 


530  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO,  with  LUCENTIO   and  BIANCA. 

Bion.  O,  we  are  spoiled,  and — Yonder  he  is ; 
deny  him,  forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 

Luc.    Pardon,  sweet  father.  [Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweet  son  ? 

[BIONDELLO,  TRANIO,  and  Pedant  run  out. 

Bian.    Pardon,  dear  father.  [Kneeling. 

Bap.  How  hast  thou  offended ? 

Where  is  Lucentio  ? 

Luc.  Here's  Lucentio, 

Right  son  unto  the  right  Vincentio  ; 
That  have  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine, 
While  counterfeit  supposes  bleared  thine  eyne.1 

Gre.  Here's  packing,2  with  a  witness,  to  deceive 
us  all ! 

Vin.   Where  is  that  damned  villain,  Tranio, 
That  faced  and  braved  me  in  this  matter  so  ? 

Bap.    Why,  tell  me,  is  not  this  my  Cambio  ? 

Bian.    Cambio  is  changed  into  Lucentio. 

Luc.    Love  wrought  these  miracles.     Biarica's  love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ; 
And  happily  I  have  arrived  at  last 
Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss. — 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforced  him  to ; 
Then  pardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake. 

Vin.  I'll  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would  have  sent 
me  to  the  jail. 

Bap.  But  do  you  hear,  sir?  [To  LUCENTIO.] 
Have  you  married  my  daughter  without  asking  my 
good -will  ? 

Vin.  Fear  not,  Baptista ;  we  will  content  you,  go  to. 
But  I  will  in,  to  be  revenged  for  this  villany.  [Exit. 

1  This  is  probably  an  allusion  to  Gascoigne's  comedy,  entitled  Sup 
poses,  from  which  several  of  the  incidents  are  borrowed.     Gascoigne's 
original  was  Ariosto's  /  Suppositi.     The  word  supposes  was  often  used 
as  it  is  in  the  text,  by  Shakspeare's  contemporaries  ;  one  instance,  from 
Drayton's  epistle  of  king  John  to  Matilda,  may  suffice : — 

"  And  tell  me  those  are  shadow?  and  supposes." 

2  Plottirigs,  underhand  contrivances. 


SC.  11.]  TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW.  531 

Bap.    And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery. 

[Exit. 

Luc.    Look   not   pale,  Bianea ;  thy   father  will    not 

frown.  [Exeunt  Luc.   and  BIAN. 

Gre.    My  cake  is  dough;   but  I'll  in  among  the  rest ; 

Out  of  hope  of  all, — but  my  share  of  the  feast.     [Exit. 

PETRUCHIO  and  KATHARINA  advance. 

Kath.    Husband,  let's  follow,  to  see  the  end  of  this 

ado. 

Pet.    First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 
Kath.    What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street  ? 
Pet.    What,  art  thou  ashamed  of  me  ? 
Kath.    No,  sir  ;  God  forbid  : — but  ashamed   to  kiss. 
Pet.    Why,   then  let's  home  again. — Come,  sirrah, 

let's  away. 
Kath.    Nay,  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss  ;  now  pray  thee, 

love,  stay. 

Pet.    Is  not  this  well  ? — Come,  my  sweet  Kate  ; 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late.        [Exeunt. 


SCENE    II.     A  Room  in  Lucentio's  House.     A  Ban 
quet  set  out. 

Enter   BAPTISTA,    VINCENTIO,    GREMIO,    the    Pedant, 

LUCENTIO,    BlANCA,     PETRUCHIO,  KATHARINA,   HoR- 

TENSIO,  and  Widow.    TRANIO,  BIONDELLO,  GRUMIO, 
<ui<l  others,  attending. 

Luc.    At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes  agree  ; 
And  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done,1 
To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  overblown. — 
My  fair  Bianea,  bid  my  father  welcome, 
While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine. — 
Brother  Petruchio, — sister  Katharina, — 
And  thou,  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, — 

i  The  old  copy  reads  come ;  the  emendation  is  Howe's. 


532  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V 

Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house ; 
My  banquet1  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up, 
After  our  great  good  cheer.     Pray  you,  sit  down ; 
For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat. 

[They  sit  at  table. 

Pet.    Nothing  but  sit  and  sit,  and  eat  and  eat ! 

