Skip to main content

Full text of "Shakespeare's comedies"

See other formats 


ioo 


IS 


.CD 


!CO 


EVEKY/AAN . 
I  WILL  GO  WITH 

•THE. 


Presented  to  the 
LIBRARY  of  the 

UNIVERSITY   OF   TORONTO 

by 

The  Estate  of  the  late 

PROFESSOR  A.  S.  P.  WOODHOUSE 

Head  of  the 

Department  of  English 

University  College 

1944-1964 


EVERYMAN'S    LIBRARY 
EDITED    BY     ERNEST     RHYS 


POETRY  AND 
THE    DRAMA 


• 


SHAKESPEARE'S 
COMEDIES 


-*    i 

A^ 


THE  PUBLISHERS   OF 

L1ECR^CRJC  WILL  BE  PLEASED  TO  SEND 
FREELY  TO  ALL  APPLICANTS  A  LIST 
OF  THE  PUBLISHED  AND  PROJECTED 
VOLUMES  TO  BE  COMPRISED  UNDER 
THE  FOLLOWING  THIRTEEN  HEADINGS: 

TRAVEL     ^     SCIENCE     ^     FICTION 

THEOLOGY   &   PHILOSOPHY 

HISTORY         ^         CLASSICAL 

FOR      YOUNG      PEOPLE 

ESSAYS   ^   ORATORY 

POETRY  &  DRAMA 

BIOGRAPHY 

REFERENCE 

ROMANCE 


IN  FOUR  STYLES  OF  BINDING:  CLOTH, 
FLAT  BACK,  COLOURED  TOP ;  LEATHER, 
ROUND  CORNERS,  GILT  TOP;  LIBRARY 
BINDING  IN  CLOTH,  &  QUARTER  PIGSKIN 

LONDON  :  J.  M.  DENT  &  SONS,  LTD. 
NEW  YORK:  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  CO. 


s\ vo 

ivp 

3W 
'OJ- 


.M 


HERS- 
ABIDED 
OVFL 


THOVARTFREE 

WE-ASK-&-A5K- 

THOVJMI  LEST- 

^-ART-STILL.® 

OVT-TOPPING& 

KNOWLEDGE 


MATTHEW 
AR.NOL.D 


SHAKESPEARES 
COMEDIES 


LONDON:  PUBLISHED 
byJ-M-DENT  &-SONS-12P 
AND  IN  NEW  YORK 
BY  E-P-  DUTTON^CO 


First  t'sstee  of  this  Edition,  Nov.   1906. 
Reprinted  Nov.  1907,  June  1908,  Jan. 
Oct.  iqii)  June  /9/j. 


CONTENTS  : 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION I 

,/THE  TEMPEST ,  •        •        '        7 

t/THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA        .        .        .        .      60 
MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR    .         .         .         .         .112 
FOR  MEASURE        .        .        .        .        .        .     171 

COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 236 

ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING  .         .         .         .         .         .278 

LABOUR'S  LOST  .         .         .         .         .         .         -336 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM       .....     399 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  .        .        .        .        .        .    450 

YOU  LIKE  IT .512 

JX*  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW  .  .  .  .  .  573 
(BALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  .....  635 
iX  TWELFTH  NIGHT:  OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL  .  .  .  702 
lx"  THE  WINTER'S  TALE  .......  759 

GLOSSARY .  .      835 


CHRONOLOGY   OF  THE   PLAYS. 

I.— THE  EPOCH  OF  HIS  EARLY  WORK,  1591-1593. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  1591.         Henry  VI.,  1592. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,         Richard  III.,  1593. 
1591.  Richard  II.,  1593. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  1592.  Titus  Andronicus,  1593. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  1592. 

Intermediate  Epoch  of  the  Poems. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  1 593.  Lucrece,  1594. 

!, — THE  EPOCH  OF  HIS  MATURING  ART — THE  PERIOD  OF  THE 

GREAT  "COMEDIES"  AND  THE  "  HISTORIES,"  1594-1601. 
The   Merchant  of  Venice,         Henry  IV.,  1597. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 

1598. 

Henry  V,  1598. 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 

1599. 

As  You  Like  It,  1600. 
Twelfth  Night,  1600. 
Julius  Caesar,  1601. 


1594. 

King  John,  1594. 
Midsummer-Night's  Dream, 

1594-1595. 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well, 

1595- 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 

1595- 


lit. — THE  EPOCH  OF  HIS  MATURE  ART — THE  PERIOD  OF  THE 
GREAT  PROBLEM  PLAYS,  1602-1609. 


Hamlet,  1602. 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  1603. 

Othello,  1604. 

Measure  for  Measure,  1604. 

Macbeth,  1606. 


King  Lear,  1607. 

Timon  of  Athens,  1608. 

Pericles,  1608. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  1608. 

Coriolanus,  1609. 


Intermediate  Epoch  of  the  Sonnets,  1608-1609. 

IV.— THE  EPOCH  OF  REPOSEFUL  CONTEMPLATION,  1610-1611. 
Cymbeline,  1610.  The  Tempest,  1611. 

The  Winter's  Tale,  1611. 

Plays  completed  by  others  after  his  Retirement. 

Cardenio,  1611.  Henry  VIII.,  1612. 

Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  1612. 


INTRODUCTION 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  War 
wickshire,  on  the  22nd  or  23rd  April  1564.  The  latter  date  has 
been  accepted  as  the  more  likely,  an  old  tradition  stating  that  he 
died  on  the  anniversary  of  his  birth,  and  we  know  beyond  question 
his  death  occurred  on  April  23rd,  1616.  His  father,  John  Shake 
speare,  belonged  to  a  family  which  had  given  generations  of 
substantial  yeomen  to  the  Midland  districts  of  England.  At  the 
time  of  the  poetrs  birth  John  was  a  prosperous  "general  merchant" 
in  agricultural  produce.  Corn,  malt,  hides,  wool,  leather,  hay,  are 
named  among  the  wares  in  which  he  dealt.  In  1557  John  married 
a  local  heiress,  Mary,  younger  daughter  of  Robert  Arden,  a  pros 
perous  farmer  of  Wilmecote,  in  the  parish  of  Aston  Cantlowe,  near 
Stratford.  To  John  she  brought  the  estat,e  of  Asbies,  a  property 
of  some  fifty  acres,  in  Wilmecote,  with  a  house  upon  it. 

William  was  the  third  child  but  the  eldest  son.  The  house  of 
his  birth  is  still  extant  but  greatly  modified.  It  is  one  of  the  two 
attached  dwellings  in  Henley  Street,  Stratford,  now  held  by  the 
Corporation  of  that  town  on  behalf  of  the  subscribers  to  the  public 
fund.  His  father's  civic  promotion  had  been  unusually  rapid.  He 
had  passed  through  all  the  various  offices  in  quick  succession,  from 
that  of  "ale-taster"  in  1557  to  "bailiff"  in  1568.  In  the  latter 
year  he  entertained  two  companies  of  players,  the  "  Queen's  "  and 
the  "Earl  of  Worcester's"  men.  In  September  1571,  he  became 
Chief  Alderman,  the  highest  civic  position  attainable,  and  held  it 
until  September  1572. 

About  Michaelmas  (October)  of  the  latter  year,  adversity  of 
some  unknown  kind  seems  to  have  fallen  upon  the  busy  merchant. 
His  prosperity  declined.  He  was  unable  to  contribute  to  the 
customary  civic  levies  for  the  relief  of  the  poor,  etc.,  his  property 
had  to  be  mortgaged  to  his  brother-in-law,  Edmund  Lambert,  and 
at  last  he  was  deprived  of  his  seat  in  the  Council  on  the  ground  of 
irregularity  in  attendance. 

During  the.  first  seven  or  eight  years  of  his  life  William  had 
probably  known  a  fair  measure  of  domestic  comfort.  He  would 
be  sent,  as  was  usual,  to  the  Free  Grammar  School  at  Stratford,  an 
old  "foundation"  re-organised  by  Edward  VI.  His  teachers  there 

i 


Introduction 

would  in  all  likelihood  be  Walter  Roche,  who  was  succeeded  by 
Thomas  Hunt  in  1577,  while  the  "matter"  of  the  instruction 
imparted  would  be  almost  wholly  classical.  After  the  boys  had 
gone  through  the  Accidence  (cf.  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  IV.  i.) 
and  Lily's  Latin  Grammar,  along  with  the  Sententiae  Pueriles, 
they  passed  on  to  the  study  of  Ovid,  Virgil,  Horace,  Livy,  Seneca, 
Cicero,  Terence  and  Plautus,  while  Baptist  Mantuanus,  the  popular 
Renaissance  poet,  was  widely  read  as  an  introduction  to  Virgil. 
Greek;  was  rarely  taught  in  the  provinces,  and  there  are  no  traces 
of  its  haying  formed  part  of  the  school  course  in  Stratford  until 
later.  That  the  system  of  education  pursued  in  Shakespeare's 
case  was  thorough  is  evident  from  those  scenes  in  Love's  Labour's 
Lost  where  Holofernes  appears,  and  also  in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor  where  Sir  Hugh  Evans  is  introduced  examining  his  pupil 
in  the  early  pages  of  the  Accidence.  French,  likewise,  formed  one 
of  the  branches' in  which  the  poet  attained  considerable  proficiency, 
as  the  dialogues  in  that  language  in  Henry  V.  undeniably  prove. 
Some  writers  have  found  difficulty  in  accounting  for  Shakespeare's 
marvellous  fund  of  information  by  the  amount  of  school  training 
that  had  fallen  to  his  lot.  But  he  had  received  a  sound  middle- 
class  education,  and  had  profited  by  it,  as  Shakespeare  alone 
could  profit.  During  this  period,  any  boy  possessing  that  marvellous 
union  of  keen  faculty  with  receptive  capacity  characteristic  of  him, 
must  have  amassed,  through  the  medium  of  the  senses  alone,  just 
such  a  vast  store  of  information  as  he  acquired. 

Shakespeare's  schooldays  probably  lasted  from  1571-1577.  At 
thirteen,  owing  to  his  father's  increasing  commercial  difficulties, 
the  boy  was  removed  from  school,  and  according  to  one  tradition 
was  apprenticed  to  his  father's  business,  according  to  another, 
bound  to  a  butcher. 

The  events  of  those  five  years  1577-1582  are  wrapped  in  a  mist 
of  obscurity.  There  can  be  little  doubt,  however,  they  must  have 
been  years  of  steady  mental  growth  and  the  acquisition  of  stores 
of  knowledge.  When  next  we  hear  of  him  he  was  assuming 
responsibilities  that  were  to  influence  the  whole  of  his  after  career. 
In  November  1582  he  married  Anne,  youngest  daughter  of  Richard 
Hathaway  of  Shottery,  near  Stratford,  who,  like  Robert  Arden,  the 
poet's  grandfather,  was  a  substantial  yeoman-farmer.  There  is 
some  ground  at  least  for  thinking  that  the  union  was  not  a  happy 
one,  for  the  wife  was  the  senior  by  eight  years  of  her  husband. 
The  reference  in  Twelfth  Night  (II.  iv.  29)  to  a  parallel  case  has 
often  been  regarded  as  suggested  by  his  own  state. 

In  1583  their  first  child  Susanna  was  born,  followed  in  February 

2 


Introduction 

1585  by  the  twins  Hamnet  and  Judith,  and  early  next  year  the 
poet   in   all    likelihood   withdrew   from    Stratford.     That   he   was 
compelled  to  leave  his  native  town  in  consequence  of  his  snare 
in   a   poaching  raid   over   the   estates   of  Sir   Thomas   Lucy   of 
Charlecote,  is  proved  a  myth  by  the  fact  that  the  Charlecote  deer 
forest  was  not  in  existence  at  the  time.     Certainly  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy  was  ah  extensive  game-preserver,  and,  as  Lee  says,  "  owned 
at  Charlecote  a  warren  in  which  a  few  harts  may  have  found  a 
home,  but  there  was  no  deer  forest  there."     The  tradition  goes  oh 
to  say  that  Lucy,  having  prosecuted  and  punished  Shakespeare, 
the   latter  retaliated   in  a  satire  so  bitter  in  tone  that  the  local 
magnate's  wrath  was  increased  to  such  a  degree  against  its  author, 
that  the  latter  judged  it  expedient  to  withdraw  from  the  district  for 
a  time.     Whether  due  to  this  cause,  or  to  the  increasing  expenses 
of  a  young  family,  towards  the  support  of  which  he  could  contribute 
but  little,  or  to  his  conviction  that  continued  association  with  his 
wife  was  impossible  under  existing  conditions,  certain  it  is  that  by 

1586  they  were  living  apart,  and  the  poet  was  either  in  London  or 
directing  his  steps  thither. 

Tradition  reports  many  tales,  obviously  fictions,  as  to  his  employ 
ment  during  the  six  years  between  1586  and  1592.  By  one  narrator 
he  is  said  to  have  been  a  schoolmaster,  by  another  a  soldier  in  the 
Low  Countries,  by  a  third  a  vintner's  drawer,  by  a  fourth  a  holder 
of  horses  in  front  of  the  theatres,  and  so  forth.  The  most  probable 
of  all  such  tales  is  that  which  states  that  he  had  been  recommended 
to  the  players  by  some  of  those  Stratford  friends  they  had  made 
during  their  visits  there,  and  that  he  was  employed  'as  prompter's 
assistant  or  "  call-boy  "  at  Burbage's  playhouse,  "The  Theatre." 

If  Shakespeare  arrived  in  London  in  1586,  he  would  find  two 
theatres  in  existence,  viz.  "  THE  THEATRE,"  erected  in  1576  in 
Shoreditch  by  James  Burbage,  father  of  the  great  tragic  actor,  and 
"THE  CURTAIN,"  built  about  the  same  time  as  the  other  in  Moor- 
fields.  Both  were  without  the  City  boundaries,  as  the  Corporation 
of  London  would  not  permit  playhouses  within  the  municipality. 
To  the  former  of  these  Shakespeare  became  attached,  and  in  the 
company  he  then  joined — the  Earl  of  Leicester's — he  remained 
until  he  quitted  the  stage.  Actors  in  those  days  were  all  obliged 
to  shelter  themselves  under  the  name  of  some  leading  personage. 
By  an  Act  of  Parliament  passed  in  1571  (14  Eliz.,  Cap.  2),  they 
were  enjoined,  if  they  would  escape  being  treated  as  rogues  and 
vagabonds,  to  procure  a  license  to  pursue  their  calling  from  the 
monarch,  from  a  peer  of  the  realm,  or  from  some  high  official  of 
the  Court.  Both  Elizabeth  and  the  leading  nobles  of  the  time, 

3 


Introduction 

however,  were  so  liberal  in  granting  permits  that  no  player  of 
standing  had  difficulty  in  procuring  the  license  which  gave  him 
social  status.  There  were  at  least  six  companies  of  adult  actors 
playing  at  this  time  ;  five  of  them  owning  the  licenses  respectively 
of  the  Earls  of  Leicester,  Oxford,  Sussex  and  Worcester  and  the 
Lord  Admiral  (Charles,  Lord  Howard),  while  the  sixth  held  the 
permit  of  the  Queen,  and  was  called  the  "Queen's  Servants"  or 
company  of  players.  In  addition,  there  were  three  companies  of 
licensed  boy-actors,  formed  from  the  choristers  of  St.  Paul's  and 
the  Chapel  Royal,  and  from  Westminster  School.  Between  the 
adult  and  the  boy-players  intense  rivalry  existed,  and  the  dramatists 
took  sides  in  the  dispute.  For  instance,  the  most  of  Lyly's  plays 
are  stated  on  the  title-pages  to  have  been  produced  by  "Her 
Majesty's  Children  and  the  Children  of  Paul's." 

Shakespeare's  company  was,  as  we  have  seen,  licensed  by  the 
Earl  of  Leicester.  On  the  death  of  the  latter,  Lord  Strange  (after 
wards  Earl  of  Derby)  issued  their  licenses,  and  when  he  died  in 
1 594  the  first,  and  at  his  death  second  Lord  Hunsdon — both  of  whom 
successively  held  the  office  of  Lord  Chamberlain — took  the  company 
under  their  protection.  After  the  accession  of  James  I.  to  the 
throne  of  England,  he  became  th,eir  patron,  and  they  were  hence 
forth  called  "  The  King's  Players." 

Subordinate  though  the  position  might  be  in  which  Shakespeare 
commenced  his  dramatic  career,  his  surpassing  genius  would  not 
be  long  in  asserting  itself  and  raising  him  rapidly  up  the  successive 
rungs  in  the  social  as  well  as  the  dramatic  ladder.  As  an  actor, 
his  success  was  said  to  have  been  only  mediocre,  but  that  estimate 
was  a  comparative  one,  based  on  the  high  standard  of  Burbage 
and  Alleyn,  and  influenced  moreover  by  the  splendour  of  Shake 
speare's  own  success  in  dramatic  composition.  Contemporary 
report  passed  this  criticism  upon  his  playing,  that  he  performed 
parts  of  a  regal  and  dignified  character  with  a  majestic  impressive- 
ness  that  was  most  effective. 

But  it  was  as  an  adapter  and  reviser  of  other  men's  plays 
to  meet  contemporary  tastes  and  circumstances  that  Shake 
speare  proved  of  such  signal  service  to  his  company,  and  almost 
imperceptibly  he  passed  from  editor  into  dramatist.  His  life 
henceforward,  as  far  as  its  facts  have  reached  us,  was  summed 
up  in  the  production  of  the  successive  dramas  in  the  great  Shake 
spearian  cycle.  There  is  little  else  to  chronicle  from  1592,  when 
the  first  undeniable  contemporary  references  to  him  occur,  till 
the  time  of  his  death  in  1616.  Of  his  career  independent  of  his 
plays,  suffice  to  say  that  he  appeared  along  with  his  company 

4 


m  a 
tors 


Introduction 

before  the  Queen  at  Greenwich  in  1 594,  his  name  being  mentioned 
second  on  the  list.  In  1596,  on  the  death  of  his  son  Hamnet,  he 
probably  visited  Stratford,  and  afforded  material  assistance  to  his 
old  father,  for  henceforth  John  Shakespeare's  monetary  troubles 
come  to  an  end,  and  he  even  applied  to  the  College  of  Heralds  for 
a  Coat  of  Arms.  The  application  was  not  successful  until  1599, 
but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  both  the  proposal  and  the 
suggestion  as  to  device  and  motto  proceeded  from  the  poet. 

In  the  following  year  renewed  evidences  of  prosperity  were 
furnished.  Shakespeare  purchased  New  Place,  the  largest  house 
in  Stratford,  which,  after  having  repaired  and  otherwise  improved 
it,  he  let  for  a  term  of  years.  A  few  years  later  he  purchased  from 
his  neighbours,  the  Combes,  on  two  several  occasions,  property  to 
the  extent  of  127  acres  of  pasture  and  arable  land  adjoining. 

In  1599  Richard  and  Cuthbert  Burbage,  having  built  the  "Globe 
Theatre  "  on  the  Bankside,  in  part  at  least  from  the  materials  of 
the  old  "  Theatre,"  leased  out  for  a  term  of  twenty-one  years,  shares 
in  the  revenue  accruing  from  the  new  house,  uto  those  deserving 
men,  Shakespeare,  Hemings,  Condell,  Phillips  and  others."  The 
shares  were  sixteen  in  number,  and  of  these  Shakespeare  probably 
held  two.  They  of  course  entailed  responsibility  for  providing  a 
share  of  the  current  working  expenses  of  the  theatre. 

John  Shakespeare  died  in  1601,  and  William,  as  the  eldest  son, 
inherited  the  two  houses  in  Henley  Street,  the  only  portion  of  the 
property  of  the  elder  Shakespeare  or  his  wife,  as  Mr.  Sydney  Lee 
points  out,  which  had  not  been  alienated  to  creditors.  To  his 
mother  the  poet  granted  the  life-rent  of  one  of  them,  but  she  did 
not  long  survive  her  husband,  and  in  1608  she  too  passed  away.  In 
March  1603  Queen  Elizabeth  closed  her  long  and  glorious  reign. 
Exactly  a  year  later,  i.e.  in  March  1604,  James  I.  made  his  State 
entry  into  London,  and  on  that  occasion  nine  actors  belonging  to 
the  King's  Players  walked  in  the  procession,  each  clad  in  a  scarlet 
robe.  First  on  the  list,  stands  the  name  of  William  Shakespeare. 
In  1605  William  D'Avenant  was  christened,  the  son  of  John 
D'Avenant  of  the  Crown  Inn,  and  Shakespeare  stood  as  godfather. 
This  babe  was  afterwards  to  become  celebrated  in  literature  as  a 
Restoration  dramatist,  under  the  name  of  Sir  William  D'Avenant. 

That  Shakespeare  was  not  only  a  capable  but  even  a  keen  man 
of  business  has  frequently  been  asserted.  Of  this  no  better  proof  is 
needed  than  the  investments  he  chose  for  his  money.  Land  or 
house  property  was  invariably  his  preference.  In  one  case,  however, 
he  deviated  from  his  rule,  when  in  1605  he  purchased  the  unexpired 
term  of  thirty-one  years  of  a  ninety-two  years'  lease  of  a  portion  of 

5 


Introduction 

the  tithes  of  Stratford  and  district.  Susanna  Shakespeare,  the 
poet's  eldest  daughter,  was  married  in  June  1607  to  Dr.  John  Hall 
of  Stratford,  who  was  yet  to  achieve  fame  as  a  physician  and  as 
author  of  a  medical  work  of  note  in  its  day — Select  Observations. 
The  poet  was  tenderly  attached  to  her  and  to  her  husband.  This 
is  proved  by  the  terms  of  his  will.  To  them  he  left  the  bulk  of  his 
property  and  appointed  them  the  executors  of  his  estate,  besides 
entrusting  to  them  the  care  of  his  wife. 

In  1611  Shakespeare  appears  to  have  left  London  and  retired  to 
Stratford.  His  life  had  been  a  strenuously  busy  one,  and  he  may 
have  felt  the  approach  of  premature  old  age.  Besides,  his  dramatic 
work  was  complete.  With  that  calm,  common-sense  insight  into 
the  inmost  soul  of  things  native  to  him,  he  may  have  realized  that 
his  plays  constituted  "  a  full-orbed  whole,"  that  his  creative  period 
was  ended,  and  that  any  additions  to  his  works  might  only  weaken 
not  strengthen  his  hold  on  the  public.  From  1611  to  1616  he  lived 
the  life  of  a  Warwickshire  country  gentleman,  attending  to  his 
property  and  paying  periodical  visits  to  London.  In  1613  his  th-ird 
brother,  Richard,  died,  followed  eighteen  months  later  by  the  poet's 
intimate  friend,  John  Combe.  Whether  or  not  Shakespeare  regarded 
these  as  warnings  to  set  his  house  in  order,  whether  or  not  he  felt 
old  age  approaching,  is  unknown,  but  he  seems  to  have  had  the  idea 
that  his  life  was  not  likely  to  reach  the  allotted  span.  Early  in 
January  1616  he  gave  orders  to  prepare  his  will,  just  a  week  or  two 
before  his  younger  daughter  Judith's  marriage  to  Thomas  Quiney, 
vintner,  son  of  that  Richard  Quiney  whose  letter  to  the  poet  with 
respect  to  the  loan  of  a  sum  of  money  is  still  extant.  Almost  before 
the  will  could  be  engrossed  and  the  legal  formalities  completed,  he 
was  stricken  down,  and  on  the  23rd  April  1616  the  light  of  life  for 
him  went  out. 


THE  TEMPEST 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


ALONSO,  King  of  Naples. 
SEBASTIAN,  his  brother. 
PROSPERO,  the  right  Duke  of  Milan, 
ANTONIO,  his  brother,  the  usurping  Duke 

of  Milan. 

FERDINAND,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 
GONZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor. 
ADRIAN,       \rM.j. 
FRANCISCO,  }Lords- 

CALIBAN,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 
TRINCULO,  a  Jester. 
STEPHANO,  a  drunken  Butler. 


Master  of  a  Ship. 

Boatswain. 

Mariners. 

MIRANDA,  daughter  to  Prospero. 

ARIEL,  an  airy  Spirit. 

IRIS,         A 

CERES, 

JUNO,        \presentedbySpirits. 

Nymphs, 

Reapers,  ) 

Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I     , 
On  a  ship  at  sea :  a  tempestuous  noise  of  thunder  and 

lightning  heard. 

Enter  a  Ship-Master  and  a  Boatswain. 
Mast.  Boatswain ! 
Boats.  Here,  master :  what  cheer? 

Mast.  Good,  speak  to  the  mariners :  fall  to  't,  yarely,  or  we 
run  ourselves  aground :  bestir,  bestir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts  !  cheerly,  cheerly,  my  hearts !   yare, 
yare !     Take  in  the  topsail.     Tend  to  the  master's  whistle. 
Blow,  till  thou  burst  thy  wind,  if  room  enough  ! 
Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio^  Ferdinand)  Gonzalo, 

and  others. 

Alon.  Good  boatswain,  have  care.     Where's  the  master?    Play 
Boats.  I  pray  now,  keep  below.  [the  men. 

Ant.  Where  is  the  master,  boatswain  ? 
Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?    You  mar  our  labour :   keep 

your  cabins  :  you  do  assist  the  storm. 
Gon.  Nay,  good,  be  patient. 
Boats.  When  the  sea  is.     Hence!     What  cares  these  roarers 

for  the  name  of  king  ?     To  cabin  :  silence  !  trouble  us  not. 
Gon.  Good,  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast  aboard. 
Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.     You  are  a  coun 
sellor  ;  if  you  can  command  these  elements  to  silence,  and 
work  the  peace  of  the  present,  we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more; 
use  your  authority :   if  you  cannot,  give  thanks  you  have 
lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself  ready  in  your  cabin  for  the 
mischance  of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap.     Cheerly,  good  hearts  ! 
Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  [Exit. 

Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow :  methinks  he  hath 
no  drowning  mark  upon  him ;  his  complexion  is  perfect 
gallows.  Stand  fast,  good  Fate,  to  his  hanging :  make  the 

7 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempes 

rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable,  for  our  own  doth  little 
advantage.  If  he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged,  our  case  is 
miserable.  [Exeunt. 

Re  enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  with  the  topmast !  yare  !  lower,  lower  !  Bring  her 
to  try  with  main-course.  [A  cry  ivithin.}  A  plague  upon 
this  howling  !  they  are  louder  than  the  weather  or  our  office. 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  Antonio,  and  Gonzalo. 

Yet  again  !  what  do   you  here  ?     Shall  we  give   o'er,   and 

drown  ?     Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Seb.  A  pox  o'  your  throat,  you  bawling,  blasphemous,  incharit- 
Boats.  Work  you,  then.  [able  dog  ! 

Ant.  Hang,  cur !   hang,  you  whoreson,  insolent  noise-maker. 

We  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 
Gon.  I  '11  warrant  him  for  drowning  ;  though  the  ship  were  no 

stronger  than  a  nutshell,  and  as  leaky  as  an  unstanched  wench. 
Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,.  a-hold  !  set  her  two  courses ;  off  to  sea 

again  ;  lay  her  off. 

Enter  Mariners  wet. 

Mariners.  All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost ! 
Boats.  What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 
Gon.  The  king  and  prince  at  prayers  !  let 's  assist  them, 

For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.  I  'm  out  of  patience. 

Ant.  We  are  merely  cheated  of  our  lives  by  drunkards  : 

This  wide-chapp'd  rascal, — would  thou  mightst  lie  drowning 

The  washing  of  ten  tides  ! 
Gon.  He  '11  be  hang'd  yet, 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 

And  gape  at  widest  to  glut  him. 

[A  conftised  noise  within :  '  Mercy  on  us  !  '— 

'We  split,  we  split !'—' Farewell  my  wife  and  children  !  '— 

'  Farewell,  brother  ! '— { We  split,  we  split,  we  split ! '] 
Ant.  Let 's  all  sink  with  the  king. 

Seb.  Let 's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exeunt  Ant.  and  Seb. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea  for  an  acre  of 

barren  ground,  long  heath,  brown  furze,  any  thing.    The  wills 

above  be  done  !  but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry  death.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  is/and.     Before  Prosperous  cell. 

Enter  Prospero  and  Miranda. 
Mir.   If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them. 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 

Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffer'd 

With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel, 

Who  had,  no  doubt,  some  noble  creature  in  her, 

Dash'd  all  to  pieces.     O,  the  cry  did  knock 

Against  my  very  heart !     Poor  souls,  they  perish'd  1 

Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 

Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  ere 

It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallow'd  and 

The  fraughting  souls  within  her. 
Pros.  Be  collected : 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart 

There 's  no  harm  done. 
Mir.  O,  woe  the  day ! 

Pros.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 

Of  thee,  my  dear  one,  thee,  my  daughter,  who 

Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 

Of  whence  I  am,  nor  that  I  am  more  better 

Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 

And  thy  no  greater  father. 
Mir.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle  with  my  thoughts. 
Pros.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  farther.     Lend  thy  hand, 

And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So  : 

[Lays  down  his  mantle. 

Lie  there,  my  art.     Wipe  thou  thine  eyes ;  have  comfort. 

The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touch'd 

The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 

I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 

So  safely  ordered,  that  there  is  no  soul, 

No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair 

Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink.     Sit  down ; 

For  thou  must  now  know  farther. 
Mir.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am ;  but  stopp'd, 

And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition, 

Concluding  'Stay:  not  yet.' 
Pros.  The  hour 's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 

Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 

A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell  ? 

I  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast  not 

Q  A 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Teni] 

Out  three  years  old. 

Mir.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pros.  By  what  ?  by  any  other  house  or  person  ? 

Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 

Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 
Mir.  Tis  far  off, 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 

That  my  remembrance  warrants.     Had  I  not 

Four  or  five  women  once  that  tended  me? 
Pros.  Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Miranda.     But  how  is  it 

That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 

In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 

If  thou  remember'st  aught  ere  thou  earnest  here, 

How  thou  earnest  here  thou  mayst. 
Mir.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pros.  Twelve  year  since,  Miranda,  twelve  year  since, 

Thy  father  was  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and 

A  prince  of  power. 

Mir.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

Pros.  Thy  mother  was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 

She  said  thou  wast  my  daughter ;  and  thy  father 

Was  Duke  of  Milan  ;  and  his  only  heir 

A  princess,  no  worse  issued. 
Mir.  O  the  heavens  ! 

What  foul  play  had  we,  that  we  came  from  thence? 

Or  blessed  was 't  we  did  ? 
Pros.  Both,  both,  my  girl : 

By  foul  play,  as  thou  say'st,  were  we  heaved  thence  ; 

But  blessedly  holp  thither. 
Mir.  O,  my  heart  bleeds 

To  think  o'  the  teen  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 

Which  is  from  my  remembrance !     Please  you,  farther. 
Pros.  My  brother,  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Antonio,: — 

I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 

Be  so  perfidious  ! — he  whom,  next  thyself, 

Of  all  the  world  I  loved,  and  to  him  put 

The  manage  of  my  state ;  as  at  that  time 

Through  all  the  signories  it  was  the  first, 

And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 

In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 

Without  a  parallel ;  those  being  all  my  study, 

The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother, 

And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported 

And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 

Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

10 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Mir.  Sir,  most  heedfuUy. 

Pros.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits, 
How  to  deny  them,  who  to  advance,  and  who 
To  trash  for  over-topping,  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  changed  'em, 
Or  else  new  form'd  'em ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  the  state 
To  what  tune  pleased  his  ear ;  that  now  he  was 
The  ivy  which  had  hid  my  princely  trunk, 
And  suck'd  my  verdure  out  on  't.     Thou  attend'st  not 

Mir.  O,  good  sir,  I  do. 

Pros.  I  pray  thee.  mark  me. 

I,  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends, 'all  dedicated 
To  closeness  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that  which,  but  by  being  so  retired, 
O'er-prized  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awaked  an  evil  nature ;  and  my  trust, 
Like  a  good  parent,  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood  in  its  contrary,  as  great 
As  my  trust  was ;  which  had  indeed  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  bound.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 
But  what  my  power  might  else  exact,  like  one 
Who  having  into  truth,  by  telling  of  it, 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  lie,  he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  the  duke ;  out  o'  the  substitution, 
And  executing  the  outward  face  of  royalty, 
With  all  prerogative : — hence  his  ambition  growing, — 
Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Mir.  Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pros.  To  have  no  screen  between  this  part  he  play'd 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  he  needs  will  be 
Absolute  Milan.     Me,  poor  man,  my  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough  :  of  temporal  royalties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable ;  confederates, 
So  dry  he  was  for  sway,  wi'  the  King  of  Naples 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage, 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  crown,  arid  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  unbow'd, — alas,  poor  Milan  ! — 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mir.  O  the  heavens  ! 

Pros.  Mark  his  condition,  and  the  event ;  then  tell  me 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

Mir.  \  should  sin 

1 1 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 

Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 
Pros.  Now  the  condition. 

This  King  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 

To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 

Which  was,  that  he,  in  lieu  o'  the  premises, 

Of  homage  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute, 

Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 

Out  of  the  dukedom,  and  confer  fair  Milan, 

With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother :  whereon, 

A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 

Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 

The  gates  of  Milan ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 

The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 

Me  and  thy  crying  self. 
Mir.  Alack,  for  pity  ! 

I,  not  remembering  how  I  cried  out  then, 

Will  cry  it  o'er  again  :  it  is  a  hint 

That  wrings  mine  eyes  to 't 
Pros.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I  '11  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 

Which  now 's  upon 's  ;  without'the  which,  this  story 

Were  most  impertinent. 
Mir.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 
Pros.  Well  demanded,  wench  : 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not, 

So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me ;  nor  set 

A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business ;  but 

With  colours  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 

In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark, 

Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepared 

A  rotten  carcass  of  a  butt,  not  rigg'd, 

Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 

Instinctively  have  quit  it :  there  they  hoist  us, 

To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roar'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 

To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 

Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 
Mir.  Alack,  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 
Pros.  O,  a  cherubin 

Thou  wast  that  did  preserve  me.     Thou  didst  smile, 

Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 

When  I  have  deck'd  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt, 

Under  my  burthen  groan'd  ;  which  raised  in  me 

12 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

An  undergoing  stomach,  to  bear  up 

Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mir.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pros.  By  Providence  divine. 

Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 

A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 

Out  of  his  charity,  who  being  then  appointed 

Master  of  this  design,  did  give  us,  with 

Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs  and  necessaries, 

Which  since  have  steaded  much ;  so,  of  his  gentleness, 

Knowing  1  loved  my  books,  he  furnish'd  me 

From  mine  own  library  with  volumes  that 

I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 
Mir.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man  ! 
Pros.  Now  I  arise :       [Resumes  his  mantle. 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 

Here  in  this  island  we  arrived ;  and  here 

Have  I,  thy  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 

Than  other  princess'  can,  that  have  more  time 

For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 
Mir.  Heavens  thank  you  fur't !     And  now,  I  pray  you,  sir, 

For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,  your  reason 

For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 
Pros.  Know  thus  far  forth. 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune, 

Now  rny  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 

Brought  to  this  shore ;  and  by  my  prescience 

I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 

A  most  auspicious  star,  whose  influence 

If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 

Will  ever  after  droop.     Here  cease  more  questions  : 

Thou  art  inclined  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 

And  give  it  way :  I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. 

[Miranda  sleeps. 

Come  away,  servant,  come.     I  am  ready  now. 

Approach,  my  Ariel,  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 
Art.  All  hail,  great  master  !  grave  sir,  hail !  I  come 

To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be 't  to  fly, 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 

On  the  curl'd  clouds,  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 

Ariel  and  all  his  quality. 
Pros.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

'3 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

Ari.  To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  king's  ship  \  now  on  the  beak, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement :  sometime  I  'Id  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places ;  on  the  topmast, 
The  yards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet  and  join.     Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were  not :  the  fire  and  cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seem  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pros.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

An,  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation.     All  but  mariners 
Plunged  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  afire  with  me  :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With-hair  up-staring, — then  like  reeds,  not  hair, — 
Was  the  first  man  that  leap'd ;  cried,  *  Hell  is  empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here.' 

Pros.  Why,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master, 

Pros.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Art.  Not  a  hair  perish'd  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 
But  fresher  than  before  :  and,  as  thou  badest  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispersed  them  'bout  the  isle. 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pros.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say  how  thou  hast  disposed, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothes,  there  she 's  hid  : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd ; 
Who,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labour, 
I  have  left  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again, 

And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote, 

Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 

Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 

And  his  great  person  perish. 
Pros.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd  :  but  there's  more  work. 

What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Art.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pros.  At  least  two  glasses.     The  time  'twixt  six  and  now 

Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 
Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?     Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains, 

Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promised, 

Which  is  not  yet  perform'd  me. 
Pros.  How  now  ?  moody  ? 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand  ? 
Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pros.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more  ! 
Ari.  I  prithee, 

Remember  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ; 

Told  thee  no  lies,  made  thee  no  mistakings,  served 

Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings  :  thou  didst  promise 

To  bate  me  a  full  year. 
Pros.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 
Ari.  .  No. 

Pros.  Thou  dost,  and  think'st  it  much  to  tread  the  ooze 

Of  the  salt  deep, 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north, 

To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  the  earth 

When  it  is  baked  with  frost. 
Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pros.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing  !     Hast  thou  forgot 

The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who  with  age  and  envy 

Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 
Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pros.  Thou  hast.  Where  was  she  born  ?  speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 
Pros.  O,  was  she  so  ?     I  must 

Once  in  a  month  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 

Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damn'd  witch  Sycorax, 

For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 

To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 

Thou  know'st,  was  banish'd  :  for  one  thing  she  did 

They  would  not  take  her  life.     Is  not  this  true  ? 

15 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pros.  This  blue-eyed  hag  was  hither  brought  with  child, 

And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors.     Thou,  my  slave, 

As  thou  report'st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant ; 

And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 

To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands, 

Refusing  her  grand  hests,  she  did  confine  thee, 

By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 

And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 

Into  a  cloven  pine  ;  within  which  rift 

Imprison'd  thou  didst  painfully  remain 

A  dozen  years  ;  within  which  space  she  died, 

And  left  thee  there  ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans 

As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike.     Then  was  this  island— 
Save  for  the  SOD  that  she  did  litter  here, 

A  freckled  whelp  hag-born — not  honour'd  with 

A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes,  Caliban  her  son. 

Pros.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so ;  he,  that  Caliban, 

Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 

What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in ;  thy  groans 

Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 

Of  ever-angry  bears  :  it  was  a  torment 

To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 

Could  not  again  undo  :  it  was  mine  art, 

When  I  arrived  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 

The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pros.  If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak, 

And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 

Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 
Ari.  Pardon,  master: 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 

And  do  my  spiriting  gently. 
Pros.  Do  so  ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 
Ari.  That 's  my  noble  master ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what ;  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Pros.  Go  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the  sea  :  be  subject 

To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine ;  invisible 

To  every  eyeball  else.     Go  take  this  shape, 

And  hither  come  in 't :  go  hence  with  diligence !     [Exit  Ariel. 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 

Awake  ! 

Mir.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 

16 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Heaviness  in  me. 
Pros.  Shake  it  off.     Come  on ; 

We'll  visit  Caliban  my  slave,  who  never 

Yields  us  kind  answer. 
Mir.  T  is  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 
Pros.  But,  as  't  is, 

We  cannot  miss  him  :  he  does  make  our  fire, 

Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 

That  profit  us.     What,  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 

Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.  [  Within\  There  's  wood  enough  within. 

Pros.  Come  forth,  I  say  !  there 's  other  business  for  thee : 

Come,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !     My  quaint  Ariel, 

Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Art.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.  [Exit. 

Pros.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 

Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 
Enter  Caliban. 
Cal.  As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush'd 

With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen 

Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye 

And  blister  you  all  o'er  ! 
Pros.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  cramps, 

Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 

Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 

All  exercise  on  thee ;  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 

As  thick  as  honeycomb,  each  pinch  more  stinging 

Than  bees  that  made  'em. 
Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 

Which  thou  takest  from  me.     When  thou  earnest  first, 

Thou  strokedst  me,  and  madest  much  of  me ;  wouldst  give  me 

Water  with  berries  in  't ;  and  teach  me  how 

To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 

That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  loved  thee, 

And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o*  th'  isle, 

The  fresh  springs,  brine-pits,  barren  place  and  fertile  : 

Cursed  be  I  that  did  so  !     All  the  charms 

Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you  1 

For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 

Which  first  was  mine  own  king :  and  here  you  sty  me 

In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 

17 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

The  rest  o'  th'  island. 
Pros.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness  !     I  have  used  thee, 
Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care ;  and  lodged  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honour  of  my  child. 
Cal.  O  ho,  O  ho  !  would  't  had  been  done ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me  ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 
Pros.  Abhorred  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  wilt  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other :  when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known.     But  thy  vile  race, 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in  't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confined  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserved  more  than  a  prison, 
Cal.  You  taught  me  language  ;  and  my  profit  on  't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse.     The  red  plague  rid  you 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 
Pros.  Hag-seed,  hence  ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou'rt  best, 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I  '11  rack  thee  with  old  cramps, 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches,  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 
Cal.  No,  pray  thee. 

[Aside]  I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power, 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pros.  So,  slave  !  hence  !    [Exit  Caliban. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  invisible,  playing  and  singing  ; 

Ferdinand  following. 

Ariel's  song. 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist;  • 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there  ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
18 


The  Tempest  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Hark,  hark  ! 

Burthen  [dispersedly].  Bow-wow, 
ArL  The  watch  dogs  bark  : 

Burthen  \dispersedly\.  Bow-wow. 
Ari.  Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 

Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  th'  air  or  th'  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  :  and,  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  o'  th'  island.     Sittting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters, 
Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passion 
With  its  sweet  air  :  thence  I  have  folio w'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather.     But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 
Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Burthen:  Ding-dong. 

Art,  Hark  !  now  I  hear  them, — Ding-dong,  bell. 
Fer.  The  ditty  does  remember  my  drown'd  father. 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  : — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 
Pros.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 

And  say  what  thou  seest  yond. 

Mir.  What  is  't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form.     But  'tis  a  spirit. 
Pros.  No,  wench  ;  it  eats  and  sleeps  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have,  such.     This  gallant  which  thou  seest 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and,  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  mightst  call  him 
A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  'em. 
Mir.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 
Pros.  [Aside]  It  goes  on,  I  see, 

As  my  soul  prompts  it.     Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I'll  free  thee 

19 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempesl 

Within  two  days  for  this. 
Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  !     Vouchsafe  my  prayer 

May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 

And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give 

How  I  may  bear  me  here :  my  prime  request, 

Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  1 

If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 
Mir.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 
Fer.  My  language  !  heavens  ! 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 

Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 
Pros.  How  ?  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  King  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 
Fer.  A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 

To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples.     He  does  hear  me  ; 

And  that  he  does  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples, 

Who  with  mine  eyes,  never  since  at  ebb,  beheld 

The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 
Mir.  Alack,  for  mercy ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords ;  the  Duke  of  Milan 

And  his  brave  son  being  twain. 
Pros.  [Aside]  The  Duke  of  Milan 

And  his  more  braver  daughter  could  control  thee, 

If  now  'twere  fit  to  do 't.     At  the  first  sight 

They  have  changed  eyes.     Delicate  Ariel, 

I'll  set  thee  free  for  this.     [To  Fer.]     A  word,  good  sir ; 

I  fear  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong  :  a  word. 
Mir.  Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?     This 

Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw  ;  the  first 

That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for :  pity  move  my  father 

To  be  inclined  my  way  ! 
Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 

The  queen  of  Naples. 
Pros.  Soft,  sir !  one  word  more. 

[Aside]  They  are  bothin  cither's  powers:  but  this  swiftbusiness 

I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning 

Make  the  prize  light.  [To  Fer.}  One  word  more;  I  charge  thee 

That  thou  attend  me  :  thou  dost  here  usurp 

The  name  thou  owest  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 

Upon  this  island  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 

From  me,  the  lord  on 't. 
Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

20 


The  Tempebt  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Mir.  There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple : 

If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 

Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with  \. 
Pros.  Follow  me. 

Speak  not  you  for  him  ;  he 's  a  traitor.     Come  ; 

I  '11  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together : 

Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink  ;  thy  food  shall  be 

The  fresh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 

Wherein  the  acorn  cradled.     Follow. 
Fer.  No ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment  till 

Mine  enemy  has  more  £ower. 

\Draws,  and  is  charmed  from  moving. 
Mir.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 

He 's  gentle,  and  not  fearful. 
Pros.  What  1  I  say, 

My  foot  my  tutor  ?     Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor  ; 

Who  makest  a  show,  but  darest  not  strike,  thy  conscience 

Is  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward  ; 

For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick 

And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 
Mir.  Beseech  you,  father. 

Pros.  Hence  !  hang  not  on  my  garments. 
Mir.  Sir,  have  pity  ; 

I'll  be  his  surety. 
Pros.  Silence  !  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 

An  advocate  for  an  impostor  !  hush  ! 

Thou  think'st  there  is  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 

Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban  :  foolish  wench  ! 

To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a 'Caliban, 

And  they  to  him  are  angels. 
Mir.  My  affections 

Are,  then,  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 

To  see  a  goodlier  man. 
Pros.  Come  on  ;  obey  : 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again, 

And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 
Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 

My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 

The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  nor  this  man's  threats, 

To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 

Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 

21 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Behold  this  maid  :  all  corners  else  o'  th'  earth 

Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 

Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 
Pros.  [Aside]  It  works.     [To  FerJ]  Come  on. 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel !     [To  Per.']  Follow  me. 

[To  Art.]  Hark  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me 
Mir.  Be  of  comfort ; 

My  father  's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 

Than  he  appears  by  speech  :  this  is  unwonted 

Which  now  came  from  him. 
Pros.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds  :  but  then  exactly  do 

All  points  of  my  command. 
Art.  To  the  syllable. 

Pros.  Come,  follow.     Speak  not  for  him.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   II— SCENE  I 

Another  part  of  the  island. 

Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo, 

Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 

Gon.  Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry  ;  you  have  cause, 
So  have  we  all,  of  joy  ;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss.     Our  hint  of  woe 
Is  common ;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,  and  the  merchant, 
Have  just  our  theme  of  woe ;  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us  :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.  He  receives  comfort  like, cold  porridge. 

Ant.  The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so.  [will  strike. 

Seb.  Look,  he  's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his  wit ;  by  and  by  it 

Gon.  Sir, — 

Seb.  One  :  tell.  [entertainer — 

Gon.  When  every  grief  is  entertain'd  that 's  offer'd,  Comes  to  the 

Seb.  A  dollar.  [you  purposed. 

Gon.  Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed  :  you  have  spoken  truer  than 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you  should. 

Gon.  Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue  ! 

Alon.  I  prithee,  spare. 

Gon.  Well,  I  have  done  :  but  yet, — 

Seb.  He  will  be  talking. 

22 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Ant.  Which,  of  he  or  Adrian,  for  a  good  wager,  first  begins 

Seb.  The  old  cock.  [to  crow  ? 

Ant.  The  cockerel. 

Seb.  Done.     The  wager  ? 

Ant.  A  laughter. 

Seb.  A  match ! 

Adr.  Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! — So,  you  're  paid. 

Adr.  Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Seb.  Yet,— 

Adr.  Yet,— 

Ant.  He  could  not  miss  t. 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender  and  delicate  temper  - 

Ant.  Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench.  [ance. 

Seb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle  ;  as  he  most  learnedly  delivered. 

Adr.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Seb.  As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.  Or  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen.  , 

Gon.  Here  is  everything  advantageous  to,  life. 

Ant.  True  ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.  Of  that  there  's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.  How  lush  and  lusty  the  grass  looks  !  how  green  ! 

Ant.  The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seb.  With  an  eye  of  green  in  't. 

Ant.  He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.  No  ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is, — which  is  indeed  almost  beyond 

Seb.  As  many  vouched  rarities  are.  [credit, — 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were,  drenched  in  the 

sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  freshness  and  glosses,  being 

rather  new-dyed  than  stained  with  salt  water. 
Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak,  would  it  not  say 
Seb.  Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report.  [he  lies  ? 

Gon.  Methinks  our  garments  are  now  as  freslv  as  when  we  put 

them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  marriage  of  the  king's  fair 

daughter  Claribel  to  the  King  of  Tunis. 
Seb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper  well  in  our  return. 
Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with  such  a  paragon  to 
Gon.  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time.  [their  queen. 

Ant.  Widow!    a  pox   o'  that!     How  came    that    widow  in? 

widow  Dido  ! 
Seb.  What  if  he  had  said  '  widower  yEneas  '  too  ?    Good  Lord, 

how  you  take  it  I 
Adr.  '  Widow  Dido  '  said  you  ?  you  make  me  <study  of  that : 

she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

23 


Act  It,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Gon.  This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 

Adr.  Carthage? 

Gon.  I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.  His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 

Seb.  He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy  next  ? 

Seb.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in  his  pocket,  and 

give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And,  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea,  bring  forth  more 
Gon.  Ay.  [islands. 

Ant.  Why,  in  good  time. 
Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking  that  our  garments  seem  now  as  fresh 

as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at  the  marriage  of  your  daughter, 
Ant.  And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there,     [who  is  now  queen. 
Seb.  Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 
Ant.  O,  widow  Dido  !  ay,  widow  Dido. 
Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the  first  day 

I  wore  it  ?   I  mean,  in  a  sort. 
Ant.  That  sort  was  well  fished  for. 
Gon.  When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  marriage  ? 
Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears  against 

The  stomach  of  my  sense.     Would  I  had  never 

Married  my  daughter  there  !  for,  coming  thence, 

My  son  is  lost,  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too, 

Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed 

I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.    O  thou  mine  heir 

Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 

Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ? 
Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live  : 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 

And  ride  upon  their  backs ;  he  trod  the  water, 

Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 

The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him ;  his  bold  head 

'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd  ' 

Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 

To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bow'd, 

As  stooping  to  relieve  him  :  I  not  doubt 

He  came  alive  to  land : 
Alon.  No,  no,  he 's  gone. 

Seb.  Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great  loss, 

That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daughter. 

But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 

Where  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye, 

Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on 't. 
Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

24 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  importuned  otherwise, 

By  all  of  us  ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 

Weigh'd  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 

Which  end  o'  the  beam  should  bow.    We  have  lost  your  son, 

I  fear,  for  ever  :  Milan  and  Naples  have 

Mo  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making 

Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them  : 

The  fault 's  your  own. 

Alon.  So  is  the  dear'st  o'  the  loss. 

Gon*  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 

And  time  to  speak  it  in  :  you  rub  the  sore, 

When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 
Seb.  Very  well 

Ant.  And  most  chirurgeonly. 
Gon,  It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 

When  you  are  cloudy. 
Seb.  Foul  weather  ? 

Ant.  Very  foul, 

Gon.  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 
Ant.  He  'Id  sow 't  with  nettle-seed. 
Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.  And  were  the  king  on 't,  what  would  I  do  ? 
Seb.  'Scape  being  drunk  for  want  of  wine. 
Gon.  V  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 

Execute  all  things  j  for  no  kind  of  traffic 

Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 

Letters  should  not  be  known ;  riches,  poverty, 

\nd  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession, 

Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none ; 

No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil ; 

No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 

And  women  too,  but  innocent  and  pure ; 

No  sovereignty ; — 

Seb.  Yet  he  would  be  king  on 't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets  the  beginning. 
Gon.  All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 

Without  sweat  or  endeavour  :  treason,  felony, 

Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine, 

Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 

Of  it  own  kind,  all  foison,  all  abundance, 

To  feed  my  innocent  people. 
Seb.  No  marrying  'mong  his  subjects  ? 
Ant.  None,  man  ;  all  idle ;  whores  and  knaves. 
Gon.  I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 

25 


Act  IT,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

To  excel  the  golden  age. 
Seb.  'Save  his  majesty  1 

Ant.  Long  live  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  And, — do  you  mark  me,  sir? 

A/on.  Prithee,  no  more  :  thou  dost  talk  nothing  to  me. 
Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness ;  and  did  it  to  minister 

occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who  are  of  such  sensible  and 

nimble  lungs  that  they  always  use  to  laugh  at  nothing. 
Ant.  'Twas  you  we  laughed  at. 
Gon.  Who  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling  am  nothing  to  you : 

so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh  at  nothing  still. 
Ant.  What  a  blow  was  there  given  ! 
Seb.  An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 
Gon.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  mettle ;  you  would  lift  the 

moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she  would  continue  in  it  five 

weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  Ariel  (invisible)  playing  solemn  music. 
Seb.  We  would  so,  and  then  go  a  bat-fowling. 
Ant.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 
Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you ;   I  will  not  adventure  my  discretion 

so  weakly.     Will  you  laugh  me  asleep,  for  I  am  very  heavy  ? 
Ant.  Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

\A II 'sleep  except  Alon.,  Seb.,  and  Ant. 
Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep  !    I  wish  mine  eyes 

Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts  :    I  find 

They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 
Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 

It  seldom  visits  sorrow;  when  it  doth, 

It  is  a  comforter. 
Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person  while  you  take  your  rest, 

And  watch  your  safety. 
Alon.  Thank  you. — Wondrous  heavy. 

\A1onso  sJeeps.     Exit  Ariel. 
Seb.  What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them  ! 
Ant.  It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 
Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink?    I  .find  not 

Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 
Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 

They  dropp'd,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What  might, 

Worthy  Sebastian  ? — O,  what  might  ? — No  more  : — 

And  yet  methinks  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 

26 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

What  thou  shouldst  be:  the  occasion  speaks  thee;  and 

My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 

Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

Ant.  Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 
Seb.  I  do ;  and  surely 

It  is  a  sleepy  language,  and  thou  speak'st 

Out  of  thy  sleep.     What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 

This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 

With  eyes  wide  open ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 

And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 
Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  let'st  thy  fortune  sleep — die,  rather ;  wink'st 

Whiles  thou  art  waking. 
Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly  ; 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 
Ant.  I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom  :  you 

Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;  which  to  do 

Trebles  thee  o'er. 

Seb.  Well,  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.  I'll  teach  you  how  to  flow. 
Self.  Do  so  :  to  ebb 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 
Ant.  O, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish 

Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it, 

You  more  invest  it !     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 

Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run 

By  their  own  fear  or  sloth. 
Seb.  Prithee,  say  on  : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye  and  cheek  proclaim 

A  matter  from  thee  ;  and  a  birth,  indeed, 

Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 
Ant.  Thus,  sir : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this, 

Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory 

When  he  is  earth'd,  hath  here  almost  persuaded, — 

For  he 's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 

Professes  to  persuade, — the  king  his  son's  alive, 

'Tis  as  impossible  that  he's  undrown'd 

As  he  that  sleeps  here  swims. 
Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he  's  undrown'd. 
Ant,  O,  out  of  that  '  no  hope ' 

What  great  hope  have  you  !  no  hope  that  way  is 

27 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Another  way  so  high  a  hope  that  even 

Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 

But  doubt  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant  with  me 

That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me, 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.  She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis  ;  she  that  dwells 

Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  sun  were  post, — 
The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow, — till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable ;  she  that  from  whom 
We  all  were  sea-swallow'd,  though  some  cast  again, 
And  by  that  destiny,  to  perform  an  act 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue  ;  what  to  come, 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this  !  how  say  you 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter  's  queen  of  Tunis ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples  ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  '  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples  ?    Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake.'     Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seized  them  ;  why,  they  were  no  worse 
Than  now  they  are.     There  be  that;  can  rule  Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords  that  can  prate 
As  amply  and  unnecessarily 
As  this  Gonzalo  ; ,  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough  of  as  deep  chat.     O,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.  Methinks  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True: 

And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me ; 
Much  feater  than  before  :  my  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows :  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seb.  But,  for  your  conscience. 

Ant.  Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  'twere  a  kibe, 
'T would  put  me  to  my  slipper :  but  I  fee)  not 

28 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

This  deity  in  my  bosom :  twenty  consciences, 
That  stand  'tvvixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  ere  they  molest !     Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he's  like,  that's  dead ; 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it, 
Can  lay  to  bed  for  ever  •  whiles  you,  doing  thus, 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  Sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest, 
They  '11  take  suggestion  as  a  cat  laps  milk ; 
They  ;11  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I  '11  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword  :  one  stroke 
Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  payest ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 
Ant.  Draw  together ; 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 
Seb.  O,  but  one  word.     \Theytalkapart. 

Re-enter  Ariel  invisible. 

Ari.  My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
That  you,  his  friend,  are  in  ;  and  sends  me  forth, — 
For  else  his  project  dies, — to  keep  them  living. 

[Sings  in  Gonzalo' s  ear. 
While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take. 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware  : 

Awake,  awake  ! 

Ant.  Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 
Gon.  Now,  good  angels 

Preserve  the  king  !  [They  wake. 

Alon.  Why,  how  now?    ho,  awake! — Why  are   you  drawn? 

Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 
Gon.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.  Whiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose, 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions  :  did 't  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 
Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.  0,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear, 

29 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

To  make  an  earthquake !  sure,  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon,  Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  humming, 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me : 
I  shaked  you,  sir,  and  cried  :  as  mine  eyes  open'd, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  : — there  was  a  noise, 
That's  verily.     'Tis  best  we  stand  upon  our  guard, 
Or  that  we  quit  this  place  :  let 's  draw  our  weapons. 

Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground  ;  and  let 's  make  further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts  ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  'i  th'  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

Art.  Prospero  my  lord  shall  know  what  I  have  done : 

So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

Another  part  of  the  island. 
Enter  Caliban  with  a  burden  of  wood.     A  noise,  of 

thunder  heard. 

CaL  All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !  his  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they  '11  nor  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin-shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  'em  :  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me ; 
Sometime  like  apes,  that  mow  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after  bite  me ;  then  like  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  at  my  footfall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who  with  cloven  tongues 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness. 

Enter  Trinculo. 
Lo,  now,  lo  ! 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his,  and  to  torment  me 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly.     I  '11  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here 's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  off  any  weather  at 
all,  and  another  storm  brewing ;  I  hear  it  sing  i'  the  wind : 
yorid  same  black  cloud,  yond  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul 
bombard  that  would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should  thunder 
as  it  did  before,  I  know  not  where  to  hide  my  head  :  yond 

3° 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls.  What  have 
we  here?  a  man  or  a  fish?  dead  or  alive?  A  fish:  he 
smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  smell ;  a  kind 
of  not  of  the  newest  Poor-John.  A  strange  fish !  Were  I 
in  England  now,  as  once  I  was,  and  had  but  this  fish  painted, 
not  a  holiday  fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver : 
there  would  this  monster  make  a  man ;  any  strange  beast 
there  makes  a  man  :  when  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to  relieve 
a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian. 
Legged  like  a  man  !  and  his  fins  like  arms  !  Warm  o'  my 
troth  !  I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion  ;  hold  it  no  longer  : 
this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately  suffered  by  a 
thunderbolt.  \Thunder^\  Alas,  the  storm  is  come  again  !  my 
best  way  is  to  creep  under  Kis  gaberdine ;  there  is  no  other 
shelter  hereabout :  misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bed 
fellows.  I  will  here  shroud  till  the  dregs  of  the  storm  be 
past. 

Enter  Stepha.no,  singing:  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 
I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea, 
Here  shall  I  die  a-shore, — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral :  well, 
here's  my  comfort.  \_Drinks. 

[Sings. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 

The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Loved  Moll,  Meg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 
But  none  of  us  cared  for  Kate ; 
For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 
Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go  hang ! 
She  loved  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch  ; 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where'er  she  did  itch. 

Then,  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang  ! 
This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too  :  but  here's  my  comfort.     {Drinks. 
CaL  Do  not  torment  me  : — O  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter?  Have  we  devils  here?  Do  you  put 
tricks  upon 's  with  salvages  arid  men  of  Ind,  ha  ?  I  have 
not  scaped  drowning,  to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four  legs ; 
for  it  hath  been  said,  As  proper  a  man  as  ever  went  on  four 
legs  cannot  make  him  give  ground;  and  it  shall  be  said  so 
again,  while  Stephano  breathes  at  nostrils. 
CaL  The  spirit  torments  me : — O ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle  with  four  legs,  who  hath 
got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague.  Where  the  devil  should  he  learn 
our  language  ?  I  will  give  him  some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for 
that.  If  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and  get  to 

3' 


Act  IT,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempes 


: 


Naples  with  him,  he  's  a  present  for  any  emperor  that  ev 
trod  on  neat's-leather. 

CaL  Do  not  torment  me,  prithee;  I'll  bring  my  wood  home 
faster. 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now,  and  does  not  talk  after  the  wisest. 
He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle :  if  he  have  never  drunk  wine 
afore,  it  will  go  near  to  remove  his  fit.  If  I  can  recover 
him,  and  keep  him  tame,  I  will  not  take  too  much  for  him ; 
he  shall  pay  for  him  that  hath  him,  and  that  soundly. 

CaL  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou  wilt  anon,  I  know 
it  by  thy  trembling  :  now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways  ;  open  your  mouth ;  here  is  that 
which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat :  open  your  mouth ; 
this  will  shake  your  shaking,  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly  : 
you  cannot  tell  who  's  your  friend :  open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice:  it  should  be — but  he  is 
drowned ;  and  these  are  devils  : — O  defend  me  ! 

Ste.  Four  legs  and  two  voices, — a  most  delicate  monster  ! 
His  forward  voice,  now,  is  to  speak  well  of  his  friend ;  his 
backward  voice  is  to, utter  foul  speeches  and  to  detract.  If 
all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  recover  him,  I  will  help  his 
ague.  Come: — Amen!  I  will  pour  some  in  thy  other 

Trin.  Stephano !  [mouth. 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy,  mercy  !  This  is 
a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I  will  leave  him ;  I  have  no  long 
spoon. 

Trin.  Stephano !  If  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch  me,  and 
speak  to  me ;  for  I  am  Trinculo, — be  not  afeard, — thy  good 
friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth :  I  '11  pull  thee  by  the 
lesser  legs :  if  any  be  Trinculo's  legs,  these  are  they.  Thou 
art  very  Trinculo  indeed  !  How  earnest  thou  to  be  the  siege 
of  this  moon-calf?  can  he  vent  Trinculos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunder-stroke.  But  art 
thou  not  drowned,  Stephano  ?  I  hope,  now,  thou  art  not 
drowned.  Is  the  storm  overblown?  I  hid  me  under  the 
dead  moon-calf  s  gaberdine  for  fear  of  the  storm.  And  art 
thou  living,  Stephano  ?  O  Stephano,  two  Neapolitans  scaped  ! 

Ste.  Prithee,  do  not  turn  me  about ;  my  stomach  is  not  constant. 

CaL  [Aside]  These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That 's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  didst  thou  scape  ?    How  earnest  thou  hither?  swear, 
by  this  bottle,  how  thou  earnest  hither.     I  escaped  upon 
a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors  heaved  o'erboard,  by  this 
32 


The  Tempest  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

bottle !  which  I  made  of  the  bark  of  a  tree  with  mine  own 

hands,  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 
Cal.  I  '11  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true  subject ;  for 

the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.  Here  ;  swear,  then,  how  thou  escapedst.  [I'll  be  sworn. 
Trin.  Swum  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck  :  I  can  swim  like  a  duck, 
Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book.  Though  thou  canst  swim  like  a  duck, 

thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 
Trin.  O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 
Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man :  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock  by  the  sea 
side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.     How  now,   moon-calf!  how 
Cal.  Hast  thou  not  dropp'd  from  heaven  ?      [does  thine  ague  ? 
Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee :  I  was  the  man  i'  the 

moon  when  time  was. 
Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee :  my  mistress 

show'd  me  thee,  and  thy  dog,  and  thy  bush. 
Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book :  I  will  furnish  it  anon 

with  new  contents  :  swear. 
Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow  monster !     I 

afeard  of  him  !     A  very  weak  monster !     The  man  i'  the 

moon !     A   most   poor   credulous    monster !     Well   drawn, 

monster,  in  good  sooth ! 
Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  th'  island ;  and  I  will 

kiss  thy  foot :  I  prithee,  be  my  god. 
Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken  monster ! 

when 's  god 's  asleep,  he  '11  rob  his  bottle. 
Cal.  I  '11  kiss  thy  foot ;  I  '11  swear  myself  thy  subject. 
Ste.  Come  on,  then  ;  down,  and  swear. 
Trin.  I   shall  laugh   myself  to  death   at   this   puppy-headed 

monster.     A  most  scurvy  monster !     I   could   find  in  my 
Ste.  Come,  kiss.  [heart  to  beat  him,— 

Trin.   But  that  the  poor  monster 's  in  drink.     An  abominable 

monster! 
Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  the  best  springs ;  I  '11  pluck  thee  berries ; 

I  '11  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 

A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve ! 

I  '11  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 

Thou  wondrous  man.  [drunkard  ! 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster,  to  make  a  wonder  of  a  poor 
CaL  I  prithee,  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs  grow ; 

And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts ; 

Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 

To  snare  the  nimble  marmoset ;  I  '11  bring  thee 

To  clustering  filberts,  and  sometimes  I  '11  get  thee 
Young  scamels  from  the  rock.     Wilt  thou  go  with  me? 

33  B 


Act  ill,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Ste.  I  prithee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any  more  talking. 
Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  else  being  drowned, 
we  will  inherit  here :  here ;  bear  my  bottle  :  fellow  Trincuk 
Cal.  \Sings  drunkenly]  [we  '11  fill  him  by  and  by  again. 

Farewell,  master ;  farewell,  farewell  J 
Trin.  A  howling  monster  ;  a  drunken  monster  1 
Cal.          No  more  dams  I  '11  make  for  fish ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring ; 
Nor  scrape  trencher,  nor  wash  dish : 

'Ban,  'Ban,  Cacaliban 
Has  a  new  master  :— get  a  new  man. 
Freedom,   hey-day !    hey-day,    freedom !    freedom,   hey-day, 
freedom  ! 
Ste.  O  brave  monster  !    Lead  the  way.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   III— SCENE  I 

Before  Prosperous  cell. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  bearing  a  log. 

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

Enter  Miranda  ;  and  Prospero  at  a  distance,  unseen. 

Mir.  Alas,  now,  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard  :  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  enjoin'd  to  pile  1 
Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you  :  when  this  burns, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray,  now,  rest  yourself; 
He 's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

34 


The  Tempest  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Mir.  If  you  '11  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while  :  pray,  give  me  that ; 

I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 
Fer.  No,  precious  creature  ; 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 

Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo, 

While  I  sit  lazy  by. 
Mir.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you  :  and  I  should  do  it 

With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 

And  yours  it  is  against. 
Pros.  Poor  worm,  thou  art  infected ; 

This  visitation  shows  it. 
Mir.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.  No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  me 

When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, — 

Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers, — 

What  is  your  name  ? 
Mir.  Miranda. — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest  to  say  so  ! 
Fer.  Admired  Miranda ! 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration  !  worth 

What 's  dearest  to  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 

I  have  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 

The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 

Brought  my  too  diligent  ear:  for  several  virtues 

Have  I  liked  several  women  ;  never  any 

With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 

Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 

And  put  it  to  the  foil :  but  you,  O  you, 

So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 

Of  every  creature's  best ! 
Mir.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex  ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 

Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 

More  that  I  may  call  men  than  you,  good  friend, 

And  my  dear  father  :  how  features  are  abroad, 

I  am  skilless  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 

The  jewel  in  my  dower,  I  would  not  wish 

Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 

Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 

Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 

Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 

I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

35 


Act  ill,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

A  prince,  Miranda  ;  I  do  think,  a  king  ; 

I  would,  not  so ! — and  would  no  more  endure 

This  wooden  slavery  than  to  suffer 

The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.     Hear  my  soul  speak : 

The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 

My  heart  fly  to  your  service ;  there  resides, 

To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake 

Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 
Mir.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.  O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 

And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 

If  I  speak  true  !     if  hollowly,  invert 

What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief !     I, 

Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 

Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 
Mir.  I  am  a  fool 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 
Pros.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !     Heavens  rain  grace 

On  that  which  breeds  between  'em  ! 
Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mir.  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 

What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 

What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling ; 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning  ! 

And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 

I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 

If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow 

You  may  deny  me ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant, 

Whether  you  will  or  no. 
Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest ; 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 
Mir.  My  husband,  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 

As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom  :  here's  my  hand. 
Mir.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in 't :  and  now.  fare  well 

Till  half  an  hour  hence. 
Fer.  A  thousand  thousand  ! 

\Exeunt  Fer.  and  Mir.  severally. 
Pros.  So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be, 

Who  are  surprised  withal ;  but  my  rejoicing 

At  nothing  can  be  more.     I  '11  to  my  book  ; 

For  yet,  ere  supper-time,  must  I  perform 

Much  business  appertaining.  [JSxit. 

36 


The  Tempest  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

SCENE  II 

Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Caliban,  Stephano,  and  Trinculo. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me  ; — when  the  butt  is  out,  we  will  drink  water ; 

not   a   drop   before :    therefore   bear   up,    and   board   'em. 

Servant-monster,  drink  to  me. 
Trin.  Servant-monster !    the  folly  of  this  island !     They  say 

there 's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are  three  of  them ;  if  th' 

other  two  be  brained  like  us,  the  state  totters. 
Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid    thee:    thy  eyes  are 

almost  set  in  thy  head. 
Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were  a  brave  monster 

indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 
Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his  tongue  in  sack  :  for 

my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me ;  I  swam,  ere  I  could 

recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues  off  and  on.     By 

this   light,   thou  shalt   be  my   lieutenant,   monster,  or   my 

standard. 

Trin.  Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he 's  no  standard. 
Ste.  We  '11  not  run,  Monsieur  Monster. 
Trin.  Nor  go  neither ;  but  you  '11  lie,  like  dogs,  and  yet  say 

nothing  neither. 
Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou  beest  a  good 

moon-calf. 
Cal.  How  does  thy  honour  ?     Let  me  lick  thy  shoe.     I  '11  not 

serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 
Trin.  Thou  liest,   most  ignorant  monster  :    I  am  in  case  to 

justle  a  constable.     Why,   thou  deboshed    fish,   thou,   was 

there  ever  man  a  coward  that  hath  drunk  so  much  sack  as  I 

to-day?     Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous  lie,  being  but  half  a 

fish  and  half  a  monster  ? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him,  my  lord  ? 
Trin.  '  Lord,'  quoth  he !     That  a  monster  should  be  such  a 

natural ! 

Cal.  Lo,  lo,  again !  bite  him  to  death,  I  prithee. 
Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head  :  if  you  prove 

a  mutineer, — the  next  tree  !   The  poor  monster's  my  subject, 

and  he  shall  not  suffer  indignity. 
Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.     Wilt  thou  be  pleased  to  hearken 

once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  to  thee  ? 
Ste.  Marry,  will  I :  kneel  and  repeat  it ;  I  will  stand,  and  so 

shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 
Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant,  a  sorcerer, 

that  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated  me  of  the  island. 

37 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Tempest 

Ari.  Thou  liest. 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou  : 

I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee ! 

I  do  not  lie. 
Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in 's  tale,  by  this 

hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  your  teeth. 
Trin.  Why,  I  said  nothing. 
Ste.  Mum,  then,  and  no  more.     Proceed. 
Cal.  I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle  ; 

From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 

Revenge  it  on  him, — for  I  know  thou  darest, 

But  this  thing  dare  not, — 
Ste.  That 's  most  certain. 

Cal  Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I  '11  serve  thee. 
Ste.  How  now  shall  this  be  compassed?     Canst  thou    bring 

me  to  the  party  ? 
Cal.  Yea,  yea,  my  lord  :  I  '11  yield  him  thee  asleep, 

Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 
Art.  Thou  liest ;  thou  canst  not. 
Cal.  What  a  pied  ninny 's  this  !     Thou  scurvy  patch ! 

I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 

And  take  his  bottle  from  him :  when  that 's  gone, 

He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine ;  for  I  '11  not  show  him 

Where  the  quick  freshes  are. 
Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  interrupt  the  monster 

one  word  further,  and,  by  this  hand,  I  '11  turn  my  mercy  out 

o'  doors,  and  make  a  stock-fish  of  thee. 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  I  ?    .1  did  nothing.     I  '11  go  farther  off. 
Ste.  Didst  thou  not  say  he  lied  ? 
Art.  Thou  liest. 
Ste.  Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.     [Beats  him.] 

As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 
Trin.  I  did  not  give  the  lie.     Out  o'  your  wits, 

and  hearing  too  ?     A  pox  o'  your  bottle  !  this  can  sack  and 

drinking  do.    A  murrain  on  your  monster,  and  the  devil  take 

your  fingers  ! 
Cal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  with  your  tale. — Prithee,  stand  farther  off. 
Cal.  Beat  him  enough  :  after  a  little  time, 

I  '11  beat  him  too. 

Ste.  Stand  farther. — Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  as  I  told  thee,  'tis  a  custom  with  him 

I'  th'  afternoon  to  sleep :  there  thou  mayst  brain  him, 

Having  first  seized  his  books ;  or  with  a  log 

Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 

38 


The  Tempest  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Or  cut  his  wezand  with  thy  knife.     Remember 

First  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 

He 's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 

One  spirit  to  command  :  they  all  do  hate  him 

As  rootedly  as  I.     Burn  but  his  books. 

He  has  brave  utensils, — for  so  he  calls  them,— 

Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he  ;11  deck  withal. 

And  that  most  deeply  to  consider  is 

The  beauty  of  his  daughter  ;  he  himself 

Calls  her  a  nonpareil :  I  never  saw  a  woman, 

But  only  Sycorax  my  dam  and  she  ; 

But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax 

As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.  Ay,  lord ;  she  will  become  thy  bed,  I  warrant, 

And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 
Ste.  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man :  his  daughter  and  I  will  be 

king  and  queen, — save  oar  graces  !— and  Trinculo  and  thy 
self  shall  be  viceroys.     Dost  thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 
Trin.  Excellent. 
Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand :  I  am  sorry  I  beat  thee ;  but,  while  thou 

livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy  head. 
Cal.  Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  : 

Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honour. 

Ari.  This  will  I  tell  my  master. 
Cal.  Thou  makest  me  merry ;  I  am  full  of  pleasure : 

Let  us  be  jocund  :  will  you  troll  the  catch 

You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 
Ste.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason,  any  reason. — 

Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  [Sings. 

Flout  'em  and  scout  'em 
And  scout  'em  and  flout  'em  ; 

Thought  is  free. 
Cal.  That 's  not  the  tune. 

\^Ariel  plays  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 
Ste.  What  is  this  same  ? 
Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by  the  picture  of 

Nobody. 
Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy  likeness  :  if  thou 

beest  a  devil,  take 't  as  thou  list. 
Trin.  O,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

Ste.  He  thac  dies  pays  all  debts  :  I  defy  thee.   Mercy  upon  us  I 
Cal.  Art  thcu  afeard  ? 
Ste.  No,  monster,  not  I. 

39 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  The  Tern] 

Cal.  Be  not  afeard ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 

Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
Will  hum  about  mine  ears  ;  and  sometime  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 
Will  make  me  sleep  again  :  and  then,  in  dreaming, 
The  clouds  methought  would  open,  and  show  riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me  ;  that,  when  I  waked, 
I  cried  to  dream  again. 

Ste.  This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me,  where 
I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

Cal.  When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.  That  shall  be  by  and  by  :  I  remember  the  story. 

Trin.  The  sound  is  going  away  ;  let's  follow  it,  and  after  do  our 
work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster ;  we  '11  follow.  I  would  I  could  see  this  taborer ; 
he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.  Wilt  come  ?    I  '11  follow,  Stephano.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

Another  part  of  the  island. 
Enter  Alonso,  Sebastian,  Antonio,  Gonzalo, 

Adrian,  Francisco,  and  others. 
Gon.  By  'r  lakin,  I  can  go  no  further,  sir ; 

My  old  bones  ache  :  here 's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 

Through  forth-rights  and  meanders  !  By  your  patience, 

I  needs  must  rest  me. 
'  Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attach 'd  with  weariness, 

To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down,  and  rest. 

Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 

No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :  he  is  drown'd 

Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 

Our  frustrate  search  on  land.     Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.  [Aside  to  Seb.]  I  am  right  glad  that  he 's  so  out  of  hope. 

Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 

That  you  resolved  to  effect. 
Seb.  [Aside  to  Ant.]    The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 
Ant.  [Aside  to  Seb.]  Let  it  be  to-night ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  with  travel,  they 

Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance 

As  when  they  are  fresh. 
Seb.          [Aside  to  Ant.]  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

[Solemn  and  strange  music. 
40 


The  Tempest  [Act  III,  Sc.  Hi 

Aion.  What  harmony  is  this? — My  good  friends,  hark  ! 
Gon.  Marvellous  sweet  music  ! 

Enter  Prospero  above,  invisible.  Enter  several  strange 
Shapes^  bringing  in  a  banquet:  they  dance  about  it 
ivith  gentle  actions  of  salutation  ;  and,  inviting  the 
King,  &c.  to  eat,  they  depart 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens  ! — What  were  these  ? 
Seb.  A  living  drollery.     Now  I  will  believe 

That  there  are  unicorns ;  that  in  Arabia 

There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne  >•  one  phoenix 

At  this  hour  reigning  there. 
Ant.  I  '11  believe  both  ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 

And  I  '11  be  sworn  'tis  true :  travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 

Though  fools  at  home  condemn  'em. 
Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 

If  I  should  say,  I  saw  such  islanders, — 

For,  certes,  these  are  people  of  the  island, — 

Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note, 

Their  manners  are  more  gentle-kind  than  of 

Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 

Many,  nay,  almost  any. 
Pros.  \Aside\  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 

Are  worse  than  devils. 
Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  expressing — 

Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue — a  kind 

Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 
Pros.  [Aside\  Praise  in  departing. 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 
Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have  stomachs. — • 

Will 't  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 
Alon.  Not  I. 

Gon.  Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear.     When  we  were  boys, 

Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers 

Dew-lapp'd  like  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  'em 

Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men 

Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we  find 

Each  putter-out  of  five  for  one  will  bring  us 

Good  warrant  of. 
Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last  :  no  matter,  since  I  feel 

41 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  The  Tempest 

The  best  is  past.     Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Ariel,  like  a  harpy  ;  daps  his 
wings  upon  the  table;  and,  with  a  quaint  device^  the 
banquet  vanishes. 

Art.  You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  Destiny, — 
That  hath  jto  instrument  this  lower  world 
And  what  is  in 't, — the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  belch  up  you  ;  and  on  this  island, 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit, — you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad ; 
And  even  with  such-like  valour  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves. 

\Alon.,  -Sea.  etc.  draw  their  swords. 
You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  Fate  :  the  elements, 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  temper'd,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds, ,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  that 's  in  my  plume  :  my  fellow-ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable.     If  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted.     But  remember, — 
For  that 's  my  business  to  you, — that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero  ; 
Exposed  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 
Him  and  his  innocent  child  :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incensed  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures, 
Against  your  peace.     Thee  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronounce  by  me : 
Lingering  perdition — worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once — shall  step  by  step  attend 
You  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from, — • 
Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  fails 
Upon  your  heads, — is  nothing  but  heart-sorrow 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

He  vanishes  in  thunder  ;  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the  SJiapes 
again,  and  dance,  with  mocks  and  mows,  and  carrying 
out  the  table. 

Pros.  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast  thou 
Perform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  bated 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say  :  so,  with  good  life 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 

42 


The  Tempest  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Their  several  kinds  have  done.     My  high  charms  work, 

And  these  mine  enemies  are  all  knit  up 

In  their  distractions  :  they  now  are  in  my  power  ; 

And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  while  I  visit 

Young  Ferdinand, — whom  they  suppose  is  drown'd, — 

And  his  and  mine  loved  darling.  [Exit  above. 

Gon.  I'  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  why  stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous,  monstrous ! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced- 
The  name  of  Prosper  :  it  did  bass  my  trespass. 
Therefore  my  son  i'  th'  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I  '11  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded, 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I  '11  fight  their  legions  e'er. 

Ant.  I  '11  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  Seb.  and  Ant. 

Gon.  All  three  of  them  are  desperate :  their  great  guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits.     I  do  beseech  you, 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly,, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you.         [Exeunt. 

ACT    IV-SCENE    I 

„      ,  „  ,77 

Before  Prospero  s  cell. 
Enter  Prospero,  Ferdinci7id,  and  Miranda. 
Pros.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 

Your  compensation  makes  amends ;  for  I 

Have  given  you  here  a  third  of  mine  own  life, 

Or  that  for  which  I  live  ;  who  once  again 

I  tender  to  thy  hand  :  all  thy  vexations 

Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 

Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 

I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand, 

Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off, 

For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 

And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 
Per.  I  do  believe  it 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pros.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 

43 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter  :  but 

If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin-knot  before 

All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 

With  full  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd, 

No  sweet  aspersion  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 

To  make  this  contract  grow ;  but  barren  hate, 

Sour-eyed  disdain  and  discord  shall  bestrew 

The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly 

That  you  shall  hate  it  both  :  therefore  take  heed, 

As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 
Per.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue  and  long  life, 

With  such  love  as  'tis  now,  the  murkiest  den, 

The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong'bl  suggestion 

Our  worser  genius  can,  shall  never  melt 

Mine  honour  into  lust,  to  take  away 

The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration 

When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds  are  founder'd, 

Or  Night  kept  chain'd  below. 
Pros.  Fairly  spoke. 

Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her ;  she  is  thine  own. 

What,  Ariel !  my  industrious  servant,  Ariel ! 

Enter  Ariel. 

Art.  What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am. 
Pros.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 

Did  worthily  perform  ;  and  I  must  use  you 

In  such  another  trick.     Go  bring  the  rabble, 

O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here  to  this  place  j 

Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 

Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 

Some  vanity  of  mine  art :  it  is  my  promise, 

And  they  expect  it  from  me. 
Art.  Presently? 

Pros.  Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.          Before  you  can  say,  '  come,'  and  '  go,' 
And  breathe  twice,  and  cry,  'so,  so' 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mow. 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no  ? 
Pros.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel.     Do  not  approach 

Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well,  I  conceive.  \Exit. 

Pros.  Look  thou  be  true  ;  do  not  give  dalliance 

Too  much  the  rein  :  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 

To  the  fire  i'  the  blood  :  be  more  abstemious, 

44 


The  Tempest  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Or  else,  good  night  your  vow  ! 
Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir ; 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 

Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver. 
Pros.  Well. 

Now  come,  my  Ariel !  bring  a  corollary, 

Rather  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly  ! 

No  tongue  !  all  eyes  !  be  silent.  {Soft  music. 

Enter  Iris. 
Iris.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 

Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease ; 

Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 

And  flat  meads  thatch'd  with  stover,  them  to  keep ; 

Thy  banks  with  pioned  and  twilled  brims, 

Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrims, 

To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns ;  and  thy  broom-groves, 

Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 

Being  lass-lorn ;  thy  pole-clipt  vineyard  ; 

And  thy  sea-marge,  sterile  and  rocky-hard, 

Where  thou  thyself  dost  air ; — the  queen  o'  the  sky, 

Whose  watery  arch  and  messenger  am  I, 

Bids  thee  leave  these ;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 

Here,  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 

To  come  and  sport : — her  peacocks  fly  amain  : 

Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  Ceres. 
Cer.  Hail,  many-colour'd  messenger,  that  ne'er 

Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter ; 

Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 

Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers  ; 

And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 

My  bosky  acres  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 

Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth ; — why  hath  thy  queen 

Summon'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  ? 
Iris.  A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate ; 

And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 

On  the  blest  lovers. 
Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

If  Venus  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 

Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?     Since  they  did  plot 

The  means  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got, 

Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 

I  have  forsworn. 
Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid :  I  met  her  deity 

45 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos,  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her.     Here  thought  they  to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid, 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed-right  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted :  but  in  vain ; 
Mars's  hot  minion  is  return'd  again ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with  sparrows, 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 
Cer.  High'st  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno,  comes  ;  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  Juno. 

Juno.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister?     Go  with  me 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue.  {They  sing: 

Juno.  Honour,  riches,  marriage-blessing, 

Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you  ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 
Cer.  Earth's  increase,  foison  plenty, 

Barns  and  garners  never  empty ; 
Vines  with  clustering  bunches  growing 
Plants  with  goodly  burthen  bowing  ; 
Spring  come  to  you  at  the  farthest  rnoo  o 

In  the  very  end  of  harvest ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you  ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 
Per.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly.     May  I  be  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pros.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines  call'd  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Per.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wo nder'd  father  and  a  wise 
Makes  this  place  Paradise. 

{Juno  and  Ceres  whisper,  and  send  Iris  on  employment. 
Pros.  Sweet,  now,  silence  ! 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously; 
There 's  something  else  to  do  :  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marr'd. 

Iris.  You  nymphs,  call'd  Naiads,  of  the  wind'ring  brooks, 
With  your  sedged  crowns  and  ever-harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons ;  Juno  does  command : 

46 


The  Tempest  [Act  IV,  Sc.  f 

Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
You  sunburn'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary,- 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry : 
Make  holiday ;  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

•      '  T,  7  • 

Entet   certain  Reapers,  properly  habited :    they  join  with  the 

Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance  ;  towards  the  end  whereof  Prospero 

starts  suddenly,  and  speaks ;  after  which,  to  a  strange,  hollow, 

and  confused  noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 
Pros.  \Aside~\\  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 

Of  the  beast  Caliban  and  his  confederates 

Against  my  life  :  .the  minute  of  their  plot 

Is  almost  come  \Tothe  Spirits^  \Vell  done!  avoid;  no  more! 
Fer.  This  is  strange  :  your  father 's  in  some  passion 

That  works  him  strongly. 
Mir.  Never  till  this  day 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper  d. 
Pros.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort, 

As  if  you  were  dismay'd  :  be  cheerful,  sir. 

Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors, 

As  I  foretold  you^were  all  spirits,  and 

Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 

.'  -    ,       .'  r     i    •  ••• 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 

And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 

Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on ;  and  our  little  life 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.     Sir,  I  am  vex'd  ; 

Bear  with  my  weakness  ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled  : 

Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infirmity  : 

If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell, 

And  there  repose  :  a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk, 

To  still  my  beating  mind 

Fer.  Mir.  We  wish  your  peace.  [Exeunt. 

Pros.  Come  with  a  thought.     I  thank  thee,  Ariel :  come. 

Enter  Ariel. 

Ari.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to.     What 's  thy  pleasure  ? 
Pros.  Spirit; 

We  must  prepare  to  meet  with  Caliban. 

47 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

An.  Ay,  my  commander  :  when  I  presented  Ceres 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  fear'd 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pros.  Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  these  varlets  ? 

Ari.   I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with  drinking ; 
So  full  of  valour  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces  ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project.     Then  I  beat  my  tabor  ; 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  prick'd  their  ears, 
Advanced  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noses 
As  they  smelt  music  :  so  I  charm'd  their  ears, 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  followed  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  goss,  and  thorns, 
Which  entefd  their  frail  shins :  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy-mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'erstunk  their  feet. 

Pros.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird. 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go  bring  it  hither, 
For  stale  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.  [Exit. 

Pros.  A  devil,  a  born  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost ; 
And  as  with  age  his  body  uglier  grows, 
So  his  mind  cankers.     I  will  plague  them  all, 
Even  to  roaring. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  loaden  with  glistering  apparel,  &c. 
Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

Prosper o  and  Ariel  remain,  invisible. 
Enter  Caliban,  Stephana,  and  Trinculo,  all  wet. 
Cal.  Pray  you,  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole  may  not 

Hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 
Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which  you  say  is  a  harmless  fairy,  has 

done  little  better  than  played  the  Jack  with  us. 
Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-piss ;  at  which  my  nose  is 

in  great  indignation. 
Ste.  So  is  mine.     Do  you  hear,  monster  ?     If  I  should  take  a 

displeasure  against  you,  look  you, — 
Trin.  Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 
Cal.  Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still. 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I  '11  bring  thee  to 

48 


The  Tempest  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Shall  hoodwink  this  mischance :  therefore  speak  softly. 

All 's  hush'd  as  midnight  yet. 
Trin.  Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 
Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonour  in  that,  monster, 

but  an  infinite  loss.  [harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting :  yet  this  is  your 
Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er  ears  for  my  labour. 
Cal.  Prithee,  my  king,  be  quiet.  See'st  thou  here, 

This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter. 

Do  that  good  mischief  which  may  make  this  island 

Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 

For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand.     I  do  begin  to  have  bloody  thoughts. 
Trin.  O  King  Stephano  !    O  peer  !    O  worthy  Stephano  !  look 

what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

Cal.  Let  it  alone,  thou  fool ;  it  is  but  trash.     [King  Stephano  ! 
Trin.  O,  ho,  monster  !  we  know  what  belongs  to  a  frippery.    O 
Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this  hand,  I  '11  have  that  gown 
Trin.  Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 
Cal.  The  dropsy  drown  this  fool !  what  do  you  mean 

To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let 's  alone, 

And  do  the  murder  first :  if  he  awake, 

From  toe  to  crown  he  '11  fill  our  skins  with  pinches, 

Make  us  strange  stuff. 
Ste.  Be  you   quiet,   monster.     Mistress   line,  is  not  this    my 

jerkifi  ?     Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line  :  now,  jerkin,  you 

are  like  to  lose  your  hair,  and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 
Trin.  Do,  do  :  we  steal  by  line  and  level,  an 't  like  your  grace. 
Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest ;  here  }s  a  garment  for 't :  wit  shall 

not  go  unrewarded  while  I  am  king  of  this  country.     '  Steal 

by  line  and  level '  is  an  excellent  pass  of  pate  ;  there 's  another 

garment  for 't.  [away  with  the  rest. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime  upon  your  fingers,  and 
Cal.  I  will  have  none  on  't :  we  shall  lose  our  time, 

And  all  be  turn'd  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 

With  foreheads  villanous  low. 
Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers  :  help  to  bear  this  away  where 

my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I  '11  turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom  : 
THn.  And  this.  [go  to,  carry  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 
A  noise  of  hunters  heard.     Enter  divers  Spirits,  in  shape  of  dogs 

and  hounds^  hunting  them  about ;  Prospero  and  Arid  setting 

them  on. 

Pros.  Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 
Ari.  Silver  !  there  it  goes,  Silver  ! 

49 


Act  v,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Pros.  Fury,  Fury !  there,  Tyrant,  there !  hark,  hark ! 

\CaL,  Ste.,  and  Trin.  are  driven  out. 

Go  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 

With  dry  convulsions  ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 

With  aged  cramps ;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make  them 

Than  pard  or  cat  o'  mountain. 
Ari.  Hark,  they  roar  ! 

Pros.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly.     At  this  hour 

Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies  : 

Shortly  shall  all  my  labours  end,  and  thou 

Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom  :  for  a  little 

Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V— SCENE  I 
Before  the  cell  of  Prosper  o. 
Enter  Prospero  in  his  magic  robes,  and  Ariel. 
Pros,  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head  : 

My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey ;  and  time 

Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How  3s  the  day  ? 
Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 

You  said  our  work  should  cease. 
Pros.  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  raised  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 

How  fares  the  king  and 's  followers  ? 
Ari.  Confined  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge, 

Just  as  you  left  them  ;  all  prisoners,  sir, 

In  the  line-grove  which  weather-fends  your  cell ; 

They  cannot  budge  till  your  release.     The  king, 

His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted, 

And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 

Brimful  of  sorrow  and  dismay  ;  but  chiefly 

Him  that  you  term'd,  sir,  'The  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo' ; 

His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 

From  eaves  of  reeds.     Your  charm  so  strongly  works  'em, 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 

Would  become  tender. 

Pros.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 
Pros.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 

Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 

One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 

Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art  ? 

Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the  quick, 


The  Tempest  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Yet  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 

Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 

In  virtue  than  in  vengeance  :  they  being  penitent, 

The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 

Not  a  frown  further.     Go  release  them,  Ariel : 

My  charms  I  '11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore, 

And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I  '11  fetch  them,  sir.      [Exit. 

Pros.  Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves  ; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demi-puppets  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites  ;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms,  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew;  by  whose  aid — 
Weak  masters  though  ye  be — I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  call'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder  -.;,!']' 

Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt ;  the  strong-based  promontory  .,-  1 

Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck'd  up  .///  I  a 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure ;  and,  when  I  have  required 
Some  heavenly  music, — which  even  now  I  do, —  ,  n  { 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I  '11  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 
And  deeper  than  did  .ever  plummet  sound  • .)!/! 

I  '11  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

Re-enter  Ariel  before:  then  Alonso,  with  a  frantic  gesture, 
attended  by  Gonzalo ;  Sebastian  and  Antonio  in  like  manner, 
attended  by  Adrian  and  Francisco:  they  all  enter  the  circle 
which  Prospero  had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed  ;  which 
Prospero  observing,  speaks: 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 

Now  useless,  boil'd  within  thy  skull !    There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell-stopp'd. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man, 

Mine  eyes,  even  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

Fall  fellowly  drops.     The  charm  dissolves  apace  ; 

And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 

Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 

Their  clearer  reason.     O  good  Gonzalo, 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

To  him  thou  follow'st !    I  will  pay  thy  graces 

Home  both  in  word  and  deed.     Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act. 

Thou  art  pinch'd  for 't  now,  Sebastian.     Flesh  and  blood, 

You,  brother  mine,  that  entertain'd  ambition, 

Expell'd  remorse  and  nature  ;  who,  with  Sebastian, — 

Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong, — 

Would  here  have  kill'd  your  king ;  I  do  forgive  thee, 

Unnatural  though  thou  art.     Their  understanding 

Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 

Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shore, 

That  now  lies  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them 

That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me  :  Ariel, 

Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell : 

I  will  disease  me,  and  myself  present 

As  I  was  sometime  Milan  :  quickly,  spirit ; 

Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

Ariel  sings  and  helps  to  attire  him. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 
Pros.  Why,  that 's  my  dainty  Ariel !    I  shall  miss  thee  ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom  :  so,  so,  so. 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches ;  the  master  and  the  boatswain 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place, 
And  presently,  I  prithee. 
Art.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 

Or  ere  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit. 

Gon.   All  torment,  trouble,  wonder  and  amazement 
Inhabits  here  :  some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country  ! 

52 


The  Tempest  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Pros,  Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  Duke  of  Milan,  Prospero : 

For  more  assurance  than  a  living  prince 

Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 

And  to  thee  and  thy  company  I  bid 

A  hearty  welcome. 
Alon.  Whether  thou  be'st  he  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 

As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 

Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee, 

The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 

I  fear,  a  madness  held  me  :  this  must  crave — 

An  if  this  be  at  all — a  most  strange  story. 

Thy  dukedom  I  resign,  and  do  entreat 

Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs. — But  how  should  Prospero 

Be  living  and  be  here  ? 
Pros.  First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 

Be  measured  or  confined. 
Gon.  Whether  this  be 

Or  be  not,  I  '11  not  swear. 
Pros.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 

Believe  things  certain.     Welcome,  my  friends  all ! 

[Aside  to  Seb.  and  AnfJ\  But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I 
so  minded, 

I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 

And  justify  you  traitors  :  at  this  time 

I  will  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  \Aside\  The  devil  speaks  in  him. 

Pros.  No. 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 

Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 

Thy  rankest  fault, — all  of  them ;  and  require 

My  dukedom  of  thee,  which  perforce,  I  know, 

Thou  must  restore. 
Alon.  If  thou  be'st  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation ; 

How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since 

Were  wreck'd  upon  this  shore ;  where  I  have  lost — • 

How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is  ! — 

My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 
Pros.  I  am  woe  for't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  patience 

Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

53 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Temp< 

Pros,  I  rather  think 

You  have  not  sought  her  help,  of  whose  soft  grace 

For  the  like  loss  1  have  her  sovereign  aid, 

And  rest  myself  content. 
Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ! 

Pros.  As  great  to  me  as  late ;  and,  supp-  >rtable 

To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 

Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you,  for  I 

Have  lost  my  daughter. 
Alon.  A  daughter  ? 

0  heavens,  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there  !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your  daughter  ? 
Pros.  In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason,  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan ;  who  most  strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wreck'd,  was  landed, 
To  be  the  lord  on \.     No  more  yet  of  this  ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir; 
This  cell 's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

Here  Prospero  discovers  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  playing 
at  chess. 

Mir.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Per.  No,  my  dear'st  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 
Mir.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle, 

And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 
Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 

Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle ! 

54 


The  Tempest  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Fer.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful ; 

I  have  cursed  them  without  cause.  [Kneels. 

A  Ion.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 

Arise,  and  say  how  thou  earnest  here. 
Mir.  O,  wonder ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  ! 

How  beauteous  mankind  is  !     O  brave  new  world, 

That  has  such  people  in 't ! 
Pros.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid  with  whom  thou  wast  at  play  ? 

Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 

Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sever'd  us, 

And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 
Fer.  Sir,  she  is  mortal;      'ilgh  e 

But  by  immortal  Providence  she's  mine  :  >rrl  L'-' 

I  chose  her  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 

For  his  advice,  nor  thought  I  had  one.     She 

Is  daughter  to  this  famous  Duke  of  Milan, 

Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown, 

But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 

Received  a  second  life  ;  and  second  father 

This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 
Alon.  I  am  hers  : 

But,  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound  that  I 

Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 
Pros.  There,  sir,  stop : 

Let  us  not  burthen  our  remembrances  with 

A  heaviness  that 's  gone. 
Gon.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you  gods, 

And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown  ! 

For  it  is  you  that  have  chalk'd  .forth  the  way 

Which  brought  us  hither. 

Alon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 

Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     O,  rejoice 

Beyond  a  common  joy  !  and  set  it  down 

With  gold  on  lasting  pillars  ;  In  one  voyage 

Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis, 

And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 

Where  he  himself  was  lost,  Prospero  his  dukedom 

In  a  poor  isle,  and  all  of  us  ourselves 

When  no  man  was  his  own. 

Alon.         [To  Fer.  and  MirJ]  Give  me  your  hands  : 

55 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempesl 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy ! 
Gon.  Be  it  so  !     Amen  ! 

Re-enter  Ariel^  with  the  Master  and  Boatswain  amazedly 
following. 

O,  look,  sir,  look,  sir !  here  is  more  of  us : 

I  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land, 

This  fellow  could  not  drown.     Now,  blasphemy, 

That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore? 

Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  news  ? 

Boats.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king  and  company ;  the  next,  our  ship — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split — 
Is  tight  and  yare  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.         [Aside  to  Pros.]  Sir,  all  this  service 
Have  I  done  since  I  went. 

Pros.  [Aside  to  An'.]  My  tricksy  spirit ! 

Alon.  These  are  not  natural  events  ;  they  strengthen 
From  strange  to  stranger.     Say,  how  came  you  hither  ? 

Boats.  If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
I  'Id  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And — how  we  know  not — all  clapp'd  under  hatches  ; 
Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  jingling  chains, 
And  mo  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awaked ;  straightway,  at  liberty  ; 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship  ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her : — on  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  we  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  \_Aside  to  Pros.]  Was 't  well  done  ? 

Pros.  [Aside  to  Art.]  Bravely,  my  diligence.    Thou  shalt  be  free. 

Alon.  This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod ; 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct  of:  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pros.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business ;  at  pick'd  leisure 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I  '11  resolve  you, 
Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable,  of  every 
These  happen'd  accidents  ;  till  when,  be  cheerful, 

56 


The  Tempest  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

And  think  of  each  thing  well.  \Asidc  to  Art'.]  Come  hither, 
Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free  ;  [spirit : 

Untie  the  spell.  \Exit  Ariel.]  How  fares  my  gracious  sir  ? 
There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  driving  in  Caliban,  Stephana,  and  Trinculo, 
in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no  man  take  care 

for  himself;  for  all  is  but  fortune. — Coragio,  bully-monster, 

coragio  ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  my  head,  here 's  a 
Cal.  O  Setebos,  these  be  brave  spirits  indeed  !      [goodly  sight. 

How  fine  my  master  is  !     I  am  afraid 

He  will  chastise  me. 
Seb.  Ha,  ha  ! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 

Will  money  buy  'em  ? 
Ant.  Very  like ;  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 
Pros.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords, 

Then  say  if  they  be  true.     This  mis-shapen  knave, 

His  mother  was  a  witch  ;  and  one  'so  strong 

That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbs, 

And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power. 

These  three  have  robb'd  me ;  and  this  demi-devil— 

For  he 's  a  bastard  one — had  plotted  with  them 

To  take  my  life.     Two  of  these  fellows  you 

Must  know  and  own  ;  this  thing  of  darkness  I 

Acknowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death. 

A/on.  Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler? 
Seb.  He  is  drunk  now :  where  had  he  wine  ? 
Alon.  And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe  :  where  should  they 

Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  'em  ? — 

How  earnest  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 
Trin.   I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw  you  last,  that, 

I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of  my  bones :  I  shall  not  fear  rly- 
Seb.  Why,  how  now,  Stephano  !  [blowing. 

Ste.  O,  touch  me  not ; — I  am  not  Stephano,  but  a  cramp. 
Pros.  You  'Id  be  king  o'  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 
Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one,  then. 
Alon.  This  is  a  strange  thing  as  e'er  I  look'd  on. 

[Pointing  to  Caliban. 

Pros.  He  is  as  disproportion' d  in  his  manners 

57 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Tempest 

As  in  his  shape.     Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 

Take  with  you  your  companions ;  as  you  look 

To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 
CaL  Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I  '11  be  wise  hereafter, 

And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-double  ass 

Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 

And  worship  this  dull  fool ! 
Pros.  Go  to ;  away  ! 

Alon.  Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you  found  it. 
Seb.  Or  stole  it,  rather. 

\Exeunt  CaL,  Ste.,  and  Tri? 
Pros.  Sir,  I  invite  your  Highness  and  your  train 

To  my  poor  cell,  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 

For  this  one  night ;  which,  part  of  it,  I  '11  waste 

With  such  discourse  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 

Go  quick  away :  the  story  of  my  life, 

And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 

Since  I  came  to  this  isle :  and  in  the  morn 

I  '11  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 

Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 

Of  these  our  dear- beloved  solemnized  ; 

And  thence  retire  me  to  rny  Milan,  where 

Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 
Alon.    '  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 

Take  the  ear'  strangely. 
Pros.  I  '11  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 

And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 

Your  royal  fleet  far  off.     [Aside  to  Art.]  My  Ariel,  chick, 

That  is  thy  Charge  :  then  to  the  elements 

Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well  !   Please  you,  draw  near.  \Exeunt. 

EPILOGUE. 

Spoken  by  Prospero. 
Now  my  charms  are  all  overthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have 's  mine  own, 
Which  is  most  faint :  now,  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confined  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples.     Let  -me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands : 

58 


The  Tempest  [Epilogue 

Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please.     Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer, 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 

Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 
.       '    _  .•  . ,        1111 

As  you  from  crimes  would  pardon  d  be, 

Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

• 
. 

. 
, 

. 

. 
. 

• 
. 

. 

. 
\ 

. 

: 
• 

. 

. 

59 


THE 

TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


DUKE  OF  MILAN,  Fattier  to  Sylvia. 


ANTONIO,  Father  to  Proteus. 
THURIO,  a  foolish  rival  to  Valentine. 
EGL  AMOUR,  Agent  for  Silvia  in  her  escape. 
HOST,  where  Julia  lodges. 


SPEED,  a  clownish  servant  to  Valentine. 
LAUNCE,  the  like  to  Proteus. 
PANTHINO,  Servant  to  Antonio. 
JULIA,  beloved  of  Proteus. 
SILVIA,  beloved  of  Valentine. 
LUCETTA,  waiting-woman  to  Julia. 
Servants,  Musicians. 


OUTLAWS,  with  Valentine. 

SCENE,  Verona  ;  Milan  ;  the  frontiers  of  Mantua. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 
Verona.     An  open  place. 
Enter  Valentine  and  Proteus. 
Val.  Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus  : 

Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits 

Were 't  not  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 

To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour'd  love, 

I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company 

To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 

Than,  living  dully  sluggardized  at  home, 

Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 

But  since  thou  lovest,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 

Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 
Pro.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?     Sweet  Valentine,  adieu  1 

Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou  haply  seest 

Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 

Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness, 

When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap ;  and  in  thy  danger, 

If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee, 

Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 

For  I  will  be  thy  beadsman,  Valentine. 
Val.  And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success  ? 
Pro.  Upon  some  book  I  love  I  '11  pray  for  thee.       (/) 
Val.  That 's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  loy^ 

How  young  Leander  cross'd  the  Hellespont 
Pro.  That 's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love ; 

For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 
Val.  'Tis  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love,  KjLJ- 

And  yet  you  never  swum  the  Hellespont.  C^^'d 

Pro.  Over  the  boots?  nay,  give  me  not  the  bootsS'  ^\       • 
Val.  No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not.  '   ;      • 

Pro.  What? 

Val.  To  be  in  love,  where  scorn  is  bought  with  groans ; 

Coy  looks  with  heart-sore  sighs;  one  fading  moment's  mirth 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 

If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain  ; 

If  lost,  itfhy  then  a  grievous  labour  won  ; 

However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 

Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 
Pro.  So,  by  your  circumstance,  you  call  me  fool. 
Val.  So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear  you  '11  prove. 
Pro.  'Tis  love  you  cavil  at :  I  am  not  Love. 
Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you  : 

And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 

Methinks,  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 
Pro.  Yet  writers  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  bud 

The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 

Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 
Val.  And  writers  say,  as  the  most  forward  bud 

Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 

Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 

Is  turn'd  to  folly ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 

Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime, 

And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 

But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee, 

That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ? 

Once  more  adieu  !  my  father  at  the  road 

Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 
Pro.  And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 
VaL  Sweet  Proteus,  no  ;  now  let  us  take  our  leave. 

To  Milan  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters 

Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 

Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend ; 

And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 
Pro.  All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan  ! 
VaL  As  much  to  you  at  home !  and  so,  farewell.  \Exit. 

Pro.  He  after  honour  hunts,  I  after  love  : 

He  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more ; 

I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all,  for  love. 

Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphosed  me, 

Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 

War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought ; 

Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir  Proteus,  save  you  !  Saw  you  my  master  ? 
Pro.  But  now  he  parted  hence,  to  embark  for  Milan. 
Speed.  Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipp'd  already, 

And  I  have  play'd  the  sheep  in  losing  him. 
Pro.  Indeed,  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 

61 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd,  then,  and  I 
Pro.  I  do.  '3)fr[a  sheep  ? 

Speed.  Why  then,  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether  I  wake  or 
Pro.  A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep.  [sleep. 

Speed.  This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 
Pro.  True ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 
Speed.  Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 
Pro.  It  shall  go  hard  but  I  '11  prove  it  by  another. 
Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the  sheep  the 

shepherd ;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my  master  seeks  not 

me :  therefore  I  am  no  sheep. 
Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd ;  the  shepherd 

for  food  follows  not  the  sheep  :  thou  for  wages  followest  thy 

master;   thy  master  for  wages  follows  not  thee :    therefore 

thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.  Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry  *  baa.' 
Pro.  But,  dost  thou  hear  ?  gavest  thou  my  letter  to  Julia  ? 
Speed.  Ay,  sir :  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter  to  her,  a  laced 

mutton,  and  she,  a  laced  mutton,  gave  me,  a  lost  mutton, 

nothing  for  my  labour. 

Pro.  Here  's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  store  of  muttons. 
Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharged,  you  were  best  stick  her. 
Pro.  Nay:  in  that  you  are  astray,  'twere  best  pound  you. 
Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me  for  carrying  your 
Pro.  You  mistake;  I  mean  the  pound, — a  pinfold.          [letter. 
Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and  over, 

'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your  lover. 
Pro.  But  what  said  she  ? 
Speed.  [First  nodding]  Ay. 
Pro.  Nod — Ay — why,  that 's  noddy. 
Speed.  You  mistook,  sir;  I  say,  she  did  nod :  and  you  ask  me  if 

she  did  nod;  and  I  say,  'Ay.' 

Pro.  And  that  set  together  is  noddy.  [for  your  pains. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it  together,  take  it 
Pro.  No,  no ;  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 
Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear  with  you. 
Pro.  Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 
Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter,  very  orderly  ;  having  nothing  but 

the  word  '  noddy '  for  my  pains. 
Pro.  Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 
Speed.  And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 
Pro.  Come,  come,  open  the  matter  in  brief :  what  said  she  ? 
Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money  and  the  matter  may  be 

both  at  once  delivered. 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains.     What  said  she  ? 

Speed.  Truly,  sir,  I  think  you  '11  hardly  win  her* 

Pro.  Why,  couldst  thou.  perceive  so  much  from  her  ? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from  her ;  no,  not  so 

much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your  letter :  and  being  so  hard 

to  me  that  brought  your  mind,  I  fear  she  '11  prove  as  hard  to 

you  in  telling  your  mind.    Give  her  no  token  but  stones;  for 

she's  as  hard  as  steel. 
Pro.  WThat  said  she?  nothing? 
Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as  'Take  this  for  thy  pains.'   To  testify 

your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you  have  testerned  me ;  in  requital 

whereof,  henceforth  carry  your  letters  yourself:  and  so,  sir, 

I  '11  commend  you  to  my  master. 
Pro.  Go,  go,  be  gone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck, .      ; 

Which  cannot  perish  having  thee  aboard, 

Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore.  [JBxt't  Speed. 

I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger : 

I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 

Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.  [Exit. 

, 
SCENE  II    ^ 

The  same.     Garden  of  Julia  s  house. 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucetia. 
Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 

Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 
Luc.  Ay,  madam;  so  you  stumble  not  unheedfully. 
Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen 

That  every  day  with  parle  encounter  me, 

In  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 
Luc.  Please  you  repeat  their  names,  I  '11  show  my  mind 

According  to  my  shallow  simple  skill. 
Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  fair  Sir  Eglamour  ? 
Luc.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine ; 

But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine.  :I  goniS 

Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 
Luc.  Well  of  his  wealth ;  but  of  himself,  so  so. 
JuL  What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 
Luc.  Lord,  Lord  !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  in  us  ! 
Jul.  How  now  !  what  means  this  passion  at  his  name  ? 
Luc.  Pardon,  dear  madam  :  'tis  a  passing  shame 

That  I,  unworthy  body  as  I  am, 

Should  censure  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 
Jul.  Why  not  on  Proteus,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 
Luc.  Then  thus, — of  many  good  I  think  him  best. 
Jul.  Your  reason  ? 

U.  I*.  •  ^    0^63^0*  \ 
V     (  *\ 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Luc.  I  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason ; 

I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 
Jul.  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  my  love  on  him  ? 
Luc.  Ay,  if  you  thought  your  love  not  cast  away. 
Jul.  Why,  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  moved  me. 
Lite.  Yet  he,  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves  ye. 
Jul.  His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 
Luc.  Fire  that 's  closest  kept  burns  most  of  all. 
Jul.  They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  their  love. 
Luc.  O,  they  love  least  that  let  men  know  their  love. 
Jul.  I  would  I  knew  his  mind. 
Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 
Jul.  *  To  Julia.' — Say,  from  whom  ? 
Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 
Jul.  Say,  say,  who  gave  it  thee  ? 
Luc.  Sir  Valentine's  page ;  and  sent,  I  think,  from  Proteus. 

He  would  have  given  it  you ;  but  I,  being  in  the  way, 

Did  in  your  name  receive  it :  pardon  the  fault,  I  pray. 
Jul.  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker  ! 

Dare  you  presume  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 

To  whisper  and  cortspire  against  my  youth  ? 

Now,  trust  me,  'tis  an  office  of  great  worth, 

And  you  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 

There,  take  the  paper  :  see  it  be  return'd ; 

Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 
Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than  hate. 
Jul.  Will  ye  be  gone  ? 

Luc.  That  you  may  ruminate.     \Exit. 

Jul.  And  yet  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the  letter : 

It  were  a  shame  to  call  her  back  again, 

And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 

What  fool  is  she,  that  knows  I  am  a  maid, 

And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view ! 

Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  '  no  '  to  that 

Which  they  would  have  the  profferer  construe  '  ay.' 

Fie,  fie,  how  wayward  is  this  foolish  love, 

That,  like  a  testy  babe,  will  scratch  the  nurse, 

And  presently,  all  humbled,  kiss  the  rod ! 

How  churlishly  I  chid  Lucetta  hence, 

When  willingly  I  would  have  had  her  here ! 

How  angerly  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 

When  inward  joy  enforced  my  heart  to  smile  ! 

My  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back, 

And  ask  remission  for  my  folly  past. 

What,  ho  !  Lucetta  ! 

64 

t 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 

Luc.  What  would  your  ladyship  ? 

Jul.  Is 't  near  dinner-time  ? 
Luc.  I  would  it  were ; 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach  on  your  meat, 

And  not  upon  your  maid. 
Jul.  What  is 't  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly? 
Luc.  Nothing. 

Jul.  Why  didst  thou  stoop,  then  ? 
Luc.  To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 
Jul.  And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 
Luc.  Nothing  concerning  me. 
JuL  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 
Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 

Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 
JuL  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 
Luc.  That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune. 

Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set. 
JuL  As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible. 

Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  '  Light  o'  love.' 
Luc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 
Jul.  Heavy  !    belike  it  hath  some  burden,  then  ? 
Luc.  Ay ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing  it. 
Jul.  And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc.  I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

JuL  Let 's  see  your  song.     How  now,  minion  ! 
Luc.  Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out : 

And  yet  methinks  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 
JuL  You  do  not  ? 

Luc.  No,  madam  ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

JuL  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 
Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 

And  mar  the  concord  with  -too  harsh  a  descant. 

There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 
Jul.  The  mean  is  drown'd  with  your  unruly  bass 
Luc.  Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  for  Proteus. 
JuL  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 

Here  is  a  coil  with  protestation  !  [Tears  the  letter. 

Go  get  you  gone,  and  let  the  papers  lie : 

You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 
Luc.  She  makes  it  strange  ;  but  she  would  be  best  pleased 

To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.  [Exit. 

JuL  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the  same  ! 

O  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 

Injurious  wasps,  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 

65  c 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings ! 

I  '11  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

Look,  here  is  writ  *  kind  Julia.'     Unkind  Julia ! 

As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 

Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 

And  here  is  writ  '  love-wounded  Proteus.' 

Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  throughly  heal'd  ; 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

But  twice  or  thrice  was  '  Proteus '  written  down. 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter, 

Except  mine  own  name :  that  some  whirlwind  bear 

Unto  a  ragged,  fearful-hanging  rock, 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea  ! 

Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ, 

4  Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 

To  the  sweet  Julia ' : — that  I  '11  tear  away. — 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith  so  prettily 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names. 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another : 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  Lucetta. 
Luc.  Madam, 

Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 
JuL  Well,  let  us  go. 

Luc.  What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  tell-tales  here  ? 
JuL  If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 
Luc.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down  \ 

Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold. 
Jul.  I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them. 
Luc.  Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you  see ; 

I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 
JuL  Come,  come ;  will 't  please  you  go  ?  [Exeunt* 

SCENE  III 

The  same.     Antonio's  house. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 
Ant.  Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  talk  was  that 

Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister  ? 
Pan.  'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 
Ant.  Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pan.  He  wonder'd  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home, 

66 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 

Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 

Some  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there ; 

Some  to  discover  islands  far  away  ; 

Some  to  the  studious  universities. 

For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 

He  said  that  Proteus  your  son  was  meet ; 

And  did  request  me  to  importune  you 

To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 

Which  would  be  great  impeachment  to  his  age, 

In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth, 
Ant.  Nor  need'st  thou  much  importune  me  to  that 

Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 

I  have  consider'd  well  his  loss  of  time, 

And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 

Not  being  tried  and  tutor' d  in  the  world : 

Experience  is  by  industry  achieved, 

And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time. 

Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 
Pan.  I  think  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant 

How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 

Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 
Ant.  I  know  it  well. 
Pan.  'Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent  him  thither : 

There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 

Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen, 

And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise 

Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 
Ant.  I  like  thy  counsel ;  well  hast  thou  advised  : 

And  that  thou  mayst  perceive  how  well  I  like  it 

The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known. 

Even  with  the  speediest  expedition . 

I  will  dispatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 
Pan.  To-morrow,  may  it  please  you,  Don  Alphonso, 

With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 

Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 

And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 
Ant.  Good  company  ;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go  : 

And,  in  good  time  !  now  will  we  break  with  him. 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn. 
O,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 

67 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 

0  heavenly  Julia  ! 

Ant.  How  now  !  what  letter  are  you  reading  there  ? 
Pro.  May  't  please  your  lordship,  'tis  a  word  or  two 

Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 

Deliver'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 
Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter ;  let  me  see  what  news. 
Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord  ;  but  that  he  writes 

How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  beloved, 

And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor  ; 

Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 
Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish  ? 
Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 

And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 
Ant.  My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish. 

Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed  ; 

For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 

1  am  resolved  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court : 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go  : 

Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 
Pro.  My  lord   I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided : 

Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 
Ant.  Look,  what  thou  want'st  shall  be  sent  after  thee  : 

No  more  of  stay  !  to-morrow  thou  must  go. 

Come  on,  Panthino  :  you  shall  be  employed 

To  hasten  on  his  expedition.  [.Exeunt  Ant.  and  Pan. 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shunn'd  the  fire  for  fear  of  burning, 

And  drench'd  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown'd. 

I  fear'd  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter, 

Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love  ; 

And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 

Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 

O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 
.  Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ! 

Re-enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you  : 

He  is  in  haste ;  therefore,  I  pray  you,  go, 
Pro.  Why,  this  it  is  :  my  heart  accords  thereto, 

And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers  '  no.'  [Exeunt. 

68 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 
Milan.      The  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 
Speed.  Sir,  youi  glove. 

Val.  Not  mine ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.  Why,  then,  this  may  be  yours,  for  this  is  but  one. 

Val.   Ha  !  let  me  see  :  ay,  give  it  me,  it 's  mine  : 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thing  divine  1 
Ah,  Silvia,  Silvia  ! 

Speed.   Madam  Silvia  !    Madam  Silvia ! 

Val.  How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her? 

Speed.  Your  worship,  sir ;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.  Well,  you  '11  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too  slow. 

Val.  Go  to,  sir  :  tell  me,  do  you  know  Madam  Silvia  ? 

Speed.  She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.  Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks  :  first,  you  have  learned, 
like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreathe  your  arms,  like  a  male-content ; 
to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a  robin-redbreast ;  to  walk  alone, 
like  one  that  had  the  pestilence ;  to  sigh,  like  a  school-boy 
that  had  lost  his  A  B  C ;  to  weep,  like  a  young  wench  that 
had  buried  hergrandam;  to  fast,  like  one  that  takes  diet; 
to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing ;  to  speak  puling,  like 
a  beggar  at  Hallowmas.  You  were  wont,  when  you  laughed, 
to  crow  like  a  cock  ;  when  you  walked,  to  walk  like  one  of 
the  lions  ;  when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after  dinner ; 
when  you  looked  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money  :  and  now 
you  are  metamorphosed  with  a  mistress,  that,  when  I  look 
on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you  my  master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.  They  are  all  perceived  without  ye. 

Val.  Without  me  ?  they  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you  ?  nay,  that 's  certain,  for,  without  you  were 
so  simple,  none  else  would  :  but  you  are  so  without  these 
follies,  that  these  follies  are  within  you,  and  shine  through 
you  like  the  water  in  an  urinal,  that  not  an  eye  that  sees  you 
but  is  a  physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.  But  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia  ? 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so  as  she  sits  at  supper? 

Val.  Hast  thou  observed  that  ?  even  she,  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not.  [her  not  ? 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her,  and  yet  knowest 

6g 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Speed,  Is  she  not  hard-favoured,  sir  ? 
Val.  Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favoured. 
Speed.  Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 
Val.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair  as,  of  you,  well  favoured. 
Val.  I  mean   that :  her   beauty  is   exquisite,    but   her   favour 

infinite. 

Speed.  That 's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the  other  out  of 
VaL  How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ?  [all  count. 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted,  to  make  her  fair,  that  no  man 

counts  of  her  beauty. 

VaL  How  esteemest  thou  me  ?  I  account  of  her  beauty. 
Speed.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deformed. 
Val.  How  long  hath  she  been  deformed  ? 
Speed.  Ever  since  you  loved  her. 
Val.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her ;  and  still  I  see  her 
Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her.  [beautiful. 

Val.  Why? 
Speed.  Because  Love  is  blind.    O,  that  you  had  mine  eyes  ;  or 

your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they  were  wont  to  have  when 

you  chid  at  Sir  Proteus  for  going  ungartered ! 
Val.  What  should  I  see  then  ? 
Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing  deformity  :  for 

he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter  his  hose ;  and  you, 

being  in  love,  cannot  see  to  put  on  your  hose. 
Val.  Belike,  boy,  then,  you  are  in  love ;  for  last  morning  you 

could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 
Speed.  True,  sir ;    I  was  in  love  with  my  bed :    I  thank  you, 

you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  which  makes  me  the  bolder  to 

chide  you  for  yours. 

VaL  In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 
Speed.  I  would  you  were  set,  so  your  affection  would  cease. 
Val.  Last  night  she  enjoined  me  to  write  some  lines  to  one 
Speed.  And  have  you  ?  [she  loves. 

Val.  I  have. 

Speed.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ?  [comes. 

Val.  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them.    Peace  !  here  she 
Speed.  [Aside]  O   excellent    motion  !     O    exceeding   puppet ! 

Now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Enter  Silvia. 

VaL  Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good-morrows. 
Speed.  \  Aside]  Oh,  give  ye  good  even !  here's  a  million  of  manners. 
Sil.  Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two  thousand. 
Speed.  [Aside]  He  should  give  her  interest,  and  she  gives  it 
Val.  As  you  enjoin'd  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter  [him. 

70 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Unto  the  secret  nameless  friend  of  yours  ; 

Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in, 

But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  thank  you,  gentle  servant :  'tis  very  clerkly  done. 
Val.  NoW  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off ; 

For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 

I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 
Sil.  Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much  pains? 
Val.  No,  madam  ;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 

Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much ; 

And  yet — 
Sil.  A  pretty  period  !   Well,  I  guess  the  sequel ; 

And  yet  I  will  not  name  it ; — and  yet  I  care  not ; — 

And  yet  take  this  again  : — and  yet  I  thank  you  ; 

Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 
Speed.  [Aside]  And  yet  you  will ;  and  yet  another  *  yet.1 
Val.  What  means  your  ladyship  ?  do  you  not  like  it  ? 
Sil.  Yes,  yes :  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ ; 

But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again. 

Nay,  take  them. 
Val.  Madam,  they  are  for  you. 
Sil.  Ay,  ay  :  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request ; 

But  I  will  none  of  them  ;  they  are  for  you ; 

I  would  have  had  them  writ  more  movingly. 
Val.  Please  you,  I  '11  write  your  ladyship  another. 
Sil.  And  when  it  fs  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over, 

And  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 
Val.  If  it  please  me,  madam,  what  then  ? 
Sil.  Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labour  : 

And  so,  good  morrow,  servant.  \Exit. 

Speed.  O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 

As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a  steeple  ! 

My  master  sues  to  her ;  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor, 

He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 

O  excellent  device  !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better,     [letter? 

That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should  write  the 
Val.  How  now,  sir  ?  what  are  you  reasoning  with  yourself  ? 
Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming  :  'tis  you  that  have  the  reason. 
Val.  To  do  what  ? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  Madam  Silvia. 
Val.  To  whom? 

Speed.  To  yourself :  why,  she  wooes  you  by  a  figure. 
Vol.  What  figure? 
Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 
Val.  Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made  you  write  to  your 
self?  Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jest  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you,  indeed,  sir.     But  did  you  perceive  her 

Val.  She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word.  [ear-nest  ? 

Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.  That 's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  delivered,  and  there  an  end. 

Val.  I  would  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.  I  '11  warrant  you,  'tis  as  well : 

For  often  have  you  writ  to  her,  and  she,  in  modesty, 

Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply ; 

Or   fearing    else   some   messenger,    that    might    her    min< 

discover, 

Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  her  lover. 
All  this  I  speak  in  print,  for  in  print  I  found  it. 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner-time. 

Val.  I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir ;  though  the  chameleon  Love  can 
feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am  nourished  by  my  victuals, 
and  would  fain  have  meat.  O,  be  not  like  your  mistress ; 
be  moved,  be  moved.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

Verona.    Julia's  house. 
Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 
Pro.  Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 
Jul.  I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 
Pro.  When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 
Jul.  If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner. 

Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake.     [Giving a  ring. 
Pro.  Why,  then,  we  '11  make  exchange ;  here,  take  you  this. 
Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 
Pro.   Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake, 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness  ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming ;  answer  not ; 
The  tide  is  now  : — nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should. 
Julia,  farewell !  [Exit  Julia. 

What,  gone  without  a  word  ? 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do  :  it  cannot  speak  ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

72 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  stay'd  for. 
Pro.  Go ;  I  come,  I  come. 

Alas !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
The  same.     A  street. 
Enter  Launce,  leading  a  dog. 

Launce.  Nay,  'twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done  weeping ;  all 
the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this  very  fault.  I  have  re 
ceived  my  proportion,  like  the  prodigious  son,  and  am  going 
with  Sir  Proteus  to  the  Imperial's  court.  I  think  Crab  my 
dog  be  the  sourest-natured  dog  that  lives :  my  mother  weeping, 
my  father  wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howling,  our  cat 
wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house  in  a  great  perplexity, 
yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed  one  tear :  he  is  a  stone, 
a  very  pebble  stone,  and  has  no  more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog :  a 
Jew  would  have  wept  to  have  seen  our  parting;  why,  my  gran- 
dam,  having  no  eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself  blind  at  my  parting. 
Nay,  I  '11  show  you  the  manner  of  it.  This  shoe  is  my  father : 
no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  father :  no,  no,  this  left  shoe  is  my 
mother :  nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither  :  yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so,  it 
hath  the  worser  sole.  This  shoe,  with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my 
mother,  and  this  my  father ;  a  vengeance  on  't !  there  'tis :  now, 
sir,  this  staff  is  my  sister,  for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a 
lily,  and  as  small  as  a  wand  :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid  :  I  am 
the  dog :  no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the  dog, — Oh ! 
the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself ;  ay,  so,  so.  Now  come  I 
to  my  father ;  Father,  your  blessing :  now  should  not  the 
shoe  speak  a  word  for  weeping :  now  should  I  kiss  my 
father  ;  well,  he  weeps  on.  Now  come  I  to  my  mother  :  O, 
that  she  could  speak  now  like  a  wood  woman  !  Well,  I  kiss 
her,  why,  there  'tis  ;  here 's  my  mother's  breath  up  and  down. 
Now  come  I  to  my  sister ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes.  Now 
the  dog  all  this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word ; 
but  see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 
Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard  !  thy  master  is  shipped,  and 
thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars.  What 's  the  matter  ?  why 
weepest  thou,  man  ?  Away,  ass  !  you'll  lose  the  tide,  if  you 
tarry  any  longer. 

Launce.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  tied  were  lost ;  for  it  is  the 
unkindest  tied  that  ever  any  man  tied. 

Pan.  What's  the  unkindest  tide? 

Launce.  Why,  he  that 's  tied  here,  Crab,  my  dog. 

73  c  2 


I 

I 

wn,  I 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Pan.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou  'It  lose  the  flood,  and,  in  losing 
the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage,  and,  in  losing  thy  voyage,  lose  thy 
master,  and,  in  losing  thy  master,  lose  thy  .service,  and,  in 
losing  thy  service,— Why  dost  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Launce.  For  fear  thou  shouldst  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Launce.  In  thy  tale. 

Pan.  In  thy  tail  ! 

Launce.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the  master,  and 
the  service,  and  the  tied  !  Why,  man,  if  the  river  were  dry, 
I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my  tears ;  if  the  wind  were  down,  I 
could  drive  the  boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come  away,  man  ;  I  was  sent  to  call  thee. 

Launce.  Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Launce.  Well,  I  will  go.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

Milan.     The  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  Silvia,  Valentine,  Thurio,  and  Speed. 

Sil.  Servant ! 

Val.  Mistress? 

Speed;  Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Val.  Ay,  boy,  it 's  for  love. 

Speed.  Not  of  you. 

Val.  Of  my  mistress,  then. 

Speed.  'Twere  good  you  knocked  him.  {Exit. 

Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Val.  Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Thu.  Seem  you  that  you  are  not. 

Val.  Haply  I  do. 

Thu.  So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.  So  do  you. 

Thu.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 

Val.  Wise: 

Thu.  What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

Val.  Your  folly. 

Thu.  And  how  quote  you  my  folly  ? 

Val.  I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu.  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.  Well,  then,  I' 11  double  your  folly. 

Thu.  How? 

Sil.  What,  angry,  Sir  Thurio  !  do  you  change  colour  ? 

Val.  Give  him  leave,  madam;  he  is  a  kind  of  chameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood  than  live  in 

Val.  You  have  said,  sir.  [your  air. 

74 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Thu.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  always  end  ere  you  begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and  quickly  shot  off. 

Val.  'Tis  indeed,  madam ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.  Who  is  that,  servant  ? 

Val.  Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire.     Sir  Thurio 

borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's  looks,  and  spends  what 

he  borrows  kindly  in  your  company. 
Thu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me,  I  shall  make 

your  wit  bankrupt. 
Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  have  an  exchequer  of  words,  and, 

I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  followers,  for  it  appears, 

by  their  bare  liveries,  that  they  live  by  your  bare  words. 
SiL  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more : — here  comes  my  father. 

Enter  Duke. 
Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset. 

Sir  Valentine,  your  father 's  in  good  health : 

What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 

Of  much  good  news  ? 
Val.  My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 
Duke.  Know  ye  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman  ? 
Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  I  know  the  gentleman 

To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation, 

And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 
Duke.   Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 
Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  son  that  well  deserves 

The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 
Duke.  You  know  him  well  ? 
Val.  I  know  him  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 

We  have  conversed  and  spent  our  hours  together  ; 

And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 

Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time 

To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection, 

Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus,  for  that 's  his  name, 

Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days ; 

His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old ; 

His  head  unmellow'd,  but  his  judgement  ripe , 

And,  in  a  word,  for  far  behind  his  worth 

Comes  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow, 

He  is  complete  in  feature  and  in  mind 

With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 
Duke.  Beshrew  me,  sir,  but  if  he  make  this  good, 

He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love 

As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 

75 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Well,  sir,  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me, 

With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 

And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  awhile : 

I  think  'tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 
Val.  Should  I  have  wish'd  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 
Duke.  Welcome  him,  then,  according  to  his  worth. 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you,  and  you,  Sir  Thurio, 

For  Valentine,  I  need  not  cite  him  to  it : 

I  will  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.  [Exit. 

Val.  This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  your  ladyship 

Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 

Did  hold  his  eyes  lock'd  in  her  crystal  looks. 
Sil.  Belike  that  now  she  hath  enfranchised  them, 

Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 
Val.  Nay,  sure,  I  think  she  holds  them  prisoners  still. 
Sil.  Nay,  then,  he  should  be  blind ;  and,  being  blind, 

How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you  ? 
Val.  Why,  lady,  Love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 
Thu.  They  say  that  Love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 
Val.  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself: 

Upon  a  homely  object  Love  can  wink. 
SiL  Have  done,  have  done ;  here  comes  the  gentleman. 

Enter  Proteus. 
Val.  Welcome,  dear  Proteus  !     Mistress,  I  beseech  you, 

Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favour. 
Sil.  His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 

If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish'd  to  hear  from. 
Val.  Mistress,  it  is :  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 

To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 
Sil.  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 
Pro.  Not  so,  sweet  lady :  but  too  mean  a  servant 

To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 
Val.  Leave  off  discourse  of  disability : 

Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 
Pro.   My  duty  will  I  boast  of;  nothing  else. 
5/7.  And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed  : 

Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 
Pro.  I  '11  die  on  him  that  says  so  but  yourself. 
Sil.  That  you  are  welcome  ? 
Pro.  That  you  are  worthless. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  my  lord  your  father  would  speak  with  you. 
5/7.  I  wait  upon  his  pleasure.    {Exit  Ser.]     Come,  Sir  Thurio, 

Go  with  me.     Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome : 

I  '11  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs ; 

76 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 
Pro.  We  '11  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  Silvia  and  Thurio. 

Val.  Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you  came  ? 
Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much  commended. 
Val.  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  health. 

Val.  How  does  your  lady  ?  and  how  thrives  your  love  ? 
Pro.   My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you ; 

I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 
Val.  Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  alter'd  now : 

I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  Love, 

Whose  high  imperious  thoughts  have  punish'd  me 

With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 

With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs ; 

For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 

Love  hath  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 

And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrow 

O  gentle  Proteus,  Love 's  a  mighty  lord, 

And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as  I  confess 

There  is  no  woe  to  his  correction, 

Nor  to  his  service  no  such  joy  on  earth. 

Now  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  ; 

Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 
Pro.  Enough ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye. 

Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 
Val.  Even  she  ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint? 
Pro.  No ;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 
Val.  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  will  not  flatter  her. 

Val.  O,  flatter  me;  for  love  delights  in  praises. 
Pro.  When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills ; 

And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 
Val.  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her ;  if  not  divine, 

Yet  let  her  be  a  principality, 

Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 
Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 
Val.  Sweet,  except  not  any ; 

Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 
Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own  ? 
Val.  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too  : 

She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour,—* 

To  bear  my  lady's  train,  lest  the  base  earth 

Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 

77 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud, 

Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 

And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 
Pro.  Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 
VaL  Pardon  me,  Proteus :  all  1  can  is  nothing 

To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing ; 

She  is  alone. 

Pro.  Then  let  her  alone. 

VaL  Not  for  the  world  :  why,  man,  she  is  mine  own ; 

And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel 

As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 

The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 

Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee, 

Because  thou  see'st  me  dote  upon  my  love. 

My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes 

Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge, 

Is  gone  with  her  along ;  and  I  must  after, 

For  love,  t'hou  know'st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 
Pro.  But  she  loves  you  ? 
VaL  Ay,  and  we  are  betroth'd :  nay,  more,  our  marriage-hour. 

With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 

Determined  of;  how  I  must  climb  her  window; 

The  ladder  made  of  cords ;  and  all  the  means 
Plotted  and  'greed  on  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  rny  chamber, 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 
Pro.  Go  on  before ;  I  shall  inquire  you  forth  : 
I  must  unto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use; 
And  then  I  '11  presently  attend  you. 
VaL  Will  you  make  haste  ? 

Pro.  I  will.  \Exit  VaL 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  mine,  or  Valentine's  praise, 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  me  reasonless  to  reason  thus  ? 
She  is  fair ;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love, — 
That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd ; 
Which,  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire, 
Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 
Methinks  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold, 
And  that  I  love  him  not  as  I  was  wont. 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  i {Act  II,  Sc.  v 

O,  but  I  love  his  lady  too,  too  much ! 

And  that 's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice,      '<>n  A 

That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  1 

'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  yet  beheld,  : ;  7/  - 

And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light ; 

But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 

There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 

If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ;       «  ,v/-mb 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I  Jll  use  my  skill.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V 

The  same.     A  street. 
Enter  Speed  and  Launce  severally. 

Speed.  Launce  !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to  Padua ! 

Launce.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth  •  for  I  am  not 
welcome.  I  reckon  this  always — that  a  man  is  never  undone 
till  he  be  hanged;  nor  never  welcome  to  a  place  till  some 
certain  shot  be  paid,  and  the  hostess  say  *  Welcome  ! ' 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  madcap,  I'll  to  the  alehouse  with  you 
presently ;  where,  for  one  shot  of  five  pence,  thou  shalt  have 
five  thousand  welcomes.  But,  sirrah,  how  did  thy  master 
part  with  Madani  Julia  ? 

Launce.  Marry,  after  they  closed  in  earnest,  they  parted  very 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him  ?  [fairly  in  jest. 

Launce.  No.  ••  ^Iniwj  B  9tob:; 

Speed.  How,  then?  shall  he  marry  her? 

Launce.  No,  neither.         •  "-<jv  i:iil>^i;{n:J 

Speed.  What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Launce.  No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  Why,  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with  them  ? 

Launce.  Marry,  thus ;  when  it  stands  well  with  him,  it  stands 
well  with  her. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou  !     I  understand  thee  not 

Launce.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not !    My  staff 

Speed,  What  thou  sayest  ?  [understands  me. 

Launce.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too  :  look  thee,  I  '11  but  lean,  and  my 

Speed.  It  stands  under  thee,  indeed.         [staff  understands  me. 

Launce.  Why,  stand-under  and  under-stand  is  all  one. 

Speed.  But  tell  me  true,  will 't  be  a  match  ? 

Launce.  Ask  my  dog  :  if  he  say  ay,  it  will ;  if  he  say  no,  it  will ; 
if  he  shake  his  tail  and  say  nothing*  it  will. 

Speed.  The  conclusion  is,  then,  that  it  will.  [parable. 

Launce.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from  me  but  by  a 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce,  how  sayest  thou, 
that  my  master  is  become  a  notable  lover  ? 

79 


Act  II,  Sc.  vi]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Launce.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.  Than  how? 

Launce.  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him  to  be. 

Speed.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mistakest  me. 

Launce.  Why  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant  thy  master. 

Speed.  I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

Launce.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  he  burn  himself  in 
love.  If  thou  wilt,  go  with  me  to  the  alehouse  ;  if  not,  thou 
art  an  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and  not  worth  the  name  of  Christian. 

Speed.  Why? 

Launce.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in  thee  as  to  go 
to  the  ale  with  a  Christian.  Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Speed.     At  thy  service.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI 
The  same.     The  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn  ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn  ; 
And  even  that  power,  which  gave  me  first  my  oath, 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury  ; 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  Love  bids  me  forswear. 

0  sweet-suggesting  Love,  if  thou  hast  sinn'd,    ' 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it ! 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 
Unheedful  vows  may  needfully  be  broken  ; 
And  he  wants  wit  that  wants  resolved  will 
To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better. 
Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad, 
Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr'd 
With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love  where  I  should  love. 
Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose : 
If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 
If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss 
For  Valentine,  myself,  for  Julia,  Silvia. 
I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend, 
For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself; 
And  Silvia — witness  Heaven,  that  made  her  fair ! — 
Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 
I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 
Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead  ; 
And  Valentine  I  '11  hold  an  enemy, 

80 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  II,  Sc.  vii 

Aiming  at  Silvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself, 

Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine. 

This  night  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber- window ; 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor. 

Now  presently  I  '11  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising  and  pretended  flight ; 

Who,  all  enraged,  will  banish  Valentine ; 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter ; 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I  '11  quickly  cross 

By  some  sly  trick  blunt  Thurio's  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 

As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift  1 

[Exit. 
SCENE  VII 
Verona,    Julia's  house. 
Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 
Jul.  Counsel,  Lucetta  ;  gentle  girl,  assist  me  ; 

And,  even  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee, 

Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 

Are  visibly  character'd  and  engraved^ 

To  lesson  me ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 

How,  with  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 

A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 
Luc.  Alas,  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long  ! 
JuL  A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 

To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps  ; 

Much  less  shall  she  that  hath  Love's  wings  to 

And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 

Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 
Luc.  Better  forbear  till  Proteus  make  return. 
JuL  O,  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul's  food  ? 

Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in, 

By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 

Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 

Thou  wouldst  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow 

As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 
Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire, 

But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage, 

Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 
JuL  The  more  thou  damm'st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns. 

The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 

Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rage  ; 

But  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 

81 


Act  II,  Sc.  vii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

He  makes  sweet  music  with  the  enamell'd  stones, 

Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 

He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage ; 

And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 

With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  ocean. 

Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course : 

I  '11  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 

And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 

Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love ; 

And  there  I  '11  rest,  as  after  much  turmoil 

A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 
Luc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 
Jul.  Not  like  a  woman  ;  for  I  would  prevent 

The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men  :        ^ifi  uoiL 

Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 

As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 
Luc.  Why,  then,  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 
Jul.  No,  girl ;  I  '11  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings 

With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots. 

To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth        raid  ni  - 

Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 
Luc.  What  fashion,  madam,  shall  I  make  your  breeches  ? 
Jul.  That  fits  as  well  as,  '  Tell  me,  good  my  lord, 

What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale  ? ' 

Why  even  what  fashion  thou  best  likest,  Lucetta. 
Luc.  You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  codpiece,  madam. 
Jul.  Out,  out,  Lucetta  !  that  will  be  ill-fa vour'd. 
Luc.  A  round  hose,  madam,  now 's  not  worth  a  pin, 

Unless  you  have  a  codpiece  to  stick  pins  on. 
Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  have 

What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly. 

But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me 

For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 

I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandalized. 
Luc.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not. 
Jul.  Nay,  that  I  will  not. 
Luc.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 

If  Proteus  like  your  journey  when  you  come, 

No  matter  who's  displeased  when  you  are  gone: 

I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleased  withal. 
Jul.  That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear  : 

A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 

And  instances  of  infinite  of  love, 

Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 
Luc.  All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men* 

82 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Jul.  Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  effect ! 

But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth  : 

His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles  ; 

His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate  ; 

His  tears  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart ; 

His  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  heaven  from  earth. 
Luc,  Pray  heaven  he  prove  so,  when  you  come  to  him  ! 
Jul.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  do  him  not  that  wrong, 

To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  :  , 

Only  deserve  my  love  by  loving  him  ; 

And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 

To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 

To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  journey. 

All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 

My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 

Only,  in  lieu  thereof,  dispatch  me  hence.  -A  v/of. 

Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently  ! 

I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [Exeunt. 

". 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 
Milan.     Ante-room  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Thurio,  and  Proteus. 
Duke.  Sir  Thurio,'give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile  ; 

We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about.  [Exit  Thu. 

Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what 's  your  will  with  me  ? 
Pro.  My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  discover 

The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal ; 

But  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favours 

Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 

My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 

Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 

Know,  worthy  prince,  Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 

This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter : 

Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 

I  know  you  have  determined  to  bestow  her 

On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates ; 

And  should  she  thus  be  stol'n  away  from  you, 

It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 

Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 

To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift 

Than  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 

A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 

Being  unprevented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 
Duke.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care; 

Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 

83 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 

Haply  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep ; 

And  oftentimes  have  purposed  to  forbid 

Sir  Valentine  her  company  and  my  court : 

But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  might  err, 

And  so,  unworthily  disgrace  the  man, 

A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd, 

I  gave  him  gentle  looks ;  thereby  to  find 

That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclosed  to  me. 

And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 

Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested, 

I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 

The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 

And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey'd  away. 
fro.  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devised  a  mean 

How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 

And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down  ; 

For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 

And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 

Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 

But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly 

That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 

For,  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 

Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence. 
Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 

That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 
Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord  ;  Sir  Valentine  is  coming.  [Exit. 

Enter  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 
Val.  Please  it  your  Grace,  there  is  a  messenger 

That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 

And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 
Duke.  Be  they  of  much  import  ? 
Val.  The  tenour  of  them  doth  but  signify 

My  health  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 
Duke.  Nay  then,  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  awhile ; 

I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs 

That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 

'Tis  not  unknown  to  thee  that  I  have  sought 

To  match  my  friend  Sir  Thurio  to  my  daughter. 
Val.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord ;  and,  sure,  the  match 

Were  rich  and  honourable ;  besides,  the  gentleman 

Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth  and  qualities 

Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter : 

Cannot  your  Grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

84 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Duke.  No,  trust  me ;  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  froward, 

Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty ; 

Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 

Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 

And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 

Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 

And,  where  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 

Should  have  been  cherish'd  by  her  child-like  duty, 

I  now  am  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife, 

And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in  : 

Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower  ; 

For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 
VaL  What  would  your  Grace  have  me  to  do  in  this  ? 
Duke.  There  is  a  lady  in  Verona  here 

Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice  and  coy, 

And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence : 

Now,  therefore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, — 

For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court ; 

Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  changed, — 

How  and  which  way  I  may  bestow  myself, 

To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 
Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words  : 

Dumb  jewels  often  in  their  silent  kind 

More  than  quick  words  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 
Duke.  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 
VaL  A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best  contents  her. 

Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o'er ; 

For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 

If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you, 

But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you : 

If  she  do  chide,  'tis  not  to  have  you  gone ; 

For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 

Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say ; 

For  '  get  you  gone,'  she  doth  not  mean  '  away  ! ' 

Flatter  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces ; 

Though  ne'er  so  black,  say  they  have  angels'  faces. 

That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 

If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 
Duke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promised  by  her  friends 

Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth  ; 

And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 

That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 
Val.  Why,  then,  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night. 
Duke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  lock'd,  and  keys  kept  safe, 

That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

85 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Val.  What  lets  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window  ? 
Duke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground, 

And  built  so  shelving,  that  one  cannot  climb  it 

Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 
VaL  Why,  then,  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords, 

To  cast  up,  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 

Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 

So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 
Dukt.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 

Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 
VaL  When  would  you  use  it?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 
Duke.  This  very  night;  for  Love  is  like  a  child, 

That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 
VaL  By  seven  o'clock  I  '11  get  you  such  a  ladder. 
Duke.  But,  hark  thee  ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone  : 

How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither? 
VaL  It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 

Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 
Duke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn  ? 
VaL  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak  : 

I  '11  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 
VaL  Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 
Duke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak  ? 

I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. 

What  letter  is  this  same  ?     What's  here ?     'To  Silvia ' ! 

And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding. 

I  '11  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.  \Reads. 

'  My  thoughts  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly ; 
And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  them  flying  : 

O,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 

Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying  ! 

My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them ; 
While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importune, 

Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  bless'd  them, 
Because  myself  do  want  my  servants'  fortune : 

I  curse  myself,  for  they,  are  sent  by  me, 

That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  would  be.1 

What 's  here  ? 

'  Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee.' 

*Tis  so  ;  and  here  's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. 

Why,  Phaethon, — for  thou  art  Merops'  son,— 

Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 
And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world  ? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee  ? 

86 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Veronla  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Go,  base  intruder  !  overweening  slave  ! 

Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates  : 

And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert^  I  .d.-n 

Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence  : 
.  Thank  me  for  this  more  than  for  all  the  favours, 

Which  all  too  much  I  have  bestow'd  on  thee. 

But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 

Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 

Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 

By  heaven  !  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 

I  ever  bore  my  daughter  or  thyself. 

Be  gone  !  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse ; 

But,  as  thou  lovest  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence.     \Exii. 
Val.  And  why  not  death  rather  than  living  torment  ? 

To  die  is  to  be  banish'd  from  myself ; 

And  Silvia  is  myself :  banish'd  from  her, 

Is  self  from  self :  a  deadly  banishment ! 

What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 

What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 

Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is.  by, 

And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 

Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 

There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 

Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 

There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon  : 

She  is  my  essence;  and  I  leave  to  be, 

If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 

Foster'd,  illumined,  cherish'd,  kept  alive. 

I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom : 

Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death  : 

But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 

Enter  Proteus  and  Launce. 
Pro.  Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 
Launce.  Soho,  soho  ! 
Pro.  What  seest  thou  ? 

Launce.  Him  we  gO  to  find  :  there  's  not  a  hair  on  's  head  but 
Pro.  Valentine  ?  ['tis  a  Valentine. 

Val.  No. 

Pro.  Who  then  ?  his  spirit  ? 
Val.  Neither. 
Pro.  What  then  ? 
Val.  Nothing. 

Launce.  Can  nothing  speak  ?     Master,  shall  I  strike  ? 
Pro.  Who  would st  thou  strike  ? 
Launce.  Nothing. 

S7 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Pro.  Villain,  forbear. 

Launce.  Why,  sir,  I  '11  strike  nothing :  I  pray  you, — 
Pro.  Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear.     Friend  Valentine,  a  word. 
Val.  My  ears  are  stopt,  and  cannot  hear  good  news, 

So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess'd  them. 
Pro.  Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 

For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 
Val.  Is  Silvia  dead  ? 
Pro.  No,  Valentine. 
Val.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia. 

Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 
Pro.  No,  Valentine. 
Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me. 

What  is  your  news  ? 

Launce.  Sir,  there  is  a  proclamation  that  you  are  vanished. 
Pro.  That  thou  art  banished — O,  that 's  the  news  ! — 

From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me  thy  friend. 
Val.  O,  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already, 

And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 

Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 
Pro.  Ay,  ay ;  and  she  hath  offer'd  to  the  doom — 

Which,  unreversed,  stands  in  effectual  force — 

A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears : 

Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tender'd , 

With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 

Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them 

As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe  : 

But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 

Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 

Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire ; 

But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 

Besides,  her  intercession  chafed  him  so, 

When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 

That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 

With  many  bitter  threats  of  biding  there. 
Val.  No  more ;  unless  the  next  word  that  thou  speak'st 

Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life  : 

If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 

As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 
Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help, 

And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament'st. 

Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 

Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love  ; 

Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 

Hope  is  a  lover's  staff;  walk  hence  with  that, 

88 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence  ; 
Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  deliver'd 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate : 
Come,  I  '11  convey  thee  through  the  city-gate ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love-affairs. 
As  thou  lo vest  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me  1 

VaL  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  North-gate. 

Pro.  Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.     Come,  Valentine. 

VaL  O  my  dear  Silvia !     Hapless  Valentine  ! 

\Exeunt  VaL  and  Pro. 

Launce.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you ;  and  yet  I  have  the  wit  to 
think  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave :  but  that 's  all  one,  if  he 
be  but  one  knave.  He  lives  not  now  that  knows  me  to  be 
in  love ;  yet  I  am  in  love ;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not 
pluck  that  from  me ;  nor  who  'tis  I  love ;  and  yet  'tis  a 
woman ;  but  what  woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself ;  and  yet  'tis 
a  milkmaid ;  yet  'tis  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gossips ; 
yet  'tis  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master's  maid,  and  serves  for 
wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water-spaniel, — 
which  is  much  in  a  bare  Christian.  \Pulling  out  a  paper. ~\ 
Here  is  the  cate-log  of  her  condition.  *  Imprimis  :  She  can 
fetch  and  carry.'  Why,  a  horse  can  do  no  more :  nay,  a 
horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry ;  therefore  is  she  better 
than  a  jade.  '  Item :  She  can  milk ' ;  look  you,  a  sweet 
virtue  in  a  maid  with  clean  hands. 

Enter  Speed. 
Speed.  How   now,    Signior   Launce !    what    news    with    your 

mastership  ? 

Launce.  With  my  master's  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 
Speed.  Well,   your   old   vice  still ;   mistake  the  word.     What 

news,  then,  in  your  paper? 

Launce.  The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heardest. 
Speed.  Why,  man,  how  black  ? 
Launce.  Why,  as  black  as  ink. 
Speed.  Let  me  read  them. 

Launce.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head  !  thou  canst  not  read. 
Speed.  Thou  liest ;  I  can. 

Launce.  I  will  try  thee.     Tell  me  this  :  who  begot  thee  ? 
Speed.  Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

89 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Launce.  O  illiterate  loiterer  !  it  was  the  son  of  thy  grandmother : 

this  proves  that  thou  canst  not  read. 
Speed.  Come,  fool,  come ;  try  me  in  thy  paper. 
Launce.  There ;  and  Saint  Nicholas  be  thy  speed  1 
Speed.  \Reads\  '  Imprimis :  She  can  milk.' 
Launce.  Ay,  that  she  can. 
Speed.   '  Item  :  She  brews  good  ale.' 
Launce.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb  :    '  Blessing  of  your 

heart,  you  brew  good  ale.' 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  can  sew.' 
Launce.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  she  so  ? 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  can  knit.' 
Launce.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  with  a  wench,  when 

she  can  knit  him  a  stock  ? 
Speed.  'Item  :  She  can  wash  and  scour.' 
Launce.  A  special  virtue ;    for  then  she  need  not  be  washed 

and  scoured. 

Speed.  'Item;  She  can  spin.' 
Launce.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when  she  can 

spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.  { Item  :  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues.' 
Launce.  That's   as   much   as   to   say,    bastard   virtues;    that, 

indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore  have  no  names. 
Speed.  *  Here  follow  her  vices.' 
Launce.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 
Speed.  '  Item :  She  is  not  to  be  kissed  fasting,  in  respect  of  her 

breath.' 

Launce.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended   with   a    breakfast. 
Speed.   '  Item  :  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth/  [Read  on. 

Launce.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 
Speed.   '  Item  :  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep.' 
Launce.  It 's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in  her  talk. 
Speed.   t  Item  :  She  is  slow  in  words.' 
Launce.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her  vices  !  To  be 

slow  in  words  is  a  woman's  only  virtue  :  I  pray  thee,  out 

with  't,  and  place  it  for  her  chief  virtue. 
Speed.  *  Item  :  She  is  proud.' 

Launce.  Out  with  that  too ;  it  was  Eve's  legacy,  and  cannot  be 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  hath  no  teeth.'  [ta'en  from  her. 

Launce.  I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love  crusts. 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  is  curst.' 

Launce.  Well,  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor.' 
Launce.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she  will  not,  I 

will;   for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

90 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Speed.  *  Item  :  She  is  too  liberal' 

Launce.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot,  for  that  Js  writ  down  she  is 

slow  of;  of  her  purse  she  shall  not,  for  that  I  '11  keep  shut : 

now,  of  another  thing  she  may,   and  that  cannot  I  help. 

Well,  proceed. 
Speed.   '  Item :  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,  and  more  faults 

than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than  faults.' 
Launce.  Stop  there  \  1 11  have  her  :  she  was  mine,   and  not 

mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  last  article.    Rehearse  that  once 
Speed.  '  Item  :  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,' —  [more. 

Launce.  More  hair  than  wit  ?     It  may  be ;  I  '11  prove  it.     The 

cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,  and  therefore  it  is  more  than 

the  salt ;  the  hair  that  covers  the  wit  is  more  than  the  wit, 

for  the  greater  hides  the  less.     What's  next  ? 
Speed.  l  And  more  faults  than  hairs/ — 
Launce.  That's  monstrous  :  O,  that  that  were  out ! 
Speed.  *  And  more  wealth  than  faults.' 
Launce.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gracious.     Well,  I  '11 

have  her  :  and  if  it  be  a  match,  as  nothing  is  impossible, — 
fyeed.  What  then  ? 

Launce.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee — that  thy  master  stays  for 
Speed.  For  me  ?  [thee  at  the  North-gate. 

Launce.  For  thee  !  ay,   who  art  thou  ?  he  hath  stayed  for  a 
Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him  ?  [better  man  than  thee. 

Launce.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  stayed  so  long, 

that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  pox  of  your  love-letters  ! 

[Exit. 
Launce.  Now  will  he  be  swinged  for  reading  my  letter, — an 

unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  himself  into  secrets  !     I  '11 

after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's  correction.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II 
The  same.     The  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Duke  and  Thurio. 
Duke.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  but  that  she  will  love  you, 

Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight. 
Thu.  Since  his  exile  she  hath  despised  me  most, 
Forsworn  my  company,  and  rail'd  at  me, 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 
Duke.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice,  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot. 
9* 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Enter  Proteus. 

How  now,  Sir  Proteus  !     Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 
Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 
Duke.  My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 
Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 
Duke.  So  I  believe ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee — 
For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert — 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 
Pro.   Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  Grace 

Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  Grace. 
Duke.  Thou  know'st  how  willingly  I  would  effect 

The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 
Pro.  I  do,  my  lord. 
Duke.  And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 

Plow  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 
Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here. 
Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  Sir  Thurio  ? 
Pro.  The  best  way  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice  and  poor  descent, 
Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 
Duke.  Ay,  but  she  '11  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 
Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 

Therefore  it  must  with  circumstance  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 
Duke.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 
Pro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loath  to  do  : 
JTis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman, 
Especially  against  his  very  friend. 
Duke.  Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage  him, 
Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him ; 
Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 
Pro.  You  have  prevail'd,  my  lord :  if  I  can  do  it 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 
Thu.  Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 
Lest  it  should  ravel  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me ; 
Which  must  be  done  by  praising  me  as  much 

92 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 
Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in  this  kind, 

Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 

You  are  already  Love's  firm  votary, 

And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 

Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access 

Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 

For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy, 

And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you  , 

Where  you  may  temper  her  by  your  persuasion 

To  hate  young  Valentine  and  love  my  friend. 
Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect : 

But  you,  Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough ; 

You  must  lay  lime  to  tangle  her  desires 

By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 

Should  be  full-fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 
Duke.  Ay, 

Much  is  the  force  of  heaven-bred  poesy. 
Pro.  Say  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 

You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 

Write  till  your  ink  be  dry,  and  with  your  tears 

Moist  it  again  ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line 

That  may  discover  such  integrity : 

For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinews ; 

Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones, 

Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 

Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 

After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies, 

Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber-window 

With  some  sweet  consort ;  to  their  instruments 

Tune  a  deploring  dump :  the  night's  dead  silence 

Will  well  become  such  sweet-complaining  grievance. 

This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. 
Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 
Thu.  And  thy  advice  this  night  I'll  put  in  practice. 

Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 

Let  us  into  the  city  presently 

To  sort  some  gentlemen  well  skill'd  in  music. 

I  have  a  sonnet  that  will  serve  the  turn 

To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 
Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen  ! 
Pro.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  Grace  till  after  supper, 

And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 
Duke.  Even  now  about  it !     I  will  pardon  you.  Exeunt. 

93 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 
The  frontiers  of  Mantua.     A  forest. 

Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

First  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast ;  I  see  a  passenger. 
Sec.  Out.  If  there  be  ten,  shrink  not,  but  down  with  'em. 

Enter  Valentine  and  Speed. 
Third  Out.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have  about  ye : 

If  not,  we  '11  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 
Speed.  Sir,  we  are  undone ;  these  are  the  villains 

That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 
Val.  My  friends, — 

First  Out.  That 's  not  so,  sir  :  we  are  your  enemies. 
Sec.  Out.  Peace !  we  '11  hear  him. 

Third  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we,  for  he 's  a  proper  man. 
Val.  Then  know  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose : 

A  man  I  am  cross'd  with  adversity ; 

My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments, 

Of  which  if  you  should  here  disfurnish  me, 

You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 
Sec.  Out.  Whither  travel  you  ? 
Val.  To  Verona. 
First  Out.  Whence  came  you  ? 
Val.  From  Milan. 

Third  Out.  Have  you  long  sojourned  there  ? 
Val.  Some  sixteen  months,  and  longer  might  have  stay'd, 

If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 
First  Out.  What,  were  you  banish'd.therice? 
Val.  I  was. 

Sec.  Out.  For  what  offence  ? 
Val.  For  that  which  now  torments  me  to  rehearse . 

I  kilPd  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent; 

But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 

Without  false  vantage  or  base  treachery. 
First  Out.  Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so. 

But  were  you  banish'd  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 
Val.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 
Sec.  Out.  Have  you  the  tongues  ? 
Val.  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy, 

Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable. 
Third  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  friar, 

This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction  ! 
First  Out.  We  '11  have  him.     Sirs,  a  word. 
Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them;   it's  an  honourable  kind  of 
Val.  Peace,  villain  !  [thievery. 

94 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Sec.  Out.  Tell  us  this  :  have  you  any  thing  to  take  to  ? 

Val.  Nothing  but  my  fortune. 

Third  Out.  Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 

Such  as  the  fury  of  ungovern'd  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men: 

Myself  was  from  Verona  banished 

For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady, 

An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 
Sec.  Out.  And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 

Who,  in  my  mood,  I  stabb'd  unto  the  heart. 
First  Out.  And  I  for  such  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 

But  to  the  purpose, — for  we  cite  our  faults, 

That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless  lives  ; 

And  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 

With  goodly  shape,  and  by  your  own  report 

A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection 

As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want, — 
Sec.  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd  man, 

Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 
.     ,  ,.  ,...<'  _ 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 

Third  Out.  What  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou  be  of  our  consort  ? 

Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all : 

We  '11  do  thee  homage  and  be  ruled  by  thee, 

Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 
First  Out.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest. 
Sec.  Out.  Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have  offer'd. 
Val.  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you, 

Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 

On  silly  women  or  poor  passengers. 
Third  Out.  No,  we  detest  such  vile  base  practices. 

Come,  go  with  us,  we  '11  bring  thee  to  our  crews, 

And  show  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 

Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
Milan.     Outside  the  Duke's  palace,  under  Silvids  chamber. 

Enter  Proteus. 

Pro.  Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer : 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 

95 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 

She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend ; 

When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 

She  bids  me  think  how  I  have  been  forsworn 

In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  loved : 

And  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips, 

The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 

Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 

The  more  it  grows,  and  fawneth  on  her  still. 

But  here  comes  Thurio :  now  must  we  to  her  window. 

And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Enter  Thurio  and  Musicians. 

Thu.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus,  are  you  crept  before  us? 
Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thurio ;  for  you  know  that  love 

Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 
Thu.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 
Pro.  Sir,  but  I  do ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 
Thu.  Who?  Silvia? 

Pro.  Ay,  Silvia  ;  for  your  sake. 

Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.     Now,  gentlemen, 

Let 's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

_ 

Enter,  at  a  distance,  Host,  and  Julia  in  boy's  clothes. 
Host.  Now,  my  young   guest,   methinks  you're  allycholly :  I 

pray  you,  why  is  it? 

Jul.  Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 
Host.  Come,  we  '11  have  you  merry :  I  '11  bring  you  where  you 

shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gentleman  that  you  asked  for. 
ful.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.  That  will  be  music.  [Music  plays. 

Host.     Hark,  hark ! 
Jul.  Is  he  among  these  ? 
Host.  Ay  :  but,  peace  !  let 's  hear  'em. 

Song. 
Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 
Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 
96 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.  How  now  !  are  you  sadder  than  you  were  before  ?     How 

do  you,  man  ?  the  music  likes  you  not. 
Jul.  You  mistake  ;  the  musician  likes  me  not. 
Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 
Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 
Host.  How  ?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my  very  heart- 
Host.  You  have  a  quick  ear.  [strings. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf;  it  makes  me  have  a  slow  heart. 
Host.  I  perceive  you  delight  not  in  music. 
Jiil.  Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 
Host.  Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music  ! 
Jul.  Ay,  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one  thing  ? 
Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 

But,  host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus  that  we  talk  on 

Often  resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me, — he  loved  her 
Jul.  Where  is  Launce  ?  [out  of  all  nick. 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog ;  which  to-morrow,  by  his  master's 

command,  he  must  carry  for  a  present  to  his  lady. 
Jul.  Peace  !  stand  aside  :  the  company  parts. 
Pro.  Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you  :  I  will  so  plead, 

That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  excels. 
Thu.  Where  meet  we  ? 

Pro.  At  Saint  Gregory's  well. 

Thu.  Farewell. 

\Exeunt  T/m.  and  Musicians, 

Enter  Silvia  above. 

Pro.  Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 
Sil.  I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen. 

Who  is  that  that  spake  ? 
Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth, 

You  would  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 
Sil.  Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 
Pro.  Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant. 
Sil.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Pro.  That  I  may  compass  yours. 

Sil.  You  have  your  wish  ;  my  will  is  even  this : 

97  D 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjured,  false,  disloyal  man  ! 
Think'st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceit! ess, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 
That  hast  deceived  so  many  with  thy  vows  ? 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me, — by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 
Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady ; 

But  she  is  dead. 
Jul  [Aside]  'Twere  false,  if  I  should  speak  it; 

For  I  am  sure  she  is  not  buried. 
Sil.  Say  that  she  be ;  yet  Valentine  thy  friend 
Survives  ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  betroth'd  :  arid  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  wrong  him  with  thy  importunacy  ? 
Pro.  I  likewise  hear  that  Valentine  is  dead. 
Sil.  And  so  suppose  am  I ;  for  in  his  grave 

Assure  thyself  my  love  is  buried. 
Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 
Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  hers  thence ;     . 

Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 
Jul.  [Aside]  He  heard  not  that. 
Pro.  Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber ; 
To  that  I  '11  speak,  to  that  I  '11  sigh  and  weep : 
For  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow ; 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 
Jul.  [Aside]  If  'twere  a  substance,  you  would,  sure,  deceive  it» 

And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am. 
Sil.  I  am  very  loath  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 

But  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows  and  adore  false  shapes, 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I  '11  send  it : 
And  so,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'ernight 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

[Exeunt  Pro.  and  Sil.  severally. 
Jul.  Host,  will  you  go  ? 
Host.  By  my  halidom,  I  was  fast  asleep. 

98 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

JuL  Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus  ? 

Host,  Marry,  at  my  house.     Trust  me,  I  think  'tis  almost  day. 

JuL  Not  so ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 

That  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  III 
The  same. 
Entir  Eglamour. 
Egl.  This  is  the  hour  that  Madam  Silvia 

Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind. 

There  's  some  great  matter  she  'Id  employ  me  in, 

Madam,  madam  ! 

Enter  Silvia  above. 
Sil.  Who  calls  ? 

Egl.  Your  servant  and  your  friend ; 

One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 
Sil.  Sir  Eglamour,  a  thousand  times  good  morrow. 
Egl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself : 

According  to  your  ladyship's  impose, 

I  am  thus  early  come  to  'know  what  service 

It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 
Sil.  O  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, — 

Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not, — 

Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,  well  accomplish'd : 

Thou  art  not  ignorant  what  dear  good  will 

I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine  ; 

Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 

Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhors. 

Thyself  hast  loved ;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say 

No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart 

As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 

Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow'dst  pure  chastity. 

Sir  Eglamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 

To  Mantua,  where  I  hear  he  makes  abode ; 

And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 

I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 

Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 

Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady's  grief, 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 

Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  rewards  with  plagties 

I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 

As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me : 

99 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 
Egl.  Madam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances  ; 

Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  placed, 

I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you  ; 

Recking  as  little  what  betideth  me 

As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 

When  will  you  go  ? 

Sil.  This  evening  coming. 

Egl.  Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 
Sil.  At  Friar  Patrick's  cell, 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 
Egl.  I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship.     Good1  morrow,  gentle  lady. 
SiL  Good  morrow,  kind  Sir  Eglamour.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  IV 
The  same. 

Enter  Launce,  with  his  Dog. 

Launce.  When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur  with  him,  look 
you,  it  goes  hard  :  one  that  I  brought  up  of  a  puppy ;  one 
that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when  three  or  four  of  his  blind 
brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it !  I  have  taught  him,  even  as  one 
would  say  precisely,  'thus  I  would  teach  a  dog.'     I  was  sent 
to  deliver  him  as  a  present  to  Mistress  Silvia  from  my  master  • 
and  I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber,  but  he  steps 
me  to  her  trencher,  and  steals  her  capon's  leg  :    O,  'tis  a  foul 
thing  when  a  cur  cannot  keep  himself  in  all  companies  !    I 
would  have,  as  one  should  say,  one  that  takes  upon  him  to 
be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  all  things.     If  I 
had  not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take  a  fault  upon  me  that 
he  did,  I  think  verily  he  had  been  hanged  for't;  sure  as  I 
live,  he  had  suffered  for't :  you  shall  judge.     He  thrusts  me 
himself  into  the  company  of  three  or  four  gentlemanlike 
dogs,  under  the  duke's  table  :  he  had  not  been  there — bless 
the  mark — a  pissing  while,  but  all  the  chamber  smelt  him. 
*  Out  with  the  dog  ! '  says  one :    '  What  cur  is  that  ? '  says 
another  :    '  Whip  him  out,'  says  the  third  :  '  Hang  him  up,' 
says  the  duke.     I,  having  been  acquainted  with  the  smell 
before,  knew  it  was  Crab,  and  goes  me  to  the  fellow  that 
whips  the  dogs  :  *  Friend,'  quoth  I,  '  you  mean  to  whip  the 
dog  ?  '    '  Ay,  marry,  do  I,'  quoth  he.    '  You  do  him  the  more 
wrong,'  quoth  I ;  *  'twas  I  did  the  thing  you  wot  of.'     He 
makes  me  know  more  ado,  but  whips  me  out  of  the  chamber. 
How  many  masters  would  do  this  for  his  servant  ?   Nay,  I  '11 
be  sworn,  I  have  sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath  stolen, 

100 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

otherwise  he  had  been  executed  ;  I  have  stood  on  the  pillory 
for  geese  he  hath  killed,  otherwise  he  had  suffered  for  't. 
Thou  thinkest  not  of  this  now.  Nay,  I  remember  the  trick 
you  served  me  when  I  took  my  leave  of  Madam  Silvia :  did 
not  I  bid  thee  still  mark  me,  and  do  as  I  do  ?  when  didst 
thou  see  me  heave  up  my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a 
gentlewoman's  farthingale  ?  didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such 
a  trick  ? 

Enter  Proteus  and  Julia. 
Pro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?   1  like  thee  well, 

And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 
JuL  In  what  you  please  :  I  '11  do  what  I  can. 
Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt.     [To  Launce]  How  now,  you  whoreson 
Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ?       [peasant ! 
Launce.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  Mistress  Silvia  the  dog  you  bade 
Pro.  And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel  ?  [me. 

Launce.  Marry,  she  says  your  dog  was  a  cur,  and  tells  you 

currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a  present. 
Pro.  But  she  received  my  dog  ? 

Launce.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not :    here  have  I  brought  him 

Pro.  What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ?        [back  again. 

Launce.  Ay,  sir ;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from  me  by  the 

hangman  boys  in  the  market-place  :  and  then  I  offered  her 

mine  own,  who  is  a  dog  as  big  as  ten  of  yours,  and  therefore 

the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 

Away,  I  say  !  stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ?        [Exit  Launce. 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end  turns  me  to  shame  ! 
Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee, 
Partly  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth, 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yond  foolish  lout ; 
But  chiefly  for  thy  face  and  thy  behaviour, 
Which,  if  my  augury  deceive  me  not, 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth : 
Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  Madam  Silvia  : 
She  loved  me  well,  deliver'd  it  to  me. 
Jul.  It  seems  you  loved  not  her,  to  leave  her  token. 

She  is  dead,  belike  ? 

Pro.  Not  so  ;  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.  Alas! 

Pro.  Why  dost  thou  cry,  '  alas '  ? 

101 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Jul.  I  cannot  choose 

But  pity  her. 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.  Because  raethinks  that  she  loved  you  as  well 

As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia  : 

She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love  : 

You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 

Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  contrary ; 

And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  '  alas  ! ' 
Pro.  Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 

This  letter.     That 's  her  chamber.     Tell  my  lady 

I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 

Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 

Where  thou  shalt  find  me,  sad  and  solitary.  [Exit. 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 

Alas,  poor  Proteus  !  thou  hast  entertain'd 

A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs. 

Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him 

That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 

Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 

Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 

This  ring  I  gave  him  when  he  parted  from  me, 

To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will ; 

And  now  am  I,  unhappy  messenger, 

To  plead  for  that  which  I  would  not  obtain, 

To  carry  that  which  1  would  have  refused, 

To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  dispraised 

1  am  my  master's  true-confirmed  love ; 

But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 

Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 

Yet  will  I  woo  for  him,  but  yet  so  coldly, 

As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 
Enter  Silvia,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good-day  !    I  pray  you,  be  my  mean 

To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  Madam  Silvia. 
Sil.  What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she  ? 
Jul.  If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 

To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 
Sil.  From  whom  ? 

Jul.  From  my  master,  Sir  Proteus,  madam. 
Sil.  O,  he  sends  you  for  a  picture? 
JuL  Ay,  madam. 
Sil.  Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

Go,  give  your  master  this  :  tell  him,  from  me, 

One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 

102 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  IV,  Sc. 

Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this  shadow. 
Jul.  Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter. — • 

Pardon  me,  madam  ;   I  have  unadvised 

Deliver' d  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not : 

This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 
Sil.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 
Jul.  It  may  not  be  ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 
Sil.  There,  hold  ! 

I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines  : 

I  know  they  are  stuff'd  with  protestations, 

And  full  of  new-found  oaths ;  which  he  will  break 

As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 
Jul.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 
Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me  ; 

For  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times 

His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure. 

Though  his  false  finger  have  profaned  the  ring, 

Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 
ful.  She  thanks  you. 
Sil.  What  say'st  thou? 
Jul.  I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her. 

Poor  gentlewoman  !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 
Sil.  Dost  thou  know  her  ? 
Jul.  Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself : 

To  think  upon  her  woes  I  do  protest 

That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 
Sil.  Belike  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook  her. 
Jul.  I  think  she  doth ;  and  that 's  her  cause  of  sorrow. 
Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 
Jul.  She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is  : 

When  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well, 

She,  in  my  judgement,  was  as  fair  as  you  ; 

But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 

And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away, 

The  air  hath  starved  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 

And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 

That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 
Sil.  How  tall  was  she  ? 
Jul.  About  my  stature  :  for,  at  Pentecost, 

When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd, 

Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 

And  I  was  trimm'd  in  Madam  Julia's  gown ; 

Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgements, 

As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me : 

Therefore  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 

103 


ants. 


[Act  IV,  Sc.  iv  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

And  at  that  time  I  made  her  weep  agood, 

For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part : 

Madam,  'twas  Ariadne  passioning 

For  Theseus'  perjury  and  unjust  flight ; 

Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears, 

That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 

Wept  bitterly ;  and,  would  I  might  be  dead, 

If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow  ! 
Sil.  She  is  beholding  to  thee,  gentle  youth. 

Alas,  poor  lady,  desolate  and  left ! 

I  weep  myself  to  think  upon  thy  words. 

Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse  :  I  give  thee  this 

For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lovest  her. 

Farewell.  \Exit  Silvia,  with  attenda?its. 

JuL  And  she  shall  thank  you  for  't,  if  e'er  you  know  her. 

A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild  and  beautiful ! 

I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 

Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 

Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 

Here  is  her  picture  :  let  me  see ;  I  think, 

If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 

Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers  : 

And  yet  the  painter  flatter'd  her  a  little, 

Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 

Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow. 

If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 

I  '11  get  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig. 

Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass  ;  and  so  are  mine : 

Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine  's  as  high. 

What  should  it  be  that  he  respects  in  her, 

But  I  can  make  respective  in  myself, 

If  this  fond  Love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 

Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 

For  'tis  thy  rival.     O  thou  senseless  form, 

Thou  shalt  be  worshipp'd,  kiss'd,  loved,  and  adored 

And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 

My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 

I  '11  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake, 

That  used  me  so ;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee !  'Exit. 


104 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  fAct  v»  Sc-  i»  " 

ACT  V— SCENE  I 

Milan.     An  abbey. 

Enter  Eglamour. 

Eg!.  The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky ; 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia,  at  Friar  Patrick's  cell,  should  meet  me. 
She  will  not  fail,  for  lovers  break  not  hours, 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 
See  where  she  comes. 

Enter  Silvia. 

Lady,  a  happy  evening ! 
Sil.  Amen,  amen  !     Go  on,  good  Eglamour, 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey-wall : 
I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 
Egl.  Fear  not :  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  off; 

If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II 
The  same.     The  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  Timrio,  Proteus^  and  Julia. 
Thu.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 
Pro.  O,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was ; 

And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 
Thu.  What,  that  my  leg  is  too  long? 
Pro.  No  ;  that  it  is  too  little. 

Thu.  I  '11  wear  a  boot,  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 
Jul.  [Aside]  But  love  will  not  be  spurr'd  to  what  it  loathes. 
Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 
Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 
TJiu.  Nay  then,  the  wanton  lies ;  my  face  is  black. 
Pro.  But  pearls  are  fair;  and  the  old  saying  is, 

Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 
Jul.  [Aside]  'Tis  true ;  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes  ; 

For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them. 
Thu.  How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 
Pro.  Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 
Thu.  But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love  and  peace  ? 
Jul.  ^Aside\  But  better,  indeed,  when  you  hold  your  peace. 
Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  valour  ? 
Pro.  O,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 
Jul.  [Aside]  She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice. 
Thu.  What  says  she  to  my  birth? 
Pro.  That  you  are  well  derived. 

105  D  2 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

_Jul.  [Aside\  True  ;  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool. 
Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 
Pro.  O,  ay  ;  and  pities  them. 
Thu.  Wherefore? 

JuL  [Aside]  That  such  an  ass  should  owe  them, 
Pro.  That  they  are  out  by  lease. 
JuL  Here  comes  the  duke. 

Enter  Ditkti 
Duke.  How  now,  Sir  Proteus  !  how  now,  Thuno  1 

Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  1 
Thu.  Not  I. 
Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 
Pro.  Neither. 

Duke.  Why  then, 

She 's  fled  unto  that  peasant  Valentine ; 

And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 

'Tis  true ;  for  Friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 

As  he  in  penance  wander'd  through  the  forest 

Him  he  knew  well,  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she, 

But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sure  of  it ; 

Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 

At  Patrick's  cell  this  even  ;  and  there  she  was  not  \ 

These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 

But  mount  you  presently,  and  meet  with  me 

Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain-foot 

That  leads  toward  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled  : 

Dispatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.  [Exit. 

Thu.  Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl, 

That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her. 

I  '11  after,  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour 

Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  [Exit 

Pro.  And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love 

Than  hate  of  Eglamour,  that  goes  with  her.  [Exit. 

Jul.  And  I  will  follow,  more  to  cross  that  love 

Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III 
The  frontiers  of  Mantua.     The  forest. 

Enter  Outlaws  with  Silvia. 
First  Out.  Come,  come, 

Be  patient ;  we  must  bring  you  to  our  captain. 
Sil.  A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learn'd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

106 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

Sec.  Out.  Come,  bring  her  away. 

First  Out.  Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with  her  ? 

Third  Out.  Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us, 

But  Moses  and  Valerius  follow  him. 

Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood  ; 

There  is  our  captain  :  we  '11  follow  him  that 's  fled ; 

The  thicket  is  beset ;  he  cannot  'scape. 
First  Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's  cave : 

Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind, 

And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 
Sil.  O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee  !  {Exeunt. 

O  TTT 

SCENE  IV 
Another  part  of  the  forest. 

Enter   Valentine. 
Val.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man  1 

This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 

I  better  brook  than  flourishing  peopled  towns. 

Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 

And  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes 

Tune  my  distresses  and  record  my  woes. 

O  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 

Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless, 

Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 

And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 

Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia ; 

Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain  ! 

What  halloing  and  what  stir  is  this  to-day  ? 

These  are  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 

Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase. 

They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do 

To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 

Withdraw  thee,  Valentine  :  who  's  this  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Proteus^  Silvia,  and  Julia. 
Pro.  Madam,  this  service  I  have  done  for  you, 

Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth, 

To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 

That  would  have  forced  your  honour  and  your  love ; 

Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look; 

A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg, 

And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 
Val.  [Aside]  How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ! 

Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  awhile. 
Sil.  O  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
Pro.  Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came ; 

107 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of.  Verona 

But  by  my  coming  I  have  made  you  happy. 
Sil.  By  thy  approach  thou  makest  me  most  unhappy. 
ful.  [Aside]  And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your  presence. 
Sil.   Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 

I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 

Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 

O,  Heaven  be  judge  how  I  love  Valentine, 

Whose  life 's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ! 

And  full  as  much,  for  more  there  cannot  be, 

I  do  detest  false  perjured  Proteus. 

Therefore  be  gone  ;  solicit  me  no  more. 
Pro.  What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to  death, 

Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look  ! 

O,  'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approved, 

When  women  cannot  love  where  they  're  beloved ! 
Sil.  When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he's  beloved. 

Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first,  best  love, 

For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 

Into  a  thousand  oaths ;  and  all  those  oaths 

Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me. 

Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  'dst  two, 

And  that 's  far  worse  than  none ;  better  have  none 

Than  plural  faith  which  is  too  much  by  one : 

Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  ! 
Pro.  In  love 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 

Can  no  way  change  you  to' a  milder  form, 

I  '11  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end, 

And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love, — force  ye. 
Sil.  O  heaven  ! 

Pro.  I  '11  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Val.  Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil  touch, 

Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion  ! 
Pro.  Valentine ! 

Val.  Thou  common  friend,  that 's  without  faith  or  love, 

For  such  is  a  friend  now ;  treacherous  man  ! 

Thou  hast  beguiled  my  hopes  ;  nought  but  mine  eye 

Could  have  persuaded  me  :  now  I  dare  not  say 

I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  wouldst  disprove  me. 

Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 

Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 

I  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more. 

But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 

108 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

The  private  wound  is  deepest :  O  time  most  accurst, 

'Mongst  all  foes  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst  1 
Pro.  My  shame  and  guilt  confounds  me. 

Forgive  me,  Valentine  :  if  hearty  sorrow 

Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 

I  tender 't  here ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer 

As  e'er  I  did  commit. 
Val.  Then  I  am  paid  ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest 

Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied 

Is  nor  of  heaven  nor  earth,  for  these  are  pleased. 

By  penitence  the  Eternal's  wrath 's  appeased  : 

And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 

All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee. 

Jul.  O  me  unhappy  !  [Swoons. 

Pro.  Look  to  the  boy.  [Look  up ;  speak. 

Val.  Why,   boy !    why,  wag !    how  now  !    what 's  the  matter  ? 

JuL  O  good  sir,  my  master  charged  me  to  deliver  a  ring  to 

Madam  Silvia,  which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was  never  done. 
Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 
JuL  Here  'tis  ;  this  is  it. 

Pro.  How  !  let  me  see  : 

Why,  this  is  the  ring  I  gave  to  Julia. 
Jul.  O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir,  I  have  mistook : 

This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia. 
Pro.  But  how  earnest  thou  by  this  ring  ?     At  my  depart 

I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 
JuL  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me ; 

And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 
Pro.  How  !  Julia  ! 
JuL  Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths, 

And  entertain'd  'em  deeply  in  her  heart. 

How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! 

O  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush ! 

Be  thou  ashamed  that  I  have  took  upon  me 

Such  an  immodest  raiment,  if  shame  live 

In  a  disguise  of  love  : 

It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes  than  men  their  minds. 
Pro.  Than  men  their  minds  !  'tis  true.     O  heaven,  were  man 

But  constant,  he  were  perfect !     That  one  error 

Fills  him  with  faults ;  makes  him  run  through  all  the  sins : 

Inconstancy  falls  off  ere  it  begins. 

What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 

More  fresh  in  Julia's  with  a  constant  eye? 

109 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Val.  Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either : 

Let  me  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close ; 

'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 
Pro.  Bear  witness,  Heaven,  I  have  my  wish  for  ever. 
Jul.  And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  Duke  and  Thurio. 
Outlaws.  A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize  ! 
Val.  Forbear,  forbear,  I  say  !  it  is  my  lord  the  duke. 

Your  Grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgraced, 

Banished  Valentine. 
Duke.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.  Yonder  is  Silvia  ;  and  Silvia 's  mine. 
Val.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death ; 

Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath ; 

Do  not  name  Silvia  thine  ;  if  once  again, 

Verona  shall  not  hold  thee.     Here  she  stands  : 

Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch  : 

I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 
Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I : 

I  hold  him  but  a  fool  that  will  endanger 

His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 

I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 
Duke.  The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 

To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 

And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. 

Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 

I  do  applaud  thy  spirit  Valentine, 

And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love : 

Know,  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 

Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again, 

Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrival'd  merit, 

To  which  I  thus  subscribe :  Sir  Valentine, 

Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  derived ; 

Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserved  her. 
Val.  I  thank  your  Grace ;  the  gift  hath  made  me  happy. 

I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 

To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 
Duke.  I  grant  it,  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 
Val.  These  banish'd  men  that  I  have  kept  withal 

Are  men  endured  with  worthy  qualities  : 

Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 

And  let  them  be  recall'd  from  their  exile: 

They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 

And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 
Duke.  Thou  hast  prevail'd ;  I  pardon  them  and  thee : 

no 


Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

Dispose  of  them  as  thou  know'st  their  deserts. 

Come,  let  us  go  :  we  will  include  all  jars 

With  triumphs,  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 
Val  And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 

With  our  discourse  to  make  your  Grace  to  smile. 

What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 
Duke.  I  think  the  boy  hath  gface  in  him ;  he  blushes. 
Val.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  more  grace  than  boy. 
Duke.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 
Val.  Please  you,  I  '11  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 

That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. 

Come,  Proteus  j  'tis  your  penance  but  to  hear 

The  story  of  your  loves  discovered  : 

That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours  -t 

One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness.  [Exeunt. 

• 
. 

• 
• 

- 
. 

i 

. 

• 
i< 


' 


• 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR 


• 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 
FENTON,  a  gentleman. 
SHALLOW,  a  country  justice. 
SIENDER,  cousin  to  Shallow. 
FOKD,  \two     gentlemen      dwelling 
PAGE,  /  at  Windsor. 
WILLIAM  PAGE,  a  boy,  son  to  Page. 
SIR  HUGH  EVANS,  a  Welsh  parson. 
DOCTOK  CAIUS,  a  French  physician. 
Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 


attending 


NVM 


alstaff. 
SIMPLE,  servant  to  Slender. 
RUGBY,  servant  to  Doctor  Caius. 


MISTRESS  FORD. 

MISTRESS  PAGE. 

ANNE  PAGE,  her  daughter. 

MISTRESS    QUICKLY,    servant  to  Doctor 

Caius. 

Servants  to  Page,  Ford,  etc. 
SCENE  :  Windsor  and  the  neighbourhood. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 

Windsor.     Before  Page's  house. 

Enter  Justice  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Shal.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not ;  I  will  make  a  Star-chamber 
matter  of  it :  if  he  were  twenty  Sir  John  Falstaffs,  he  shall 
not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  esquire. 

S/en.  In  the  county  of  Gloucester,  justice  of  peace  and  '  Coram.' 

Shal.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  *  Custalorum.' 

Slen.  Ay,  and  *  Rato-lorum '  too  ;  and  a  gentleman  born,  master 
parson  ;  who  writes  himself  *  Armigero,'  in  any  bill,  warrant, 
quittance,  or  obligation,  '  Armigero.'  [hundred  years. 

Shal.  Ay,  that  I  do ;    and   have  done  any  time  these  three 

Slen.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  hath  done 't ;  and  all 
his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may  :  they  may  give  the 
dozen  white  luces  in  their  coat. 

Shal.  It  is  an  old  coat. 

Evans.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old  coat  well ; 
it  agrees  well,  passant ;  it  is  a  familiar  beast  to  man,  and 
signifies  love. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish ;  the  salt  fish  is  an  old  coat. 

Slen.  I  may  quarter,  coz. 

Shal.  You  may,  by  marrying. 

Evans.  It  is  marring  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 

Skal.  Not  a  whit. 

Evans.  Yes,  py'r  lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your  coat,  there 
is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my  simple  conjectures  :  but 
that  is  all  one.  If  Sir  John  Falstaff  have  committed  dis 
paragements  unto  you,  I  am  of  the  church,  and  will  be  glad 
to  do  my  benevolence  to  make  atonements  and  compromises 
between  you. 

Shal.  The  council  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

Evans.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  a  riot ;  there  is  no  fear 
of  Got  in  a  riot :  the  council,  look  you,  shall  desire  to  hear 

I  12 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot ;  take  your  vizaments 
in  that.  [end  it. 

ShaL  Ha  !  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword  should 

Evans.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and  end  it :  and 
there  is  also  another  device  in  my  prain,  which  peradventure 
prings  goot  discretions  with  it :— there  is  Anne  Page,  which 
is  daughter  to  Master  Thomas  Page,  which  is  pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown  hair,  and  speaks 
small  like  a  woman. 

Evans.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  orld,  as  just  as  you  will 
desire  ;  and  seven  hundred  pounds  of  moneys,  and  gold  and 
silver,  is  her  grandsire  upon  his  death's-bed  (Got  deliver  to  a 
joyful  resurrections  !)  give,  when  she  is  able  to  overtake  seven 
teen  years  old  :  it  were  a  goot  motion  if  we  leave  our  pribbles 
and  prabbles,  and  desire  a  marriage  between  Master  Abraham 
and  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Slen.   Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred  pound  ? 

Evans.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter  penny. 

Slen.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she  has  good  gifts. 

Evans.  Seven  hundred  pounds  and  possibilities  is  goot  gifts. 

ShaL  Well,  let  us  see  honest  Master  Page.     Is  Falstaff  there  ? 

Evans.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie?  I  do  despise  a  liar  as  I  do 
despise  one  that  is  false,  or  as  I  despise  one  that  is  not  true. 
The  knight,  Sir  John,  is  there ;  and,  I  beseech  you,  be  ruled 
by  your  well-willers.  I  will  peat  the  door  for  Master  Page. 
[Knocks]  What,  hoa !  Got  pless  your  house  here  ! 

Page.  [Within]  Who's  there? 

Enter  Page. 

Evans.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend,  and  Justice 
Shallow ;  and  here  young  Master  Slender,  that  peradventures 
shall  tell  you  another  tale,  if  matters  grow  to  your  likings. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well.  I  thank  you  for  my 
venison,  Master  Shallow. 

ShaL  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you :  much  good  do  it 
your  good  heart  !  I  wished  your  venison  better !  it  was  ill 
killed.  How  doth  good  Mistress  Page? — and  I  thank  you 
always  with  my  heart,  la !  with  my  heart. 

Page.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

ShaL  Sir,  I  thank  you ;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  Master  Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ?    I  heard  say  he  was 

Page.  It  could  not  be  judged,  sir.  [outrun  on  Cotsall. 

Slen.  You  '11  not  confess,  you  '11  not  confess. 

ShaL  That  he  will  not.     'Tis  your  fault,  'tis  your  fault ;  'tis  a 

Page.  A  cur,  sir.  [good  dog. 


>rnce 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

ShaL  Sir,  he 's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog  :  can  there  be  more 

said  ?  he  is  good  and  fair.     Is  Sir  John  Falstaff  here  ? 
Page.  Sir,  he  is  within  ;  and  I  would  I  could  do  a  good  office 

between  you. 

Evans.  It  is  spoke  as  a  Christians  ought  to  speak. 
Shal.  He  hath  wronged  me,  Master  Page. 
Page.  Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 
ShaL  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  redressed  :  is  not  that  so, 

Master  Page  ?    He  hath  wronged  me ;  indeed  he  hath  ;  at  a 

word,  he  hath,  believe  me :  Robert  Shallow,  esquire,  saith  he 
Page.  Here  comes  Sir  John.  [is  wronged. 

Enter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol. 
Fal.  Now,  Master  Shallow,  you  '11  complain  of  me  to  the  king? 
ShaL  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed  my  deer,  and 

broke  open  my  lodge. 

Fal.  But  not  kissed  your  keeper's  daughter  ? 
ShaL  Tut,  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answered. 
Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight ;  I  have  done  all  this.     That  is 
Shal.  The  council  shall  know  this.  [now  answered. 

Fal.  'Twere  better  for  you  if  it  were  known  in  counsel :  you  '11 
Evans.  Pauca  verba,  Sir  John  ;  goot  worts.  [be  laughed  at. 
Fal.  Good  worts  !  good  cabbage.  Slender,  I  broke  your  head  ; 

what  matter  have  you  against  me  ? 
Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head  against  you ;  and 

against  your  cony-catching  rascals,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol. 
Bard.  You  Ban  bury  cheese  ! 
Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 
Pist.  How  now,  Mephostophilus  ! 
Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Nym.  Slice,  I  say  !  pauca,  pauca  :  slice  !  that 's  my  humour. 
Slen.  Where's  Simple,  my  man?     Can  you  tell,  cousin? 
Evans.  Peace,  I  pray  you.     Now  let  us  understand.     There  is 

three  umpires  in  this  matter,  as  I  understand  ;  that  is,  Master 

Page,  fidelicet  Master  Page;   and  there  is  myself,  fidelicet 

myself;  and  the  three  party  is,  lastly  and  finally,  mine  host 

of  the  Garter. 

Page.  We  three,  to  hear  it  and  end  it  between  them. 
Evans.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in  my  note-book  ; 

and  we  will  afterwards  ork  upon  the  cause  with -as  great 

discreetly  as  we  can. 
Fal.  Pistol! 

Pist.  He  hears  with  ears. 
Evans.  The  tevil  and  his  tarn  !  what  phrase  is  this,  '  He  hears 

with  ear '  ?  why,  it  is  affectations. 
Fal.  Pistol,  did  you  pick  Master  Slender's  purse  ? 

114 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  or  I  would  I  might  never 

come  in  mine  own  great  chamber  again  else,  of  seven  groats 

in  mill-sixpences,  and  two  Edward  shovel-boards,  that  cost 

me  two  shilling  and  two  pence  a-piece  of  Yead  Miller,  by 

these  gloves. 

Fal.  Is  this  true,  Pistol  ? 
Evans.  No  ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 
Pist.  Ha,  thou  mountain-foreigner  !   Sir  John  and  master  mine, 

I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo. 

Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  here ! 

Word  of  denial  :  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest ! 
Slen.  By  these  gloves,  then,  'twas  he. 
Nym.  Be  avised,  sir,  and  pass  good  humours  :  I  will  say  '  marry 

trap '  with  you,  if  you  run  the  nuthook's  humour  on  me ; 

that  is  the  very  note  of  it. 
Slen.  By  this  hat,  then,  he  in  the  red  face  had  it ;  for  though  I 

cannot  remember  what  I  did  when  you  made  me  drunk,  yet 

I  am  not  altogether  an  ass, 
Fal.  What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ? 
Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say  the  gentleman  had  drunk 

himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Evans.  It  is  his  five  senses  :  fie,  what  the  ignorance  is  ! 
Bard.  And  being  fap,  sir,  was,  as  they  say,  cashiered  ;  and  so 

conclusions  passed  the  careires. 
Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too ;  but  'tis  no,  matter  :  I  '11 

ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again,  but  in  honest,  civil,  godly 

company,  for  this  trick :  if  I  be  drunk,  I  '11  be  drunk  with 

those  that  have  the  fear  of  God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves. 
Evans.  So  Got  udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 
Fal.  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentlemen ;  you  hear  it 

Enter  Anne  Page,  with  wine  ;  Mistress  Ford  and  Mistress 

Page,  following. 
Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in;  we'll  drink  within. 

[Exit  Anne  Page. 

Slen.  O  heaven  !  this  is  Mistress  Anne  Page. 
Page.  How  now,  Mistress  Ford  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very  well  met :  by 

your  leave,  good  mistress.  [Kisses  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome.     Come,  we  have  a 

hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner :  come,  gentlemen,  I  hope  we 

shall  drink  down  all  unkindness. 

[Exeunt  all  except  ShaL,  Slen.,  and  Evans. 
Slen.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  my  book  of  Songs 
and  Sonnets  here. 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Enter  Simple. 

How  now,  Simple  !  where  have  you  been  ?  I  must  wait  on 
myself,  must  I  ?  You  have  not  the  Book  of  Riddles  about 
you,  have  you  ? 

Sim.  Book  of  Riddles  !  why,  did  you  not  lend  it  to  Alice  Short 
cake  upon  All-hallowmas  last,  a  fortnight  afore  Michaelmas  ? 

Shal.  Come,  coz ;  come,  coz ,  we  stay  for  you.  A  word  with 
you,  coz  ;  marry,  this,  coz  :  there  is,  as  'twere,  a  tender,  a  kind 
of  tender,  made  afar  off  by  Sir  Hugh  here.  Do  you  under 
stand  me? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable ;  if  it  be  so,  I  shall 
do  that  that  is  reason. 

ShaL  Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.  So  I  do,  sir. 

Evans.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  Master  Slender :  I  will  de 
scription  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be  capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says :  I  pray  you, 
pardon  me ;  he 's  a  justice  of  peace  in  his  country,  simple 
though  I  stand  here. 

Evans.  But  that  is  not  the  question  :  the  question  is  concerning 

ShaL  Ay,  there  's  the  point,  sir.  [your  marriage. 

Evans.  Marry,  is  it ;  trie  very  point  of  it ;  to  Mistress  Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon  any  reasonable 
demands. 

Evans.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman  ?  Let  us  command 
to  know  that  of  your  mouth  or  of  your  lips ;  for  divers  phi 
losophers  hold  that  the  lips  is  parcel  of  the  mouth.  There 
fore,  precisely,  can  you  carry  your  good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

Shal.  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  her  ? 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir,  I  will  do  as  it  shall  become  one  that  would 
do  reason. 

Evans.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies  !  you  must  speak  pos- 
sitable,  if  you  can  carry  her  your  desires  towards  her. 

ShaL  That  you  must.     Will  you,  upon  good  dowry,  marry  her  ? 

Slen.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon  your  request, 
cousin,  in  any  reason. 

ShaL  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz :  what  I  do  is 
to  pleasure  you,  coz.  Can  you  love  the  maid  ? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request :  but  if  there  be  no 
great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet  heaven  may  decrease  it  upon 
better  acquaintance,  when  we  are  married  and  have  more 
occasion  to  know  one  another ;  I  hope,  upon  familiarity  will 
grow  more  contempt  :  but  if  you  say,  '  Marry  her,'  I  will 
marry  her  ;  that  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 
Evans.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer ;  save  the  fall  is  in  the  ort 

116 


I 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

'  dissolutely ' :  the  ort  is,  according  to  our  meaning,  *  reso 
lutely  ' :  his  meaning  is  good. 

Shal.  Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

•Slen.  Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hanged,  la  ! 

Shal.  Here  comes  fair  Mistress  Anne. 

Re-enter  Anne  Page. 
Would  I  were  young  for  your  sake,  Mistress  Anne. 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table;  my  father  desires  your 
worships'  company. 

Shal.  I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  Mistress  Anne. 

Evans.  Od's  plessed  will  !     I  will  not  be  absence  at  the  grace. 

\Exeunt  Shallow  and  Evans. 

Anne.  Will 't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir  ? 

Slen.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily;  I  am  very  well. 

Anne.  The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth.  Go,  sirrah, 
for  all  you  are  my  man,  go  wait  upon  my  cousin  Shallow. 
[Exit  Simple.~\  A  justice  of  peace  sometime  may  be  be 
holding  to  his  friend  for  a  man.  I  keep  but  three  men  and 
a  boy  yet,  till  my  mother  be  dead  :  but  what  though  ?  yet 
I  live  like  a  poor  gentleman  born.  [till  you  come. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship  :  they  will  not  sit 

Slen.  I'  faith,  I  '11  eat  nothing  ;  I  thank  you  as  much  as  though 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in.  [I  did. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you.  I  bruised  my  shin 
th'  other  day  with  playing  at  sword  and  dagger  with  a  master 
of  fence  ;  three  veneys  for  a  dish  of  stewed  prunes ;  and,  by 
my  troth,  I  cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since.  Why 
do  your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i'  the  town  ? 

Anne.  I  think  there  are,  sir ;  I  heard  them  talked  of. 

Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon  quarrel  at  it  as 
any  man  in  England.  You  are  afraid,  if  you  see  the  bear 
loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.  Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That 's  meat  and  drink  to  me,  now.  I  have  seen  Sacker- 
son  loose  twenty  times,  and  have  taken  him  by  the  chain  ; 
but,  I  warrant  you,  the  women  have  so  cried  and  shrieked 
at  it,  that  it  passed  :  but  women,  indeed,  cannot  abide  'em  ; 
they  are  very  ill-favoured  rough  things. 
Re-enter  Page. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  Master  Slender,  come  ;  we  stay  for  you. 

Slen.  I  '11  eat  nothing,  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Page.  By  cock  and  pie,  you  shall  not  choose,  sir  !  come,  come. 

Slen.  Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.  Come  on,  sir. 

117 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 
Anne.  Not  I,  sir ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 
Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first ;  truly,  la!  I  will  not  do  you 
Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir.  [that  wrong. 

Slen.  I'll  rather  be  unmannerly  than  troublesome.     You  do 
yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  same. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 
Evans.  Go,  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Caius'  house  which 

is  the  way :  and  there  dwells  one  Mistress  Quickly,  which  is 

in  the  manner  of  his  nurse,  or  his  dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or 

his  laundry,  his  washer,  and  his  wringer. 
Sim.  Well,  sin 
Evans.  Nay,  it  is  petter  yet.     Give  her  this  letter ;  for  it  is  a 

'oman  that  altogether's  acquaintance  with   Mistress    Anne 

Page :  and  the  letter  is,  to  desire  and  require  her  to  solicit 

your  master's  desires  to  Mistress  Anne  Page.     I  pray  you, 

be  gone  :  I  will  make  an  end  of  my  dinner  ;  there 's  pippins 

and  cheese  to  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
A  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Fahtaff,  Host,  Bardolph,  Nym,  Pistol,  and  Robin. 
Fal.  Mine  host  of  the  Garter  ! 

Host.  What  says  my  bully-rook  ?  speak  scholarly  and  wisely. 
Fal.  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some  of  my  followers. 
Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules;  cashier:  let  them  wag;  trot,  trot. 
Fal.  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  week. 
Host.  Thou'rt  an  Emperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and  Pheezar.     I 

will  entertain  Bardolph  ;  he  shall  draw,  he  shall  tap  :  said  I 

well,  bully  Hector  ? 
Fal.  Do  so,  good  mine  host. 
Host.  I  have  spoke  ;  let  him  follow.     [To  Bard, .]     I^et  me  see 

thee  froth  and  lime :  I  am  at  a  word  ;  follow.  [Exit. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  follow  him.     A  tapster  is  a  good  trade  :  an  old 

cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin ;  a  withered  serving-man  a  fresh 

tapster.     Go;  adieu. 

Bard.  It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desired :  I  will  thrive. 
Pist.  O  base  Hungarian  wight !  wilt  thou  the  spigot  wield  ? 

[Exit  Bardolph. 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  drink  :  is  not  the  humour  conceited  ? 
Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinder-box  :  his  thefts  were 

too  open ;  his  filching  was  like  an  unskilful  singer ;  he  kept 

not  time. 

118 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Nym.  The  good  humour  is  to  steal  at  a  minute's  rest. 

Pist.  *  Convey,'  the  wise  it  call.     '  Steal ! '  foh  !  a  fico  for  the 

FaL  Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels.  [phrase  1 

Pist.  Why,  then,  let  kibes  ensue. 

FaL  There  is  no  remedy ;  I  must  cony -catch :  I  must  shift. 

Pist.  Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

FaL  Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town  ? 

Pist.  I  ken  the  wight ;  he  is  of  substance  good. 

FaL  My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am  about. 

Pist.  Two  yards,  and  more. 

FaL  No  quips  now,  Pistol !  Indeed,  I  am  in  the  waist  two 
yards  about ;  but  I  am  now  about  no  waste ;  I  am  about 
thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to  make  love  to  Ford's  wife :  I 
spy  entertainment  in  her;  she  discourses,  she  carves,  she 
gives  the  leer  of  invitation  :  I  can  construe  the  action  of  her 
familiar  style  ;  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her  behaviour,  to  be 
Englished  rightly  is,  *  I  am  Sir  John  Falstaffs.' 

Pist.  He  hath  studied  her  will,  and  translated  her  will,  out  of 
honesty  into  English. 

Nym.  The  anchor  is  deep  :  will  that  humour  pass  ? 

FaL  Now,  the  report  goes  she  has  all  the  rule  of  her  husband's 
purse  :  he  hath  a  legion  of  angels. 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain ;  and  *  To  her,  boy,'  say  I. 

Nym.  The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good  :  humour  me  the  angels. 

FaL  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her :  and  here  another  to 
Page's  wife,  who  even  now  gave  me  good  eyes  too,  examined 
my  parts  with  most  judicious  ceillades ;  sometimes  the  beam 
of  her  view  gilded  my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly. 

Pist.  Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shine. 

Nym.  I  thank  thee  for  that  humour. 

FaL  O,  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors  with  such  a  greedy 
intention,  that  the  appetite  of  her  eye  did  seem  to  scorch 
me  up  like  a  burning-glass  !  Here's  another  letter  to  her: 
she  bears  the  purse  too  ;  she  is  a  region  in  Guiana,  all  gold 
and  bounty.  I  will  be  cheaters  to  them  both,  and  they  shall 
be  exchequers  to  me ;  they  shall  be  my  East  and  West  Indies, 
and  I  will  trade  to  them  both.  Go  bear  thou  this  letter  to 
Mistress  Page;  and  thou  this  to  Mistress  Ford  :  we  will  thrive, 
lads,  we  will  thrive. 
Pist.  Shall  I  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become, 

And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?  then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 
Nym.  I  will  run  no  base  humour :  here,  take  the  humour- 
letter  :  I  will  keep  the  haviour  of  reputation. 
FaL  [To  Robin]  Hold,  sirrah,  bear  you  these  letters  tightly; 
Sail  like  my  pinnace  to  these  golden  shores 
119 


Act  I,  Sc.  iv]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Rogues,  hence,  avaunt !  vanish  like  hailstones,  go  ; 
Trudge,  plod  away  o'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack  ! 
Falstaff  will  learn  the  humour  of  the  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues  !  myself  and  skirted  page. 

[Exeunt  Falstaff  and  Robin. 

Pist.  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts  I  for  gourd  and  fullam  holds, 
And  high  and  low  beguiles  the  rich  and  poor : 
Tester  I  '11  have  in  pouch  when  thou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk  ! 

Nym.  I  have  operations  which  be  humours  of  revenge. 

Pist.  Wilt  thou  revenge  ? 

Nym.  By  welkin  and  her  star  ! 

Pist  With  wit  or  steel  ? 

Nym.  With  both  the  humours,  I : 

I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love  to  Page. 

Pist.  And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold 

How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 

Nym.  My  humour  shall  not  cool ;  I  will  incense  Page  to  deal 
with  poison  ;  I  will  possess  him  with  yellowness,  for  the  revolt 
of  mine  is  dangerous  :  that  is  my  true  humour. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I  second  thee , 
troop  on.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

A  room  in  Doctor  Cains' s  house. 
Enter  Mistress  Quickly,  Simple,  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  What,  John  Rugby !  I  pray  thee,  go  to  the  casement, 
and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master,  Master  Doctor  Caius, 
coming.  If  he  do,  i*  faith,  and  find  anybody  in  the  house, 
here  will  be  an  old  abusing  of  God's  patience  and  the  king's 

Rug.  I  '11  go  watch.  [English. 

Quick.  Go ;  and  we  '11  have  a  posset  for 't  soon  at  night,  in  faith, 
at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire.  \Exit  Rugby -.]  An  honest, 
willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall  come  in  house  withal ; 
and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell-tale  nor  no  breed-bate  :  his  worst 
fault  is,  that  he  is  given  to  prayer ;  he  is  something  peevish 
that  way :  but  nobody  but  has  his  fault ;  but  let  that  pass. 
Peter  Simple,  you  say  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.  And  Master  Slender 's  your  master? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth.  [paring-knife? 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard,  like  a  glover's 

Sim.  No,  forsooth  :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face,  with  a  little 
yellow  beard, — a  Cain-coloured  beard. 

120 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  I,  Sc.  iv 

Quick.  A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  is  as  tall  a  man  of  his  hands  as  any 

is  between  this  and  his  head ;  he  hath  fought  with  a  warrener. 
Quick.  How  say  you  ? — O,  I  should  remember  him  :  does  he  not 

hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were,  and  strut  in  his  gait  ? 
Sim.  Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 
Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse  fortune  !     Tell 

Master  Parson  Evans  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  your  master  : 

Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  wish 

Re-enter  Rugby. 

Rug.  Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master. 
Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent.     Run  in  here,  good  young  man ; 

go  into  this  closet :  he  will  not  stay  long.     [Shuts  Simple  in 

the  closet.]     What,  John  Rugby  !  John  !  what,  John,  I  say  ! 

Go,  John,  go  inquire  for  my  master ;  I  doubt  he  be  not  well, 

that  he  comes  not  home. 

[Singing]  And  down,  down,  adown-a,  &c. 

Enter  Doctor  Cams. 
Caius.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?     I  do  not  like  des  toys.     Pray  you,  go 

and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  boitier  vert, — a  box,  a  green-a 

box  :  do  intend  vat  I  speak  ?  a  green-a  box. 
Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  I  '11  fetch  it  you.     [Aside]  I  am  glad  he 

went  not  in  himself:  if  he  had  found  the  young  man,  he 

would  have  been  horn-mad. 

Caius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fe  !  ma  foi,  il  fait  fort  chaud.     Je  m'en  vais  a 
Quick.  Is  it  this,  sir  ?  [la  cour, — la  grande  affaire. 

Caius.  Oui ;  mette  le  au  mon  pocket :  de'peche,  quickly.    Vere 
Quick.  What,  John  Rugby  !  John  !  [is  dat  knave  Rugby  ? 

Rug.  Here,  sir ! 
Caius.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack  Rugby.    Come, 

take-a  your  rapier,  and  come  after  my  heel  to  the  court. 
Rug.  'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 
Caius.  By  my  trot,  I  tarry  too  long.    Od's  me  !   Qu'ai-j'oubli^  ! 

dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet,  dat  I  vill  not  for  the  varld 

I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  Ay  me,  he  '11  find  the  young  man  there,  and  be  mad ! 
Caius.  O  diable,  diable  !  vat  is  in  my  closet?    Villain  !  larron  ! 

[Pulling  Simple  out]     Rugby,  my  rapier ! 
Quick.  Good  master,  be  content. 
Caius    Wherefore  shall  I  be  content-a? 
Quick.  The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 
Caius.  What  shall  de  honest  man  do  in  my  closet  ?  dere  is  no 

honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 
Quick.  I  beseech  you,  be  not  so  phlegmatic.     Hear  the  truth 

of  it :  he  came  of  an  errand  to  me  from  Parson  Hugh. 

121 


Act  I,  Sc.  iv]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Cai'us.  Veil. 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth ;  to  desire  her  to — 

Quick.  Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Caius.  Peace-a  your  tongue.     Speak-a  your  tale. 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your  maid,  to  speak  a 
good  word  to  Mistress  Anne  Page  for  my  master  in  the  way 
of  marriage.  [fire,  and  need  not. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la  !  but  I  '11  ne'er  put  my  finger  in  the 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ?  Rugby,  bailie  me  some  paper. 
Tarry  you  a  little-a  while.  [  Writes. 

Quick.  [Aside  to  Simple]  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had 
been  thoroughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so  loud 
and  so  melancholy.  But  notwithstanding,  man,  I  '11  do  you 
your  master  what  good  I  can :  and  the  very  yea  and  the  no 
is,  the  French  doctor,  my  master, — I  may  call  him  my  master, 
look  you,  for  I  keep  his  house ;  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew,  bake, 
scour, dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds,  and  doall  myself, — 

Sim.  [Aside  to  Quickly]  'Tis  a  great  charge  to  come  under  one 
body's  hand. 

Quick.  [Aside  to  Simple]  Are  you  avised  o'  that?  you  shall 
find  it  a  great  charge :  and  to  be  up  early  and  down  late ; 
— but  notwithstanding, — to  tell  you  in  your  ear;  I  would 
have  no  words  of  it, — my  master  himself  is  in  love  with 
Mistress  Anne  Page :  but  notwithstanding  that,  I  know 
Anne's  mind, — that  's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Caius.  You  jack'nape,  give-a  this  letter  to  Sir  Hugh ;  by  gar, 
it  is  a  shallenge :  I  will  cut  his  troat  in  de  park ;  and  I  will 
teach  a  scurvy  jack-a-nape  priest  to  meddle  or  make.  You 
may  be  gone  ;  it  is  not  good  you  tarry  here. — By  gar,  I  will 
cut  all  his  two  stones ;  by  gar,  he  shall  not  have  a  stone  to 
throw  at  his  dog.  [Exit  Simple. 

Quick.  Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Caius.  It  is  no  matter-a  ver  dat :— do  not  you  tell-a  me  dat  I 
shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself? — By  gar,  I  vill  kill  de 
Jack  priest ;  and  I  have  appointed  mine  host  of  de  Jarteer  to 
measure  our  weapon. — By  gar,  I  will  myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be  well.  We 
must  give  folks  leave  to  prate :  what,  the  good-jer  ! 

Caius.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  with  me.  By  gar,  if  I  have 
not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head  out  of  my  door. 
Follow  my  heels,  Rugby.  [Exeunt  Caius  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fool's-head  of  your  own.  No,  I 
know  Anne's  mind  for  that :  never  a  woman  in  Windsor 
knows  more  of  Anne's  mind  than  I  do ;  nor  can  do  more 
than  I  do  with  her,  I  thank  heaven. 

122 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Pent.  [  Within}  Who  's  within  there  ?  ho  ! 

Quick.  Who 's  there,  I  trow  ?  Come  near  the  house,  I  pray  you. 
Enter  Fenton. 

Pent.  How  now,  good  woman  !  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better  that  it  pleases  your  good  worship  to  ask. 

Pent.  What  news  ?  how  does  pretty  Mistress  Anne  ? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest,  and  gentle ; 
and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell  you  that  by  the  way ; 
I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

Pent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  think'st  thou  ?  Shall  I  not  lose  my 
suit? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above.:  but  notwith 
standing,  Master  Fenton,  I  '11  be  sworn  on  a  book,  she  loves 
you.  Have  not  your  worship  a  wart  above  your  eye? 

Pent.  Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale  : — good  faith,  it  is  such 
another  Nan  ;  but,  I  detest,  an  honest  maid  as  ever  broke 
bread :  we  had  an  hour's  talk  of  that  wart. — I  shall  never 
laugh  but  in  that  maid's  company ! — But,  indeed,  she  is 
given  too  much  to  allicholy  and  musing  :  but  for  you — well, 
go  to. 

Pent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day.  Hold,  there  's  money  for 
thee ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  behalf :  if  thou  seest  her 
before  me,  commend  me. 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'  faith,  that  we  will ;  and  I  will  tell  your 
worship  more  of  the  wart  the  next  time  we  have  confidence ; 
and  of  other  wooers. 

Pent.  Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  now. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship.  [Exit  Penton.']  Truly,  an 
honest  gentleman  :  but  Anne  loves  him  not ;  for  I  know 
Anne's  mind  as  well  as  another  does. — Out  upon 't !  what 
have  I  forgot  ?  [Exit. 

ACT   II— SCENE  I 
. 

Before  Page's  house. 
Enter  Mistress  Page^  with  a  letter. 

Mrs  Page.  What,  have  I  scaped  love-letters  in  the  holiday- 
time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  subject  for  them  ?  Let 
me  see.  {Reads. 

*  Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you ;  for  though  Love  use 
Reason  for  his  physician,  he  admits  him  not  for  his  coun 
sellor.  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I ;  go  to,  then, 
there  's  sympathy :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I ;  ha,  ha !  then 
there  's  more  sympathy :  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  I ;  would 
you  desire  better  sympathy?  Let  it  suffice  thee,  Mistress 

123 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Page, — at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  soldier  can  suffice, — that  I 
love  thee.     I  will  not  say,  pity  me, — 'tis  not  a  soldier-like 
phrase ;  but  I  say,  love  me.     By  me, 
Thine  own  true  knight, 
By  day  or  night, 
Or  any  kind  of  light, 
With  all  his  might 

For  thee  to  fight. — JOHN  FALSTAFF.' 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this  !  O  wicked,  wicked  world  ! 
One  that  is  well-nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age  to  show  him 
self  a  young  gallant !  What  an  unweighed  behaviour  hath 
this  Flemish  drunkard  picked — with  the  devil's  name  ! — out 
of  my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in  this  manner  assay  me  ? 
Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice  in  my  company  !  What 
should  I  say  to  him  ?  I  was  then  frugal  of  my  mirth  : 
heaven  forgive  me  !  Why,  I  '11  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parlia 
ment  for  the  putting  down  of  men.  How  shall  I  be  revenged 
on  him  ?  for  revenged  I  will  be,  as  sure  as  his  guts  are  made 
of  puddings. 

Enter  Mistress  Ford. 

Mrs  Ford.  Mistress  Page  !  trust  me,  I  was  going  to  your  house. 

Mrs  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you.  You  look 
very  ill. 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  that ;  I  have  to  show  to 
the  contrary. 

Mrs  Page.  Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind. 

Mrs  Ford.  Well,  I  do,  then ;  yet,  I  say,  I  could  show  you  to 
the  contrary.  O  Mistress  Page,  give  me  some  counsel ! 

Mrs  Page.  What 's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  O  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one  trifling  respect,  I 
could  come  to  such  honour  ! 

Mrs  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman  !  take  the  honour.  What 
is  it  ? — dispense  with  trifles ; — what  is  it  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an  eternal  moment 
or  so,  I  could  be  knighted. 

Mrs  Page.  What  ?  thou  liest !  Sir  Alice  Ford  !  These  knights 
will  hack  ;  and  so  thou  shouldst  not  alter  the  article  of  thy 
gentry. 

Mrs  Ford.  We  burn  daylight : — here,  read,  read ;  perceive  how 
I  might  be  knighted.  I  shall  think  the  worse  of  fat  men,  as 
long  as  I  have  an  eye  to  make  difference  of  men's  liking : 
and  yet  he  would  not  swear ;  praised  women's  modesty ;  and 
gave  such  orderly  and  well-behaved  reproof  to  all  uncomeli- 
ness,  that  I  would  have  sworn  his  disposition  would  have 
gone  to  the  truth  of  his  words  !  but  they  do  no  more  adhere 

124 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

and  keep  place  together  than  the  Hundredth  Psalm  to  the 
tune  of  '  Green  Sleeves.'  What  tempest,  I  trow,  threw  this 
whale,  with  so  many  tuns  of  oil  in  his  belly,  ashore  at 
Windsor  ?  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  ?  I  think  the 
best  way  were  to  entertain  him  with  hope,  till  the  wicked 
fire  of  lust  have  melted  him  in  his  own  grease.  Did  you 
ever  hear  the  like? 

Mrs  Page.  Letter  for  letter,  but  that  the  name  of  Page  and 
Ford  differs  !  To  thy  great  comfort  in  this  mystery  of 
ill  opinions,  here's  the  twin-brother  of  thy  letter:  but  let 
thine  inherit  first ;  for,  I  protest,  mine  never  shall.  I  warrant 
he  hath  a  thousand  of  these  letters,  writ  with  blank  space  for 
different  names,  sure,  more, — and  these  are  of  the  second 
edition :  he  will  print  them,  out  of  doubt ;  for  he  cares  not 
what  he  puts  into  the  press,  when  he  would  put  us  two.  I 
had  rather  be  a  giantess,  and  lie  under  Mount  Pelion.  Well, 
I  will  find  you  twenty  lascivious  turtles  ere  one  chaste  man. 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  this  is  the  very  same ;  the  very  hand,  the 
very  words.  What  doth  he  think  of  us? 

Mrs  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not :  it  makes  me  almost  ready  to 
wrangle  with  mine  own  honesty.  I  '11  entertain  myself  like 
one  that  I  am  not  acquainted  withal ;  for,  sure,  unless  he 
know  some  strain  in  me,  that  I  know  not  myself,  he  would 
never  have  boarded  me  in  this  fury. 

Mrs  Ford.  '  Boarding,'  call  you  it  ?  I  '11  be  sure  to  keep  him 
above  deck. 

Mrs  Page.  So  will  I :  if  he  come  under  my  hatches,  I  '11  never 
to  sea  again.  Let 's  be  revenged  on  him  :  let  's  appoint  him 
a  meeting ;  give  him  a  show  of  comfort  in  his  suit,  and  lead 
him  on  with  a  fine-baited  delay,  till  he  hath  pawned  his 
horses  to  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  villainy  against  him, 
that  may  not  sully  the  chariness  of  our  honesty.  O,  that  my 
husband  saw  this  letter !  it  would  give  eternal  food  to  his 
jealousy. 

Mrs  Page.  Why,  look  where  he  comes ;  and  my  good  man 
too :  he 's  as  far  from  jealousy  as  I  am  from  giving  him 
cause;  and  that,  I  hope,  is  an  unmeasurable  distance. 

Mrs  Ford.  You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs  Page.  Let's  consult  together  against  this  greasy  knight. 
Come  hither.  [They  retire. 

Enter  Ford,  with  Pistol,  and  Page,  with  Nym. 

Ford.  Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtal  dog  in  some  affairs : 
Sir  John  affects  thy  wife. 

125 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Ford.  Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 

Pist.  He  wooes  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and  poor, 

Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another,  Ford ; 

He  loves  the  gallimaufry  :  Ford,  perpend. 
Ford.  Love  my  wife  ! 
Pist.  With  liver  burning  hot.     Prevent,  or  go  thou, 

Like  Sir  Actseon  he,  with  Ringwood  at  thy  heels ; 

O,  odious  is  the  name  1 
Ford.  What  name,  sir  ? 
Pist.  The  horn,  I  say.     Farewell. 

Take  heed ;  have  open  eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by  night : 

Take  heed,  ere  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo-birds  do  sing. 

Away,  Sir  Corporal  Nym  ! — 

Believe  it,  Page ;  he  speaks  sense.  [Exit. 

Ford.  [Aside]  I  will  be  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 
Nym.  \To  Page]  And  this  is  true ;  I  like  not  the  humour  of 

lying.     He  hath  wronged  me  in  some  humours :  I  should 

have  borne  the  humoured  letter  to  her ;  but  I  have  a  sword, 

and  it  shall  bite  upon  my  necessity.     He  loves  your  wife : 

there 's  the  short  and  the  long.     My  name  is  Corporal  Nym ; 

I  speak,  and  I  avouch ;  'tis  true :  my  name  is  Nym,  and 

Falstaff  loves  your  wife.     Adieu.     I  love  not  the  humour  of 

bread  and  cheese ;  and  there 's  the  humour  of  it.     Adieu. 

{Exit. 

Page.  '  The  humour  of  it/  quoth  'a !  here 's  a  fellow  frights 
Ford.  I  will  seek  out  Falstaff.  [English  out  of  his  wits. 

Page.  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling,  affecting  rogue. 
Ford.  If  1  do  find  it :— well. 
Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Cataian,  though  the  priest  o' 

the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 
Ford.  'Twas  a  good  sensible  fellow  :— well. 
Page.  How  now,  Meg !  [Mrs  Page  and  Mrs  Ford  come  forward. 
Mrs  Page.  Whither  go  you,  George  ?     Hark  you. 
Mrs  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  !  why  art  thou  melancholy  ? 
Ford.  I  melancholy  !  I  am  not  melancholy.    Get  you  home,  go. 
Mrs   Ford.   Faith,    thou   hast   some   crotchets   in   thy   head. 

Now,  will  you  go,  Mistress  Page? 
Mrs  Page.  Have  with  you.     You  '11  come  to  dinner,  George  ? 

{Aside  to  Mrs  Ford]     Look  who  comes  yonder :  she  shall 

be  our  messenger  to  this  paltry  knight. 
Mrs  Ford.  [Aside  to  Mrs  Page]  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her : 

she  '11  fit  it. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 

Mrs  Page.  You  are  come  to  see  my  daughter  Anne?     [Anne? 
Quick.  Ay,  forsooth;  and,   I  pray,   how  does  good   Mistress 

126 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Mrs  Page.  Go  in  with  us  and  see :  we  have  an  hour's  talk 
with  you.  [Exeunt  Mrs  Page,  Mrs  Ford^  and  Mrs  Quickly. 

Page.  How  now,  Master  Ford  ! 

Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me,  did  you  not  ? 

Page.  Yes  :  and  you  heard  what  the  other  told  me  ? 

Ford.  Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves !  I  do  not  think  the  knight  would 
offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him  in  his  intent  towards  our 
wives  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded  men ;  very  rogues,  now 

Ford.  Were  they  his  men  ?  [they  be  out  of  service. 

Page.  Marry,  were  they.  [Garter  ? 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that.     Does  he  lie  at  the 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend  this  voyage 
toward  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose  to  him ;  and  what 
he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp  words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife ;  but  I  would  be  loath  to 
turn  them  together.  A  man  may  be  too  confident :  I  would 
have  nothing  lie  on  my  head  :  I  cannot  be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look  where  my  ranting  host  of  the  Garter  comes :  there 
is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money  in  his  purse,  when  he 
looks  so  merrily. 

Enter  Host. 
How  now,  mine  host ! 

Host.  How  now,  bully-rook  !  thou  'rt  a  gentleman.  Cavaleiro- 
justice,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Shallow. 

Shal.  I  follow,  mine  host,  I  follow.  Good  even  and  twenty, 
good  Master  Page  !  Master  Page,  will  you  go  with  us  ?  we 
have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavaleiro- justice  ;  tell  him,  bully-rook. 

Shal.  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought  between  Sir  Hugh  the 
Welsh  priest  and  Caius  the  French  doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  with  you. 

[Drawing  him  aside. 

Host.  What  say'st  thou,  my  bully-rook  ? 

Shal.  [To  Page}  \Vill  you  go  with  us  to  behold  it  ?  My  merry 
host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their  weapons ;  and,  I  think, 
hath  appointed  them  contrary  places ;  for,  believe  me,  I  hear 
the  parson  is  no  jester.  Hark,  I  will  tell  you  what  our  sport 
shall  be.  [They  converse  apart. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  myguest-cavaleire? 

Ford.  None,  I  protest:  but  I'll  give  you  a  pottle  of  burnt 
sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell  him  my  name  is 
Brook ;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully  ;  thou  shalt  have  egress  and  regress  j — 

127 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

said  I  well  ? — and  thy  name  shall  be  Brook.     It  is  a  merry 
knight.     Will  you  go,  An-heires  ? 

Shal.  Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard  the  Frenchman  hath  good  skill  in  his  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more.  In  these  times 
you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes,  stoccadoes,  and  I  know 
not  what :  'tis  the  heart,  Master  Page ;  'tis  here,  'tis  here. 
I  have  seen  the  time,  with  my  long  sword  I  would  have 
made  you  four  tall  fellows  skip  like  rats. 

Host,  Here,  boys,  here,  here !  shall  we  wag  ? 

Page.  Have  with  you.  I  had  rather  hear  them  scold  than 
fight.  [Exeunt  Host,  Shal.,  and  Page. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands  so  firmly  on 
his  wife's  frailty,  yet  I  cannot  put  off  my  opinion  so  easily  : 
she  was  in  his  company  at  Page's  house ;  and  what  they 
made  there,  I  know  not.  Well,  I  will  look  further  into  't : 
and  I  have  a  disguise  to  sound  Falstaff.  If  I  find  her 
honest,  I  lose  not  my  labour ;  if  she  be  otherwise,  'tis  labour 
well  bestowed.  \Exit. 

SCENE  II 

A  room  in  the   Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Pistol. 

Fal.  I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.  Why,  then  the  world 's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open. 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you  should  lay 
my  countenance  to  pawn :  I  have  grated  upon  my  good 
friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you  and  your  coach-fellow 
Nym ;  or  else  you  had  looked  through  the  grate,  like  a 
geminy  of  baboons.  I  am  damned  in  hell  for  swearing  to 
gentlemen  my  friends,  you  were  good  soldiers  and  tall 
fellows ;  and  when  Mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her 
fan,  I  took  't  upon  mine  honour  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.  Didst  not  thou  share?  hadst  thou  not  fifteen  pence? 

Fal.  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason  :  think'st  thou  I  '11  endanger 
my  soul  gratis  ?  At  a  word,  hang  no  more  about  me,  I  am 
no  gibbet  for  you.  Go.  A  short  knife  and  a  throng  ! — To 
your  manor  of  Pickt-hatch  !  Go.  You  '11  not  bear  a  letter 
for  me,  you  rogue  !  you  stand  upon  your  honour !  Why, 
thou  unconfinable  baseness,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
keep  the  terms  of  my  honour  precise :  I,  I  I  myself  some 
times,  leaving  the  fear  of  God  on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding 
mine  honour  in  my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuffle,  to  hedge, 
and  to  lurch ;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will  ensconce  your  rags, 
your  cat-a-mountain  looks,  your  red-lattice  phrases,  and  your 

128 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

bold-beating  oaths,  under  the  shelter  of  your  honour  !     You 
will  not  do  it,  you  ! 

Fist.   I  do  relent :  what  would  thou  more  of  man  ? 
Enter  Robin. 

Rob.  Sir,  here 's  a  woman  would  speak  with  you. 

FaL  Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 

Quick.  Give  your  worship  good  morrow. 

Fal.  Good  morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.  Not  so,  an  't  please  your  worship. 

Fal.  Good  maid,  then. 

Quick.  I  '11  be  sworn  ; 

As  my  mother  was,  the  first  hour  I  was  born. 

Fal.  I  do  believe  the  swearer.     What  with  me  ? 

Quick.  Shall  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word  or  two  ? 

FaL  Two  thousand,  fair  woman  :  and  I  '11  vouchsafe  thee  the 
hearing. 

Quick.  There  is  one  Mistress  Ford,  sir : — I  pray,  come  a  little 
nearer  this  ways : — I  myself  dwell  with  Master  Doctor  Caius, — 

Fal.  Well,  on  :  Mistress  Ford,  you  say, — 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true : — I  pray  your  worship, 
come  a  little  nearer  this  ways.  [own  people. 

Fal.  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears ; — mine  own  people,  mine 

Quick.  Are  they  so  ?     God  bless  them,  and  make  them  his  ser- 

Fal.  Well,  Mistress  Ford ; — what  of  her  ?  [vants  ! 

Quick.  Why,  sir,  she 's  a  good  creature. — Lord,  Lord !  your 
worship's  a  wanton  !  Well,  heaven  forgive  you  and  all  of  us, 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford  ; — come,  Mistress  Ford, —  [I  pray  ! 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it ;  you  have  brought 
her  into  such  a  canaries  as  'tis  wonderful.  The  best  courtier 
of  them  all,  when  the  court  lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have 
brought  her  to  such  a  canary.  Yet  there  has  been  knights, 
and  lords,  and  gentlemen,  with  their  coaches;  I  warrant  you, 
coach  after  coach,  letter  after  letter,  gift  after  gift ;  smelling 
so  sweetly,  all  musk,  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you,  in  silk 
and  gold  ;  and  in  such  alligant  terms  ;  and  in  such  wine  and 
sugar  of  the  best  and  the  fairest,  that  would  have  won  any 
woman's  heart ;  and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  an 
eye-wink  of  her :  I  had  myself  twenty  angels  given  me  this 
morning ;  but  I  defy  all  angels — in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say 
— but  in  the  way  of  honesty :  and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could 
never  get  her  so  much  as  sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proudest  of 
them  all :  and  yet  there  has  been  earls,  nay,  which  is  more, 
pensioners ;  but,  I  warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  her. 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me  ?  be  brief,  my  good  she-Mercury. 

129  E 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Quick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter ;  for  the  which  she 
thanks  you  a  thousand  times ;  and  she  gives  you  to  notify, 
that  her  husband  will  be  absence  from  his  house  between  ten 

FaL  Ten  and  eleven.  [and  eleven. 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth  ;  and  then,  you  may  come  and  see  the  pic 
ture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  of :  Master  Ford,  her  husband, 
will  be  from  home.  Alas,  the  sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life 
with  him  !  he  's  a  very  jealousy  man  :  she  leads  a  very  fram- 
pold  life  with  him,  good  heart. 

FaL  Ten  and  eleven.  Woman,  commend  me  to  her;  I  will 
not  fail  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well.  But  I  have  another  messenger  to 
your  worship.  Mistress  Page  hath  her  hearty  commendations 
to  you,  too  :  and  let  me  tell  you  in  your  ear,  she 's  as  fartuous 
a  civil  modest  wife,  and  one,  I  tell  you,  that  will  not  miss  you 
morning  nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Windsor,  whoe'er  be 
the  other :  and  she  bade  me  tell  your  worship  that  her  hus 
band  is  seldom  from  home ;  but,  she  hopes,  there  will  come 
a  time.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  dote  upon  a  man  :  surely, 
I  think  you  have  charms,  la ;  yes,  in  truth. 

FaL  Not  I,  I  assure  thee :  setting  the  attraction  of  my  good 
parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.  Blessing  on  your  heart  for 't  ! 

FaL  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this  :  has  Ford's  wife  and  Page's 
wife  acquainted  each  other  how  they  love  me  ? 

QuickC  That  were  a  jest  indeed  !  they  have  not  so  little  grace, 
I  hope  :  that  were  a  trick  indeed  !  But  Mistress  Page  would 
desire  you  to  send  her  your  little  page,  of  all  loves  :  her  hus 
band  has  a  marvellous  infection  to  the  little  page ;  and,  truly, 
Master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never  a  wife  in  Windsor 
leads  a  better  life  than  she  does  :  do  what  she  will,  say  what 
she  will,  take  all,  pay  all,  go  to  bed  when  she  list,  rise  when 
she  list,  all  is  as  she  will :  and,  truly,  she  deserves  it ;  for  if 
there  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor,  she  is  one.  You  must 
send  her  your  page ;  no  remedy. 

FaL  Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so,  then :  and,  look  you,  he  may  come  and 
go  between  you  both ;  and,  in  any  case,  have  a  nay-word, 
that  you  may  know  one  another's  mind,  and  the  boy  never 
need  to  understand  any  thing;  for  'tis  not  good  that  children 
should  know  any  wickedness :  old  folks,  you  know,  have 
discretion,  as  they  say,  and  know  the  world. 

FaL  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both :  there 's  my 
purse ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor.  Boy,  go  along  with  this  woman. 
\Exeunt  Mistress  Quickly  and  Robing  This  news  distracts  me! 

130 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Pist.     This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers : 

Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue ;  up  with  your  rights  : 

Give  fire  :  she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all !  [Exit. 

jFal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack  ?  go  thy  ways  ;  I  '11  make  more  of 
thy  old  body  than  I  have  done.  Will  they  yet  look  after 
thee  ?  Wilt  thou,  after  the  expense  of  so  much  money,  be 
now  a  gainer  ?  Good  body,  I  thank  thee  :  Let  them  say  'tis 
grossly  done ;  so  it  be  fairly  done,  no  matter. 
Enter  Bardolph. 

•Bard.  Sir  John,  there's  one  Master  Brook  below  would  fain 
speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with  you ;  and  hath  sent 
your  worship  a  morning's  draught  of  sack. 

Fal.  Brook  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.  Ay,  sir. 

JFal.  Call  him  in.    [Exit  Bardolph.]   Such  Brooks  are  welcome 
to  me,  that  o'erflow  such  liquor.    Ah,  ha  !  Mistress  Ford  and 
Mistress  Page  have  I  encompassed  you  ?  go  to ;  via  ! 
Re-enter  Bardolph,  with  ford  disguised. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir  ! 

JFhl.  And  you,  sir  !  Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Ford.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little  preparation  upon  you. 

Fal.  You  're  welcome.  What 's  your  will  ? — Give  us  leave, 
drawer.  [Exit  Bardolph. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent  much ;  my  name 
is  Brook. 

Fal.  Good  Master  Brook,  I  desire  more  acquaintance  of  you. 

Ford.  Good  Sir  John,  1  sue  for  yours :  not  to  charge  you  ;  for 
I  must  let  you  understand  I  think  myself  in  better  plight  for 
a  lender  than  you  are  :  the  which  hath  something  emboldened 
me  to  this  unseasoned  intrusion  ;  for  they  say,  if  money  go 
before,  all  ways  do  lie  open. 

Fal.  Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here  troubles  me :  if 
you  will  help  to  bear  it,  Sir  John,  take  all,  or  half,  for  easing 
me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be  your  porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the  hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  Master  Brook :  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  your 
servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar, — I  will  be  brief  with  you, — 
and  you  have  been  a  man  long  known  to  me,  though  I  had 
never  so  good  means,  as  desire,  to  make  myself  acquainted 
with  you.  I  shall  discover  a  thing  to  you,  wherein  I  must 
very  much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection :  but,  good  Sir 
John,  as  you  have  one  eye  upon  my  follies,  as  you  hear  them 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

unfolded,  turn  another  into  the  register  of  your  own  ;  that  I 
may  pass  with  a  reproof  the  easier,  sith  you  yourself  know  how 
easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.  Very  well,  sir ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town  ;  her  husband's  name 

Fal.  Well,  sir.  [is  Ford. 

Ford.  I  have  long  loved  her,  and,  I  protest  to  you,  bestowed 
much  on  her ;  followed  her  with  a  doting  observance ;  en 
grossed  opportunities  to  meet  her ;  fee'd  every  slight  occasion 
that  could  but  niggardly  give  me  sight  of  her;  not  only 
bought  many  presents  to  give  her,  but  have  given  largely  to 
many  to  know  what  she  would  have  given  ;  briefly,  I  have 
pursued  her  as  love  hath  pursued  me  ;  which  hath  been  on 
the  wing  of  all  occasions.  But  whatsoever  I  have  merited, 
either  in  my  mind  or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am  sure,  I  have 
received  none ;  unless  experience  be  a  jewel  that  I  have  pur 
chased  at  an  infinite  rate,  and  that  hath  taught  me  to  say  this  : 
*  Love  like  a  shadow  flies  when  substance  love  pursues  ; 
Pursuing  that  that  flies,  and  flying  what  pursues.' 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satisfaction  at  her  hands  ? 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Have  you  importuned  her  to  such  a  purpose? 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then  ? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house  built  on  another  man's  ground  ;  so  that 
I  have  lost  my  edifice  by  mistaking  the  place  where  I  erected 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this  to  me  ?  [it. 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told  you  all.  Some 
say,  that  though  she  appear  honest  to  me,  yet  in  other  places 
she  enlargeth  her  mirth  so  far  that  there  is  shrewd  construction 
made  of  her.  Now,  Sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  pur 
pose  :  you  are  a  gentleman  of  excellent  breeding,  admirable 
discourse,  of  great  admittance,  authentic  in  your  place  and 
person,  generally  allowed  for  your  many  war-like,  court-like, 
and  learned  preparations. 

Fal.  O,  sir ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it.  There  is  money  ;  spend  it, 
spend  it ;  spend  more ;  spend  all  I  have ;  only  give  me  so 
much  of  your  time  in  exchange  of  it,  as  to  lay  an  amiable 
siege  to  the  honesty  of  this  Ford's  wife :  use  your  art  of 
wooing ;  win  her  to  consent  to  you  :  if  any  man  may,  you 

.   may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of  your  affection, 
that  I  should  win  what  you  would  enjoy  ?  Methinks  you 
prescribe  to  yourself  very  preposterously. 

132 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Ford.  O,  understand  my  drift.  She  dwells  so  securely  on  the 
excellency  of  her  honour,  that  the  folly  of  my  soul  does  not 
present  itself :  she  is  too  bright  to  be  looked  against.  Now, 
could  I  come  to  her  with  any  detection  in  my  hand,  my 
desires  had  instance  and  argument  to  commend  themselves  : 
I  could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of  her  purity,  her 
reputation,  her  marriage-vow,  and  a  thousand  other  her 
defences,  which  now  are  too  too  strongly  embattled  against 
me.  What  say  you  to 't,  Sir  John  ? 

FaL  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with  your  money  ; 
next,  give  me  your  hand;  and  last,  as  I  am  a  gentleman, 
you  shall,  if  you  will,  enjoy  Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  O  good  sir  ! 

FaL  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  Want  no  money,  Sir  John  ;  you  shall  want  none. 

FaL  Want  no  Mistress  Ford,  Master  Brook ;  you  shall  want 
none.  I  shall  be  with  her,  I  may  tell  you,  by  her  own 
appointment ;  even  as  you  came  in  to  me,  her  assistant,  or  go- 
between,  parted  from  me :  I  say  I  shall  be  with  her  between 
ten  and  eleven ;  for  at  that  time  the  jealous  rascally  knave 
her  husband  will  be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at  night;  you 
shall  know  how  I  speed.  [sir  ? 

Ford.  I  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.      Do  you  know  Ford, 

FaL  Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave  !  I  know  him  not : — 
yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor ;  they  say  the  jealous 
wittolly  knave  hath  masses  of  money ;  for  the  which  his  wife 
seems  to  me  well-favoured.  I  will  use  her  as  the  key  of  the 
cuckoldy  rogue's  coffer  ;  and  there  's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew,  Ford,  sir,  that  you  might  avoid  him, 
if  you  saw  him. 

FaL  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue  !  I  will  stare  him 
out  of  his  wits  ;  I  will  awe  him  with  my  cudgel :  it  shall  hang 
like  a  meteor  o'er  the  cuckold's  horns.  Master  Brook,  thou 
shalt  know  I  will  predominate  over  the  peasant,  and  thou 
shalt  lie  with  his  wife.  Come  to  me  soon  at  night.  Ford 's 
a  knave,  and  I  will  aggravate  his  style ;  thou,  Master  Brook, 
shalt  know  him  for  knave  and  cuckold.  Come  to  me  soon 
at  night.  {Exit. 

Ford.  What  a  damned  Epicurean  rascal  is  this  !  My  heart  is 
ready  to  crack  with  impatience.  Who  says  this  is  improvi 
dent  jealousy  ?  my  wife  hath  sent  to  him  ;  the  hour  is  fixed  ; 
the  match  is  made.  Would  any  man  have  thought  this? 
See  the  hell  of  having  a  false  woman  !  My  bed  shall  be 
abused,  my  coffers  ransacked,  my  reputation  gnawn  at ;  and 
I  shall  not  only  receive  this  villainous  wrong,  but  stand  under 

133 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

the  adoption  of  abominable  terms,  and  by  him  that  does 
me  this  wrong.  Terms  !  names  ! — Amaimon  sounds  well ; 
Lucifer,  well ;  Barbason,  well ;  yet  they  are  devils'. additions, 
the  names  of  fiends  :  but  Cuckold  !  Wittol !— Cuckold  !  the 
devil  himself  hath  not  such  a  name.  Page  is  an  ass,  a 
secure  ass  :  he  will  trust  his  wife  ;  he  will  not  be  jealous.  I 
will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with  my  butter,  Parson  Hugh  the 
Welshman  with  my  cheese,  an  Irishman  with  my  aqua-vitae 
bottle,  or  a  thief  to  walk  my  ambling  gelding,  than  my  wife 
with  herself :  then  she  plots,  then  she  ruminates,  then  she 
devises  ;  .and  what  they  think  in  their  hearts  they  may  effect, 
they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they  will  effect.  God  be 
praised  for  my  jealousy  ! — Eleven  o'clock  the  hour.  I  will 
prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be  revenged  on  Falstaff,  and 
laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about  it ;  better  three  hours  too  soon 
than  a.  minute  too  late.  Fie,  fie,  fie  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  ! 
cuckold  1  [Exit. 

SCENE  III 

A  field  near   Windsor. 
•    Enter  Cains  and  Rugby. 

Caius.  Jack  Rugby  ! 

Rug.  Sir? 

Caius.  Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack  ? 

Rug.  Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  Sir  Hugh  promised  to  meet 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no  come  ;  he  has 
pray  his  Pible  well,  dat  he  is  no  come  :  by  gar,  Jack  Rugby, 
he  is  dead  already,  if  he  be  come.  [he  came. 

Rug.  He  is  wise,  sir  ;  he  knew  your  worship  would  kill  him,  if 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead  so  as  I  vill  kill  him. 
Take  your  rapier,  Jack  ;  I  vill  tell  you  how  I  vill  kill  him. 

Rug.  Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.  Villainy,  take  your  rapier. 

Rug.  Forbear ;  here 's  company. 

Enter  Host,  Shallow,  Slender,  and  Page. 

Host.  Bless  thee,  bully  doctor  ! 

Shal.  Save  you,  Master  Doctor  Caius  ! 

Page.  Now,  good  master  doctor  ! 

Slen.-  Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

Caius.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come  for  ? 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,  to  see  thee  traverse ; 
to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there;  to  see  thee  pass  thy 
punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy  distance,  thy  montant. 
Is  he  dead,  my  Ethiopian?  is  he  dead,  my  Francisco?  ha, 
bully !  What  says  my  ^Esculapius  ?  my  Galen  ?  my  heart 
of  elder ;  ha  !  is  he  dead,  bully-stale  ? ,  is  he  dead  ? 

134 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Cains.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  de  vorld  ;  he  is 
not  show  his  face.  [my  boy ! 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castalion,  King-Urinal.     Hector  of  Greece, 

Cams:  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  that  me  have  stay  six  or  seven, 
two,  tree  hours  for  him,  and  he  is  no  come. 

ShaL  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor :  he  is  a  curer  of 
souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies  ;  if  you  should  fight,  you  go 
against  the  hair  of  your  professions.  Is  it  not  true,  Master 
Page? 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been  a  great  fighter, 
though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

ShaL  Bodykins,  Master  Page,  though  I  now  be  old,  and  of 
the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my  finger  itches  to  make 
one.  Though  we  are  justices,  and  doctors,  and  churchmen, 
Master  Page,  we  have  some  salt  of  our  youth  in  us ;  we  are 
the  sons  of  women,  Master  Page. 

Page.  'Tis  true,  Master  Shallow. 

ShaL  It  will  be  found  so,  Master  Page.  Master  Doctor  Caius, 
I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am  sworn  of  the  peace  : 
you  have  shewed  yourself  a  wise  physician,  and  Sir  Hugh 
hath  shewn  himself  a  wise  and  patient  churchman.  You 
must  go  with  me,  master  doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest-justice. — A  word,  Mounseur  Mock-water. 

Cains.  Mock-vater  !  vat,  is  dat  ? 

Host.  Mock-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  is  valour,  bully. 

Caius.  By  gar,  den,  I  have  as  much  mock-vater  as  de  English 
man. — Scurvy  Jack-dog  priest !  by  gar,  me  vill  cut  his  ears. 

Host.  He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.  Clapper-de-claw  !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  do  look  he  shall  clapper-de-claw  me ;  for, 
by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to 't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Cains.  Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.  And,  moreover,  bully, ; — But  first,  master  guest,  and 
Master  Page,  and  eke  Cavaleiro  Slender,  go  you  through 
the  town  to  Frogmore.  [Aside  to  them. 

Page.  Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he  ? 

Host.  He  is  there  :  see  what  humour  he  is  in ;  and  I  will 
bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields.  Will  it  do  well  ? 

SJial.  We  will  do  it. 

Page,  ShaL,  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 

\Exeunt  Page,  ShaL,  and  Slen. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest ;  for  he  speak  for  a  jack- 
an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

135 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Host.  Let  him  die :  sheathe  thy  impatience,  throw  cold  water 
on  thy  choler :  go  about  the  fields  with  me  through  Frog- 
more  :  I  will  bring  thee  where  Mistress  Anne  Page  is,  at  a 
farm-house  a-feasting;  and  thou  shalt  woo  her.  Cried  I 
aim  ?  said  I  well  ? 

Cams.  By  gar,  me  dank  you  vor  dat :  by  gar,  I  love  you ;  and 
I  shall  procure-a  you  de  good  guest,  de  earl,  de  knight,  de 
lords,  de  gentlemen,  my  patients. 

Host.  For  the  which  I  will  be  thy  adversary  toward  Anne  Page. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  good  ;  veil  said.  [Said  I  well  ? 

Host.  Let  us  wag,  then. 

Caius.  Come  at  my  heels,  Jack  Rugby.  {Exeunt. 


ACT  III— SCENE  I 

A  field  near  Frogmore. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Simple. 

Evans.  I  pray  you  now,  good  Master  Slender's  serving-man, 
and  friend  Simple  by  your  name,  which  way  have  you  looked 
for  Master  Caius,  that  calls  himself  doctor  of  physic  ? 
Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  pittie-ward,  the  park-ward,  every  way  ;  old 

Windsor  way,  and  every  way  but  the  town  way. 
Evans.  I  most  fehemently  desire  you  you  will  also  look  that  way. 
Sim.  I  will,  sir.  [Exit. 

Evans.  Pless  my  soul,  how  full  of  chollors  I  am,  and  trempling 
of  mind. — I  shall  be  glad  if  he  have  deceived  me. — How 
melancholies  I  am  ! — I  will  knog  his  urinals  about  his  knave's 
costard  when  I  have  goot  opportunities  for  the  ork. — Pless 
my  soul ! —  [Sings. 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
There  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow — 

Mercy  on  me  !  I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry.         [S^ngs. 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals — 
When  as  I  sat  in  Pabylon — 
And  a  thousand  vagram  posies. 
To  shallow  &c. 

Re-enter  Simple. 

Sim.  Yonder  he  is  coming,  this  way,  Sir  Hugh. 
Evans.  He  's  welcome. —  [Sings. 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls — 
Heaven  prosper  the  right ! — What  weapons  is  he  ? 
Sim.  No    weapons,    sir.     There    comes    my    master,    Master 

136 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Shallow,  and  another  gentleman,  from  Frogmore,  over  the 

stile,  this  way.  [arms. 

Evans.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown  ;  or  else  keep  it  in  your 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 
Shal.  How   now,  master   parson  !     Good    morrow,   good   Sir 

Hugh.     Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  and  a  good  student 

from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 
Slen.   [Aside]  Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 
Page.  Save  you,  good  Sir  Hugh  ! 
Evans.  Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you  ! 
Shal.  What,  the  sword  and  the  word  !  do  you  study  them  both, 

master  parson  ? 
Page.  And  youthful  still !  in  your  doublet  and  hose  this  raw 

rheumatic  day  ! 

Evans.  There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 
Page.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office,  master  parson. 
Evans.  Fery  well :  what  is  it  ? 
Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman,  who,  belike  having 

received  wrong  by  some  person,  is  at  most  odds  with  his  own 

gravity  and  patience  that  ever  you  saw. 
Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upward  ;  I  never  heard 

a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and  learning,  so  wide  of  his  own 
Evans.  What  is  he  ?  [respect. 

Page.  I  think   you  know  him ;  Master  Doctor  Caius,  the  re 
nowned  French  physician. 
Evans.  Got's  will,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart !     I  had  as  lief 

you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of  porridge. 
Page.  Why? 
Evans.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibocrates  and  Galen, — 

and  he  is  a  knave  besides ;  a  cowardly  knave  as  you  would 

desires  to  be  acquainted  withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you,  he 's  the  man  should  fight  with  him. 
Slen.  [Aside]  O  sweet  Anne  Page  !  [comes  Doctor  Caius. 

Shal.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons.    Keep  them  asunder  :  here 

Enter  Host,   Caius,  and  Rugby. 

Page.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your  weapon. 
Shal.  So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 
Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question  :  let  them  keep  their 

limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 
Caius.  I  pray  you,  let-a  me  speak  a  word  with  your  ear.    Vere- 

fore  vill  you  not  meet-a  me  ?  [time. 

Evans.  [Aside  to  Caius]  Pray  you,  use  your  patience :  in  good 
Caius.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog,  John  Ape. 
Evans.   [Aside  to  Caius]  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stocks 

to  other  men's  humours ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship,  and  I 

137  E   2 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

will  one  way  or  other  make  you  amends.  [Aloud~\  I  will 
knog  your  urinals  about  your  knave's  cogscomb  for  missing 
your  meetings  and  appointments. 

Caius.  Diable  ! — Jack  Rugby, — mine  host  de  Jarteer, — have  I 
not  stay  for  him  to  kill  him  ?  have  I  not,  at  de  place  I  did 
appoint  ? 

Evans.  As  I  am  a  Christians  soul,  now,  look  you,  this  is  the 
place  appointed :  I'll  be  judgement  by  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Gallia  and  Gaul,  French  and  Welsh,  soul- 
curer  and  body-curer ! 

Caius.  Ay,  dat  is  very  good ;  excellent. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say  !  hear  mine  host  of  the  Garter.  Am  I 
politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ?  Shall  I  lose  my 
doctor  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  potions  and  the  motions. 
Shall  I  lose  my  parson,  my  priest,  my  Sir  Hugh  ?  no ;  he 
gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no-verbs.  Give  me  thy  hand, 
terrestrial;  so.  Give  me  thy  hand,  celestial;  so.  Boys  of 
art,  I  have  deceived  you  both  ;  I  have  directed  you  to  wrong 
places :  your  hearts  are  mighty,  your  skins  are  whole,  and 
let  burnt  sack  be  the  issue.  Come,  lay  their  swords  to  pawn. 
Follow  me,  lads  of  peace ;  follow,  follow,  follow. 

Shal.  Trust  me,  ,a  mad  host.     Follow,  gentlemen,  follow. 

Slen.  [Aside]  O  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

[Exeunt  Shal.,  Slen.,  Page,  an$  Host 

Caius.  Ha,  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  make-a  de  sot  of  us, 
ha,  ha? 

Evans.  This  is  well ;  he  has  made  us  his  vloutingstog. — I  desire 
you  that  we  may  be  friends ;  and  let  us  knog  our  prains 
together  to  be  revenge  on  this  same  scall,  scurvy,  cogging 
companion,  the  host  of  the  Garter. 

Caius.  By  gar,  with  all  my  heart.  He  promise  to  bring  me 
where  is  Anne  Page  ;  by  gar,  he  deceive  me  too. 

Evans.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles.  Pray  you,  follow.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE   II 

The  street,  in    Windsor. 
Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 

Mrs  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant ;  you  were  wont 

to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a  leader.     Whether  had 

.   you  rather  lead  mine  eyes,  or  eye  your  master's  heels? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  a  man  than 

follow  him  like  a  dwarf.  [courtier. 

Mrs* Page.  O,  you  are  a  flattering  boy  :  now  I  see  you  '11  be  a 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  Well  met,  Mistress  Page.     Whither  go  you  ? 

138 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Mrs  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife.     Is  she  at  home  ? 

Ford.  Ay  ?  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together,  for  want  of 
company.  I  think,  if  your  husbands  were  dead,  you  two 
would  marry. 

Mrs  Page.  Be  sure  of  that, — two  other  husbands. 

Ford.  Where  had  you  this  pretty  weathercock  ? 

Mrs  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  his  name  is  my 
husband  had  him  of. — What  do  you  call  your  knight's  name, 

Rob.  Sir  John  Falstaff.  [sirrah? 

Ford.  Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Mrs  Page.  He,  he ;  I  can  never  hit  on 's  name.  There  is  such 
a  league  between  my  good  man  and  he ! — Is  your  wife  at 

Ford.  Indeed  she  is.  ,    [home  indeed  ? 

Mrs  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir :  I  am  sick  till  I  see  her. 

[Exeunt  Mrs  Page  and  Robin. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains  ?  hath  he  any  eyes  ?  hath  he  any 
thinking?  Sure,  they  sleep;  he  hath  no  use  of  them.  Why, 
this  boy  will  carry  a  letter  twenty  mile,  as  easy  as  a  cannon 
will  shoot  point-blank  twelve  score.  He  pieces  out  his  wife's 
inclination;  he  gives  her  folly  motion  and  advantage  :  and 
now  she 's  going  to  my  wife,  and  Falstaff's  boy  with  her.  A 
man  may  hear  this  shower  sing  in  the  wind.  And  Falstaff's 
boy  with  her  !  Good  plots,  they  are  laid  ;  and  our  revolted 
wives  share  damnation  together.  Well ;  I  will  take  him, 
then  torture  my  wife,  pluck  the  borrowed  veil  of  modesty 
from  the  so  seeming  Mistress  Page,  divulge  Page  himself 
for  a  secure  and  wilful  Actseon  ;  and  to  these  violent  proceed 
ings  all  my  neighbours  shall  cry  aim.  [Clock  heard J]  The 
clock  gives  me  my  cue,  and  my  assurance  bids  me  search  : 
there  I  shall  find  Falstaff :  I  shall  be  rather  praised  for  this 
than  mocked  :  for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth  is  firm  that 
Falstaff  is  there  :  I  will  go. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  Slender,  Host,  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  Calus^ 

and  Rugby. 

ShaL,  Page,  6°<r.  Well  met,  Master  Ford. 
Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good  cheer  at  home ;  and 

I  pray  you  all  go  with  me. 
ShaL  I  must  excuse  myself,  Master  Ford. 
Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir :    we  have  appointed    to  dine  with 

Mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not  break  with  her  for  more 

money  than  I  '11  speak  of. 
ShaL  We  have  lingered  about  a  match  between  Anne  Page  and 

my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day  we  shall  have  our  answer. 
Slen.  I  hope  I  have  your  good  will,  father  Page. 

139 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Page.  You  have,  Master  Slender ;  I  stand  wholly  for  you : — 

but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you  altogether. 
Cams.  Ay,   be-gar;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me;  my  nursh-a 

Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 
Host.  What  say  you  to  young  Master  Fenton  ?  he  capers,  he 

dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he  writes  verses,  he  speaks 

holiday,  he  smells  April  and  May :  he  will  carry 't,  he  will 

carry 't ;  'tis  in  his  buttons  ;  he  will  carry 't. 
Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.     The  gentleman  is 

of  no  having :  he  kept  company  with  the  wild  prince  and 

Poines  ;  he  is  of  too  high  a  region  ;  he  knows  too  much. 

No,  he  shall  not  knit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes  with  the  finger 

of  my  substance:  if  he  take  her,  let  him  take  her  simply; 

the  wealth  I  have  waits  on  my  consent,  and  my  consent  goes 

not  that  way. 
Ford.  I  beseech  you  heartily,  some  of  you  go  home  with  me  to 

dinner  :  besides  your  cheer,  you  shall  have  sport ;  I  will  show 

you  a  monster.     Master  doctor,  you  shall  go  ;  so  shall  you, 

Master  Page ;  and  you,  Sir  Hugh. 
Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well :  we  shall  have  the  freer  wooing  at 

Master  Page's.  \Exeunt  Shal.  and  Slen. 

Cams.  Go  home,  John  Rugby;  I  come  anon.       \Exit  Rugby. 
Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts  :  I  will  to  my  honest  knight  Falstaff, 

and  drink  canary  with  him.  \Exit. 

Ford.  [Aside]  I  think  I  shall  drink  in  pipe-wine  first  with  him ; 

I  '11  make  him  dance.     Will  you  go,  gentles  ? 
All.  Have  with  you  to  see  this  monster.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

•A  room  in  Fords  house. 
Enter  Mistress  Ford  and  Mistress  Page. 
Mrs  Ford.  What,  John  !     What,  Robert ! 
Mrs  Page.  Quickly,  quickly  ! — is  the  buck-basket— 
Mrs  Ford.  I  warrant.     What,  Robin,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Servants  with  a  basket. 
Mrs  Page.  Come,  come,  come. 
Mrs  Ford.  Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge ;  we  must  be  brief. 

Mrs  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John  and  Robert,  be 

ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brew-house ;  and  when  I  suddenly 

call  you,  come  forth,  and,  without  any  pause  or  staggering, 

take  this  basket  on  your  shoulders  :  that  done,  trudge  with  it 

in  all  haste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters  in  Datchet-mead, 

and  there  empty  it  in  the  muddy  ditch  close  by  the  Thames 

Mrs  Page.  You  will  do  it  ?  [side. 

140 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

Mrs  Ford.  I  ha'  told  them  over  and  over  ;  they  lack  no  direction. 
Be  gone,  and  come  when  you  are  called.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs  Page.  Here  comes  little  Robin. 
Enter  Robin. 

Mrs  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket !  what  news  with  you? 

Rob.  My  master,  Sir  John,  is  come  in  at  your  back-door,  Mis 
tress  Ford,  and  requests  your  company. 

Mrs  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-Lent,  have  you  been  true  to  us  ? 

Rob.  Ay,  I  '11  be  sworn.  My  master  knows  not  of  your  being 
here,  and  hath  threatened  to  put  me  into  everlasting  liberty, 
if  I  tell  you  of  it ;  for  he  swears  he  '11  turn  me  away. 

Mrs  Page.  Thou  'rt  a  good  boy  :  this  secrecy  of  thine  shall  be  a 
tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee  a  new  doublet  and  hose. 
I  '11  go  hide  me. 

Mrs  Ford.  Do  so.  Go  tell  thy  master  I  am  alone.  [Exit 
Robing  Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue. 

Mrs  Page.  I  warrant  thee ;  if  I  do  not  act  it,  hiss  me.     [Exit. 

Mrs  Ford.  Go  to,  then  :  we  '11  use  this  unwholesome  humidity, 
this  gross  watery  pumpion ;  we  '11  teach  him  to  know  turtles 
from  jays. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  '  Have  I  caught '  thee,  '  my  heavenly  jewel  ? '  Why,  now 
let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough :  this  is  the  period 
of  my  ambition  :  O  this  blessed  hour  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  O  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate,  Mistress 
Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish :  I  would  thy  husband 
were  dead ;  I  ;11  speak  it  before  the  best  lord ;  I  would  make 
thee  my  lady.  [lady  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John  !  alas,  I  should  be  a  pitiful 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another.  I  see  how 
thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond :  thou  hast  the  right 
arched  beauty  of  the  brow  that  becomes  the  ship-tire,  the 
tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admittance. 

Mrs  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John :  my  brows  become 
nothing  else ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so :  thou  wouldst 
make  an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of  thy  foot 
would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy  gait  in  a  semicircled 
farthingale.  I  see  what  thou  wert,  if  Fortune  thy  foe  were 
not,  Nature  thy  friend.  Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs  Ford.  Believe  me,  there 's  no  such  thing  in  me. 

Fal.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade  thee  there 's 
something  extraordinary  in  thee.     Come,  I  cannot  cog,  and 
say  thou  art  this  and  that,  like  a  many  of  these  lisping 
141 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

hawthorn-buds,  that  come  like  women  in  men's  apparel,  and 
smell  like  Bucklersbury  in  simple  time ;  I  cannot :  but  I  love 
thee ;  none  but  thee ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs  Ford,  Do  not  betray  me,  sir.    I  fear  you  love  Mistress  Page. 

FaL  Thou  mightst  as  well  say  I  love  to  walk  by  the  Counter- 
gate,  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the  reek  of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  you  ;  and  you  shall 

FaL  Keep  in  that  mind  :  I  '11  deserve  it.  [one  day  find  it. 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do ;  or  else  I  could 
not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  [  Within\  Mistress  Ford,  Mistress  Ford !  here 's  Mistress 
Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and  blowing,  and  looking  wildly, 
and  would  needs  speak  with  you  presently. 

FaL  She  shall  not  see  me  :  I  will  ensconce  me  behind  the  arras. 

Mrs  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so  :  she 's  a  very  tattling  woman. 

[Fa  Is  faff  hides  himself. 
Re-enter  Mistress  Page  and  Robin. 
What 's  the  matter  ?  how  now  ! 

Mrs  Page.  O  Mistress  Ford,  what  have  you  done  ?  You  're 
shamed,  you  're  overthrown,  you  're  undone  for  ever  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  What 's  the  matter,  good  Mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs  Page.  O  well-a-day,  Mistress  Ford  !  having  an  honest  man 
to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such  cause  of  suspicion  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion  !    Out  upon  you  !  how  am  I 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  alas,  what 's  the  matter  ?        [mistook  in  you  ! 

Mrs  Page.  Your  husband  's  coming  hither,  woman,  with  all  the 
officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for  a  gentleman  that  he  says  is 
here  now  in  the  house,  by  your  consent,  to  take  an  ill  advantage 
of  his  absence  :  you  are  undone. 

Mrs  Ford.  Tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you  have  such  a  man 
here  !  but  ;tis  most  certain  your  husband  's  coming,  with  half 
Windsor  at  his  heels,  to  search  for  such  a  one.  I  come  before 
to  tell  you.  If  you  know  yourself  clear,  why,  I  am  glad  of 
it ;  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey,  convey  him  out. 
Be  not  amazed;  call  all  your  senses  to  you;  defend  your 
reputation,  or  bid  farewell  to  your  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ?  There  is  a  gentleman,  my  dear 
friend  ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own  shame  so  much  as  his  peril ; 
I  had  rather  than  a  thousand  pound  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs  Page.  For  shame  !  never  stand  '  you  had  rather '  and  *  you 
had  rather:'  your  husbnnd 's  here  at  hand;  bethink  you  of 
some  conveyance :  in  the  house  you  cannot  hide  him.  O, 
how  have  you  deceived  me  !  Look,  here  is  a  basket :  if  he 

142 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

be  of  any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep  in  here ;  and 
throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going  to  bucking  :  or, 
— it  is  whiting-time, — send  him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet- 
mead. 

Mrs  Ford.  He 's  too  big  to  go  in  there.     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Fal.  {Coming  forward^  Let  me  see 't,  let  me  see't,  O,  let  me 
see 't ! — I  '11  in,  I  '11  in. — Follow  your  friend's  counsel. — I'll  in. 

Mrs  Page.  What,  Sir  John  Falstaff !  Are  these  your  letters, 
knight  ? 

Fal.  I  love  thee.— Help  me  away.— Let  me  creep  in  here. — 
I  '11  never— 

[  Gets  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him  with  foul  linen. 

Mrs  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy. — Call  your  men, 
Mistress  Ford. — You  dissembling  knight ! 

Mrs  Ford.  What,  John  !  Robert !  •  Johnl  [Exit  Robin. 

Re-enter  Servants. 

Go  take  up  these  clothes  here  quickly. — Where 's  the  cowl- 
staff?  look,  how  youdrumble! — Carry  them  to  the  laundress 
in  Datchet-mead ;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without  cause,  why 
then  make  sport  at  me;  then  let  me  be  your  jest ;  I  deserve 
it. — How  now  !  whither  bear  you  this  ? 

Serv.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear  it  ? 
You  were  best  meddle  with  buck-washing. 

Ford.  Buck  ! — I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the  buck  ! — 
Buck,  buck,  buck  !  Ay,  buck  ;  I  warrant  you,  buck ;  and  of 
the  season  too,  it  shall  appear.  [Exeunt  Servants  with  the 
basket']  Gentlemen,  I  have  dreamed  to-night ;  I  '11  tell  you 
my  dream.  Here,  here,  here  be  my  keys  :  ascend  my  cham 
bers  ;  search,  seek,  find  out:  I'll  warrant  we'll  unkennel 
the  fox.  Let  me  stop  this  way  first.  [Locking  the  door.]  So, 
now  uncape.  [too  much. 

Page.  Good  Master  Ford,  be  contented :  you  wrong  yourself 

Ford.  True,  Master  Page.  Up,  gentlemen ;  you  shall  see  sport 
anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit. 

Evans.  This  is  fery  fantastical  humours  and  jealousies. 

Cains.  By  gar,  'tis  no  the  fashion  of  France ;  it  is  not  jealous 
in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen  ;  see  the  issue  of  his  search. 

^Exeunt  Page,  Caius,  and  Evans. 

Mrs  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in  this  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better,  that  my  hus 
band  is  deceived,  or  Sir  John. 


Vt-VA 

, 

he 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Mrs  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in  when  your  husband  asked 

who  was  in  the  basket  ! 
Mrs  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need  of  washing ; 

throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do  him  a  benefit. 
Mrs  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal !     I  would  all  of  the 

same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 
Mrs  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  special  suspicion  of 

Falstaff 's  being  here ;  for  I  never  saw  him  so  gross  in  his 

jealousy  till  now. 
Mrs  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that ;  and  we  will  yet  have 

more  tricks  with  Falstaff:  his  dissolute  disease  will  scarce 

obey  this  medicine. 
Mrs  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion,  Mistress  Quickly, 

to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing  into  the  water;  and  give 

him  another  hope,  to  betray  him  to  another  punishment  ? 
Mrs  Page.  We  will  do  it :  let  him  be  sent  for  to-morrow,  eight 

o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  Ford,  Page,  Caius>  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 
Ford.  I  cannot  find  him  :  may  be.  the  knave  bragged  of  that 

he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs  Page.  [Aside  to  Mrs  Ford.~\    Heard  you  that  ? 
Mrs  Ford.  \  You  use  me  well,  Master  Ford,  do  you  ? 
Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your  thoughts ! 
Ford.  Amen  ! 

Mrs  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  Master  Ford. 
Ford.  Ay,  ay ;  I  must  bear  it. 
Evans.  If  there  pe  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in  the  chambers, 

and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses,  heaven  forgive  my  sins 

at  the  day  of  judgement ! 
Cains.  By  gar,  nor  I  too  :  there  is  no  bodies. 
Page.  Fie,  fie,  Master  Ford  !  are  you  not  ashamed  ?     What 

spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination?     I  would  not 

ha'  your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the  wealth  of  Windsor 

Castle. 

Ford.  'Tis  my  fault,  Master  Page  :  I  suffer  for  it. 
Evans.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience  :  your  wife  is  as  honest 

a  'omans:  as   I   will  desires  among  five  thousand,  and  five 

hundred  too. 

Cains.  By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 
Ford.  Well,  I  promised  you  a  dinner.— Come,  come,  walk  in 

the  park :  I   pray  you,  pardon  me ;  I   will  hereafter  make 

known  to  you  why  I  have  done  this.— Come,  wife ;  come, 

Mistress    Page. — I    pray   you,    pardon  me ;    pray   heartily 
pardon  me. 

144 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

Page.  Let 's  go  in,  gentlemen  ;  but,  trust  me,  we  '11  mock  him. 

I  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morning  to  my  house  to  breakfast : 

after,  we'll  a-birding  together;  I  have  a  fine  hawk  for  the 

bush.     Shall  it  be  so  ? 
Ford.  Any  thing. 

Evans.  If  there  is  one,  I  shall  make  two  in  the  company. 
Cams.  If  there  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a  the  turd. 
Ford.  Pray  you,  go,  Master  Page. 
Evans.  I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to-morrow  on  the  lousy 

knave,  mine  host. 

Caius.  Dat  is  good;  by  gar,  with  all  my  heart ! 
Evans.  A  lousy  knave,  to  have  his  gibes  and  his  mockeries  ! 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV 

A  room  in  Page's  house. 
Enter  Fenton  and  Anne  Page. 
Fent.  I  see  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love  ; 

Therefore  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 
Anne.  Alas,  how  then  ? 
Fent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object  I  am  too  great  of  birth ; 

And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 

I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth  : 

Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, — 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies ; 

And  tells  me  'tis  a  thing  impossible 

I  should  love  thee  but  as  a  property. 
Anne.  May  be  he  tells  you  true. 
Fent.   No,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come  ! 

Albeit  I  will  confess  thy  father's  wealth 

Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne  : 

Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 

Than  stamps  in  gold  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 

And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 

That  now  I  aim  at. 
Anne.  Gentle  Master  Fenton, 

Yet,  seek  my  father's  love  ;  still  seek  it,  sir : 

If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 

Cannot  attain  it,  why,  then, — hark  you  hither ! 

\They  converse  apart. 

Enter  Shallow^  Slender,  and  Mistress  Quickly. 
Shal.  Break  their  talk,  Mistress  Quickly  :  my  kinsman  shall 

speak  for  himself. 

Slen.  I  '11  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on 't :  'slid,  'tis  but  venturing. 
Shal.  Be  not  dismayed. 

145 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Slen.  No,  she  shall  not  dismay  me  :  I  care  not  for  that,  but 

that  I  am  afeard. 

Quick.  Hark  ye  •;  Master  Slender  would  speak  a  word  with  you. 
Anne.  I  come  to  him.     \Aside.~\     This  is  my  father's  choice. 

O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favour'd  faults 

Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a-year  ! 
Quick.  And   how  does  good   Master  Fenton  ?      Pray  you,   a 

word  with  you. 

Shal.  She 's  coming ;  to  her,  coz.   O  boy,  thou  hadst  a  father  ! 
Slen.  I  had  a  father,  Mistress  Anne;  my  uncle  can  tell  you 

good  jests  of  him.     Pray  you,  uncle,  tell  Mistress  Anne  the 

jest,  how  my  father  stole  two  geese  out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 
Shal.  Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 
Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  love  any  woman  in  Gloucester 
shire. 

Shal.  He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 
Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long-tail,  under  the  degree 

of  a  squire. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  jointure. 
Anne.  Good  Master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for  himself. 
Shal.  Marry,  I   thank  you  for  it;  I  thank  you  for  that  good 

comfort.     She  calls  you,  coz  :  I  '11  leave  you. 
Anne.  Now,  Master  Slender, — 
Slen.  Now,  good  Mistress  Anne,— 
Anne.  What  is  your  will  ? 
Slen.  My  will !  od  's  heart-lings,  that 's  a  pretty  jest  indeed  !     I 

ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank  heaven;  I  am  not  such  a 

sickly  creature,  I  give  heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  Master  Slender,  what  would  you  with  me? 
Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  or  nothing  with 

you.     Your  father  and  my  uncle  hath  made  motions :  if  it 

be  my  luck,  so ;  if  not,  happy  man  be  his  dole !     They  can 

tell  you  how  things  go  better  than  I  can :  you  may  ask  your 

father ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Page  and  Mistress  Page. 
Page.  Now,  Master  Slender :  love  him,  daughter  Anne. — 

Why,  how  now  !  what  does  Master  Fenton  here  ? 

You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house : 

I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  disposed  of. 
Pent.  Nay,  Master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 
Mrs  Page.  Good  Master  Fenton,  come  not  to  my  child. 
Page.  She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Pent.  Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 
Page.  No,  good  Master  Fenton. 

Come,  Master  Shallow ;  come,  son  Slender,  in. 

146 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  v 

Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  Master  Fenton. 

{Exeunt  Page,  Shal.,  and  Slen. 

Quick.  Speak  to  Mistress  Page. 

Pent.  Good  Mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love  your  daughter 
In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colours  of  my  love, 
And  not  retire :  let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anne.  Good  mother,  do  not  marry  me  to  yond  fool. 

Mrs  Page.  I  mean  it  not ;  I  seek  you  a  better  husband. 

Quick.  That 's  my  master,  master  doctor. 

Anne.  Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips  ! 

Mrs  Page.  Come,  trouble  not  yourself.     Good  Master  Fenton, 
I  will  not  be  your  friend  nor  enemy  : 
My  daughter  will  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  affected. 
Till  then  farewell,  sir :  she  must  needs  go  in ; 
Her  father  will  be  angry. 

Pent.  Farewell,  gentle  mistress :  farewell,  Nan. 

\Exeunt  Mrs  Page  and  Anne. 

Quick.  This  is  my  doing  now:  'Nay,'  said  I,  'will  you  cast 
away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a  physician  ?  Look  on  Master 
Fenton  : '  this  is  my  doing. 

Pent.  I  thank  thee ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once  to-night 
Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring :  tfiere  's  for  thy  pains. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune !'  \Exit  Fenton^\ 
A  kind  heart  he  hath  :  a  woman  would  run  through  fire  and 
water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet  I  would  my  master 
had  Mistress  Anne;  or  I  would  Master  Slender  had  her; 
or,  in  sooth,  I  would  Master  Fenton  had  her :  I  will  do  what 
I  can  for  them  all  three ;  for  so  I  have  promised,  and  I  Jll 
be  as  good  as  my  word ;  but  speciously  for  Master  Fenton. 
Well,  I  must  of  another  errand  to  Sir  John  Falstaff  from  my 
two  mistresses  :  what  a  beast  am  I  to  slack  it !  [Exit. 

. 

SCENE  V 

A  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  I  say, — 

Bard.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast  in  't.     [Exit 

Bard^\    Have  I  lived  to  be  carried  in  a  basket,  like  a  barrow 

of  butcher's  offal,  and  to  be  thrown  in  the  Thames  ?     Well, 

if  I  be  served  such  another  trick,  I  '11  have  my  brains  ta'en 

147 


Act  III,  Sc.  v]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

out,  and  buttered,  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new-year's 
gift.  The  rogues  slighted  me  into  the  river  with  as  little 
remorse  as  they  would  have  drowned  a  blind  bitch's  puppies, 
fifteen  i'  the  litter :  and  you  may  know  by  my  size  that  I 
have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in  sinking  ;  if  the  bottom  were  as 
deep  as  hell,  I  should  down.  I  had  been  drowned,  but  that 
the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow, — a  death  that  I  abhor ; 
for  the  water  swells  a  man ;  and  what  a  thing  should  I  have 
been  when  I  had  been  swelled !  I  should  have  been  a 
mountain  of  mummy. 

Re-enter  Bardolph  with  sack. 

Bard.  Here 's  Mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak  with  you. 
Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the  Thames  water ; 

for  my  belly 's  as  cold  as  if  I  had  swallowed  snowballs  for 

pills  to  cool  the  reins.     Call  her  in. 
Bard.  Come  in,  woman  ! 

Enter  Mrs  Quickly. 
Quick.  By  your  leave;  I  cry  you  mercy:  give  your  worship 

good  morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices.     Go  brew  me  a  pottle  of  sack 
Bard.  With  eggs,  sir?  [finely. 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself;    I'll   no  pullet-sperm  in    my  brewage. 

\Exit  Bardolph^     How  now  ! 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from  Mistress  Ford. 
Fal.  Mistress  Ford  !     I  hav^e  had  ford  enough ;  I  was  thrown 

into  the  ford ;  I  have  my  belly  full  of  ford. 
Quick.  Alas  the  day !  good  heart,  that  was  not  her  fault :  she 

does  so  take  on  with  her  men  ;  they  mistook  their  erection. 
Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  woman's  promise. 
Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would  yearn  your 

heart  to  see  it.     Her  husband  goes  this  morning  a-birding ; 

she  desires  you  once  more  to  come  to  her  between  eight  and 

nine :    I   must  carry  her  word  quickly :    she  '11    make   you 

amends,   I  warrant  you. 
Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her :  tell  her  so  ;  and  bid  her  think  what 

a  man  is  :  let  her  consider  his  frailty,  and  then  judge  of  my 

merit. 

Quick.  I  will  tell  her. 

Fal.  Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  sayest  thou  ? 
Quick.  Eight  and  nine,  sir. 
Fal.  Well,  be  gone :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.  Peace  be  with  you,  sir.  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  marvel  I  hear  not  of  Master  Brook  ;  he  sent  me  word 

to  stay  within :  I  like  his  money  well. — O,  here  he  comes. 

148 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  III,  Sc.  v 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir  !  [between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Fal.  Now,  Master  Brook, — you  come  to  know  what  hath  passed 

Ford.  That,  indeed,  Sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you  :  I  was  at  her  house 

Ford.  And  sped  you,  sir  ?  [the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Fal.  Very  ill-fa  vouredly,  Master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir?     Did  she  change  her  determination  ? 

Fal.  No,  Master  Brook  ;  but  the  peaking  Cornuto  her  husband, 
Master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a  continual  'larum  of  jealousy, 
comes  me  in  the  instant  of  our  encounter,  after  we  had 
embraced,  kissed,  protested,  and,  as  it  were,  spoke  the 
prologue  of  our  comedy;  and  at  his  heels  a  rabble  of  his 
companions,  thither  provoked  and  instigated  by  his  distemper, 
and,  forsooth,  to  search  his  house  for  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.  What,  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.  While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not  find  you? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have  it,  comes  in 
one  Mistress  Page;  gives  intelligence  of  Ford's  approach; 
and,  in  her  invention  and  Ford's  wife's  distraction,  they 
conveyed  me  into  a  buck-basket. 

Ford.  A  buck-basket ! 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket ! — rammed  me  in  with  foul 
shirts' and  smocks,  socks,  foul  stockings,  greasy  napkins;  that, 
Master  Brook,  there  was  the  rankest  compound  of  villainous 
smell  that  ever  offended  nostril. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  Master  Brook,  what  I  have  suffered 
to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your  good.  Being  thus 
crammed  in  the  basket,  a  couple  of  Ford's  knaves,  his 
hands,  were  called  forth  by  their  mistress  to  carry  me  in  the 
name  of  foul  clothes  to  Datchet-lane  :  they  took  me  on  their 
shoulders ;  met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in  the  door, 
who  asked  them  once  or  twice  what  they  had  in  their  basket : 
I  quaked  for  fear,  lest  the  lunatic  knave  would  have  searched 
it;  but  fate,  ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold,  held  his 
hand.  Well :  on  went  he  for  a  search,  and  away  went  I  for 
foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  Master  Brook  :  I  suffered 
the  pangs  of  three  several  deaths ;  first,  an  intolerable  fright, 
to  be  detected  with  a  jealous  rotten  bell-wether ;  next,  to  be 
compassed,  like  a  good  bilbo,  in  the  circumference  of  a 
peck,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to  head ;  and  then,  to  be  stopped 
in,  like  a  strong  distillation,  with  stinking  clothes  that  fretted 
in  their  own  grease  :  think  of  that, — a  man  of  my  kidney, — 

149 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

think  of  that, — that  am  as  subject  to  heat  as  butter;  a  man 

•  of  continual  dissolution  and  thaw  :  it  was  a  miracle  to  'scape 
suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  bath,  when  I  was 
more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a  Dutch  dish,  to  be 
thrown  into  the  Thames,  and  cooled,  glowing  hot,  in  that 
surge,  like  a  horse-shoe;  think  of  that, — hissing  hot, — think 
of  that,  Master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for  my  sake  you 
have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit,  then,  is  desperate ;  you  '11 
undertake  her  no  more? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  Etna,  as  I  have  been 
into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her  thus.  Her  husband  is  this 
morning  gone  a-birding :  I  have  received  from  her  another 
embassy  of  meeting;  'twixt  eight  and  nine  is  the  hour, 
Master  Brook. 

Ford.  'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  appointment.  Come 
to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure,  and  you  shall  know  how  I 
speed ;  and  the  conclusion  shall  be  crowned  with  your  enjoy 
ing  her.  Adieu.  You  shall  have  her,  Master  Brook ;  Master 
Brook,  you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  [Exit. 

Ford.  Hum  !  ha !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a  dream  ?  do  I  sleep  ? 
Master  Ford,  awake !  awake,  Master  Ford  !  there 's  a  hole 
made  in  your  best  coat,  Master  Ford.  This  'tis  to  be 
married !  this  'tis  to  have  linen  and  buck-baskets  !  Well, 
I  will  proclaim  myself  what  I  am  :  I  will  now  take  the 
lecher  ;  he  is  at  my  house ;  he  cannot  'scape  me ;  'tis  impos 
sible  he  should;  he  cannot  creep  into  a  half-penny  purse, 
nor  into  a  pepper-box :  but,  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him 
should  aid  him,  I  will  search  impossible  places.  Though 
what  I  am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not  shall 
not  make  me  tame  :  if  I  have  horns  to  make  one  mad,  let 
the  proverb  go  with  me,— I  '11  be  horn-mad.  [Exit. 


ACT    IV-SCENE    I 

A  street. 

Enter  Mistress  Page,  Mistress  Quickly,  and  William. 
Mrs  Page.  Is  he  at  Master  Ford's  already,  think'st  thou  ? 
Quick.  Sure  he  is  by  this,  or  will  be  presently  :  but,  truly,  he 
is  very  courageous  mad  about  his  throwing  into  the  water. 
Mistress  Ford  desires  you  to  come  suddenly. 
Mrs  Page.  I  '11  be  with  her  by  and  by  ;  I  '11  but  bring  my  young 
man  here  to  school.     Look,  where  his  master  comes ;  'tis  a 
playing -day,  I  see. 

150 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  J&vans. 

How  now,  Sir  Hugh  !  no  schoql  to-day  ? 
Evans.  No  ;  Master  Slender  is  let  the  boys  leave  to  play. 
Quick.  Blessing  of  his  heart ! 
Mrs  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says  my  son  profits  nothing 

in  the  world  at  his  book.   I  pray  you,  ask  him  some  questions 

in  his  accidence. 

Evans.  Come  hither,  William  ;  hold  up  your  head ;  come. 
Mrs  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah ;  hold  up  your  head ;  answer  your 

master,  be  not  afraid. 

Evans.  William,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns  ? 
Will.  Two. 
Quick.  Truly,   I  thought  there  had  been  one  number  more, 

because  they  say,   '  Od  's  nouns.' 
Evans.  Peace  your  tattlings  !     What  is  '  fair,'  William  ? 
Will.  Pulcher. 

Quick.  Polecats  !  there  are  fairer  things  than  polecats,  sure. 
Evans.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman  :  I  pray  you,  peace. — 

What  is  '  lapis,'  William  ? 
Will.  A  stone. 

Evans.  And  what  is  'a  stone,'  William? 
Will.  A  pebble. 

Evans.  No,  it  is  '  lapis ' :  I  pray  you,  remember  in  your  prain. 
Will.  Lapis. 
Evans.  That  is  a  good  William.     What  is  he,  William,  that 

does  lend  articles? 
Will.  Articles  are   borrowed   of  the   pronoun,    and   be   thus 

declined,  Singulariter,  nominative,  hie,  hsec,  hoc. 
Evans.  Nominative,  hig,  hag,  hog ;  pray  you,  mark :  genitive, 

hujus.     Well,  what  is  your  accusative  case  ? 
Will.  Accusative,  hinc. 
Evans.  I  pray  you,  have  your  remembrance,  child ;  accusative, 

hung,  hang,  hog. 

Quick.  '  Hang-hog '  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant  you. 
Evans.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman. — What  is  the  focative  case, 

William? 

Will.  O, — vocativo,  O. 

Evans.  Remember,  William ;  focative  is  caret. 
Quick.  And  that  's  a  good  root. 
Eva-ns,  'Oman,  forbear. 
Mrs.  Page.  Peace ! 

Evans.  What  is  your  genitive  case  plural,  William  ? 
Will.  Genitive  case ! 
Evans.  Ay. 
Will.  Genitive, — horum,  harum,  horum. 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Quick.  Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case  !  fie  on  her  !  never  name 

her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 
Evans.  For  shame,  'oman. 
Quick.  You  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such  words : — he  teaches 

him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  they  '11  do  fast  enough  of 

themselves,  and  to  call  *  horum ' : — fie  upon  you  ! 
Evans.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics  ?  hast  thou  no  understandings 

for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  of  the  genders  ?    Thou  art  as 

foolish  Christian  creatures  as  I  would  desires. 
Mrs  Page.  Prithee,  hold  thy  peace. 
Evans.  Show    me  now,   William,    some   declensions   of  your 

pronouns. 

Will.  Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 
Evans.  It  is  qui,  quae,  quod  :  if  you  forget  your  '  quies,'  your 

'quaes,'  and  your  'quods,'  you  must  be  preeches.     Go  your 

ways,  and  play  ;  go. 

Mrs  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I  thought  he  was. 
Evans.  He  is  a  good  sprag  memory.    Farewell,  Mistress  Page. 
Mrs  Page.  Adieu,  good  Sir  Hugh.  {Exit  Sir  Hugh. 

Get  you  home,  boy.     Come,  we  stay  too  long.          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A  room  in  Ford's  house. 
Enter  Falsiaff  and  Mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  your  sorrow  hath  eaten  up  my  sufferance. 
I  see  you  are  obsequious  in  your  love,  and  I  profess  requital 
to  a  hair's  breadth;  not  only,  Mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple 
office  of  love,  but  in  all  the  accoutrement,  complement,  and 
ceremony  of  it.  But  are  you  sure  of  your  husband  now  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  He 's  a-birding,  sweet  Sir  John. 

Mrs  Page.  [  Within]     What,  ho,  gossip  Ford  !  what,  ho  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  Step  into  the  chamber,  Sir  John.        [Exit  Falstaff. 
Enter  Mistress  Page. 

Mrs  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart !  who  's  at  home  besides 
yourself? 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs  Page.  Indeed ! 

Mrs  Ford.  No,  certainly.     {Aside  to  her}     Speak  louder. 

Mrs  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  nobody  here. 

Mrs  Ford.  Why  ? 

Mrs  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in  his  old  lunes  again : 
he  so  takes  on  yonder  with  my  husband ;  so  rails  against  all 
married  mankind ;  so  curses  all  Eve's  daughters,  of  what  com 
plexion  soever ;  and  so  buffets  himself  on  the  forehead,  cry 
ing,  *  Peer  out,  peer  out ! >  that  any  madness  I  ever  yet  beheld 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

seemed  but  tameness,  civility,  and  patience,  to  this  his  dis 
temper  he  is  in  now :  I  am  glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  does  he  talk  of  him  ? 

Mrs  Page.  Of  none  but  him ;  and  swears  he  was  carried  out, 
the  last  time  he  searched  for  him,  in  a  basket ;  protests  to 
my  husband  he  is  now  here ;  and  hath  drawn  him  and  the 
rest  of  their  company  from  their  sport,  to  make  another 
experiment  of  his  suspicion  :  but  I  am  glad  the  knight  is  not 
here ;  now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 

Mrs  Ford.  How  near  is  he,  Mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs  Page.  Hard  by,  at  street  end ;  he  will  be  here  anon. 

Mrs  Ford.  I  am  undone  ! — the  knight  is  here. 

Mrs  Page.  Why,  then,  you  are  utterly  shamed,  and  he  's  but  a 
dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you  ! — Away  with  him,  away 
with  him  !  better  shame  than  murder. 

Mrs  Ford.  Which  way  should  he  go  ?    how  should  I  bestow 
him  ?     Shall  I  put  him  into  the  basket  again  ? 
Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  No,  I  '11  come  no  more  i'  the  basket.  May  I  not  go  out 
ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs  Page.  Alas,  three  of  Master  Ford's  brothers  watch  the  door 
with  pistols,  that  none  shall  issue  out ;  otherwise  you  might 
slip  away  ere  he  came.  But  what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  What  shall  I  do  ? — I  Jll  creep  up  into  the  chimney. 

Mrs  Ford.  There  they  always  use  to  discharge  their  birding- 
pieces.  Creep  into  the  kiln-hole. 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  my  word.  Neither  press, 
coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but  he  hath  an  abstract  for 
the  remembrance  of  such  places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his 
note  :  there  is  no  hiding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.  I  '11  go  out,  then. 

Mrs  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  semblance,  you  die,  Sir 
John.  Unless  you  go  out  disguised, — 

Mrs  Ford.   How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not !  There  is  no  woman's 
gown  big  enough  for  him  ;  otherwise  he  might  put  on  a  hat,  a 
muffler,  and  a  kerchief,  and  so  escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something  :  any  extremity  rather  than 
a  mischief. 

Mrs  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of  Brentford,  has  a 
gown  above. 

Mrs  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him  ;  she 's  as  big  as  he  is  : 
and  there 's  her  thrummed  hat,  and  her  muffler  too.  Run  up, 
Sir  John. 

153 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Mrs  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  Sir  John :  Mistress  Page  and  I  will 

look  some  linen  for  your  head. 
Mrs  Page.  Quick,  quick  !  we  '11  come  dress  you  straight :  put  on 

the  gown  the  while.  [Exit  Falstaff. 

Mrs  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet  him  in  this  shape  : 

he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of  Brentford ;  he  swears  she 's 

a  witch ;  forbade  her  my  house,  and  hath  threatened  to  beat 

her. 
Mrs  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's  cudgel,  and  the 

devil  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards  ! 
Mrs  Ford.  But  is  my  husband  coming? 
Mrs  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness,  is  he  ;  and  talks  of  the  basket 

too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelligence. 
Mrs  Ford.  We  '11  try  that ;  for  I  '11  appoint  my  men  to  carry  the 

basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the  door  with  it,  as  they  did 

last  time. 
Mrs  Page.  Nay,  but  he'll  be  here  presently:  let's  go  dress 

him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 
Mrs  Ford.  1 11  first  direct  my  men  what  they  shall  do  with  the 

basket.     Go  up  ;  I  '11  bring  linen  for  him  straight.        [Exit. 
Mrs  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we  cannot  misuse  him 

We  '11  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do,  [enough. 

Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too  : 

We  do  not  act  that  often  jest  and  laugh  ; 

Tis  old,  but  true,— Still  swine  eats  all  the  draff.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Mistress  Ford  with  two  Servants. 
Mrs  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on  your  shoulders  : 

your  master  is  hard  at  door ;  if  he  bid  you  set  it  down,  obey 

him  :  quickly,  dispatch.  [Exit. 

First  Serv.  Come,  come,  take  it  up. 
Sec.  Serv.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  full  of  knight  again. 
First  Serv.  I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much  lead. 

Enter  Ford,  Page,  Shallotv,  Cams,  and  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 
Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  Master  Page,  have  you  any  way 

then  to  unfool  me  again  ?     Set  down  the  basket,  villain  ! 

Somebody  call  my  wife.     Youth  in  a  basket ! — O  you  pan- 

darly  rascals !  there 's  a  knot,  a  ging,  a  pack,  a  conspiracy 

against  me  :  now  shall  the  devil  be  shamed. — What,  wife,  I 

say  ! — Come,  come  forth  !    Behold  what  honest  clothes  you 

send  forth  to  bleaching ! 
Page.  Why,  this  passes,  Master  Ford ;  you  are  not  to  go  loose 

any  longer  ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Evans.  Why,  this  is  lunatics  !  this  is  mad  as  a  mad  dog ! 
Shal.  Indeed,  Master  Ford,  this  is  not  well,  indeed. 
Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir. 

154 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Re-enter  Mistress  Ford. 

Come  hither,  Mistress  Ford;  Mistress  Ford,  the  honest 
woman,  the  modest  wife,  the  virtuous  creature,  that  hath  the 
jealous  fool  to  her  husband  !  I  suspect  without  cause,  mis 
tress,  do  I  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness  you  do,  if  you  suspect  me  in 
any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  said,  brazen-face  !  hold  it  otit.     Come  forth,  sirrah  ! 

Page.  This  passes  I  {Pulling  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Mrs  Ford.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  let  the  clothes  alone. 

Ford.  I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Evans.  'Tis  unreasonable  !    Will  you  take  up  your  wife's  clothes? 

Ford.  Empty  the  basket,  I  say  !  [Come  away. 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  man,  why  ? 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was  one  conveyed  out 
of  my  house  yesterday  in  this  basket :  why  may  not  he  be 
there  again  ?  In  my  house  I  am  sure  he  is  :  my  intelligence 
is  true ;  my  jealousy  is  reasonable.  Pluck  me  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shall  die  a  flea's  death. 

Page.  Here's  no  man.  [you- 

Shal.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  Master  Ford  ;  this  wrongs 

Evans.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  follow  the 
imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  this  is  jealousies. 

Ford.  Well,  he 's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.  No,  nor  nowhere  else  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  search  my  house  this  one  time.  If  I  find  not 
what  I  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my  extremity ;  let  me  for 
ever  be  your  table-sport ;  let  them  say  of  me,  'As  jealous  as 
Ford,  that  searched  a  hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  leman.' 
Satisfy  me  once  more ;  once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs  Ford.  What,  ho,  Mistress  Page !  come  you  and  the  old 
woman  down  ;  my  husband  will  come  into  the  chamber. 

Ford.  Old  woman  !  what  old  woman  's  that  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  Why,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt  of  Brentford. 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean  !  Have  I  not 
forbid  her  my  house  ?  She  comes  of  errands,  does  she  ? 
We  are  simple  men  ;  we  do  not  know  what 's  brought  to  pass 
under  the  profession  of  fortune-telling.  She  works  by  charms, 
by  spells,  by  the  figure,  and  such  daubery  as  this  is,  beyond 
our  element:  we  know  nothing.  Come  down,  you  witch, 
you  hag,  you  ;  come  down,  I  say  ! 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband  ! — Good  gentlemen,  let 
him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 
Re-enter  Falstaff  in  woman's  clothes,  and  Mistress  Page. 

Mrs  Page.  Come,  Mother  Prat ;  come,  give  me  your  hand. 

155 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Ford.  I  '11  prat  her.   \JBeating  him']    Out  of  my  door,  you  witch, 

you  hag,  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you  ronyon  !  out,  out  1 

I  '11  conjure  you,  I  '11  fortune-tell  you.  [Exit  Falstaff. 

Mrs  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  I  think  you  have  killed  the 

poor  woman. 

Mrs  Ford.  Nay,  he  will  do  it.     Tis  a  goodly  credit  for  you. 
Ford.  Hang  her,  witch  ! 
Evans.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think  the  'oman  is  a  witch  indeed  :  I 

like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard ;  I  spy  a  great  peard 

under  his  muffler. 
Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?    I  beseech  you,  follow  ;  see 

but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy  :  if  I  cry  out  thus  upon  no  trail, 

never  trust  me  when  I  open  again. 

Page.  Let 's  obey  his  humour  a  little  further  :  come,  gentlemen. 
[Exeunt  Ford,  Page,  ShaL,  Caius,  and  Evans. 
Mrs  Page.  Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 
Mrs  Ford.  Nay,   by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ;  he  beat  him 

most  unpitifully  methought. 
Mrs  Page.  I  '11  have  the  cudgel  hallowed  and  hung  o'er  the 

altar ;  it  hath  done  meritorious  service. 
Mrs  Ford.  What  think  you?  may  we,  with   the   warrant   of 

womanhood  and  the  witness  of  a  good  conscience,  pursue 

him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 
Mrs  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure,  scared  out  of  him: 

if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee-simple,  with  fine  and  recovery, 

he  will  never,  I  think,  in  the  way  of  waste,  attempt  us  again. 
Mrs  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how  we  have  served  him  ? 
Mrs  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means  ;  if  it  be  but  to  scrape  the  figures 

out  of  your  husband's  brains.     If  they  can  find  in  their  hearts 

the  poor  unvirtuous  fat  knight  shall  be  any  further  afflicted, 

we  two  will  still  be  the  ministers. 
Mrs  Ford.  I  '11  warrant  they  '11  have  him  publicly  shamed  :  and 

methinks  there  would  be  no  period  to  the  jest,  should  he  not 

be  publicly  shamed. 
Mrs  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it,  then ;  shape  it :  I  would 

not  have  things  cool.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

A  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of  your  horses : 

the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at  court,  and  they  are 

going  to  meet  him. 
Host.  What  duke  should  that  be  comes  so  secretly  ?    I  hear 

not  of  him  in  the  court.     Let  me  speak  with  the  gentlemen  : 

they  speak  English  ? 

156 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Bard.  Ay,  sir ;    I  '11  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I  '11  make  them  pay ; 
I  '11  sauce  them :  they  have  had  my  house  a  week  at  com 
mand  ;  I  have  turned  away  my  other  guests :  they  must 
come  off ;  I  '11  sauce  them.  Come.  [.Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV- 

A  room  in  Ford's  house. 
Enter  Page,  Ford,  Mistress  Page,  Mistress  Ford,  and  Sir  Hugh 

Evans. 
Evans.  'Tis  one  of  the  best  discretions  of  a  'oman  as  ever  I  did 

look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at  an  instant  ? 
Mrs  Page.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Ford.  Pardon  me,  wife.     Henceforth  do  what  thou  wilt ; 

I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold 

Than  thee  with  wantonness  :  now  doth  thy  honour  stand, 

In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretic, 

As  firm  as  faith. 
Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  no  more  : 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission 

As  in  offence. 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward  :  let  our  wives 

Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport, 

Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 

Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 
Ford.  There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they  spoke  of. 
Page.  How  ?  to  send  him  word  they  '11  meet  him  in  the  Park 

at  midnight  ?   Fie,  fie  !  he  '11  never  come. 
Evans.  You  say  he  has  been  thrown  in  the  rivers,  and    has 

been  grievously  peaten,   as  an  old  'oman:  methinks  there 

should  be  terrors  in  him  that  he  should  not  come ;  methinks 

his  flesh  is  punished,  he  shall  have  no  desires. 
Page.  So  think  I  too. 
Mrs  Ford.  Devise  but  how  you  '11  use  him  when  he  comes, 

And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 
,  Mrs  Page.  There  is  an  old  tale  goes  that  Herne  the  hunter, 

Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 

Doth  all  the  winter-time,  at  still  midnight, 

Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns ; 

And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes  the  cattle, 

And  makes  milch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  a  chain 

In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner  : 

You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you  know 

The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld 

157 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age, 

This  tale  of  Herne  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 
Page.  Why,  yet  there  want  not  many  that  do  fear 

In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Herne's  oak  : 

But  what  of  this  ? 
Mrs  Ford.  Marry,  this  is  our  device ; 

That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us. 
Page.  Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he  '11  come : 

And  in  this  shape  when  you  have  brought  him  thither, 

What  shall  be  done  with  him  ?  what  is  your  plot  ? 
Mrs  Page.  That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon,  and  thus-: 

Nan  Page  my  daughter  and  my  little  son 

And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth  we  '11  dress 

Like  urchins,  ouphes  and  fairies,  green  and  white, 

With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 

And  rattles  in  their  hands  :  upon  a  sudden, 

As  Falstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 

Let  them  from  forth  a  sawpit  rush  at  once 

With  some  diffused  song  :  upon  their  sight, 

We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly  : 

Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about, 

And,  fairy-like,  to  pinch  the  unclean  knight ; 

And  ask  him  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel, 

In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread 

In  shape  profane. 
Mrs  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound, 

And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 
Mrs  Page.  The  truth  being  known, 

We  '11  all  present  ourselves,  dis-horn  the  spirit, 

And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 
Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practised  well  to  this,  or  they  '11  ne'er  do 't. 
Evans.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviours  ;  and  I  wfll 

be  like  a  jack-an-apes  also,  to  burn  the  knight  with  my  taber. 
Ford.  That  will  be  excellent.     I  '11  go  buy  them  vizards. 
Mrs  Page.  My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies, 

Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 
Page.  That  silk  will  I  go  buy.     [Aside}  And  in  that  time 

Shall  Master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away, 

And  marry  her  at  Eton.     Go  send  to  Falstaff  straight. 
Ford.  Nay,  I  '11  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook  : 

He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose  :  sure,  he  '11  come. 
Mrs  Page.  Fear  not  you  that.     Go  get  us  properties 

And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

158 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  v 

Evans.  Let  us  about  it :  it  is  admirable  pleasures  and  fery 
honest  knaveries.  [Exeunt  Page,  Ford,  and  Evans. 

Mrs  Page.  Go,  Mistress  Ford, 

Send  quickly  to  Sir  John,  to  know  his  mind.    [Exit  Mrs  ford. 

I  '11  to  the  doctor  :  he  hath  my  good  will, 

And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 

That  Slender,  though  well  landed, -is  an  idiot; 

And  he  my  husband  best  of  all  affects. 

The  doctor  is  well  money'd,  and  his  friends 

Potent  at  court :  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 

Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her.    [Exit. 

SCENE  V 

A  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  and  Simple. 

Host.  What  wouldst  thou  have,  boor  ?  what,  thick-skin  ?  speak, 
breathe,  discuss  ;  brief,  short,  quick,  snap.  [Master  Slender. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  Sir  John  Falstaff  from 

Host.  There 's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle,  bis  standing- 
bed,  and  truckle-bed  ;  'tis  painted  about  with  the  story  of 
the  Prodigal,  fresh  and  new.  Go  knock  and  call ;  he  '11  speak 
like  an  Anthropophaginian  unto  thee  :  knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There  's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone  up  into  his 
chamber  :  I  '11  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir,  till  she  come  down  ; 
I  come  to  speak  with  her,  indeed. 

Host.  Ha  !  a  fat  woman  !  the  knight  may  be  robbed  :  I  '11  call. 
— Bully  knight !  bully  Sir  John  !  speak  from  thy  lungs 
military  :  art  thou  there  ?  it  is  thine  host,  thine  Ephesian, 

Fal.  [Above]  How  now,  mine  host !  [calls. 

Host.  Here  's  a  Bohemian-Tartar  tarries  the  coming  down  of 
thy  fat  woman.  Let  her  descend,  bully,  let  her  descend; 
my  chambers  are  honourable :  fie  !  privacy  ?  fie  ! 

Enter  Falstaff. 
Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman  even  now  with 

me  ;  but  she 's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was 't  not  the  wise  woman  of  Brentford  ? 
Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell :  what  would  you  with  her  ? 
Sim.   My  master,  sir,  Master  Slender,  sent  to  her,  seeing  her 

go  thorough  the  streets,  to  know,  sir,  whether  one  Nym,  sir, 

that  beguiled  him  of  a  chain,  had  the  chain  or  no. 
Fal.  I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 
Sim.  And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir? 
Fal.  Marry,  she  says  that   the  very  same  man  that  beguiled 

Master  Slender  of  his  chain  cozened  him  of  it 

159 


^.CUAV,  o<j.  vj  ivicny     wives  ui    vv  mua 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the  woman  herself ; 

had  other  things  to  have  spoken  with  her  too  from  him. 
FaL  What  are  they?  let  us  know. 
Host.  Ay,  come ;  quick. 
Sim.  I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 
Host.  Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 
Sim.  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing   but  about   Mistress  Anne 

Page ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  master's  fortune  to  have  her  or  no 
FaL  'Tls,  'tis  his  fortune. 
Sim.  What,  sir? 

FaL  To  have  her,  or  no.     Go  ;  say  the  woman  told  me  so. 
Sim .  May  I  be  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 
Fal.  Ay,  sir ;  like  who  more  bold. 
Sim.  I  thank  your  worship  :  I  shall  make  my  master  glad  with 

these  tidings.  [Exit. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,  thou  art  clerkly,  Sir  John.     Was  there 

a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 
FaL  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host ;  one  that  hath  taught  me 

more  wit  than  ever  I  learned  before  in  my  life ;  and  I  paid 

nothing  for  it  neither,  but  was  paid  for  my  learning. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Out,  alas,  sir !  cozenage,  mere  cozenage  ! 
Host.  Where  be  my  horses  ?  speak  well  of  them,  varletto. 
Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners:    for  so  soon  as  I  came 

beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off,  from  behind  one  of  them, 

in  a  slough  of  mire ;  and  set  spurs  and  away,  like  three 

German  devils,  three  Doctor  Faustuses. 
Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  villain  :  do  not  say 

they  be  fled ;  Germans  are  honest  men. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans. 

Evans.  Where  is  mine  host  ? 

Host.  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Evans.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments :  there  is  a  friend 
of  mine  come  to  town,  tells  me  there  is  three  cozen-germans 
that  has  cozened  all  the  hosts  of  Readins,  of  Maidenhead,  of 
Colebrook,  of  horses  and  money.  I  tell  you  for  good  will, 
look  you  :  you  are  wise,  and  full  of  gibes  and  vlouting-stocks, 
and  'tis  not  convenient  you  should  be  cozened.  Fare  you 
well.  [Exit. 

Enter  Doctor  Caius. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mine  host  de  Jarteer  ? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity  and  doubtful  dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell-a  me  dat  you 
make  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  de  Jamany  :  by  my  trot, 

160 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  IV,  Sc.  vi 

dere  is  no  duke  dat  the  court  is  know  to  come.     I  tell  you 
for  good  vill :  adieu.  \Exit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go ! — Assist  me,  knight. — I  am 
undone  ! — Fly,  run,  hue  and  cry,  villain  ! — I  am  undone  ! 

\Exeunt  Host  and  Bard. 

FaL  I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozened ;  for  I  have  been 
cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it  should  come  to  the  ear  of  the 
court,  how  I  have  been  transformed,  and  how  my  transforma 
tion  hath  been  washed  and  cudgelled,  they  would  melt  me 
out  of  my  fat  drop  by  drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's  boots 
with  me  :  I  warrant  they  would  whip  me  with  their  fine  wits 
till  I  were  as  crest-fallen  as  a  dried  pear.  I  never  prospered 
since  I  forswore  myself  at  primero.  Well,  if  my  wind  were 
but  long  enough  to  say  my  prayers,  I  would  repent. 

Enter  Mistress  Quickly. 
Now,  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.     From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the  other  !  and  so 
they  shall  be  both  bestowed.  I  have  suffered  more  for  their 
sakes,  more  than  the  villainous  inconstancy  of  man's  disposi 
tion  is  able  to  bear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffered  ?  Yes,  I  warrant ;  speciously 
one  of  them  ;  Mistress  Ford,  good  heart,  is  beaten  black 
and  blue,  that  you  cannot  see  a  white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue  ?  I  was  beaten 
myself  into  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  ;  and  I  was  like  to 
be  apprehended  for  the  witch  of  Brentford  :  but  that  my 
admirable  dexterity  of  wit,  my  counterfeiting  the  action  of 
an  old  woman,  delivered  me,  the  knave  constable  had  set  me 
i'  the  stocks,  i'  the  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  chamber :  you 
shall  hear  how  things  go ;  and,  I  warrant,  to  your  content. 
Here  is  a  letter  will  say  somewhat.  Good  hearts,  what  ado 
here  is  to  bring  you  together !  Sure,  one  of  you  does  not 
serve  heaven  well,  that  you  are  so  crossed. 

Fal.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI 
The  same.     Another  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Fenton '  and  Host. 
Host.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me ;  my  mind  is  heavy  :  I 

will  give  over  all. 

Pent.  Yet  hear  me  speak.     Assist  me  in  my  purpose,    , 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  '11  give  thee 
A.  hundred  pound  in  gold  more  than  your  loss. 

161  v 


MM* 


Act  IV,  Sc.  vi]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  Master  Fenton ;  and  I  will  at  the  least 

keep  your  counsel. 
Pent.  From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 

With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page ; 

Who  mutually  hath  answer'd  my  affection, 

So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser, 

Even  to  my  wish :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 

Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at ; 

The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 

That  neither  singly  can  be  manifested, 

Without  the  show  of  both  ;  fat  Falstaff 

Hath  a  great  scene :  the  image  of  the  jest 

I'll  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine  host, 

To-night  at  Herne's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 

Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  Fairy  Queen ; 

The  purpose  why,  is  here  :  in  which  disguise, 

While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 

Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 

Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 

Immediately  to  marry  :  she  hath  consented  : 

Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 

And  firm  for  Doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 

That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 

While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 

And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 

Straight  marry  her :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 

She  seemingly  obedient  likewise  hath 

Made  promise  to  the  doctor.     Now,  thus  it  rests  : 

Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 

And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 

To  take  her  by  the  hand  and  bid  her  go, 

She  shall  go  with  him  :  her  mother  hath  intended, 

The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, — 

For  they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded, — 

That  quaint  in  green  she  shall  be  loose  enrobed, 

With  ribands  pendent,  flaring  'bout  her  head  ; 

And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 

To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token, 

The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 
Host.  Which  means  she  to  deceive,  father  or  mother  ? 
JFent.  Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me : 

And  here  it  rests, — that  you  '11  procure  the  vicar 

To  stay  for  me  at  church  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 

And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 

162 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  V,  Sc.  i,  ii 

To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 
Host.  Well,  husband  your  device  ;  I'll  to  the  vicar : 

Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 
Pent.  So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  thee ; 

Besides,  I  '11  make  a  present  recompense.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V— SCENE  I 

A  room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Mistress  Quickly. 

Fal.  Prithee,  no  more  prattling ;  go.  I '11  hold.  This  is  the  third 
time ;  I  hope  good  luck  lies  in  odd  numbers.  Away  !  go. 
They  say  there  is  divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity, 
chance,  or  death.  Away  ! 

Quick.  I  '11  provide  you  a  chain ;  and  I  '11  do  what  I  can  to  get 
you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears  :  hold  up  your  head,  and  mince. 

\Exit  Mrs  Quickly. 
Enter  Ford. 

How  now,  Master  Brook !  Master  Brook,  the  matter  will  be 
known  to-night,  or  never.  Be  you  in  the  Park  about  mid 
night,  at  Herne's  oak,  and  you  shall  see  wonders. 

Ford.  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you  told  me  you 
had  appointed  ? 

Fal.  I  went  to  her,  Master  Brook,  as  you  see,  like  a  poor  old 
man :  but  I  came  from  her,  Master  Brook,  like  a  poor  old 
woman.  That  same  knave  Ford,  her  husband,  hath  the 
finest  mad  devil  of  jealousy  in  him,  Master  Brook,  that  ever 
governed  frenzy.  I  will  tell  you  : — he  beat  me  grievously, 
in  the  shape  of  a  woman  ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man,  Master 
Brook,  I  fear  not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's  beam  ;  because  I 
know  also  life  is  a  shuttle.  I  am  in  haste ;  go  along  with 
me  :  I  '11  tell  you  all,  Master  Brook.  Since  I  plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew  not  what  'twas  to  be 
beaten  till  lately.  Follow  me  :  I  '11  tell  you  strange  things  of 
this  knave  Ford,  on  whom  to-night  I  will  be  revenged,  and 
I  will  deliver  his  wife  into  your  hand.  Follow.  Strange 
things  in  hand,  Master  Brook  !  Follow.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slender. 
Page.  Come,  come ;  we  '11  couch  i'  the  castle-ditch  till  we  see  the 

light  of  our  fairies.     Remember,  son  Slender,  my  daughter. 
Slen.  Ay,  forsooth;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and  we  have  a  nay-word 
how  to  know  one  another :  I  come  to  her  in  white,  and  cry, 
*  mum ; '  she  cries  *  budget ; '  and  by  that  we  know  one  another. 

163 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii,  iv,  v]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Shal.  That 's  good  too  :  but  what  needs  either  your  '  mum '  or 
her  '  budget  ?  '  the  white  will  decipher  her  well  enough.  It 
hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will  become  it  well. 
Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No  man  means  evil  but  the 
devil,  and  we  shall  know  him  by  his  horns.  Let 's  away ; 
follow  me.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

A  street  leading  to  the  Park. 
Enter  Mistress  Page,  Mistress  Ford,  and  Doctor  Cams. 

Mrs  Page.  Master  Doctor,  my  daughter  is  in  green  :  when  you 
see  your  time,  take  her  by  the  hand,  away  with  her  to  the 
deanery,  and  dispatch  it  quickly.  Go  before  into  the  Park  : 
we  two  must  go  together. 

Cams.  I  know  vat  I  have  to  do.     Adieu. 

Mrs  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [.Exit  Caius.]  My  husband 
will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse  of  Falstaff  as  he  will 
chafe  at  the  doctor's  marrying  my  daughter :  but  'tis  no 
matter;  better  a  little  chiding  than  a  great  deal  of  heart 
break. 

Mrs  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now  and  her  troop  of  fairies,  and  the 
Welsh  devil  Hugh  ? 

Mrs  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit  hard  by  Herne's  oak, 
with  obscured  lights ;  which,  at  the  very  instant  of  Falstaff 's 
and  our  meeting,  they  will  at  once  display  to  the  night. 

Mrs  Ford.  That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed,  he  will  be  mocked  ;  if  he  be 
amazed,  he  will  every  way  be  mocked. 

Mrs  Ford.  We  '11  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs  Page.  Against  such  lewdsters  and  their  lechery 
Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on.     To  the  oak,  to  the  oak  ! 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV 
Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans  disguised,  with  others  as  Fairies. 

Evans.  Trib,  trib,  fairies ;  come  ;  and  remember  your  parts  : 
be  pold,  I  pray  you ;  follow  me  into  the  pit ;  and  when  I 
give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as  I  pid  you  :  come,  come ;  trib, 
trib.  [Exeunt* 

SCENE  V 

Another  part  of  the  Park. 
Enter  Falstaff  disguised  as  Herne. 

Fal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve ;  the  minute  draws 
on.  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  assist  me!  Remember, 

164 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  V,  Sc.  v 

Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy  Europa  ;  love  set  on  thy  horns. 
O  powerful  love  !  that,  in  some  respects,  makes  a  beast  a 
man;  in  some  other,  a  man  a  beast.  You  were  also,  Jupiter, 
a  swan  for  the  love  of  Leda.  O  omnipotent  Love  !  how 
near  the  god  drew  to  the  complexion  of  a  goose  !  A  fault 
done  first  in  the  form  of  a  beast  ;  —  O  Jove,  a  beastly  fault  ! 
And  then  another  fault  in  the  semblance  of  a  fowl  ;  —  think 
on  't,  Jove  ;  a  foul  fault  !  When  gods  have  hot  backs,  what 
shall  poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I  am  here  a  Windsor  stag  ; 
and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the  forest.  Send  me  a  cool  rut- 
time,  Jove,  or  who  can  blame  me  to  piss  my  tallow  ?  —  Who 

comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 

" 
Enter  Mistress  Ford  and  Mistress  Page. 

Mrs  Ford.  Sir  John  !  art  thou  there,  my  deer  ?  my  male  deer  ? 

FaL  My  doe  with  the  black  scut  !  Let  the  sky  rain  potatoes  ; 
let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves,  hail  kissing- 
comfits,  and  snow  eringoes  ;  let  there  come  a  tempest  of 
provocation,  I  will  shelter  me  here. 

Mrs  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me,  sweetheart. 

FaL  Divide  me  like  a  bribe  buck,  each  a  haunch  :  I  will  keep 
my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the  fellow  of  this  walk, 
and  my  horns  I  bequeath  your  husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman, 
ha!  Speak  I  like  Herne  the  hunter?  Why,  now  is  Cupid 
a  child  of  conscience  ;  he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a 
true  spirit,  welcome  !  [Noise  within. 

Mrs  Page.  Alas,  what  noise  ? 

Mrs  Ford.  Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

FaL  What  should  this  be  ? 


[They  run  o/. 

FaL  I  think  the  devil  will  not  have  me  damned,  lest  the  oil 
that  's  in  me  should  set  hell  on  fire  ;  he  would  never  else 
cross  me  thus. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  disguised  as  before;  Pistol,  as  Hob 

goblin;  Mistress  Quickly,  Anne  Page,  and  others,  as  Fairies, 

with  tapers. 
Quick.  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white, 

You  moonshine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 

You  orphan  heirs  of  fixed  destiny, 

Attend  your  office  and  your  quality. 

Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  oyes. 
Pist.  Elves,  list  your  names  ;  silence,  you  airy  toys. 

Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  shait  thou  leap  : 

Where  fires  thou  find'st  unraked  and  hearths  unswept, 

'65 


Act  V,  Sc.  v]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry  : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts  and  sluttery. 
Fal.  They  are  fairies  ;  he  that  speaks  to  them  shall  die  : 
I  '11  wink  and  couch  :  no  man  their  works  must  eye. 

[Lies  down  upon  his  face. 

Evans.  Where 's  Bede  ?     Go  you,  and  where  you  find  a  maid 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said, 

Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy ; 

Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancy : 

But  those  as  sleep  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 

Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and  shins. 
Quick.  About,  about ; 

Search  Windsor  Castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 

Strew  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room ; 

That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom, 

In  state  as  wholesome  as  in  state  'tis  fit, 

Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 

The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 

With  juice  of  balm  and  every  precious  flower : 

Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest, 

With  loyal  blazon,  evermore  be  blest ! 

And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 

Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring  : 

Th'  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 

More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see  ; 

And  Honi  soit  qui  mat y  pense  write 

In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purple,  blue,  and  white ; 

Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 

Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  : 

Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. 

Away ;  disperse :  but  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 

Our  dance  of  custom  round  about  the  oak 

Of  Herne  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 
Evans.  Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand  ;  yourselves  in  order  set ; 

And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 

To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 

But,  stay  ;  I  smell  a  man  of  middle-earth. 
Fal.  Heavens   defend   me   from   that    Welsh    fairy,   lest    he 

transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese! 
Pist.  Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  even  in  thy  birth. 
Quick.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end  : 

If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend, 

And  turn  him  to  no  pain  ;  but  if  he  start, 

It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 
Pist.  A  trial,  come. 

166 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  V,  Sc.  v 

Evans.  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

\They  burn  him  with  their  tapers, 
Fal.  Oh,  Oh,  Oh  ! 
Quick.  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire ! 

About  him,  fairies ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  ; 

And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Song. 

Fie  on  sinful  fantasy  ! 

Fie  on  lust  and  luxury  ! 

Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 

Kindled  with  unchaste  desire, 

Fed  in  heart,  whose  flames  aspire, 

As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  higher  and  higher, 

Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually : 

Pinch  him  for  his  villainy  ; 
Pinch  him,  and  bum  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles  and  starlight  and  moonshine  be  out. 

During  this  song  they  pinch  Falstaff.  Doctor  Caius  comes  one 
way,  and  steals  away  a  boy  in  green ;  Slender  another  way, 
and  takes  off  a  boy  in  white ;  and  Fenton  comes,  and  steals 
away  Mrs  Anne  Page.  A  noise  of  hunting  is  heard  within. 
All  the  Fairies  run  away.  Falstaff  pulls  off  his  bucks  head, 
and  rises. 

Enter  Page,  Ford,  Mistress  Page,  and  Mistress  Ford. 

Page.  Nay,  do  not  fly ;  I  think  we  have  watch'd  you  now : 
Will  none  but  Herne  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 

Mrs  Page.  I  pray  you,  come,  hold  up  the  jest  no  higher. 
Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives  ? 
See  you  these,  husband  ?  do  not  these  fair  yokes 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who's  a  cuckold  now?  Master  Brook,  Fal 
staff  's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldly  knave ;  here  are  his  horns, 
Master  Brook  :  and,  Master  Brook,  he  hath  enjoyed  nothing 
of  Ford's  but  his  buck-basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds 
of  money,  which  must  be  paid  to  Master  Brook  ;  his  horses 
are  arrested  for  it,  Master  Brook, 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck ;  we  could  never 
meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my  love  again ;  but  I  will 
always  count  you  my  deer. 

Fal.  I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  made  an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too  :  both  the  proofs  are  extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three  or  four  times  in 
the  thought  they  were  not  fairies  :  and  yet  the  guiltiness  of 
my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise  of  my  powers,  drove   the 
167 


Act  V,  Sc.  v]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

grossness  of  the  foppery  into  a  received  belief,  in  despite  of 
the  teeth  of  all  rhyme  and  reason,  that  they  were  fairies. 
See  now  how  wit  may  be  made  a  Jack-a-Lent,  when  'tis 
upon  ill  employment ! 

Evans.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got,  and  leave  your  desires,  and 

Ford.  Well  said,  fairy  Hugh.  [fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Evans.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray  you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till  thou  art  able  to 
woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun  and  dried  it,  that  it  wants 
matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'er-reaching  as  this  ?  Am  I  ridden 
with  a  Welsh  goat  too  ?  shall  I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  ?  'Tis 
time  I  were  choked  with  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese. 

Evans.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter ;  your  pelly  is  all  putter. 

Fal.  '  Seese '  and  '  putter '  ?  Have  I  lived  to  stand  at  the  taunt 
of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  ?  This  is  enough  to  be 
the  decay  of  lust  and  late- walking  through  the  realm. 

Mrs  Page.  Why,  Sir  John,  do  you  think,  though  we  would  have 
thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  by  the  head  and  shoulders,  and 
have  given  ourselves  without  scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the 
devil  could  have  made  you  our  delight  ? 

Ford.  What,  a  hodge-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 

Mrs  Page.  A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.  Old,  cold,  withered,  and  of  intolerable  entrails  ? 

Ford.  And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan  ? 

Page.  And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.  And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Evans.  And  given  to  fornications,  and  to  taverns,  and  sack,  and 
wine,  and  metheglins,  and  to  drinkings,  and  swearings,  and 
starings,  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme :  you  have  the  start  of  me ;  I  am 
dejected ;  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the  Welsh  flannel : 
ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er  me :  use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we  '11  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to  one  Master 
Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of  money,  to  whom  you  should 
have  been  a  pandar :  over  and  above  that  you  have  suffered, 
I  think  to  repay  that  money  will  be  a  biting  affliction. 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shalt  eat  a  posset  to-night 
at  my  house ;  where  I  will  desire  thee  to  laugh  at  my  wife, 
that  now  laughs  at  thee :  tell  her  Master  Slender  hath  married 
her  daughter. 

Mrs  Page.  [Aside']    Doctors  doubt  that :  if  Anne  Page  be  my 
daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  Doctor  Cams'  wife. 
Enter  Slender. 

SZen.  Whoa,  ho  !  ho,  father  Page  ! 

1 68 


Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  [Act  V,  Sc.  v 

Page.  Son,  how  now  !  how  now,  son  !  have  you  dispatched  ? 
Slen.  Dispatched  !  I  '11  make  the  best  in  Gloucestershire  know 

on  't ;  would  I  were  hanged,  la,  else  ! 
Page.  Of  what,  son  ? 
Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  Mistress  Anne  Page,  and 

she  Js  a  great  lubberly  boy.    If  it  had  not  been  i'  the  church, 

I  would  have  swinged  him,  or  he  should  have  swinged  me. 

If  I  did  not  think  it  had  been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might 

never  stir  ! — and  'tis  a  postmaster's  boy. 
Page.  Upon  my  life,  then,  you  took  the  wrong. 
Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that?     I  think  so,  when  I  took  a 

boy  for  a  girl.     If  I  had  been  married  to  him,  for  all  he  was 

in  woman's  apparel,  I  would  not  have  had  him. 
Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.    Did  not  I  tell  you  how  you 

should  know  my  daughter  by  her  garments  ? 
Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  'mum,'  and  she  cried 

'  budget,'  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed  ;  and  yet  it  was  not 

Anne,  but  a  postmaster's  boy. 
Mrs  Page.    Good  George,   be  not   angry  :    I   knew   of  your 

purpose ;  turned  my  daughter  into  green ;  and,  indeed,  she 

is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the  deanery,  and  there  married. 

Enter  Cams. 
Cams.  Vere  is  Mistress  Page  ?     By  gar,  I  am  cozened :  I  ha' 

married  un  gargon,  a  boy ;  un  paysan,  by  gar,  a  boy ;  it  is 

not  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  I  am  cozened. 
Mrs  Page.  Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 
Cams.  Ay,   by   gar,    and   'tis   a   boy :    by   gar,   I  '11   raise  all 

Windsor.  [Exit 

Ford.  This  is  strange.     Who  hath  got  the  right  Anne  ? 
Page.  My  heart  misgives  me  : — here  comes  Master  Fenton. 
Enter  Fenton  and  Anne  Page. 

How  now,  Master  Fenton  ! 

Anne.  Pardon,  good  father  I  good  my  mother,,  pardon  ! 
Page.  Now,  mistress,  how  chance  you  went  not  with  Master 

Slender? 

Mrs  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  master  doctor,  maid  ? 
Fent.  You  do  amaze  her  :  hear  the  truth  of  it. 

You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 

Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 

The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted, 

Are  now  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 

The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed ; 

And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 

Of  disobedience,  or  unduteous  title  ; 

Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 

169 

F  2 


Act  V,  Sc.  v]  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours, 

Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 
Ford.  Stand  not  amazed ;  here  is  no  remedy  : 

In  love  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  the  state ; 

Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 
Fal.  I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special  stand  to  stri 

at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanced. 
Page.  Well,  what  remedy?     Fenton,  heaven  give  thee  joy  ! 

What  cannot  be  eschew'd  must  be  embraced. 
Fal.  When  night-dogs  run,  all  sorts  of  deer  are  chased. 
Mrs  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  further.     Master  Fenton, 

Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days  ! 

Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 

And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 

Sir  John  and  all. 
Ford.  Let  it  be  so.     Sir  John, 

To  Master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word ; 

For  he  to-night  shall  lie  with  Mistress  Ford.  [JExeunf. 


170 


MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 


VINCENTIO,  the  Duke. 
ANGELO,  Deputy. 
ESCALUS,  an  ancient  Lord. 
CL  AUDIO,  a  young  gentleman. 
Lucio,  a  fantastic. 
Two  other  gentlemen. 
PROVOST. 


A  Justice. 
VARRIUS. 


ELBOW,  a  simple  constable. 
FROTH,  a  foolish  gentleman. 
POMPKY,  servant  to  Mistress  Overdone. 
ABHORSON,  an  executioner. 
BARNARDINE,  a  dissolute  prisoner. 

ISABELLA,  sister  to  Claudia. 
MARIANA,  betrothed  to  Angela. 
JULIET,  beloved  of  Claudia. 
FRANCISCA,  a  nun. 
MISTRESS  OVERDONE,  a  lawd. 


Lords,  Officers,  Citizens,  Boy,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE  :  Vienna. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 
An  apartment  in  the  Duke's  palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Escalus,  Lords  and  Attendants. 
Duke.  Escalus. 
Escal.  My  lord. 
Duke.  Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 

Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse ; 

Since  I  am  put  to  know  that  your  own  science 

Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 

My  strength  can  give  you  :  then  no  more  remains, 

But  that  to  your  sufficiency 

as  your  worth  is  able, 

And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 

Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 

For  common  justice,  you  're  as  pregnant  in 

As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 

That  we  remember.     There  is  our  commission, 

From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp.     Call  hither, 

I  say,  bid  come  before  us  Angelo.  {Exit  an  Attendant. 

What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear  ? 

For  you  must  know,  we  have  with  special  soul 

Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply  ; 

Lent  him  our  terror,  dress'd  him  with  our  love, 

And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 

Of  our  own  power  :  what  think  you  of  it  ? 
Escal.  If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 

To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honour, 

It  is  Lord  Angelo. 
Duke.  Look  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Angelo. 
Ang.  Always  obedient  to  your  Grace's  will, 

I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

171 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Duke.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 

That  to  th'  observer  doth  thy  history 

Fully  unfold.     Thyself  and  thy  belongings 

Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,  as  to  waste 

Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  they  on  thee. 

Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do, 

Not  light  them  for  themselves ;  for  if  our  virtues 

Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 

As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touch  'd 

But  to  fine  issues  ;  nor  Nature  never  lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 

But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  use.     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 

To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise ; 

Hold  therefore,  Angelo  : — 

In  our  remove  be  thou  at  full  ourself ; 

Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 

Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart :  old  Escalus, 

Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary. 

Take  thy  commission. 
Ang.  Now,  good  my  lord, 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 

Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 

Be  stamped  upon  it. 
Duke.  No  more  evasion : 

We  have  with  a  leaven'd  and  prepared  choice 

Proceeded  to  you  ;  therefore  take  your  honours. 

Our  haste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 

That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 

Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  write  to  you, 

As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune 

How  it  goes  with  us ;  and  do  look  to  know 

What  doth  befall  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well: 

To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 

r-\  r>  • 

Of  your  commissions. 
Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord,  . 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 
Duke.  My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 

Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honour,  have  to  do 

With  any  scruple ;  your  scope  is  as  mine  own, 

So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws 

As  to  your  soul  seems  good.     Give  me  your  hand : 

I  '11  privily  away.     I  love  the  people, 

172 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes : 

Though  it  do  well,  I  do.  not  relish  well 

Their  loud  applause  and  Aves  vehement ; 

Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion 

That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 
Ang.  The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes ! 
Escal.  Lead  forth  and  bring  you  back  in  happiness ! 
Duke.  I  thank  you.     Fare  you  well.  [.Exit. 

Escal.  I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 

To  have  free  speech  with  you ;  and  it  concerns  me 

To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 

A  power  I  have,  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 

I  am  not  yet  instructed. 
Ang.  'Tis  so  with  me.     Let  us  withdraw  together, 

And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 

Touching  that  point. 
Escal.  I  '11  wait  upon  your  honour. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  II 

A  street. 
Enter  Lucio  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Lurio.  If  the  Duke,  with  the  other  dukes,  come  not  to  com 
position  with  the  King  of  Hungary,  why  then  all  the  dukes 
fall  upon  the  king, 

first  Gent.  Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not  the  King  of 

Sec.  Gent.  Amen.  [Hungary's  ! 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimonious  pirate,  that 
went  to  sea  with  the  Ten  Commandments,  but  scraped  one 
out  of  the  table. 

Sec.  Gent.  '  Thou  shalt  not  steal '  ? 

Lucio.  Ay,  that  he  razed. 

First  Gent.  Why,  'twas  a  commandment  to  command  the  cap 
tain  and  all  the  rest  from  their  functions :  they  put  forth  to 
stf  '  There 's  not  a  soldier  of  us  all,  that,  in  the  thanks 
giving  before  meat,  do  relish  the  petition  well  that  prays  for 

Sec.  Gent.  I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it.  [peace. 

Lucio.  I  believe  thee ;  for  I  think  thou  never  wast  where  grace 

Sec.  Gent.  No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  least.  [was  said. 

First  Gent.  What,  in  metre  ? 

Lucio.  In  any  proportion  or  in  any  language. 

First  Gent.  I  think,  or  in  any  religion. 

Lucio.  Ay,  why  not?  Grace  is  grace,  despite  of  all  con 
troversy  :  as,  for  example,  thou  thyself  art  a  wicked  villain, 
despite  of  all  grace. 

173 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

First  Gent.  Well,  there  went  but  a  pair  of  shears  between  us. 
Ludo.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the  lists  and  the  velvet. 

Thou  art  the  list. 
First  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet :  thou  art  good  velvet ;  thou  'rt 

a  three-piled  piece,  I  warrant  thee :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  list  of 

an  English  kersey,  as  be  piled,  as  thou  art  piled,  for  a  French 

velvet.     Do  I  speak  feelingly  now  ? 
Ludo.  I  think   thou  dost ;    and,   indeed,    with   most   painful 

feeling  of  thy  speech  :  I  will,  out  of  thine  own  confession, 

learn  to  begin  thy  health ;  but,  whilst  I  live,  forget  to  drink 

after  thee. 

First  Gent.  I  think  I  have  done  myself  wrong,  have  I  not  ? 
Sec.  Gent.  Yes,  that  thou  hast,  whether  thou  art  tainted  or  free. 
Ludo.  Behold,  behold,  where  Madam   Mitigation  comes !     I 

have  purchased  as  many  diseases  under  her  roof  as  come  to — 
Sec.  Gent.  To  what,  I  pray  ? 
Ludo.  Judge. 

Sec.  Gent.     To  three  thousand  dolours  a  year. 
First  Gent.  Ay,  and  more. 
Ludo.  A  French  crown  more. 
First  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in  me ;  but  thou 

art  full  of  error  ;  I  am  sound. 
Ludo.     Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healthy ;  but  so  sound  as 

things  that  are  hollow :  thy  bones  are  hollow :  impiety  has 

made  a  feast  of  thee. 

Enter  Mistress  Overdone. 
First  Gent.  Plow   now !   which   of    your    hips   has   the   most 

profound  sciatica? 
Mrs  Ov.  Well,  well ;  there 's  one  yonder  arrested  and  carried 

to  prison  was  worth  five  thousand  of  you  all. 
Sec.  Gent.  Who 's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 
Mrs  Ov.  Marry,  sir,  that 's  Claudio,  Signior  Claudio. 
First  Gent.  Claudio  to  prison  ?  'tis  not  so. 
Mrs  Ov.  Nay,  but    I  know  'tis  so  :  I  saw  him  arrested ;  saw 

him  carried  away;   and,  which  is  more,  within  these  three 

days  his  head  's  to  be  chopped  off. 
Ludo.  But  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would  not  have  it  so.     Art 

thou  sure  of  this  ? 
Mrs  Ov.  I  am  too  sure  of  it :  and  it  is  for  getting  Madam 

Julietta  with  child. 
Ludo.  Believe  me,  this  may  be :  he  promised  to  meet  me  two 

hours  since,  and  he  was  ever  precise  in  promise-keeping. 
Sec.  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something  near  to  the 

speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 

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

174 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Lucio.  Away  !  let 's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen. 
Mrs  Ov.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with  the  sweat,  what 

with  the  gallows,  and  what  with  poverty,  I  am  custom-shrunk. 
Enter  Pompey. 

How  now  !  what  's  the  news  with  you  ? 
Pom.  Yonder  man  is  carried  to  prison. 
Mrs  Ov.  Well ;  what  has  he  done  ? 
Pom.  A  woman. 

Mrs  Ov.  But  what 's  his  offence  ? 
Pom.  Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 
Mrs  Ov.  What,  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by  him  ? 
Pom.  No,  but  there  's  a  woman  with  maid  by  him.     You  have 

not  heard  of  the  proclamation,  have  you  ? 
Mrs  Ov.  What  proclamation,  man  ? 

Pom.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must  be  plucked 
Mrs  Ov.  And  what  shall  become  of  those  in  the  city  ?  [down. 
Pom.  They  shall  stand  for  seed:  they  had  gone  down  too, 

but  that  a  wise  burgher  put  in  for  them. 
Mrs  Ov.  But  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in  the  suburbs  be 

pulled  down? 

Pom.  To  the  ground,  mistress. 
Mrs  Ov.  Why,  here 's  a  change  indeed  in  the  commonwealth ! 

What  shall  become  of  me  ? 
Pom.  Come ;  fear  not  you :  good  counsellors  lack  no  clients : 

though  you  change  your  place,  you  need  not  change  your 

trade ;   I  '11  be  your  tapster  still.     Courage  !   there  will  be 

pity  taken  on  you :  you  that  have  worn  your  eyes  almost 

out  in  the  service,  you  will  be  considered. 
Mrs  Ov.  What's  to  do  here,  Thomas  tapster?  let's  withdraw. 
Pom.  Here   comes   Signior   Claudio,  led  by   the   provost   to 

prison ;  and  there 's  Madam  Juliet.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Provost,  Claudio,  Juliet,  and  Officers. 
Claud.  Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus  to   the  world  ? 

Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 
Prov.  I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition, 

But  from  Lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 
Claud.  Thus  can  the  demigod  Authority 

Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight 

The  words  of  heaven ; — on  whom  it  will,  it  will ; 

On  whom  it  will  not,  so ;  yet  still  'tis  just. 

Re-enter  Lucio  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio  !  whence  comes  this  restraint  ? 
Ciaud.  From  too  much  liberty,  my  Lucio,  liberty : 

As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast, 

175 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

So  every  scope  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint.     Our  natures  do  pursue, 
Like  rats  that  ravin  down  their  proper  bane, 

A  thirsty  evil ;  and  when  we  drink  we  die. 
Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  arrest,  I  would  send 

for  certain  of  my  creditors  :  and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  I  had 

as  lief  have  the   foppery   of  freedom  as   the   morality   of 

imprisonment.     What's  thy  offence,  Claudio? 
Claud.  What  but  to  speak  of  would  offend  again. 
Lucio.  What,  is  \  murder  ? 
Claud.  No. 
Lucio.  Lechery? 
Claud.  Call  it  so. 
Prov.  Away,  sir !  you  must  go. 

Claud.  One  word,  good  friend.     Lucio,  a  word  with  you. 
Lucio.  A  hundred,  if  they  '11  do  you  any  good. 

Is  lechery  so  look'd  after  ? 
Claud.  Thus  stands  it  with  me :  upon  a  true  contract 

I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed  : 

You  know  the  lady ;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 

Save  that  we  do  the  denunciation  lack 

Of  outward  order  :  this  we  came  not  to, 

Only  for  propagation  of  a  dower 

Remaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends ; 

From  whom  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love 

Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances 

The  stealth  of  our  most  mutual  entertainment 

With  character  too  gross  is  writ  on  Juliet. 
Lucio.  With  child,  perhaps  ? 
Claud.  Unhappily,  even  so. 

And  the  new  Deputy  now  for  the  Duke,— 

Whether  it  be  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness, 

Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 

A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride, 

Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 

He  can  command,  lets  it  straight  feel  the  spur ; 

Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place, 

Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up, 

I  stagger  in : — but  this  new  governor 

Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties 

Which  have,  like  unscour'd  armour,  hung  by  the  wall 

So  long,  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round, 

And  none  of  them  been  worn ;  and,  for  a  name, 

Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 

Freshly  on  me  :  'tis  surely  for  a  name. 

176 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Lucio.  I  warrant  it  is :  and  thy  head  stands  so  tickle  on  thy 

shoulders,  that  a  milkmaid,  if  she  be  in  love,  may  sigh  it  off. 

Send  after  the  Duke,  and  appeal  to  him. 
Claud.  I  have  done  so,  but  he 's  not  to  be  found. 

I  prithee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service  : 

This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter 

And  there  receive  her  approbation : 

Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state  ; 

Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 

To  the  strict  deputy ;  bid  herself  assay  him  : 

I  have  great  hope  in  that ;  for  in  her  youth 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect, 

Such  as  move  men  ;  beside,  she  hath  prosperous  art 

When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 

And  well  she  can  persuade. 
Lucio.  I  pray  she  may ;  as  well  for  the  encouragement  of  the 

like,  which  else  would  stand  under  grievous  imposition,   as 

for  the  enjoying  of  thy  life,  who  I  would  be  sorry  should  be 

thus  foolishly  lost  at  a  game  of  tick-tack.     I  '11  to  her. 
Claud.  I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 
Lucio.  Within  two  hours. 
Claud.  Come,  officer,  away  1  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
A  monastery. 

Enter  Duke  and  Friar  Thomas. 
Duke.  No,  holy  father  ;  throw  away  that  thought ; 

Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 

Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom.     Why  I  desire  thee 

To  give  me  secret  harbour,  hath  a  purpose 

More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 

Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  T.  May  your  Grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Duke.  My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  you 

How  I  have  ever  loved  the  life  removed, 

And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies 

Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  witless  bravery  keeps. 

I  have  deliver'd  to  Lord  Angelo, 

A  man  of  stricture  and  firm  abstinence, 

My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 

And  he  supposes  me  travelled  to  Poland ; 

For  so  I  have  strew'd  it  in  the  common  ear, 

And  so  it  is  received.     Now,  pious  sir, 

You  will  demand  of  me  why  I  do  this  ? 
Fri.  T.  Gladly,  my  lord. 

177 


Act  I,  Sc.  iv]  Measure  for  Measure 

Duke.  We  have  strict  statutes  and  most  biting  laws, 
The  needful  bits  and  curbs  to  headstrong  weeds, 
Which  for  this  fourteen  years  we  have  let  slip  ; 
Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 
That  goes  not  out  to  prey.     Now,  as  fond  fathers, 
Having  bound  up  the  threatening  twigs  of  birch. 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight 
For  terror,  not  to  use,  in  time  the  rod 
Becomes  more  mock'd  than  fear'd  ;  so  our  decrees, 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead  ; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  T.  It  rested  in  your  Grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice  when  you  pleased: 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seem'd 
Than  in  Lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'T would  be  my  tyranny  to  strike  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do  :  for  we  bid  this  be  done, 
When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass, 
And  not  the  punishment.     Therefore,  indeed,  my  father, 
I  have  on  Angelo  imposed  the  office ; 
Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 
And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  fight 
To  do  in  slander.     And  to  behold  his  sway, 
I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order, 
Visit  both  prince  and  people  :  therefore,  I  prithee, 
Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 
How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 
Like  a  true  friar.     Moe  reasons  for  this  action 
At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  you ; 
Only,  this  one  :  Lord  Angelo  is  precise  ; 
Stands  at  a  guard  with  envy  ;  scarce  confesses 
That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 
Is  more  to  bread  than  stone  :  hence  shall  we  see, 
If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be. 

\Ex  eunt, 
SCENE  IV 

A  nunnery. 
Enter  Isabella  and  Frandsca. 

Isab,  And  have  you  nuns  no  farther  privileges  ? 
Fran.  Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

178 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  I,  Sc.  iv 

Isab.  Yes,  truly  :  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more ; 

But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 

Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votarists  of  Saint  Clare. 
Lucio  \within\.  Ho  !  Peace  be  in  this  place  ! 
Isab.  Who 's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.  It  is  a  man's  voice.     Gentle  Isabella, 

Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him ; 

You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn. 

When  you  have  vow'd,  you  must  not  speak  with  men 

But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress  : 

Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face  ; 

Or,  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 

He  calls  again  ;  I  pray  you,  answer  him.  \Exit. 

Isab.  Peace  and  prosperity  1     Who  is  ;t  that  calls  ? 

Enter  Lucio. 
Lucio.  Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be,  as  those  cheek-roses 

Proclaim  you  are  no  less  !     Can  you  so  stead  me 

As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 

A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 

To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio  ? 
Isab.  Why,  *  her  unhappy  brother '  ?  let  me  ask 

The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 

I  am  that  Isabella  and  his  sister. 
Lucio.  Gentle  and  fair,  your  brother  kindly  greets  you  : 

Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he 's  in  prison. 
Isab.  Woe  me  !  for  what  ? 
Lucio.  For  that  which,  if  myself  might  be  his  judge, 

He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks : 

He  hath  got  his  friend  with  child. 
Isab.  Sir,  make  me  not  your  story. 
Lucio.  It  is  true. 

I  would  not — though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 

With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest, 

Tongue  far  from  heart — play  with  all  virgins  so : 

I  hold  you  as  a  thing  ensky'd  and  sainted  ; 

By  your  renouncement,  an  immortal  spirit ; 

And  to  be  talk'd  with  in  sincerity, 

As  with  a  saint. 

Isab.  You  do  blaspheme  the  good  in  mocking  me. 
Lucio.  Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and  truth,  'tis  thus  :— 

Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embraced  : 

As  those  that  feed  grow  full, — as  blossoming  time, 

That  from  the  seedness  the  bare  fallow  brings 

To  teeming  foison, — even  so  her  plenteous  womb 

Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

179 


Act  I,  Sc.  iv] 


Measure  for  Measure 


Isab.  Some  one  with  child  by  him  ? — My  cousin  Juliet  ? 

Lucio.  Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.  Adoptedly  ;  as  school-maids  change  their  names 

By  vain,  though  apt,  affection. 
Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isab.  O,  let  him  marry  her. 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence  ; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand,  and  hope  of  action  :  but  we  do  learn 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state, 
His  givings-out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority, 
Governs  Lord  Angelo  ;  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense, 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study  and  fast. 
He — to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have  for  long  run  by  the  hideous  law, 
As  mice  by  lions — hath  picked  out  an  act, 
Under  whose  heavy  sense  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit :  he  arrests  him  on  it ; 
And  follows  close  the  rigour  of  the  statute, 
To  make  him  an  example.     All  hope  is  gone, 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo  :  and  that 's  my  pith  of  business 
'Twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isab.  Doth  he  so  seek  his  life  ? 

Lucio.  Has  censured  him 

Already ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isab.  Alas  !  what  poor  ability  's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 

Lucio.  Assay  the  power  you  have. 

Isab.  My  power?     Alas,  I  doubt,-r- 

Lucio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win 
By  fearing  to  attempt.     Go  to  Lord  Angelo, 
And  let  him  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods ;  but  when  they  weep  and  kneel, 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  them. 

Isab.  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do. 

180 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Lutio.  But  speedily. 

I  sab.   I  will  about  it  straight ; 

No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  Mother 

Notice  of  my  affair.     I  humbly  thank  you  : 

Commend  me  to  my  brother :  soon  at  night 

I  '11  send  him  certain  word  of  my  success. 
Lucio.  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 
Isab.  Good  sir,  adieu.         \Exeunt. 

ACT   II— SCENE  I 

A  hall  in  Angelas  house. 

Enter  Angela,  Escalus,  and  a  Justice,  Provost,  Officers,  and 
other  Attendants,  behind. 

Ang.  We  must  not  make  a  scarecrow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little, 
Than  fall,  and  bruise  to  death.     Alas,  this  gentleman, 
Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father ! 
Let  but  your  honour  know, 
Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue, 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had  time  cohered  with  place  or  place  with  wishing, 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attain'd  the  effect  of  your  own  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  sometime  in  your  life 
Err'd  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  pull'd  the  law  upon  you. 

Ang.  'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny, 
The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoners^  life, 
May  in  the  sworn  twelve  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier  than  him  they  try.     What 's  open  made  to  justice, 
That  justice  seizes  :  what  know  the  laws 
That  thieves  do  pass  on  thieves  ?     'Tis  very  pregnant, 
The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  't, 
Because  we  see  it ;  but  what  we  do  not  see 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence 
For  I  have  had  such  faults ;  but  rather  tell  me, 
When  I  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 
Let  mine  own  judgement  pattern  out  my  death, 
And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

181 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Escal.  Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

Ang.  Where  is  the  provost  ? 

Prov.  Here,  if  it  like  your  honour. 

Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning : 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepared ; 
For  that 's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage.  [Exit  Provost. 

Escal.  [Aside]  Well,  heaven  forgive  him  !  and  forgive  us  all  ! 
Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  by  virtue  fall : 
Some  run  from  brakes  of  ice,  and  answer  none ; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

Enter  Elbow,  and  Officers  with  Froth  and  Pompey. 

Elb.  Come,  bring  them  away :  if  these  be  good  people  in  a 
commonweal  that  do  nothing  but  use  their  abuses  in  com 
mon  houses,  I  know  no  law :  bring  them  away. 

Ang.  How  now,  sir  !  What 's  your  name  ?  and  what 's  the 
matter  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  am  the  poor  Duke's  con 
stable,  and  my  name  is  Elbow  :  I  do  lean  upon  justice,  sir, 
and  do  bring  in  here  before  your  good  honour  two  notorious 
benefactors. 

Ang.  Benefactors  ?  Well ;  what  benefactors  are  they  ?  are  they 
not  malefactors  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  know  not  well  what  they  are  : 
but  precise  villains  they  are,  that  I  am  sure  of ;  and  void 
of  all  profanation  in  the  world  that  good  Christians  ought 
to  have. 

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

Ang.  Go  to  :  what  quality  are  they  of  ?  Elbow  is  your  name  ? 
why  dost  thou  not  speak,  Elbow  ? 

Pom.  He  cannot,  sir ;  he 's  out  at  elbow. 

Ang.  What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  He,  sir !  a  tapster,  sir ;  parcel-bawd  ;  one  that  serves  a 
bad  woman ;  whose  house,  sir,  was,  as  they  say,  plucked 
down  in  the  suburbs ;  and  now  she  professes  a  hot-house, 
which,  I  think,  is  a  very  ill  house  too. 