Bap.    Padua  affords  this  kindness,  son  Petruchio. 

Pet.    Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  is  kind. 

Hor.    For  both  our  sakes,  I  would   that  word  were 
true. 

Pet.    Now,  for  my  life,  Hortensio  fears  his  widow. 

Wid.   Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 

Pet.    You  are   sensible,  and  yet  you  miss  my  sense. 
I  mean,  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you. 

Wid.    He    that   is   giddy,   thinks   the   world   turns 
round. 

Pet.    Roundly  replied. 

Kath.  Mistress,  how  mean  you  that  ? 

Wid.   Thus  I  conceive  by  him. 

Pet.     Conceives    by   me ! — How   likes    Hortensio 
that  ? 

Hor.    My  widow  says,  thus  she  conceives  her  tale. 

Pet.    Very  well  mended.     Kiss  him  for  that,  good 
widow. 

Kath.    He   that   is    giddy,   thinks    the  world    turns 

round. 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  \vhat  you  meant  by  that. 

Wid.    Your  husband,  being  troubled  with  a  shrew, 
Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe  ; 2 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 

Kath.    A  very  mean  meaning. 

Wid.  Right,  I  mean  you. 

Kath.    And  I  am  mean  indeed,  respecting  you. 

Pet.    To  her,  Kate  ! 

Hor.    To  her,  widow  ! 

Pet.    A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  her  down. 

1  The  banquet  here,  as  in  other  places  of  Shakspeare,-  was  a  refection 
similar  to  our  modern  dessert,  consisting  of  cakes,  sweetmeats,  fruits,  &c. 

2  As  this  was  meant  for  a  rhyming  couplet,  it  should  be  observed  that 
shrew  was  pronounced  shrow.     See  also  the  finale,  where  it  rhymes  to  50. 


SC.  II.]  TAM1.NG   OF   THE   SHREW.  5-33 

Jfor.    That's  my  office. 

Pet.    Spoke  like  an  officer. — Ha'  to  thee,  lad. 

[Drinks   to   HORTEXSIO. 

Bap.    How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted  folks? 

Grc.    Believe;  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  well. 

Bian.    Head,  and  butt?     A  hasty-witted  body 
ANould  say,  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and  horn. 

Vln.    Ay,  mistress  bride,  hath  that  awakened  you  ? 

Bum.    Ay,  but  not  frighted  me  ;   therefore   I'll  sleep 
again. 

Pet.     Nay,    that    you    shall    not ;     since    you    have 

begun, 
Have  at  you  for  a  hitter1  jest  or  two. 

Bian.    Am  I  your  bird  ?  I  mean  to  shift  my  bush, 
And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow.— 
You  are  welcome  all. 

[Exeunt  BIANCA,  KATHARINA,  and  Widow. 

Pet.    She     hath     prevented     me. —  Here,     seignior 

Tranio, 

This  bird  you  aimed  at,  though  you  hit  her  not  : 
Therefore,  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  missed. 

Tra.    O,  sir,  Lucentio  slipped  me  like  his  "Tcyhound, 
Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Pet.    A  »ood  swift 2  simile,  but  something  currish. 

Tra.    'Tis  well,  sir,    that  you   hunted   for  yourself, 
'Tis  thought,  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Bap.    O  ho,  Petruchio,  Tranio  hits  you  now. 

Luc.    I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,3  good  Tranio. 

Jfor.    Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here  : 

Pet.    'A  has  a  little  galled  me,  I  confess  : 
And,  as  the  jest  did  glance  awav  from  me4, 
'Tis  ten  to  one  it  maimed  you  two  outright. 

Jiajj.    Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.    Well,  I  say — no  ;   and  therefore,  for  assurance 
Let's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife  ; 

1  The  old  copy  reads  better.     The  emendation  is  Capell's. 
-  Heside  the  original  sense  of  speedy  in  motion,  swifl  signified  witty, 
quick-witted. 

;i  A  gird  is  a  cut,  a  sarcasm,  a  stroke  of  satire. 


534  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V. 

And  he  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 

To  come  at  first  when  he  doth  send  for  her, 

Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

Hor.    Content. What  is  the  wager  ? 

Luc.  Twenty  crowns. 