Escal.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Elb.  My   wife,    sir,   whom   I   detest   before  heaven  and  your 

Escal.  How  ?  thy  wife  ?  [honour, — 

Elb.  Ay,  sir  ; — whom,  I  thank  heaven,  is  an  honest  woman, — 

Escal.  Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore  ? 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as  well  as  she,  that 
this  house,  if  it  be  not  a  bawd's  house,  it  is  pity  of  her  life, 
for  it  is  a  naughty  house. 

Escal.  How  dost  thou  know  that,  constable  ? 

182 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  by  my  wife  ;  who,  if  she  had  been  a  woman 
cardinally  given,  might  have  been  accused  in  fornication, 
adultery,  and  all  uncleanliness  there. 

Escal,  By  the  woman's  means  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  Mistress  Overdone's  means :  but  as  she  spit  in 
his  face,  so  she  defied  him. 

Pom.  Sir,  if  it  please  your  honour,  this  is  not  so. 

Elb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou  honourable  man ; 

Escal.  Do  you  hear  how  he  misplaces  ?  [prove  it. 

Pom.  Sir,  she  came  in  great  with  child;  and  longing,  saving 
your  honour's  reverence,  for  stewed  prunes ;  sir,  we  had  but 
two  in  the  house,  which  at  that  very  distant  time  stood,  as  it 
were,  in  a  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of  some  three-pence ;  your 
honours  have  seen  such  dishes ;  they  are  not  China  dishes, 
but  very  good  dishes, — 

Escal.  Go  to,  go  to :  no  matter  for  the  dish,  sir. 

Pom.  No,  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin ;  you  are  therein  in  the 
right:  but  to  the  point.  As  I  say,  this  Mistress  Elbow, 
being,  as  I  say,  with  child,  and  being  great-bellied,  and  long 
ing,  as  I  said,  for  prunes ;  and  having  but  two  in  the  dish,  as 
I  said,  Master  Froth  here,  this  very  man,  having  eaten  the 
rest,  as  I  said,  and,  as  I  say,  paying  for  them  very  honestly ; 
for,  as  you  know,  Master  Froth,  I  could  not  give  you 

Froth.  No,  indeed.  [three-pence  again. 

Pom.  Very  well; — you  being  then,  if  you  be  remembered, 
cracking  the  stones  of  the  foresaid  prunes, — 

Froth.  Ay,  so  I  did  indeed. 

Pom.  Why,  very  well;  I  telling  you  then,  if  you  be  remem 
bered,  that  such  a  one  and  such  a  one  were  past  cure  of  the 
thing  you  wot  of,  unless  they  kept  very  good  diet,  as  I 

Froth.  All  this  is  true.  [told  you, — 

Pom.  Why,  very  well,  then, — 

Escal.  Come,  you  are  a  tedious  fool :  to  the  purpose.  What 
was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  that  he  hath  cause  to  complain  of? 
Come  me  to  what  was  done  to  her. 

Pom.  Sir,  your  honour  cannot  come  to  that  yet. 

,Escal.  No,  sir,  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Pom.  Sir,  but  you  shall  come  to  it,  by  your  honour's  leave. 
And,  I  beseech  you,  look  into  Master  Froth  here,  sir  ;  a  man 
of  fourscore  pound  a  year ;  whose  father  died  at  Hallowmas  : 
— was  't  not  at  Hallowmas,  Master  Froth  ? — 
Froth.  All-hallond  eve. 

Pom.  Why,  very  well ;  I  hope  here  be  truths.  He,  sir,  sitting, 
as  I  say,  in  a  lower  chair,  sir ;  'twas  in  the  Bunch  of  Grapes, 
where,  indeed,  you  have  a  delight  to  sit,  have  you  not  ? 

183 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Froth.  I  have  so ;  because  it  is  an  open  room,  and  good  for 
Pom.  Why,  very  well,  then ;  I  hope  here  be  truths.  [winter, 
Ang.  This  will  last  out  a  night  in  Russia, 

When  nights  are  longest  there :  I  '11  take  my  leave, 

And  leave  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause ; 

Hoping  you  '11  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  all. 
Escal.  I  think  no  less.     Good  morrow  to  your  lordship. 

\Exit  Angelo. 

Now,  sir,  come  on  :  what  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  once 
Pom.  Once,  sir  ?  there  was  nothing  done  to  her  once,    [more  ? 
Elb.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  ask  him  what  this  man  did  to  my  wife. 
Pom.  I  beseech  your  honour,  ask  me. 
Escal.  Well,  sir ;  what  did  this  gentleman  to  her  ? 
Pom.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentleman's  face.     Good 

Master  Froth,  look  upon  his  honour ;  'tis  for  a  good  purpose. 

Doth  your  honour  mark  his  face  ? 
Escal.  Ay,  sir,  very  well. 
Pom.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 
Escal.  Well,  I  do  so. 

Pom.  Doth  your  honour  see  any  harm  in  his  face  ? 
Escal.  Why,  no. 
Pom.  I  '11  be  supposed  upon  a  book,  his  face  is  the  worst  thing 

about  him.    Good,  then ;  if  his  face  be  the  worst  thing  about 

him,  how  could  Master  Froth  do  the  constable's  wife  any 

harm  ?     I  would  know  that  of  your  honour. 
Escal.  He 's  in  the  right.     Constable,  what  say  you  to  it  ? 
Elb.  First,  an  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  respected  house ;  next, 

this  is  a  respected  fellow ;  and  his  mistress  is  a  respected 

woman.  [than  any  of  us  all. 

Pom.  By  this  hand,  sir,  his  wife  is  a  more  respected  person 
Elb.  Varlet,  thou  liest ;  thou  liest,  wicked  varlet !  the  time  is 

yet  to  come  that  she  was  ever  respected  with  man,  woman, 

or  child. 

Pom.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before  he  married  with  her. 
Escal.  Which  is  the  wiser  here  ?  Justice  or  Iniquity  ?  Is  this 

true? 
Elb.  O  thou  caitiff!    O  thou  varlet !    O  thou  wicked  Hannibal !. 

I  respected  with  her  before  I  was  ^married  to  her  !     If  ever  I 

was  respected  with  her,  or  she  with  me,  let  not  your  worship 

think  me  the  poor  Duke's  officer.     Prove  this,  thou  wicked 

Hannibal,  or  I  '11  have  mine  action  of  battery  on  thee. 
Escal.  If  he  took  you  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  you  might  have  your 

action  of  slander  too. 
Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  good  worship  for  it.     What  is  \  your 

worship's  pleasure  I  shall  do  with  this  wicked  caitiff  ? 

184 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

EscaL  Truly,  officer,  because  he  hath  some  offences  in  him 

that  thou  wouldst  discover  if  thou  couldst,  let  him  continue 

in  his  courses  till  thou  knowest  what  they  are. 
Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it.     Thou  seest,  thou 

wicked  varlet,  now,  what 's  come  upon  thee :  thou  art  to 

continue  now,  thou  varlet ;  thou  art  to  continue. 
EscaL  Where  were  you  born,  friend  ? 
Froth.  Here  in  Vienna,  sir. 
EscaL  Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a  year  ? 
Froth.  Yes,  an 't  please  you,  sir. 
EscaL  So.     What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ? 
Pom.  A  tapster ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 
EscaL  Your  mistress'  name  ? 
Pom.  Mistress  Overdone. 

EscaL  Hath  she  had  any  more  than  one  husband  ? 
Pom*  Nine,  sir ;  Overdone  by  the  last. 
EscaL  Nine !     Come   hither  to   me,    Master   Froth.     Master 

Froth,  I  would  not  have  you  acquainted  with  tapsters :  they 

will  draw  you,  Master  Froth,  and  you  will  hang  them.     Get 

you  gone,  and  let  me  hear  no  more  of  you. 
Froth.  I  thank  your  worship.     For  mine  own  part,   I  never 

come  into  any  room  in  a  taphouse,  but  I  am  drawn  in. 
EscaL  Well,  no  more  of  it,  Master   Froth:  farewell.     {Exit 

FrothJ\     Come  you  hither  to  me,  Master  tapster.     What 's 

your  name,  Master  tapster? 
Pom.  Pompey. 
EscaL  What  else  ? 
Pom.  Bum,  sir. 
EscaL  Troth,  and  your  bum  is  the  greatest  thing  about  you ; 

so  that,  in  the  beastliest  sense,  you  are  Pompey  the  Great 

Pompey,  you  are   partly  a  bawd,  Pompey,  howsoever  you 

colour  it  in  being  a  tapster,  are  you  not  ?  come,  tell  me  true  : 

it  shall  be  the  better  for  you. 

Pom.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow  that  would  live. 
EscaL  How   would  you   live,  Pompey?    by   being   a   bawd? 

What  do  you  think  of  the  trade,  Pompey?  is   it  a  lawful 
Pom.  If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir.  [trade  ? 

EscaL  But  the  law  will  not  allow  it,  Pompey ;  nor  it  shall  not 

be  allowed  in  Vienna. 
Pom.  Does  your  worship  mean  to  geld  and  splay  all  the  youth 

of  the  city  ? 
EscaL  No,  Pompey. 
Pom.  Truly,  sir,  in  my  poor  opinion,  they  will  to 't,  then.     If 

your  worship  will  take  order  for  the  drabs  and  the  knaves, 

you  need  not  to  fear  the  bawds. 

185 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I  can  tell  you  :  it 
is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Pom.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  offend  that  way  but  for 
ten  year  together,  you  '11  be  glad  to  give  out  a  commission 
for  more  heads :  if  this  law  hold  in  Vienna  ten  year,  I  '11 
rent  the  fairest  house  in  it  after  three-pence  a  bay :  if  you 
live  to  see  this  come  to  pass,  say  Pompey  told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  good  Pompey  ;  and,  in  requital  of  your 
prophecy,  hark  you :  I  advise  you,  let  me  not  find  you 
before  me  again  upon  any  complaint  whatsoever;  no,  not 
for  dwelling  where  you  do :  if  I  do,  Pompey,  I  shall  beat 
you  to  your  tent,  and  prove  a  shrewd  Caesar  to  you;  in 
plain  dealing,  Pompey,  I  shall  have  you  whipt :  so,  for  this 
time,  Pompey,  fare  you  well. 

Pom.  I  thank  your  worship  for  your  good  counsel :  [Aside] 
but  I  shall  follow  it  as  the  flesh  and  fortune  shall  better 
determine. 

Whip  me  ?    No,  no ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade : 

The  valiant  heart 's  not  whipt  out  of  his  trade.    [Exit. 

Escal.  Come  hither  to  me,  Master  Elbow ;  come  hither, 
Master  constable.  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  place 
of  constable  ? 

Eld.  Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought,  by  your  readiness  in  the  office,  you  had 
continued  in  it  some  time.  You  say,  seven  years  together  ? 

Elb.  And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas,  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you.  They  do  you 
wrong  to  put  you  so  oft  upon 't :  are  there  not  men  in 
your  ward  sufficient  to  serve  it? 

Elb.  Faith,  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  matters :  as  thay  are 
chosen,  they  are  glad  to  choose  me  for  them  ;  I  do  it  for 
some  piece  of  money,  and  go  through  with  all. 

Escal.  Look  you  bring  me  in  the  names  of  some  six  or  seven, 
the  most  sufficient  of  your  parish. 

Elb.  To  your  worship's  house,  sir  ? 

Escal.  To  my  house.     Fare  you  well.  [Exit  Elbow. 

What 's  o'clock,  think  you  ? 

fust.  Eleven,  sir. 

Escal.  I  pray  you  home  to  dinner  with  me. 

fust.   I  humbly  thank  you. 

Escal.  It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio  ; 
But  there 's  no  remedy. 

fust.  Lord  Angelo  is  severe. 

Escal.  It  is  but  needful  i 

Mercy  is  not  itself,  that  oft  looks  so ; 

186 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe  : 

But  yet, — poor  Claudio  !    There  is  no  remedy. 

Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   II 

Another  room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Provost  and  a   Servant. 
Serv.  He 's  hearing  of  a  cause ;  he  will  come  straight : 

I  '11  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.  Pray  you,  do.  [Exit  Servant, 

I  '11  know 

His  pleasure ;  may  be  he  will  relent,     Alas, 

He  hath  but  as  offended  in  a  dream  ! 

All  sects,  all  ages  smack  of  this  vice ;  and  he 

To  die  for  't  1 

Enter  Angela. 

Ang.  Now,  what 's  the  matter,  provost  ? 
Prov.  Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow  ? 
Ang.  Did  not  I  tell  thee  yea  ?  hadst  thou  not  order  ? 

Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 
Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash  : 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 

When,  after  execution,  Judgement  hath 

Repented  o  ;er  his  doom. 
Ang.  Go  to ;  let  that  be  mine : 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 

And  you  shall  well  be  spared. 
Prov.  I  crave  your  honour's  pardon. 

What  shall  be  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet  ? 

She 's  very  near  her  hour. 
Ang.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place,  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Servant. 
Serv.  Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemn'd 

Desires  access  to  you. 
Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 

And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 

If  not  already. 
Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted.  [Exit  Servant. 

See  you  the  fornicatress  be  removed : 

Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means ; 

There  shall  be  order  for't. 

Enter  Isabella  and  Ludo. 

Prov.  God  save  your  honour ! 

187 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Ang.  Stay  a  little  while.    [To  IsabJ]    You  're  welcome :  what 's 

your  will  ? 
Isab.  I  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  honour. 

Please  but  your  honour  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well ;   what 's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.  There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor, 

And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 

For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must  • 

For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 

At  war  'twixt  will  and  will  not. 
Ang.  Well ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  condemn'd  to  die : 

I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 

And  not  my  brother. 

Prov.  [Aside]  Heaven  give  thee  moving  graces  ! 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault,  and  not  the  actor  of  it  ? 

Why,  every  fault 's  condemn'd  ere  it  be  done : 

Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function, 

To  fine  the  faults  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 

And  let  go  by  the  actor. 
Isab.  O  just  but  severe  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother,  then. — Heaven  keep  your  honour  ! 
Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab^  Give 't  not  o'er  so  :  to  him  again,  entreat 

Kneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown  :  [him  : 

You  are  too  cold  ;  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 

You  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it : 

To  him,  I  say  ! 
Isab.  Must  he  needs  die? 
Ang.  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isab.  Yes  ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him, 

And  neither  heaven  nor  man  grieve  at  the  mercy. 
Ang.  I  will  not  do 't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 

Ang.  Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  cannot  do. 
Isab.  But  might  you  do 't,  and  do  the  world  no  wrong, 

If  so  your  heart  were  touch'd  with  that  remorse 

As  mine  is  to  him  ? 

Ang.  He 's  sentenced ;  'tis  too  late. 

Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab.~\  You  are  too  cold. 
Isab.  Too  late  ?  why,  no  ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word, 

May  call  it  back  again.     Well,  believe  this, 
1   No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 

Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 

The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 

Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 

188 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

As  mercy  does. 

If  he  had  been  as  you,  and  you  as  he, 

You  would  have  slipt  like  him  ;  but  he,  like  you, 

Would  not  have  been  so  stern. 
Ang.  Pray  you,  be  gone. 

Isab.  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  your  potency, 

And  you  were  Isabel !  should  it  then  be  thus  ? 

No ;  I  would  tell  what  'twere  to  be  a  judge, 

And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lucio.  [Aside  to  IsabJ]  Ay,  touch  him ;  there  's  the  vein, 
Ang.  Your  brother  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 

And  you  but  waste  your  words. 
Isab.  Alas,  alas ! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were  were  forfeit  once ; 

And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took 

Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be, 

If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgement,  should 

But  judge  you  as  you  are?    O,  think  on  that ; 

And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 

Like  man  new  made. 
Ang.  Be  you  content,  fair  maid ; 

It  is  the  law,  not  I  condemn  your  brother  : 

Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  my  son, 

It  should  be  thus  with  him  :  he  must  die  to-morrow. 
Isab.  To-morrow  !    O,  that 's  sudden  !    Spare  him,  spare  him  I 

He 's  not  prepared  for  death.     Even  for  our  kitchens 

We  kill  the  fowl  of  season  :  shall  we  serve  heaven 

With  less  respect  than  we  do  minister 

To  our  gross  selves  ?    Good,  good  my  lord,  bethink  you. ; 

Who  is  it  that  hath  died  for  this  offence  ! 

There 's  many  have  committed  it. 
Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab.']  Ay,  well  said. 

Aug.  The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  though  it  hath  slept : 

Those  many  had  not  dared  to  do  that  evil, 

If  the  first  that  did  the  edict  infringe 

Had  answer'd  for  his  deed  :  now  'tis  awake, 

Takes  note  of  what  is  done ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 

Looks  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  evils, 

Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new-conceived, 

And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  bom, 

Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 

But,  ere  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.  I  show  it  most  of  all  when  I  show  justice ; 

For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 

189 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after  gall ; 

And  do  him  right  that,  answering  one  foul  wrong, 

Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied  ; 

Your  brother  dies  to-morrow  ;  be  content. 
Isab.  So  you  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sentence, 

And  he,  that  suffers.     O,  it  is  excellent 

To  have  a  giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 

To  use  it  like  a  giant. 
Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab.  ]    That 's  well  said. 
Isab.  Could  great  men  thunder 

As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet, 

For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder. 

Nothing  but  thunder  !     Merciful  Heaven, 

Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt 

Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak 

Than  the  soft  myrtle :  but  man,  proud  man, 

Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority, 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he  's  most  assured, 

His  glassy  essence,  like  an  angry  ape, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 

As  make  the  angels  weep ;  who,  with  our  spleens, 

Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 
Lucio.  [Aside  to  IsabJ]  O,  to  him,  to  him,  wench  !  he  will  relent ; 

He 's  coming ;  I  perceive  't. 

Prov.  [Aside]  Pray  heaven  she  win  him  ! 

Isab.  We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  ourself : 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints ;  'tis  wit  in  them, 

But  in  the  less  foul  profanation. 
Lucio.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right,  girl ;  more  o'  that. 
Isab.  That  in  the  captain 's  but  a  choleric  word, 

Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 
Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab.]  Art  avised  o'  that  ?  more  on  7t. 
Ang.  Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 
Isab.  Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 

Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.     Go  to  your  bosom  ; 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 
Ang.  [Aside]  She  speaks,  and  'tis 

Such  sense,  that  my  sense  breeds  with  it.     Fare  you  well. 
Isab.  Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

190 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Ang.  I  will  bethink  me  :  come  again  to-morrow. 

Isab.  Hark  how  I  '11  bribe  you :  good  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.  How  ?  bribe  me  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  with  such  gifts  that  heaven  shall  share  with  you. 

Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab.~\  You  had  marr'd  all  else. 

Isab.  Not  with  fond  sides  of  the  tested  gold, 

Or  stones  whose  rates  are  either  rich  or  poor 

As  fancy  values  them  ;  but  with  true  prayers 

That  shall  be  up  at  heaven  and  enter  there 

Ere  sun-rise,  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 

From  fasting  maids  whose  minds  are  dedicate 

To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well ;  come  to  me  to-morrow. 

Lucio.  [Aside  to  Isab]  Go  to ;  'tis  well ;  away  ! 
Isab.  Heaven  keep  your  honour  safe  ! 
Ang.  [Aside]  Amen: 

For  I  am  that  way  going  to  temptation, 

Where  prayers  cross. 
Isab.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  worship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.  'Save  your  honour  !  [.Exeunt  Isabella,  Lucio,  and  Provost. 
Ang.  From  thee, — even  from  thy  virtue ! 

What 's  this,  what 's  this?     Is  this  her  fault  or  mine  ? 

The  tempter  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ? 

Ha! 

Not  she  ;  nor  doth  she  tempt :  but  it  is  I 

That,  lying  by  the  violet  in  the  sun, 

Do  as  the  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flower, 

Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.     Can  it  be 

That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 

Than  woman's  lightness  ?     Having  waste  ground  enough, 

Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary, 

And  pitch  our  evils  there  ?     O,  fie,  fie,  fie ! 

What  dost  thou,  or  what  art  thou,  Angelo  ? 

Dost  thou  desire  her  foully  for  those  things, 

That  make  her  good  ?     O,  let  her  brother  live  : 

Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority 

When  judges  steal  themselves.     What,  do  I  love  her, 

That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again, 

And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is  't  I  dream  on  ? 

O  cunning  enemy,  that,  to  catch  a  saint, 

With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook  !     Most  dangerous 

Is  that  temptation  that  doth  goad  us  on 

To  sin  in  loving  virtue  :  never  could  the  strumpet, 

191 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Measure  for  Measure 

With  all  her  double  vigour,  art  and  nature, 
Once  stir  my  temper ;  but  this  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite.     Ever  till  now, 
When  men  were  fond,  I  smiled,  and  wonder'd  how. 

{E 

SCENE  III 

A  room  in  a  prison. 

Enter,  severally,  Duke  disguised  as  a  friar,  and  Provost. 

Duke.  Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  I  think  you  are. 
Prov.  I  am  the  provost.     What  's  your  will,  good  friar  ? 
Duke.  Bound  by  my  charity  and  my  blest  order, 

I  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 

Here  in  the  prison.     Do  me  the  common  right 

To  let  me  see  them,  and  to  make  me  know 

The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 

To  them  accordingly. 

Prov.  I  would  do  more  than  that,  if  more  were  needful, 
Enter  Juliet. 

Look,  here  comes  one  :  a  gentlewoman  of  mine, 

Who,  falling  in  the  flaws  of  her  own  youth, 

Hath  blister'd  her  report :  she  is  with  child  ; 

And  he  that  got  it,  sentenced ;  a  young  man 

More  fit  to  do  another  such  offence 

Than  die  for  this. 
Duke.  When  must  he  die  ? 
Prov.  As  I  do  think,  to-morrow. 

I  have  provided  for  you  :  stay  awhile,  \To  Juliet. 

And  you  shall  be  conducted. 
Duke.  Repent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  carry  ? 
Jul.  I  do ;  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently. 
Duke.  I  '11  teach  you  how  you  shall  arraign  your  conscience, 

And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  sound, 

Or  hollowly  put  on. 
Jul.  I  '11  gladly  learn. 

Duke.  Love  you  the  man  that  wronged  you  ? 
Jul.  Yes,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wrong'd  him. 
Duke.  So,  then,  it  seems  your  most  offenceful  act 

Was  mutually  committed  ? 
Jul.  Mutually. 

Duke.     Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than  his. 
Jul.  I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 
Duke.  'Tis  meet  so,  daughter  :  but  lest  you  do  repent, 

As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame, 

Which  sorrow  is  always  toward  ourselves,  not  heaven, 

192 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Showing  we  would  not  spare  heaven  as  we  love  it, 

But  as  we  stand  in  fear, — 
JuL  I  do  repent  me,  as  it  is  an  evil, 

And  take  the  shame  with  joy. 
Duke.  There  rest. 

Your  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 

And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him. 

Grace  go  with  you,  Benedicite  I  \_Exit. 

JuL  Must  die  to-morrow  !     O  injurious  love, 

That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 

Is  still  a  dying  horror ! 
Prov.  'Tis  pity  of  him.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 
A  room  in  Angela's  house. 

Enter  Angela. 
Ang,  Wrien  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think  and  pray 

To  several  subjects.     Heaven  hath  my  empty  words ; 

Whilst  my  invention,  hearing  not  my  tongue, 

Anchors  on  Isabel :  Heaven  in  my  mouth, 

As  if  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name ; 

And  in  my  heart  the  strong  and  swelling  evil 

Of  my  conception.     The  state,  whereon  I  studied, 

Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 

Grown  fear'd  and  tedious ;  yea,  my  gravity, 

Wherein — let  no  man  hear  me — I  take  pride, 

Could  I  with  boot  change  for  an  idle  plume, 

Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.    ,O  place,  O  form, 

How  often  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit, 

Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 

To  thy  false  seeming  !     Blood,  thou  art  blood  : 

Let 's  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn ; 

'Tis  not  the  devil's  crest. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  !  who 's  there  ? 

Seru.  One  Isabel,  a  sister,  desires  access  to  you. 
Ang.  Teach  her  the  way.     O  heavens  ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart, 

Making  both  it  unable  for  itself, 

And  dispossessing  all  my  other  parts 

Of  necessary  fitness  ? 

So  play  the  foolish  throngs  with  one  that  swoons  ; 

Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 

By  which  he  should  revive  :  and  even  so 

The  general  subject  to  a  well-wish'd  king 

193  G 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Measure  for  Measure 

Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love- 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  Isabella. 

How  now,  fair  maid  ? 
Isab.  I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 
Ang.  That  you  might  know  it,  would  much  better  please  me 

Than  to  demand  what  'tis.     Your  brother  cannot  live. 
Isab.  Even  so. — Heaven  keep  your  honour  ! 
Ang.  Yet  may  he  live  awhile  ;  and,  it  may  be, 

As  long  as  you  or  I :  yet  he  must  die. 
Isab.  Under  your  sentence  ? 
Ang.  Yea. 
Isab.  When,  I  beseech  you  ?  that  in  his  reprieve, 

Longer  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted 

That  his  soul  sicken  not. 
Ang.  Ha  !  fie,  these  filthy  vices  !     It  were  as  good 

To  pardon  him  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 

A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit 

Their  saucy  sweetness  that  do  coin  heaven's  image 

In  stamps  that  are  forbid :  'tis  all  as  easy 

Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made, 

As  to  put  metal  in  restrained  means 

To  make  a  false  one. 

Isab.  'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  not  in  earth. 
Ang.  Say  you  so  ?  then  I  shall  pose  you  quickly. 

Which  had  you  rather, — that  the  most  just  law 

Now  took  your  brother's  life ;  or,  to  redeem  him, 

Give  up  your  body  to  such  sweet  uncLeanness 

As  she  that  he  hath  stain'd ! 
Isab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul. 
Ang.  I  talk  not  of  your  soul :  our  compell'd  sins 

Stand  more  for  number  than  for  accompt. 
Isab.  How  say  you  ? 

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

Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this  : — 

I,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 

Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life  : 

Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin 

To  save  this  brother's  life  ? 
Isab.  Please  you  to  do 't, 

I  '11  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul, 

It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 
Ang.  Pleased  you  to  do't  at  peril  of  your  soul, 

194 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Were  equal  poise  of  sin  and  charity. 
Jsab.  That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin, 

Heaven  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit, 

If  that  be  sin,  1 11  make  it  my  morn  prayer 

To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine, 

And  nothing  of  your  answer. 
A?ig.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine  :  either  you  are  ignorant, 

Or  seem  so,  craftily ;  and  that 's  not  good. 
Isab.  Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 

But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 
Ang.  Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most  bright 

When  it  doth  tax  itself ;  as  these  black  masks 

Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty  ten  times  louder 

Than  beauty  could,  display'd.     But  mark  me  ; 

To  be  received  plain,  I  '11  speak  more  gross : 

Your  brother  is  to  die. 
Jsab.  So. 
Ang.  And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears, 

Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 
Isab.  True. 
Ang.  Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life, — 

As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other, 

But  in  the  loss  of  question, — that  you,  his  sister, 

Finding  yourself  desired  of  such  a  person, 

Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
.     Could  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 

Of  the  all-building  law ;  and  that  there  were 

No  earthly  mean  to  save  him,  but  that  either 

You  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 

To  this  supposed,  or  else  to  let  him  surfer ; 

What  would  you  do  ? 
Isab.  As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself : 

That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death, 

The  impression  of  keen  whips  I  'Id  wear  as  rubies, 

And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 

That  longing  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I  'Id  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isab.  And  'twere  the  cheaper  way  : 

Better  it  were  a  brother  died  at  once, 

Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him, 

Should  die  for  ever. 
Ang.  Were  not  you,  then,  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 

That  you  have  slander'd  so  ? 

'95 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Measure  for  Measure 

I  sab.  Ignomy  in  ransom  and  free  pardon 
Are  of  two  houses  :  lawful  mercy 
Is  nothing  kin  to  foul  redemption. 
Ang.  You  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tyrant ; 

And  rather  proved  the  sliding  of  your  brother 

A  merriment  than  a  vice. 
Isab.  O,  pardon  me,  my  lord ;  it  oft  falls  out, 

To  have  what  we  would  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean  : 

I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 

For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 
Ang.  We  are  all  frail. 
Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die, 

If  not  a  feodary,  but  only  he 

Owe  and  succeed  thy  weakness. 
Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 
Isab.  Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves  ; 

Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 

Women  ! — Help  Heaven  !  men  their  creation  mar 

In  profiting  by  them.     Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail ; 

For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 

And  credulous  to  false  prints. 
Ang.  I  think  it  well : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  sex, — 

Since,  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 

Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames, — let  me  be  bold ; — 

I  do  arrest  your  words.     Be  that  you  are, 

That  is,  a  woman  ;  if  you  be  more,  you  're  none  ; 

If  you  be  one, — as  you  are  well  express'd 

By  all  external  warrants, — show  it  now, 

By  putting  on  the  destined  livery. 
Isab.  I  have  no  tongue  but  one  :  gentle  my  lord, 

Let  me  entreat  you  speak  the  former  language. 
Ang.  Plainly  conceive,  I  love  you. 
Isab.  My  brother  did  love  Juliet, 

And  you  tell  me  that  he  shall  die  for  it. 
Ang.  He  shall  not,  Isabel,  if  you  give  me  love. 
Isab.  I  know  your  virtue  hath  a  license  in  't, 

Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is, 

To  pluck  on  others. 
Ang.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honour, 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 
Isab.  Ha  !  little  honour  to  be  much  believed, 

And  most  pernicious  purpose  ! — Seeming,  seeming  ! — 

I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo  ;  look  for  ?t : 

Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother, 

196 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Or  with  an  outstretch'd  throat  I  '11  tell  the  world  aloud 

What  man  thou  art. 
Ang.  Who  will  believe  thee,  Isabel  ? 

My  unsoiPd  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life, 

My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state, 

Will  so  your  accusation  overweigh, 

That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report, 

And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun  ; 

And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein : 

Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite  ; 

Lay  by  all  nicety  and  prolixious  blushes, 

That  banish  what  they  sue  for ;  redeem  thy  brother 

By  yielding  up  thy  body  to  my  will  ; 

Or  else  he  must  not  only  die  the  death, 

But  thy  unkindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 

To  lingering  sufferance.     Answer  me  to-morrow, 

Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 

I  '11  prove  a  tyrant  to  him.     As  for  you, 

Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your  true.  \Exit. 

hab.  To  whom  should  I  complain  ?     Did  I  tell  this, 

Who  would  believe  me  ?     O  perilous  mouths, 

That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue, 

Either  of  condemnation  or  approof ; 

Bidding  the  law  make  court'sy  to  their  will ; 

Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  the  appetite, 

To  follow  as  it  draws  !     I  '11  to  my  brother  : 
•     Though  he  hath  fall'n  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 

Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour, 

That,  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 

On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he  'Id  yield  them  up, 

Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 

To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 

Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  die ; 

More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 

I  '11  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 

And  fit  his  mind  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest.  \JExit. 

ACT   III— SCENE   I 
A  room  in  the  prison. 
Enter  Duke  disguised  as  before^  Claudia,  and  Provost. 

Duke.  So,  then,  you  hope  of  pardon  from  Lord  Angelo  ? 
Claud.  The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine 

But  only  hope : 

I  've  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepared  to  die. 

197 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  M< 

Duke.  Be  absolute  for  death  ;  either  death  or  life 
Shall  thereby  be  the  sweeter.     Reason  thus  with  life : 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep :  a  breath  thou  art, 
Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences, 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st, 
Hourly  afflict :  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool  ; 
For  him  thou  labour'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun, 
And  yet  runn'st  toward  him  still.     Thou  art  not  noble  ; 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st 
Are  nursed  by  baseness.     Thou  Jrt  by  no  means  valiant ; 
For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm.     Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provokest ;  yet  grossly  fear*st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not  thyself ; 
For  thou  exisfst  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust.     Happy  thou  art  not ; 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  strivest  to  get, 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st.     Thou  art  not  certain ; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  effects, 
After  the  moon.     If  thou  art  rich,  thou  'rt  poor ; 
For,  like  an  ass  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee.     Friend  hast  thou  none  ; 
For  thine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 
The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins, 
Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,  and  the  rheum, 
For  ending  thee  no  sooner.     Thou  hast  nor  youth  nor  age, 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  ;  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld ;  and  when  thou  art  old  and  rich, 
Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 
To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What 's  yet  in  this 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?     Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  moe  thousand  deaths  :  yet  death  we  fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find  I  seek  to  die ; 
And,  seeking  death,  find  life  :  let  it  come  on. 

Isab.  [within]    What,    ho !      Peace   here ;    grace    and    good 
company ! 

Prov.  Who 's  there  ?  come  in  :  the  wish  deserves  a  welcome. 

Duke.  Dear  sir,  ere  long  I  '11  visit  you  again. 

Claud.  Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

198 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Enter  Isabella. 

Isab.  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 
Prov.  And  very  welcome.     Look,  signior,  here 's  your  sister. 
Duke.  Provost,  a  word  with  you. 
Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke.  Bring  me  to  hear  them  speak,  where  I  may  be  concealed. 

[Exeunt  Duke  and  Provost. 
Claud.  Now,  sister,  what 's  the  comfort  ? 
Isab.  Why, 

As  all  comforts  are ;  most  good,  most  good  indeed. 

Lord  Angelo,  having  affairs  to  heaven, 

Intends  you  for  his  swift  ambassador, 

Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  leiger  : 

Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed  ; 

To-morrow  you  set  on. 
Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.  None,  but  such  remedy  as,  to  save  a  head, 

To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 
.  Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isab.  Yes,  brother,  you  may  live  : 

There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 

If  you  '11  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 

But  fetter  you  till  death, 
Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Isab.  Ay,  just ;  perpetual  durance,  a  restraint, 

Though  all  the  world's  vastidity  you  had, 

To  a  determined  scope. 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.  In  such  a  one  as,  you  consenting  to  't, 

Would  bark  your  honour  from  that  trunk  you  bear 

And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.  O,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 

Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  shouldst  entertain, 

And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 

Than  a  perpetual  honour.     Barest  thou  die  ? 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension  ; 

And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon, 

In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 

As  when  a  giant  dies. 
Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame  ? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 

From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 

I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 

And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

199 


| 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Isab.  There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  father's  grave 

Did  utter  forth  a  voice.     Yes,  thou  must  die : 

Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 

In  base  appliances.     This  outward-sainted  deputy, 

Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 

Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  emmew 

As  falcon  doth  the  fowl,  is  yet  a  devil ; 

His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 

A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  prenzie  Angelo  ! 

Isab.  O,  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell 

The  damned'st  body  to  invest  and  cover 

In  prenzie  guards  !     Dost  thou  think,  Claudio  ? — • 

If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginity, 

Thou  mightst  be  freed. 

Claud.  O  heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.  Yes,  he  would  give 't  thee,  from  this  rank  offence, 

So  to  offend  him  still.     This  night 's  the  time 

That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 

Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do.'t. 

Isab.  O,  were  it  but  my  life, 

I  ;ld  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 

As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.  Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 
Claud.  Yes.     Has  he  affections  in  him, 

That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose} 

When  he  would  force  it  ?     Sure,  it  is  no  sin ; 

Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 
Isab.  Which  is  the  least  ? 
Claud.  If  it  were  damnable,  he  being  so  wise, 

Why  would  he  for  the  momentary  trick 

Be  perdurably  fined? — O  Isabel ! 
Isab.  What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isab.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 
Claud.  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where  ; 

To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot ; 

This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 

A  kneaded  clod  ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 

To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 

In  thrilling  region  of  thick-ribbed  ice  ; 

To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 

And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 

200 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 

Of  those  that  lawless  and  incertain  thought 

Imagine  howling  : — 'tis  too  horrible  ! 

The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 

That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 

Can  lay  on  nature  is  a  paradise 

To  what  we  fear  of  death. 
Isab.  Alas,  alas  ! 
Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live  : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 

Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far 

That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 
Isab.  O  you  beast ! 

0  faithless  coward !     O  dishonest  wretch  ! 
Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is  ;t  not  a  kind  of  incest,  to  take  life 

From  thine  own  sister's  shame  ?     What  should  I  think  ? 

Heaven  shield  my  mother  play'd  my  father  fair ! 

For  such  a  warped  slip  of  wilderness 

Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance  ! 

Die,  perish  !     Might  but  my  bending  down 

Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 

1  '11  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.  Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isab.  O,  fie,  fie,  fie ! 

Thy  sin 's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade. 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd : 
'Tis  best  that  thou  diest  quickly. 

Claud.  O,  hear  me,  Isabella  ! 

Re-enter  Duke. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but  one  word. 

Isab.  What  is  your  will  ? 

Duke.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure,  I  would  by  and 
by  have  some  speech  with  you  :  the  satisfaction  I  would 
require  is  likewise  your  own  benefit. 

Isab.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure ;  my  stay  must  be  stolen 
out  of  other  affairs  !  but  I  will  attend  you  awhile. 

[  Walks  apart. 

Duke.  Son,  I  have  overheard  what  hath  passed,  between  you 
and  your  sister.  Angelo  had  never  the  purpose  to  corrupt 
her ;  only  he  hath  made  an  assay  of  her  virtue  to  practise  his 
judgement  with  the  disposition  of  natures :  she,  having  the 
truth  of  honour  in  her,  hath  made  him  that  gracious  denial 
which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive.  1  am  confessor  to  Angelo, 

201  G  2 


Act.  Ill,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

and  I  know  this  to  be  true ;  therefore  prepare  yourself  to 
death :  do  not  satisfy  your  resolution  with  hopes  that  are 
fallible:  to-morrow  you  must  die;  go  to  your  knees,  and 
make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so  out  of  love  with 
life,  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 

Duke.  Hold  you  there  :  farewell.  [Exit  Claudio. 

Provost,  a  word  with  you  ! 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.  What 's  your  will,  father  ? 

Duke.  That  now  you  are  come,  you  will  be  gone.  Leave  me 
awhile  with  the  maid  :  my  mind  promises  with  my  habit  no 
loss  shall  touch  her  by  my  company. 

Prov.  In  good  time.       \Exit  Provost.     Isabella  comes  forward. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair  hath  made  you 
good :  the  goodness  that  is  cheap  in  beauty  makes  beauty 
brief  in  goodness  ;  but  grace,  being  the  soul  of  your  com 
plexion,  shall  keep  the  body  of  it  ever  fair.  The  assault  that 
Angelo  hath  made  to  you,  fortune  hath  conveyed  to  my 
understanding :  and,  but  that  frailty  hath  examples  for  his 
falling,  I  should  wonder  at  Angelo.  How  will  you  do  to 
content  this  substitute,  and  to  save  your  brother? 

Isab.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him  :  I  had  rather  my  brother 
die  by  the  law  than  my  son  should  be  unlawfully  born.  But, 
O,  how  much  is  the  good  Duke  deceived  in  Angelo  I  If 
ever  he  return  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will  open  my  lips 
in  vain,  or  discover  his  government. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss :  yet,  as  the  matter  now 
stands,  he  will  avoid  your  accusation ;  he  made  trial  of  you 
only.  Therefore  fasten  your  ear  on  my  advisings :  to  the 
love  I  have  in  doing  good  a  remedy  presents  itself.  I  do 
make  myself  believe  that  you  may  most  uprighteously  do  a 
poor  wronged  lady  a  merited  benefit ;  redeem  your  brother 
from  the  angry  law ;  do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious  person ; 
and  much  please  the  absent  Duke,  if  peradventure  he  shall 
ever  return  to  have  hearing  of  this  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  farther.  I  have  spirit  to  do  any 
thing  that  appears  not  foul  in  the  truth  of  my  spirit. 

Duke.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful.     Have  you    . 
not  heard  speak  of  Mariana,  the  sister  of  Frederick  the  great 
soldier  who  miscarried  at  sea  ? 

Isab.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words  went  with  her 
name. 

Duke.  She  should  this  Angelo  have  married ;  was  affianced  to 
her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial  appointed:  between  which 

202 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

time  of  the  contract  and  limit  of  the  solemnity,  her  brother 
Frederick  was  wrecked  at  sea,  having  in  that  perished  vessel 
the  dowry  of  his  sister.  But  mark  how  heavily  this  befell  to 
the  poor  gentlewoman  :  there  she  lost  a  noble  and  renowned 
brother,  in  his  love  toward  her  ever  most  kind  and  natural ; 
with  him,  the  portion  and  sinew  of  her  fortune,  her  marriage- 
dowry  ;  with  both,  her  combinate  husband,  this  well-seeming 
Angelo. 

Isab.  Can  this  be  so  ?  did  Angelo  so  leave  her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not  one  of  them  with 
his  comfort;  swallowed  his  vows  whole,  pretending  in  her 
discoveries  of  dishonour :  in  few,  bestowed  her  on  her  own 
lamentation,  which  she  yet  wears  for  his  sake ;  and  he,  a 
marble  to  her  tears,  is  washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death  to  take  this  poor  maid  from 
the  world  !  What  corruption  in  this  life,  that  it  will  let  this 
man  live  !  But  how  out  of  this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily  heal :  and  the  cure  of 
it  not  only  saves  your  brother,  but  keeps  you  from  dishonour 
in  doing  it. 

Isab.  Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  forenamed  maid  hath  yet  in  her  the  continuance  of 
her  first  affection :  his  unjust  unkindness,  that  in  all  reason 
should  have  quenched  her  love,  hath,  like  an  impediment  in 
the  current,  made  it  more  violent  and  unruly.  Go  you  to 
Angelo ;  answer  his  requiring  with  a  plausible  obedience ; 
agree  with  his  demands  to  the  point ;  only  refer  yourself  to 
this  advantage,  first,  that  your  stay  with  him  may  not  be 
long ;  that  the  time  may  have  all  shadow  and  silence  in  it ; 
and  the  place  answer  to  convenience.  This  being  granted  in 
course, — and  now  follows  all, — we  shall  advise  this  wronged 
maid  to  stead  up  your  appointment,  go  in  your  place ;  if  the 
encounter  acknowledge  itself  hereafter,  it  may  compel  him  to 
her  recompence  :  and  here,  by  this,  is  your  brother  saved, 
your  honour  untainted,  the  poor  Mariana  advantaged,  and 
the  corrupt  Deputy  scaled.  The  maid  will  I  frame  and  make 
fit  for  his  attempt.  If  you  think  well  to  carry  this  as  you 
may,  the  doubleness  of  the  benefit  defends  the  deceit  from 
reproof.  What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isab.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already ;  and  I  trust  it 
will  grow  to  a  most  prosperous  perfection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up.  Haste  you  speedily  to 
Angelo  :  if  for  this  night  he  entreat  you  to  his  bed,  give  him 
promise  of  satisfaction.  I  will  presently  to  Saint  Luke's : 
there,  at  the  moated  grange,  resides  this  dejected  Mariana. 

203 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

At  that  place  call  upon  me  ;  and  dispatch  with  Angelo,  that 
it  may  be  quickly. 

Isab.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort.  Fare  you  well,  good 
father.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II 
The  street  before  the  prison. 

Enter \  on  one  side.  Duke  disguised  as  before;  on  the  other ;  Elbow  > 
and  Officers  with  Pompey. 

Elb.  Nay,  if  there  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but  that  you  will  needs 
buy  and  sell  men  and  women  like  beasts,  we  shall  have  all 
the  world  drink  brown  and  white  bastard. 

Duke.  O  heavens  !  what  stuff  is  here  ? 

Pom.  'Twas  never  rnerry  world  since,  of  two  usuries,  the  merriest 
was  put  down,  and  the  worser  allowed  by  order  of  law  a 
furred  gown  to  keep  him  warm ;  and  furred  with  fox  and 
lamb-skins  too,  to  signify,  that  craft,  being  richer  than 
innocency,  stands  for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir.     'Bless  you,  good  father  friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  father.  What  offence  hath  this 
man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law :  and,  sir,  we  take 
him  to  be  a  thief  too,  sir,  for  we  have  found  upon  him, 
sir,  a  strange  picklock,  which  we  have  sent  to  the  Deputy. 

Duke.  Fie,  sirrah  !  a  bawd,  a  wicked  bawd  ! 
The  evil  that  thou  causest  to  be  done, 
That  is  thy  means  to  live.     Do  thou  but  think 
What  'tis  to  cram  a  maw  or  clothe  a  back 
From  such  a  filthy  vice  :  say  to  thyself, 
From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touches 
I  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 
Canst  thou  believe  thy  living  is  a  life, 
So  stinkingly  depending  ?     Go  mend,  go  mend. 

Pom.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir ;  but  yet,  sir,  I 
would  prove — 

Duke.  Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs  for  sin, 
Thou  wilt  prove  his.     Take  him  to  prison,  officer  : 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  must  before  the  Deputy,  sir ;  he  has  given  him  warn 
ing  :  the  Deputy  cannot  abide  a  whoremaster  :  if  he  be  a 
whoremonger,  and  comes  before  him,  he  were  as  good  go 
a  mile  on  his  errand. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  seem  to  be, 
From  our  faults,  as  faults  from  seeming,  free ! 
204 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Elb.  His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist, — a  cord,  sir. 
Pom.  I  spy  comfort ;  1  cry  bail.     Here 's  a  gentleman  and  a 
friend  of  mine. 

Enter  Ludo. 

Ludo.  How  now,  noble  Pompey !  What,  at  the  wheels  of 
Caesar?  art  thou  led  in  triumph?  What,  is  there  none 
of  Pygmalion's  images,  newly  made  woman,  to  be  had  now, 
for  putting  the  hand  in  the  pocket  and  extracting  it  clutched  ? 
What  reply,  ha  ?  What  sayest  thou  to  this  tune,  matter  and 
method?  Is't  not  drown'd  i'  the  last  rain,  ha?  What 
sayest  thou,  Trot?  Is  the  world  as  it  was,  man?  Which 
is  the  way  ?  Is  it  sad,  and  few  words  ?  or  how  ?  The  trick 
of  it? 

Duke.  Still  thus,  and  thus ;  still  worse  !  [she  still,  ha  ? 

Lucio.  How  doth  my  dear   morsel,  thy    mistress  ?     Procures 

Pom.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her  beef,  and  she  is 
herself  in  the  tub. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  good ;  it  is  the  right  of  it ;  it  must  be  so :  ever 
your  fresh  whore  and  your  powdered  bawd  :  an  unshunned 
consequence  ;  it  must  be  so.  Art  going  to  prison,  Pompey  ? 

Pom.  Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Ludo.  Why,  'tis  not  amiss,  Pompey.  Farewell :  go  say  I  sent 
thee  thither.  For  debt,  Pompey  ?  or  how  ? 

Elb.  For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lude.  Well,  then,  imprison  him  :  if  imprisonment  be  the  due 
of  a  bawd,  why,  'tis  his  right :  bawd  is  he  doubtless,  and 
of  antiquity  too ;  bawd-born.  Farewell,  good  Pompey. 
Commend  me  to  the  prison,  Pompey  :  you  will  turn  good 
husband  now,  Pompey  ;  you  will  keep  the  house. 

Pom.  I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be  my  bail. 

Ludo.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;   it  is  not  the  wear.     I 

•  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  increase  your  bondage  :  if  you  take  it 
not  patiently,  why,  your  mettle  is  the  more.  Adieu,  trusty 
Pompey.  'Bless  you,  friar. 

Duke.  And  you. 

Ludo.  Does  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey,  ha  ? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Pom.  You  will  not  bail  me,  then,  sir  ?  [what  news  ? 

Ludo.  Then,  Pompey,  nor  now.      What  news  abroad,  friar? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Ludo.  Go  to  kennel,  Pompey ;  go.  \Exeunt  Elbow,  Pompey 
and  Officers!}  What  news,  friar,  of  the  Duke  ? 

Duke.  I  know  none.     Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Ludo.  Some  say  he  is  with  the  Emperor  of  Russia ;  other 
some,  he  is  in  Rome :  but  where  is  he,  think  you  ? 

205 


' 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Duke.  I  know  not  where ;  but  wheresoever,  I  wish  him  well. 

Lutio.  It  was  a  mad  fantastical  trick  of  him  to  steal  from  the 
state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was  never  born  to.  Lord 
Angelo  dukes  it  well  in  his  absence ;  he  put  transgression  to 't 

Duke.  He  does  well  in 't. 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  lechery  would  do  no  harm  in 
him  :  something  too  crabbed  that  way,  friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity  must  cure  it. 

Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  a  great  kindred ;  it 
is  well  allied :  but  it  is  impossible  to  extirp  it  quite,  friar, 
till  eating  and  drinking  be  put  down.  They  say  this  Angelo 
was  not  made  by  man  and  woman  after  this  downright  way 
of  creation  :  is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  How  should  he  be  made,  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report  a  sea-maid  spawned  him ;  some,  that  he 
was  begot  between  two  stock-fishes.  But  it  is  certain  that 
when  he  makes  water,  his  urine  is  congealed  ice  ;  that  I  know 
to  be  true  :  and  he  is  a  motion  generative ;  that 's  infallible. 

Duke.  You  are  pleasant,  sir,  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  Why,  what  a  ruthless  king  is  this  in  him,  for  the  rebellion 
of  a  codpiece  to  take  away  the  life  of  a  man  !  Would  the 
Duke  that  is  absent  have  done  this  ?  Ere  he  would 
have  hanged  a  man  for  the  getting  a  hundred  bastards, 
he  would  have  paid  for  the  nursing  a  thousand :  he  had 
some  feeling  of  the  sport ;  he  knew  the  service,  and  that 
instructed  him  to  mercy. 

Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  Duke  much  detected  for 
women;  he  was  not  inclined  that  way. 

Lucio.  O,  sir,  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.  'Tis  not  possible. 

Lucio.  Who,  not  the  Duke  ?  yes,  your  beggar  of  fifty  ;  and  his 
use  was  to  put  a  ducat  in  her  clackdish  :  the  Duke  had 
crotchets  in  him.  He  would  be  drunk  too ;  that  let  me 

Duke.  You  do  him  wrong,  surely.  [inform  you. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward  of  his.  A  shy  fellow  was  the 
Duke :  and  I  believe  I  know  the  cause  of  his  withdrawing. 

Duke.  What,  I  prithee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.  No,  pardon;  'tis  a  secret  must  be  locked  within  the 
teeth  and  the  lips :  but  this  I  can  let  you  understand,  the 
greater  file  of  the  subject  held  the  Duke  to  be  wise. 

Duke.  Wise !  why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweighing  fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mistaking  :  the  very 
stream  of  his  life  and  the  business  he  hath  helmed  must, 
upon  a  warranted  need,  give  him  a  better  proclamation.  Let 

206 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

him  be  but  testimonied  in  his  own  bringings -forth,  and  he 
shall  appear  to  the  envious  a  scholar,  a  statesman  and  a 
soldier.  Therefore  you  speak  unskilfully ;  or  if  your  know 
ledge  be  more,  it  is  much  darkened  in  your  malice. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and  knowledge  with 
dearer  love. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know  not  what  you 
speak.  But,  if  ever  the  Duke  return,  as  our  prayers  are  he 
may,  let  me  desire  you  to  make  your  answer  before  him.  If 
it  be  honest  you  have  spoke,  you  have  courage  to  maintain 
it :  I  am  bound  to  call  upon  you  ;  and,  I  pray  you,  your  name  ? 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio ;  well  known  to  the  Duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may  live  to  report 

Lucio.  I  fear  you  not.  [you- 

Duke.  O,  you  hope  the  Duke  will  return  no  more;  or  you 
imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  opposite.  But,  indeed,  I  can 
do  you  little  harm  ;  you  '11  forswear  this  again. 

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

Duke.  Why  should  he  die,  sir  ? 

Lucio,  Why?  For  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun-dish.  I  would 
the  Duke  we  talk  of  were  returned  again  :  this  ungenitured 
agent  will  unpeople  the  province  with  continency  ;  sparrows 

•  must  not  build  in  his  house-eaves,  because  they  are  lecher 
ous.  The  Duke  yet  would  have  dark  deeds  darkly  answered  ; 
he  would  never  bring  them  to  light :  would  he  were  returned  ! 
Marry,  this  Claudio  is  condemned  for  untrussing.  Farewell, 
good  friar :  I  prithee,  pray  for  me.  The  Duke,  I  say  to 
thee  again,  would  eat  mutton  on  Fridays.  He 's  not  past  it 
yet,  and  I  say  to  thee,  he  would  mouth  with  a  beggar, 
though  she  smelt  brown  bread  and  garlic  :  say  that  I  said 
so.  Farewell.  [Exit, 

Duke.  No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape  ;  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes.     What  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Escalus,  Provost,  and  Officers  with  Mistress  Overdone. 
Escal.  Go  ;  away  with  her  to  prison ! 

Mrs  Ov.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me ;  your  honour  is 
accounted  a.  merciful^man  ;  good  my  lord. 

207 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Escal.  Double  and  treble  admonition,  and  still  forfeit  in  the 
same  kind !  This  would  make  mercy  swear  and  play  the 
tyrant. 

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

Mrs  Ov.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  information  against  me. 
Mistress  Kate  Keepdown  was  with  child  by  him  in  the 
Duke's  time ;  he  promised  her  marriage  :  his  child  is  a  year 
and  a  quarter  old,  come  Philip  and  Jacob  :  I  have  kept  it 
myself ;  and  see  how  he  goes  about  to  abuse  me  ! 

Escal.  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much  license :  let  him  be 
called  before  us.  Away  with  her  to  prison  !  Go  to ;  no 
more  words.  \Exeunt  Officers  with  Mistress  OvJ]  Provost, 
my  brother  Angelo  will  not  be  altered;  Claudio  must  die 
to-morrow  :  let  him  be  furnished  with  divines,  and  have  all 
charitable  preparation.  If  my  brother  wrought  by  my  pity, 
it  should  not  be  so  with  him. 

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

Escal.  Good  even,  good  father. 

Duke.  Bliss  and  goodness  on  you  ! 

Escal.  Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Duke.  Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance  is  now 
To  use  it  for  my  time :  I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  See 
In  special  business  from  his  Holiness. 

Escal.  What  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever  on  goodness, 
that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it :  novelty  is  only  in 
request ;  and  it  is  as  dangerous  to  be  aged  in  any  kind  of 
course,  as  it  is  virtuous  to  be  constant  in  any  undertaking. 
There  is  scarce  truth  enough  alive  to  make  societies  secure ; 
but  security  enough  to  make  fellowships  accurst : — much 
upon  this  riddle  runs  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  This  news 
is  old  enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news.  I  pray  you,  sir,  of 
what  disposition  was  the  Duke  ? 

Escal.  One  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  contended  especially  to 

Duke.  What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ?  [know  himself. 

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

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  #o  sinister  measure  from 

208 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

his  judge,  but  most  willingly  humbles  himself  to  the  deter 
mination  of  justice  :  yet  had  he  framed  to  himself,  by  the 
instruction  of  his  frailty,  many  deceiving  promises  of  life; 
which  I,  by  my  good  leisure,  have  discredited  to  him,  and 
now  is  he  resolved  to  die. 

Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  your  function,  and  the 
prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  calling.  I  have  laboured  for 
the  poor  gentleman  to  the  extremest  shore  of  my  modesty : 
but  my  brother  justice  have  I  found  so  severe,  that  he  hath 
forced  me  to  tell  him  he  is  indeed  Justice. 
Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitness  of  his  proceeding, 
it  shall  become  him  well ;  wherein  if  he  chance  to  fail,  he 
hath  sentenced  himself. 

Escal.  I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner.     Fare  you  well. 
Duke,  Peace  be  with  you  !    [.Exeunt  Escalus  and  Provost. 

He  who  the  sword  of  heaven  will  bear 

Should  be  as  holy  as  severe ; 

Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 

Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go  ; 

More  or  less  to  others  paying 

Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 

Shame  to  him  whose  cruel  striking 

Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking ! 

Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo, 

To  weed  my  vice  and  let  his  grow  ! 

O,  what  may  man  within  him  hide, 

Though  angel  on  the  outward  side  ! 

How  many  likeness  made  in  crimes, 

Making  practice  on  the  times, 

To'  draw  with  idle  spiders'  strings 

Most  ponderous  and  substantial  things  ! 

Graft  against  vice  I  must  apply : 

With  Angelo  to-night  shall  lie 

His  old  betrothed  but  despised  ; 

So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguised, 

Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting, 

And  perform  an  old  contracting.  \Exit. 

ACT   IV— SCENE  I 

The  moated  grange  at  St.  Luke's. 

Enter  Mariana  and  a  Boy. 

Boy  sings. 

Take,  O,  take  thy  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ; 
209 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again,  bring  again  ; 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain,  seal'd  in  vain. 
Mart.  Break  off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee  quick  away : 

Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 

Hath  often  still'd  my  brawling  discontent.  [Exit  Boy. 

Enter  Duke  disguised  as  before. 

I  cry  you  mercy,  sir ;  and  well  could  wish 

You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical : 

Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so, 

My  mirth  it  much  displeased,  but  pleased  my  woe. 
Duke.  'Tis  good ;  though  music  oft  hath  such  a  charm 
To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 

I  pray  you,  tell  me,  hath  anybody  inquired   for  me  here 

to-day  ?   much  upon  this   time   have    I    promised   here   to 

meet. 

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

Enter  Isabella.  [day. 

Duke.  I  do  constantly  believe  you.     The  time  is  come  even 

now.     I  shall  crave  your  forbearance  a  little  :  may  be  I  will 

call  upon  you  anon,  for  some  advantage  to  yourself. 
Mari.  I  am  always  bound  to  you.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Very  well  met,  and  well  come. 

What  is  the  news  from  this  good  Deputy  ? 
Isab.  He  hath  a  garden  circummured  with  brick, 

Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  back'd  ; 

And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched  gate, 

That  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key : 

This  other  doth  command  a  little  door 

Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leada ; 

There  have  I  made  my  promise 

Upon  the  heavy  middle  of  the  night 

To  call  upon  him. 

Duke.  But  shall  you  on  your  knowledge  find  this  way  ? 
Isab.  I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  wary  note  upon  't : 

With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 

In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 

The  way  twice  o'er. 
Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed  concerning  her  observance  ? 
Isab.  No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark  ; 

And  that  I  have  possess'd  him  my  most  stay 

Can  be  but  brief ;  for  I  have  made  him  kno- -.v 

I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  along, 

210 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

That  stays  upon  me,  whose  persuasion  is 

I  come  about  my  brother. 
Duke.  'Tis  well  borne  up. 

I  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 

A  word  of  this.     What,  ho  !  within  !  come  forth  I 
Re-enter  Mariana. 

\  pray  you,  be  acquainted  with  this  maid ; 

She  comes  to  do  you  good. 

Isab.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.  Do  you  persuade  yourself  that  I  respect  you  ? 
Man.  Good  friar,  I  know  you  dtt,  and  have  found  it. 
Duke.  Take,  then,  this  your  companion  by  the  hand, 

Who  hath  a  story  ready  for  your  ear. 

I  shall  attend  your  leisure  :  but  make  haste  ; 

The  vaporous  night  approaches. 
Mart.  Will 't  please  you  walk  aside  ? 

[Exeunt  Mariana  and  Isabella, 
Duke.  O  place  and  greatness,  millions  of  false  eyes 

Are  stuck  upon  thee  !  volumes  of  report 

Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 

Upon  thy  doings  !  thousand  escapes  of  wit 

Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dreams, 

And  rack  thee  in  their  fancies  ! 

Re-enter  Mariana  and  Isabella. 

Welcome,  how  agreed  ? 
Isab.  She  '11  take  the  enterprise  upon  her,  father, 

If  you  advise  it. 
Duke,  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 
Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say 

When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 

*  Remember  now  my  brother.' 
Mart,  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.  Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at  all. 

He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contract : 

To  bring  you  thus  together,  'tis  no  sin, 

Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 

Doth  flourish  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go : 

Our  corn  's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tithe 's  to  sow.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  II 

A  room  in  the  prison. 
Enter  Provost  and  Pompey. 

Prov.  Come  hither,  sirrah.     Can  you  cut  off  a  man's  head  ? 
Pom.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can ;  but  if  he  be  a 

211 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

married  man,  he 's  his  wife's  head,  and  I  can  never  cut  off  a 
woman's  head. 

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

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

Prov.  What,  ho  1  Abhorson  !     Where 's  Abhorson,  there  ? 
Enter  Abhorson. 

Abhor.  Do  you  call,  sir  ? 

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

Abhor.  A   bawd,  sir?    fie  upon   him!    he  will   discredit   our 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  weigh  equally ;  a  feather  will  turn  the 
scale.  [Exit. 

Pom.  Pray,  sir,  by  your  good  favour, — for  surely,  sir,  a  good 
favour  you  have,  but  that  you  have  a  hanging  look, — do  you 
call,  sir,  your  occupation  a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.  Ay,  sir ;  a  mystery. 

Pom.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a  mystery ;  and  your 
whores,  sir,  being  members  of  my  occupation,  using  painting, 
do  prove  my  occupation  a  mystery  :  but  what  mystery  there 
should  be  in  hanging,  if  I  should  be  hanged,  I  cannot 

Abhor.  Sir,  it  is  a  mystery.  [imagine. 

Pom.  Proof? 

Abhor.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief:  if  it  be  too 
little  for  your  thief,  your  true  man  thinks  it  big  enough ;  if 
it  be  too  big  for  your  thief,  your  thief  thinks  it  little  enough  : 
so  every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief. 
Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.  Are  you  agreed  ? 

Pom.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him  ;  for  I  do  find  your  hangman  is. a 
more  penitent  trade  than  your  bawd ;  he  doth  oftener  ask 
forgiveness.  .  [four  o'clock. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and  your  axe  to-morrov.- 

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

212 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Pom.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir :  and  I  hope,  if  you  have 
occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn,  you  shall  find  me 
yare;  for,  truly,  sir,  for  your  kindness  I  owe  you  a  good  turn. 

Prov.  Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio  : 

[Exeunt  Pvmpey  and  Abhor  son. 
The  one  has  my  pity ;  not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  though  he  were  my  brother, 

Enter  Claudio. 

Look,  here 's  the  warrant,  Claudio,  for  thy  death : 
'Tis  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.     Where 's  Barnardine  ? 

Claud.  As  fast  lock'd  up  in  sleep  as  guiltless  labour 
When  it  lies  starkly  in  the  traveller's  bones : 
He  will  not  wake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go,  prepare  yourself.     [Knocking  within.~\     But,  hark, 

what  noise? — 

Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort !     \Exit  Claudiol\    By  and 
I  hope  it  is  some  pardon  or  reprieve  [by. — 

For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. 

Enter  Duke  disguised  as  before. 

Welcome,  father. 
Duke.  The  best  and  wholesomest  spirits  of  the  night 

Envelop  you,  good  Provost !     Who  call;d  here  of  late  ? 
Prov.  None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 
^Duke.  Not  Isabel? 
'  Prov.  No. 

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

Prov .  What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 
Duke.  There 's  some  in  hope. 
Prov.  It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 
Duke.  Not  so,  not  so ;  his  life  is  parallel'd 

Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others  ;  were  he  mealed  with  that 
Which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous  : 
But  this  being  so,  he 's  just.  \Knockingwithin. 

Now  are  they  come. 

{Exit  Provost. 

This  is  a  gentle  provost :  seldom  when 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men.      {Knocking  within. 
How  now  !  what  noise  ?     That  spirit 's  possessed  with  haste 
That  wounds  the  unsisting  postern  with  these  strokes. 

213 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Re-enter  Provost. 
Prov.  There  he  must  stay  until  the  officer 

Arise  to  let  him  in  :  he  is  call'd  up. 
Duke.  Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet, 

But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 
Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.  As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is, 

You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning. 
Prov.  Happily 

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

Enter  a  Messenger. 

This  is  his  lordship's  man. 
Duke.  And  here  comes  Claudio' s  pardon. 
Mes.  [Giving  a  paper]  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note;  and 
by  me  this  further  charge,   that  you  swerve  not  from   the 
smallest  article  of  it,  neither  in  time,  matter,  or  other  cir 
cumstance.     Good  morrow  :  for,  as  I  take  it,  it  is  almost  day. 
Prov.  I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Duke.  [Aside']  This  is  his  pardon,  purchased  by  such  sin 
For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in. 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity, 
When  it  is  borne  in  high  authority  : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy 's  so  extended, 
That  for  the  fault's  love  is  the  offender  friended. 
Now,  sir,  what  news  ? 

Prov.  I  told  you.     Lord  Angelo,  belike  thinking  me  remiss  in 
mine   office,    awakens  me   with  this   unwonted  putting-on  ; 
methinks  strangely,  for  he  hath  not  used  it  before. 
Duke.  Pray  you,  let 's  hear. 
Prov.  [Reads] 

Whatsoever  you  may  hear  to  the  contrary,  let  Claudio  be  exe- 

.    cuted  by  four  of  the  clock ;  and  in  the  afternoon  Barnardine ; 

for  my  better  satisfaction,  let  me  have  Claudio's  head  sent 

me  by  five.     Let  this  be  duly  performed;  with  a  thought 

that  more  depends  on  it  than  we  must  yet  deliver.     Thus 

fail  not  to  do  your  office,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your  peril. 

What  say  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

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

afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born,  but  here  nursed  up  and  bred ;  one 
that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old. 

214 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Duke.  How  came  it  that  the  absent  Duke  had  not  either 
delivered  him  to  his  liberty  or  executed  him  ?  I  have  heard 
it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for  him  :  and,  indeed, 
his  fact,  till  now  in  the  government  of  Lord  Angelo,  came 
not  to  an  undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.  It  is  now  apparent  ? 

Prov.  Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  himself. 

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

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

Duke.  He  wants  advice.  [desperately  mortal. 

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

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  written  in  your  brow, 
provost,  honesty  and  constancy  :  if  I  read  it  not  truly,  my 
ancient  skill  beguiles  me  ;  but,  in  the  boldness  of  my  cunning, 
I  will  lay  my  self  in  hazard.  Claudio,  whom  here  you  have 
warrant  to  execute,  is  no  greater  forfeit  to  the  law  than 
Angelo  who  hath  sentenced  him.  To  make  you  understand 
this  in  a  manifested  effect,  I  crave  but  four  days'  respite ;  for 
the  which  you  are  to  do  me  both  a  present  and  a  dangerous 

Prov.  Pray,  sir,  in  what  ?  [courtesy. 

Duke.  In  the  delaying  death. 

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

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order  I  warrant  you,  if  my  instruc 
tions  may  be  your  guide.  Let  this  Barnardine  be  this  morn 
ing  executed,  and  his  head  borne  to  Angelo. 

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

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

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

215 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Measure  for  Measure 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  the  Duke,  or  to  the  Deputy  ? 

Prov.  To  him,  and  to  his  substitutes. 

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

Prov.  But  what  likelihood  is  in  that  ? 

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

Prov.  I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the  Duke :  you  shall 
anon  over-read  it  at  your  pleasure  ;  where  you  shall  find, 
within  these  two  days  he  will  be  here.  This  is  a  thing  that 
Angelo  knows  not ;  for  he  this  very  day  receives  letters  of 
strange  tenour ;  perchance  of  the  Duke's  death  ;  perchance 
entering  into  some  monastery ;  but,  by  chance,  nothing  of 
what  is  writ.  Look,  the  unfolding  star  calls  up  the  shepherd. 
Put  not  yourself  into  amazement  how  these  things  should  be : 
all  difficulties  are  but  easy  when  they  are  known.  Call  your 
executioner,  and  off  with  Barnardine's  head  :  I  will  give  him 
a  present  shrift  and  advise  him  for  a  better  place.  Yet  you 
are  amazed ;  but  this  shall  absolutely  resolve  you.  Come 
away ;  it  is  almost  clear  dawn.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

Another  room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Pompey. 

Pom.  I  am  as  well  acquainted  here  as  I  was  in  our  house  of 
profession  :  one  would  think  it  were  Mistress  Overdone's  own 
house,  for  here  be  many  of  her  old  customers.  First,  here 's 
young  Master  Rash  ;  he 's  in  for  a  commodity  of  brown  paper 
and  old  ginger,  nine-score  and  seventeen  pounds  ;  of  which 
he  made  five  marks,  ready  money:  marry,  then  ginger  was 
not  much  in  request,  for  the  old  women  were  all  dead.  Then 
is  there  here  one  Master  Caper,  at  the  suit  of  Master  Three- 
pile  the  mercer,  for  some  four  suits  of  peach-coloured  satin, 
which  now  peaches  him  a  beggar.  Then  have  we  here 
young  Dizy,  and  young  Master  Deep- vow,  and  Master 
Copper-spur,  and  Master  Starve-lackey  the  rapier  and  dagger 
man,  and  young  Drop-heir  that  killed  lusty  Pudding, 
and  Master  Forthlight  the  tilter,  and  brave  Master  Shooty 
the  great  traveller,  and  wild  Half-can  that  stabbed  Pots,  and, 

216 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi 

I  think,  forty  more ;  all  great  doers  in  our  trade,  and  are 

now  '  for  the  Lord's  sake.' 

Enter  Abhorson. 

Abhor.  Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hither. 

Pom.  Master  Barnardine  !  you  must  rise  and  be  hanged,  Master 
Abhor.  What  ho,  Barnardine  !  [Barnardine  ! 

Bar.  [  Within\  A  pox  o'  your  throats  !     Who  makes  that  noise 

there  ?     What  are  you  ? 
Pom.  Your  friends,  sir ;  the  hangman.     You  must  be  so  good, 

sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

Bar.  [  Within]  Away,  you  rogue,  away  !     I  am  sleepy. 
Abhor.  Tell  him  he  must  awake,  and  that  quickly  too. 
Pom.  Pray,  Master  Barnardine,  awake  till  you  are  executed,  and 
Abhor.  Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out.          [sleep  afterwards. 
Pom.  He  is  coming,  sir,  he  is  coming ;  I  hear  his  straw  rustle. 
Abhor.  Is  the  axe  upon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 
Pom.  Very  ready,  sir. 

Enter  Barnardine. 

Bar.  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  what 's  the  news  with  you  ? 
Abhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap  into  your  prayers ; 

for,  look  you,  the  warrant 's  come.  [fitted  for 't. 

Bar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking  all  night ;  I  am  not 
Pom.  O,  the  better,  sir ;  for  he  that  drinks  all  night,  and  is 

hanged  betimes  in  the  morning,  may  sleep  the  sounder  all 

the  next  day.  [jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir  ;  here  comes  your  ghostly  father :  do  we 

Enter  Duke  disguised  as  before. 
Duke.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charity,  and  hearing  how  hastily  you 

are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to  advise  you,  comfort  you  and 

pray  with  you. 
Bar.  Friar,  not  I :  I  have  been  drinking  hard  all  night,  and  I  will 

have  more  time  to  prepare  me,  or  they  shall  beat  out  my  brains 

with  billets :  I  will  not  consent  to  die  this  day,  that 's  certain. 
Duke.  O,  sir,  you  must :  and  therefore  I  beseech  you 

Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 
Bar.  I  swear  I  will  not  die  to-day  for  any  man's  persuasion. 
Duke.  But  hear  you. 
Bar.  Not  a  word  :  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  to  me,  come  to 

my  ward  ;  for  thence  will  not  I  to-day.  [Exit. 

Duke.  Unfit  to  live  or  die  :  O  gravel  heart ! 

After  him,  fellows ;  bring  him  to  the  block. 

[Exeunt  Abhorson  and  Pompcy. 
Enter  Provost. 

Prov.  Now,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner  ? 
Duke.  A  creature  unprepared,  unmeet  for  death ; 

217 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Measure  for  Measure 

And  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is 

Were  damnable. 
Prov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father, 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 

One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 

A  man  of  Claudio's  years ;  his  beard  and  head 

Just  of  his  colour.     What  if  we  do  omit 

This  reprobate  till  he  were  well  inclined ; 

And  satisfy  the  Deputy  with  the  visage 

Of  Ragozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 
Duke.  O,  'tis  an  accident  that  heaven  provides  I 

Dispatch  it  presently ;  the  hour  draws  on 

PrefiVd  by  Angelo  :  see  this  be  done, 

And  sent  according  to  command  ;  whiles  I 

Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 
Prov.  This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  presently. 

But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon  : 

And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 

To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come 

If  he  were  known  alive  ? 
Duke.  Let  this  be  done. 

Put  them  in  secret  holds,  both  Barnardine  and  Claudio : 

Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greeting 

To  the  under  generation,  you  shall  find 

Your  safety  manifested. 
Prov.  I  am  your  free  dependant. 
Duke.  Quick,  dispatch,  and  send  the  head  to  Angelo. 

\Exit  Provost. 

Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo, — 

The  provost,  he  shall  bear  them, — whose  contents 

Shall  witness  to  him  I  am  near  at  home, 

And  that,  by  great  injunctions,  I  am  bound 

To  enter  publicly :  him  I  '11  desire 

To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 

A  league  below  the  city ;  and  from  thence, 

By  cold  gradation  and  well-balanced  form, 

We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.  Here  is  the  head  ;  I  ;11  carry  it  myself. 
Duke.  Convenient  is  it.     Make  a  swift  return  ; 

For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things 

That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I  '11  make  all  speed.  [Exit. 

Isab.  [  Within]  Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 
Duke.  The  tongue  of  Isabel.     She 's  come  to  know 

218 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

If  yet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither 

But  I  will  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good, 

To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair, 

When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Isab.  Ho,  by  your  leave  ! 

Duke.  Good  morning  to  you,  fair  and  gracious  daughter. 
Isab.  The  better,  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 

Hath  yet  the  Deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon  ? 
Duke.  He  hath  released  him,  Isabel,  from  the  world : 

His  head  is  off,  and  sent  to  Angelo. 
Isab.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  so. 
Duke.  It  is  no  other  :  show  your  wisdom,  daughter, 

In  your  close  patience. 

Isab.  O,  I  will  to  him  and  pluck  out  his  eyes  1 
Duke.  You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight 
Isab.  Unhappy  Claudio  !  wretched  Isabel ! 

Injurious  world  !  most  damned  Angelo  ! 
Duke.  This  nor  hurts  him  nor  profits  you  a  jot ; 

Forbear  it  therefore ;  give  your  cause  to  heaven. 

Mark  what  I  say,  which  you  shall  find 

By  every  syllable  a  faithful  verity  : 

The  Duke  comes  home  to-morrow ; — nay,  dry  your  eyes  ; 

One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor, 

Gives  me  this  instance  :  already  he  hath  carried 

Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo ; 

Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates, 

There  to  give  up  their  power.     If  you  can,  pace  your  wisdom 

In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go ; 

And  you  shall  have  your  bosom  on  this  wretch, 

Grace  of  the  Duke,  revenges  to  your  heart, 

And  general  honour. 

Isab.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.  This  letter,  then,  to  Friar  Peter  give  ; 

'Tis  that  he  sent  me  of  the  Duke's  return  : 

Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 

At  Mariana's  house  to-night.     Her  cause  and  youn. 

I  '11  perfect  him  withal ;  and  he  shall  bring  you 

Before  the  Duke  ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 

Accuse  him  home  and  home.     For  my  poor  self, 

I  am  combined  by  a  sacred  vow, 

And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  you  with  this  letter  : 

Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 

With  a  light  heart ;  trust  not  my  holy  order, 

If  I  pervert  your  course. — Who 's  here  ? 
219 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  Measure  for  Measure 

Enter  Lurio. 

Lucio.  Good  even.     Friar,  where 's  the  provost? 

Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

Lucio.  O  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine  heart  to  see  thine 
eyes  so  red  :  thou  must  be  patient.  I  am  fain  to  dine  and  sup 
with  water  and  bran  ;  I  dare  not  for  my  head  fill  my  belly  ; 
one  fruitful  meal  would  set  me  to 't.  But  they  say  the  Duke 
will  be  here  to-morrow.  By  my  troth,  Isabel,  I  loved  thy 
brother  :  if  the  old  fantastical  Duke  of  dark  corners  had  been 
at  home,  he  had  lived.  [Exit  Isabella. 

Duke.  Sir,  the  Duke  is  marvellous  little  beholding  to  your 
reports  ;  but  the  best  is,  he  lives  not  in  them. 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  Duke  so  well  as  I  do :  he 's 
'  a  better  woodman  than  thou  takest  him  for. 

Duke.  Well,  you  '11  answer  this  one  day.     Fare  ye  well. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry ;  I  '11  go  along  with  thee :  I  can  tell  thee 
pretty  tales  of  the  Duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him  already,  sir,  if  they 
be  true ;  if  not  true,  none  were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  was  once  before  him  for  getting  a  wench  with  child. 

Duke.  Did  you  such  a  thing  ? 

Lucio.  Yes,  marry,  did  I  :  but  I  was  fain  to  forswear  it ;  they 
would  else  have  married  me  to  the  rotten  medlar. 

Duke.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  honest.     Rest  you  well. 

Lucio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's  end  :  if 
bawdy  talk  offend  you,  we'll  have  very  little  of  it.  Nay, 
friar,  I  am  a  kind  of  burr;  I  shall  stick.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

A  room  in  Angela's  house. 
Enter  Angela  and  Escalus. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  disvouched  other. 

Ang.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner.     His  actions 

show  much  like  to  madness  :  pray  heaven  his  wisdom  be  not 

tainted !     And  why  meet  him  at  the  gates,  and  redeliver  our 

authorities  there  ? 
Escal.  I  guess  not. 
Ang.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  in  an  hour  before  his 

entering,  that  if  any  crave  redress  of  injustice,  they  should 

exhibit  their  petitions  in  the  street  ? 
Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  have  a  dispatch  of 

complaints,  and  to  deliver  us  from  devices  hereafter,  which 

shall  then  have  no  power  to  stand  against  us. 
Ang.  Well,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  proclaimed  betimes  i'  the 

220 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  IV,  Sc.  v,  vi 

morn  ;  I  '11  call  you  at  your  house  :  give  notice  to  such  men 
of  sort  and  suit  as  are  to  meet  him. 

Escal.  I  shall,  sir.     Fare  you  well. 

Ang.  Good  night.  [Exit  Escalus. 

This  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  me  unpregnant, 
And  dull  to  all  proceedings.     A  deflower'd  maid  ! 
And  by  an  eminent  body  that  enforced 
The  law  against  it  I     But  that  her  tender  shame 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss, 
How  might  she  tongue  me  !     Yet  reason  dares  her  no  ; 
For  my  authority  bears  of  a  credent  bulk, 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch 
But  it  confounds  the  breather.     He  should  have  lived, 
Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense, 
Might  in  the  times  to  come  have  ta'en  revenge, 
By  so  receiving  a  dishonour'd  life 

With  ransom  of  such  shame.     Would  yet  he  had  lived  ! 
Alack,  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot, 
Nothing  goes  right  :  we  would,  and  we  would  not.        [Exit. 


"XT' 

fields  without  the  town. 
Enter  Duke  in  his  own  habit  \  and  Friar  Peter. 

Duke.  These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me  :          [Giving  letters. 
The  provost  knows  our  purpose  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction, 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift  ; 
Though  sometimes  you  do  blench  from  this  to  that, 
As  cause  doth  minister.     Go  call  at  Flavius'  house, 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay  :  give  the  like  notice 
To  Valentius,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate  ; 
But  send  me  Flavius  first. 

Fri  P.  It  shall  be  speeded  well.        [Exit. 

Enter  Varrius. 

Duke.  I  thank  thee,  Varrius  ;  thou  hast  made  good  haste  : 
Come,  we  will  walk.     There  's  other  of  our  friends 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI 

Street  near  the  city-gate. 
Enter  Isabella  and  Mariana. 
Isab.  To  speak  so  indirectly  I  am  loath  ; 

1  would  say  the  truth  ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 

221 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

That  is  your  part :  yet  I  am  advised  to  do  it ; 

He  says,  to  veil  full  purpose. 
Mari.  Be  ruled  by  him. 

Isab.  Besides,  he  tells  me  that,  if  peradventure 

He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 

I  should  not  think  it  strange ;  for  'tis  a  physic 

That 's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 
Mari.  I  would  Friar  Peter — 
Isab.  O,  peace  !  the  friar  is  corne. 

Enter  Friar  Peter. 
Fri.  P.  Come,  I  have  found  you  out  a  stand  most  fit, 

Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  Duke, 

He  shall  not  pass  you.     Twice  have  the  tru-mpets  sounded ; 

The  generous  and  gravest  citizens 

Have  hent  the  gates,  and  very  near  upon 

The  Duke  is  entering  :  therefore,  hence,  away !         [Exeunt. 
. 

ACT  V— SCENE  I 

The  city-gate. 

Mariana  veiled,  Isabella,  and  Friar  Peter,  at  their  stand. 
Enter  Duke,  Varrius,  Lords,  Angela,  Escalus,  Lucio,  Provost, 
Officers,  and  Citizens,  at  several  doors. 

Duke.  My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met ! 

Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 

P  *" j  \  Happy  return  be  to  your  royal  Grace ! 

Duke.  Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 

We  have  made  inquiry  of  you ;  and  we  hear 

Such  goodness  of  your  justice,  that  our  soul 

Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 

Forerunning  more  requital. 

Ang.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater. 

Duke.  O,  your  desert  speaks  loud;  and  I  should  wrong  it, 

To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom, 

When  it  deserves,  with  characters  of  brass, 

A  forted  residence  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time 

And  razure  of  oblivion.     Give  me  your  hand, 

And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 

That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 

Favours  that  keep  within.     Come,  Escalus  ; 

You  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand : 

And  good  supporters  are  you. 

Friar  Peter  and  Isabella  come  forward. 
Fri.  P.  Now  is  your  time :  speak  loud,  and  kneel  before  him. 

222 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Isab.  Justice,  O  royal  Duke  !     Vail  your  regard 

Upon  a  wrong'd,  I  would  fain  have  said,  a  maid ! 

O  worthy  prince,  dishonour  not  your  eye 

By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object 

Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint, 

And  given  me  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice! 
Duke.  Relate  your  wrongs ;  in  what  ?  by  whom  ?  be  brief. 

Here  is  Lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice : 

Reveal  yourself  to  him. 
Isab.  O  worthy  Duke, 

You  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil : 

Hear  me  yourself ;  for  that  which  I  must  speak 

Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  believed, 

Or  wring  redress  from  you.     Hear  me,  O  hear  me,  here  \ 
Ang.  My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not  firm  : 

She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother 

Cut  off  by  course  of  justice, — 
Isab.  By  course  of  justice ! 

Ang.  And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly  and  strange. 
Isab.  Most  strange,  but  yet  most  truly,  will  I  speak : 

That  Angelo 's  forsworn  ;  is  it  not  strange  ? 

That  Angelo 's  a  murderer  ;  is  Jt  not  strange  ? 

That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 

An  hypocrite,  a  virgin-violator  ; 

Is  it  not  strange  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  it  is  ten  times  strange. 

Isab.  It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo 

Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange : 

Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true ;  for  truth  is  truth 

To  the  end  of  reckoning. 
Duke.  Away  with  her ! — Poor  soul, 

She  speaks  this  in  the  infirmity  of  sense. 
Isab.  O  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  believest 

There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world, 

That  thou  neglect  me  not,  with  that  opinion 

That  I  am  touch'd  with  madness !     Make  not  impossible 

That  which  but  seems  unlike  :  'tis  not  impossible 

But  one,  the  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground, 

May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute 

As  Angelo  ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 

In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms, 

Be  an  arch-villain ;  believe  it,  royal  prince : 

If  he  be  less,  he 's  nothing ;  but  he  's  more, 

Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 
Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

223 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

If  she  be  mad, — as  I  believe  no  other, — 

Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense, 

Such  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing, 

As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness. 
Isab.  O  gracious  Duke, 

Harp  not  on  that ;  nor  do  not  banish  reason 

For  inequality  :  but  let  your  reason  serve 

To  make  the  truth  appear  where  it  seems  hid, 

And  hide  the  false  seems  true. 
Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad 

Have,  sure,  more  lack  of  reason.     What  would  you  say  ? 
Isab.  I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 

Condemned  upori  the  act  of  fornication 

To  lose  his  head ;  condemn'd  by  Angelo  : 

I,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood, 

Was  sent  to  by  my  brother  ;  one  Lucio 

As  then  the  messenger, — 
Lucio.  That 's  I,  an  \  like  your  Grace  : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desired  her 

To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  Lord  Angelo 

For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 
Isab.  That 's  he  indeed. 

Duke.  You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 
Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

Nor  wish'd  to  hold  my  peace. 
Duke.  I  wish  you  now,  then ; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it :  and  when  you  have 

A  business  for  yourself,  pray  heaven  you  then 

Be  perfect. 

Lucio.  I  warrant  your  honour. 

Duke.  The  warrant  3s  for  yourself ;  take  heed  to 't. 
Isab.  This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale, — 
Lucio.  Right. 
Duke.  It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  i'  the  wrong 

To  speak  before  your  time.     Proceed. 
Isab.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiff  Deputy,-— 
Duke.  That 's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 
Isab.  Pardon  it ; 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 
Duke.  Mended  again.     The  matter ; — proceed. 
Isab.  In  brief, — to  set  the  needless  process  by, 

How  I  persuaded,  how  I  pray'd,  and  kneel'd, 

How  he  refell'd  me,  and  how  I  replied, — 

For  this  was  of  much  length, — the  vile  conclusion 

224 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter : 

He  would  not,  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  body 

To  his  concupiscible  intemperate  lust, 

Release  my  brother ;  and,  after  much  debatement, 

My  sisterly  remorse  confutes  mine  honour, 

And  I  did  yield  to  him  :  but  the  next  morn  betimes, 

His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 

For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Duke.  This  is  most  likely  ! 

Isab.  O,  that  it  were  as  like  as  it  is  true  ! 

Duke.  By  heaven,  fond  wretch,  thou  know'st  not  what  thou 
Or  else  thou  art  suborn'd  against  his  honour  [speak'st, 

In  hateful  practice.     First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish.     Next,  it  imports  no  reason 
That  with  such  vehemency  he  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  himself :  if  he  had  so  offended, 
He  would  have  weigh'd  thy  brother  by  himself, 
And  not  have  cut  him  off.     Some  one  hath  set  you  on  : 
Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 
Thou  earnest  here  to  complain. 

Isab.  ,  And  is  this  all  ? 

Then,  O  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience,  and  with  ripen'd  time 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapt  up 
Incountenance  ! — Heaven  shield  your  Grace  from  woe, 
As  I,  thus  wrong'd,  hence  unbelieved  go  ! 

Duke.  I  know  you  'Id  fain  be  gone. — An  officer !     • 
To  prison  with  her ! — Shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him  so  near  us  ?     This  needs  must  be  a  practice. 
Who  knew  of  your  intent  and  coming  hither  ? 

Isab.  One  that  I  would  were  here,  Friar  Lodowick. 

Duke.  A  ghostly  father,  belike.     Who  knows  that  Lodowick  ? 

Lucio.  My  lord,  I  know  him ;  'tis  a  meddling  friar  ; 
I  do  not  like  the  man  :  had  he  been  lay,  my  lord, 
For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  Grace 
In  your  retirement,  I  had  swinged  him  soundly. 

Duke.  Words  against  me  !  this 's  a  good  friar  belike ! 
And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  !     Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.  But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that  friar, 
I  saw  them  at  the  prison  :  a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

Fri.  P.  Blessed  be  your  royal  Grace  ! 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 

225  H 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  lor  Measure 

Your  royal  ear  abused.     First,  hath  this  woman 

Most  wrongfully  accused  your  substitute, 

Who  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her 

As  she  from  one  ungot. 
Duke.  We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  Friar  Lodowick  that  she  speaks  of? 
Fri.  P.  I  know  him  for  a  man  divine  and  holy ; 

Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  meddler, 

As  he 's  reported  by  this  gentleman ; 

And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet 

Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  Grace. 
Lucio.  My  lord,  most  villanously ;  believe  it. 
Fri.  P.  Well,  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear  himself 

But  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord, 

Of  a  strange  fever.     Upon  his  mere  request, — 

Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 

Intended  'gainst  Lord  Angelo, — came  I  hither, 

To  speak,  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 

Is  true  and  false ;  and  what  he  with  his  oath 

And  all  probation  will  make  up  full  clear, 

Whensoever  he  ;s  convented.     F:rst,  for  this  woman, 

To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman, 

So  vulgarly  and  personally  accused, 

Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes, 

Till  she  herself  confess  it. 
Duke.  Good  friar,  let 's  hear  it 

\Isabella is  carried off guarded ;  and  Mariana  comes  forward. 

Do  you  not  smile  at  this,  Lord  Angelo  ? — 

O  heaven,  the  vanity  of  wretched  fools  ! — 

Give  us  some  seats.     Come,  cousin  Angelo  ; 

In  this  I  '11  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 

Of  your  own  cause.     Is  this  the  witness,  friar  ? 

First,  let  her  show  her  face,  and  after  speak. 
Mari.  Pardon,  my  lord ;  I  will  not  show  my  face 

Until  my  husband  bid  me. 
Duke.  What,  are  you  married  ? 
Mari.  No,  my  lord. 
Duke.  Are  you  a  maid  ? 
Mari.  No,  my  lord. 
Duke.  A  widow,  then  ? 
Mari.  Neither,  my  lord. 
Duke.  Why,  you  are  nothing,  then  : — neither  maid,  widow,  nor 

wife? 
Lucio.  My  lord,  she  may  be  a  punk  ;  for  many  of  them  are 

neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

226 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Duke.  Silence  that  fellow  :  I  would  he  had  some  cause  to 

prattle  for  himself. 
Lucio.  Well,  my  lord. 
Mart.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  married  : 

And  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid : 

I  have  known  my  husband  ;  yet  my  husband 

Knows  not  that  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.  He  was  drunk,  then,  my  lord  :  it  can  be  no  better. 
Duke.  For  the  benefit  of  silence,  would  thou  wert  so  too  ! 
Lucio.  Well,  my  lord. 
Duke.  This  is  no  witness  for  Lord  Angelo. 
Mari.  Now  I  come  to  ;t,  my  lord  : 

She  that  accuses  him  of  fornication, 

In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband  ; 

And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time 

When  I  '11  depose  I  had  him  in  mine  arms 

With  all  the  effect  of  love. 
Ang.  Charges  she  moe  than  me  ? 
Mari.  Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No  ?  you  say  your  husband. 
Mari.  Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo, 

Who  thinks  he  knows  that  he  ne'er  knew  my  body, 

But  knows  he  thinks  that  he  knows  Isabel's. 
Ang.  This  is  a  strange  abuse.     Let 's  see  thy  face. 
Mari.  My  husband  bids  me  ;  now  I  will  unmask.   [  Unveiling. 

This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo, 

Which  once  thou  sworest  was  worth  the  looking  on ; 

This  is  the  hand  which,  with  a  vow'd  contract, 

Was  fast  belock'd  in  thine  ;  this  is  the  body 

That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 

And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house 

In  her  imagined  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman  ? 

Lucio.  Carnally,  she  says. 
Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more  ! 

Lucio.  Enough,  my  lord. 
Ang.  My  lord,  I  must  confess  I  know  this  woman : 

And  five  years  since  there  was  some  speech  of  marriage 

Betwixt  myself  and  her ;  which  was  broke  off, 

Partly  for  that  her  promised  proportions 

Came  short  of  composition  ;  but  in  chief, 

For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 

In  levity :  since  which  time  of  five  years 

I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  from  her, 

Upon  my  faith  and  honour.  - 

227 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Mart.  Noble  prince, 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven  and  words  from  bres 
As  there  is  sense  in  truth  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  affianced  this  man's  wife  as  strongly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows :  and,  my  good  lord, 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone  in  's  garden-house 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.     As  this  is  true, 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees  ; 
Or  else  for  ever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

Ang.  I  did  but  smile  till  now  : 

Now,  good  my  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice; 
My  patience  here  is  touch'd.     I  do  perceive 
These  poor  informal  women  are  no  more 
But  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member 
That  sets  them  on :  let  me  have  way,  my  lord, 
To  find  this  practice  out. 

Duke.  Ay,  with  my  heart ; 

And  punish  them  to  your  height  of  pleasure. 
Thou  fooiish  friar ;  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 
Compact  with  her  that 's  gone,  think'st  thou  thy  oaths, 
Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular  saint, , 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit, 
That 's  seal'd  in  approbation  ?  You,  Lord  Escalus, 
Sit  with  my  cousin  ;  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  'tis  derived. 
There  is  another  friar  that  set  them  on ; 
Let  him  be  sent  for. 

Fri.  P.  Would  he  were  here,  my  lord !  for  he,  indeed, 
Hath  set  the  women  on  to  this  complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.  Go,  do  it  instantly.        [Exit  Provost. 

And  you,  my  noble  and  well-warranted  cousin, 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  with  your  injuries  as  seems  you  best, 
In  any  chastisement :  I  for  a  while  will  leave  you  ; 
But  stir  not  you  till  you  have  well  determined 
Upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.  My  lord,  we  '11  do  it  thoroughly.  [Exit  Duke.']  Signer 
Lucio,  did  not  you  say  you  knew  that  Friar  Lodowick  to  be 
a  dishonest  person  ? 

Lucio.  '  Cucullus  non  facit  monachum  : '  honest  in  nothing  but 
in  his  clothes ;  and  one  that  hath  spoke  most  villanous 
speeches  of  the  Duke. 

228 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

'Escal.  We  shall  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till  he  come,  and 

enforce  them  against  him  :    we  shall  find  this  friar  a  notable 
Lucio.  As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word.  [fellow. 

Escal.  Call  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again  :    I  would  speak 

with  her.     \Exit  an  Attendant.]     Pray  you,  my  lord,  give 

me  leave  to  question  ;  you  shall  see  how  I  '11  handle  her. 
Lucio.  Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 
Escal.  Say  you  ? 
Lucio.  Marry,  sir,  I  think,  if  you  handled  her  privately,  she 

would    sooner    confess :     perchance,    publicly,    she  '11    be 
Escal.  I  will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her.  [ashamed. 

Lucio.  That 's  the  way  ;  for  women  are  light  at  midnight. 

Re-enter  Officers  with  Isabella  ;  and  Provost  with  the  Duke 

in  his  friar* s  habit. 
Escal.  Come  on,  mistress  :  here  ;s  a  gentlewoman  denies  all  that 

you  have  said.  [provost. 

Lucio.  My  lord,  here  comes  the  rascal  I  spoke  of ;  here  with  the 
Escal.  In  very  good  time  :  speak  not  you  to  him  till  we  call 
Lucio.  Mum.  [upon  you. 

Escal.  Come,  sir  :  did  you  set  these  women  on  to  slander  Lord 

Angelo  ?  they  have  confessed  you  did. 
Duke.  Tis  false. 

Escal.  How  !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 
Dtike.  Respect  to  your  great  place  !  and  let  the  devil 

Be  sometime  honour'd  for  his  burning  throne ! 

Where  is  the  Duke  ?  'tis  he  should  hear  me  speak. 
Escal.  The  Duke 's  in  us  ;  and  we  will  hear  you  speak  : 

Look  you  speak  justly. 
Duke.  Boldly ;  at  least.     But,  O,  poor  souls, 

Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox  ? 

Good  night  to  your  redress  !     Is  the  Duke  gone  ? 

Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.     The  Duke 's  unjust, 

Thus  to  retort  your  manifest  appeal, 

And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth 

Which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 
Lucio.  This  is  the  rascal ;  this  is  he  I  spoke  of. 
Escal.  Why,  thou  unreverend  and  unhallow'd  friar, 

Is 't  not  enough  thou  hast  suborn'd  these  women 

To  accuse  this  worthy  man,  but,  in  foul  mouth, 

And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear, 

To  call  him  villain  ?  and  then  to  glance  from  him 

To  the  Duke  himself,  to  tax  him  with  injustice? 

Take  him  hence ;  to  the  rack  with  him  !     We  '11  touse  you 

Joint  by  joint,  but  we  will  know  his  purpose. 

What,  'unjust'! 

229 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measi 

Duke.  Be  not  so  hot ;  the  Duke 

Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine  than  he 

Dare  rack  his  own  :  his  subject  am  I  not, 

Nor  here  provincial.     My  business  in  this  state 

Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 

Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble 

Till  it  o'er-run  the  stew ;  laws  for  all  faults, 

But  faults  so  countenanced,  that  the  strong  statutes 

Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, 

As  much  in  mock  as  mark. 

EscaL  Slander  to  the  state  !     Away  with  him  to  prison  ! 
Ang.  What  can  you  vouch  against  him,  Signer  Lucio  ?    Is  this 

the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of  ?  [you  know  me  ? 

Lucio.  'Tis  he,  my  lord.     Come  hither,  goodman  baldpate  :  do 
Duke.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of  your  voice  :  I  met 

you  at  the  prison,  in  the  absence  of  the  Duke. 
Lucio.  O,  did  you  so  ?    And  do  you  remember  what  you  said  of 
Duke.  Most  notedly,  sir.  [the  Duke  ? 

Lucio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?     And  was  the  Duke  a  fleshmonger,  a 

fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then  reported  him  to  be  ? 
Duke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me,  ere  you  make 

that  my  report :   you,  indeed,  spoke  so  of  him ;   and  much 

more,  much  worse. 
Lucio.  O  thou  damnable  fellow  !  Did  not  I  pluck  thee  by  the 

nose  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.  I  protest  I  love  the  Duke  as  I  love  myself. 
Ang.  Hark,    how   the    villain    would    close    now,    after    his 

treasonable  abuses  ! 
EscaL  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talked  withal.    Away  with  him 

to  prison  !    Where  is  the  provost  ?    Away  with  him  to  prison  ! 

lay  bolts  enough  upon  him  :  let  him  speak  no  more.     Away 

with  those  giglets  too,  and  with  the  other  confederate  com- 
Duke.  \To  the  Provost]  Stay,  sir  ;  stay  awhile.  [panion  ! 

Ang.  What,  resists  he  ?     Help  him,  Lucio. 
Lucio.  Come,   sir ;  come,  sir ;    come,  sir ;    foh,   sir !    Why,  you 

bald-pated,  lying  rascal,   you  must  be  hooded,  must   you  ? 

Show  your  knave's  visage,  with  a  pox  to  you  !    show  your 

sheep-biting  face,  and  be  hanged  an  hour  !   Will 't  not  off? 

[Pulls  off  the  friar's  hood,  and  discovers  the  Duke. 
Duke.  Thou  art  the  first  knave  that  e'er  madest  a  Duke. 

First,  provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three. 

[To  Lucio '.]  Sneak  not  away,  sir  ;  for  the  friar  and  you 

Must  have  a  word  anon.     Lay  hold  on  him. 
Lucio.  This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging.  [down. 

Duke.  [To  Escalus\  What  you  have  spoke  I  pardon  :   sit  you 

230 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc  i 

We  '11  borrow  place  of  him.  [To  Angela]  Sir,  by  your  leave. 

Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence, 

That  yet  can  do  thee  office  ?     If  thou  hast, 

Rely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard, 

And  hold  no  longer  out. 
Ang.  O  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 

To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible, 

When  I  perceive  your  Grace,  like  power  divine, 

Hath  look'd  upon  my  passes.     Then,  good  prince, 

No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame, 

But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession  : 

Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  death, 

Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 
Duke.  Come  hither,  Mariana. 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman  ? 
Ang.  I  was,  my  lord. 
Duke.  Go,  take  her  hence,  and  marry  her  instantly. 

Do  you  the  office,  friar ;  which  consummate, 

Return  him  here  again.     Go  with  him,  provost. 

[Exeunt  Angela,  Mariana,  Friar  Peter  and  Provost. 
Escal.  My  lord,  I  am  more  amazed  at  his  dishonour 

Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 
Duke.  Come  hither,  Isabel. 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince  :  as  I  was  then 

Advertising  and  holy  to  your  business, 

Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  still 

Attorney'd  at  your  service. 
Isab.  O,  give  me  pardon, 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employ'd  and  pain'd 

Your  unknown  sovereignty ! 
Duke.  You  are  pardon' d,  Isabel : 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 

Your  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart ; 

And  you  may  marvel  why  I  obscured  myself, 

Labouring  to  save  his  life,  and  would  not  rather 

Make  rash  remonstrance  of  my  hidden  power 

Than  let  him  so  be  lost.     O  most  kind  maid, 

It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death, 

Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on, 

That  brain'd  my  purpose.     But,  peace  be  with  him  ! 

That  life  is  better  life,  past  fearing  death, 

Than  that  which  lives  to  -fear :  make  it  your  comfort, 

So  happy  is  your  brother. 
Isab.  I  do,  my  lord. 

231 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Re-enter  Angela,  Mariana,  Friar  Peter,  and  Provost 

Duke.  For  this  new-married  man,  approaching  here, 

Whose  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wrong'd 

Your  well-defended  honour,  you  must  pardon 

For  Mariana's  sake  :  but  as  he  adjudged  your  brother, — 

Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 

Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breach 

Thereon  dependent,  for  your  brother's  life, — 

The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 

Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 

4  An  Angelo  for  Claudio,  death  for  death  ! ' 

Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure ; 

Like  doth  quit  like,  and  MEASURE  still  FOR  MEASURE. 

Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault 's  thus  manifested  ; 

Which,  though  thou  wouldst  deny,  denies  thee  vantage. 

We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 

Where  Claudio  stoop'd  to  death,  and  with  like  haste. 

Away  with  him ! 
Man.  O  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  hope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband. 
Duke.  It  is  your  husband  mock'd  you  with  a  husband. 

Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honour, 

I  thought  your  marriage  fit ;  else  imputation, 

For  that  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life, 

And  choke  your  good  to  come :  for  his  possessions, 

Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 

We  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal, 

To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 
Mart.  O  my  dear  lord, 

I  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 
Duke.  Never  crave  him  ;  we  are  definitive. 
Mart.  Gentle  my  liege, —  [Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labour. 

Away  with  him  to  death  !  [  To  Lucio]  Now,  sir,  to  you. 
Mari.  O  my  good  lord  !     Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part ; 

Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 

I  '11  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 
Duke.  Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her : 

Should  she  kneel  down  in  mercy  of  this  fact, 

Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break 

And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 
Mari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me ; 

Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing,  I  '11  speak  all. 

232 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults  ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad  :  so  may  my  husband. 

0  Isabel,  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 
Duke.  He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

I  sab.  Most  bounteous  sir,  \_Kneeling. 

Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn'd, 

As  if  my  brother  lived  :  I  partly  think 

A  due  sincerity  govern'd  his  deeds, 

Till  he  did  look  on  me  :  since  it  is  so, 

Let  him  not  die.     My  brother  had  but  justice, 

In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died : 

For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent ; 

And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 

That  perish'd  by  the  way :  thoughts  are  no  subjects ; 

Intents,  but  merely  thoughts. 
Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Your  suit 's  unprofitable ;  stand  up,  I  say. 

1  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault. 
Provost,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour  ? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.  Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 
Prov.  No,  my  good  lord ;  it  was  by  private  message. 
Duke.  For  which  I  do  discharge  you  of  your  office  : 

Give  up  your  keys. 
Prov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord : 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not ; 

Yet  did  repent  me,  after  more  advice  : 

For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison, 

That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 

I  have  reserved  alive. 
Duke.  What 'she? 

Prov.  His  name  is  Barnardine. 

Duke.  I  would  thou  hadst  done  so  by  Claudio. 

Go  fetch  him  hither ;  let  me  look  upon  him.    [Exit  Provost. 
Escal.  I  am  sorry,  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 

As  you,  Lord  Angelo,  have  still  appear'd, 

Should  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood, 

And  lack  of  temper'd  judgement  afterward. 
Ang.  I  am  sorry  that  such  sorrow  I  procure  : 

And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart, 

That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy ; 

'Tis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

233  H  2 


Ho. 


Act  V,  6c.  i]  Measure  for  Measure 

Re-enter  Provost,  with  Barnardine^  Clandlo  muffled^  and  Juliet. 

Duke.  Which  is  that  Barnardme  ? 

Prov.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.  There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man. 

Sirrah,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 

That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 

And  squarest  thy  life  according.     Thou  'rt  condemn 'd  : 

But,  for  those  earthly  faults,  I  quit  them  all ; 

And  pray  thee  take  this  mercy  to  provide 

For  better  times  to  come.     Friar,  advise  him  ; 

I  leave  him  to  your  hand.     What  muffled  fellow 's  that  ? 
Prov.  This  is  another  prisoner  that  I  saved, 

Who  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his  head  ; 

As  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself.       \Unmuffles  Claudio. 
Duke.  [To  Isabella]  If  he  be  like  your  brother,  for  his  sake 

Is  he  pardon'd ;  and,  for  your  lovely  sake, 

Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine, 

He  is  my  brother  too  :  but  fitter  time  for  that 

By  this  Lord  Angelo  perceives  he 's  safe ; 

Methinks  I  see  a  quickening  in  his  eye. 

Well,  Angelo,  your  evil  quits  you  well : 

Look  that  you  love  your  wife  ;  her  worth  worth  yours. 

I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself ; 

And  yet  here  's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon. 

[To  Ludo]  You,  sirrah,  that  knew  me  for  a  fool,  a  coward, 

One  all  of  luxury,  an  ass,  a  madman ; 

Wherein  have  I  so  deserved  of  you, 

That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 
Ludo.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according  to  the  trick. 

If  you  will  hang  me  for  it,  you  may ;  but  I  had  rather  it 

would  please  you  I  might  be  whipt. 
Duke.  Whipt  first,  sir,  and  hang'd  after. 

Proclaim  it,  provost,  round  about  the  city, 

If  any  woman  wrong'd  by  this  lewd  fellow, — 

As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself  there  ;s  one 

Whom  he  begot  with  child,  let  her  appear, 

And  he  shall  marry  her :  the  nuptial  finish' d, 

Let  him  be  whipt  and  hang'd. 
Ludo.  I  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marry  me  to  a  whore. 

Your  highness  said  even  now,  I  made  you  a  Duke  :  good 

my  lord,  do  not  recompense  me  in  making  me  a  cuckold. 
Duke.  Upon  mine  honour,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 

Thy  slanders  I  forgive  ;  and  therewithal 

Remit  thy  other  forfeits. — Take  him  to  prison ; 

And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 

234 


Measure  for  Measure  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Lucio.  Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  pressing  to  death,  whipping, 

and  hanging. 
Duke.  Slandering  a  prince  deserves  it. 

[Exeunt  Officers  with  Lucio. 

She,  Claudio,  that  you  wrong'd,  look  you  restore. 

Joy  to  you,  Mariana  !     Love  her,  Angelo  : 

I  have  confess'd  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue. 

Thanks,  good  friend  Escalus,  for  thy  much  goodness : 

There  's  more  behind  that  is  more  gratulate. 

Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy  : 

We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place. 

Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 

The  head  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's  : 

The  offence  pardons  itself.     Dear  Isabel, 

I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good  ; 
'  Whereto  if  you  '11  a  willing  ear  incline, 

What 's  mine  is  yours,  and  what  is  yours  is  mine. 

So,  bring  us  to  our  palace  !  where  we  '11  show 

What 's  yet  behind,  that 's  meet  you  all  should  know. 

LKxtunt 


235 


THE   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


SOLINUS,  duke  ofEphcsus. 

,  a  merchant  of  Syracuse. 


r  twin  brothers 
ANTIPHOLUS  of  Ephesus,  \  and  sons  to 
ANTIPHOLUS  of  Syracuse,  \  jEgeon  and 

I      ^Emilia. 

*  en  (twin  brothers  ,  and 

DROMIO  of  Ephesus,  I  attendants  on  the 
DKOMIO  ofSyracuse,\two  Antiphoiuses. 
BALTHAZAR,  a  merchant. 


ANGELO,  a  goldsmith. 


First   Merchant,  friend  to  Antipholus   of 

Syracuse. 

Second  Merchant,  to  whom  Angela  is  a 
PINCH,  a  schoolmaster.  [debtor. 

./Emilia,   wife    to  s£geon,   an   Abbess    at 

Ephesus. 

ADRIANA,  wife  to  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 
LUCIANA,  her  sister. 
LUCE,  servant  to  Adriana. 
A  Courtezan. 


Gaoler,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 
A  hall  in  the  DukJs  palace. 

Enter  Duke,  ^Egeon,  Gaoler,  Officers,  and  other  Attendants. 
s£ge.  Proceed,  Solinus,  to  procure  my  fall, 

And  by  the  doom  of  death  end  woes  and  all. 
Duke.  Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more  ; 

1  am  not  partial  to  infringe  our  laws  : 

The  enmity  arid  discord  which  of  late 

Sprung  from  the  rancorous  outrage  of  your  duke 

To  merchants,  our  well-dealing  countrymen. 

Who,  wanting  guilders  to  redeem  their  lives, 

Have  seaPd  his  rigorous  statutes  with  their  bloods, 

Excludes  all  pity  from  our  threatening  looks. 

For,  since  the  mortal  and  intestine  jars 

'Twixt  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us, 

It  hath  in  solemn  synods  been  decreed, 

Both  by  the  Syracusians  and  ourselves, 

To  admit  no  traffic  to  our  adverse  towns  : 

Nay,  more, 

If  any  born  at  Ephesus  be  seen 

At  any  Syracusian  marts  and  fairs  ; 

Again :  if  any  Syracusian  born 

Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus,  he  dies, 

His  goods  confiscate  to  the  duke's  dispose  , 

Unless  a  thousand  marks  be  levied, 

To  quit  the  penalty  and  to  ransom  him. 

Thy  substance,  valued  at  the  highest  rate, 

Cannot  amount  unto  a  hundred  marks ; 

Therefore  by  law  thou  art  condemn'd  to  die. 
sEge.  Yet  this  my  comfort :  when  your  words  are  done, 

My  woes  end  likewise  with  the  evening  sun. 
Duke.  Well,  Syracusian,  say,  in  brief,  the  cause 

236 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  I,  Sc. 

Why  thou  departed'st  from  thy  native  home, 
And  for  what  cause  thou  earnest  to  Ephesus. 

A  heavier  task  could  not  have  been  imposed 
Than  I  to  speak  my  griefs  unspeakable  : 
Yet,  that  the  world  may  witness  that  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  nature,  not  by  vile  offence, 
I  '11  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave. 
In  Syracusa  was  I  born  ;  and  wed 
Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me, 
And  by  me,  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 
With  her  I  lived  in  joy ;  our  wealth  increased 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum  ;  till  my  factor's  death, 
And  the  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left, 
Drew  me  from  kind  embracements  of  my  spouse  : 
From  whom  my  absence  was  not  six  months  old, 
Before  herself,  almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  punishment  that  women  bear, 
Had  made  provision  for  her  following  me, 
And  soon  and  safe  arrived  where  I  was. 
There  had  she  not  been  long  but  she  became 
A  joyful  mother  of  two  goodly  sons  ; 
And,  which  was  strange,  the  one  so  like  the  other 
As  could  not  be  distinguish'd  but  by  names. 
That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-same  inn, 
A  meaner  woman  was  delivered 
Of  such  a  burthen,  male  twins,  both  alike : 
Those,  for  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor, 
I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  sons. 
My  wife,  not  meanly  proud  of  two  such  boys, 
Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  return : 
Unwilling  I  agreed ;  alas  !  too  soon 
We  came  aboard. 

A  league  from  Epidamnum  had  we  sail'd, 
Before  the  always-wind-obeying  deep 
Gave  any  tragic  instance  of  our  harm  : 
But  longer  did  we  not  retain  much  hope ; 
For  what  obscured  light  the  heavens  did  grant 
Did  but  convey  unto  our  fearful  minds 
A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death  ; 
Which  though  myself  would  gladly  have  embraced. 
Yet  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wife, 
Weeping  before  for  what  she  saw  must  come, 
And  piteous  plainings  of  the  pretty  babes, 
That  mourn'd  for  fashion,  ignorant  what  to  fear, 

237 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  E; 

Forced  me  to  seek  delays  for  them  and  me. 
And  this  it  was,  for  other  means  was  none : 
The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat, 
And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us : 
My  wife,  more  careful  for  the  latter-born, 
Had  fasten'd  him  unto  a  small  spare  mast, 
Such  as  seafaring  men  provide  for  storms  ; 
To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 
Whilst  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  the  other : 
The  children  thus  disposed,  my  wife  and  I, 
Fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix'd, 
Fasten'd  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast ; 
And  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream, 
Was  carried  towards  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length  the  sun,  gazing  upon  the  earth, 
Dispersed  those  vapours  that  offended  us  ; 
And,  by  the  benefit  of  his  wished  light, 
The  seas  wax'd  calm,  and  we  discovered 
Two  ships  from  far  making  amain  to  us, 
Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this  : 
But  ere  they  came, — O,  let  me  say  no  more  ! 
Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Duke.  Nay,  forward,  old  man ;  do  not  break  off  so  ; 
For  we  may  pity,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

&gt.  O,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  term'd  them  merciless  to  us  ! 
For,  ere  the  ships  could  meet  by  twice  five  leagues, 
We  were  encounter'd  by  a  mighty  rock  ; 
Which  being  violently  borne  upon, 
Our  helpful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst ; 
So  that,  in  this  unjust  divorce  of  us, 
Fortune  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 
Her  part,  poor  soul !  seeming  as  burdened 
With  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe-,. 
Was  carried  with  more  speed  before  the  wind  ;. 
And  in  our  sight  they  three  were  taken  up 
By  fishermen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length,  another  ship  had  seized  on  us  ; 
And,  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save,. 
Gave  healthful  welcome  to  their  shipwreck'd  guests  ,. 
And  would  have  reft  the  fishers  of  their  prey, 
Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail ; 
And  therefore  homeward  did  they  bend  their  course.. 
Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever'd  from  my  bliss  ; 

238 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

That  by  misfortunes  was  my  life  prolong'd, 

To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 
Duke.  And,  for  the  sake  of  them  thou  sorrowest  for, 

Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 

What  hath  befall' n  of  them  and  tnee  till  now. 
sEge.  My  youngest  boy,  and  yet  my  eldest  care, 

At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 

After  his  brother  :  and  importuned  me 

That  his  attendant — so  his  case  was  like, 

Reft  of  his  brother,  but  retain'd  his  name — 

Might  bear  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him  : 

Whom  whilst  I  labour'd  of  a  love  to  see, 

I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  I  loved. 

Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  farthest  Greece, 

Roaming  clean  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 

And,  coasting  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus  ; 

Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loath  to  leave  unsought 

Or  that,  or  any  place  that  harbours  men. 

But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life  ; 

And  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death, 

Could  all  my  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 
Duke.  Hapless  y£geon,  whom  the  fates  have  mark'd 

To  bear  the  extremity  of  dire  mishap  ! 

Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  our  laws, 

Against  my  crown,  my  oath,  my  dignity, 

Which  princes,  would  they,  may  not  disannul, 

My  soul  should  sue  as  advocate  for  thee. 

But,  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 

And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recall'd 

But  to  our  honour's  great  disparagement, 

Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can. 

Therefore,  merchant,  I  '11  limit  thee  this  day 

To  seek  thy  help  by  beneficial  help  : 

Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus  ; 

Beg  thou,  or  borrow,  to  make  up  the  sum, 

And  live ;  if  no,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die. 

Gaoler,  take  him  to  thy  custody. 
Gaol.  I  will,  my  lord. 
-"Ege.  Hopeless  and  helpless  doth  ^Egeon  wend, 

But  to  procrastinate  his  lifeless  end.  {Exeunt. 


239 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Comedy  of  E 

SCENE  II 

The  Mart. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  and  First 

Merchant. 
First  Mer.  Therefore  give  out  you  are  of  Epidamnum, 

Lest  that  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 

This  very  day  a  Syracusian  merchant 

Is  apprehended  for  arrival  here ; 

And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life, 

According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 

Dies  ere  the  weary  sun  set  in  the  west. 

There  is  your  money  that  I  had  to  keep. 
Ant.  S.  Go  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where  we  host, 

And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 

Within  this  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time  : 

Till  that,  I  '11  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 

Peruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings, 

And  then  return,  and  sleep  within  mine  inn  ; 

For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. 

Get  thee  away. 
Dro.  S.  Many  a  man  would  take  you  at  your  word, 

And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean.  [Exit. 

Ant.  S.  A  trusty  villain,  sir,  that  very  oft, 

When  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy, 

Lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 

What,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 

And  then  go  to  my  inn,  and  dine  with  me  ? 
First  Mer.  I  am  invited,  sir,  to  certain  merchants, 

Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit ; 

I  crave  your  pardon.     Soon  at  five  o'clock, 

Please  you,  I  '11  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart, 

And  afterward  consort  you  till  bed-time  : 

My  present  business  calls  me  from  you  now. 
Ant.  S.  Farewell  till  then  :  I  will  go  lose  myself, 

And  wander  up  and  down  to  view  the  city. 
First  Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  your  own  content.       \Exit. 
Ant.  S.   He  that  commends  me  to  mine  own  content 

Commends  me  to  the  thing  I  cannot  get. 

I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water, 

That  in  the  ocean  seeks  another  drop  ; 

Who,  falling  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth, 

Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds  himself: 

So  I,  to  find  a  mother  and  a  brother, 

In  quest  of  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 

240 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 

Here  comes  the  almanac  of  my  true  date. 

What  now  ?  how  chance  thou  art  return'd  so  soon  ? 
Dro.  E.  Return'd  so  soon  !  rather  approach'd  too  late  : 

The  capon  burns,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit ; 

The  clock  hath  strucken  twelve  upon  the  bell ; 

My  mistress  made  it  one  upon  my  cheek  : 

She  is  so  hot,  because  the  meat  is  cold ; 

The  meat  is  cold,  because  you  come  not  home  ; 

You  come  not  home,  because  you  have  no  stomach ; 

You  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast ; 

But  we,  that  know  what  'tis  to  fast  and  pray, 

Are  penitent  for  your  default  to-day. 
Ant.  S.  Stop  in  your  wind,  sir  :  tell  me  this,  I  pray : 

Where  have  you  left  the  money  that  I  gave  you  ? 
Dro.  E.  O, — sixpence,  that  I  had  o'  Wednesday  last 

To  pay  the  saddler  for  my  mistress'  crupper  ? 

The  saddler  had  it,  sir ;  I  kept  it  not. 
Ant.  S.  I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now  : 

Tell  me,  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money? 

We  being  strangers  here,  how  darest  thou  trust 

So  great  a  charge  from  thine  own  custody  ? 
Dro.  E.  I  pray  you,  jest,  sir,  as  you  sit  at  dinner : 

I  from  my  mistress  come  to  you  in  post ; 

If  I  return,  I  shall  be  post  indeed, 

For  she  will  score  your  fault  upon  my  pate. 

Methinks  your  maw,  like  mine,  should  be  your  clock, 

And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 
Ant.  S.  Come,  Dromio,  come,  these  jests  are  out  of  season  ; 

Reserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this. 

Where  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  thee  ? 
Dro.  E.  To  me,  sir  ?  why,  you  gave  no  gold  to  me. 
Ant.  S.  Come  on,  sir  knave,  have  done  your  foolishness, 

And  tell  me  how  thou  hast  disposed  thy  charge. 
Dro.  E.  My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  from  the  mart 

Home  to  your  house,  the  Phoenix,  sir,  to  dinner : 

My  mistress  and  her  sister  stays  for  you. 
Ant.  S.  Now,  as  I  *am  a  Christian,  answer  me, 

In  what  safe  place  you  have  bestow'd  my  money  ; 

Or  I  shall  break  that  merry  sconce  of  yours, 

That  stands  on  tricks  when  I  am  undisposed  : 

Where  is  the  thousand  marks  thou  had'st  of  me  ? 
Dro.  E.  I  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  my  pate, 

Some  of  my  mistress''  marks  upon  my  shoulders ; 

But  not  a  thousand  marks  between  you  both. 

241 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Erron 

If  I  should  pay  your  worship  those  again, 

Perchance  you  will  not  bear  them  patiently. 
Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress'  marks  ?  what  mistress,  slave,  hast  thou  ? 
Dro.  E.  Your  worship's  wife,  my  mistress  at  the  Phcenix ; 

She  that  doth  fast  till  you  come  home  to  dinner, 

And  prays  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 
Ant.  S.  What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  unto  my  face, 

Being  forbid  ?     There,  take  you  that,  sir  knave. 
Dro.  E.  What  mean  you,  sir?  for  God's  sake,  hold  your  hands 

Nay,  an,  you  will  not,  sir,  I  '11  take  my  heels.  {Exit. 

Ant.  S.  Upon  my  life,  by  some  device  or  other 

The  villain  is  o'er-raught  of  all  my  money. 

They  say  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage  ; 

As,  nimble  jugglers  that  deceive  the  eye, 

Dark-working  sorcerers  that  change  the  mind, 

Soul-killing  witches  that  deform  the  body, 

Disguised  cheaters,  prating  mountebanks, 

And  many  such-like  liberties  of  sin  : 

If  it  prove  so,  I  will  be  gone  the  sooner. 

I  '11  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slave  : 

I  greatly  fear  my  money  is  not  safe.  [Exit. 

ACT   II— SCE^E  I 

THe  house  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 
Adr.  Neither  my  husband  nor  the  slave  return'd, 

That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master  1 

Sure,  Luciana,  it  is  two  o'clock. 
Luc.  Perhaps  some  merchant  hath  invited  him, 

And  from  the  mart  he  's  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 

Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret : 

A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty  : 

Time  is  their  master ;  and  when  they  see  time, 

They  '11  go  or  come  :  if  so,  be  patient,  sister. 
Adr.  Why  should  their  liberty  than  ours  be  more  ? 
Luc.  Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o'  door. 
Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  ill. 
Luc.  O,  know  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  will.  * 
Adr.  There  's  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled  so. 
Luc.  Why,  headstrong  liberty  is  lash'd  with  woe. 

There  's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye 

But  hath  his  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky : 

The  beasts,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls, 

Are  their  males'  subjects  and  at  their  controls  : 

Men  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these, 

242 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Lords  of  the  wide  world  and  wild  watery  seas, 

Indued  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls, 

Of  more  pre-eminence  than  fish  and  fowls, 

Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords  J  ton  ". 

Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 
Adr.  This  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  unwed. 
Luc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the  marriage-bed. 
Adr.  But,  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bear  some  sway.. 
Liic.  Ere  I  learn  love,  I  '11  practise  to  obey. 
Adr.  How  if  your  husband  start  some  other  where  ? 
Luc.  Till  he  come  home  again,  I  would  forbear. 
Adr.  Patience  unmoved  !  no  marvel  though  she  pause  :. 

They  can  be  meek  that  have  no  other  cause. 

A  wretched  soul,  bruised  with  adversity, 

We  bid  be  quiet  when  we  hear  it  cry ; 

But  were  we  burden'd  with  like  weight  of  pain, 

As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  complain: 

So  thou,  that  hast  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve  thee, 

With  urging  helpless  patience  wouldst  relieve  me  ; 

But,  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft, 

This  fool-begg'd  patience  in  thee  will  be  left. 
Luc.  Well,  I  will  marry  one  day,  but  to  try. 

Here  comes  your  man  ;  now  is  your  husband  nigh. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 
Adr.  Say,  is  your  tardy  master  now  at  hand  ? 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  he 's  at  two  hands  with  me,  and  that  my  two 

ears  can  witness. 

Adr.  Say,  didst  thou  speak  with  him  ?  know'st  thou  his  mind  ? 
Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay,  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine  ear  : 

Beshrew  his  hand,  I  scarce  could  understand  it. 
Luc.  Spake     he    so    doubtfully,    thou    couldst   not   feel   his 

meaning  ? 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  struck  so  plainly,  I  could  too  well  feel  his 

blows ;  and  withal  so  doubtfully,  that  I  could  scarce  under- 
Adr.  But  say,  I  prithee,  is  he  coming  home  ?         [stand  them. 

It  seems  he  hath  great  care  to  please  his  wife. 
Dro.  E.  Why,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is  horn-mad. 
Adr.  Horn-mad,  thou  villain  ! 
Dro.  E*  I  mean  not  cuckold-mad  : 

But,  sure,  he  is  stark  mad. 

When  I  desired  him  to  come  home  to  dinner, 

He  ask'd  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold  : 

"Tis  dinner-time/  quoth  I ;  '  My  gold  I '  quoth  he: 

'  Your  meat  doth  burn,'  quoth  I ;  '  My  gold  ! '  quoth  he  : 

'  Will  you  come  home?  '  quoth  I ;  *  My  gold ! '  quoth  he, 

243 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

1  Where  is  the  thousand  marks  I  gave  thee,  villain  ?  ' 

1  The  pig,'  quoth  I,  *  is  burn'd  ; '  '  My  gold  ! '  quoth  he  : 

'  My  mistress,  sir,'  quoth  I ;  '  Hang  up  thy  mistress  ! 

I, know  not  thy  mistress ;  out  on  thy  mistress  I* 
Luc.  Quoth  who  ? 
Dro.  E.  Quoth  my  master  : 

*  I  know,'  quoth  he,  *  no  house,  no  wife,  no  mistress, 

So  that  my  errand,  due  unto  my  tongue, 

I  thank  him,  I  bare  home  upon  my  shoulders  ; 

For,  in  conclusion,  he  did  beat  me  there. 
Adr.  Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch  him  home. 
Dro.  E.  Go  back  again,  and  be  new  beaten  home  ? 

For  God's  sake,  send  some  other  messenger. 
Adr.  Back,  slave,  or  I  will  break  thy  pate  across. 
Dro.  E.  And  he  will  bless  that  cross  with  other  beating 

Between  you  I  shall  have  a  holy  head. 
Adr.  Hence,  prating  peasant !  fetch  thy  master  home. 
Dro.  E.  Am  I  so  found  with  you  as  you  with  me, 

That  like  a  football  you  do  spurn  me  thus  ? 

You  spurn  me  hence,  and  he  will  spurn  me  hither : 

If  I  last  in  this  service,  you  must  case  me  in  leather,    f  Exit. 
Luc.  Fie,  how  impatience  loureth  in  your  face  ! 
Adr.  His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace, 

Whilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look. 

Hath  homely  age  the  alluring  beauty  took 

From  my  poor  cheek  ?  then  he  hath  wasted  it  : 

Are  my  discourses  dull  ?  barren  my  wit  ? 

If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd, 

Unkindness  blunts  it  more  than  marble  hard : 

Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait  ? 

That 's  not  my  fault ;  he 's  master  of  my  state  : 

What  ruins  are  in  me  that  can  be  found, 

By  him  not  ruin'd  ?  then  is  he  the  ground 

Of  my  defeatures.     My  decayed  fair 

A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair : 

But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale, 

And  feeds  from  home ;  poor  I  am  but  his  stale. 
Luc.  Self-harming  jealousy  !  fie,  beat  it  hence  ! 
Adr.  Unfeeling  fools  can  with  such  wrongs  dispense.l 

I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  otherwhere  ; 

Or  else  what  lets  it  but  he  would  be  here  ? 

Sister,  you  know  he  promised  me  a  chain  ; 

Would  that  alone,  alone  he  would  detain, 

So  he  would  keep  fair  quarter  with  his  bed  ! 

I  see  the  jewel  best  enamelled 

244 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  II.  Sc.  ii 

Will  lose  his  beauty  ;  yet  the  gold  bides  still, 
That  others  touch,  and  often  touching  will 
Wear  gold  :  and  no  man  that  hath  a  name, 
By  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 
Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 
I  '11  weep  what 's  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 
Luc.  How  many  fond  fools  serve  mad  jealousy  I  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
A  public  place. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 
Ant.  S.  The  gold  I  gave  to  Dromio  is  laid  up 

Safe  at  the  Centaur  j  and  the  heedful  slave 

Is  wander'd  forth,  in  care  to  seek  me  out 

By  computation  and  mine  host's  report. 

I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio  since  at  first 

I  sent  him  from  the  mart.     See,  here  he  comes. 
Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

How  now,  sir  !  is  your  merry  humour  alter' d  ? 

As  you  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 

You  know  no  Centaur  ?  you  received  no  gold  ? 

Your  mistress  sent  to  have  me  home  to  dinner  ? 

My  house  was  at  the  Phcenix  ?     Wast  thou  mad, 

That  thus  so  madly  thou  didst  answer  me  ? 
Dro.  S.  What  answer,  sir  ?  when  spake  I  such  a  word  ? 
Ant.  S.  Even  now,  even  here,  not  half  an  hour  since. 
Dro.  S.  I  did  not  see  you  since  you  sent  me  hence, 

Home  to  the  Centaur,  with  the  gold  you  gave  me. 
Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  didst  deny  the  gold's  receipt, 

And  told'st  me  of  a  mistress  and  a  dinner ; 

For  which,  I  hope,  thou  felt'st  I  was  displeased. 
Dro.  S.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry  vein : 

What  means  this  jest  ?  I  pray  you,  master,  tell  me. 
Ant.  S.  Yea,  dost  thou  jeer  and  flout  me  in  the  teeth  ? 

Think' st  thou  I  jest  ?     Hold,  take  thou  that,  and  that. 

\Beating  him. 
Dro.  S.  Hold,  sir,  for  God's  sake  !  now  your  jest  is  earnest : 

Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me  ? 
Ant.  S.  Because  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 

Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you, 

Your  sauciness  will  jest  upon  my  love, 

And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours. 

When  the  sun  shines  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport, 

But  creep  in  crannies  when  he  hides  his  beams. 

If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect, 

245 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

And  fashion  your  demeanour  to  my  looks, 

Or  I  will  beat  this  method  in  your  sconce. 
Dro.  S.  Sconce  call  you  it  ?  so  you  would  leave  battering,  I 

ha.d  rather  have  it  a  head  :  an  you  use  these  blows  long,  I 

must  get  a  sconce  for  my  head,  and  insconce  it  too;  or 

else  I  shall  seek  my  wit  in  my  shoulders.     But,  I  pray,  sir, 

why  am  I  beaten  ? 
Ant.  S.  Dost  thou  not  know  ? 
Dro.  S.  Nothing,  sir,  but  that  I  am  beaten. 
Ant.  S.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  [wherefore. 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  and  wherefore ;  for  they  say  every  why  hath  a 
Ant.  S.  Why,  first, — for  flouting  me  ;  and  then,  wherefore, — 

For  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 
Dro.  S.  Was  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten  out  of  season, 

When  in  the  why  and  the  wherefore  is  neither  rhyme  nor 

Well,  sir,  I  thank  you.  [reason  ? 

Ant.  S.  Thank  me,  sir  1  for  what?  [nothing. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  for  this   something  that  you  gave  me  for 
Ant.  S.  I'll  make  you  amends  next,  to  give  you  nothing  for 

something.     But  say,  sir,  is  it  dinner-time  ? 
Dro.  S.  No,  sir :  I  think  the  meat  wants  that  I  have. 
Ant.  S.  In  good  time,  sir ;  what 's  that  ? 
Dro.  S.  Basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  then  'twill  be  dry. 
Dro.  S.  If  it  be,  sir,  I  pray  you,  eat  none  of  it. 
Ant.  S.  Your  reason  ?  [dry  basting. 

Dro.  S.  Lest  it  make  you  choleric,  and  purchase  me  another 
Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time  :  there 's  a  time  for 

all  things. 

Dro.  S.  I  durst  have  denied  that,  before  you  were  so  choleric. 
Ant.  S.  By  what  rule,  sir  ?  [father  Time  himself. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  by  a  rule  as  plain  as  the  plain  bald  pate  of 
Ant.  S.  Let 's  hear  it.  [grows  bald  by  nature. 

Dro.  S.  There 's  no  time  for  a  man  to  recover  his  hair  that 
Ant.  S.  May  he  not  do  it  by  fine  and  recovery  ? 
Dro.  S.  Yes,  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  periwig,  and  recover  the  lost 

hair  of  another  man.  [plentiful  an  excrement  ? 

Ant.  S.  Why  is  Time  such  a  niggard  of  hair,  being,  as  it  is,  so 
Dro.  S.  Because  it  is  a  blessing  that  he  bestows  on  beasts  :  and 

what  he  hath  scanted  men  in  hair,  he  hath  given  them  in  wit. 
Ant.  S.  Why,  but  there 's  many  a  man  hath  more  hair  than  wit. 
Dro.  S.  Not  a  man  of  those  but  he  hath  the  wit  to  lose  his  hair. 
Ant.  S.  Why,  thou  didst  conclude  hairy  men  plain  dealers 

without  wit.  [a  kind  of  jollity. 

Dro.  S.  The  plainer  dealer,  the  sooner  lost :  yet  he  loseth  it  in 

246 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  ec.-t  II,  Spr'ii 

*•  V*-'  / 

Ant.  S.  For  what  reason  ?  ^lem^ 

Dro.  S.  For  two  ;  and  sound  ones  too .  fto  / 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 

Dro.  S.  Sure  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Nay,  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falsing. 

Dro.  S.  Certain  ones,  then. 

Ant.  S.  Name  them. 

Dro.  S.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  that  he  spends  in  tiring  ; 

the  other,  that  at  dinner  they  should  not  drop  in  his  porridge. 
Ant.  S.  You  would  all  this  time  have  proved  there  is  no  time 

for  all  things.  [lost  by  nature. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  and  did,  sir ;  namely,  no  time  to  recover  hair 
Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  substantial,  why  there  is  no 

time  to  recover. 
Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it :  Time  himself  is  bald,  and  therefore 

to  the  world's  end  will  have  bald  followers. 
Ant.  S.  I  knew  'twould  be  a  bald  conclusion  : 

But,  soft !  who  wafts  us  yonder  ? 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciano.. 
Adr.  Ay,  ay,  Antipholus,  look  strange  and  frown  : 

Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects ; 

I  am  not  Adriana  nor  thy  wife. 

The  time  was  once  when  thou  unurged  wouldst  vow 

That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  ear, 

That  never  object  pleasing  in  thine  eye, 

That  never  touch  well  welcome  to  thy  hand, 

That  never  meat  sweet-savour'd  in  thy  taste, 

Unless  I  spake,  or  look'd,  or  touch'd,  or  carved  to  thee. 

How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  O,  how  comes  it, 

That  thou  art  then  estranged  from  thyself? 

Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me, 

That,  undividable,  incorporate, 

Am  better  than  thy  dear  selfs  better  part. 

Ah,  do  not  tear  away  thyself  from  me  ! 

For  know,  my  love,  as  easy  mayst  thou  fall 

A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf, 

And  take  unmingled  thence  that  drop  again, 

Without  addition  or  diminishing, 

As  take  from  me  thyself,  and  not  me  too. 

How  dearly  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick, 

Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  licentious, 

And  that  this  body,  consecrate  to  thee, 

By  ruffian  lust  should  be  contaminate  ! 

Wouldst  thou  not  spit  at  me  and  spurn  at  me, 

And  hurl  the  name  of  husband  in  my  face, 

247 


Sc.  iii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Ancfashr  the  stain'd  skin  off  my  harlot-brow, 

And  rillm  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding-ring, 

And  bteak  it  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow  ? 

I  know  thou  canst ;  and  therefore  see  thou  do  it. 

I  am  possess'd  with  an  adulterate  blot ; 

My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  crime  of  lust : 

For  if  we  two  be  one,  and  thou  play  false, 

I  do  digest  the  poison  of  thy  flesh, 

Being  strumpeted  by  thy  contagion. 

Keep,  then,  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true  bed  ; 

I  live  distain'd,  thou  undishonoured. 
Ant.  S.  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame  ?  I  know  you  not : 

In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  hours  old, 

As  strange  unto  your  town  as  to  your  talk ; 

Who,  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scann'd, 

Wants  wit  in  all  one  word  to  understand. 
Luc.  Fie,  brother  !  how  the  world  is  changed  with  you  ! 

When  were  you  wont  to  use  my  sister  thus  ? 

She  sent  for  you  by  Dromio  home  to  dinner. 
Ant.  S.  By  Dromio  ? 
Dro.  S.  By  me  ? 
Adr.  By  thee ;  and  this  thou  didst  return  from  him, 

That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and,  in  his  blows, 

Denied  my  house  for  his,  me  for  his  wife. 
Ant.  S.  Did  you  converse,  sir,  with  this  gentlewoman  ? 

What  is  the  course  and  drift  of  your  compact  ? 
Dro.  S.  I,  sir  ?     I  never  saw  her  till  this  time. 
Ant.  S.  Villain,  thou  liest ;  for  even  her  very  words 

Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 
Dro.  S.  I  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 
Ant.  S.  How  can  she  thus  then  call  us  by  our  names  ? 

Unless  it  be  by  inspiration. 
Adr.  How  ill  agrees  it  with  your  gravity 

To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  with  your  slave, 

Abetting  him  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood ! 

Be  it  my  wrong  you  are  from  me  exempt, 

But  wrong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 

Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine : 

Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband,  I  a  vine, 

Whose  weakness,  married  to  thy  stronger  state, 

Makes  me  with  thy  strength  to  communicate  : 

If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross, 

Usurping  ivy,  brier,  or  idle  moss  ; 

Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 

Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

248 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Ant.  S.  To  me  she  speaks  ;  she  moves  me  for  her  theme : 

What,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream  ? 

Or  sleep  I  now,  and  think  I  hear  all  this  ?. 

What  error  drives  our  eyes  and  ears  amiss? 

Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty, 

I  '11  entertain  the  offer'd  fallacy. 
Luc,  Dromio,  go  bid  the  servants  spread  for  dinner. 
Dro.  S.  O,  for  my  beads  !     I  cross  me  for  a  sinner. 

This  is  the  fairy  land  :  O  spite  of  spites  ! 

We  talk  with  goblins,  owls,  and  sprites : 

If  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  ensue, 

They  '11  suck  our  breath,  or  pinch  us  black  and  blue. 
Luc.  Why  pratest  thou  to  thyself,  and  answer'st  not  ? 

Dromio,  thou  drone,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou  sot  i 
Dro.  S.  I  am  transformed,  master,  am  not  I  ? 
Ant.  S.  I  think  thou  art  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 
Dro.  S.  Nay,  master,  both  in  mind  and  in  my  shape. 
Ant.  S.  Thou  hast  thine  own  form. 
Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 

Luc.  If  thou  art  changed  to  aught,  'tis  to  an  ass. 
Dro.  S.  Tis  true ;  she  rides  me,  and  I  long  for  grass. 

'Tis  so,  I  am  an  ass  ;  else  it  could  never  be 

But  I  should  know  her  as  well  as  she  knows  me. 
Adr.  Come,  come,  no  longer  will  I  be  a  fool, 

To  put  the  finger  in  the  eye  and  weep, 

Whilst  man  and  master  laughs  my  woes  to  scorn. 

Come,  sir,  to  dinner.     Dromio,  keep  the  gate. 

Husband,  I  '11  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 

And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks. 

Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master, 

Say  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  enter. 

Come,  sister.     Dromio,  play  the  porter  well. 
Ant.  S.  Am  I  in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  hell  ? 

Sleeping  or  waking  ?  mad  or  well-advised  ? 

Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguised  ! 

I  '11  say  as  they  say,  and  persever  so, 

And  in  this  mist  at  all  adventures  go. 
Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  be  porter  at  the  gate  ? 
Adr.  Ay ;  and  let  none  enter,  lest  I  break  your  pate. 
Luc.  Come,  come,  Antipholus,  we  dine  too  late.          [Exeunt. 


249 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Erron 

ACT   III— SCENE  I 
Before  the  house  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  Dromio  of  Ephesus ,  Angeh\ 

and  Balthazar. 
Ant.  E.  Good  Signior  Angelo,  you  must  excuse  us  all ; 

My  wife  is  shrewish  when  I  keep  not  hours : 

Say  that  I  linger'd  with  you  at  your  shop 

To  see  the  making  of  her  carcanet, 

And  that  to-morrow  you  will  bring  it  home. 

But  here  Js  a  villain  that  would  face  me  down 

He  met  me  on  the  mart,  and  that  I  beat  him, 

And  charged  him  with  a  thousand  marks  in  gold, 

And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house. 

Thou  drunkard,  thou,  what  didst  thou  mean  by  this  ? 
Dro.  E.  Say  what  you  will,  sir,  but  I  know  what  I  know ; 

That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart,  I  have  your  hand  to  show : 

If  the  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you  gave  were  ink, 

Your  own  handwriting  would  tell  you  what  I  think. 
Ant.  E.  I  think  thou  art  an  ass. 
Dro.  E.  Marry,  so  it  doth  appear 

By  the  wrongs  I  suffer,  and  the  blows  I  bear. 

I  should  kick,  being  kick'd ;  and,  being  at  that  pass, 

You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of  an  ass. 
Ant.  E.  You  're  sad,  Signior  Balthazar :  pray  God  our  cheer 

May  answer  my  good  will  and  your  good  welcome  here. 
Bal.  I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sir,  and  your  welcome  dear. 
Ant.  E.  O,  Signior  Balthazar,  either  at  flesh  or  fish, 

A  table  full  of  welcome  makes  scarce  one  dainty  dish. 
Bal.  Good  meat,  sir,  is  common ;  that  every  churl  affords. 
Ant.  E.  And  welcome  more  common ;  for  that 's  nothing  but 

words. 

Bal.  Small  cheer  and  great  welcome  makes  a  merry  feast. 
Ant.  E.  Ay,  to  a  niggardly  host  and  more  sparing  guest : 

But  though  my  cates  be  mean,  take  them  in  good  part ; 

Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  better  heart. 

But,  soft !  my  door  is  lock'd. — Go  bid  them  let  us  in. 
Dro.  E.  Maud,  Bridget,  Marian,  Cicely,  Gillian,  Ginn  ! 
Dro.  S.  \Within\   Mome,  malt-horse,  capon,  coxcomb,  idiot, 
patch ! 

Either  get  thee  from  the  door,  or  sit  down  at  the  hatch. 

Dost  thou  conjure  for  wenches,  that  thou  call'st  for  such  store, 

When  one  is  one  too  many  ?     Go  get  thee  from  the  door. 
Dro.  E.  What  patch  is  made  our  porter  ?     My  master  stays  in 

the  street. 

250 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Dro.  S.  [  Within]  Let  him  walk  from  whence  he  came,  lest  he 

catch  cold  on 's  feet. 

Ant.  E.  Who  talks  within  there  ?  ho,  open  the  door  ! 
Dro.  S.  [Within]  Right,  sir;  I'll  tell  you  when,  an  you '11  tell 

me  wherefore. 

Ant.  E.  Wherefore?  for  my  dinner  :  I  have  not  dined  to-day. 
Dro.  S.  [  Within}  Nor  to-day  here  you  must  not ;  come  again 

when  you  may.  [owe  ? 

Ant.  E.  What  art  thou  that  keepest  me  out  from  the  house  I 
Dro.  S.  [  Within]  The  porter  for  this  time,  sir,  and  my  name 

is  Dromio. 
Dro.  E.  O  villain,  thou  hath  stolen  both  mine  office  and  my 

The  one  ne'er  got  me  credit,  the  other  mickle  blame,    [name ! 

If  thou  hadst  been  Dromio  to-day  in  my  place,     [for  an  ass. 

Thou  wouldst  have  changed  thy  face  for  a  name,  or  thy  name 
Luce.  [  Within]  What  a  coil  is  there,  Dromio  ?  who  are  those 
Dro.  E.  Let  my  master  in,  Luce.  [at  the  gate ! 

Luce.  [  Within]  'Faith,  no ;  he  comes  too  late ; 

And  so  tell  your  master. 
Dro.  E.  O  Lord,  I  must  laugh  ! 

Have  at  you  with  a  proverb ; — Shall  I  set  in  my  staff? 
Luce.  [  Within]  Have  at  you  with  another  ;    that 's, — When  ? 

can  you  tell  ?  [hast  answer'd  him  well. 

Dro.  S.  [  Within]  If  thy  name  be  call'd  Luce, — Luce,  thou 
Ant.  E.  Do  you  hear,  you  minion  ?  you  '11  let  us  in,  I  hope  ? 
Luce.  [  Within]  I  thought  to  have  ask'd  you. 
Dro.  S.  [  Within]  And  you  said  no. 

'Dro.  E.  So,  come,  help  :  well  struck  !  there  was  blow  for  blow. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  baggage,  let  me  in. 

Luce.  [  Within]  Can  you  tell  for  whose  sake  ? 

Dro.  E.  Master,  knock  the  door  hard. 

Luce.  [  Within]  Let  him  knock  till  it  ache. 

Ant.  E.  You  '11  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  I  beat  the  door  down. 
Luce.  [Within]  What  needs  all  that,  and  a  pair  of  stocks  in 

the  town  ?  [noise  ? 

Adr.  [Within]  Who  is  that  at  the  door  that  keeps  all  this 
Dro.  S.  [Within]  By  my  troth,   your  town  is  troubled  with 

unruly  boys. 

Ant.  E.  Are  you  there,  wife  ?  you  might  have  come  before. 
Adr.  [  Within]  Your  wife,  sir  knave  !    go  get  you  from   the 

door.  [sore. 

Dro.  E.  If  you  went  in  pain,  master,  this  '  knave '  would  go 
Ang.  Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome :  we  would  fain 

have  either. 

Bal.  In  debating  which  was  best,  we  shall  part  with  neither. 

251 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Dro.  E.  They  stand  at  the  door,  master ;  bid  them  welcome 

hither. 

Ant.  E.  There  is  something  in  the  wind,  that  we  cannot  get  in. 
Dro.  E.  You  would  say  so,  master,  if  your  garments  were  thin. 

Your  cake  here  is  warm  within ;  you  stand  here  in  the  cold : 

It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck,to  be  so  bought  and  sold. 
Ant.  E.  Go  fetch  me  something :  I  '11  break  ope  the  gate. 
Dro.  S.  [  Within]  Break  any  breaking  here,  and  I  '11  break  your 

knave's  pate.  [are  but  wind ; 

Dro.  E.  A  man  may  break  a  word  with  you,  sir ;  and  words 

Ay,  and  break  it  in  your  face,  so  he  break  it  not  behind. 
Dro.  S.  [  Within}  It  seems  thou  want'st  breaking  :  out  upon 

thee,  hind  !  [me  in. 

Dro.  E.  Here 's  too  much  '  out  upon  thee ! '  I  pray  thee,  let 
Dro.  S.  [  Within]  Ay,  when  fowls  have  no  feathers,  and  fish 

have  no  fin. 

Ant.  E.  Well,  I  '11  break  in :  go  borrow  me  a  crow. 
Dro.  E    A  crow  without  feather  ?     Master,  mean  you  so  ? 

For  a  fish  without  a  fin,  there 's  a  fowl  without  a  feather  : 

If  a  crow  help  us  in,  sirrah,  we  '11  pluck  a  crow  together. 
Ant.  E.  Go  get  thee  gone  ;  fetch  me  an  iron  crow. 
Bal.  Have  patience,  sir :  O,  let  it  not  be  so ! 

Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation, 

And  draw  within  the  compass  of  suspect 

The  unviolated  honour  of  your  wife. 

Once  this, — your  long  experience  of  her  wisdom, 

Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty, 

Plead  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown ; 

And  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 

Why  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made  against  you. 

Be  ruled  by  me  :  depart  in  patience, 

And  let  us  to  the  Tiger  all  to  dinner ; 

And  about  evening  come  yourself  alone 

To  know  the  reason  of  this  strange  restraint. 

If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in 

Now  in  the  stirring  passage  of  the  day, 

A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of  it, 

And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout 

Against  your  yet  ungalled  estimation, 

That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in, 

And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead ; 

For  slander  lives  upon  succession, 

For  ever  housed  where  it  gets  possession. 
Ant.  E.  You  have  prevail'd  :  I  will  depart  in  quiet, 

And,  in  despite  of  mirth,  mean  to  be  merry. 

252 


[Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

I  know  a  wench  of  excellent  discourse, 

Pretty  and  witty  ;  wild,  and  yet,  too,  gentle : 

There  will  we  dine.     This  woman  that  I  mean, 

My  wife — but,  I  protest,  without  desert— 

Hath  oftentimes  upbraided  me  withal : 

To  her  will  we  to  dinner.  \To  Ang.]  Get  you  home, 

And  fetch  the  chain :  by  this  I  know  'tis  made  : 

Bring  it,  I  pray  you,  to  the  Porpentine  ; 

For  there 's  the  house ;  that  chain  will  I  bestow — 

Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spite  my  wife — 

Upon  mine  hostess  there  :  good  sir,  make  haste. 

Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 

I  '11  knock  elsewhere,  to  see  if  they  '11  disdain  me. 

Ang.  I  '11  meet  you  at  that  place  some  hour  hence. 

A?it.  E.  Do  so.  This  jest  shall  cost  me  some  expense.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  same. 

Enter  Ludana,  with  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 
Luc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot 

A  husband's  office  ?  shall,  Antipholus, 
Even  in  the  spring  of  love,  thy  love-springs  rot  ? 

Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinous  ? 
If  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth, 

Then  for  her  wealth's  sake  use  her  with  more  kindness : 
Or  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth ; 

Muffle  your  false  love  with  some  show  of  blindness  : 
Let  not  my  sister  read  it  in  your  eye ; 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  shame's  orator ; 
Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyalty  ; 

Apparel  vice  like  virtue's  harbinger  ; 
Bear  a  fair  presence,  though  your  heart  be  tainted  ; 

Teach  sin  the  carriage  of  a  holy  saint ; 
Be  secret-false  :  what  need  she  be  acquainted  ? 

What  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint? 
'Tis  double  wrong,  to  truant  with  your  bed, 

And  let  her  read  it  in  thy  looks  at  board  : 
Shame  hath  a  bastard  fame,  well  managed ; 

111  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 
Alas,  poor  women  !  make  us  but  believe, 

Being  compact  of  credit,  that  you  love  us ; 
Though  others  have  the  arm,  show  us  the  sleeve ; 

We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  us. 
Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again ; 

Comfort  my  sister,  cheer  her,  call  her  wife ; 
253 


Act  III,  Sc  ii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Tis  holy  sport,  to  be  a  little  vain, 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery  conquers  strife. 
Ant.  S,  Sweet  mistress, — what  your  name  is  else,  I  know  not, 

Nor  by  what  wonder  you  do  hit  of  mine, — 
Less  in  your  knowledge  and  your  grace  you  show  not 
Than  our  earth's  wonder ;  more  than  earth  divine. 
Teach  me,  dear  creature,  how  to  think  and  speak; 

Lay  open  to  my  earthy-gross  conceit, 
Smother'd  in  errors,  feeble,  shallow,  weak, 

The  folded  meaning  of  your  words'  deceit. 
Against  my  soul's  pure  truth  why  labour  you 
To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknown  field  ? 
Are  you  a  god  ?  would  you  create  me  new  ? 

Transform  me,  then,  and  to  your  power  I  '11  yield. 
But  if  that  I  am  I,  then  well  I  know 

Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  mine, 
Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe : 

Far  more,  far  more  to  you  do  I  decline. 
O,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note, 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister's  flood  of  tears  : 
Sing,  siren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dote : 

Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs. 
And  as  a  bed  I  '11  take  them,  and  there  lie  ; 

And  in  that  glorious  supposition,  think 
He  gains  by  death  that  hath  such  means  to  die  : 
Let  Love,  being  light,  be  drowned  if  she  sink  ! 
Luc.  What,  are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason  so  ? 
Ant.  S.  Not  mad,  but  mated ;  how,  I  do  not  know. 
Luc.  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 
Ant.  S.  For  gazing  on  your  beams,  fair  sun,  being  by. 
Luc.  Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will  clear  your  sight. 
Ant.  S.  As  good  to  wink,  sweet  love,  as  look  on  night. 
Luc.  Why  call  you  me  love  ?  call  my  sister  so. 
Ant.  S.  Thy  sister's  sister. 
Luc.  That 's  my  sister. 

Ant.  S.  No  ; 

It  is  thyself,  mine  own  self  s  better  part, 
Mine  eye's  clear  eye,  my  dear  heart's  dearer  heart, 
My  food,  my  fortune,  and  my  sweet  hope's  aim, 
My  sole  earth's  heaven,  and  my  heaven's  claim. 
Luc.  All  this  my  sister  is,  or  else  should  be. 
Ant.  S.  Call  thyself  sister,  sweet,  for  I  am  thee. 
Thee  will  I  love,  and  with  thee  lead  my  life : 
Thou  hast  no  husband  yet.  nor  I  no  wife. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

254 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Luc.  O,  soft,  sir  !  hold  you  still : 

I  '11  fetch  my  sister,  to  get  her  good  will.  [Exit. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  how  now,  Dromio  !  where  runn'st  thou  so  fast  ? 

Dro.  S.  Do  you  know  me,  sir  ?  am  I  Dromio  ?  am  I  your  man  ? 
am  I  myself? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio,  thou  art  my  man,  thou  art  thyself. 

Dro.  S.  I  am  an  ass,  I  am  a  woman's  man,  and  besides  myself. 

Ant.  S.  What  woman's  man?  and  how  besides  thyself? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  besides  myself,  I  am  due  to  a  woman  ;  one 
that  claims  me,  one  that  haunts  me,  one  that  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  claim  lays  she  to  thee  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would  lay  to  your  horse  ; 
and  she  would  have  me  as  a  beast :  not  that,  I  being  a 
beast,  she  would  have  me ;  but  that  she,  being  a  very  beastly 
creature,  lays  claim  to  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  is  she  ? 

Dro.  S.  A  very  reverent  body ;  ay,  such  a  one  as  a  man  may 
not  speak  of,  without  he  say  Sir-reverence.  I  have  but  lean 
luck  in  the  match,  and  yet  is  she  a  wondrous  fat  marriage. 

Ant.  S.  How  dost  thou  mean  a  fat  marriage  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  she  }s  the  kitchen-wench,  and  all  grease ; 
and  I  know  not  what  use  to  put  her  to,  but  to  make  a  lamp 
of  her,  and  run  from  her  by  her  own  light.  I  warrant,  her 
rags,  and  the  tallow  in  them,  will  burn  a  <  Poland  winter  :  if 
she  lives  till  doomsday,  she  '11  burn  a  week  longer  than  the 

Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of?  [whole  world. 

Dro.  S.  Swart,  like  my  shoq  but  her  face  nothing  like  so  clean 
kept :  for  why  she  sweats ;  a  man  may  go  over  shoes  in  the 

Ant.  S.  That 's  a  fault  that  water  will  mend.  [grime  of  it. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir,  'tis  in  grain  •  Noah's  flood  could  not  do  it. 

Ant.  S.  What 's  her  name  ? 

Dro.  S.  Nell,  sir ;  but  her  name  and  three  quarters,  that 's  an 
ell  and  three  quarters,  will  not  measure  her  from  hip  to  hip. 

Ant.  S.  Then  she  bears  some  breadth  ? 

Dro.  S,  No  longer  from  head  to  foot  than  from  hip  to  hip  :  she 

•     is  spherical,  like  a  globe ;  I  could  find  out  countries  in  her. 

Ant.  S.  In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ireland  ? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  in  her  buttocks  :  I  found  it  out  by  the  bogs. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Scotland  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  found  it  by  the  barrenness ;  hard  in  the  palm  of  the 

Ant.  S.  Where  France  ?  [hand. 

Dro.   S.  In  her  forehead  ;  armed  and  reverted,   making  war 

Ant.  S.  Where  England  ?  [against  her  heir. 

255 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Dro.  S.  I  looked  for  the  chalky  cliffs,  but  I  could  find  no 

whiteness  in  them ;  but  I  guess  it  stood  in  her  chin,  by  the 

salt  rheum  that  ran  between  France  and  it. 
Ant.  S.  Where  Spain  ? 

Dro.  S.  'Faith,  I  saw  it  not ;  but  I  felt  it  hot  in  her  breath. 
Ant  S.  Where  America,  the  Indies  ? 
Dro.  S.  Oh,  sir,  upon  her  nose,  all  o'er  embellished  with  rubies, 

carbuncles,  sapphires,  declining  their  rich  aspect  to  the  hot 

breath  of  Spain  ;  who  sent  whole  armadoes  of  caracks  to  be 

ballast  at  her  nose. 

Ant.  S.  Where  stood  Belgia,  the  Netherlands  ? 
Dro.  S.  Oh,  sir,  I  did  not  look  so  low.     To  conclude,  this 

drudge,  or  diviner,  laid  claim  to  me ;  called  me  Droraio ; 

swore  I  was  assured  to  her ;  told  me  what  privy  marks  I  had 

about  me,  as,  the  mark  of  my  shoulder,   the  mole  in  my 

neck,  the  great  wart  on  my  left  arm,  that  I,  amazed,  ran  from 

her  as  a  witch  : 

And,  I  think,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of  faith,  and 
my  heart  of  steel, 

She  had  transform'd  me  to  a  curtal  dog,  and  made  me  turn 

i'  the  wheel. 
Ant.  S.  Go  hie  thee  presently,  post  to  the  road : 

An  if  the  wind  blow  any  way  from  shore, 

I  will  not  harbour  in  this  town  to-night : 

If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart, 

Where  I  will  walk  till  thou  return  to  me. 

If  every  one  knows  us,  and  we  know  none, 

'Tis  time,  I  think,  to  trudge,  pack,  and  be  gone. 
Dro.  S.  As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  run  for  life, 

So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife.  \Exit. 

Ant.  S.  There 's  none  but  witches  do  inhabit  here ; 

And  therefore  'tis  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 

She  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 

Doth  for  a  wife  abhor.     But  her  fair  sister, 

Possess'd  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace, 

Of  such  enchanting  presence  and  discourse, 

Hath  almost  made  me  traitor  to  myself : 

But,  lest  myself  be  guilty  to  self-wrong, 

I  '11  stop  mine  ears  against  the  mermaid's  song. 

Enter  Angelo  with  the  chain. 
Ang.  Master  Antipholus, — 
Ant.  S.  Ay,  that 's  my  name. 

Ang.  I  know  it  well,  sir :  lo,  here  is  the  chain. 

I  thought  to  have  ta'en  you  at  the  Porpentine : 

The  chain  unfmish'd  made  me  stay  thus  long. 

256 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Ant  S.  What  is  your  will  that  I  shall  do  with  this  ? 
Ang.  What  please  yourself,  sir :  I  have  made  it  for  you. 
Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir  !  I  bespoke  it  not. 
Ang.  Not  once,  nor  twice,  but  twenty  times  you  have. 

Go  home  with  it,  and  please  your  wife  withal ; 

And  soon  at  supper-time  I  ;11  visit  you, 

And  then  receive  my  money  for  the  chain. 
Ant.  S.  I  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now, 

For  fear  you  ne'er  see  chain  nor  money  more. 
Ang.  You  are  a  merry  man,  sir :  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Ant.  S.  What  I  should  think  of  this,  I  cannot  tell : 

But  this  I  think,  there 's  no  man  is  so  vain 

That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offer'd  chain. 

I  see  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts, 

When  in  the  streets  he  meets  such  golden  gifts. 

I  '11  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay  : 

If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away.  [Exit. 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

A  public  place. 

Enter  Second  Merchant^  Angela ',  and  an  Officer. 
Sec.  Mer.  You  know  since  Pentecost  the  sum  is  due, 

And  since  I  have  not  much  importuned  you ; 

Nor  now  I  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 

To  Persia,  and  want  guilders  for  my  voyage  : 

Therefore  make  present  satisfaction, 

Or  I  '11  attach  you  by  this  officer. 
Ang.  Even  just  the  sum  that  I  do  owe  to  you 

Is  growing  to  me  by  Antipholus ; 

And  in  the  instant  that  I  met  with  you 

He  had  of  me  a  chain  :  at  five  o'clock 

I  shall  receive  the  money  for  the  same. 

Pleaseth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 

I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  Dromio  of  Ephesus  from  the 

courtezan's. 

Off.  That  labour  may  you  save :  see  where  he  comes. 
Ant.  E.  While  I  go  to  the  goldsmith's  house,  go  thou 

And  buy  a  rope's  end  :  that  will  I  bestow 

Among  my  wife  and  her  confederates, 

For  locking  me  out  of  my  doors  by  day. 

But,  soft !  I  see  the  goldsmith.     Get  thee  gone  ; 

Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 
Dro.  E.  I  buy  a  thousand  pound  a  year  :  I  buy  a  rope.    [Exit. 
Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  holp  up  that  trusts  to  you  : 

257  l 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

I  promised  your  presence  and  the  chain  ; 

But  neither  chain  nor  goldsmith  came  to  me. 

Belike  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long, 

If  it  were  chain'd  together,  and  therefore  came  not. 
Ang.  Saving  your  merry  humour,  here  's  the  note 

How  much  your  chain  weighs  to  the  utmost  carat, 

The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  chargeful  fashion, 

Which  doth  amount  to  three  odd  ducats  more 

Than  I  stand  debted  to  this  gentleman  : 

I  pray  you,  see  him  presently  discharged, 

For  he  is  bound  to  sea,  and  stays  but  for  it. 
Ant.  E.  I  am  not  furnish'd  with  the  present  money ; 

Besides,  I  have  some  business  in  the  town. 

Good  signior,  take  the  stranger  to  my  house, 

And  with  you  take  the  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 

Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  thereof : 

Perchance  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 
Ang.  Then  you  will  bring  the  chain  to  her  yourself? 
Ant.  E.  No ;  bear  it  with  you,  lest  I  come  not  time  enough. 
Ang.  Well,  sir,  I  will.     Have  you  the  chain  about  you  ? 
Ant.  E.  An  if  I  have  not,  sir,  I  hope  you  have ; 

Or  else  you  may  return  without  your  money. 
Ang.  Nay,  come,  1  pray  you,  sir,  give  me  the  chain : 

Both  wind  and  tide  stays  for  this  gentleman, 

And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long. 
Ant.  E.  Good  Lord !  you  use  this  dalliance  to  excuse 

Your  breach  of  promise  to  the  Porpentine. 

I  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it, 

But,  like  a  shrew,  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 
Sec.  Mer.  The  hour  steals  on ;  I  pray  you,  sir,  dispatch. 
Ang.  You  hear  how  he  importunes  me  ; — the  chain  ! 
Ant.  E.  Why,   give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch  your  money. 
Ang.  Come,  come,  you  know  I  gave  it  you  even  now. 

Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  me  by  some  token. 
Ant.  E.  Fie,  now  you  run  this  humour  out  of  breath. 

Come,  where  Js  the  chain  ?     I  pray  you,  let  me  see  it. 
Sec.  Mer.  My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance. 

Good  sir,  say  whether  you  Jll  answer  me  or  no  : 

If  not  I  '11  leave  him  to  the  officer. 
Ant.  E.  I  answer  you  !  what  should  I  answer  you  ? 
Ang.  The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the  chain. 
Ant.  E.  I  owe  you  none  till  I  receive  the  chain. 
Ang.  You  know  I  gave  it  you  half  an  hour  since. 
Ant.  E.  You  gave  me  none :  you  wrong  me  much  to  say  so. 
Ang.  You  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  denying  it : 

258 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Consider  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit. 
Sec.  Mer.  Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 
Off.  I  do ;  and  charge  you  in  the  duke's  name  to  obey  me. 
Ang.  This  touches  me  in  reputation. 

Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me, 

Or  I  attach  you  by  this  officer. 
Ant.  E.  Consent  to  pay  thee  that  I  never  had  ! 

Arrest  me,  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  darest. 
Aug.  Here  is  thy  fee ;  arrest  him,  officer. 

I  would  not  spare  my  brother  in  this  case, 

If  he  should  scorn  me  so  apparently. 
Off.  I  do  arrest  you,  sir  :  you  hear  the  suit. 
Ant.  E.  I  do  obey  thee  till  I  give  thee  bail. 

But,  sirrah,  you  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear 

As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer. 
Ang.  Sir,  sir,  I  shall  have  law  in  Ephesus, 

To  your  notorious  shame  ;  I  doubt  it  not. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  from  the  bay. 
Dro.  S.  Master,  there  is  a  bark  of  Epidamnum 

That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard, 

And  then,  sir,  she  bears  away.     Our  fraughtage,  sir, 

I  have  convey'd  aboard ;  and  I  have  bought 

The  oil,  the  balsamum,  and  aqua-vitse. 

The  ship  is  in  her  trim ;  the  merry  wind 

Blows  fair  from  land  :  they  stay  for  nought  at  all 

But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  yourself. 
Ant.  E.  How  now  !  a  madman  !     Why,  thou  peevish  sheep. 

What  ship  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me  ? 
Dro.  S.  A  ship  you  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  drunken  slave,  I  sent  thee  for  a  rope, 

And  told  thee  to  what  purpose  and  what  end. 
Dro.  S.  You  sent  me  for  a  rope's  end  as  soon  : 

You  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 
Ant.  E.  I  will  debate  this  matter  at  more  leisure, 

And  teach  your  ears  to  list  me  with  more  heed. 

To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  straight : 

Give  her  this  key,  and  tell  her,  in  the  desk 

That  Js  cover'd  o'er  with  Turkish  tapestry 

There  is  a  purse  of  ducats  ;  let  her  send  it : 

Tell  her  I  am  arrested  in  the  street, 

And  that  shall  bail  me  :  hie  thee,  slave,  be  gone  ! 

On,  officer,  to  prison  till  it  come. 

[Exeunt  Sec.  Merchant,  Angela,  Officer,  and  Ant.  E. 
Dro.  S.  To  Adriana !  that  is  where  we  dined, 

Where  Dowsabel  did  claim  me  for  her  husband  : 

259 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

She  is  too  big,  I  hope,  for  me  to  compass. 

Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will, 

For  servants  must  their  masters'  minds  fulfil.  [Exit 

SCENE  II 
The  house  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 

Enter  Adriana  and  Luciana. 
Adr.  Ah,  Luciana,  did  he  tempt  thee  so  ? 

Mightst  thou  perceive  austerely  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest  ?  yea  or  no  ? 

Look'd  he  or  red  or  pale,  or  sad  or  merrily  ? 
What  observation  madest  thou,  in  this  case, 
Of  his  heart's  meteors  tilting  in  his  face  ? 
Luc.  First  he  denied  you  had  in  him  no  right. 
Adr.  He  meant  he  did  me  none ;  the  more  my  spite. 
Luc.  Then  swore  he  that  he  was  a  stranger  here. 
Adr.  And  true  he  swore,  though  yet  forsworn  he  were. 
Luc.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 
Adr.  And  what  said  he  ? 

Luc.  That  love  I  begg'd  for  you  he  begg'd  of  me. 
Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy  love  ? 
Luc.  With  words  that  in  an  honest  suit  might  move, 

First  he  did  praise  my  beauty,  then  my  speech. 
Adr.  Didst  speak  him  fair  ? 

Luc.  .        Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

Adr.  I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  hold  me  still ; 

My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have  his  will. 
He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere, 
Ill-faced,  worse  bodied,  shapeless  everywhere  j 
Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind; 
Stigmatical  in  making,  worse  in  mind. 
Luc.  Who  would  be  jealous,  then,  of  such  a  one  ? 

No  evil  lost  is  wail'd  when  it  is  gone. 
Adr.  Ah,  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 

And  yet  would  herein  others'  eyes  were  worse. 
Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries  away  : 

My  heart  prays  for  him,  though  my  tongue  do  curse. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Here  !   go ;    the  desk,  the  purse !   sweet,  now,  make 
Luc.  How  hast  thou  lost  thy  breath  ?  [haste. 

Dro.  S.  By  running  fast. 

Adr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio  ?  is  he  well  ? 
Dro.  S.  No,  he 's  in  Tartar  limbo,  worse  than  hell. 
A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garment  hath  him ; 
One  whose  hard  heart  is  button'd  up  with  steel ; 

260 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

A  fiend,  a  fury,  pitiless  and  rough ; 

A  wolf,  nay,  worse;  a  fellow  all  in  buff; 

A  back-friend,  a  shoulder-clapper,  one  that  countermands 

The  passages  of  alleys,  creeks,  and  narrow  lands  ; 

A  hound  that  runs  counter,  and  yet  draws  dry-foot  well ; 

One  that,  before  the  Judgement,  carries  poor  souls  to  hell. 
Adr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  do  not  know  the  matter :  he  is  'rested  on  the  case. 
Adr.  What,  is  he  arrested  ?     Tell  me  at  whose  suit. 
Dro.  S.  I  know  not  at  whose  suit  he  is  arrested  well ; 

But  he's  in  a  suit  of  buff  which  'rested  him,  that  can  I  tell. 

Will  you  send  him,  mistress,  redemption,  the  money  in  his 

desk? 
Adr.  Go  fetch  it,  sister.     \Exit  Lua'ana.']     This  I  wonder  at, 

That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt. 

Tell  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band  ? 
Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger  thing ; 

A  chain,  a  chain  !     Do  you  not  hear  it  ring? 
Adr.  What,  the  chain  ? 
Dro.  S.  No,  no,  the  bell :  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone : 

It  was  two  ere  I  left  him,  and  now  the  clock  strikes  one. 
Adr.  The  hours  come  back !  that  did  I  never  hear. 
Dro.  S.  O,  yes ;  if  any  hour  meet  a  sergeant,  Ja  turns  back  for 

very  fear. 

Adr.  As  if  Time  were  in  debt !  how  fondly  dost  thou  reason  ! 
Dro.  S.  Time  is  a  very  bankrupt,  and  owes  more  than  he's 
worth  to  season. 

Nay,  he 's  a  thief  too  :  have  you  not  heard  men  say, 

That  Time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day  ? 

If  Time  be  in  debt  and  theft,  and  a  sergeant  in  the  way, 

Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  an  hour  in  a  day  ? 

Re-enter  Luciana  with  a  purse. 

Adr.  Go,  Dromio ;  there 's  the  money,  bear  it  straight ; 
And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately. 

Come,  sister  :  I  am  press'd  down  with  conceit, — 

Conceit,  my  comfort  and  my  injury.  [Exeunt. 

• 
SCENE  III 

A  public  place. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  There 's  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth  salute  me 
As  if  I  were  their  well-acquainted  friend  ; 
And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 
Some  tender  money  to  me ;  some  invite  me ; 
Some  other  give  me  thanks  for  kindnesses ; 

261 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy  : 

Even  now  a  tailor  call'd  me  in  his  shop, 

And  show'd  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me, 

And  therewithal  took  measure  of  my  body.  . 

Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  wiles, 

And  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  here's  the  gold  you  sent  me  for. 

What,  have  you  got  the  picture  of  old  Adam  new-apparelled  ? 

Ant.  S.  What  gold  is  this  ?  what  Adam  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Dro.  S.  Not  that  Adam  that  kept  the  Paradise,  but  that  Adam 
that  keeps  the  prison  :  he  that  goes  in  the  calf  s  skin  that 
was  killed  for  the  Prodigal ;  he  that  came  behind  you,  sir, 
like  an  evil  angel,  and  bid  you  forsake  your  liberty. 

Ant.  S.  I  understand  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No  ?  why,  'tis  a  plain  case :  he  that  went,  like  a  base- 
viol,  in  a  case  of  leather  ;  the  man,  sir,  that,  when  gentlemen 
are  tired,  gives  them  a  sob  and  'rests  them ;  he,  sir,  that 
takes  pity  on  decayed  men,  and  gives  them  suits  of  durance ; 
he  that  sets  up  his  rest  to  do  more  exploits  with  his  mace 
than  a  morris-pike. 

Ant.  S.  What,  thou  meanest  an  officer  ? 

Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  the  sergeant  of  the  band ;  he  that  brings  any 
man  to  answer  it  that  breaks  his  band ;  one  that  thinks  a 
man  always  going  to  bed,  and  says,  *  God  give  you  good 
rest ! ' 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  there  rest  in  your  foolery.  Is  there  any  ship 
puts  forth  to-night  ?  may  we  be  gone  ? 

Dro.  S.  Why,  sir,  I  brought  you  word  an  hour  since,  that  the 
bark  Expedition  put  forth  to-night;  and  then  were  you 
hindered  by  the  sergeant,  to  tarry  for  the  hoy  Delay.  Here 
are  the  angels  that  you  sent  for  to  deliver  you. 

Ant.  S.  The  fellow  is  distract,  and  so  am  I ; 
And  here  we  wander  in  illusions  : 
Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence ! 
Enter  a  Courtezan. 

Cour.  Well  met,  well  met,  Master  Antipholus, 
I  see,  sir,  you  have  found  the  goldsmith  now : 
Is  that  the  chain  you  promised  me  to-day  ? 

Ant.  S.  Satan,  avoid  !     I  charge  thee,  tempt  me  not. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  is  this  Mistress  Satan  ? 

Ant.  S.  It  is  the  devil. 

Dro.  S.  Nay,  she  is  worse,  she  is  the  devil's  dam  ;  and  here  she 
comes  in  the  habit  of  a  light  wench  :  and  thereof  comes  that 
the  wenches  say,  '  God  damn  me ; '  that 's  as  much  to  say, 

262 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi 

'God  make  me  a  light  wench.'     It  is  written,  they  appear  to 

men  like  angels  of  light :  light  is  an  effect  of  fire,  and  fire 

will  burn;  ergo,  light  wenches  will  burn.     Come  not  near 

her. 
Cour.  Your  man  and  you  are  marvellous  merry,  sir. 

Will  you  go  with  me  ?     We  '11  mend  our  dinner  here  ? 
Dro.  S.  Master,  if  you  do,  expect  spoon-meat ;  or  bespeak  a 
Ant.  S.  Why,  Dromio  ?  [long  spoon. 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  he  must  have  a  long  spoon  that  must  eat  with 

the  devil. 
Ant.  S.  Avoid  then,  fiend  !  what  telPst  thou  me  of  supping  ? 

Thou  art,  as  you  are  all,  a  sorceress : 

I  conjure  thee  to  leave  me  and  be  gone. 
Conr.  Give  me  the  ring  of  mine  you  had  at  dinner, 

Or,  for  my  diamond,  the  chain  you  promised, 

And  I  '11  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 
Dro.  S.  Some  devils  ask  but  the  parings  of  one's  nail, 

A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin, 

A  nut,  a  cherry-stone ; 

But  she,  more  covetous,  would  have  a  chain. 

Master,  be  wise  :  an  if  you  give  it  her, 

The  devil  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us  with  it. 
Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the  chain : 

I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  so. 
Ant.  S.  Avaunt,  thou  witch  !     Come,  Dromio,  let  us  go. 
Dro.  S.  l  Fly  pride,'  says  the  peacock:  mistress,  that  you  know. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S. 
Cour.  Now,  out  of  doubt  Antipholus  is  mad, 

Else  would  he  never  so  demean  himself. 

A  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats, 

And  for  the  same  he  promised  me  a  chain  : 

Both  one  and  other  he  denies  me  now. 

The  reason  that  I  gather  he  is  mad, 

Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage, 

Is  a  mad  tale  he  told  to-day  at  dinner, 

Of  his  own  doors  being  shut  against  his  entrance. 

Belike  his  wife,  acquainted  with  his  fits, 

On  purpose  shut 'the  doors  against  his  way. 

•My  way  is  now  to  hie  home  to  his  house, 

And  tell  his  wife  that,  being  lunatic, 

He  rush'd  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 

My  ring  away.     This  course  I  fittest  choose ; 

For  forty  ducats  is  too  much  to  lose.  [Exit. 


263 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

SCENE   IV 
A  Street 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  the  Officer. 
Ant.  E.   Fear  me  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  break  away  : 

I  '11  give  thee,  ere  I  leave  thee,  so  much  money, 

To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  'rested  for. 

My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day, 

And  will  not  lightly  trust  the  messenger. 

That  I  should  be  attach'd  in  Ephesus, 

I  tell  you,  'twill  sound  harshly  in  her  ears. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Ephesus  ivith  a  ropers-end. 

Here  comes  my  man ;  I  think  he  brings  the  money. 

How  now,  sir !  have  you  that  I  sent  you  for? 
Dro.  E.  Here  's  that,  I  warrant  you,  will  pay  them  all. 
Ant.  E.  But  where  's  the  money  ? 
Dro.  E.  Why,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the  rope. 
Ant.  E.  Five  hundred  ducats,  villain,  for  a  rope  ? 
Dro.  E.  I  '11  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at  the  rate. 
Ant.  E.  To  what  end  did  I  bid  thee  hie  thee  home  ? 
Dro.  E.  To  a  rope's-end,  sir ;  and  to  that  end  am  I  returned. 
Ant.  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  I  will  welcome  you.   \Beatinghim. 
Off.  Good  sir,  be  patient. 

Dro.  E.  Nay,  'tis  for  me  to  be  patient ;  I  am  in  adversity. 
Off.  Good  now,  hold  thy  tongue. 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold  his  hands. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  whoreson,  senseless  villain  ! 
Dro.  E.  I  would  I  were  senseless,  sir,   that  I   might  not  feel, 

your  blows.  [ass. 

Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in  nothing  but  blows,  and  so  is  an 
Dro.  E.  I  am  an  ass,  indeed ;  you  may  prove  it  by  my  long 

ears.     I  have  served  him  from  the  hour  of  my  nativity  to  this 

instant,  and  have  nothing  at  his  hands  for  my  service  but  blows. 

When  I  am  cold,  he  heats  me  with  beating ;  when  I  am  warm, 

he  cools  me  with  beating :  I  am  waked  with  it  when  I  sleep ; 

raised  with  it  when  I  sit ;  driven  out  of  doors  with  it  when  I , 

go  from  home ;  welcomed  home  with  it  when  I  return :  nay,  | 

I  bear  it  on  my  shoulders,  as  a  beggar  wont  her  brat ;  and,  I 

I  think,  when  he  hath  lamed  me,  I  shall  beg  with  it  from 

door  to  door. 
Ant.  E.  Come,  go  along  ;  my  wife  is  coming  yonder. 

Enter  Adriana,  Luciana,  the  Courtezan,  and  Pinch. 
Dro.  E.  Mistress,  '  respice  finem,'  respect  your  end ;  or  rather, 

the  prophecy  like  the  parrot,  '  beware  the  rope's-end.' 
Ant.  E.  Wilt  thou  still  talk  ?  [Beating  him. 

264 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Cour.  How  say  you  now  ?  is  not  your  husband  mad  ? 
Adr.  His  incivility  confirms  no  less. 

Good  Doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer ; 

Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again, 

And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 
Luc.  Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks  ! 
Cour.  Mark  how  he  trembles  in  his  ecstasy ! 
Pinch.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  my  hand,  and  let  it  feel  your  ear. 

[Striking  him. 
Pinch.  I  charge  thee,  Satan,  housed  within  this  man, 

To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 

And  to  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight : 

I  conjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven  ! 
Ant.  E.  Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace !  I  am  not  mad. 
Adr.  O,  that  thou  wert  not,  poor  distressed  soul ! 
Ant.  E.  You  minion,  you,  are  these  your  customers  ? 

Did  this  companion  with  the  saffron  face 

Revel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day, 

Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut, 

And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house  ? 
Adr.  O  husband,  God  doth  know  you  dined  at  home ; 

Where  would  you  had  remain'd  until  this  time, 

Free  from  these  slanders  and  this  open  shame  ! 
Ant.  E.  Dined  at  home  !     Thou  villain,  what  sayest  thou  ? 
Dro.  E.  Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at  home. 
Ant.  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock'd  up,  and  I  shut  out  ? 
Dro.  E.  Perdie,  your,  doors  were  lock'd,  and  you  shut  out. 
Ant.  E.  And  did  not  she  herself  revile  me  there  ? 
Dro.  E.  Sans  fable,  she  herself  reviled  you  there. 
Ant.  E.  Did  not  her  kitchen-maid  rail,  taunt,  and  scorn  me  ? 
Dro.  E.  Certes,  she  did ;  the  kitchen-vestal  scorned  you. 
Ant.  E.  And  did  not  I  in  rage  depart  from  thence  ? 
Dro.  E.  In  verity  you  did ;  my  bones  bear  witness, 

That  since  have  felt  the  vigour  of  his  rage. 
Adr.  Is  't  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  contraries  ? 
Pinch.  It  is  no  shame  :  the  fellow  finds  his  vein, 

And,  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  hast  suborn'd  the  goldsmith  to  arrest  me. 
Adr.  Alas,  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you, 

By  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it. 
Dro.  E.  Money  by  me !  heart  and  good-will  you  might ; 

But  surely,  master,  not  a  rag  of  money. 
Ant.  E.  Went'st  not  thou  to  her  for  a  purse  of  ducats  ? 
Adr.  He  came  to  me,  and  I  deliver'd  it. 

265  I  2 


Act  IV,  3c.  iv]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Luc.  And  I  am  witness  with  her  that  she  did. 
Dro.  E.  God  and  the  rope-maker  bear  me  witness 

That  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope ! 
Pinch.  Mistress,  both  man  and  master  is  possess'd ; 

I  know  it  by  their  pale  and  deadly  looks : 

They  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 
Ant.  E.  Say,  wherefore  didst  thou  lock  me  forth  to-day  ? 

And  why  dost  thou  deny  the  bag  of  gold  ? 
Adr.  I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee  forth. 
Dro.  E.  And,  gentle  master,  I  received  no  gold ; 

But  I  confess,  sir,  that  we  were  lock'd  out. 
Adr,  Dissembling  villain,  thou  speak'st  false  in  both. 
Ant.  E.  Dissembling  harlot,  thou  art  false  in  all, 

And  art  confederate  with  a  damned  pack 

To  make  a  loathsome  abject  scorn  of  me : 

But  with  these  nails  I  ;11  pluck  out  these  false  eyes, 

That  would  behold  in  me  this  shameful  sport. 

Enter  three  or  four,  and  offer  to  bind  him.     He  strives. 
Adr.  O,  bind  him,  bind  him !  let  him  not  come  near  me. 
Pinch.  More  company !  The  fiend  is  strong  within  him. 
Luc.  Ay  me,  poor  man,  how  pale  and  wan  he  looks  ! 
Ant.  E.  What,  will  you  murder  me  ?     Thou  gaoler,  thou, 

I  am  thy  prisoner :  wilt  thou  suffer  them 

To  make  a  rescue  ? 
Off.  Masters,  let  him  go : 

He  is  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  him. 
Pinch.  Go  bind  this  man,  for  he  is  frantic  too. 

[They  offer  to  bind  Dro.  E. 
Adr.  What  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  officer? 

Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 

Do  outrage  and  displeasure  to  himself  ? 
Off.  He  is  my  prisoner :  if  I  let  him  go, 

The  debt  he  owes  will  be  required  of  me. 
Adr.  I  will  discharge  thee  ere  I  go  from  thee : 

Bear  me  forthwith  unto  his  creditor, 

And,  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  will  pay  it. 

Good  master  doctor,  see  him  safe  convey'd 

Home  to  my  house.     O  most  unhappy  day ! 
Ant.  E.  O  most  unhappy  strumpet ! 
Dro.  E.  Master,  I  am  here  enter'd  in  bond  for  you. 
Ant.  E.  Out   on    thee,    villain !    wherefore    dost    thou    mad 

me? 
Dro.  E.  Will  you  be  bound  for  nothing  ?  be  mad,  good  master  : 

cry,  The  devil  1 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls,  how  idly  do  they  talk ! 

266 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Adr.  Go  bear  him  hence.     Sister,  go  you  with  me. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Adriana,  Luciano,^  Officer  and  Courtezan 

Say  now ;  whose  suit  is  he  arrested  at  ? 
Off.  One  Angelo,  a  goldsmith :  do  you  know  him  ? 
Adr.  I  know  the  man.     What  is  the  sum  he  owes  ? 
Off.  Two  hundred  ducats. 

Adr.  Say,  how  grows  it  due  ? 

Off.  Due  for  a  chain  your  husband  had  of  him. 
Adr.  He  did  bespeak  a  chain  for  me,  but  had  it  not. 
Cour.  When  as  your  husband,  all  in  rage,  to-day 

Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring, — • 

The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now, — 

Straight  after  did  I  meet  him  with  a  chain. 
Adr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it. 

Come,  gaoler,  bring  me  where  the  goldsmith  is : 

I  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  large. 

Ejiter  Antipholns  of  Syracuse  with  his  rapier  drawny 

and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Luc.  God,  for  thy  mercy  !  they  are  loose  again. 
Adr.  And  come  with  naked  swords. 

Let  's  call  more  help  to  have  them  bound  again. 
Off.  Away  !  they  '11  kill  us.      [Exeunt  all  but  Ant.  S.  andDro.  S. 
Ant.  S.  I  see  these  witches  are  afraid  of  swords. 
Dro.  S.  She  that  would  be  your  wife  now  ran  from  you. 
Ant.  S.  Come  to  the  Centaur ;  fetch  our  stuff  from  thence : 

I  long  that  we  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 
f)ro.  S.  Faith,  stay  here  this  night ;  they  will  surely  do  us  no 

harm:  you  saw  they  speak  us  fair,  give  us  gold:  methinks 

they  are  such  a  gentle  nation,  that,  but  for  the  mountain  of 

mad  flesh  that  claims  marriage  of  me,   I  could  find  in  my 

heart  to  stay  here  still,  and  turn  witch. 
Ant.  S.  I  will  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the  town  ; 

Therefore  away,  to  get  our  stuff  aboard.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   V— SCENE  I 
A  street  before  a  Priory. 
Enter  Second  Merchant  and  Angelo. 
Ang.   I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder'd  you ; ' 
But,  I  protest,  he  had  the  chain  of  me, 
Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 
Sec.  Mer.  How  is  the  man  esteem'd  here  in  the  city  ? 
Ang.  Of  very  reverent  reputation,  sir, 
Of  credit  infinite,  highly  beloved, 
Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city  : 
His  word  might  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 

267 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Sec.  Mer.  Speak  softly :  yonder,  as  I  think,  he  walks. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
Ang.  'Tis  so ;  and  that  self  chain  about  his  neck, 

Which  he  forswore  most  monstrously  to  have. 

Good  sir,  draw  near  to  me,  I  '11  speak  to  him ; 

Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much 

That  you  would  put  me  to  this  shame  and  trouble ; 

And,  not  without  some  scandal  to  yourself, 

With  circumstance  and  oath  so  to  deny 

This  chain  which  now  you  wear  so  openly  : 

Beside  the  charge,  the  shame,  imprisonment, 

You  have  done  wrong  to  this  my  honest  friend ; 

Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy, 

Had  hoisted  sail  and  put  to  sea  to-day  : 

This  chain  you  had  of  me ;  can  you  deny  it. 
Ant.  S.  I  think  I  had ;  I  never  did  deny  it. 
Sec.  Mer.  Yes,  that  you  did,  sir,  and  forswore  it  too. 
Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it  or  forswear  it  ? 
Sec.  Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou  know'st,  did  hear  thee. 

Fie  on  thee,  wretch  !  'tis  pity  that  thou  livest 

To  walk  where  any  honest  men  resort. 
Ant.  S.  Thou  art  a  villain  to  impeach  me  thus : 

I  '11  prove  mine  honour  and  mine  honesty 

Against  thee  presently,  if  thou  darest  stand. 
Sec.  Mer.  I  dare,  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  villain.      \They  draw. 

Enter  Adriana,  Luciana,  the  Courtezan,  and  others. 
Adr.  Hold,  hurt  him  not,  for  God's  sake  !  he  is  mad. 

Some  get  within  him,  take  his  sword  away : 

Bind  Dromio  too,  and  bear  them  to  my  house. 
Dro.  S.  Run,  master,  run ;  for  God's  sake,  take  a  house ! 

This  is  some  priory.     In,  or  we  are  spoil'd  ! 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Dro.  S.  to  the  Priory. 

Enter  the  Lady  Abbess. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  people.     Wherefore  throng  you  hither? 
Adr.  To  fetch  my  poor  distracted  husband  hence. 

Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast, 

And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 
Ang.  I  knew  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 
Sec.  Mer.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 
Abb.  How  long  hath  this  possession  held  the  man  ? 
Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,  sad, 

And  much  different  from  the  man  he  was ; 

But  till  this  afternoon  his  passion 

Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

268 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck  of  sea  ? 

Buried  some  dear  friend  ?     Hath  not  else  his  eye 

Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  ? 

A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 

Who  give  their  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 

Which  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  ? 
Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last ; 

Namely,  some  love  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 
Abb.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 
Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 
Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 
Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference  : 

In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  urging  it ; 

At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it ; 

Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme ; 

In  company  I  often  glanced  it ; 

Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vile  and  bad. 
Abb.  And  thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was  mad. 

The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman 

Poisons  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth. 

It  seems  his  sleeps  were  hinder'd  by  thy  railing : 

And  thereof  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 
•    Thou  say'st  his  meat  was  sauced  with  thy  upbraidings : 

Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions ; 

Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred  ; 

And  what 's  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness  ? 

Thou  say'st  his  sports  were  hinder'd  by  thy  brawls: 

Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue 

But  moody  and  dull  melancholy, 

Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair  ? 

And  at  her  heels  a  huge  infectious  troop 

Of  pale  distemperatures  and  foes  to  life  ? 

In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 

To  be  disturb'd,  would  mad  or  man  or  beast : 

The  consequence  is,  then,  thy  jealous  fits 

Have  scared  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 
Luc.  She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly, 

When  he  demean'  d  himself  rough,  rude,  and  wildly. 

Why  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not  ? 
Adr.  She  did  betray  me  to  my  own  reproof. 

Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

269 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Abb.  No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  my  house. 

Adr.  Then  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband  forth. 

Abb.  Neither :  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 

And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands 

Till  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again, 

Or  lose  my  labour  in  assaying  it. 
Adr.  I  will  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 

Diet  his  sickness,  for  it  is  my  office, 

And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself; 

And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 
Abb.  Be  patient ;  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir 

Till  I  have  used  the  approved  means  I  have, 

With  wholesome  syrups,  drugs  and  holy  prayers, 

To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again  : 

It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 

A  charitable  duty  of  my  order. 

Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  me. 
Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husband  here  : 

And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness 

To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart :  thou  shalt  not  have  him.       [Exit. 
Luc.  Complain  unto  the  Duke  of  this  indignity. 
Adr.  Come,  go :  I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  feet, 

And  never  rise  until  my  tears  and  prayers 

Have  won  his  Grace  to  come  in  person  hither, 

And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  abbess. 
Sec.  Mer.  By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five : 

Anon,  I  'm  sure,  the  Duke  himself  in  person 

Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale, 

The  place  of  death  and  sorry  execution, 

Behind  the  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 
Ang.  Upon  what  cause  ? 
Sec.  Mer.  To  see  a  reverend  Syracusian  merchant, 

Who  put  unluckily  into  this  bay 

Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town, 

Beheaded  publicly  for  his  offence. 
Ang.  See  where  they  come :  we  will  behold  his  death. 
Lite.  Kneel  to  the  Duke  before  he  pass  the  abbey. 

Enter  Duke,  attended ;  .£Lgeon  bareheaded  ;  with  the, 
Headsman  and  other  Officers. 

Duke.  Yet  once  again  proclaim  it  publicly, 

If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  for  him, 

He  shall  not  die  ;  so  much  we  tender  him. 
Adr.  Justice,  most  sacred  Duke,  against  the  abbess ! 

270 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Duke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady  : 

It  cannot  be  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 
Adr.  May  it  please  your  Grace,  Antipholus  my  husband, — - 

Whom  I  made  lord  of  me  and  all  I  had, 

At  your  important  letters, — this  ill  day 

A  most  outrageous  fit  of  madness  took  him ; 

That  desperately  he  hurried  through  the  street, — - 

With  him  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  he, — 

Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 

By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 

Rings,  jewels,  any  thing  his  rage  did  like. 

Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home, 

Whilst  to  take  order  for  the  wrongs  I  went, 

That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 

Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strong  escape, 

He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him  ; 

And  with  his  mad  attendant  and  himself, 

Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 

Met  us  again,  and,  madly  went  on  us, 

Chased  us  away ;  till,  raising  of  more  aid, 

We  came  again  to  bind  them.     Then  they  fled 

Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursued  them ; 

And  here  the  abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us, 

And  will  not  suffer  us  to  fetch  him  out, 

Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 

Therefore,  most  gracious  Duke,  with  thy  command 
•    Let  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for  help, 
Duke.  Long  since  thy  husband  served  me  in  my  wars ; 

And  I  to  thee  engaged  a  prince's  word, 

When  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  thy  bed, 

To  do  him  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could. 

Go,  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey-gate, 

And  bid  the  lady  abbess  come  to  me. 

I  will  determine  this  before  I  stir. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Scrv.  O  mistress,  mistress,  shift  and  save  yourself! 

My  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose, 

Beaten  the  maids  a-row,  and  bound  the  doctor, 

Whose  beard  they  have  singed  off  with  brands  of  fire ; 

And  ever,  as  it  blazed,  they  threw  on  him 

Great  pails  of  puddled  mire  to  quench  the  hair : 

My  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  and  the  while 

His  man  with  scissors  nicks  him  like  a  fool ; 

And  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  help, 

Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 

271 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

Adr,  Peace,  fool !  thy  master  and  his  man  are  here  ; 

And  that  is  false  thou  dost  report  to  us. 
Serv.  Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true ; 

I  have  not  breathed  almost  since  I  did  see  it. 

He  cries  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you, 

To  scorch  your  face  and  to  disfigure  you.  [  Cry  within. 

Hark,  hark !  I  hear  him,  mistress  :  fly,  be  gone  ! 
Duke.  Come,  stand  by  me  ;  fear  nothing.    Guard  with  halberds ! 
Adr.  Ay  me,  it  is  my  husband  !     Witness  you, 

That  he  is  borne  about  invisible : 

Even  now  we  housed  him  in  the  abbey  here ; 

And  now  he's  there,  past  thought  of  human  reason. 

Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  and  Dromio  of  Ephesus. 
Ant.  E.  Justice,  most  gracious  Duke,  O,  grant  me  justice  ! 

Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee, 

When  I  bestrid  thee  in  the  wars,  and  took 

Deep  scars  to  save  thy  life ;  even  for  the  blood 

That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 
s&ge.  Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make  me  dote, 

I  see  my  son  Antipholus,  and  Dromio. 
Ant.  E.  Justice,  sweet  prince,  against  that  woman  there ! 

She  whom  thou  gavest  to  me  to  be  my  wife, 

That  hath  abused  and  dishonour'd  me 

Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury : 

Beyond  imagination  is  the  wrong 

That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thrown  on  me. 
Duke.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shalt  find  me  just. 
Ant.  E.  This  day,  great  Duke,  she  shut  the  doors  upon  me, 

While  she  with  harlots  feasted  in  my  house. 
Duke.  A  grievous  fault !     Say,  woman,  didst  thou  so  ? 
Adr.  No,  my  good  lord  :  myself,  he  and  my  sister 

To-day  did  dine  together.     So  befal  my  soul 

As  this  is  false  he  burthens  me  withal ! 
Luc.  Ne'er  may  I  look  on  day,  nor  sleep  on  night, 

But  she  tells  to  your  Highness  simple  truth  ! 
Ang.  O  perjured  woman  !     They  are  both  forsworn : 

In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 
Ant.  E.  My  liege,  I  am  advised  what  I  say  ; 

Neither  disturbed  with  the  effect  of  wine, 

Nor  heady-rash,  provoked  with  raging  ire, 

Albeit  my  wrongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 

This  woman  lock'd  me  out  this  day  from  dinner  ; 

That  goldsmith  there,  were  he  not  pack'd  with  her, 

Could  witness  it,  for  he  was  with  me  then ; 

Who  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain, 

272 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Porpentine, 

Where  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 

Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coming  thither, 

I  went  to  seek  him  :  in  the  street  I  met  him, 

And  in  his  company  that  gentleman. 

There  did  this  perjured  goldsmith  swear  me  down 

That  I  this  day  of  him  received  the  chain, 

Which,  God  he  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which 

He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officer. 

I  did  obey  ;  and  sent  my  peasant  home 

For  certain  ducats  :  he  with  none  return 'd. 

Then  fairly  I  bespoke  the  officer 

To  go  in  person  with  me  to  my  house. 

By  the  way  we  met  my  wife,  her  sister,  and  a  rabble  more 

Of  vile  confederates.     Along  with  them 

They  brought  one  Pinch,  a  hungry  lean-faced  villain, 

A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountebank, 

A  threadbare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller, 

A  needy,  hollow-eyed,  sharp-looking  wretch, 

A  living  dead  man  :  this  pernicious  slave, 

Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjurer ; 

And,  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse, 

And  with  no  face,  as  'twere,  outfacing  me, 

Cries  out,  I  was  possess'd.     Then  all  together 

They  fell  upon  me,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence, 

And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vault  at  home 
.    There  left  me  and  my  man,  both  bound  together ; 

Till,  gnawing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 

I  gain'd  my  freedom,  and  immediately 

Ran  hither  to  your  Grace ;  whom  I  beseech 

To  give  me  ample  satisfaction 

For  these  deep  shames  and  great  indignities. 
Ang.  My  lord,  in  truth,  thus  far  I  witness  with  him, 

That  he  dined  not  at  home,  but  was  lock'd  out. 
Duke.  But  had  he  such  a  chain  of  thee  or  no  ? 
Ang.  He  had,  my  lord  :  and  when  he  ran  in  here, 

These  people  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 
Sec.  Mer.  Besides,  I  will  be  sworn  these  ears  of  mine 

Heard  you  confess  you  had  the  chain  of  him, 

After  you  first  forswore  it  on  the  mart : 

And  thereupon  I  drew  my  sword  on  you ; 

And  then  you  fled  into  this  abbey  here, 

From  whence,  I  think,  you  are  come  by  miracle. 
Ant.  E.  I  never  came  within  these  abbey-walls  ; 

Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  me : 

273 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

I  never  saw  the  chain,  so  help  me  Heaven ! 

And  this  is  false  you  burthen  me  withal. 
Duke.  Why,  what  an  intricate  impeach  is  this  ! 

I  think  you  all  have  drunk  of  Circe's  cup. 

If  here  you  housed  him,  here  he  would  have  been  ; 

If  he  were  mad,  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly : 

You  say  he  dined  at  home ;  the  goldsmith  here 

Denies  that  saying.     Sirrah,  what  say  you  ? 
Dro.  E.  Sir,  he  dined, with  her  there,  at  the  Porpentine. 
Cour.  He  did ;  and  from  my  finger  snatch'd  that  ring. 
Ant.  E.  'Tis  true,  my  liege ;  this  ring  I  had  of  her. 
Duke.  Saw'st  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey  here  ? 
Cour.  As  sure,  my  liege,  as  I  do  see  your  Grace. 
Duke.  Why,  this  is  strange.     Go  call  the  abbess  hither. 

I  think  you  are  all  mated,  or  stark  mad. 

{Exit  one  to  the  Abbess. 
Most  mighty  Duke,  vouchsafe  me  speak  a  word : 

Haply  I  see  a  friend  will  save  my  life, 

And  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  me. 
Duke.  Speak  freely,  Syracusian,  what  thou  wilt. 
&ge.  Is  not  your  name,  sir,  call'd  Antipholus  ? 

And  is  not  that  your  bondman,  Dromio  ? 
Dro.  E.  Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bondman,  sir, 

But  he,  I  thank  him,  gnaw'd  in  two  my  cords : 

Now  am  I  Dromio,  and  his  man  unbound. 
<d2ge.  I  am  sure  you  both  of  you  remember  me, 
Dro.  E.  Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir,  by  you  ; 

For  lately  we  were  bound,  as  you  are  now. 

You  are  not  Pinch's  patient,  are  you,  sir  ? 
&ge.  Why  look  you  strange  on  me  ?  you  know  me  well. 
Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  you  in  my  life  till  now. 
^Ege.  O,  grief  hath  changed  me  since  you  saw  me  last, 

And  careful  hours  with  time's  deformed  hand 

Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face : 

But  tell  me  yet,  dost  thou  not  know  my  voice  ? 
Ant.  E.  Neither. 
s£ge.  Dromio,  nor  thou  ? 

Dro.  E.  No,  trust  me,  sir,  nor  I. 

sEge.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 
Dro.  E.  Ay,  sir,  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and  whatsoever  a 

man  denies,  you  are  now  bound  to  believe  him. 
Not  know  my  voice  !     O  time's  extremity, 

Hast  thou  so  crack'd  and  splitted  my  poor  tongue 

In  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 

Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untuned  cares  ? 

274 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Though  now  this  grained  face  of  mine  be  hid 

In  sap-consuming  winter's  drizzled  snow, 

And  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up, 

Yet  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory, 

My  wasting  lamps  some  fading  glimmer  left, 

My  dull  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear : 

All  these  old  witnesses — I  cannot  err— 
Tell  me  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 
Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 
&ge.  But  seven  years  since,  in  Syracusa,  boy, 

Thou  know'st  we  parted  :  but,  perhaps,  my  son. 

Thou  shamest  to  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 
Ant.  E.  The  Duke  and  all  that  know  me  in  the  ciij 

Can  witness  with  me  that  it  is  not  so : 

I  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 
Duke.  I  tell  thee,  Syracusian,  twenty  years 

Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 

During  which  time  he  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  : 

I  see  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Re-enter  Abbess,  with  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  and 

Dromio  of  Syracuse. 
Abb.  Most  mighty  Duke,  behold  a  man  much  wrong'd. 

[All  gather  to  see  them. 

Adr.'  I  see  two  husbands,  or, mine  eyes  deceive  me. 
Duke.  One  of  these  men  is  Genius  to  the  other ; 

And  so  of  these.    Which  is  the  natural  man, 

And  which  the  spirit  ?  who  deciphers  them  ? 
Dro.  S.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio  :  command  him  away. 
Dro.  E.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio ;  pray,  let  me  stay. 
Ant.  S.  ^Egeon  art  thou  not  ?  or  else  his  ghost  ? 
Dro.  S.  O,  my  old  master  !  who  hath  bound  him  here  ? 
Abb.  Whoever  bound  him,  I  will  loose  his  bonds, 

And  gain  a  husband  by  his  liberty. 

Speak,  old  ^Egeon,  if  thou  be'st  the  man 

That  hadst  a  wife  once  call'd  ./Emilia, 

That  bore  thee  at  a  burthen  two  fair  sons : 

O,  if  thou  be'st  the  same  ^Egeon,  speak, 

And  speak  unto  the  same  Emilia  ! 
&ge.  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  ^Emilia : 

If  thou  art  she,  tell  me,  where  is  that  son 

That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fatal  raft  ? 
Abb.  By  men  of  Epidamnum  he  and  I 

And  the  twin  Dromio,  all  were  taken  up 

But  by  and  by  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 

By  force  took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  them, 

275 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Comedy  of  Errors 

And  me  they  left  with  those  of  Epidamnum. 

What  then  became  of  them  I  cannot  tell ; 

I  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in. 
Duke.  Why,  here  begins  his  morning  story  right : 

These  two  Antipholuses,  these  two  so  like, 

And  these  two  Dromios,  one  in  semblance, — 

Besides  her  urging  of  her  wreck  at  sea, — 

These  are  the  parents  to  these  children, 

Which  accidentally  are  met  together. 

Antipholus,  thou  earnest  from  Corinth  first? 
Ant.  S.  No,  sir,  not  I ;  I  came  from  Syracuse. 
Duke.  Stay,  stand  apart ;  I  know  not  which  is  which. 
Ant.  E.   I  came  from  Corinth,  my  most  gracious  lord, — 
Dro.  E.  And  I  with  him. 
Ant.  E.  Brought  to  this  town  by  that  most  famous  warrior, 

Duke  Menaphon,  your  most  renowned  uncle. 
Adr.  Which  of  you  two  did  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 
Ant.  S.  I,  gentle  mistress. 

Adr.  And  are  not  you  my  husband  ? 

Ant.  E.  No  ;  I  say  nay  to  that. 
Ant.  S.  And  so  do  I ;  yet  did  she  call  me  so : 

And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  her  sister  here, 

Did  call  me  brother.  \To  Luciano]  What  I  told  you  then, 

I  hope  I  shall  have  leisure  to  make  good ; 

If  this  be  not  a  dream  I  see  and  hear. 
Ang.  That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  you  had  of  me. 
Ant.  S.  I  think  it  be,  sir ;  I  deny  it  not. 
Ant.  E.  And  you,  sir,  for  this  chain  arrested  me. 
Ang.  I  think  I  did,  sir ;  I  deny  it  not. 
Adr.  I  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail, 

By  Dromio  ;  but  I  think  he  brought  it  not. 
Dro.  E.  No,  none  by  me. 
Ant.  S.  This  purse  of  ducats  I  received  from  you, 

And  Dromio  my  man  did  bring  them  me. 

I  see  we  still  did  meet  each  other's  man ; 

And  I  was  ta'en  for  him,  and  he  for  me ; 

And  thereupon  these  ERRORS  are  arose 
Ant.  E.  These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father  nere. 
Duke.  It  shall  not  need ;  thy  father  hath  his  life. 
Cour.  Sir,  I  must  have  that  diamond  from  you. 
Ant.  E.  There,  take  it ;  and  much  thanks  for  my  good  cheer. 
Abb.  Renowned  Duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 

To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 

And  hear  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes : 

And  all  that  are  assembled  in  this  place, 

276 


The  Comedy  of  Errors  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

That  by  this  sympathized  one  day's  error 

Have  suffered  wrong,  go  keep  us  company, 

And  we  shall  make  full  satisfaction. 

Thirty-three  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 

Of  you,  my  sons ;  and  till  this  present  hour 

My  heavy  burthen  ne'er  delivered. 

The  Duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both, 

And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity, 

Go  to  a  gossips'  feast,  and  go  with  me ; 

After  so  long  grief,  such  nativity  ! 
Duke.  With  all  my  heart,  I  Jll  gossip  at  this  feast. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ant.  S.,  Ant.  E.,  Dro.  S.,  and  Dro.  E. 
Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  fetch  your  stuff  from  ship-board  ? 
Ant.  E.  Dromio,  what  stuff  of  mine  hast  thou  embark'd  ? 
Dro.  S.  Your  goods  that  lay  at  host,  sir,  in  the  Centaur. 
Ant.  S.  He  speaks  to  me.     I  am  your  master,  Dromio  : 

Come,  go  with  us ;  we  '11  look  to  that  anon : 

Embrace  thy  brother  there  ;  rejoice  with  him. 

[Exeunt  Ant.  S.  and  Ant.  E. 
Dro.  S.  There  is  a  fat  friend  at  your  master's  house, 

That  kitchen'd  me  for  you  to-day  at  dinner : 

She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 
Dro.  E.  Methinks  you  are  my  glass,  and  not  my  brother  : 

I  see  by  you  I  am  a  sweet-faced  youth. 

Will  you  walk  in  to  see  their  gossiping  ? 
Dro.  S.  Not  I,  sir ;  you  are  my  elder. 
Dro.  E.  That 's  a  question :  how  shall  we  try  it  ? 
Dro.  S.  We  '11  draw  cuts  for  the  senior :   till  then  lead  thou 

first. 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  then,  thus  : 

We  came  into  the  world  like  brother  and  brother ; 

And  now  let 's  go  hand  in  hand,  not  one  before  another. 

[Exeunt. 


277 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


DON  PEDRO,  prince  of  A  rragon. 
DON  JOHN,  his  bastard  brother. 
CLAUDIO,  a  young  lord  of  Florence. 
BENEDICK,  a  young  lord  of  Padua. 
LEONATO,  governor  of  Messina. 
ANTONIO,  his  brother. 
BALTHASAR,  attendant  on  Don  Pedro. 

BoR^To,     }  folders  of  Don  John. 
FRIAR  FRANCIS. 

SCENE, 


DOGBERRY,  a  constable. 
VEKGES,  a  headborough. 
A  SEXTON. 
A  BOY. 


HERO,  daughter  to  Leonato. 
BEATRICE,  niece  to  Leonato. 
MARGARET,  \  gentlewomen,  attending  on 
URSULA,       /  Hero. 

Messengers,  Watch,  Attendants,  &c. 
Messina. 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 

Before  Leonato's  house. 

Enter  Leonato,  Hero,  and  Beatrice,  with  a  Messenger. 

Leon.  I  learn  in  this  letter  that  Don  Pedro  of  Arragon  comes 
this  night  to  Messina.  [I  left  him. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this  :  he  was  not  three  leagues  off  when 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this  action  ? 

Mess.  But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself  when  the  achiever  brings  home 
full  numbers.  I  find  here  that  Don  Pedro  hath  bestowed 
much  honour  on  a  young  Florentine  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally  remembered  by 
Don  Pedro  :  he  hath  borne  himself  beyond  the  promise  of  his 
age ;  doing,  in  the  figure  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion :  he 
hath  indeed  better  bettered  expectation  than  you  must  expect 
of  me  to  tell  you  how.  [of  it. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be  very  much  glad 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there  appears 
much  joy  in  him ;  even  so  much,  that  joy  could  not  show 
itself  modest  enough  without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

Leon.  Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

Mess.  In  great  measure. 

Leon.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness :  there  are  no  faces  truer 
than  those  that  are  so  washed.  How  much  better  is  it  to 
weep  at  joy  than  to  joy  at  weeping  !  [or  no  ? 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  Signior  Mountanto  returned  from  the  wars 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady :  there  was  none  such 
in  the  army  of  any  sort. 

Leon.  What  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

Hero.  My  cousin  means  Signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 

Mess.  O,  he  's  returned  ;  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills  herein  Messina  and  challenged  Cupid 

278 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

at  the  flight ;  and  my  uncle's  fool,  reading  the  challenge,  sub 
scribed  for  Cupid,  and  challenged  him  at  the  bird-bolt.  I 
pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these  wars  ? 
But  how  many  hath  he  killed  ?  for,  indeed,  I  promised  to  eat 
all  of  his  killing. 

Leon.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  Signior  Benedick  too  much ;  but 
he  '11  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  service,  lady,  in  these  wars. 

Beat.  You  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp  to  eat  it :  he  is 
a  very  valiant  trencher-man ;  he  hath  an  excellent  stomach. 

Mess.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady  ;   but  what  is  he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  man;  stuffed  with  all 
honourable  virtues. 

Beat.  It  is  so,  indeed ;  he  is  no  less  than  a  stuffed  man :  but 


for  the  stuffing, — well,  we  are  all  mortal. 


Leon.  You  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece.  There  is  a  kind  of 
merry  war  betwixt  Signior  Benedick  and  her  :  they  never 
meet  but  there  's  a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them. 

Beat.  Alas  !  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our  last  conflict  four 
of  his  five  wits  went  halting  off,  and  now  is  the  whole  man 
governed  with  one :  so  that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep 
himself  warm,  let  him  bear  it  for  a  difference  between 
himself  and  his  horse ;  for  it  is  all  the  wealth  that  he  hath 
left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature.  Who  is  his  com 
panion  now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new  sworn  brother. 

Mess.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Beat.  Very  easily  possible  :  he  wears  his  faith  but  as  the  fashion 
of  his  hat ;  it  ever  changes  with  the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your  books. 

Beat.  No ;  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study.  But,  I  pray 
you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there  no  young  squarer  now 
that  will  make  a  voyage  with  him  to  the  devil  ? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right  noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  O  Lord,  he  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease  :  he  is 
sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence,  and  the  taker  runs 
presently  mad.  God  help  the  noble  Claudio !  if  he  have 
caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere 

Mess.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady.  .     [a'  be  cured. 

Beat.  Do,  good  friend. 

Leon.  You  will  never  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.  Don  Pedro  is  approached. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  Claudio,  Benedick  and  Balthazar. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  Signior  Leonato,  you  are  come  to  meet  your 

279 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

trouble :   the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to  avoid  cost,  and  you 

encounter  it. 
Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  likeness  of  your 

Grace  :  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort  should  remain  ;  but 

when  you  depart  from  me,  sorrow  abides,   and  happiness 

takes  his  leave.  [this  is  your  daughter. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  willingly.      I  think 
Leon.  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 
Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ? 
Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no  ;  for  then  were  you  a  child. 
D.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full,  Benedick  :    we  may  guess  by  this 

what  you  are,  being  a  man.     Truly,  the  lady  fathers  herself. 

Be  happy,  lady ;  for  you  are  like  an  honourable  father. 
Bene.  If  Signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would  not  have  his 

head  on  her  shoulders  for  all  Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is. 
Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior  Benedick  : 

nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet  living  ? 
Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die  while  she  hath  such  meet 

food  to  feed  it,  as  Signior  Benedick  ?     Courtesy  itself  must 

convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her  presence. 
Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat.      But  it  is  certain  I  am 

loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted :    and  I  would  I  could 

find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard  heart ;    for,  truly,  I 

love  none. 
Beat.  A   dear  happiness  to   women  :    they  would  else   have 

been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.     I  thank  God  and 

my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humour  for  that :    I  had  rather 

hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  me. 
Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind  !    so  some 

gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predestinate  scratched  face. 
Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  'twere  such  a 

face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 
Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast  of  yours. 
Bene.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your  tongue,  and  so 

good  a  continuer.     But  keep  your  way,  i'  God's  name ;  I 

have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  :  I  know  you  of  old. 
D.  Pedro.  That  is  the  sum  of  all,  Leonato.     Signior  Claudio 

and  Signior  Benedick,  my  dear  friend  Leonato  hath  invited 

you  all.     I  tell  him  we  shall  stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ; 

and   he  heartily  prays  some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer. 

I  dare  swear  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his  heart. 
Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  forsworn.  \To 

280 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Don  John\  Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord :  being  recon 
ciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you  :  I  am  not  of  many  words,  but  I  thank 

Leon.  Please  it  your  Grace  lead  on  ?  [y°u- 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato  ;  we  will  go  together. 

^Exeunt  all  except  Benedick  and  Claudia. 

Claud.  Benedick,   didst    thou  note  the  daughter   of   Signior 

Bene.  I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her.  [Leonato  ? 

Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me,  as  an  honest  man  should  do,  for 
my  simple  true  judgement?  or  would  you  have  me  speak 
after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant  to  their  sex  ? 

Claud.  No  :  I  pray  thee  speak  in  sober  judgement. 

Bene.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she 's  too  low  for  a  high  praise, 
too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little  for  a  great  praise  : 
only  this  commendation  I  can  afford  her,  that  were  she  other 
than  she  is,  she  were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no  other  but 
as  she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  I  am  in  sport :  I  pray  thee  tell  me  truly 
how  thou  likest  her. 

Bene.  Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after  her  ? 

Claud.  Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak  you  this  with 
a  sad  brow  ?  or  do  you  play  the  flouting  Jack,  to  tell  us 
Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder,  and  Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter  ? 
Come,  in  what  key  shall  a  man  take  you,  to  go  in  the  song  ? 

'Claud.  In  mine  eye  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that  ever  I 
looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see  no  such 
matter  :  there 's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not  possessed  with  a 
fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth 
the  last  of  December.  But  I  hope  you  have  no  intent  to 

1     turn  husband,  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  had  sworn  the 
contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Bene.  Is 't  come  to  this  ?  In  faith,  hath  not  the  world  one 
man  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion  ?  Shall  I  never 
see  a  bachelor  of  threescore  again  ?  Go  to,  i'  faith  ;  an  thou 
wilt  needs  thrust  thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it, 
and  sigh  away  Sundays.  Look  ;  Don  Pedro  is  returned  to 
seek  you. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that  you  followed 
not  to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would  your  Grace  would  constrain  me  to  tell. 

281 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

D.  Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  Count  Claudio :  I  can  be  secret  as  a  dumb 
man ;  I  would  have  you  think  so  ;  but,  on  my  allegiance, 
mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance.  He  is  in  love.  With  who  ? 
now  that  is  your  Grace's  part.  Mark  how  short  his  answer 
is  ; — With  Hero,  Leonato's  short  daughter. 

Claud.  If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord  :  '  it  is  not  so,  nor  'twas  not 
so,  but,  indeed,  God  forbid  it  should  be  so.' 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  God  forbid  it  should 
be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady  is  very  well 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord.  [worthy. 

Zh  Pedro,  By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.  And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I -spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord,  I  spoke 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel.  [mine. 

D.  Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved,  nor  know 
how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opinion  that  fire  cannot 
melt  out  of  me  :  I  will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  £ver  an  obstinate  heretic  in  the  despite 
of  beauty.  [his  will. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part  but  in  the  force  of 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her;  that  she 
brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most  humble  thanks  : 
but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat  winded  in  my  forehead,  or 
hang  my  bugle  in  an  invisible  baldrick,  all  women  shall 
pardon  me.  Because  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to 
mistrust  any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none  ; 
and  the  fine  is,  for  which  I  may  go  the  finer,  I  will  live  a 
bachelor. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale  with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger,  my  lord  ;  not 
with  love  :  prove  that  ever  I  lose  more  blood  with  love  than 
I  will  get  again  with  drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a 
ballad-maker's  pen,  and  hang  me  up  at  the  door  of  a  brothel- 
house  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  thou  dost  fall  from  this  faith,  thou 
wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,  and  shoot  at  me ; 
and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped  on  the  shoulder 
and  called  Adam. 

D.Pedro.  Well,  as  time  shall  try: 

*In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke.' 

282 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  the  sensible  Benedick 
bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and  set  them  in  my  fore 
head  :  and  let  me  be  vilely  painted  ;  and  in  such  great  letters 
as  they  write  '  Here  is  good  horse  to  hire/  let  them  signify 
under  my  sign  '  Here  you  may  see  Benedick  the  married 
man.' 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  wouldst  be  horn-mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver  in 
Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

JSene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too,  then. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the  hours.  In  the 
meantime,  good  Signior  Benedick,  repair  to  Leonato's: 
commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  will  not  fail  hirr 
at  supper:  for  indeed  he  hath  made  great  preparation, 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such  aL 
embassage;  and  so  I  commit  you — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God  :  From  my  house,  if  I  had  it, — 

D.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July  :  Your  loving  friend,  Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not.  The  body  of  your  discourse 
is  sometime  guarded  with  fragments,  and  the  guards  are 
but  slightly  basted  on  neither :  ere  you  flout  old  ends  any 
further,  examine  your  conscience :  and  so  I  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me  good. 

JD.  Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach  :  teach  it  but  how, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 
"  Claud.  Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

JD.  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero  ;  she 's  his  only  heir. 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  O,  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  : 
But  now  I  am  return'd  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words. 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her.     Was  't  not  to  this  end 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

283 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  Much  Ado  About  No 

Claud.  How  sweetly  you  do  minister  to  love, 

That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion ! 

But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 

I  would  have  salved  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 
D.  Pedro.  What  need  the  bridge  much  broader  than  the  flood  ? 

The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity. 

Look,  what  will  serve  is  fit :  'tis  once,  thou  lovest, 

And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 

I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night : 

I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 

And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 

And  in  her  bosom  I  '11  unclasp  my  heart, 

And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 

And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale : 

Then  after  to  her  father  will  I  break ; 

And  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine. 

In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A  room  in  LeonatJs  house. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio,  meeting. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother !  Where  is  my  cousin,  your  son  ? 
hath  he  provided  this  music  ? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brother,  I  can  tell  you 
strange  news,  that  you  yet  dreamt  not  of. 

Leon.  Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them  :  but  they  have  a  good  cover  ; 
they  show  well  outward.  The  prince  and  Count  Claudio, 
walking  in  a  thick-pleached  alley  in  mine  orchard,  were  thus 
much  overheard  by  a  man  of  mine :  the  prince  discovered 
to  Claudio  that  he  loved  my  niece  your  daughter,  and 
meant  to  acknowledge  it  this  night  in  a  dance ;  and  if  he 
found  her  accordant,  he  meant  to  take  the  present  time  by 
the  top,  and  instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit  that  told  you  this? 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow  :  I  will  send  for  him ;  and  question 
him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no  ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream  till  it  appear  itself : 
but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter  withal,  that  she  may  be  the 
better  prepared  for  an  answer,  if  peradventure  this  be  true. 
Go  you  and  tell  her  of  it.  [Enter  attendants.']  Cousins,  you 
know  what  you  have  to  do.  O,  I  cry  you  mercy,  friend ;  go 
you  with  me,  and  I  will  use  your  skill.  Good  cousin,  have 
a  care  this  busy  time.  [Exeunt. 

284 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

SCENE  III 

The  same. 

Enter  Don  John  and  Conrade. 

Con.  What  the  good-year,  my  lord  !  why  are  you  thus  out  of 
measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that   breeds ; 
therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.  You  should  hear  reason. 

D.John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  blessing  brings  it  ? 

Con.   If  not  a  present  remedy,  at  least  a  patient  sufferance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder  that  thou,  being  (as  thou  sayest  thou  art) 
born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to  apply  a  moral  medicine 
to  a  mortifying  mischief.  I  cannot  hide  what  I  am  :  I 
must  be  sad  when  I  have  cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's 
jests ;  eat  when  I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for  no  man's 
leisure;  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  on  no  man's 
business ;  laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  no  man  in  his 
humour. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show  of  this  till  you 
may  do  it  without  controlment.  You  have  of  late  stood  out 
against  your  brother,  and  he  hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his 
grace ;  where  it  is  impossible  you  should  take  true  root  but 
by  the  fair  weather  that  you  make  yourself :  it  is  needful 
that  you  frame  the  season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge  than  a  rose  in 
his  grace ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to  be  disdained  of  all 
than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to  rob  love  from  any :  in  this, 
though  I  cannot  be  said  to  be  a  flattering  honest  man,  it 
must  not  be  denied  but  I  am  a  plain -dealing  villain.  I  am 
trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfranchised  with  a  clog  ;  therefore 
I  have  decreed  not  to  sing  in  my  cage.  If  I  had  my  mouth, 
I  would  bite ;  if  I  had  my  liberty,  I  would  do  my  liking :  in 
the  meantime  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to  alter  me. 

Con.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

D.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only. 
Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Borachio. 
What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Bora.   I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper :  the  prince  your 
brother  is  royally  entertained  by  Leonato ;  and  I  can  give 
you  intelligence  of  an  intended  marriage. 
D.John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build  mischief  on? 

What  is  he  for  a  fool  that  betroths  himself  to  unquietness  ? 
Bora.  Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

285 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

D.  John.  Who  ?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Bora.  Even  he. 

D.  John.  A  proper  squire !  And  who,  and  who  ?  which  way 
looks  he? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of  Leonato. 

D.  John.  A  very  forward  March-chick !  How  came  you  to 
this? 

Bora.  Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was  smoking  a 
musty  room,  comes  me  the  prince  and  Claudio,  hand  in 
hand,  in  sad  conference :  I  whipt  me  behind  the  arras  ;  and 
there  heard  it  agreed  upon,  that  the  prince  should  woo 
Hero  for  himself,  and  having  obtained  her,  give  her  to 
Count  Claudio. 

D.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither :  this  may  prove  food  to 
my  displeasure.  That  young  start-up  hath  all  the  glory  of 
my  overthrow  :  if  I  can  cross  him  any  way,  I  bless  myself 
every  way.  You  are  both  sure,  and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.  To  the  death,  my  lord. 

D.  John.  Let  us   to   the   great   supper :    their   cheer  is   the 
greater  that  I  am  subdued.     Would  the  cook  were  of  my 
mind !     Shall  we  go  prove  what 's  to  be  done  ? 
Bora.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 

A  hall  in  Leonato's  house. 

Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and  others. 

Leon.  Was  not  Count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !     I  never  can  see  him 

but  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 
Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 
Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made  just  in  the 

midway  between  him  and  Benedick  :  the  one  is  too  like  an 

image  and  says  nothing,  and  the  other  too  like  my  lady's 

eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 
Leon.  Then  half  Signior  Benedick's  tongue  in  Count  John's 

mouth,    and    half.   Count    John's    melancholy    in    Signior 

Benedick's  face, — 
Beat.  With  a  good  leg  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and  money 

enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any  woman  in 

the  world,  if  a'  could  get  her  good-will. 
Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a  husband, 

if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 
Ant.  In  faith,  she 's  too  curst. 

286 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst :  I  shall  lessen  God's  send 
ing  that  way ;  for  it  is  said,  '  God  sends  a  curst  cow  short 
horns  ; '  but  to  a  cow  too  curst  he  sends  none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you  no  horns. 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband ;  for  the  which  blessing 
I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every  morning  and  evening. 
Lord,  I  could  not  endure  a  husband  with  a  beard  on  his 
face  :  I  had  rather  lie  in  the  woollen. 

Leon.  You  may  light  on  a  husband  that  hath  no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him?  dress  him  in  my  apparel, 
and  make  him  my  waiting-gentlewoman  ?  He  that  hath  a 
beard  is  more  than  a  youth  ;  and  he  that  hath  no  beard  is 
less  than  a  man  :  and  he  that  is  more  than  a  youth  is  not 
for  me ;  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  not  for  him  : 
therefore  I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the  bear- 
ward,  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

Leon.  Well,  then,  go  you  into  hell? 

Beat.  No,  but  to  the  gate ;  and  there  will  the  devil  meet  me, 
like  an  old  cuckold,  with  horns  on  his  head,  and  say  '  Get 
you  to  heaven,  Beatrice, : get  you  to  heaven;  here's  no  place 
for  you  maids : '  so  deliver  I  up  my  apes,  and  away  to  Saint 
Peter  for  the  heavens ;  he  shows  me  where  the  bachelors 
sit,  and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  \To  Hero\  Well,  niece,  I  trust  you  will  be  ruled  by  your 
father. 

Beat.  Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  courtesy,  and 

•  say,  '  Father,  as  it  please  you.'  But  yet  for  all  that,  cousin, 
let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another  courtesy, 
and  say,  'Father,  as  it  please  me.'  [husband. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,   I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with  a 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  with  a 
piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  to  make  an  account  of  her  life  to  a 
clod  of  wayward  marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I  '11  none  :  Adam's  sons 
are  my  brethren ;  and,  truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my 
kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you  :  if  the  prince  do 
solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be  not 
wooed  in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too  important,  tell 
him  there  is  measure  in  every  thing,  and  so  dance  out  the 
answer.  For,  hear  me,  Hero :  wooing,  wedding,  and 
repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque 
pace :  the  first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and 
full  as  fantastical ;  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a 

287 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

measure,    full    of   state   and   ancientry ;    and    then   comes 

repentance,  and,   with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque 

pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 
Leon.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 
Beat.  I    have   a   good   eye,  uncle;    I    can   see  a  church   by 

daylight. 

Leon.     The  revellers  are  entering,  brother :  make  good  room. 

[All -put  on  their  masks. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,    Claudio,  Benedick,  Balthazar,  Don  John, 

Borachio,  Margaret,  Ursula,  and  others,  masked. 
D.  Pedro.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your  friend  ? 
Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and  say  nothing,  I 

am  yours  for  the  walk ;  and  especially  when  I  walk  away. 
D.  Pedro.  With  me  in  your  company  ? 
Hero.  I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 
D.  Pedro.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 
Hero.  When  I  like  your  favour ;  for  God  defend  the  lute  should. 

be  like  the  case ! 

D.  Pedro.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof;  within  the  house  is 
Hero.  Why,  then,  your  visor  should  be  thatched.  [Jove. 

D.  Pedro.  Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love.      [Drawing  her  aside. 
Balth.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marg.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake;  for  I  have  many 
Balth.  Which  is  one  ?  [ill  qualities. 

Marg.  I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Balth.  I  love  you  the  better  :  the  hearers  may  cry,  Amen. 
Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer  ! 
Balth.  Amen. 
Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight  when  the  dance  is 

done !     Answer,  clerk. 

Balth.  No  more  words  :  the  clerk  is  answered. 
Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough ;  you  are  Signior  Antonio. 
Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 
Urs.  I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 
Ant.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 
Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well,  unless  you  were  the 

very  man.     Here  Js  his  dry  hand  up  and  down  :  you  are  he, 

you  are  he. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 
Urs.  Come,  come,  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  you  by  your 

excellent  wit  ?  can  virtue  hide  itself?     Go  to,  mum,  you  are 

he :  graces  will  appear,  and  there  ;s  an  end. 
Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 
Bene.  No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 
Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

288 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful,  and  that  I  had  my  good  wit  out 
of  the  '  Hundred  Merry  Tales ' : — well,  this  was  Signior 
Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What 's  he  ? 

Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  prince's  jester  :  a  very  dull  fool ;  only  his 
gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders :  none  but  libertines 
delight  in  him ;  and  the  commendation  is  not  in  his  wit,  but 
in  his  villany ;  for  he  both  pleases  men  and  angers  them,  and 
then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  I  am  sure  he  is  in 
the  fleet :  I  would  he  had  boarded  me. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I  '11  tell  him  what  you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do :  he  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or  two  on  me ; 
which,  peradventure  not  marked  or  not  laughed  at,  strikes 
him  into  melancholy ;  and  then  there 's  a  partridge  wing 
saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat  no  supper  that  night.  [Music7\ 
We  must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.  In  every  good  thing.  [turning. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them  at  the  next 
{Dance.      Then  exeunt  all  except  Don  John, 
Borachio,  and  Claudio. 

D.  John.  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and  hath  with 
drawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about  it.  The  ladies 
follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remains. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio :  I  know  him  by  his  bearing. 

D.  John.  Are  not  you  Signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

D.  John.  Signior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother  in  his  love ; 
he  is^enamoured  on  Hero;  I  pray  you,  dissuade  him  from 
her  :  'she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth  :  you  may  do  the  part  of 
an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.  How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

D  John.  I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too  ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry  her  to-night. 

D.John.  Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

\Exeunt  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

Claud.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. 
'Tis  certain  so ;  the  prince  wooes  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 

289  K 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Therefore  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues ; 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent ;  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood. 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof, 
Which  I  mistrusted  not.     Farewell,  therefore,  Hero ! 
Re-enter  Benedick, 

Bene.  Count  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Claud.  Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own  business, 
county.  What  fashion  will  you  wear  the  garland  of?  about 
your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain  ?  or  under  your  arm,  like  a 
lieutenant's  scarf?  You  'must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the 
pr.ince  hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.  I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

Bene.  Why,  that 's  spoken  like  an  honest  drovier ;  so  they  sell 
bullocks.  But  did  you  think  the  prince  would  have  served 

Claud.  I  pray  you,  leave  me.  [you  thus  ? 

Bene.  Ho !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man ;  'twas  the  boy 
that  stole  your  meat,  and  you  '11  beat  the  post. 

Claud.  If  it  will  not  be,  I  '11  leave  you.       .  [Exit. 

Bene.  Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl !  now  will  he  creep  into  sedges. 
But,  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should  know  me,  and  not 
know  me  !  The  prince's  fool !  Ha  ?  It  may  be  I  go  under 
that  title  because  I  am  merry.  Yea,  but  so  I  am  apt 
to  do  myself  wrong ;  I  am  not  so  reputed  :  it  is  the  base, 
though  bitter,  disposition  of  Beatrice  that  puts  the  world 
into  her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I  '11  be  revenged 
as  I  may. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  signior,  where  's  the  count  ?  did  you  see  him  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of  Lady  Fame. 
I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a  warren :  I 
told  him,  and  I  think  I  told  him  true,  that  your  grace  had 
got  the  good  will  of  this  young  lady  ;  and  I  offered  him  my 
company  to  a  willow-tree,  either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as 
being  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as  being  worthy  to 

D.  Pedro.  To  be  whipped  !     What 's  his  fault  ?     [be  whipped. 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  school-boy,  who,  being  over 
joyed  with  finding  a  birds'  nest,  shows  it  his  companion,  and 
he  steals  it. 

D,  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ?  The  trans 
gression  is  in  the  stealer. 

290 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss  the  rod  had  been  made,  and 
the  garland  too ;  for  the  garland  he  might  have  worn  him 
self,  and  the  rod  he  might  have  bestowed  on  you,  who,  as  I 
take  it,  have  stolen  his  birds'  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore  them  to 
the  owner.  [honestly. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my  faith,  you  say 

D.  Pedro.  The  Lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you  :  the  gentle 
man  that  danced  with  her  told  her  she  is  much  wronged  by 
you. 

Bene.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a  block  !  an 
oak  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it  would  have  answered  her ; 
my  very  visor  began  to  assume  life  and  scold  with  her.  She 
told  me,  not  thinking  I  had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the 
prince's  jester,  that  I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw ;  huddling 
jest  upon  jest,  with  such  impossible  conveyance,  upon  me, 
that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark,  with  a  whole  army  shoot 
ing  at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and  every  word  stabs :  if 
her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  terminations,  there  were 
no  living  near  her ;  she  would  infect  to  the  north  star.  I 
would  not  marry  her,  though  she  were  endowed  with  all 
that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgressed :  she  would 
have  made  Hercules  have  turned  spit,  yea,  and  have  cleft 
his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk  not  of  her :  you 
shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good  apparel.  I  would  to 
God  some  scholar  would  conjure  her ;  for  certainly,  while 
she  is  here,  a  man  may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sanctuary ; 
and  people  sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  go  thither ; 
so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation  follows  her. 

D.  Pedro.  Look,  here  she  comes. 

Re-enter  Claudio,  Beatrice,  Hero,  and  Leonato. 

Bene.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service  to  the  world's 
end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand  now  to  the  Antipodes 
that  you  can  devise  to  send  me  on ;  I  will  fetch  you  a  tooth- 
picker  now  from  the  furthest  inch  of  Asia ;  bring  you  the 
length  of  Prester  John's  foot ;  fetch  you  a  hair  off  the  great 
Cham's  beard ;  do  you  any  embassage  to  the  Pigmies ;  rather 
rthan  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this  harpy.  You 
have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

ID.  Pedro.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company. 

Bene.  O  God,  sir,  here  Js  a  dish  I  love  not :  I  cannot  endure 
my  Lady  Tongue.  {Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost  the  heart  of  Signior 
Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile ;  and  I  gave  him 

291 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

use  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single  one  :  marry,  once 
before  he  won  it  of  me  with  false  dice,  therefore  your  Grace 
may  well  say  I  have  lost  it.  [down. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady,  you  have  put  him 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord,  lest  I  should 
prove  the  mother  of  fools.  I  have  brought  Count  Claudio, 
whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count  !  wherefore  are  you  sad  ? 

Claud.  Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  How  then  ?  sick  ? 

Claud.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry,  nor  well ; 
but  civil  count,  civil  as  an  orange,  and  something  of  that 
jealous  complexion. 

D.  Pedro.  I'  faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be  true ;  though, 
I'  11  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is  false.  Here, 
Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name,  and  fair  Hero  is  won: 
I  have  broke  with  her  father,  and  his  good  will  obtained  : 
name  the  day  of  marriage,  and  God  give  thee  joy  ! 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with  her  my  fortunes  : 
his  Grace  hath  made  the  match,  and  all  grace  say  Amen  to  it. 

Beat.  Speak,  count,  'tis  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy :  I  were  but 
little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much.  Lady,  as  you  are 
mine,  I  am  yours  :  I  give  away  myself  for  you,  and  dote 
upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin ;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his  mouth  with  a 
kiss,  and  let  not  him  speak  neither. 

D.  Pedro.  In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

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

Claud.  And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  Lord,  for  alliance !  Thus  goes  every  one  to  the 
world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burnt ;  I  may  sit  in  a  corner,  and 
cry  heigh-ho  for  a  husband  ! 

D.  Pedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's  getting.  Hath 
your  Grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you?  Your  father  got 
excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could  come  by  them. 

D.  Pedro.  Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for  working- 
days  :  your  Grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every  day.  But,  I 
beseech  your  Grace,  pardon  me  :  I  was  born  to  speak  all 
mirth  and  no  matter. 

292 


[Act  II,  Sc.  i 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

for  we  are  the  only  love-gods.     Go  in  with  me,  and  I  will 
tell  you  my  drift.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

The  same. 

Enter  Don  John  and  Borachio. 

D.  John.  It  is  so ;  the  Count  Claudio  shall  marry  the  daughter 

Bora.  Yea,  my  lord ;  but  I  can  cross  it.  [of  Leonato. 

D.  John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment  will  be  medicin- 
able  to  me :  I  am  sick  in  displeasure  to  him ;  and  whatso 
ever  comes  athwart  his  affection  ranges  evenly  with  mine. 
How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord;  but  so  covertly  that  no  dis 
honesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.  Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since,  how  much  I 
am  in  the  favour  of  Margaret,  the  waiting  gentlewoman  to 
Hero. 

D.  John.  I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the  night,  appoint 
her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber  window. 

D.  John.  What  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death  of  this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper.  Go  you  to 
the  prince  your  brother ;  spare  not  to  tell  him  that  he  hath 
wronged  his  honour  in  marrying  the  renowned  Claudio — 
whose  estimation  do  you  mightily  hold  up — to  a  con 
taminated  stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

D.  John.  What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that  ? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex  Claudio,  to 
undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato.  Look  you  for  any  other  issue  ? 

D.John.  Only  to  despite  them  I  will  endeavour  any  thing. 

Bora.  Go,  then ;  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  Don  Pedro  and 
the  Count  Claudio  alone :  tell  them  that  you  know  that 
Hero  loves  me  ;  intend  a  kind  of  zeal  both  to  the  prince  and 
Claudio,  as, — in  love  of  your  brother's  honour,  who  hath 
made  this  match,  and  his  friend's  reputation,  who  is  thus 
like  to  be  cozened  with  the  semblance  of  a  maid, — that  you 
have  discovered  thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe  this  without 
trial :  offer  them  instances ;  which  shall  bear  no  less  likeli 
hood  than  to  see  me  at  her  chamber- window ;  hear  me  call 
Margaret,  Hero ;  hear  Margaret  term  me  Claudio ;  and  bring 
them  to  see  this  the  very  night  before  the  intended  wed 
ding, — for  in  the  meantime  I  will  so  fashion  the  matter  that 
Hero  shall  be  absent, — and  there  shall  appear  such  seeming 

294 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  Hi 

truth   of  Hero's  disloyalty,   that   jealousy   shall   be  called 

assurance  and  all  the  preparation  overthrown. 
D.John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can,  I  will  put  it 

in  practice.     Be  cunning  in  the  working  this,  and  thy  fee  is 

a  thousand  ducats. 
Bora.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,   and  my  cunning 

shall  not  shame  me. 
D.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of  marriage. 

[.Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

. 

Leonato's  orchard. 
Enter  Benedick, 

Bene.  Boy ! 

Enter  Boy. 

Boy.  Signior? 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book :  bring  it  hither  to 

Boy.  I  am  here  already,  sir.  [me  in  the  orchard. 

Bene.  I  know  that ;  but  I  would  have  thee  hence,  and  here 
again.  [Exit  Boy.~]  I  do  much  wonder  that  one  man, 
seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates 
his  behaviours  to  love,  will,  after  he  hath  laughed  at  such 
shallow  follies  in  others,  become  the  argument  of  his  own 
scorn  by  falling  in  love  :  and  such  a  man  is  Claudio.  I  have 
known  when  there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the  drum  and 
the  fife ;  and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe  : 
I  have  known  when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile  a-foot 
to  see  a  good  armour ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten  nights  awake, 
carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet.  He  was  wont  to 
speak  plain  and  to  the  purpose,  like  an  honest  man  and  a 
soldier ;  and  now  is  he  turned  orthography ;  his  words  are 
a  very  fantastical  banquet, — just  so  many  strange  dishes. 
May  I  be  so  converted,  and  see  with  these  eyes  ?  I  cannot 
tell ;  I  think  not :  I  will  not  be  sworn  but  love  may  transform 
me  to  an  oyster ;  but  I  '11  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have 
made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool. 
One  woman  is  fair,  yet  I  am  well ;  another  is  wise,  yet  I  am 
well ;  another  virtuous,  yet  I  am  well :  but  till  all  graces  be 
in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace. 
Rich  she  shall  be,  that 's  certain ;  wise,  or  I  '11  none ;  virtu 
ous,  or  I  '11  never  cheapen  her ;  fair,  or  I  '11  never  look  on 
her;  mild,  or  come  not  near  me;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an 
angel ;  of  good  discourse,  an  excellent  musician,  and  her  hair 
shall  be  of  what  colour  it  please  God.  Ha  !  the  prince  and 
Monsieur  Love  !  I  will  hide  me  in  the  arbour.  [  Withdraws. 

295 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudia,  and  Leonato. 
D.  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 
Claud.  Yea,  my  good  lord.     How  still  the  evening  is, 

As  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony ! 
D.  Pedro.  See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 
Claud.  O,  very  well,  my  lord :  the  music  ended, 

We  '11  fit  the  kid-fox  with  a  pennyworth. 

Enter  Balthazar  with  Music. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  Balthasar,  we  Jll  hear  that  song  again . 
Balth.  O,  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 

To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 
D.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency 

To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection. 

I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 
Balth.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing ; 

Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 

To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy,  yet  he  wooes, 

Yet  will  he  swear  he  loves. 
D.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come  \ 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 

Do  it  in  notes. 
Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes  ; 

There 's  not  a  note  of  mine  that 's  worth  the  noting. 
D.  Pedro.  Why,  these  are  very  crotchets  that  he  speaks ; 

Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  nothing.  [Air. 

Bene.  Now,  divine  air !  now  is  his  soul  ravished !     Is  it  not 

strange  that  sheeps'  guts   should  hale   souls  out  of  men's 

bodies  ?     Well,  a  horn  for  my  money,  when  all 's  done. 

The  Song. 
Balth.  Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever, 
One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constant  never  : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  wo* 
Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  moe, 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy  ; 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &Q, 
296 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord.  [shift. 

D.  Pedro.  Ha,  no,  no,  faith  ;  thou  singest  well  enough  for  a 
Bene.  An  he  had  been  a  dog  that  should  have  howled  thus, 

they  would  have  hanged  him  :  and  I  pray  God  his  bad  voice 

bode  no  mischief.     I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night-raven, 

come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 
D.  Pedro.  Yea,  marry,  dost  thou  hear,  Balthasar  ?    I  pray  thee, 

get  us  some  excellent  music ;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would 

have  it  at  the  Lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 
Balth.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 
D.  Pedro.  Do  so  :  farewell.     [Exit  Balthasar.']    Come  hither, 

Leonato.  What  was  it  you  told  me  of  to-day,  that  your  niece 

Beatrice  was  in  love  with  Signior  Benedick  ? 
Claud.  O,  ay :  stalk  on,  stalk  on  ;  the  fowl  sits.     I  did  never 

think  that  lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 
Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither ;  but  most  wonderful  that  she  should 

so  dote  on  Signior  Benedick,  whom  she  hath  in  all  outward 

behaviours  seemed  ever  to  abhor. 
Bene.  Is 't  possible  ?     Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner? 
Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  of  it, 

but  that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged  affection  ;  it  is  past 

the  infinite  of  thought. 
D.  Pedro.  May  be  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 
Claud.  Faith,  like  enough. 
Leon.  O  God,  counterfeit !     There  was  never  counterfeit  of 

passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion  as  she  discovers  it. 
D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 
Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite. 
Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  ?     She  will  sit  you,  you  heard  my 

daughter  tell  you  how. 
Claud.  She  did,  indeed. 
D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze  me  :  I  would 

have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  invincible  against  all  assaults 

of  affection.  [Benedick. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord  ;  especially  against 
Bene.  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that  the  white-bearded 

fellow  speaks  it :  knavery  cannot,  sure,  hide  himself  in  such 

reverence. 

Claud.  He  hath  ta'en  the  infection :  hold  it  up, 
D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to  Benedick  ? 
Leon.  No;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that 's  her  torment. 
Claud.  'Tis  true,  indeed  ;  so  your  daughter  says  :  '  Shall  I,'  says 

she,  'that  have  so  oft  encountered  him  with  scorn,  write  to- 

him  that  I  love  him  ? ' 

297  K  2 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

L&on.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to  write  to 
him  ;  for  she  '11  be  up  twenty  times  a  night ;  and  there  will 
she  sit  in  her  smock  till  she  have  writ  a  sheet  of  paper  :  my 
daughter  tells  us  all. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I  remember  a  pretty 
jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leon.  O,  when  she  had  writ  it,  and  was  reading  it  over,  she 
found  Benedick  and  Beatrice  between  the  sheet  ? 

Claud.  That. 

Leon.  O,  she  tore  the  letter  -into  a  thousand  halfpence  ;  railed 
at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  immodest  to  write  to  one 
that  she  knew  would  flout  her ;  '  I  measure  him,'  says  she, 
1  by  my  own  spirit ;  for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to  me ; 
yea,  though  I  love  him,  I  should.' 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps,  sobs,  beats 
her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses ;  '  O  sweet  Benedick  ! 
God  give  me  patience  ! ' 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed ;  my  daughter  says  so  :  and  the  ecstasy 
hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that  my  daughter  is  sometime 
afeard  she  will  do  a  desperate  outrage  to  herself :  it  is  very 
true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good  that  Benedick  knew  of  it  by  some 
other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  make  but  a  sport  of  it,  and 
torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang  him.  She's 
an  excellent  sweet  lady ;  and,  out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise.  [virtuous. 

JD.  Pedro.  In  every  thing  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  O,  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  combating  in  so  tender 
a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  one  that  blood  hath  the  victory. 
I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle  and 
her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage  on  me :  I 
would  have  daffed  all  other  respects,  and  made  her  half  my 
self.  I  pray  you,  tell  Benedick  of  it,  and  hear  what  a'  will 

Leon.  Were  it  good,  think  you  ?  [say. 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely  she  will  die ;  for  she  says  she  will 
die,  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will  die,  ere  she  makes  her 
love  known  ;  and  she  will  die,  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she 
will  bate  one  breath  of  her  accustomed  crossness. 
D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make  tender  of  her 
love,  'tis  very  possible  he  '11  scorn  it ;  for  the  man,  as  you 
know  all,  hath  a  contemptible  spirit 
Claud.  He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

298 


Vtuch  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

doth  not  the  appetite  alter  ?  a  man  loves  the  meat  in  his 
youth  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age.  Shall  quips  and 
sentences  and  these  paper  bullets  of  the  brain  awe  a  man 
from  the  career  of  his  humour?  No,  the  world  must  be 
peopled.  When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not 
think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married.  Here  comes 
Beatrice.  By  this  day !  she  's  a  fair  lady :  I  do  spy  some 
marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to  dinner 

Bene.  Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  take 
pains  to  thank  me  :  if  it  had  been  painful,  I  would  not  have 

Bene.  You  take  pleasure,  then,  in  the  message  ?  [come. 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a  knife's  point, 
and  choke  a  daw  withal.  You  have  no  stomach,  signior : 
fare  you  well.  \Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  '  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to 
dinner  ; '  there 's  a  double  meaning  in  that.  '  I  took  no  more 
pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  took  pains  to  thank  me ; ' 
that 's  as  much  as  to  say,  Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you  is  as 
easy  as  thanks.  If  I  do  not  take  pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain  ; 
if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  J  ew.  I  will  go  get  her  picture. 

[Exit. 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 

Leonattfs  orchard. 

Enter  Hero>  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 
Hero.  Good  Margaret,  run  thee  to  the  parlour; 

There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 

Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio  : 

Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 

Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 

Is  all  of  her ;  say  that  thou  overheard'st  us ; 

And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 

Where  honeysuckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun, 

Forbid  the  sun  to  enter ;  like  favourites, 

Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 

Against  that  power  that  bred  it :  there  will  she  hide  her, 

To  listen  our  propose.     This  is  thy  office ; 

Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.  I  '11  make  her  come,  I  warrant,  you,  presently.      [Exit. 
Hero.  Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 

As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 

Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick. 

300 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 

To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit : 

My  talk  to  thee  must  be,  how  Benedick 

Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.     Of  this  matter 

Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 

That  only  wounds  by  hearsay. 

Enter  Beatrice,  behind. 
Now  begin  ; 

For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 

Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 
Urs.  The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 

Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 

And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait ; 

So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 

Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture. 

Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 
Hero.  Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose  nothing 

Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  lay  for  it. 

[Approaching  the  bower. 

No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 

I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 

As  haggerds  of  the  rock. 
Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 
Hero.  So  says  the  prince  and  my  new-trothed  lord. 
Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam  ? 
Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it ; 

But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 

To  wish  him  wrestle  with  affection, 

And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 
Urs.  Why  did  you  so  ?     Doth  not  the  gentleman 

Deserve  as  full  as  fortunate  a  bed 

As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ? 
Hero.  O  god  of  love  !     I  know  he  doth  deserve 

As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man  : 

But  Nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 

Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  ; 

Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 

Misprising  what  they  look  on ;  and  her  wit 

Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 

All  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot  love, 

Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 

She  is  so  self-endeared. 
Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And  therefore  certainly  it  were  not  good 

301 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing- 

She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 
Hero.  Why,  you  speak  truth.     I  never  yet  saw  man, 

How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 

But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-faced, 

She  would  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister  ; 

If  black,  why,  Nature,  drawing  of  an  antique, 

Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed ; 

If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 

If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds ; 

If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 

So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 

And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 

Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 
Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 
Hero.  No,  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 

As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 

But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 

She  would  mock  me  into  air ;  O,  she  would  laugh  me 

Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit ! 

Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 

Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly  : 

It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks, 

Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 
Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it :  hear  what  she  will  say. 
Hero.  No ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 

And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 

And,  truly,  I  '11  devise  some  honest  slanders 

To  stain  my  cousin  with  :  one  doth  not  know 

How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 
Urs.  O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong ! 

She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgement, — 

Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit 

As  she  is  prized  to  have, — as  to  refuse 

So  rare  a  gentleman  as  Signior  Benedick. 
Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 

Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 
Urs.  I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 

Speaking  my  fancy  :  Signior  Benedick, 

For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument  and  valour, 

Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 
Hero.  Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 
Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it. 

When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 
Hero.  Why,  every  day,  to-morrow.     Come,  go  in  : 

I  '11  show  thee  some  attires ;  and  have  thy  counsel 

302 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 
Urs.  She  's  limed,  I  warrant  you  :  we  have  caught  her,  madam. 
Hero.  If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps  : 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  Hero  and  Ursula. 
Beat.  [Coming  forward]  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ? 

Can  this  be  true  ? 

Stand  I  condemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on ;  I  will  requite  thee, 
Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand  : 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band ; 
For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve,  and  I 

Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 

• L 
SCENE  II 

A  room  in  LeonatJs  house. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  Benedick,  and  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  consummate,  and 
then  go  I  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I  '11  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you  '11  vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the  new  gloss 
of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his  new  coat  and  forbid 
him  to  wear  it.  I  will  only  be  bold  with  Benedick  for  his 
company ;  for,  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his 
foot,  he  is  all  mirth  :  he  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's 
bow-string,  and  the  little  hangman  dare  not  shoot  at  him  ; 
he  hath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is  the 
clapper,  for  what  his  heart  thinks  his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leon.  So  say  I  :  methinks  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.  I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant !  there 's  no  true  drop  of  blood  in 
him,  to  be  truly  touched  with  love  ;  if  he  be  sad,  he  wants 

Bene.  I  have  the  toothache.  [money. 

D.  Pedro.  Draw  it. 

Bene.  Hang  it ! 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  afterwards. 
D.  Pedro.  What !  sigh  for  the  toothache  ? 

Leon.  Where  is  but  a  humour  or  a  worm. 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief  but  he  that  has  it. 

Claud.  Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy  in  him,  unless  it 

303 


Act  III,  Sc.  iij  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  disguises ;  as,  to  be  a 
Dutchman  to-day,  a  Frenchman  to-morrow ;  or  in  the  shape 
of  two  countries  at  once,  as,  a  German  from  the  waist 
downward,  all  slops,  and  a  Spaniard  from  the  hip  upward, 
no  doublet.  Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  foolery,  as  it 
appears  he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as  you  would  have 
it  appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman,  there  is  no 
believing  old  signs :  a'  brushes  his  hat  o'  mornings ;  what 
should  that  bode  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's  ? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen  with  him  ; 
and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath  already  stuffed 
tennis-balls.  [beard. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did,  by  the  loss  of  a 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  a'  rubs  himself  with  civet :  can  you  smell  him 
out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth  's  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which,  I  hear 
what  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit ;  which  is  now  crept  into  a 
lute-string,  and  now  governed  by  stops. 

D.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him :  conclude, 
conclude  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him.  [him  not. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too  :  I  warrant,  one  that  knows 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions ;  and,  in  despite  of  all,  dies 
for  him. 

J).  Pedro.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  upwards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  toothache.  Old  signior, 
walk  aside  with  me  :  I  have  studied  eight  or  nine  wise  words 
to  speak  to  you,  which  these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

{Exeunt  Benedick  and  Leonato. 

D.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about  Beatrice. 

Claud.  'Tis  even  so.  Hero  and  Margaret  have  by  this  played 
their  parts  with  Beatrice ;  and  then  the  two  bears  will  not 
bite  one  another  when  they  meet. 

Enter  Don  John. 

D.  John.  My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you ! 

D.  Pedro.  Good  den,  brother. 

D.  John.  If  your  leisure  served,  I  would  speak  with  you. 

D.  Pedro.  In  private  ? 

304 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

D.  John.  If  it  please  you :  yet  Count  Claudio  may  hear ;  for 
what  I  would  speak  of  concerns  him. 

D.  Pedro.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  [To  Claudio']  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to- 

D.  Pedro.  You  know  he  does.  [morrow  ? 

D.  John.  I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows  what  I  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you  discover  it. 

D.  John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not :  let  that  appear 
hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I  now  will  manifest. 
For  my  brother,  I  think  he  holds  you  well,  and  in  dearness 
of  heart  hath  holp  to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage, — surely 
suit  ill  spent  and  labour  ill  bestowed. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you ;  and,  circumstances  short 
ened,  for  she  has  been  too  long  a  talking  of,  the  lady  is 

Claud.  Who,  Hero  ?  (disloyal. 

D.  John.  Even  she ;  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero,  every  man's 

Claud.  Disloyal?  [Hero. 

D.  John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her  wickedness ;  I 
could  say  she  were  worse :  think  you  of  a  worse  title,  and  I 
will  fit  her  to  it.  Wonder  not  till  further  warrant :  go  but 
with  me  to-night,  you  shall  see  her  chamber-window 
entered,  even  the  night  before  her  wedding-day:  if  you 
love  her  then,  to-morrow  wed  her ;  but  it  would  better  fit 
your  honour  to  change  your  mind. 

Claud.  May  this  be  so? 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  confess  not  that 
you  know  :  if  you  will  follow  me,  I  will  show  you  enough  ; 
and  when  you  have  seen  .more,  and  heard  more,  proceed 
accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night  why  I  should  not  marry  her 
to-morrow,  in  the  congregation,  where  I  should  wed,  there 
will  I  shame  her. 

D.  Pedro.  And,  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her,  I  will  join 
with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

D.  John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  farther  till  you  are  my 
witnesses :  bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight,  and  let  the  issue 

D.  Pedro.  O  day  untowardly  turned  !  [show  itself. 

Claud.  O  mischief  strangely  thwarting  ! 

D.  John.  O  plague  right  well  prevented !  so  will  you  say  when 
you  have  seen  the  sequel.  \ExeunL, 


305 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

^T» 

SCENE  III 

A  street. 
Enter  Dogberry  and   Verges  with  the    Watch. 

Dog.  Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer  salvation, 
body  and  soul. 

Dog.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them,  if  they 
should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen  for  the 
prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbour  Dogberry. 

Dog.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man  to  be 
constable  ? 

First  Watch.  Hugh  Otecake,  sir,  or  George  Seacole ;  for  they 
can  write  and  read. 

Dog.  Come  hither,  neighbour  Seacole.  God  hath  blessed  you 
with  a  good  name  :  to  be  a  well-favoured  man  is  the  gift  of 
fortune  ;  but  to  write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

Sec.  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable, — 

Dog.  You  have  :  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer.  Well,  for 
your  favour,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast 
of  it;  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear 
when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  You  are  thought 
here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for  the  constable 
of  the  watch ;  therefore  bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is  your 
charge  :  you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men ;  you  are 
to  bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

Sec.  Watch.  How  if  a'  will  not  stand  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go ;  and 
presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank 
God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is  none  of  the 
prince's  subjects. 

Dog.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the  prince's 
subjects.  You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets;  for 
the  watch  to  babble  and  to  talk  is  most  tolerable  and  not 
to  be  endured.  [to  a  watch. 

Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk :  we  know  what  belongs 

Dog.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet  watch 
man  ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend :  only, 
have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen.  Well,  you  are  to 
call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  those  that  are  drunk  get 
them  to  bed. 

Watch.  How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dog.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober :  if  they 

306 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  Hi 

make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  say  they  are 

not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 
Watch.  Well,  sir. 
Dog.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by  virtue  of 

your  office,  to  be  no  true  man ;  and,  for  such  kind  of  men, 

the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is 

for  your  honesty.  [on  him  ? 

Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not  lay  hands 
Dog.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may ;  but  I  think  they  that 

touch  pitch  will  be  denied :  the  most  peaceable  way  for  you, 

if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he  is, 

and  steal  out  of  your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man,  partner. 
Dog.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will,  much  more 

a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 
Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  crying  in  the  night,  you  must  call  to 

the  nurse  and  bid  her  still  it. 

Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep  and  will  not  hear  us  ? 
Dog.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child  wake  her 

with  crying ;  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear  her  lamb  when  it 

baes  will  never  answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 
Verg.  'Tis  very  true. 
Dog.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge : — you,  constable,  are  to 

present  the  prince's  own  person  :  if  you  meet  the  prince  in 

the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 
Verg.  Nay,  by  'r  lady,  that  I  think  a'  cannot. 
Dog.  Five  shillings  to  one  on  't,  with  any  man  that  knows  the 

statues,  he  may  stay  him :   marry,  not  without  the  prince 

be  willing  ;  for,  indeed,  the  watch  ought  to  offend  no  man  ; 

and  it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 
Verg.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 
Dog.  Ha,  ah,  ha !     Well,  masters,  good  night :   an   there  be 

any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me  :  keep  your  fellows' 

counsels  and  your  own ;  and  good  night.     Come,  neighbour. 
Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  change :  let  us  go  sit  here 

upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 
Dog.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbours.     I  pray  you,  watch 

about  Signior  Leonato's  door ;  for  the  wedding  being  there 

to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to-night.     Adieu  :  be  vigitant, 

I  beseech  you.  \Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Enter  Borachio  and  Conrade. 

Bora.  What,  Conrade ! 

Watch.  [Aside']  Peace !  stir  not. 

Bora.  Conrade,  I  say ! 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Con.  Here,  man  ;  I  am  at  thy  elbow.  [a  scab  follow. 

Bora.  Mass,  and   my   elbow  itched ;    I  thought  there  would 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that :  and  now  forward 
with  thy  tale. 

Bora.  Stand  thee  close,  then,  under  this  pent-house,  for  it 
drizzles  rain  ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard,  utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  \Aside\  Some  treason,  masters :  yet  stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know  I  have  earned  of  Don  John  a  thousand 
ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be  so  dear  ? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible  any  villany 
should  be  so  rich ;  for  when  rich  villains  have  need  of  poor 
ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what  price  they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed.  Thou  knowest  that 
the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a  cloak,  is  nothing  to  a 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel.  [man. 

Bora.  I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say  the  fool 's  the  fool.  But  seest 
thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  [Aside]  I  know  that  Deformed  ;  a'  has  been  a  vile 
thief  this  seven  year ;  a'  goes  up  and  down  like  a  gentleman  : 
I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.  No  ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief  this  fashion 
is  ?  how  giddily  a'  turns  about  all  the  hot  bloods  between 
fourteen  and  five-and-thirty  ?  sometimes  fashioning  them 
like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the  reechy  painting,  sometime  like 
god  Bel's  priests  in  the  old  church-window,  sometime  like 
the  shaven  Hercules  in  the  smirched  worm-eaten  tapestry, 
where  his  codpiece  seems  as  massy  as  his  club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see ;  and  I  see  that  the  fashion  wears  out  more 
apparel  than  the  man.  But  art  not  thou  thyself  giddy  with 
the  fashion  too,  that  thou  has  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into 
telling  me  of  the  fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so,  neither :  but  know  that  I  have  to-night  wooed 
Margaret,  the  Lady  Hero's  gentlewoman,  by  the  name  of 
Hero  :  she  leans  me  out  at  her  mistress'  chamber-window, 
bids  me  a  thousand  times  good  night, — I  tell  this  tale 
vilely  : — I  should  first  tell  thee  how  the  prince,  Claudio  and 
my  master,  planted  and  placed  and  possessed  by  my  master 
Don  John,  saw  afar  off  in  the  orchard  this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.  And  thought  they  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

308 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio  ;  but  the 
devil  my  master  knew  she  was  Margaret ;  and  partly  by  his 
oaths,  which  first  possessed  them,  partly  by  the  dark  night, 
which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly  by  my  villany,  which  did 
confirm  any  slander  that  Don  John  had  made,  away  went 
Claudio  enraged ;  swore  he  would  meet  her,  as  he  was 
appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and  there,  before 
the  whole  congregation,  shame  her  with  what  he  saw  o'er 
night,  and  send  her  home  again  without  a  husband. 

First  Watch.  We  charge  you,  in  the  prince's  name,  stand  ! 

Sec.  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable.  We  have  here 
recovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of  lechery  that  ever  was 
known  in  the  commonwealth. 

First  Watch.  And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them  :  I  know 
him ;  a'  wears  a  lock. 

Con.  Masters,  masters,— 

Sec.  Watch.  You'll  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth,  I  warrant  you. 

Con.  Masters, — 

First  Watch.  Never  speak  :  we  charge  you  let  us  obey  you  to 
go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity,  being  taken 
up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you.  Come,  we  '11 
obey  you.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

Herd's  apartment. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice,  and  desire  her 

Urs.  I  will,  lady.  [to  rise. 

Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.  Well.  {Exit. 

Marg.  Troth,  I  think  your  other  rabato  were  better. 

Hero.  No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I  ;11  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth  's  not  so  good  ;  and  I  warrant  your  cousin 
will  say  so.  [but  this. 

Hero.  My  cousin 's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another  :  I  '11  wear  none 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  within  excellently,  if  the  hair  were  a 
thought  browner ;  and  your  gown  's  a  most  rare  fashion,  i' 
faith.  I  saw  the  Duchess  of  Milan's  gown  that  they  praise  so. 

Hero.  O,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth  's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect  of  yours,— 
cloth  o'  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced  with  silver,  set  with  pearls, 
down  sleeves,  side  sleeves,  and  skirts,  round  underborne  with 
309 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

a  bluish  tinsel :  but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful  and  excellent 
fashion,  yours  is  worth  ten  on  't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it !  for  my  heart  is  exceeding 

Marg.  'Twill  be  heavier  soon  by  the  weight  of  a  man.    [heavy. 

Hero.  Fie  upon  thee  !  art  not  ashamed  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady  ?  of  speaking  honourably  ?  Is  not  mar 
riage  honourable  in  a  beggar?  Is  not  your  lord  honour 
able  without  marriage  ?  I  think  you  would  have  me  say, 
'  saving  your  reverence,  a  husband  : '  an  bad  thinking  do  not 
wrest  true  speaking,  I  '11  offend  nobody :  is  there  any  harm 
in  '  the  heavier  for  a  husband  '  ?  None,  I  think,  an  it  be  the 
right  husband  and  the  right  wife;  otherwise  'tis  light,  and 
not  heavy  :  ask  my  Lady  Beatrice  else ;  here  she  comes. 
Enter  Beatrice. 

Hero.  Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.  Why,  how  now  ?  do  you  speak  in  the  sick  tune  ? 

Beat.  I  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 

Marg.  Clap  's  into  *  Light  o'  love  ; '  that  goes  without  a  burden  : 
do  you  sing  it,  and  I  '11  dance  it. 

Beat.  Ye  light  o'  love,  with  your  heels  !  then,  if  your  husband 
have  stables  enough,  you  '11  see  he  shall  lack  no  barns. 

Marg.  O  illegitimate  construction  !  I  scorn  that  with  my  heels. 

Beat.  'Tis  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin ;  'tis  time  you  were  ready. 
By  my  troth,  I  am  exceeding  ill :  heigh-ho  1 

Marg.  For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk,  there 's  no  more  sailing 

Beat.  What  means  the  fool,  trow  ?  [by  the  star. 

Marg.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one  their  heart's  desire  ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me ;  they  are  an  excellent 

Beat.  I  am  stuffed,  cousin  ;  I  cannot  smell.  [perfume. 

Marg.  A  maid,  and  stuffed !  there 's  goodly  catching  of  cold. 

Beat.  O,  God  help  me  !  God  help  me !  how  long  have  you 
professed  apprehension  ?  [rarely  ? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it.     Doth  not  my  wit  become  me 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough,  you  should  wear  it  in  your  cap. 
By  my.  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Carduus  Benedictus,  and 
lay  it  to  your  heart :  it  is  the  only  thing  for  a  qualm. 

Hero.  There  thou  prickest  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benedictus  !  why  Benedictus  ?  you  have  some  moral  in 
this  Benedictus. 

Marg.  Moral !  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral  meaning ;  I 
meant,  plain  holy-thistle.     You  may  think  perchance  that  I 

310 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  III,  Sc.  v 

think  you  are  in  love  :  nay,  by  'r  lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool 
to  think  what  I  list ;  nor  I  list  not  to  think  what  I  can ;  nor, 
indeed,  I  cannot  think,  if  I  would  think  my  heart  out  of 
thinking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that  you  will  be  in  love,  or 
that  you  can  be  in  love.  Yet  Benedick  was  such  another, 
and  now  is  he  become  a  man:  he  swore  he  would  never 
marry  ;  and  yet  now,  in  despite  of  his  heart,  he  eats  his  meat 
without  grudging  :  and  how  you  may  be  converted,  I  know 
not ;  but  methinks  you  look  with  your  eyes  as  other  women 

Beat.  What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ?  [do. 

Marg.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  Ursula. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw :  the  prince,  the  count,  Signior  Bene 
dick,  Don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of  the  town,  are  come  to 
fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg,  good  Ursula. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V 
SCENE  v 

Another  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  Leonato,  with  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Leon.  What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbour  ? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence  with  you  that 
decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you  j  for  you  see  it  is  a  busy  time  with  me. 

Dog.  Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg.  Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leon.  What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dog.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off  the  matter :  an 
old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so  blunt  as,  God  help,  I 
would  desire  they  were;  but,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin 
between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God  I  am  as  honest  as  any  man  living  that 
is  an  old  man  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dog.  Comparisons  are  odorous  :  palabras,  neighbour  Verges. 

Leon.  Neighbours,  you  are  tedious. 

Dog.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we  are  the  poor 
duke's  officers ;  but  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as 
tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of 

Leon.  All  thy  tediousness  on  me,  ah  ?  [your  worship. 

Dog.  Yea,  an  't  were  a  thousand  pound  more  than  'tis ;  for  I 
hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship  as  of  any  man  in 
the  city ;  and  though  I  be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to 

Verg.  And  so  am  I.  [hear  it. 

Leon.  I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting  your  worship's 
presence,  ha'  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  arrant  knaves  as  any  in 
Messina. 

Dog.  A  good  old  man,  sir ;  he  will  be  talking :  as  they  say, 
When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out :  God  help  us  !  it  is  a 
world  to  see.  Well  said,  i;  faith,  neighbour  Verges  :  well, 
God 's  a  good  man ;  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must 
ri  de  behind.  An  honest  soul,  i;  faith,  sir ;  by  my  troth  he 
is,  as  ever  broke  bread ;  but  God  is  to  be  worshipped ;  all 
men  are  not  alike ;  alas,  good  neighbour ! 

Leon.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short  of  you 

Dog.  Gifts  that  God  gives. 

Leon.  I  must  leave  you. 

Dog.  One  word,  sir :  our  watch,  sir,  have  indeed  comprehended 
two  aspicious  persons,  and  we  would  have  them  this  morn 
ing  examined  before  your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring  it  me  :  I  am 
now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear  unto  you. 

Dog.  It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go  :  fare  you  well. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your  daughter  to  her 
Leon.  I  '11  wait  upon  them  :  I  am  ready.  [husband. 

\_Exeunt  Leonato  and  Messenger. 

Dog.  Go,  good  partner,  go,  get  you  to  Francis  Seacole ;  bid 
him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the  gaol :    we  are  now  to 
examination  these  men. 
Verg.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dog.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you  ;  here 's  that  shall 

drive  some  of   them  to  a  noncome :    only  get  the  learned 

writer  to  set  down  our  excommunication,  and  meet  me  at 

the  gaol.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

A  church. 
Enter  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  Leonato,  Friar  Francis, 

Claudio,  Benedick,  Hero,  Beatrice,  and  attendants. 
Leon.  Come,  Friar  Francis,  be  brief ;    only  to  the  plain  form  of 
marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their  particular  duties  after 
wards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this  lady. 
Claud.  No. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her :  friar,  you  come  to  marry  her. 
Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to  this  count. 

312 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

\  Hero.  I  do. 
Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impediment  why  you 

should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge  you,  on  your  souls,  to 
'laud.  Know  you  any,  Hero  ?  [utter  it. 

Hero.  None,  my  lord. 
Friar.  Know  you  any,  count  ? 
Leon.  I  dare  make  his  answer,  none. 
'laud.  O,  what  men  dare  do  !    what  men  may  do  !    what  men 

daily  do,  not  knowing  what  they  do  ! 
Bene.  How   now !     interjections  ?      Why,    then,    some    be   of 

laughing,  as,  ah,  ha,  he  ! 
Claud.  Stand  thee  by,  friar.     Father,  by  your  leave : 

Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul 

Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter  ? 
Leon.  As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 
'laud.  And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose  worth 

May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 
D.  Pedro.  Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 
Claud.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thankfulness. 

There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again  : 

Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend  ; 

She 's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honour. 

Behold  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here  1 

O,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 

Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 

Comes  not  that  blood  as  modest  evidence 

To  witness  simple  virtue  ?     Would  you  not  swe**, 

All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 

By  these  exterior  shows  ?     But  she  is  none  : 

She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed  ; 

Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 
Leon.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 
Claud.  Not  to  be  married, 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 
Leon.  Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof, 

Have  vanquish'd  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 

And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, — 
Claud.  I  know  what  you  would  say  :  if  I  have  known  her, 

You  will  say  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 

And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin  : 

No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large ; 

But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  show'd 

Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 
Hero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  ? 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Claud,  Out  on  thee  !     Seeming  !     I  will  write  against  it : 

You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb, 

As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown  \ 

But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 

Than  Venus,  or  those  pamper'd  animals 

That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 
Hero.  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide  ? 
Leon.  Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 
D.  Pedro.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

I  stand  dishonour'd,  that  have  gone  about 

To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 
Leon.  Are  these  things  spoken,  or  do  I  but  dream  ? 
JD.  John.   Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these  things  are  true. 
Bene.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 
Hero.  True  !  O  God  ! 

Claud.  Leonato,  stand  I  here  ? 

Is  this  the  prince  ?  is  this  the  prince's  brother  ? 

Is  this  face  Hero's  ?  are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 
Leon.  All  this  is  so  :  but  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 
Claud.  Let  me  but  move  one  question  to  your  daughter  ; 

And,  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  power 

That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 
Leon.  I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child, 
Hero.  O,  God  defend  me  !  how  am  I  beset ! 

What  kind  of  catechising  call  you  this  ? 
Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 
Hero.  Is  it  not  Hero  ?     Who  can  blot  that  name 

With  any  just  reproach  ? 
Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 

What  man  was  he  talk'd  with  you  yesternight 

Out  at  your  window  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 

Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 
Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord. 
D.  Pedro.  Why,  then  are  you  no  maiden.     Leonato, 

I  am  sorry  you  must  hear  :  upon  mine  honour, 

Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count 

Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night 

Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window ; 

Who  hath  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  villain, 

Confess'd  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 

A  thousand  times  in  secret. 
D.  John.  Fie,  fie  !  they  are  not  to  be  named,  my  lord, 

Not  to  be  spoke  of; 

There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language, 

3H 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  IV,  Sc.  f 

Without  offence  to  utter  them.     Thus,  pretty  lady, 
\       I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 
1  Claud.  O  Hero,  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
1      If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 

About  thy  thoughts  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 

But  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair  !  farewell, 

Thou  pure  impiety  and  impious  purity  ! 

For  thee  I  '11  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 

And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang, 

To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 

And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 
\Leon.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me  ? 

[Hero  swoons. 

\Beat.  Why,  how  now,  cousin!  wherefore  sink  you  down? 
\D.  John.  Come,  let  us  go.     These  things,  come  thus  to  light, 

Smother  her  spirits  up. 

\Exeunt  Don  Pedro,  Don  John,  and  Claudio. 
I  Bene.  How  doth  the  lady  ? 
Beat.  Dead,  I  think.     Help,  uncle  1 

Hero  !  why,  Hero  !  Uncle  !  Signior  Benedick  1  Friar  1 
Leon.  O  Fate  !  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand. 

Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame 

That  may  be  wish'd  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  1 

Friar.  Have  comfort,  lady. 
Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 
Friar.  Yea,  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 
Leon.  Wherefore  !     Why,  doth  not  every  earthly  thing 

Cry  shame  upon  her  ?     Could  she  here  deny 

The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? 

Do  not  live,  Hero  ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes : 

For,  did  I  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 

Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames, 

Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 

Strike  at  thy  life.     Grieved  I,  I  had  but  one  ? 

Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame  ? 

O,  one  too  much  by  thee !     Why  had  I  one? 

Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 

Why  had  I  not  with  charitable  hand 

Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates, 

Who  smirched  thus  and  mired  with  infamy, 

I  might  have  said,  '  No  part  of  it  is  mine ; 

This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins '  ? 

But  mine,  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praised, 

And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on,  mine  so  much 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothii 

That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 

Valuing  of  her, — why,  she,  O,  she  is  fallen 

Into  a  pit  of  ink,  that  the  wide  sea 

Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again, 

And  salt  too  little  which  may  season  give 

To  her  foul-tainted  flesh  ! 
-Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient. 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder, 

I  know  not  what  to  say. 
Beat.  O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 
Bent.  Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 
Beat.   No,  truly,  not ;  although,  until  last  night, 

I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 
Leon.  Confirm'd,  confirm'd  !    O,  that  is  stronger  made 

Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  iron  ! 

Would  the  two  princes  lie,  and  Claudio  lie, 

Who  loved  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 

Wash'd  it  with  tears  ?    Hence  from  her  !  let  her  die. 
Friar.  Hear  me  a  little ; 

For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 

And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 

By  noting  of  the  lady  :  I  have  mark'd 

A  thousand  blushing  apparitions 

To  start  into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 

In  angel  whiteness  beat  away  those  blushes ; 

And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 

To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 

Against  her  maiden  truth.     Call  me  a  fool ; 

Trust  not  my  reading  nor  my  observations, 

Which  with  experimental  seal  doth  warrant 

The  tenour  of  my  book ;  trust  not  my  age, 

My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 

If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 

Under  some  biting  error. 
Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be. 

Thou  seest  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left 

Is  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 

A  sin  of  perjury ;  she  not  denies  it : 

Wrhy  seek'st  thou,  then,  to  cover  with  excuse 

That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 
Friar.  Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused  of? 
Hero.  They  know  that  do  accuse  me ;  I  know  none  : 

If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive 

Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 

Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy !     O  my  father, 
316 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  conversed 

At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 

Maintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 

Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death  ! 
Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes. 
Beat.  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honour ; 

And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 

The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 

Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 
Leon.  I  know  not.     If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 

These  hands  shall  tear  her  ;  if  they  wrong  her  honour,. 

The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 

Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 

Nor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 

Nor  fortune  made  such  havoc  of  my  means, 

Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 

But  they  shall  find,  awaked  in  such  a  kind, 

Both  strength  of  limb  and  policy  of  mind, 

Ability  in  means  and  choice  of  friends, 

To  quit  me  of  them  thoroughly. 
Friar.  Pause  awhile,. 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 

Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead  i 

Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 

And  publish  it  that  she  is  dead  indeed ; 

Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation, 

And  on  your  family's  old  monument 

Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 

That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leon.  What  shall  become  of  this  ?  what  will  this  do  ? 
Friar.  Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 

Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good  : 

But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course,, 

But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 

She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 

Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accused, 

Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excused 

Of  every  hearer  :  for  it  so  falls  out, 

That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth 

Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost-, 

Why,  then  we  rack  the  value,  then  we  find 

The  virtue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 

Whiles  it  was  ours.     So  will  it  fare  with  Claudior: 

When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 

The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Into  his  study  of  imagination  ; 

And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 

Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit, 

More  moving-delicate  and  full  of  life, 

Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 

Than  when  she  lived  indeed  ;  then  shall  he  mourn, 

If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his-iiver, 

And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her, 

No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 

Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 

Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 

Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 

But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levell'd  false, 

The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 

Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy : 

And  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her, 

As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation, 

In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 

Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 
Bene.  Signior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you  : 

And  though  you  know  my  inwardness  and  love 

Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 

Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 

As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 

Should  with  your  body. 
.Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 
friar.  'Tis  well  consented  :  presently  away  ; 

For  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the  cure. 

Come,  lady,  die  to  live :  this  wedding-day 

Perhaps  is  but  prolong'd  :  have  patience  and  endure. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Benedick  and  Beatrice. 
-Bene.  Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while  ? 
Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 
Bene.  I  will  not  desire  that. 
Beat.  You  have  no  reason  ;  I  do  it  freely. 
Bene.  Surely  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is  wronged. 
Beat.  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me  that  would 
Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ?      [right  her  ! 
Beat.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 
Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours.  [that  strange  ? 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you :  is  not 
Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.     It  were  as  possible 

for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so  well  as  you  :  but  believe  , 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny 
nothing.  I  am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bent.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.  Do  not  swear,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me ;  and  I  will  make 
him  eat  it  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.     I  protest  1 

Beat.  Why,  then,  God  forgive  me  !  [love  thee. 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice? 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour :  I  was  about  to 
protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  none  is  left  to 

Bene.  Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee.  [protest. 

Beat.  Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it.     Farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here  :  there  is  no  love  in  you  : 
nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.  Beatrice, — 

Beat.  In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We  '11  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me  than  fight  with  mine 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ?  [enemy. 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that  hath 
slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured  my  kinswoman  ?  O  that  I 
were  a  man  !  What,  bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come  to 
take  hands ;  and  then,  with  public  accusation,  uncovered 
slander,  unmitigated  rancour, — O  God,  that  I  were  a  man  ! 
I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place. 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice,— 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  !     A  proper  saying  ! 

Bene.  Nay,  but,  Beatrice, — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  !     She  is  wronged,  she  is  slandered,  she  is 

Bene.  Beat —  [undone. 

Beat.  Princes  and  counties!  Surely,  a  princely  testimony,  a 
goodly  count,  Count  Comfect ;  a  sweet  gallant,  surely  !  O 
that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake  !  or  that  I  had  any  friend 
would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But  manhood  is  melted  into 
courtesies,  valour  into  compliment,  and  men  are  only  turned 
into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too  :  he  is  now  as  valiant  as 
Hercules  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it.  I  cannot  be  a 
man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving 
3'9 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Bene.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice.     By  this  hand,  I  love  thee. 

Beat,  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count  Claudio  hath  wronged 
Hero? 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul. 

Bene.  Enough,  I  am  engaged ;  I  will  challenge  him.  I  will 
kiss  your  hand,  and  so  I  leave  you.  By  this  hand,  Claudio 
shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear  of  me,  so 
think  of  me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin  :  I  must  say  she  is 
dead  :  and  so,  farewell.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A  prison. 

Enter  Dogberry ',  Verges,  and  Sexton,  in  gowns  ;  and  tJie  Watch, 

with  Conrade  and  Borachio. 
Dog.  Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 
Verg.  O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton. 
Sex.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 
Dog.  Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Verg.  Nay,  that 's  certain  ;  we  have  the  exhibition  to  examine. 
Sex.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be  examined  ?  let 

them  come  before  master  constable. 
Dog.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me.     What  is  your 

name,  friend  ? 
Bora.  Borachio. 

Dog.  Pray,  write  down,  Borachio.     Yours,  sirrah  ? 
Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is  Conrade. 
Dog.  Write   down,  master  gentleman  Conrade.     Masters,  do 

you  serve  God  ? 
Con.  \   ,r        •          , 
Bora]  Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dog.  Write  down,  that  they  hope  they  serve  God:  and  write 
God  first ;  for  God  defend  but  God  should  go  before  such 
villains !  Masters,  it  is  proved  already  that  you  are  little 
better  than  false  knaves ;  and  it  will  go  near  to  be  thought  so 
shortly.  How  answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dog.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I  will  go 
about  with  him.  Come  you  hither,  sirrah ;  a  word  in  your 
ear :  sir,  I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bora.  Sir,  I  say  to  you  we  are  none. 

Dog.  Well,  stand  aside.  Tore  God,  they  are  both  in  a  tale. 
Have  you  writ  down,  that  they  are  none  ? 

Sex.  Master  Constable,  you  go  not  the  way  to  examine :  you 
must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their  accusers. 

320 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Dog.  Yea,  marry,  that 's  the  eftest  way.  Let  the  watch  come 
forth.  Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the  prince's  name,  accuse 
these  men. 

First  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the  prince's 
brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dog.  Write  down,  Prince  John  a  villain.  Why,  this  is  flat 
perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother  villain. 

Bora.  Master  Constable, — 

Dog.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace :  I  do  not  like  thy  look,  I 
promise  thee. 

Sex.  What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

Sec.  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand  ducats  of 
Don  John  for  accusing  the  Lady  Hero  wrongfully,  f 

Dog.  Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 

Verg.  Yea,  by  mass,  that  it  is. 

Sex.  What  else,  fellow  ? 

First  Watch.  And  that  Count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon  his 
words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly,  and  not 
marry  her. 

Dog.  O  villain !  thou  wilt  be  condemned  into  everlasting 
redemption  for  this. 

Sex.  What  else? 

Watch.  This  is  all. 

Sex.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can  deny.  Prince 
John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen  away ;  Hero  was  in  this 
manner  accused,  in  this  very  manner  refused,  and  upon  the 
grief  of  this  suddenly  died.  Master  constable,  let  these  men 
be  bound,  and  brought  to  Leonato's :  I  will  go  before  and 
show  him  their  examination.  \JExit. 

Dog.  Come,  let  them  be  opinion ed. 

Verg.  Let  them  be  in  the  hands — 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb  ! 

Dog.  God  's  my  life,  where  's  the  sexton  ?  let  him  write  down, 
the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb.  Come,  bind  them.  Thou 
naughty  varlet ! 

Con.  Away  !  you  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dog.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  dost  thou  not  suspect  my 
years  ?  O  that  he  were  here  to  write  me  down  an  ass  !  But, 
masters,  remember  that  I  am  an  ass  ;  though  it  be  not  written 
down,  yet  forget  not  that. I  am  an  ass.  No,  thou  villain, 
thou  art  fully  of  piety,  as  shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good 
witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow  ;  and,  which  is  more,  an  officer  ; 
and,  which  is  more,  a  householder ;  and,  which  is  more,  as 
pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  as  any  is  in  Messina ;  and  one  that 
knows  the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to  : 

321  L 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

and  a  fellow  that  hath  had  losses ;  and  one  that  hath  two 
gowns,  and  every  thing  handsome  about  him.  Bring  him 
away.  O  that  I  had  been  writ  down  as  ass  !  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V— SCENE   I 

Before  LeonatJs  house. 

Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Ant.  If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 

And  'tis  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 

Against  yourself. 
Leon.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into*  mine  ears  as  profitless 

As  water  in  a  sieve  :  give  not  me  counsel ; 

Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear 

But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 

Bring  me  a  father  that  so  loved  his  child, 

Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine, 

And  bid  him  speak  of  patience ; 

Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain, 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 

In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form : 

If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard, 

Bid  sorrow  wag,  cry  '  hem  ! '  when  he  should  groarij 

Patch  grief  with  proverbs,  make  misfortune  drunk 

With  candle-wasters  ;  bring  him  yet  to  me, 

And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience. 

But  there  is  no  such  man  :  for,  brother,  men 

Can  counsel  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 

Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it, 

Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 

Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 

Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 

Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words : 

No,  no ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 

To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow, 

But  no  man's  virtue  nor  sufficiency, 

To  be  so  moral  when  he  shall  endure 

The  like  himself.     Therefore  give  me  no  counsel : 

My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 
Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 
Leon.  I  pray  thee,  peace.     I  will  be  flesh  and  blood  ; 

For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher 

That  could  endure  the  toothache  patiently, 

322 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods, 

And  made  a  push  at  chance  and  sufferance. 
\Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself ; 

Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 
\f,eon.  There  thou  speak'st  reason :  nay,  I  will  do  so. 

My  soul  doth  tell  me  Hero  is  belied ; 

And  that  shall  Claudio  know ;  so  shall  the  prince, 

And  all  of  them  that  thus  dishonour  her. 
Ant.  Here  comes  the  prince  and  Claudio  hastily. 

Enter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.  Hear  you,  my  lords, — 

D.  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leon.  Some  haste,  my  lord  !  well,  fare  you  well,  my  lord  : 

Are  you  so  hasty  now  ?  well,  all  is  one. 
D.  Pedro.  Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old  man. 
Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 

Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 
Claud.  Who  wrongs  him  : 

Leon.  Marry,  thou  dost  wrong  me,  thou  dissembler,  thou  :— 

Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword ; 

I  fear  thee  not. 
Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear : 

In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 
Leon.  Tush,  tush,  man  ;  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me  : 

I  speak  not  like  a  dotard  nor  a  fool, 

As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 

What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 

Were  I  not  old.     Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head, 

Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mine  innocent  child  and  me, 

That  I  am  forced  to  lay  my  reverence  by, 

And,  with  grey  hairs  and  bruise  of  many  days, 

Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 

I  say  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child ; 

Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her  heart, 

And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors ; 

O,  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept 

Save  this  of  hers,  framed  by  thy  villany  ! 
Claud.  My  villany  ? 

Leon.  Thine,  Claudio;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pedro.  You  say  not  right,  old  man. 
Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  '11  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare, 

323 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Despite  his  nice  fence  and  his  active  practice, 

His  May  of  youth  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 
Claud.  Away  !  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 
Leon.  Canst  thou  so  daff  me  ?     Thou  hast  kill'd  my  child : 

If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 
Ant.  He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed  : 

But  that 's  no  matter  ;  let  him  kill  one  first ; 

Win  me  and  wear  me ;  let  him  answer  me. 

Come,  follow  me,  boy ;  come,  sir  boy,  come,  follow  me : 

Sir  boy,  I  '11  whip  you  from  your  foining  fence ; 

Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 
Leon.  Brother, — 
Ant.  Content  yourself.     God  knows  I  loved  my  niece ; 

And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains, 

That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man  indeed 

As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue : 

Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  Jacks,  milksops  ! 
Leon.  Brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Hold  you  content.     What,  man  !  I  know  them,  yea, 

And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple, — 

Scambling,  out-facing,  fashion-monging  boys, 

That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave,  and  slander, 

Go  antiquely,  and  show  outward  hideousness, 

And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words, 

How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst  ; 

And  this  is  all. 

Leon.  But,  brother  Antony, — 
Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter : 

Do  not  you  meddle ;  let  me  deal  in  this. 
D.  Pedro.  Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not  wake  your  patience. 

My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death  : 

But,  on  my  honour,  she  was  charged  with  nothing 

But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 
Leon.   My  lord,  my  lord, — 
D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.  No  ?     Come,  brother  ;  away  !  I  will  be  heard. 
Ant.  And  shall,  or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

\Exeunt  Leonato  and  Antonio. 
D.  Pedro.  See,  see  ;  here  come  the  man  we  went  to  seek. 

Enter  Benedick. 

Claud.  Now,  signior,  what  news  ? 
Bene.  Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Welcome,   signior  :   you  are  almost  come   to   part 
almost  a  fray. 

324 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses  snapped  off 

with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 
D.  Pedro.  Leonato  and   his   brother.     What   thinkest    thou  ? 

Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should  have  been  too  young  for 

them. 
Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valour.     I  came  to 

seek  you  both. 
Claud,  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee ;  for  we  are 

high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have  it  beaten  away. 

Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 

Bene.  It  is  in  my  scabbard  :  shall  I  draw  it  ? 
D.  Pedro.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  ? 
Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have  been  beside 

their  wit.     I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  do   the  minstrels ; 

draw,  to  pleasure  us. 
D.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale.     Art  thou 

sick,  or  angry  ? 
Claud.  What,  courage,  man  !     What  though  care  killed  a  cat, 

thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill  care. 
Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an  you  charge  it 

against  me.     I  pray  you  choose  another  subject.  [cross. 

Claud.  Nay,  then,  give  him  another  staff:  this  last  was  broke 
D.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and  more :  I  think 

he  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.  If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle. 
Bene.  Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 
Claud.  God  bless  me  from  a  challenge ! 
Bene.  [Aside  to  Claudio]  You  are  a  villain  ;  I  jest  not :  I  will 

make  it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  and  when 

you  dare.     Do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your  cowardice. 

You  have  killed  a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy 

on  you.     Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.  Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good  cheer. 
D.  Pedro.  What,  a  feast,  a  feast  ? 
Claud.  I'  faith,  I  thank  him ;  he  hath  bid  me  to  a  calf's-head 

and  a  capon  ;  the  which  if  I  do  not  carve  most  curiously, 

say  my  knife  's  naught.     Shall  I  not  find  a  woodcock  too  ? 
Bene.  Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 
D.  Pedro.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit  the  other 

day.    I  said,  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit :  'True,'  said  she,  '  a  fine 

little  one.'     '  No,'  said  I,  '  a  great  wit : '  '  Right,'  says  she, 

'a  great  gross  one.'     'Nay,'  said  I,  'a  good  wit:'  'Just,' 

said  she,  'it  hurts  nobody.'     '  Nay,'  said  I,  '  the  gentleman 

is  wise:'    'Certain,'  said  she,  'a  wise  gentleman.'     'Nay,' 

said  I,  '  he  hath  the  tongues : '  '  That  I  believe,'  said  she, 
325 


Act  V,  Sc.  ij  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

'for  he  swore  a  thing  to  me  on  Monday  night,  which  he 
forswore  on  Tuesday  morning ;  there 's  a  double  tongue ; 
there  's  two  tongues.'  Thus  did  she,  an  hour  together,  trans- 
shape  thy  particular  virtues  :  yet  at  last  she  concluded  with 
a  sigh,  thou  wast  the  properest  man  in  Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said  she  cared  not. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did ;  but  yet,  for  all  that,  an  if  she  did 
not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love  him  dearly  :  the  old 
man's  daughter  told  us  all. 

Claud.  All,  all ;  and,  moreover,  God  saw  him  when  he  was  hid 
in  the  garden. 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's  horns  on 
the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  *  Here  dwells  Benedick  the 
married  man '  ? 

Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy :  you  know  my  mind.  I  will  leave 
you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humour :  you  break  jests  as 
braggarts  do  their  blades,  which,  God  be  thanked,  hurt  not. 
My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies  I  thank  you  :  I  must 
discontinue  your  company  :  your  brother  the  bastard  is  fled 
from  Messina  :  you  have  among  you  killed  a  sweet  and 
innocent  lady.  For  my  Lord  Lackbeard  there,  he  and  I 
shall  meet :  and  till  then  peace  be  with  him.  \Exit. 

D.  Pedro.  He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and,  I  '11  warrant  you,  for 
the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.  And  hath  challenged  thee. 

Claud.  Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is  when  he  goes  in  his 
doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit ! 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape  :  but  then  is  an  ape  a 
doctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you,  let  me  be :  pluck  up,  my  heart,  and 
be  sad.  Did  he  not  say,  my  brother  was  fled  ? 

Enter  Dogberry ',  Verges^  and  the  Watch,  with  Conrade  and 

Borachio. 

Dog.  Come,  you,  sir  :  if  justice  cannot  tame  you,  she  shall  ne'er 
weigh  more  reasons  in  her  balance  :  nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing 
hypocrite  once,  you  must  be  looked  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now  ?    two    of    my    brother's   men    bound ! 

Claud.  Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord.      [Borachio  one  ! 

D.  Pedro.  Officers,  what  offence  have  these  men  done? 

Dog.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report ;  moreover, 
they  have  spoken  untruths ;  secondarily,  they  are  slanders  ; 
sixth  and  lastly,  they  have  belied  a  lady ;  thirdly,  they  have 

326 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

verified  unjust   things ;  and,    to   conclude,  they   are    lying 
knaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  they  have  done ;  thirdly,  I  ask 
thee  what 's  their  offence ;  sixth  and  lastly,  why  they  are 
committed ;  and,  to  conclude,  what  you  lay  to  their  charge. 

Claud.  Rightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division ;  and,  by  my 
troth,  there  ;s  one  meaning  well  suited.  • 

D.  Pedro.  Who  have  you  offended,  masters,  that  you  are  thus 
bound  to  your  answer  ?  this  learned  constable  is  too  cunning 
to  be  understood  :  what 's  your  offence  ? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  farther  to  mine  answer  :  do 
you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me.  I  have  deceived 
even  your  very  eyes  :  what  your  wisdoms  could  not  discover, 
these  shallow  fools  have  brought  to  light ;  who,  in  the  night, 
overheard  me  confessing  to  this  man,  how  Don  John  your 
brother  incensed  me  to  slander  the  Lady  Hero ;  how  you 
were  brought  into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Margaret 
in  Hero's  garments  :  how  you  disgraced  her,  when  you  should 
marry  her :  my  villany  they  have  upon  record ;  which  I  had 
rather  seal  with  my  death  than  repeat  over  to  my  shame. 
The  lady  is  dead  upon  mine  and  my  master's  false  accusa 
tion  ;  and,  briefly,  I  desire  nothing  but  the  reward  of  a 
villain. 

D.  Pedro.  Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through  your  blood  ? 

Claud.  I  have  drunk  poison  whiles  he  utter' d  it. 

D.  Pedro.  But  did  my  brother  set  thee  on  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice  of  it. 

D.  Pedro.  He  is  composed  and  framed  of  treachery  : 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villany. 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero  !  now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  loved  it  first 

Dog.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs  :  by  this  time  our  sexton 
hath  reformed  Signior  Leonato  of  the  matter :  and,  masters, 
do  not  forget  to  specify,  when  time  and  place  shall  serve, 
that  I  am  an  ass.  [too. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  Signior  Leonato,  and  the  sexton 
Re-enter  Leonato  and  Antonio^  with  the  Sexton. 

Leon.  Which  is  the  villain  ?  let  me  see  his  eyes 
That,  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
I  may  avoid  him  :  which  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bora.  If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look  on  me. 

Leon.  Art  thou  the  slave  that  with  thy  breath  hast  kill'd 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.  No,  not  so,  villain  ;  thou  beliest  thyself: 

327 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Here  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men; 

A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it. 

I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death  : 

Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds  : 

'Twas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 
Claud.  I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience ; 

Yat  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself  ; 

Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 

Can  lay  upon  my  sin  :  yet  sinn'd  I  not 

But  in  mistaking. 
D.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I : 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 

I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 

That  he'll  enjoin  me  to. 
Leon.  I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter' live ; 

That  were  impossible :  but,  I  pray  you  both, 

.Possess  the  people  in  Messina  here 

How  innocent  she  died  ;  and  if  your  love 

Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention, 

Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 

And  sing  it  to  her  bones,  sing  it  to-night : 

To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house ; 

And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law, 

Be  yet  my  nephew  :  my  brother  hath  a  daughter, 

Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that 's  dead, 

And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us : 

Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousin, 

And  so  dies  my  revenge. 
Claud.  O  noble  sir, 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me  ! 

I  do  embrace  your  offer ;  and  dispose 

For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 
Leon.  To-morrow,  then,  I  will  expect  your  coming  ; 

To-night  I  take  my  leave.     This  naughty  man 

Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 

Who  I  believe  was  pack'd  in  all  this  wrong, 

Hired  to  it  by  your  brother. 
Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did  when  she  spoke  to  me  ; 

But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous 

In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 
Dog.  Moreover,  sir,  which  indeed  is  not  under  white  and  black, 

this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did  call  me  ass  :  I  beseech 

you,  let  it  be  remembered  in  his  punishment.     And  also,  the 

watch  heard  them  talk  of  one  Deformed :  they  say  he  wears 

328 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

a  key  in  his  ear,  and  a  lock  hanging  by  it ;  and  borrows 
money  in  God's  name,  the  which  he  hath  used  so  long  and 
never  paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted,  and  will  lend 
nothing  for  God's  sake  :  pray  you,  examine  him  upon  that 
point. 

Leon.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dog.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful  and  reverend 
youth  ;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.  There  's  for  thy  pains. 

Dog.  God  save  the  foundation  ! 

Leon.  Go,  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and  I  thank  thee. 

Dog.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship ;  which  I 
beseech  your  worship  to  correct  yourself,  for  the  example  of 
others.  God  keep  your  worship !  I  wish  your  worship 
well ;  God  restore  you  to  health  !  I  humbly  give  you  leave 
to  depart;  and  if  a  merry  meeting  may  be  wished,  God 
prohibit  it!  Come,  neighbour. 

[Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Verges. 

Leon.   Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 

Ant.  Farewell,  my  lords  :  we  look  for  you  to-morrow. 

D.  Pedro.  We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I  '11  mourn  with  Hero. 

Leon.  [To  the  WatcJi\  Bring  you  these  fellows  on. 
We  '11  talk  with  Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  fellow. 

[Exeunt,  severally. 

SCENE  II 
Leonattfs  garden. 

Enter  Benedick  and  Margaret,  meeting. 
Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  Mistress  Margaret,  deserve  well  at  my 

hands  by  helping  me  to  the  speech  of  Beatrice. 
Marg.  Will  you,  then,  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise  of  my  beauty  ? 
Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man  living  shall 

come  over  it ;  for,  in  most  comely  truth,  thou  deservest  it. 
Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me  !  why,  shall  I  always 

keep  below  stairs  ? 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's  mouth ;  it  catches. 
Marg.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils,  which  hit,  but 

hurt  not. 
Bene.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  will  not  hurt  a  woman  : 

and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call  Beatrice :  I  give  thee  the  bucklers. 
Marg.  Give  us  the  swords  ;  we  have  bucklers  of  our  own. 
Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must  put  in  the  pikes 
with  a  vice  ;  and  they  are  dangerous  weapons  for  maids. 

329  L  2 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Marg..  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who  I  think  hath  legs. 

Bene.  And  therefore  will  come.  {Exit  Margaret. 

{Sings]  The  god  of  love, 

That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  arid  knows  me, 

How  pitiful  I  deserve, — 

I  mean  in  singing ;  but  in  loving,  Leander  the  good  swimmer, 
Troilus  the  first  employer  of  pandars,  and  a  whole  bookful  of 
these  quondam  carpetmongers,  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly 
in  the  even  road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were  never  so 
truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor  self  in  love.  Marry, 
I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme ;  I  have  tried  :  I  can  find  out  no 
rhyme  to  '  lady '  but  '  baby,'  an  innocent  rhyme ;  for  '  scorn,' 
'  horn,'  a  hard  rhyme ;  for  *  school,'  '  fool,'  a  babbling 
rhyme ;  very  ominous  endings  :  no,  I  was  not  born  under  a 
rhyming  planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in  festival  terms. 

Enter  Beatrice. 
Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  called  thee  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  signior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.  O,  stay  but  till  then  ! 

Beat.  '  Then  '  is  spoken ;  fare  you  well  now  :  and  yet,  ere  I  go, 
let  me  go  with  that  I  came  ;  which  is,  with  knowing  what  hath 
passed  between  you  and  Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  foul  words  ;  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss  thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind  is  but  foul 
breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome ;  therefore  I  will  depart 
unkissed. 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right  sense,  so 
forcible  is  thy  wit.  But  I  must  tell  thee  plainly,  Claudio 
undergoes  my  challenge ;  and  either  I  must  shortly  hear 
from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray 
thee  now,  tell  me  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first 
fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together ;  which  maintained  so  politic  a 
state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any  good  part  to  inter 
mingle  with  them.  But  for  which  of  my  good  parts  did  you 
first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  Suffer  love, — a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer  love  indeed, 
for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think ;  alas,  poor  heart  1  If  you 
spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for  yours ;  for  I  will  never 
love  that  which  my  friend  hates. 

Bene.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession  :  there 's  not  one  wise 
man  among  twenty  that  will  praise  himself. 
330 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived  in  the  time 
of  good  neighbours.  If  a  man  do  not  erect  in  this  age  his 
own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall  live  no  longer  in  monument 
than  the  bell  rings  and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.  And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Bene.  Question  :  why,  an  hour  in  clamour,  and  a  quarter  in 
rheum  :  therefore  is,  it  most  expedient  for  the  wise,  if  Don 
Worm,  his  conscience,  find  no  impediment  to  the  contrary, 
to  be  the  trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself. 
So  much  for  praising  myself,  who,  I  myself  will  bear 
witness,  is  praiseworthy :  and  now  tell  me,  hew  doth  your 
cousin  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill. 

Bene.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend.  There  will  I  leave  you 
too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

7-        ,  TT 

Enter  Ursuia. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uncle.  Vender's  old 
coil  at  home:  it  is  proved  my  Lady  Hero  hath  been  falsely 
accused,  the  prince  and  Claudio  mightily  abused ;  and  Don 
John  is  the  author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone.  Will  you 
come  presently  ? 

Beat.  Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior  ? 
Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and  be  buried  in 
thy  eyes ;  and  moreover  I  will  go  with  thee  to  thy  uncle's. 

[Exeunt. 
. 
SCENE  III 

A  church. 

Enter  Don  Pedro,  Claudio,  and  three  or  four  with  taper* 
Claud.  Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 
A  Lord.  It  is,  my  lord. 
Claud.  {Reading  out  of  a  scroll] 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies : 
Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs, 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies. 
So  the  life  that  died  with  shame 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 

Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb, 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. 
Now,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

SONG. 

Pardon,  goddess  of  the  night, 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight ; 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 
Midnight,  assist  our  moan  ; 
Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 

Heavily,  heavily : 

Graves,  yawn,  and  yield  your  dead, 
Till  death  be  uttered, 
Heavily,  heavily. 

Claud.  Now,  unto  thy  bones  good  night ! 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  masters ;  put  your  torches  out : 

The  wolves  have  prey'd ;  and  look,  the  gentle  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  grey. 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us  :  fare  you  well. 
Claud.  Good  morrow,  masters  :  each  his  several  way. 
D.  Pedro.  Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other  weeds  ; 

And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 
Claud.  And  Hymen  now  with  luckier  issue  speed's 

Than  this  for  whom  we  render'd  up  this  woe.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

A  room  in  Leonato's  house. 
Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  Benedick,  Beatrice,  Margaret, 

Ursula,  Friar  Francis,  and  Hero. 
Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 
Leon.  So  are  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  accused  her 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated : 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this, 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 
Ant.  Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 
Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforced 

To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 
Leon.  Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves, 
And  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask'd.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me.     You  know  your  office,  brother : 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio. 

332 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  confirm'd  countenance 
Bene.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 
Friar.  To  do  what,  signior  ? 
Bene.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  me ;  one  of  them. 

Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  signior, 

Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 
Leon.  That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her :  'tis  most  true 
Bene.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 
Leon.  The  sight  whereof  I  think  you  had  from  me, 

From  Claudio,  and  the  prince :  but  what 's  your  v/ill  ? 
Bene.  Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 

But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 

May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoin'd 

In  the  state  of  honourable  marriage : 

In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 
Leon.  My  heart  is  with  your  liking 
Friar.  And  my  help. 

Here  comes  the  prince  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio,  and  two  or  three  others. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 
Leon.  Good  morrow,  prince;  good  morrow,  Claudio: 

We  here  attend  you.     Are  you  yet  determined 

To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 
Claud.  I  '11  hold  my  mind,  were  she  an  Ethiope. 
Leon.  Call  her  forth,  brother ;  here 's  the  friar  ready. 

\Exit  Antonio. 
D.  Pedro.  Good  morrow,  Benedick.     Why,  what 's  the  matter, 

That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 

So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 
Claud.  I  think  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull. 

Tush,  fear  not,  man ;  we  '11  tip  thy  horns  with  gold, 

And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee ; 

As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 

When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 
Bene.  Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low  ; 

And  some  such  strange  bull  leap'd  your  father's  cow, 

And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat 

Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 
Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you  :  here  comes  other  reckonings. 
Re-enter  Antonio,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 
Ant.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 
Claud.  Why,  then  she  's  mine.     Sweet,  let  me  see  your  face 
Leon.  No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her  hand 

Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

333 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  Much  Ado  About  Nothin 

Claud.  Give  me  your  hand :  before  this  holy  friar 

I  am  your  husband,  if  you  like  of  me. 
Hero.  And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife  :    [  Unmasking. 

Arid  when  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 
Claud.  Another  Hero ! 
Hero.  Nothing  certainer : 

One  Hero  died  defiled ;  but  I  do  live, 

And  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 
D.  Pedro.  The  former  Hero  !     Hero  that  is  dead  ! 
Leon.  She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander  lived. 
Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify  : 

When  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 

I  '11  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death : f 

Meantime  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 

And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 
Bene.  Soft  and  fair,  friar.     Which  is  Beatrice  ? 
Beat.  [  Unmasking]  I  answer  to  that  name.    What  is  your  will  ? 
Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  Why,  no ;  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.  Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and  Claudio 

Have  been  deceived ;  they  swore  you  did. 
Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  no ;  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula 

Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 
Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 
Beat.  They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  for  me. 
Bene.  'Tis  no  such  matter.     Then  you  do  not  love  me  ? 
Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompence. 
Leon.  Come,  cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the  gentleman, 
Claud.  And  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  't  that  he  loves  her ; 

For  here 's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 

A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  pure  brain, 

Fashion'd  to  Beatrice. 
Hero.  And  here 's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 

Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 
Bene.  A  miracle !  here 's  our  own  hands  against  our  hearts. 

Come,  I  will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this  light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 
Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you ;  but,  by  this  good  day,  I  yield 

upon  great  persuasion;  and  partly  to  save  your  life,  for  I 

was  told  you  were  in  a  consumption. 

Bene.  Peace  !   I  will  stop  your  mouth.  \Kissing  her. 

D.  Pedro.  How  dost  thou,  Benedick,  the  married  man  ? 
Bene.  I  '11  tell   thee  what,  prince ;   a  college  of  wit-crackers 

334 


» 


Much  Ado  About  Nothing  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour.  Dost  thou  think  I  care 
for  a  satire  or  an  epigram  ?  No  :  if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with 
brains,  a'  shall  wear  nothing  handsome  about  him.  In  brief, 
since  I  do  purpose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any 
purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it ;  and  therefore  never 
flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it ;  for  man  is  a  giddy 
thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion.  For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I 
did  think  to  have  beaten  thee ;  but  in  that  thou  art  like  to 
be  my  kinsman,  live  unbruised,  and  love  my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hoped  thou  wouldst  have  denied  Beatrice, 
that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee  out  of  thy  single  life,  to 
make  thee  a  double-dealer ;  which,  out  of  question,  thou  wilt 
be,  if  my  cousin  do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends  :  let 's  have  a  dance  ere  we 
are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our  own  hearts,  and  our 

Leon.  We  '11  have  dancing  afterward.  [wives'  heels. 

Bene.  First,  of  my  word ;  therefore  play,  music.  Prince,  thou 
art  sad;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a  wife:  there  is  no  staff 
more  reverend  than  one  tipped  with  horn. 

• 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow :  I  ;11  devise  thee  brave 
punishments  for  him.  Strike  up,  pipers.  [Dance.  Exeunt. 

i 

. 

. 

i 


• 
335 


-  Tf  t^^c 
LOVE'S    LABOUR'S   LOST 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


FERDINAND,  king  of  Navarre. 


King. 


DUMAIN, 


*** 


Bo  YET,       \  lords  attending  on  thePrincess 

MERCADE,  ]     oj  France. 

DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARMADO,  a  fantastical 

Spaniard. 

SIR  NATHANIEL,  a  curate. 
HOLOFKRNES,  a  schoolmaster. 


DULL,  a  constable. 
COSTAKD,  a  cloiun. 
MOTH,  pagt  to  Armado. 
A  Forester. 


The  PRINCESS  of  France. 


attending  en   the 


KATHARINEj 

JAQUENETTA,  a  country  -wench. 


Lords,  Attendants,  &c. 
SCE  NE — Navarre. 

ACT  I— SCENE  I 

The  king  of  Navarre's  park. 

Enter  Ferdinand,  king  of  Navarre,  Biron,  Longaville,  and 
Dumain. 

King.  Let  fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives,       \J*~ 
Live  register'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  grace  us  in  the  disgrace  of  death ; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  Time, 
The  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honour  which  shall  bate  his  scythe's  keen  edge, 
And  make  us  heirs  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors, — for  so  you  are, 
That  war  against  your  own  affections 
And  the  huge  army  of  the  world's  desires, — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force : 
Navarre  shall  be  the  wonder  of  the  world ; 
Our  court  shall  be  a  little  Academe, 
Still  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  three,  Biron,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me 
My  fellow-scholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes 
That  are  recorded  in  this  schedule  here : 
Your  oaths  are  pass'd ;  and  now  subscribe  your  names, 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honour  down 
That  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein : 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do  as  sworn  to  do, 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oaths,  and  keep  it  too. 

Long.  I  am  resolved ;  'tis  but  a  three  years'  fast : 
The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine : 
Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates ;  and  dainty  bits 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bankrupt  quite  the  wits. 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

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  pass'd  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  barr'd,  you  mean,  from  common  sense  ? 
King.  Ay,  that  is  study's  god-like  recompence. 
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 ; 

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  are  vain ;  but  that  most  vain, 

337 


Act  I,  Sc. 'i]  Love's  Labour's  Los 

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. 
(?   Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 
And  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  like  the  heaven's  glorious  sun, 

That  will  not  be  deep-search'd  with  saucy  looks ; 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won, 

Save  base  authority  from  others'  books. 
These  earthly  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights, 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star, 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights 

Than  those  that  walk  and  wot  not  what  they  are. 
Too  much  to  know,  is  to  know  nought  but  fame ; 
And  every  godfather  can  give  a  name. 
King.  How  well  he 's  read,  to  reason  against  reading ! 
Dum.  Proceeded  well,  to  stop  all  good  proceeding  ! 
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. 

King.  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  any  abortive  birth  ? 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  shows; 
But  like  of  each  thing  that  in  season  grows. 
So  you,  to  study  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 
King.  Well,  sit  you  out :  go  home,  Biron  :  adieu. 
Biron.  No,  my  good  lord ;  I  have  sworn  to  stay  with  3-011 : 
And  though  I  have  for  barbarism  spoke  more 
Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say, 
Yet  confident  I  '11  keep  what  1  have  swore, 

And  bide  the  penance  of  each  three  years'  day. 
338 


• 

I 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Give  me  the  paper ;  let  me  read  the  same  ; 

And  to  the  strict'st  decrees  I  '11  write  my  name. 
King.  How  well  this  yielding  rescues  thee  from  shame ! 
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  ? 

Long.  To  fright  them  hence  with  that  dread  penalty. 
Biron.  A  dangerous  law  against  gentility  ! 

[Reads]  l  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  Aquitaine 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bedrid  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  thing  it  hunteth  most, 

'Tis  won  as  towns  with  fire,  so  won,  so  lost. 
King.  We  must  of  force  dispense  with  this  decree ; 

She  must  lie  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  master'd,  but  by  special  grace : 

If  I  break  faith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, 

I  am  forsworn  on  '  mere  necessity.' 

So  to  the  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name :  [Subscribes, 
And  he  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree 

Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame  : 
Suggestions  are  to  other  as  to  me ; 

But  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so^loth, 

I  am  the  last  that  will  last  keep  his  oath. 

But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted  ? 
King.  Ay,  that  there  is.     Our  court,  vou  know,  is  haunted 

339 


Act  I,  Sc.  i] 


Love's  Labour's  Lost 


With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain  ; 

A  man  in  all  the  world's  new  fashion  planted, 
That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  brain ; 

One  whom  the  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 
Doth  ravish  like  enchanting  harmony ; 

A  man  of  complements,  whom  right  and  wrong 
Have  chose  as  umpire  of  their  mutiny  : 

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. 
Biron.  Armado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 

A  man  of  fire-new  words,  fashion's  own  knight. 
Long.  Costard  the  swain  and  he  shall  be  our  sport ; 

And,  so  to  study,  three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  Dull  with  a  letter ',  and  Costard. 
Dull.  Which  is  the  Duke's  own  person  ? 
Biron.  This,  fellow  :  what  wouldst  ? 
Dull.  I  myself  reprehend  his  own  person,  for  I  am  his  Grace's 

tharborough :  but  I  would  see  his  own  person  in  flesh  and 
Biron.  This  is  he.  [blood. 

Dull.  Signior  Arme — Arme — commends  you.     There 's  villany 

abroad  :  this  letter  will  tell  you  more." 
Cost.  Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  are  as  touching  me. 
King.  A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado.  [words. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in  God  for  high 
Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  heaven :  God  grant  us  patience  ! 
Biron.  To  hear  ?  or  forbear  laughing  ? 
Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  moderately;    or  to 

forbear  both. 
Biron.  Well,  sir,  be  it  as  the  style  shall  give  us  cause  to  climb 

in  the  merriness. 
Cost,  The   matter   is   to   me,  sir,    as  concerning   Jaquenetta. 

The  matter  of  it  is,  I  was  taken  with  the  manner. 
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  manner  of  a  man  to  speak  to  a  woman  : 

for  the  form, — in  some  form. 
Biron.   For  the  following,  sir  ? 

340 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Cost.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction :  and  God  defend  the 

King.  Will  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  1  [right  1 

Biron.  As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

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

King  [reads].  'Great  deputy,  the  welkin's  vicegerent,  and 
sole  dominator  of  Navarre,  my  soul's  earth's  god,  and  body's 
fostering  patron.' — 

Cost.  Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King  [reads],   '  So  it  is,' — 

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

King.  Peace  !  [but  so. 

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

King.  No  words ! 

Cost.  Of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King  [reads].  'So,  it  is,  besieged  with  sable-coloured  melan 
choly,  I  did  commend  the  black-oppressing  humour  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-coloured  ink, 
which  here  thou  viewest,  beholdest,  surveyest,  or  seest :  but 
to  the  place  where, — it  standeth  north-north-east  and  by  east 
from  the  west  corner  of  thy  curious-knotted  garden :  there 
did  I  see  that  low-spirited  swain,  that  base  minnow  of  thy 
mirth,' — 

Cost.  Me? 

King  [reads].  '  that  unlettered  small-knowing  soul,' — 

Cost.  Me? 

King  [reads].  '  that  shallow  vassal,' — 

Cost.  Still  me? 

King  [reads].  '  which,  as  I  remember,  hight  Costard,' — 

Cost.  O,  me  ! 

King  [reads].  '  sorted  and  consorted,  contrary  to  thy 
established  proclaimed  edict  and  continent  canon,  which 
with, — O,  with, — but  with  this  I  passion  to  say  where 
with,' — 

Cost.  With  a  wench. 

King  [reads],  'with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve,  a 
female ;  or,  for  thy  more  sweet  understanding,  a  woman. 
Him  I,  as  my  ever-esteemed  duty  pricks  me  on,  have  sent  to 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

thee,  to  receive  the  meed  of  punishment,  by  thy  sweet 
Grace's  officer,  Anthony  Dull;  a  man  of  good  repute, 
carriage,  bearing,  and  estimation.' 

Dull.  Me,  an  't  shall  please  you  :  I  am  Anthony  Dull. 

King  [reads].  *  For  Jaquenetta, — so  is  the  weaker  vessel 
called  which  I  apprehended  with  the  aforesaid  swain, — I 
keep  her  as  a  vessel  of  thy  law's  fury  •  and  shall,  at  the  least 
of  thy  sweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial.  Thine,  in  all  compli 
ments  of  devoted  and  heart-burning  heat  of  duty. 

DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARM  ADO.' 

Biron.  This  is  not  so  well  as  I  looked  for,  but  the  best  that 

ever  I  heard. 

King.  Ay,  the  best  for  the  worst.     But,  sirrah,  what  say  you 
Cost.  Sir,  I  confess  the  wench.  [to  this  ? 

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.  I  was  taken  with  none,  sir  :  I  was  taken  with  a  damsel. 
King.  Well,  it.  was  proclaimed  damsel. 
Costi  This  was  no  damsel  neither,  sir ;  she  was  a  virgin. 
King.  It  is  so  varied  too  ;  for  it  was  proclaimed  virgin. 
Cost.  If  it  were,  I  deny  her  virginity  :  I  was  taken  with  a  maid. 
King.  This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 
Cost.  This  maid  will  serve  my  turn,  sir. 
King.  Sir,  I  will  pronounce  your  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  deliver'd  o'er : 

And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 
Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. 

[Exeunt  King,  Longaville^  and  Dumain. 
Biron.  I  '11  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  prosperity  !     Affliction  may  one  day 

smile  again;  and  till  then,  sit  thee  down,  sorrow  1    {Exeunt. 

' 

S42 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 


*  owj*.  SCENE  II 

%      L<  I   2  0       •        ?3k  *ww. 

Enter  Armado  and  Moth  his  Page. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it  when  a  man  of  great  spirit  grows 
Moth.  A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sad.        [melancholy  ? 
Arm.  Why,  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-same  thing,  dear  imp. 
Moth.  No,  no;  O  Lord,  sir,  no.  (Juvenal? 

Arm,  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melancholy,  my  tender 
Moth.  By  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  working,  my  tough 
Arm.  Why  tough  senior?  why  tough  senior  ?  [senior. 

Moth.  Why  tender  Juvenal  ?  why  tender  Juvenal  ? 
Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  Juvenal,  as  a  congruent  epitheton  apper 

taining  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  saying  apt  ?  or 

I  apt,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 
Arm.  Thou  pretty,  because  little. 
Moth.  Little  pretty,  because  little.     Wherefore  apt  ? 
Arm.  And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 
Moth.  Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 
Arm.  In  thy  condign  praise. 
Moth.  I  will  praise  an  eel  with  the  same  praise. 
Arm.  What,  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 
Moth.  That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say  thou  art  quick  in  answers  :  thou  heatest  my  blood. 
Moth.  I  am  answered,  sir. 

Arm..  I  love  not  to  be  crossed.  [him. 

Moth.  [Aside]  He  speaks  the  mere  contrary  ;  crosses  love  not 
Arm.  I  have  promised  to  study  three  years  with  the  Duke. 
Moth.  You  may  do  it  in  an'hour,  sir. 
Arm.  Impossible. 

Moth.  How  many  is  one  thrice  told  ? 

Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reckoning  ;  it  fitteth  the  spirit  of  a  tapster. 
Moth.  You  are  a  gentleman  and  a  gamester,  sir.  [man. 

Arm.  I  confess  both  :  they  are  both  the  varnish  of  a  complete 
Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure,  you  know  how  much  the  gross  sum  of 

deuce-ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.  It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 
Moth.  Which  the  base  vulgar  do  call  three. 
Arm.  True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study  ?     Now  here  is 

343 


Lost 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's 

three  studied,  ere  ye  '11  thrice  wink  :  and  how  easy  it  is  to  put 
years  to  the  word  three,  and  study  three  years  in  two  words, 
the  dancing  horse  will  tell  you. 

Arm.  A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.  To  prove  you  a  cipher. 

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  humour  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  Samson !  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.  A  woman,  master.  [Moth  ? 

Arm.  Of  what  complexion  ? 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the  two,  or  one  of  the 

Arm.  Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion.  [four. 

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  colour  of  lovers  ;  but  to  have  a  love 
of  that  colour,  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 

Arm.  Define,  define,  well-educated  infant.  [colours. 

Moth.  My  father's  wit,  and  my  mother's  tongue,  assist  me ! 

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

Moth.  If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 

Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known  ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred. 

And  fears  by  pale  white  shown  : 
Then  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 
By  this  you  shall  not  know  ; 
344 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same 

Which  native  she  doth  owe.  [red. 

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

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

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad  some  three 
ages  since :  but,  I  think,  now  'tis  not  to  be  found  ;  or,  if  it 
were,  it  would  neither  serve  for  the  writing  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  that  subject  newly  writ  o'er,  that  I  may  ex 
ample  my  digression  by  some  mighty  precedent.  Boy,  I 
do  love  that  country  girl  that  I  took  in  the  park  with  the 
rational  hind  Costard  :  she  deserves  well. 

Moth.  [Aside]  To  be  whipped ;  and  yet  a  better  love  than  my 

Arm.  Sing,  boy  ;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love.  [master. 

Moth.  And  that 's  great  marvel,  loving  a  light  wench. 

Arm.  I  say,  sing. 

Moth.  Forbear  till  this  company  be  past. 

Enter  Dull,  Costard,  and  Jaquenetta. 

Dull.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is,  that  you  keep  Costard  safe  : 
and  you  must  suffer  him  to  take  no  delight  nor  no  penance  ; 
but  a'  must  fast  three  days  a  week.  For  this  damsel,  I 
must  keep  her  at  the  park  :  she  is  allowed  for  the  day-woman. 
Fare  you  well. 

Arm.  I  do  betray  myself  with  blushing.     Maid. 

Jaq.  Man. 

Arm.  I  will  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Tag.  That 's  hereby. 

Arm.  I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

Jaq.  Lord,  how  wise  you  are  ! 

Arm.  I  will  tell  thee  wonders. 

Jaq.  With  that  face  ? 

Arm.  1  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 

Arm.  Thou  shalt  be  heavily  punished.  [stomach. 

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. 

345 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

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. 

Arm.  I  do  affect  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  attempted  ?  Love  is  a  familiar ;  Love  is  a 
devil :  there  is  no  evil  angel  but  Love.  Yet  was  Samson 
so  tempted,  and  he  had  an  excellent  strength;  yet  was 
Solomon  so  seduced,  and  he  had  a  very  good  wit.  Cupid's 
butt-shaft  is  too  hard  for  Hercules'  club ;  and  therefore  too 
much  odds  for  a  Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and  second 
cause  will  not  serve -my  turn;  the  passado  he  respects  not, 
the  duello  he  regards  not :  his  disgrace  is  to  be  called  boy ; 
but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men.  Adieu,  valour  !  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  sonnet.  Devise,  wit ;  write,  pen ;  for  I  am  for 
whole  volumes  in  folio.  [Exit. 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 

rm 

The  same. 

Enter  the  Princess  of  France,  Rosaline,  Maria,  Katharine, 
Boyet,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyet.  Now,  madam,  summon  up  your  dearest  spirits : 
Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends  ; 
To  whom  he  sends  ;  and  what  Js  his  embassy : 
Yourself,  held  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley 'with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe, 
Matchless  Navarre  ;  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitaine,  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. 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Prin.  Good  Lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though  but  mean, 

Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise : 

Beauty  is  bought  by  judgement  of  the  eye, 

Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's  tongues  : 

I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth 

Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 

In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 

But  now  to  task  the  tasker :  good  Boyet, 

You  are  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 

Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 

Till  painful  study  shall  outwear  three  years, 

No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court : 

Therefore  to 's  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 

Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 

To  know  his  pleasure ;  and  in  that  behalf, 

Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 

As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor. 

Tell  him,  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  France, 

On  serious  business  craving  quick  dispatch, 

Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  Grace : 

Haste,  signify  so  much  ;  while  we  attend, 

Like  humble-visaged  suitors,  his  high  will. 
Boyet.  Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go. 
Prin.  All  pride  is  willing  pride,  and  yours  is  so.  {Exit  Boyet. 

Who  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords, 

That  are  vow-fellows  with  this  virtuous  duke  ? 
First  Lord.  Lord  Longaville  is  one. 
Prin.  Know  you  the  man  ? 

Mar.  I  know  him,  madam  :  at  a  marriage-feast, 

Between  Lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heir 

Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 

In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville  : 

A  man  of  sovereign  parts  he  is  esteem'd ; 

Well  fitted  in  arts,  glorious  in  arms  : 

Nothing  becomes  him  ill  that  he  would  well. 

The  only  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss, 

If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  with  any  soil, 

Is  a  sharp  wit  match'd  with  too  blunt  a  will ; 

Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  will  still  wills 

It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 
Prin.  Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belike  ;  is  't  so  ? 
Mar.  They  say  so  most  that  most  his  humours  know. 
Prin.  Such  short-lived  wits  do  wither  as  they  grow. 

Who  are  the  rest  ? 

Kath.  The  young  Dumain,  a  well-accomplish'd  youth, 

347 


t&^U*~*  *4<*CTO'uftps' 4 

Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Of  all  that  virtue  love  for  virtue  loved  : 

Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  knowing  ill ; 

For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good, 

And  shape  to  win  grace,  though  he  had  no  wit. 

I  saw  him  at  the  Duke  Alenc,on's  once ; 

And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw 

Is  my  report  to  his  great  worthiness. 
Ros.  Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 

Was  there  with  him, if  I  have  heard  a  truth. 

Biron  they  call  him  ;  but  a  merrier  man, 

Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 

I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal : 

His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit ; 

For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 

The  other  turns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest, 

Which  his  fair  tongue,  conceit's  expositor, 

Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words, 

That  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 

And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished ; 

So  sweet  and  voluble  is  his  discourse. 
Prin.  God  bless  my  ladies  !  are  they  all  in  love, 

That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 

With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 
First  Lord.  Here  comes  Boyet. 

Re-enter  Boyet. 

Prin.  Now,  what  admittance,  lord  ? 

Boyet.  Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  approach ; 

And  he  and  his  competitors  in  oath 

Were  all  address'd  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 

Before  I  came.     Marry,  thus  much  I  have  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  unpeeled  house. 

Here  comes  Navarre. 

Enter  King,  Longaville,  Dumain,  Biron,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Fair  princess,  welcome  to  the  court  of  Navarre. 

Prin.  '  Fair '  I  give  you  back  again ;  and  '  welcome '  I  have  not 
yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high  to  be  yours ;  and 
welcome  to  the  wide  fields  too  base  to  be  mine. 

King.  You  shall  be  welcome,  madam,  to  my  court. 

Prin.  I  will  be  welcome,  then  :  conduct  me  thither. 

King.  Hear  me,  dear  lady ;  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 

Prin.  Our  Lady  help  my  lord  !  he  '11  be  forsworn. 

348 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

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  hath  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. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  purpose  of  my  coming, 
And  suddenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit. 
King.  Madam,  I  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 
Prin.  You  will  the  sooner,  that  I  were  away ; 

For  you  '11  prove  perjured,  if  you  make  me  stay. 
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. 

Ros.  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  be  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  he  or  we,  as  neither  have, 
Received  that  sum,  yet  there  remains  unpaid 
A  hundred  thousand  more ;  in  surety  of  the  which, 
One  part  of  Aquitaine  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  Aquitaine, 
And  hold  fair  friendship  with  his  Majesty. 
But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth, 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 

349 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lo< 

A  hundred  thousand  crowns ;  and  not  demands, 

On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 

To  have  his  title  live  in  Aquitaine  ; 

Which  we  much  rather  had  depart  withal, 

And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent, 

Than  Aquitaine  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  coniess  receipt 

Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 
King.  I  do  protest  I  never  heard  of  it ; 

And  if  you  prove  it,  I  '11  repay  it  back, 

Or  yield  up  Aquitaine. 
Prin.  We  arrest  your  word. 

Boyet,  you  can  produce  acquittances 

For  such  a  sum  from  special  officers 

Of  Charles  his  father. 
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. 

Meantime  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand 

As  honour,  without  breach  of  honour,  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  harbour  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  !  [Exit. 

Biron.  Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  mine  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  ? 

35° 


/    iF        tJJ      •TE<iJlmAj4j 

Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

•ww****1'**1*'****'*"**  • 

Ros.  My  physic  says  'ay.' 

Biron.  Will  you  prick  't  with  your  eye  ? 

Ros.  No  point,  with  my  knife. 

Biron.  Now,  God  save  thy  life  ! 

Ros.  And  yours  from  long  living  ! 

Biron,  I  cannot  stay  thanksgiving.  {Retiring. 

Dum.  Sir,  I  pray  you,  a  word :  what  lady  is  that  same  ? 

Boyet.  The  heir  of  AlenQon,  Katharine  her  name. 

Dum,  A  gallant  lady.     Monsieur,  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Long.  I  beseech  you  a  word  :  what  is  she  in  the  white  ? 

Boyet.  A  woman  sometimes,  an  you  saw  her  in  the  light. 

Long.  Perchance  light  in  the  light.     I  desire  her  name. 

Boyet.  She  hath  but  one  for  herself,  to  desire  that  were  a  shame. 

Long.  Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter  ? 

Boyet.  Her  mother's  I  have  heard. 

Long.  God's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 

Boyet.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended. 

She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 
Long.  Nay,  my  choler  is  ended. 

She  is  a  most  sweet  lady. 

Boyet.  Not  unlike,  sir,  that  may  be.  {Exit  Long. 

Biron.  What 's  her  name  in  the  cap  ? 
Boyet.  Rosaline,  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. 
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  word. 
Boyet.  I  was  as  willing  to  grapple  as  he  was  to  board. 
Mar.  Two  hot  sheeps,  marry. 
Boyet.  And  wherefore  not  ships? 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  your  lips. 
Mar.  You  sheep,  and  I  a  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  they  be. 
Boyet.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Mar.  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.  Good  wits  will  be  jangling  ;  but,  gentles,  agree  : 

This  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. 

351 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

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? 

Boyet.  Why,  all  his  behaviours  did  make  their  retire 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire  : 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impress'd, 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  express'd  : 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see, 
Did  stumble  with  haste  in  his  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  lock'd  in  his  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy  ; 
Who,  tendering  their  own  worth  from  where  they  were  glass'd, 
Did  point  you  to  buy  them,  along  as  you  pass'd  : 
His  face's  own  margent  did  quote  such  amazes, 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  gazes. 
I  '11  give  you  Aquitaine,  and  all  that  is  his, 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 

Prin.  Come  to  our  pavilion  :  Boyet  is  disposed. 

Boyet.  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  speakest  skilfully. 

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

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

Boyet.  Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wenches  ?  [grim. 

Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  our  way  to  be  gone. 

Boyet.  You  are  too  hard  for  me. 

\Exeunt, 

ACT   III— SCENE   I 

The   same. 
Enter  Armado   and  Moth. 

Arm.  Warble,  child ;  make  passionate  my  sense  of^earing. 
Moth.  Concolinel.  •^if^\Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air  !     Go,  tenderness  of  years ;  take/mis  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  ? 

-i- 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Arm.  How  meanest  thou  ?  brawling  in  French  ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master :  but  to  jig  off  a  tune  at  the 
tongue's  end,  canary  to  it  with  your  feet,  humour  it  v  ith 
turning  up  your  eyelids,  sigh  a  note  and  sing  a  note,  some 
time  through  the  throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  with 
singing  love,  sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed 
up  love  by  smelling  love  ;  with  your  hat  penthouse-like  o'er 
the  shop  of  your  eyes ;  with  your  arms  crossed  on  your  thin- 
belly  doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on  a  spit ;  or  your  hands  in  your 
pocket,  like  a  man  after  the  old  painting ;  and  keep  not  too 
long  in  one  tune,  but  a  snip  and  away.  These  are  comple 
ments,  these  are  humours  ;  these  betray  nice  wenches,  that 
would  be  betrayed  without  these ;  and  make  them  men  of 
note — do  you  note  me  ?— rthat  most  are  affected  to  these. 

Arm.  How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience? 

Moth.  By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm.  But  O, — but  O, — 

Moth.  l  The  hobby-horse  is  forgot.' 

Arm.  Callest  thou  my  love  '  hobby-horse '  ? 

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

Arm.  Almost  I  had. 

Moth.  Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.  By  heart  and  in  heart,  boy. 

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. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain  :  he  must  carry  me  a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathized ;  a  horse  to  be  ambassador 

Arm.  Ha,  ha  i  what  sayest  thou  ?  [for  an  ass. 

Moth.  Marry,  sir,  you  must  send  the  ass  upon  the  horse,  for 
he  is  very  slow-gaited.  But  I  go. 

Arm.  The  way  is  but  short :  away  ! 

Moth.  As  swift  as  lead,  sir. 

Arm.  The  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 : 

353  M 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Los 

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 ;  volable  and  free  of  grace  ! 

By  thy  favour,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy  face  : 

Most  rude  melancholy,  valour  gives  thee  place. 

My  herald  is  return'd.  • 

Re-enter  Moth  with  Costard. 

Moth.  A  wonder,  master  !  here 's  a  Costard  broken  in  a  shin. 
Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle  :  come,  thy  1'envoy ;  begin. 
Cost.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  1'envoy ;  no  salve  in  the  mail, 

sir :  O,  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain  !  no  1'envoy,  no  1'envoy ; 

no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain  1 
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  1' envoy,  and  the  word  1'envoy 

for  a  salve  ? 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other  ?  is  not  1'envoy  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  1'envoy. 
Moth.  I  will  add  the  1'envoy.     Say  the  moral  again. 
Arm.         The  fox,  the  ape,  the  humble-bee, 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Moth.        Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 
And  stay'd  the  odds  by  adding  four. 

Now  will  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow  with  my 
The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humbe-bee,  [1'envoy. 

Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
Arm.         Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door, 

Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four.  [more  ? 

Moth.  A  good  1'envoy,  ending  in  the  goose  :  would  you  desire 
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  1'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  call'd  you  for  the  1'envoy. 

354 


' 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  III,  Sc.  1 

Cost.  True,  and  I  for  a  plantain  :  thus  came  your  argument  in ; 
Then  the  boy's  fat  1'envoy,  the  goose  that  you  bought ; 
And  he  ended  the  market. 

Arm.  But  tell  me  ;  how  was  there  a  Costard  broken  in  a  shin? 
Moth.  I  will  tell  you  sensibly. 

Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it,  Moth :  I  will  speak  that 
I  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  within,  [1'envoy : 

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  1'envoy, 
some  goose,  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean  setting  thee  at  liberty,  en- 
freedoming  thy  person :  thou  wert  immured,  restrained, 
captivated,  bound.  [me  loose. 

Cost.  True,  true ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  purgation,  and  let 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from  durance  ;  and,  in 
lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee  nothing  but  this  :  bear  this 
significant  [giving  a  letter]  to  the  country  maid  Jaquenetta  : 
there  is  remuneration ;  for  the  best  ward  of  mine  honour  is 
rewarding  my  dependents.  Moth,  follow.  [Exit. 

Moth.  Like  the  sequel,  I.     Signior  Costard,  adieu. 

Cost.  My  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh  !  my  incony  Jew  ! 

[Exit  Moth. 

Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.  Remuneration  !  O, 
that 's  the  Latin  word  for  three  farthings  :  three  farthings— re 
muneration. — '  What  's  the  price  of  this  inkle  ?' — '  One  penny.' 
— *  No,  I  '11  give  you  a  remuneration  : '  why,  it  carries  it. 
Remuneration !  why,  it  is  a  fairer  name  than  French  crown, 
I  will  never  buy  and  sell  out  of  this  word. 
Enter  Biron. 

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

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

Biron.  What  is  a  remuneration  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  sir,  halfpenny  farthing. 

Biron.  Why,  then,  three-farthing  worth  of  silk. 

Cost.  I  thank  your  worship  :  God  be  wi'  you  I 

Biron.  Stay,  slave ;  I  must  employ  thee  : 

As  thou  wilt  win  my  favour,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 

Cost.  When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir  ? 

Biron.  This  afternoon. 

Cost.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  sir  :  fare  you  well. 

355 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Biron.  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 

The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  park,  [this  : 

And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady ; 

When   tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her  name, 

And  Rosaline  they  call  her  :  ask  for  her  ; 

And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 

This  seal'd-up  counsel.     There  's  thy  guerdon ;  go. 

[Giving  him  a  shilling. 
Cost.  Garden,  O  sweet  garden  !    better  than  remuneration,  a 

'leven-pence  farthing  better  :  most  sweet  gardon  !     I  will  do  it, 

sir,  in  print.     Gardon  !     Remuneration  1  [Exit. 

Biron.  And  I,  forsooth,    in   love  !     I,  that   have   been   love's 

A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  ;  [whip  ; 

A  critic,  nay,  a  night-watch  constable  ; 

A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy ; 

Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 

This  wimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy ; 

This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  ; 

Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms, 

The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 

Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents, 

Dread  prince  of  plackets,  king  of  codpieces, 

Sole  imperator  and  great  general 

Of  trotting  'paritors  : — O  my  little  heart ! — 

And  I  to  be  a  corporal  of  his  field, 

And  wear  his  colours  like  a  tumbler's  hoop ! 

What !  I  love  !  I  sue  !  I  seek  a  wife  ! 

A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock, 

Still  a-repairing,  ever  out  of  frame, 

And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch, 

But  being  watch'd  that  it  may  still  go  right ! 

Nay,  to  be  perjured,  which  is  worst  of  all ; 

And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all ; 

A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow, 

With  two  pitch-balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes  ; 

Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed. 

Though  Argus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard  : 

And  I  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. 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue  and  groan : 

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

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

The  same. 

Enter  the  Princess,  and  her  train,  a  Forester,  Boyet,  Rosaline^ 
Maria,  and  Katharine. 

Prin.  Was  that  the  king,  that  spurr'd  his  horse  so.  hard 

Against  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hill  ? 
Boyet.  I  know  not  \  but  I  think  it  was  not  he. 
Prin.  Whoe'er  a'  was,  a'  showed  a  mounting  mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  dispatch : 
On  Saturday  we  will  return  to  France. 
Then,  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  bush 
That  we  must  stand  and  play  the  murderer  in  ? 
For.  Hereby,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice  ; 
A  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 
Prin.  I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 

And  thereupon  thou  speak'st  the  fairest  shoot. 
For.  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 
Prin.  What,  what  ?  first  praise  me,  and  again  say  no  ? 

O  short-lived  pride  !    Not  fair  ?  alack  for  woe  ! 
For.  Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now  : 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  my  glass,  take  this  for  telling  true  : 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 
For.  Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  inherit. 
Prin.  See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  saved  by  merit ! 
O  heresy  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days  ! 
A  giving  hand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  praise. 
But  come,  the  bow  :  now  mercy  goes  to  kill, 
And  shooting  well  is  then  accounted  ill. 
Thus  will  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot : 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do 't ; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise  than  purpose  meant  to  kill. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes, 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes, 
When,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part, 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart ; 
As  I  for  praise  alone  now  seek  to  spill 
The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no  ill. 
Boyet.  Do  not  curst  wives  hold  that  self-sovereignty 

357 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

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. 

Boyet.  Here  comes  a  member  of  the  commonwealth. 
Enter   Costard. 

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

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

Cost.  Which  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ?  [heads. 

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  o'  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. 

Boyet.  ,  I  am  bound  to  serve. 

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

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear. 

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

Boyet  [reads].  By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair,  is  most  infallible  ; 
true,  that  thou  art  beauteous  ;  truth  itself,  that  thou  art  lovely. 
More  fairer  than  fair,  beautiful  than  beauteous,  truer  than 
truth  itself,  have  commiseration  on  thy  heroical  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 
annothanize  in  the  vulgar, — O  base  and  obscure  vulgar ! — 
videlicet,  He  came,  saw,  and  overcame  :  he  came,  one  ;  saw, 
two  ;  overcame,  three.  Who  came  ?  the  king  :  why  did  he 
come  ?  to  see :  why  did  he  see  ?  to  overcome  :  to  whom 
came  he?  to  the  beggar:  what  saw  he?  the  beggar :  who 
overcame  he  ?  the  beggar.  The  conclusion  is  victory :  on 
whose  side  ?  the  king's.  The  captive  is  enriched  :  on  whose 
side  ?  the  beggar's.  The  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial :  on  whose 
side  ?  the  king's  :  no,  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both.  I 
am  the  king ;  for  so  stands  the  comparison :  thou  the 
beggar ;  for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowliness.  Shall  I  command 
thy  love  ?  I  may  :  shall  I  enforce  thy  love  ?  I  could  :  shall  I 
entreat  thy  love?  I  will.  What  shalt  thou  exchange  for 
rags  ?  robes  j  for  tittles  ?  titles  ;  for  thyself?  me.  Thus,  ex- 

358 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

pecting  thy  reply,  I  profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes  on 
thy  picture,  and  my  heart  on  thy  every  part.  Thine,  in  the 
dearest  design  of  industry, 

DON  ADRIANO  DE  ARMADO. 

Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Nemean  lion  roar 

'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standest  as  his  prey. 

Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before, 
And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play : 

But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 

Food  for  his  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  erewhile. 
Boyet.  This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps  here  in  court ; 

A  phantasime,  a  Monarcho,  and  one  that  makes  sport   . 

To  the  prince  and  his  bookmates. 
Prin.  Thou  fellow,  a  word  : 

Who  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cost.  I  told  you  ;  my  lord. 

Prin.  To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it  ? 

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  call'd  Rosaline. 
Prin.  Thou  hast  mistaken  his  letter.     Come,  lords,  away. 
\To  Rosl\  Here,  sweet,  put  up  this  :  'twill  be  thine  another  day. 

[Exeunt  Princess  and  train. 
Boyet.  Who  is  the  suitor  ?  who  is  the  suitor  ? 
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  ! 

Ros.  Well,  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 

Boyet.  And  who  is  your  deer  ( 

Ros.  If  we  choose  by  the  horns,  yourself  come  not  near. 

Finely  put  on,  indeed  !  [brow. 

Mar.  You  still  wrangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and  she  strikes  at  the 
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  France   was   a   little   boy,   as 

touching  the  hit  it  ? 

359 


Lost 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old,  that  was  a  woman 

when   Queen   Guinover  of  Britain  was  a  little  wench,  as 

touching  the  hit  it. 
Ros.  Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  hit  it,  hit  it, 

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

An  I  cannot,  another  can.  \Exeunt  Ros.  and  Kaih. 

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  my  lady  ! 

Let  the  mark  have  a  prick  in  't,  to  mete  at,  if  it  may  be. 
Mar.  Wide  o'  the  bow-hand  !  i'  faith,  your  hand  is  out. 
Cost.  Indeed,  a'  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he  ;11  ne'er  hit  the  clout. 
Boyet.  An  if  my  hand  be  out,  then  belike  your  hand  is  in. 
Cost.  Then  will  she  get  the  upshoot  by  cleaving  the  pin. 
Mar.  Come,  come,  you  talk  greasily  ;  your  lips  grow  foul. 
Cost.  She 's  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir  :  challenge  her  to  bowl. 
Boyet.  I  fear  too  much  rubbing.     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. 

Armado  o'  th'  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  nit ! 

Sola,  sola  !  \Shout  within.          [Exit  Costard  running. 

SCENE  II 
The  same. 

Enter  Holo/ernes,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 
Nr.th.  Very  reverend  sport,  truly ;  and  done  in  the  testimony 

of  a  good  conscience. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  sanguis,  in  blood ;  ripe  as  the 
pomewater,  who  now  hangeth  like  a  jewel  in  the  ear  of  caelo, 
the  sky,  the  welkin,  the  heaven  ;  and  anon  fall.eth  like  a  crab 
on  the  face  of  terra,  the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 
_JNath.  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. 
JIol.  Sir  Nathaniel,  haud  credo. 
Dull.   'Twas  not  a  haud  credo;  'twas  a  pricket. 

360 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Holl.  Most  barbarous  intimation  !  yet  a  kind  of  insinuation,  as 

it  were,  in  via,  in  way,  of  explication ;  facere,  as  it  werer 

replication,  or,   rather,  ostentare,   to    show,  as  it  were,  his 

inclination,    after   his   undressed,    unpolished,    uneducated,. 

unprune^    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  ! 
Nath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  dainties  that  are  bred  in  a 

book ;  he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as  it  were  ;  he  hath  not  drunk 

ink  :  his  intellect  is  not  replenished ;  he  is  only  an  animal, 

only  sensible  in  the  duller  parts : 

And  such  barren  plants  are  set  before  us,  that  we  thankful 
should  be, 

Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are,  for  those  parts  that  do 
fructify  in  us  more  than  he. 

For  as  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  indiscreet,  or  a  fool, 

So  were  there  a  patch  set  on  learning,  to  see  him  in  school : 

But  omne  bene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  father's  mind, 

Many  can  brook  the  weather  that  love  not  the  wind. 
Dull.  You  two  are  book-men :  can  you  tell  me  by  your  wit 

What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that 's  not  five  weeks 

old  as  yet  ? 

Hoi.  Dictynna,  goodman  Dull  \  Dictynna,  goodman  Dull. 
.  Dull.  What  is  Dictynna? 
Nath.  A  title  to  Phoebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 
Hoi.  The  moon  was  a  month  old  when  Adam  was  no  more, 

And  raught  not  to  five  weeks  when  he  came  to  fivescore. 

The  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

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  I  say,  the  pollusion  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  dear  ?     And,  to  humour  the  ignorant,  call  I  the 

deer  the  princess  killed  a  pricket. 
Nath.  Perge,  good  Master  Holofernes,  perge ;  so  it  shall  please 

you  to  abrogate  scurrility. 
Hoi.  I  will  something  affect  the  letter,  for  it  argues  facility. 

The  preyful  princess  pierced  and  prick'd  a  pretty  pleasing 
pricket ; 

361  M  2 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Some  say  a  sore  ;  but  not  a  sore,  till  now  made  sore  with 

shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yell :  put  L  to  sore,  then  sorel  jumps  from 

thicket ; 

Or  pricket  sore,  or  else  sorel ;  the  people  fall  a-hooting. 
If  sore  be  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores  one  sorel. 
Of  one  sore  I  an  hundred  make  by  adding  but  one  more  L. 

Nath.  A  rare  talent ! 

Dull.  [Aside]  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,  look  how  he  claws  him 
with  a  talent. 

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  upon  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  by  you,  and 
their  daughters  profit  very  greatly  under  you :  you  are  a 
good  member  of  the  commonwealth. 

hoi.  Mehercle,  if  their  sons  be  ingenuous,  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 
saluteth  us. 

Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Costard. 

faq.  God  give  you  good  morrow,  master  Parson. 

Hoi.  Master  Parson,  quasi  pers-on.  An  if  one  should  be 
pierced,  which  is  the  one? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is  likest  to  a 
hogshead. 

Hoi.  Piercing  a  hogshead  !  a  good  lustre  of  conceit  in  a  turf  of 
earth  ;  fire  enough  for  a  flint,  pearl  enough  for  a  swine  :  'tis 
pretty;  it  is  well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  Parson,  be  so  good  as  read  me  this  letter  : 
it  was  given  me  by  Costard,  and  sent  me  from  Don  Armado  : 
I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

l.  Fauste,    precor  gelida  quando   pecus  omne  sub  umbra 
Ruminat, — and  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Mantuan !     I  may 
speak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice  ; 
Venetia,  Venetia, 
Chi  non  ti  vede  non  ti  pretia. 

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? 

362 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

Nath.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 

Hoi  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanze,  a  verse ;  lege,  domine. 

Nath.  {reads}. 

If  love  make  me  forsworn,  how  shall  I  swear  to  love  ? 
Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vow'd ! 
Though  to  myself  forsworn,  to  thee  I  '11  faithful  prove  ; 
Those  thoughts   to  me   were  oaks,    to   thee   like   osiers 

bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  his  book  thine  eyes, 

Where    all   those   pleasures   live   that    art    would    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. 

Hoi.  You  find  not  the  apostrophas,  and  so  miss  the  accent :  let 
me  supervise  the  canzonet.  Here  are  only  numbers 
ratified ;  but,  for  the  elegancy,  facility,  and  golden  cadence 
of  poesy,  caret.  Ovidius  Naso  was  the  man :  and  why, 
indeed,  Naso,  but  for  smelling  out  the  odoriferous  flowers  of 
fancy,  the  jerks  of  invention?  Imitari  is  nothing:  so  doth 
the  hound  his  master,  the  ape  his  keeper,  the  tired  horse  his 
rider.  But,  damosella  virgin,  was  this  directed  to  you  ? 

faq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  Monsieur  Biron,  one  of  the  strange 
queen's  lords. 