Pet.    Twenty  crowns ! 
I'll  venture  so  much  on  my  hawk,  or  hound, 
But  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Luc.    A  hundred,  then. 

Hor.  Content. 

Pet.  A  match  ;  'tis  done. 

Hor.   Who  shall  begin  ? 

Luc.  That  will  I.     Go, 

Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

Bion.   I  go.  [Exit. 

Bap.    Son,  I  will  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Luc.    I'll  have  no  halves  :  I'll  bear  it  all  myself. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 

How  now  !    what  news  ? 

Bion.  Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

Pet.    How !    she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come  ! 
Is  that  an  answer  ? 

Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too. 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wire  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.    I  hope,  better. 

Hor.    Sirrah,  Biondello,  go,  and  entreat  my  wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.  [Exit  BIONDELLO. 

Pet.  O  ho!    entreat  her  ! 

Nay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 

Hor.  I  am  afraid,  sir, 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Re-enter  BIONDELLO. 

Now  where's  my  wife  ? 

Bion.  She  says,  you  have  some  goodly  jest  in  hand  ; 
She  will  not  come ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Pet.  Worse  and  worse;  she  will  not  come!  O  vile, 
[ntolerablc,  not  to  be  endured ! 


SC.  II.]  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  535 

Sirrah,  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ; 

Say,  I  command  her  come  to  me.  [Exit  GRUMIO. 

Hor.    I  know  her  answer. 

Pet.  What? 

Hor.  She  will  not. 

Pet.    The  fouler  fortune  mine,  and  there  an  end. 

Enter  KATHARINA. 

Bap.    Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina  ! 

Kath.    What  is  your  will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me? 

Pet.    Where  is  your  sister,  and  Hortensio's  wife  ? 

Kath.    They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlor  fire. 

Pet.    Go  fetch  them  hither  ;  if  they  deny  to  come, 
Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto  their  husbands. 
Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

[Exit  KATHARINA. 

Luc.    Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder. 

Hor.    And  so  it  is ;   I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Pet.    Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet  life 
An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy : 
And,  to  be  short,  what  not,  that's  sweet  and  happy. 

Bap.    Now  fair  befall  thee,  good  Petruchio! 
The  wager  thou  hast  won  ;  and  I  will  add 
Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns ; 
Another  dowry  to  another  daughter, 
For  she  is  changed,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pet.    Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet ; 
And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience, 
Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 


Re-enter  KATHARINA,  with  BIANCA  and  Widow. 

See,  where  she  comes ;  and  brings  your  froward  wives 
As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. — 
Katharina,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 
Off  with  that  bauble  ;    throw  it  under  foot. 

[KATHARINA  pulls  off  her  cap,  and  throws 
it  down. 


536  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V 

Wid.    Lord,  let  me  never  have  a,  cause  to  sigh. 
Till  I  be  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass  ! 

Bian.    Fie  !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 

Luc.    I  would  your  duty  were  as  foolish  too. 
The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 
Hath  cost  me  a  hundred  crowns  since  supper-time. 

Bian.    The  more  fool  you  for  laying  on  my  duty. 

Pet.    Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  headstrong 

women 
What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Wid.    Come,  come,  you're   mocking ;  we  will  have 
no  telling. 

Pet.    Come  on,  I  say ;  and  first  begin  with  her. 

Wid.    She  shall  not. 

Pet.    I  say,  she  shall; — and  first  begin  with  her. 

Kath.    Fie,    fie !    unknit    that    threatening,    unkind 

brow ; 

And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wound  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thy  governor. 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads  ; 
Confounds  thy  fame,  as  whirlwinds  shake  fair  buds  ; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  moved,  is  like  a  fountain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty  ; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper, 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign ;  one  that  cares  for  thee 
And  for  thy  maintenance  ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labor,  both  by  sea  and  land ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 
While  thou  liest  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe  ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands, 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience  ; — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince, 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband. 
And,  when  she's  fro  ward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 


SC.  II.]  TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW.  537 

What  is  she,  but  a  foul,  contending  rebel, 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  lovinjr  lord  ? 

O  O 

I  arn  ashamed,  that  women  are  so  simple 

To  offer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peaee ; 

Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway, 

When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 

Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 

Unapt  to  toil  and  trouble  in  the  world, 

But  that  our  soft  conditions1  and  our  hearts 

Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ? 

Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms ! 

My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours  ; 

My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply,  more, 

To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown  ; 

But  now,  I  see,  our  lances  are  but  straws ; 

Our  strength  as  weak,  our  weakness  past  compare, — 

That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  indeed  least  arc. 

Then  vail  your  stomachs,2  for  it  is  no  boot ; 

And  place  your  hands  below  your  husband's  foot. 

In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please, 

My  hand  is  ready  ;  may  it  do  him  ease. 

Pet.    Why,  there's  a  wench! — Come  on,  and   Kiss 
me,  Kate. 

Luc.    Well,   go  thy  ways,  old  lad;    for  thou   slialt 
ha't. 

Vin.    'Tis  a  good  hearing  when  children  are  toward. 

Luc.    But  a  harsh  hearing  when  women  are  froward. 

Pet.    Come,  Kate,  we'll  to  bed. 

We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped.3 
'Twas  I  won  the  wager,  though  you  hit  the  white; 

[7To  LUCENTIO. 
And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night ! 

[Exeunt  PF.TRUCHIO  and  KATII. 


1  That  is,  the  gentle  qualities  of  our  minds. 

*  "  Vail  your  stomachs?  abate  your />ru/f,  your  spirit ;  it  is  no  boot,  i.  o. 
it  is  profitless,  it  is  no  advantage. 

::  i.  P.  the  fate  of  you  both  is  decided ;  for  you  both  have  wives  who 
exhibit  early  proofs  "of  disobedience. 

4  Tho  white  was  the  central  part  of  tho  mark  or  butt  in  archery.     liere 
is  also  a  play  upon  the  name  of  Ilianra,  which  is  white  in  Italian. 
VOL.  ii.  68 


538  TAMING   OF  THE   SHREW.  [ACT  V. 

Hor.   Now  go  thy  ways ;  thou  hast  tamed  a  curst 

shrew. 
Luc.    'Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,   she  will  be 

tamed  so.  [Exeunt.1 

1  The  old  play  continues  thus : — 

"  Tlien  enter  two,  bearing  Slie  in  his  own  apparel  againe,  and  leaves  him 
where  they  found  him,  and  then  goes  out :  then  enters  the  Tapster. 

Tapster.   Now  that  the  darksome  night  is  overpast, 
And  dawning  day  appeares  in  christall  skie, 
Now  must  I  haste  abroade :  but  softe !  who's  this  ? 
What,  Slie  ?     O  wondrous !  hath  he  laine  heere  all  night ! 
He  wake  him :  I  thinke  he's  starved  by  this, 
But  that  his  belly  was  so  stufft  with  ale : — 
What  now,  Slie  ?  awake  for  shame. 

Slie.  [Awaking.]  Sim,  give's  more  wine. — What,  all  the  players  gone  ? 
— Am  I  not  a  lord  ? 

Tap.   A  lord,  with  a  murrain ! — Come,  art  thou  drunk  still  ? 

Slie.  Who's  this?  Tapster!— Oh,  I  have  had  the  bravest  dream  that 
ever  thou  heard'st  in  all  thy  life. 

Tap.  Yea,  marry,  but  thou  hadst  best  get  thee  home,  for  your  wife 
will  curse  you  for  dreaming  here  all  night 

Slie.  Will  she  ?  I  know  how  to  tame  a  shrew.  I  dreamt  upon  it  all 
this  night,  and  thou  hast  wak'd  me  out  of  the  best  dream  that  ever  I  had , 
but  I'll  to  my  wile,  and  tame  her  too,  if  she  anger  me." 


OF  this  play  the  two  plots  are  so  well  united  that  they  can  hardly  be 
called  two,  without  injury  to  the  art  with  which  they  are  interwoven. 
The  attention  is  entertained  with  all  the  variety  of  a  double  plot,  yet  is 
not  distracted  by  unconnected  incidents. 

The  part  between  Katharina  and  Petruchio  is  eminently  sprightly  and 
diverting.  At  the  marriage  of  Bianca,  the  arrival  of  the  real  father,  per 
haps,  produces  more  perplexity  than  pleasure.  The  whole  play  is  very 

popular  and  diverting. 

JOHNSON. 


END    OF    VOL.    II. 


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