Hoi.  I  will  overglance  the  superscript :  *  To  the  snow-white 
hand  of  the  most  beauteous  Lady  Rosaline/  I  will  look 
again  on  the  intellect  of  the  letter,  for  the  nomination  of  the 
party  writing  to  the  person  written  unto  :  '  Your  ladyship's 
in  all  desired  employment,  BIRON.'  Sir  Nathaniel,  this 
Biron  is  one  of  the  votaries  with  the  king;  and  here  he 
hath  framed  a  letter  to  a  sequent  of  the  stranger  queen's, 
which  accidentally,  or  by  the  way  of  progression,  hath 
miscarried.  Trip  and  go,  my  sweet ;  deliver  this  paper  into 
the  royal  hand  of  the  king :  it  may  concern  much.  Stay 
not  thy  compliment ;  I  forgive  thy  duty  :  adieu. 

faq.  Good  Costard,  go  with  me.     Sir,  God  save  your  life  ! 

Cost.  Have  with  thee,  my  girl.  [Exeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 

Nath.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fear  of  God,  very 
religiously ;  and,  as  a  certain  father  saith, — 


Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi]  Love's  Labour's  L< 

Hoi.  Sir,  tell  not  me  of  the  father ;  I  do  fear  colourable 
colours.  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  privilege  I  have  with 
the  parents  of  the  foresaid  child  or  pupil,  undertake  your 
ben  venuto ;  where  I  will  prove  those  verses  to  be  very 
unlearned,  neither  savouring  of  poetry,  wit,  nor  invention  : 
I  beseech  your  society. 

Nath.  And  thank  you  too  ;  for  society,  saith  the  text,  is  the 
happiness  of  life. 

Hoi.  And,  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly  concludes  it.  [To 
Dul£\  Sir,  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 

The  same. 

Enter  JSiron,  with  a  paper. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  hunting  the  deer ;  I  am  coursing  my 
self  :  they  have  pitched  a  toil ;  I  am  toiling  in  a  pitch, — 
pitch  that  denies  :  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,  I  a  sheep :  well 
proved  again  o'  my  side  !  I  will  not  love  :  if  I  do,  hang  me  ; 
i'  faith,  I  will  not.  O,  but  her  eye, — by  this  light,  but  for 
her  eye,  I  would  not  love  her ;  yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  Well, 
I  do  nothing  in  the  world  but  lie,  and  lie  in  my  throat.  By 
heaven,  I  do  love :  and  it  hath  taught  me  to  rhyme,  and  to 
be  melancholy  ;  and  here  is  part  of  my  rhyme,  and  here  my 
melancholy.  Well,  she  hath  one  o'  my  sonnets  already  : 
the  clown  bore  it,  the  fool  sent  it,  and  the  lady  hath  it : 
sweet  clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetest  lady  !  By  the  world,  I 
would  not  care  a  pin,  if  the  other  three  were  in.  Here 
comes  one  with  a  paper :  God  give  him  grace  to  groan  ! 

{Stands  aside. 
Enter  the  King,  with  a  paper. 

King.  Ay  me  ! 

Biron.  {Aside']  Shot,  by  heaven  !  Proceed,  sweet  Cupid  :  thou 
hast  thumped  him  with  thy  bird-bolt  under  the  left  pap.  In 
faith,  secrets ! 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

King  \rcads\ 

So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun  gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 
As  thy  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 

The, night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  down  flows  : 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thv  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light; 

Thou  shinest  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep : 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee ; 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe. 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show  : 
But  do  not  love  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens  !  how  far  dost  thou  excel, 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell. 

How  shall  she  kjiow  my  griefs  ?     I  '11  drop  the  paper  : — 
Sweet  leaves,  shade  folly.     Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

\Steps  aside. 

What,  Longaville  !  and  reading  !  listen,  ear. 
Biron.  Now,  in  thy  likeness,  one  more  fool  appear  \ 

Enter  Longaville^  with  a  paper. 
Long.  Ay  me,  I  am  forsworn  ! 

Biron.  Why,  he  comes  in  like  a  perjure,  wearing  papers. 
King.  In  love,  I  hope :  sweet  fellowship  in  shame  ! 
Biron.  One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 
Long.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjured  so  ? 
Biron.  I  could  put  thee  in  comfort.     Not  by  two  that  I  know  : 
Thou  makest  the  triumviry,  the  corner-cap  of  society,    \    ^ 
The  shape  of  Love's  Tyburn  that  hangs  up  simplicity.   I 
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.  O,  rhymes  are  guards  on  wanton  Cupid's  hose : 

Disfigure  not  his  slop. 

Long.  This  same  shall  go.  \_Reads. 

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  ; 

365 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Thy  grace  being  gain'd  cures  all  disgrace  in  me  : 
Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is : 

Then  thou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  dost  shine, 
Exhalest  this  vapour-vow  ;  in  thee  it  is  : 
If  broken  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  : 
If  by  rne  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise 

To  lose  an  oath  to  win  a  paradise  ? 
Biron.  This  is  the  liver-vein,  which  makes  flesh  a  deity, 
A  green  goose  a  goddess  :  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God  amend  us,  God  amend  !  we  are  much  oat  o'  the  way. 
Long.  By  whom  shall  I  send  this  ? — Company  !  stay. 

[Steps  aside. 

Biron.  All  hid,  all  hid,  an  old  infant  play. 
Like  a  demigod  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  1 

Enter  Dumain  with  a  paper. 

Dumain  transform'd  !  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish  ! 
Dum.  O  most  divine  Kate  ! 
Biron.  O  most  profane  coxcomb  1 
Dum.  By  heaven,  the  wonder  in  a  mortal  eye  ! 
Biron.  By  earth,  she  is  not,  corporal,  there  you  lie. 
Dum.  Her  amber  hairs  for  foul  hath  amber  quoted. 
Biron.  An  amber-colour'd  raven  was  well  noted.  . 
Dum.  As  upright  as  the  cedar. 
Biron.  Stoop,  I  say  ; 

Her  shoulder  is  with  child. 
Dum.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.  Ay,  as  some  days ;  but  then  no  sun  must  shine. 
Dum.  O  that  I  had  my  wish  ! 
Long.  And  I  had  mine  ! 

King.  And  I  mine  too,  good  Lord ! 
Biron.  Amen,  so  I  had  mine  :  is  not  that  a  good  word  ? 
Dum.  I  would  forget  her ;  but  a  fever  she 

Reigns  in  my  blood,  and  will  remember'd  be. 
Biron.  A  fever  in  your  blood  !  why,  then  incision 

Would  let  her  out  in  saucers  :  sweet  misprision ! 
Dum.  Once  more  I  '11  read  the  ode  that  I  have  writ. 
Biron.  Once  more  I  '11  mark  how  love  can  vary  wit. 
Dum.  [reads] 

On  a  day — alack  the  day  ! — 
Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 

366 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 

All  unseen,  can  passage  find  ; 

That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 

Wish  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  1      Jud  -j 

Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 

That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee ; 

Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 

Juno  but  an  Ethiope  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  i     111,  to  example  ill, 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  perjured  note  ; 
For  none  offend  where  all  alike  do  dote. 
Long,  {advancing]  Dumain,  thy  love  is  far  from  charity, 
That  in  love's  grief  desirest  society  : 
You  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know, 
To  be  o'erheard  and  taken  napping  so. 

King,  [advancing]  Come,  sir,  you  blush ;  as  his  your  case  is 
You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much  ;  [such ; 

You  do  not  love  Maria ;  Longaville 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile, 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart. 
I  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush 
And  mark'd  you  both  and  for  you  both  did  blush : 
I  heard  your  guilty  rhymes,  observed  your  fashion, 
Saw  sighs  reek  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion : 
Ay  me  1  says  one  ;  O  Jove  !  the  other  cries ; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes  : 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth  ;        [To  Long. 
And  Jove,  for  your  love,  would  infringe  an  oath.     [To  Dum. 
What  will  Biron  say  when  that  he  shall  hear 
Faith  infringed,  which  such  zeal  did  swear  ? 
How  will  he  scorn  !  how  will  he  spend  his  wit ! 
How  will  he  triumph,  leap  and  laugh  at  it  I 

367 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 


For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see, 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 
Biron.  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy.  [Advancing, 

Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee,  pardon  me ! 
Good  heart,  what  grace  hast  thou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  loving,  that  art  most  in  love  ? 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaches  ;  in  your  tears 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears ; 
You  '11  not  be  perjured,  'tis  a  hateful  thing  ; 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  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. 

0,  what  a  scene  of  foolery  have  I  seen, 
Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow  and  of  teen  ! 

0  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat ! 

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? 

And,  gentle  Longaville,  where  lies  thy  pain  ? 

And  where  my  liege's  ?  all  about  the  breast : 

A  caudle,  ho  ! 
King.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over-view  ? 
J3iron.  Not  you  to  me,  but  I  betray'd  by  you : 

1,  that  am  honest ;  I,  that  hold  it  sin 
To  break  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in  ; 

1  am  betray'd,  by  keeping  company 
With  men  like  you,  men  of  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  write  a  thing  in  rhyme? 
Or  groan  for  love  ?  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  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  ? — 
Kin%.  Soft  !  whither  away  so  fast  ? 

A  true  man  or  a  thief  that  gallops  so  ? 
Eiron.  1  post  from  love :  good  lover,  let  me  go. 

Enter  Jaqitenetta  and  Costard. 

Jaq.   God  bless  the  king  1 

368 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cost.  Some  certain  treason. 

King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Cost.  Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 

King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason  and  you  go  in  peace  away  together. 
faq.  I  beseech  your  Grace,  let  this  letter  be  read 

Our  parson  misdoubts  it ;  'twas  treason,  he  said.  • 
King.  Biron,  read  it  over.  {Giving  him  the  paper. 

Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Jaq.  Of  Costard. 
King.  Where  hadst  thou  it  ? 
Cost.  Of  Dun  Adramadio,  Dun  Adramadio 

\Biron  tears  the  letter. 

King.  How  now  !  what  is  in  you  ?  why  dost  thou  tear  it  ? 
Biron.  A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy  :  your  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. 

\Gathering  up  the  pieces. 
Biron.  [  To    Costard]     Ah,    you   whoreson    loggerhead !    you 

were  born  to  do  me  shame. 
Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty !    I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.  What? 

Biron.  That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me  fool  to  make  up  the 
He,  he,  and  you,  and  you,  my  liege,  and  I,  [mess : 

Are  pick-purses  in  love,  and  we  deserve  to  die. 
O,  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  you  more. 
Dum.  Now  the  number  is  even. 
Biron.  True,  true ;  we  are  four : 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone  ? 
King.  Hence,  sirs  ;  away  ! 

Cost.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  let  the  traitors  stay. 

\Exeunt  Costard  and  Jaquenetta. 
Biron.  Sweet  lords,  sweet  lovers,  O,  let  us  embrace  ! 

As  true  we  are  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be  : 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face ; 

Young  blood  doth  not  obey  an  old  decree : 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  were  born ; 
Therefore  of  all  hands  must  we  be  forsworn. 
King.  What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  some  love  of  thine  ? 
Biron.  Did  they,  quoth  you  ?     Who  sees  the  heavenly  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  ? 
369 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

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  cull'd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek ; 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity, 

Where  nothing  wants  that  want  itself  doth  seek. 
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  wither'd  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn, 

Might  shake  off  fifty,  looking  in  her  eye  : 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-born, 

And  gives  the  crutch  the  cradle's  infancy : 
O,  'tis  the  sun  that  maketh  all  things  shine. 
King.  By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 
Biron.  Is  ebony  like  her  ?     O  wood  divine  ! 

A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
O,  who  can  give  an  oath  ?  where  is  a  book  ? 

That  I  may  swear  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 
If  that  she  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look  : 

No  face  is  fair  that  is  not  full  so  black. 
King.  O  paradox  !     Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 

The  hue  of  dungeons  and  the  school  of  night ; 
And  beauty's  crest  becomes  the  heavens  well. 
Biron.  Devils  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits  of  light. 
O,  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deck'd, 

It  mourns  that  painting  and  usurping  hair 
Should  ravish  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 
Her  favour  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. 
Duni.  To  look  like  her  are  chimney-sweepers  black. 
Long.  And  since  her  time  are  colliers  counted  bright. 
King.  And  Ethiopes  of  their  sweet  complexion  crack. 
Dum.  Dark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  dark  is  light. 
Biron.  Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain, 

37° 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

For  fear  their  colours  should  be  wash'd  away. 
King.  'Twere  good,  yours  did  ;  for,  sir,  to  tell  you  plain, 

I  '11  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-day. 
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  :  my  foot  and  her  face  see. 
Biron.  O,  if  the  streets  were  paved  with  thine  eyes. 

Her  feet  were  much  too  dainty  for  such  tread ! 
Dum.  O  vile  !  then,  as  she  goes,  what  upward  lies 

The  street  should  see  as  she  walk'd  overhead. 
King.  But  what  of  this  ?  are  we  not  all  in  love  ? 
Biron.  Nothing  so  sure  ;  and  thereby  all  forsworn. 
King.  Then  leave  this  chat ;  and,  good  Biron,  now  prove 

Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 
Dum.  Ay,  marry,  there ;  some  flattery  for  this  evil. 
Long.  O,  some  authority  how  to  proceed  ; 

Some  tricks,  some  quillets,  how  to  cheat  the  devil. 
Dum.  Some  salve  for  perjury. 
Biron.  Tis  more  than  need. 

Have  at  you,  then,  affection's  men.  at  arms. 

Consider  what  you  first  did  swear  unto, 

To  fast,  to  study,  and  to  see  no  woman  ; 

Flat  treason  'gainst  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 

Say,  can  you  fast  ?  your  stomachs  are  too  young ; 

And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 

And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords, 

In  that  each  of  you  have  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  vigour  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, 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

And  where  we  are  our  learning  likewise  is, 
Then  when  ourselves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes, 
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. 
For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  you, 
In  leaden  contemplation  have  found  out 
Such  fiery  numbers  as  the  prompting  eyes 
Of  beauty's  tutors  have  enrich'd  you  with  ? 
Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain ; 
And  therefore,  finding  barren  practisers, 
Scarce  show  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil : 
But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 
Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain ; 
But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements, 
Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power, 
And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power, 
Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 
It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye ; 
A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 
A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound, 
When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd : 
Love's  feeling  is  more  soft  and  sensible 
Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails ; 
Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste : 
For  valour,  is  not  Love  a  Hercules, 
Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides  ? 
Subtle  as  Sphinx ;  as  sweet  and  musical 
As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair ; 
And  when  Love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 
Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 
Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write 
Until  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  Love's  sighs  : 
O,  then  his  lines  would  ravage  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  ; 
Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men : 
Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women  ; 

372 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

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. 
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 

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 

Forerun  fair  Love,  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 
King.  Away,  away  !  no  time  shall  be  omitted 

That  will  betime,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 
Htron.  Allons  !  allons  !     Sow'd  cockle  reap'd  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.  \Extunt. 

ACT  V— SCENE  I 

The  same. 
Enter  Holofernes^  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Hoi.  Satis  quod  sufficit. 

Nath.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir :  your  reasons  at  dinner  have 
been  shdrp  and  sententious;  pleasant  without  scurrility, 
witty  without  affection,  audacious  without  impudency, 
learned  without  opinion,  and  strange  without  heresy.  I 
did  converse  this  quondam  day  with  a  companion  of  the 
king's,  who  is  intituled,  nominated,  or  called,  Don  Adriano  de 
Armado. 

Hoi.  Novi  hominem  tanquam  te :  his  humour  is  lofty,  his  dis 
course  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed,  his  eye  ambitious,  his 
gait  majestical,  and  his  general  behaviour  vain,  ridiculous, 
and  thrasonical.  He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too  affected, 
too  odd,  as  it  were,  too  peregrinate,  as  I  may  call  it. 

373 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 


Nath.  A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[Draws  out  his  table-< 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity  finer  than  the 
staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhor  such  fanatical  phantasimes, 
such  insociable  and  point-devise  companions  ;  such  rackers 
of  orthography,  as  to  speak  dout,  fine,  when  he  should  say 
doubt ;  det,  when  he  should  pronounce  debt, — d,  e,  b,  t, 
not  d,  e,  t :  he  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf ;  half,  hauf ;  neighbour, 
vocatur  nebour ;  neigh  abbreviated  ne.  This  is  abhomin- 
able, — which  he  would  call  abbominable  :  it  insinuateth  me 
of  insanie  :  ne  intelligis,  domme  ?  to  make  frantic,  lunatic. 

Nath.  Laus  Deo,  bene  inteliigo. 

Hoi.  Bon,  bon,  fort  bon  !  Priscian  a  little  scratched ;  'twill  serve. 

Nath.  Videsne  quis  venit  ? 

Hoi.  Video,  et  gaudeo. 

Enter  Armado,  Moth,  and  Costard. 

Arm.  Chirrah  !  [To  Moth. 

Hoi.  Quare  chirrah,  not  sirrah  ? 

Arm.  Men  of  peace,  well  encountered. 

Hoi.  Most  military  sir,  salutation. 

Moth.  [Aside  to  Costard].  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of 
languages,  and  stolen  the  scraps. 

Cost.  O,  they  have  lived  long  on  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  honorificabilitudinitatibus : 
thou  art  easier  swallowed  than  a  flap-dragon. 

Moth.  Peace  !  the  peal  begins. 

Arm.  [To  Hol^\  Monsieur,  are  you  not  lettered? 

Moth.  Yes,  yes ;  he  teaches  boys  the  horn-book.  What  is  a,  b, 
spelt  backward,  with  the  horn  on  his  head  ? 

Hoi.  Ba,  pueritia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,    most    silly   sheep   with   a    horn.     You   hear    his 

Hoi.  Quis,  quis,  thou  consonant?  [learning. 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you  repeat  them ;  or  the 

Hoi.  I  will  repeat  them, — a,  e,  i, —  [fifth,  if  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  venue  of  wit, — snip,  snap,  quick  and  home  1 
it  rejoiceth  my  intellect :  true  wit ! 

Moth.  Offered  by  a  child  to  an  old  man !  which  is  wit-old. 

HoL  What  is  the  figure  ?  what  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.  Horns. 

Hoi.  Thou  disputest  like  an  infant :  go,  whip  thy  gig. 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and  I  will  whip  about 
your  infamy  circum  circa,— a  gig  of  a  cuckold's  horn. 

374 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Cost.  And  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world,  thou  shouldst 
have  it  to  buy  gingerbread :  hold,  there  is  the  very  re 
muneration  I  had  of  thy  master,  thou  halfpenny  purse  of  wit, 
thou  pigeon-egg  of  discretion.  O,  an  the  heavens  were  so 
pleased  that  thou  wert  but  my  bastard,  what  a  joyful  father 
wouldst  thou  make  me  !  Go  to  ;  thou  hast  it  ad  dunghill,  at 
the  fingers'  ends,  as  they  say. 

Hoi.  O,  I  smell  false  Latin  ;  dunghill  foKunguem. 

Arm.  Arts-man,  preambulate,  we  will  be  singuled  from  the 
barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at  the  charge-house 
on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ? 

Hoi.  Or  mons,  the  hill. 

Arm.  At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain, 

Hoi.  I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure  and  affection  to 
congratulate  the  princess  at  her  pavilion  in  the  posteriors  of 
this  day,  which  the  rude  multitude  call  the  afternoon. 

Hoi.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous  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. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman,  and  my  familiar,  I  do 
assure  ye,  very  good  friend :  for  what  is  inward  between  us, 
let  it  pass.  I  do  beseech  thee,  remember  thy  courtesy ;  I 
beseech  thee,  apparel  thy  head  :  and  among  other  important 
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  shoulder,  and 
with  his  royal  finger,  thus,  dally  with  my  excrement,  with 
my  mustachio ;  but,  sweet  heart,  let  that  pass.  By  the  world, 
I  recount  no  fable  :  some  certain  special  honours  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  antique, 
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  acquainted  you  withal,  to  the  end 
to  crave  your  assistance. 

Hoi.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  Nine  Worthies.  Sir, 
as  concerning  some  entertainment  of  time,  some  show  in  the 
posterior  of  this  day,  to  be  rendered  by  our  assistants,  at 
the  king's  command,  arid  this  most  gallant,  illustrate,  and 
learned  gentleman,  before  the  princess ;  I  say  none  so  fit  as 
to  present  the  Nine  Worthies. 
375 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lo< 

Nath,  Where  will  you   find   men   worthy  enough  to  present 

them? 
Hoi.  Joshua,    yourself;   myself  and    this   gallant    gentleman, 

Judas  Maccabreus ;  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  strangling  a  snake  ;  and 

I  will  have  an  apology  for  that  purpose. 
Moth.  An  excellent  device  !  so,  if  any  of  the  audience  hiss,  you 

may  cry,   u  Well  done,  Hercules  !    now  thou  crushest  the 

snake  !  "  that  is  the  way  to  make  an  offence  gracious,  tho 

few  have  the  grace  to  do  it. 
Arm.  For  the  rest  of  the  Worthies  ? — 
Hoi.  I  will  play  three  myself. 
Moth.  Thrice-worthy  gentleman! 
'Arm.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing? 
Hoi.  We  attend. 
Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  fadge  not,  an  antique.     I  beseech 

you,  follow. 

Hoi.  Via,  goodman  Dull !    thou  hast  spoken  no  word  all  this 
Dull.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir.  [while. 

Hoi.  Allons  !  we  will  employ  thee. 
Dull.  I  '11  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I  will  play 

On  the  tabor  to  the  Worthies,  and  let  them  dance  the  hay. 
Hoi.  Most  dull,  honest  Dull  !    To  our  sport,  away  !      \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  same. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Katharine,  Rosaline,  and  Maria. 
Prin.  Sweet  hearts,  we  shall  be  rich  ere  we  depart, 
If  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in  : 
A  lady  wall'd  about  with  diamonds  ! 
Look  you  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 
Ros.   Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that  ? 
Prin.  Nothing  but  this  !  yes,  as  much  love  in  rhyme 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  o'  both  sides  the  leaf,  margent  and  all, 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 
Ros.  That  was  the  way  to  make  his  godhead  wax, 

For  he  hath  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 
Kath.  Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 
Ros.  You  '11  ne'er  be  friends  with  him ;  a'  kill'd  your  sister 
Kath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy ; 

376 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

And  so  she  died  :  had  she  been  light,  like  you, 

Of  such  a  merry,  nimble,  stirring  spirit, 

She  might  ha'  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  '11  mar  the  light  by  taking  it  in  snuff ; 

Therefore  I  '11  darkly  end  the  argument. 
Ros.  Look,  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  th'  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  set  of  wit  well  play'd. 

But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favour  too  : 

Who  sent  it  ?  and  what  is  it  ? 
Ros.  I  would  you  knew  : 

An  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  yours, 

My  favour  were  as  great ;  be  witness  this. 

Nay,  I  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. 
Prin.  Beauteous  as  ink  ;  a  good  conclusion. 
Kath.  Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 
Ros.  'Ware  pencils,  ho  !  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  I  beshrew  all  shrows. 
Prin.  But,  Katharine,  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  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy, 

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. 

377 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Prin.  We  are  wise  girls  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 
Ros.  They  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  I  '11  torture  ere  I  go : 

0  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week  ! 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg,  and  seek, 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes, 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  hests, 

And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests  ! 

So  perttaunt-like  would  I  o'ersway  his  state, 

That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 
Prin.  None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they  are  catch'd, 

As  wit  turn'd  fool :  folly,  in  wisdom  hatch'd, 

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. 
Prin.  Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Enter  Boyet. 

Boyet.  O,  I  am  stabb'd  with  laughter  !  Where  's  her  Grace  ? 
Prin.  Thy  news,  Boyet? 
Boyet.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare  1 

Arm,  wenches,  arm  !  encounters  mounted  are 

Against  your  peace  :  Love  doth  approach  disguised, 

Armed  in  arguments  ;  you  '11  be  surprised  : 

Muster  your  wits;  stand  in  your  own  defence; 

Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 
Prin.  Saint  Denis  to  Saint  Cupid  !     What  are  they 

That  charge  their  breath  against  us  ?  say,  scout,  say. 
Boyet.  Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  sycamore 

1  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour ; 
When,  lo  !  to  interrupt  my  purposed  rest, 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behold  addrest 
The  king  and  his  companions  :  warily 

I  stole  into  a  neighbour  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  conn'd  his  embassage : 

Action  and  accent  did  they  teach  him  there  ; 

'  Thus  must  thou  speak,'  and  '  thus  thy  body  bear : ' 

378 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

And  ever  and1  anon  they  made  a  doubt 

Presence  majestical  would  put  him  out ; 

1  For,'  quoth  the  king,  '  an  angel  shalt  thou  see  ; 

Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously.' 

The  boy  replied,  '  An  angel  is  not  evil ; 

I  should  have  fear'd  her,  had  she  been  a  devil.' 

With  that,  all  laugh'd,  and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder : 

One  rubb'd  his  elbow  thus,  and  fleer'd  and  swore 

A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before ; 

Another,  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 

Cried,  *  Via  !  we  will  do 't,  come  what  will  come  j » 

The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried,  'All  goes  well;' 

The  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell. 

With  that,  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 

With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound, 

That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears, 

To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 
Prin,  But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  us  ? 
Boyet.  They  do,  they  do  ;  and  are  apparelled  thus, 

Like  Muscovites  or  Russians,  as  I  guess. 

Their  purpose  is  to  parle,  to  court  and  dance  ; 

And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 

Unto  his  several  mistress,  which  they  ;11  know 

By  favours  several  which  they  did  bestow. 
Prin.  And  will  they  so  ?  the  gallants  shall  be  task'd  ; 

For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  mask'd ; 

And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 

Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face. 

Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favour  thou  shalt  wear, 

And  then  the  king  will  court  thee  for  his  dear ; 

Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  me  thine, 

So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline. 

And  change  your  favours  too  ;  so  shall  your  loves 

Woo  contrary,  deceived  by  these  removes. 
Ros.  Come  on,  then  ;  wear  the  favours  most  in  sight. 
Kath.  But  in  this  changing  what  is  your  intent  ? 
Prin.  The  effect  of  my  intent  is  to  cross  theirs : 

They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment ; 

And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 

Their  several  counsels  they  unbosom  shall 

To  loves  mistook,  and  so  be  mock'd  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  ? 

379 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Losl 

Prin.  No,  to  the  death,  we  will  not  move  a  fool : 
Nor  to  their  penn'd  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  o'erthrown  ; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  own : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game, 
And  they,  well  mock'd,  depart  away  with  shame. 

[Trumpets  sound  within. 
Boyet.  The  trumpet  sounds  :  be  mask'd  ;  the  maskers  come. 

[The  Ladies  mask. 
JZnter  Blackamoors  with  music ;  Moth  ;  the  King,  Biron, 

Longaville,  and  Dumain,  in  Russian  habits,  and  masked. 
Moth.  All  hail,  the  richest  beauties  on  the  earth  ! — 
Boyet.   Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  taffeta. 
Moth.  A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames 

[The  Ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
That  ever  turn'd  their — backs — to  mortal  views  ! 
Biron.  [Aside  to  Moth]  Their  eyes,  villain,  their  eyes. 
Moth.  That  ever  turn'd  their  eyes  to  mortal  views  ! — 

Out— 

Boyet.  True  ;  out  indeed. 
Moth.  Out  of  your  favours,  heavenly  spirits,  vouchsafe 

Not  to  behold— 

Biron.  [Aside  to  MotJi\  Once  to  behold,  rogue. 
Moth.  Once  to  behold  with 'your  sun-beamed  eyes, 

with  your  sun-beamed  eyes — 

Boyet.  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. 
Biron.  Is  this  your  perfectness  ?  be  gone,  you  rogue  ! 

[Exit  Moth. 

JRos.  What  would  these  strangers  ?  know  their  minds,  Boyet : 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes : 
Know  what  they  would. 
Boyet.  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. 
Itos.  Why,  that  they  have ;  and  bid  them  so  be  gone. 
Boyet.  She  says,  you  have  it,  and  you  may  be  gone. 

380 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

King.  Say  to  her,  we  have  measured  many  miles 

To  tread  a  measure  with  her  on  this  grass. 
Boyet.  They  say,  that  they  have  measured  many  a  mile 

To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 
Ros.  It  is  not  so.     Ask  them  how  many  inches 

Is  in  one  mile  :  if  they  have  measured  many, 

The  measure  then  of  one  is  easily  told. 
Boyet.  If  to  come  hither  you  have  measured  miles, 

And  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell 

How  many  inches  doth  fill  up  one  mile. 
Biron.  Tell  her,  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 
Boyet.  She  hears  herself. 
Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 

Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile  ? 
Biron.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you  : 

Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 

That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 

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  do  but  vouchsafe  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  '11  not  be  nice  :  take  hands.     We  will  not  dance. 
King.  Why  take  we  hands,  then  ? 
Ros.  Only  to  part  friends  : 

Curtsey,  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  company  ? 

381 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Ros.  Your  absence  only. 

King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.  Then  cannot  we  be  bought :  and  so,  adieu ; 

Twice  to  your  visor,  and  half  once  to  you. 
King.  If  you  deny  to  dance,  let 's  hold  more  chat 
Ros.  In  private,  then. 
King.  I  am  best  pleased  with  that. 

[  They  converse  apart. 

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-dozen  sweets. 
Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu  : 

Since  you  can  cog,  I'll  play  no  more  with  you 
Biron.  One  word  in  secret. 
Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Biron.  Thou  grievest  my  gall. 
Prin.  Gall!  bitter. 

Biron.  Therefore  meet. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Dum.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a  word  ? 
Mar.  Name  it. 
Dum.  Fair  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  !     Fair  lord, — • 

Take  that  for  your  fair  lady. 
Dum.  Please  it  you, 

As  much  in  private,  and  I  '11  bid  adieu.     [They  converse  apart. 
Kath.  What,  was  your  vizard  made  without  a  tongue  ? 
Long.  I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 
Kath.  O  for  your  reason  !  quickly,  sir ;  I  long. 
Long.  You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your  mask, 

And  would  afford  my  speechless  vizard  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  '11  not  be  your  half: 

Take  all,  and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox. 
Long.  Look,  how  you  butt  yourself  in  these  sharp  mocks  1 

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* 
382 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

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. 
Prin.  Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovits. 

\Exeunt  King,  Lords,  and  Blackamoors. 

Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wonder'd  at  ? 
Boyet.  Tapers  they  are,  with  your  sweet  breaths  puffd  out. 
Ros.  Well-liking  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  vizards,  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.     :  l>n.-'fj 
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  call'd  me  ? 
Prin.  Qualm,  perhaps. 

Kath.  Yes,  in  good  faith. 

Prin.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ros.  Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute-caps. 

But  will  you  hear  ?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 
Prin.  And  quick  Biron  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 
Kath.  And  Longaville  was  for  my  service  born. 
Mar.  Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on  tree. 
Boyet.  Madam,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear ; 

Immediately  they  will  again  be  here 

In  their  own  shapes ;  for  it  can  never  be 

They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 
Prin.  Will  they  return  ? 
Boyet.  They  will,  they  will,  God  knows, 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows : 

Therefore  change  favours ;  and,  when  they  repair, 

Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 
Prin.  How  blow?  how  blow?  speak  to  be  understood. 
Boyet.  Fair  ladies  mask'd  are  roses  in  their  bud ; 

383 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Dismask'd,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 

Are  angels  vailing  clouds,  or  roses  blown. 
Prin.  Avaunt,  perplexity  !     What  shall  we  do, 

If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo  ? 
Ros.  Good  madam,  if  by  me  you  '11  be  advised, 

Let 's  mock  them  still,  as  well  known  as  disguised : 

Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 

Disguised  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear  ; 

And  wonder  what  they  were  and  to  what  end 

Their  shallow  shows  and  prologue  vilely  penn'd, 

And  their  rough  carriage  so  ridiculous, 

Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 
Boyet.   Ladies,  withdraw  :  the  gallants  are  at  hand. 
Prin.  Whip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land. 

\_Exeunt  Princess,  Rosaline,  Katharine,  and  A f aria. 

Re-enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumain,  in  their 
proper  habits. 

F      ¥' 

King.  Fair  sir,  God  save  you  !     Where 's  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  pease, 

And  utters  it  again  when  God  doth  please  : 

He  is  wit's  pedler,  and  retails  his  wares 

At  wakes  and  wassails,  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 ; 

A'  can  carve  too,  and  lisp ;  why,  this  is  he 

That  kiss'd  his  hand  away  in  courtesy  ; 

This  is  the  ape  of  form,  monsieur  the  nice, 

That,  when  he  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice    ^ 

In  honourable  terms  :  nay,  he  can  sing 

A  mean  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  whale's  bone  j 

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 ! 

384 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Biron.  See  where  it  comes  !     Behaviour,  what  wert  thou 

Till  this  madman  show'd  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou  now  ? 
Re-enter  the  Princess,  ushered  by  Boyet  /   Rosaline,  Maria,  and 

Katharine. 

King.  All  hail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  time  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  give  you  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,  delights  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  you  should  have  spoke  ; 
For  virtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 

Now  by  my  maiden  honour  yet  as  pure 
As  the  unsullied  lily  I  protest, 

A  world  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 
I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest ; 

So  much  I  hate  a  breaking  cause  to  be 

Of  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integrity. 
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  : 

My  lady,  to  the  manner  of  the  days, 

In  courtesy  gives  undeserving  praise. 

We  four  indeed  confronted  were  with  four 

In  Russian  habit :  here  they  stay'd  an  hour, 

And  talk'd  apace  ;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord, 

They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 

I  dare  not  call  them  fools  ;  but  this  I  think, 

When  they  are  thirsty,  fools  would  fain  have  drink. 
Biron.  This  jest  is  dry  to  me.     Fair  gentle  sweet, 

Your  wit  makes  wise  things  foolish  :  when  we  greet 

With  eyes  best  seeing,  heaven's  fiery  eye, 

By  light  we  lose  light :  your  capacity 

Is  of  that  nature  that  to  your  huge  store 

Wise  things  seem  foolish  and  rich  things  but  poor. 

385 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

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  vizards  was  it  that  you  wore  ? 
Biron.  Where  ?  when  ?  what  vizard  ?  why  demand  you  this  ? 
Ros.  There,  then,  that  vizard ;  that  superfluous  case 

That  hid  the  worse,  and  show'd  the  better  face. 
King.  We  are  descried ;  they  '11  mock  us  now  downright. 
Dum.  Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  jest. 
Prin.  Amazed,  my  lord?  why  looks  your  highness  sad? 
Ros.  Help,  hold  his  brows !    he  '11  swound  !     Why  look  you 
Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovy.  [pale  ? 

Biron.  Thus  pour  the  stars  down  plagues  for  perjury. 

Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out  ? 
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  habit  wait. 
O,  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn'd, 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  schoolboy's  tongue ; 
Nor  never  come  in  vizard  to  my  friend ; 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  song ! 
Taffeta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise, 

Three-piled  hyperboles,  spruce  affectation, 
Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation : 
I  do  forswear  them ;  and  I  here  protest, 

By  this  white  glove, — how  white  the  hand,  God  knows  ! — 
Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  expressed 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes  : 
And,  to  begin,  wench, — so  God  help  me,  la ! — 
My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 
Ros.  Sans  sans,  I  pray  you. 
Biron.  Yet  I  have  a  trick 

Of  tljte  old  rage : — bear  with  me,  I  am  sick ; 
I  '11  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft,  let  us  see  : 
Write,  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  '  on  those  three ; 
They  are  infected ;  in  their  hearts  it  lies ; 
They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  eyes ; 

386 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  free, 

For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 
Prin.  No,  they  are  free  that  gave  these  tokens  to  us. 
Biron.  Our  states  are  forfeit :  seek  not  to  undo  us. 
Ros.  It  is  not  so  ;  for  how  can  this  be  true, 

That  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue  ? 
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  transgression 

Some  fair  excuse. 
Prin.  The  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  not  you  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  honour,  no. 
Prin.  Peace,  peace  !  forbear : 

Your  oath  once  broke,  you  force  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  v/hisper  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  honourably  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. 

I  see  the  trick  on  't :  here  was  a  consent, 

Knowing  aforehand  of  our  merriment, 

38? 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii] 


Love's  Labour's  Lost 


To  dash  it  like  a  Christmas  comedy  : 

Some  carry-tale,  some  please-man,  some  slight  zany, 

Some  mumble-news,  some  trencher-knight,  some  Dick, 

That  smiles  his  cheek  in  years,  and  knows  the  trick 

To  make  my  lady  laugh  when  she  5s  disposed, 

Told  our  intents  before  ;  which  once  disclosed, 

The  ladies  did  change  favours  ;  and  then  we, 

Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but  the  sign  of  she. 

Now,  to  our  perjury  to  add  more  terror, 

We  are  again  forsworn,  in  will  and  error. 

Much  upon  this  it  is  :  and  might  not  you  [To  Boyei 

Forestall  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 

Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squier, 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire, 

Holding  a  trencher,  jesting  merrily  ? 
You  put  our  page  out :  go,  you  are  allow'd  ; 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud. 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  ?  there  ;s  an  eye 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Boyet.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  run. 

Biron.  Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight !     Peace  !  I  have  done. 

Enter  Costard. 
Welcome,  pure  wit !  thou  part'st  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  ? 

Cost.  No  sir,  but  it  is  vara  fine, 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 

Cost.  Not  so,  sir  ;  under  correction,  sir ;  I  hope  it  is  not  so. 
You  cannot  beg  us,  sir,   I   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 

Biron.  How  much  is  it  ?  [reckoning,  sir. 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the  actors,  sir,  will 
show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount :  for  mine  own  part,  I  am, 
as  they  say,  but  to  parfect  one  man  in  one  poor  man, 
Pompion  the  Great,  sir. 

388 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Biron.  Art  thou  one  of  the  Worthies? 

Cost.  It  pleased  them  to  think  me  worthy  of  Pompion  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. 

King.  Biron,  they  will  shame  us :  let  them  not  approach. 

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  : 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Dies  in  the  zeal  of  that  which  it  presents : 
Their  form  confounded  makes  most  form  in  mirth, 
When  great  things  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 

Biron.  A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 
Enter  Armado. 

Arm.  Anointed,  I  implore  so  much  expense  of  thy  royal  sweet 
breath  as  will  utter  a  brace  of  words. 

[  Converses  apart  with  the  King,  and  delivers  him  a  paper. 

Prin.  Doth  this  man  serve  God  ? 

Biron.  Why  ask  you  ? 

Prin.  He  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God's  making. 

Arm.  That  is  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey  monarch ;  for,  I 
protest,  the  schoolmaster  is  exceeding  fantastical ;  too  too 
vain,  too  too  vain  :  but  we  will  put  it,  as  they  say,  to  fortuna 
de  la  guerra.  I  wish  you  the  peace  of  mind,  most  royal 
couplement !  [Exit. 

King.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of  Worthies.  He 
presents  Hector  of  Troy ;  the  swain,  Pompey  the  Great ;  the 
parish  curate,  Alexander ;  Armado's  page,  Hercules ;  the 
pedant,  Judas  Maccabaeus  : 

And  if  these  four  Worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive, 
These  four  will  change  habits,  and  present  the  other  five. 

Biron.  There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 

King.  You  are  deceived  ;  'tis  not  so. 

Biron.  The  pedant,  the  braggart,  the  hedge-priest,  the  fool  and 
the  boy  : — 

Abate  throw  at  novum,  and  the  whole  world  again 
Cannot  pick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his  vein. 

King.  The  ship  is  under  sail,  and  here  she  comes  amain. 

Enter  Costard,  for  Pompey.  <•-•' 
Cost.  I  Pompey  am, — 

Bo^et.  You  lie,  you  are  not  he. 

>)t389/!        V. 


Act  V,  Sc.  iij  Love's  Labour's  Lost: 

Cost.  I  Pompey  am, — 

Boyet.  With  libbard's  head  on  knee. 

Biron.  Well  said,  old  mocker :  I  must  needs  be  friends  with 

Cost.  I  Pompey  am,  Pompey  surnamed  the  Big, —  [thee, 

Dum.  The  Great. 

Cost.  It  is,  '  Great, '  sir  : — 

Pompey  surnamed  the  Great ; 

That  oft  in  field,  with  targe  and  shield,  did  make  my  foe  to 
sweat : 

And  travelling  along  this  coast,  I  here  am  come  by  chance, 

And  lay  my  arms  before  the  legs  of  this  sweet  lass  of  France. 

If  your  ladyship  would  say,  'Thanks,  Pompey,'  I  had  done. 
Prin.  Great  thanks,  Great  Pompey. 
Cost.  'Tis  not  so  much  worth,  but  I  hope  I  was  perfect :  I 

made  a  little  fault  in  '  Great.' 
Biron.  My  hat  to  a  halfpenny,  Pompey  proves  the  best  Worthy. 

Enter  Sir  Nathaniel,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.  When  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  was  the  world's  commander ; 
By  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  conquering  might : 
My  scutcheon  plain  declares  that  I  am  Alisander, — 

Boyet.  Your  nose  says,  no,  you  are  not ;  for  it  stands  too  right. 

Biron.  Your  nose  smells  *  no '   in  this,  most  tender-smelling 
knight. 

Prin.  The  conqueror  is  dismayed.     Proceed,  good  Alexander. 

Nath.  When  in  the  world  I  lived,  I  was  the  world's  commander, — 

Boyet.  Most  true,  'tis  right ;  you  were  so,  Alisander. 

Biron.  Pompey  the  Great, — 

Cost.  Your  servant,  and  Costard. 

Biron.  Take  away  the  conqueror,  take  away  Alisander. 

Cost.  [To  Sir  NathJ]  O,  sir,  you  have  overthrown  Alisander  the 
conqueror  !  You  will  be  scraped  out  of  the  painted  cloth  for 
this  :  your  lion,  that  holds  his  poll-axe  sitting  on  a  close-stool, 
will  be  given  to  Ajax  :  he  will  be  the  ninth  Worthy.  A  con 
queror,  and  afeard  to  speak !  run  away  for  shame,  Alisander. 
[Nath.  retires.]  There,  an  't  shall  please  you  !  a  foolish  mild 
man  ;  an  honest  man,  look  you,  and  soon  dashed.  He  is  a 
marvellous  good  neighbour,  faith,  and  a  very  good  bowler  : 
but,  for  Alisander, — alas,  you  see  how  'tis, — a  little  o'erparted. 
But  there  are  Worthies  a-coming  will  speak  their  mind  in 
some  other  sort. 

Prin.  Stand  aside,  good  Pompey. 

Enter  Holofernes,  for  Judas  ;  and  Moth>  for  Hercules. 

Hoi.  Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 

Whose  club  kill'd  Cerberus,  that  three-headed  canis ; 
390 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

And  when  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp, 
Thus  did  he  strangle  serpents  in  his  manus. 

Quoniam  he  seemeth  in  minority, 

Ergo  I  come  with  this  apology. 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit  and  vanish.  [Moth  retires. 

Judas  I  am,— 
Dum.  A  Judas ! 
HoL  Not  Iscariot,  sir. 

Judas  I  am,  ycliped  Maccabaeus. 
Dum.  Judas  Maccabaeus  clipt  is  plain  Judas. 
Biron.  A  kissing  traitor.     How  art  thou  proved  Judas  ? 
Hoi.  Judas  I  am, — 

Dum.  The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas.  r 

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. 
HoL  What  is  this  ? 
Boyet.  A  cittern-head. 
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.  Saint  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  iri  countenance. 
Hoi.  You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 
Biron.  False :  we  have  given  thee  faces. 
Hoi.  But  you  have  out-faced  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  1  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.  \HoL  retires 

Prin.  Alas,  poor  Maccabaeus,  how  hath  he  been  baited  ! 

Enter  Armada,  for  Hector. 
Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles  :  here  comes  Hector  in  arms. 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Dum.  Though  my  mocks  come  home  by  me,  I  will  now  be 

King.  Hector  was  but  a  Troyan  in  respect  of  this.          [merr 

Boyet.  But  is  this  Hector  ? 

King.  I  think  Hector  was  not  so  clean-timbered. 

Long.   His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector's. 

Dum.  More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.  No  ;  he  is  best  indued  in  the  small. 

Biron.  This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.   He 's  a  god  or  a  painter ;  for  he  makes  faces. 

Arm.  The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  almighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift, — 
Dum.  A  gilt  nutmeg. 
Biron.  A  lemon. 
Long.  Stuck  with  cloves. 
Dum.  No  cloven. 
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  ye, 
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.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein,  for  it  runs  against  Hector. 
Dum.  Ay,  and  Hector  's  a  greyhound. 
Arm.  The  sweet  war-man  is  dead  and  rotten ;  sweet  chucks, 

beat  not  the  bones  of  the  buried  :  when  he  breathed,  he  was 

a  man.     But  I  will  forward  with  my  device.   \To  the  Princess] 

Sweet  royalty,  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 
Prin.  Speak,  brave  Hector  :  we  are  much  delighted. 
Arm.  I  do  adore  thy  sweet  Grace's  slipper. 
Boyet.  [Aside  to  Dum']  Loves  her  by  the  foot. 
Dum.  [Aside  to  Boyet\  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   Troyan,   the   poor 

wench  is  cast  away  :  she 's  quick ;  the  child  brags  in  her 

belly  already  ;  'tis  yours.  [die. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  potentates  ?  thou  shalt 
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  ! 

392 


DC 

' 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Boyet.  Renowned  Pompey  ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  great,  great,  great,  great  Pompey  !  Pompey 
Dum.  Hector  trembles.  [the  Huge  ! 

Biron.  Pompey  is  moved.     More  Ates,  more  Ates  !  stir  them 

on  1  stir  them  on  ! 
Dum.  Hector  will  challenge  him. 
Biron.  Ay,  if  a'  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  '11 

slash ;  I  '11  do  it  by  the  sword.     I  bepray  you,  let  me  borrow 

my  arms  again. 

Dum.  Room  for  the  incensed  Worthies  ! 
Cost.  I  '11  do  it  in  my  shirt. 
Ditm.  Most  resolute  Pompey  ! 
Moth.  Master,  let  me  take  you  a  button-hole  lower.     Do  you 

not  see  Pompey  is  uncasing  for  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. 
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 

for  penance. 
Boyet.  True,  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome  for  want  of 

linen  :  since  when,  I  '11  be  sworn,  he  wore  none  but  a  dish- 
clout  of  Jaquenetta's,  and  that  a'  wears  next  his  heart  for  a 

favour. 

Enter  Marcade. 
Mar.  God  save  you,  madam  ! 
Prin.  Welcome,  Marcade ; 

But  that  thou  interrupt'st  our  merriment. 
Mar.  I  am  sorry,  madam ;  for  the  news  I  bring 

Is  heavy  in  my  tongue.     The  king  your  father — 
Prin.  Dead,  for  my  life  ! 
Mar.  Even  so ;  my  tale  is  told. 
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,  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, 

393  N  2 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 


For  all  your  fair  endeavours ;  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  nimble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  too  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd. 

King.  The  extreme  parts  of  time  extremely  forms 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate  : 
And  though  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince ; 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  first  on  foot, 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From  what  it  purposed ;  since,  to  wail  friends  lost 
Is  not  by  much  so  wholesome-profitable 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.  I  understand  you  not :  my  griefs  are  double. 

Biron.  Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the  ear  of  grief; 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  time, 
Flay'd  foul  play  with  our  oaths  :  your  beauty,  ladies, 
Hath  much  deform'd  us,  fashioning  our  humours 
Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents  : 
And  what  in  us  hath  seem'd  ridiculous, — 
As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains  ; 
All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain ; 
Form'd  by  the  eye,  and  therefore,  like  the  eye, 
Full  of  strange  shapes,  of  habits  and  of  forms, 
Varying  in  subjects  as  the  eye  doth  roll 
To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance  : 
Which  parti-coated  presence  of  loose  love 
Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes, 
Have  misbecomed  our  oaths  and  gravities, 
Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults, 
Suggested  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies, 
Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 
Is  likewise  yours  :  we  to  ourselves  prove  false, 
By  being  once  false  for  ever  to  be  true 
To  those  that  make  us  both, — fair  ladies,  you : 

394 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin, 

Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 
Prin.  We  have  received  your  letters  full  of  love ; 

Your  favours,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 

And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 

At  courtship,  pleasant  jest  and  courtesy, 

As  bombast  and  as  lining  to  the  time ; 

But  more  devout  than  this  in  our  respects 

Have  we  not  been  ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 

In  their  own  fashion,  like  a  merriment 
Dum.  Our  letters,  madam,  show'd  much  more  than  jest. 
Long.  So  did  our  looks. 

Ros.  We  did  not  quote  them  so. 

King.  Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour, 

Grant  us  your  loves. 
Prin.  A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

To  make  a  world- without-end  bargain  in. 

No,  no,  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjured  much, 

Full  of  dear  guiltiness  ;  and  therefore  this  : — 

If  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  the  annual  reckoning. 

If  this  austere  insociable  life 

Change  not  your  offer  made  in  heat  of  blood  ; 

If  frosts  and  fasts,  hard  lodging  and  thin  weeds 

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  me,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts, 

And,  by  this  virgin  palm  now  kissing  thine, 

I  will  be  thine ;  and  till  that  instant  shut 

My  woeful  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  intitled  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. 
Biron.  And  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  and  what  to  me  ? 

395 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's 

Ros.  You  must  be  purged  too,  your  sins  are  rack'd, 
You  are  attaint  with  faults  and  perjury  : 
Therefore  if  you  my  favour  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  ? 
A  wife  ? 

Kath.         A  beard,  fair  health,  and  honesty  ; 
With  three-fold  love  I  wish  you  all  these  three. 

Dum.  O,  shall  I  say,  I  thank  you,  gentle  wife  ? 

Kath.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day 
I  '11  mark  no  words  that  smooth-faced  wooers  say  : 
Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come ; 
Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I  '11  give  you  some. 

Dum.  I  '11  serve  thee  true  and  faithfully  till  then. 

Kath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  ye  be  forsworn  again. 

Long.  What  says  Maria  ? 

Mar.  At  the  twelvemonth's  end 

I  '11  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  friend. 

Long.  I  '11  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 : 
Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 

Ros.  Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  Lord  Biron, 
Before  I  saw  you ;  and  the  world's  large  tongue 
Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks, 
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  day  to  day 
Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches  ;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  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  grace 
Which  shallow  laughing  hearers  give  to  fools  : 

396 


Love's  Labour's  Lost  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

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, 

Deafd  with  the  clamours  of  their  own  dear  groans, 

Will  hear  your  idle  scorns,  continue  then, 

And  I  will  have  you  and  that  fault  withal ; 

But  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 

And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault, 

Right  joyful  of  your  reformation. 
Biron.  A  twelvemonth  !  well ;  befall  what  will  befall, 

I  '11  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.  [  To  the  King]  Ay,  sweet  my  Lord ;  and  so  I  take  my 
King.  No,  madam  ;  we  will  bring  you  on  your  way.  [leave. 
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. 

Re-enter  Armado. 

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. 

Ann.  Holla !  approach. 

Re-enter  Ho lof ernes,  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. 

The  Song. 

SPRING.       When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men ;  for  thus  sings  he. 
Cuckoo ; 
397 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo  :  O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  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  ear  I 

WINTER,  When  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  nipp'd  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tu-whit ; 

Tu-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

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  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit ; 

Tu-who,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

4rm*  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the  songs  of  Apollo. 
You  that  way, — we  this  way.  [Exeunt. 


398 


A    MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S    DREAM 

•- _ 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

HIPPOLYTA,  queen  of  the  Amazons,  be 
trothed  to  Theseus.  [Lysander, 
HERMIA,  daughter  to  Egeus,  in  love  with 
HELENA,  in  lobe  with  Demetrius. 

OBERON,  king  of  the  fairies. 
TITANIA,  queen  of  the  fairies. 
PUCK,  or  Robin  Goodfellow. 


THESEUS,  Duke  of  Athens. 
EGEVS,/atAer  to  Hermia. 


PHILOSTRATE,   master   of  the  revels  to 

Theseus. 

QUINCE,  a  carpenter, 
SNUG,  a  joiner. 
BOTTOM,  a  weaver. 


PEASEBLOSSOM, 


MoTH*8'  }>&*** 

STARVELING,  a  tailor.  MUSTARDSEED,  J 

Other  fairies  attending  their  King  and  Queen.     Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 
SCENE  :  A  thens,  and  a  wood  near  it. 

ACT   I— SCENE    I 
Athens.     The  palace  of  Theseus. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  and  Attendants. 
The.  Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 

Draws  on  apace ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 

Another  moon  :  but,  O,  methinks,  how  slow 

This  old  moon  wanes !  she  lingers  my  desires, 

Like  to  a  step-dame,  or  a  dowager, 
i     Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue, 
Hip.  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves  in  night ; 

Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time  ; 

And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 

New-bent  in  heaven,  shall  behold  the  night 

Of  our  solemnities. 
The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments ; 

Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth  : 

Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals ; 

The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp.  [Exit  Philostratt. 

Hippolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 

And  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries  ; 

But  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 

With  pomp,  with  triumph  and  with  revelling. 

Enter  Egeus,  Hermia,  Lysander,  and  Demetrius. 
Ege.  Happy  be  Theseus,  our  renowned  duke  ! 
The.  Thanks,  good  Egeus  :  what 's  the  news  with  thee  ? 
Ege.  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  complaint 

Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hermia. 

Stand  forth,  Demetrius.     My  noble  lord, 

This  man  hath  my  consent  to  marry  her. 

Stand  forth,  Lysander :  and,  my  gracious  duke, 

This  man  hath  bewitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child : 

399 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhymes, 

And  interchanged  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 

Thou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  window  sung, 

With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love  ; 

And  stolen  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 

With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gawds,  conceits, 

Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats,  messengers 

Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth  : 

With  cunning  hast  thou  filch'd  my  daughter's  heart ; 

Turn'd  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  law 

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 

To  leave  the  figure  or  disfigure  it. 

Demetrius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 
Her.  So  is  Lysander. 
The.  In  himself  he  is ; 

But  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 

The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 
Her.  I  would  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eyes. 
The.  Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgement  look. 
Her.  I  do  entreat  your  Grace  to  pardon  me. 

I  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 

Nor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty, 

In  such  a  presence  here  to  plead  my  thoughts ; 

But  I  beseech  your  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 

For  ever  the  society  of  men. 

Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires  ; 

Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 

Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  your  father's  choice, 

You  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun ; 

For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd, 

400 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 

Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 

Thrice-blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood, 

To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage ; 

But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distilPd, 

Than  that  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn, 

Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 
Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord. 

Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 

Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke 

My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 
The.  Take  time  to  pause  ;  and,  by  the  next  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  your  father's  will, 

Or  else  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  he  would ; 

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. 
JEge.  Scornful  Lysander !  true,  he  hath  my  love, 

And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him. 

And  she  is  mine,  and  all  my  right  of  her 

I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 
Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  derived  as  he, 

As  well  possess'd  ;  my  love  is  more  than  his ; 

My  fortunes  every  way  as  fairly  rank'd, 

If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius'  ; 

And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  be, 

I  am  beloved  of  beauteous  Hermia  : 

Why  should  not  I  then  prosecute  my  right  ? 

Demetrius,  I  '11  avouch  it  to  his  head, 

Made  love  to  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 

And  won  her  soul ;  and  she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 

Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry, 

Upon  this  spotted  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. 

401 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm  yourself 

To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will ; 

Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up, — 

Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate, — 

To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. 

Come,  my  Hippolyta  :  what  cheer,  my  love  ? 

Demetrius  and  Egeus,  go  along : 

I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 

Against  our  nuptial,  and  confer  with  you 

Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 
Ege.  With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 

\JExeunt  all  but  Lysander  and  Hertnia. 
Lys.  How  now,  my  love  !  why  is  your  cheek  so  pale  ? 

How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 
Her.  Belike  the  want  of  rain,  which  I  could  well 

Beteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  my  eyes. 
Lys.  Ay  me  !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 

Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth ; 

But,  either  it  was  different  in  blood,  — 
Her.  O  cross  !  too  high  to  be  enthrall'd  to  low. 
Lys.  Or  else  misgraffed  in  respect  of  years, — 
Her.  O  spite  !  too  old  to  be  engaged  to  young. 
Lys.  Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends, — 
Her.  O  hell !  to  choose  love  by  another's  eyes. 
Lys.  Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it, 

Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 

Swift  as  a  shadow,  short  as  any  dream  ; 

Brief  as  the  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 

That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 

And  ere  a  man  hath  power  do  say  '  Behold  ! ' 

The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 

So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 
Her.  If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 

It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny  : 

Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 

Because  it  is  a  customary  cross, 

As  due  to  love  as  thoughts  and  dreams  and  sighs, 

Wishes  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers. 
Lys.  A  good  persuasion  :  therefore,  hear  me,  Hermia 

I  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 

Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child  : 

From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues ; 

And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 

402 


A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee ; 

And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 

Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lovest  me,  then, 

Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow  night ; 

And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town, 

Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 

To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 

There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 
Her.  My  good  Lysander  1 

I  swear  to  thee,  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow, 

By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head, 

By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves, 

By  that  which  knitteth  souls  and  prospers  loves, 

And  by  that  fire  which  burn'd  the  Carthage  queen n 

When  the  false  Troyan  under  sail  was  seen, 

By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 

In  number  more  than  ever  women  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  ? 
HeL  Call  you  me  fair?  that  fair  again: unsay. 

Demetrius  loves  your  fair  :  O  happy  fair  ! 

Your  eyes  are  lode-stars ;  and  your  tongue's  sweet  air 

More  tuneable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 

When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds  appear. 

Sickness  is  catching  :  O,  were  favour  so, 

Yours  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go  ; 

My  ear  should  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 

My  tongue  should  catch  your  tongue's  sweet  melody. 

Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 

The  rest  I  'Id  give  to  be  to  you  translated. 

O,  teach  me  how  you  look  ;  and  with  what  art 

You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart ! 
Her.  I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 
HeL  O  that  your  frowns  would  teach  my  smiles  such  skill ! 
Her.  I  give  him  curses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 
HeL  O  that  my  prayers  could  such  affection  move ! 
Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me. 
HeL  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me. 
Her.  His  folly,  Helena,  is  no  fault  of  mine. 
HeL  None,  but  your  beauty  :  would  that  fault  were  mine  ! 
Her.  Take  comfort :  he  no  more  shall  see  my  face  ; 

Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. 

403 


Ji  CcUll 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  as  a  paradise  to  me : 
O,  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell, 

That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  unto  a  hell  ! 
Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfold : 

To-morrow  night,  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 

Her  silver  visage  in  the  watery  glass, 

Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 

A  time  that  lovers'  flights  doth  still  conceal, 

Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devised  to  steal. 
Her.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  I 

Upon  faint  primrose-beds  were  wont  to  lie, 

Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 

There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet ; 

And  thence  from  Athens  turn  away  our  eyes, 

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. 
Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia.  [Exit  Herm. 

Helena,  adieu  : 

As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you  !  [Exit. 

Hel.  How  happy  some  o'er  other  some  can  be  ! 

Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 

But  what  of  that  ?    Demetrius  thinks  not  so ; 

He  will  not  know  what  all  but  he  do  know : 

And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 

So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities  : 

Things  base  and  vile,  holding  no  quantity, 

Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity : 

Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind  ; 

And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind  : 

Nor  hath  Love's  mind  of  any  judgement  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  everywhere : 

For  ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  eyne, 

He  hail'd  down  oaths  that  he  was  only  mine ; 

And  when  this  hail  some  heat  from  Hermia  felt, 

So  he  dissolved,  and  showers  of  oaths  did  melt. 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight : 

Then  to  the  wood  will  he  to-morrow  night 

404 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

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.  [Exif. 

SCENE  II 

The  same.     Quince's  house. 
Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Quin.  Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Bot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by  man,  accord 
ing  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  the  duchess,  on  his  wedding-day  at  night. 
Bot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play  treats  on ; 

then  read  the  names  of  the  actors  ;  and  so  grow  to  a  point. 
Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is,  The  most  lamentable  comedy,  and 

most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby. 
Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I   assure  you,  and  a  merry. 
Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your  actors  by  the  scroll. 
Masters,  spread  yourselves. 

Quin.  Answer  as  I  call  you.     Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver. 
Bot.  Ready.     Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 
Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 
Bot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 
Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallant  for  love. 
Bot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of  it :  if  I 
do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes  ;  I -will  move  storms, 
I  will  condole  in  some  measure.     T«  the  rest :  yet  my  chief 
humour  is  for  a  tyrant :  I  could  play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part 
to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 

The  raging  rocks 
And  shivering  shocks 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison-gates ; 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  Fates, 

This  was  lofty  !  Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players.     This  is 
Ercles'  vein,  a  tyrant's  vein;  a  lover  is  more  condoling. 
Quin.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 
Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

405 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

Quin.  Flute,  you  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.  What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight  ? 

Quin.  It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love.  [coming. 

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

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  '11  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'  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  him  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  us,  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  you  should  fright  the  ladies  out  of 
their  wits,  they  woula  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  shall  see  in  a  sum 
mer's  day ;  a  most  lovely,  gentleman-like  man  :  therefore  you 
must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

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

Quin.  Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw  colour  beard,  your 
orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your 
French  crown  colour  beard,  your  perfect  yellow. 

Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no  hair  at  all,  and 

406 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

then  you  will  play  barefaced.  But,  masters,  here  are  your 
parts :  and  I  am  to  entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you, 
to  con  them  by  to-morrow  night ;  and  meet  me  in  the  palace 
wood,  a  mile  without  the  town,  by  moonlight;  there  will  we 
rehearse,  for  if  we  meet  in  the  city,  we  shall  be  dogged  with 
company,  and  our  devices  known.  In  the  mean  time  I  will 
draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants.  I  pray 
you,  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet;  and  there  we  may  rehearse  most  ob 
scenely  and  courageously.  Take  pains  ;  be  perfect :  adieu. 

Quin.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough ;  hold  or  cut  bow-strings.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   II— SCENE  I 
A  wood  near  Athens. 

Enter,  from  opposite  sides,  a  Fairy,  and  Puck. 
Puck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale, 

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

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  every  where, 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
The  cowlips  tall  her  pensioners  be : 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours : 
I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits ;  I  '11  be  gone : 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 
Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night : 
Take  heed  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight ; 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 
Because  that  she  as  her  attendant  hath 
A  lovely  boy,  stolen  from  an  Indian  king ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild ; 
But  she  perforce  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy : 
407 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove  or  green, 

By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 

But  they  do  square,  that  all  their  elves  for  fear 

Creep  into  acorn  cups  and  hide  them  there. 
Fat.  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 

Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite 

Call'd  Robin  Goodfellow :  are  not  you  he 

That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villa gery  ; 

Skim  milk,  and  sometimes  labour  in  the  quern, 

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  ; 

And  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob 

And  on  her  withered  dewlap  pour  the  ale. 

The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 

Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me  ; 

Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she, 

And  '  tailor '  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough ; 

And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips  and  laugh ; 

And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 

A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. 

But,  room,  fairy  !  here  comes  Oberon. 
Fat.  And  here  my  mistress.     Would  that  he  were  gone  ! 
Enter,  from  one  side,  Oberon,  with  his  train;  from  the 

other,  Titania,  with  hers. 
Obe.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 
Tita.  What,  jealous  Oberon  !     Fairies,  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  steppe  of  India  ? 

408 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded,  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 
Obe.  How  canst  thou  thus  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering  night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he-  ravished  ? 

And  make  him  with  fair  ^Egle  break  his  faith, 

With  Ariadne  and  Antiopa  ? 
Tita.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy: 

And  never,  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 

Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 

By  paved  fountain  or  by  rushy  brook, 

Or  in  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 

To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 

But  with  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturb'd  our  sport. 

Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 

As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 

Contagious  fogs  ;  which,  falling  in  the  land, 

Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 

That  they  have  overborne  their  continents : 

The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 

The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  corn 

Hath  rotted  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard  : 

The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 

And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrion  flock ; 

The  nine  men's  morris  is  fill'd  up  with  mud ; 

And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 

For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  : 

The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  ; 

No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : 

Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 

Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 

That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 

And  thorough  this  distemperature  we  see 

The  seasons  alter :  hoary-headed  frosts 

Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 

And  on  old  Hiems'  thin  and  icy  crown 

An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 

Is,  as  in  mockery,  set  :  the  spring,  the  summer, 

The  childing  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 

Their  wonted  liveries  ;  and  the  mazed  world, 

By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which  : 

409 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 

From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension ; 

We  are  their  parents  and  original. 
Obe.  Do  you  amend  it,  then  ;  it  lies  in  you  : 

Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 

I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 

To  be  my  henchman. 
Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest. 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 

His  mother  was  a  votaress  of  my  order : 

And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 

Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side ; 

And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 

Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 

When  we  have  laugh'd  to  see  the  sails  conceive 

And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind ; 

Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait 

Following, — her  womb  then  rich  with  my  young  squire, — 

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  do  I  rear  up  her  boy ; 

And  for  her  sake  I  will  not  part  with  him. 
Obe.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  ? 
Tita.  Perchance  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 

If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 

And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us ; 

If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 
Obe.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 
Tita.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom.  Fairies,  away  ! 

We  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exit  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  rememberest 

Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 

And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 
Puck.  I  remember. 

Obe.  That  very  time  I  saw,  but  thou  couldst  not, 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 

410 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Cupid  all  arm'd  :  a  certain  aim  he  took 

At  a  fair  vestal  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 

Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 

And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 

Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, 

Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 

And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 

Fetch  me  that  flower ;  the  herb  I  shew'd  thee  once : 

The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eye-lids  laid 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb ;  and  be  thou  here  again 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 
Puck.  I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 

In  forty  minutes.  [Exit. 

Obe.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I  '11  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 

And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes. 

The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 

Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 

On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape, 

She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love  : 

And  ere  I  take  this  charm  from  off  her  sight, 

As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb, 

I  '11  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 

But  who  comes  here  ?     I  am  invisible ; 

And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

Enter  Demetrius^  Helena  following  him. 
Dem.  I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not. 

Where  is  Lysander  and  fair  Hermia  ? 

The  one  I  '11  slay,  the  other  slayeth  me. 

Thou  told'st  me  they  were  stolen  unto  this  wood ; 

And  here  am  I,  and  wode  within  this  wood, 

Because  I  cannot  meet  my  Hermia. 

Hence,  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 
Hel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant ; 

But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 

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? 

411 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

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  1  beg  in  your  love, — 

And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me,— 

Than  to  be  used  as  you  use  your  dog  ? 
Dem.  Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  my  spirit ; 

For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 
Hel.  And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 
Dem.  You  do  impeach  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 

And  the  ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place 

With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 
Hel.  Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  :  for  that 

It  is  not  night  when  I  do  see  your  face, 

Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night ; 

Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company, 

For  you  in  my  respect  are  all  the  world : 

Then  how  can  it  be  said  I  am  alone, 

When  all  the  world  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 
Dem.  I  '11  run  from  thee  and  hide  me  in  the  brakes, 

And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 
Hel,  The  wildest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 

Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  changed : 

Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase ; 

The  dove  pursues  the  griffin ;  the  mild  hind 

Makes  speed  to  catch  the  tiger ;  bootless  speed, 

When  cowardice  pursue?,  and  valour  flies. 
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  th,e  wood. 
Hel.  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field, 

You  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 

Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex : 

We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do ; 

We  should  be  woo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo.    \JExit  Dem. 

I  '11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell, 

To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well.  [Exit. 

412 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Obe.  Fare  thee  well,  nymph :  ere  he  do  leave  this  grove, 

Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. 
Re-enter  Puck. 

Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderer. 
Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is. 
Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows, 

Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows ; 

Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 

With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine : 

There  sleeps  Titania  sometime  of  the  night, 

LuiPd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 

And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enamell'd  skin, 

Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 

And  with  the  juice  of  this  I  '11  streak  her  eyes, 

And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 

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  II 

Another  part  of  the  wood. 
Enter  Titania,  with  her  train. 

Tita.  Come,  now  a  roundel  and  a  fairy  song ; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence ; 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds ; 
Some  war  with  rere-mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG. 

Fir.  Fairy.  You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen  ; 
Newts  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong, 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

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. 

Fir.  Fairy.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

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

CHORUS. 
Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 

Sec.  Fairy.        .     Hence,  away  !  now  all  is  well : 
One  aloof  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     Titania 

Enter  Oberon,  and  squeezes  the  flower  on  Titania' s  eyelids. 
Obe.  What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake, 

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  wakestr  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  '11  rest  us,  Hermia,  if  you  think  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 
Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander  :  find  you  out  a  bed ; 

For  I  upon  this  bank  will  rest  my  head. 
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  further  off  yet,  do  not  lie  so  near. 
Lys.  O,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence  ! 
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 : 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Two  bosoms  interchained  with  an  oath  ; 
So  then  two  bosoms  and  a  single  troth. 
Then  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny ; 
•     For  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 
Her.  Lysander  riddles  very  prettily : 

Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my  pride, 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say  Lysander  lied. 
But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 
Lie  further  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,  arnen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I ; 
And  then  end  life  when  I  end  loyalty  ! 
Here  is  my  bed  :  sleep  give  thee  all  his  res*t ! 
Her.  With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be  press'd !  {They  sltif. 

Enter  Puck. 

Puck.  Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 

But  Athenian  found  I  none, 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Night  and  silence.— Who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear  : 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid  ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound, 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesy. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe. 
When  thou  wakest,  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. 
He!.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 
Dem.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt  me  thus  : 
Hel.  O,  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?  do  not  so. 
Dem.  Stay,  on  thy  peril :  I  alone  will  go.  [Exit. 

Hel.  O,  I  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. 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?     Not  with  salt  tears  : 

If  so,  my  eyes  are  oftener  wash'd  than  hers. 

No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear ; 

For  beasts  that  meet  me  run  away  for  fear : 

Therefore  no  marvel  though  Demetrius 

Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 

What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mine 

Made  me  compare  with  Hermia's  sphery  eyne  ? 

But  who  is  here  ?     Lysander !  on  the  ground  ! 

Dead  ?  or  asleep  ?     I  see  no  blood,  no  wound. 

Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 
Lys.  [Awaking]  And  run  through  fire  I  will  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  shews  art, 

That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 

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  I  love  : 

Who  will  not  chance  a  raven  for  a  dove  ? 

The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd 

And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 

Things  growing  are  not  ripe  until  their  season : 

So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason ; 

And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill, 

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  ! 

416 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

For  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings, 
Or  as  the  heresies  that  men  do  leave 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive, 
So  thou,  my  surfeit  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated,  but  the  most  of  me  ! 
And,  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might 
To  honour  Helen  and  to  be  her  knight !  [Exit* 

Her.  [Awaking]  Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me !  do  thy  best 
To  pluck  this  crawling  serpent  from  my  breast ! 
Ay  me,  for  pity  !  what  a  dream  was  here  ! 
Lysander,  look  how  I  do  quake  with  fear : 
Methought  a  serpent  eat  my  heart  away, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey. 
Lysander  !  what,  removed  ?     Lysander  !  lord  ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  gone  ?  no  sound,  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you  ?  speak,  an  if  you  hear ; 
Speak,  of  all  loves  !  I  swoon  almost  with  fear. 
No  ?  tnen  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death  or  you  I  '11  find  immediately.  {Exit, 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 

The  wood.      Titania  lying  asleep. 

Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Quin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here 's  a  marvellous  convenient  place  for 
our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage,  this 
hawthorn-brake  our  tiring-house ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action 
as  we  will  do  it  before  the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince,— - 

Quin.  What  sayest  thou,  Bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby 
that  will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus  must  draw  a  sword  to 
kill  himself ;  which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How  answer 

Snout.  By  'r  lakin,  a  parlous  fear.  [you  that  ? 

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. 

417  o 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

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  took  to 't. 

Snout.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell  he  is  not  a  lion. 

JBot.  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  moonlight  into  a  chamber ;  for,  you  know, 
Pyramus  and  Thisby  meet  by  moonlight. 

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

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar  !  look  in  the  almanac ;  find  out 
moonshine,  find  out  moonshine. 

Quin.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then  may  you  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  lantern,  and  say  he  comes  to  disfigure,  or  to  present,  the 
person  of  moonshine.  Then,  there  is  another  thing  :  we 
must  have  a  wall  in  the  great  chamtfer;  for  Pyramus  and 
Thisby,  says  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

Snout.   You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall.    What  say  you,  Bottom  ? 

Mot.  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 ;  and  let  him  hold  his  fingers  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 : 
and  so  every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  Puck  behind. 

Puck.  What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swaggering  here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 

418 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

What,  a  play  toward  !     I  '11  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 
Quin.  Speak,  Pyramus.     Thisby,  stand  forth. 
Bot.  This  by,  the  flowers  of  odious  savours  sweet, — 
Quin.  Odours,  odours. 

Bot.  odours  savours  sweet : 

So  hath  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. 
But  hark,  a  voice  !  stay  thou  but  here  awhile, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  [  Exit. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd  here.  \Exit. 

Flu.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 
Quin.  Ay,  marry,  must  you  ;  for  you  must  understand  he  goes 

but  to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 
Flu.  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 

Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier, 
Most  brisky  Juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire, 
I  '11  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  and  all.     Pyramus  enter  :  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  '  never 
tire.' 
Flu.  O, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire. 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom  with  an  ass's  head. 
Bot.  If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine. 
Quin.  O  monstrous  !  O  strange  !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  !  fly,  masters  !  Help  ! 

[Exeunt  Quince,  Snug,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 
Puck.  I  '11  follow  you,  I  '11  lead  you  about  a  round, 

Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through  brier : 
Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 

A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and  burn, 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn.  [Exit. 

Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away?  this  is  a   knavery  of  them  to 
make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  Snout. 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed  !  what  do  I  see  on  thee  ? 
Bot.  What  do  you  see?  you  see  an  ass-head  of  your  own,  do 
you  ?  [Exit  Snout. 

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, 

419 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

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.  [Azvafa'ng]  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 
Bot.  \Sings\ 

The  finch,  the  sparrow,  and  the  lark, 

The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray, 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
And  dares  not  answer  nay ; — 


for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a  bird  ?  who 

would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  he  cry  c  cuckoo  '  never  so  ? 
Tita.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  : 

Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note  ; 

So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 

And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me 

On  the  first  view  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 
Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason  for  that : 

and  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little  company 

together  now-a-days ;  the  more  the  pity,  that  some  honest 

neighbours  will  not  make  them  friends.     Nay,  I  can  gleek 

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  ;11  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 

And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 

And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep : 

And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. 

Peaseblossom  !  Cobweb  !  Moth  !  and  Mustardseed  ! 

Enter  Peaseblossom,  Cobweb,  Motli,  and  Mustardseed. 
First  Fai.  Ready. 
Sec.  Fai.  And  I. 

Third  Fai.  And  L 

420 


L<_/ 

' 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Fourth  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, 

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. 
First  Fai.  Hail,  mortal ! 
Sec.  Fai.  Hail ! 
Third  Fai.  Hail! 
Fourth  Fai.  Hail ! 

Bot.   I    cry   your   worships  mercy,  heartily :   I    beseech   your 
Cob.  Cobweb.  [worship's  name. 

JBot.  I   shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master 

Cobweb :  if  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you. 

Your  name,  honest  gentleman  ? 
Peas.  Peaseblossom. 
JBot.    I    pray   you,   commend    me  to    Mistress   Squash,    your 

mother,  and  to  Master  Peascod,  your  father.     Good  Master 

Peaseblossom,   I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance  too. 

Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 
Mus.  Mustardseed. 
Bot.  Good  Master  Mustardseed,  I  know  your  patience  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  your  more 

acquaintance,  good  Master  Mustardseed. 
Tita.  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  love'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. 

421 


M»**4  *•* 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

Enter  Puck. 

Here  comes  my  messenger. 

How  now,  mad  spirit ! 

What  night-rule  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,  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, 

Who  Pyramus  presented,  in  their  sport 

Forsook  his  scene,  and  enter'd  in  a  brake : 

When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take, 

An  ass's  nole  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,  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  call. 

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 : 

When  in  that  moment,  so  it  came  to  pass, 

Titania  waked,  and  straightway  loved  an  ass. 
Obe.  This  falls  out  better  than  I  could  devise. 

But  hast  thou  yet  latch'd  the  Athenian's  eyes 

With  a  love-juice,  as  I  did  bid  thee  do? 
Puck,  I  took  him  sleeping, — that  is  finish'd  too, — - 

And  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side ; 

That,  when  he  waked,  of  force  she  must  be  eyed. 

Enter  Hermia  and  Demetrius. 

Obe.  Stand  close  :  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 
Puck.  This  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. 

422 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Her.  Now  I  but  chide ;  but  I  should  use  thee  worse, 

For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 

If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep, 

Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep, 

And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day 

As  he  to  me  :  would  he  have  stolen  away 

From  sleeping  Hermia  ?     I  '11  believe  as  soon 

This  whole  earth  may  be  bored,  and  that  the  moon 

May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 

Her  brother's  noontide  with  the  Antipodes. 

It  cannot  be  but  thou  hast  murder'd  him  ; 

So  should  a  murderer  look,  so  dead,  so  grim. 
Dem.  So  should  the  murder'd  look  ;  and  so  should  I,. 

Pierced  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty  : 

Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear, 

As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 
Her.  What 's  this  to  my  Lysander  ?  where  is  he  ? 

Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 
Dem.  I  had  rather  give  his  carcass  to  my  hounds. 
Her.  Out,  dog !  out,  cur  !  thou  drivest  me  past  the  bounds- 

Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him,  then  ? 

Henceforth  be  never  number'd  among  men  ! 

O,  once  tell  true,  tell  true,  even  for  my  sake  ! 

Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him  being  awake, 

And  hast  thou  kill'd  him  sleeping  ?     O  brave  touch  ! 

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  mood  : 

I  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood  ; 

Nor  is  he  dead,  for  aught  that  I  can  tell. 
Her.  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  then  that  he  is  well. 
Dem.  An  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  therefore 
Her.  A  privilege,  never  to  see  me  more. 

And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so  : 

See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no.  [Exit. 

Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce  vein : 

Here  therefore  for  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  and  sleeps. 
Obe.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  thou  hast  mistaken  quite, 

And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true-love's  sight : 

423 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

Of  thy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true  love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  turn'd  true. 
Puck.  Then  fate  o'er-rules,  that,  one  man  holding  troth, 

A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 
Obe.  About  the  wood  go  swifter  than  the  wind* 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick  she  is  and  pale  of  cheer, 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  costs  the  fresh  blood  dear : 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  here : 
I  '11  charm  his  eyes  against  she  do  appear. 
Puck.  I  go,  I  go ;  look  how  I  go, 

Swifter  than  arrow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.  [Exit. 

Obc.  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  wakest,  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  ! 
Obe.  Stand  aside  :  the  noise  they  make 

Will  cause  Demetrius  to  awake.  • 
Puck.  Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one ; 

That  must  needs  be  sport  alone  : 
And  those  things  do  best  please  me 
That  befal  preposterously. 

Enter  Lysander  and  Helena. 

Lys.  Why  should  you  think  that  I  should  woo  in  scorn  ? 

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

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you, 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith,  to  prove  them  true? 
Hel.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and  more. 

When  truth  kills  truth,  O  devilish-holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's  :  will  you  give  her  o'er  ? 
Weigh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing  weigh : 
424 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Your  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 

Will  even  weigh ;  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 
Lys.  I  had  no  judgement  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.  [Aivakmg]  O  Helen,  goddess,  nymph,  perfect,  divine ! 
.     To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  ? 

Crystal  is  muddy.     O,  how  ripe  in  show 

Thy  lips,  those  kissing  cherries,  tempting  grow  ! 

That  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 

Fann'd  with  the  eastern  wind,  turns  to  a  crow 

When  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand :  O,  let  me  kiss 

This  princess  of  pure  white,  this  seal  of  bliss  J 
Hel.  O  spite ;  O  hell !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 

To  set  against  me  for  your  merriment : 

If  you  were  civil  and  knew  courtesy, 

You  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 

Can  you  not  hate  me,  as  I  know  you  do, 

But  you  must  join  in  souls  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  till  my  death. 
Hel.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 
Dem.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia ;  I  will  none : 

If  e'er  I  loved  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 

My  heart  to  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojourn'd, 

And  now  to  Helen  is  it  home  return'd, 

There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dem.  Disparage  not  the  faith  thou  dost  not  know, 

Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear. 

425  02 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

Look,  where  thy  love  comes ;  yonder  is  thy  dear. 
Re-enter  Hermia. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  function  takes, 

The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes ; 

Wherein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense, 

It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompence. 

Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found ; 

Mine  ear,  I  thank  it,  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 

But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so  ? 
Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press  to  go  ? 
Her.  What  love  .could  press  Lysander  from  my  side  ? 
Lys.  Lysander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him  bide, 

Fair  Helena,  who  more  engilds  the  night 

Than  all-  yon  fiery  oes  and  eyes  of  light. 

Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this  make  thee  know, 

The  hate  I  bare  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 
Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think :  it  cannot  be. 
Hel.  Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederacy  ! 

Now  I  perceive  they  have  conjoin'd  all  three 

To  fashion  this  false  sport,  in  spite  of  me. 

Injurious  Hermia !  most  ungrateful  maid  ! 

Have  you  conspired,  have  you  with  these  contrived 

To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 

Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  shared, 

The  sisters'  vows,  the  hours  that  we  have  spent, 

When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 

For  parting  us, — O,  is  all  forgot  ? 

All  school-days'  friendship,  childhood  innocence  ? 

We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods, 

Have  with  our  needles  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  an  union  in  partition  ; 

Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem ; 

So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart ; 

Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry, 

Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 

And  will  you  rent  our  ancient  love  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, 
426 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 
Her.  I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words. 

I  scorn  you  not :  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 
Hel.  Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 

To  follow  me  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face  ? 

And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 

Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot, 

To  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine  and  rare, 

Precious,  celestial  ?     Wherefore  speaks  he  this 

To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 

Deny  our  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  depise. 
Her.  I  understand  not  what  you  mean  by  this. 
Hel.  Ay,  do,  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks, 

Make  mouths  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back ; 

Wink  each  at  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. 

But  fare  ye  well :  'tis  partly  my  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. 

Devi.  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  Ethiope  ! 
Dem.  No,  no;  he'll  .  .  . 

Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on  as  you  would  follow, 

But  yet  come  not :  you  are  a  tame  man,  go ! 
Lys.  Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr !  vile  thing,  let  loose, 

427 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Di 

Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me  like  a  serpent ! 
Her.  Why  are  you  grown  so  rude?  what  change  is  this? 

Sweet  love, — 
Lys.  Thy  love  !  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out ! 

Out,  loathed  medicine !  hated  potion,  hence  ! 
Her,  Do  you  not  jest  ? 

Hel.  Yes,  sooth  ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.  Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee. 
Dem.  I  would  I  had  your  bond,  for  I  perceive 

A  weak  bond  holds  you :  I  '11  not  trust  your  word. 
Lys.  What,  should  I  hurt  her,  strike  her,  kill  her  dead  ? 

Although  I  hate  her,  I  '11  not  harm  her  so. 
Her.  What,  can  you  do  me  greater  harm  than  hate  ? 

Hate  me  !  wherefore  ?     O  me  !  what  news,  my  love  ! 

Am  not  I  Hermia  ?  are  not  you  Lysander  ? 

I  am  as  fair  now  as  I  was  erewhile. 

Since  night  you  loved  me  ;  yet  since  night  you  left  me  : 

Why,  then  you  left  me, — O,  the  gods  forbid  !— 

In  earnest,  shall  I  say? 
Lys.  Ay,  by  my  life ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 

Therefore  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  of  doubt  ; 

Be  certain,  nothing  truer;  'tis  no  jest 

That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 
Her.  O  me  !  you  juggler  !  you  canker-blossom  ! 

You  thief  of  love  !  what,  have  you  come  by  night 

And  stolen  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 
Hel.  Fine,  i'  faith  « 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame, 

No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?     What,  will  you  tear 

Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue? 

Fie,  fie !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you  ! 
Her.  Puppet  ?  why  so  ?  ay,  that  way  goes  the  game. 

Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 

Between  our  statures ;  she  hath  urged  her  height ; 

And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage, 

Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with  him. 

And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem, 

Because  I  am  so  dwarfish  and  so  low  ? 

How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?  speak ; 

How  low  am  I  ?     I  am  not  yet  so  low 

But  that  my  nails  can  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 
Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentlemen. 

Let  her  not  hurt  me :  I  was  never  curst ; 

I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness ; 

428 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice : 

Let  her  not  strike  me.     You  perhaps  may  think, 

Because  she  is  something  lower  than  myself, 

That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower  !  hark,  again. 

Hel.  Good  Hermia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 

I  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 

Did  ever  keep  your  counsels,  never  wrong'd  you ; 

Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 

I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood. 

He  follow'd  you  ;  for  love  I  followed  him ; 

But  he  hath  chid  me  hence,  and  threaten'd  me 

To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too  : 

And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go, 

To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back, 

And  follow  you  no  further :  let  me  go  : 

You  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 
Her.  Why,  get  you  gone  :  who  is  Jt  that  hinders  you  ? 
Hel.  A  foolish  heart,  that  I  leave  here  behind. 
Her.  What,  with  Lysander  ? 
Hel.  With  Demetrius. 

Lys.  Be  not  afraid  ;  she  shall  not  harm  thee,  Helena. 
Dem.  No,  sir,  she  shall  not,  though  you  take  her  part. 
Hel.  O,  when  she 's  angry,  she  is  keen  and  shrewd  ! 

She  was  a  vixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 

And  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 
Her.  Little  again  !  nothing  but  low  and  little  ! 

Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 

Let  me  come  to  her. 
Lys.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

You  minimus,  of  hindering  knot-grass  made  ; 

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 

Never  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 

Thou  shalt  aby  it. 
Lys.  Now  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  darest,  to  try  whose  right, 

Of  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Helena. 
Dem.  Follow  !  nay,  I  '11  go  with  thee,  cheek  by  jole. 

[.Exeunt  Lysander  and  Demetrius. 
Her.  You,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  long  of  you  : 
g°  not  back. 

429 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

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. 

Obe.  This  is  thy  negligence :  stiil  thou  mistakest, 

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, 
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. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tongue, 
Then  stir  Demetrius  up  with  bitter  wrong ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 
Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 

With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep  : 

Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye; 

Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property, 

To  take  from  thence  all  error  with  his  might, 

And  make  his  eyeballs  roll  with  wonted  sight. 

WThen  they  next  wake,  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  '11  to  my  queen  and  beg  her  Indian  boy ; 

And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 

From  monster's  view,  and  all  things  shall  be  peace. 
Puck.  My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with  haste, 

For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 

And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  harbinger  ; 

At  whose  approach,  ghosts,  wandering  here  and  there, 

Troop  home  to  churchyards  :  damned  spirits  all, 

That  in  crossways  and  floods  have  burial, 

Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone ; 

430 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 
They  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 
And  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd  night. 
Obe.  But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort : 

I  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport  ; 
And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 
Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery-red, 
Opening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams, 
Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt  green  streams. 
But,  notwithstanding,  haste  :  make  no  delay : 
We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day.  [Exit 

Puck.  Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 

I  will  lead  them  up  and  down  : 
I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town  : 
Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 
Here  comes  one. 

Re-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  Lysander,  as  following  the  voice* 

Re-enter  Demetrius. 
Dem.  Lysander  !  speak  again  : 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled  ? 

Speak  !     In  some  bush?     Where  dost  thou  hide  thy  head? 
Puck.  Thou  coward,  art  thou  bragging  to  the  stars, 

Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars, 

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

I  '11  whip  thee  with  a  rod  :  he  is  defiled 

That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

Dem.  Yea,  art  thou  there  ? 

Puck.  Follow  my  voice  :  we  '11  try  no  manhood  here.    [Exeunt 

Re-enter  Lysander. 

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-heel'd  than  I : 
I  followed  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly ; 
That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way, 

And  here  will  rest  me.  [Lies  down.]  Come,  thou  gentle  day! 
For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  grey  light, 
I  '11  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite.  [Steefs. 

431 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream. 

Re-enter  Puck  and  Demetrius. 

Puck.  Ho,  ho,  ho  !   Coward,  why  comest  thou  not  ? 

Dem.  Abide  me,  if  thou  darest ;  for  well  I  wot 
Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place, 
And  darest  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 
Where  art  thou  now  ? 

Puck.  Come  hither  :  I  am  here. 

Dem.  Nay,  then,  thou  mock'st  me.     Thou  shalt  buy  this  dear, 
If  ever  I  thy  face  by  daylight  see  : 
Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  me 
To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. 
By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited.      [Lies  down  and  sleeps. 


Re-enter  Helena. 
Hel.  O  weary  night,  O  long  and  tedious  night, 

Abate  thy  hours  !     Shine  comforts  from  the  east, 
That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  daylight, 

From  these  that  my  poor  company  detest : 
And  sleep,  that  sometimes  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye, 
Steal  me  awhile  from  mine  own  company. 

[Lies  down  and  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. 

Re-enter  Hermia. 
Her.  Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe ; 

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

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

[Lies  down  and  sleeps. 
Puck.  On  the  ground 

Sleep  sound  : 
I  '11  apply 
To  your  eye, 
Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

[Squeezing  the  juice  on  Ly Sander's  eye. 
When  thou  wakest, 
Thou  takest 
True  delight 
In  the  sight 
43* 


I 
I 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

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.  [Exit. 

ACT   IV— SCENE  I 

The  same. 

Lysander,  Demetrius,  Helena,  and  Hermia,  lying  asleep. 
Enter    Titania   and    Bottom ;    Peaseblossom,    Cobweb,    Moth. 
Mustardseed,  and  other  Fairies  attending;  Oberon  behind  unseen. 
Tita.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 

While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 

And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 
Bot.  Where  's  Peaseblossom  ? 
Peas.  Ready. 

Bot.  Scratch   my  head,  Peaseblossom.     Where's    Mounsieur 

Cob.  Ready.  [Cobweb? 

Bot.  Mounsieur    Cobweb,   good    mounsieur,   get    you    your 

weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble-bee 

on    the  top  of  a  thistle;    and,  good  mounsieur,  bring  me 

the   honey-bag.     Do   not   fret   yourself    too   much   in    the 

i      action,  mounsieur ;  and,  good  mounsieur,  have  a  care  the 

honey-bag  break  not ;  I  would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown 

with  a  honey-bag,  signior.   Where 's  Mounsieur  Mustardseed  ? 

Mus.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neaf,  Mounsieur  Mustardseed.     Pray  you, 

leave  your  courtesy,  good  mounsieur. 
Mus.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  mounsieur,  but  to  help  Cavalery  Cobweb 
to  scratch.     I  must  to  the  barber's,  mounsieur ;  for  methinks 
I  am  marvellous  hairy  about  the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a 
tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me,  I  must  scratch. 
Tita.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  ? 
Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music.     Let 's  have  the 

tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 
Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender  :  I  could  munch  your  good 
dry  oats.     Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay  • 
good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

433 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

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  thy  ways  away.   [.Exeunt  Fairies. 

So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 

Gently  entwist ;  the  female  ivy  so 

Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 

O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  !  {They  sleep, 

Enfer  Puck, 
Obe.  [Advancing]    Welcome,    good    Robin.     See'st   thou  this 

Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity  :  [sweet  sight  ? 

For,  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood, 

Seeking  sweet  favours  for  this  hateful  fool, 

I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fail  out  with  her ; 

For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 

With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 

And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 

Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 

Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowerets'  eyes, 

Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 

When  I  had  at  my  pleasure  taunted  her, 

And  she  in  mild  terms  begg'd  my  patience, 

I  then  did  ask  of  her  her  changeling  child  ; 

Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 

To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 

And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 

This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes  : 

And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 

From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain  ; 

That,  he  awaking  when  the  other  do, 

May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair, 

And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 

But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 

But  first  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 

Be  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be  ; 
See  as  thou  was  wont  to  see  : 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 

Now,  my  Titania  ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tita.  My  Oberon  !  what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 

Methought  I  was  enamour'd  of  an  ass. 
Obe.  There  lies  your  love. 

434 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Tita.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

O,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now  ! 
Obe.  Silence  awhile.     Robin,  take  off  this  head. 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tita.  Music,  ho  !  music,  such  as  charmeth  sleep  !  [Music,  still. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wakest,  with  thine  own  fool's  eyes  peep. 
Obe.  Sound,  music  !     Come,  my  queen,  take  hands  with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity, 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  prosperity : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 
Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend,  and  mark  : 

I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 
Obe.-  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad, 

Trip  we  after  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  winded  within. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Egeus,  and  train. 
The,  Go,  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester  ; 
For  now  our  observation  is  perform'd  ; 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley ;  let  them  go  : 
Dispatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester.      [Exit  an  Attendant. 
We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  mark  the  musical  confusion 
Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 
Hip.  I  was  with  Hercules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  bear 
With  hounds  of  Sparta  :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  chiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seern'd  all  one  mutual  cry  :  I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 
The.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded  ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 

435 


r)-.~ 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 

Crook-knee'd,  and  dew-lapp'd  like  Thessalian  bulls 

Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 

Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tuneable 

Was  never  holla'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  with  horn, 

In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly : 

Judge  when  you  hear.     But,  soft  !  what  nymphs  are  these  ? 
Ege.  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep ; 

And  this,  Lysander ;  this  Demetrius  is ;  « 

This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena : 

I  wonder  of  their  being  here  together. 
The.  No  doubt  they  rose  up  early  to  observe 

The  rite  of  May  ;  and,  hearing  our  intent, 

Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. 

But  speak,  Egeus  ;  is  not  this  the  day 

That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice? 
Ege.  It  is,  my  lord. 
The.  Go,  bid  the  huntsmen  wake  them  with  their  horns. 

[Horns  and  shout  within.     Lys.,  Dem., 
HeL,  and  Her.,  wake  and  start  up. 

Good  morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is  past : 

Begin  these  wood-birds  but  to  couple  now  ? 
Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord. 
The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know  you  two  are  rival  enemies  : 

How  comes  this  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 

That  hatred  is  so  far  from  jealousy, 

To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 
Lys.  My  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly, 

Half  sleep,  half  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, 

Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 
JEge.  Enough,  enough,  my  lord ;  you  have  enough  : 

I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head. 

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  follow'd  them, 

436 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 

But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, — 

But  by  some  power  it  is, — my  love  to  Hermia, 

Melted  as  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 

As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gaud, 

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  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia : 

But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loathe  this  food  ; 

But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste, 

Now  I  do  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  '11  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. 
Dem.  Are  you  sure 

That  we  are  awake  ?     It  seems  to  me 

That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream.     Do  not  you  think 

The  Duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  him  ? 
Her.  Yea  ;  and  my  father. 
Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 
Dem.  Why,  then,  we  are  awake :  let 's  follow  him  ; 

And  by  the  way  let  us  recount  our  dreams.  [Exeunt. 

Bot.  [Awaking]   When    my   cue   comes,  call  me,  and  I  will 

answer  :  my  next  is,   '  Most  fair  Pyramus.'    Heigh-ho  !    Peter 

Quince  !     Flute,  the  bellows-mender  !     Snout,  the  tinker  ! 

Starveling  !     God 's  my  life,  stolen  hence,  and  left  me  asleep  ! 

I  have  had  a  most  rare  vision.     I  have  had  a  dream,  past  the 
437 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was  :  man  is  but  an  ass,  if 
he  go  about  to  expound  this  dream.  Methought  I  was — 
there  is  no  man  can  tell  what.  Methought  I  \vas, — 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.  I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  write  a 
ballad  of  this  dream  :  it  shall  be  called  Bottom's  Dream, 
because  it  hath  no  bottom ;  and  I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter 
end  of  a  play,  before  the  Duke  :  peradventure,  to  make  it  th»- 
more  gracious,  I  shall  sing  it  at  her  death.  [Exit. 


SCENE   II 
A  thetis.     Quince's  house. 


Enter  Quince,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 
Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is  he  come  home  yet  ? 
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  Pyramus  but  he.  [Athens 

Flu.  No,  he  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any  handicraft  man  in 

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  naught. 

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  '11  be  hanged ;  he  would  have  deserved  it : 
sixpence  a  day  in  Pyramus,  or  nothing. 

Enter  Bottom. 

Bot.  Where  are  these  lads?  where  are  these  hearts?        [hour  ! 
Quin.  Bottom  !     O    most   courageous  day  !     O    most   happy 
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 
438 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

to  your  beards,  new  ribbons  to  your  pumps  ;  meet  presently 
at  the  palace  ;  every  man  look  o'er  his  part ;  for  the  short 
and  the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred.  In  any  case,  let 
Thisby  have  clean  linen ;  and  let  not  him  that  plays  the  lion 
pare  his  nails,  for  they  shall  hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws. 
And,  most  dear  actors,  eat  no  onions  nor  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 

Athens.     The  palace  of  Theseus. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  Lords,  and  Attendants 

Hip.  Tis  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers  speak  of. 
The.  More  strange  than  true  :  I  never  may  believe 

These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 

Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 

Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 

More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 

The  lunatic,  the  lover  and  the  poet 

Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 

One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold, 

That  is,  the  madman :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 

See  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 

The  poet's  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 

Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination, 

That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 

It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy  ; 

Or  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 

How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear  ! 
Hip.  But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 

And  all  their  minds  transfigured  so  together, 

More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 

And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy  ; 

But,  howsoever,  strange  and  admirable. 
The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. 

Enter  Lysander,  Demetrius,  Hermia,  and  Helena. 

joy,  gentle  friends !  joy  and  fresh  days  of  love 

Accompany  your  hearts  ! 

439 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 


Lys.  More  than  to  us 

Wait  in  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed  ! 
The.  Come  now ;  what  masques,  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  ? 

What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play, 

To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ? 

Call  Philostrate. 

Phil.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.  Say,  what  abridgement  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 

What  masque  ?  what  music  ?     How  shall  we  beguile 

The  lazy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight? 
Phil.  There  is  a  brief  how  many  sports  are  ripe  : 

Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 

[Giving  a  paper. 
The.  [reads]  The  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to  be  sung. 

By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp. 

We  '11  none  of  that :  that  have  I  told  my  love, 

In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

[Reads]  The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 

Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage. 

That  is  an  old  device ;  and  it  was  play'd 

When  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

[Reads]  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. 

[Reads]  A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus 

And  his  love  Thisbe  ;  very  tragical  mirth. 

Merry  and  tragical !  tedious  and  brief ! 

That  is,  hot  ice  and  wondrous  strange  snow. 

How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord  ? 
Phil.  A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  some  ten  words  long, 

Which,  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play  ; 

But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long, 

Which  makes  it  tedious ;  for  in  all  the  play 

There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted : 

And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is ; 

For  Pyramus  therein  doth  kill  himself. 

Which,  when  I  saw  rehearsed,  I  must  confess, 

Made  mine  eyes  water ;  but  more  merry  tears 

The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 
The.  What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 
Phil.  Hard-handed  men,  that  work  in  Athens  here, 

440 


,r. 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now ; 

And  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreathed  memories 

With  this  same  play,  against  your  nuptial. 
The.  And  we  will  hear  it. 
Phil.  No,  my  noble  lord  ; 

It  is  not  for  you  :  I  have  heard  it  over, 

And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world ; 

Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents, 

Extremely  stretch'd  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain, 

To  do  you  service. 
The.  I  will  hear  that  play ; 

For  never  any  thing  can  be  amiss, 

When  simpleness  and  duty  tender  it. 

Go,  bring  them  in  :  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 

{Exit  Philostratt. 
Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharged, 

And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 
The.  WThy,  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. 

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. 

Re-enter  Philostrate. 

Phil.  So  please  your  Grace,  the  Prologue  is  address'd. 
The.  Let  him  approach.  {Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  Quince  for  the  Prologue. 
Pro.   If  we  offend,  it  is  with  our  good  will. 

That  you  should  think,  we  come  not  to  offend, 
But  with  good  will.     To  show  our  simple  skill, 
That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
441 


/ICctlil 
irmi 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

Consider,  then,  we  come  but  in  despite. 

We  do  not  come,  as  minding  to  content  you, 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight, 

We  are  not  here.     That  you  should  here  repent  you, 
The  actors  are  at  hand  ;  and,  by  their  show, 
You  shall  know  all,  that  you  are  like  to  know. 
Th.  This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 
Lys.  He  hath  rid  his  prologue  like  a  rough  colt ;  he  knows  not 
the  stop.    A  good  moral,  my  lord  :  it  is  not  enough  to  speak, 
but  to  speak  true. 
Hip.  Indeed  he  hath  played  on  his  prologue  like  a  child  on  a 

recorder ;  a  sound,  but  not  in  government. 
The.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain ;  nothing  impaired, 
but  all  disordered.     Who  is  next  ? 

Enter  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,   Wall,  Moonshine,  and  Lion. 
Pro.  Gentles,  perchance  you  wonder  at  this  show ; 

But  wonder  on,  till  truth  make  all  things  plain. 
This  man  is  Pyramus,  if  you  would  know ; 

This  beauteous  lady  Thisby  is  certain. 
This  man,  with  lime  and  rough-cast,  doth  present 

Wall,  that  vile  Wall  which  did  these  lovers  sunder  : 
And  through  Wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  content 

To  whisper.     At  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  wiih  lanthorn,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

Presenteth  Moonshine ;  for,  if  you  will  know, 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  there,  there  to  woo. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  Lion  hight  by  name, 
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  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast ; 
And  Thisby,  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade, 

His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest, 
Let  Lion,  Moonshine,  Wall,  and  lovers  twain 
At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain. 
\Exeunt  Prologue,  Pyramus,  Thisbe,  Lion,  and  Moonshine. 
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 ; 
442 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

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  1  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  discourser  my 
lord. 

The.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall :  silence  ! 
Re-enter  Pyramus. 

Pyr.  O  grim-look'd  night !  O  night  with  hue  so  black  I 

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

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

That  stands't  between  her  father's  ground  and  mine  1 
Thou  wall,  O  wall,  O  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 

Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with  mine  eyne  I 

[  Wall  holds  up  his  fingers. 
Thanks,  courteous  wall :  Jove  shield  thee  well  for  this  I 

But  what  see  1  ?     No  Thisby  do  I  see. 
O  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss ! 

Cursed  be  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me ! 
The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should  curse  again. 
9 Pyr,  No,    in   truth,    sir,  he   should   not.     *  Deceiving  me '  is 
Thisby's  cue :    she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am  to   spy  her 
through  the  wall.    You  shall  see,  it  will  fall  pat  as  I  told  you, 
Yonder  she  comes. 

Re-enter  Thisbe. 
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.  I  see  a  voice :  now  will  I  to  the  chink, 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  my  Thisby's  face. 
Thisby ! 

This.  My  love  thou  art,  my  love  I  think. 
Pyr.  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace  ; 

And,  like  Limander,  am  I  trusty  still, 
This.  And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  Fates  me  kill. 
Pyr.  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true. 
This.  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you. 

443 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

Pyr.  O,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall ! 
This.  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all. 
Pyr.  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  me  straightway  ? 
This.  'Tide  life,  'tide  death,  I  come  without  delay. 

\Exeunt  Pyramus  and  Thisbe. 
Wall.  Thus  have  I,  wall,  my  part  discharged  so ; 

And,  being  done,  thus  wall  away  doth  go.  \Exit. 

The.  Now  is  the  mural  down  between  the  two  neighbours. 
Dem.  No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so  wilful  to  hear 

without  warning. 

Hip.  This  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  ever  I  heard. 
The.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows ;  and  the  worst  are 

no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 
Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination  then,  and  not  theirs. 
The.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them  than  they  of  themselves, 

they  may  pass  for  excellent  men.     Here  come  two  noble 

beasts  in,  a  man  and  a  lion. 

Re-enter  Lion  and  Moonshine. 
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. 

Then  know  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 

A  lion-fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam ; 

For,  if  I  should  as  lion  come  in  strife 

Into  this  place,  'twere  pity  on  my  life. 
The.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  conscience. 
Dem.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that  e'er  I  saw. 
Lys.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 
The.  True ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 
Dem.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  for  his  valour  cannot  carry  his  discre 
tion  ;  and  the  fox  carries  the  goose. 
The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his  valour;  for 

the  goose  carries  not  the  fox.     It  is  well :  leave  it  to  his  dis 
cretion,  and  let  us  listen  to  the  moon. 
Moon.  This  lanthorn  doth  the  horned  moon  present ; — 
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  lanthorn  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. 

444 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

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 
Lys.  -  Proceed,  Moon.  [the  time. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say,  is,  to  tell  you  that  the  lanthorn 
is  the  moon ;  I,  the  man  i'  the  moon  ;  this  thorn-bush,  my 
thorn-bush  ;  and  this  dog,  my  dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern ;  for  all  these  are 
in  the  moon.  But,  silence  !  here  comes  Thisbe. 

Re-enter  Thisbe. 
This.  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb.     Where  is  my  love  ? 

Lion.  [.Roaring]  Oh \Thisbe  runs  off. 

Dem.  Well  roared,  Lion. 
The.  Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  Moon.  Truly,  the  moon  shines  with  a  good 
grace.  \The  Lion  shakes  Thisbe 's  mantle^  and  exit, 

The.  Well  moused,  Lion. 
Dem.  And  then  came  Pyramus. 
Lys.  And  so  the  lion  vanished. 

Re-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  gleams, 
I  trust  to  take  of  truest  Thisby  sight. 
But  stay,  O  spite  ! 
But  mark,  poor  knight, 
What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ! 
Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 
How  can  it  be  ? 
O  dainty  duck  !     O  dear ! 
Thy  mantle  good, 
What,  stain'd  with  blood  ! 
Approach,  ye  Furies  fell ! 
O  Fates,  come,  come, 
Cut  thread  and  thrum ; 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell ! 
The.  This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  dear  friend,  would  go 

near  to  make  a  man  look  sad. 
Hip.  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 
Pyr.  O  wherefore,  Nature,  didst  thou  lions  frame  ? 

Since  lion  vile  hath  here  deflower' d  my  dear : 
Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  fairest  dame 

That  lived,  that  loved,  that  liked,  that  look'd  with  cheer- 
Come,  tears,  confound ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wound 
445 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream 

The  pap  of  Pyramus  ; 
Ay,  that  left  pap, 
Where  heart  doth  hop  :  [Stabs  himself. 

Thus  die  I,  thus,  thus,  thus. 
Now  am  I  dead, 
Now  am  I  fled ; 
My  soul  is  in  the  sky : 

Tongue,  lose  thy  light ; 

Moon,  take  thy  flight :          [Exit  Moonshine. 
Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die.  [Dies. 

Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him ;  for  he  is  but  one. 
Lys.  Less  than  an  ace,  man  ;  for  he  is  dead  ;  he  is  nothing. 
The.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon  he  might  yet  recover,  and 

prove  an  ass. 
Hip.  How  chance  Moonshine  is  gone  before  Thisbe  comes 

back  and  finds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will  find  him  by  starlight.  Here  she  comes ;  and 
her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Re-enter  Thisbe. 
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  Pyramus,  which 
Thisbe,  is  the  better ;  he  for  a  man,  God  warrant  us  ;  she 
for  a  woman,  God  bless  us. 

Lys.  She  hath  spied  him  already  with  those  sweet  eyes. 
Dem.  And  thus  she  means,  videlicet : — 
This.  Asleep,  my  love? 

What,  dead,  my  dove  ? 
O  Pyramus,  arise  ! 

Speak,  speak.     Quite  dumb  ? 
Dead,  dead  ?     A  tomb 
Must  cover  thy  sweet  eyes. 
These  lily  lips, 
This  cherry  nose, 
These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 
Are  gone,  are  gone  : 
Lovers,  make  moan  : 
His  eyes  were,  green  as  leeks. 
O  Sisters  Three, 
Come,  come  to  me, 
With  hands  as  pale  as  milk  : 
Lay  them  in  gore, 
Since  you  have  shore 
With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 
446 


A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  \ 

Tongue,  not  a  word  : 
Come,  trusty  sword ; 

Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbrue :       [Stabs  herself. 
And,  farewell,  friends ; 
Thus  Thisbe  ends : 

Adieu,  adieu,  adieu.  [Dies. 

The.  Moonshine  and  Lion  are  left  to  bury  the  dead. 
Dem.  Ay,  and  Wall  too. 

Bot.  [Starting  up]  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  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  himself  in  Thisbe's  garter,  it  would 
have  been  a  fine  tragedy:  and  so  it  is,  truly;  and  very 
notably  discharged.  But,  come,  your  Bergomask :  let  your 
epilogue  alone.  '  [A  dance. 

The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve : 
Lovers,  to  bed  ;  'tis  almost  fairy  time. 
I  fear  we  shall  out-sleep  the  coming  morn, 
As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatch'd. 
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. 

Enter  Puck. 
•  Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars, 

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

All  with  weary  task  foredone. 
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  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolic  :  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house : 
447 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream 

I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 

To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  Oberon  and  Titania  with  their  train. 
Obe.          Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light, 
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  your  song  by  rote, 

To  each  word  a  warbling  note  : 

Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace, 

Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place.      [Song  and  dance, 
Obe.         Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 

Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 

To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we, 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be  ; 

And  the  issue  there  create 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three 

Ever  true  in  loving  be  ; 

And  the  blots  of  Nature's  hand 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand  ; 

Never  mole,  hare  lip,  nor  scar, 

Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity, 

Shall  upon  their  children  be. 

With  this  field-dew  consecrate, 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait ; 

And  each  several  chamber  bless, 

Through  this  palace,  with  sweet  peace, 

Ever  shall  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  slumber'd  here, 

While  these  visions  did  appear. 

And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 

No  more  yielding  but  a  dream, 

Gentles,  do  not  reprehend : 

If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 
448 


A  Midsummer- Night's  Dream  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

And,  as  I  am  an  honest  Puck, 

If  we  have  unearned  luck 

Now  to  scape  the  serpent's  tongue, 

We  will  make  amends  ere  long  ; 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call : 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all. 

Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.  \Exit. 


449 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

The  DUKE  OF  VENICE.  |    TUBAL,  a  few,  his  friend. 

The  PRINCE  OF  MOROCCO,  \  suitors         to   \    LAUNCELOT  GOBBO,  the  clown,  servant 


The  PRINCE  OF  ARRAGON,  /       Portia. 
ANTONIO,  a  merchant  of  Venice. 
BASSANIO,  his  friend,  suitor  likewise   to 

Portia. 
SALANIO,     ~\ 

SALARINO,    \friends      to     Antonio    and 
GRATIANO,   j      Bassanio. 
SALERIO,     J 
LORENZO,  in  love  with  Jessica. 


Shylock. 

OLD  GOBBO,  father  to  Launcelot. 
LEONARDO,  servant  to  Bassanio. 


PORTIA,  a  rich  heiress. 
NERISSA,  her  waiting-maid. 
JESSICA,  daughter  to  Shylc/ck. 


SHYLOCK,  a  rich  Jew. 
Magnificoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Court  of  Justice,  Gaoler,  Servants  to  Portia,  ard 

other  Attendants. 
SCENE  :  Partly  at  Venice,  and  partly  at  Belmont,  the  seat  of  Portia,  on  the  Continent. 

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  with  portly  sail, 

Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood, 

Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, 

Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers, 

That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 

As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 
Satan.  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 

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  at  sea  might  do. 

I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run, 

But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats, 

And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  in  sand 

450 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Vailing  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 ;  I  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. 
Salar.  Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 
Ant.  Fie,  fie  ! 

Salar.  Not  in  love  neither  ?     Then  let  us  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  bag-piper ; 

And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 

That  they  '11  not  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 

Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Lorenzo,  and  Gratiano. 
Satan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble  kinsman, 

Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well : 

We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 
Salar.  I  would  have  stay'd  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  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh  ?  say,  when  ? 

You  grow  exceeding  strange  :  must  it  be  so  ? 
Salar.  We  ;11  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 

\_Exeunt  Salarino  and  Salanio. 
Lor.  My  Lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found  Antonio, 


'Act  I,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

We  two  will  leave  you  :  but,  at  dinner-time, 

I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 
Bass.  I  will  not  fail  you. 
Gra.  You  look  not  well,  Signior  Antonio ; 

You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world  r 

They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care : 

Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 
Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gratianc  , 

A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  pan, 

And  mine  a  sad  one. 
Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool : 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come  ; 

And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine 

Than  my  heart  cool  with  mortifying  groans. 

Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within. 

Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ? 

Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 

By  being  peevish  ?     J  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  dress'd  in  an  opinion 

Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit ; 

As  who  should  say,  '  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 

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

0  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these, 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 

For  saying  nothing ;  when,  I  am  very  sure, 

If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those  ears, 

Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers  fools. 

1  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time  : 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait, 
For  this  fool  gudgeon,  this  opinion. 
Come,  good  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well  awhile : 
I  '11  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  moe, 

Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own  tongue. 
Ant.  Farewell  :  I  '11  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear. 
Gra.  Thanks,  i'  faith  ;  for  silence  is  only  commendable 

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

\Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo. 
452 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

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  the  same 

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  off  from  the  great  debts, 

Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 

Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 

I  owe  the  most,  in  money  and  in  love ; 

And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 

To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes 

How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 
A?it.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it  ; 

And  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 

Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assured, 

My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 

Lie  all  unlock'd  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, 

1  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  : 

453 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done, 
And  I  am  prest  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 
Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left ; 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues  :  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 
Her  name  is  Portia  ;  nothing  undervalued 
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'  strond. 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 

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

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

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

SCENE  II 
Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 
Par.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary  of  this 

great  world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were  in  the 
same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are  :   and  yet,  for 
aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as 
they  that  starve  with  nothing.     It  is  no  mean  happiness, 
therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean  :  superfluity  comes  sooner 
by  white  hairs  ;  but  competency  lives  longer. 
Par,  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounced. 
N'r.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 
Por.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do, 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes' 
palaces.    It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions : 

454 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done,  than 
be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  The 
brain  may  devise  laws  for  the  blood ;  but  a  hot  temper  leaps 
o'er  a  cold  decree:  such  a  hare  is  madness  the  youth,  to 
skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel  the  cripple.  But  this 
reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a  husband.  O 
me,  the  word  'choose'!  I  may  neither  choose  whom  I 
would,  nor  refuse  whom  I  dislike ;  so  is  the  will  of  a  living 
daughter  curbed  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard, 
Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none  ? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous ;  and  holy  men,  at  their 
death,  have  good  inspirations :  therefore,  the  lottery,  that  he 
hath  devised  in  these  three  chests  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead, — 
whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning  chooses  you, — will,  no 
doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one  who  shall 
rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is  there  in  your  affection 
towards  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that  are  already  come? 

Par.  I  pray  thee,  over-name  them ;  and  as  thou  namest  them, 
I  will  describe  them ;  and5  according  to  my  description,  level 
at  my  affection. 

Ner.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

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

Ner.  Then  there  is  the  County  Palatine. 

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

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

Por.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a  man. 
In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker :  but,  he  ! — why, 
he  hath  a  horse  better  than  the  Neapolitan's ;  a  better  bad 
habit  of  frowning  than  the  Count  Palatine :  he  is  every  man 
in  no  man  ;  if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls  straight  a  capering  : 
he  will  fence  with  his  own  shadow :  if  I  should  marry  him,  I 
should  marry  twenty  husbands.  If  he  would  despise  me,  I 
would  forgive  him  ;  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness,  I  shall 
never  requite  him.  [England  ? 

Ner.  What  say  you,  then,  to  Falconbridge,  the  young  baron  of 

Por,  You  know  I  say  nothing  to  him ;  for  he  understands  noi 

455 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

me,  nor  I  him  :  he  hath  neither  Latin,  French,  nor  Italian ; 
and  you  will  come  into  the  court  and  swear  that  I  have  a 
poor  pennyworth  in  the  English.  He  is  a  proper  man's 
picture ;  but,  alas,  who  can  converse  with  a  dumb-show  ? 
How  oddly  he  is  suited  !  I  think  he  bought  his  doublet  in 
Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and 
his  behaviour  every  where. 

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

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

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

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

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right  casket, 
you  should  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will,  if  you  should 
refuse  to  accept  him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee,  set  a  deep 
glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket ;  for,  if  the  devil 
be  within  and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will  choose 
it.  I  will  do  any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere  I  '11  be  married  to  a 
sponge. 

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

Por.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste  as 
Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  fathers 
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? 

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

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

Por.  I  remember  him  well;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of 
thy  praise. 

456 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  I,  Sc.  Hi 

Enter  a  Serving-man. 
How  now  !  what  news  ? 

Stn<.  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. 

For.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  a  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  com 
plexion  of  a  devil,  I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than 
wive  me. 

Come,  Nerissa.     Sirrah,  go  before. 

Whiles  we  shut  the  gates  upon  one  wooer,  another  knocks  at 
the  door.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   III 

Venice.     A  public  place. 
Enter  Bassanio  and  Shy  lock. 

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 

Bass.  Your  answer  to  that.  [bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.   Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the  contrary  ? 

Shy.  Ho,  no,  no,  no,  no  :  my  meaning,  in  saying  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  Tri- 
polis,  another  to  the  Indies ;  I  understand,  moreover,  upon 
the  Rialto,  he  hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England, 
and  other  ventures  he  hath,  squandered  abroad.  But  ships 
are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men :  there  be  land-rats  and 
water-rats,  water-thieves  and  land-thieves,  I  mean  pirates; 
and  then  there  is  the  peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks.  The 
man  is,  notwithstanding,  sufficient.  Three  thousand  ducats ; 
I  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

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

Bass.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habitation  which  your 

457  P  2 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

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  Signior  Antonio. 
Shy.  [Aside]  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  ! 

I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian ; 

But  more  for  that  in  low  simplicity 

He  lends  out  money  gratis  and  brings  down 

The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 

If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 

I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 

He  hates  our  sacred  nation  ;  and  he  rails, 

Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 

On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 

Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe, 

If  1  forgive  him  ! 

Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

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  ?     [To  Ant.]     Rest  you  fair,  good  signior  ; 

Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 
Ant,  Shylock,  although  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow, 

By  taking  nor  by  giving  of  excess, 

Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 

I  '11  break  a  custom.     Is  he  yet  possess'd 

Plow  much  ye  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.  WThen  Jacob  grazed  his  uncle  Laban's  sheep.— 

This  Jacob  from  our  holy  Abram  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? 

458 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  1,  Sc.  iii 

Shy.  No,  not  take  interest ;  not,  as  you  would  say, 

Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 

When  Laban  and  himself  were  compromised 

That  all  the  eanlings  which  were  streak'd  and  pied 

Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire,  the  ewes,  being  rank, 

In  the  end  of  Autumn  turned  to  the  rams  ; 

And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 

Between  these  woolly  breeders  in  the  act, 

The  skilful  shepherd  peeFd  me  certain  wands. 

And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 

He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes^ 

Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning  time 

Fall  parti-colour'd  lambs,  and  those  were  Jacob's. 

This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  blest : 

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  sway'd  and  fashion'd  by  the  hand  of  heaven. 

Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good  ? 

Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams  ? 
Shy.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast : 

But  note  me,  signior. 
Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 

The  devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  his  purpose. 

An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness, 

Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek ; 

A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart : 

O,  what  a  goodly  outside  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  beholding  to  you  ? 
Shy.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft 

In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 

About  my  moneys  and  my  usances : 

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  my  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  you  say 

1  Shylock,  we  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. 

459 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

What  should  I  say  to  you?     Should  I  not  say 

'  Hath  a  dog  money  ?  is  it  possible 

A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ? '  or 

Shall  I  bend  low  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 

With  bated  breath  and  whispering  humbleness, 

Say  this, — 

'  Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 

You  spurn 'd  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 

You  call'd  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 

I  '11  lend  you  thus  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  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ? 

But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 

Who  if  he  break,  thou  mayest  with  better  face 

Exact  the  penalty. 
Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 

Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stain  'd  me  with,     i 

Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 

Of  usance  for  my  moneys,  and  you  '11  not  hear  me : 

This  is  kind  I  offer. 
JBass.  This  were  kindness. 
Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show. 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary,  seal  me  there 

Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 

If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 

In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  are 

Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 

Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 

Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 

In  what  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 
Ant.  Content,  i'  faith  :  I  '11  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  '11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 
Ant.  Why,  fear  not,  man  ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it : 

Within  these  two  months,  that 's  a  month  before 

This  bond  expires,  I  do  expect  return 

Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 
Shy.  O  father  Abram,  what  these  Christians  are, 

Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 

The  thoughts  of  others  !     Pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 

460 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

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  favour,  I  extend  this  friendship : 

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

And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 
Ant.  Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 
Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  at  the  notary's; 

Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond ; 

And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ; 

See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard 

Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 

I  will  be  with  you. 
Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew.  [Exit  Shylock. 

The  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. 

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  others  attending. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 

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

To  whom  I  am  a  neighbour  and  near  bred. 

Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  born, 

Where  Phoebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles, 

And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love, 

To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,  his  or  mine. 

I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 

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

The  best-regarded  virgins  of  our  clime 

Hath  loved  it  too  :  I  would  not  change  this  hue, 

Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 
Par.  In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 

By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes ; 

Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 

Bars  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing : 

But  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me 

And  hedged  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself 

His  wife  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you, 

461 


Act  II,  Sc.  it]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair 

As  any  comer  I  have  look'd  on  yet 

For  my  affection. 
Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you  : 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets, 

To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar 

That  slew  the  Sophy  and  a  Persian  prince 

That  won  three  fields  of  Sultan  Solyman, 

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  1 

If  Hercules  and  Lichas  play  at  dice 

Which  is  the  better  man,  the  greater  throw 

May  turn  by  fortune  from  the  weaker  hand  : 

So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page ; 

And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me, 

Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attain, 

And  die  with  grieving. 
Por.  You  must  take  your  chance 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all, 

Or  swear  before  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrong, 

Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward. 

In  way  of  marriage  :  therefore  be  advised. 
Mor.  Nor  will  not.     Come,  bring  me  unto  my  chance. 
Por.  First,  forward  to  the  temple  :  after  dinner 

Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 
Mor.  Good  fortune  then  ! 

To  make  me  blest  or  cursed'st  among  men. 

[Cornets t  and  exeunt. 

SCENE   II 
Venice.     A  street. 
Enter  Launcelot. 

Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run  from  this 
Jew  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow,  and  tempts  me, 
saying  to  me,  '  Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo,  good  Launcelot/ 
or  '  good  Gobbo,'  or  *  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your  legs, 
take  the  start,  run  away.'  My  conscience  says,  *  No  ;  take 
heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo,'  or,  as 
aforesaid,  '  honest  Launcelot  Gobbo ;  do  not  run ;  scorn 
running  with  thy  heels.'  Well,  the  most  courageous 
fiend  bids  me  pack  :  '  Via  ! '  says  the  fiend  ;  '  away  ! ' 
says  the  fiend;  'for  the  heavens,  rouse  up  a  brave  mind,' 

462 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

says  the  fiend,  'and  run.'  Well,  my  conscience,  hanging 
about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very  wisely  to  me, 
4  My  honest  friend  Launcelot,  being  an  honest  man's  son,' — 
or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son  ; — for,  indeed,  my  father 
did  something  smack,  something  grow  to,  he  had  a  kind  of 
taste; — well,  my  conscience  says,  'Launcelot,  budge  not.' 
1  Budge,'  says  the  fiend.  '  Budge  not,'  says  my  conscience. 
'Conscience,'  say  I,  'you  counsel  well;'  'Fiend/ say  I,  'you 
counsel  well : '  to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should  stay 
with  the  Jew  my  master,  who,  God  bless  the  mark,  is  a  kind 
of  devil ;  and,  to  run  away  from  the  Jew,  I  should  be  ruled 
by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence,  is  the  devil  himself. 
Certainly  the  Jew  is  the  very  devil  incarnal;  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  command ;  I  will  run. 

Enter  Old  Gobbo,  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-begotten  father  ! 
who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind,  knows 
me  not :  I  will  try  confusions  with  him. 

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

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

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

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  Master  Launcelot  ?  \Aside\  Mark  me 
now;  now  will  I  raise  the  waters.  Talk  you  of  young 
Master  Launcelot  ? 

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

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  a'  will,  we  talk  of  young 
Master  Launcelot. 

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

Laun.  But  I  pray  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  Ibeseech  you,  talk 
you  of  young  Master  Launcelot  ? 

Gob.  Of  Launcelot,  an 't  please  your  mastership. 

Laun.  Ergo,  Master  Launcelot.     Talk  not  of  Master  Launcelot, 

463 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

father ;  for  the  young  gentleman,  according  to  Fates  and 
Destinies  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  Sisters  Three  and  such 
branches  of  learning,  is  indeed  deceased ;  or,  as  you  would 
say  in  plain  terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

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

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

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

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  father?  [dead  ? 

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

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

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

Laun.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but 
give  me  your  blessing :  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  that  v^as  9 
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  Margery  your  wife 
is  my  mother. 

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

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail  grows  backward  : 
I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  of  his  tail  than  I  have  of  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  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run  some 
ground.  My  master 's  a  very  Jew  :  give  him  a  present !  give 
him  a  halter :  I  am  famished  in  his  service ;  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  3  here 

464 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

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  farthest  by  five  of  the  clock.     See  these  letters 

delivered ;  put  the  liveries  to  making ;  and  desire  Gratiano 

to  come  anon  to  my  lodging.  [Exit  a  Servant. 

Laun.  To  him,  father. 
Gob.  God  bless  your  worship  ! 
Bass.  Gramercy  !  wouldst  thou  aught  with  me  ? 
Gob.  Here 's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy, — 
Laun.  Not   a   poor  boy,   sir,   but   the  rich  Jew's  man ;   that 

would,  sir, — as  my  father  shall  specify, — 
Gob.  He   hath  a   great    infection,   sir,  as  one  would  say,   to 

serve — 
Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve  the  Jew,  and 

have  a  desire, — as  my  father  shall  specify, — 
Gob.  His  master  and  he,  saving  your  worship's  reverence,  are 

scarce  cater-cotisms, — 
Laun.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is  that  the  Jew,  having  done 

me  wrong,  doth  cause  me,— as  my  father,  being,  I    hope, 

an  old  man,  shall  frutify  unto  you, — 
Gob.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves  that  I  would  bestow  upon 

your  worship,  and  my  suit  is, — 
Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to  myself,  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.  That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 
Bass.  I  know  thee  well ;  thbu  hast  obtain'd  thy  suit : 

Shylock  thy  master  spoke  with  me  this  day, 

And  hath  preferr'd  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  speak'st  it  well     Go,  father,  with  thy  son. 

Take  leave  of  thy  old  master  and  inquire 

My  lodging  out.     Give  him  a  livery 

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,  if  any  man  in   Italy  have  a 

fairer  table  which  doth  offer  to  swear  upon  a  book,  I  shall 

465 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

have  good  fortune.  Go  to,  here 's  a  simple  line  of  life  : 
here 's  a  small  trifle  of  wives  :  alas,  fifteen  wives  is  nothing  ! 
a'leven  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  Fortune  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  bestow'd, 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best-esteem'd  acquaintance  :  hie  thee,  go. 

Leon.  My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein. 
Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks.  [Exit. 

Gra.  Signior  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  Belmont. 

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.     Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit ;  lest,  through  thy  wild  behaviour, 
I  be  misconstrued  in  the  place  I  go  to, 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  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,  and  sigh,  and  say  '  amen  ; ' 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility, 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent 
To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 

Bass.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

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

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity  : 

466 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii,  iv 

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.  [Exetmt. 

O  TTT 

SCENE   III 
The  same.     A  room  in  Shy  lock's  house. 

Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 
Jes.  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  in  talk  with  thee. 
Laun.  Adieu  !  tears  exhibit  my  tongue.    Most  beautiful  pagan, 

most  sweet  Jew  !    if  a   Christian  did   not  play  the  knave, 

and   get   thee,   I   am    much    deceived.     But,  adieu :    these 

foolish  drops  do  something  drown  my  manly  spirit :  adieu. 
Jes.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot.  \Exit  Launcelot. 

Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me 

To  be  ashamed  to  be  my  fathers  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,  Lorenzo,  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. 
Salar.  We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch-bearers. 
Salan.  'Tis  vile,  unless  it  may  be  quaintly  order'd, 

And  better  in  my  mind  not  undertook. 
Lor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock  :  we  have  two  hours 
To  furnish  us, 

467 


Act  II,  Sc.  v]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Enter  Launceiot,  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what 's  the  news  ? 
Laun.   An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this,  it  shall  seem  to 
Lor.  I  know  the  hand  :  in  faith,  'tis  a  fair  hand ;  [signify. 

And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on 

Is  the  fair  hand  that  writ. 
Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 
Lor.  Whither  goest  thou  ? 
Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master  the  Jew  to  sup  to-night 

with  my  new  master  the  Christian. 
Lor.  Hold  here,  take  this :  tell  gentle  Jessica 

I  will  not  fail  her ;  speak  it  privately. 

Go,  gentlemen,  {Exit  Launcelot. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night  ? 

I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 
Salar.  Ay,  marry,  I  '11  begone  about  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  furnish'd  with ; 

What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 

If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  heaven, 

It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake : 

And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot, 

Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, 

That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 

Come,  go  with  me ;  peruse  this  as  thou  goest : 

Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer.  [Exeunt. 

.  SCENE  V 
The  same.     Before  Shyloctts  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  gormandise, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me : — What,  Jessica  ! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out  ;— 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 
Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

468 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  v 

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

Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me  that    I    could  do 

nothing  without  bidding. 

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  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 

The  prodigal  Christian.     Jessica,  my  girl, 

Look  to  my  house.     I  am  right  loath  to  go : 

There  is  some  ill  a-brewing  towards  my  rest, 

For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go :   my  young  master  doth  expect 
Shy.  So  do  I  his.  [your  reproach. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together,  I  will  not  say  you 

shall  see  a  masque ;    but  if   you  do,  then  it  was  not  for 

nothing  that  my  nose  fell  a-bleeding  on  Black-Monday  last 

at  six  o'clock  i'  the  morning,  falling  out  that  year  on  Ash- 
Wednesday  was  four  year,  in  the  afternoon. 
Shy.  What,  are  there  masques  ?     Hear  you  me,  Jessica: 

Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 

And  the  vile  squealing  of  the  wry-neck'd  fife, 

Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 

Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street 

To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  faces ; 

But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements. 

Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 

My  sober  house.     By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear 

I  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night : 

But  I  will  go.     Go  you  before  me,  sirrah ; 

Say  I  will  come. 
Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir.     Mistress,  look  out  at  window,  for 

all  this  ; 

There  will  come  a  Christian  by, 
Will  be  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.  [Exit. 

Shy.  What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring,  ha  ? 
Jes.  His  words  were,  *  Farewell,  mistress ; '  nothing  else, 
Shy.  The  patch  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  borrow'd  purse.     Well,  Jessica,  go  in  : 

Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 

469 


Act  II,  Sc.  vi]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

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  crost, 

I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VI 
The  same. 

Enter  Gratiano  and  Salarino^  masqued. 
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  out-dwells  his  hour, 

For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 
Salar.  O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly 

To  seal  love's  bonds  new-made,  than  they  are  wont 

To  keep  obliged  faith  unforfeited  ! 
Gra.  That  ever  holds  :  who  riseth  from  a  feast 

With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? 

Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 

His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 

That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?     All  things  that  are, 

Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 

How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 

Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 

How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return, 

With  over-weather'd  ribs  and  ragged  sails, 

Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
Salar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo  :  more  of  this  hereafter. 

Enter  Lorenzo. 
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  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then.     Approach  ; 

Here  dwells  my  father  Jew.     Ho  !  who's  within? 

Enter  Jessica^  above^  in  boy's  clothes. 
Jes.  Who  are  you  ?     Tell  me,  for  more  certainty, 

Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 
Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 
Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain  ;  and  my  love,  indeed, 

For  who  love  I  so  much  ?     And  now  who  knows 

But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 
Lor.  Heaven  and  thy  thoughts  are  witness  that  thou  art. 
Jes.   Here,  catch  this  casket ;  it  is  worth  the  pains. 

470 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  vii 

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 ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway, 

And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 
Jes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 

With  some  mo  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight.  [Exit  af>ore. 
Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile,  and  no  Jew. 
Lor.  Beshrew  me  but  I  love  her  heartily ; 

For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her  ; 

And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 

And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  proved  herself; 

And  therefore,  like  herself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 

Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 
Enter  Jessica,  below. 

What,  art  thou  come  ?     On,  gentlemen ;  away  ! 
.     Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit  with  Jessica  and  Salarino. 
Enter  Antonio. 
Ant.  Who  's  there  ? 
Gra.  Signior  Antonio ! 
Ant.  Fie,  fie,  Gratiano ;  where  are  all  the  rest  ? 

Tis  nine  o'clock  :  our  friends  all  stay  for  you. 

No  masque  to-night :  the  wind  is  come  about ; 

Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard : 

I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 
Gra.  I  am  glad  on  Jt :  I  desire  no  more  delight 

Than  to  be  under  sail  and  gone  to-night.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   VII 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 
Flourish  of  cornets.     Enter  Portia,  with  the  Prince  vj 

Morocco,  and  their  trains.. 
For.  Go  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 


Act  II,  Sc.  vii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

The  several  caskets  to  this  noble  prince. 

Now  make  your  choice. 
Mor.  The  first,  of  gold,  who  this  inscription  bears, 

'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire ; ' 

The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries, 

'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  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  judgement !     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  '11  then  nor  give  nor  hazard  aught  for  lead. 

What  says  the  silver  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 

'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves/ 

As  much  as  he  deserves  !     Pause  there,  Morocco, 

And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand  : 

If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 

Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 

May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady : 

And  yet  to  be  afeared  of  my  deserving 

Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 

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

I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 

In  graces  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 

But  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 

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

Let 's  see  once  more  this  saying  graved  in  gold  ; 

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

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

From  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  they  come, 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal-breathing  saint : 

The  Hyrcanian  deserts  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wide  Arabia  are  as  throughfares  now 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia : 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come, 

472 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  viii 

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  were  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  insculp'd  upon ; 
But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 
Lies  all  within.     Deliver  me  the  key : 
Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  1  as  I  may ! 
Por.  There,  take  it,  prince ;  and  if  my  form  lie  there, 

Then  I  am  yours.  \He  unlocks  the  golden  casket. 

Mor.  O  hell !  what  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  Death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll !     I  '11  read  the  writing. 
[Reads]  All  that  glisters  is  not  gold ; 

Often  have  you  heard  that  told : 

Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold 

But  my  outside  to  behold  : 

Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 

Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 

Young  in  limbs,  in  judgement  old, 

Your  answer  had  not  been  inscroird  : 

Fare  you  well ;  your  suit  is  cold. 
Cold,  indeed  ;  and  labour  lost : 
Then,  farewell,  heat,  and  welcome^  frost ! 
Portia,  adieu.     I  have  too  grieved  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave  :  thus  losers  part. 

[Exit  with  his  train.     Flourish  of  cornets. 
Por.  A  gentle  riddance.     Draw  the  curtains,  go. 

Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   VIII 
Venice.     A  street. 
Enter  Salarino  and  Salanio. 
Salar.  Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail : 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship  I  am  sure  Lorenzo  is  not. 
Salan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  raised  the  Duke,. 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

473 


Act  II,  Sc.  viii]  Tiie  Merchant  of  V 

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. 

Satan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets : 
'  My  daughter  !     O  my  ducats  !     O  my  daughter  ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  !     O  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  remember'd. 

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

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

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part : 
Bassanio  told  him  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return  :  he  answer'd,  *  Do  not  so  ; 
Slubber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time  ; 
And  for  the  Jew's  bond  which  he  hath  of  me, 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love  : 
Be  merry  ;  and  employ  your  chiefest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there : ' 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 
And  with  affection  wondrous  sensible 
He  wrung  Bassanio' s  hand ;  and  so  they  parted. 

474 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  II,  Sc.  ix 

Salan.  I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 

I  pray  thee,  let  us  go  and  find  him  out, 

And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness 

With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.  [Exeunt. 

, 

SCENE  IX 
Belmont.     A  room  in  Portia's  house. 

-^  •     ,r        •  T      •      «         '   . 

Enter  Nenssa  and  a  Servitor. 

Ner.  Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee  :  draw  the  curtain  straight : 

The  Prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath, 

And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 
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  contain'd, 

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  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three  things : 

First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 

Which  casket  'twas  I  chose ;  next,  if  I  fail 

Of  the  right  casket,  never*  in  my  life 

To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage : 

Lastly, 

If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  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  address'd  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 : 

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

What  many  men  desire  !  that  '  many '  may  be  meant 

By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 

Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach  ; 

Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet, 

Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 

Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 

"I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire, 

Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits, 

And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 

475 


Act  II,  Sc.  ix]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house  ; 

Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 

'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves : 

And  well  said  too  ;  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable 

Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 

To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 

O,  that  estates,  degrees  and  offices 

Were  not  derived  corruptly,  and  that  clear  honour 

Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer  ! 

How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare  ! 

How  many  be  commanded  that  command  ! 

How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean'd 

From  the  true  seed  of  honour !  and  how  much  honour 

Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 

To  be  new-varnish'd  !     Well,  but  to  my  choice : 

'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves.' 

I  will  assume  desert.     Give  me  a  key  for  this, 

And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

\He  opens  the  silver  casket. 

For.  [Aside]  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find  there. 
Ar,  What 's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  !     I  will  read  it. 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  P6rtia  ! 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes  and  my  deservings  ! 
1  Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he  deserves.' 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better? 
Por.  To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices, 

And  of  opposed  natures. 
Ar.  What  is  here  ? 

\Reads\  The  fire  seven  times  tried  this  : 

Seven  times  tried  that  judgement  is, 

That  did  never  choose  amiss. 

Some  there  be  that  shadows  kiss  ; 

Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss  : 

There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis, 

Silver'd  o'er  ;  and  so  was  this. 

Take  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
.     1  will  ever  be  your  head  : 

So  be  gone  :  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. 
476 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

Sweet,  adieu.     I  '11  keep  my  oath, 
Patiently  to  bear  my  wroth. 

\Exeunt  Arragon  and  train. 
For.  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  > 

Sen;.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 

A  young  Venetian,  one  that  comes  before 

To  signify  the  approaching  of  his  lord  ; 

From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets, 

To  wit,  besides  commends  and  courteous  breath, 

Gifts  of  rich  value.     Yet  I  have  not  seen 

So  likely  an  ambassador  of  love  : 

A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet, 

To  show  how  costly  summer  was  at  hand, 

As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 
Por.  No  more,  I  pray  thee :  I  am  half  afeard 

Thou  wilt  say  anon  he  is  some  kin  to  thee, 

Thou  spend'st  such  high-day  wit  in  praising  him. 

Come,  come,  Nerissa  ;  for  I  long  to  see 

Quick  Cupid's  post  that  comes  so  mannerly. 
Ner.  Bassanio,  lord  Love,  if  thy  will  it  be  !  \Exeunt. 


ACT   III— SCENE  I 

Venice.     A  street. 
Enter  Salanio  and  Salarino. 
Salan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto  ? 

Salar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  unchecked,  that  Antonio  hath  a 
ship  of  rich  lading  wrecked  on  the  narrow  seas ;  the  Goodwins, 
I  think  they  call  the  place ;  a  very  dangerous  flat  and  fatal, 
where  the  carcases  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie  buried,  as  they 
say,  if  my  gossip  Report  be  an  honest  woman  of  her  word. 
Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in  that  as  ever 
knapped  ginger,  or  made  her  neighbours  believe  she  wept 
for  the  death  of  a  third  husband.  But  it  is  true,  without 
any  slips  of  prolixity,  or  crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, 
that  the  good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, — O  that  1  had  a 
title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name  company  ! — 

477 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha  !  what  sayest  thou  ?     Why,  the  end  is,  he  hath  lost 

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

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

Enter  Shy  lock. 
How  now,  Shylock  !  what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

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 

Shy.  She  is  damned  for  it.  [the  dam. 

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

Shy.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

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

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

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

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match  :  a  bankrupt,  a  prodigal, 
who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Rialto ;  a  beggar,  that 
was  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 
half  a  million  ;  laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains, 
scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends, 
heated  mine  enemies  ;  and  what 's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew. 
Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs, 
dimensions,  senses,  affections,  passions?  fed  with  the  same 
food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by 
the  same  winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is?  If  you 
prick  us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not  laugh  ? 
if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrong  us,  shall 
we  not  revenge  ?  if  we  are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will 
resemble  you  in  that.  If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is 
his  humility  ?  Revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Tew,  what 

478 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

should    his    sufferance    be   by   Christian   example?     Why, 
revenge.     The  villany  you  teach  me,  I  will  execute ;  and  it 
shall  go  hard  but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  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  cannot  find  her. 

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

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too :  Antonio,  as  I  heard  in 
,  Shy.  What,  what,  what?  ill  luck,  ill  luck?  [Genoa,— 

Tub.  Hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from  Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God,  I  thank  God  !     Is  't  true,  is 't  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  ?  [fourscore  ducats. 

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

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me :  I  shall  never  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  '11  plague  him ;  1 11  torture  him  : 
I  am  glad  of  it. 

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

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

479 


Act  ill,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

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. 

SCENE   II 

Belmont.     A  room  in  Portions  house. 
Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa,  and  Attendants. 

Por.  I  pray  you,  tarry :  pause  a  day  or  two 
Before  you  hazard  ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  :  therefore  forbear  awhile. 
There 's  something  tells  me,  but  it  is  not  love, 
I  would  not  lose  you  ;  and  you  know  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality. 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well, — 
And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought, — 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  I  am  then  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me ; 
But  if  you  do,  you  '11  make  me  wish  a  sin, 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'er-look'd  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  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. 

Por.  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  : 
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. 

480 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Bass.  Promise  me  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  truth. 
For.  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. 

For.  Away,  then  !     I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  : 
If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. 
Nerissa  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. 
Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice  ; 
Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music  :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream, 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     He  may  win  ; 
And  what  is  music  then  ?     Then  music  is 
Even  as  the  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,  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,  came  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  makest  the  fray. 

MusiC)  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  caskets  to  himself. 

SONG. 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 

Reply,  reply. 

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

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 

I  Jll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 

All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bass.  So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least  themselves : 

481  Q 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii] 


The  Merchant  of  Venice 


The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil?     In  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text, 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts : 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk ; 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement 
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 
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. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  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  threatenest  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence ; 
And  here  choose  I :  joy  be  the  consequence !. 
for.  [Aside]  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 ! 

£ass.  What  find  I  here  ? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit !     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  ? 

482 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  sever'd  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  :  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs :  but  her  eyes, — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them?  having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd.     Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance.     Here 's  the  scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 
[Reads]  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  ; 
I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive. 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize, 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes, 
Hearing  applause  and  universal  shout, 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no ; 
So,  thrice-fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so  ; 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 
For.  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  myself ; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 
More  rich ; 

That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friendSj 
Exceed  account ;  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  something,  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractised ; 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 

483 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

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, 

Express'd  and  not  express'd.     But  when  this  ring 

Parts  from  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  hence  : 

O,  then  be  bold  to  say  Bassanio  's  dead  i 
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, 

I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish ; 

For  I  am  sure  you  can  wish  none  from  me  : 

And  when  your  honours  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. 

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  casket  there, 

And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls  ; 
.    For  wooing  here  until  I  sweat  again, 

And  swearing  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 

With  oaths  of  love,  at  last,  if  promise  last, 

484 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here 

To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 

Achieved  her  mistress. 

Por.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleased  withal. 
Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith  ? 
Gra.  Yes,  faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  honoured  in  your  marriage. 
Gra.  We  '11  play  with  them  the  first  boy  for  a  thousand  ducats. 
Ner.  What,  and  stake  down  ? 
Gra.  No  ;  we  shall  ne'er  win  at  that  sport,  and  stake  down. 

But  who  comes  here  ?     Lorenzo  and  his  infidel  ? 

What,  and  my  old  Venetian  friend  Salerio  ? 

Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Salerio,  a  Messenger  from 

Venice. 
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  honour.     For  my  part,  my  lord, 

My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  you  here ; 

But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way, 

He  did  entreat  me,  past  all  saying  nay, 

To  come  with  him  along. 
•Saler.  I  did,  my  lord  ; 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 

Commends  him  to  you.  [Gives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 
Saler.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind ; 

Nor  well,  unless  in  mind  :  his  letter  there 

Will  show  you  his  estate. 
Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger  ;  bid  her  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. 
Saler.  I  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he  hath  lost. 
Por.  There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon  same  paper, 

That  steals  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek : 

Some  dear  friend  dead  ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 

Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 

485 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  1 

With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself, 

And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  anything 

That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 
Bass.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  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, 

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  fail'd  ?     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  ? 
Saler.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 

The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 

He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 

A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 

So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man  : 

He  plies  the  Duke  at  morning  and  at  night ; 

And  doth  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  state, 

If  they  deny  him  justice :  twenty  merchants, 

The  Duke  himself,  and  the  magnificoes 

Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him  ; 

But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 

Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 
Jes.  When  I  was  with  him  I  have  heard  him  swear 

To  Tubal  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen, 

That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh 

Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 

That  he  did  owe  him  :  and  1  know,  my  lord, 

If  law,  authority  and  power  deny  not, 

486 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio. 
For.  Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in  trouble  ? 
Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 

The  best-condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 

In  doing  courtesies  ;  and  one  in  whom 

The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears 

That  any  that  draws 'breath  in  Italy. 
Por.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 
Bass.  For  me  three  thousand  ducats. 
Por.  What,  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 

Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 

Before  a  friend  of  this  description 

Shall  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
.    First  go  with  me  to  church  and  call  me  wife, 

And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 

For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 

With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 

To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over : 

When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along. 

My  maid  Nerissa  and  myself  meantime 

Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  away  ! 

For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day : 

Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer  : 

Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  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  1 

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,  dispatch  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, 

No  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain.  [Exeunt 

SCENE   III 
Venice.     A  street. 

Enter  Shy  lock,  Salarino,  Antonio,  and  Gaoler. 
Shy.  Gaoler,  look  to  him  :  tell  not  me  of  mercy ; 
This  is  the  fool  that  lent  out  money  gratis  : 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

487 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond ;  speak  not  against  my  bond  : 

I  have  sworn  an  oath  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 

Thou  call'dst  me  dog  before  thou  hadst  a  cause ; 

But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs : 

The  Duke  shall  grant  me  justice.     I  do  wonder, 

Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond 

To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request 
Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 
Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  : 

I  '11  have  my  bond  ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 

I  '11  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eyed  fool, 

To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 

To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 

I  '11  have  no  speaking  :  I  will  have  my  bond.  [Exit. 

Salar.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur 

That  ever  kept  with  men. 
Ant.  Let  him  alone : 

I  '11  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 

He  seeks  my  life ;  this  reason  well  I  know  : 

I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 

Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 

Therefore  he  hates  me. 
Salar.  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 

With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied, 

Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  his  state  ; 

Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 

Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go  : 

These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  bated  me, 

That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 

To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. 

Well,  gaoler,  on.     Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 

To  see  me  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not !  \Extunt. 

SCENE   IV 

Belmont.     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  god-like  amity  ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour, 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

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,  of  manners  and  of  spirit  ; 

Which  makes  me  think  that  this  Antonio, 

Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord, 

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

How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow 'd 

In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  my  soul 

From  out  the  state  of  hellish  misery  ! 

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  will  we  abide.     I  do  desire  you 

Not  to  deny  this  imposition  ; 

The  which  my  love  and  some  necessity 

Now  lays  upon  you. 
Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart ; 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 
Por.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 

And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 

In  place  of  Lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 

And  so  farewell,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 
Lor.  Fair  thoughts  and  happy  hours  attend  on  you  ! 
Jes.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 
Por.  I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well  pleased 

To  wish  it  back  on  you :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. 

[Exeunt  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 

Now,  Balthasar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest-true, 

So  let  me  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 

And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man 

489  Q  2 


Act  III,  Sc.  v]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

In  speed  to  Padua :  see  thou  render  this 

Into  my  cousin's  hand,  Doctor  Bellario ; 

And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give  thee, 

Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagined  speed 

Unto  the  tranect,  to  the  common  ferry 

Which  trades  to  Venice.     Waste  no  time  in  words, 

But  get  thee  gone  :  I  shall  be  there  before  thee, 

JBalth.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed.  [Exit. 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa ;  I  have  work  in  hand 

That  you  yet  know  not  of;  we  '11  see  our  husbands 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ner.  Shall  they  see  us  ? 

Por.  They  shall,  Nerissa  ;  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  that  we  lack.     1 11  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  a  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  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 
Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died ; 
I  could  not  do  withal :  then  I  '11  repent, 
And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them ; 
And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  '11  tell, 
That  men  shall  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 
Above  a  twelvemonth.     I  have  within  my  mind 
A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 
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  '11  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 

When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 

At  the  park-gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 

For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  V 

The  same.     A  garden. 
Enter  Launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly  ;  for,  look  you,  the  sins  of  the  father  are  to 
be  laid  upon  the  children :  therefore,  I  promise  ye,  I  fear 
.you.  I  was  always  plain  with  you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my 

49° 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  III,  Sc.  v 

agitation  of  the  matter:  therefore  be  of  good  cheer;   for, 

truly,  I  tkink  you  are  damned.     There  is  but  one  hope  in 

it   that  can  do   you  any  good:  and  that  is  but  a  kind  of 

bastard  hope  neither. 
Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee? 
Laun.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your  father  got  you 

not,  that  you  are  not  the  Jew's  daughter. 
Jes.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed :  so  the  sins  of 

my  mother  should  be  visited  upon  me. 
Laun.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damned  both  by  father  and 

mother :   thus  when  I  shun  Scylla,  your  father,  I  fall  into 

Charybdis,  your  mother :  well,  you  are  gone  both  ways. 
Jes.  I  shall  be  saved  by  my  husband ;  he  hath  made  me  a 

Christian. 
Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he:  we  were  Christians  enow 

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-eaters,  we  shall  not  shortly  have  a  rasher 

on  the  coals  for  money. 

Enter  Lorenzo. 
Jes.  I  '11  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  :  Launcelot  and  I  are 

out.     He  tells  me  flatly,  there  is  no  mercy  for  me  in  heaven, 

because  I  am  a  Jew's  daughter:  and  he  says,  you  are  no 

good    member   of  the*  commonwealth;  for,    in   converting 

Jews  to  Christians,  you  raise  the  price  of  pork. 
Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  commonwealth  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  silence ;  and  discourse 

grow  commendable  in  none  only  but  parrots.     Go  in,  sirrah  ; 

bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 
Laun.  That  is  done,  sir ;  they  have  all  stomachs. 
Lor.  Goodly  Lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  you !  then  bid  them 

prepare  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done  too,  sir  ;  only  '  cover  '  is  the  word. 
Lor.  Will  you  cover,  then,  sir? 
Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither ;  I  know  my  duty. 

491 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion  !  Wilt  thou  show  the 
whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an  instant  ?  I  pray  thee,  under 
stand  a  plain  man  in  his  plain  meaning  :  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  humours  and  conceits  shall  govern.  [Exit. 

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

Jes.  Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet 
The  Lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth  ; 
And  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  then 
In  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other  ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

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

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  '11  set  you  forth.  [Exeunt. 

ACT   IV— SCENE  I 

Venice.     A  court  of  justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  the  Magnificoes,  Antonio,  Bassanio^ 

Gratiano,  Salerio,  and  others. 
Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 
Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  Grace. 
Dukj,.  1  am  sorry  for  thee  :  thou  art  come  to  answer 

492 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 

Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 

From  any  dram  of  mercy. 
Ant  I  have  heard 

Your  Grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 

His  rigorous  course ;  but  since  he  stands  obdurate, 

And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 

Out  of  his  envy's  reach,  I  do  oppose 

My  patience  to  his  fury ;  and  am  arm'd 

To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 

The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 
Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 
Saler.  He  is  ready  at  the  door :  he  comes,  my  lord. 

Enter  Shylock. 
Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our  face. 

Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too, 

That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 

To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then  'tis  thought  • 

Thou  'It  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse  more  strange 

Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty  ; 

And  where  thou  now  exact 'st  the  penalty, 

Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flesh, 

Thou  wilt  not  only  loose  the  forfeiture, 

But,  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  love, 

Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 

Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 

That  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 

Enow  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down, 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 

To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 

We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 
Shy,  I  have  possess'd  your  Grace  of  what  I  purpose  ; 

And  by  our  holy  Sabbath  have  1  sworn 

To  have  the  due  and  forfeit  of  my  bond  : 

If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 

Upon  your  charter  and  your  city's  freedom. 

You  '11  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 

A  weight  of  carrion-flesh  than  to  receive 

Three  thousand  ducats  :  I  '11  not  answer  that : 

But,  say,  it  is  my  humour :  is  it  answer'd  ? 

What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat, 

And  I  be  pleased  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 

To  have  it  baned  ?     What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  ? 

493 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

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, 

Mistress  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 

Of  what  it  likes  or  loathes.     Now,  for  your  answer, 

As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd, 

Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 

Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat ; 

Why  he,  a  woollen  bag-pipe ;  but  of  force 

Must  yield  to  such  inevitable  shame 

As  to  offend,  himself  being  offended ; 

So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not, 

More  than  a  lodged  hate  and  a  certain  loathing 

I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 

A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  answer'd  ? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man,   :  id  i/o; 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  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  question  with  the  Jew. 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
When  they  are  tretten  with  the  gusts  of  heaven  ; 
You  may  as  well  do  any  thing  most  hard, 
As  seek  to  soften  that — than  which  what's  harder?  — 
His  Jewish  heart :  therefore,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  farther  means, 
But  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency 
Let  me  have  judgement  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six. 

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

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

Shy.  What  judgement  shall  I  dread,  doing  no  wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchased  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses  and  your  dogs  and  mules, 

494 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

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  burthens?  let  their  beds        -at/In 

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. 

I  stand  for  judgement :  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. 
Saler.  My  lord,  here  stays  withouti*  am  rtf. 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor,  jyv] 

New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters  ;  call  the  messenger. 
Bass.  Good  cheer,  Antonio  !     What,  man,  courage  yet ! 
.The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all,     Jnv/ 

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  employ'd,  Bassanio, 

Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  Nertssa,  dressed  like  a, lawyer's  clerk. 
Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 
Ner.  From  both,  my  lord.     Bellario  greets  your  Grace. 

[Presenting  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  makest  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  damn'd,  inexecrable  dog  ! 

And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accused. 

Thou  almost  makest  me  waver  in  my  faith, 

To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 

That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 

Into  the  trunks  of  men  :  thy  currish  spirit 
495 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Govern'd  a  wolf,  who  hang'd  for  human  slaughter, 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet, 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infused  itself  in  thee  ;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolvish,  bloody,  starved  and  ravenous. 

Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my  bond, 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud  : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  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  by, 

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

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

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

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

Enter  Portia  for  Balthasar. 
Give  me  your  hand.     Come  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 

Per.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome  :  take  your  place. 

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

Por.  I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 

Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew  ? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Por.  Is  your  name  Sh\  lock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow  j 

496 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 

Cannot  impugn  you  as  you  do  proceed. 

You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not? 
Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

Por.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful  : 

Shy,  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me  that 
Por.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd, 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blest  ; 

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  discharge  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  appear 

That  malice  bears  down  truth.     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,    * 

497 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
Will  rush  into  the  state  :  it  cannot  be. 
Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgement !  yea,  a  Daniel  I 

0  wise  young  judge,  how  I  do  honour  thee  ! 
Por.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 
Shy.  Here  'tis,  most  reverend  doctor,  here  it  is. 
Por.  Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money  offer'd  thee. 
Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in  heaven : 

Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 

No,  not  for  Venice. 
Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 

A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 

Nearest  the  merchant's  heart.     Be  merciful : 

Take  thrice  thy  money ;  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 
Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour*  <  ?iud 

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  judgement :  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  judgement. 
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  I 
Por.  Therefore  lay  bare  your  bosom. 
Shy.  Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond  : — doth  it  not,  noble  judge?— 

1  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. 
Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 
Por.  It  is  not  so  expressed  :  but  what  of  that  ? 

'Twere  good  you  do  $o  much  for  chanty. 

498 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Shy.  I  cannot  find  it ;  'tis  not  in  the  bond. 
For.  You,  merchant,  have  you  any  thing  to  say  ? 
Ant.  But  little :  I  am  arm'd  and  well  prepared. 

Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio  :  fare  you  veil ! 

Grieve  not  that  1  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 

For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 

Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  heir  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  honourable  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  but  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, 

1  '11  pay  it  presently  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  esteem'd  above  thy  life : 

I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 

Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 
Por.   Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks  for  that, 
•    If  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 
Gra.    \  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love : 

I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 

Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 
Ner.  'Tis  well  you  offer  it  behind  her  back  ; 

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 

Had  been  her  husband  rather  than  a  Christian  1  [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; 
499 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Veni. 

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  ? 
For.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assured 

Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 
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. 

For.  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 ! 
For.  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  cut'st  more 

Or  less  than  a  just  pound,  be  it  but  so  much 

As  makes  it  light  or  heavy  in  the  substance, 

Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 

Of  one  poor  scruple,  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 

But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, 

Thou  diest  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 
Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jew ! 

Now,  infidel,  I  have  you  on  the  hip. 
For.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  forfeiture. 
Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 
Bass.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 
For.  He  hath  refused  it  in  the  open  court : 

He  shall  have  merely  justice  and  his  bond. 
Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I,  a  second  Daniel ! 

I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 
Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 
For.  Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture, 

To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 
Shy.  Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it ! 

I  '11  stay  no  longer  question. 
For.  Tarry,  Jew: 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  you. 

It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, 

500 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

If  it  be  proved  against  an  alien 
That  by  direct  or  indirect  attempts 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen, 
The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  Duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand's! : 
For  it  appears,  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contrived  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehearsed. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  Duke. 
Gra.  Beg  that  thou  mayst  have  leave  to  hang  thyself ; 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state, 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord ; 
Therefore  thou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  state's  charge. 
Duke,  That  thou  shall  see  the  difference  of  our  spirits, 

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. 
For.  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. 
For.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio? 
Gra.  A  halter  gratis ;  nothing  else,  for  God's  sake. 
Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  Duke  and  all  the  court 

To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  goods, 

I  am  content ;  so  he  will  let  me  have 

The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 

Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 

That  lately  stole  his  daughter  : 

Two  things  provided  more,  that,  for  this  favour. 

He  presently  become  a  Christian  ; 

The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 

Here  in  the  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd, 

Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 
Duke.  He  shall  do  this,  or  else  I  do  recant 

The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 
For.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew?  what  dost  thou  say? 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Shy.  I  am  content. 

For.  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  shalt  thou  have  two  godfathers : 

Had  I  been  judge,  thou.shouldst  have  had  ten  more, 

To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font.       [Exit  Shy  lock. 
Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 
Par.  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  and  his  i 
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  my  leave. 
Bass.  Dear  sir,  of  force  I  must  attempt  you  further  : 

Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tribute, 

Not  as  a  fee  :  grant  me  two  things,  I  pray  you, 

Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 
Por.  You  press  me  far,  and  therefore  I  will  yield. 

Give  me  your  gloves,  I  ;11  wear  them  for  your  sake ;     \To  Ant. 

And,  for  your  love,  I  '11  take  this  ring  from  you  :     [To  Bass. 

Do  not  draw  back  your  hand  ;  I  '11  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. 
Por.  I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this ; 

And  now  methinks  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 
Bass.  There  's  more  depends  on  this  than  on  the  value. 

The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 

502 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

And  find  it  out  by  proclamation : 

Only  for  this,  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 
Por.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers  : 

You  taught  me  first  to  beg ;  and  now  methinks 

You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answer'd. 
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  the  ring, 

She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever, 

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

{Exeunt  Portia  and  Nerissa. 
Ant.   My  Lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring  : 

Let  his  deservings  and  my  love  withal 

Be  valued  'gainst  your  wife's  commandment 
Bass.  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  '11  away  to-night 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home : 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  Gratiano. 
Gra.  Fair  sir,  you  are  well  o'erta'en  : 

My  Lord  Bassanio  upon  more  advice 

Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring,  and  doth  entreat 

Your  company  at  dinner. 
Por.  That  cannot  be : 

His  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully : 

And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him:  furthermore, 

I  pray  you,  show  my  youth  old  S'hylock's  house. 
Gra.  That  will  I  do. 
Ner.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you. 

I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring,          [Aside  to  Portia. 

Which  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

5°3 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

For.  [Aside  to  JVer.]  Thou  mayst,  I  warrant.    We  shall  have  old 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ;  [swearing 

But  we  '11  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  too. 
[Aloud]  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  I 
Belmont.     Avenue  to  Portids  house. 

Enter  Lorenzo  a?id  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  Troyan  walls, 

Arid  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 

Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 
Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 

And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 

And  ran  dismay'd  away. 
Lor,  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 

Upon  the  wild  sea  banks,  and  waft  her  love 

To  come  again  to  Carthage. 
Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gather' d  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  no  body  come ; 

But,  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

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

Lor.  A  friend !  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray  you,  friend  ? 
Steph.  Stephano  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word 

5°4 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

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. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Steph.  None  but  a  holy  hermit  and  her  maid. 

I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  return'd  ? 
Lor.  He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  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. 

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

Laun.  Sola !  did  you-  see  Master  Lorenzo  ?  Master  Lorenzo, 
Lor.  Leave  hollaing,  man  :  here.  [sola,  sola  ! 

Laun.  Sola  !  where  ?  where  ? 
Lor.  Here. 
Laun.  Tell  him  there 's  a  post  come  from  my  master,  with  his 

horn  full  of  good  news  :  my  master  will  be  here  ere  morning. 

[Exit. 
Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let 's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 

And  yet  no  matter :  why  should  we  go  in  ? 

My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you, 

Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand ; 

And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air.         [Exit  Stephano. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  I 

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 ; 

But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 

Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 
Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho,  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ! 

With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress*  ear, 

And  draw  her  home  with  music.  [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, 

5°5 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhand  led  colts, 

Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 

Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 

If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 

Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 

You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 

Their  savage  eyes  turn'd  to  a  modest  gaze 

By  the  sweet  power  of  music :  therefore  the  poet 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones  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. 
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 : 

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  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 
Por.  Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect : 

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,  ho  !   the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 

And  would  not  be  awaked.  {Music  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or  I  am  much  deceived,  of  Portia. 
Por.  He  knows  me  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 

By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

506 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

For.  We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands'  healths, 

Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 

Are  they  return' d  ? 
Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before, 

To  signify  their  coming. 
For.  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  tucket  sounds. 

Lor.  Your  husband  is  at  hand  ;  I, hear  his  trumpet : 

We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam ;  fear  you  not. 
Por.  This  night  methinks  is  but  the  daylight  sick ; 

It  looks  a  little  paler :  'tis  a  day, 

Such  as  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio^  Antonio,  Gratiano,  and  their  followers. 
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. 
Gra.  [To  Nerissa]  By  yonder  moon  I  swear  you  do  me  wrong  ; 

In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk  : 

Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part, 

Since  you  do  take  it,  love,  so  much  at  heart. 
Por.  A  quarrel,  ho,  already  \  what 's  the  matter  ? 
Gra.  About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 

That  she  did  give  me,  whose  posy  was 

For  all  the  world  like  cutler's  poetry 

Upon  a  knife,  '  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not.' 
Ner.  What  talk  you  of  the  posy  or  the  value  ? 

You  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you, 

That  you  would  wear  it  till  your  hour  of  death, 

And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave : 

Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths, 

5°7 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

You  should  have  been  respective,  and  have  kept  it. 

Gave  it  a  judge's  clerk  !  no,  God  's  my  judge, 

The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on 's  face  that  had  it. 
Gra.  He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  man. 
JVer.  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  begg'd  it  as  a  fee  : 

I  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 
Par.  You  were  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain  with  you, 

To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  first  gift ; 

A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  finger 

And  so  riveted  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  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief : 

An  'twere  to  me,  I  should  be  mad,  at  it. 
Bass.  \Aside\  Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off, 

And  swear  Ilost  the  ring  defending  it. 
Gra.  My  Lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 

Unto  the  judge  that  begg'd  it,  and  indeed 

Deserved  it  too  ;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 

That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begg'd  mine : 

And  neither  man  nor  master  would  take  aught 

But  the  two  rings. 
For.  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. 
Por.  Even  so  void  is  your  false  heart  of  truth. 

By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  your  bed 

Until  I  see  the  ring. 
JVer.  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, 

508 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

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  honour  to  contain  the  ring, 

You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 

What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable, 

If  you  had  pleased  to  have  defended  it 

With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 

To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony  ? 

Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe : 

I  '11  die  for  't  but  some  woman  had  the  ring. 
Bass.  No,  by  my  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul, 

No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor, 

Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me, 

And  begg'd  the  ring ;  the  which  I  did  deny  him, 

And  suffer'd  him  to  go  displeased  away  ; 

Even  he  that  did  uphold  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  honour  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  begg'd 

The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 
Por.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my  house  : 

Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  loved. 

And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 

I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you ; 

I  '11  not  deny  him  any  thing  I  have, 

No,  not  my  body  nor  my  husband's  bed : 

Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it : 

Lie  not  a  night  from  home ;  watch  me  like  Argus : 

If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone, 

Now,  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  mine  own, 

I  '11  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 
Ner.  And  I  his  clerk  ;  therefore  be  well  advised 

How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 
Gra.  Well,  do  you  so  :  let  not  me  take  him,  then  ; 

For  if  I  do,  I  '11  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 
Ant.  I  am  the  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrels. 
Por.  Sir,  grieve  not  you  ;  you  are  welcome  notwithstanding. 
Bass.  Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong ; 

And,  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 

I  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes, 

5°9 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Wherein  I  see  myself, — 
Par.  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  ring, 

Had  quite  miscarried  :  I  dare  be  bound  again, 

My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 

Will  never  more  break  faith  advisedly. 
Par.  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 ! 
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  even  but  now  return'd ;  I  have  not  yet 

Enter'd  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  harbour  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  roe  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  : 

5*0 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 
Ant.  Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life  and  living  ; 

For  here  I  read  for  certain  that  my  ships 

Are  safely  come  to  road. 
Por.  How  now,  Lorenzo  ! 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts  too  for  you. 
Ner.  Ay,  and  I  '11  give  them  him  without  a  fee. 

There  do  I  give  to  you  and  Jessica, 

From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift, 

After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 
Lor.  Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 

Of  starved  people. 
Por.  It  is  almost  morning, 

And  yet  I  am  sure  you  are  not  satisfied 

Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in ; 

And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories 

And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 
Gra.  Let  it  be  so  :  the  first  inter'gatory 

That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on  is, 

Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay, 

Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day : 

But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  wish  it  dark, 

That  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk- 
Well,  while  I  live  I  '11  fear  no  other  thing 

So  sore  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring.  \Exeunt. 


511 


AS    YOU    LIKE    IT 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


DUKE,  living  in  banishment. 
FREDERICK,  his  brother,  and  usurper  of 

his  dominions. 
AMIENS,  \  lords  attending  on  the  banished 

tA.QUES,  /       Duke. 
E   BEAU,    (i  courtier  attending   upon 
Frederick. 

CHARLES,  wrestler  to  Frederick. 
OLIVER,     ^ 
\QUES,      \  sons  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys. 


CELIA,  daughter  to  Frederick. 


JAQU     . 
ORLANDO,J 

PHEBE,  a  shepherdess. 
AUDREY,  a  country  wench. 
Lords,  pages,  and  attendants,  &c. 
SCENE  :  Olivers  house ;  Duke  Frederick's  court;  and  the  Forest  of  A r den. 


TOUCHSTONE,  a.  clown. 
SIR  OLIVER  MARTEXT,  a. 


vca 


WILLIAM,  a  country  fellow,  in  lame  with 

Audrey. 
A  person  representing  Hymen. 

ROSALIND,    daughter    to    the    banished 
Duke. 


ACT   I  —  SCENE   I 
Orchard  of  Oliver's  house. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

OrL  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion, 
bequeathed  me  by  will  but  poor  a  thousand  crowns,  and, 
as  thou  sayest,  charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed 
me  well  :  and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother  Jaques 
he  keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his  profit  : 
for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at  home,  or,  to  speak 
more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home  unkept  ;  for  call  you 
that  keeping  for  a  gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs  not 
from  the  stalling  of  an  ox?  His  horses  are  bred  better;  for, 
besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding,  they  are  taught 
their  manage,  and  to  that  end  riders  dearly  hired  :,  but  I,  his 
brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth  ;  for  the  which 
his  animals  on  his  dunghills  are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I. 
Besides  this  nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the 
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,  mines  my 
gentility  with  my  education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves 
me;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is  within  me, 
begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servitude  :  I  will  no  longer 
endure  it,  though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to 
avoid  it. 

Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother.  [me  up. 

Orl.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will  shake 
Enter  Oliver. 

Oli.  Now,  sir  !  what  make  you  here  ? 

Orl.  Nothing  :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  any  thing. 

Oli.  What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

512 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Orl  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which  God 
made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idleness. 

OIL  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught  awhile. 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs  and  eat  husks  with  them  ?  What 
prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to  such 

Oli.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ?  [penury  ? 

Orl.  O,  sir,  very  well ;  here  in  your  orchard. 

OIL  Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  him  I  am  before  knows  me.  I  know 
you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle  condition  of 
blood,  you  should  so  know  me.  The  courtesy  of  nations 
allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first-born ;  but  the 
same  tradition  takes  not  away  my  blood,  were  there  twenty 
brothers  betwixt  us :  I  have  as  much  of  my  father  in  me  as 
you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming  before  me  is  nearer  to 

OIL  What,  boy  !  [his  reverence. 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  in  this. 

OIL  Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orl.  I  am  no  villain ;  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland 
de  Boys ;  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  saying  so:  thou  hast  railed  on 
thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient :  for  your  father's  remem 
brance,  be  at  accord. 

OIL  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please :  you  shall  hear  me.  My  father 
charged  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good  education :  you 
have  trained  me  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding  from 
me  all  gentlemanlike  qualities.  The  spirit  of  my  father 
grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it :  there 
fore  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman, 
or  give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament; 
with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OIL  And  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  beg,  when  that  is  spent  ?  Well, 
sir,  get  you  in :  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you ;  you 
shall  have  some  part  of  your  will :  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes  me  for  my 

OIL  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog.  [good. 

Adam.  Is  '  old  dog '  my  reward  ?  Most  true,  I  have  lost  my 
teeth  in  your  service.  God  be  with  my  old  master!  he 
would  not  have  spoken  such  a  word. 

\Exeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

OIL  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon  me  ?    I  will  physic 

5*3  R 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  As  You  Like  It 

your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand   crowns  neither. 

Holla,  Dennis  ! 

Enter  Dennis. 

Den.  Calls  your  worship  ?  [me  ? 

Oli.  Was  not  Charles,  the  Duke's  wrestler,  here  to  speak  with 
Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door  and  importunes 

access  to  you. 
OH.  Call  him  in.  {Exit  Den?tisJ\  'Twill  be  a  good  way ;  and 

to-morrow  the  wrestling  is. 

Enter  Charles. 

Cha.  Good  morrow  to  your  worship.  [court  ? 

OIL  Good  Monsieur  Charles,  what 's  the  new  news  at  the  new 

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 ;  therefore  he  gives  them  good  leave 
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  together,  that  she  would 
have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to  stay  behind  her. 
She  is  at  the  court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than 
his  own  daughter ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

OIL  Where  will  the  old  Duke  live  ? 

Cha.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  and  a 
many  merry  men  with  him ;  and  there  they  live  like  the  old 
Robin  Hood  of  England  :  they  say  many  young  gentlemen 
flock  to  him  every  day,  and  fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they 
did  in  the  golden  world. 

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  understand  that  your 
younger  brother,  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come  in 
disguised  against  me  to  try  a  fall.  To-morrow,  sir,  I  wrestle 
for  my  credit ;  and  he  that  escapes  me  without  some  broken 
limb  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother  is  but  young  and 
tender ;  and,  for  your  love,  I  would  be  loath  to  foil  him,  as 
I  must,  for  my  own  honour,  if  he  come  in :  therefore,  out 
of  my  loye  to  you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ; 
that  either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  intendment,  or 
brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run  into ;  in  that  it  is  a 
thing  of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against  my  will. 

514 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Oli.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which  thou  shall 
find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had  myself  notice  of  my 
brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have  by  underhand  means 
laboured  to  dissuade  him  from  it,  but  he  is  resolute.  I  '11 
tell  thee,  Charles  : — it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow  of 
France  ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emulator  of  every  man's 
good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous  contriver  against  me  his 
natural  brother  :  therefore  use  thy  discretion ;  I  had  as  lief 
thou  didst  break  his  neck  as  his  finger.  And  thou  wert  best 
look  to  't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  if  he 
do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will  practise  against 
thee  by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  sohie  treacherous  device,  and 
never  leave  thee  till  he  hath  ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect 
means  or  other;  for,  I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with  tears 
I  speak  it,  there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villanous  this 
day  living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of  him;  but  should  I 
anatomize  him  to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  weep, 
and  thou  must  look  pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If  he  come  to 
morrow,  I  '11  give  him  his  payment :  if  ever  he  go  alone  again, 
I  '11  never  wrestle  for  prize  more :  and  so,  God  keep  your 
worship  ! 

Oli.  Farewell,  good  Charles.  \Exit  Charles.]  Now  will  I  stir 
this  gamester  :  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ;  for  my  soul, 
yet  I  know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than  he.  Yet  he  's 
gentle ;  never  schooled,  and  yet  learned ;  full  of  noble 
device ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved  ;  and  indeed  so 
much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  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  '11  go  about.  {.Exit. 

SCENE  II 
Lawn  before  the  DukJs  palace. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Cel.  I  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  ?     Unless  you  could  teach 
me  to  forget  a  banished  father,  you  must  not  learn  me  how 
to  remember  any  extraordinary  pleasure. 

Cel.  Herein  I  see  thou  lovest  me  not  with  the  full  weight  that 
I  love  thee.  If  my  uncle,  thy  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: 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

so  wouldst  them,   if  the  truth  of  thy  love  to  me  were  so 
righteously  tempered  as  mine  is  to  thee.  [yours. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  forget  the  condition  of  my  estate,  to  rejoice  in 

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  honour,  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  Marfy,  I  prithee,  do,  'to  make  sport  withal :  but  love  no 
man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  further  in  sport  neither,  than 
with  safety  of  a  pure  blush  thou  mayst  in  honour  come  off 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport,  then  ?  [again. 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife  Fortune  from  her 
wheel,  that  her  gifts  may  henceforth  be  bestowed  equally. 

Ros.  1  would  we  could  do  so;  for  her  benefits  are  mightily 
misplaced;  and  the  bountiful  blind  woman  doth  most 
mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

CeL  'Tis  true ;  for  those  that  she  makes  fair  she  scarce  makes 
honest;  and  those  that  she  makes  honest  she  makes  very 
ill-favouredly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  Fortune's  office  to  Nature's : 
Fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world,  not  in  the  lineaments  of 
Nature. 

Enter  Touchstone. 

CeL  No  ?  when  Nature  hath  made  a  fair  creature,  may  she  not 
by  Fortune  fall  into  the  fire  ?  Though  Nature  hath  given  us 
wit  to  flout  at  Fortune,  hath  not  Fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to 
cut  off  the  argument  ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  Fortune  too  hard  for  Nature,  when 
Fortune  makes  Nature's  natural  the  cutter-off  of  Nature's 
wit. 

CeL  Peradventure  this  is  not  Fortune's  work  neither,  but 
Nature's  ;  who  perceiveth  our  natural  wits  too  dull  to  reason 
of  such  goddesses,  and  hath  sent  this  natural  for  our  whet 
stone  ;  for  always  the  dulness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of 
the  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  honour,  but  I  was  bid  to  come  for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  you  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight  that  swore  by  his  honour  they  were 
good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his  honour  the  mustard  was 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  H 

naught ;  now  I  '11  stand  to  it,  the  pancakes  were  naught  and 

the  mustard  was  good,  and  yet  was  not  the  knight  forsworn. 
Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  the  great  heap  of  your  knowledge  ? 
Ros.  Ay,  marry,  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 
Touch.  Stand    you   both    forth   now:  stroke  your   chins,   and 

swear  by  your  beards  that  I  am  a  knave. 
Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 
Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were ;  but  if  you 

swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  not  forsworn  :  no  more 

was  this  knight,  swearing  by  his  honour,  for  he  never  had 

any  ;  or  if  he  had,  he  had  sworn  it  away  before  ever  he  saw 

those  pancakes  or  that  mustard. 
Cel.  Prithee,  who  is 't  that  thou  meanest  ? 
Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 
Cel.  My   father's   love   is   enough   to   honour   him :  enough  ! 

speak  no  more  of  him  ;  you  '11  be  whipped  for  taxation  one 

of  these  days. 
Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak  wisely  what 

wise  men  do  foolishly. 
Cel.  By  my  troth,  thou  sayest  true ;  for  since  the  little  wit  that 

fools  have  was  silenced,  the  little  foolery  that  wise  men  have 

makes  a  great  show.     Here  comes  Monsieur  Le  Beau. 
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  marketable. 
Enter  Le  Beau. 

Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Le  Beau ;  what 's  the  news  ? 
Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much  good  sport. 
Cel.  Sport !  of  what  colour  ? 

Le  Beau.  What  colour,  madam  !  how  shall  I  answer  you  ? 
Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  will. 
Touch.  Or  as  the  Destinies  decree. 
Cel.  Well  said  :  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 
Touch.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, — 
Ros.  Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 
Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies :   I  would  have  told  you  of 

good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost  the  sight  of. 
Ros.  Yet  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 
Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning ;  and,  if  it  please  your 

ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ;  for  the  best  is  yet  to  do ; 

and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are  coming  to  perform  it. 
Cel.  Well,  the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 
Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man  and  his  three  sons, — 
Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old  tale. 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent  growth  and 

presence. 
Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks,  '  Be  it  known  unto  all  men  by 

these  presents.' 
Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with   Charles,  the 

Duke's  wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a  moment  threw  him,  and 

broke  three  of  his  ribs,  that  there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  : 

so  he  served  the  second,  and  so  the  third.    Yonder  they  lie ; 

the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful  dole  over 

them  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with  weeping. 
Ros.  Alas! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies  have  lost  ? 
Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 
Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day  :  it  is  the  first  time 

that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for  ladies. 
Cel.  Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 
Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken  music  in  his 

sides  ?  is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon  rib-breaking  ?     Shall 

we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 
Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for  here  is  the  place 

appointed  for  the  wrestling,  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  man.     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  '11  not  be  by. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princess  calls  for  you. 
Orl.  I  attend  them  with  all  respect  and  duty. 
Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challenged  Charles  the  wrestler  ? 
Orl.  No,  fair  princess ;  he  is  the  general  challenger :  1  come 

but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of  my  youth. 
Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for  your  years. 

You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength  :  if  you  saw 

518 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with  your  judge 
ment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a 
more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to 
embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this  attempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir;  your  reputation  shall  not  therefore  be 
misprised :  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  Duke  that  the 
wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard  thoughts ; 
wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so  fair  and 
excellent  ladies  any  thing.  But  let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle 
wishes  go  with  me  to  my  trial :  wherein  if  I  be  foiled,  there 
is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never  gracious  ;  if  killed,  but  one 
dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so :  I  shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong, 
for  I  have  none  to  lament  me;  the  world  no  injury,  for  in 
it  I  have  nothing:  only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which 
may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were  with  you. 

CeL  And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.  Fare  you  well :  pray  heaven  I  be  deceived  in  you  ! 

CeL  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you  ! 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant  that  is  so  desirous  to 
lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orl  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  entreat  him  to  a 
second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him  from  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not  have  mocked 
me  before  :  but  come  your  ways. 

Ros.  Now  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

CeL  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong  fellow  by  the 
leg.  \They  wrestle. 

Ros.  O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who  should 
down.  \Shout.  Charles  is  thrown. 

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.     What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orl.  Orlando,  my  liege;  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys. 

Duke  F.  I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some  man  else  : 
The  world  esteem'd  thy  father  honourable, 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy : 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleased  me  with  this  deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii  As  You  Like  It 

But  fare  thee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth  : 

I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

[Exeunt  Duke  Fred.,  train,  and  Le  Btau. 
Cel.  Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? 
Orl.  I  am  more  proud  to  be  Sir  Rowland's  son, 

His  youngest  son ;  and  would  not  change  that  calling, 

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  : 

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,  but  that  her  hand  lacks  means. 

Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Cel.  Ay.     Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman. 

Orl.  Can  I  not  say,  I  thank  you  ?     My  better  parts 

Are  all  thrown  down,  and  that  which  here  stands  up 

Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block. 
Ros.  He  calls  us  back  :  my  pride  fell  with  my  fortunes  ; 

I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would.     Did  you  call,  sir  ? 

Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well  and  overthrown 

More  than  your  enemies. 
Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz  ? 

Ros.  Have  with  you.     Fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia 
Orl.  What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon  my  tongue  ? 

I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urged  conference. 

O  poor  Orlando,  thou  art  overthrown  ! 

Or  Charles  or  something  weaker  masters  thee. 

Re-enter  Le  Beau. 
Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  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, 

That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done. 

520 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

The  Duke  is  humorous  :  what  he  is,  indeed, 

More  suits  you  to  conceive  than  I  to  speak  of. 
OrL  I  thank  you,  sir :  and,  pray  you,  tell  me  this  ; 

Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  Duke, 

That  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 
Le  Beau.  Neither  his  daughter,  if  we  judge  by  manners  ; 

But  yet,  indeed,  the  taller  is  his  daughter : 

The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish'd  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. 
OrL  I  rest  much  bounden  to  you :  fare  you  well. 

[Exit  Le  Beau. 

Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 

From  tyrant  Duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother : 

But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  \Exit. 

SCENE  III 

A  room  in  the  palace. 

Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin  !  why,  Rosalind  !     Cupid  have  mercy  !  not  a 
Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog.  [word  ? 

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 
Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father?  [anv- 

Ros.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  child's  father.     O,  how  full  of 

briers  is  this  working-day  world  ! 
Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon  thee  in  holiday 

foolery :  if  we  walk  not   in   the   trodden   paths,    our   very 

petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Ros.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat :  these  burs  are  in  my 
Cel.  Hem  them  away.  [heart. 

Ros.  I  would  try,  if  I  could  cry  hem  and  have  him. 
Cel.  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

521  R  2 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  As  You  Like 

Ros.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than  myself! 
Cel.  O,  a  good  wish  upon  you !  you  will  try  in  time,  in  despite 

of  a  fall.     But,  turning  these  jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk 

in  good  earnest :  is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should 

fall  into  so  strong  a  liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's  youngest 
Ros.  The  Duke  my  father  loved  his  father  dearly.  [son  ? 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue  that  you  should   love  his   son 

dearly  ?     By  this  kind  of  chase,    I  should  hate  him,  for  my 

father  hated  his  father  dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 
Ros.  No,  faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 
Cel.  Why  should  I  not  ?  doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 
Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that,  and  do  you  love  him  because  I 

do.     Look,  here  comes  the  Duke. 
Cel.  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 
Duke  F.  Mistress,  dispatch  you  with  your  safest  haste 

And  get  you  from  our  court. 
Ros.  Me,  uncle  ? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 

So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 

Thou  diest  for  it. 
Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  Grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me  : 

If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 

Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires ; 

If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, — 

As  I  do  trust  I  am  not, — then,  dear  uncle, 

Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn 

Did  I  offend  your  Highness. 
Duke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors  : 

If  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 

They  are  as  innocent  as  grace  itself : 

Let  it  suffice  thee  that  I  trust  thee  not. 
Ros.  Yet  your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor : 

Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends. 
Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter  ;  there 's  enough. 
Ros.  So  was  I  when  your  Highness  took  his  dukedom ; 

So  was  I  when  your  Highness  banish'd  him  : 

Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord ; 

Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 

What 's  that  to  me  ?  my  father  was  no  traitor  : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 
Cel.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

522 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake, 

Else  had  she  with  her  father  ranged  along. 
Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay ; 

It  was  your  pleasure  and  your  own  remorse  : 

I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her ; 

But  now  I  know  her  :  if  she  be  a  traitor, 

Why  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together, 

Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together, 

And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 

Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable. 
Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her  smoothness, 

Her  very  silence  and  her  patience 

Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 

Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name  ; 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright  and  seem  more  virtuous 

When  she  is  gone.     Then  open  not  thy  lips  : 

Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 

Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her ;  she  is  banish'd. 
Cel.  Pronouce  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  honour, 

And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

[Exeunt  Duke  Frederick  and  Lords. 
Cel.  O  my  poor  Rosalind,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 

I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  grieved  than  I  am. 
Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 
Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin  ; 

Prithee,  be  cheerful :  know'st  thou  not,  the  Duke 

Hath  banish'd  me,  his  daughter? 
Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cel.  No,  hath  not  ?     Rosalind  lacks  then  the  love 

Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one : 

Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  part,  sweet  girl  ? 

No  :  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 

Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 

Whither  to  go  and  what  to  bear  with  us  ; 

And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  charge  upon  you 

To  bear  your  griefs  yourself  and  leave  me  out ; 

For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 

Say  what  thou  canst,  I  ;11  go  along  with  thee. 
Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 
Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden. 
Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 

523 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  As  You  Like 

Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  ! 

Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 
Cel.  I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire 

And  with  a  kind  of  umber  smirch  my  face ; 

The  like  do  you  :  so  shall  we  pass  along 

And  never  stir  assailants. 
Ros.  Were  it  not  better, 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 

That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 

A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 

A  boar-spear  in  my  hand ;  and — in  my  heart 

Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will — 

We  '11  have  a  swashing  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  ? 
Ros.  1 11  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own  page ; 

And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 

But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? 
Cel.  Something  that  hath  a  reference  to  my  state : 

No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 
Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 

The  clownish  fool  out  of  your  father's  court  ? 

Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 
Cel.  He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; 

Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let '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. 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 

The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  and  two  or  three  Lords,  like 

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  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  seasons'  difference ;  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body., 
524 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc. 

Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say 

'  This  is  no  flattery  :  these  are  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  : 

And  this  our  life  exempt  from  public  haunt 

Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones  and  good  in  every  thing. 

I  would  nqt  change  it. 

Ami.  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. 

first  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that, 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day  my  Lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood  : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  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  moralise  this  spectacle  ? 

First  Lord.  O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream  ; 
'  Poor  deer,'  quoth  he,  '  thou  makest  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much  : '  then,  being  there  alone, 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Lik< 

*  Tis  right,'  quoth  he  ;  *  thus  misery  doth  part 

The  flux  of  company  : '  anon  a  careless  herd, 

Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him 

And  never  stays  to  greet  him ;  '  Ay,'  quoth  Jaques, 

'  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 

Tis  just  the  fashion  :  wherefore  do  you  look 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ? ' 

Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court, 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life  ;  swearing  that  we        v 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants  and  what 's  worse, 

To  fright  the  animals  and  to  kill  them  up 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 
Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in  this  contemplation? 
Sec.  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  commenting 

Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 
Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place : 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits, 

For  then  he  's  full  of  matter. 

First  Lord.  I  '11  bring  you  to  him  straight.  \Exeunt 

• 

SCENE  II 

A  room  in  the  palace: 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 
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. 
First  Lord.  I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 

The  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber, 

Saw  her  a-bed,  and  in  the  morning  early 

They  found  the  bed  untreasured  of  their  mistress. 
Sec.  Lord.  My  lord,  the  rOynish  clown,  at  whom  so  oft 

Your  Grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 

Hisperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman, 

Confesses  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 

Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 

The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler 

That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles ; 

And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone, 

That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 
Duke  F.  Send  to  his  brother ;  fetch  that  gallant  hither  ; 

If  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me ; 

I  '11  make  him  find  him  :  do  this  suddenly, 

And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail 

To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.  [Exeunt. 

526 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II.  Sc.  iil 

SCENE  III 

Before  Oliver  s  house. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 
Orl.  Who's  there? 
Adam.  What,  my  young  master  ?     O  my  gentle  master  1 

0  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  bonny  priser  of  the  humorous  Duke  ? 

Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 

Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 

Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 

No  more  do  yours :  your  virtues,  gentle  master,, 

Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 

O,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 

Envenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 
Orl.  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  mean  ; 

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. 

1  overheard  him  and  his  practices. 

This  is  no  place ;  this  house  is  but  a  butchery  r 

Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 
Orl.  Why,  whither,  Adam,  wonldst  thou  have  me  go  ? 
Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here. 
OrL  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg  my  food  ? 

Or  with  a  base  and  boisterous  sword  enforce 

A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 

This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do : 

Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  1  can ; 

I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 

Of  a  diverted  blood  and  bloody  brother. 
Adam.  But  do  not  so.     1  have  five  hundred  crowns, 

The  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  your  father, 

Which  I  did  store  to  be  my  foster-nurse 
527 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv] 


As  You  Like  It 


When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thrown : 
Take  that,  and  He  that  doth  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow, 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !     Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant : 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty ; 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood, 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly  :  let  me  go  with  you  : 
I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orl.  O  good  old  man,  how  well  in  thee  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  will  sweat  but  for  promotion, 
And  having  that  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having :  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prunest  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandry. 
But  come  thy  ways ;  we  '11  go  along  together, 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent, 
We  ;11  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

Adam.  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  loyalty. 
From  seventeen  years  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek ; 
But  at  fourscore  it  is  too  late  a  week : 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better 
Than  to  die  well  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 


{Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV 

The  Forest  of  Arden. 

Enter  Rosalind  for  Ganymede,  Ceiia  for  Aliena^  and 

Touchstone. 

Jtos.  O  Jupiter,  how  weary  are  my  spirits  \ 
Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were  not  weary. 
.Ros.   I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  apparel 
and  to  cry  like  a  woman ;  but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker 

523 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc.  w 

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  further. 
Touch.  For  my  part,   I   had  rather  bear  with  you  than  bear 

you  :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,  if  I  did  bear  you ;  for  I 

think  you  have  no  money  in  your  purse. 
Ros.  Well,  this  is  the  forest  of  Arden. 
Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden ;  the  more  fool  I ;  when  I  was 

at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place :  but  travellers  must  be 
Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone.  [content. 

Enter  Cor  in  and  Silvius. 

Look  you,  who  comes  here ;  a  young  man  and  an  old  in 

solemn  talk. 

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  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow : 

But  if  thy  love  were  ever  like  to  mine, — 

As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so, — 

How  many  actions  most  ridiculous 

Hast  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 
Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 
Sil.  O,  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily ! 

If  thou  remember'st  not  the  slightest  folly 

That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into, 

Thou  hast  not  loved  : 

Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 

Wearing  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. 

0  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phebe !  [Exit. 
Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  !  searching  of  thy  wound, 

1  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 
a-night  to  Jane  Smile  :  and  I  remember  the  kissing  of  her 
batlet  and  the  cow's  dugs  that  her  pretty  chopt  hands  had 
milked  :  and  I  remember  the  wooing  of  a  peascod  instead  of 
her ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods  and,  giving  her  them  again, 
said  with  weeping  tears  '  Wear  these  for  my  sake.'  We  that 

529 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  As  You  Like  It 

are  true  lovers  run  into  strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is  mortal. 

in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in  folly. 
Ros.  Thou  speakest  wiser  than  thou  art  ware  of. 
Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  ware  of  mine  own  wit  till  I  break 

my  shins  against  it. 
Ros.  Jove,  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 

Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 

Touch.  And  mine  ;  but  it  grows  something  stale  with  me. 
Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man 

If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food  : 

I  faint  almost  to  death. 
Touch.  Holla,  you  clown  ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool :  he  's  not  thy  kinsman. 
Cor.  Who  calls  ? 

Touch.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  very  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say.     Good  even  to  you,  friend. 
Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all. 
Ros.  I  prithee,  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  succour. 
Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  pity  her 

And  wish,  for  her  sake  more  than  for  mine  own, 

My  fortunes  were  more  able  to  relieve  her ; 

But  I  am  shepherd  to  another  man 

And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze : 

My  master  is  of  churlish  disposition 

And  little  recks  to  find  the  way  to  heaven 

By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality  : 

Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks  and  bounds  of  feed'. 

Are  now  on  sale,  and  at  our  sheepcote  now, 

By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 

That  you  will  feed  on ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 

And  in  my  voice  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  ere  while,, 

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. 
Cd.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages.     1  like  this- place*, 

And  willingly  could  waste  my  time  in  it. 
Cor.  Assuredly  the  thing  is  to  be  sold  : 

53° 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc.  v 

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 

Tht  forest. 

Enter  Amiens^  Jaques,  and  others, 

SONG. 

Ami.  Under  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  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. 

Jaq,  More,  more,  I  prithee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  Monsieur  Jaqtresv 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More,  I  prithee,  more.  I  can  suck 
melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weasel  sucks  eggs.  More, 
I  prithee,  more. 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged  :  I  know  I  cannot  please  you. 

Jag.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me ;  I  do  desire  you  to  sing. 
Come,  more  ;  another  stanzo  :  call  you  'em  stanzos  ? 

'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  '11  thank  you ;  but 
that  they  call  compliment  is  like'  the  encounter  of  two  dog- 
apes,  and  when  a  man  thanks  me  heartily,  methinks  I  have 
given  him  a  penny  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks. 
Come,  sing;  and  you  that  will  not,  hold  your  tongues. 

Ami.  Well,  I  '11  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  toe 
disputable  for  my  company  :  I  think  of  as  many  matters  a.- 
he ;  but  I  give  heaven  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  them. 
Come,  warble,  come. 

5.>T 


Act  II,  Sc.  vi]  As  You  Like 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,      [All  together 
And  loves  to  live  i'  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. 

Jag.  1 11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made  yesterday 

in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I  '11  sing  it. 
Jag.  Thus  it  goes  : — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame : 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he, 
And  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Ami,  What 's  that  *  ducdame '  ? 

Jag.  'Tis  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into  a  circle.  T  11 
go  sleep,  if  I  can ;  if  I  cannot,  I  '11  rail  against  all  the  first 
born  of  Egypt. 

Ami.  And  I  '11  go  seek  the  Duke :  his  banquet  is  prepared. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE   VI 
The  forest. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further ;  O,  I  die  for  food ! 
Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out  my  grave.  Farewell,  kind 
master. 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam  !  no  greater  heart  in  thee  ?  Live 
a  little;  comfort  a  little;  cheer  thyself  a  little.  If  this  un 
couth  forest  yield  any  thing  savage,  I  will  either  be  food  for 
it  or  bring  it  for  food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer  death 
than  thy  powers.  For  my  sake  be  comfortable ;  hold  death 
awhile  at  the  arm's  end  :  I  will  here  be  with  thee  presently; 
and  if  I  bring  thee  not  something  to  eat,  I  will  give  thee 
leave  to  die :  but  if  thou  diest  before  I  come,  thou  art  a 

532 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc.  vi 

mocker  of  my  labour.  Well  said  !  thou  lookest  cheerly,  and 
I  '11  be  with  thee  quickly.  Yet  thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air : 
come,  I  will  bear  thee  to  some  shelter ;  and  thou  shalt  not 
die  for  lack  of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  any  thing  in  this  desert. 
Cheerly,  good  Adam  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII 

The  forest. 

A  table  set  out.     Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  and  Lords 

like  outlaws. 
Duke  S.  I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast ; 

For  I  can  no  where  find  him  like  a  man. 
First  Lord.  My  lord,  he  is  but  even  now  gone  hence : 

Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 
Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grow  musical, 

We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres. 

Go,  seek  him  :  tell  him  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  Jaques. 

First  Lord.  He  saves  my  labour  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  bask'd  him  in  the  sun, 

And  rail'd  on  Lady  Fortune  in  good  terms, 

In  good  set  terms,  and  yet  a  motley  fool. 

'Good  morrow,  fool,'  quoth  I.     '  No,  sir/  quoth  he, 

'  Call  me  not  fool  till  heaven  hath  sent  me  fortune  : ' 

And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 

And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye, 

Says  very  wisely,  '  It  is  ten  o'clock  : 

Thus  we  may  see,'  quoth  he,  'how  the  world  wags  : 

'Tis  but  an  hour  ago  since  it  was  nine ; 

And  after  one  hour  more  'twill  be  eleven  ; 

And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  ripe  and  ripe, 

And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  we  rot  and  rot ; 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale.'     When  I  did  hear 

The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative  ; 

And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 

An  hour  by  his  dial.     O  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  fool  1     Motley 's  the  only  wear. 
533 


Act  II,  Sc.  vii]  As  You  Like  I 

Duke  S,  What  fool  is  this  ? 
Jag.  O  worthy  fool !     One  that  hath  been  a  courtier, 

And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  fair, 

They  have  the  gift  to  know  it :  and  in  his  brain, 

Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 

After  a  voyage,  he  hath  strange  places  cramm'd 

With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 

In  mangled  forms.     O  that  I  were  a  fool  I 

I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 
Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 
Jaq.  It  is  my  only  suit ; 

Provided  that  you  weed  your  better  judgements 

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, 

Not  to  seem  senseless  of  the  bob  :  if  not, 

The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomized 

Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 

Invest  me  in  my  motley ;  give  me  leave 

To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 

Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  the  infected  world, 

If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 
Duke  S.  Fie  on  thee  !  I  can  tell  what  thou  wouldst  do. 
Jaq.  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do  but  good  ? 
Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding  sin : 

For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine, 

As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 

And  all  the  embossed  sores  and  headed  evils, 

That  thou  with  license  of  free  foot  has  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  weary  very  means  do  ebb  ? 

What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name, 

When  that  I  say  the  city-woman  bears 

The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 

Who  can  come  in  and  say  that  I  mean  her, 

When  such  a  one  as  she  such  is  her  neighbour  ? 

534 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc.  vii 

Or  what  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?     Let  me  see  wherein 

My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him :  if  it  do  him  right, 

Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free, 

Why  then  my  taxing  like  a  wild-goose  flies, 

Unclaim'd  of  any  man.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Orlando,  with  his  sword  drawn. 
Orl  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

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  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy  distress  ? 

Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners, 

That  in  civility  thou  seem'st  so  empty  ? 
Orl.  You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first :  the  thorny  point 

Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  the  show 

Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland  bred 

And  know  some  nurture.     But  forbear,  I  say : 

He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit 

Till  I  and  my  affairs  are  answered. 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answered  with  reason,  I  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,  I  pray  you  : 

I  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here ; 

And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 

Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'er  you  are 

That  in  this  desert  inaccessible, 

Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs, 

Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time ; 

If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days, 

If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church, 

If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast, 

If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wiped  a  tear 

And  know  what  'tis  to  pity  and  be  pitied, 

Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be: 

In  the  which  hope  I  blush,  and  hide  my  sword. 
Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days, 

And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church, 

535 


Act  II,  Sc.  vii]  As  You  Like  It 

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  what  help  we  have 

That  to  your  wanting  may  be  minister'd. 
Orl.  Then  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  while, 

Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn 

And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man, 

Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 

Limp'd  in  pure  love :  till  he  be  first  sufficed, 

Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,  age  and  hunger, 

I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 
Duke  S.  Go  find  him  out, 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 
Orl.  I  thank  ye  ;  and  be  blest  for  your  good  comfort !      [Exit. 
Duke  S.  Thou  seest  we  are  not  all  alone  unhappy  : 

This  wide  and  universal  theatre 

Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 

Wherein  we  play  in. 
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. 

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  woeful  ballad 

Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow.     Then  a  soldier, 

Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 

Jealous  in  honour,  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  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, 
536 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  II,  Sc.  vii 

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  burthen, 

And  let  him  feed. 
Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  him. 
Adam.  So  had  you  need : 

I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 
Duke  S.  Welcome ;  fall  to :  I  will  not  trouble  you 

As  yet,  to  question  you  about  your  fortunes. 

Give  us  some  music ;  and,  good  cousin,  sing. 

SONG. 

Ami.  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing,  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly  1 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not 
Heigh-ho !  sing,  &c. 

Duke  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  Sir  Rowland's  son, 
As  you  have  whisper' d  faithfully  you  were, 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd  and  living  in  your  face, 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  Duke 
That  loved  your  father  :  the  residue  of  your  fortune, 
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. 


537 


Act  III,  Sc.  i,  ii]  As  You  Like 

ACT    III— SCENE  I 
A  room  in  the  palace. 
Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  and  Oliver. 
Duke  F.  Not  see  him  since?     Sir,  sir,  that  cannot  be  : 

But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 

I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 

Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it : 

Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoever  he  is  ; 

Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living 

Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 

To  seek  a  living  in  our  territory. 

Thy  lands  and  all  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine 

Worth  seizure  do  we  seize  into  our  hands, 

Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth 

Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 
Oli.  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  extent  upon  his  house  and  lands : 

Do  this  expediently  and  turn  him  going.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  forest. 

Enter  Orlando,  with  a  paper. 
Orl.       Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  of  my  love : 

And  thou,  thrice-crowned  queen  of  night,  survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above, 
Thy  huntress'  name  that  my  full  life  doth  sway. 
O  Rosalind  !  these  trees  shall  be  my  books 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I  '11  character ; 
That  every  eye  which  in  this  forest  looks 

Shall  see  thy  virtue  witness'd  every  where. 
Run,  run,  Orlando  ;  carve  on  every  tree 
The  fair,  the  chaste  and  unexpressive  she.  {Exit, 

Enter  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Cor.  And  how  like  you  this  shepherd's  life,  Master  Touchstone  ? 
Touch.  Truly,  shepherd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is  a  good  life ; 
but  in  respect  that  it  is  a  shepherd's  life,  it  is  naught.  In 
respect  that  it  is  solitary,  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  humour  well;  but  as  there  is  no  more  plenty  in  it,  it 

538 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

goes  much  against,  my  stomach.     Hast  any  philosophy  in 
thee,  shepherd? 

Cor,  No  more  but  that  I  know  the  more  one  sickens  the  worse 
at  ease  he  is ;  and  that  he  that  wants  money,  means  and 
content  is  without  three  good  friends  ;  that  the  property  of 
rain  is  to  wet  and  fire  to  burn  ;  that  good  pasture  makes  fat 
sheep,  and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night  is  lack  of  the 
sun ;  that  he  that  hath  learned  no  wit  by  nature  nor  art  may 
complain  of  good  breeding  or  comes  of  very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher  Wast  ever  ir 
court,  shepherd? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damned 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope. 

Touch.  Truly,  thou  art  damned,  like  an  ill-roasted  egg  all  on 

Cor.  For  not  being  at  court  ?     Your  reason.  [one  side, 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court,  thou  never  sawest 
good  manners  ;  if  thou  never  sawest  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  wit,  Touchstone :  those  that  are  good  manners  at 
the  court  are  as  ridiculous  in  the  country  as  the  behaviour  of 
the  country  is  most  mockable  at  the  court.  You  told  me 
you  salute  not  at  the  court,  but  you  kiss  your  hands  :  that 
courtesy  would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were  shepherds. 

Touch.  Instance,  briefly ;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes,  and  their  fells,  you 
know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  hands  sweat  ?  and  is  not 
the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wholesome  as  the  sweat  of  a  man  ? 
Shallow,  shallow.  A  better  instance,  I  say  ;  come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner.  Shallow  again. 
A  more  sounder  instance,  come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarred  over  with  the  surgery  of  our 
sheep ;  and  would  you  have  us  kiss  tar  ?  The  courtier's 
hands  are  perfumed  with  civet. 

Touch.  Most  shallow  man  !  thou  worm's-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  instance,  shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me  :  I  '11  rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damned  ?  God  help  thee,  shallow  man  : 
God  make  incision  in  thee  !  thou  art  raw. 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer  :  I  earn  that  I  eat,  get  that  I 

539 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

wear,  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no  man's  happiness,  glad  of 
other  men's  good,  content  with  my  harm,  and  the  greatest 
of  my  pride  is  to  see  my  ewes  graze  and  my  lambs  suck. 
Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you,  to  bring  the  ewes 
and  the  rams  together  and  to  offer  to  get  your  living  by  the 
copulation  of  cattle ;  to  be  bawd  to  a  bell-wether,  and  to 
betray  a  she-lamb  of  a  twelvemonth  to  a  crooked-pated,  old, 
cuckoldly  ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If  thou  beest 
not  damned  for  this,  the  devil  himself  will  have  no  shep 
herds  ;  I  cannot  see  else  how  thou  shouldst  'scape. 
Cor.  Here  comes  young  Master  Ganymede,  my  new  mistress's 
brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  with  a  paper,  reading. 
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 

Are  but  black  to  Rosalind. 

Let  no  face  be  kept  in  mind 

But  the  fair  of  Rosalind. 

Touch.  I  '11  rhyme  you  so  eight  years  together,  dinners  and 
suppers  and  sleeping-hours  excepted :  it  is  the  right  butter- 
women's  rank  to  market. 

Ros.  Out,  fool ! 

Touch.  For  a  taste : 

I  f  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Rosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So  be  sure  will  Rosalind. 

Winter  garments  must  be  lined, 

So  must  slender  Rosalind. 

They  that  reap  must  sheaf  and  bind  ; 

Then  to  cart  with  Rosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 

Such  a  nut  is  Rosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find, 

Must  find  love's  prick  and  Rosalind. 

This  is  the  very  false  gallop  of  verses :  why  do  you  infect 

yourself  with  them  ? 

Ros.  Peace,  you  dull  fool !  I  found  them  on  a  tree. 
Touch.  Truly,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

540 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

jRos.  I  '11  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall  graff  it  with  a 
medlar :  then  it  will  be  the  earliest  fruit  i'  the  country ;  for 
you  '11  be  rotten  ere  you  be  half  ripe,  and  that 's  the  right 
virtue  of  the  medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said  ;  but  whether  wisely  or  no,  let  the  forest 
judge. 

Enter  Celia,  with  a  writing. 
Ros.  Peace! 

Here  comes  my  sister,  reading :  stand  aside. 
Cd.  \reads\   Why  should  this  a  desert  be  ? 
For  it  is  unpeopled  ?     No ; 
Tongues  1  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 
That  shall  civil  sayings  show : 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

Runs  his  erring  pilgrimage, 
That  the  stretching  of  a  span 
Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age ; 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend  • 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs, 
Or  at  every  sentence  end, 
Will  I  Rosalinda  write, 

Teaching  all  that  read  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  Nature  charged 

That  one  body  should  be  fill'd 
With  all  graces  wide-enlarged  : 

Nature  presently  distill'd 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 

Cleopatra's  majesty, 
Atalanta's  better  part, 

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  pulpiter !  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  honourable  retreat ; 


Act  Til,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

though   not   with   bag   and    baggage,    yet    with    scrip   and 
scrippage.  [JSxeunt  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Cel.   LJidst  thou  hear  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  more  too  ;  for  some  of  them 
had  in  them  more  feet  than  the  verses  would  bear. 

Cel.  That 's  no  matter :  the  feet  might  bear  the  verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame  and  could  not  bear  themselves 
without  the  verse  and  therefore  stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear  without  wondering  how  thy  name 
should  be  hanged  and  carved  upon  these  trees  ? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the  wonder  before 
you  came ;  for  look  here  what  I  found  on  a  palm  tree.  I 
was  never  so  be-rhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time,  that  I  was 
an  Irish  rat,  which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you  who  hath  done  this  ? 

Ros.  Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about  his  neck.    Change 

Ros.  I  prithee,  who  ?  [you  colour  ? 

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  prithee  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  hooping ! 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion !  dost  thou  think,  though  I  am 
caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my 
disposition?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South-sea  of 
discovery ;  I  prithee,  tell  me  who  is  it  quickly,  and  speak 
apace.  I  would  thou  couldst  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.  I  prithee,  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth  that 
I  may  drink  thy  tidings. 

Cel.  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making?  What  manner  of  man?  Is  his 
head  worth  a  hat?  Or  his  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  wrestler's  hee^s 
and  your  heart  both  in  an  instant. 

542 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Ros.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking :  speak  sad  brow  and 

Cel.  r  faith,  coz,  'tis  he.  [true  maid. 

Ros,  Orlando? 

Cel.  Orlando. 

Ros.  Alas  the  day!  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet  and  hose? 
What  did  he  when  thou  sawest  him?  What  said  he?  How 
looked  he?  Wherein  went  he?  What  makes  he  here?  Did 
he  ask  for  me?  Where  remains  he?  How  parted  he  with 
thee  ?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again  ?  Answer  me  in 
one  word. 

Cel.  You  must  borrow  me  Gargantua's  mouth  first :  'tis  a  word 
too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size.  To  say  ay  and  no 
to  these  particulars  is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

Ros.  But  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  propositions 
of  a  lover;  but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding  him,  and  relish  it 
with  good  observance.  J  found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a 
dropped  acorn. 

Ros.  It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops  forth  such 

Cel.  Give  me  audience,  good  madam.  [fruit. 

Ros.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  he,  stretched  along,  like  a  wounded  knight. 

Ros.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well  becomes  the 
ground. 

Cel.  Cry  '  holla '  to  thy  tongue,  I  prithee ;  it  curvets  unseason 
ably.  He  was  furnished  like  a  hunter. 

Ros.  O,  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden:  thou  bringest 
me  out  of  tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I  think,  I  must 
speak.  Sweet,  say  on. 

Cel.  You  bring  me  out.     Soft !  comes  he  not  here  ? 
Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 

Ros.  'Tis  he :  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company ;  but,  good  faith,  I  had  as 
lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake, 

I  thank  you  too  for  your  society. 
Jaq.  God  buy  you  :  let 's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 

Orl.  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers.  [their  barks. 

Jaq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  with  writing  love-songs  in 

Orl.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  moe  of  my  verses  with  reading  them 
Jaq.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name  ?  [ill-favouredly. 

Orl.  Yes,  just. 

543 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

Jaq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

OrL  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you  when    she  was 
Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of?  [christened. 

Orl.  Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have  you  not  been  ac 
quainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and  conned  them  out  of  rings? 

Orl.  Not  so ;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,  from  whence 

you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit :  I  think  'twas  made  of  Atalanta's 
heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me?  and  we  two  will  rail 
against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

OrL  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world  but  myself,  against 

whom  I  know  most  faults. 
Jaq.  The  worst  fault  you  have  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best  virtue.  I  am 
weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool  when  I  found  you. 

Orl.  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook :  look  but  in,  and  you  shall 
see  him. 

Jaq.  There  I  shall  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a  cipher. 

Jaq.  I  '11  tarry  no  longer  with  you  :  farewell,  good  Signior  Love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure:  adieu,  good  Monsieur 
Melancholy.  \ExitJaques. 

Ros.  [Aside  to  Cdia~\  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  lackey, 
and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him.  Do  you  hear, 

Orl.  Very  well :  what  would  you  ?  [forester  ? 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is 't  o'  clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me  what  time  o'  day :  there 's  no  clock  in 
the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest;  else  sighing 
every  minute  and  groaning  every  hour  would  detect  the  lazy 
foot  of  Time  as  well  as  a  clock.  [proper  ? 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  Time  ?  had  not  that  been  as 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir :  Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers 
persons.     I  '11  tell  you  who  Time  ambles  withal,  who  Time    • 
trots  withal,  who  Time  gallops  withal  and  who  he  stands  still 

Orl.  I  prithee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ?  [withal 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid  between  the 
contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized  :  if  the 
interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  Time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it 
seems  the  length  of  seven  year. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  Time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that  hath 
not  the  gout;  for  the  one  sleeps  easily  because  he  cannot 

544 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

study,  and  the  other  lives  merrily  because  he  feels  no  pain  ; 
the  one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning,  the 
other  knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury :  these 
Time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows ;  for  though  he  go  as  softly  as 
foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orl.  Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation ;  for  they  sleep  between 
term  and  term  and  then  they  perceive  not  how  Time  moves. 

Orl.  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister :  here  in  the  skirts  of  the 
forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orl.  Are  you  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  cony  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is  kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  purchase 
in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many :  but  indeed  an  old  religious 
uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who  was  in  his  youth  an 
inland  man ;  one  that  knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he 
fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it, 
and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touched  with  so 
many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole 
sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils  that  he  laid 
to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all  like  one  another 
as  half-pence  are,  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous  till  his 
fellow-fault  came  to  match  it. 

Orl.  I  prithee,  recount  some  of  them. 

Ros.  No,  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic  but  on  those  that  are 
sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our 
young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on  their  barks ;  hangs 
odes  upon  hawthorns  and  elegies  on  brambles ;  all,  forsooth, 
deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy- 
monger,  I  would  give  him  some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems 
to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him.  [remedy. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked :  I  pray  you,  tell  me  your 

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. 

Orl.  What  were  his  marks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not ;  a  blue  eye  and  sunken, 
which  you  have  not ;  an  unquestionable  spirit,  which  you 
have  not ;  a  beard  neglected,  which  you  have  not ;  but  I 

545  s 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

pardon  you  for  that,  for  simply  your  having  in  beard  is  a 
younger  brother's  revenue :  then  your  hose  should  be  un- 
gartered,  your  bonnet  unbanded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned, 
your  shoe  untied  and  every  thing  about  you  demonstrating  a 
careless  desolation ;  but  you  are  no  such  man  ;  you  are  rather 
point-device  in  your  accoutrements,  as  loving  yourself  than 
seeming  the  lover  of  any  other. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I  love. 

JRos.  Me  believe  it !  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that  you  love 
believe  it ;  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do  than  to  confess 
she  does :  that  is  one  of  the  points  in  the  which  women  still 
give  the  lie  to  their  consciences.  But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you 
he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is  so 
admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosalind,  I 
am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes  speak? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves  as 
well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do  :  and  the  reason 
why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is 
so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too.  Yet  I  profess 
curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one,  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to  imagine  me  his 
love,  his  mistress;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me:  at 
which  time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be 
effeminate,  changeable,  longing  and  liking ;  proud,  fantastical, 
apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles;  for 
every  passion  something  and  for  no  passion  truly  any  thing, 
as  boys  and  women  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this  colour : 
would  now  like  him,  now  loathe  him ;  then  entertain  him, 
then  forswear  him ;  now  weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him ; 
that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love  to  a 
living  humour  of  madness ;  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. 

Orl.  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. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will :  tell  me  where  it  is. 

Ros.  Go  with  me  to  it  and  I  '11  show  it  you  :  and  by  the  -way  you 
shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live.  Will  you  go  ? 

546 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

Orl.  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

jRos.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind.     Come,  sister,  will  you 
go  ?  [Exeunt. 

d 

SCENE   III 
The  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey  ;  f agues  behind. 
Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey  :  I  will  fetch  up  your  goats, 

Audrey.     And  how,  Audrey  ?  am  I  the  man  yet  ?  doth  my 

simple  feature  content  you  ? 

Aud.  Your  features  !     Lord  warrant  us  !  what  features  ? 
Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as  the  most  caprici 
ous  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the  Goths. 
Jaq.  [Aside]  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited,  worse  than  Jove  in  a 

thatched  house ! 
Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  understood,  nor  a  man's 

good  wit  seconded  with  the  forward  child,  understanding,  it 

strikes  a  man  more  dead  than  a  great  reckoning  in  a  little 

room.     Truly,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee  poetical. 
Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  *  poetical '  is  :  is  it  honest  in  deed  and 

word  ?  is  it  a  true  thing  ? 
Touch.  No,  truly ;  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the  most  feigning ;  and 

lovers  are  given  to  poetry,  and  what  they  swear  in  poetry  may 

be  said  as  lovers  they  do  feign. 

Aud.  Do  you  wish  then  that  the  gods  had  made  me  poetical  ? 
Touch.  I  do,   truly  ;  for  thou  swearest  to  me  thou  art  honest : 

now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might  have  some  hope  thou  didst 
Aud.  Would  you  not  hare  me  honest  ?  [feign. 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard-favoured ;  for  honesty 

coupled  to  beauty  is  to  have  honey  a  sauce  to  sugar. 
Jaq.  [Aside]  A  material,  fool ! 
Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair  ;  and  therefore  I  pray  the  gods  make 

me  honest. 
Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon  a  foul  slut  were 

to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean  dish. 
Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods  I  am  foul. 
Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foulness  !  sluttishness 

may  come  hereafter.     But  be  it  as  it  may  be,  I  will  marry 

thee,  and  to  that  end  I  have  been  with  Sir  Oliver  Martext 

the  vicar  of  the  next  village,  who  hath  promised  to   meet  me 

in  this  place  of  the  forest  and  to  couple  us. 
Jaq.  [Aside]  I  would  fain  see  this  meeting. 
Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  ! 
Touch.  Amen.     A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a  fearful  heart,  stagger 

in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we  have  no  temple  but  the  wood,  no 

547 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  As  You  Like  It 

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.  Is  the  single  man  therefore 
blessed  ?  No :  as  a  walled  town  is  more  worthier  than  a  vil 
lage,  so  is  the  forehead  of  a  married  man  more  honourable 
than  the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor ;  and  by  how  much  defence 
is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a  horn  more  precious 
than  to  want.  Here  comes  Sir  Oliver. 

Enter  Sir  Oliver  Mar  text. 

Sir  Oliver  Martext,  you  are  well  met :  will  you  dispatch  us 
here  under  this  tree,  or  shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 

Sir  Oli.  Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman  ? 

Touch.  I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 

Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  the  marriage  is  not  lawful. 

Jag.  Proceed,  proceed  :  I  '11  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  Master  What-ye-call  't :  how  do  you, 
sir  ?  You  are  very  well  met :  God  'ild  you  for  your  last 
company :  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you :  even  a  toy  in  hand 
here,  sir :  nay,  pray  be  covered. 

Jaq.  Will  you  be  married,  motley  ? 

louch.  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. 

Jaq.  And  will  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breeding,  be  married 
under  a  bush  like  a  beggar  ?  Get  you  to  church,  and  have 
a  good  priest  that  can  tell  you  what  marriage  is  :  this  fellow 
will  but  join  you  together  as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one  of 
you  will  prove  a  shrunk  panel,  and  like  green  timber  warp, 
warp. 

Touch.   \^Aside\   I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better  to  be 
married  of  him  than  of  another  :  for  he  is  not  like  to  marry 
me  well ;  and  not  being  well  married,  it  will  be  a  good  excuse 
for  me  hereafter  to  leave  my  wife. 
Jaq.  Go  thou  with  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 

Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey  : 

We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  Master  Oliver  :  not, — 
O  sweet  Oliver, 
O  brave  Oliver, 
Leave  me  not  behind  thee ; 
but, — 

548 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

Wind  away, 
Begone,  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  with  thee. 

[Exeunt  Jaques,  Touchstone^  and  Audrey. 

Sir  Oli.  'Tis  no  matter :  ne'er  a  fantastical  knave  of  them  all 
shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling.  [Exit. 

SCENE   IV 
The  forest. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Ros.  Never  talk  to  me ;  1  will  weep. 
Cel   Do,  I  prithee  ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to  consider  that 

tears  do  not  become  a  man. 
Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 
Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  therefore  weep. 
Ros.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 
Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's  :  marry,  his  kisses  are 

Judas's  own  children. 

Ros.  F  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  colour.  [our. 

Cel.  An  excellent  colour  :  your  chestnut  was  ever  the  only  col- 
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 

confirmer   of  false   reckonings.     He   attends   here   in    the 

forest  on  the  Duke  your  father. 
Ros.  I  met  the  Duke  yesterday  and  had  much  question  with 

him :  he  asked  me  of  what  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 !    he  writes  brave  verses,  speaks 

brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths  and  breaks  them  bravely, 

549 


Act  III,  Sc.  v]  As  You  Like  It 

quite  traverse,  athwart  the  heart  of  his  lover;  as  a  puisny 

tilter,  that  spurs  his  horse  but  on  one  side,  breaks  his  staff 

like  a  noble  goose :  but  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  complain'd  of  love, 

Who  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 

Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 

That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 

Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 

And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 

Go  hence  a  little  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 

If  you  will  mark  it. 
Ros.  O,  come,  let  us  remove  : 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. 

Bring  us  to  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 

I  ;11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  V 

Another  part  of  the  forest. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not,  Phebe ; 
Say  that  you  love  me  not,  but  say  not  so 
In  bitterness.     The  common  executioner, 
Whose  heart  the  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes  hard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck 
But  first  begs  pardon :  will  you  sterner  be 
Than  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops  ? 

Enter  Rosalind^  Celia,  Corin^  behind. 
Phe.  I  would  not  be  thy  executioner : 
I  fly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tell'st  me  there  is  murder  in  mine  eye : 
'Tis  pretty,  sure,  and  very  probable, 
That  eyes,  that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies, 
Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,  murderers  1 
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  1 
Now  show  the  wound  mine  eye  hath  made  in  thee : 

55° 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  III,  Sc.  v 

Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 

Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  but  upon  a  rush, 

The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure 

Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps ;  but  now  mine  eyes, 

Which  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not, 

Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 

That  can  do  hurt. 
Sil.  O  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever, — as  that  ever  may  be  near, — 

Yoo  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  ?     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, 

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  makes  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd  children  r 

Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her ; 

And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper 

Than  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. 

But,  mistress,  know  yourself :  down  on  your  knees, 

And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love  : 

For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, 

Sell  when  you  can  :  you  are  not  for  all  markets : 

Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer  : 

Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer. 

So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd :  fare  you  well. 


Act  III,  Sc.  v]  As  You  Like  It 

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  your  foulness  and  she'll  fall  in 

love  with  my  anger.     If  it  be  so,  as  fast  as  she  answers  thee 

with  frowning  looks,  1 311  sauce  her  with  bitter  words.     Why 

look  you  so  upon  me? 
Phe.  For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 
Ros.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 

For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 

Besides,  I  like  you  not.     If  you  will  know  my  house, 

'Tis  at  the  tuft  of  olives  here  hard  by. 

Will  you  go,  sister  ?     Shepherd,  ply  her  hard. 

Come,  sister.     Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 

And  be  not  proud :  though  all  the  world  could  see, 

None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he. 

Come,  to  our  flock.  [Exeunt  Rosalind,  Celia  and  Corin. 

Phe.  Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might, 

'  Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? ' 
Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,— 

Phe.  Ha,  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 
Phe.  Why,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Silvius. 
Sil.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be : 

If  you  do  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 

By  giving  love  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 

Were  both  extermined. 

Phe.  Thou  hast  my  love :  is  not  that  neighbourly  ? 
Sil.  I  would  have  you. 
Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee, 

And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love ; 

But  since  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 

Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 

I  will  endure,  and  I  '11  employ  thee  too  : 

But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense 

Than  thine  own  gladness  that  thou  art  employ'd. 
Sil.  So  holy  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 

And  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 

That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 

To  glean  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 

That  the  main  harvest  reaps  :  loose  now  and  then 

A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I  '11  live  upon. 
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 

552 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

That  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 
Phe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 

'Tis  but  a  peevish  boy  ;  yet  he  talks  well ; 

But  what  care  I  for  words  ?  yet  words  do  well 

When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 

It  is  a  pretty  youth  :  not  very  pretty  : 

But,  sure,  he 's  proud,  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him  : 

He  '11  make  a  proper  man  :  the  best  thing  in  him 

Is  his  complexion ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 

Did  make  offence  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 

He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall : 

His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 

There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip, 

A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mix'd  in  his  cheek ;  'twas  just  the  difference 

Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask. 

There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd  him 

In  parcels  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 

To  fall  in  love  with  him  :  but,  for  my  part, 

I  love  him  not  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 

I  have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him : 

For  what  had  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  ? 

He  said  mine  eyes  were  black  and  my  hair  black  ; 

And,  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me  : 

I  marvel  why  I  answer'd  not  again : 

But  that 's  all  one ;  omittance  is  no  quittance. 

I  '11  write  to  him  a  very  taunting  letter, 

And  thou  shalt  bear  it :  wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 
Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 
Phe.  I  '11  write  it  straight ; 

The  matter 's  in  my  head  and  in  my  heart : 

I  will  be  bitter  with  him  and  passing  short. 

Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

Theforest. 

Enter  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  f agues. 

Jaq.  I  prithee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better  acquainted  with 
Ros.  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow.  [thee. 

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  modern  censurer 
worse  than  drunkards. 
Jaq.  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

553  s  2 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  As  You  Like  It; 

Ros.  Why  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post. 

Jaq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy,  which  is 

tion ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is  fantastical ;  nor  the 
courtier's,  which  is  proud;  nor  the  soldier's,  which  is 
ambitious;  nor  the  lawyer's,  which  is  politic;  nor  the  lady's, 
which  is  nice  ;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these  :  but  it  is  a. 
melancholy  of  mine  own,  compounded  of  many  simples, 
extracted  from  many  objects ;  and  indeed  the  sundry 
contemplation  of  my  travels,  in  which  my  often  rumination 
wraps  me  in  a  most  humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller !     By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason  to  be 
sad  :  I  fear  you  have  sold  your  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. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad  :  I  had  rather  have  a 
fool  to  make  me  merry  than  experience  to  make  me  sad ; 
and  to  travel  for  it  too  ! 

Enfer  Orlando. 

OrL  Good-day  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind  ! 
Jaq.  Nay,  then,  God  buy  you,  an  you  talk  in  blank  verse.  [Eocit. 

Ros.  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller  :  look  you  lisp  and  wear 
strange  suits  ;  disable  all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country ; 
be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity  and  almost  chide  God  for 
making  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce  think 
you  have  swam  in  a  gondola.  Why,  how  now,  Orlando ! 
where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a  lover  !  An  you 
serve  me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  !  He  that  will  divide  a 
minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the 
thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be 
said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but 
I  '11  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight :  I 
had  as  lief  be  wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orl  Of  a  snail? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he  carries  his 
house  on  his  head ;  a  better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you  make 
a  woman :  besides,  he  brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

OrL  What's  that? 

Ros.  Why,  horns,  which  such  as  you  are  fain  to  be  beholding 
to  your  wives  for :  but  he  comes  armed  in  his  fortune  and 
prevents  the  slander  of  his  wife. 

554 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

OrL  Virtue  is  no  horn-maker ;  and  my  Rosalind  is  virtuous. 

Ros.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so  ;  but  he  hath  a  Rosalind  of 
a  better  leer  than  you. 

Ros.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me;  for  now  I  arn  in  a  holiday 
humour  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 

Orl.  How  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ?  {to  kiss. 

Ros.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty  and  there  begins  new  matter. 

OrL  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved  mistress  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your  mistress,  or  I  should 
think  my  honesty  ranker  than  my  wit. 

Orl.  What,  of  my  suit  ? 

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  talk 
ing  of  her. 

Ros.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say  I  will  not  have  you. 

Orl.  Then  in  mine  own  person  I  die. 

Ros.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is  almost  six 
thousand  years  old,  and  in  all  this  time  there  was  not  any 
man  died  in  his  own  person,  videlicet,  in  a  love-cause. 
Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a  Grecian  club; 
yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before,  and  he  is  one  of  the 
patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  lived  many  a 
fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  hot  midsummer  night ;  for,  good  youth,  he  went  but  forth 
to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont  and  being  taken  with  the 
cramp  was  drowned  :  and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that 
age  found  it  was  '  Hero  of  Sestos.'  But  these  are  all  lies  : 
men  have  died  from  time  to  time  ^nd  worms  have  eaten 
them,  but  not  for  love. 
Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind ;  for,  I 

protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Ros.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.     But  come,  now  I  will 
be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition,  and  ask 
me  what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 
Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith,  will  I,  Fridays  and  Saturdays  and  all. 
Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

555 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  As  You  Like  It 

Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 

Orl.  What  sayest  thou  ? 

Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.  I  hope  so. 

Ros.  Why  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good  thing  ? 
Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest  and  marry  us.  Give 
me  your  hand,  Orlando.  What  do  you  say,  sister? 

Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

Cel.  I  cannot  say  the  words. 

Ros.  You  must  begin,  *  Will  you,  Orlando — ' 

Cel.  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  '  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife.' 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Ros.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission  ;  but  I  do  take  thee, 
Orlando,  for  my  husband  :  there  's  a  girl  goes  before  the 
priest  ;  and  certainly  a  woman's  thought  runs  before  her 

Orl.  So  do  all  thoughts  ;  they  are  winged.  [actions. 

Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  have  her  after  you  have 
possessed  her. 

Orl.  For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  '  a  day,'  without  the  *  ever '.  No,  no,  Orlando ;  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  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary 
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,  and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are  dis 
posed  to  be  merry  ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,  and  that  when 
thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.  O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do  this  :  the  wiser, 
the  way  warder :  make  the  doors  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  ? ' 

Ros.  Nay,  you  might  keep  that  check  for  it  till  you  met  your 
wife's  wit  going  to  your  neighbour's  bed. 

Orl.  And  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse  that  ? 

556 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Ros.  Marry,  to  say  she  came  to  seek  you  there.  You  shall 
never  take  her  without  her  answer,  unless  you  take  her  with 
out  her  tongue.  O,  that  woman  that  cannot  make  her  fault 
her  husband's  occasion,  let  her  never  nurse  her  child  herself, 
for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool  ! 

OrL  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  will  leave  thee. 

Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours  ! 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  Duke  at  dinner  :  by  two  o'clock  I  will 
be  with  thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways  ;  I  knew  what  you  would 
prove :  my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no  less  : 
that  flattering  tongue  of  yours  won  me :  'tis  but  one  cast 
away,  and  so,  come,  death  !  Two  o'clock  is  your  hour  ? 

Orl,  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Ros.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  God  mend  me, 
and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break 
one  jot  of  your  promise  or  come  one  minute  behind  your 
hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical  break-promise,  and 
the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  her  you 
call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of 
the  unfaithful :  therefore  beware  my  censure  and  keep  your 
promise. 

OrL  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  Rosa 
lind  :  so  adieu. 

Ros.  Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines  all  such  of 
fenders,  and  let  Time  try  :  adieu.  [Exit  Orlando. 

Cel.  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. 

Ros.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  preety  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. 

Cel.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as  you  pour  affection 
in,  it  runs  out. 

Ros.  No,  that  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus  that  was  begot  of 
thought,  conceived  of  spleen,  and  born  of  madness,  that  blind 
rascally  boy  that  abuses  every  one's  eyes  because  his  own 
are  out,  let  him  be  judge  how  deep  I  am  in  love.  I  '11 
tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando  : 
I'll  go  find  a  shadow  and  sigh  till  he  come. 

Cel.  And  I'll  sleep.  [Exeunt. 


557 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii,  iii]  As  You  Like  It 

SCENE  II 
The  forest. 

Enter  Jaques^  Lords,  and  Foresters. 
Jaq.  Which  is  he  that  killed  the  deer  ? 
A  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  ? 
For.  Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it :  'tis  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune,  so  it  make  noise 
enough. 

SONG. 

For.  What  shall  he  have  that  kill'd  the  deer  ? 

His  leather  skin  and  horns  to  wear. 
Then  sing  him  home : 

[The  rest  shall  bear  this  burden. 
Take  thou  no  scorn  to  wear  the  horn ; 
It  was  a  crest  ere  thou  wast  born : 

Thy  father's  father  wore  it, 
And  thy  father  bore  it : 
The  horn,  the  horn,  the  lusty  horn 
Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
The  forest. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Ros.  How  say  you  now  ?     Is  it  not  past  two  o'clock  ;  and  here 

much  Orlando  I 
Cel.  I  warrant  you,  with  pure  love  and  troubled  brain,  he  hath 

ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows  and  is  gone  forth  to  sleep.     Look, 

who  comes  here. 

Enter  Silvius. 
Sil.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth ; 

My  gentle.  Phebe  bid  me  give  you  this. 

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  tenour  :  pardon  me ; 

I  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 
Ros.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter 

And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 

She  says  I  am  not  fair,  that  I  lack  manners ; 

She  calls  me  proud,  and  that  she  could  not  love  me, 

558 


ise 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi 

Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix.     'Od  's  my  will  1 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ?     Well,  shepherd,  well, 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 
Sil.  No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents : 

Phebe  did  write  it. 

Ros.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  turn  'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand  :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  freestone-colour  'd  hand ;  I  verily  did  think 
That  her  old  gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands : 
She  has  a  huswife's  hand ;  but  that 's  no  matter  : 
I  say  she  never  did  invent  this  letter ; 
This  is  a  man's  invention  and  his  hand. 
Sil.  Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Ros.  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers ;  why,  she  defies  me, 
Like  Turk  to  Christian :  women's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiope  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance.     Will  you  hear  the  letter  ? 
Sil.  So  please  you,  for  I  never  heard  it  yet ; 

Yet  heard  too  much  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 
Ros.  She  Phebes  me :  mark  how  the  tyrant  writes. 
[Reads]       Art  thou  god  to  shepherd  turn'd, 

That  a  maiden's  heart  hath  burn'd  ? 
Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.  Call  you  this  railing  ? 
Ros.  [reads] 

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 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine, 
Alack,  in  me  what  strange  effect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect  1 
Whiles  you  chide  me,  I  did  love ; 
How  then  might  your  prayers  move  1 
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 
559 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  As  You  Lil 

Will  the  faithful  offer  take 
Of  me  and  all  that  I  can  make ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny, 
And  then  I  '11  study  how  to  die. 
Sit.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 
Cel.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  ! 
Ros.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity.     Wilt  thou 

love  such  a  woman  ?     What,  to  make  thee  an  instrument 

and    play    false   strains   upon  thee !    not  to   be   endured ! 

Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  for  I  see  love  hath  made  thee  a 

tame  snake,  and  say  this  to  her :   that  if  she  love   me,   I 

charge  her  to  love  thee ;  if  she  will  not,  I  will  never  have 

her  unless  thou  entreat  for  her.     If  you  be  a  true  lover, 

hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes  more  company. 

\Exit  Silvius. 
Enter  Oliver. 
OH.  Good  morrow,  fair  ones  :  pray  you,  if  you  know, 

Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 

A  sheep-cote  fenced  about  with  olive-trees  ? 
CeL  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbour  bottom  : 

The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream 

Left  on  your  right  hand  brings  you  to  the  place. 

But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 

There 's  none  within. 
Oli.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 

Then  should  I  know  you  by  description ; 

Such  garments  and  such  years :  '  The  boy  is  fair, 

Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself 

Like  a  ripe  sister  :  the  woman  low, 

And  browner  than  her  brother.'     Are  not  you 

The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  enquire  for? 
Cel.  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say  we  are. 
OK.  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both, 

And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind 

He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.  Are  you  he  ? 
Jtos.  I  am :  what  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 
OK.  Some  of  my  shame ;  if  you  will  know  of  me 

What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 

This  handkercher  was  stain'd. 
Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

OH.  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from  you 

He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 

Within  an  hour,  and  pacing  through  the  forest, 

Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy, 

Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside, 

560 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

And  mark  what  object  did  present  itself: 

Under  an  oak,  whose  boughs  were  moss'd  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  approach'd 

The  opening  of  his  mouth ;  but  suddenly, 

Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlink'd  itself, 

And  with  indented  glides  did  slip  away 

Into  a  bush :  under  which  bush's  shade 

A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 

Lay  couching,  head  on  ground,  with  catlike  watch, 

When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir ;  for  'tis 

The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast 

To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead : 

This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man 

And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 
Cel.  O,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother ; 

And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 

That  lived  amongst  men. 
OH.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 
Ros.  But,  to  Orlando  :  did  he  leave  him  there, 

Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ? 
OH.  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  't  you  he  rescued  ? 

Cel.  Was  't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill  him  ? 
OH.  'Twas  I ;  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 

To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 

So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 
Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? 
OH.  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  place ; 

In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  Duke, 

Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment, 

Committing  me  unto  my  brother's  love ; 


Act  V,  Sc.  ij  As  You  Like  It 

Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave, 

There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 

The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 

Which  all  this  while  had  bled ;  and  now  he  fainted 

And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 

Brief,  I  recover'd  him,  bound  up  his  wound; 

And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 

He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 

To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 

His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin, 

Dyed  in  his  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 

That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind.       [^Rosalind  swoons. 
Cel.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  !  sweet  Ganymede  ! 
OIL  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood. 
Cel.  There  is  more  in  it.     Cousin  Ganymede ! 
OIL  Look,  he  recovers. 
Ros.  I  would  I  were  at  home. 
Cel.  We  '11  lead  you  thither. 

I  pray  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ?  [heart. 

OIL  Be  of  good  cheer,  youth :  you  a  man  1  you  lack  a  man's 
Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.     Ah,  sirrah,  a  body  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. 
Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler :  pray  you,  draw  homewards. 

Good  sir,  go  with  us. 
OIL  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  forest. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey ;  patience,  gentle  Audrey. 
Aud.  Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all  the  old  gentle 
man's  saying. 
Touch.  A  most  wicked  Sir  Oliver,  Audrey,  a  most  vile  Martext. 

562 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth  here  in  the  forest  lays  claim  to 
you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  'tis  :  he  hath  no  interest  in  me  in  the 
world :  here  comes  the  man  you  mean. 

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. 

Enter   William. 

Will,  Good  even,  Audrey. 

Aud.  God  ye  good  even,  William. 

Will.  And  good  even  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  even,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy  head,  cover  thy 
head ;  nay,  prithee,  be  covered.  How  old  are  you,  friend  ? 

Will.  Five  and  twenty,  sir. 

Touch.  A  ripe  age.     Is  thy  name  William  ? 

Will.  William,  sir. 

Touch.  A  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  sayest  well.  I  do  now  remember  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  ? 

Will.  I  do,  sir. 

Touch.  Give  me  your  hand.     Art  thou  learned  ? 

Will.  No,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me :  to  have,  is  to  have ;  for  it  is  a 
figure  in  rhetoric  that  drink,  being  poured  out  of  a  cup  into 
a  glass,  by  filling  the  one  doth  empty  the  other  ;  for  all  your 
writers  do  consent  that  ipse  is  he :  now  you  are  not  ipse,  for 
I  am  he. 

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  thee 
away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy  liberty  into  bondage :  I 

563 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  As  You  Like  It 

will  deal  in  poison  with  thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I 
will  bandy  with  thee  in  faction  ;  I  will  o'er-run  thee  with 
policy  ;  I  will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways  :  therefore 
tremble,  and  depart. 

And,  Do,  good  William. 

Will.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seeks  you  ;  come,  away,  away  ! 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey  1  trip,  Audrey  !     I  attend,  I  attend. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  forest. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 
Or  I.  Is 't  possible  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you  should  like 
her  ?  that  but  seeing  you  should  like  her  ?  and  loving  woo  ? 
and,  wooing,  she  should  grant?  and  will  you  persever  to 
enjoy  her? 

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 ;  consent  with  both  that  we  may 
enjoy  each  other :  it  shall  be  to  your  good ;  for  my  father's 
house  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  Sir  Rowland's  will  I 
estate  upon  you,  and  here  live  and  die  a  shepherd. 
Orl.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding  be  to-morrow : 
thither  will  I  invite  the  Duke  and  all 's  contented  followers. 
Go  you  and  prepare  Aliena ;  for  look  you,  here  comes  my 
Rosalind. 

Enter  Rosalind. 
Ros.  God  save  you,  brother. 

Oli.  And  you,  fair  sister.  [Exit. 

Ros.  O,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see  thee  wear 

thy  heart  in  a  scarf  1 
Orl.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded  with  the  claws  of 
Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady.  [a  lion. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counterfeited  to  swoon 

when  he  showed  me  your  handkercher  ? 
Orl.  Ay,  and  greater  wonders  than  that. 

Ros.  O,  I  know  where  you  are  :  nay,  'tis  true  :  there  was  never 
any  thing  so  sudden  but  the  fight  of  two  rams,  and  Caesar's 
thrasonical  brag  of  *  I  came,  saw,  and  overcame : '  for  your 
brother  and  my  sister  no  sooner  met  but  they  looked;  no 
sooner  looked  but  they  loved;  no  sooner  loved  but  they 

564 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

sighed ;  no  sooner  sighed  but  they  asked  one  another  the 
reason ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason  but  they  sought  the 
remedy :  and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of 
stairs  to  marriage  which  they  will  climb  incontinent,  or  else 
be  incontinent  before  marriage :  they  are  in  the  very  wrath 
of  love  and  they  will  together ;  clubs  cannot  part  them. 
Or  I.  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 
Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking.  [Rosalind  ? 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you  then  no  longer  with  idle  talking.  Know 
of  me  then,  for  now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,  that  I  know 
you  are  a  gentleman  of  good  conceit :  I  speak  not  this  that 
you  should  bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch 
I  say  I  know  you  are  ;  neither  do  I  labour  for  a  greater 
esteem  than  may  in  some  little  measure  draw  a  belief  from 
you,  to  do  yourself  good  and  not  to  grace  me.  Believe  then, 
if  you  please,  that  I  can  do  strange  things :  I  have,  since  I 
was  three  year  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most  pro 
found  in  his  art  and  yet  not  damnable.  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  and  without  any 
Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ?  [danger. 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly,  though  I  say  I 
am  a  magician.  Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best  array ;  bid 
your  friends ;  for  if  you  will  be  married  to-morrow,  you  shall ; 
and  to  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  you. 
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. 

565 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii] 


As  You  Like  It 


Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

OrL  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. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

OrL  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman. 

SiL  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy, 

All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 

All  adoration,  duty,  and  observance, 

All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience, 

All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ; 

And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

OrL  And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman. 

Phe.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

SiL  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

OrL  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? 

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

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

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  'tis  like  the  howling  of  Irish 
wolves  against  the  moon.  [To  Si7.]  I  will  help  you,  if  I 
can :  [To  Phe.}  I  would  love  you,  if  I  could.  To-morrow 
meet  me  all  together.  [To  PheJ]  I  will  marry  you,  if  ever  I 
marry  woman,  and  I  '11  be  married  to-morrow :  \To  Or/.]  I 
will  satisfy  you,  if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be 
married  to-morrow :  [To  StlJ]  I  will  content  you,  if  what 
pleases  you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be  married  to 
morrow.  [To  OrlJ\  As  you  love  Rosalind,  meet :  [To  StL] 
as  you  love  Phebe,  meet:  and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I'll 
meet.  So,  fare  you  well :  I  have  left  you  commands. 

Sil.  I  '11  not  fail,  if  I  live. 

Phe.  Nor  I. 

OrL  Nor  I.  [Exeunt. 


>L 

SCENE 


III 


Theforest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey 
Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey ;  to-morrow  will 

we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart ;  and  I  hope  it  is  no  dis 
honest  desire  to  desire  to  be  a  woman  of  the  world.  Here 
come  two  of  the  banished  Duke's  pages. 

566 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

Enter  two  Pages. 

First  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 

Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.     Come,  sit,  sit,  and  a  song. 

Sec.  Page.  We  are  for  you :  sit  i'  the  middle. 

First  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into  't  roundly,  without  hawking  or 
spitting  or  saying  we  are  hoarse,  which  are  the  only  prologues 
to  a  bad  voice  ?  [on  a  horse. 

Sec.  Page.  V  faith,  i'  faith  ;  and  both  in  a  tune,  like  two  gipsies 

SONG. 
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  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  &c. 

. 
This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 

In  spring  time,  &c. 

. 
And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino ; 
For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

i 
Touch.    Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there  was  no  great 

matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  was  very  untuneabte. 
First  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  song.  God  be  wi'  you  :  and  God  mend  your  voices  ! 
Come,  Audrey.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 
The  forest. 
Enter  Duke  senior ;  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orlando,  Oliver, 

and  Celia. 

Duke  S.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

567 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  As  You  Like 

Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do  not ; 

As  those  that  fear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fear. 

Enter  Rosalind,  Silvius^  and  Phebe. 
Ros.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compact  is  urged : 

You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 

You  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. 
Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 
Ros.  You  say,  you  '11  marry  me,  if  I  be  willing  ? 
Phe.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros.  But  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me, 

You  '11  give  yourself  to  this  most  faithful  shepherd? 
Phe.  So  is  the  bargain. 

Ros.  You  say,  that  you  11  have  Phebe,  if  she  will  ? 
Sil.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both  one  thing. 
Ros.  I  have  promised  to  make  all  this  matter  even. 

Keep  you  your  word,  O  Duke,  to  give  your  daughter ; 

You  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter  : 

Keep  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you  '11  marry  me, 

Or  else  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd  : 

Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you  '11  marry  her, 

If  she  refuse  me  :  and  from  hence  I  go, 

To  make  these  doubts  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Duke  S.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd  boy 

Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 
Orl.  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him 

Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter : 

But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-born, 

And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 

Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 

Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 

Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 
Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  toward,  and  these  couples  are 

coming  to  the  ark.     Here  comes  a  pair  of  very  strange  beasts, 

which  in  all  tongues  are  called  fools. 
Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 
Jaq.  Good  my  lord,   bid  him  welcome  :  this   is  the    motley- 
minded  gentleman  that  I  have  so  often  met  in  the  forest : 

he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he  swears. 
Touch.  If  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me  to  my  purgation. 

I  have  trod  a  measure ;  I  have  flattered  a  lady ;  I  have  been 

politic  with  my  friend,  smooth  with  mine  enemy  ;  I  have  un- 

568 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  V,  Sc.  iv 

done  three  tailors  ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have 

Jag.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ?  [fought  one. 

Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel  was  upon  the 
seventn  cause. 

Jaq.  How  seventh  cause  ?     Good  my  lord,  like  this  fellow. 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Tench.  God  'ild  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like.  I  press  in 
here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country  copulatives,  to 
swear  and  to  forswear ;  according  as  marriage  binds  and 
blood  breaks  :  a  poor  virgin,  sir,  an  ill-favoured  thing,  sir, 
but  mine  own ;  a  poor  humour  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  that 
no  man  else  will :  rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser,  sir,  in  a 
poor  house ;  as  your  pearl  in  your  foul  oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sententious. 

Touch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such  dulcet  diseases. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause ;  how  did  you  find  the  quarrel 
on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed  : — bear  your  body 
more  seeming,  Audrey  :• — as  thus,  sir.  I  did  dislike  the 
cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard  :  he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said 
his  beard  was  not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was  :  this 
is  -called  the  Retort  Courteous.  If  I  sent  him  word  again 
1  it  was  not  well  cut,'  he  would  send  me  word,  he  cut  it  to 
please  himself :  this  is  called  the  Quip  Modest.  If  again  '  it 
was  not  well  cut/  he  disabled  my  judgement :  this  is  called 
the  Reply  Churlish.  If  again  *  it  was  not  well  cut,'  he  would 
answer,  I  spake  not  true  :  this  is  called  the  Reproof  Valiant. 
If  again  *  it  was  not  well  cut,'  he  would  say,  I  lie  :  this  is 
called  the  Countercheck  Quarrelsome  :  and  so  to  the  Lie 
Circumstantial  and  the  Lie  Direct. 

Jaq.  And  how  oft  did  you  say  his  beard  was  not  well  cut  ? 
Touch.  I  durst  go  no  further  than  the  Lie  Circumstantial,  nor 
he  durst  not  give  me  the  Lie  Direct ;  and  so  we  measured 
swords  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  degrees  of  the  lie  ? 
Touch.  O  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book ;  as  you  have 
books  for  good  manners  :  I  will  name  you  the  degrees.  The 
first,  the  Retort  Courteous ;  the  second,  the  Quip  Modest ; 
the  third,  the  Reply  Churlish;  the  fourth,  the  Reproof 
Valiant ;  the  fifth,  the  Countercheck  Quarrelsome  \  the  sixth, 
the  Lie  with  Circumstance  ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie  Direct.  All 
these  you  may  avoid  but  the  Lie  Direct ;  and  you  may  avoid 
that  too,  with  an  If.  I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not 
take  up  a  quarrel,  but  when  the  parties  were  met  themselves, 
one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  If,  as,  '  If  you  said  so,  then  I 

569 


Act  V,  Sc.  iv]  As  You  Like  It 

said  so ; '  and  they  shook  hands  and  swore  brothers.     Your 
If  is  the  only  peace-maker ;  much  virtue  in  If. 
Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he 's  as  good  at  any 

thing  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  He  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse  and  under  the 
presentation  of  that  he  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  Hymen,  Rosalind,  and  Celia. 

Still  Music, 

Hym.  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 

When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  Duke,  receive  thy  daughter : 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither, 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  hand  with  his 
Whose  heart  within  his  bosom  is. 
Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 
Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  daughter. 
Orl.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 
Phe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 

Why  then,  my  love  adieu  ! 
Ros.  I  '11  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he : 
1 11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 
Hym.  Peace,  ho  !  I  bar  confusion  : 

'Tis  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  events : 
Here 's  eight  that  must  take  hands 
To  join  in  Hymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 
You  to  his  love  must  accord, 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord  : 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock-hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning  ; 
That  reason  wonder  may  diminish, 
How  thus  we  met,  and  these  things  finish. 

SONG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown : 
O  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ! 
570 


he 


As  You  Like  It  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

'Tis  Hymen  peoples  every  town ; 

High  wedlock  then  be  honoured : 
Honour,  high  honour  and  renown, 

To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town ! 

Duke  S.  O  rny  dear  niece,  welcome  thou  art  to  me  1 

Even  daughter,  welcome,  in  no  less  degree. 
Phe.  I  will  not  eat  my  word,  now  thou  art  mine  j 

Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine. 

Enter  Jaques  de  Boys. 

Jaq.  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word  or  two  : 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fair  assembly. 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power ;  which  were  on  foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 
His  brother  here  and  put  him  to  the  sword : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came ; 
Where  meeting  with  an  old  religious  man, 
After  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise  and  from  the  world ; 
His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exiled.     This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life, 

Duke  S.  Welcome,  young  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 
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. 
Play,  music  !     And  you,  brides  and  bridegrooms  all, 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,  to  the  measures  fall. 

Jaq.  Sir,  by  your  patience.     If  I  heard  you  rightly, 
The  Duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court  ? 

Jaq.  de  B.  He  hath. 


Epilogue  As  You  Like  It 

Jaq.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertites 

There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. 
[To  Duke  S.]  You  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath; 

Your  patience  and  your  virtue  well  deserves  it : 
To  Or!.]  You  to  a  love,  that  your  true  faith  doth  merit : 
'To  Oli.\  You  to  your  land,  and  love,  and  great  allies : 
'To  Sil.~\  You  to  a  long  and  well-deserved  bed  : 
'To  Touch.]  And  you  to  wrangling;  for  thy  loving  voyage 

Is  but  for  two  months  victuall'd.     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  '11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.  [Exit. 

Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed  :  we  will  begin  these  rites, 

As  we  do  trust  they  '11  end,  in  true  delights.  [A  dance. 


EPILOGUE 

Ros.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the  epilogue ;  but  it 
is  no  more  unhandsome  than  to  see  the  lord  the  prologue. 
If  it  be  true  that  good  wine  needs  no  bush,  'tis  true  that  a 
good  play  needs  no  epilogue :  yet  to  good  wine  they  do  use 
good  bushes ;  and  good  plays  prove  the  better  by  the  help 
of  good  epilogues.  What  a  case  am  I  in  then,  that  am 
neither  a  good  epilogue,  nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the 
behalf  of  a  good  play !  I  am  not  furnished  like  a  beggar, 
therefore  to  beg  will  not  become  me :  my  way  is  to  conjure 
you  j  and  I  '11  begin  with  the  women.  I  charge  you,  O 
women,  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  much  of  this 
play  as  please  you :  and  I  charge  you,  O  men,  for  the  love 
you  bear  to  women, — as  I  perceive  by  your  simpering,  none 
of  you  hates  them, — that  between  you  and  the  women  the 
play  may  please.  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would  kiss  as  many 
of  you  as  had  beards  that  pleased  me,  complexions  that 
liked  me  and  breaths  that  I  defied  not :  and,  I  am  sure,  as 
many  as  have  good  beards  or  good  faces  or  sweet  breaths 
will,  for  my  kind  offer,  when  I  make  curtsy,  bid  me  farewell. 

[Eoceunt. 


57* 


THE   TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

CHRISTOPHER  S\M,atinker.  \Personsin  the       HORTENSIO,  }suitors  to  Bianca. 
Hostess,  Page,  Players,          f     Induction. 
Huntsmen  and  Servants.    J 

BAPTIST  A,  a  rich  gentleman  of  Padua.  '"—--  '  tst^oatfts  to  Petruchio. 

VINCENTIO,  an  old  gentleman  of  Pisa. 
LUCENTIO,  son  to  Vincentio,  in  love  with 

Bianca. 
PETRUCHIO,   a  gentleman    oj    Verona,   a 

suitor  to  Katharina. 


} 


*  to  Lucentio. 


A  Pedant. 

KATHARINA,  the  shrewd  daughters 
BIANCA,  /     Baptisia. 

Widow. 


Tailor,  Haberdasher,  and  Servants  attending  on  Baptista  and  Petruchio. 
SCENE  :  Padua,  and  Petruchio  s  country  house. 

INDUCTION—  SCENE  I 

Before  an  alehouse  on  a  heath. 

Enter  Hostess  and  Sly. 
Sly.  I  '11  pheeze  you,  in  faith. 
Host.  A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 
Sly.  Y'  are  a  baggage  :  the  Slys  are  no  rogues  ;   look    in  the 

chronicles;  we  came  in  with  Richard  Conqueror.     There 

fore  paucas  pallabris  ;  let  the  world  slide  :  sessa  ! 
Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you  have  burst  ? 
Sly.  No,  not  a  denier.     Go  by,  Jeronimy  :  go  to  thy  cold  bed, 

and  warm  thee. 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy  ;  I  must  go  fetch  the  thirdborough. 

{Exit. 
Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I  '11  answer  him  by  law  : 

I  '11  not  budge  an  inch,  boy  :  let  him  come,  and  kindly. 

[falls  asleep. 

Horns  winded.     Enter  a  Lord  from  hunting,  with  his  train. 
Lord.  Huntsman,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well  my  hounds  : 

Brach  Merriman,  the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd  ; 

And  couple  Clowder  with  the  deep-mouth'd  brach. 

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. 
First  Hun.  Why,  Belman  is  as  good  as  he,  my  lord  ; 

He  cried  upon  it  as  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. 
First  Hun.  I  will,  my  lord. 

573 


Induction,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Lord.  What's   here?    one   dead,    or    drunk?     See,    doth    he 

breathe  ? 
Sec.  Hun.  He  breathes,  my  lord.   Were  he  not  warm'd  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  convey'd  to  bed, 

Wrapp'd  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? 
First  Hun.  Believe  me,  lord,  I  think  he  cannot  choose. 
Sec.  Hun.  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  in  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  honour  will  command  ? ' 

Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  basin 

Full  of  rose-water  and  bestrew'd  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,  gentle  sirs : 

It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent, 

If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty. 
First  Hun.  My  lord,  I  warrant  you  we  will  play  our  part, 

As  he  shall  think  by  our  true  diligence 

He  is  no  less  than  what  we  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. 
574 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Induction,  Sc.  i 

Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet  'tis  that  sounds : 

\Exit  Servingman. 

Belike,  some  noble  gentleman  that  means, 

Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. 
Re-enter  Servingman. 

How  now  !  who  is  it  ? 
Serv.  An 't  please  your  honour,  players 

That  offer  service  to  your  lordship. 
Lord.  Bid  them  come  near. 

Enter  Players. 

Now,  fellows,  you  are  welcome. 
Players.   We  thank  your  honour. 
Lord.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night  ? 
A  Player.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our  duty. 
Lord.  With  all  my  heart.    This  fellow  I  remember, 

Since  once  he  play'd  a  farmer's  eldest  son  : 

'Twas  where  you  woo'd  the  gentlewoman  so  well : 

I  have  forgot  your  name ;  but,  sure,  that  part 

Was  aptly  fitted  and  naturally  perform'd. 
A  Player.  I  think  'twas  Soto  that  your  honour  means. 
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  behaviour, — • 

For  yet  his  honour  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. 
A  Player.  Fear  not,  my  lord  :  we  can  contain  ourselves, 

Were  he  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world. 
Lord.  Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery, 

And  give  them  friendly  welcome  every  one : 

Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  affords. 

\Exit  one  with  the  Players, 

Sirrah,  go  you  to  Barthol'mew  my  page, 

And  see  him  dress'd  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  honourable  action, 

Such  as  he  hath  observed  in  noble  ladies 

Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished : 

575 


Induction,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do 

With  soft  low  tongue  and  lowly  courtesy, 

And  say,  '  What  is 't  your  honour  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  being  overjoy'd 

To  see  her  noble  lord  restored  to  health, 

Who  for  this  seven  years  hath  esteemed  him 

No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar : 

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  being  close  convey'd 

Shall  in  despite  .enforce  a  watery  eye. 

See  this  dispatch' d  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst : 

Anon  I  '11  give  thee  more  instructions.     [.Exit  a  Servingman. 

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  '11  in  to  counsel  them  ;  haply  my  presence 

May  well  abate  the  over-merry  speen 

Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes.  'Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A  bedchamber  in  the  Lord's  house. 
Enter  aloft   Sfy,  with   Attendant ;  some   with   apparel,   others 

with  basin  and  ewer  and  other  appurtenances -,  and  Lord. 
Sly.  For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 
First  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup  of  sack  ? 
Sec.  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  honour  taste  of  these  conserves  ? 
Third  Serv.  What  raiment  will  your  honour  wear  to-day  ? 
Sly.  I  am  Christophero  Sly  ;  call  not  me  '  honour '  nor  '  lord 
ship  : '  I  ne'er  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,   sometime  more  feet  than   shoes,   or   such 
shoes  as  my  toes  look  through  the  overleather. 
Lord.  Heaven  cease  this  idle  humour  in  your  honour  ! 
O,  that  a  mighty  man  of  such  descent, 
Of  such  possessions  and  so  high  esteem, 
576 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Induction,  Sc.  ii 

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  pedlar,  by 
education  a  card-maker,  by  transmutation  a  bear-herd,  and 
now  by  present  profession  a  tinker?  Ask  Marian  Racket, 
the  fat  ale-wife  of  Wincot,  if  she  know  me  not :  if  she  say 
I  am  not  fourteen  pence  on  the  score  for  sheer  ale,  score 
me  up  for  the  lyingest  knave  in  Christendom.  What  1  I 
am  not  bestraught :  here  Js — 

Third  Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady  mourn  ! 

Sec.  Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants  droop  ! 

Lord.  Hence  comes  it;  that  your  kindred  shuns  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  '11  have  thee  to  a  couch 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say  thou  wilt  walk  ;  we  will  bestrew  the  ground  : 
Or  wilt  thou  ride?  thy  horses  shall  be  trapp'd, 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 
Dost  thou  love  hawking  ?  thou  hast  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark  :  or  wilt  thou  hunt  ? 
Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them, 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

first  Serv.  Say  thou  wilt  course ;  thy  greyhounds  are  as  swift 
As  breathed  stags,  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

Sec.  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  '11  show  thee  lo  as  she  was  a  maid  ; 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  surprised, 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

Third  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  : 

577  T 


Induction,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 

Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 
First  Serv.  And  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed  for  thee 

Like  envious  floods  o'er-run  her  lovely  face, 

She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world ; 

And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 
Sty.  Am  I  a  lord  ?  and  have  I  such  a  lady  ? 

Or  do  I  dream  ?  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now  ? 

I  do  not  sleep  :  I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak ; 

I  smell  sweet  savours  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. 
Sec.  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  mightiness  to  wash  your  hands? 

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. 
Sly.  These  fifteen  years  !  by  my  fay,  a  goodly  nap. 

Bat  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time  ? 
First  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, 

Because  she  brought  stone  jugs  and  no  seal'd  quarts  : 

Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket. 
Sly.  Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house. 
Third  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  Greece 

And  Peter  Turph  and  Henry  Pimpernell 

And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  these 

Which  never  were  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 
Sly.  Now  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends  ! 
AIL  Amen. 
Sly.  I  thank  thee  :  thou  shall  not  lose  by  it. 

Enter  the  Page  as  a  lady,  attended. 
Page.  How  fares  my  noble  lord  ? 
Sly.  Marry,  I  fare  well ;  for  here  is  cheer  enough. 

Where  is  my  wife  ? 

Page    Here,  noble  lord  :  what  is  thy  will  with  her? 
Sly.  Are  you  my  wife  and  will  not  call  me  husband  ? 

My  men  should  call  me  '  lord : '  I  am  your  goodman. 

578 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Page.  My  husband  and  my  lord,  my  lord  and  husband ; 
I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

Sly.  I  know  it  well.    What  must  I  call  her  ? 

Lord.  Madam. 

Sly.  Al'ce  madam,  or  Joan  madam  ? 

Lord.   '  Madam  '  and  nothing  else  :  so  lords  call  ladies. 

Sly.  Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dream'd 
And  slept  above  some  fifteen  year  or  more. 

Page.  Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me, 
Being  all  this  time  abandon'd  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, 
In  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  will  therefore 
tarry  in  despite  of  the  flesh  and  the  blood. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Your  honour'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  congeaFd  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  comonty  a  Christ 
mas  gambold  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  '11  see 't.     Come,  madam  wife,  sit  by  my  side  and 
let  the  world  slip :  we  shall  ne'er  be  younger. 
Flourish. 

ACT  I— SCENE  I 
Padua.     A  public  place. 
Enter  Lucentio  and  his  man  Tranio. 
Luc.  Tranio,  since  for  the  great  desire  I  had 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 

579 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

I  am  arrived  for  fruitful  Lombardy, 

The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy , 

And  by  my  father's  love  and  leave  am  arm'd 

With  his  good  will  and  thy  good  company, 

My  trusty  servant,  well  approved  in  all, 

Here  let  us  breathe  and  haply  institute 

A  course  of  learning  and  ingenious  studies. 

Pisa  renowned  for  grave  citizens 

Gave  me  my  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, 

To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  virtuous  deeds : 

And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  1  study, 

Virtue  and  that  part  of  philosophy 

Will  I  apply  that  treats  of  happiness 

By  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  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep, 

And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 
Tra.  Mi  perdonato,  gentle  master  mine, 

I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself ; 

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  checks 

As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjured : 

Balk  logic  with  acquaintance  that  you  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  a  while  :  what  company  is  this  ? 
Master,  some  show  to  welcome  us  to  town. 
580 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

•Enter  Baptista,  Katharina^  Bianca,  Gremio,  and  Hortensio. 

Lucentio  and  Tranio  stand  by. 
Bap.  Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  farther, 

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.  \Aside\  To  cart  her  rather :  she 's  too  rough  for  me. 

There,  there,  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 
Kath.  I  pray  you,  sir,  is  it  your  will 

To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 
Hor.  Mates,  maid  !  how  mean  you  that  ?  no  mates  for  you, 

Unless  you  were  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 
Kath.  I'  faith,  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to  fear : 

I  wis  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart ; 

But  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be 

To  comb  your  noddle  with  a  three-legg'd  stool 

And  paint  your  face  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 
Hor.  From  all  such  devils,  good  Lord  deliver  us ! 
Gre.  And  me  too,  good  Lord  ! 
Tra.  Husht,  master  !  here 's  some  good  pastime  toward  : 

That  wench  is  stark  mad  or  wonderful  froward. 
Luc.  But  in  the  other's  silence  do  I  see 

Maid's  mild  behaviour  and  sobriety. 

Peace,  Tranio ! 

Tra.  Well  said,  master ;  mum  !  and  gaze  your  fill. 
Bap.  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 

What  I  have  said,  Bianca,  get  you  in : 

And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  good  Bianca, 

For  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 
Kath.  A  pretty  peat !  it  is  best 

Put  finger  in  the  eye,  an  she  knew  why. 
Bian.  Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. 

Sir,  to  your  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe : 

My  books  and  instruments  shall  be  my  company, 

On  them  to  look  and  practise  by  myself. 
Luc.  Hark,  Tranio  !  thou  may'st  hear  Minerva  speak. 
Hor.  Signior  Baptista,  will  you  be  so  strange? 

Sorry  am  I  that  our  good  will  effects 

Bianca;s  grief. 
Gre.  Why  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell, 

And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  content  ye ;  I  am  resolved  : 

Go  in,  Bianca  :  [Exit  Bian 

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  Signior  Gremio,  you,  know  any  such, 

Prefer  them  hither ;  for  to  cunning  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  are  so  good, 
here's  none  will  hold  you.  Their  love  is  not  so  great, 
Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our  nails  together,  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  wish  him  to  her  father. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  Signior  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  labour  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.  Thinkest  thoii,  Hortensio,  though  her 
father  be  very  rich,  any  man  is  so  very  a  fool  to  be  married 
to  hell  ? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio  !  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. 

Gre.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her  dowry  with  this 
condition,  to  be  whipped  at  the  high-cross  every  morning. 

Hor.  Faith,  as  you  say,  there  's  small  choice  in  rotten  apples. 
But  come  ;  since  this  bar  in  law  makes  us  friends,  it  shall  be 
so  far  forth  friendly  maintained  till  by  helping  Baptista's 
eldest  daughter  to  a  husband  we  set  his  youngest  free  for  a 
husband,  and  then  have  to  't  afresh.  Sweet  Bianca  1  Happy 

58a 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

man  be  his  dole  !     He  that  runs  fastest  gets  the  ring.     How 

say  you,  Signior  Gremio  ? 
Gre.  I  am  agreed  ;  and  would  I  had  given  him  the  best  horse 

in  Padua  to  begin  his  wooing  that  would  thoroughly  woo  her, 

wed  her  and  bed  her  and  rid  the  house  of  her  !     Come  on. 

\Exeunt  Gremio  and  Hortensio. 
Tra.  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me,  is  it  possible 

That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold ! 
Luc.  O  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  true, 

I  never  thought  it  possible  or  likely  ; 

But  see,  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on, 

I  found  the  effect  of  love  in  idleness  : 

And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee, 

That  art  to  me  as  secret  and  as  dear 

As  Anna  to  the  Queen  of  Carthage  was, 

Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 

If  I  achieve  not  this  young  modest  girl. 

Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst ; 

Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 
Tra.  Master,  it  is-  no  time  to  chide  you  now ; 

Affection  is  not  rated  from  the  heart : 

If  love  have  touched  you,  nought  remains  but  so, 

1  Redime  te  captum  quam  queas  minimo.' 
Luc.  Gramercies,  lad,  go  forward ;  this  contents  : 

The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel 's  sound. 
Tra.  Master,  you  look'd  so  longly  on  the  maid, 

Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what 's  the  pith  of  all. 
Luc.  O  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  her  face, 

Such  as  the  daughter  of  Agenor  had, 

That  made  great  Jove  to  humble  him  to  her  hand, 

When  with  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strond. 
Tra.  Saw  you  no  more  ?  mark'd  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  rid  his  hands  of  her, 

Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home ; 

And  therefore  has  he  closely  mew'd  her  up, 

Because  she  will  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitor^. 

5*3 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

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. 
Luc.  Tell  me  thine  first. 
Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid  : 

That 's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is  :  may  it  be  done? 

Tra.  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. 

We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house, 

Nor  can  we  be  distinguish'd  by  our  faces 

For  man  or  master  ;  then  it  follows  thus ; 

Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead, 

Keep  house  and  port  and  servants,  as  I  should  : 

I  will  some  other  be ;  some  Florentine, 

Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 

'Tis  hatch'd  and  shall  be  so :  Tranio,  at  once 

Uncase  thee ;  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak  : 

When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee ; 

But  I  will  charm  him  first  to  keep  his  tongue. 
Tra.  So  had  you  need. 

In  brief,  sir,  sith  it  your  pleasure  is, 

And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient, 

For  so  your  father  charged  me  at  our  parting ; 

'  Be  serviceable  to  my  son,'  quoth  he, 

Although  I  think  'twas  in  another  sense ; 

I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 

Because  so  well  I  love  Lucentio. 
Luc.  Tranio,  be  so,  because  Lucentio  loves : 

And  let  me  be  a  slave,  to  achieve  that  maid 

Whose  sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wounded  eye. 

Here  comes  the  rogue. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Sirrah,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Bion.  Where  have  I  been !     Nay,  how  now  !  where  are  you  ? 

Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stolen  your  clothes  ?     Or  you 

stolen  his  ?  or  both  ?  pray,  what  7s  the  news  ? 

584 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc,  ii 

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  kilPd  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  could  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  companies  : 

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. 

The  presenters  above  speak. 

First  Serv.  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  ? 
Page.  My  lord,  'tis  but  begun. 
Sly.  'Tis  a  very  excellent  piece  of  work,  madam  lady :  would 

'twere  done !  \They  sit  and  mark. 

SCENE  II 

Padua.     Before  Hortensitfs  house. 
Enter  Petruchio  and  his  man  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  Grumio ;  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  ? 
Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate 

535  T2 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

And  rap  me  well,  or  I  '11  knock  your  knave's  pate. 
Gru.  My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome.     I  should  knock  y< 

And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst.  [first, 

Pet.  Will  it  not  be  ? 

Faith,  sirrah,  an  you  '11  not  knock,  I  '11  wring  it ; 

I  '11  try  how  you  can  JK?/,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

[He  wrings  htm  by  the  ears. 
Gru.  Help,  masters,  help  !  my  master  is  mad. 
Pet.  Now,  knock  when  I  bid  you,  sirrah  villain ! 

Enter  Hortensio. 
Hor.  How  now  1  what 's  the  matter  ?     My  old  friend  Grumio  1 

and  my  good  friend  Petruchio !    How  do  you  all  at  Verona  ? 
Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the  fray  ? 

'  Con  tutto  il  core  ben  trovato,'  may  I  say.  [Petrucio.J 

Hor.  *  Alia  nostra  casa  ben  venuto,  molto  honorato  signer  mio 

Rise,  Grumio,  rise :  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 
Gru.  Nay,  'tis   no   matter,  sir,  what  he  'leges   in    Latin.     If 

this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me  to  leave  his  service,  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  ? 

Whom  would  to  God  I  had  well  knock' d  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  now  with, 

4  knocking  at  the  gate '  ? 

Pet.  Sirrah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 
Hor.  Petruchio,  patience ;  I  am  Grumio's  pledge : 

Why,  this 's  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you, 

Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant  Grumio. 

And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend,  what  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, 

Signior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me : 

Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceased ; 

And  I  have  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 

Haply  to  wive  and  thrive  as  best  I  may : 

Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have  and  goods  at  home, 

And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

586 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Hor.  Petruchio,  shall  I  then  come  roundly  to  thee, 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrewd  ill-favour'd  wife  ? 
Thou'ldst  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel : 
And  yet  I  '11  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich, 


And  very  rich  :  but  thou  'rt  too  much  my  friend, 


And  I  '11  not  wish  thee  to  her. 
Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  '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  Florentius'  love, 

As  old  as  Sibyl,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 

As  Socrates'  Xanthippe,  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  wife  it  wealthily  in  Padua  ; 

If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padua. 
Gru.  Nay,  look  you,  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what  his  mind  is  : 

why,  give  him  gold  enough  and  marry  him  to  a  puppet  or  an 

aglet-baby  ;  or  an  old  trot  with  ne'er  a  tooth  in  her  head  , 

though  she  have  as  many  diseases  as  two  and  fifty  horses  : 

why,  nothing  comes  amiss,  so  money  comes  withal. 
Hor.  Petruchio,  since  we  are  stepp'd  thus  far  in, 

I  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 

I  can,  Petruchio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 

With  wealth  enough  and  young  and  beauteous, 

Brought  up  as  best  becomes  a  gentlewoman  : 

Her  only  fault,  and  that  is  faults  enough, 

Is  that  she  is  intolerable  curst 

And  shrewd  and  froward,  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, 

Renown'd  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 

58? 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shre 

To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter, 

Unless  you  will  accompany  me  thither. 
Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the  humour  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  at  once,  he  '11  rail  in  his  rope-tricks.     I  '11  tell  you 

what,  sir,  an  she  stand  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.     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, 

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  woo'd ; 

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. 
Gru.  Here 's  no  knavery  !     See,  to  beguile  the  old  folks,  how 

the  young  folks  lay  their  heads  together  ! 

Enter  Gremio  and  Lucentio  disguised. 

Master,  master,  look  about  you  :  who  goes  there,  ha  ? 
Hor.  Peace,  Grumio  !  it  is  the  rival  of  my  love. 

Petruchio,  stand  by  a  while. 
Gru.  A  proper  stripling  and  an  amorous  ! 
Gre.  O,  very  well ;  I  have  perused  the  note. 

Hark  you,  sir ;  I  '11  have  them  very  fairly  bound  : 

All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand ; 

And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her : 
You  understand  me :  over  and  beside 

Signior  Baptista's  liberality, 

I  '11  mend  it  with  a  largess.     Take  your  paper  too, 

588 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfumed  : 

For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself 

To  whom  they  go  to.     What  will  you  read  to  her  ? 
Luc.  Whatever  I  read  to  her,  I  '11  plead  for  you 

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,  what  a  thing  it  is  ! 
Gru.  O  this  woodcock,  what  an  ass  it  is  ! 
Pet.  Peace,  sirrah  ! 

Her.  Grumio,  mum  !     God  save  you,  Signior  Gremio. 
Gre.  And  you  are  well  met,  Signior  Hortensio. 

Trow  you  whither  I  am  going  ?     To  Baptista  Minola. 

I  promised  to  inquire  carefully 

About  a  schoolmaster  for  the  fair  Bianca  : 

And  by  good  fortune  I  have  lighted  well 

On  this  young  man,  for  learning  and  behaviour 

Fit  for  her  turn,  well  read  in  poetry 

And  other  books,  good  ones,  I  warrant  ye. 
Hor.  '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. 
Hor.  Gremio,  'tis  now  no  time  to  vent  our  love  : 

Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 

I  '11  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. 
Gre.  O  sir,  such  a  life,  with  such  a  wife,  were  strange  . 

But  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to  't  i'  God's  name  : 

You  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all 

589 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

But  will  you  woo  this  wild-cat  ? 
Pet.  Will  I  live  ? 

Gru.  Will  he  woo  her  ?  ay,  or  I  '11  hang  her. 
Pet.  Why  came  I  hither  but  to  that  intent  ? 

Think  you  a  little  din  can  daunt  my  ears  ? 

Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lions  roar  ? 

Have  I  not  heard  the  sea  puffd  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  hear 

As  will  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's  fire  ? 

Tush,  tush !  fear  boys  with  bugs. 
Gru.  For  he  fears  none. 

Gre.  Hortensio,  hark  : 

This  gentleman  is  happily  arrived, 

My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good  and  ours. 
Hor.  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.  I  would  I  were  as  sure  of  a  good  dinner. 

i 
Enter  Tranio  brave,  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  Gentlemen,  God  save  you.     If  I  may  be  bold, 

Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest  way 

To  the  house  of  Signior  Baptista  Minola  ? 
Bion.  He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters  :  is 't  he  you  mean  ? 
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. 
Hor.  Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go ;  :j  I   . 

Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea  or  no  ?  ..rfj  }] 
Tra.  And  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  11  know, 

59° 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

That  she 's  the  choice  love  of  Signior  Gremio. 
Hor.  That  she 's  the  chosen  love  of  Signior  Hortensio. 
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.  What,  this  gentleman  will  out-talk  us  all ! 
Luc.  Sir,  give  him  head  :  I  know  he  '11  prove  a  jade. 
Pet.  Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words  ? 
Hor.  Sir,  let  me  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. 
Pet.  Sir,  sir,  the  first's  for  me  ;  let  her  go  by. 
Gre.  Yea,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules ; 

And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcides'  twelve. 
Pet.  Sir,  understand  you  this  of  me  in  sooth : 
The  youngest  daughter  whom  you  hearken  for 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  access  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  amongst  the  rest  • 
And  if  you  break  the  ice  and  do  this  feat, 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free 
For  our  access,  whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  her 
Will  not  so  graceless  be  to  be  ingrate. 
Hor.  Sir,  you  say  well  and  well  you  do  conceive ; 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor, 
You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
To  whom  we  all  rest  generally  beholding. 
Tra.  Sir,  I  shall  not  be  slack  :  in  sign  whereof, 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  this  afternoon, 
And  quaff  carouses  to  our  mistress'  health, 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law, 
Strive  mightily,  but  eat  and  drink  as  friends. 
Gru.  Bion.  O  excellent  motion  !    Fellows,  let 's  be  gone. 

59i 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

ffor.  The  motion 's  good  indeed  and  be  it  so ; 

Petruchio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venuto.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 
Padua.     A  room  in  Baptista's  house. 

Enter  Katharina  and  Bianca. 
Bian.  Good  sister,  wrong  me  not,  nor  wrong  yourself, 

To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me  ; 

That  I  disdain  :  but  for  these  other  gawds, 

Unbind  my  hands,  I  '11  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  1  charge  thee,  tell 

Whom  thou  lovest  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  him,  sister,  here  I  swear 

I  '11  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  prithee,  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. 

For  shame,  thou  hilding  of  a  devilish  spirit, 

Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong  thee  ? 

When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word  ? 
Kath.  Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I  '11  be  revenged. 

[Flies  after  Bianca. 

Bap.  What,  in  my  sight  ?     Bianca,  get  thee  in.    [Exit  Bianca. 
Kath.  What,  will  you  not  suffer  me  ?     Nay,  now  I  see 

She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband ; 

I  must  dance  bare-foot  on  her  wedding  day 

And  for  your  love  to  her  lead  apes  in  hell. 

Talk  not  to  me :  I  will  go  sit  and  weep 

Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge.  [Exit. 

592 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Bap.  Was  ever  gentleman  thus  grieved  as  I  ? 

But  who  comes  here  ? 
Enter  Gremio,  Lucentio  in  the  habit  of  a  mean  man  ;  Petruchio^ 

with  Hortensio  as  a  musician ;  and  Tranio,  with  Biondello 

bearing  a  lute  and  books. 
Gre.  Good  morrow,  neighbour  Baptista. 

Bap.  Good  morrow,  neighbour  Gremio.    God  save  you,  gentle 
men  ! 
Pet.  And  you,  good  sir  !     Pray,  have  you  not  a  daughter 

Call'd  Katharina,  fair  and  virtuous  ? 
Bap.  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  called  Katharina. 
Gre.  You  are  too  blunt :  go  to  it  orderly. 
Pet.  You  wrong  me,  Signior  Gremio  :  give  me  leave. 

I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir, 

That,  hearing  of  her  beauty  and  her  wit, 

Her  affability  and  bashful  modesty, 

Her  wondrous  qualities  and  mild  behaviour, 

Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 

Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 

Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 

And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 

I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine,  [Presenting  Hortensio. 

Cunning  in  music  and  the  mathematics, 

To  instruct  her  fully  in  those  sciences, 

Whereof  I  know  she  is  not  ignorant : 

Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong : 

His  name  is  Licio,  born  in  Mantua. 
Bap.  You  're  welcome,  sir ;  and  he,  for  your  good  sake. 

But  for  my  daughter  Katharine,  this  I  know, 

She  is  not  for  your  turn,  the  more  my  grief. 
Pet.  1  see  you  do  not  mean  to  part  with  her, 

Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 
Bap.  Mistake  me  not ;  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 

Whence  are  you,  sir  ?  what  may  I  call  your  name  ? 
Pet.  Petruchio  is  my  name ;  Antonio's  son, 

A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 
Bap.  I  know  him  well ;  you  are  welcome  for  his  sake. 
Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petruchio,  I  pray, 

Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too  : 

Baccare  !  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.  O,  pardon  me,  Signior  Gremio ;  I  would  fain  be  doing. 
Gre.  I  doubt  it   not,    sir;  but  you   will  curse  your   wooing. 

Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure  of  it.     To 

express  the  like  kindness,  myself,  that  have  been  more  kindly 

beholden  to  you  than  any,  I  freely  give  unto  you  this  young 

593 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

scholar  [presenting  Lucentio\,  that  hath  been  long  studying  at 

Rheims  ;  as  cunning  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  other  languages, 

as  the  other  in  music  and  mathematics  :  his  name  is  Cam  bio ; 

pray,  accept  his  service. 
Bap.  A  thousand  thanks,  Signior  Gremio.     Welcome,    good 

Cambio.    But,  gentle  sir  [fo  Tranio\,  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  favour  as  the  rest : 

And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 

I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument, 

And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books  : 

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. 
Bap.  A  mighty  man  of  Pisa  ;  by  report 

I  know  him  well :  you  are  very  welcome,  sir. 

Take  you  the  lute,  and  you  the  set  of  books  j 

You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 

Holla,  within  1 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Sirrah,  lead  these  gentlemen 

To  my  daughters ;  and  tell  them  both, 

These  are  their  tutors  :  bid  them  use  them  well. 

[Exit  Servant,  with  Luc.  and  Hor.^  Bio.  following. 

We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard, 

And  then  to  dinner.     You  are  passing  welcome, 

And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 
Pet.  Signior  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  better'd  rather  than  decreased : 

Then  tell  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. 

594 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  II,  Sc.  I 

Pet.  And,  for  that  dowry,  I  '11  assure  her  of 

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  obtain'd, 

That  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  arm'd  for  some  unhappy  words. 
Pet.  Ay,  to  the  proof;  as  mountains  are  for  winds, 

That  shake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  Hortensio,  with  his  head  broke. 
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  ? 
Hor.  I  think  she  '11  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, 

And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering ; 

When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spirit, 

' Frets,  call  you  these ?  '  quoth  she ;  'I '11  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  while, 

As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute ; 

While  she  did  call  me  rascal  fiddler 

And  twangling  Jack ;  with  twenty  such  vile  terms, 

As  had  she  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 
Pet.  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. 

595 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Signior  Petruchio,  will  you  go  with  us, 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 
Pet.  I  pray  you  do ;  I  will  attend  her  here, 

{Exeunt  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  and  Hortensio. 
And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comes. 
Say  that  she  rail ;  why  then  I  '11  tell  her  plain 
She  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale  : 
Say  that  she  frown  ;  I  Jll  say  she  looks  as  clear 
As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew : 
Say  she  be  mute  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 
Then  I  '11  commend  her  volubility, 
And  say  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence : 
If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I  '11  give  her  thanks, 
As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week  : 
If  she  deny  to  wed,  I  '11  crave  the  day 
When  I  shall  ask  the  banns,  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  hard  of  hearing  : 

They  call  me  Katharine  that  do  talk  of  me. 
Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith  ;  for  you  are  calPd  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  Kates,  and  therefore,  Kate, 

Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  ; 

Hearing  thy  mildness  praised  in  every  town, 

Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  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  moveable. 

Pet.  Why,  what's  a  moveable  ? 

Kath.  A  join'd-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  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. 

596 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Pet.  Should  be  !  should— buzz  ! 

Kath.  Well  ta'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.  O  slow-wing'd  turtle  !  shall  a  buzzard  take  thee  ? 

Kath.  Ay,  for  a  turtle,  as  he  takes  a  buzzard. 

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  does  wear  his  sting  ?     In 

Kath.  In  his  tongue.  [his  tail. 

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  '11  try.     [She  strikes  htm. 

Pet.  I  swear  I  '11  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. 
Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come ;  you  must  not  look  so  sour. 
Kath.  It  is  my  fashion,  when  I  see  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  my  face  ? 

Kath.  Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  Saint  George,  I  am  too  young  for  you. 
Kath.  Yet  you  are  wither'd. 
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, 
597 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers, 

With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 

Why  does  the  world  report  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 

0  slanderous  world  !     Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig, 
Is  straight  and  slender,  and  as  brown  in  hue 
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  i 
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. 

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 ; 

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 

Conformable  as  other  household  Kates. 

Here  comes  your  father :  never  make  denial ; 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 

Re-enter  Baptist  a,  Gremio^  and  Tranio. 

Bap.  Now,  Signior  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  1  in  your  dumps  ? 
Kath.  Call  you  me  daughter  ?  now,  I  promise  you 

You  have  show'd  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  the  matter  out. 
Pet.  Father,  'tis  thus  :  yourself  and  all  the  world, 

That  talk'd  of  her,  have  talk'd  amiss  of  her  : 

If  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy, 

For  she 's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 

598 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  II,  Sc.  1 

She  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  .morn  ; 

For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel, 

And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity  : 

And  to  conclude,  we  have  'greed  so  well  together, 

That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 
Kath.  I'll  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 
Gre.  Hark,  Petruchio  !  she  says  she  '11  see  thee  hang'd  first 
Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding  ?  nay,  then,  good  night  our  part  1 
Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen ;  I  choose  her  for  myself : 

If  she  and  I  be  pleased,  what  7s  that  to  you  ? 

'Tis  bargain'd  '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  1 

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, 

How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 

A  meacock  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  Petruchio  and  Katharina  sewrvify. 
Gre.  Was  ever  match  clapp'd  up  so  suddenly  ? 
Bap.  Faith,  gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's  part,     ,\  1O 

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. 
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  neighbour,  and  was  s.uitor  first. 
Tia.  And  I  am  one  that  love  Bianca  more 

Than  words  can  witness,  or  your  thoughts  can  guess. 
Gre.  Youngling,  thou  canst  not  love  so  dear  as  I. 

599 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Tra,  Greybeard,  thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.  But  thine  doth  fry. 

Skipper,  stand  back  :  'tis  age  that  nourisheth. 
Tra.  But  youth  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flourisheth. 
Bap.  Content  you,  gentlemen:  I  will  compound  this  strife: 

'Tis  deeds  must  win  the  prize ;  and  he,  of  both. 

That  can  assure  my  daughter  greatest  dower 

Shall  have  my  Bianca's  love. 

Say,  Signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her  ? 
Gre.  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  stuff  d  my  crowns ; 

In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints, 

Costly  apparel,  tents,  and  canopies, 

Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  boss'd  with  pearl, 

Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needlework, 

Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 

To  house  or  housekeeping  :  then,  at  my  farm 

I  have  a  hundred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 

Sixscore  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls, 

And  all  things  answerable  to  this  portion. 

Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  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, 

I  '11  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good, 

Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 

Old  Signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua  ; 

Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year 

Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure. 

What !  have  I  pinch'd  you,  Signior  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  had  no  less 

Than  three  great  argosies ;  besides  two  galliasses, 

And  twelve  tight  galleys :  these  I  will  assure  her, 

And  twice  as  much,  whate'er  thou  offer'st  next. 
Gre.  Nay,  I  have  offer'd  all,  I  have  no  more ; 

600 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

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  out-vied. 
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,  where '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  Signior  Gremio  : 

And  so,  I  take  my  leave,  and  thank  you  both. 
Gre.  Adieu,  good  neighbour.  [Exit  Baptista. 

Now  I  fear  thee  not : 

Sirrah  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 

To  give  thee  all,  and  in  his  waning  age 

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  wither'd  hide  ! 

Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten. 

Tis  in  my  head  to  do  my  master  good : 

I  see  no  reason  but  supposed  Lucentio 

Must  get  a  father,  call'd — supposed  Vincentio ; 

And  that 's  a  wonder :  fathers  commonly 

Do  get  their  children  ;  but  in  this  case  of  wooing, 

A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  fail  not  of  my  cunning.      [Exit. 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 
Padua.     Baptista? s  house. 
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, 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 
Luc.  Preposterous  ass,  that  never  read  so  far 

601 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

To  know  the  cause  why  music  was  ordain'd ! 

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. 
Bian.  Why,  gentlemen,  you  do  me  double  wrong, 

To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice : 

I  am  no  breeching  scholar  in  the  schools ; 

I  '11  not  be  tied  to  hours  nor  'pointed  times, 

But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 

And,  to  cut  off  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  '11  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  in  tune  ? 
Luc.  That  will  be  never  :  tune  your  instrument. 
Bian.  Where  left  we  last  ? 
Luc.  Here,  madam : 

*  Hie  ibat  Simois  ;  hie  est  Sigeia  tellus ; 

Hie  steterat  Priami  regia  celsa  senis.' 
Bian.  Construe  them. 
Luc.  'Hie  ibat,'  as  I  told  you  before,— '  Sirnois,'  I  am  Lu- 

centio, — '  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. 
Bian.  Let 's  hear.     O  fie  !  the  treble  jars. 
Luc.  Spit  in  the  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 
Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  construe  it : 

'Hie  ibat  Simois,'  I  know  you  not, — 'hie  est  Sigeia  tellus,'  I 

trust  you  not, — '  Hie  steterat  Priami,'  take  heed  he  hear  us 

not, — 'regia,'  presume  not, — 'celsa  senis,'  despair  not. 
Hor.  Madam,  'tis  now  in  tune. 
Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

Hor.  The  base  is  right ;  'tis  the  base  knave  that  jars. 

\Aside\  How  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is  ! 

Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love : 

Pedascule,  I  '11  watch  you  better  yet. 
Bian.  In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  mistrust. 
Luc.  Mistrust  it  not ;  for,  sure,  ^Eacides 

Was  Ajax,  call'd  so  from  his  grandfather. 
Bian.  I  must  believe  my  master;  else,  I  promise  you, 

I  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt : 

602 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

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,  and  give  me  leave  a  while : 

My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 
Luc.  Are  you  so  formal,  sir  ?  well,  I  must  wait, 

[Aside]  And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceived, 

Our  fine  musician  groweth  amorous. 
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, 

Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade : 

And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 
Bian.  Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 
Hor.  Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 
Bian.  [reads]  "'Gamut'  I  am,  the  ground  of  all  accord, 

'  A  re,'  to  plead  Hortensio's  passion ; 
*B  mi,'  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 

1 C  fa  lit,'  that  loves  with  all  affection  : 
'  D  sol  re,'  one  clef,  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  old  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 : 

Yet  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble, 

To  cast  thy  wandering  eyes  on  every  stale, 

Seize  thee  that  list :  if  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 

Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II 

Padua.     Before  Baptista's  house. 
Enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  Tranio,  Katharina,  Bianca^ 

Lucentio,  and  others,  attendants. 

Bap.  Signior  Lucentio  [To  Tranio\  this  is  the  'pointed  day 

603 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

That  Katharine  and  Petruchio  should  be  married, 

And  yet  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  shame  but  mine :  I  must,  forsooth,  be  forced 

To  give  my  hand,  opposed  against  my  heart, 

Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,  full  of  spleen ; 

Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  leisure. 

I  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool, 

Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour : 

And,  to  be  noted  for  a  merry  man, 

He  '11  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage, 

Make  friends,  invite,  and  proclaim  the  banns ; 

Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo  'd. 

Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 

And  say,  '  Lo,  there  is  mad  Petruchio'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  wise ; 

Though  he  be  merry,  yet  withal  he 's  honest. 
Kath.  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  humour. 

Enter  Biondello. 
Bion.  Master,  master !  news,  old  news,  and  such  news  as  you 

never  heard  of  1 

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-armoury,  with  a  broken 

604 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  III,  Sc,  ti 

hilt,  and  chapeless;  with  two  broken  points:  his  horse 
hipped  with  an  old  mothy  saddle  and  stirrups  of  no  kindred  ; 
besides,  possessed  with  the  glanders  and  like  to  mose  in  the 
chine ;  troubled  with  the  lampass,  infected  with  the  fashions, 
full  of  windfalls,  sped  with  spavins,  rayed  with  the  yellows, 
past  cure  of  the  fives,  stark  spoiled  with  the  staggers,  be- 
gnawn  with  the  bots,  swayed  in  the  back  and  shoulder- 
shotten ;  near-legged  before  and  with  a  half-cheeked  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  girth  six  times  pieced  and  a 
woman's  crupper  of  velure,  which  hath  two  letters  for  her 
name  fairly  set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  pieced 
with  pack-thread. 

Bap.  Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Bion.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  caparisoned  like  the 
horse;  with  a  linen  stock  on  one  leg,  and  a  kersey  bbot- 
hose  on  the  other,  gartered  with  a  red  and  blue  list ;  an  old 
hat,  and  'the  humour  of  forty  fancies'  pricked  in't  for  a 
feather :  a  monster,  a  very  monster  in  apparel,  and  not  like  a 
Christian  footboy  or  a  gentleman 's  lackey. 

Tra.  Tis  some  odd  humour  pricks  him  to  this  fashion  j 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean-apparell'd. 

Bap.  I  am  glad  he 's  come,  howsoe'er  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  manj 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants?  who's  at  home? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.  And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparell'd 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pet.  Were  it  better,  I  should  rush  in  thus. 

But  where  is  Kate?  where  is  my  lovely  bride? 
How  does  my  father?     Gentles,  methinks  you  frown  r 
605 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

And  wherefore  gaze  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 : 

First  were  we  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  detain'd  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 ; 

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  '11  visit  her. 
Bap.  But  thus,  I  trust,  you  will  not  marry  her. 
Pet.  Good  sooth,  even  thus ;  therefore  ha'  done  with  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  with  you, 

When  I  should  bid  good  morrow  to  my  bride, 

And  seal  the  title  with  a  lovely  kiss ! 

[.Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Grumio. 
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  '11  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this. 

\Exeunt  Baptista,  Gremio,  and  attendants. 
Tra.  But  to  her  love  concerneth  us  to  add 

Her  father's  liking :  which  to  bring  to  pass, 

As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 

I  am  to  get  a  man, — whate'er  he  be, 

It  skills  not  much,  we  '11  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, 

606 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

And  marry  sweet  Bianca  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  perform'd,  let  all  the  world  say  no, 

I  '11  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  '11  over-reach  the  greybeard,  Gremio, 

The  narrow-prying  father,  Minola, 

The  quaint  musician,  amorous  Licio ; 

All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio. 

Re-enter  Gremio. 

Signior  Gremio,  came  you  from  the  church  ? 
Gre.  As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 
Tra.  And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming  home  ? 
Gre.  A  bridegroom  say  you  ?  'tis  a  groom  indeed, 

A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 
Tra.  Curster  than  she  ?  why,  'tis  impossible. 
Gre.  Why,  he 's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 
Tra.  Why,  she 's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 
Gre.  Tut,  she 's  a  lamb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him  1 

I  '11  tell  you,  Sir  Lucentio  :  when  the  priest 

Should  ask,  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife, 

1  Ay,  by  gogs-wouns,'  quoth  he ;  and  swore  so  loud, 

That,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  the  book ; 

And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up, 

This  inad-brain'd  bridegroom  took  him  such  a  cuff, 

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  rose  again  ? 
Gre.  Trembled  and  shook ;  for  why  he  stamp'd  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 :  quaffd  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  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 

This  done,  he  took  the  bride  about  the  neck 

And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack 

Thnt  at  the  parting  all  the  church  did  echo  : 

And  I  seeing  this  came  thence  for  very  shame ; 

607 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 


And  after  me,  I  know,  the  rout  is  coming. 

Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before  : 

Hark,  hark  !     I  hear  the  minstrels  play.  [Music. 

Re-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  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 

And,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all, 

That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 

To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  virtuous  wife : 

Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me  ; 

For  I  must  hence ;  and  farewell  to  you  all. 
Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 
Pet.  It  may  not  be. 
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.   I  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  horse. 

Gru.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready  :  the  oats  have  eaten  the  horses. 
Kath.  Nay,  then, 

Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day  ; 

No,  nor  to-morrow,  not  till  I  please  myself. 

The  door  is  open,  sir  ;  there  lies  your  way  ; 

You  may  be  jogging  whiles  your  boots  are  green  ; 

For  me,  1 511  not  be  gone  till  I  please  myself : 

Tis  like  you  11  prove  a  jolly  surly  groom, 

That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 
Pet.  O  Kate,  content  thee ;  prithee,  be  not  angry. 
Kath.  I  will  b«  angry  :  what  hast  thou  to  do  ? 

Father,  be  quiet :  he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 
Gre.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  it  begins  to  work. 
Kath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner : 

I  see  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool, 

608 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 
Pet.  They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  command. 

Obey  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her ; 

Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer, 

Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead. 

Be  mad  and  merry,  or  go  hang  yourselves  : 

But  for  my  bonny  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,  my  chattels  ;  she  is  my  house, 

My  household  stuff,  my  field,  my  barn, 

My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  any  thing ; 

And  here  she  stands,  touch  her  whoever  dare ; 

I  '11  bring  mine  action  on  the  proudest  he 

That  stops  my  way  in  Padua.     Grumio, 

Draw  forth  thy  weapon,  we  are  beset  with  thieves ; 

Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man. 

Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee,  Kate : 

I  '11  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exeunt  Pctruchio^  Katharina,  and  Grumio. 
Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones. 
Gre.  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.  Neighbours  and  friends,  though  bride  and  bridegroom 

For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table,  [wants 

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  go. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 
Petruchitfs  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  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  belly  ere  I  should  come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me :  but  I, 

609  u 


Act  IV,  Sc  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

with  blowing  the  fire,  shall  warm  myself;  for,  considering 
the  weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will  take  cold.  Holla,  ho  I 
Curtis. 

Enter  Curtis. 

Curt.  Who  is  that  calls  so  coldly  ? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice :  if  thou  doubt  it,  thou  mayst  slide  from 
my  shoulder  to  my  heel  with  no  greater  a  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,  fire ;  cast  on  no 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she 's  reported  ?  [water. 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost :  but,  thou  knowest, 
winter  tames  man,  woman,  and  beast ;  for  it  hath  tamed  my 
old  master,  and  my  new  mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.  Away,  you  three-inch  fool !    I  am  no  beast. 

Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  why,  thy  horn  is  a  foot ;  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  prithee,  good  Grumio,  tell  me,  how  goes  the  world  ? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but  thine ;  and  there 
fore  fire  :  do  thy  duty,  and  have  thy  duty ;  for  my  master  and 
mistress  are  almost  frozen  to  death.  [news. 

Curt.  There's   fire  ready;  and   therefore,  good   Grumio,  the 

Gru.  Why,  '  Jack,  boy  !  ho  !  boy  ! '  and  as  much  news  as  thou 

Curt.  Come,  you  are  so  full  of  cony-catching  !  [wilt. 

Gru.  Why,  therefore  fire ;  for  I  have  caught  extreme  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  fair  without,  the  carpets 
laid,  and  everything  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  thereby  hangs  a 

Curt.  Let 's  ha 't,  good  Grumio.  [tale. 

Gru.  Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt.  Here. 

Gru.  There.  [Strikes  him. 

Curt.  This  is  to  feel  a  tale,  nor  to  hear  a  tale. 

And  therefore  'tis  called  a  sensible  tale  :  and  this  cuff  was 
but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and  beseech  listening.     Now  I 

610 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  1 

begin  :  Imprimis,  we  came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  master  riding 
behind  my  mistress, — 

Curt.  Both  of  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,  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,  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. 

Gru.  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,  Philip,  Walter,  Sugarsop  and 
the  rest :  let  their  heads  be  sleekly  combed,  their  blue  coats 
brushed,  and  their  garters  of  an  indifferent  knit  :  let  them 
curtsy  with  their  left  legs,  and  not  presume  to  touch  a  hair 
of  my  master's  horse-tail  till  they  kiss  their  hands.  Are  they 
all  ready  ? 

Curt.  They  are. 

Gru.  Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho  ?  you  must  meet  my  master  to  counten 
ance  my  mistress ! 

Gru.  Why,  she  hath  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.  Who  knows  not  that  ? 

Gru.  Thou,  it  seems,  that  calls  for  company  to  countenance  her. 

Curt.  I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.  Why,  she  comes  to  borrow  nothing  of  them. 
Enter  four  or  five  serving-men. 

Nath.  Welcome  home,  Grumio  1 

Phil.  How  now,  Grumio  ! 

/os.  What,  Grumio! 

Nich.  Fellow  Grumio  ! 

Nath.  How  now,  old  lad? 

Gru.  Welcome,  you ; — how  now,  you ;— what,  you  ; — fellow, 
you ; — and  thus  much  for  greeting.  Now,  my  spruce  com 
panions,  is  all  ready,  and  all  things  neat  ? 

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  !  I  hear  my  master. 

611 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Enter  Petruchio  and  Katharina. 
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  unpolish'd  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  unpink'd  i'  the  heel ; 

There  was  no  link  to  colour  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  Servants. 

[Singing]     Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led— 

Where  are  those — Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. — 
Soud,  soud,  soud,  soud  ! 

Re-enter  Servants  with  supper. 

Why,  when,  I  say  ?    Nay,  good  sweet  Kate,  be  merry. 
Off  with  my  boots,  you  rogues  !  you  villains,  when  ? 

[Sings]         It  was  the  friar  of  orders  grey, 

As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way  : — 

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  : 

One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquainted  with. 

Where  are  my  slippers  ?     Shall  I  have  some  water  ? 

Enter  one  with  water. 

Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily. 

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-ear'd  knave  I 

612 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Come,  Kate,  sit  down ;  I  know  you  have  a  stomach. 

Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate ;  or  else  shall  I  ? 

What 's  this  ?  mutton  ? 
First  Serv.  Ay. 

Pet.  Who  brought  it  ? 

Peter.  I. 

Pet.  'Tis  burnt ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat. 

What  dogs  are  these  !  where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 

How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 

And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not  ? 

There,  take  it  to  you,  trenches,  cups,  and  all : 

[Throws  the  meat,  &c.  about  the  stage. 

You  heedless  joltheads  and  unmanner'd  slaves  ! 

What,  do  you  grumble  ?     I  '11  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  ;t  shall  be  mended, 

And,  for  this  night,  we  '11  fast  for  company  : 

Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber.          \Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Servants  severally. 
Nath.  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the  like  ? 
Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 
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. 

Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard, 

To  make  her  come  and  know  her  keeper's  call, 

That  is,  to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites 

That  bate  and  beat  and  will  not  be  obedient. 

613 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 


She  eat  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  '11  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed ; 
And  here  I  '11  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets : 
Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly  I  intend 
That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her ; 
And  in  conclusion  she  shall  watch  all  night : 
And  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I  '11  rail  and  brawl, 
And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 
This  is  a  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness ; 
And  thus  I  '11  curb  her  mad  and  headstrong  humour. 
He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrew, 
Now  let  him  speak :  'tis  charity  to  show.  [Exit 

. 

SCENE   II 

Padua.     Before  Baptisttfs  house. 
Enter  Tranio  and  Hortensio. 

Tra.  Is  7t  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  Mistress  Bianca 

Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Luceiitio  ? 

I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 
Hor.  Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 

Stand  by  and  mark  the  manner  of  his  teaching. 

Enter  Bianca  and  Lucentio. ' 
Luc.  Now,  mistress,  profit  you  in  what  you  read  ? 
Bian.  What,  master,  read  you  ?  first  resolve  me  that. 
Luc.  I  read  that  I  profess,  the  Art  to  Love. 
Bian.  And  may  you  prove,  sir,  master  of  your  art ! 
Luc.  While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove  mistress  of  my  heart ! 
Hor.  Quick  proceeders,  marry  !     Now,  tell  me,  I  pray, 

You  that  durst  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  : 

Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd  Hortensio. 
Tra.  Signior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 

Of  your  entire  affection  to  Bianca ; 

And  since  mine  eyes  are  witness  of  her  lightness, 

614 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

I  will  with  you,  if  you  be  so  contented, 

Forswear  Bianca  and  her  love  for  ever. 
Nor.  See,  how  they  kiss  and  court !  Signior  Lucentio, 

Here  is  my  hand,  and  here  I  firmly  vow 

Never  to  woo  her  more,  but  do  forswear  her, 

As  one  unworthy  all  the  former  favours 

That  I  have  fondly  flatter'd  her  withal. 
Tra.  And  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, 

Never  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  forsworn  ! 

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,  Signior  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. 

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  forsworn  me  ? 
Tra.  Mistress,  we  have. 

Luc.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.  I'  faith,  he  '11  have  a  lusty  widow  now, 

That  shall  be  woo'd  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  the  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. 

Bion.  O  master,  master,  I  have  watch'd  so  long 
That  I  am  dog-weary  !  but  at  last  I  spied 
An  ancient  angel  coming  down  the  hill, 
Will  serve  the  turn. 

Tra.  What  is  he,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  Master,  a  mercatante,  or  a  pedant, 
I  know  not  what ;  but  formal  in  apparel, 
In  gait  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 

615 


Act  IV,  Sc,  n]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Luc.  And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 

Tra.  If  he  be  credulous  and  trust  my  tale, 

1 11  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio, 

And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 

As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio. 

Take  in  your  love,  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio  and  Bianco* 
Enter  a  Pedant. 
Fed.  God  save  you,  sir ! 
Tra.  And  you,  sir !  you  are  welcome. 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  farthest  ? 
Fed.  Sir,  at  the  farthest  for  a  week  or  two  : 

But  then  up  farther,  and  as  far  as  Rome ; 

And  so  to  Tripoli,  if  God  lend  me  life. 
Tra.  What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 
Fed.  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  stay'd  at  Venice ;  and  the  Duke, 

For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him, 

I  lath  published  and  proclaim'd  it  openly : 

Tis  marvel,  but  that  you  are  but  newly  come, 

You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about 
Fed.  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  I  will  advise  you : 

First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  a£  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. 
Tra.  To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 

This  favour  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, 

616 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc,  in 

And  in  my  house  700  shall  be  friendly  lodged : 

Look  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should  ; 

You  understand  roe,  sir :  so  shall  you  stay 

Till  you  have  done  your  business  in  the  city: 

If  this  be  courtesy,  sir,  accept  of  h. 
A£  O  so,  I  do ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 

The  patron  of  my  fife  and  liberty. 
Tra,  Then  go  with  me  to  make  the  matter  good. 

This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand ; 

My  fether  is  here  looked  far  every  day, 

To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower  in  marriage 

Twin  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here : 

In  all  these  circumstances  I Tl  instruct  you: 

Go  with  me  to  clothe  yon  as  becomes  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCEXB  HI 

A  room  in  Pttruchtfs  komse. 
Emter  Katkarima  and  Gntmio. 
Gr-j.  No,  no,  forsooth :  I  dare  not  for  my  fife. 
Katk,  The  more  my  wrong  the  more  his  spite  appears : 
What,  did  he  many  me  to  famish  me? 
Beggars,  that  come  unto  my  father's  door, 
Upon  if9*tt*ty  have  a  present  alms; 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity: 
Bat  I,  who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, 
Nor  never  *wA*H  that  I  should  entreat, 
Am  started  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep ; 

h  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  led: 
•    And  that  which  spites  me  more  than  all  these  wants, 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  lore ; 
As  who  should  say,  if  I  should  sleep  or  eat, 
Twere  deadly  sickness  or  else  present  death. 
I  prithee  go  and  get  me  some  repast ; 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 
Gnt,  What  say  yon  to  a  neat's  foot? 
Katk,  Tis  passing  good :  I  prithee  let  me  have  it. 
Gnt.  I  fear  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat. 

How  say  yon  to  a  far  tripe  finely  broffd? 
Katk.  I  Hke  it  well:  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 
Gra.  I  cannot  tell;  I  fear  'tis  choleric. 

What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef  and  mustard? 
Kath.  I  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 
Gr*.  Ay,  but  die  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

- :.  Why  then,  the  bee£  and  let  the  mustard  rest. 
Gnt.  Nay  then,  I  will  not:  you  shall  have  the  mustard, 

?i  7  v  z 


Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 
Kath.  Then  both,  or  one,  or  anything  thou  wilt. 
Gru.  Why  then,  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 
Kath.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding  slave,  \Beats  hi 

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  and  Hortensio  with  meat. 
Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?     What,  sweeting,  all  amort  ? 
Hor.  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  : 

I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 

What,  not  a  word  ?     Nay,  then  thou  lovest  it  not ; 

And  all  my  pains  is  sorted  to  no  proof. 

Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  I  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. 
Hor.  Signior  Petruchio,  fie !  you  are  to  blame. 

Come,  Mistress  Kate,  I  '11  bear  you  company. 
Pet.   Eat  it  all  up,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lovest  me.  [Aside. 

Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 

Kate,  eat  apace :  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  ruffs  and  cuffs  and  fardingales  and  things ; 

With  scarfs  and  fans  and  double  change  of  bravery, 

With  amber  bracelets,  beads  and  all  this  knavery. 

What,  hast  thou  dined  ?     The  tailor  stays  thy  leisure, 

To  deck  thy  body  with  his  ruffling  treasure. 
Enter  Tailor. 

Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ; 

Lay  forth  the  gown. 

Enter  Haberdasher. 
What  news  with  you,  sir  ? 

Hab.  Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 
Pet.   Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer ; 

A  velvet  dish  :  fie,  fie  !  'tis  lewd  and  filthy  : 

Why,  'tis  a  cockle  or  a  walnut  shell, 

618 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi 

A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap : 

Away  with  it  1  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 
Kath.  I  '11  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,   **&t\  i 

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,  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie  : 

I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  likest  it  not. 
Kath.  Love  me  or  love  me  not,  I  like  the  cap ; 

And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none.     [.Exit  Haberdasher. 
Pet.  Thy  gown  ?  why,  ay :  come,  tailor,  let  us  see  't. 

0  mercy,  God  1  what  masquing  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  in  a  barber's  shop : 

Why,  what,  i'  devil's  name,  tailor,  call'st  thou  this  ? 
Hor.  I  see  she 's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor  gown.         [Aside, 
Tai.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well, 

According  to  the  fashion  and  the  time. 
Pet.  Marry,  and  did ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd, 

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  '11  none  of  it :  hence  !  make  your  best  of  it. 
Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better-fashion'd  gown, 

More  quaint,  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  puppet  of  her. 
Pet.  O  monstrous  arrogance  !     Thou  liest,  thou  thread,  thou 

Thou  yard,  three-quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail  1    [thimble, 

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; 

619 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Or  I  shall  so  be-mete  thee  with  thy  yard, 

As  thou  shalt  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  livest ! 

I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marr'd  her  gown. 
Tat.  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. 
Tat.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  ? 
Gru.  Marry,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 
Tat.  But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 
Gru.  Thou  hast  faced  many  things. 
Tat.  I  have. 
Gru.  Face  not  me  :  thou  hast  braved  many  men  ;  brave  not 

me;  I  will  neither  be  faced  nor  braved.     I  say  unto  thee, 

I  bid  thy  master  cut  out  the  gown,  but  I  did  not  bid  him  cut 

it  to  pieces  :  ergo,  thou  liest. 

Tai.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to  testify. 
Pet.  Read  it. 

Gru.  The  note  lies  in  's  throat  if  he  say  I  said  so. 
Tat.  [reads]  'Imprimis,  a  loose-bodied  gown  :' 
Gru.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose- bodied  gown,  sew  me  in  the- 

skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death  with  a  bottom  of  brown 

thread :  I  said  a  gown. 
Pet.  Proceed. 

Tat.  [reads]  *  With  a  small  compassed  cape : ' 
Gru.  I  confess  the  cape. 
Tai.  [reads']  '  With  a  trunk  sleeve  : ' 
Gru.  I  confess  two  sleeves. 
Tai.  [reads]  '  The  sleeves  curiously  cut.' 
Pet.  Ay,  there 's  the  villany. 
Gru.  Error  i'  the  bill,  sir ;  error  i'  the  bill.     I  commanded  the 

sleeves  should  be  cut  out,  and  sewed  up  again  ;  and  that 

I  '11  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,  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  mistress'  gown  for 

thy  master's  use ! 

Pet.  Why,  sir,  what 's  your  conceit  in  that  ? 

620 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

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  '11  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 

Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments : 

Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  our  garments  poor; 

For  'tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich ; 

And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  honour  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 

Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 

Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 

Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 

O,  no,  good  Kate ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 

For  this  poor  furniture  and  mean  array. 

If  thou  account's!  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 ; 

There  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. 
Hor.  Why,  so  this  gallant  will  command  the  sun.          [.Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

Padua.     J3efore  Baptisttfs  house. 
Enter  Tranio,  and  the  Pedant  dressed  like  Vinccntio. 
Tra.  Sir,  this  is  the  house :  please  it  you  that  I  call  ? 
Ped.  Ay,  what  else  ?  and  but  I  be  deceived 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me, 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa, 
Where  we  were  lodgers  at  the  Pegasus. 

621 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Tra.  Tis  well ;  and  hold  your  own,  in  any  case, 

With  such  austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 
Ped.  I  warrant  you. 

Enter  Eiondello. 
But,  sir,  here  comes  your  boy ; 

'Twere  good  he  were  school'd. 
Tra.  Fear  you  not  him.     Sirrah  Biondello, 

Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  you  :     /ne  I  ! 

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  look'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 
Tra.  Thou'rt  a  tall  fellow  :  hold  thee  that  to  drink. 

Here  comes  Baptista :  set  your  countenance,  sir. 
Enter  Baptista  and  Lucentio. 

Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  ,met. 

\To  the  Pedant}  Sir,  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 ! 

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  match'd  ;  and,  if  you  please  to  like 

No  worse  than  I,  upon  some  agreement 

Me  shall  you  find  ready  and  willing 

With  one  consent  to  have  her  so  bestow'd;      Kite  ; 

For  curious  I  cannot  be  with  you, 

Signior  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. 

Right  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  pass  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower, 

The  match  is  made,  and  all  is  done : 

Your  son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent 

622 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Tra.  I  thank  you,  sir.     Where  then  do  you  know  best 

We  be  affied  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  happily  we  might  be  interrupted. 
Tra.  Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you  : 

There  doth  my  father  lie;  and  there,  this  night, 

We  '11  pass  the  business  privately  and  well. 

Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here ; 

My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 

The  worst  is  this,  that,  at  so  slender  warning, 

You  are  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. 
Bion.  I  pray  the  gods  she  may  with  all  my  heart ! 
Tra.  Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee  gone.     [Exit  Bion. 

Signior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way? 

Welcome  !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer : 

Come,  sir ;  we  will  better  it  in  Pisa. 
Bap.  I  follow  you.          [Exeunt  Tranio,  Pedant^  and  Baptista. 

Re-enter  Biondello. 
Bion.  Cambio. 

Luc.  What  sayest  thou,  Biondello  ? 
Bion.  You  saw  my  master  wink  and  laugh  upon  you  ? 
Luc.  Biondello,  what  of  that  ? 
Bion.  Faith,  nothing ;  but  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  Saint  Luke's  church  is  at  your  com 
mand  at  all  hours. 
Luc.  And  what  of  all  this  ? 
Bion.  I  cannot  tell ;  expect  they  are  busied  about  a  counterfeit 

assurance:  take  your  assurance  of  her,  'cum  privilegio  ad 

imprimendum  solum  : '  to  the  church  ;  take  the  priest,  clerk^ 

and  some  sufficient  honest  witnesses : 

623 


Act  IV,  Sc.  v]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more  to  say, 
But  bid  Bianca  farewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

Luc,  Hearest  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? 

Hap  what  hap  may,  I  '11  roundly  go  about  her : 

It  shall  go  hard  if  Cambio  go  without  her.  \Exit. 

SCENE  V 
A  public  road. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,  Hortensio,  and  Servants. 
Pet.  Come  on,  i'  God's  name ;  once  more  toward  our  father's. 

Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon  1 
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  cross'd  and  cross'd  ;  nothing  but  cross'd  ! 
Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  we  shall  never  go. 
Kath.  Forward,  I  pray,  since  we  have  come  so  far, 

And  be  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  please : 

An  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush-candle, 

Henceforth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 
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  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 !  company  is  coming  here. 

Enter  VTincentio. 

\To  Vincentio\  Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress  :  where  away  ? 

624 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  IV,  Sc.  v 

Tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  and  tell  me  truly  too, 

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. 

Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 
Hor,  A'  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a  woman  of  him. 
Kath.  Young  buddmg  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  favourable  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,  wither'd ; 

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  : 

Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father; 

Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 
Pet.  Do,  good  old  grandsire ;  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  amazed  me, 

My  name  is  call'd  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  for  thy  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  son  by  this  hath  married.     Wonder  not, 

Nor  be  not  grieved  :  she  is  of  good  esteem, 

Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth  j 

Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 

The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 

Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio, 

And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son, 

Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 
Vin.  But  is  this  true  ?  or  is  it  else  your  pleasure^ 

Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
625 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

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  all  but  Hortensio. 

Hor.  Well,  Petruchio,  this  has  put  me  in  heart. 
Have  to  my  widow  !  and  if  she  be  froward, 
Then  hast  thou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  untoward.        [Evii. 

• 

ACT  V — SCENE  I 

Padua.     Before  Lucenticts  house. 

Gremio  discovered.     Enter  behind  Biondello,  Lucentio,  and 

Bianca. 

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  '11  see  the  church  o'  your  back ;  and  then 
come  back  to  my  master's  as  soon  as  I  can. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio,  Bianca,  and  Biondello. 
Gre.  I  marvel  Gambio  comes  not  all  this  while. 

Enter  Petruchio,  Katharina,   Vincentio,  Grumio,  with 

Attendants. 

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. 
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. 

Pedant  looks  out  of  the  window. 

Ped.  What 's  he  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat  down  the  gate  ? 
Vin.  Is  Signior  Lucentio  within,  sir  ? 
Ped.  He '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  ? 
Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself:  he  shall  need 

none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  told  you  your  son  was  well  beloved  in  Padua.    Do 

you  hear,  sir  ? — to  leave  frivolous  circumstances, — I  pray 

you,  tell  Signior  Lucentio,  that  his  father  is  come  from  Pisa, 

and  is  here  at  the  door  to  speak  with  him. 

Ped.  Thou  liest :  his  father  has  come  from  Padua  and  here; 

looking  out  at  the  window. 
Vin.  Art  thou  his  father  ? 

626 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Ped.  Ay,  sir  \  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may  believe  her. 

Pet.  [To  Vincentio\  Why,  how  now,  gentleman  !  why,  this  is  flat 

knavery,  to  take  upon  you  another  man's  name. 
Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain :  I  believe  a'  means  to  cozen 
somebody  in  this  city  under  my  countenance. 
' 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  together  :  God  send  'em 
good  shipping!  But  who  is  here?  mine  old  master  Vin- 
centio  !  now  we  are  undone,  and  brought  to  nothing. 

Vin.  [Seeing  Biondelld\  Come  hither,  crack-hemp. 

Bion.  I  hope  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue.     What,  have  you  forgot  me? 

Bion.  Forgot  you !  no,  sir :  I  could  not  forget  you,  for  I  never 
saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 

Vin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou  never  see  thy 
master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.  What,  my  old  worshipful  old  master  ?  yes,  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. 

Ped.  Help,  son  !  help,  Signior  Baptista  !         {Exit  from  above. 

Pet.  Prithee,  Kate,  let 's  stand  aside,  and  see  the  end  of  this 
controversy.  {They  retire. 

. 
Re-enter  Pedant  below  ;  Tranio,  Baptista^  and  Servants. 

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  !     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  'cerns 

it  you  if  I  wear  pearl  and  gold  ?     I  thank  my  good  father,  I 

am  able  to  maintain  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  ? 
Vin.  His  name !  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name :  I  have  brought 

him  up  ever  since  he  was  three  years  old,  and  his  name  is 

Tranio. 

627 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Ped.  Away,  away,  mad  ass !  his  name  is  Lucentio ;  and  he  is 
mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the  lands  of  me,  Signior 
Vincentio. 

Vin.  Lucentio  !  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  Lucentio  ? 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer. 

Enter  one  with  an  Officer. 

Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  gaol.    Father  Baptista,  I  charge 
you  see  that  he  be  forthcoming. 

Vin.  Carry  me  to  the  gaol ! 

Gre.  Stay,  officer :  he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.  Talk  not,  Signior  Gremio :  I  say  he  shall  go  to  prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  Signior  Baptista,  lest  you  be  cony-catched  in 
this  business  :  I  dare  swear  this  is  the  right  Vincentio. 

Ped.  Swear,  if  thou  darest. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then  thou  wert  best  say  that  I  am  not  Lucentio. 

Gre.  Yes,  I  know  thee  to  be  Signior  Lucentio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard  !  to  the  gaol  with  him  ! 

Vin.  Thus  strangers  may  be  haled  and  abused : 
O  monstrous  villain ! 

Re-enter  Biondello,  with  Lucentio  and  Bianca. 

Bian.  O,  we  are  spoiled !  and — yonder  he  is :  deny  him,  for 
swear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 

Luc.  Pardon,  sweet  father.  \Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweet  son  ? 

\Exeunt  Biondello,  Tranio  ^  and  Pedant ',  as  fast  as  may  be. 

Bian.  Pardon,  dear  father. 

Bap.  How  hast  thou  offended  ? 

Where  is  Lucentio  ? 

Luc.  Here's  Lucentio. 

Right  son  to  the  right  Vincentio ; 
That  have  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine, 
While  counterfeit  supposes  blear'd  thine  eyne. 

Gre.  Here 's  packing,  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  Cam  bio? 

Bian.  Cambio  is  changed  into  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Love  wrought  these  miracles.     Bianca's  love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ; 
And  happily  I  have  arrived  at  the  last 
Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss. 

628 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforced  him  to  ; 

Then  pardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake.  [gaol. 

Vin.  I  '11  slit  the  villain's  nose,  that  would  have  sent  me  to  the 
Bap.  But  do  you  hear,  sir?   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. 

Bap.  And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavery.  [Exit. 

Luc.  Look  not  pale,  Bianca ;  thy  father  will  not  frown. 

[Exeunt  Lucentio  and  Bianca. 
Gre.  My  cake  is  dough :  but  I  '11  in  among  the  rest ; 

Out  of  hope  of  all,  but  my  share  of  the  feast.  [Exit. 

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 
Padua.     Lucentids  house. 

Enter  Baptista,  Vincentio,  Gremio,  the  Pedant,  Lucentio,  Bianca, 
Petruchio,  Katharina,  Hortensio,  and  Widow,  Tranio,  Bion- 
dello,  and  Grumio :  the  Serving-men  with  Tranio  bringing  in 
a  banquet. 

Luc.  At  last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes  agree : 
And  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done, 
To  smile  at  scapes  and  perils  overblown. 
My  fair  Bianca,  bid  my  father  welcome, 
While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine. 
Brother  Petruchio,  sister  Katharina, 
And  thou,  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, 
Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house : 
My  banquet  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. 

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. 

629 


Ac:  V,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming-  of  the  Shrew 

Pet.  You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss  my  sense : 

I  mean,  Hortensia  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  I     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  what  you  meant  by  that 
Wid.  Your  husband,  being  troubled  with  a  shrew, 

Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe : 

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  I 

Pet*  A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  her  down. 
Har.  That 's  my  office. 
Pet.  Spoke  like  an  officer :  ha1  to  thee,  lad. 

\Drinks  to  Hortensio. 

Bap.  How  likes  Gremio  these  quick-witted  folks  ? 
Gre.  Believe  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  welL 
JSian.  Head,  and  butt !  an  hasty-wilted  body 

Would  say  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and  horn. 
Vin.  Ay,  mistress  bride,  hath  that  awaken'd  you  ? 
Bian.  Ay,  but  not  fr^hted  me ;  therefore  1 11  sleep  again. 
Pet.  Nay,  that  you  shall  not :  since  you  have  begun,  " 

Have  at  you  for  a  bitter  jest  or  two ! 
Bian.  Am  I  your  bird  ?     I  mean  to  sr^ift  my  bush  ; 

And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow. 

You  are  welcome  alL 

{Exeunt  Bianta,  Katharina,  and  IVidow. 
Pet  She  hath  prevented  me.     Here,  Signior  Tranio, 

This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  though  you  hit  her  not ; 

Therefore  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 
Tra .  O,  sir,  Lucentio  slipp'd  me  like  his  greyhour   . 

Which  runs  himself,  and  catches  for  his  master. 
Pet.  A  good  swift  simile,  but  something  currish. 
Tra.  Tis  well,  sir,  that  you  hunted  for  yourself : 

Tis  thought  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  bay. 
Bap.  O  ho,  Petruchio  '  Tranio  hits  you  now. 
Luc.  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,  good 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Hor.  Confess,  confess,  hath  he  not  hit  you  here  ? 
Pet.  A'  has  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess  ; 

And,  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  from  me, 

'Tis  ten  to  one  it  maim'd  you  two  outright, 
Bap.  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 ; 

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  '11  venture  so  much  of  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  '11  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 
Luc.  I  '11  have  no  halves ;  I  '11  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  1 

Is  that  an  answer  ? 
Gre.  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too  : 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 
Pet.  I  hope,  better. 
Hor.  Sirrah  Biondello,  go  and  entreat  my  wife 

To  come  to  me  forthwith.  \Exit  Biondelb. 

Pet.  O,  ho  i  entreat  her  1 

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  1     O  vile, 

631 


Act  v,  Sc.  ii]  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Intolerable,  not  to  be  endured  ! 

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. 
Bap.   Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharina  ! 

Re-enter  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  parlour  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  befal  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. 

See  where  she  comes  and  brings  your  froward  wives 

As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. 

Re-enter  Katharina^  with  Bian^ca  and  Widow. 

Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not : 

Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under-foot. 
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  an  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. 

632 


The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Wid.  She  shall  not. 

Pet.  1  say  she  shall :  and  first  begin  with  her. 

Katk.  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  labour  both  by  sea  and  land, 

To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  in  cold, 

Whilst  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  is  froward,  peevish,  sullen,  sour. 

And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will, 

What  is  she  but  a  foul  contending  rebel, 

And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? 

I  am  ashamed  that  women  are  so  simple 

To  offer  war  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace ; 

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  conditions  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  are. 

Then  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot, 

And  place  your  hands  .below  your  husband's  foot : 

In  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please, 

633 


Act  V,  Sc.  q  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

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  shall  ha'u 
Vin.  Tis  a  good  hearing,  when  children  are  toward.    . 
Luc.  But  a  harsh  bearing,  when  women  are  froward. 
Pet.  Come,  Kate,  we  11  to  bed. 

We  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 
Twas  I  won  the  wager,  though  yon  hit  the  white ; 

[StofmaUm. 
And.  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night ! 

[Exeunt  Petruchio  and  Kathariiia. 

Hor.  Now,  go  thy  ways ;  thou  hast  tamed  a  curst  shrew. 
Luc.  Tis  a  wonder,  by  your  leave,  she  will  be  tamed  so. 

[Exeunt. 


634 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL 

DRAMATIS  PERSON,? 


ACT  I— SOLVE  I 

The  Counfs  palace. 

Enter  Bertram*  the  CeunUss  of  Rouallon,  HtUnat  and  Lafeu, 
all  in  black. 

Count.  In  delivering  my  son  from  mey  I  bury  a  second 
husband. 

Ber.  And  I  in  going,  m^m.  weep  o'er  my  father's  death  anew : 
but  I  must  attend  his  majesty's  command,  to  whom  I  am 
now  in  ward,  evermore  in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband,  madam ;  you,  sir,  a 
father:  he  that  so  generally  is  at  all  times  good,  must  of 
necessity  hold  his  virtue  to  you ;  whose  worthiness  would  stir 
it  up  where  it  wanted,  rather  than  lack  it  where  there  is  such 
abundance. 

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

Laf.  He  hath  abandoned  his  physicians,  madam  ;  under  whose 
practices  he  ^th  persecuted  time  with  hope,  and  finds  no 
•    other  advantage  in  the  process  but  only  the  losing  of  hope 
by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father,  r—O,  that '  had ' ! 
how  sad  a  message  'tis  ! — whose  skill  was  almost  as  great  as 
his  honesty;  had  it  stretched  so  far,  would  have  made 
nature  immortal,  and  death  should  have  play  for  lack  of 
work.  Would,  for  the  king's  sake,  he  were  living  1  I  think 
it  would  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  was  skilful 
enough  to  have  lived  still,  if  knowledge  could  be  set  up 
against  mortality. 

Count.  What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  the  king  languishes  of? 

Laf.  A  fistula,  my  lord. 

635 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  All fs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Bcr.  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  over 
looking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her  good  that  her  educa 
tion  promises;  her  dispositions  she  inherits,  which  makes 
fair  gifts  fairer ;  for  where  an  unclean  mind  carries  virtuous 
qualities,  there  commendations  go  with  pity ;  they  are  virtues 
and  traitors  too  :  in  her  they  are  the  better  for  their  simple- 
ness  ;  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  approaches  her  heart 
but  the  tyranny  of  her  sorrows  takes  all  livelihood  from  her 
cheek.  No  more  of  this,  Helena,  go  to,  no  more  ;  lest  it  be 
rather  thought  you  affect  a  sorrow  than  to  have — 

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

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the  dead ;  excessive 
grief  the  enemy  of  the  living. 

Count.  If  the  living  be  enemy  to  the  grief,  the  excess  makes  it 
soon  mortal. 

Bcr.  Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes, 

Laf.  How  understand  we  that  ? 

Count.  Be  thou  blest,  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  check'd  for  silence, 
But  never  taxM  for  speech.     What  heaven  more  will, 
That  thee  may  furnish,  and  my  prayers  pluck  down, 
Fall  on  thy  head  !     Farewell,  my  lord  ; 
Tis  an  unseason'd  courtier ;  good  my  lord, 
Advise  him. 

Laf.  He  cannot  want  the  best 

That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Count.  Heaven  bless  him  !     Farewell,  Bertram.  [Exit. 

Bcr.  \to  Helend\  The  best  wishes  that  can  be  forged  in  your 
thoughts  be  servants  to  you  1  Be  comfortable  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  Lafeu. 

Hd.  O,  were  that  all !     I  think  not  on  my  father  : 
And  these  great  tears  grace  his  remembrance  more 

636 


All  s  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  i 

Than  those  I  shed  for  him.     What  was  he  like  ? 

I  have  forgot  him  :  my  imagination 

Carries  no  favour  in  't  but  Bertram's. 

I  am  undone  :  there  is  no  living,  none, 

If  Bertram  be  away.     'Twere  all  one 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me  : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 

Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 

The  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself: 

The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 

Must  die  for  love.     'Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague, 

To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 

His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 

In  our  heart's  table ;  heart  too  capable 

Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour : 

But  now  he 's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 

Must  sanctify  his  reliques.     Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Parolles. 
[Aside]  One  that  goes  with  him :  I  love  him  for  his  sake ; 

And  yet  I  know  him  a  notorious  liar, 

Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward ; 

Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him, 

That  they  take  place,  when  virtue's  steely  bones 

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

Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly. 
Par.  Save  you,  fair  queen  !       * 
Hel.  And  you,  monarch  1 
'Par.  Xo. 
Hel.  And  no. 

Par.  Are  you  meditating  on  virginity  ? 
Hel.  Ay.     You  have  some  stain  of  soldier  in  you  :  let  me  ask 

you  a  question.     Man  is  enemy  to  virginity ;  how  may  we 

barricado  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  under 
mine  you  and  blow  you  up. 
Hel.  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  quicklier  be  blown 

up  :   marry,  in   blowing  him  down  again,  with  the  breach 

yourselves  made,  you  lose  your  city.     It  is  not  politic  in 

637 


Act  I,  Sc.  i]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

the  commonwealth  of  nature  to  preserve  virginity.  Loss  of 
virginity  is  rational  increase,  and  there  was  never  virgin  got 
till  virginity  was  first  lost.  That  you  were  made  of  is  metal 
to  make  virgins.  Virginity  by  being  once  lost  may  be  ten 


Hel. 

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  disobedience.  He  that 
hangs  himself  is  a  virgin:  virginity  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-love,  which  is 
the  most  inhibited  sin  in  the  canon.  Keep  it  not ;  you 
cannot  choose  but  lose  by  't :  out  with  't  !  within  ten  year 
it  will  make  itself  ten,  which  is  a  goodly  increase ;  and  the 
principal  itself  not  much  the  worse  :  away  with  't ! 

Hel.  How  might  one  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her  own  liking  ? 

Par.  Let  me  see  :  marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that  ne'er  it  likes. 
Tis  a  commodity  will  lose  the  gloss  with  lying ;  the  longer 
kept,  the  less  worth :  off  with  't  while  'tis  vendible ;  answer 
the  time  of  request.  Virginity,  like  an  old  courtier,  wears 
her  cap  out  of  fashion ;  richly  suited,  but  unsuitable  :  just 
like  the  brooch  and  the  toothpick,  which  wear  not  now. 
Your  date  is  better  in  your  pie  and  your  porridge  than  in 
your  cheek :  and  your  virginity,  your  old  virginity,  is  like 
one  of  our  French  withered  pears,  it  looks  ill,  it  eats  drily ; 
marry,  'tis  a  withered  pear ;  it  was  formerly  better ;  marry, 
yet  'tis  a  withered  pear ;  will  you  any  thing  with  it  ? 

Hel.  Not  my  virginity  yet.  .  .  . 

There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother  and  a  mistress  and  a  friend, 
A  phcenix,  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,  adoptious  Christendoms, 
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 — • 

638 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  1 

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  we,  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,  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  Monsieur  Parolles,  my  lord  calls  for  you.  [Exit* 

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

Hel.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a  charitabk  star. 

Par.  Under  Mars,  I. 

Hel.  I  especially  think,  under  Mars. 

Par.  Why  under  Mars  ? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  you  must  needs 
be  born  under  Mars. 

Par.  When  he  was  predominant. 

HeL  When  he  was  retrograde,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.  Why  think  you  so  ? 

Hel.  You  go  so  much  backward  when  you  fight 

Par.  That 's  for  advantage. 

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

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer  thee  acutely. 
I  will  return  perfect  courtier ;  in  the  which,  my  instruction 
shall  serve  to  naturalize  thee,  so  thou  wilt  be  capable  of  a 
courtier's  counsel,  and  understand  what  advice  shall  thrust 
upon  thee ;  else  thou  diest  in  thine  unthankfulness,  and 
thine  ignorance  makes  thee  away  :  farewell.  When  thou 
hast  leisure,  say  thy  prayers;  when  thou  hast  none,  remem 
ber  thy  friends  :  get  thee  a  good  husband,  and  use  him  as 
he  uses  thee :  so,  farewell.  [Exit. 

Hel.  Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven :  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope  ;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so  high ; 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye? 
The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  .attempts  to  those 

639 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  All  Js  Well  that  Ends  W< 

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  fix'd,  and  will  not  leave  me.  [.Exit. 

SCENE  II 

Paris.     The  King's  palace. 
Flourish  of  cornets.     Enter  the  King  of  France  with  letters,  an 

divers  Attendants. 
King.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys  are  by  the  ears ; 

Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 

A  braving  war. 

First  Lord.  So  'tis  reported,  sir. 
King.  Nay,  'tis  most  credible  ;  we  here  receive  it 

A  certainty,  vouch'd  from  our  cousin  Austria, 

With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 

For  speedy  aid  ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 

Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 

To  have  us  make  denial. 
First  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 

Approved  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 

For  amplest  credence. 
King.  He  hath  arm'd  our  answer, 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes  : 

Yet,  for  our  gentlemen  that  mean  to  see 

The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 

To  stand  on  either  part. 
Sec.  Lord.  It  well  may  serve 

A  nursery  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 

For  breathing  and  exploit. 
King.  What 's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parollcs. 
First  Lord.  It  is  the  Count  Rousillon,  my  good  lord, 

Young  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 ; 

640 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 

And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 

To  talk  of  your  good  father.     In  his  youth 

He  had  the  wit,  which  I  can  well  observe 

To-day  in  our  young  lords ;  but  they  may  jest 

Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted 

Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour : 

So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 

Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness ;  if  they,  were, 

His  equal  had  awaked  them ;  and  his  honour, 

Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 

Exception  bid  him  speak,  and  at  .this  time 

His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand  :  who  were  below  him 

He  used  as  creatures  of  another  place  ; 

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

Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 

In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  man 

Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times  ; 

Which,  follow'd  well,  would  demonstrate  them  now 

But  goers  backward. 
Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir, 

Lies  richer  in  yoorr  thoughts  than  on  his  tomb ; 

So  in  approof  lives  not  his  epitaph 

As  in  your  royal  speech. 
King.  Would  I  were  with  him  !     He  would  always  say — 

Methinks  I  hear  him  now ;  his  plausive  words 

He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them, 

To  grow  there  and  to  bear, — '  Let  me  not  live,' — 

This  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  judgements  are 

Mere  fathers  of  their  garments  ;  whose  constancies 

Expire  before  their  fashions.'    .This  he  wish'd : 

I  after  him  do  after  him  wish  too, 

Since  I  nor  wax  nor  honey  can  bring  home, 

I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive, 

To  give  some  labourers  room. 
Sec.  Lord.  You  are  loved,  sir ; 

They  that  least  lend  it  you  shall  lack  you  first. 
King.  I  fill  a  place,  I  know 't.     How  long  is 't,  count, 

Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died  ? 

He  was  much  famed. 

641  x 


risk. 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Ber.  Some  six  months  since,  my  lord. 

King.  If  he  were  living,  I  would  try  him  yet. 

Lend  me  an  arm ;  the  rest  have  worn  me.  oufcr(  "lo  M&  o 
With  several  applications  :  nature  and  sickness  aril  b&d  t 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count ; 
My  son 's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty.  \Exeunt.  Flourish. 

jittllOO  £ 
bCENE    III 

Rousillon.     The  Counfs  palace. 
Enter  Countess,  Steward,  and  Clown. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear;  what  say  you  of  this  gentlewoman? 
Stew.  Madam,  the  care  I  have  had  to  even  your  content,   I 

wish  might  be  found  in  the  calendar  of  my  past  endeavours ; 

for  then  we  wound  our  modesty  and  make  foul  the  clearness 

of  our  deservings,  when  of  ourselves  we  publish  them. 
Count.  What  does  this  knave  here  ?    Get  you  gone,  sirrah  :  the 

complaints  I  have  heard  of  you  I  do  not  all  believe :  'tis  my 

slowness  that  I  do  not ;  for  I  know  you  lack  not  folly  to 

commit    them,    and    have   ability   enough,   to    make   such 

knaveries  yours. 

Clo.  Tis  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am  a  poor  fellow. 
Count.  Well,  sir. 
Clo.  No,  madam,  'tis  not  so  well  that  I  am  poor,  though  many 

of  the  rich  are  damned  :  but,  if  I  may  have  your  ladyship's 

good  will  to  go  to  the  world,  Isbel  the  woman  and  I  will  do 

as  we  may. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  needs  be  a  beggar  ? 
Clo.  I  do  beg  your  good  will  in  this  case.       :  a  bo 
Count.  In  what  case  ? 
Clo.  In  Isbel's  case  and  mine  own.     Service  is  no  heritage : 

and  I  think  I  shall  never  have  the  blessing  of  God  till  I  have 

issue  o'  my  body ;  for  they  say  barnes  are  biessingpjuov  1' 
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  o'  friends,  madam  :  and  I  hope  to  have  friends 

for  my  wife's  sake. 

642 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Count.  Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  're  shallow,  madam,  in  great  friends ;  for  the  knaves 
come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am  aweary  of.  He  tl^at 
ears  my  land  spares  my  team,  and  gives  me  leave  to  in  the 
crop ;  if  I  be  his  cuckold,  he 's  my  drudge  :  he  that  comforts 
my  wife  is  the  cherisher  of  my  flesh  and  blood ;  he  that 
cherishes  my  flesh  and  blood  loves  my  flesh  and  blood ;  he 
that  loves  my  flesh  and  blood  is .  my  friend :  ergo,  he  that 
kisses  my  wife  is  my  friend.  If  men  could  be  contented  to 
be  what  they  are,  there  were  no  fear  in  marriage ;  for  young 
Charbon  the  puritan  and  old  Poysam  the  papist,  howsome'er 
their  hearts  are  severed  in  religion,  their  heads  are  both  one ; 
they  may  joul  horns  together,  like  any  deer  i'  the  herd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouthed  and  calumnious 
knave  ?  [way : 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,  madam;  and  I  speak  the  truth  the   next 

For  I  the  ballad  will  repeat, 

Which  men  full  true  shall  find ; 

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

• 
Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir ;  I  il  talk  with  you  more  anon. 

Stew.  May  it  please  you,  madam,  that  he  bid  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, 

Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done,  done  fond,  -.f»T9«< 

Was  this  King  Priam's  joy? 
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. 

,  •          ->  u  •     u 

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

Clo.  One  good  woman  in  ten,  madam ;  which  is  a  purifying  o' 
the  song :  would  God  would  serve  the  world  so  all  the  year ! 
we  'd  find  no  fault  with  the  tithe-woman,  if  I  were  the  parson : 
one  in  ten,  quoth  a' !  an  we  might  have  a  good  woman  born 
but  one  every  blazing  star,  or  at  an  earthquake,  'twould 
mend  the  lottery  well :  a  man  may  draw  his  heart  out,  ere  a' 
pluck  one. 

643 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Count.  You  '11  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I  command  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  humility  over  the  black 
gown  of  a  big  heart.  I  am  going,  forsooth  :  the  business  is 
for  Helen  to  come  hither.  [Exit. 

Count.  Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  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  '11  demand. 

Stew.  Madam,  1  was  very  late  more  near  her  than  I  think  she 
wished  me :  alone  she  was,  and  did  communicate  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  two  estates ;  Love  no 
god,  that  would  not  extend  his  might,  only  where  qualities 
were  level;  .  .  .  queen  of  virgins,  that  would  suffer  her 
poor  knight  surprised,  without  rescue  in  the  first  assault,  or 
ransom  afterward.  This  she  delivered  in  the  most  bitter 
touch  of  sorrow  that  e'er  I  heard  virgin  exclaim  in  :  which 
I  held  my  duty  speedily  to  acquaint  you  withal ;  sithence,  in 
the  loss  that  may  happen,  it  concerns  you  something  to 
know  it. 

Count.  You  have  discharged  this  honestly ;  keep  it  to  your 
self:  many  likelihoods  informed  me  of  this  before,  which 
hung  so  tottering  in  the  balance,  that  I  could  neither  believe 
nor  misdoubt.  Pray  you,  leave  me:  stall  this  in  your  bosom; 
and  I  thank  you  for  your  honest  care  :  I  will  speak  with  you 
further  anon.  [Exit  Steward. 

Enter  Helena. 
Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young : 

If  ever  we  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  impress'd  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. 
Hel.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Count.  You  know,  Helen, 

I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

644 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Hel  Mine  honourable  mistress. 

Count.  Nay,  a  mother  : 

Why  not  a  mother  ?     When  I  said  '  a  mother/ 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent :  what 's  in  '  mother,' 
That  you  start  at  it  ?     I  say,  I  am  your  mother ; 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine :  'tis  often  seen 
Adoption  strives  with  nature ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan, 
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  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-colour'd  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  honour'd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble : 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is ;  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die : 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother  ? 

HeL  You  are  my  mother,  madam ;  would  you  were, — 
So  that  my  lord  your  son  were  not  my  brother, — 
Indeed  my  mother !  or  were  you  both  our  mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for  than  I  do  for  heaven, 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.     Can't  no  other, 
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  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness :  now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  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 
Confess  it,  th'  one  to  th'  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviours, 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it :  only  sin 
645 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

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. 

•Hel.  Good  madam,  pardon  me  ! 

Count.  Do  you  love  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Your  pardon,  noble  mistress  > 

Count.  Love  you  my  son  ? 

Hel.  Do  not  you  love  him,  madam  ? 

Count.  Go  not  about :  my  love  hath  in  't  a  bond, 

Whereof  the  world  takes  note :  come,  come,  disclose 

The  state  of  your  affection ;  for  your  passions 

Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 
Hel.  Then,  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  kneey  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 

By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 

Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him ; 

Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 

I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope ; 

Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve, 

I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 

And  lack  not  to  lose  still :  thus,  Indian-like, 

Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 

The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 

But  knows  df  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam, 

Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love 

For  loving  where  you  do  :  but  if  yourself, 

Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth, 

Did  ever  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking 

Wish  chastely  and  love  dearly,  that  your  Dian 

Was  both  herself  and  love ;  O,  then,  give  pity 

To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 

But  lend  and  give  where  she  is  sure  to  lose  ; 

That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies, 

But  riddle-like  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies  ! 
Count.  Had  you  not  lately  an  intent, — speak  truly, — 

To  go  to  Paris  ? 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

646 


AH  's  Weil  that  Ends  Well  [Act  I,  Sc.  iii 

Count.  Wherefore  ?  tell  true. 

Hel.  I  will  tell  truth  ;  by  grace  itself  I  swear. 

You  know  my  father  left  me  so'me  prescriptions 

Of  rare  and  proved  effects,  such  as  his  reading 

And  manifest  experience  had  collected 

For  general  sovereignty;  and  that  he  will'd  me 

In  heedfull'st  reservation  to  bestow  them, 

As  notes,  whose  faculties  inclusive  were, 

More  than  they  were  in  note  :  amongst  the  rest, 

There  is  a  remedy,  approved,  set  down, 

To  cure  the  desperate  languishings  whereof 

The  king  is  render'd  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  medicinte,  and  the  king, 

Had  from  the  conversation  of  my  thoughts 

Haply  been  absent  then. 
Count.  But  -think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid, 

He  would  receive  it  ?  he  and  his  physicians 

Are  of  a  mind;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him, 

They,  that  they  cannot  help  :  how  shall  they  credit 

A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 

Embowell'd  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 

The  danger  to  itself? 
Hel.  There 's  something  in  't, 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  great'st 

Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 

Shall  for  my  legacy  be  sanctified 

By  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven  :  and,  would  your  honour 

But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I  'id  venture 

The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  Grace's  cure 

By  such  a  day  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  believe  't  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 
Count.  Why,  Helen,  thou  shalt  have  my  leave  and  love, 

Means  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 

To  those  of  mine  in  court :  I  '11  stay  at  home 

And  pray  God's  blessing  into  thy  attempt : 

Be  gone  to-morrow ;  and  be  sure  of  this, 

What  I  can  help  thee  to,  thou  shalt  not  miss.  [Exeunt, 

• 
.IL 

647 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  All  s  Well  that  Ends  Well 

ACT  II— SCENE  I 

Paris.    The  King's  palace. 

Flourish  of  cornets.     Enter  the  King,  attended  with  divers  young 

Lords   taking  leave  for  the  Florentine  war ;  Bertram,   and 

Parolles. 
King.  Farewell,  young  lords  ;  these  warlike  principles 

Do  not  throw  from  you  :  and  you,  my  lords,  farewell : 

Share  the  advice  betwixt  you ;  if  both  gain,  all 

The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  'tis  received, 

And  is  enough  for  both. 
First  Lord.  'Tis  our  hope,  sir, 

After  well-enter' d  soldiers,  to  return 

And  find  your  Grace  in  health. 
King.  No,  no,  it  cannot  be ;  and  yet  my  heart 

Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 

That  doth  my  life  besiege.     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, — see  that  you  come 

Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 

The  bravest  questant  shrinks,  find  what  you  seek, 

That  fame  may  cry  you  loud  :  I  say,  farewell. 
Sec.  Lord.  Health,  at  your  bidding,  serve  your  majesty  ! 
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.  [Exit 

First  Lord.  O  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay  behind  us  ! 
Par.  'Tis  not  his  fault,  the  spark. 
Sec.  Lord.  O,  'tis  brave  wars  ! 

Par.  Most  admirable :  I  have  seen  those  wars. 
Ber.  I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil  with 

'  Too  young,'  and  ' the  next  year,'  and  *  'tis  too  early.' 
Par.  An  thy  mind  stand  to  't,  boy,  steal  away  bravely. 
Ber.  I  shall  stay  here  the  forehorse  to  a  smock, 

Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry, 

Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn 

But  one  to  dance  with  !     By  heaven,  I  '11  steal  away. 
First  Lord.  There 's  honour  in  the  theft. 
Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

Sec.  Lord.  I  am  your  accessary  ;  and  so,  farewell. 

648 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Ber.  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortured  body. 

First  Lord.  Farewell,  captain. 

Sec.  Lord.  Sweet  Monsieur  Parolles  ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin.  Good  sparks 
and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals :  you  shall  find  in  the  regi 
ment  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. 

First  Lord.  We  shall,  noble  captain.  \Exeunt  Lords. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  novices !  what  will  ye  do  ? 

Ber.  Stay  :  the  king. 

Re-enter  King. 

Par.  [Aside  to  £er.~\  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,  there  do  muster  true 
gait,  eat,  speak,  and  move  under  the  influence  of  the  most 
received  star  ;  and  though  the  devil  lead  the  measure,  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.  \Kneeling\  Pardon,  my  lord,  for  me  and  for  my  tidings. 

King.  I  '11  fee  thee  to  stand  up. 

Laf.  Then  here  's  a  man  stands,  that  has  brought  his  pardon, 
I  would  you  had  kneel'd,  my  lord,  to  ask  me  mercy ; 
And  that  at  my  bidding  you  could  so  stand  up. 

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

Laf.  Good  faith,  across  :  but,  my  good  lord,  'tis  thus  ; 
Will  you  be  cured  of  your  infirmity  ? 

King.  No. 

Laf.  O,  will  you  eat  no  grapes,  my  royal  fox  ? 
Yes,  but  you  will  my  noble  grapes,  an  if 
My  royal  fox  could  reach  them  :  I  have  seen  a  medicine 
That 's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone, 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary 
With  spritely  fire  and  motion ;  whose  simple  touch 
Is  powerful  to  araise  King  Pepin,  nay, 
To  give  great  Charlemain  a  pen  in  's  hand, 
And  write  to  her  a  love-line. 
King.  What  'her 'is  this? 

649  X  2 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Laf.  Why,  Doctor  She :  my  lord,  there 's  one  arrived, 
If  you  will  see  her :  now,  by  my  faith  and  honour, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession, 
Wisdom  and  constancy,  hath  amazed  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness :  will  you  see  her, 
For  that  is  her  demand,  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bring  in  the  admiration  :  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  off  thine*  9 fit 
By  wondering  how  thou  took'st  it. 

Laf.  Nay,  1  '11  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  [Exit. 

King.  Thus  he  his  special  nothing  evei  prologues. 
Re-entet  Lafeu,  with  Helena. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 

King.  This  haste  hath'wings  indeed. 

Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways ; 

This  is  his  majesty,  say  your  mind  to  him : 

A  traitor  you  do  look  like ;  but  such  traitors 

His  majesty  seldom  fears :  I  am  Cressid's  uncle, 

That  dare  leave  two  together ;  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

King.  Now,  fair  one,  does  your  business  follow  us  ? 

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

King.  We  thank  you,  maiden  ; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, 
When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us,  and 
The  congregated  college  have  concluded 

650 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

That  labouring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 

From  her  inaidible  estate  ;  I  say  we  must  not 

So  stain  our  judgement,  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  call'd  grateful : 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me ;  and  such  thanks  I  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. 

Hel.  What  I  can  do  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy. 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgement  shown, 
When  judges  have  been  babes ;  great  floods  have  flown 
From  simple  sources ;  and  great  seas  have  dried, 
When  miracles  have  by  the  greatest  been  denied. 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises ;  and  oft  it  hits 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  fits. 

King.  I  must  not  hear  thee ;  fare  thee  well,  kind  maid ; 
Thy  pains  not  used  must  by  thyself  be  paid  : 
Proffers  not  took  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 

Hel.  Inspired  merit  so  by  breath  is  barr'd : 
It  is  not  so  with  Him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  'tis  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows , 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us  when 
The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavours  give  consent ; 
Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim  ; 
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  ?  within  what  space 
Hopest  thou  my  cure  ? 

Hel.  The  great'st  grace  lending  grace, 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 

651 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  All  s  Well  that  Ends 

Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
.  Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Hesperus  hath  quench'd  his  sleepy  lamp; 
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  darest  thou  venture  ? 

Hel.  Tax  of  impudence, 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame 
Traduced  by  odious  ballads  :  my  maiden's  name 
Sear'd  otherwise,  ne  worse  of  worst  extended 
With  vilest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 

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,  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  I  die. 

Hel.  If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
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  heaven. 

Hel.  Then  shalt  thou  give  me  with  thy  kingly  hand 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command  : 
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  image  of  thy  state  ; 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.  Here  is  my  hand  ;  the  premises  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. 

652 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must, 
Though  more  to  know  could  not  be  more  to  trust, 
From  whence  thou  earnest,  how  tended  on :  but  rest 
Unquestion'd  welcome,  and  undoubted  blest. 
Give  me  some  help  here,  ho  !     If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

'.r  SCENE 


and 

Count.  Come  on,  sir;  I  shall  now  put  you/fo^He* height  of  ypur  /•; 
breeding.  -n  ft*   &    A 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed  and  lowly  1 
I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court.  / 

Count.  To  the  court !  why,  what  place  make  you  special, ' 
you  put  off  that  with  such  contempt  ?     But  to  the  court ! 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man  any  manners,  he 
may  easily  put  it  off  at  court :  he  that  cannot  make  a  leg, 
put  off's  cap,  kiss  his  hand,  and  say  nothing,  has  neither  leg, 
hands,  lip,  nor  cap  ;  and,  indeed,  such  a  fellow,  to  say 
precisely,  were  not  for  the  court ;  but  for  me,  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 

Count.  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  questions  ?       [buttock. 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  of  an  attorney,  as  your 
French  crown  for  your  taffeta  punk,  as  Tib's  rush  for  Tom's 
forefinger,  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.  [questions  ? 

Count.  Have  you,   I   say,  an  answer  of   such   fitness   for   all 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke  to  beneath  your  constable,  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  thte  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  !  There 's  a  simple  putting  off.  More,  more, 
a  hundred  of  them. 

653 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

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  1     Nay,  put  me  to  't,  I  warrant  you. 

Count.  You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir !  spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry;  *  O  Lord  sir ! '  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  but  bound  to  't. 
Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life  in  my  '  O  Lord,  sir  ! '  I 

see  things  may  serve  long,  but  not  serve  ever. 
Count.  I  play  the  noble  housewife  with  the  time, 

To  entertain  't  so  merrily  with  a  fool . 
Clo.  O  Lord,  sir !  why,  there  \  serves  well  again. 
Count.  An  end,  sir ;  to  your  business.     Give  Helen  this 

And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back : 

Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen  and  my  son : 

This  is  not  much. 

Clo.  Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you  :  you  understand  me  ? 
Clo.  Most  fruitfully :  I  am  there  before  my  legs. 
Count.  Haste  you  again.  \Exeunt  severally. 

bCENE    ill 

Paris.     The  Kings  palace.       (fV'liV 
Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu^  and  Par o lies: 
Laf.  They  say  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have  our  philosophical 

persons,  to  make  modern  and  familiar,  things  supernatural 

and  causeless.     Hence  is  it  that  we  make  trifles  of  terrors ; 

ensconcing  ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge,  when  we  should 

submit  ourselves  to  an  unknown  fear. 
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, — 
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  I  too. 
Laf.  Not  to  be  helped, — 
Par.  Right  %  as  'twere,  a  man  assured  of  a — 
Laf.  Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 
Par.  Just,  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said.  ^ 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 


[Act  II,  Sc.  iii 


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  ye  call  there  ? 

Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  effect  in  an  earthly  actor. 
Par.  That 's  it ;  I  would  have  said  the  very  same,     [respect — 
Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin  is  not  lustier :  'fore  me,  I  speak  in 
Par.  Nay,  'tis  strange,  'tis  very  strange,  that  is  the  brief  and  the 

tedious  of  it ;  and  he 's  of  a  most  facinerious  spirit  that  will 

not  acknowledge  it  to  be  the — 
Laf,  Very  hand  of  heaven. 
Par.  Ay,  so  I  say. 
Laf.  In  a  most  weak— 
Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great  transcendence : 

which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a  further  use  to  be  made  than 

alone  the  recovery  of  the  king,  as  to  be — 
Laf.  Generally  thankful. 
Par.  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.     Here  comes  the  king. 

Enter  King,  Helena,  and  Attendants. 
Laf.  Lustig,  as  the  Dutchman  says  :  I  '11  like  a  maid  the  better, 

whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head :  why,  he 's  able  to  lead 

her  a  coranto. 

Par.   Mort  du  vinaigre  !  is  not  this  Helen  ? 
Laf.  'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 
King.  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. 

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

And  with  this  healthful  hand,  whose  banish'd  sense 

Thou  hast  repeal' d,- a  second  time  receive 

The  confirmation  of  my  promised  gift, 
.     Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  three  or  four  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye :  this  youthful  parcel 

Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing, 

O'er  whom  both  sovereign  power  and  father's  voice 

I  have  to  use  :  thy  frank  election  make ; 

Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  forsake. 
Hd.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mistress 

Fall,  when  Love  please  !  marry,  to  each,  but  one  ! 
Laf.  I  'Id  give  bay  Curtal  and  his  furniture, 

My  mouth  no  more  were  broken  than  these  boys', 

And  writ  as  little  beard. 
King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those  but  had  a  noble  father. 
Hel.  Gentlemen, 

Heaven  hath  through  me  restored  the  king  to  health. 
All.  We  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for  you. 

655 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

HeL  I  am  a  simple  maid  ;  and  therein  wealthiest, 
That  I  protest  I  simply  am  a  maid. 
Please  it  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already : 
The  blushes  in  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
'  We  blush  that  thou  shouldst  choose  ;  but,  be  refused, 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever ; 
We  ;11  ne'er  come  there  again.' 
King.  Make  choice  ;  and,  see, 

Who  shuns  thy  love  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 
HeL  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  ? 
First  Lord.  And  grant  it. 

HeL  Thanks,  sir  ;  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

Laf.  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice  than  throw  ames-ace  for 
HeL  The  honour,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fair  eyes,  [life. 

Before  I  speak,  too  threateningly  replies : 

Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 

Her  that  so  wishes  and  her  humble  love ! 
Sec.  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  ?     An  they  were  sons  of  mine,  I  'Id 

have  them  whipped ;  or  I  would  send  them  to  the  Turk,  to 

make  eunuchs  of. 
HeL  Be  not  afraid  that  I  your  hand  should  take ; 

I  '11  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  '11  none  have  her  :  sure, 

they  are  bastards  to  the  English ;  the  French  ne'er  got  'em. 
HeL  You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too  good, 

To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 
Fourth  Lord.  Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 
Laf.  There 's  one  grape  yet ;  I  am  sure  thy  father  drunk  wine : 

but  if  thou  be'st  not  an  ass,  I  am  a  youth  of  fourteen ;  I 

have  known  thee  already. 
HeL  \To  Bertrani\  I  dare  not  say  I  take  you ;  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  wife. 
Ber.  My  wife,  my  liege  !     I  shall  beseech  your  highness, 

In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 

The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou  not,  Bertram, 

656 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

What  she  has  done  for  me  ? 
Ber.  Yes,  my  good  lord  ; 

But  never  hope  to  know  why  I  should  marry  her. 
Jting.  Thou  know'st  she  has  raised  me  from  my  sickly  bed. 
Ber.  But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  down 

Must  answer  for  your  raising  ?     I  know  her  well : 

She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge. 

A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife  !     Disdain 

Rather  corrupt  me  ever  ! 
King.  Tis  only  title  thou  disdain'st  in  her,  the  which 

I  can  build  up.     Strange  is  it,  that  our  bloods, 

Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 

Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off 

In  differences  so  mighty.     If  she  be 

All  that  is  virtuous,  save  what  thou  dislikest, 

A  poor  physician's  daughter,  thou  dislikest 

Of  virtue  for  the  name  :  but  do  not  so  : 

From  lowest  place  when  virtuous  things  proceed, 

The  place  is  dignified  by  the  doer's  deed : 

Where  great  additions  swell,  and  virtue  none, 

It  is  a  dropsied  honour.     Good  alone 

Is  good  without  a  name.     Vileness  is  so : 

The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 

Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair ;. 

In  these  to  nature  she 's  immediate  heir, 

And  these  breed  honour :  that  is  honour's  scorn, 

Which  challenges  itself  as  honour 's  born, 

And  is  not  like  the  sire :  honours  thrive, 

When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 

Than  our  foregoers :  the  mere  word 's  a  slave 

Debosh'd  on  every  tomb,  on  every  grave 

A  lying  trophy ;  and  as  oft  is  dumb 

Where  dust  and  damn'd  oblivion  is  the  tomb 

Of  honour'd  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 ;  honour  and  wealth  from  me. 
Ber.  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  'm  glad  : . 

Let  the  rest  go. 
King.  My  honour 's  at  the  stake ;  which  to  defeat, 

I  must  produce  my  power.     Here,  take  her  hand, 

Proud  scornful  boy,  unworthy  this  good  gift ; 

That  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 

657 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

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  honour  where 

We  please  to  have  it  grow.     Check  thy  contempt : 

Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good : 

Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently  tad  biii 

Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right 

Which  both  thy  duty  owes  and  our  power  claims ; 

Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  .my  care  for  ever 

Into  the  staggers  and  the  careless  lapse          u  blk 

Of  youth  and  ignorance ;  both  my  revenge  and  hate 

Loosing  upon  thee,  in  the  name  of  justice,  bluo\ 

Without  all  terms  of  pity.     Speak  ;  thine  answer. 

Ber.  Pardon,  my  gracious  lord ;  for  I  submit 
My  fancy  to  your  eyes :  when  I  consider 
What  great  creation  and  what  dole  of  honour 
Flies  where  you  bid  it,  I  find  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king ;  who,  so  ennobled, 
Is  as  }t  were  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand, 

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

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.  Good  fortune  and  the  favour  of  the  king 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  now-born  brief, 
And  be  perform'd  to-night :  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space, 
Expecting  absent  friends.     As  thou  lovest  her, 
Thy  love  ;s  to  me  religious ;  else,  does  err. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Lafeu  and  Parolles. 

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

Par.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

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

Par.  Recantation  1     My  lord  !  my  master  ! 

Laf.  Ay ;  is  it  not  a  language  I  speak  ? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one,  and  not  to  be  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. 

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

658 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

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,  to  be  a  pretty  wise 
fellow ;  thou  didst  make  tolerable  vent  of  thy  travel ;  it  might 
pass  :  yet  the  scarfs  and  the  bannerets  about  thee  did  mani 
foldly  dissuade  me  from  believing  thee  a  vessel  of  too  great 
a  burthen.  I  have  now  found  thee  ;  when  I  lose  thee  again, 
I  care  not :  yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing  but  taking  up ; 
and  that  thou  'rt  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 

Par.  Well,  I  shall  be  wiser.  [a  scruple. 

Laf.  Ev'n  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  shalt  find  what  it  is  to  be  proud  of  thy  bondage. 
I  have  a  desire  to  hold  my  acquaintance  with  thee,  or  rather  my 
knowledge,  that  I  may  say  in  the  default,  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable  vexation. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  thy  sake,  and  my  poor  doing 
eternal :  for  doing  I  am  past ;  as  I  will  by  thee,  in  what 
motion  age  will  give  me  leave.  \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  '11  beat  him,  by  my  life, 
if  I  can  meet  him  with  any  convenience,  an  he  were  double 
and  double  a  lord.  I  '11  have  no  more  pity  of  his  age  than  I 
would  have  of — I  '11  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.  I  most  unfeignedly  beseech  your  lordship  to  make  some 
reservation  of  your  wrongs :  he  is  my  good  lord :  whom  I 
serve  above  is  my  master. 

Laf.  Who?     God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir.  « 

Laf.  The  devil  it  is  that 's  thy  master.  Why  dost  thou  garter 
up  thy  arms  o'  this  fashion  ?  dost  make  hose  of  thy  sleeves  ? 

659 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

do  other  servants  so?  Thou  wert  best  set  thy  lower  part 
where  thy  nose  stands.  By  mine  honour,  if  I  were  but  two 
hours  younger,  I  'Id  beat  thee  :  methinks  't,  thou  art  a  general 
offence,  and  every  man  should  beat  thee :  I  think  thou  wast 
created  for  men  to  breathe  themselves  upon  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my  lord. 

Laf.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for  picking  a  kernel 
out  of  a  pomegranate ;  you  are  a  vagabond,  and  no  true 
traveller :  you  are  more  saucy  with  lords  and  honourable 
personages  than  the  commission  of  your  birth  and  virtue  gives 
you  heraldry.  You  are  not  worth  another  word,  else  I  'Id 
call  you  knave.  I  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then :  good,  very  good ;  let  it 
be  concealed  awhile. 

Re-enter  Bertram. 

Ber.  Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever ! 

Par.  What 's  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  '11  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 
He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box  unseen,  [wars  ! 

That  hugs  his  kicky-wicky  here  at  home, 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms, 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions 
France  is  a  stable ;  we  that  dwell  in 't  jades ; 
Therefore,  to  the  war  ! 

Ber.  It  shall  be  so  :  I  '11  send  her  to  my  house, 
Acquaint  my  mother  with  my  hate  to  her, 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled ;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak :  his  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields, 
Where  noble  fellows  strike  :  war  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house  and  the  detested  wife. 

Par.  Will  this  capriccio  hold  in  thee,  art  sure  ? 

Ber.  Go  with  me  to  my  chamber,  and  advise  me. 
I  '11  send  her  straight  away :  to-morrow 
I  '11  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

660 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Par.  Why,  these  balls  bound ;  there  's  noise  in  it.     Tis  hard  : 
A  young  man  married  is  a  man  that 's  marr'd : 
Therefore  away,  and  leave  her  bravely ;  go  : 
The  king  has  done  you  wrong  :  but,  hush,  'tis  so.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 

Paris.     The  Kings  palace. 
Enter  Helena  and  Clown. 

Hel.  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. 
Hel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail,  that  she  's  not  very 
Clo.  Truly,  she 's  very  well  indeed,  but  for  two  things,      [well  ? 
Hel  What  two  things  ? 
Clo.  One,  that  she  ;s  not  in  heaven,  whither  God  send  her 

quickly  !  the  other,  that  she  's  in  earth,  from  whence  God 

send  her  quickly! 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Bless  you,  my  fortunate  lady  !  [fortunes. 

Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have  mine  own  good 
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  money,  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. 
Par.  Away  !  thou  srt  a  knave. 
Clo.  You    should   have   said,   sir,    before  a   knave   thou'rt  a 

knave ;  that 's,   before  me  thou  'rt  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. 

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  to  a  compell'd  restraint ; 

661 


Act  II,  Sc.  v]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Whose  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strew'd  with  sweets, 

Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time, 

To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erflow  with  joy, 

And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

HeL  What's  his  will  else? 

Par.  That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  o'  the  king, 

And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 

Strengthen'd  with  what  apology  you  think 

May  make  it  probable  need. 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he? 

Par.  That,  having  this  obtain'd,  you  presently 

Attend  his  further  pleasure. 
Hd.  In  every  thing  I  wait  upon  his  will. 
Par.  I  shall  report  it  so. 
HeL  I  pray  you.     [Exit  Parolles.]     Come,  sirrah.       [Exeunt, 

SCEN.E  V 

Paris.     The  King's  palace 
Enter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf.  But  I  hope  your  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. 
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  valour ;  and  my  state  that  way  is  dangerous,  since 

I  cannot  yet  find  in  my  heart  to  repent.     Here  he  comes  : 

I  pray  you,  make  us  friends ;  I  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  These  things  shall  be  done,  sir.  [To  Bertram. 

Laf.  Pray  you,  sir,  who 's  his  tailor  ? 
Par.  Sir? 
Laf.  O,  I  know  him  well,  I,  sir ;  he,  sir,  's  a  good  workman, 

a  very  good  tailor. 

Ber.  Is  she  gone  to  the  king?  [Aside  to  Parottes. 

Par.  She  is. - 

Ber.  Will  she  away  to-night  ? 
Par.  As  you  '11  have  her. 
Ber.  I  have  writ  my  letters,  casketed  my  treasure, 

Given  order  for  our  horses  ;  and  to-night, 

When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, 

End  ere  I  do  begin. 

662 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  II,  Sc.  v 

Laf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter  end  of  a 
dinner;  but  one  that  lies  three  thirds,  and  uses  a  known 
truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings  with,  should  be  once 
heard,  and  thrice  beaten.  God  save  you,  captain. 

Btr.  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  ;  and  out  of  it  you  '11 
run  again,  rather  than  suffer  question  for  your  residence. 

Ber.  It  may  be  you  have  mistaken  him,  my  lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him  at  ;s  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.  Fare 
well,  monsieur :  I  have  spoken  better  of  you  than  you  have 
or  will  to  deserve  at  my  hand  ;  but  we  must  do  good  against 
evil.  [Exit. 

Par.  An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.  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  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 
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  ere  I  shall  see  you ;  so, 

663 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 
HeL  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say, 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 
Ber.  Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 
HeL  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that 

Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  faiPd 

To  equal  my  great  fortune. 
Ber.  Let  that  go  : 

My  haste  is  very  great :  farewell ;  hie  home. 
HeL  Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say  ? 

HeL   I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe ; 

Nor  dare  I  say  'tis  mine,  and  yet  it  is ; 

But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 

What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.  What  would  you  have  ? 

HeL  Something ;  and  scarce  so  much  :  nothing,  indeed. 

I  would  not  tell  you  what  I  would,  my  lord  :  faith,  yes  ; 

Strangers  and  foes  do  sunder,  and  not  kiss. 
Ber.  I  pray  you,  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse. 
HeL  I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my  lord. 
Ber.  Where  are  my  other  men,  monsieur  ?     Farewell ! 

\Exit  Helena. 

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  1  \Excunt. 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 

Florence.     The  Duke's  palace. 

Flourish.      Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  attended ;  the  two 

Frenchmen  with  a  troop  of  soldiers. 
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. 

First  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. 
Sec.  Lord.  Good  my  lord, 

664 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield, 

But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man, 

That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 

By  self-unable  motion  :  therefore  dare  not 

Say  what  I  think  of  it,  since  I  have  found 

Myself  in  my  incertain  grounds  to  fail 

As  often  as  I  guess'd. 
Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

First  Lord.  But  I  am  sure  the  younger  of  our  nature, 

That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will  day  by  day 

Come  here  for  physic. 
Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be ; 

And  all  the  honours  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.     The  Counts  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  melan- 

Count.  By  what  observance,  I  pray  you  ?  [choly  man. 

Clo.  Why,  he  will  look  upon  his  boot  and  sing ;  mend  the  ruff 

and  sing ;  ask  questions  and  sing ;  pick  his  teeth  and  sing. 

I  know  a  man  that  had  this  trick  of  melancholy  sold  a  goodly 

manor  for  a  song. 

Count.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he  means  to 
come.  [Opening  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Isbel  since  I  was  at  court :  our  old 
ling  and  our  Isbels  o'  the  country  are  nothing  like  your  old 
ling  and  your  Isbels  o'  the  Court :  the  brains  of  my  Cupid's 
knocked  out,  and  I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old  man  loves 
money,  with  no  stomach. 
Count.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.  E'en  that  you  have  there.  [Exit. 

Count,  [reads]  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law:  she  hath 
recovered  the  king,  and  undone  me.  I  have  wedded  her, 
not  bedded  her ;  and  sworn  to  make  the  *  not '  eternal.  You 
shall  hear  I  am  run  away :  know  it  before  the  report  come. 
If  there  be  breadth  enough  in  the  world,  I  will  hold  a  long 
distance.  My  duty  to  you. 

Your  unfortunate  son, 

BERTRAM. 
665 


Act  III;  Sc.  ii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy, 
To  fly  the  favours  of  so  good  a  king ; 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head 
By  the  misprising  of  a  maid  too  virtuous  >rn  skf 
For  the  contempt  of  empire.  fii  'to  jfnirfj  I  Juri 

Re-enter  Clown. 

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

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. 
Enter  Helena  and  two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gent.  Save  you,  good  madam. 

Hel.  Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 

Sec.  Gent.  Do  not  say  so. 

Count.  Think  upon  patience.     Pray  you,  gentlemen, 
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  son,  I  pray  you  ? 

Sec.  Gent.  Madam,  he's  gone  to  serve  the  Duke  of  Florence  : 
We  met  him  thitherward ;  from  thence  we  came, 
And,  after  some  dispatch  in  hand  at  court, 
Thither  we  bend  again. 

Hel.  Look  on  his  letter,  madam  ;  here 's  my  passport,  [reads] 
When  thou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my  ringer  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 
1  then '  I  write  a  '  never.' 
This  is  a  dreadful  sentence. 

Count.  Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

first  Gent.  Ay,  madam ; 

And  for  the  contents'  sake  are  sorry  for  our  pains. 

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

Sec.  Gent.  Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier? 

666 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Sec.  Gent.  Such  is  his  noble  purpose  ;  and,  believe 't, 

The  Duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  the  honour 

That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  you  thither?  ' 

First  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  ? 
Hel.  Ay,  madam. 

First  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  !  nirn  t 

There's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him 

But  only  she ;  and  she  deserves  a  lord 

That  twenty  such  rude  boys  might  tend  upon 

And  call  her  hourly  mistress.     Who  was  with  him  ? 
First  Gent.  A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 

Which  I  have  sometime  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was  it  not? 

First  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. 
First  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady, 

The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that  too  much, 

Which  holds  him  much  to  have. 
Count.  Y3  are  welcome,  gentlemen. 

I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son, 

To  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 

The  honour  that  he  loses :  more  I  '11  entreat  you 

Written  to  bear  along. 
Sec.  Gent.  We  serve  you,  madam, 

In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  affairs. 
Count.  Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtesies. 

Will  you  draw  near  ?  [Exeunt  Countess  and  Gentlernen. 

Hel.  'Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France.' 

Nothing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife  ! 

Thou  shall  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, 

667 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii,  iv]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 

Fly  with  false  aim ;  move  the  still-peering  air, 

That  sings  with  piercing  ;  do  not  touch  my  lord. 

Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there ; 

Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 

I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to 't ; 

And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 

His  death  was  so  effected :  better  'twere 

I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roar'd 

With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger  ;  better  'twere 

That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 

Were  mine  at  once.     No,  come  thou  home,  Rousillon, 

Whence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar, 

As  oft  it  loses  all :  I  will  be  gone  ; 

My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence  : 

Shall  I  stay  here  to  do  't  ?  no,  no,  although 

The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 

And  angels  officed  all :  I  will  be  gone, 

That  pitiful  rumour  may  report  my  flight, 

To  consolate  thine  ear.     Come,  night ;  end,  day  1 

For  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I  '11  steal  away.  [Exit. 

SCENE   III 
Florence.     Before  the  Duke's  palace. 

Flourish.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence^  Bertra  m,  Parolles, 

Soldier s.  Drum,  and  Trumpets. 
Duke.  The  general  of  our  horse  thou  art ;  and  we, 

Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence 

Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 
Ber.  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength ;  but  yet 

We  '11  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake 

To  the  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 
Duke.  Then  go  thou  forth  ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm, 

As  thy  auspicious  mistress  1 
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.     The  Counfs  palace. 
Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.  Alas  !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of  her  ? 

668 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

Might  you  not  know  she  would  do  as  she  has  done, 

By  sending  me  a  letter  ?     Read  it  again. 
Stew,  [reads]  I  am  Saint  Jaques'  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  the  bloody  course  of  war 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son,  may  hie : 

Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  far 

His  name  with  zealous  fervour  sanctify  : 

His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive  ; 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno,  sent  him  forth 

From  courtly  friends  with  camping  foes  to  live, 

Where  death  and  danger  dogs  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  so  much, 

As  letting  her  pass  so  :  had  I  spoke  with  her, 

I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 

Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 
Stew.  Pardon  me,  madame : 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over-night, 

She  might  have  been  o'erta'en ;  and  yet  she  writes, 

Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 
Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband  ?  he  cannot  thrive, 

Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear 

And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 

Of  greatest  justice.     WTrite,  write,  Rinaldo, 

To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife ; 

Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth 

That  he  does  weigh  too  light :  my  greatest  grief, 

Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 

Dispatch  the  most  convenient  messenger : 

When  haply  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone, 

He  will  return  ;  and  hope  I  may  that  she, 

Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again, 

Led  hither  by  pure  love  :  which  of  them  both 

Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 

To  make  distinction  :  provide  this  messenger : 

My  heart  is  heavy  and  mine  age  is  weak  ; 

Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak. 

[Exeunt. 

669 


Act  III,  Sc.  v]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Weil 

v 

OL.Jl.Aii,        V 

Florence.      Without  the  walls.     A  tucket  afar  off. 

Enter  an  old  Widow  of  Florence,  Diana,  Violenta^  and 

Mariana,  with  other  Citizens. 

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

Dia.  They  say  the  French  count  has  done  most  honourable 

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

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

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

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

Dia.  You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Wid.  I  hope  so. 

Enter  Helena,  disguised  like  a  Pilgrim. 

Look,  here  comes  a  pilgrim  :  I  know  she  will  lie  at  my  house ; 
thither  they  send  one  another :  I  '11  question  her.  God  save 
you,  pilgrim  !  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.  To  Saint  Jaques  le  Grand. 

Where  do  the  palmers  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

Wid.  At  the  Saint  Francis  here  beside  the  port. 

Hel.  Is  this  the  way  ?  [this  way. 

Wid.  Ay,  marry,  is 't.    [A  march  afar.]    Hark  you  !  they  come 
If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim, 
But  till  the  troops  come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodged ; 
The  rather,  for  I  think  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ample  as  myself. 

670 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  y 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.  If  you  shall  please  so>  pilgrim. 
Hel.  I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your  leisure. 
Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France  ? 
Hel.  I  did  sol  $d  bluow 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  yours 

That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you? 

Dia.  The  Count  Rousillon :  know  you  such  a  one  ? 
Hel.  But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most  nobly  of  him  : 

His  face  I  know  not. 
Dia.  Whatsome'er  he  is, 

He's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  France, 

As  'tis  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 

Against  his  liking :  think  you  it  is  so  ? 
Hel.  Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth  :  I  know  his  lady. 
Dia.  There  is  a  gentleman  that  serves  the  count 

Reports  but  coarsely  of  her. 
Hel.  What's  his  name? 

Dia.  Monsieur  Parolles. 
Hel.  O,  I  believe  with  him;  u/ol 

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. 
Dia.  Alas,  poor  lady ! 

'Tis  a  hard  bondage  to  become  the  wife 

Of  a  detesting  lord. 
Wid.  I  write  good  creature,  wheresoe'er  she  is, 

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  brokes  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 

Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid  : 

But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 

In  horiestest  defence. 

Mar.  The  gods  forbid  else  ! 

Wid.  So,  now  they  come  : 

Drum  and  Colours. 
Enter  Bertram,  Parolles,  and  the  whole  army. 

That  is  Antonio,  the  Duke's  eldest  son ; 

671 


Act  III,  Sc.  vi]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

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  gentlerm 
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  would  poison  that  vile  rascal. 
Hel.  Which  is  he? 

Dia.  That  jack-an-apes  with  scarfs  :  why  is  he  melancholy  ? 
Hel.  Perchance  he 's  hurt  i'  the  battle. 
Par.  Lose  our  drum  J  well. 

Mar.  He 's  shrewdly  vexed  at  something :  look,  he  has  spied 
Wid.  Marry,  hang  you  ! 
Mar.  And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier  ! 

[.Exeunt  Bertram,  Parolles,  and  army. 
Wid.  The  troop  is  past.     Come,  pilgrim,  I  will  bring  you 

Where  you  shall  host :  of  enjoin'd  penitents 

There 's  four  or  five,  to  great  Saint  Jaques  bound, 

Already  at  my  house. 
Hel.  I  humbly  thank  you : 

Please  it  this  matron  and  this  gentle  maid 

To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge  and  thanking 

Shall  be  for  me ;  and,  to  requite  you  further, 

I  will  bestow  some  precepts  of  this  virgin 

Worthy  the  note. 
Both.  We  11  take  your  offer  kindly.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI 

Camp  before  Florence. 

Enter  Bertram  and  the  two  French  Lords. 

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

way. 
First  Lord.  If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hilding,  hold  me  no 

more  in  your  respect. 
Sec.  Lord.  On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble. 
Ber.  Do  you  think  I  am  so  far  deceived  in  him  ? 
Sec.  Lord.  Believe  it,  my  lord,  in  mine  own  direct  knowledge, 
without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of  him  as  my  kinsman,  he 's 
a  most  notable  coward,  an  infinite  and  endless  liar,  an  hourly 
promise-breaker,  the  owner  of  no  one  good  quality  worthy 
your  lordship's  entertainment. 

First  Lord.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him ;  lest,  reposing  too  far  in 

672 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  vi 

his  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might  at  some  great  and 
trusty  business  in  a  main  danger  fail  you. 

Ber.  I  would  I  knew  in  what  particular  action  to  try  him. 

First  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum, 
which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  undertake  to  do. 

Sec.  Lord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will  suddenly  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  of  the 
adversaries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our  own  tents.  Be  but 
your  lordship  present  at  his  examination :  if  he  do  not,  for 
the  promise  of  his  life  and  in  the  highest  compulsion  of  base 
fear,  offer  to  betray  you  and  deliver  all  the  intelligence  in  his 
power  against  you,  and  that  with  the  divine  forfeit,  of  his  soul 
upon  oath,  never  trust  my  judgement  in  any  thing. 

First  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  counter 
feit  lump  of  ore  will  be  melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John 
Drum's  entertainment,  your  inclining  cannot  be  removed. 
Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Sec.  Lord.  \Aside  to  JBerJ]  O,;  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder 
not  the  honour  of  his  design :  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum  in 
any  hand.  [disposition. 

Ber.  How   now,   monsieur  !    this  drum  sticks  sorely  in  your 

First  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  excellent  command,— to  charge  in  with  our  horse 
upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend  our  own  soldiers  ! 

First  Lord.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  command  of  the 
service :  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that  Caesar  himself  could 
not  have  prevented,  if  he  had  been  there  to  command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  success  :  some 
dishonour  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum ;  but  it  is  not  to 

Par.  It  might  have  been  recovered.  .[be  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  *  hie  jacet.' 

Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to 't,  monsieur :  if  you  think 
your  mystery  in  stratagem  can  bring  this  instrument  of  honour 
again  into  his  native  quarter,  be  magnanimous  in  the  enter 
prise  and  go  on  ;    I  will  grace  the  attempt  for  a  worthy 
.  exploit :  if  you  speed  well  in  it,  the  Duke  shall  both  speak 

673  Y 


Act  III,  Sc.  vi]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

of  it,  and  extend  to  you  what  further  becomes  his  greatness, 
even  to  the  utmost  syllable  of  your  worthiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  undertake  it 

Ber.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I  '11  about  it  this  evening  :  and  I  will  presently  pen  down 
my  dilemmas,  encourage  myself  in  my  certainty,  put  myself 
into  my  mortal  preparation ;  and  by  midnight  look  to  hear 
further  from  me.  [it  ? 

Ber.  May  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  his  Grace  you  are  gone  about 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord  ;  but  the 
attempt  I  vow. 

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

Par.  I  love  not  many  words.  {Exit. 

Sec.  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  ? 

First  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we  do  :  certain 
it  is,  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a  man's  favour  and  for  a 
week  escape  a  great  deal  of  discoveries ;  but  when  you  find 
him  out,  you  have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no  deed  at  all  of  this 
that  so  seriously  he  does  address  himself  unto  ? 

Stc.  Lord.  None  in  the  world;  but  return  with  an  invention, 
and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  probable  lies  :  but  we  have 
almost  embossed  him ;  you  shall  see  his  fall  to-night ;  for 
indeed  he  is  not  for  your  lordship's  respect. 

First  Lord.  We  '11  make  you  some  sport  with  the  fox  ere  we  case 
him.  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. 

Sec.  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs  :  he  shall  be  caught. 

Ber.  Your  brother  he  shall  go  along  with  me. 

Sec.  Lord.  As 't  please  your  lordship  :  I  '11  leave  you.        '{Exit. 

Ber.  Now  will  I  lead  you  to  the  house,  and  show  you 
The  lass  I  spoke  of. 

First  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, 
Tokens  and  letters  which  she  did  re-send ; 
And  this  is  all  I  have  done.     She 's  a  fair  creature  r 
Will  you  go  see  her  ? 

First  Lord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord.       {Exeunt. 

674 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  III,  Sc.  vii 

SCENE   VII 
Florence.     The  Widow's  house. 

Enter  Helena  and  Widow. 
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. 
Wid.  Though  my  estate  be  fallen,  I  was  well  born, 

Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses  ; 

And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 

In  any  staining  act. 
Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  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  show'd  me  that  which  well  approves 

You  're  great  in  fortune. 
Hel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold, 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 

Which  I  will  over-pay  and  pay  again 

When  I  have  found  it.     The  count  he  wooes  your  daughter, 

Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 

Resolved  to  carry  her  :  let  her  in  fine  consent, 

As  we  '11  direct  her  how  'tis  best  to  bear  it. 

Now  his  important  blood  will  nought  deny 

That  she  '11  demand  :  a  ring  the  county  wears, 

That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house 

From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 

Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  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  '11  add  three  thousand  crowns 

To  what  is  past  already. 
Wid.  I  have  yielded : 

675 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

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  unworthiness  :  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 : 
But  let 's  about  it.  {Exeunt. 

\rT    J\T       Cr^xr        T 
ACT    IV-SCENE    I 

Withoiit  the  Florentine  camp. 

Enter  Second  French  Lord,  with  five  or  six  other  Soldiers  in 
ambush. 

Sec.  Lord.  He  can.  come  no  other  way  but  by  this  hedge- 
corner.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak  what  terrible 
language  you  will :  though  you  understand  it  not  yourselves, 
no  matter ;  for  we  must  not  seem  to  understand  him,  unless 
some  one  among  us  whom  we  must  produce  for  an  interpreter. 

First  Sold.  Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

Sec.  Lord.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him  ?  knows,  he  not  thy 

First  Sold.  No,  sir,  I  warrant  you.  [voice  ? 

Sec.  Lord.  But  what  linsey-woolsey  hast  thou  to  speak  to  us 

First  Sold.  E'en  such  as  you  speak  to  me.  [again  ? 

Sec.  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers  i'  the 
adversary's  entertainment.  Now  he  hath  a  smack  of  all 
neighbouring  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 :  choughs'  language,  gabble  enough,  and  good 
enough.  As  for  you,  interpreter,  you  must  seem  very  politic. 
But  couch,  ho  !  here  he  comes,  to  beguile  two  hours  in  a 
sleep,  and  then  to  return  and  swear  the  lies  he  forges. 
E,nter  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  carries  it :  they  begin  to 
smoke  me  ;  and  disgraces  have  of  late  knocked  too  often  at 
my  door.  I  find  my  tongue  is  too  foolhardy ;  but  my  heart 
hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it  and  of  his  creatures,  not  daring 
the  reports  of  my  tongue. 

676 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Sec.  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er  thine  own  tongue 
was  guilty  of. 

Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  undertake  the 
recovery  of  this  drurri,  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?  Tongue,  I  must  put  you  into  a  butter-woman's 
mouth,  and  buy  myself  another  of  Bajazet's  mule,  if  you 
prattle  me  into  these  perils. 

Sec.  Lord.  Is  it  possible  he  should  know  what  he  is,  and  be 
that  he  is  ? 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would  serve  the  turn, 
or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

Sec.  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard ;  and  to  say  it  was  in  stratagem. 

Sec.  Lord.  Twould  not  do. 

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

See.  Lord.  Hardly  serve. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leaped  from  the  window  of  the  citadel — 

Sec.  Lord.  How  deep? 

Par.  Thirty  fathom. 

Sec.  Lord.  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make  that  be  believecl. 

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

Sec.  Lord.  You  shall  hear  one  anon. 

Par.  A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's, —  [Alarum  within. 

Sec.  Lord.  Throca  movousus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.  Cargo,  cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  corbo,  cargo. 

Par.  O,  ransom,  ransom  !  do  not  hide  mine  eyes. 

[They  seize  and  blindfold  him. 

First  Sold.  Boskos  thromuldo  boskos. 

Par.  I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment : 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language  ; 
If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me ;  I  '11 
Discover  that  which  shall  undo  the  Florentine. 

First  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado  :  I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak 
thy  tongue.  Kerelybonto,  sir,  betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for 
seventeen  poniards  are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par   O  ! 

First  Sold.  O,  pray,  pray,  pray  !     Manka  revania  dulche. 

Sec.  Lord.  Oscorbidulchos  volivorco. 

First  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet ; 

677 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

And,  hoodwink'd  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  '11  show, 

Their  force,  their  purposes  ;  nay,  I  '11  speak  that 

Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

First  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Par.  If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 
First  Sold.  Acordo  linta. 

Come  on  ;  thou  art  granted  space. 

[JSxit,  with  Parolles  guarded.     A  short  alarum  within. 
Sec.  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. 
Sec.  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

Sec.  Lord.  A'  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves : 

Inform  on  that. 
Sec.  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 
Sec.  Lord.  Till  then  I  '11  keep  him  dark  and  safely  lock'd. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  II 

Florence.     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  o'  that ; 

I  prithee,  do  not  strive  against  my  vows : 

I  was  compell'd  to  her ;  but  I  love  thee 

By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  for  ever 

Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

678 


All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  u 


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. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn  1 

Dia.  'Tis  not  the  many  oaths  that  makes  the  truth, 

But  the  plain  single  vow  that  is  vow'd  true. 

What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by, 

But  take  the  High'st  to  witness  :  then,  pray  you,  tell  me, 

If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes, 

I  loved  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  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  :  therefore  your  oaths 

Are  words  and  poor  conditions,  but  unseal'd, 

At  least  in  my  opinion. 
Ber.  Change  it,  change  it  ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel  :  love  is  holy  ; 

And  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts 

That  you  do  charge  men  with.     Stand  no  more  ofl, 

But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires, 

Who  then  recover  :  say  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 

My  love  as  it  begins  shall  so  persever. 
Dia.  I  see  that  men  make  ropes  in  such  a  scarre 

That  we  '11  forsake  ourselves.     Give  me  that  ring. 
Ber.  I  '11  lend  it  thee,  my  dear  ;  but  have  no  power 

To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord  ? 

Ber.  It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  house, 

Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors  ; 

Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 

In  me  to  lose. 
Dia.  Mine  honour  '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  Honour  on  my  part, 

Against  your  vain  assault. 
Ber.  Here,  take  my  ring  : 

My  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life,  be  thine, 

And  I  '11  be  bid  by  thee. 
Dia.  When  midnight  comes,  knock  at  my  chamber-window  : 

I  '11  order  take  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 

Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth, 

679 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  W< 

When  you  have  conquer'd  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  deliver'd : 

And  on  your  finger  in  the  night  1 711  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. 
Dta.  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  's  heart ;  she  says  all  men 

Have  the  like  oaths :  he  had  sworn  to  marry  me 

When  his  wife  's  dead ;  therefore  I  '11  lie  with  him 

When  I  am  buried.     Since  Frenchmen  are  so  braid, 

Marry  that  will,  I  live  and  die  a  maid : 

Only  in  this  disguise  I  think 't  no  sin 

To  cozen  him  that  would  unjustly  win.  \Exit. 

O  '  TTT 

SCENE  III 

The  Florentine  camp. 

Enter  the  two  French  Lords  and  some  two  or  three  Soldiers. 

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

Sec.  Lord.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since  :  there  is  something 
in  't  that  stings  his  nature ;  for  on  the  reading  it  he  changed 
almost  into  another  man. 

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

Sec.  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  thing,  but  you  shall  let  it  dwell 
darkly  with  you.  [grave  of  it. 

First  Lord.  When  you  have  spoken  it,  'tis  dead,  and  I  am  the 

Sec.  Lord.  He  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  honour :  he  hath  given  her  his 
monumental  ring,  and  thinks  himself  made  in  the  unchaste 
composition. 

First  Lord.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion  i  as  we  are  ourselves, 
what  things  are  we  ! 

Sec.  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 

680 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

contrives   against    his   own   nobility,   in  his  proper   stream 

o'erflows  himself. 
First  Lord.  Is  it  not  meant  damnable  in  us,  to  be  trumpeters 

of  our  unlawful  intents  ?    We  shall  not  then  have  his  company 

to-night  ? 

Sec.  Lord.  Not  till  after  midnight ;  for  he  is  dieted  to  his  hour. 
First  Lord.  That  approaches  apace :  I  would  gladly  have  him 

see  his  company  anatomized,  that  he  might  take  a  measure 

of  his  own  judgements,  wherein  so  curiously  he  had  set  this 

counterfeit. 
Sec.  Lord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come;  for  his 

presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the  other. 
First  Lord.  In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of  these  wars  ? 
Sec.  Lord.  I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 
First  Lord.  Nay,  I  assure  you,  a  peace  concluded. 
Sec.  Lord.  What  will  Count  Rousillon  do  then  ?  will  he  travel 

higher,  or  return  again  into  France  ? 
First  Lord.  I  perceive,  by  this  demand,  you  are  not  altogether 

of  his  council.  [his  act. 

Sec.  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir ;  so  should  I  be  a  great  deal  of 
First  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  residing,  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. 
Sec.  Lord.  How  is  this  justified  ? 
First  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. 
Sec.  Lord.  Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence  ? 
First  Lord.  Ay,  and  the  particular  confirmations,  point  from 

point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 
Sec.  Lord.  I  am  heartily  sorry  that  he  '11  be  glad  of  this. 
First  Lord.  How  mightily  sometimes  we  make  us  comforts  of 

our  losses ! 
Sec.  Lord.  And  how  mightily  some  other  times  we  drown  our 

gain  in  tears !     The  great  dignity  that  his  valour  hath  here 

acquired  for  him  shall  at  home  be  encountered  with  a  shame 

as  ample. 
First  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 
not  cherished  by  our  virtues. 

681  Y  2 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
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  letters  of  commend 
ations  to  the  king. 

Sec.  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful  there,  if  they 
were  more  than  they  can  commend. 

First  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's  tartness. 
Here 's  his  lordship  now. 

Enter  Bertram. 
How  now,  my  lord  !  is 't  not  after  midnight  ? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  dispatched  sixteen  businesses,  a  month's 
length  a-piece,  by  an  abstract  of  success  :  I  have  congied  with 
the  Duke,  done  my  adieu  with  his  nearest ;  buried  a  wife, 
mourned  for  her ;  writ  to  my  lady  mother  I  am  returning ; 
entertained  my  convoy ;  and  between  these  main  parcels  of 
dispatch  effected  many  nicer  needs  :  the  last  was  the  greatest, 
but  that  I  have  not  ended  yet. 

Sec.  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and  this  morn 
ing  your  departure  hence,  it  requires  haste  of  your  lordship. 

Ber.  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 ; 
he  has  deceived  me,  like  a  double-meaning  prophesier. 

Sec.  Lord.  Bring  him  forth :  has  sat  i'  the  stocks  all  night, 
poor  gallant  knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserved  it,  in  usurping  his 
spurs  so  long.  How  does  he  carry  himself? 

Sec.  Lord.  I  have  told  your  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  con 
fessed  himself  to  Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  a  friar, 
from  the  time  of  his  remembrance  to  this  very,  instant 
disaster  of  his  setting  i'  the  stocks :  and  what  think  you  he 
hath  confessed? 

Ber.  Nothing  of  me,  has  a'  ? 

Sec.  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. 

Enter  Parolles  guarded,  and  First  Soldier. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  1  muffled  !  he  can  say  nothing  of 
me  :  hush,  hush  ! 

First  Lord.  Hood  man  comes  !     Portotartarossa.  ['em? 

First  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures  :  what  will  you  say  without 

682 


All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

Par,  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  constraint:  if  ye 
pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  no  more. 

First  Sold.  Bosko  chimurcho. 

First  Lord.  Boblibindo  chicurmurco. 

First  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general.  Our  general  bids  you 
answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  out  of  a  note. 

Par.  And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

First  Sold,  [reads]  First  demand  of  him  how  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,  and  as  1  hope  to 
live. 

First  Sold.  Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so  ? 

Par.  Do  :  I  '11  take  the  sacrament  on  Jt,  how  and  which  way 
you  will. 

Ber.  All 's  one  to  him.     What  a  past-saving  slave  is  this  1 

First  Lord.  You  're  deceived,  my  lord :  this  is  Monsieur 
Parolles,  the  gallant  militarist, — that  was  his  own  phrase, — 
that  had  the  whole  theoric  of  war  in  the  knot  of  his  scarf, 
and  the  practice  in  the  chape  of  his  dagger. 

Sec.  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again  for  keeping  his  sword 
clean,  nor  believe  he  can  have  every  thing  in  him  by  wearing 
his  apparel  neatly. 

First  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said, — I  will  say  true,— or 
thereabouts,  set  down,  for  I'll  speak  truth. 

First  Lord.  He 's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

'Ber.  But  I  con  him  no  thanks  for 't,  in  the  nature  he  delivers  it. 

Par.  Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

First  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir :  a  truth  's  a  truth,  the  rogues 
are  marvellous  poor. 

First  Sold,  [reads]  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they 
are  a-foot.  What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  were  to  live  this  present  hour,  I 
will  tell  true.  Let  me  see  :  Spurio,  a  hundred  and  fifty ; 
Sebastian,  so  many  ;  Corambus,  so  many  ;  Jaques,  so  many ; 
Guiltian,  Cosmo,  Lodowick,  and  Gratii,  two  hundred  and 
fifty  each;  mine  own  company,  Chitopher,  Vaumond, 
Bentii,  two  hundred  and  fifty  each :  so  that  the  muster-file, 
rotten  and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts  not  to  fifteen 
thousand  poll;  half  of  the  which  dare  not  shake  the  snow 
from  off  their  cassocks,  lest  they  shake  themselves  to  pieces. 

Ber.  What  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

683 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

First  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  Demand  tff 
him  my  condition,  and  what  credit  I  have  with  the  Duke. 

First  Sold.  Well,  that's  set  down.  [Reads]  You  shall  demand 
of  him,  whether  one  Captain  Dumain  be  i'  the  camp,  a 
Frenchman ;  what  his  reputation  is  with  the  Duke  ;  what 
his  valour,  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 
inter'gatories  :  demand  them  singly. 

First  Sold.  Do  you  know  this  Captain  Dumain  ? 

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

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands  ;  though  I  know 
his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls. 

First  Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the    Duke   of  Florence's 

Par.  Upon  my  knowledge,  he  is,  and  lousy.  [camp  ? 

First  Lord.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me;  we  shall  hear  of  your 
lordship  anon. 

First  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. 

First  Sold.  Marry,  we  '11  search. 

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

First  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. 

First  Lord.  Excellently. 

First  Sold,  [reads]  Dian,  the  count 's  a  fool,  and  full  of  gold,— 

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

First  Sold.  Nay,  I  '11  read  it  first,  by  your  favour.  [again. 

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. 

Ber.  Damnable  both-sides  rogue  ! 

First  Sold,  [reads]  When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold, 
and  take  it ; 

684 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 


[Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 


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  thee  this, 
Men  are  to  mell  with,  boys  are  not  to  kiss : 
For  count  of  this,  the  count 's  a  fool, '  I  know  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe  it. 
Thine,  as  he  vowed  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

PAROLLES. 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army  with  this  rhyme 
in 's  forehead. 

Sec,  Lord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the  manifold  linguist 
and  the  armipotent  soldier. 

Ber.  I  could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a  cat,  and  now  he's 
a  cat  to  me. 

First  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  repent  out  the 
remainder  of  nature :  let  me  live,  sir,  in  a  dungeon,  i'  the 
stocks,  or  any  where,  so  I  may  live. 

first  Sold.  We  '11  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  confess  freely ; 
therefore,  once  more  to  this  Captain  D amain  :  you  have 
answered  to  his  reputation  with  the  Duke  and  to  his  valour  : 
what  is  his  honesty? 

Par.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister:  for  rapes  and 
ravishments  he  parallels  Nessus :  he  professes  not  keeping 
of  oaths ;  in  breaking  'em  he  is  stronger  than  Hercules:  he 
will  lie,  sir,  with  such  volubility,  that  you  would  think  truth 
were  a  fool :  drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue,  for  he  will  be 
swine-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. 

First  Lord.  I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty  ?  A  pox  upon  him 
for  me,  he 's  more  and  more  a  cat. 

first  Sold.  What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in  war  ? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  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  honour  to  be  the 
officer  at  a  place  there  called  Mile-end,  to  instruct  for  the 
doubling  of  files :  I  would  do  the  man  what  honour  I  can, 
but  of  this  I  am  not  certain. 

685 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

First  Lord.  He  hath  out-villained  villany  so  far,  that  the 
rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.  A  pox  on  him,  he 's  a  cat  still. 

First  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'ecu  he  will  sell  the  fee-simple  of  his 
salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it ;  and  cut  the  entail  from  all 
remainders,  and  a  perpetual  succession  for  it  perpetually. 

First  Sold.  What 's  his  brother,  the  other  Captain  Dumain  ? 

Sec.  Lord.  Why  does  he  ask  him  of  me? 

First  Sold.  What 'she? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  o'  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  retreat  he  outruns  any  lackey ; 
marry,  in  coming  on  he  has  the  cramp.  [the  Florentine  ? 

First  Sold.  If  your  life  be  saved,  will  you  undertake  to  betray 

Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  Count  Rousillon. 

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

Par.  \Aside\  I  '11  no  more  drumming ;  a  plague  of  all  drums ! 
Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  beguile  the  supposition 
of  that  lascivious  young  boy  the  count,  have  I  run  into  this 
danger.  Yet  who  would  have  suspected  an  ambush  where 
I  was  taken  ? 

First  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you  must  die :  the 
general  says,  you  that  have  so  traitorously  discovered  the 
secrets  of  your  army  and  made  such  pestiferous  reports  of 
men  very  nobly  held,  can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest  use ; 
therefore  you  must  die.  Come,  headsman,  off  with  his  head. 

Par.  O  Lord,  sir,  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see  my  death  ! 

First  Sold.  That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave  of  all  your 
friends.  [  Unblinding  him. 

So,  look  about  you  :  know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.  Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

Sec.  Lord.  God  bless  you,  Captain  Parolles. 

First  Lord.  God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

Sec.  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my  Lord  Lafeu  ? 
I  am  for  France. 

First  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  'Id  compel  it  of  you  :  but  fare 
you  well.  [Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lords. 

First  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain,  all  but  your  scarf;  that 
has  a  knot  on 't  yet. 

686 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Par.     Who  cannot  be  crushed  with  a  plot  ? 

First  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  ye  well,  sir ;  I  am  for  France  too  : 

we  shall  speak  of  you  there.  [Exit  with  Soldiers. 

Par.  Yet  am  I  thankful :  if  my  heart  were  great, 

'Twould  burst  at  this.     Captain  I  '11  be  no  more  ; 

But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 

As  captain  shall :  simply  the  thing  I  am 

Shall  make  me  live.     Who  knows  himself  a  braggart, 

Let  him  fear  this,  for  it  will  come  to  pass 

That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 

Rust,  sword  1  cool,  blushes  !  and,  Parolles,  live 

Safest  in  shame  !  being  fool'd,  by  foolery  thrive ! 

There 's  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive. 

I  '11  after  them.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV 

Florence.     The  Widow's  house. 
Enter  Helena^  Widow,  and  Diana. 
Hel.  That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not  wrong'd  yon, 

One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 

Shall  be  my  surety ;  'fore  whose  throne  'tis  needful, 

Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel : 

Time  was,  I  did  him  a  desired  office, 

Dear  almost  as  his  life  ;  which  gratitude 

Through  flinty  tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth, 

And  answer,  thanks  :  I  duly  am  inform' d 

His  Grace  is  at  Marseilles ;  to  which  place 

We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know, 

I  am  supposed  dead :  the  army  breaking, 

My  husband  hies  him  home  ;  where,  heaven  aiding, 

And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 

We  '11  be  before  our  welcome. 
Wid.  Gentle  mad;am, 

You  never  had  a  servant  to  whose  trust 

Your  business  was  more  welcome. 
Hel.  Nor  you,  mistress,. 

Ever  a  friend  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 

To  recompense  your  love  :  doubt  not  but  heaven 

Hath  brought  me  up  to  be  your  daughter's  dower, 

As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive 

And  helper  to  a  husband.     But,  O  strange  men  ! 

That  can  such  sweet  use  make  of  what  they  hate, 

When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozen'd  thoughts 

Denies  the  pitchy  night :  so  lust  doth  play 

687 


Act  IV,  Sc.  v]  All  fs  Well  that  Ends  Well 

With  what  it  loathes  for  that  which  is  away. 

But  more  of  this  hereafter.     You,  Diana, 

Under  my  poor  instructions  yet  must  suffer 

Something  in  my  behalf. 
Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions,  I  am  yours 

Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 
Hel.  Yet,  I  pray  you  : 

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  waggon  is  prepared,  and  time  revives  us : 

ALL  's  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  :  still  the  fine 's  the  crown  ; 

Whate'er  the  course,  the  end  is  the  renown.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    V 

Rousillon.     The  Count's  palace. 
Enter  Countess^  Lafeu,  and  Clown. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no,  yo-ar  son  was  misled  with  a  snipt-taffeta  fellow 
there,  whose  villanous  saffron  would  have  made  all  the 
unbaked  and  doughy  youth  of  a  nation  in  his  colour :  your 
daughter-in-law  had  been  alive  at  this  hour,  and  your  son 
here  at  home,  more  advanced  by  the  king  than  by  that  red- 
tailed  humble-bee  I  speak  of. 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  known  him  ;  it  was  the  death  of  the 
most  virtuous  gentlewoman  that  ever  nature  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-marjoram  of  the  salad,  or 
rather,  the  herb  of  grace. 

Laf.  They  are  not  herbs,  you  knave  ;  they  are  nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir;  I  have  not  much 
skill  in  grass. 

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. 

Laf.  So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed. 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bauble,  sir,  to  do  her  service. 

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

Clo.  At  your  service. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no. 

688 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  IV,  Sc.  v 

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

Laf.  Who  Js  that  ?  a  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  a*  has  an  English  name;  but  his  fisnomy  is 
more  hotter  in  France  than  there. 

Laf.  What  prince  is  that  ? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir ;  alias,  the  prince  of  darkness ;  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, 
he  is  the  prince  of  the  world ;  let  his  nobility  remain  in 's  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  '11 
be  for  the  flowery  way  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate  and  the 
great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  aweary  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. 

Laf.  A  shrewd  knave  and  an  unhappy. 

Count.  So  he  is.  My  lord  that  Js  gone  made  himself  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,  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  was  upon  his  return  home,  I  moved  the  king  my 
master  to  speak  in  the  behalf  of  my  daughter ;  which,  in  the 
minority  of  them  both,  his  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 
against  your  son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter.  How  does  your 
ladyship  like  it  ? 

Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord ;  and  I  wish  it 
happily  effected. 

Laf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles,  of  as  able  body 
as  when  he  numbered  thirty :  he  will  be  here  to-morrow,  or 
I  am  deceived  by  him  that  in  such  intelligence  hath  seldom 
failed. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me,  that  I  hope  I  shall  see  him  ere  I  die.     I 

689 


Act  V,  Sc.  q  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

have  letters  that  my  son  will  be  here  to-night :  I  shall  beseech 
your  lordship  to  remain  with  me  tin  they  meet  together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking  with  what  manners  I  might  safely 
be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable  privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter;  but  I  thank 
my  God  it  holds  yet 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  vender's  my  lord  your,  son  with  a.  patch  of 
velvet  on  's  face  :  whether  there  be  a  scar  under 't  or  no,  the 
velvet  knows ;  but  'tis  a  goodly  patch  of  velvet :  his  left 
cheek  is  a  cheek  of  two  pile  and  a  hall,  but  bis  right  cheek 
is  worn  bare. 

Laf.  A  scar  nobly  'got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good  livery  of 
honour ;  so  belike  is  that 

Clo.  But  it  is  your  carbonadoed  face. 

Laf.  Let  as  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you :  I  long  to  talk  with 
the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  Faith,  there 's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  ddkrate  fine  hats  and 
most  courteous  feathers,  which  bow  the  head  and  nod  at 
every  man,  [Exeunt. 

ACT  V—Scrarz  I 
Marseilles.     A  street. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana,  with  two  Attendants. 
Hel.  But  this  exceeding  posting  day  and  night 

Must  wear  your  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  Gentleman. 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 

If  he  would  spend  his  power.     God  save  you,  sir. 
Gent.  And  you. 

Hd.  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? 

Hd.  That  it  will  please  you 

690 


Ail 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king, 

And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have 

To  come  into  his  presence. 
Gtnt.  The  king 's  not  here. 
Hel.  Not  here,  sir ! 

Gent.  Not,  indeed: 

He  hence  removed  last  night  and  with  more  haste 

Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains  1 

Hd.  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  yet, 

Though  time  seem  so  adverse  and  means  unfit 

I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 
Gent.  Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousiilon ; 

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  you  no  blame 

But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it. 

I  will  come  after  you  with  what  good  speed 

Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Gent.  This  I  01  do  for  you. 

Hel.  And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be  well  tbantti, 

Whatever  (alls  more.     We  must  to  horse  again. 

Go,  go,  provide.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

PcusiUon.     Before  the  Count's  palace. 

Enter  Clown,  and  Parolles,  following. 

•Par.  Good  Monsieur  Lavache,  give  my  Lord  Lafeu  this  letter : 

I  have  ere  now,  sir,  been  better  known  to  you,  when  I  have 

held  familiarity  with  fresher  clothes  ;  but  I  am   now,   sir, 

muddied  in  fortune's  mood,  and  smell  somewhat  strong  of 

her  strong  displeasure. 
Clo.  Truly,  fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish,  if  it  smell  so 

strongly  as  thou  speakest  of :  I  will  henceforth  eat  no  fish  of 

fortune's  buttering.     Prithee,  allow  the  wind. 
Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  to  stop  your  nose,  sir ;  I  spake  but  by 

a  metaphor. 
Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will  stop  my  nose ; 

or  against  any  man's  metaphor.     Prithee,  get  thee  further. 
Par.  Pray  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 
Clo.  Fob !  prithee,  stand  away :  a  paper  from  fortune's  dose- 
stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman  !    Look,  here  be  comes  himsel£ 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Here  is  a  purr  of  fortune's,  sir,  or  of  fortune's  cat, — but  not 

691 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

a  musk-cat, — that  has  fallen  into  the  unclean  fishpond  of  her 
displeasure,  and,  as  he  says,  is  muddied  withal :  pray  you, 
sir,  use  the  carp  as  you  may;  for  he  looks  like  a  poor, 
decayed,  ingenious,  foolish,  rascally  knave.  I  do  pity  his 
distress  in  my  similes  of  comfort  and  leave  him  to  your 
lordship.  [Exit. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  fortune  hath  cruelly  scratched. 

Laf.  And  what  would  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  d'e'cu  for  you  :  let  the  justices  make  you  and 
fortune  friends  :  I  am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour  to  hear  me  one  single  word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more  :  come,  you  shall  ha  't ;  sa 
your  word. 

Par.  My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  *  word,'  then.  Cox  my  passion  !  give 
me  your  hand.  How  does  your  drum  ? 

Par.  O  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  first  that  found  me  ! 

Laf.  Was  I,  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  upon  me  at  once 
both  the  office  of  God  and  the  devil  ?  Orie  brings  thee  in 
grace  and  the  other  brings  thee  out.  [Trumpets  sound.] 
The  king's  coming ;  I  know  by  his  trumpets.  Sirrah,  inquire 
further  after  me ;  I  had  talk  of  you  last  night :  though  you 
are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat ;  go  to,  follow. 

Par.  I  praise  God  for  you.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE   III 

Rousillon.     The  Count's  palace. 
Flourish.     Enter  King,  Countess,  Lafeu,  the  two 

French  Lords,  with  Attendants. 
King.  We  lost  a  jewel  of  her  ;  and  our  esteem 
WTas  made  much  poorer  by  it :  but  your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  home. 

Count.  'Tis  past,  my  liege ; 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'  the  blaze  of  youth  ; 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it  and  burns  on. 
King.  My  honour'd  lady, 

692 


• 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all ; 

Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him, 

And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot. 
Laf.  This  I  must  say, 

But  first  I  beg  my  pardon,  the  young  lord 

Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother  and  his  lady 

Offence  of  mighty  note  5  but  to  himself 

The  greatest  wrong  of  all     He  lost  a  wife 

Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 

Of  richest  eyes,  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive, 

Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorn'd  to  serve 

Humbly  call'd  mistress. 
King.  Praising  what  is  lost 

Makes  the  remembrance  dear.     Well,  call  him  hither ; 

W^e  are  reconciled,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 

All  repetition  :  let  him  not  ask  our  pardon ; 

The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead, 

And  deeper  than  oblivion  we  do  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. 

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, 

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. 
Ber.  My  high-repented  bkmes, 

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  quickest  decrees 

The  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  Time 

Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them.     You  remember 

The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 
Ber.  Admiringly,  my  liege,  at  first 

I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 

Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue  : 

693 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour  ; 
Scorn'd  a  fair  colour,  or  express'd  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  afternoonj 
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  we  '11  stay! 


To  see  our  widower's  second  marriage-day. 

bless  lj 
Or,  ere  they  meet,  in  me,  O  nature,  cesse !  -J 


Count.  Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear  heaven,  bless  1 


Laf.  Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's  name 

Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you 

To  sparkle  in  the  spirits  of  my  daughter, 

That  she  may  quickly  come.  \Bertram  gives  a  ring. 

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, 

I  saw  upon  her  finger. 
Ber.  Hers  it  was  not. 

King.  Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine  eye, 

While  I  was  speaking,  oft  was  fasten' d  to  -'t. 

This  ring  was  mine  ;  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helen, 

I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 

Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 

I  would  relieve  her.     Had  you  that  craft,  to  reave  hex 

Of  what  should  stead  her  most? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

694 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

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

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

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

Laf.  I  am  sure  I  saw  her  wear  it  - 

Ber.  You  are  deceived,  my  lord  ;  she  never  saw  it : 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her  that  threw  it :  noble  she  was,  and  thought 
I  stood  engaged :  but  when  I  had  subscribed 
To  mine  own  fortune  and  inform'd  her  fully 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  course  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceased 
In  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

King*  Plutus  himself, 

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 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself, 
Confess  'twas  hers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
You  got  it  from  her :  she  call'd  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. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.  Thou  speak'st  itr/alse'ly,  as  I  love  mine  honour ; 
And  makest  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  away. 

\Guards  seize  Bertram. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall, 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly  fear'd  too  little.     Away  with  him  ! 
We  '11  sift  this  matter  further. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

This  ring  was  ever  hers,  you  shall  as  easy 
Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 

695 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

Where  yet  she  never  was.  \Exitt  guarded. 

King.  I  am  wrapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 
Enter  a  Gentleman. 
Gent.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Whether  I  have  been  to  blame  or  no,  I  know  not : 

Here 's  a  petition  from  a  Florentine, 

Who  hath  for  four  or  five  removes  come  short 

To  tender  it  herself.     I  undertook  it, 

Vanquish'd  thereto  by  the  fair  grace  and  speech 

Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this  I  know 

Is  here  attending :  her  business  looks  in  her 

With  an  importing  visage ;  and  she  told  me, 

In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 

Your  highness  with  herself. 
King,  [reads]  Upon  his  many  protestations  to  marry  me  when 

his  wife  was  dead,  I  blush  to  say  it,  he  won  me.    Now  is  the 

Count  Rousillon  a  widower :  his  vows  are  forfeited  to  me, 

and  my  honour's  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  CAPILET. 
Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  toll  for  this :  I  '11 

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. 

I  am  afeard  the  life  of  Helen,  lady, 

Was  foully  snatch' d. 
Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers  ! 

Re-enter  Bertram,  guarded. 
King.  I  wonder,  sir,  sith  wives,  are  monsters  to  you, 

And  that  you  fly  them  as  you  swear  them  lordship, 

Yet  you  desire  to  marry. 

Enter  Widow  and  Diana. 

What  woman 's  that  ? 
Dia.  I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 

Derived  from  the  ancient  Capilet : 

My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know, 

And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 
Wid.  I  am  her  mother,  sir,  whose  age  and  honour 

Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 

And  both  shall  cease,  without  your  remedy. 
King.  Come  hither,  count ;  do  you  know  these  women  ? 
Ber.  My  lord,  I  neither  can  nor  will  deny 

But  that  I  know  them :  do  they  charge  me  further  ? 

696 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

Dia.  Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your  wife  ? 

Ber.  She 's  none  of  mine  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry, 

You  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine; 

You  give  away  heaven's  vows,  and  those  are  mine ; 

You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine ; 

For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours, 

That  she  which  marries  you  must  marry  me, 

Either  both  or  none. 
Laf.  Your  reputation  comes  too  short  for  my  daughter ;  you 

are  no  husband  for  her. 
Ber.  My  lord,  this  is  a  fond  and  desperate  creature, 

Whom  sometime  I  have  laugh'd  with :  let  your  highness 

Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour 

Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 
King.  Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them -ill  to  friend 

Till  your  deeds  gain  them  :  fairer  prove  your  honour    ; 

Than  in  my  thought  it  lies. 
Dia.  Good  my  lord, 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 

He  had  not  my  virginity. 
King.  What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 
Ber.  She 's  impudent,  my  lord, 

And  was  a  common  gamester  to  the  camp. 
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 

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: 

Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem, 

Conferr'd  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue, 

Hath  it  been  owed  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.        [Exit  an  Attendant. 
Ber.  What  of  him  ? 

He 's  quoted  for  a  most  perfidious  slave, 

With  all  the  spots  o'  the  world  tax'd  and  debosh'd; 

697 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii] 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 


Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth. 

Am  I  or  that  or  this  for  what  he  '11  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, 

Madding  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 

As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 

Are  motives  of  more  fancy ;  and,  in  fine, 

Her  infinite  cunning,  with  her  modern  grace, 

Subdued  me  to  her  rate  :  she  got  the  ring  ; 

And  I  had  that  which  any  inferior  might 

At  market-price  have  bought. 
Div.  I  must  be  patient : 

You,  that  have  turn'd  off  a  first  so  noble  wife, 

May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you  yet, 

Since  you  lack  virtue  I  will  lose  a  husband, 

Send  for  your  ring,  I  will  return  it  home, 

And  give  me  mine  again. 
Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

King.  What  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you  ? 
Dia.  Sir,  much  like 

The  same  upon  your  finger. 

King,  Know  you  this  ring  ?  this  ring  was  his  of  late. 
Dia.  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. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  the  ring  was  hers. 
King.  You  boggle  shrewdly,  every  feather  starts  you. 

Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 
Dia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,  I  charge  you, 

Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master, 

Which  on  your  just  proceeding  I  '11  keep  off, 

By  him  and  by  this  woman  here  what  know  you  ? 
Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath  been  an  honour 
able  gentleman :  tricks  he  hath  had  in  him,  which  gentle 
men  have. 

King.  Come,  come,  to  the  purpose :  did  he  love  this  woman  ? 
Par.  Paith,  sir,  he  did  love  her ;  but  how  ? 
King.   How,  I  pray  you  ? 

Par.  He  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves  a  woman. 

698 


All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

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  command. 
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  '11  speak. 
King.  But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  khowest  ? 
Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty.     I  did  go  between  them,   as 

I  said  ;  but  more  than  that,  he  loved  her  :  for  indeed  he  was 

mad  for  her,  and  talked  of  Satan,  and  of  Limbo,  and  of 

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  which 

would  derive  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  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: 

King.  If  it  were  yours  by  none  of  all  these  ways, 

How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  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  '11  never  tell  you. 

King.  Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I  '11  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.  I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer. 
Dia.  By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  'twas  you. 
King.  Wherefore  hast  thou  accused  him  all  this  while  ? 

699 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well 

J)ia.  Because  he 's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty  : 

He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he  '11  swear  to  't  ; 

I  ;11  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 

Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life;  ~— » 

I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wifej 
Xing.  She  does  abuse  our  ears  :  to  prison  with  her. 
Dia.  Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.     Stay,  royal  sir  : 

[Exit  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  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit  him : 

He  knows  himself  my  bed  he  hath  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. 

Re-enter  Widow,  with  Helena. 
Xing.         ,  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  yoiir  letter  ;  this  it  says : 

'When  from  my  finger  you  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  '11  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearly. 
Hel.  If  it  appear  not  plain  and  prove  untrue, 

Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you  ! 


dT  \^ 

3£  no 


0  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  ? 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions  ;  I  shall  weep  anon  : 

[To  Parolles\  Good  Tom  Drum,  lend  me  a  handkercher :  so, 

1  thank  thee  :  wait  on  me  home,  1  '11  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. 
[To  Diand\  If  thou  be'st  yet  a  fresh  uncropped  flower, 
Choose  thou  thy  husband,  and  I  '11  pay  thy  dower ; 
For  I  can  guess  that  by  thy  honest  aid 

700 


All  s  Well  that  Ends  Well  [Epilogue 

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.  \F?Qurish~ 


EPILOGUE 

King.  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  ; 
Your  gentle  hands  lend  us,  and  take  our  hearts.       \Exeunt. 
i 

' 
. 

• 

• 
. 

.  • 
i 

. 
. 


701 


TWELFTH   NIGHT;    OR,  WHAT 
YOU   WILL 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


ORSINO,  Dukt  of  lllyria. 
SEBASTIAN,  brother  to  Viola. 
ANTONIO,  a  tea  captain,  friend  to  Sebas 
tian. 

A  Sea  Captain,  friend  to  Viola. 
VALENTINE,  \gentlemen  attending  on  the 
CURIO,          /     Duke. 
SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  uncle  to  Olivia. 


SIR  ANDREW  AGUECHEEK. 
MALVOLIO,  steward  to  Olivia. 


n, } 


OLIVIA. 

VIOLA. 


MARIA,  Olivias  woman. 


Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE  :  A  city  in  lllyria,  and  the  sea-coast  near  it. 

'      

ACT   I— SCENE  I 
An  apartment  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  other  Lords  ;  Musicians  attending. 
Duke.  If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on ; 

Give  me  excess  of  it,  that,  surfeiting, 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  !  it  had  a  dying  fall : 

O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound, 

That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 

Stealing  and  giving  odour !     Enough ;  no  more  : 

'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 

O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou  ) 

That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 

Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there. 

Of  what  validity  and  pitch  soe'er, 

But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 

Even  in  a  minute !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 

That  it  alone  is  high  fantastical. 
Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 
Duke.  What,  Curio? 

Cur.  The  hart. 
Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have : 

O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 

Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence ! 

That  instant  was  I  turn'd  into  a  hart ; 

And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 

E'er  since  pursue  me. 

Enter  Valentine. 

How  now !  what  news  from  her  ? 
Val.  So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  be  admitted ; 

But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 

The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat, 

Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 

702 


Twelfth  Night  [Act  1,  Sc.  ii 

But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine :  all  this  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 
Duke.  O,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her ;  when  liver,  brain  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  fill'd 
Her  sweet  perfections  with  one  self  king  ! 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers : 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich  when  canopied  with  bowers.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
The  sea-coast. 

Enter  Viola,  a  Captain^  and  Sailors. 
Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  This  is  Illyria,  lady. 
Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 

My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance  he  is  not  drown'd :  what  think  you,  sailors  ? 
Cap.  It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  saved. 
Vio.  O  my  poor  brother  !  and  so  perchance  may  he  be. 
Cap.  True,  madam  :  and,  to  comfort  you  with  chance, 

Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 

When  you  and  those  poor  number  saved  with  you 

Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 

Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself, 

Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice, 

To  a  strong  mast  that  lived  upon  the  sea; 

Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 

I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves 

So  long  as  I  could  see. 
Vio.  For  saying  so,  there  's  gold  : 

Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 

Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 

The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 
'Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  born 

Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 
Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 
Cap.  A  noble  Duke,  in  nature  as  in  name. 
Vio.  What  is  his  name? 
>Cap.  Orsino. 

703 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  Twelfth  Night 

Vio.  Orsino  !  I  have  heard  my  father  name  him  : 

He  was  a  bachelor  then. 
Cap.  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  very  late ; 

For  but  a  month  ago  I  went  from  hence, 

And  then  'twas  fresh  in  murmur, — as,  you  know, 

What  great  ones  do  the  less  will  prattle  of, — 

That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia, 
Vio.  What's  she? 
Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 

That  died  some  twelvemonth  since ;  then  leaving  her 
v    In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 

Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love, 

They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  company 

And  sight  of  men. 
Vio.  O  that  I  served  that  lady, 

And  might  not  be  delivered  to  the  world, 

Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 

What  my  estate  is  ! 
Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass  ; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit, 

No,  not  the  Duke's. 
Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain  ; 

And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 

Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 

I  will  believe  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 

With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 

I  prithee,  and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously, 

Conceal  me  what  I  am,  and  be  my  aid 

For  such  disguise  as  haply  shall  become 

The  form  of  my  intent.     I  '11  serve  this  Duke : 

Thou  shalt -present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him: 

It  may  be  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing. 

And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 

That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 

What  else  may  hap  to  time  I  will  commit ; 

Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 
Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I  '11  be : 

When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see. 
Vio.  1  thank  thee  :  lead  me  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
Olivia 's  house. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take  the  death  of 
her  brother  thus  ?     I  am  sure  care  's  an  enemy  to  life. 

704 


or,  What  You  Will 


[Act  I,  Sc.  iii 


Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,   you   must  come  in  earlier  o' 

nights:    your  cousin,  my  lady,   takes    great    exceptions    to 

your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.  Why,  let  her  except,  before  excepted. 
Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the  modest 

limits  of  order. 
Sir  To.  Confine !     I  '11  confine  myself  no  finer  than   I  am  : 

these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in ;  and  so  be  these 

boots  too:   an  they  be  not,  let  them  hang  themselves  in 

their  own  straps. 
Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you :  I  heard  my 

lady  talk  of  it  yesterday;  and  of  a  foolish  knight  that  you 

brought  in  one  night  here  to  be  her  wooer. 
Sir  To.  Who,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  ? 
Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He 's  as  tall  a  man  as  any  's  in  Illyria. 
Mar.  What  7s  that  to  the  purpose  ? 
Sir  To.  Why,  he  has  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 
Mar.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  a  year  in  all  these  ducats  :  he 's  a 

very- fool  and  a  prodigal. 
Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you  511  say  so  !  he  plays  o'  the  viol-de-gamboys, 

and  speaks  three  or  four  languages  word  for  word  without 

book,  and  hath  all  the  good  gifts  of  nature. 
Mar.  He  hath  indeed,  almost  natural :  for  besides  that  he 's  a 

fool,  he 's  a  great  quarreller ;  and  but  that  he  hath  the  gift 

of  a  coward  to  allay  the  gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis 

thought  among  the  prudent  he  would  quickly  have  the  gift 

of  a  grave. 
Sir  To.  By    this    hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and  subtracters 

that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they  ?    - 
Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he's  drunk  nightly  in  your 

company. 
Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  :  I  '11  drink  to  her 

as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my  throat  and  drink  in 

Illyria :  he 's  a  coward  and  a  coystrill  that  will  not  drink  to 

my  niece  till  his  brains  turn  o'  the  toe   like  a  parish-top. 

What,  wench  !     Castiliano  vulgo ;  for  here  comes  Sir  Andrew 

Agueface. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek. 

Sir  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch  !  how  now,  Sir  Toby  Belch  1 
Sir  To.  Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 
Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 
Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 
Sir  To.  Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost. 
Sir  And.  What's  that? 

705  2 


Act  I,  Sc.  iii]  Twelfth  Ni 


Sir  To.  My  niece's  chambermaid. 

Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  acquair 

Mar.   My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Mary  Accost, — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight :  '  accost '  is  front  her,  board  her, 

woo  her,  assail  her. 
Sir  And.  By  my  troth,   I  would  not  undertake   her   in   this 

company.     Is  that  the  meaning  of  '  accost '  ? 
Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 
Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  would  thou  might st 

never  draw  sword  again. 
Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I  might  never  draw 

sword  again.     Fair  lady,  do  you  think  you  have  fools  in 
Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand.  [hand  ? 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here  's  my  hand. 
Mar.  Now,  sir,  '  thought  is  free ' :  I  pray  you,  bring  your  hand 

to  the  buttery-bar  and  let  it  drink. 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweet-heart  ?  what 's  your  metaphor  ? 
Mar.  It 's  dry,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so :  I  am  not  such  an  ass  but  1  can 

keep  my  hand  dry.     But  what 's  your  jest  ? 
Mar.  A  dry  jest,  sir. 
Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 
Mar.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends:  marry,  now  I 

let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lackest  a  cup  of  canary :  when  did  I 

see  thee  so  put  down  ? 
Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless  you  see  canary 

put  me  down.     Methinks   sometimes  I  have  no  more  wit 

than  a  Christian  or  an  ordinary  man  has  :  but  I  am  a  great 

eater  of  beef,  and  I  believe  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 
Sir  To.  No  question. 
Sir  And.  An  I.  thought  that,  I  'Id  forswear  it.     1 11  ride  home 

to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 
Sir  To.  Pourquoi,  my  dear  knight  ? 
Sir  And.  What  is  'pourquoi'?  do  or  not  do?     I  would  I  had 

bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues  that  I  have  in  fencing, 

dancing  and  bear-baiting  :  O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts  1 
Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head  of  hair. 
Sir  And.  Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair  ? 
Sir  To.  Past  question  ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not  curl  by  nature. 
Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does 't  not  ? 
Sir  To.  Excellent;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff;  and  I  hope 

to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between  her  legs  and  spin  it  off. 
Sir  And.  Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby :  your  niece 

706 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  I,  Sc.  iv 

will  not  be  seen ;  or  if  she  be,  it 's  four  to  one  she  '11  none 
of  me  :  the  count  himself  here  hard  by  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She  '11  none  o'  the  count :  she  '11  not  match  above  her 
degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor  wit ;  I  have  heard  her 
swear 't.  Tut,  there 's  life  in 't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I  '11  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow  o'  the 
strangest  mind  i'  the  world ;  I  delight  in  masques  and  revels 
sometimes  altogether.' 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshawses,  knight? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be,  under  the 
degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  I  will  not  compare  with  an 
old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard,  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to 't. 

Sir  And.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick  simply  as  strong 
as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore  have  these 
gifts  a  curtain  before  'em  ?  are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like 
Mistress  Mall's  picture  ?  why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in 
a  galliard  and  come  home  in  a  coranto?  My  very  walk 
should  be  a  jig ;  I  would  not  so  much  as  make  water  but  in 
a  sink-a-pace.  What  dost  thou  mean  ?  Is  it  a  world  to 
hide  virtues  in?  I  did  think,  by  the  excellent  constitution 
of  thy  leg,  it  was  formed  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  well  in  a  flame- 
coloured  stock.  Shall  we  set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?    were  we   not  born  under 

Sir  And.  Taurus  !     That 's  sides  and  heart.  [Taurus  ? 

Sir  To.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me  see  thee  caper  : 
ha !  higher :  ha,  ha !  excellent !  [Extunt, 

SCENE  IV 
The  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  man's  attire. 
Val.  If  the  Duke  continue  these  favours  towards  you,  Cesario, 
you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced  :  he  hath  known  you  but 
three  days,  and  already  you  are  no  stranger. 
Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour  or  my  negligence,  that  yo-u 
call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his  love  :  is  he  inconstant, 
sir,  in  his  favours  ? 
Val.  No,  believe  me. 
Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 
Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

707 


Act  I,  Sc.  v]  Twelfth  Nieht 

Vio.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord ;  here. 
Duke.  Stand  you  a  while  aloof.     Cesario, 

Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;  I  have  unclasp'd 

To  thee  the  book  even  of  my.  secret  soul : 

Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her ; 

Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 

And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow 

Till  thou  have  audience. 
Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow 

As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 
Duke.  Be  clamorous  and  leap  all  civil  bounds 

Rather  than  make  unprofited  return. 
Vio.  Say  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord,  what  then  ? 
Duke.  O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love, 

Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith  : 

It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes  ; 

She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth 

Than  in  a  nuncio's  of  more  grave  aspect. 
Vio.  I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 
Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years, 

That  say  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 

Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 

Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  and  sound  ; 

And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 

I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 

For  this  affair.     Some  four  or  five  attend  him  ; 

All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best 

When  least  in  company.     Prosper  well  in  this, 

And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 

To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 
Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  :  [Aside]  yet,  a  barful  strife ! 

Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  V 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been,  or  I  will  not 
open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may  enter  in  way  of  thy 
excuse :  my  lady  will  hang  thee  for  thy  absence. 
Clo.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he  that  is  well  hanged  in  this  world 

needs  to  fear  no  colours. 
Mar.  Make  that  good. 

708 


or,  What  You  Will  LAct  J»  Sc-  v 

Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten  answer :  I  can  tell  thee  where  that  saying 
was  born,  of  '  I  fear  no  colours.' 

Clo.  Where,  good  Mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar,  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to  say  in  your 
foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it ;  and  those  that 
are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  long  absent;  or,  to 
be  turned  away,  is  not  that  as  good  as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  marriage ;  and,  for 
turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

Mar.  You  are  resolute,  then  ? 

Clo.  Not  so,  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two  points. 

Mar.  That  if  one  break,  the  other  will  hold  j  or,  if  both  break, 
your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith ;  very  apt.  Well,  go  thy  way ;  if  Sir 
Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert  as  witty  a  piece  of 
Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o'  that.  Here  comes  my 
lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were  best.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Wit,  an  't  ,be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  fooling  !  Those 
wits,  that  think  they  have  thee,  do  very  oft  prove  fools ;  and 
I,  that  am  sure  I  lack  thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man  :  for 
what  says  Quinapalus  ?  '  Better  a  witty  fool  than  a  foolish 

.   wit.' 

Enter  Lady  Olivia  with  Malvolio. 
God  bless  thee,  lady  i 

Oli.  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?     Take  away  the  lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool ;  I  '11  no  more  of  you :  besides, 
you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good  counsel  will 
amend  :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then  is  the  fool  not 
dry :  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend  himself}  if  he  mend,  he 
is  no  longer  dishonest ;  if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend 
him.  Any  thing  that 's  mended  is  but  patched  :  virtue  that 
transgresses  is  but  patched  with  sin  •  and  sin  that  amends  is 
but  patched  with  virtue.  If  that  this  simple  syllogism  will 
serve,  so ;  if  it  will  not,  what  remedy  ?  As  there  is  no 
true  cuckold  but  calamity,  so  beauty 's  a  flower.  The  lady 
bade  take  away  the  fool ;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take  her 
away. 

Oli.  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest   degree!     Lady,  cucullus  non 

709 


r  not 
re   to 


Act  I,  Sc.  v]  Twelfth  Night 

facit    monachum ;  that 's  as    much    to    say   as  I   wear  not 
motley  in  my  brain.     Good   madonna,  give   me  leave   t 
prove  you  a  fool. 

OH.  Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clo.  Dexteriously,  good  madonna. 

OIL  Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechize  you  for  it,  madonna  :  good  my  mouse 
of  virtue,  answer  me. 

OK.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  I  '11  bide  your  proof. 

Clo.  Good  madonna,  why  mournest  thou  ? 

OK.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 

Clo.  I  think  his  soul  is  in  hell,  madonna. 

Oli.  I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool. 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  your  brother's 
soul  being  in  heaven.  Take  away  the  fool,  gentlemen. 

Olt.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ?  doth  he  not 
mend? 

Mai.  Yes,  and  shall  do  till  the  pangs  of  death  shake  him  : 
infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth  ever  make  the  better 
fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for  the  better 
increasing  your  folly  !  Sir  Toby  will  be  sworn  that  I  am  no 
fox ;  but  he  will  not  pass  his  word  for  two  pence  that  you 

Oli.  How  say  you  to  that,  Malvolio  ?  [are  no  fool. 

Mai.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in  such  a  barren 
rascal :  I  saw  him  put  down  the  other  day  with  an  ordinary 
fool  that  has  no  more  brain  than  a  stone.  Look  you  now, 
he 's  out  of  his  guard  already  ;  unless  you  laugh  and  minister 
occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagged.  I  protest,  I  take  these  wise 
men,  that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of  fools,  no  better  than 
the  fools'  zanies. 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and  taste  with  a 
distempered  appetite.  To  be  generous,  guiltless  and  of  free 
disposition,  is  to  take  those  things  for  bird-bolts  that  you 
deem  cannon-bullets  :  there  is  no  slander  in  an  allowed 
fool,  though  he  do  nothing  but  rail ;  nor  no  railing  in  a 
known  discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  reprove. 

Clo.  Now  Mercury  endue  thee  with  leasing,  for  thou  speakest 
well  of  fools  ! 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young  gentleman  much 
desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli.  From  the  Count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  :  'tis  a  fair  young  man,  and  well 

Oli.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ?  [attended. 

710 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  I,  Sc.  v 

Mar,  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OH.  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  ;  he  speaks  nothing  but  madman  : 
fie  on  him  !  \_Exit  Maria,}  Go  you,  Malvolio  :  if  it  be  a 
suit  from  the  count,  I  am  sick,  or  not  at  home ;  what  you 
will,  to  dismiss  it.  \Exit  Malvolio.']  Now  you  see,  sir,  how 
your  fooling  grows  old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if  thy  eldest  son 
should  be  a  fool ;  whose  skull  Jove  cram  with  brains  !  for, 
— here  he  comes, — one  of  thy  kin  has  a  most  weak  pia  mater 
Enter  Sir  Toby. 

OIL  By  mine  honour,  half  drunk.     What  is  he  at  the  gate, 

Sir  To.  A  gentleman.  [cousin  ? 

OH.  A  gentleman  !  what  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here — a  plague  o'  these  pickle-herring  ! 
How  now,  sot ! 

Clo.  Good  Sir  Toby  ! 

Oli.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early  by  this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  !  I  defy  lechery.     There 's  one  at  the  gate. 

Oli.  Ay,  marry,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care  not :  give  me 
faith,  say  I.  Well,  it 's  all  one.  {Exit. 

Oli.  What 's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool  and  a  mad  man  :  one  draught 
above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the  second  mads  him  ;  and  a 
third  drowns  him. 

Oli.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  crowner,  and  let  him  sit  o'  my  coz  ; 
for  he  's  in  the  third  degree  of  drink,  he 's  drowned  :  go  look 
after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the  fool  shall  look  to 
the  madman.  \Exit. 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will  speak  with  you. 
I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he  takes  on  him  to  understand  so 
much,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  I  told  him 
you  were  asleep  ;  he  seems  to  have  a  foreknowledge  of  that 
too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be 
said  to  him,  lady  ?  he  's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

Oli.  Tell  him  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  Has  been  told  so ;  and  he  says,  he  '11  stand  at  your  door 
like  a  sheriffs  post,  and  be  the  supporter  to  a  bench,  but 
he  '11  speak  with  you. 

Oli.  What  kind  o'  man  is  he  ? 

Mai,  Why,  of  mankind. 

Oli.  What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner :  he  '11  speak  with  you,  will  you  or  no. 

711 


Act  I,  Sc.  vj  I  welfth  Night 

Oli.  Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young  enough  for  a 
boy  ;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a  peascod,  or  a  codling  when 
'tis  almost  an  apple  :  'tis  with  him  in  standing  water,  between 
boy  and  man.  He  is  very  well-favoured  and  he  speaks  very 
shrewishly ;  one  would  think  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce 
out  of  him. 

Oli.  Let  him  approach  :  call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Maria. 

Oli.  Give  me  my  veil :  come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face.  We  '11 
once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  Viola,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  ? 

OH-  Speak  to  me ;  I  shall  answer  for  her.     Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite  and  unmatchable  beauty, — I  pray 
you,  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  for  I  never  saw 
her  :  I  would  be  loath  to  cast  away  my  speech,  for  besides 
that  it  is  excellently  well  penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to 
con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no  scorn  ;  I  am  very 
comptible,  even  to  the  least  sinister  usage. 

Oli.  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and  that  question 's 
out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give  me  modest  assurance 
if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my 

Oli.  Are  you  a  comedian  ?  [speech. 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the  very  fangs  of 
malice  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play.  Are  you  the  lady  of 

Oli.  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am.  [the  house  ? 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp  yourself;  for 
what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not  yours  to  reserve.  But  this  is 
from  my  commission  :  I  will  on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise, 
and  then  show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

Oli.  Come  to  what  is  important  in't :  I  forgive  you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis  poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned.  I  pray  you,  keep  it  in. 
I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates,  and  allowed  your 
approach  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If  you 
be  not  mad,  be  gone  ;  if  you  have  reason,  be  brief :  'tis  not 
that  time  of  moon  with  me  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a 
dialogue. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber;  I  am  to  hull  here  a  little  longer. 
Some  mollification  for  your  giant,  sweet  lady.  Tell  rrie  your 
mind :  I  am  a  messenger. 

712 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  I,  Sc.  v 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  deliver,  when  the 

courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.     Speak  your  office. 
Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.     I  bring  no  overture  of  war, 
no  taxation  of  homage :  I  hold  the  olive  in  my  hand ;  my 
words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.     What  are  you  ?  what  would  you? 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appeared  in  me  have  I  learned 

from  my  entertainment.     What  I  am,  and  what  I  would,  are 

as   secret   as    maidenhead ;  to   your   ears,    divinity,   to  any 

other's,  profanation. 

Oli.  Give   us   the   place   alone :  we   will    hear   this    divinity. 
\Exeunt  Maria  and  Attendants^     Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  ? 
Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, — 
Oli.  A   comfortable   doctrine,   and  much  may   be  said  of  it 

Where  lies  your  text  ? 
Vio.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.  In  his  bosom  !     In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 
Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his  heart. 
Oli.  O,  I  have  read  it :  it  is  heresy.    Have  you  no  more  to  say  ? 
Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to  negotiate 
with  my  face  ?  You  are  now  out  of  your  text :  but  we  will 
draw  the  curtain  and  show  you  the  picture.  Look  you,  sir, 
such  a  one  I  was  this  present :  is 't  not  well  done  ? 

[  Unveiling. 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 
Oli.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir ;  'twill  endure  wind  and  weather. 
Vio.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  I  will  give  out  divers 
schedules  of  my  beauty :  it  shall  be  inventoried,  and  every 
particle  and  utensil  labelled  to  my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips, 
indifferent  red ;  item,  two  grey  eyes,  with  lids  to  them  ;  item, 
one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent  hither  to 
praise  me  ? 

Vio.  I  see  you  what  you  are,  you  are  too  proud ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you  :  O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompensed,  though  you  were  crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty  ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  fertile  tears, 

713  z  2 


Act  I,  Sc.  v]  Twelfth  Night 

With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 
OH.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind ;  I  cannot  love  him 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 

Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 

In  voices  well  divulged,  free,  learn'd  and  valiant ; 

And  in  dimension  and  the  shape  of  nature 

A  gracious  person  :  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him ; 

He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 
Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 

With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 

In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 

I  would  not  understand  it. 

OIL  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 

And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 

Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love 

And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 

Halloo  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 

And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 

Cry  out  '  Olivia  ! '     O,  you  should  not  rest 

Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 

But  you  should  pity  me  !  j 

OIL  You  might  do  much. 

What  is  your  parentage  ? 
Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I  am  a  gentleman. 
OIL  Get  you  to  your  lord ; 

I  cannot  love  him  :  let  him  send  no  more ; 

Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 

To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 

I  thank  you  for  your  pains :  spend  this  for  me. 
Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady  ;  keep  your  purse : 

My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 

Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love  ; 

And  let  your  fervour,  like  rny  master's,  be 

Placed  in  contempt !     Farewell,  fair  cruelty. 
OIL  '  What  is  your  parentage  ? ' 

1  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I  am  a  gentleman.'     I  '11  be  sworn  thou  art ; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 

Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon  :  not  too  fast :  soft,  soft  1 

Unless  the  master  were  the  man.     How  now  ! 

Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 

Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  1 

To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. 

What  ho,  Malvolio ! 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

MaL  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

OH.  Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 

The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 

Would  I  or  not :  tell  him  I  '11  none  of  it. 

Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 

Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes ;  I  am  not  for  him : 

If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 

I  '11  give  him  reasons  for  't :  hie  thee,  Malvolio. 
Mai.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

OIL  I  do  I  know  not  what,  and  fear  to  find 

Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 

Fate,  show  thy  force :  ourselves  we  do  not  owe ; 

What  is  decreed  must  be,  and  be  this  so.  [Exit. 


ACT   II— SCENE  I 

The  sea-coast. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer?  nor  will  you  not  that  I  go  with 
you? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no.  My  stars  shine  darkly  over  me : 
the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might  perhaps  distemper  yours ; 
therefore  I  shall  crave  of  you  your  leave  that  I  may  bear  my 
evils  alone :  it  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay 
any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you  whither  you  are  bound. 

Seb.  No,  sooth,  sir :  my  determinate  voyage  is  mere  extrava 
gancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so  excellent  a  touch  of  modesty, 
that  you  will  not  extort  from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep 
in  ;  therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to  express 
myself.  You  must  know  of  me  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is 
Sebastian,  which  I  called  Roderigo.  My  father  was  that 
Sebastian  of  Messaline,  whom  I  know  you  have  heard  of. 
He  left  behind  him  myself  and  a  sister,  both  born  in  an 
hour:  if  the  heavens  had  been  pleased,  would  we  had  so 
ended  !  but  you,  sir,  altered  that ;  for  some  hour  before  you 
took  me  from  the  breach  of  the  sea  was  my  sister  drowned. 

Ant.  Alas  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  resembled  me, 
was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful :  but,  though  I  could 
not  with  such  estimable  wonder  overfar  believe  that,  yet 
thus  far  I  will  boldly  publish  her;  she  bore  a  mind  that 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  Twelfth  Night 

envy  could  not  but  call  fair.  She  is  drowned  already,  sir, 
with  salt  water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  her  remembrance 
again  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.  O  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble.  [servant. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let  me  be  your 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done,  that  is,  kill  him 
whom  you  have  recovered,  desire  it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at 
once :  my  bosom  is  full  of  kindness,  and  I  am  yet  so  near 
the  manners  of  my  mother,  that  upon  the  least  occasion 
more  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to  the 
Count  Orsino's  court :  farewell.  {Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee  ! 
I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there. 
But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.  \Exit. 

SCENE  II 

A  street. 

Enter  Viola,  Malvolio  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  Countess  Olivia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have  since  arriv 
but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns, this  ring  to  you,  sir:  you  might  have  saved 
me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  yourself.  She  adds, 
moreover,  that  you  should  put  your  lord  into  a  desperate 
assurance  she  will  none  of  him :  and  one  thing  more,  that 
you  be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it 
be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this.  Receive  it  so. 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me  :  I  '11  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her;  and  her  will  is, 
it  should  be  so  returned :  if  it  be  worth  stooping  for,  there  it 
lies  in  your  eye ;  if  not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it.  [.Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her :  what  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charm'd  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed,  so  much, 
That  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man  :  if  it  be  so,  as  'tis, 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 

716 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 

Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ! 

For  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 

How  will  this  fadge  ?  my  master  loves  her  dearly ; 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me. 

What  will  become  of  this  ?     As  I  am  man, 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 

As  I  am  woman — now  alas  the  day  !— 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe ! 

O  time  !  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie  !  \Exit. 

SCENE   III 
Olivids   house. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew :    not  to  be  a-bed  after  mid 
night  is  to  be  up  betimes ;    and  '  diluculo   surgere,'   thou 
know'st, — 
Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but  I  know,  to  be  up 

late  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  :  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled  can.     To 

be  up  after  midnight  and  to  go  to  bed  then,  is  early :  so  that 

to  go  to  bed  after  midnight  is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.     Does 

not  our  life  consist  of  the  four  elements  ? 

Sir  And.  Faith,  so  they  say;  but  I  think  it  rather  consists  of 

eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  a  scholar;   let  us  therefore  eat  and  drink. 
Marian,  I  say  !  a  stoup  of  wine  ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts !  did  you  never  see  the  picture  of 
'we  three'? 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.     Now  let 's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent  breast.  I  had 
rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  such  a  leg,  and  so  sweet  a 
breath  to  sing,  as  the  fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very 
gracious  fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogro- 
mitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of  Queubus  : 
'twas  very  good,  i'  faith.  I  sent  thee  sixpence  for  thy  leman  : 
hadst  it  ? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity ;  for  Malvolio's  nose  is  no 

717 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Twelfth  Night 

whipstock :  my  lady  has  a  white  hand,  and  the  Myrmidons 
are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 
Sir  And.  Excellent !  why,  this  is  the  best  fooling,  when  all  is 

done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you  :  let 's  have  a  song. 
Sir  And.  There 's  a  testril  of  me  too  :  if  one  knight  give  a — 
Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of  good  life  ? 
Sir  To.  A  love-song,  a  love-song. 
Sir  And.  Ay,  ay  :  I  care  not  for  good  life. 
Clo.  \Sings\ 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O,  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love  's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 
Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 
Clo.  [Sings] 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth 's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 
Sir  And.  A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight 
Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 
Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 
Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  contagion.     But 
shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed  ?  shall  we  rouse  the 
night-owl  in  a  catch  that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one 
weaver  ?  shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let 's  do  't :  I  am  dog  at  a  catch. 
Clo.  By  'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 
Sir  And.  Most  certain.     Let  our  catch  be,  'Thou  knave.' 
Clo.  *  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,'  knight  ?     I  shall  be  con 
strained  in 't  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 
Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrained  one  to  call 

me  knave.     Begin,  fool :  it  begins  '  Hold  thy  peace.' 
Clo.  I  shall  never  begin  if  I  hold  my  peace. 
Sir  And.  Good,  i'  faith.     Come,  begin.  [Catch  sung. 

Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here!  If  my  lady 
have  not  called  up  her  steward  Malvolio  and  bid  him  tura 
you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Sir  To.  My  lady 's  a  Catalan,  we  are  politicians,  Malvolio  's  a 
Peg-a- Ramsey,  and  '  Three  merry  men  be  we.'  Am  not  I 
consanguineous  ?  am  I  not  of  her  blood  ?  Tillyvally.  Lady  ! 
[Sings]  '  There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  ! ' 

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

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough  if  he  be  disposed,  and  so 
do  I  too :  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace,  but  I  do  it  more 
natural. 

Sir  To.  [Sings]     'O,  the  twelfth  day  of  December/— 

Mar.  For  the  love  o'  God,  peace  ! 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ?  Have  you 
no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble  like  tinkers  at 
this  time  of  night  ?  Do  ye  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's 
house,  that  ye  squeak  out  your  coziers'  catches  without  any 
mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place, 
persons,  nor  time  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.     We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches.     Sneck  up ! 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My  lady  bade  me 
tell  you,  that,  though  she  harbours  you  as  her  kinsman,  she 's 
nothing  allied  to  your  disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself 
and  your  misdemeanours,  you  are  welcome  to  the  house  ;  if 
not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very 
willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  *  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs  be  gone.' 

Mar.  Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.  '  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done/ 

Mai.  Is 't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  '  But  I  will  never  die.1 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  '  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?  ' 

Clo.  'What  an  if  you  do?' 

Sir  To.  '  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? ' 

Clo.  '  O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not.' 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  tune,  sir  :  ye  lie.  Art  any  more  than  a  steward  ? 
Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no 
more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,    by   Saint   Anne,   and   ginger  shall   be   hot   i'   the 
mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right.     Go,   sir,   rub  your  chain  with 
crums.     A  soup  of  wine,  Marie  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favour  at  any  thing 
more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give  means  for  this 
uncivil  rule  :  she  shall  know  of  it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit. 

719 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  Twelfth  Night 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when  a  man  's 
a-hungry,  to  challenge  him  the  field,  and  then  to  break 
promise  with  him  and  make  a  fool  of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do  't,  knight :  I  '11  write  thee  a  challenge ;  or  I  '11 
deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night :  since  the  youth 
of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my  lady,  she  is  much  out  of 
quiet.  For  Monsieur  Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I 
do  not  gull  him  into  a  nayword,  and  make  him  a  common 
recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight  in 
my  bed  :  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  something  of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'Id  beat  him  like  a  dog  ! 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  puritan  ?  thy  exquisite  reason,  dear 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  't,  but  I  have  reason 
good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing  constantly, 
but  a  time-pleaser  ;  an  affectioned  ass,  that  cons  state  without 
book  and  utters  it  by  great  swarths :  the  best  persuaded  of 
himself,  so  crammed,  as  he  thinks,  with  excellencies,  that  it 
is  his  grounds  of  faith  that  all  that  look  on  him  love  him  ; 
and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find  notable  cause 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ?  [to  work. 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of  love ; 
wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of  his  leg,  the 
manner  of  his  gait,  the  expressure  of  his  eye,  forehead,  and 
complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly  personated. 
I  can  write  very  like  my  lady  your  niece :  on  a  forgotten 
matter  we  can  hardly  make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !     I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have 't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou  wilt  drop,  that 
they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she  's  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  colour. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him  an  ass. 

Mar.  Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O,  'twill  be  admirable  ! 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you  :  I  know  my  physic  will  work 
with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two,  and  let  the  fool  make  a  third, 
where  he  shall  find  the  letter :  observe  his  construction  of  it. 
For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event.  Farewell. 

[Exit. 
720 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea.     | 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she 's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She  's  a  beagle,  true-bred,  and  one  that  adores  me : 

what  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.  I  was  adored  once  too.  [money. 

Sir  To.  Let 's  to  bed,  knight.     Thou  hadst  need  send  for  more 
Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a  foul  way  out. 
Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast  her  not  i'  the 

end,  call  me  cut. 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how  you  will. 
Sir  To.  Come,  come,  I  '11  go  burn  some  sack ;  'tis  too  late  to 

go  to  bed  now :  come,  knight ;  come,  knight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE   IV 
The  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  others. 
Duke.  Give  me  some  music.     Now,  good  morrow,  friends, 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night: 
Methought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  : 
Come,  but  one  verse,  [it. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that  should  sing 
Duke.  Who  was  it  ? 
Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord ;  a  fool  that  the  lady  Olivia's 

father  took  much  delight  in.     He  is  about  the  house. 
Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[Exit  Curio.     Music  plays. 
Come  hither,  boy :  if  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it  remember  me ; 
For  such  as  I  am  all  true  lovers  are, 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  beloved.     How- dost  thou  like  this  tune? 
Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 

Where  love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly : 

My  life  upon 't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves  : 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is 't  ? 
Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee,  then.     What  years,  i'  faith  ? 

721 


Act  II,  Sc.  iv]  Twelfth  Night 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 
Duke.  Too  old,  by  heaven  :  let  still  the  woman  take 

An  elder  than  herself ;  so  wears  she  to  him, 

So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart : 

For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 

Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 

More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 

Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I  think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 

Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent  ; 

For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower 

Being  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 
Vio.  And  so  they  are  :  alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 

To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  ! 

Re-enter  Curio  and  Clown. 
Duke.  O,  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night. 

Mark  it,  Cesario,  it  is  old  and  plain ; 

The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun 

And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with  bones 

Do  use  to  chant  it :  it  is  silly  sooth, 

And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 

Like  the  old  age. 
Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 
Duke.  Ay;  prithee,  sing.  [Music. 

SONG. 
Clo.          Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it ! 

My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

4 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there ! 
722 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  iv 

Duke.  There 's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.  I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  one  time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee ;  and  the  tailor 

make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffeta,  for  thy  mind  is  a 

very  opal.     I  would  have  men  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea, 

that  their  business  might  be  every  thing  and  their  intent 

every  where ;  for  that 's  it  that  always  makes  a  good  voyage 

of  nothing.     Farewell.  {Exit. 

Duke.  Let  all  the  rest  give  place.  \Curio  and  Attendants  retire. 

Once  more,  Cesario, 

Get  thee  to  yond  same  sovereign  cruelty : 

Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 

Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 

The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 

Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune ; 

But  'tis  that  miracle  and  queen  of  gems 

That  nature  pranks  her  in  attracts  my  soul. 
Vio.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 
Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 
Vio.  Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say  that  some  lady,  as  perhaps  there  is, 

Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 

As  you  have  for  Olivia  :  you  cannot  love  her ; 

You  tell  her  so ;  must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  ? 
Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 

Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 

As  love  doth  give  my  heart ;  no  woman's  heart 

So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 

Alas,  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, — 

No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 

That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment  and  revolt ; 

But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 

And  can  digest  as  much :  make  no  compare 

Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me 

And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 
Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 
Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe : 

In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 

My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 

I  should  your  lordship. 

723 


Act  II,  Sc.  v]  Twelfth  Night 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord.     She  never  told  her  love, 

But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 

Feed  on  her  damask  cheek  :  she  pined  in  thought ; 

And  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy 

She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 

Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love  indeed  ? 

We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  :  but  indeed 

Our  shows  are  more  than  will  ;  for  still  we  prove 

Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 
Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 
Vio.  I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 

And  all  the  brothers  too  :  and  yet  I  know  not. 

Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 
Duke.  Ay  that 's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 

My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V 
Olivia's  garden. 

Enter  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  Signior  Fabian. 
Fab.  Nay,  I  '11  come :  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this  sport,  let  me 

be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 
Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  niggardly  rascally 

sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable  shame  ? 
Fab.  I  would  exult,  man :  you  know,  he  brought  me  out  o' 

favour  with  my  lady  about  a  bear-baiting  here. 
Sir  To.  To  anger  him  we  '11  have  the  bear  again ;  and  we  will 

fool  him  black  and  blue  :  shall  we  not,  Sir  Andrew  ? 
Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 
Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain. 
Enter  Maria. 

How  now,  my  metal  of  India ! 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree  :  Malvolio  's  coming 
down  this  walk :  he  has  been  yonder  i'  the  sun  practising 
behaviour  to  his  own  shadow  this  half  hour :  observe  him, 
for  the  love  of  mockery ;  for  I  know  this  letter  will  make  a 
contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting  ! 
Lie  thou  there  [throws  down  a  letter] ;  for  here  comes  the 
trout  that  must  be  caught  with  tickling.  [Exit. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  'Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once  told  me  she 
did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard  herself  come  thus  near, 
that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should  be  one  of  my  complexion. 

724 


it 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  v 

Besides,  she  uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  any 

one  else  that  follows  her.     What  should  I  think  on 't  ? 
Sir  To.  Here  's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 
fab.  O,  peace !     Contemplation  makes  a  rare  turkey-cock  of 

him  :  how  he  jets  under  his  advanced  plumes ! 
Sir  And.  'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  1 
Sir  To.  Peace,  I  say. 
Mai.  To  be  Count  Malvolio ! 
Sir  To.  Ah,  rogue  ! 
Sir  And.  Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 
Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  ! 
Mai.  There  is  example  for 't ;  the  lady  of  the  Strachy  married 

the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel !  [blows  him. 

Fab.  O,  peace !  now  he  ;s  deeply  in :  look  how  imagination 
Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her,  sitting  in  my 
Sir  To.  O,  for  a  stone-bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  1  [state, — 
Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched  velvet 

gown ;  having  come  from  a  day-bed,  where  I  have  left  Olivia 
Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  !  [sleeping, — 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace  ! 
Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state ;   and  after  a 

demure  travel  of  regard,  telling  them  I  know  my  place  as  I 

would  they  should  do  theirs,  to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby, — 
Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 
Fab.  O,  peace,  peace,  peace !  now,  now. 
Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start,  make  out  for 

him :  I  frown  the  while ;  and  perchance  wind  up  my  watch, 

or   play   with   my — some    rich   jewel.     Toby  approaches; 

courtesies  there  to  me, — 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ?  [peace. 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with  cars,  yet 
Mai.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching  my  familiar 

smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control, — 
Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'  the  lips  then  ? 
Mai.  Saying,  'Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having  cast  me  on 

your  niece  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech,' — 
Sir  To.  What,  what  ? 

Mai.  '  You  must  amend  your  drunkenness/ 
Sir  To.  Out,  scab  ! 

Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our  plot. 
Mai.  'Besideb,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time  with   a 

foolish  knight,'— 

Sir  And.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 
Mai.  'One  Sir  Andrew,'— 

725 


ht 


Act  II,  Sc.  v]  Twelfth  Nig 

Sir  And.  I  knew  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 
Mai.  What  employment  have  we  here?     [Taking up  the  letter. 
Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin.  [aloud  to  him 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humours  intimate  reading 
Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these  be  her  very 

C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's ;  and  thus  makes  she  her  great  P's. 

It  is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her  hand. 
Sir  And.  Her  C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's  :  why  that  ? 
Mai.  [reads]  To  the    unknown   beloved,  this,  and  my  good 

wishes  : — her  very  phrases  !    By  your  leave,  wax.    Soft !  and 

the  impressure  her  Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seal:  'tis 

my  lady.     To  whom  should  this  be  ? 
Fab.  This  wins,  him,  liver  and  all. 
Mai.  [reads]         Jove  knows  I  love  : 

But  who  ? 
Lips,  do  not  move  ; 
No  man  must  know. 

'  No  man  must  know.'     What  follows  ?  the  numbers  altered  ! 

'  No  man  must  know :'  if  this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ? 
Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock  ! 
Mai.  [reads]  I  may  command  where  I  adore ; 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore : 

MT  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 
Fab.  A  fustian  riddle  ! 
Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 
Mai.  *  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life.'     Nay,  but  first,  let  me 

see,  let  me  see,  let  me  see. 
Fab.  What  dish  o'  poison  has  she  dressed  him  1 
Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  staniel  checks  at  it ! 
Mai.  *I  may  command  where  I  adore.'     Why,  she  may  com 
mand  me  :  I  serve  her ;  she  is  my  lady.     Why,  this  is  evident 

to  any  formal  capacity  ;  there  is  no  obstruction  in  this  :  and 

the  end, — what  should  that  alphabetical  position  portend? 

If  I  could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, — Softly  J 

M,  O,  A,  I,— 

Sir  To.  O,  ay,  make  up  that :  he  is  now  at  a  cold  scent. 
Fab.  Sowter  will  cry  upon 't  for  all  this,  though  it  be  as  rank  as 

a  fox. 

Mai.  M, — Malvolio ;  M, — why,  that  begins  my  name. 
Fab.  Did  not  I  say  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the  cur  is  excellent 

at  faults. 
Mai.  M, — but  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the  sequel ;  that 

suffers  under  probation  :  A  should  follow,  but  O  does. 
Fab.  And  O  shall  end,  I  hope. 

726 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  II,  Sc.  v 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make  him  cry  O  I 

Mai.  And  then  I  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you  might  see  more 
detraction  at  your  heels  than  fortunes  before  you. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I ;  this  simulation  is  not  as  the  former :  and 
yet,  to  crush  this  a  little,  it  would  bow  to  me,  for  every  one 
of  these  letters  are  in  my  name.  Soft !  here  follows  prose. 
[Reads]  If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I 
am  above  thee ;  but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness :  some  are 
born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  'em.  Thy  Fates  open  their  hands  ;  let  thy  blood 
and  spirit  embrace  them  ;  and,  to  inure  thyself  to  what  thou 
art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble  slough  and  appear  fresh.  Be 
opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants  ;  let  thy  tongue 
tang  arguments  of  state ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singu 
larity  :  she  thus  advises  thee  that  sighs  for  thee.  Remember 
who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings,  and  wished  to  see 
thee  ever  cross-gartered  :  I  say,  remember.  Go  to,  thou  art 
made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a 
steward  still,  the  fellow  of  servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch 
Fortune's  fingers.  Farewell.  She  that  would  alter  services 
with  thee,  THE  FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY. 

Daylight  and  champain  discovers  not  more :  this  is  open. 
I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic  authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir 
Toby,  I  will  wash  off  gross  acquaintance,  I  will  be  point- 
devise,  the  very  man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself,  to  let 
imagination  jade  me;  for  every  reason  excites  to  this,  that 
my  lady  loves  me.  She  did  commend  my  yellow  stockings 
of  late,  she  did  praise  my  leg  being  cross-gartered ;  and  in 
this  she  manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and  with  a  kind  of  in 
junction  drives  me  to  these  habits  of  her  liking.  I  thank  my 
stars  I  am  happy.  I  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stock 
ings,  and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of  putting 
on.  Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised !  Here  is  yet  a  postscript. 
[.Reads]  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  I  am.  If 
thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smiling;  thy 
smiles  become  thee  well ;  therefore  in  my  presence  still  smile, 
dear  my  sweet,  I  prithee. 

Jove,  I  thank  thee :  I  will  smile ;  I  will  do  everything  that 
thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a  pension  of 
thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy. 

Sir  To.   1  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device, — 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her  but  such  another  jest. 

727 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Ni 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 

Fab,  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 
Re- enter  Marie. 

Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip,  and  become  thy 
bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.   V  faith,  or  I  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream,  that  when 
the  image  of  it  leaves  him  he  must  run  mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true ;  does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport,  mark  his  first 
approach  before  my  lady:  he  will  come  to  her  in  yellow 
stockings,  and  'tis  a  colour  she  abhors,  and  cross-gartered,  a 
fashion  she  detests ;  and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will 
now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being  addicted  to  a 
melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  into  a 
notable  contempt.  If  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excellent  devil  of 
wit ! 

Sir  And.  I  '11  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 

Olivia!  s  garden. 

Enter  Viola,  and  Clown  with  a  tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music :  dost  thou  live  by  thy 
Clo.  No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church.  [tabor  ? 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 
Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir :  I  do  live  by  the  church ;  for  I  do 

live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand  by  the  church. 
Vio.  So:  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies  by  a  beggar,  if  a  beggar 

dwell  near  him ;  or,  the  church  stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy 

tabor  stand  by  the  church. 
Clo.  You  have  said,  sir.     To  see  this  age  !     A  sentence  is  but 

a  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  wit :  how  quickly  the  wrong  side 

may  be  turned  outward  ! 
Vio.  Nay,  that's  certain;  they  that  dally  nicely  with, words  may 

quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no  name,,  sir. 
Vio.  Why,  man? 
Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name 's  a  word ;  and  to  dally  with  that  word 

might  make  my  sister  wanton.     But  indeed  words  are  very 

rascals  since  bonds  disgraced  them. 

728 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

i  Vio.  Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  cir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without  words ;  and  words 
are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath  to  prove  reason  with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow  and  carest  for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir,  I  do  care  for  something ;  but  in  my  conscience, 
sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you :  if  that  be  to  care  for  nothing,  sir, 
I  would  it  would  make  you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  Lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir ;  the  Lady  Olivia  has  no  folly :  she  will 
keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married ;  and  fools  are  as  like 
husbands  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings ;  the  husband 's  the 
bigger :  I  am  indeed  not  her  fool,  but  her  corrupter  of 
words. 

Vio.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  Count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb  like  the  sun,  it 
shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry,  sir,  but  the  fool  should 
be  as  oft  with  your  master  as  with  my  mistress :  I  think  I  saw 
your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I  '11  no  more  with  thee. 
Hold,  there 's  expenses  for  thee.  [beard  ! 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair,  send  thee  a 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I'll  tell  thee,  I  am  almost  sick  for  one; 
[Aside]  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on  my  chin.  Is  thy 
lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.  Yes,  being  kept  together  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  Lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir,  to  bring  a 
Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir ;  'tis  well  begged. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging  but  a  beggar : 
Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My  lady  is  within,  sir.  I  will  con 
strue  to  them  whence  you  come ;  who  you  are  and  what  you 
would  are  out  of  my  welkin,  I  might  say  'element,'  but  the 
word  is  over- worn.  \Exit. 

Vio.  This  fellow  is  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool ; 
And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time, 
And,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice 
As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 
For  folly  that  he  wisely  shows  is  fit ; 
But  wise  men,  folly-fall'n,  quite  taint  their  wit. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 

729 


Act  III,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Nigl 

Via.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 
Vio.  Et  vous  aussi ;  votre  serviteur. 
Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 
Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece  is  desirous 

you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her.  [my  voyage. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir;  I  mean,  she  is  the  list  of 
Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir ;  put  them  to  motion. 
Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than  I  understand 

what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste  my  legs. 
Sir  To.  I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter.  [prevented. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance.     But  we  are 
Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rain  odours 

on  you ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth's  a  rare  courtier :  '  Rain  odours  ; '  well. 
Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your  own  most 

pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 
Sir  And.  '  Odours,'  '  pregnant,'  and  '  vouchsafed  : '  I  '11  get  'em 

all  three  all  ready. 
OK-  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to  my  hearing. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Maria.]  Give  me  your 
Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service.  [hand,  sir. 
OH.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess. 
OK.  My  servant,  sir  !     'Twas  never  merry  world 

Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment : 

You  're  servant  to  the  Count  Orsino,  youth. 
Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours  : 

Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 
OK.  For  him,  I  think  not  on  him  :  for  his  thoughts, 

Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with  me ! 
Vio.  Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 

On  his  behalf. 
OIL  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you  ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 

But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 

I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that 

Than  music  from  the  spheres. 
Vio.  Dear  lady, — 

OK.  Give  me  leave,  beseech  you.     I  did  send, 

After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 

A  ring  in  chase  of  you  :  so  did  I  abuse 

Myself,  my  servant  and,  I  fear  me,  you  : 

Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 

730 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  i 

To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 

Which  you  knew  none  of  yours  :  what  might  you  think  ? 

Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake 

And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 

That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?     To  one  of  your  receiving 

Enough  is  shown  ;  a  cypress,  not  a  bosom, 

Hides  my  heart.     So,  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Via.  I  pity  you. 

OIL  That 's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grize  ;  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof, 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

OK.  Why,  then,  methinks  'tis  time  to  smile  again. 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 

To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf!  {Clock  strikes 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. 

Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you  : 

And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 

Your  wife  is  like  to  .reap  a  proper  man ; 

There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 
Vio.  Then  westward-ho ! 

Grace  and  good  disposition  attend  your  ladyship  ! 

You  '11  nothing  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 
OK.  Stay  : 

1  prithee,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 
Vio.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you  are. 
OK.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think  you  right :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 
OH.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 
'Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am  ? 

I  wish  it  might,  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 
OIL  O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 

In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 

A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 

Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is  noon. 

Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 

By  maidhood,  honour,  truth  and  every  thing, 

I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 

Nor  wit  nor  reason  can  my  passion  hide. 

Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 

For  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause ; 

But  rather  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter, 

Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 
Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 

I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom  and  one  truth, 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  Twelfth  Night 

And  that  no  woman  has ;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  .save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  :  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 
Oli.  Yet  come  again ;  for  thou  perhaps  mayst  move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

SCENE  II 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Sir  Tobyy  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I  '11  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.  Thy  reason,  dear  venom,  give  thy  reason. 

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

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favours  to  the 
count's  serving-man  than  ever  she  bestowed  upon  me ;  I 
saw  't  i'  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy?  .tell  me  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her  toward  you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me? 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths  of  judgement 
and  reason.  [was  a  sailor. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand-jurymen  since  before  Noah 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your  sight  only  to 
exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dormouse  valour,  to  put  fire 
in  your  heart,  and  brimstone  in  your  liver.  You  should 
then  have  accosted  her ;  and  with  some  excellent  jests,  fire- 
new  from  the  mint,  you  -should  have  banged  the  youth  into 
dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at  your  hand,  and  this  was 
balked :  the  double  gilt  of  this  opportunity  you  let  time 
wash  off,  and  you  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's 
opinion ;  where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's 
beard,  unless  you  do  ,redeem  it  by  some  laudable  attempt 
either  of  valour  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An 't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  valour ;  for  policy 
I  hate  :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brown ist  as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the  basis  of 
valour.  Challenge  me  the  count's  youth  to  fight  with  him  ; 
hurt  him  in  eleven  places  :  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it ; 
and  assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love-broker  in  the  world  can 
more  prevail  in  man's  commendation  with  woman  than 
report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge  to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst  and  brief;  it  is 

732 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent  and  full  of  invention  : 
taunt  him  with  the  license  of  ink  :  if  thOu  thou'st  him  some 
thrice,  it  shall  not  be  amiss ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in 
thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big  enough  for 
the  bed  of  Ware  in  England,  set  'em  down :  go,  about  it. 
Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink,  though  thou  write  with 
a  goose-pen,  no  matter  :  about  it. 

Sir  And.  Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  '11  call  thee  at  the  cubiculo  :  go. 

{Exit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad,  some  two  thousand 
strong,  or  so.  [deliver  't? 

fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare   letter  from  him  :   but  you  '11  -not 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me,  then  ;  and  by  all  means  stir  on  the 
youth  to  an  answer.  I  think  oxen  and  wainropes  cannot 
hale  them  together.  For  Andrew,  if  he  were  opened,  and 
you  find  so  much  blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of 
a  flea,  I  '11  eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his  visage  no  great 
presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine  comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh  yourselves  into 
stitches,  follow  me.  Yond  gull  Malvolio  is  turned  heathen, 
a  very  renegado  ;  for  there  is  no  Christian,  that  means  to  be 
saved  by  believing  rightly,  can  ever  believe  such  impossible 
passages  of  grossness.  He's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps  a  school  i' 
the  church.  I  have  dogged  him,  like  his  murderer.  He 
does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray 
him :  he  does  smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  is  in  the 
new  map  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies  :  you  have 
not  seen  such  a  thing  as  'tis.  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling 
things  at  him.  I  know  my  lady  will  strike  him :  if  she  do, 
he  '11  smile  and  tak  't  for  a  great  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

A  street. 

Enter  Sebastian  and  Antonio. 
Seb.  I  would  not  by  my  will  have  troubled  you ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

733 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  Twelfth 

Ant.  I  could  not  stay  behind  you  :  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth  ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage, 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts  ;  which  to  a  stranger, 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable  :  my  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Seb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make  but  thanks, 

And  thanks  ;  and  ever oft  good  turns 

Are  shuffled  off  with  such  uncurrent  pay : 
But,  were  my  worth  as  is  my  conscience  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     What 's  to  do  ? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-morrow,  sir  :  best  first  go  see  your  lodging. 

Seb.  I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night : 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials  and  the  things  of  fame 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  Would  you  'Id  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  count  his  galleys 
I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note  indeed, 
That  were  I  ta'en  here  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Seb.  Belike  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time  and  quarrel 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out ; 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir,  here 's  my  purse. 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge  :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time  and  feed  your  knowledge 
With  viewing  of  the  town  :  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.  Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.  Haply  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store. 

734 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 
Seb.  I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer  and  leave  you 

For  an  hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant. 

Seb.  I  do  remember.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV 
Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 
OH.  I  have  sent  after  him  :  he  says  he  '11  come ; 

How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  of  him  ? 

For  youth  is  bought  more  oft  than  begg'd  or  borrow'd 

I  speak  too  loud. 

Where  is  Malvolio  ?  he  is  sad  and  civil, 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes  : 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 
Mar.  He 's  coming,    madam ;   but   in  very   strange   manner. 

He  is,  sure,  possessed,  madam. 
OH.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 
Mar.  No,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile  :  your  ladyship 

were  best  to  have  some  guard  about  you,  if  he  come ;  for, 

sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in's  wits. 
Oil.  Go  call  him  hither.  \Exit  Maria.']     I  am  as  mad  as  he, 

If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. 

Re-enter  Maria,  with  Malvolio. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ! 
Mai.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho. , 
OIL  Smilest  thou  ? 

I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady  ?     I  could  be  sad  :  this  does  make  some  ob 
struction  in   the   blood,  this   cross-gartering ;  but   what   of 

that  ?  if  it  please  the  eye  of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true 

sonnet  is,  *  Please  one,  and  please  all.' 

Oli.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man?  what  is  the  matter  with  thee  ? 
Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in  my  legs.     It  did 

come  to  his  hands,  and   commands  shall  be   executed :  I 

think  we  do  know  the  sweet  Roman  hand. 
Oli.  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 
Mai.  To  bed  !  ay,  sweet-heart,  and  I  '11  come  to  thee. 
Oli.  God  comfort  thee  !     Why  dost  thou  smile  so  and  kiss  thy 

hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.  How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request !  yes  ;  nightingales  answer  daws. 
Mar.  Why   appear  you  with  this  ridiculous   boldness  before 

my  lady? 

735 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Twelfth  Night 

Mai.  '  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness  : '  'twas  well  writ. 

OH.  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  'Some  are  born  great,' — 

Oli.  Ha! 

Mai.  t  Some  achieve  greatness,' — 

Oli.  What  sayest  thou  ? 

Mai.   'And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them.' 

Oli.  Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.   '  Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings, '- 

OIL  Thy  yellow  stockings  ! 

Mai.  '  And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered.' 

OIL  Cross-gartered  ! 

Mai.  *  Go  to,  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so ; ' — 

OIL  Am  I  made  ? 

Mai.  '  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still.' 

OIL  Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness. 
Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  Count  Orsino's  is 
returned  :  I  could  hardly  entreat  him  back  :  he  attends  your 
ladyship's  pleasure. 

OIL  I  '11  come  to  him.  \Exit  Servant^  Good  Maria,  let  this 
fellow  be  looked  to.  Where 's  my  cousin  Toby  ?  Let  some 
of  my  people  have  a  special  care  of  him :  I  would  not  have 
him  miscarry  for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

\Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mai.  O,  ho  !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  no  worse  man  than  Sir 
Toby  to  look  to  me  !  This  concurs  directly  with  the  letter : 
she  sends  him  on  purpose,  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to 
him ;  for  she  incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  '  Cast  thy  humble 
slough/  says  she;  'be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with 
servants ;  let  thy  tongue  tang  with  arguments  of  state ;  put 
thyself  into  the  trick  of  singularity;'  and  consequently  sets 
down  the  manner  how;  as,  a  sad  face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a 
slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth. 
I  have  limed  her ;  but  it  is  Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me 
thankful !  And  when  she  went  away  now,  '  Let  this  fellow 
be  looked  to  : '  fellow !  not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree, 
but  fellow.  Why,  every  thing  adheres  together,  that  no 
dram  of  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle,  no 
incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance — What  can  be  said  ? 
Nothing  that  can  be  can  come  between  me  and  the  full 
prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this, 
and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-enter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  and  Fabian. 
Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity  ?     If  all  the 

736 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

devils  of  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and  Legion  himself  possessed 

him,  yet  I  '11  speak  to  him. 
Fab,  Here  he  is,  here  he  is.     How  is  't  with  you,  sir  ?  how  is 't 

with  you,  man  ? 

Mai.  Go  off ;  1  discard  you :  let  me  enjoy  my  private  :  go  off. 
Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him !  did  not  I 

tell  you?     Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays  you  to  have  a  care  of 
MaL  Ah,  ha  !  does  she  so  ?  [him. 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to ;  peace,  peace ;  we  must  deal  gently  with 

him ;  let  me  alone.     How  do  you,  Malvolio  ?  how  is  Jt  with 

you?     What,  man  !  defy  the  devil:  consider, he 's  an  enemy 

to  mankind. 

Mat.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 
Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how  he  takes  it  at 

heart !     Pray  God,  he  be  not  bewitched  ! 
Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 
Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow  morning,  if  I  live. 

My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for  more  than  I  '11  say. 
MaL  How  now,  mistress  ! 
Mar.  O  Lord ! 
Sir  To.  Prithee,  hold  thy  peace ;  this  is  not  the  way :  do  you 

not  see  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone  with  him. 
Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently  :  the  fiend  is  rough, 

and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  !  how  dost  thou,  chuck  ? 
MaL  Sir! 
Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.     What,  man !  'tis  not  for 

gravity   to   play  at   cherry-pit  with   Satan:  hang  him,  foul 

collier ! 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers,  good  Sir  Toby,  get  him  to 
MaL  My  prayers,  minx  !  [pray. 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  godliness. 
MaL  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle  shallow  things :  I 

am  not  of  your  element :  you  shall  know  more  hereafter. 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is 't  possible  ? 
Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I  could  condemn 

it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 
Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection  of  the  device, 

man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now,  lest  the  device  take  air  and  taint. 
Fab.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad  indeed. 
Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 
Sir-  To.  Come,  we  '11  have  him  in  a  dark  room  and  bound. 

My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that  he  's  mad  :  we  may  carry 

737  A  A 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Twelfth  Night 

it  thus,  for  our  pleasure  and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pas 
time,  tired  out  of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him  : 
at  which  time  we  will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar  and  crown 
thee  for  a  finder  of  madmen.  But  see,  but  see. 
Enter  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here  3s  the  challenge,  read  it :  I  warrant  there 's  vinegar 
and  pepper  in 't. 

Fab.  Is 't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And.  Ay,  is  st,  I  warrant  him  :  do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads]  Youth,  whatsoever  thou  art,  thou 
art  but  a  scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  [reads]  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy  mind,  why 
I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason  for  't. 

Fab.  A  good  note ;  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow  of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  [reads]  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my 
sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat ;  that 
is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for. 

Fab.  Very  brief,  and  to  exceeding  good  sense — less. 

Sir  To.  [reads]  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home ;  where  if  it  be 
thy  chance  to  kill  me, — 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  [reads]  Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a  villain. 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law  :  good. 

Sir  To.  [reads']  Fare  thee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy  upon  one 
of  our  souls  !  He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine ;  but  my  hope 
is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself.  Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest 
him,  and  thy  sworn  enemy,  ANDREW  AGUECHEEK.  If  this 
letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot :  I  '11  give 't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for 't :  he  is  now  in  some 
commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will  by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ;  scout  me  for  him  at  the  corner  of  the 
orchard  like  a  bum-baily  :  so  soon  as  ever  thou  seest  him, 
draw  ;  and,  as  thou  drawest,  swear  horrible  ;  for  it  comes  to 
pass  oft  that  a  terrible  oath,  with  a  swaggering  accent  sharply 
twanged  off,  gives  manhood  more  approbation  than  ever  proof 
itself  would  have  earned  him.  Away ! 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter  :  for  the  behaviour  of 
the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be  of  good  capacity 
and  breeding ;  his  employment  between  his  lord  and  my  niece 
confirms  no  less :  therefore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently 
ignorant,  will  breed  no  terror  in  the  youth :  he  will  find  it 
comes  from  a  clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his  challenge 

738 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  if 

by  word  of  mouth  ;  set  upon  Aguecheek  a  notable  report  of 
valour;  and  drive  the  gentleman,  as  I  know  his  youth  will 
aptly  receive  it,  into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of  his  rage,  skill, 
fury  and  impetuosity.  This  will  so  fright  them  both,  that 
they  will  kill  one  another  by  the  look,  like  cockatrices. 
Re-enter  Olivia,  with  Viola. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece :  give  them  way  till  he 
take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some  horrid  message  for 
a  challenge.  \Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Fabian,  and  Maria. 

OH.  I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  out : 
There 's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haviour  that  your  passion  bears 
Goes  on  my  master's  grief. 

OH.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  'tis  my  picture ; 
Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you  ; 
And  I  beseech  you  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I  '11  deny, 
That  honour  saved  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this  ; — your  true  love  for  my  master. 

Oli.  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you.  , 

Oli.  Well,  come  again  to-morrow  :  fare  thee  well : 
A  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee  to'tr  of  what 
nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done  him,  I  know  not ;  but 
thy  intercepter,  full  of  despite,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends 
thee  at  the  orchard-end  :  dismount  thy  tuck,  be  yare  in  thy 
preparation,  for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful  and  deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir ;  I  am  sure  no  man  hath  any  quarrel  to 
me  :  my  remembrance  is  very  free  and  clear  from  any  image 
of  offence  done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You  '11  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you :  therefore,  if  you 
hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake  you  to  your  guard ;  for 
your  opposite  hath  in  him  what  youth,  strength,  skill  and 
wrath  can  furnish  man  withal. 

Vio.  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unhatched  rapier  and  on 

739 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Twelfth  Night 

carpet  consideration ;  but  he  is  a  devil  in  private  brawl :  souls 
and  bodies  hath  he  divorced  three ;  and  his  incensement  at 
this  moment  is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none 
but  by  pangs  of  deaths  and  sepulchre.  Hob,  nob,  is  his 
word  ;  give  't  or  take  't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house  and  desire  some  conduct 
of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter.  I  have  heard  of  some  kind  of 
men  that  put  quarrels  purposely  on  others,  to  taste  their 
valour  :  belike  this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out  of  a  very 
competent  injury :  therefore,  get  you  on  and  give  him  his 
desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the  house,  unless  you  under 
take  that  with  me  which  with  as  much  safety  you  might 
answer  him :  therefore,  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked ; 
for  meddle  you  must,  that 's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron 
about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech  you,  do  me  this 
courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the  knight  what  my  offence  to 
him  is :  it  is  something  of  my  negligence*  nothing  of  my 
purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by  this  gentleman 
till  my  return.  [Exit. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you,  even  to  a  mortal 
arbitrement ;  but  nothing  of  the  circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read  him  by  his 
form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the  proof  of  his  valour. 
He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skilful,  bloody  and  fatal  opposite 
that  you  could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria. 
Will  you  walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your  peace  with 
him  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for 't :  I  am  one  that  had 
rather  go  with  sir  priest  than  sir  knight :  I  care  not  who 
knows  so  much  of  my  mettle.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby,  with  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he 's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not  seen  such  a 
firago.  I  had  a  pass  with  him,  rapier,  scabbard  and  all,  and 
he  gives  me  the  stuck  in  with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is 
inevitable ;  and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your 
feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  on.  They  say  he  has  been 
fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.  Pox  on 't,  I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified :  Fabian  can  scarce 
hold  him  yonder. 

740 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  III,  Sc.  iv 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't,  an  I  thought  he  had  been  valiant  and 
so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'Id  have  seen  him  damned  ere  I  'Id  have 
challenged  him.  Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I  ;11  give 
him  my  horse,  grey  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  make  the  motion :  stand  here,  make  a  good  show 
on 't :  this  shall  end  without  the  perdition  of  souls.     [Aside] 
Marry,  I  '11  ride  your  horse  as  well  as  I  ride  you. 
Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 

[To  Fab]  I  have  his  horse  to  take  up  the  quarrel :  I  have 
persuaded  him  the  youth  's  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him ;  and  pants  and  looks 
pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  [To  VioJ]  There's  no  remedy,  sir;  he  will  fight  with 
you  for 's  oath  sake  :  marry,  he  hath  better  bethought  him  of 
his  quarrel,  and  he  finds,  that  now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking 
of :  therefore  draw,  for  the  supportance  of  his  vow ;  he  protests 
he  will  not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  [aside]  Pray  God  defend  me  !  A  little  thing  would  make 
me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man. 

Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there 's  no  remedy  ;  the  gentleman 
will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have  one  bout  with  you ;  he  cannot 
by  the  duello  avoid  it :  but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a 
gentleman  and  a  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.  Come  on ;  to 't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath  ! 

Vio.  I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will.  [They  draw. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Put  up  your  sword.     If  this  young  gentleman 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me  : 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you. 

Sir  To.  You,  sir  !  why,  wnat  are  you  ? 

Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,  I  am  for  you.  \They  draw. 
Enter  Officers. 

Fab.  O  good  Sir  Toby,  hold  !  here  come  the  officers. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon. 

Vio.  Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword  up,  if  you  please. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ;  and,  for  that  I  promised  you,  I  '11 
be  as  good  as  my  word  :  he  will  bear  you  easily  and  reins  well. 

First  Off.  This  is  the  man  ;  do  thy  office. 

Sec.  Off.  Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit  of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

First  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favour  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head. 


Act  III,  Sc.  iv]  Twelfth  Night 

Take  him  away  :  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 
Ant.  I  must  obey.     [To  VioJ]  This  comes  with  seeking  you 

But  there 's  no  remedy ;  1  shall  answer  it. 

What  will  you  do,  now  my  necessity 

Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse  ?     It  grieves  me 

Much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you 

Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  amazed  ; 

But  be  of  comfort. 
Sec.  Off.  Come,  sir,  away. 
Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 
Vio.  What  money,  sir? 

For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here, 

And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble, 

Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 

I  '11  lend  you  something  :  my  having  is  not  much ; 

I  '11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 

Hold,  there 's  half  my  coffer. 
Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is  't  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 

Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 

Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man 

As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 

That  I  have  done  for  you. 
Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice  or  any  feature  : 

I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man 

Than  lying  vainness,  babbling  drunkenness, 

Or  any  taint  of  vice  whose  strong  corruption 

Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves  ! 

Sec.  Off.  Come,  sir,  I  pray  you,  go. 
Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you  see  here 

I  snatch'd  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  ; 

Relieved  him  with  such  sanctity  of  love  ; 

And  to  his  image,  which  methought  did  promise 

Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 
First  Off.  What 's  that  to  us  ?     The  time  goes  by :  away  ! 
Ant.  But  O  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god  ! 

Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. 

In  nature  there 's  no  blemish  but  the  mind  ; 

None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind  : 

Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous  evil 

Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil.  [sir. 

First  Off.  The  man  grows  mad  :  away  with  him  !  Come,  come, 
Ant.  Lead  me  on.  [Exit  with  Officers. 

742 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  IV,  Sc.  i 

Vio.  Methinks  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly, 

That  he  believes  himself :  so  do  not  I. 

Prove  true,  imagination,  O  prove  true, 

That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  ! 
Sir  To.  Come   hither,    knight ;    come   hither,   Fabian :    we  '11 

whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most  sage  saws. 
Vio.  He  named  Sebastian  :  I  my  brother  know 

Yet  living  in  my  glass  ;  even  such  and  so 

In  favour  was  my  brother,  and  he  went 

Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament, 

For  him  I  imitate  :  O,  if  it  prove, 

Tempests  are  kind  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love  !  {Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more  a  coward  than  a 

hare :  his  dishonesty  appears  in  leaving  his  friend  here  in 

necessity  and  denying  him ;    and    for  his  cowardship,  ask 
Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious  in  it.  [Fabian. 
Sir  And.  'Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again  and  beat  him. 
Sir  To.  Do  ;  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy  sword. 
Sir  And.  An  I  do  not, —  [Exit. 

Fab.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money  'twill  be  nothing  yet.     [Exeunt. 

• 

. 
ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

Before    Olivia's  house. 
Enter  Sebastian  and  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not  sent  for  you  ? 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow : 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'  faith  !  No,  I  do  not  know  you  ;  nor  I 
am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid  you  come  speak  with 
her ;  nor  your  name  is  not  Master  Cesario ;  nor  this  is  not 
my  nose  neither.  Nothing  that  is  so  is  so. 

Seb.  I  prithee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else  : 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly  !  he  has  heard  that  word  of  some  great 
man  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.  Vent  my  folly  !  I  am 
afraid  this  great  lubber,  the  world,  will  prove  a  cockney.  I 
prithee  now,  ungird  thy  strangeness  and  tell  me  what  I  shall 
vent  to  my  lady  :  shall  I  vent  to  her  that  thou  art  coming  ? 

Seb.  I  prithee,  foolish  Greek,  depart  from  me : 
There 's  money  for  thee :  if  you  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand.     These  wise  men 

743 


LIL.J 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

that  give  fools  money  get  themselves  a  good  report — after 

fourteen  years'  purchase. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian. 
Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there's  for  you. 
Seb.  Why,  there 's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there.  . 

Are  all  the  people  mad  ? 
Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger  o'er  the  house. 
Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight :  I  would  not  be  in  some 

of  your  coats  for  two  pence.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir ;  hold. 
Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone  :  I  '11  go  another  way  to  work  with 

him ;  I  '11  have  an  action  of  battery  against  him,  if  there  be 
.  any  law  in  Illyria :  though  I  struck  him  first,  yet  it's  no 
Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand.  [matter  for  that. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.     Come,  my  young 

soldier,  put  up  your  iron  :  you  are  well  fleshed ;  come  on. 
Seb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.     What  wouldst  thou  now?     If 

thou  darest  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 
Sir  To.  What,  what  ?  Nay,  then  I  must  have  an  ounce  or  two 

of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 

Enter  Olivia. 

OH.  Hold,  Toby ;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee,  hold  1 
Sir  To.  Madam  ! 
OIL  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Ungracious  wretch, 

Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 

Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach  Jd  I  out  of  my  sight ! 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario. 

Rudesby,  be  gone  ! 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby,  Sir  Andrew,  and  Fabian. 
I  prithee,  gentle  friend, 

Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 

In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent 

Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house  ; 

And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 

This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 

Mayst  smile  at  this  :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go  : 

Do  not  deny.     Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 

He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 
Seb.  What  relish  is  in  this  ?  how  runs  the  stream  ? 

Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream : 

Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep ; 

If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep  ! 
OH.  Nay,  come,  I  prithee :  would  thou  'Idst  be  ruled  by  me  ! 
Seb.  Madam,  I  will. 

Oli.  O,  say  so,  and  so  be !  [Exeunt. 

744 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  IV,  Sc.  ii 

SCENE  II 

Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  prithee,  put  on  this  gown  and  this  beard ;  make 
him  believe  that  thou  art  Sir  Topas  the  curate  :  do  it 
quickly  ;  I'll  call  Sir  Toby  the  whilst.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Well,  I  '11  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  myself  in 't ;  and 
I  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever  dissembled  in  such  a 
gown.  I  am  not  tall  enough  to  become  the  function  well, 
nor  lean  enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student ;  but  to  be 
said  an  honest  man  and  a  good  housekeeper  goes  as  fairly 
as  to  say  a  careful  man  and  a  great  scholar.  The  com 
petitors  enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  Parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby :  for,  as  the  old  hermit  of  Prague, 
that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily  said  to  a  niece  of 
King  Gorboduc,  *  That  that  is  is ; '  so  I,  being  master 
Parson,  am  master  Parson;  for,  what  is  '  that '  but  '  that/ 
and  '  is  '  but  '  is '  ? 

Sir  To.  To  him,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  ho,  I  say  !  peace  in  this  prison  ! 

Sir-  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ;  a  good  knave. 

Mai.  [within]  Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit  Malvolio  the 
lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go  to  my  lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou  this  man  ! 
talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  Parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged  :  good  Sir  Topas, 
do  not  think  I  am  mad  :  they  have  laid  me  here  in  hideous 
darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Satan  !  I  call  thee  by  the  most 
modest  terms ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle  ones  that  will 
use  the  devil  himself  with  courtesy  :  sayest  thou  that  house 
is  dark  ? 

Mai.  As  hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay  windows  transparent  as  barricadoes,  and 
the  clearstories  toward  the  south  north  are  as  lustrous  as 
ebony  ;  and  yet  complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas  :  I  say  to  you,  this  house  is 
dark. 

Clo.  Madman,    thou    errest  :    I    say,  there    is    no    darkness 

745  AA2 


Act  IV,  Sc.  ii]  Twelfth  Night 

but  ignorance ;  in  which  thou  art  more  puzzled  than   the 
Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance,  though  ignor 
ance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say,  there  was  never  man 
thus  abused.  I  am  no  more  mad  than  you  are :  make  the 
trial  of  it  in  any  constant  question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning  wild  fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply  inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo,  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve  his 
opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well.  Remain  thou  still  in  darkness  :  thou 
shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  ere  I  will  allow  of  thy 
wits ;  and  fear  to  kill  a  woodcock,  lest  thou  dispossess  the 
soul  of  thy  grandam.  Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas  ! 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas  1 

Clo.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters. 

Mar.  Thou  mightst  have  done  this  without  thy  beard  and 
gown  :  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me  word  how 
thou  findest  him :  I  would  we  were  well  rid  of  this  knavery. 
If  he  may  be  conveniently  delivered,  I  would  he  were ;  for 
I  am  now  so  far  in  offence  with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot 
pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come  by 
and  by  to  my  chamber.  [Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.  [Singing]  Hey,  Robin,  jolly  Robin, 

;i  oi  o.Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does. 

Mai.  Fool, — 

Clo.  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy. 

Mai.  Fool, — 

Clo.  Alas,  why  is  she  so  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  I  say, — 

Clo.  She  loves  another — Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well  at  my  hand, 
help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink  and  paper :  as  I  am  a  gentle 
man,  I  will  live  to  be  thankful  to  thee  for 't. 

Clo.  Master  Malvolio  ! 

Mai.  Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five  wits  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously  abused :  I 
am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art 

Clo.  But  as  well?  then  you  are  mad  indeed,  if  you  be  no 
better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied  me;  keep  me  in  darkness, 

746 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  IV,  Sc.  Hi 

send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all  they  can  to  face  me 
out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say ;  the  minister  is  here.    Malvolio, 
Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens  restore !  endeavour  thyself  to 
sleep,  and  leave  thy  vain  bibble  babble. 
Mai.  Sir  Topas, — 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow.    Who,  I,  sir? 
not  I,  sir.     God  be  wi'  you,  good  Sir  Topas.     Marry,  amen. 
I  will,  sir,  I  will. 
Mai.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say, — 
Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.     What  say  you,  sir?     I  am  shent  for 

speaking  to  you. 
Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light  and  some  paper :  I  tell 

thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 
Clo.  Well-a-day  that  you  were,  sir  ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am.     Good  fool,  some  ink,  paper  and 
light ;  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down  to  my  lady :  it  shall 
advantage  thee  more  than  ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 
Clo.  I  will  help  you  to 't.      But  tell  me  true,  are  you  not  mad 

indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 
Mai.  Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 
Clo.  Nay,  I  '11   ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I  see  his  brains. 

I  will  fetch  you  light  and  paper  and  ink. 
Mai.  Fool,  I  '11  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree  :  I  prithee, 

be  gone. 

Clo.  [Singing]      I  am  gone,  sir, 
And  anon,  sir, 
I'll  be  with  you  again, 
In  a  trice, 

Like  to  the  old  vice, 
Your  need  to  sustain; 
Who,  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries,  ah,  ha !  to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad; 
Adieu,  goodman  devil. 

TTT 

SCPNE    III 

Olivia's  garden. 
Enter  Sebastian. 

Seb.  This  is  the  air;  that  is  the  glorious  sun; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel  Jt  and  see 't ; 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where  's  Antonio,  then  ? 

747 


Act  v,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 

Yet  there  he  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit, 

That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 

His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service  ; 

For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 

That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 

Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 

So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse, 

That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes 

And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
•    To  any  other  trust  but  that  I  am  mad, 

Or  else  the  lady 's  mad  ;  yet,  if  'twere  so, 

She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  followers, 

Take  and  give  back  affairs  and  their  dispatch 

With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing 

As  I  perceive  she  does  :  there 's  something  in 't 

That  is  deceivable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Priest. 
OH.  Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine.     If  you  mean  well, 

Now  go  with  me  and  with  this  holy  man 

Into  the  chantry  by :  there,  before  him, 

And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof. 

Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith  ; 
.    That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 

May  live  at  peace.     He  shall  conceal  it 

Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note, 

What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 

According  to  my  birth.     What  do  you  say  ? 
Seb.  I  '11  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you ; 

And  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 
Oli.  Then  lead  the  way,  good  father ;  and  heavens  so  shine, 

That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  !  [Exeunt, 


ACT  V— SCENE  I 

Before  Olivia's  house. 

Enter  Clown  and  Fabian. 

Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 
Clo.  Good  Master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  request. 
Fab.  Any  thing. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

Fab.  This  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and   in   recompense   desire   my 
dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,   Curio,  and  Lords. 
Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  Lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

748 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  V,  So.  i 

Clo.  Ay,  sir  ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  how  dost  thou,  my  good  fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes  and  the  worse  for  my 
friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary  ;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me  and  make  an  ass  of  me;  now 
my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass  :  so  that  by  my  foes, 
sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowledge  of  myself;  and  by  my  friends 
I  am  abused :  so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,  if  your 
four  negatives  make  your  two  affirmatives,  why  then,  the 
worse  for  my  friends,  and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.  Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please  you  to  be  one  of 
my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  :  there 's  gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I  would  you  could 
make  it  another. 

Duke.  O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this  once,  and  let 
your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner,  to  be  a  double- 
dealer  :  there  's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play ;  and  the  old  saying 
is,  the  third  pays  for  all:  the  triplex,  sir,  is  a  good  tripping 
measure ;  or  the  bells  of  Saint  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in 
mind ;  one,  two,  three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at  this  throw : 
if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am  here  to  speak  with  her, 
and  bring  her  along  with  you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty 
further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty  till  I  come  again.  I  go, 
sir;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to  think  that  my  desire  of 
having  is  the  sin  of  covetousness :  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let 
your  bounty  take  a  nap,  I  will  awake  it  anon.n  [Exit. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  sp  t. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Officers.   ' 

.  Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught  and  bulk  unprizable ; 
With  which  such  scathful  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 

749 


Actv,  Sc.  i]  HiV/ Twelfth  Night 

That  very  envy  and  the  tongue  of  loss 

Cried  fame  and  honour  on  him.     What 
First  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 

That  took  the  Phoenix  and  her  fraught  from  Candy 

And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board, 

When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg : 

Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state, 

In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 
Vio.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir,  drew  on  my  side ; 

But  in  conclusion  put  strange  speech  upon  me  : 

I  know  not  what  'twas  but  distraction. 
Duke.  Notable  pirate  !  thou  salt-water  thief !    -(. 

What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 

Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody  and  so  dear, 

Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 
Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  me : 

Antonio  never  yet  was  thief  or  pirate, 

Though  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 

Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 

That  most  ingrateful  boy  there  by  your  side, 

From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 

Did  I  redeem ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was;://-   1    , 

His  life  I  gave  him  and  did  thereto  add 

My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 

All  his  in  dedication  ;  for  his  sake 

Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love,  to  ;  tn 

Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town ;  ;j  <ov/i  ,-.«r 

Drew  to  defend  him  when  he  was  beset : 

Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning, 

Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger, 

Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 

And  grew  a  twenty  years  removed  thing 

While  one  would  wink  ;  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 

Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 

Not  half  ari  hour  before. 
Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 
Ant.  To-day,  my  lord ;  and  for  three  months  before, 

No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy, 

Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 
Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 
Duke.  Here  comes  the  countess ;  now  heaven  walks  on  earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow ;  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness : 

Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 

75° 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

But  more  of  that  anon.     Take  him  aside. 
Oli.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have, 

Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? 

Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 
Vio.  Madam  ! 
Duke.  Gracious  Olivia, — 

Oli.  What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ?     Good  my  lord, — 
Vio.  My  lord  would  speak  ;  my  duty  hushes  me. 
Oli.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 

It  is  as  fatrand  fulsome  to  mine  ear 

As  howling  after  music. 
Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oli.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 
Duke.  What,  to  perverseness  ?  you  uncivil  lady, 

To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars  ••'>•'  ^'^ 

My  soul  the  faithfull'st  offerings  hath  breathed  out 

That  e'er  devotion  tender'd  !    What  shall  I  do  ? 
Oli.  Even  what.it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  become  him. 
Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 

Like  to  the  Egyptian  thief  at  point  of  death, 

Kill  what  I  love? — a  savage  jealousy 

That  sometime  savours  nobly.     But  hear  me  this:  -'^8"'" 

Since  you  to  non-regardance%cast  my  faith, 

And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument      »nn; 

That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour,  •''  •*>"''' 

Live  you  the  marble-breasted  tyrant  still  • 

But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love,1  uorft 

And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 

Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 

Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spitfe."'"o  oniHL)  J£f!'i 

Come,  boy,  with  me;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mischief: 

I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 

To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.       ">>  I  ,Inol  vJ/i 
Vio.  And  I,  most  jocund,  apt  and  willingly, 

To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 
Oli.  Where  goes  Cesario  ? 
Vio.  After  him  I  love 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 

More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife. 

If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above 

Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 
OH.  Ay  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguiled  ! 
Vio.  Who  does  beguile  you?  who  does  do  you  wrong? 
Oli.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself  ?  is  it  so  long  ? 

Call  forth  the  holy  father.  /;  '/  t>dj  y{  -.ui  Jud 


Uglll 


Actv,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

Duke.  Come,  away ! 

Oli.  Whither,  my  lord  ?     Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband! 

Oli.  Ay,  husband  :  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.  Her  husband,  sirrah  ! 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 

That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety : 

Fear  not,  Cesario  ;  take  thy  fortunes  up ; 

Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 

As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. 

Enter  Priest. 

O,  welcome,  father  1 

Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 

Here  to  unfold,  though  lately  we  intended 

To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 

Reveals  before  'tis  ripe,  what  thou  dost  know 

Hath  newly  pass'd  between  this  youth  and  me. 
•Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 

Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 

Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 

Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings ; 

And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 

SeaPd  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 

Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave 

I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 
Duke.  O  thou  dissembling  cub  !  what  wilt  thou  be 

When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ? 

Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 

That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 

Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet 
'     Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 
Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest — 
OIL  O,  do  not  swear  ! 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew. 
Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon  !     Send  one  presently 

to  Sir  Toby. 

Oli.  What's  the  matter? 
Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across  and  has  given  Sir  Toby 

a  bloody  coxcomb  too :  for  the  love  of  God,  your  help  !    I  had 

rather  than  forty  pound  I  were  at  home. 
Oli.  Who  has  done  this,  Sir  Andrew  ? 
Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario :  we  took  him  for 

a  coward,  but  he  Js  the  very  devil  incardinate. 

75* 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  'Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is  !     You  broke  my  head  for 

nothing;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set  on  to  do't  by  Sir 

Toby. 
Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     I  never  hurt  you  : 

You  drew  your  sword  upon  me  without  cause; 

But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 
Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have  hurt  me :  I 

think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody  coxcomb. 
Enter  Sir  Toby  and  Clown. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting ;  you  shall  hear  more :  but  if 

he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have  tickled  you  other 

gates  than  he  did. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  !  how  is  't  with  you  ? 
Sir  To.  That 's  all  one  :  has  hurt  me,  and  there 's  the  end  on  't. 

Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon,  sot  ? 
Clo.  O,  he 's  drunk,  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ;  his  eyes  were  set 

at  eight  i'  the  morning. 
Sir  To.  Then  he  's  a  rogue,  and  a  passy  measures  pavin :  I  hate 

a  drunken  rogue. 

OH.  Away  with  him  !     Who  hath  made  this  havoc  with  them  ? 
Sir  And.  I  '11  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because  we  '11  be  dressed 

together. 
Sir  To.  Will  you  help?  an  ass-head  and  a  coxcomb  and  a 

knave,  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull ! 
OIL  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd  to. 

[Exeunt  Clown,  Fabian,  Sir  Toby,  and  Sir  Andrew. 

Enter  Sebastian. 
Seb.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kinsman; 

But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 

I  must  have  done  no  less  with  wit  and  safety. 

You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by  that 

I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you  : 

Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 

We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 
Duke.  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two  persons, 

A  natural  perspective,  that  is  and  is  not ! 
Seb.  Antonio,  O  my  dear  Antonio  ! 

How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortured  me, 

Since  I  have  lost  thee  ! 
Ant.  Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.   How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself? 

An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 

Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian? 

753 


Act  v,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

OIL  Most  wonderful  1 

Seb.   Do  I  stand  there  ?     I  never  had  a  brother  ; 

Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 

Of  here  and  every  where.     I  had  a  sister, 

"Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devour'd. 

Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ? 

What  countryman  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  ? 
Via.  Of  Messaline  :  Sebastian  was  my  father  ; 

Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too, 

So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 

If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 

You  come  to  fright  us. 
Seb.  A  spirit  I  am  indeed ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad 

Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 

Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even,  I 

I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 

And  say  '  Thrice-welcome,  drowned  Viola ! ' 
Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 
Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 
Vio,  And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 

Had  number'd  thirteen  years. 
Seb.  O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 

He  finished  indeed  his  mortal  act 

That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 
Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both 

But  this  my  masculine  usurp'd  attire, 

Do  not  embrace  me  till  each  circumstance 

Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere  and  jump 

That  I  am  Viola  :  which  to  confirm, 

I  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 

Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds  ;  by  whose  gentle  help 

I  was  preserved  to  serve  this  noble  count. 

All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 

Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 
Seb.  [To  Olivia]  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook : 

But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 

You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ;  >Ju/-. 

Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived, 

You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 
Duke.  Be  not  amazed ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. 

If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 

I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck. 
\To  Viold\  Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times 

Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

754 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  Vi  Sc.  i 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear ; 

And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul 

As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 

That  severs  day  from  night. 
Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 
Vio.  The  captain  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore 

Hath  my  maid's  garments  :  he  upon  some  action 

Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio's  suit, 

A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 
OK.  He  shall  enlarge  him  :  fetch  Malvolio  hither  : 

And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 

They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he  's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  Clown  with  a  letter,  and  Fabian* 

A  most  extracting  frenzy  of  mine  own 

From  my  remembrance  clearly  -'banish'd  his. 

How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 
Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Belzebub  at  the  stave's  end  as 

well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do  :  has  here  writ  a  letter  to 

you  ;  I  should  have  given 't  you  to-day  morning,  but  as  a 

madman's  epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much  when 

they  are  delivered. 
Oli.  Open  't  and  read  it. 
Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified  when  the  fool  delivers  the 

madman.     \Reads\  By  the  Lord,  madam, — 
Oli.  How  now  !  art  thou  mad  ? 
Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness «    an  your  ladyship 

will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must  allow  Vox. 
OIL  Prithee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 
Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right  wits  is  to  read 

thus  :  therefore  perpend,  my  princess,  and  give  ear. 
Oli.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  Fabian. 

Fab.  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  wrong  me,  and  the  world  shall 

know  it :  though  you  have  put  me  into  darkness  and  given 

your  drunken  cousin  rule  over  me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of 

my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.     I  have  your  own  letter 

that  induced  me  to  the  semblance  I  put  on ;  with  the  which 

I  doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or  you  much  shame. 

Think  of  me  as  you  please.     I  leave  my  duty  a  little  un- 

thought  of,  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 

THE  MADLY-USED  MALVOLIO. 

Oli.  Did  he  write  this? 

Clo.  Ay,  madam. 

Duke.  This  savours  not  much  of  distraction. 

755 


Actv,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

Oil.  See  him  deliver'd,  Fabian ;  bring  him  hither.  \Exit  Fabian. 

My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 

To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 

One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on  't,  so  please  you, 

Here  at  my  house  and  at  my  proper  cost. 
Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your  offer. 

[To  Viola]  Your  master  quits  you ;  and  for  your  service  done 

So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex,  [him. 

So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 

And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long, 

Here  is  my  hand :  you  shall  from  this  time  be 

Your  master's  mistress.     .  T. 
Oli.  A  sister  1  you  are  she. 

Re-enter  Fabian,  with  Malvolio. 
Duke.  Is  this  the  madman  ? 
Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same. 

How  now,  Malvolio ! 
Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,  you  have.     Pray  you,  peruse  that  letter 

You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand : 

Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand  or  phrase , 

Or  say  'tis  not  your  seal,  not  your  invention  : 

You  can  say  none  of  this  :  well,  grant  it  then 

And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour, 

Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour, 

Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter'd  to  you, 

To  put  on  yellow  stockings  and  to  frown 

Upon  Sir  Toby  and  the  lighter  people ; 

And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 

Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 

Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 

And  made  the  most  notorious  geek  and  gull 

That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why. 
Oli.  Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 

Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character : 

But  out  of  question  'tis  Maria's  hand. 

And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 

First  told  me  thou  wast  mad ;  then  earnest  in  smiling, 

And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 

Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Prithee,  be  content : 

This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee ; 

,But  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 

Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 

756 


or,  What  You  Will  [Act  V,  Sc.  a 

Of  thine  own  cause. 
Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak, 

And  let  no  quarrel  nor  no  brawl  to  come 

Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 

Which  I  have  wonder'd  at.     In  hope  it  shall  not, 

Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 

Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 

Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 

We  had  conceived  against  him  :  Maria  writ 

The  letter  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance ; 

In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 

How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  follow'd 

May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge ; 

If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd 

That  have  on  both  sides  pass'd. 
OH.  Alas,  poor  fool,  how  have  they  baffled  thee  ! 
Clo.  Why,  '  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and 

some  have  greatness  thrown  upon  them/     I  was  one,  sir,  in 

this  interlude ;  one  Sir  Topas,  sir ;  but  that 's  all  one.     '  By 

the  Lord,   fool,  I   am  not   mad.'     But  do  you  remember? 

1  Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  ?  an  you 

smile  not,  he 's  gagged  : '  and  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings 

in  his  revenges. 

Mai.  I  '11  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you.  [Exit, 

OH.  He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 
Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace : 

He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet : 

When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents, 

A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 

Of  our  dear  souls.     Meantime,  sweet  sister, 

We  will  not  part  from  hence.     Cesario,  come  ; 

For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 

But  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 

Orsino's  mistress  and  his  fancy's  queen. 

[Exeunt  all,  except  Clown* 
Clo.  [Sings] 

When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 

With  hey,  ho,  &c. 
'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 

For  the  rain,  &c. 

757 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  Twelfth  Night 

But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  &c. 
By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 

For  the  rain,  &c. 

. 
But  when  I  came  unto  my  beds, 

With  hey,  ho,  &c. 
With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  heads, 

For  the  rain,  &c. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 

With  hey,  ho,  &c. 
But  that 's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 

And  we  '11  strive  to  please  you  every  day.       [ Exit. 


• 


. 
. 

• 

• 


758 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

LEONTES,  king  of  Sicilia.  AUTOLYCUS,  a  rogue. 

A  Mariner, 
A  Gaoler. 

HERMIONE,  queen  to  Leontes. 

PERDITA,  daughter  to  Leontes  and  Her- 


MAMILLIUS,  young  prince  of  Sicilia. 
CAILLO         \ 


CAMILLO, 


DION,  '  J 

POLIXENES,  king  of  Bohemia. 
FLORIZEL,  prince  of  Bohemia. 
ARCHIDAMUS,  a  Lord  of  Bohemia. 


nnone. 


PAULINA,  wife  to  Antigonus. 
EMILIA,  <*  lady  attending  on  H& 


i  ofBohi 

Old  Shepherd,  reputed  father  ofPerdita. 
Clown,  his  son.  UOKCAS,  ) 

Other  Lords  and  Gentlemen,  Ladies,  Officers,  and  Servants,  Shepheids,  and 

Shepherdesses. 

Time,  as  Chorus. 

SCENE  :  Partly  in  Sicilia,  and  partly  in  Bohemia, 


ACT  I— SCENE  I 
Antechamber  in  Leontes*  palace. 
Enter  Camillo  and  Archidamus. 

Arch.  If  you  shall  chance,  Camillo,  to  visit  Bohemia,  on  the 
like  occasion  whereon  my  services  are  now  on  foot,  you  shall 
see,  as  I  have  said,  great  difference  betwixt  our  Bohemia  and 
your  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  think,  this  coming  summer,  the  King  of  Sicilia  means 
to  pay  Bohemia  the  visitation  which  he  justly  owes  him. 

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shame  us  we  will  be 
justified  in  our  loves ;  for  indeed— 

Cam.  Beseech  you, — 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of  my  knowledge :  we 
cannot  with  such  magnificence — in  so  rare — I  know  not 
what  to  say.  We  will  give  you  sleepy  drinks,  that  your 
senses,  unintelligent  of  our  insufficience,  may,  though  they 
cannot  praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

Cam.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear  for  what 's  given  freely. 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  speak  as  my  understanding  instructs  me, 
and  as  mine  honesty  puts  it  to  utterance. 

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to  Bohemia.  They 
were  trained  together  in  their  childhoods ;  and  there  rooted 
betwixt  them  then  such  an  affection,  which  cannot  choose 
but  branch  now.  Since  their  more  mature  dignities  and 
royal  necessities  made  separation  of  their  society,  their 
encounters,  though  not  personal,  have  been  royally  attorneyed 
with  interchange  of  gifts,  letters,  loving  embassies  ;  that  they 
have  seemed  to  be  together,  though  absent ;  shook  hands,  as 
over  a  vast;  and  embraced,  as  it  were,  from  the  ends  of 
opposed  winds.  The  heavens  continue  their  loves  ! 

Arch.  I  think  there  is  not  in  the  world  either  malice  or  matter 

759 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

to  alter  it.     You  have  an  unspeakable  comfort  of  your  young 

prince  Mamillius  :  it  is  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest  promise 

that  ever  came  into  my  note. 
Cam.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  the  hopes  of  him  :  it  is  a 

gallant  child ;  one  that  indeed  physics  the  subject,  makes 

old  hearts  fresh  :  they  that  went  on  crutches  ere  he  was  born 

desire  yet  their  life  to  see  him  a  man. 
Arch.  Would  they  else  be  content  to  die  ? 
Cam.  Yes ;  if  there  were  no    other   excuse  why  they  should 

desire  to  live. 
Arch.  If  the  king  had  no  son,  they  would  desire  to  live  on 

crutches  till  he  had  one.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A  room  of  state  in  the  same. 
Enter  Leontes,  Hermione,  Mamilltus,  Polixenes,  Camilla, 

and  Attendants. 
Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  watery  star  hath  been 

The  shepherd's  note  since  we  have  left  our  throne 

Without  a  burthen  :  time  as  long  again 

Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks  ; 

And  yet  we  should,  for  perpetuity, 

Go  hence  in  debt :  and  therefore,  like  a  cipher, 

Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply 

With  one  *  We  thank  you,'  many  thousands  moe 

That  go  before  it. 
Leon.  Stay  your  thanks  a  while  ; 

And  pay  them  when  you  part. 
Pol.  Sir,  that 's  to-morrow. 

I  am  question'd  by  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance 

Or  breed  upon  our  absence  ;  that  may  blow 

No  sneaping  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say 

'  This  is  put  forth  too  truly : '  besides,  I  have  stay'd 

To  tire  your  royalty. 
Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother, 

Than  you  can  put  us  to 't. 
Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We  '11  part  the  time  between 's,  then  :  and  in  that  I  '11  no 

gainsaying. 
Pol.  Press  me  not,  beseech  you,  so. 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i'  the  world, 

So  soon  as  yours  could  win  me :  so  it  should  now, 

Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 

760 


The  Winter  s  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

'Twere  needful  I  denied  it.     My  affairs 

Do  even  drag  me  homeward  :  which  to  hinder 

Were  in  your  Ipve  a  whip  to  me ;  my  stay 

To  you  a  charge  and  trouble :  to  save  both, 

Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-tied  our  queen  ?  speak  you. 

Her.  I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace  until 

You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him  not  to  stay.     You,  sir, 

Charge  him  too  coldly.     Tell  him.  you  are  sure 

All  in  Bohemia 's  well ;  this  satisfaction 

The  by-gone  day  proclaimed  :  say  this  to  him, 

He 's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione. 

Her.  To  tell,  he  longs  to  see  his  son,  were  strong  : 

But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go ; 

But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay, 

We  '11  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. 

Yet  of  your  royal  presence  I  'II  adventure 

The  borrow  of  a  week.     When  at  Bohemia 

You  take  my  lord,  1 11  give  him  my  commission 

To  let  him  there  a  month  behind  the  gest 

Prefix'd  for 's  parting :  yet,  good  deed,  Leontes, 

I  love  thee  not  a  jar  o'  the  clock  behind 

What  lady  she  her  lord.     You  ;11  stay  ? 
Pol.  No,  madam. 

Her,  Nay,  but  you  will  ? 
Pol.  I  imy  not,  .verily. 

Her.  Verily  ! 

You  put  me  .off  with  limber  vows  ;  but  I, 

Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 

Should  yet  say  'Sir,  no  going.'.    Verily, 

You  shall  not  go  :  a  lady's  *  Verily '  's 

As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 

Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 

Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees 

When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How  say  you  ? 

My  prisoner  ?  or  nay  guest  ?  by  your  dread  *  Verily,' 

One  of  them  you  shall  be. 
Pol.  Your  guest,  then,  madam  : 

To  be  your  prisoner  should  import  offending ; 

Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit 

Than  you  to  punish. 
Her.  Not  your  gaoler,  then, 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I  '11  question  you 

Of  my  lord's  tricks  and  yours  when  you  were  boys  : 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

You  were  pretty  lordings  then  ? 
Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen, 

Two  lads  that  thought  there  was  no  more  behind, 

But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day, 

And  to  be  boy  eternal. 
Her.  Was  not  my  lord 

The  verier  wag  o'  the  two  ? 
Pol.  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs  that  did  frisk  i'  the  sun, 

And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other  :  what  we  changed 

Was  innocence  for  innocence  ;  we  knew  not 

The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  nor  dream'd 

That  any  did.     Had  we  pursued  that  life, 

And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 

With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answer'd  heaven 

Boldly  '  not  guilty  ; '  the  imposition  clear'd 

Hereditary  ours. 
Her.  By  this  we  gather 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 
Pol.  O  my  most  sacred  lady  ! 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  to's  :  for 

In  those  unfledged  days  was  my  wife  a  girl ; 

Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eyes 

Of  my  young  play-fellow. 
Her.  Grace  to  boot  1 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion,  lest  you  say 

Your  queen  and  I  are  devils  :  yet  go  on  ; 

The  offences  we  have  made  you  do  we  '11  answer, 

If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 

You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  slipp'd  not 

With  any  but  with  us. 
Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Her.  He  '11  stay,  my  lord. 
Leon.  At  my  request  he  would  not. 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  never  spokest 

To  better  purpose. 
Her.  Never? 

Leon.  Never,  but  once. 

Her.  What !  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when  was 't  before  ? 

I  prithee  tell  me ;  cram  's  with  praise,  and  make's 

As  fat  as  tame  things :  one  good  deed  dying  tongueless 

Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  upon  that. 

Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  you  may  ride 's 

With  one  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs  ere 

With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.     But  to  the  goal : 

My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  : 

762 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister, 
Or  I  mistake  you  :  O,  would  her  name  were  Grace  ! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  when  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have  Jt ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to  death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand, 
And  clap  thyself  my  love  :  then  didst  thou  utter 
* 1  am  yours  for  ever.' 

Her.  'Tis  Grace  indeed. 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice  : 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband  ;;nirL 
The  other  for  some  while  a  friend. 

Leon.  [Aside]  Too  hot,  too  hot ! 

To  mingle  friendship  far  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  :  my  heart  dances ; 
But  not  for  joy  ;  not  joy.     This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on,  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom, 
And  well  become  the  agent ;  't  may,  I  grant  ; 
But  to  be  paddling  palms  aad  pinching  fingers, 
As  now  they  are,  and  making  practised  smiles, 
As  in  a  looking-glass,  and  then  to  sigh,  as  'twere 
The  mort  o'  the  deer ;  O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows  !     Mamillius, 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? 

Mam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  T  fecks  ! 

Why,  that 's  my  bawcock.     What,  hast  smutch'd  thy  nose  ? 

They  say  it  is  a  copy  out  of  mine.     Come,  captain, 

We  must  be  neat ;  not  neat,  but  cleanly,  captain  : 

And  yet  the  steer,  the  heifer  and  the  calf 

Are  all  calPd  neat. — Still  virginalling 

Upon  his  palm  ! — How  now,  you  wanton  calf  1 

Art  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou  want'st  a  rough  pash  and  the  shoots  that  I  have, 
To  be  full  like  me :  yet  they  say  we  are 
Almost  as  like  as  eggs  ;  women  say  so, 
That  will  say  any  thing  :  but  were  they  false 
As  o'er-dyed  blacks,  as  wind,  as  waters,  false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn  'twixt  his  and  mine,  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me.     Come,  sir  page, 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin  eye  :  sweet  villain  1 

763 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  T; 

Most  dear'st !  my  collop  !     Can  thy  dam  ? — may 't  be  ? 

Affection  !  thy  intention  stabs  the  centre  : 

Thou  dost  make  possible  things  not  so  held, 

Communicatest  with  dreams  ; — how  can  this  be  ? — 

With  what 's  unreal  thou  coactive  art, 

And  fellow'st  nothing :  then  'tis  very  credent 

Thou  mayst  co-join  with  something  ;  and  thou  dost, 

And  that  beyond  commission,  and  I  find  it, 

And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains 

And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

Her.  He  something  seems  unsettled. 

Pol.  How,  my  lord  ! 

What  cheer  ?  how  is  't  with  you,  best  brother  ? 

Her.  You  look 

As  if  you  held  a  brow  of  much  distraction : 
Are  you  moved,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  No,  in  good  earnest 

How  sometimes  nature  will  betray  its  folly, 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms  !     Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,  methoughts  I  did  recoil 
Twenty-three  years,  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd, 
In  my  green  velvet  coat,  my  dagger  muzzled 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove, 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous : 
How  like,  methought,  I  then  was  to  this  kernel, 
This  squash,  this  gentleman.     Mine  honest  friend, 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ? 

Mam.  No,  my  lord,  I  '11  fight. 

Leon.  You  will !  why,  happy  man  be's  dole  !     My  brother, 
Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  prince,  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  If  at  home,  sir, 

He 's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier,  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December ; 
And  with  his  varying  childness  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

Officed  with  me  :  we  two  will  walk,  my  lord, 
And  leave  you  to  your  graver  steps.     Hermione, 
How  thou  lovest  us,  show  in  our  brother's  welcome ; 
Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily  be  cheap  : 

764 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc.ii 

Next  to  thyself  and  my  young  rover,  he  's 
Apparent  to  my  heart. 

Her.  If  you  would  seek  us, 

We  are  yours  i'  the  garden :  shall 's  attend  you  there  ? 

Leon.  To  your  own  bents  dispose  you :  you  '11  be  found, 
Be  you  beneath  the  sky.     [Aside]  I  am  angling  how, 
Though  you  perceive  me  not  how  I  give  line. 
Go  to,  go  to  ! 

How  she  holds  up  the  neb,  the  bill  to  him  ! 
And  arms  her  with  the  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing  husband  ! 

[Exeunt  Polixenes,  Hermione,  and  Attendants. 

Gone  already  1 

Inch-thick,  knee-deep,  o'er  head  and  ears  a  fork'd  one ! 
Go,  play,  boy,  play :  thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too  ;  but  so  disgraced  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave :  contempt  and  clamour 
Will  be  my  knell.     Go,  play,  boy,  play.     There  have  been, 
Or  I  am  much  deceived,  cuckolds  ere  now ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present, 
Now,  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wife  by  the  arm, 
That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluiced  in 's  absence 
And  his  pond  fish'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 
Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour  :  nay,  there  's  comfort  in  't, 
Whiles  other  men  have  gates  and  those  gates  open'd, 
As  mine,  against  their  will.     Should  all  despair 
That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
Would  hang  themselves.     Physic  for  't  there  is  none ; 
It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike 
Where  'tis  predominant ;  and  'tis  powerful,  think  it, 
From  east,  west,  north  and  south :  be  it  concluded, 
No  barricade  for  a  belly ;  know  Jt ; 
It  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy 
With  bag  and  baggage  :  many  thousand  on  's 
Have  the  disease,  and  feel 't  not.     How  now,  boy  ! 

Mam.  I  am  like  you,  they  say. 

Leon.  Why,  that 's  some  comfort 

What,  Camillo  there  ? 

Cam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  Go  play,  Mamillius ;  thou  'rt  an  honest  man. 

\Exit  Mamillius, 
Camillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

Cam.  You  had  much  ado  to  make  his  anchor  hold  : 
When  you  cast  out,  it  still  came  home. 

Leon.  Didst  note  it  ? 

765 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Cam.  He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions  ;  made 

His  business  more  material. 
Leon.  Didst  perceive  it  ? 

\Aside\  They  're  here  with  me  already ;  whispering,  rounding 

'  Sicilia  is  a  so-forth  : '  'tis  far  gone, 

When  I  shall  gust  it  last. — How  came 't,  Camillo, 

That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.  At  the  queen's  be  't :  '  good  '  should  be  pertinent ; 

But,  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 

By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine  ? 

For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 

More  than  the  common  blocks :  not  noted,  is  \ 

But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals 

Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes 

Perchance  are  to  this  business  purblind  ?  say. 
Cam.  Business,  my  lord  !     I  think  most  understand 

Bohemia  stays  here  longer. 
Leon.  Ha ! 

Cam.  Stays  here  longer. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why  ? 
Cam.  To  satisfy  your  highness,  and  the  entreaties 

Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 
Leon.  Satisfy ! 

The  entreaties  of  your  mistress  !  satisfy  I 

Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 

With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 

My  chamber-councils ;  wherein,  priest-like,  thou 

Hast  cleansed  my  bosom,  I  from  thee  departed 

Thy  penitent  reform 'd  :  but  we  have  been 

Deceived  in  thy  integrity,  deceived 

In  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon 't,  thou  art  not  honest ;  or, 

If  thou  i.nclinest  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward, 

Which  hoxes  honesty  behind,  restraining 

From  course  required  ;  or  else  thou  must  be  counted 

A  servant  grafted  in  my  serious  trust 

And  therein  negligent ;  or  else  a  fool 

That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake  drawn, 

And  takest  it  all  for  jest. 
Cam.  My  gracious  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish  and  fearful ; 

In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free, 

But  that  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear, 

766 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc,  ii 

Among  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world, 

Sometime  puts  forth.     In  your  affairs,  my  lord, 

If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent, 

It  was  my  folly  j  if  industriously 

I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence, 

Not  weighing  well  the  end  ;  if  ever  fearful 

To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted, 

Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 

Against  the  non-performance,  'twas  a  fear 

Which  oft  infects  the  wisest :  these,  my  lord, 

Are  such  allow'd  infirmities  that  honesty 

Is  never  free  of.     But,  beseech  your  Grace, 

Be  plainer  with  me  ;  let  me  know  my  trespass 

By  its  own  visage :  if  I  then  deny  it, 

Tis  none  of  mine. 
Leon.  Ha'  not  you  seen,  Camillo, — 

But  that 's  past  doubt,  you  have,  or  your  eye-glass 

Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn, — or  heard, — 

For  to  a  vision  so  apparent  rumour 

Cannot  be  mute, — or  thought, — for  cogitation 

Resides  not  in  that  man  that  does  not  think,-— 

My  wife  is  slippery  ?     If  thou  wilt  confess, 

Or  else  be  impudently  negative, 

To  have  nor  eyes  nor  ears  nor  thought,  then  say 

My  wife 's  a  hobby-horse  ;  deserves  a  name 

As  rank  as  any  flax-wench  that  puts  to 

Before  her  troth-plight :  say  Jt  and  justify  't 
Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by  to  hear 

My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 

My  present  vengeance  taken  :  'shrew  my  heart, 

You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 

Than  this  ;  which  to  reiterate  were  sin 

As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 
Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing  ? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek  ?  is  meeting  noses  ? 

Kissing  with  inside  lip  ?  stopping  the  career 

Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ? — a  note  infallible 

Of  breaking  honesty ; — horsing  foot  on-  foot  ? 

Skulking  in  corners  ?  wishing  clocks  more  swift  ? 

Hours,  minutes  ?  noon,  midnight  ?  and  all  eyes 

Blind  with  the  pin  and  web  but  theirs,  theirs  only, 

That  would  unseen  be  wicked  ?  is  this  nothing  ? 

Why,  then  the  world  and  all  that 's  in  Jt  is  nothing ; 

The  covering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing  ; 

My  wife  is  nothing ;  nor  nothing  have  these  nothings, 

767 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

If  this  be  nothing. 
Cam.  Good  my  lord,  be  cured 

Of  this  diseased  opinion,  and  betimes ; 

For  'tis  most  dangerous. 
Leon.  Say  it  be,  'tis  true. 

Cam.  No,  no,  my  lord. 
Leon.  It  is  ;  you  lie,  you  lie  : 

I  say  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  1  hate  thee, 

Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lout,  a  mindless  slave, 

Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 

Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  see  good  and  evil, 

Inclining  to  them  both :  were  my  wife's  liver 

Infected  as  her  life,  she  would  not  live 

The  running  of  one  glass. 

Cam.  Who  does  infect  her  ? 

Leon.  Why,  he  that  wears  her  like  her  medal,  hanging 

About  his  neck,  Bohemia :  who,  if  I 

Had  servants  true  about  me,  that  bare  eyes 

To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profits, 

Their  own  particular  thrifts,  they  would  do  that 

Which  should  undo  more  doing :  ay,  and  thou, 

His  cupbearer,— whom  I  from  meaner  form 

Have  bench'd  and  rear'd  to  worship,  who  mayst  see 

Plainly  as  heaven  sees  earth  and  earth  sees  heaven, 

How  I  am  gall'd, — mightst  bespice  a  cup, 

To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink ; 

Which  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 
Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

I  could  do  this,  and  that  with  no  rash  potion, 

But  with  a  lingering  dram,  that  should  not  work 

Maliciously  like  poison  :  but  I  cannot 

Believe  this  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress, 

So  sovereignly  being  honourable. 

I  have  loved  thee, — 
Leon.  Make  that  thy  question,  and  go  rot ! 

Dost  think  I  am  so  muddy,  so  unsettled, 

To  appoint  myself  in  this  vexation  ;  sully 

The  purity  and  whiteness  of  my  sheets, 

Which  to  preserve  is  sleep,  which  being  spotted 

Is  goads,  thorns,  nettles,  tails  of  wasps ; 

Give  scandal  to  the  blood  o'  the  prince  my  son, 

Who  I  do  think  is  mine  and  love  as  mine, 

Without  ripe  moving  to  }t  ?    Would  I  do  this  ? 

Could  man  so  blench  ? 

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir : 

768 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

I  do ;  and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for 't ; 

Provided  that,  when  he  's  removed,  your: highness 

Will  take  again  your  queen  as  yours  at  first, 

Even  for  your  son's  sake ;  and  thereby  for  sealing 

The  injury  of  tongues  in  courts  and  kingdoms 

Known  and  allied  to  yours. 
Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down  : 

I  '11  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 
Cam.  My  lord, 

Go  then ;  and  with  a  countenance  as  clear 

As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia 

And  with  your  queen.     I  am  his  cupbearer : 

If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage, 

Account  me  not  your  servant. 
Leon.  This  is  all : 

Do  't,  and  thou  hast  the  one  half  of  my  heart ; 

Do 't  not,  thou  splitt'st  thine  own. 

Cam.  I  '11  do't,  my  lord,  .^B!/ 

Leon.  I  will  seem  friendly,  as  thou  hast  advised  me.  [Exit. 

Cam.  O  miserable  lady !     But,  for, me, 

What  case  stand  I  in  ?     I  must  be  the  poisoner 

Of  good  Polixenes:  and  my  ground  to  do 't 

Is  the  obedience  to  a  master,  one 

Who,  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 

All  that  are  his  so  too.     To  do  this  deed, 

Promotion  follows.     If  I  could  find  example 

Of  thousands  that  had  struck  anointed  kings  •  •.  n\ 

And  flourish'd  after,  I  'Id  not  do't;  but  since 

Nor  brass  nor  stone  nor  parchment  bears  not  one, 

Let  villany  itself  forswear 't.     I  must 

Forsake  the  court :  to  do  't,  or  no,  is  certain 

To  me  a  break-neck.     Happy  star  reign  now ! 

Here  comes  Bohemia. 

Re-enter  Polixenes. 
Pol.  •     This  is  strange  :  methinks 

My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.     Not  speak  ? 

Good  day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'  the  court  ? 
Cam.  None  rare,  my  lord. 

Pol.  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenance 

As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 

Loved  as  he  loves  himself :  even  now  I  met  him 

With  customary  compliment ;  when  he, 

769  B  B 


Act  I,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  T; 

Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me  and 
So  leaves  me,  to  consider  what  is  breeding 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.  I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  How  !  dare  not !  do  not.     Do  you  know,  and  dare  not  ? 
Be  intelligent  to  me  :  'tis  thereabouts  ; 
For,  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know,  you  must, 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.     Good  Camillo, 
Your  changed  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror 
Which  shows  me  mine  changed  too ;  for  I  must  be 
A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  't.  •;  ms  I 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper ;  but          -m  inu 
I  cannot  name  the  disease ;  and  it  is  caught 
Of  you  that  yet  are  well. 

Pol.  How  !  caught  of  me  ! 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk : 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands,  who  have  sped  the  bettef 
By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo,— • 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman;  fheirdt&   ete  3;^ 
Clerk-like  experienced,  which  no  less  adorns  Hoi  boog  }O 
Our  gentry  than  our  parents'  noble  names, 
In  whose  success  we  are  gentle, — I  beseech  you, 
If  you  know  aught  which 'does  behove  my  knowledge 
Thereof  to  be  mform'd,  imprison 't  not  Jomot' 

In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well  1  ->ind  K 

I  must  be  answer'd.     Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo  ? 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man 
Which  honour  does  acknowledge,  whereof  the  least 
Is  not  this  suit  of  mine,  that  thou  declare 
What  incidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
Is  creeping  toward  me  ;  how  far  off,  how  near  : 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be; 
If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you  ; 

Since  I  am  charged  in  honour  and  by  him 
That  I  think  honourable :  therefore  mark  my  counsel, 
Which  must  be  ev'n  as  swiftly  follow'd  as 
I  mean  to  utter  it,  or  both  yourself  and  me 
Cry  lost,  and  so  good  night ! 

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

770 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  I,  Sc.  ii 

Cam.  I  am  appointed  him  to  murder  you. 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol  For  what  ? 

Cam.  He  thinks,  nay,  with  all  confidence  he  swears, 

As  he  had  seen 't,  or  been  an  instrument 

To  vice  you  to  't,  that  you  have  touch'd  his  queen 

Forbiddenly. 
Pol.  O  then,  my  best  blood  turn 

To  an  infected  jelly,  and  my  name 

Be  yoked  with  his  that  did  betray  the  Best  1 

Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 

A  savour  that  may  strike  the  dullest  nostril 

Where  I  arrive,  and  my  approach  be  shunn'd, 

Nay,  hated  too,  worse  than  the  great'st  infection 

That  e'er  was  heard  or  read  1 
Cam.  Swear  his  thought  over 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven  and 

By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well 

Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon, 

As  or  by  oath  remove  or  counsel  shake 

The  fabric  of  his  folly,  whose  foundation 

Is  piled  upon  his  faith,  and  will  continue 

The  standing  of  his  body. 

Pol  How  should  this  grow? 

Cam.  I  know  not :  but  I  am  sure  'tis  safer  to 

Avoid  what 's  grown  than  question  how  'tis  born. 

If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty, 

That  lies  enclosed  in  this  trunk  which  you 

Shall  bear  along  impawn'd,  away  to-night ! 

Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business ; 

And  will  by  twos  and  threes  at  several  posterns, 

Clear  them  o'  the  city.     For  myself,  I  '11  put 

My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 

By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain ; 

For,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 

Have  utter'd  truth  :  which  if  you  seek  to  prove, 

I  dare  not  stand  by ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 

That  one  condemn'd  by  the  king's  own  mouth,  thereon 

His  execution  sworn. 
Pol  I  do  believe  thee  : 

I  saw  his  heart  in  's  face.     Give  me  thy  hand : 

Be  pilot  to  me  and  thy  places  shall 

Still  neighbour  mine.     My  ships  are  ready,  and 

My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 

77* 


Act  II,  Sc.  i  ]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Two  days  ago.     This  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she  's  rare, 
Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person  's  mighty, 
Must  it  be  violent ;  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter.     Fear  o'ershades  me 
Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 
The  gracious  queen,  part  of  his  theme,  but  nothing 
Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion  !     Come,  Camillo  ; 
I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father  if 
Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence  :  let  us  avoid. 
Cam.  It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 

The  keys  of  all  the  posterns  :  please  your  highness 
To  take  the  urgent  hour.     Come,  sir,  away.  \Exeunt. 

• 


ACT  II— SCENE  I 
A  room  in  Leontes'  palace. 
Enter  Hermione,  Mamillius,  and  Ladies. 
Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you ;  he  so  troubles  me, 

'Tis  past  enduring. 
First  Lady.  Come,  my  gracious  lord, 

Shall  I  be  your  playfellow  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  '11  none  of  you. 

First  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 
Mam.  You  '11  kiss  me  hard,  and  speak  to  me  as  if 

I  were  a  baby  still.     I  love  you  better. 
Sec.  Lady.  And  why  so,  my  lord  ? 
Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker;  yet. black  brows,  they  say, 

Become  some  women  best,  so  that  there  be  not 

Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semicircle, 

Or  a  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

Sec.  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this  ? 

Mam.  I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces.     Pray  now 

What  colour  are  your  eyebrows  ? 
First  Lady.  Blue,  my  lord. 

Mam.  Nay,  that 's  a  mock  :  I  have  seen  a  lady's  nose 

That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eyebrows. 
First  Lady.  Hark  ye ; 

The  queen  your  mother  rounds  apace  :  we  shall 

Present  our  services  to  a  fine  new  prince 

One  of  these  days  ;  and  then  you  'Id  wanton  with  us, 

If  we  would  have  you. 

772 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Sec.  Lady.  She  is  spread  of  late 

Into  a  goodly  bulk  :  good  time  encounter  her  ! 

Her.  What  wisdom  stirs  amongst  you?     Come,  sir,  ,now 
I  am  for  you  again  :  pray  you,  sit  by  us, 
And  tell 's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry  or  sad  shall 't  be  ?  : 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale 's  best  for  winter  :  I  have  one 
Of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  .      Let's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Come  on,  sit  down :  come  on,  and  do  your  best 
To  fright  me  with  your  sprites ;  you  're  powerful  at  it. 

Mam.  There  was  a  man — 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down ;  then  on. 

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  churchyard  :  I  will  tell  it  softly; 
Yond  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on,  then, 

And  give 't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Enter  Leontes,  with  Antigonus,  Lords^  and  others. 

Leon.  Was  he  met  there  ?  his  train  ?  Camillo  with  him  ? 

First  Lord.  Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them  ;  never 
Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way :  I  eyed  them 
Even  to  their  ships. 

Leon.  How  blest  am  I 

In  my  just  censure,  in  my  true  opinion ! 
Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge !  how  accursed 
In  being  so  blest !     There  may  be  in  the  cup 
A  spider  steep'd,  and  one  may  drink,  depart, 
And  yet  partake  no  venom ;  for  ^his  knowledge 
Is  not  infected  :  but  if  one  present 
The  abhorr'd  ingredient  to  his  eye,  make  known 
How  he  hath  drunk,  he  cracks  his  gorge,  his  sides, 
With  violent  hefts.     I  have  drunk,  and  seen  the  spider. 
Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pandar  : 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown  ; 
All 's  true  that  is  mistrusted  :  that  false  villain 
Whom  I  employ Jd  was  pre-employ'd  by  him  i 
He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 
Remain  a  pinch'd  thing  ;  yea,  a  very  trick 
For  them  to  play  at  will.     How  came  the  posterns 
So  easily  open  ? 

First  Lord.  By  his  great  authority  ; 

Which  often  hath  no  less  prevailed  than  so 
On  your  command. 

Leon  I  know 't  too  well. 

773 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Give  me  the  boy  :  I  am  glad  you  did  not  nurse  him : 

Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 

Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this?  sport? 

Leon.  Bear  the  boy  hence ;  he  shall  not  come  about  her  ; 

Away  with  him  !  and  let  her  sport  herself 

With  that  she 's  big  with ;  for  'tis  Polixenes 

Has  made  the  swell  thus. 
Her.  But  I  'Id  say  he  had  not, 

And  I  '11  be  sworn  you  would  believe  my  saying, 

Howe  'er  ybu  lean  to  the  nayward. 
Leon.     ••  You,  my  lords, 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 

To  say  *  she  is  a  goodly  lady,'  and 

The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add 

1  'Tis  pity  she 's  not  honest,  honourable  : ' 

Praise  her  but  for  this  her  without-door  form, 

Which  on  my  faith  deserves  high  speech,  and  straight 

The  shrug,  the  hum  or  ha,  these  pretty  brands 

That  calumny  doth  use  ;  O,  I  am  out, 

That  mercy  does,  for  calumny  will  sear 

Virtue  itself :  these  shrugs,  these  hums  and  ha's, 

When  you  have  said  ' she's  goodly,' come  between 

Ere  you  can  say  '  she  's  honest : '  but  be 't  known, 

From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should  be, 

She 's  an  adulteress. 
Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so, 

The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world, 

He  were  as  much  more  villain  :  you,  my  lord, 

Do  but  mistake. 
Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

Polixenes  for  Leontes  :  O  thou  thing  ! 

Which  I  '11  not  caH  a  creature  of  thy  place, 

Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent, 

Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees, 

And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 

Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar :  I  have  said 

She 's  an  adulteress  ;  I  have  said  with  whom  : 

More,  she 's  a  traitor  and  Camillo  is 

A  federary  with  her  ;  and  one  that  knows, 

What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself 

But  with  her  most  vile  principal,  that  she  's 

A  bed-swerver,  even  as  bad  as  those 

That  vulgars  give  bold'st  titles ;  ay,  and  privy 

To  this  their  late  escape. 

774 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  i 

Her.  No,  by  my  life, 

Privy  to  none  of  this.     How  will  this  grieve  yottyn  djybo 

When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,; that 

You  thus  have  publish'd  me  \    Gentle  my  lord, 

You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then  to  say  •  t\£- 

You  did  mistake. 
Leon.  No ;  if  I  mistake  UaH 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon, 

The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 

A  school-boy's  top.     Away  with  her,  to  prison  !       'is  uoY 

He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  off  guilty--  ^ 

But  that  he  speaks. 
Her.  There 's  som6  ill  planet  reigns : 

I  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  lobtoriJ  bat  brio 

With  an  aspect  more -favourable.     Good  my  lords, 

I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 

Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew  >  oT 

Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities  :  but  I  have  si  Ufid  I  bnA 

That  honourable  grief  lodged  here  which  bums'on  bfuofI2 

Worse  than  tears  drown  :  beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 

With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 

Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me;  and 'so 

The  king's  will  be  perform'd ! 
Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard  ? 

Her.  Who  is  't  that  goes  with  me  ?     Beseech  your  highness, 

My  women  may  be  with  me  ;  for  you  see 

My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools  ; 

There  is  no  cause  :  when  you  shall  know  your -otistresS 

Has  deserved  prison,  then  abound  in  tears 

As  I  come  out :  this  action  I  now  go  on 

Is  for  my  better  grace.     Adieu,  my  lord  : 

I  never  wish'd  to  see  you  sorry  ;  now 

I  trust  I  shall.     My  women^  come  ;  you  have  leave. 
Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding  ;  hence  ! 

\jExit  Queen,  guarded ;  with  Ladies 
First  Lord.  Beseech  your  highness,  call  the  queen  again. 
Ant.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir,  lest  your  justice 

Prove  violence ;  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer, 

Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 
First  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord,jt  *  ' 

I  dare  my  life  lay  down  and  will  do  't,  sir, 

Please  you  to  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 

I'  the  eyes  of  heaven  and  to  you ;  I  mean, 

In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 
Ant.  Kit  prove  .       '/Ii:    Ui! 

775 


Act  II,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Tale 

She  's  otherwise,  I  '11  keep  my  .stables  where 

I  lodge  my  wife ;  I  '11  go  in  couples  with  her  ; 

Than  when  I  feel  and  see  her  no  farther  trust  her ; 

For  every  inch. of  woman  in  the  world, 

Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh  is  false, 

If  she  be. 

Leon.  Hold  your  peaces. 

First  Lord.  Good  my  lord,— 

Ant.  It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves  : 

You  are  abused,  and  by  some  putter-on 

That  will  be  damn'd  for 't ;  would  I  knew  the  villain, 

I  would  land-damn  him.     Be  she  honour-flaw'd, 

I  have  three  daughters  ;  the  eldest  is  eleven ; 

The  second  and  the  third,  nine,  and  some  five ; 

If  this  prove  true,  they  '11  pay  for 't :  by  mine  honour, 

I  '11  geld  'em  all ;  fourteen  they  shall  not  see, 

To  bring  false  generations  :  they  are  co-heirs  ; 

And  I  had  rather  glib  myself  than  they 

Should  not  produce  fair  issue. 
Leon.  Cease  ;  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 

As  is  a  dead  mail's  nose  :  but  I  do  see 't  and  feel 't, 

As  you  feel  doing  thus  ;  and  see  withal 

The  instruments  that  feel. 
Ant.  If  it  be  so, 

We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty  : 

There 's  not  a  grain  of  it  the  face  to  sweeten 

Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What  !  lack  I  credit  ? 

First  Lord.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack  than  I,  my  lord, 

Upon  this  ground ;  and  more  it  would  content  me 

To  have  her  honour  true  than  your  suspicion, 

Be  blamed  for 't  how  you  might. 
Leon.  Why,  what, need  we 

Commune  with  you  of  this,  but  rather  follow 

Our  forceful  instigation  ?     Our  prerogative 

Calls  not  your  counsels,  but  our  natural  goodness 

Imparts  this ;  which  if  you,  or  stupified 

Or  seeming  so  in  skill,  cannot  or  will  not 

Relish  a  truth  like  us,  inform  yourselves 

We  need  no  more  of  your,  advice  :  the  matter, 

The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ordering  on 't,  is  all 

Properly  ours. 
Ant.  And  I  wish,  my  liege, 

You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgement  tried  it, 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  ii 

Without  more  overture. 
Leon.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age, 

Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight, 

Added  to  their  familiarity, 

Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture, 

That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation 

But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances 

Made  up  to  the  deed> — doth  push  on  this  proceeding : 

Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 

For  in  an  act  of  this  importance  'twere 

Most  piteous  to  be  wild,  I  have  dispatch'd  in  post 

To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 

Cleomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 

Of  stuff 'd  sufficiency  :  now  from  the  oracle 

They  will  bring  all ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had, 

Shall  stop  or  spur  me.     Have  I  done  well  ? 
First  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 
Leon.  Though  I  am  satisfied  and  need  no  more 

Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 

Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  others,  such  as  he 

Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 

Come  up  to  the  truth.     So  have  we  thought  it  good 

From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confined, 

Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two  fled  hence 

Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us  ; 

We  are  to  speak  in  public ;  for  this  business 

Will  raise  us  all. 
Ant.  [Aside]  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it, 

If  the  good  truth  were  known.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 
A  prison. 

Enter  Paulina,  a  Gentleman,  and  Attendants. 
Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison,  call  to  him  • 

Let  him  have  knowledge  who  I  am.  [Exit  Gent. 

Good  lady, 

No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee ; 
What  dost  thou  then  in  prison  ? 

Re-enter  Gentleman,  with  the  Gaoler.    , 

Now,  good  sir, 
You  know  me,  do  you  not? 
Gaol.  For  a  worthy  lady 

And  one  who  much  I  honour. 
Paul*  Pray  you,  then, 

777  BB2 


.. 


Act  II,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winters  Tale 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 
Gaol.  I  may  not,  madam  : 

To  the  contrary  I  have  express  commandment. 
Paul.  Here 's  ado, 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 

The  access  of  gentle  visitors  !    Is 't  lawful,  pray  you, 

To  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ?  Emilia  ? 
Gaol.  So  please  you,  madam, 

To  put  apart  these  your  attendants,  I 

Shall  bring  Emilia  forth. 
Paul.  I  pray  now,  call  her. 

Withdraw  yourselves.       {Exeunt  Gentleman  and  Attendants. 
Gaol.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 
Paul.  Well,  be't  so,  prithee.  [Exit  Gaol^ 

Here 's  such  ado  to  make  no  stain  a  stain 

As  passes  colouring. 

Re-enter  Gaoler,  with  Emilia. 
Dear  gentlewoman, 

How  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 
Emil.  As  well  as  one  so  great  and  so  forlorn 

May  hold  together :  on  her  frights  and  griefs, 

Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater, 

She  is  something  before  her  time  deliver'd. 
Paul  A  boy  ? 
Emil.  A  daughter  ;  and  a  goodly  babe, 

Lusty  and  like  to  live  :  the  queen  receives 

Much  comfort  in 't ;  says  c  My  poor  prisoner, 

I  am  innocent  as  you.' 
Paul.  I  dare  be  sworn  : 

These  dangerous  unsafe  lunes  i'  the  king,  beshrew  them ! 

He  must  be  told  on  't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 

Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I  '11  take 't  upon  me  : 

If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister, 

And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 

The  trumpet  any  more.     Pray  you,  Emilia, 

Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen : 

If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 

I  '11  show 't  the  king  and  undertake  to  be 

Her  advocate  to  the  loud'st.     We  do  not  know 

How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child : 

The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 

Persuades  when  speaking  fails. 
Emil.  Most  worthy  madam, 

Your  honour  and  your,  goodness  is  so  evident, 

778 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss  dH 

A  thriving  issue :  there  is  no  lady  living 

So  meet  for  this  great  errand.     Please  your  ladyship 

To  visit  the  next  room,  I  '11  presently 

Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer ; 

Who  but  to-day  hammer'd  of  this  design, 

But  durst  not  tempt  a  minister  of  honour, 

Lest  she  should  be  denied. 
Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I  '11  use  that  tongue  I  have  :  if  wit  flow  from  't 

As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  let 't  not  be  doubted 

I  shall  do  good. 
Emit.  Now  be  you  blest  for  it ! 

I  '11  to  the  queen :  please  you,  come  something  nearer. 
Gaol.  Madam,  if 't  please  the  queen  to  send  the  babe, 

I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur  to  pass  it,  . 

Having  no  warrant. 
Paul.  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir : 

This  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb,  and  is 

By  law  and  process  of  great  nature  thence 

Freed  and  enfranchised;  not  a  party  to 

The  anger  of  the  king,  nor  guilty  of, 

If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 
Gaol.  I  do  believe  it. 
Paul  Do  not  you  fear :  upon  mine  honour,  I 

Will  stand  betwixt  you  and  danger.  [Exeunt. 

Q  TTT 

bCENE   111  .     ,j(  { 

A  room  tn  Leontes  palace. 
Enter  Leontes,  Ahttgonus,  Lords,  and  Servants. 
Leon.  Nor  night  nor  day  no  rest :  it  is  but  weakness 

To  bear  the  matter  thus ;  mere  weakness.     If 

The  cause  were  not  in  being, — part  o'  the  cause, 

She  the  adulteress ;  for  the  harlot  king 

Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 

And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof;  but  she 

I  can  hook  to  me :  say  that  she  were  gone, 

Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 

Might  come  to  me  again.     Who 's  there  ? 
First  Serv.  My  lord? 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 
First  Serv.  He  took  good  rest  to-night ; 

'Tis  hoped  his  sickness  is  discharged. 
Leoti.  To  see  his  nobleness  ! 

Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother, 

779 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

He  straight  declined,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply, 

Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on 't  in  himself, 

Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep, 

And  downright  languish'd.     Leave  me  solely  :  go, 

See  how  he  fares.  [Exit  Serv.}   Fie,  fie  \  no  thought  of  him  : 

The  very  thought  of  my  revenges  that  way 

Recoil  upon  me  :  in  himself  too  mighty, 

And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance ;  let  him  be 

Until  a  time  may  serve :  for  present  vengeance, 

Take  it  on  her.     Camillo  and  Polixenes 

Laugh  at  me,  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow  : 

They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  reach  them,  nor 

Shall  she  within  my  power. 

Enter  Paulina,  with  a  child. 
First  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

Paul.  Nay,  rather,  good  my  lords,  be  second  to  me : 

Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas, 

Than  the  queen's  life?  a  gracious  innocent  soul, 

More  free  than  he  is  jealous. 
Ant.  That 's  enough. 

Sec.  Serv.  Madam,  he  hath  not  slept   to-night ;    commanded 

None  should  come  at  him. 
Paul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir  : 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'Tis  such  as  you, 

That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 

At  each  his  needless  heavings,  such  as  you 

Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking  :  I 

Do  come  with  words  as  medicinal  as  true, 

Honest  as  either,  to  purge  him  of  that  humour 

That  presses  him  from  sleep. 

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho  ? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord ;  but  needful  conference 

About  some  gossips  for  youi  highness. 
Leon.  Hew  ? 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady  !     Antigonus, 

I  charged  thee  that  she  should  not  come  about  me : 

I  knew  she  would. 
Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord, 

On  your  displeasure's  peril  and  on  mine, 

She  should  not  visit  you. 

Leon.  What,  canst  not  rule  her  ? 

Paul.  From  all  dishonesty  he  can  :  in  this, 

Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done, 

Commit  me  for  committing  honour,  trust  it, 

He  shall  not  rule  me. 

780 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Ant.  La  you  now,  you  hear  : 

When  she  will  take  the  rein  I  let  her  run ; 

But  she  '11  not  stumble. 
Paul.  Good  my  liege,  I  come ; 

And,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me,  who  professes 

Myself  your  loyal  servant,  your  physician, 

Your  most  obedient  counsellor,  yet  that  dares 

Less  appear  so  in  comforting  your  evils, 

Than  such  as  most  seem  yours :  I  say,  I  come 

From  your  good  queen. 
Leon.  Good  queen ! 

Paul.  Good  queen,  my  lord, 

Good  queen  ;  I  say  good  queen  ; 

And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 

A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 
Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

Paul.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 

First  hand  me  :  on  mine  own  accord  I  '11  off; 

But  first  I  '11  do  my  errand.     The  good  queen, 

For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter ; 

Here  'tis ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[Laying  down  the  child. 
Leon.  Out ! 

A  mankind  witch  !     Hence  with  her,  out  6'  door : 

A  most  intelligencing  bawd  ! 
Paul.  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that  as  you 

In  so  entitling  me,  and  no  less  honest 

Than  you  are  mad  ;  which  is  enough,  I  '11  warrant, 

As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 
JLeo-n.  Traitors ! 

\VSU1  you  not  push  her  out  ?     Give  her  the  bastard. 

Thou  dotard !  thou  art  woman-tired,  unroosted 

'By  rthy  dame  Partlet  here.     Take  up  the  bastard ; 

Take 't  up,  I  say ;  give 't  to  thy  crone. 
jPaul.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 

Takestoip  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness 

Which: he  has  put  upon  't ! 

.Leon.  He  dreads  his  wife. 

.Paul.  -SofLwould  you  did ;  then  'twere  past  all  doubt 

You 'Id  call  your  children  yours. 

.Leon.  A  nest  of  traitors! 

.Ant. .  1  am.  none,  by  this  good  light. 
|  Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any 

781 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

But  one  that 's  here,  and  that 's  himself;  for  he 

The  sacred  honour  of  himself,  his  queen's, 

His  hopeful  son's,  his  babe's,  betrays  to  slander, 

Whose  sting  is  sharper  than  the  sword's ;  and  will  not, — 

For,  as  the  case  now  stands,  it  is  a  curse 

He  cannot  be  compell'd  to  't, — once  remove 

The  root  of  his  opinion,  which  is  rotten 

As  ever  oak  or  stone  was  sound. 
Leon.  A  callat 

Of  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband 

And  now  baits  me  !     This  brat  is  none  of  mine ; 

It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes : 

Hence  with  it,  and  together  with  the  dam 

Commit  them  to  the  fire  ! 
Paul.  It  is  yours  ; 

And,  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge, 

So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse.     Behold,  my  lords, 

Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 

And  copy  of  the  father,  eye,  nose,  lip ; 

The  trick  of's  frown;  his  forehead;  nay,  the  valley, 

The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin  and  cheek ;  his  smiles ; 

The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger : 

And  thou,  good  goddess  Nature,  which  hast  made  it 

So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 

The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 

No  yellow  in 't,  lest  she  suspect,  as  he  does, 

Her  children  not  her  husband's  ! 
Leon.  A  gross  hag  ! 

And,  lopel,  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang  'd, 

That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 
Ant.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you1!!  leave  yourself 

Hardly  one  subject. 

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

Paul.  A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 

Can  do  no  more. 

Leon.  I  '11  ha'  thee  burnt. 

Paul.  I  care  not:  • 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire, 

Not  she  which  burns  in 't.     I  '11  not  call  you  tyrant ; 

But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen — 

Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 

Than  your  own  weak-hinged  fancy — something  savours 

Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 

Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world. 

782 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  II,  Sc.  iii 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance, 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her !     Were  I  a  tyrant, 

Where  were  her  life  ?  she  durst  not  call  me  so, 

If  she  did  know  me  one.     Away  with  her  ! 
Paul.  I  pray  you,  do  not  push  me ;  I  '11  be  gone. 

Look  to  you*  babe,  my  lord ;  'tis  yours  :  Jove  send  her 

A  better  guiding  spirit !     What  heeds  these  hauds? 

You,  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies, 

Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 

So,  so  :  farewell ;  we  are  gone.  [/>//. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to  this. 

My  child  ?  away  with  't !     Even  thou,  that  hast 

A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence 

And  see  it  instantly  consumed  with  fire; 

Even  thou  and  none  but  thou.     Take  it  up  straight : 

Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  'tis  done, 

And  by  good  testimony,  or  I  '11  seize  thy  life, 

With  what  thou  else  call'st  thine.     If  thou  refuse 

Arid  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so ;      :j  <•}  .- 

The  bastard  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands        /ill  n<) 

Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire ; 

For  thou  set'st  on  thy  wife. 
Ant.  I  did  not,  sir: 

These  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please, 

Can  clear  me  in  't. 
Lords.  We  can  :  my  royal  liege, 

He  is  not  guilty  of  her  coming  hither. 
Leon.  You  're  liars  all. 
First  Lord.  •Bksciech  your  highness,  give  us  better  credit : 

We  have  always  truly  served  you  ;  and  beseech  you 

So  to  esteem  of  us  :  and  on  our  knees  we  beg, 

As  recompense  of  our  dear  services 

Past  and  to  come,  that  you  do  change  this  purpose, 

Which  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 

Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue :  we  all  kneel. 
Leofi.  I  am  a  feather  for  each  wind  that  blows  : 

Shall  I  live  on  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 

And  call  me  father  ?  better  burn  it  now 

Than  curse  it  then.     But  be  it ;  let  it  live. 

It  shall  not  neither.     You,  sir,  come  you  hither ; 

You  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 

With  Lady  Margery,  your  midwife  there, 

To  save  this  bastard's  life, — for  'tis  a  bastard, 

So  sure  as  this  beard 's  grey, — what  will  you  adventure 

To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

783 


Act  II,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Ant.  Any  thing,  my  lord, 

That  my  ability  may  undergo, 
And  nobleness  impose :  at  least  thus  much  : 
I  '11  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left 
To  save  the  innocent :  any  thing  possible. 

Leon.  It  shall  be  possible.     Swear  by  this  sword 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

Ant.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Mark  and  perform  it :  seest  thou  ?  for  the  fail 
Of  any  point  in  't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself  but  to  thy  lewd-tongued  wife, 
Whom  for  this  time  we  pardon.     We  enjoin  thee, 
As  thou  art  liege-man  to  us,  that  thou  carry 
This  female  bastard  hence,  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it, 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection 
And  favour  of  the  climate.     As  by  strange  fortune 
It  came  to  us,  I  do  in  justice  charge  thee, 
On  thy  soul's  peril  and  thy  body's  torture, 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place 
Where  chance  may  nurse  or  end  it.     Take  it  up. 

Ant.  I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
Had  been  more  merciful.     Come  on,  poor  babe : 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
To  be  thy  nurses  !     Wolves  and  bears,  they  say, 
Casting  their  savageness  aside  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity.     Sir,  be  prosperous 
In  more  than  this  deed  does  require !     And  blessing 
Against  this  cruelty  fight  on  thy  side, 
Poor  thing,  condemn'd  to  loss  !  \Exit  with  the  child. 

Leon.  No,  I  '11  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sen>.  Please  your  highness,  posts 

From  those  you  sent  to  the  oracle  are  come 
An  hour  since  :  Cleomenes  and  Dion, 
Being  well  arrived  from  Delphos,  are  both  landed, 
Hasting  to  the  court. 

First  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speed 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leon.  Twenty  three  days 

They  have  been  absent :  'tis  good  speed ;  foretells 
The  great  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.     Prepare  you,  lords ; 

784 


The  Winter's  Tale  ;[Act  III,  Sc.  i,  ii 

Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 

Our  most  disloyal  lady ;  for,  as  she  hath 

Been  publicly  accused,  so  shall  she  have 

A  just  and  open  trial.     While  she  lives 

My  heart  will  be  a  burthen  to  me.     Leave  ine, 

And  think  upon  my  bidding.  \Exeunt. 

ACT  III— SCENE  I 

A  seaport  in  Sicilia.    . 
Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 
Cleo.  The  climate 's  delicate,  the  air  most  sweet, 

Fertile  the  isle,  the  temple  much  surpassing 

The  common  praise  it  bears. 
Dion.  I  shall  report, 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits, 

Methinks  I  so  should  term  them,  and  the  reverence 

Of  the  grave  wearers.     O,  the  sacrifice  ! 

How  ceremonious,  solemn  and  unearthly 

It  was  i'  the  offering  ! 
Cleo.  But  of  all,  the  burst 

And  the  ear-deafening  voice  o'  the  oracle, 

Kin  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surprised  my  sense, 

That  I  was  nothing. 
Dion.  If  the  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — O  be  't  so  ! — 

As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy, 

The  time  is  worth  the  use  on  \. 
Cleo.  Great  Apollo 

Turn  all  to  the  best !     These  proclamations, 

So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 

I  little  like. 
Dion.  The  violent  carnage  of  it 

Will  clear  or  end  the  business  :  when  the  oracle, 

Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up, 

Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare 

Even  then  will  rush  to  knowledge.     Go  :  fresh  horses  ! 

And  gracious  be  the  issue.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

,  _•     . 
A  court  oj  Justice. 

Enter  Leontes,  Lords^  and  Officers. 
Leon.  This  sessions,  to  our  great  grief  we  pronounce, 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart  :  the  party  tried 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  our  wife,  and  one 

735 


.  Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Of  us  too  much  beloved.     Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice,  which  shall  have  due  course, 
Even  to  the  guilt  or  the  purgation. 
Produce  the  prisoner. 

Off.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  that  the -queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court.     Silence  ! 
Enter  Hermione  guarded  ;  Paulina  and  Ladies  attending. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 

Off.  [reads]  Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy  Leontes,  king  of 
Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and  arraigned  of  high  treason,  in 
committing  adultery  with  Polixenes,  king  of  Bohemia,  and 
conspiring  with  Camillo  to  take  away  the  life  of  our.  sovereign 
lord  the  king,  thy  royal  husband  :  the  pretence  whereof  being 
by  circumstances  partly  laid  open,  thou,  Hermione,  contrary 
to  the  faith  and  allegiance  of  a  true  subject,  didst  counsel  and 
aid  them,  for  their  better  safety,  to  fly  away  by  night. 

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 
To  say  '  not  guilty  : '  mine  integrity, 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 
Be  so  received.     But  thus,  if  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  as  they  do, 
I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience.     You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 
As  I  am  now  unhappy ;  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devised 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators.     For  behold  me 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince,  here  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honour  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  .1  would  spare  :  for  honour, 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  nle  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 
How  merited  to  be  so  ;  since  he  came, 
With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 

786 


The  Winters  Tale  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Have  strain'd,  to  appear  thus  :  if  one.  jot  beyond 

The  bound  of  honour,  or  in  act  or  will 

That  way  inclining,  harden'd  be  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 

Cry  fie  upon  my  grave  ! 
Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 

Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did 

Than  to  perform  it  first. 
Her.  That 's  true  enough  r 

Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 
Leon.  You  will  not  own  it. 
Her.  More  than  mistress  of 

Which  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 

At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, 

With  whom  I  am  accused,  I  do  confess  I  o)  $ 

I  loved  him  as  in  honour  he  required, 

With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 

A  lady  like  me,  with  a  love  even  such, 

So  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  : 

\Vhich  not  to  have  done  I  think  had  been  in  me 

Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude 

To  you  and  toward  your  friend  ;  whose  love  had  spoke, 

Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely 

That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 

I  know  not  how  it  tastes ;  though  it  be  dish'd 

For  me  to  try  how  :  all  I  know  of  it 

Is  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 

And  why  he  left  your  court,  the  gods  themselves, 

.  Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 
Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  krow 

What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in 's  absence. 
Her.  Sir, 

You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not :          :f;Fl  e 

My  life  stands  in  the  level  of  your  dreams* 

Which  I  '11  lay  down. 
Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreams  ; 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes, 

And  I  but  dream'd  it.     As  you  were  past  all  shame, — : 

Those  of  your  fact  are  so, — so  past  all  truth  : 

Which  to  deny  concerns  more  than  avails ;  for  as 

Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself, 

No  father  owning  it, — which  is,  indeed, 

More  criminal  in  thee  than  it, — so  thou 

Shalt  feel  our  justice,  in  whose  easiest  passage 

787 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Look  for  no  less  than  death. 
Her.  Sir,  spare  your  threats  : 

The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 

To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  : 

The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 

I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 

But  know  not  how  it  went.     My  second  joy 

And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 

I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious.     My  third  comfort, 

Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, 

The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 

Haled  out  to  murder :  myself  on  every  post 

Proclaim'd  a  strumpet :  with  immodest  hatred 

The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 

To  women  of  all  fashion  ;  lastly,  hurried 

Here  to  this  place,  i*  the  open  air,  before 

I  have  got  strength  of  limit.    Now,  my  liege, 

Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive, 

That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?     Therefore  proceed. 

But  yet  hear  this;  mistake  me  not ;  no  life, 

I  prize  it  not  a  straw,  but  for  mine  honour, 

Which  I  would  free,  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 

Upon  surmises,  all  proofs  sleeping  else 

But  what  your  jealousies  awake,  I  tell  you 

'Tis  rigour  and  not  law.     Your  honours  all, 

I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle  : 

Apollo  be  my  judge  ! 
First  Lord.  •      This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore  bring  forth, 

And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle.      [.Exeunt  certain  Officers. 
Her.  The  Emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father  : 

O  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 

His  daughter's  trial !  that  he  did  but  see 

The  flatness  of  my  misery,  yet  with  eyes 

Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-enter  Officers^  with  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 
Off.  You  here  shall  swear  upon  this  sword  of  justice, 

That  you,  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  have 

Been  both  at  Delphos,  and  from  thence  have  brought 

This  seal'd-up  oracle,  by  the  hand  deliver'd 

Of  great  Apollo's  priest,  and  that  since  then 

You  have  not  dared  to  break  the  holy  seal 

Nor  read  the  secrets  in 't. 
Cleo.  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals  and  read. 

788 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  III,  Sc.  ii 

Off.  [reads]  Hermione  is  chaste ;  Polixenes  blameless  ;  Camillo 

a  true  subject ;  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant ;  his  innocent  babe 

truly  begotten  ;  and  the  king  shall  live  without  an  heir,  if 

that  which  is  lost  be  not  found. 
Lords.  Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollp  ! 
Her.  Praised ! 

Leon.  Hast  thou  read  truth  ? 
Off.  Ay,  my  lord  ;  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 
Leon.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle : 

The  sessions  shall  proceed  :  this  is  mere  falsehood* 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord  the  king,  the  king  ! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business  ? 

Serv.  O  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it ! 

The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 

Of  the  queen's  speed,  is  gone. 
Leon.  How  !  gone  ! 

Serv.  Is  dead. 

Leon.  Apollo  's  angry  ;  and  the  heavens  themselves 

Do   strike   at  my  injustice.    \Hermione  faints.]    How  now 
Paul.  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen  :  look  down       [there  ! 

And  see  what  death  is  doing. 
Leon.  Take  her  hence : 

Her  heart  is  but  overcharged ;  she  will  recover : 

I  have  too  much  believed  mine  own  suspicion : 

Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 

Some  remedies  for  life. 

\Exeunt  Paulina  and  Ladies  with  Hermione, 
Apollo,  pardon 

My  great  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle  ! 

I  '11  reconcile  me  t<p  Polixenes ; 

New  woo  my  queen  ;  recall  the  good  Camillo, 

Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy  ; 

For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 

To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 

Camillo  for  the  minister  to  poison 

My  friend  Polixenes  :  which  had  been  done, 

But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 

My  swift  command,  though  I  with  death  and  with 

Reward  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 

Not  doing  it  and  being  done  :'  he,  most  humane 

And  fill'd  with  honour,  to  my  kingly  guest 

Unclasp'd  my  practice,  quit  his  fortunes  here, 

Which  you  knew  great,  and  to  the  hazard 

789 


Act  III,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  Tal 

Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended, 
No  richer  than  his  honour  :  how  he  glisters 
Thorough  my  rust !  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker  ! 

Re-enter  Paulina. 

Paul.  Woe  the  while  ! 

O,  cut  my  lace,  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too  ! 

First  Lord.  What  fit  is  this,  good  lady  ? 

Paul.  What  studied  torments,  tyrant,  hast  for  me  ? 
What  wheels  ?  racks  ?  fires  ?  what  flaying  ?  boiling  ? 
In  leads  or  oils  ?  what  old  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive,  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?     Thy  tyranny 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine,  O,  think  what  they  have  done 
And  then  run  mad  indeed,  stark  mad !  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  'twas  nothing ; 
That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a. fool,  inconstant 
And  damnable  ingrateful :  nor  was  't  much, 
Thou  wouldst  have  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour, 
To  have  him  kill  a  king ;  poor  trespasses, 
More  monstrous  standing  by  :  whereof  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby-daughter 
To  be  or  none  or  little  ;  though  a  devil 
Would  have  shed  water  out  of  fire  ere  done  't : 
Nor  is  't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of  the  young  prince,  whose  honourable  thoughts, 
Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender,  cleft  the  heart 
That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolisl^i  sire 
Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam  :  this  is  not,  no, 
Laid  to  thy  answer :  but  the  last, — O  lords, 
When  I  have  said,  cry  '  woe  ! ' — the  queen,  the  queen, 
The  sweet'st,  dear'st  creature  's  dead,  and  vengeance  for 't 
Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

First  Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid  ! 

Paul.   I  say  she  's  dead,  I  '11  swear 't.     If  word  nor  oath 
Prevail  not,  go  and  see  :  if  you  can  bring 
Tincture  or  lustre  in  her  lip,  her  eye, 
Heat  outwardly  or  breath  within,  I'll  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods.     But,  O  thou  tyrant ! 
Do  not  repent  these  things,  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir :  therefore  betake  thee 

790 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  III,  Sc.  iii 

To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees 

Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting, 

Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter 

In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 

To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 
Leon.  Go  on,  go  on  : 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much ;  I  have  deserved 

All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest. 
First  Lord.  Say  no  more  : 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 

I'  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 
Paul  I  am  sorry  for  't : 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 

I  do  repent.     Alas  !  I  show'd  too  much 

The  rashness  of  a  woman  :  he  is  touch'd 

To  the  noble  heart.     What 's  gone  and  what 's  past  help 

Should  be  past  grief :  do  not  receive  affliction 

At  my  petition  ;  I  beseech  you,  rather 

Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 

Of  what  you  should  forget.     Now,  good  my  liege, 

Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  : 

The  love  I  bore  your  queen,  lo,  fool  again  ! 

I  '11  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children ; 

I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 

Who  is  lost  too  :  take  your  patience  to  you, 

And  I  '11  say  nothing. 
Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well 

When  most  the  truth  ;  which  I  receive  much  better 

Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Prithee,  bring  me 

To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen  and  son : 

One  grave  shall  be  for  both ;  upon  them  shall 

The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 

Our  shame  perpetual.     Once  a  day  I  '11  visit 

The  chapel  where  they  lie,  and  tears  shed  there 

Shall  be  my  recreation  :  so  long  as  nature 

Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 

I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come  and  lead  me 

To  these  sorrows.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

Bohemia.     A  desert  country  near  the  sea. 
Enter  Antigonus  with  a  Child,  and  a  Mariner. 
Ant.  Thou  art  perfect,  then,  our  ship  hath  touch'd  upon 

The  deserts  of  Bohemia  ? 
Mar.  Ay,  my  lord  ;  and  fear 

We  have  landed  in  ill  time  :  the  skies  look  grimly 


Act  III,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  T; 

And  threaten  present  blusters.     In  my  conscience, 

The  heavens  with  that  we  have  in  hand  are  angry 

And  frown  upon 's. 
Ant.  Their  sacred  wills  be  done  !     Go,  get  aboard  ; 

Look  to  thy  bark  :  I  '11  not  be  long  before 

I  call  upon  thee. 
Mar.  Make,  your  best  haste,  and  go  not 

Too  far  i'  the  land  :  'tis  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 

Besides,  this  place  is  famous  for  the  creatures 

Of  prey  that  keep  upon 't. 
Ant.  Go  thou  away  : 

I  '11  follow  instantly. 
Mar.  I  am  glad  at  heart 

*To  be  so  rid  o'  the  business.  [JSxtf. 

Ant.  Come,  poor  babe  : 

I  have  heard,  but  not  believed,  the  spirits  o'  the  dead 

May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 

Appear'd  to  me  last  night,  for  ne'er  was  dream 

So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature, 

Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another  ; 

I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow, 

So  fill'd  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes, 

Like  very  sanctity,  she  did  approach 

My  cabin  where  I  lay  ;  thrice  bow'd  before  me, 

And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 

Became  two  spouts  :  the  fury  spent,  anon 

Did  this  break  from  her :  '  Good  Antigonus, 

Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 

Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 

Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath, 

Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 

There  weep  and  leave  it  crying  ;  and,  for  the  babe 

Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 

I  prithee,  call 't.     For  this  ungentle  business, 

Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 

Thy  wife  Paulina  more.'     And  so,  with  shrieks, 

She  melted  into  air.     Affrighted  much, 

I  did  in  time  collect  myself,  and  thought 

This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.     Dreams  are  toys  : 

Yet  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiousjy, 

I  will  be  squared  by  this.     I  do  believe 

Hermione  hath  suffered  death ;  and  that 

Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 

Of  King  Polixenes,  it  should  here  be  laid, 

Either  for  life  or  death,  upon  the  earth 

792 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act. Ill,  Sc.  ill 

Of  its  right  father.     Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! 
There  lie,  and  there  thy  character :  there  these  ; 
Which  may,  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee,  pretty, 
And  still  rest  thine.     The  storm  begins  :  poor  wretch, 
That  for  thy  mother's  fault  art  thus  exposed 
To  loss  and  what  may  follow  !    Weep  I  cannot, 
But  my  heart  bleeds ;  and  most  accursed  am  I 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this.     Farewell ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more :  thou  'rt  like  to  have 
A  lullaby  too  rough :  I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day..    A  savage  clamour ! 
Well  may  I  get  aboard !     This  is  the  chase  : 
I  am  gone  for  ever.  [Exit,  pursued  by  a  bear. 

Enter  a  Shepherd. 

Shep.  I  would  there  were  no  age  between  ten  and  three-and- 
twenty,  or  that  youth  would  sleep  out  the  rest ;  for  there  is 
nothing  in  the  between  but  getting  wenches  with  child, 
wronging  the  ancientry,  stealing,  fighting — Hark  you  now ! 
Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains  of  nineteen  and.  two-and- 
twenty  hunt  this  weather?  They  have  scared  away  two  of 
my  best  sheep,  which  I  fear  the  wolf  will  sooner  find  than 
the  master :  if  any  where  I  have  them,  'tis  by  the  sea-side, 
browzing  of  ivy.  Good  luck,  an  \  be  thy  will  j  what  have  we 
here?  Mercy  on's,  a  barne;  very  pretty  barne  !  <A  boy  or 
a  child,  I  wonder  ?  A  pretty  one ;  a  very  pretty,  one  :  sure, 
some  scape :  though  I  am  not  bookish,  yet  I  can  read 
waiting-gentlewoman  in  the  scape.  This  has  been  some 
stair-work,  some  trunk- work,  some  behind-door-work :  they 
were  warmer  that  got  this  than  the  poor  thing  is  here.  1 11 
take  it  up  for  pity:  yet  I'll  tarry  till,  my  son  come;  he 
hallooed  but  even  now.  Whoa,  ho,  hoa !  . 
Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Hilloa,  loa ! 

Shep.  What,  art  so  near?  If  thou 'It  see  a  thing  to  talk  on 
when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten,  come  hither.  What  ailest 
thou,  man? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  such  sights,  by  sea  and  by  land !  but  I 
am  not  to  say  it  is  a  sea,  for  it  is  now  the  sky :  betwixt  the 
firmament  and  it  you  cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's  point. 

Shep.  Why,  boy,  how  is  it  ? 

Clo.  I  would  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes,  how  it  rages,  how 
it  takes  up  the  shore !  but  that  's  not  to  the  point.  O,  the 
most  piteous  cry  of  the  poor  souls!  sometimes  to  see 'em, 
and  not  to  see  'em;  now  the  ship  boring  the  moon  with  her 
main-mast,  and  anon  swallowed  with  yest  and  froth,  as  you  'Id 

793 


Act  IV,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Tale 

thrust  a  cork  into  a  hogshead.  And  then  for  the  land 
service,  to  see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his  shoulder-bone ;  how 
he  cried  to  me  for  help  and  said  his  name  was  Antigonus,  a. 
nobleman.  But  to  make  an  end  of  the  ship,  to  see  how  the 
sea  flap-dragoned  it :  but,  first,  how  the  poor  souls  roared, 
and  the  sea  mocked  them;  and  how  the  poor  gentleman 
roared  and  the  bear  mocked  him,  both  roaring  louder  than 
the  sea  or  weather. 

Shep.  Name  of  mercy,  when  was  this,  boy  ? 

Clo.  Now,  now :  I  have  not  winked  since  I  saw  these  sights : 
the  men  are  not  yet  cold  under  water,  nor  the  bear  half 
dined  on  the  gentleman  :  he 's  at  it  now. 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by,  to  have  helped  the  old  man  ! 

Clo.  I  would  you  had  been  by  the  ship  side,  to  have  helped 
her:  there  your- charity  would  have  lacked  footing. 

Shep.  Heavy  matters  !  heavy  matters  !  but  look  thee  here,  boy. 
Now  bless  thyself:  thou  mettest  with  things  dying,  I  with 
things  newborn.  Here's  a  sight  for  thee;  look  thee,  a 
bearingi-cloth  for  a  squire's  child  !  look  thee  here ;  take  up, 
take  up,  boy ;  open 't.  So,  let 's  see  :  it  was  told  me  I  should 
be  rich  by  the  fairies.  This  is  some  changeling :  open 't. 
What 's  within,  boy  ? 

Clo.  You  're  a  made  old  man :  if  the  sins  of  your  youth  are 
forgiven  you,  you  're  well  to  live.  Gold  !  all  gold ! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  'twill  prove  so :  up  with 't, 
keep  it  close:  home,  home,  the  next  way.     We  are  lucky, 
boy ;  and  to  be  so  still  requires  nothing  but  secrecy.     Let 
/•jftty  sheep  go  :  come,  good  boy ;  the  next  way  home. 

C7i  Go*  you  the  next  way  with  your  findings.  I  '11  go  see  if  the 
bear  be  gone  from  the  gentleman  and  how  much  he  hath 
eaten  :  they  are  never  curst  but  when  they  are  hungry :  if 
there  be  any  of  him  left,  I  '11  bury  it. 

Shep.  That's  a  good  deed.  If  thou  mayest  discern  by  that 
which  is  left  of  him  what  he  is,  fetch  me  to  the  sight  of  him. 

Clo.  Marry,  will  I ;  and  you  shall  help  to  put  him  i'  the 
ground. 

Shep*  Tis  a  lucky  day,  boy,  and  we  '11  do  good  deeds  on  't. 

[Exeunt. 
.      .  rnh 

ACT  IV— SCENE  I 

Enter  Time*  the  Chorus.  l.Juow  I   . 

Time*  I,  that  please  some,  try  all,  both  joy  and  terror 
Of  good  and  bad,  that  makes  and  unfolds  error,        .  ..'aorn 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime 

794 


The  Winter V  Tale  jjAct  IV,  Sc.  ii 

To  me  or  ray  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 

O'er  sixteen  years  and  leave  the  growth  untried 

Of  that  wide  gap,  since  it  is  in  my  power 

To  o'erthrow  law  and  in  one  self-born  hour 

To  plant  and  o'erwhelm  custom.     Let  me  pa&$" 

The  same  I  am,  ere  ancient'st  order  was 

Or  what  is  now  received  :  I  witness  to 

The  times  that  brought  them  in ;  so  shall  I  do 

To  the  freshest  things  now  reigning,  and  make  stale 

The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 

Ndw  seems  to  it.     Your  patience  this  allowing, 

I  turn  my  glass  and  give  my  scene  such  growing 

As  you  had  slept  between  :  Leontes  leaving,1  ]  ai 

The  effects  of  his  fond  jealousies  so  grieving 

That  he  shuts  up  himself,  imagine  me, 

Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 

In  fair  Bohemia;  and  remember  well, 

I- mentioned  a  son  o'  the  king's,  which  Florizel 

I  now  name  to  you ;  and  with  speed  so  pace 

To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 

Equal  with  wondering :  what  of  her  ensues 

I  list  not  prophesy ;  but  let  Time's  news 

Be  known  when  'tis  brought  forth.    A  shepherd's  daughter, 

And  what  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  after, 

Is  the  argument  of  Time.     Of  this  allow, 

If  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now ; 

If  never,  yet  that  Time  himself  doth  say 

He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.  [Exit; 

• 
SCENE  II 

Bohemia.    The  palace  of  Polixenes. 
Enter  Polixenes  and  Camilla. 

PoL  I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more  importunate :  'tis 
a  sickness  denying  thee  any  thing ;  a  death  to  grant  this. 

Cam.  It  is  fifteen  years  since  I  saw  my  country :  though  I 
have  for  the  most  part  been  aired  abroad,  I  desire  to  lay  my 
bones  there.  Besides,  the  penitent  king,  my  master,  hath 
sent  for  me ;  to  whose  feeling  sorrows  I  might  be  some  allay, 
or  I  o'erween  to  think  so,  which  is  another  spur  to  my 
departure.  ' 

PoL  As  thou  lovest  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not  out  the  rest  of  thy 
services  by  leaving  me  now  :  the  need  I  have  of  thee,  thine 
own  goodness  hath  made  ;  better  not  to  have  had  thee  than 
thus  to  want  thee :  thou,  having  made  me  businesses,  which 
none  without  thee  can  sufficiently  manage,  must  either  stay  to 

795 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

execute  them  thyself,  or  take  away  with  thee  the  very  ser 
vices  thou  hast  done ;  which  if  I  have  not  enough  considered, 
as  too  much  I  cannot,  to  be  more  thankful  to  thee  shall  be 
my  study ;  and  my  profit  therein,  the  heaping  friendships.  Of 
that  fatal  country,  Sicilia,  prithee  speak  no  more ;  whose  very 
naming  punishes  me  with  the  remembrance  of  that  penitent, 
as  thou  callest  him,  and  reconciled  king,  my  brother ;  whose 
loss  of  his  most  precious  queen  and  children  are  even  now 
to  be  afresh  lamented.  Say  to  me,  when  sawest  thou  the 
Prince  Florizel,  my  son  ?  Kings  are  no  less  unhappy,  their 
issue  not  being  gracious,  than  they  are  in  losing  them  when 
they  have  approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the  prince.  What  his 
happier  affairs  may  be,  are  to  me  unknown  :  but  I  have 
missingly  noted,  he  is  of  late  much  retired  from  court  and 
is  less  frequent  to  his  princely  exercises  than  formerly  he 
hath  appeared. 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo,  and  with  some  care ; 
so  far,  that  t  have  eyes  under  my  service  which  look  upon 
his  removedness ;  from  whom  I  have  this  intelligence,  that 
he  is  seldom  from  the  house  of  a  most  homely  shepherd ; 
a  man,  they  say,  that  from  very  nothing,  and  beyond  the 
imagination  of  his  neighbours,  is  grown  into  an  unspeakable 
estate. 

Cam.  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man,  who  hath. a  daughter  of 
most  rare  note  :  the  report  of  her  is  extended  more  than  can 
be  thought  to  begin  from  such  a  cottage. 

Pol.  That's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence;  but,  I  fear,  the 
angle  that  plucks  our  son  thither.  Thou  shalt  accompany 
us  to  the  place ;  where  we  will,  not  appearing  what  we 
are,  have  some  question  with  the  shepherd ;  from  whose 
simplicity  1  think  it  not  uneasy  to  get  the  cause  of  my 
son's  resort  thither.  Prithee,  be  my  present  partner  in  this 
business,  and >  lay  aside  the  thoughts  of  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  willingly  obey  your  command. 

Pol.  My  best  Camillo  !     We  must  disguise  ourselves.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 
A  road  near  the  Shepherd's  cottage. 

Enter  Autolycus^  singing. 
When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 

With  heigh  !  the  doxy  over  the  dale, 
Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 
796 


The  Winter  s  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iii 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge ; 

With  heigh  !  the  sweet  birds,  O,  how  they  sing  I 
Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge ; 

For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra-lyra  chants, 

With  heigh  !  with  heigh  !  the  thrush  and  the  jay, 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay.       ,  M^V! 

I  have  served  Prince  Florizel  and  in  my  time  wore  three- 
pile  ;  but  now  I  am  out  of  service : 

• 
But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that^my  dear  ? 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night : 
And  when  1  wander  here  and  there, 
I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live, 
And  bear  the  sow-skin  budget, 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give, 
And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

' 

My  traffic  is  sheets ;  when  the  kite  builds,  look  to  lesser 
linen.  My  father  named  me  Autolycus  ;  who  being,  as  I 
am,  littered  under  Mercury,  was  likewise  a  snapper-up  of 
unconsidered  trifles.  With  die  and  drab  I  purchased  this 
caparison,  and  my  revenue  is  the  silly  cheat.  Gallows  and 
knock  are  too  powerful  on  the  highway  :  beating  and  hanging 
are  terrors  to  me:  for  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the 
thought  of  it.  A  prize  !  a  prize  ! 

Enter  Clown. 

• 

Clo.  Let  me  see  :  every  'leven  wether  tods  ;  every  tod  yields 
pound  and  odd  shilling;  fifteen  hundred  shorn,  what  comes 
the  wool  to  ? 

Aut.  [Aside]  If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock 's  mine. 

Clo.  I  cannot  do 't  without  counters.  Let  me  see  ; .  what  am  I 
to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing  feast  ?  Three  pound  of  sugar ; 
five  pound  of  currants  ;  rice — what  will  this  sister  of  mine  do 
with  rice  ?  But  my  father  hath  made  her  mistress  of  the 
feast,  and  she  lays  it  on.  She  hath  made  me  four  and 
twenty  nosegays  for  the  shearers,  three-man  song-men  all, 
and  very  good  ones ;  but  they  are  most  of  them  means  and 
bases ;  but  one  puritan  amongst  them,  and  he  sings  psalms 
to  hornpipes.  I  must  have  saffron  to  colour  the  warden 
pies ;  mace ;  dates,  none,  that  ;s  out  of  my  note  ;  nutmegs, 

797 


Act  TV,  Sc.  Hi]  The  Winter's  Tale 

seven ;   a  race  or  two  of  ginger,  but  that  I  may  beg ;   four 
pound  of  prunes,  and  as  many  of  raisins  o'  the  sun. 

Aut.  O  that  ever  I  was  born  !  [  Grovelling  on  the  ground, 

Clo.  I'  the  name  of  me —  [death,  death  I 

Aut.  O,  help  me,  help  me  !  pluck  but  off  these  rags ;  and  then, 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul !  thou  hast  need  of  more  rags  to  lay  on 
thee,  rather  than  have  these  off. 

Aut.  O  sir,  the  loathsomeness  of ;  them  offends  me  more  than 
the  stripes  I  have  received,  which  are  mighty  ones  and 
millions.  •' \  -i\\\  [great  matter. 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  man  !   a   million  of   beating  may  come  to  a 

Aut.  I  am  robbed,  sir,  and  beaten ;  my  money  and  apparel 
ta'en  from  me,  and  these  detestable  things  put  upon  me. 

Clo.  What,  by  a  horseman,  or  a  footman  ? 

Aut.  A  footman,  sweet  sir,  a  footman. 

Clo.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  footman  by  the  garments  he  has 
left  with  thee  :  if  this  be  a  horseman's  coat,  it  hath  seen  very 
hot  service.  Lend  me  thy  hand,,  I  '11  help  thee  :  come,  lend 
me  thy  hand.  {Helping  him  up. 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  tenderly,  O  ! 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul  ! 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  softly,  good  sir !  I  fear,  sir,  my  shoulder- 
blade  is  out. 

Clo.  HoWnttw!  canst  stand?  ,'C1"- 

Aut.  Softly,  dear  sir  [picks  his  pocket]-,  good  sir,  softly.  You 
ha'  'done  me  a  charitable  office. 

Clo.  Dost  lack  any  money?     I  have  a  little  money  for  thee. 

Aut.  No,  good  sweet  sir;  no,  I  beseech  you,  sir:  I  have  a 
kinsman  not  past  three  quarters  of  a  mile  hence,  unto  whom 
I  was  going ;  I  shall  there  have  money,  or  any  thing  I  want : 
offer  me  no  money,  I  pray  you ;  that  kills  my  heart. 

Clo.  What  manner  of  fellow  was  he  that  robbed  you  ? 

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go  about  with  troll-my- 
dames :  I  knew  him  once  a  servant  of  the  prince:  I  cannot 
tell,  good  sir,  for  which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but  he  was 
certainly  whipped  out  of  the  court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say  ;  there's  no  virtue  whipped  out 
of  the  court :  they  cherish  it  to  make  it  stay  there ;  and  yet 
it  will  no  more  but  aHide. 

Aut.  Vices  I  would  say,  sir.  I  know  this  man  well :  he  hath 
been  since  an  ape-bearer  ;  then  a  process-server,  a  bailiff;  then 
he  compassed  a  motion  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  and  married  a 
tinker's  wife  within  a  mile  where  my  land  and  living  lies ; 
and,  having  flown  over  many  knavish  professions,  he  settled 
only  in  rogue  :  some  call  him  Autolycus. 

798 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act.  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Clo.  Out  upon  him  !  prig,  for  my  life,  prig :  he  haunts  wakes, 
fairs  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Very  true,  sir  ;  he,  sir,  he  ;  that 's  the  rogue  that  put  me 
into  this  apparel. 

Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohemia :  if  you  had 
but  looked  big  and  spit  at  him,  he  'Id  have  run.  \{\ \  < , 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no  fighter.  I  am  false  of 
heart  that  way;  and  that  he  knew,  I  warrant  him. >w  vmll 

Clo.  How  do  you  now  ? 

Aut.  Sweet  sir,  much  better  than  I  was  ;  I  can  stand  and  walk : 
I  will  even  take  my  leave  of  you,  and  :p9ice  softly  towards  my 
kinsman's. 

Clo.  Shall  I  bring  thee  on  the  way  ? 

Aut.  No,  good-faced  sir  ;  no,  sweet  sir.  [shearing. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well :  I  must  go  buy  spices  for  our  sheep- 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir !  {Exit  Clown.}  Your  purse  is 
not  hot  enough  to  purchase  your  spice*  I  '11  be  with  you  at 
your  sheep-shearing  too :  if  I  make  not  this  cheat  bring  out 
another  and  the  shearers  prove  sheep,  let-  me  be  unrolled 
and  my  name  put  in  the  book  of  virtue ' 

SONG.  u  n\  toY. 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a  :  muJT 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a.  \Exit. 

•  ' 

SCENE  IV     um  07,j  9?yfiJ  t 
The  Shepherds  cottage. 
Enter  Florizel  and  Perdita.  :  ,  . 

Flo.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life:   no  shepherdess,  but  Flora 
Peering  in  April's  front.     This  your  sheep-sh^arfftgn  aril 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods,  ;n  jOn  1H , 

And  you  the  queen  on  't.  ,n  tnv/o  91 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  tpj^irfj  jOn  ad  1 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me: 
O,  pardon,  that  I  name  them  !     Your  high  self, 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscured 
With  a  swain's  wearing,  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid,    :u  fv[v  \ 
Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up  t  but  that  our  feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired,  sworn,  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 

jfl0t  I  bless  the  time 

799 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

When  my  good  falcon  made  her  flight  across 

Thy  father's  ground. 
Per.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause  ! 

To  me  the  difference  forges  dread  ;  your  greatness 

Hath  not  been  used  to  fear.     Even  now  I  tremble 

To  think  your  father,  by  some  accident, 

Should  pass  this  way  as  you  did  :  O,  the  Fates  ! 

How  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  noble, 

Vilely  bound  up  ?     What  would  he  say  ?     Or  how 

Should  I,  iri  these  friy  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 

The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 
Flo.  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves, 

Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  taken 

The  Shapes  of  beasts  upon  them  :  Jupiter 

Became  a  bull,  and  bellow' d;  the  green  Neptune 

A  ram,  and  bleated  ;  and  the  fire-robed  god, 

Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain, 

As  I  seem  now.     Their  transformations 

Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer, 

Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste,  since  my  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honour,  nor  my  lusts 

Burn  hotter  than  my  faith 
Per.  O,  but,  sir, 

Your  resolution  cannot  hold,  when  'tis    , 

Opposed,  as  it  must  be,  by  the  power  of  the  king  : 

One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities, 

Which  then  will  speak,  that  you  must  change  this  purpose, 

Or  I  my  life. 
Flo.  Thou  dearest  Perdita, 

With  these  forced  thoughts,  I  prithee,  darken  not 

The  mirth  o'  the  feast.     Or  I  '11  be  thine,  my  fairy 

Or  not  my  father's.     For  I  cannot  be 

Mine  own,  nor  any  thing  to  any,  if 

I  be  not  thine.     To  this  I  am  most  constant, 

Though  destiny  say  no.     Be  merry,  gentle ; 

Strangle  such  thoughts  as  these  with  any  thing 

That  you  behold  the  while.     Your  guests  are  coming : 

Lift  up  your  countenance,  as  it  were  the  day 

Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial  which 

We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 
Per.  O  lady  Fortune, 

Stand  you  auspicious ! 
Flo.  See,  your  guests  approach  : 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 

800 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

And  let  's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Enter  Shepherd,   Clown,  Mopsa,  Dorcas,  and  others,  with 
Polixenes  and  Camillo  disguised. 

Shep.  Fie,  daughter  !  when  my  old  wife  lived,  upon 
This  day  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook, 
Both  dame  and  servant ;  welcomed  all,  served  all ; 
Would  sing  her  song  and  dance  her  turn  ;  now  here, 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now  i'  the  middle ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his ;  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labour  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip.     You  are  retired, 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting :  pray  you,  bid 
These  unknown  friends  to  's  welcome;  for  it  is 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast :  come  on. 
And  bid  us  welcc-me  to  your  sheep-shearing, 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.    '  [To  Pol.}  Sir,  welcome  : 

It  is  my  father's  will  I  should  take  on  me 
The  hostess-ship  o' the  day.  [To  Cam.}  You're  welcome,sir, 
Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas.     Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there 's  rosemary  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savour  all  the  winter  long  : 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

A  fair  one  are  you,  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations  and  streak'd  gillyvors, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards  :  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden 's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said 

There  is  an  art  which  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Pol.  Say  there  be ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so,  over  that  art 

8or  f*  n 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 

That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 

And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

By  bud  of  nobler  race  :  this  is  an  art 

Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I  'H  not  put 

The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them  ; 
No  more  than  were  I  painted  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say  'twere  well,  and  only  therefore 
Desire  to  breed  by  me.     Here 's  flowers  for  you  ; 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram ; 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  wi'  the  sun 
And  with  him  rises  weeping :  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.     You  're  very  welcome. 

Cam.  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your  flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas ! 

You  'Id  be  s,o  lean,  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through.  Now,  my  fair'st  friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  the  spring  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day ;  and  yours,  and  yours, 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing  :  O  Proserpina, 
rfor  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon  !  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phcebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maicjs;  bold  oxlips  and 
The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !     O,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er  ! 
Flo.  What,  like  a  corse  ? 

Per.  No,  like  a  bank  for  love  to  lie  and  play  on ; 
Not  like  a  corse ;  or  if,  not  to  be  buried, 

802 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

But  quick  and  in  mine  arms.     Come,  take  your  flowers : 

Methinks  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 

In  Whitsun  pastorals :  sure  this  robe  of  mine 

Does  change  my  disposition. 
Flo.  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 

I  'Id  have  you  do  it  ever :  when  you  sing, 

I  'Id  have  you  buy  and  sell  so,  so  give  alms, 

Pray  so ;  and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 

To  sing  them  too :  when  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 

A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 

Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so, 

And  own  no  other  function  :  each  your  doing, 

So  singular  in  each  particular, 

Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 

That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 
Per.  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  too  large  :  but  that  your  youth, 

And  the  true  blood  which  peeps  fairly  through 't, 

Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd, 

With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 

You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 
Flo.  I  think  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear  as  I  have  purpose 

To  put  you  to  't.     But  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray  : 

Your  hand,  my  Perdjta :  so  turtles  pair, 

That  never  mean  to  part. 
Per.  I  '11  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 

Ran  on  the  green-sward  :  nothing  she  does  or  seems 

But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself, 

Too  noble  for  this  place. 
Cam.  He  tells  her  something 

That  makes  her  blood  look  out :  good  sooth,  she  is 

The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up  1 

Dor.  Mopsa  must  be  your  mistress  :  marry,  garlic, 

To  mend  her  kissing  with  ! 
Mop.  Now,  in  good  time  ! 

Clo.  Not  a  word,  a  word,  we  stand  upon  our  manners. 

Come,  strike  up ! 

[Music.     Here  a  dance  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses. 
Pol.  Pray,  good  shepherd,  what  fair  swain  is  this 

Which  dances  with  your  daughter  ? 
Shep.  They  call  him  Doricles ;  and  boasts  himself 

803 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  T; 

To  have  a  worthy  feeding  :  but  I  have  it 

Upon  his  own  report  and  I  believe  it ; 

He  looks  like  sooth.     He  says  he  loves  my  daughter  : 

I  think  so  too  ;  for  never  gazed  the  moon 

Upon  the  water,  as  he  '11  stand  and  read 

As  'twere  my  daughter's  eyes  :  and,  to  be  plain, 

I  think  there  is  not  half  a  kiss  to  choose 

Who  loves  another  best. 

Pol.  She  dances  featly. 

Shep.  So  she  does  any  thing ;  though  I  report  it, 
That  should  be  silent :  if  young  Doricles 
Do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  he  not  dreams  of. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedlar  at  the  door, 
would  never  dance  again  after  a  tabor  and  pipe ;  no,  the 
bagpipe  could  not  move  you  :  he  sings  several  tunes  faster 
than  you  '11  tell  money  ;  he  utters  them  as  he  had  eaten 
ballads  and  all  men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better ;  he  shall  come  in.  I  love  a 
ballad  but  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter  merrily 
set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed  and  sung 
lamentably. 

Serv.  He  hath  songs  for  man  or  woman,  of  all  sizes  ;  no 
milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with  gloves :  he  has  the 
prettiest  love-songs  for  maids ;  so  without  bawdry, » which  is 
strange ;  with  such  delicate  burthens  of  dildos  and  fadings, 
'jump  her  and  thump  her;'  and  where  some  stretch- 
mouthed  rascal  would,  as  it  were,  mean  mischief  and  break 
a  foul  gap  into  the  matter,  he  makes  the  maid  to  answer 
'  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man  ; '  puts  him  off,  slights 
him,  with  '  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good  man.' 

Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me,  thou  talkest  of  an  admirable  conceited  fellow. 
Has  he  any  unbraided  wares  ? 

Serv.  He  hath  ribbons  of  all  the  colours  i'  the  rainbow  ;  points 
more  than  all  the  lawyers  in  Bohemia  can  learnedly  handle, 
though  they  come  to  him  by  the  gross :  inkles,  caddisses, 
cambrics,  lawns :  why,  he  sings  'em  over  as  they  were  gods 
or  goddesses ;  you  would  think  a  smock  were  a  she-angel, 
he  so  chants  to  the  sleeve-hand  and  the  work  about  the 
square  on't. 

Clo.  Prithee  bring  him  in  ;  and  let  him  approach  singing. 
Per.  Forewarn  !um  that  he  use  no  scurrilous  words  in 's  tunes. 

[Exit  Servant. 
804 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Clo.  You  have  of  these  pedlars,, that  have  more  in  them  than 

you 'Id  think,  sister. 
Per.  Ay,  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 

Enter  Autolycus,  singing. 
Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow  ; 
Cypress  black  as  e'er  was  crow  ; 
Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses  ; 
Masks  for  faces  and  for  noses ; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace  amber, 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber  ; 
Golden  quoifs  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears  ; 
Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel, 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel : 
Come  buy  of  me,  come  ;  come  buy,  come  buy  ; 
Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry 

Come  buy. 

. 
Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou  shouldst  take  no 

money  of  me ;  but  being  enthralled  as  I  am,  it  will  also  be 

the  bondage  of  certain  ribbons  and  gloves. 
Mop.  I  was  promised  them  against  the  feast ;  but  they  come 

not  too  late  now. 

Dor.  He  hath  promised  you  more  than  that,  or  there  be  liars. 
Mop.  He  hath  paid  you  all  he  promised  you  :  may  be,  he  has 

paid  you  more,  which  will  shame  you  to  give  him  again. 
Clo.  Is  there  no  manners  left  among  maids  ?   will  they  wear 

their  plackets  where  they  should  bear  their  faces  ?     Is  there 

not  milking-time,  when  you  are  going  to  bed,  or  kiln-hole,  to 

whistle  off  these  secrets,  but  you  must  be  tittle-tattling  before 

all  our  guests  ?    'tis  well  they  are  whispering :    clamour  your 

tongues,  and  not  a  word  more. 
Mop.  I  have  done.     Come,  you  promised  me  a  tawdry-lace 

and  a  pair  of  sweet  gloves. 
Clo.  Have  I  not  told  thee  how  I  was  cozened  by  the  way  and 

lost  all  my  money  ? 
Aut.  And  indeed,  sir,  there  are  cozeners  abroad ;  therefore  it 

behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

Clo.  Fear  not  thou,  man,  thou  shalt  lose  nothing  here. 
Aut.  I  hope  so,   sir ;  for  I  have  about  me  many  parcels  of 

charge. 

Clo.  What  hast  here  ?  ballads  ? 
Mop.  Pray  now,  buy  some  :    I  love  a  ballad  in  print  o'  life,  for 

then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 

Aut.  Here 's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune,  how  a  usurer's  wife 

805 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  T 


ale 

and 


was  brought  to  bed  of  twenty  money-bags  at  a  burthen, 
how  she  longed  to  eat  adders'  heads  and  toads  carbonadoed, 

Mop.  Is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Very  true,  and  but  a  month  old. 

Dor.  Bless  me  from  marrying  a  usurer  ! 

Aut.  Here 's  the  midwife's  name  to 't,  one  Mistress  Tale-porter, 
and  five  or  six  honest  wives  that  were  present,  Why  should 
I  carry  lies  abroad  ? 

Mop.  Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

Clo.  Come  on,  lay  it  by  :  and  let 's  first  see  moe  ballads  ;  we  '11 
buy  the  other  things  anon. 

Aut.  Here 's  another  ballad  of  a  fish,  that  appeared  upon  the 
coast,  on  Wednesday  the  fourscore  of  April,  forty  thousand 
fathom  above  water,  and  sung  this  ballad  against  the  hard 
hearts  of  maids  :  it  was  thought  she  was  a  woman,  and  was 
turned  into  a  cold  fish  for  she  would  not  exchange  flesh  with 
one  that  loved  her  :  the  ballad  is  very  pitiful  and  as  true. 

Dor.  Is  it  true  too,  think  you  ?  [pack  will  hold. 

Aut.  Five  justices'  hands  at  it,  and  witnesses  more  than  my 

Clo.  Lay  it  by  too  :  another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  ballad,  but  a  very  pretty  one. 

Mop.  Let 's  have  some  merry  ones. 

Aut.  Why,  this  is  a  passing  merry  one  and  goes  to  the  tune  of 
'  Two  maids  wooing  a  man  : '  there 's  scarce  a  maid  westward 
but  she  sings  it ;  'tis  in  request,  I  can  tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it :  if  thou  'It  bear  a  part,  thou  shalt 
hear  ;  'tis  in  three  parts. 

Dor.  We  had  the  tune  on 't  a  month  ago. 

Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part;  you  must  know  'tis  my  occupation  : 
have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 

A.  Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go 
Where  it  fits  not  you  to  know. 

D.  Whither  ?     M.  O,  whither  ?     D.  Whither  ? 
M.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well, 
Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell : 
D.  Me  too,  let  me  go  thither. 

M.  Or  thou  goest  to  the  grange  or  mill : 
D.  If  to  either,  thou  dost  ill. 

A.  Neither.     D.  What,  neither  ?     A.  Neither. 
D.  Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  be  ; 
M.  Thou  hast  sworn  it  more  to  me : 
Then  whither  goest  ?  say,  whither  ? 
806 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

Clo.  We  '11  have  this  song  out  anon  by  ourselves :  my  father 
and  the  gentlemen  are  in  sad  talk,  and  we  '11  not  trouble 
them.  Come,  bring  away  thy  pack  after  me.  Wenches,  I  '11 
buy  for  you  both.  Pedlar,  let's  have  the  first  choice. 
Follow  me,  girls.  \Exit  with  Dorcas  and  Mopsa. 

Aut.  And  you  shall  pay  well  for  'em.  [follows  singing. 

Will  you  buy  any  tape, 

Or  lace  for  your  cape, 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a  ? 

Any  silk, :  any  thread, 

Any  toys  for  your  head, 
Of  the  new'st,  and  finest,  finest  wear-a  ? 

Come  to  the  pedlar  ; 

Money  Js  a  medler, 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Master,  there  is  three  carters,  three  shepherds,  three  neat 
herds,  three  swine-herds,  that  have  made  themselves  all  men 
of  hair,  they  call  themselves  Saltiers,  and  they  have  a  dance 
which  the  wenches  say  is  a  gallimaufry  of  gambols,  because 
they  are  not  in 't ;  but  they  themselves  are  o'  the  mind,  if  it 
be  not  too  rough  for  some  that  know  little  but  bowling,  it 
will  please  plentifully. 

Shep.  Away  !  we  '11  none  on 't :  here  has  been  too  much  homely 
foolery  already.  I  know,  sir,  we  weary  you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us  :  pray,  let 's  see  these  four 
threes  of  herdsmen. 

Serv.  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  report,  sir,  hath  danced 
before  the  king ;  and  not  the  worst  of  the  three  but  jumps 
twelve  foot  and  a  half  by  the  squier. 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating :  since  these  good  men  are  pleased, 
let  them  come  in ;  but  quickly  now. 

Serv.  Why,  they  stay  at  door,  sir.  [Exit. 

Here  a  dance  of  twelve  Satyrs. 

Pol  O,  father,  you  11  know  more  of  that  hereafter. 

[To  Cam.]  Is  it  not  too  far  gone?     Tis  time  to  part  them. 
He 's  simple  and  tells  much.     How  now,  fair  shepherd  ! 
Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting.     Sooth,  when  I  was  young 
And  handed  love  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks :  I  would  have  ransack'd 
The  pedlar's  silken  treasury  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance ;  you  have  let  him  go 

807 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

And  nothing  mar  ted  with  him.     If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply,  at  least  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are  : 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already, 
But  not  deliver'd.     O,  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem, 
Hath  sometime  loved  1     I  take  thy  hand,  this  hand, 
As  soft  as  dove's  down  and  as  white  as  it, 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow  that 's  bolted 
By  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 

Pol.  What  follows  this  ? 

How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
The  hand  was  fair  before  !     I  have  put  you  out : 
But  to  your  protestation ;  let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 

Flo.  Do,  and  be  witness  to  't. 

Pol.  And  this  my  neighbour  too  ? 

Flo.  And  he,  and  more 

.  Than  he,  and  men,  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and  all : 
That,  were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch, 
Thereof  most  worthy,  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve,  had  force  and  knowledge 
More  than  was  ever  man's,  I  would  not  prize  them 
Without  her  love ;  for  her  employ  them  all ; 

.    Commend  them  and  condemn  them  to  her  service 
Or  to  their  own  perdition. 

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Cam.  That  shows  a  sound  affection. 

Shep.  But,  my  daughter, 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Per.  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no,  nor  mean  better : 
By  the  pattern  of  mine  our  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  ! 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to 't  : 
I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Her  portion  equal  his. 

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

I'  the  virtue  of  your  daughter  :  one  being  dead, 

808 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc,  iv 

I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet ; 

Enough  then  for  your  wonder.     But,  come  on, 

Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 
Shep.  Come,  your  hand  • 

And,  daughter,  yours. 
PoL  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  beseech  you ; 

Have  you  a  father  ? 

Flo.  I  have  :  but  what  of  him  ? 

Pol.  Knows  he  of  this? 

Flo.  He  neither  does  nor  shall. 

Pol  Methinks  a  father 

Is  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son  a  guest 

That  best  becomes  the  table.     Pray  you  once  more, 

Is  not  your  father  grown  incapable 

Of  reasonable  affairs  ?  is  he  not  stupid 

With  age  and  altering  rheums?  can  he  speak  ?  hear? 

Know  man  from  man  ?  dispute  his  own  estate  ? 

Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again  does  nothing 

But  what  he  did  being  childish  ? 
Flo.  No,  good  sir; 

He  hath  his  health  and  ampler  strength  indeed  • 

Than  most  have  of  his  age. 
Pol  By  my  white  beard, 

You  offer  him,  if  this  be  so,  a  wrong 

Something  unfilial :  reason  my  son 

Should  choose  himself  a  wife,  but  as  good  reason 

The  father,  all  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 

But  fair  posterity,  should  hold  some  counsel 

In  such  a  business. 
'Flo.  I  yield  all  this  ; 

But  for  some  other  reasons,  my  grave  sir, 

Which  'tis  not  fit  you  know,  I  not  acquaint 

My  father  of  this  business. 
PoL  Let  him  know 't. 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 
Pol  Prithee,  let  him. 

Flo.  No,  he  must  not. 

Shep.  Let  him,  my  son  :  he  shall  not  need  to  grieve 

At  knowing  of  thy  choice. 
Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not. 

Mark  our  contract. 
Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[Discovering  himself. 

Whom  son  I  dare  not  call ;  thou  art  too  base 

To  be  acknowledged :  thou  a  sceptre's  heir, 

809  c  c  2 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  T; 

That  thus  affects  a  sheep-hook !     Thou  old  traitor, 
I  am  sorry  that  my  hanging  thee  I  can 
But  shorten  thy  life  one  week.     And  thou,  fresh  piece 
Of  excellent  witchcraft,  who  of  force  must  know 
The  royal  fool  thou  copest  with, — 

Shep.  O,  my  heart ! 

Pol.  I  '11  have  thy  beauty  scratch'd  with  briers,  and  made 
More  homely  than  thy  state.     For  thee,  fond  boy, 
If  I  may  ever  know  thou  dost  but  sigh 
That  thou  no  more  shalt  see  this  knack,  as  never 
I  mean  thou  shalt,  we  '11  bar  thee  from  succession ; 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no,  not  our  kin, 
Far  than  Deucalion  off :  mark  thou  my  words  : 
Follow  us  to  the  court.     Thou  churl,  for  this  time, 
Though  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it.     And  you,  enchantment, — • 
Worthy  enough  a  herdsman ;  yea,  him  too, 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein, 
Unworthy  thee, — if  ever  henceforth  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 
Or  hoop  his  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee 
As  thou  art  tender  to 't.  [Exit. 

Per.  Even  here  undone ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard ;  for  once  or  twice 
I  was  about  to  speak  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  selfsame  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike.     Will 't  please  you,  sir,  be  gone  ? 
I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this  :  beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care :  this  dream  of  mine, — - 
Being  now  awake,  I  '11  queen  it  no  inch  farther, 
But  milk  my  ewes  and  weep. 

Cam.  Why,  how  now,  father : 

Speak  ere  thou  diest. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think, 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know.     O  sir  1 
You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three, 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea, 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones :  but  now 
Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shroud  and  lay  me 
Where  no  priest  shovels  in  dust.     O  cursed  wretch, 
That  knew'st  this  was  the  prince,  and  wouldst  adventure 
To  mingle  faith  with  him  !     Undone !  undone  ! 

810 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

If  I  might  die  within  this  hour,  I  have  lived 

To  die  when  I  desire.  [Exit. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard ;  delay'd, 

But  nothing  alter'd  :  what  I  was,  I  am  ; 

More  straining  on  for  plucking  back,  not  following 

My  leash  unwillingly. 
Cam.  Gracious  my  lord, 

You  know  your  father's  temper  :  at  this  time 

He  will  allow  no  speech,  which  I  do  guess 

You  do  not  purpose  to  him  ;  and  as  hardly 

Will  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear : 

Then,  till  the  fury  of  his  highness  settle, 

Come  not  before  him. 
Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  Even  he,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you  'twould  be  thus  1 

How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 

But  till  'twere  known  ! 
Flo.  It  cannot  fail  but  by 

The  violation  of  my  faith  ;  and  then 

Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together  . 

And  mar  the  seeds  within  !     Lift  up  thy  looks  : 

From  my  succession  wipe  me,  father,  I 

Am  heir  to  my  affection. 
Cam.  Be  advised. 

Flo.  I  am,  and  by  my  fancy  :  if  my  reason 

Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason ; 

If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleased  with  madness, 

Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it  :  but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow  ; 

I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 

Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 

Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 

The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 

In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 

To  this  my  fair  beloved  :  therefore,  I  pray  you, 

As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  honour'd  friend, 

When  he  shall  miss  me, — as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 

To  see  him  any  more, — cast  your  good  counsels 

Upon  his  passion  :  let  myself  and  fortune 

Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know 
And  so  deliver,  I  am  put  to  sea 

811 


Act  IV,  Se.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

With  her  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore ; 

And  most  opportune  to  our  need  I  have 

A  vessel  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepared 

For  this  design.     What  course  I  mean  to  hold 

Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 

Concern  me  the  reporting. 
Cam.  O  my  lord  ! 

I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice, 

Or  stronger  for  your  need. 
Flo.  Hark,  Perdita.  [.Drawing  her  aside. 

I  '11  hear  you  by  and  by. 
Cam.  He 's  irremoveable, 

Resolved  for  flight.     Now  were  I  happy,  if 

His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn, 

Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour, 

Purchase  the  sight  again  of  dear  Sicilia 

And  that  unhappy  king,  my  master,  whom 

I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 
Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo ; 

I  am  so  fraught  with  curious  business  that 

I  leave  out  ceremony. 
Cam.  Sir,  I  think 

You  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'  the  love 

That  I  have  borne  your  father  ? 
Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  you  deserved :  it  is  my  father's  music 

To  speak  your  deeds,  not  little  of  his  care 

To  have  them  recompensed  as  thought  on. 
Cam.  Well,  my  lord, 

If  you  may  please  to  think  I  love  the  king, 

And  through  him  what  is  nearest  to  him,  which  is 

Your  gracious  self,  embrace  but  my  direction, 

If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 

May  suffer  alteration,  on  mine  honour 

I  '11  point  you  where  you  shall  have  such  receiving 

As  shall  become  your  highness ;  where  you  may 

Enjoy  your  mistress,  from  the  whom,  I  see, 

There 's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by, 

As  heavens  forefend  !  your  ruin ;  marry  her, 

And,  with  my  best  endeavours  in  your  absence, 

Your  discontenting  father  strive  to  qualify 

And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 
Flo.  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done  ? 

That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man 

812 


The  Winters  Tale  {Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

And  after  that  trust  to  thee. 
Cam.  Have  you  though*  on 

A  place  whereto  you  '11  go  ? 
Flo.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  the  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty 

To  what  we  wildly  do,  so  we  profess 

Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 

Of  every  wind  that  blows. 
Cam.  Then  list  to  me  : 

This  follows,  if  you  will  not  change  your  purpose 

But  undergo  this  flight,  make  for  Sicilia, 

And  there  present  yourself  and  your  fair  princess, 

For  so  I  see  she  must  be,  'fore  Leontes  r. 

She  shall  be  habited  as  it  becomes 

The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks  I  see 

Leontes  opening  his  free  arms  and  weeping 

His  welcomes  forth ;  asks  thee  the  son  forgiveness, 

As  'twere  i'  the  father's  person ;  kisses  the  hands 

Of  your  fresh  princess  ;  o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 

'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness ;  the  one 

He  chides  to  hell  and  bids  the  other  grow 

Faster  than  thought  or  time. 
Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 

Hold  up  before  him  ? 
Cam.  Sent  by  the  king  your  father 

To  greet  him  and  to  give  him  comforts.     Sir, 

The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 

What  you  as  from  your  father  shall  deliver, 

Things  known  betwixt  us  three,  I  '11  write  you  down : 

The  which  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting 

What  you  must  say;  that  he  shall  not  perceive 

But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there 

And  speak  his  very  heart. 
Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you  : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 
Cam.  A  course  more  pi'omising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 

To  unpath'd  waters,  undream 'd  shores,  most  certain 

To  miseries  enough :  no  hope  to  help  you, 

But  as  you  shake  off  one  to  take  another : 

Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors,  who 

Do  their  best  office,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 

Where  you  '11  be  loath  to  be  :  besides  you  know 

Prosperity 's  the  very  bond  of  love, 

813 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  together 
Affliction  alters. 

Per.  One  of  these  is  true  : 

I  think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  take  in  the  mind. 

Cam.  Yea,  say  you  so  ? 

There  shall  not  at  your  father's  house  these  seven  years 
Be  born  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding  as 
She  is  i'  the  rear  o'  her  birth. 

Cam.  I  cannot  say  'tis  pity 

She  lacks  instructions,  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir  ;  for  this 

I  '11  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.  My  prettiest  Perdita  ! 

But  O,  the  thorns  we  stand  upon !     Camillo, 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me, 
The  medicine  of  our  house,  how  shall  we  do  ? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son, 
Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicilia. 

Cam.  My  lord, 

Fear  none  of  this  :  I  think  you  know  my  fortunes 

Do  all  lie  there  :  it  shall  be  so  my  care 

To  have  you  royally  appointed  as  if 

The  scene  you  play  were  mine.     For  instance,  sir, 

That  you  may  know  you  shall  not  want,  one  word. 

{They  talk  aside. 
Re-enter  Autolycus. 

Aut.  Ha,  ha  I  what  a  fool  Honesty  is!  and  Trust,  his  sworn 
brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman !  I  have  sold  all  my 
trumpery ;  not  a  counterfeit  stone,  not  a  ribbon,  glass, 
pomander,  brooch,  table-book,  ballad,  knife,  tape,  glove, 
shoe-tie,  bracelet,  horn-ring,  to  keep  my  pack  from  fasting  : 
they  throng  who  should  buy  first,  as  if  my  trinkets  had  been 
hallowed  and  brought  a  benediction  to  the  buyer  :  by  which 
means  I  saw  whose  purse  was  best  in  picture ;  and  what  I 
saw,  to  my  good  use  I  remembered.  My  clown,  who  wants 
but  something  to  be  a  reasonable  man,  grew  so  in  love  with 
the  wenches'  song,  that  he  would  not  stir  his  pettitoes  till  he 
had  both  tune  and  words ;  which  so  drew  the  rest  of  the 
herd  to  me,  that  all  their  other  senses  stuck  in  ears :  you 
might  have  pinched  a  placket,  it  was  senseless  ;  'twas  nothing 
to  geld  a  codpiece  of  a  purse ;  I  would  have  filed  keys  off 

814 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

that  hung  in  chains :  no  hearing,  no  feeling,  but  my  sir's 
song,  and  admiring  the  nothing  of  it.  So  that  in  this  time 
of  lethargy  I  picked  and  cut  most  of  their  festival  purses ; 
and  had  not  the  old  man  come  in  with  a  whoo-bub  against 
his  daughter  and  the  king's  son  and  scared  my  choughs 
from  the  chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse  alive  in  the  whole 
army.  [Camilla,  Florizel,  and  Perdita  come  forward. 

Cam,  Nay,  but  my  letters,  by  this  means  being  there 

So  soon  as  you  arrive,  shall  clear  that  doubt. 
Flo.  And  those  that  you  '11  procure  from  King  Leontes — 
Cam.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 
Per.  Happy  be  you  ! 

All  that  you  speak  shows  fair. 
Cam.  Who  have  we  here  ? 

[Seeing  Autolycus. 

We  '11  make  an  instrument  of  this  ;  omit 
Nothing  may  give  us  aid. 

Aut.  If  they  have  overheard  me  now,  why, '  hanging. 
Cam.  How  now,  good  fellow  !   why  shakest  thou  so  ?     Fear 

not,  man ;   here  's  no  harm  intended  to  thee. 
Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still;  here's  nobody  wiuY steal  that  from 
thee :  yet  for  the  outside  of  thy.  poverty  we  must  make  an 
exchange ;  therefore  disease  thee  instantly, — thou  must 
think  there  's  a  necessity  in  't, — and  change  garments  with 
this  gentleman :  though  the  pennyworth  on  his  side  be  the 
worst,  yet  hold  thee,  there 's  some  boot. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir.     [Aside]  I  know  ye  well  enough. 
Cam.  Nay,   prithee,   dispatch :    the  gentleman   is   half  flayed 

already. 

Aut.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ?     [Aside]  I  smell  the  trick  on  ;t. 
Flo.  Dispatch,  I  prithee. 

Aut.  Indeed,  I  have  had  earnest ;  but  I  cannot  with  conscience 
Cam.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle.  [take  it. 

[Florizel  and  Autolycus  exchange  garments. 
Fortunate  mistress, — let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  ye ! — you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert :  take  your  sweetheart's  hat 
And  pluck  it  o'er  your  brows,  muffle  your  face, 
Dismantle  you,  and,  as  you  can,  disliken 
The  truth  of  your  own  seeming  ;  that  you  may— 
For  I  do  fear  eyes  over — to  shipboard 
Get  undescried. 

Per.  I  see  the  play  so  lies 

That  I  must  bear  a  part. 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Cam.  No  remedy. 

Have  you  done  there  ? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father, 

He  would  not  call  me  son, 
Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have  no  hat. 

{Giving  it  to  Perdita. 
Come,  lady,  come.     Farewell,  my  friend, 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  O  Perdita,  what  have  we  twain  forgot  ? 
Pray  you,  a  word. 

Cam.  [Aside]  What  I  do  next,  shall  be  to  tell  the  king 
Of  this  escape  and  whither  they  are  bound ; 
Wherein  my  hope  is  I  shall  so  prevail 
To  force  him  after  :  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia,  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us  1 

Thus  we  set  on,  Carnillo,  to  the  sea-side. 

Cam.  The  swifter  speed  the  better. 

\Exeunt  Florizel^  Perdita^  and  Camilla. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business,  I  hear  it:  to  have  an  open 
ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is  necessary  for  a 
cut-purse }  a  good  nose  is  requisite  also,  to  smell  out  work 
for  the  Other  senses.  I  see  this  is  the  time  that  the  unjust 
man  doth  thrive.  What  an  exchange  had  this  been  without 
boot!  What  a  boot  is  here  with  this  exchange  !  Sure  the 
gods  do  this  year  connive  at  us,  and  we  may  do  any  thing 
extempore.  The  prince  himself  is  about  a  piece  of  iniquity, 
stealing  away  from  his  father  with  his  clog  at  his  heels  :  if  I 
thought  it  were  a  piece  of  honesty  to  acquaint  the  king 
withal,  I  would  not  do  't :  I  hold  it  the  more  knavery  to 
conceal  it ;  and  therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 

Re-enter  Clown  and  Shepherd* 

Aside,  aside ;  here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot  brain :  every 
lane's  end,  every  shop,  church,  session,  hanging,  yields  a 
careful  man  work. 

Clo.  See,  see ;  what  a  man  you  are  now !  There  is  no  other 
way  but  to  tell  the  king  she 's  a  changeling  and  none  of  your 
flesh  and  blood, 

Shep.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to,  then. 

CJo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood,  your  flesh  and 
blood  has  not  offended  the  king;  and  so  your  flesh  and 
blood  is  not  to  be  punished  by  him.  Show  those  things. 

816 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

you  found  about  her,  those  secret  things,  all  but  what  she 
has  with  her :  this  being  done,  let  the  law  go  whistle :  I 
warrant  you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word,  yea,  and  his  son's 
pranks  too ;  who,  I  may  say,  is  no  honest  man,  neither  to  his 
father  nor  to  me,  to  go  about  to  make  rne  the  king's  brother- 
in-law. 

Clo.  Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  farthest  off  you  could  have 
been  to  him  and  then  your  blood  had  been  the  dearer  by  I 
know  how  much  an  ounce. 

Aut,  [Aside]  Very  wisely,  puppies  ! 

Shep.  Well,  let  us  to  the  king  :  there  is  that  in  this  fardel  will 
make  him  scratch  his  beard. 

Aut.  [Aside]  I  know  not  what  impediment  this  complaint  may 
be  to  the  flight  of  my  master. 

Clo.  Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

Aut.  [Aside]  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am  so  some 
times  by  chance :  let  me  pocket  up  my  pedlar's  excrement. 
[Takes  off  his  false  beardJ\  How  now,  rustics  !  whither  are 
you  bound? 

Shep.  To  the  palace,  an  it  like  your  worship. 

Aut.  Your  affairs  there,  what,  with  whom,  the  condition  of  that 
fardel,  the  place  of  your  dwelling,  your  names,  your  ages,  of 
what  having,  breeding,  and  any  thing  that  is  fitting  to  be 
known,  discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

Aut.  A  lie  ;  you  are  rough  and  hairy.  Let  me  have  no  lying  : 
it  becomes  none  but  tradesmen,  and  they  often  give  us 
soldiers  the  lie  :  but  we  pay  them  for  it  with  stamped  coin, 
not  stabbing  steel ;  therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie. 

Clo,  Your  worship  had  like  to  have  given  us  one,  if  you  had 
not  taken  yourself  with  the  manner. 

She.p.  Are  you  a  courtier,  an  't  like  you,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Whether  it  like  me  or  no,  I  am  a  courtier.  Seest  thou 
not  the  air  of  the  court  in  these  enfoldings  ?  hath  not  my  gait 
in  it  the  measure  of  the  court  ?  receives  not  thy  nose  court- 
odour  from  me?  reflect  I  not  on  thy  baseness  court-con 
tempt  ?  Thinkest  thou,  for  that  I  insinuate,  or  toaze  from 
thee  thy  business,  I  am  therefore  no  courtier  ?  I  am  courtier 
cap-a-pe ;  and  one  that  will  either  push  on  or  pluck  back  thy 
business  there  :  whereupon  I  command  thee  to  open  thy 

Shep.  My  business,  sir,  is  to  the  king.  [affair. 

Aut.  What  advocate  hast  thou  to  him  ? 

Shep.  I  know  not,  an  't  like  you.  [none. 

do*  Advocate 's  the  court-word  for  a  pheasant :  say  you  have 

817 


Act  IV,  Sc.  iv]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Shep.  None,  sir ;  I  have  no  pheasant,  cock  nor  hen. 

Aut.  How  blessed  are  we  that  are  not  simple  men  ! 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are, 
Therefore  I  will  not  disdain. 

Clo.  This  cannot  be  but  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them  .not  hand 
somely. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  the  more  noble  in  being  fantastical :  a 
great  man,  I  '11  warrant ;  I  know  by  the  picking  on  's  teeth. 

Aut.  The  fardel  there  ?  what 's  i'  the  fardel  ?  Wherefore  that 
box? 

Shep.  Sir,  there  lies  such  secrets  in  this  fardel  and  box,  which 
none  must  know  but  the  king ;  and  which  he  shall  know 
within  this  hour,  if  I  may  come  to  the  speech  of  him. 

Aut.  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why,  sir  ? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace ;  he  is  gone  aboard  a 
new  ship  to  purge  melancholy  and  air  himself:  for;  if 
thou  beest  capable  of  things  serious,  thou  must  know  the 
king  is  full  of  grief. 

Shep.  So  'tis  said,  sir  ;  about  his  son,  that  should  have  married 
a.  shepherd's  daughter. 

Aut.  If  that  shepherd  be  not  in  hand  fast,  let  him  fly :  the 
curses  he  shall  have,  the  tortures  he  shall  feel,  will  break 
the  back  of  man,  the  heart  of  monster. 

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wit  can  make  heavy 
and  vengeance  bitter ;  but  those  that  are  germane  to  him, 
though  removed  fifty  times,  shall  all  come  under  the  hang 
man  :  which  though  it  be  great  pity,  yet  it  is  necessary. 
An  old  sheep-whistling  rogue,  a  ram-tender,  to  offer  to 
have  his  daughter  come  into  grace  !  Some  say  he  shall 
be  stoned ;  but  that  death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I : 
draw  our  throne  into  a  sheep-cote  !  all  deaths  are  too  few, 
the  sharpest  too  easy.  [sir? 

Clo.  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir,  do  you  hear,  an 't  like  you, 

Aut.  He  has  a  son,  who  shall  be  flayed  alive ;  then,  'nointed 
over  with  honey,  set  on  the  head  of  a  wasp's  nest ;  then 
stand  till  he  be  three  quarters  and  a  dram  dead ;  then 
recovered  again  with  aqua-vitae  or  some  other  hot  infusion ; 
then,  raw  as  he  is,  and  in  the  hottest  day  prognostication 
proclaims,  shall  he  be  set  against  a  brick- wall,  the  sun 
looking  with  a  southward  eye  upon  him,  where  he  is  to 
behold  him  with  flies  blown  to  death.  But  what  talk  we 
of  these  traitorly  rascals,  whose  miseries  are  to  be  smiled 

818 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  IV,  Sc.  iv 

at,  their  offences  being  so  capital  ?  Tell  me,  for  you  seem 
to  be  honest  plain  men,  what  you  have  to  the  king : 
being  something  gently  considered,  I  '11  bring  you  where 
he  is  aboard,  tender  your  persons  to  his  presence,  whisper 
him  in  your  behalfs ;  and  if  it  be  in  man  besides  the  king 
to  effect  your  suits,  here  is  man  shall  do  it. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority :  close  with  him, 
give  him  gold ;  and  though  authority  be  a  stubborn  •  bear, 
yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose  with  gold  :  show  the  inside 
of  your  purse  to  the  outside  of  his  hand,  and  no  more 
ado.  Remember  'stoned/  and  'flayed  alive.' 

Shep.  An  't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the  business  for  us, 
here  is  that  gold  I  have :  I  Jll  make  it  as  much  more  and 
leave  this  young  man  in  pawn  till  I  bring  it  you. 

Aut.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised  ? 

Shep.  Ay,  sir. 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety.  Are  you  a  party  in  this 
business  ? 

Clo.  In  some  sort,  sir :  but  though  my  case  be  a  pitiful  one, 
I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flayed  out  of  it. 

Aut.  O,  that 's  the  case  of  the  shepherd^  son  :  hang  him, 
he  '11  be  made  an  example, 

Clo,  Comfort,  good  comfort !  We  must  to  the  king  and  show 
our  strange  sights  :  he  must  know  'tis  none  of  your  daugh 
ter  nor  rny  sister  ;  we  are  gone  else.  Sir,  I  will  give  you  as 
much  as  this  old  man  does  when  the  business  is  performed, 
and  remain,  as  he  says,  your  pawn  till  it  be  brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward  the  sea-side  ;  go  on 
the  right  hand  :  I  will  but  look  upon  the  hedge  and  follow 
you. 

Clo.  We  are  blest  in  this  man,  as  I  may  say,  even  blest. 

Shep.  Let 's  before  as  he  bids  us :  he  was  provided  to  do  us 
good.  \Exeunt  ShepJwrd  and  Clown. 

Aut.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  honest,  I  see  Fortune  would  not 
suffer  me  :  she  drops  booties  in  my  mouth.  I  am  courted 
now  with  a  double  occasion,  gold  and  a  means  to  do  the 
prince  my  master  good ;  which  who  knows  how  that  may 
turn  back  to  my  advancement?  I  will  bring  these  two 
moles,  these  blind  ones,  aboard  him  :  if  he  think  it  fit  to 
shore  them  again  and  that  the  complaint  they  have  to  the 

,  king  concerns  him  nothing,  let  him  call  me  rogue  for  being 
so  far  officious ;  for  I  am  proof  against  that  title  and  what 
shame  else  belongs  to  't.  To  him  will  I  present  them  : 
there  may  be  matter  in  it.  [Exit. 

819 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Tale 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I 

A  room  in  Leonte?  palace. 
Enter  Leontes^  Cleomenes,  Dion,  Paulina,  and  Servants. 

Cleo,  Sir,  you  have  done  enough,  and  have  perform'd 
A  saint-like  sorrow :  no  fault  could  you  make, 
Which  you  have  not  redeemed ;  indeed,  paid  down 
More  penitence  than  done  trespass  :  at  the  last, 
Do  as  the  heavens  have  done,  forget  your  evil ; 
With  them  forgive  yourself. 

Leon.  Whilst  I  remember 

Her  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them,  ,and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself :  which  was  so  much, 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom ;  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord  : 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good, 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  I  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd  !     I  did  so  :  but  thou  strikest  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought :  now,  good  now, 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady : 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit  and  graced 
Your  kindness  better. 

Paul.  You  are  one  of  those 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so, 

You  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  name ;  consider  little 
What  dangers,  by  his  highness'  fail  of  issue, 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom  and  devour 
Incertain  lookers-on.     What  were  more  holy 
Than  to  rejoice  the  former  queen  is  well  ? 
What  holier  than,  for  royalty's  repair, 
For  present  comfort  and  for  future  .good, 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to  't  ? 

820 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Paul  There  is  none  worthy, 

Respecting  her  that 's  gone.     Besides,  the  gods 

Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes  ; 

For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said, 

Is 't  not  the  tenor  of  his  oracle, 

That  King  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir 

Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which  that  it  shall, 

Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason 

As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave 

And  come  again  to  me ;  who,  on  my  life, 

Did  perish  with  the  infant.     ;Tis  your  counsel 

My  lord  should  to  the  heavens  be  contrary, 

Oppose  against  their  wills.    [To  LeonfesJ]  Care  not  for  issue  ; 

The  crown  will  find  an  heir :  great  Alexander 

Left  his  to  the  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 

Was  like  to  be  the  best. 
Leon.  Good  Paulina, 

Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 

I  know,  in  honour,  O,  that  ever  I 

Had  squared  me  to  thy  counsel ! — then,  even  now, 

I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes ; 

Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, — 
Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 
Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives ;  therefore,  no  wife  :  one  worse, 

And  better  used,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 

Again  possess  her  corpse,  and  on  this  stage, 

Where  we  offenders  now,  appear  soul-vex'd, 
'   And  begin,  'Why  tome?' 
Paul.  Had  she  such  pbwer, 

She  had  just  cause. 
Leon.  She  had ;  and  would  incense  me 

To  murder  her  I  married. 
Paul.  I  should  so. 

Were  I  the  ghost  that  walk'd,  I  Id  bid  you  mark 

Her  eye,  and  tell  me  for  what  dull  part  in 't 

You  chose  her  ;  then  I  'Id  shriek,  that  even  your  ears 

Should  rift  to  hear  me ;  and  the  words  that  follow'd 

Should  be  *  Remember  mine.' 
Leon.  Stars,  stars, 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals  !     Fear  thou  no  wife  ; 

I  '11  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 
Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

821 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Tale 

Leon.  Never,  Paulina ;  so  be  blest  my  spirit ! 

Paul.  Then,  good  my  lords,  bear  witness  to  his  oath. 

Cleo.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul,  Unless  another, 

As  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture, 

Affront  his  eye. 

Cleo.  .  Gpod  madam, — 

Paul.  .  I  have  done, 

Yet,  if  my  lord  will  marry, — if  you  will,  sir, 

No  remedy,  but  you  will, — give  me  the  office 

To  choose  you  a  queen :  she  shall  not  be  so  young 

As  was  your  former  ;  but  she  shall  be  such 

As,  walk'd  your  first  queen  's  ghost,  it  should  take  joy 

To  see  her  in  your  arms. 
Leon.  My  true  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry  till  thou  bid'st  us. 
Paul.  That 

Shall  be  when  your  first  queen  's  again  in  breath ; 

Never  till  then. 

E-nter  a  Gentleman. 
Gent.  One  that  gives  out  himself  Prince  Florizel, 

Son  of  Polixenes,  with  his  princess,  she 

The  fairest  I  have:  yet  beheld,  desires  access 

To  your  high  presence. 
Leon.  What  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  his  father's  greatness  :  his  approach, 

So  out  of  circumstance  and  sudden,  tells  us 

'Tis  not  a  visitation  framed,  but  forced 

By  need  and  accident.     What  train  ? 
Gent.  But  few, 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  His  princess,  say  yon,  with  him  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I  think, 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 
Paul.  O  Hermione, 

As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 

Above  a  better  gone,  so  must  thy  grave 

Give  way  to  what 's  seen  now  !     Sir,  you  yourself 

Have  said  and  writ  so,  but  your  writing  now 

Is  colder  than  that  theme,  *  She  had  not  been, 

Nor  was  not  to  be  equall'd ; ' — thus  your  verse 

Flow'd  with  her  beauty  once ;  'tis  shrewdly  ebb'd, 

To  say  you  have  seen  a  better. 
Gent.  Pardon,  madam  : 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot, — your  pardon, — 
"822 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  I 

The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye, 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.     This  is  a  creature, 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paul.  How  !  not  women  ? 

Gent.  Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman 
More  worth  than  any  man  ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 
Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes ; 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends, 
Bring  them  to  our  embracement 

\Exeunt  Cleomenes  and  otliers. 

Still,  'tis  strange 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 
Paul.  Had  our  prince, 

Jewel  of  children,  seen  this  hour,  he  had  pair'd 
Well  with  this  lord  :  there  was  not  full  a  month 
Between  their  births. 

Leon.  Prithee,  no  more  ;  cease  ;  thou  know'st 
He  dies  to  me  again  when  talk'd  of :  sure, 
When  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason.     They  are  corne. 

Re-enter  Cleomenes  and  others,  with  Florizel  and  Perdita. 
Your  mother  was  most  true  to  wedlock,  prince ; 
For  she  did  print  your  royal  father  off, 
Conceiving  you  :  were  I  but  twenty  one, 
Your  father's  image  is  so  hit  in  you, 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother, 
As  I  did  him,  and  speak  of  something  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.     Most  dearly  welcome  ! 
And  your  fair  princess, — goddess  ! — O,  alas  ! 
I  lost  a  couple,  that  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood  begetting  wonder,  as 
You,  gracious  couple,  do  :  and  then  I  lost, 
All  mine  own  folly,  the  society, 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  father,  whom, 
Though  bearing  misery,  I  desire  my  life 
Once  more  to  look  on  him. 
Flo.  By  his  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia,  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  greetings,  that  a  king,  at  friend, 
Can  send  his  brother :  and,  but  infirmity, 
Which  waits  upon  worn  times,  hath  something  seized 

823 


Act  V,  Sc.  i]  The  Winter's  Ts 

His  wish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 
The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Measured  to  look  upon  you  ;  whom  he  loves, 
He  bade  me  say  so,  more  than  all  the  sceptres 
And  those  that  bear  them  living. 
Leon.  O  my  brother, 

Good  gentleman  !  the  wrongs  I  have  done  thee  stir 
Afresh  within  me  ;  and  these  thy  offices, 
So  rarely  kind,  are  as  interpreters 
Of  my  behind-hand  slackness  !     Welcome  hither, 
As  is  the  spring  «to  the  earth.     And  hath  he  too 
Exposed  this  paragon  to  the  fearful  usage, 
At  least  ungentle,  of  the  dreadful  Neptune, 
To  greet  a  man  not  worth  her  pains,  much  less 
The  adventure  of  her  person  ? 
Flo.  Good  my  lord, 

She  came  from  Libya. 
Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Smalus, 

That  noble  honoured  lord,  is  fear'd  and  loved  ? 
Flo.  Most  royal  sir,  from  thence ;  from  him,  whose  daughter 
His  tears  proclaim'd  his,  parting  with  her :  thence, 
A  prosperous  south-wind  friendly,  we  have  cross'd, 
To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me, 
For  visiting  your  highness  :  my  best  train 
I  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismiss'd  ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir, 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !     You  have  a  holy  father, 
A  graceful  gentleman  ;  against  whose  person, 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin  : 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angry  note, 
Have  left  me  issueless ;  and  your  father 's  blest, 
As  he  from  heaven  merits  it,  with  you 
Worthy  his  goodness.     What  might  I  have  been, 
Might  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on, 
Such  goodly  things  as  you  ! 

Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir, 

That  which  I  shall  report  will  bear  no  credit, 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.     Please  you,  great  sir, 
Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself  by  me ; 

824 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  i 

Desires  you  to  attach  his  son,  who  has — 

His  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off — 

Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 

A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where 's  Bohemia  ?  speak. 

Lord.  Here  in  your  city  ;  I  now  came  from  him : 

I  speak  amazedly ;  and  it  becomes 

My  marvel  and  my  message.     To  your  court 

Whiles  he  was  hastening,  in  the  chase,  it  seems, 

Of  this  fair  couple,  meets  he  on  the  way 

The  father  of  this  seeming  lady  and 

Her  brother,  having  both  their  country  quitted 

With  this  young  prince. 
Flo.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me  ; 

Whose  honour  and  whose  honesty  till  now 

Endured  all  weathers. 
Lord.  Lay 't  so  to  his  charge  : 

He 's  with  the  king  your  father. 
Leon.  Who  ?  Camillo  ? 

Lord.  Camillo,  sir  ;  I  spake  with  him  ;  who  now 

Has  these  poor  men  in  question.     Never  saw  I 

Wretches  so  quake  :  they  kneel,  they  kiss  the  earth ; 

Forswear  themselves  as  often  as  they  speak : 

Bohemia  stops  his  ears,  and  threatens  them 

With  divers  deaths  in  death. 
Per.  O  my  poor  father ! 

The  heaven  sets  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 

Our  contract  celebrated. 
Leon.  You  are  married  ? 

Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to  be  ; 

The  stars,  I  see,  will  kiss  the  valleys  first : 

The  odds  for  high  and  low 's  alike. 
Leon.  My  lord, 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king  ? 
Flo.  She  is, 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 
Leon.  That  '  once,'  I  see  by  your  good  father's  speed, 

Will  come  on  very  slowly.     I  am  sorry, 

Most  sorry,  you  have  broken  from  his  liking 

When  you  were  tied  in  duty,  and  as  sorry 

Your  choice  is  not  so  rich  in  worth  as  beauty, 

That  you  might  well  enjoy  her. 
Flo.  Dear,  look  up  : 

Though  Fortune,  visible  an  enemy, 

Should  chase  us  with  my  father,  power  no  jot 

825 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winter's  T; 

Hath  she  to  change  our  loves.     Beseech  you,  sir, 

Remember  since  you  owed  no  more  to  time 

Than  I  do  now  :  with  thought  of  such  affections, 

Step  forth  mine  advocate  ;  at  your  request 

My  father  will  grant  precious  things  as  trifles. 
Leon.  Would  he  do  so,  I  'Id  beg  your  precious  mistress, 

Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle. 
Paul.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in  \  :  not  a  month 

'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more  worth  such  gazes 

Than  what  you  look  on  now. 
Leon.  I  thought  of  her, 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made.    \To  Florizel\  But  your  petitio 

Is  yet  unanswer'd.     I  will  to  your  father : 

Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 

I  arn  friend  to  them  and  you  :  upon  which  errand 

I  now  go  toward  him  ;  therefore  follow  me 

And  mark  what  way  I  make  :  come,  gocid  my  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

Before  Leontes*  palace. 
Enter  Autolycus  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this  relation  ? 

First  Gent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel,  heard  the  old 
shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how  he  found  it :  whereupon, 
after  a  little  amazedness,  we  were  all  commanded  out  of  the 
chamber ;  only  this  methought  I  heard  the  shepherd  say,  he 
found  the  child. 

Aut.  I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

First  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business;  but  the 
changes  I  perceived  in  the  king  and  Camillo  were  very  notes 
of  admiration  :  they  seemed  almost,  with  staring  on  one 
another,  to  tear  the  cases  of  their  eyes  ;  there  was  speech  in 
their  dumbness,  language  in  their  very  gesture ;  they  looked 
as  they  had  heard  of  a  world  ransomed,  or  one  destroyed :  a 
notable  passion  of  wonder  appeared  in  them  ;  but  the  wisest 
beholder,  that  knew  no  more  but  seeing,  could  not  say  if  the 
importance  were  joy  or  sorrow ;  but  in  the  extremity  of  the 
one,  it  must  needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  a  gentleman  that  haply  knows  more.     The  news, 
Rogero  ? 

Sec.  Gent.  Nothing  but  bonfires :  the  oracle  is  fulfilled ;  the  king's 
daughter  is  found  :  such  a  deal  of  wonder  is  broken  out  within 
this  hour,  that  ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 

826 


petition 
int. 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Enter  a  Third  Gentleman. 

Here  comes  the  Lady  Paulina's  steward  :  he  can  deliver  you 
more.  How  goes  it  now,  sir?  this  news  which  is  called  true 
is  so  like  an  old  tale,  that  the  verity  of  it  is  in  strong  suspicion  : 
has  the  king  found  his  heir  ? 

Third  Gent.  Most  true,  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant  by  circum 
stance  :  that  which  you  hear  you  '11  swear  you  see,  there  is 
such  unity  in  the  proofs.  The  mantle  of  Queen  Hermione's, 
her  jewel  about  the  neck  of  it,  the  letters  of  Antigonus  found 
with  it,  which  they  know  to  be  his  character,  the  majesty  of 
the  creature  in  resemblance  of  the  mother,  the  affection  of 
nobleness  which  nature  shows  above  her  breeding,  and  many 
other  evidences  proclaim  her  with  all  certainty  to  be  the  king's 
daughter.  Did  you  see  the  meeting  of  the  two  kings  ? 

Sec.  Gent.  No. 

Third  Gent.  Then  have  you  lost  a  sight,  which  was  to  be  seen, 
cannot  be  spoken  of.  There  might  you  have  beheld  one  joy 
crown  another,  so  and  in  such  manner,  that  it  seemed  sorrow 
wept  to  take  leave  of  them,  for  their  joy  waded  in  tears. 
There  was  casting  up  of  eyes,  holding  up  of  hands,  with 
countenance  of  such  distraction,  that  they  were  to  be  known 
by  garment,  not  by  favour.  Our  king,  being  ready  to  leap 
out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his  found  daughter,  as  if  that  joy  were 
now  become  a  loss,  cries  *  O,  thy  mother,  thy  mother ! '  then 
asks  Bohemia  forgiveness ;  then  embraces  his  son-in-law ; 
theft  again  worries  he  his  daughter  with  clipping  her;  now  he 
thanks  the  old  shepherd,  which  stands  by  like  a1  weather-bitten 
conduit  of  many  kings'  reigns.  I  never  heard  -of  such  another 
encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow  it  and  undoes 
description  to  do  it. 

Sec.  Gent.  What,  pray  you,  became  of  Antigonus,  that  carried 
hence  the  child  ? 

Third  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still,  which  will  have  matter  to 
rehearse,  though  credit  be  asleep  and  not  an  ear  open.  He 
was  torn  to  pieces  with  a  bear :  this  avouches  the  shepherd's 
son ;  who  has  not  only  his  innocence,  which  seems  much,  to 
justify  him,  but  a  handkerchief  and  rings  of  his  that  Paulina 
knows. 

First  Gent.  What  became  of  his  bark  and  his  followers  ? 

Third  Gent.  Wrecked  the  same  instant  of  their  master's  death 
and  in  the  view  of  the  shepherd  :  so  that  all  the  instruments 
which  aided  to  expose  the  child  were  even  then  lost  when  it 
was  found.  But  O,  the  noble  combat  that  'twixt  joy  and 
sorrow  was  fought  in  Paulina  !  She  had  one  eye  declined  for 
the  loss  of  her  husband,  another  elevated  that  the  oracle  was 
827 


Act  V,  Sc.  ii]  The  Winters  Tale 

fulfilled  :  she  lifted  the  princess  from  the  earth,  and  so  locks 
her  in  embracing,  as  if  she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart  tha 
she  might  no  more  be  in  danger  of  losing. 

First  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth  the  audience 
kings  and  princes ;  for  by  such  was  it  acted. 

Third  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all  and  that  which 
angled  for  mine  eyes,  caught  the  water  though  not  the  fish, 
was  when,  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's  death,  with  the 
manner  how  she  came  to  't  bravely  confessed  and  lamented 
by  the  king,  how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter ;  till, 
from  one  sign  of  dolour  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  '  Alas,'  I 
would  fain  say,  bleed  tears,  for  I  am  sure  my  heart  wept  blood. 
Who  was  most  marble  there  changed  colour  ;  some  swooned, 
all  sorrowed  :  if  all  the  world  could  have  seen  't,  the  woe  had 
been  universal. 

First  Gent.  Are  they  returned  to  the  court  ? 

Third  Gent.  No :  the  princess  hearing  of  her  mother's  statue, 
.which  is  in  the  keeping  of  Paulina, — a  piece  many  years  in 
doing  and  now  newly  performed  by  that  rare  Italian  master, 
Julio  Romano,  who,  had  he  himself  eternity  and  could  put 
breath  into  his  work,  would  beguile  Nature  of  her  custom,  so 
perfectly  he  is  her  ape :  he  so  near  to  Hermione  hath  done 
Hermione,  that  they  say  one  would  speak  to  her  and  stand  in 
hope  of  answer : — thither  with  all  greediness  of  affection  are 
they  gone,  and  there  they  intend  to  sup. 

Sec.  Gent.  I  thought  she  had  some  great  matter  there  in  hand ; 
for  she  hath  privately  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  ever  since  the 
death  of  Hermione,  visited  that  removed  house.  Shall  we 
thither  and  with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing  ? 

First  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the  benefit  of  access  ? 
every  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new  grace  will  be  born :  our 
absence  makes  us  unthrifty  to  our  knowledge.  Let 's  along. 

{Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Aut.  Now,  had  I  not  the  dash  of  my  former  life  in  me,  would 
preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I  brought  the  old  man  and 
his  son  aboard  the  prince ;  told  him  I  heard  them  talk  of  a 
fardel  and  I  know  not  what :  but  he  at  that  time,  overfond  of 
the  shepherd's  daughter,  so  he  then  took  her  to  be,  who 
began  to  be  much  sea-sick,  and  himself  little  better,  extremity 
of  weather  continuing,  this  mystery  remained  undiscovered. 
But  'tis  all  one  to  me ;  for  had  I  been  the  finder  out  of  this 
secret,  it  would  not  have  relished  among  my  other  discredits. 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

Here  comes  those  I  have  done  good  to  against  my  will,  and 
already  appearing  in  the  blossoms  of  their  fortune. 

828 


Kii 

: 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  ii 

Shep.  Come,  boy ;  I  am  past  moe  children,  but  thy  sons  and 
daughters  will  be  all  gentlemen  born. 

Clo.  You  are  well  met,  sir.  You  denied  to  fight  with  me  this 
other  day,  because  I  was  no  gentleman  born.  See  you  these 
clothes  ?  say  you  see  them  not  and  think  me  still  no  gentle 
man  born :  you  were  best  say  these  robes  are  not  gentleman 
born :  give  me  the  lie,  do,  and  try  whether  I  am  not  now 
a  gentleman  born. 

Aut.  I  know  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman  born. 

Clo.  Ay,  and  have  been  so  any  time  these  four  hours. 

Shep.  And  so  have  I,  boy. 

Clo.  So  you  have  :  but  I  was  a  gentleman  born  before  my  father ; 
for  the  king's  son  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  called  me 
brother  ;  and  then  the  two  kings  called  my  father  brother  ; 
and  then  the  prince  my  brother  and  the  princess  my  sister 
called  my  father  father ;  and  so  we  wept,  and  there  was  the 
first  gentleman-like  tears  that  ever  we  shed. 

Shep.  We  may  live,  son,  to  shed  many  more.          : 

Clo.  Ay ;  or  else  'twere  hard  luck,  being  in  so  preposterous 
estate  as  we  are. 

Aut.  I  humbly  beseech  you,  sir,  to  pardon  me  all  the  faults  I 
have  committed  to  your  worship,  and  to  give  me  your  good 
report  to  the  prince  my  master.  [gentlemen. 

Shep.  Prithee,  son,  do ;    for  we  must  be  gentle,  now  we  are 

Clo.  Thou  wilt  amend  thy  life  ? 

Aut.  Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  will  swear  to  the  prince  thou  art  as 
honest  a  true  fellow  as  any  is  in  Bohemia. 

Shep.  You  may  say  it,  but  not  swear  it. 

Clo.  Not  swear  it,  now  I  am  a  gentleman  ?  Let  boors  and 
franklins  say  it,  I  '11  swear  it. 

Shep.  How  if  it  be  false,  son  ? 

Clo.  If  it  be  ne'er  so  false,  a  true  gentleman  may  swear  it  in 
the  behalf  of  his  friend  :  and  I'll  swear  to  the  prince  thou  art 
a  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands  and  that  thou  wilt  not  be  drunk  ; 
but  I  know  thou  art  no  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands  and  that 
thou  wilt  be  drunk :  but  I  '11  swear  it,  and  I  would  thou 
wouldst  be  a  tall  fellow  of  thy  hands. 

Aut.  I  will  prove  so,  sir,  to  my  power. 

Clo.  Ay,  by  any  means  prove  a  tall  fellow :  if  I  do  not  wonder 
how  thou  dares'i  venture  to  be  drunk,  not  being  a  tall  fellow, 
trust  me  not.  Hark  !  the  kings  and  the  princes,  our  kindred, 
are  going  to  see  the  queen's  picture.  Come,  follow  us : 
we  11  be  thy  good  masters.  [Exeunt. 

829 


Act  V,  Sc,  iii]  The  Winter's  T 


SCENE  III 

A  cha,pel  in  Paulinas  house. 
Enter  Leontes,  Polixenes,  Florizel,  Perdita,  Camillo,  Paulin 

Lords,  and  Attendants. 
Leon.  O  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  great  comfort 

That.  I  have  had  of  thee  ! 
Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  well,  I  meant  well.     All  my  services 

You  have  paid  home  :  but  that  you  have  vouchsafed 

With  your  crown'd  brother  and  these  your  contracted 

Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit, 

It  is  a  surplus  of  your  grace,  which  never 

My  life  may  last  to  answer. 
Leon.  O  Paulina, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble  :  but  we  came 

To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen  :  your  gallery 

Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  content 

In  many  singularities  ;  but  we  saw  not 

That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, 

The  statue  of  her  mother. 
Paul.  As  she  lived  peerless, 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 

Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon 

Or  hand  of  man  hath  done ;  therefore  I  keep  it 

Lonely,  apart.     But  here  it  is  :  prepare 

To;  see  the  life  as  lively  mock'd  as  ever 

Still  sleep  mock'd  death  :  behold,  and  say  'tis  well. 

[Paulina  draws  a  curtain,  and  discovers 
•  Hermione  standing  like  a  statue. 

I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  off 

Your  wonder  :  but  yet  speak  ;  first,  you,  my  liege. 

Comes  it  not  something  near  ? 
Leon.  Her  natural  posture  ! 

Chide  me,  dear  stone,  that  I  may  say  indeed 

Thou  art  Hermione ;  or  rather,  thou  art  she 

In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 

As  infancy  and  grace.     But  yet,  Paulina, 

Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinkled,  nothing 

So  aged  as  this  seems. 
Pol.  O,  not  by  much. 

Paul.  So  much  the  more  our  carver's  excellence  ; 

Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years  and  makes  her 

As  she  lived  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done, 

830 


. 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Act  V,  Sc.  iii 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 

Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     O,  thus  she  stood, 

Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  warm  life, 

As  now  it  coldly  stands,  when  first  I  woo'd  her ! 

I  am  ashamed  :  does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me 

For  being  more  stone  than  it  ?     O  royal  piece, 

There 's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 

My  evils  conjured  to  remembrance,  and 

From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 

Standing  like  stone  with  thee. 
Per.  And  give  me  leave, 

And  do  not  say  'tis  superstition,  that 

I  kneel  and  then  implore  her  blessing.     Lady, 

Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 

Give  me  that  hand  of  yours  to  kiss. 
Paul.  O,  patience ! 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fix'd,  the  colour 's 

Not  dry. 
Cam.  My  lord,  your  sorrow  was  too  sore  laid  on, 

Which  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away, 

So  many  summers  dry  :  scarce  any  joy 

Did  ever  so  long  live;  no  sorrow 

But  kili'd  itself  much  sooner. 
Pol.  Pear  my  brother, 

Let  him  that  was  the.  cause  of.  this  have  power 

To  take  off  so  much  grief  from  you  as  he 

Will  piece  up  in  himself. 
Paul.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 

Would  thus  have  wrought  you,  for  the  stone  is  mine, 

I  'Id  not  have  show'd  it. 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on 't,  lest  your  fancy 

May  think  anon  it  moves. 
Leon.  Let  be,  let  be. 

Would  I  were  dead,  but  that,  methinks,  already — 

What  was  he  that  did  make  it  ?     See,  my  lord, 

Would  you  not  deem  it  breathed?  and  that  those  veins 

Did  verily  bear  blood? 
Pol.  Masterly  done  : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 
Leon.  The  fixure  of  her  eye  has  motion  in 't, 

As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 
Paul.  I  '11  draw  the  curtain  : 

My  lord 's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
831 


Act  V,  Sc.  ill]  The  Winter's  Tale 

He  '11  think  anon  it  lives. 
Leon.  O  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together  ! 

No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 

The  pleasure  of  that  madness.     Let 't  alone. 
Paul.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd  you :  but 

I  could  afflict  you  farther. 
Leon.  Do,  Paulina  ; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 

As  any  cordial  comfort.     Still,  methinks, 

There  is  an  air  comes  from  her :  what  fine  chisel 

Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?     Let  no  man  mock  me, 

For  I  will  kiss  her. 
Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet ; 

You  '11  mar  it  if  you  kiss  it,  stain  your  own 

With  oily  painting.     Shall  I  draw  the  curtain  ? 
Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 
Per.  So  long  could  1 

Stand  by,  a  looker  on. 
Paul.  Either  forbear, 

Quit  presently  the  chapel,  or  resolve  you 

For  more  amazement.     If  you  can  behold  it, 

I  '11  make  the  statue  move  indeed,  descend 

And  take  you  by  the  hand  :  but  then  you  '11  think, 

Which  I  protest  against,  I  am  assisted 

By  wicked  powers. 
Leon.  What  you  can  make  her  do, 

I  am  content  to  look  on  :  what  to  speak, 

I  am  content  to  hear  ;  for  'tis  as  easy 

To  make  her  speak  as  move. 
Paul.  It  is  required 

You  do  awake  your  faith.     Then  all  stand  still ; 

On  :  those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 

I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 
Leon.  Proceed : 

No  foot  shall  stir. 
Paul.  Music,  awake  her ;  strike !  \Music. 

'Tis  time ;  descend  ;  be  stone  no  more ;  approach  ; 

Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.     Come, 

I  '11  fill  your  grave  up  :  stir,  nay,  come  away, 

Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 

Dear  life  redeems  you.     You  perceive  she  stirs  : 

\Hermione  comes  down. 
Start  not ;  her  actions  shall  be  holy  as 


The  Winter's  Tale  [Art  v,  Sc.  Hi 

You  hear  my  spell  is  lawful :  do  not  shun  her 
Until  you  see  her  die  again;  for  then 

You  kill  her  double.     Nay,  present  your  hand  : 

When  she  was  young  you.woo'd  her;  now  in  age 

Is  she  become  the  suitor  ? 
Leon.  O,  she  's  warm  ! 

If  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  an  art 

Lawful  as  eating. 

Pol.  She  embraces  him. 

Cam.  She  hangs  about  his  neck  : 

If  she  pertain  to  Ijfe  let  her  speak  too. 
Pol.  Ay,  and  make 't  manifest  where  she  has  lived, 

Or  how  stolen  from  the  dead. 
Paul.  That  she  is  living, 

Were  it  but  told  you,  should  be  hooted  at 

Like  an  old  tale :  but  it  appears  she  lives, 

Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while. 

Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam :  kneel 

And  pray  your  mother's  blessing.     Turn,  good  lady  ; 

Our  Perdita  is  found. 
Her.  You  gods,  look  down, 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 

Upon  my  daughter's  head  !     Tell  me,  mine  own, 

Where  hast  thou  been  preserved  ?  where  lived  ?  how  found 

Thy  father's  court?  for  thou  shalt  hear  that  I, 

Knowing  by  Paulina  that  the  oracle 

Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being,  have  preserved 

Myself  to  see  the  issue. 
Paul.  There 's  time  enough  for  that 

Lest  they  desire  upon  this  push  to  trouble 

Your  joys  with  like  relation.     Go  together, 

You  precious  winners  all ;  your  exultation 

Partake  to  every  one.     I,  an  old  turtle, 

Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough  and  there 

My  mate,  that 's  never  to  be  found  again, 

Lament  till  I  am  lost. 
Leon.  O,  peace,  Paulina  ! 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent, 

As  I  by  thine  a  wife  :  this  is  a  match, 

And  made  between  's  by  vows.     Thou  hast  found  mine  ; 

But  how,  is  to  be  question'd ;  for  I  saw  her, 

As  I  thought,  dead  ;  and  have  in  vain  said  many 

A  prayer  upon  her  grave.     I  '11  not  seek  far, — 

For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind, — to  find  thee 

An  honourable  husband.     Come,  Camillo, 

833  D  D 


Act  V,  Sc.  iii]  The  Winter's  Tale 

And  take  her  by  the  hand,  whose  worth  and  honesty 

Is  richly  noted  and  here  justified 

By  us,  a  pair  of  kings.     Let 's  from  this  place. 

What !  look  upon  my  brother  :  both  your  pardons, 

That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 

My  ill  suspicion.     This  your  son-in-law, 

And  son  unto  the  king,  whom  heavens  directing, 

Is  troth-plight  to  your  daughter.     Good  Paulina, 

Lead  us  from  hence,  where  we  may  leisurely 

Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  part 

Perform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time,  since  first 

We  were  dissever'd  :  hastily  lead  away.  \Exeunt. 


834 


GLOSSARY 


J.  =  Johnson.      D. 


Dyce.      S.  =  Schmidt.      H.E.D.  -  A  new  English  Dictionary  on 
Historical  Principles  (Murray,  Bradley). 


ABATED,  subdued,  depressed. 

ABHOR,  "  protest  against." 

ABLE,  answer  for. 

ABODE,  forebode. 

ABRIDGMENT,  (?)  a  means  of  shortening 
or  whiling  away  ;  or,  epitomCj  abstract 
(H.E.D.). 

ABSOLUTE,  perfect ;  decided. 

ABUSE,  deception  ;  v.  deceive. 

ACCITE,  cite,  summon. 

ACKNOWN,  confessedly  acquainted  with. 

ADDITION,  title. 

ADDRESS,  prepare. 

ADMITTANCE,  fashion  (D.) ;  sanction ; 
admissibility  (H.E.D.). 

ADVANCE,  raise  to  honour. 

ADVERTISEMENT,  admonition  (D.);  public 
notice  or  announcement  (H.E.D.). 

ADVERTISING,  attentive. 

ADVISED,  act  with  deliberation  ;  informed. 

AFFECTION,  affectation. 

AFFEER'D,  confirmed. 

AFFRONT,  encounter. 

AFFY,  betroth. 

AGAZ'D,  amazed,  aghast. 

AGLET,  tag. 

AGLET-BABY,  "  image  or  head  cut  on  a 
tag." 

AGNIZE,  acknowledge. 

AIM,  conjecture. 

ALDER-LIEFEST,  most  beloved,  dearest. 

ALLOW,  approve. 

AMES-ACE,  both  aces,  the  lowest  throw. 

ANCHOR,  anchorite. 

ANCIENT,  ensign. 

ANGEL,  coin. 

ANTHROPOPHAGINIAN,  cannibal. 

ANTRE,  cave. 

•APE,  "lead  apes  in  hell,"  punishment  pre 
dicted  for  old  maids. 

APPELLANT,  challenger. 

APPLE-JOHN,  a  variety  of  apple. 

APPREHENSION,  anticipation  ;  perception  by 
the  senses  ;  sarcasm  (D.). 

AR«H,  chief. 

ARGAL,  corruption  of  ergo. , 

ARGUMENT,  subject. 

ARM-GAUNT,  (?)  with  gaunt  limbs  (H.  E.D.). 

AROINT,  away  1  avaunt  1 

ARROSE,  water. 

ARTICULATE,  set  forth  in  articles,  particu 
larize  (H.E.D.). 

ASCAUNT,  across. 

ASINEGO,  ASINICO,  donkey,  fool. 

ASSAY,  assault. 

ASSURED,  betrothed. 

ATTACH,  arrest. 

AWFUL,  filled  with  awe. 

BACCARE,  "  Go  back." 

BAFFLE,  a  punishment  inflicted  on  recreant 

knights,  who  were  hung  up  by  their  heels 

and  beaten. 


BALDRICK,  belt. 

"BALK   LOGIC,"   chop  logic;    balked(?) 

heaped  up  (H.E.D.). 
BALLOW,  cudgel. 
BAN-DOG,  dog  tied  or  chained  up. 
BANQURT,  dessert. 
BARBED,  in  horse  armour. 
BASH,  prisoner's  base,  a  game. 
BASES,   "  a  kind  of  embroidered  mantle, 

which  hung  down  from  the  middle,  worn 

by  knights  on  horseback."' 
BASILISK,  cocatrice,  a  creature  fabled  to 

kill  by  its  look  ;  piece  of  ordnance. 
BASTARD,  a  sweet  wine. 
BAT,  cudgel. 
BATE,  strife,  dispute ;  v.  flutter  with  the 

wings. 

.BATLET,  small  bat  for  beating  clothes. 
BATTEN,  fatten. 
BAVIN,  faggot  of  brushwood. 
BEADSMAN,  one  hired  to  pray  for  another. 
BEAR  A  BRAIN,  have  remembrance. 
BEAR-HERD,  BEAR-WARD,  bear  keeper. 
BEAR-IN-HAND,   hold    in    expectation,   in 

false  hopes. 
BEARING-CLOTH,  mantle  in  which  a  child 

was  carried  to  the  font. 
BEAVER,  movable  vizor  of  helmet. 
BECK,  bow. 
BENT,  "  utmost  degree  of  any  passion  or 

mental  quality  "  (J.). 
BERGOMASK,  a  dance  imitated  from  that  of 

the  peasants  of  Bergamasco. 
BESONIAN,  needy,  base  fellow. 
BESORT,  suite,  escort. 
BETEEM,  allow,  suffer. 
BIAS,  "  swelled  as  the  bowl  on  the  biassed 

side"(J.)- 
BIGGEN,  cap,  resembling  that  worn  by  the 

Beguines. 
BILBO,  sword,  from  Bilboet,  famous  for  its 

steel  work. 
BILROES,  iron  bar  and  fetters  for  confining 

refractory  sailors. 
BILL,  kind  of  pike,  halbert. 
BIRD-BOLT    blunt-pointed  arrow  used   for 

killing  birds. 
BISSON,  blind. 
BLACK  MONDAY,  a  reference  to  the  Monday 

after  Easter-day  1360,  when  many  men 

of  King  Edward  Ill's  host,  then  before 

Paris,  died  of  cold  as  they  sat  on  their 

horses. 

BLANK,  white  in  centre  of  target. 
BLOCK,  fashion  of  hat. 
BLOOD,  "  in  blood,"  in  good  condition. 
BLOOD-BOLTERED,  matted  with  blood. 
BOB,  taunt ;  v.  to  cheat. 
BODGE,  "old  form  of  botch  "  (H.E.D.). 
BODKIN,  small  dagger. 
BOGGLE,  swerve,  shy. 
BOLINS,  bowlines,  ropes  for  governing  the 

sails  of  a  ship. 


835' 


Glossary 


BOLLEN,  swollen. 

BOLTED,  sifted. 

BOLTER,  sieve. 

BOLTING-HATCH,  receptacle  into  which 
meal  is  sifted. 

BOMBARD,  large  leather  drinking  vessel. 

BOMBAST,  cotton,  or  other  material,  used 
for  stuffing. 

BONA-ROBA,  "  good,  wholesome,  plum- 
cheeked  wench  ; "  Courtesan. 

BOOT,  profit,  something  over  and  above  ; 
booty. 

BOOTS,  "give  the  boots,"  allusion  to  an 
instrument  of  torture,  or  "  make  a  laugh 
ing-stock  of." 

BORE,  calibre  of  a  gun,  capacity  of  the 
barrel. 

BOSKY,  woody. 

BOTTLE,  truss  (of  hay). 

BOTTOM,  low-lying  land. 

BRABBLE,  quarrel. 

BRACE.  (?)  coat  of  armour  (H.E.D.),  state 
of  defence. 

BRACK,  scent-hound  ;  bitch. 

BRAID,  (?)  deceitful  (H.E.D.);  v.  up 
braid. 

BRAKES  ("brakes  of  vice"),  thickets  ; 
"engines  of  torture"  (D.). 

BRAVE,  defy  ;  adorn,  make  fine. 

BRAVERY,  finery ;  bravado. 

BRAWL,  lively  dance. 

BRAWN,  arm. 

BREAK  UP,  carve ;  used  metaphorically 
for  opening  a  letter. 

BREED-BATE,  a  hatcher  of  quarrels. 

BREESE,  BRIZE,  gadfly. 

BROCK,  badger. 

BROGUES,  shoes. 

BRUIT,  report. 

BUCK,  lye  in  which  linen  is  washed  ;  linen 
so  washed. 

BUCKLE,  join  in  fight. 

BUCKLERS,  "  give  the  bucklers,"  yield  the 
victory. 

BUG,  bugbear. 

BULLY,  term  of  familiar  affection. 

BULLY-ROOK,  "jolly  comrade,  boon  com 
panion"  (H.E.D.). 

BUNG,  sharper,  cut-purse. 

BURGONET,  particular  kind  of  helmet. 

BUTT-SHAFT,  a  kind  of  arrow,  used  for 
shooting  at  butts. 

BUTTERY,  room  where  . -revisions  are  laid 
up. 

BUZZARD,  hawk  ;  various  insects  that  fly 
by  night ;  large  moths,  cockchafers 
(H.E.D.). 

BY  AND  BY,  immediately. 

CADDIS,  worsted  tape,  riband. 

CADE,  barrel. 

CALIVER,  light  musket,  harquebus. 

CANARY,  a  wine  ;  a  lively  dance. 

CANKER,  dog-rose  ;  canker-worm. 

CANSTICK,  candlestick. 

CANTLE,  piece,  portion. 

CANVASS,  toss. 

CAPTIOUS,  "capable  of  receiving"  (D.). 

CARACK,  large  trading  vessel  ;  galleon. 

CARBONADO,  meat  sliced  for  broiling. 

CARDED,  adulterated. 


ice- 
iblc 

„ 


836 


CAREER,   space    within    the    lists;    race 
course  ;    "  short  turning    of   a    nimble, 
horse,"    frisk,     gambol    (H.E.D.,   "I 
passes  some  .  .  .  careires  "). 

CARKANET,  necklace. 

CARL,  CARI.OT,  churl,  boor. 

CASTLE,  close  helmet. 

CATAIAN,  Chinese  (Cataia,  Cathay,  old 
name  foi  China). 

CATKK-COUSIN,  cousin  of  "  quatre,"  foi 
degree. 

GATES,  table  delicacies. 

CATLING,  lute,  violin-string. 

CAUTEL,  craftiness,  caution. 

CENSURE,  opinion,  judgment. 

CEREMENTS,  waxed-  cloths  for  enwraj 
embalmed  bodies. 

CESS,  measure,  "out  of  all  cess." 

CHACES,  "a  chace  at  tennis  is  that  spot 
where  a  ball  falls,  beyond  which  the 
adversary  must  strike  his  ball  to  gain  a 
point  or  chace  "  (Douce). 

CHAMBER,  piece  of  ordnance;  "Camera 
Regis,"  old  name  of  London. 

CHAMBERLAIN,  one  in  charge  of  chambers. 

CHANNEL,  kennel. 

CHAPE,  metal  mounting  of  scabbard,  "par 
ticularly  that  which  covers  the  point," 
possibly  the  scabbard  itself  (H.E.D.). 

CHAR  ACT,  distinctive  mark,  character. 

CHARACTER,  handwriting. 

CHARNECO,  wine,  probably  Portuguese. 

CHAUDRON,  entrails. 

CHEATER,  escheator. 

CHECK,  turn  from  pursuing  one  prey  to 
follow  another  (falconry). 

CHERRY-PIT,  game  in  which  cherry-stones 
were  thrown  into  a  small  hole. 

CHEVKRJL,  leather  made  of  kid-skin. 

CHEWKT,  chough,  jackdaw. 

CHTLDING,  fruitful. 

CHOPINE,  a  high  clog  worn  by  Venetian 
ladies,  etc, 

CINQUE-PACE,  a  dance,  the  steps  of  which 
were  regulated  by  the  number  five. 

CITTERN,  musical  instrument,  similar  to 
guitar. 

CLACK-DISH,  or  CLAP-DISH,  carried  about 
by  beggars,  who  clacked  the  cover  to 
attract  attention. 

CLAW,  flatter. 

CLEPE,  call. 

CLIFF,  clef,  key  in  music. 

CLING,  shrivel. 

CLINQUANT,  glittering. 

CLIP,  embrace. 

CLOUD  IN  "s  FACE,  signifying  that  the 
horse  has  a  dark-coloured  spot  between 
the  eyes. 

CLOUT,  "  the  mark  shot  at"  (H.E.D.),  nail 
or  pin  in  centre  of  white  of  target  (D.). 

CLOUTED,  hobnailed  "clouted  brogues." 

CLOY,  claw. 

COAST,  approach  ;  assail,  accost. 

COASTING,  "  coasting  welcome,"  an  amor 
ous  approach  (Nares)  ;  some  eds.,  "ac 
costing  welcome." 

COBLOAF,  small  round-shaped  loat 

COCKATRICE.    See  Basilisk. 

COCKLED,  within  a  shell. 

COCKREL,  a  young  cock. 


Glossary 


COFFIN,  raised  crust  of  a  pie. 

COG,  cheat. 

COIL,  turmoil,  confusion. 

COLLOP,  slice  of  meat,  portion  of  flesh. 

COLOURS,  false  appearances  ;  "  fear  no — " 

fear  no  enemy. 
COLT,  fool. 

COMMODITY,  advantage,  profit. 
COMPARATIVE,   "quick    at  comparisons" 

(S.) ;    one  ready  to  make  comparisons ; 

or,  compeer,  rival  (H.E.D.). 
COMPASSED,  bow  (window). 
COMPETITOR,  confederate. 
COMPOSURE,  combination. 
COMPROMISED,  having  mutually  promised. 
COMPTIBLE,  sensitive. 
CONCEIT,  conception,  fancy  ;  trifle. 
CONCENT,  accord,  harmony. 
CONEY-CATCH,  swindle. 
CONFECT,  a  sweetmeat. 
CONTEMPTIBLE,  contemptuous. 
CONTINENT,  that-which  envelops,  contains; 

the  thing  contained. 
CONTRIVE,  spend,  while  away. 
CONVENT,  cite ;  suit. 
CONVINCE,  overpower. 
COPATAIN  HAT,  high-crowned  hat. 
CORANTO,  quick  dance. 
CORINTHIAN,  debauchee. 
CORKY,  withered. 
COSTARD,  head. 
COTE,  overtake,  pass  by. 
COT-QUEAN,  a  meddler  in  women's  affairs. 
COUNTER,  debtor's  prison. 
COUNTERFEIT,  likeness  ;  false  coin. 
COUNTERPOINT,  counterpane. 
COURSER'S  HAIR,   old  idea  that  a  horse's 

hair  came  to  life  in  water. 
COURT-CUPBOARD,   a    movable    cupboard, 

sideboard. 

COYSTRIL,  low  fellow,  knave. 
COZIER,  cobbler. 
CRAB,  wild  apple. 
CRACK,  lively,  forward  boy. 
GRANTS,  garland. 
CREDIT,  accepted  report. 
f  CRESCIVE,  increasing,  growing. 
*  CRESSET,  a  beacon  light,  suspended  in  an 

iron  vessel  or  basket. 
CRISP,  curled. 

CROSS,  coin  stamped  with  a  cross. 
CROSS-ROW,  alphabet. 
CROW-KEEPER,  scarecrow. 
CRUSADO,  Portuguese  coin. 
CRY,  pack. 
CUCKOO-BUD,    buttercup,    cowslip,   marsh 

marigold;   "orchis,     or  cuckoo-pint    in 

bud*(H.E.D.). 
CUCKOO-FLOWER,   name  given   to  various 

flowers  in  bloom  when  cuckoo  is  heard  : 

lady's  smock,  ragged  robin,  etc.(H.E.D.). 
CUISSES,  armour  for  the  thighs. 
CULLION,  low  fellow,  lout. 
CUNNING,  skill,  knowledge  ;  skilful. 
CURB,  cringe,  crouch. 
CURIOUS, CuRiosiTY.scrupulous;  precision. 
CURST,  ill-tempered,  shrewish,  vicious. 
CURTAIL,   CURTAL-DOG,  originally  a  dog 

with  its  tail  cut  to  show  that  his  master 

was  unqualified   for  hunting ;    later,    a 

dog  not  meant,  or  not  good,  for  sport. 


CURTLE-AXE,  CUtlaSS. 

CUT,  a  docked  horse  ;  term  of  contempt. 
CUT  AND  LONG  TAIL,  dogs  of  every  kind. 
CUTS,  lots. 
CUTTLE,  knife. 

CYPRUS,  CYPRESS,  material  similar  to 
crape. 

DAFF,  doff. 

DANSKERS   Danes. 

DARE,  terrify. 

DARNEL,  said  to  be  injurious  to  the  eyes  if 
taken  in  food  or  drink. 

DARRAIGN,  set  in  order  of  battle. 

DAY-WOMAN,  dairy-woman. 

DEAR,  loving;  important;  "  heartfelt  "(S.); 
used  to  express  the  extreme  of  any 
emotion,  pleasurable  or  otherwise, aroimtd 
by  the  object  to  which  it  is  applied. 

DEARTH,  dearness,  value. 

DEBATE,  fighting. 

DEBITOR  AND  CREDITOR,  an  account  book. 

DECEIVABLE,  deceptive. 

DECK  (of  cards),  pack. 

DECKED,  "  deck'd  the  sea,"  sprinkled  (D.) ; 
covered  (S.). 

DEFEAT,  DEFEATURE,  disfigure;  disfigure 
ment. 

DEFEND,  forbid. 

DEFIANCE,  "declaration  of  aversion  or 
contempt"  (H.E.D.,  "take  my  de 
fiance"). 

DF.FUSE,  DEFUSED,  confuse ;  disordered, 
"  irregular,  uncouth  "  (J.). 

DEFY,  renounce,  disdain. 

DELATIO^,  denunciation,  information. 

DEMERIT,  'desert,  in  good  or  bad  sense 
(S.). 

DEN  AY,  denial,;  v.  deny. 

DKNIER,  piece  of  money  of  lowest  value. 

DEPART,  departure  ;  v.  part. 

DEPRAVE,  DEPRAVATION,  detract;  detrac 
tion. 

DEROGATE,  disparage  ;  a,  debased,  degen 
erate. 

DESCANT,  variations. 

DESIGN,  designate. 

DESPERAfE,  hopeless';  reckless  (S.) 

DESPITE,  hatred,  malice. 

DETERMINATE,  bring  to  an  end;  a.  fixed, 
final. 

DICH,  corruption  of  "do  it." 

DISABLE,  disparage. 

DISAPPOINTED,  not  properly  equipped, 
unprepared.  I 

DISASTER,  "  obnoxious  planet." 

DISCANDY,  melt. 

DISCLOSE,  hatch. 

DISCOURSE,  reasoning  power. 

DISEASE,  discomfort ;  trouble. 

DISEUGE,  blunt  the  edge  of  appetite. 

DISLIMN,  obliterate. 

DISME,  tenth. 

DISNATURED,  unnatural. 

DISPARK,  convert  into  common  land. 

DISPITEOUS,  without  pity. 

DISPOSE,  disposition. 

DISTAIN,  stain,  dishonour. 

DISTEMPERED,  out  of  humour ;  deran«-J. 

DISTEMPERATURE,  disorder  of  mind  >r 
body. 


837 


Glossary 


DISTRACT,  divide. 

DISTRACTION,  detachment. 

DIVIDANT,  divided,  different. 

DIVISION,  florid  passage  in  music. 

DOFF,  do  off,  put  off. 

DOGGED,  cruel. 

DOLPHIN,  dauphin. 

DOUT,  put  out. 

DOWLAS,  coars*  linen. 

DOWLE,  fibrt  of  down. 

DOWN-GYVED>  hanging  round  the  ankles. 

DRAFF,  refuse. 

DRAW,  track. 

DROLLERY,  puppet  show. 

DRUG,  drudge. 

DRUM,  "  John  Drum's  entertainment," 
proverbial  expression  foi  ill-treatment. 

DRUMBLE,  dawdle. 

DUDGEON,  handle  of  a  dagger. 

DUMP,  melancholy  tune. 

DUN,  "dun's  the  mouse";  proverb; 
"frequently a  mere  quibble  on  the  word 
'  done.'" 

DUN  is  IN  THE  MIRE,  old  game ;  a  log 
of  wood  being  dragged  out  of  the  sup 
posed  mire  by  the  company. 

DUP,  do  up,  open. 

DURANCE,  "robe,  suits,  of  durance,"  dur- 
able(quibble  with  other  meaning  of  word). 

EAGER,  sharp,  keen  ;  sour. 

EANING,  when  young  are  brought  forth. 

EANLING,  new-born  lamb. 

EAR,  till. 

ECHE,  eke  out. 

ECSTACY,  madness. 

EFT,  (?)  ready,  convenient  (H.E.D.). 

EGMA,  enigma. 

EISEL  (eysell),  vinegar. 

ELF,  mat;  elf-locks  =  hait  matted  by  the 
elves. 

EMBALLING,  carrying  the  ball  at  a  corona 
tion  (D.),  "  investing  with  the  ball  as  an 
emblem  of  royalty. " 

EMBARQUEMENT,  embargo. 

EMBOSS,  drive  a  hunted  animal  to  ex 
tremity  (H.E.D.). 

EMBOSSED,  swollen  ;  foaming  at  the 
mouth. 

EMBRASURE,  embrace. 

EMULATE,  emulous,  envious. 

ENGROSS,  fatten  ;  bring  together  from  all 
quarters. 

ENGROSSMENT,  accumulation.   • 

ENSEAM,  grease. 

ENTERTAIN,  take  into,  or  retain  in, 
service. 

ENTERTAINMENT,  service. 

ENTREAT,  treat;  entertain,  "beguile" 
(H.E.D.). 

ENTREATMENT,  entertainment,  "  con 
versation,  interview  "  (H.E.I).). 

ENVY,  ENVIOUS,  spite  ;  spiteful,  malicious. 

EPHESIAN,  jovial  companion. 

ESCOTED,  paid  for. 

ESPIAL,  spy. 

ESTRIDGE,  ostrich. 

P^XCREMENT.  hair,  beard,  nails. 

EXEQUIES,  funeral  ceremonies. 

EXPEDIENT,  EXPEDIENCE,  expeditious,  ex 
pedition. 


EXSUKKT.ICATE,    (?)    puffed    up,     inflated 

(H.E.D.). 
EXTENT,  seizure. 

EYAS,  EYAS-MUSKET,  young  hawk. 
HYK,  slight  shade  of  colour. 
EYLIAD,  ceillade,  ogle. 

FACINOROUS,  wicked,  infamous. 

FACTIONARY,  partisan. 

FACTIOUS,"  characterized  by  party  spirit  " 
(H.E.D.)  ;  active,  urgent  (J.). 

FADGE,  fit  in,  suit. 

FAITOR,  vagabond. 

FANCY,  love. 

F  ANGLED,     "characterized     by    crotch 
and   fopperies"  (H.E.D.)  ;   "given    to 
tinsel  finery"  (S.). 

FANTASTICAL,  a  thing  of  phantasy,  im 
agination. 

FARCE,  stuff. 

FARDEL,  burden. 

FAR-FET,  far-fetched. 

FASHIONS,  disease  of  horses. 

FAVOUR,  countenance,  appearance. 

FAVOURS,  features. 

FAY,  faith, 

FEAR,  frighten. 

FEAT,  trim,  neat,  elegant,  dexterous- 

FEATURE,  person  in  general,  form. 

FEDARY  (fedarary),  confederate. 

FEE-FARM,  grant  of  lands  for  all  time. 

FELL,  skin,  hide  ;  a.  savage. 

FELLOWLY,  sympathetic. 

FERE,  companion,  mate. 

FERN-SEED,  thought  to  have  power  of  ren 
dering  persons  invisible. 

FESTINATE,  speedy. 

FETCH   trick,  artifice. 

FETTLE,  make,  ready. 

;  FIGHTS,  "cloths  put  up  to  screen  men  in 
action  during  a  sea-fight. 

FILE,  list  ;  v.  defile. 

FILL-HORSE,  shaft  horse. 

FILLS,  shafts. 

FINELESS,  endless! 

FIRE-DRAKE,  fiery  dragon,  meteor,  fire- 
work  (D.). 

FIRK, thrash. 

FIT,  division  in  a  song. 

FITCHEW,  pole-cat. 

FIVES,  disease  in  horses. 

FLAP-DRAGON,  small  combustible  body 
floated  alight  in  liquor ;.  to  be  drunk 
down,  or  caught  up  by  the  mouth  and 
swallowed. 

FLAP-JACK,  pancake. 

FLAW,  sudden  gust  of  wind;  "flake  of 
snow  "(H.E.D.). 

FI.KSH,  initiate ;  give  the  first  taste  of 
blood  ;  feed  angry  or  lustful  passion. 

FLESHMENT,  pride  of  successful  attempt. 

FLEWED,  with  hanging  chaps. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET',  name  of  a  demon. 

FLIGHT,  light  arrow. 

FLOTE,  sea. 

FLOUTING-STOCK,  laughing-stock. 

FOB,  cheat. 

FOIN,  a  thrust  in  fencing. 

FOISON,  abundance. 

FOND,  foolish;  "fond  and  winnowed  "  = 
trite,  trivial  (S.). 

33 


Glossary 


FOOT-CLOTH,  horse  trappings. 

FORCED,  stuffed. 

FORDO,  undo. 

FOREFEND,  forbid. 

FOREHAND,  previous. 

FORGETIVE,  inventive. 

FORMAL,  having  right  use  of  senses ;  in  a 
usual  form,  customary. 

Fox,  sword ;  perhaps  on  account  of  the 
figure  of  a  wolf  engraved  on  some  blades 
being  mistaken  for  a  fox  (H.E.D.). 

FRAMPOLD,  peevish,  vexatious. 

FRANK,  pig-sty. 

FRAUGHT,  FRAUTAGE,  freight. 

FRAYED,  frightened. 

FRET,  stop  used  for  regulating  the  finger 
ing  of  stringed  instrument. 

FRET,  chequer. 

FRIPPERY,  old  clothes-shop. 

FRONTIER,  outwork. 

FRUSH,  dash  violently  to  pieces. 

FULLAM,  a  kind  of  false  dice. 

GABERDINE,  loose  coarse  outer  garment. 

GAD,  spur;  "upon  the  gad  "  =  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment. 

GAIN-GIVING,  misgiving. 

GALLIARD,  sprightly  dance. 

GALLIAS,  galley  of  large  size. 

GALLOW,  frighten. 

GALLOWGLASSES,  heavy-armed  foot  sol 
diers  of  Ireland. 

GAPE,  bawl. 

GAR  BOIL,  uproar,  commotion. 

GASKINS,  wide  breeches. 

GEAR,  matter,  business  in  general. 

GECK,  dupe,  fool. 

GENEROUS,  GENEROSITY,  of  high  birth  ; 
nobility. 

GENTLE,  raise  to  the  rank  of  gentleman. 

GENTRY,  complaisance. 

GERMAN  (germane),  akin. 

GEST,  resting  stage,  and  time  allotted  for 
pause  at  same. 

GESTS,  deeds. 

GIB,  old  tom-cat. 

GIG,  top. 

GIGLET  (giglot),  wanton. 

GILLYVORS  (gilliflowers),  of  the  same 
genus  (Dianthus)  as  the  carnation. 

GIMMAL,  composed  of  links  or  rings. 

GIMMOR  (gimmer),  contrivance  of  machin 
ery  ;  (?)  a  hinge  (H.E.D.). 

GING,  gang. 

GIRD,  sarcasm. 

GIRDLE,  "turn  his  girdle,"  turn  buckle 
behind  to  prepare  for  wrestling. 

GLEEK,  jeer. 

GLOZE,  flatter ;  interpret. 

GLUT,  swallow. 

GOD  'ILD,  God  yield. 

GONGARIAN,  Hungarian. 

GOOD  DEN,  good  even. 

GORBELLIED,  corpulent. 

GOSSIP,  sponsor. 

GOUT,  drop. 

GOVERNMENT,  self-control,  well-mannered 
behaviour. 

GRATULATE,  gratifying  (S.)i  worthy  of 
gratulation  (D.). 

GREAVES,  leg  armour. 


GRIPE,  griffin. 

GRISE,  degree,  step. 

GROUNDLINGS,  spectators  in  a  theatre  who 

had  pit  seats,  or  ground-stands. 
GUARD,  trim. 

GUARDS,  facings,  trimmings. 
GUIDON,  standard,  and  standard-bearer. 
GULES,  heraldic  term  for  red. 
GULF,  anything  which  engulfs  or  swallows. 
GULL,  dupe  ;  cheat,  imposition  ;  unfledged 

nestling. 

GUNSTONES,  balls  of  stone. 
GUST,  taste. 

HAGGARD,  untrained  hawk. 

HALCYON,  kingfisher ;  it  was  supposed 
that  the  body  of  this  bird,  if  hung  up, 
would  always  turn  its  breast  to  the  wind. 

HALF-KACED,  with  face  in  profile;  "half- 
faced  groats." 

HALF-KIRTLE,  a  kirtle  consisted  of  jacket 
and  petticoat. 

HALL,  "a  hall";  an  exclamation  used  to 
make  space  in  a  crowd. 

HAND,  "at  any  hand,"  at  all  events  ;  "of 
'his  hands,"  of  valour,  skill  (H.E.D.). 

HANDFAST,  marriage  contract;  confine 
ment. 

HANGER,  part  of  sword-belt  in  which  the 
weapon  was  suspended. 

HAPPILY,  haply. 

HARLOCK,  unidentified  (H.E.D.). 

HATCHED,  engraved. 

HAVOC,  to  cry  "havoc"  was  a  signal  for 
general  slaughter. 

HAY,  dance,  "of  the  nature  of  a  reel" 
(H.E.D.). 

HEBENON,  ebony. 

HEFT,  heaving;  "tender-hefted"  =  agitated 
by  tender  emotion. 

HENCHMAN,  page. 

HENT,  seized. 

HERB  OF  GRACE,  rue. 

HEST,  command. 

HIDE  Fox  AND  ALL  AFTER,  hide  and  seek. 

HIGHT,  named. 

HILDING,  low,  menial  wretch. 

HOBBIDIDANCE,  name  of  a  demon. 

HOBBY-HORSE,  personage  in  the  Morris- 
dance  who  had  the  figure  of  a  horse 
fastened  round  his  waist. 

HOB-NOB,  have  or  have  not. 

HOLDING,  burden  of  a  song. 

HOODMAN-BLIND,  blind  man's  buff. 

HOPDANCE,  name  of  a  demon. 

HORN,  "thy  horn  is  dry;"  the  Bedlam 
beggars  had  a  horn  slung  round  their 
necks  which  they  wound  as  they  came  to 
a  house  for  alms. 

HOSE,  stockings,  breeches,  or  both  in  one. 

Hox,  cut  the  hamstrings. 

HUGGER-MUGGER,  "  in  huggermugger,"  in 
secrecy. 

HUMOUR,  mood,  disposition,  caprice.  The 
fashionable  abuse  of  this  word  is  satirized 
by  Shakespeare  in  his  character  of  Nym, 
and  elsewhere. 

HUMOUROUS,  capricious;  moody,  out  of 
humour  (H.E.D.). 

HURLY,  hurly-burly. 

HURRICANO,  water-spout. 


839 


Glossary 


HURTLE,  clash  together. 

HUSBAND,  husbandman  ;  v.  cultivate,  man 
age  economically. 

HUSBANDRY,  cultivation  ;  thrift,  household 
economy. 

HUSWIFE,  HOUSEWIFE,  hussy. 

I  DI.K,  frivolous,  useles«,  foolish. 

ILL-FAVOUKED,  of  an  ill-countenance. 

IMMANITY,  savagery. 

IMMOMENT,  not  momentous. 

IMP.  graft,  insert  new  feathers. 

IMPAIR,  unequal. 

IMPARTIAL,  not  taking  part  with  either 
side  ;  used  also  for  partial. 

IMPARTMENT,  something  imparted,  com 
munication. 

IMPEACHMENT,  hindrance. 

IMFERSEVERANT  (imperceiverant),  undis- 
cerning  (H.E.D.);  giddy-headtd, 
thoughtless  (S,). 

I M PONE,  lay  down  as  a  wager. 

IMPORTANCE,  importunity,  import. 

IMPORTANT,  importunate. 

INCENSE,  instigate;  perhaps  insens£='m- 
form}  school. 

INCH,  island.. 

INCH-MEAL,  piece-meal. 

INCONTINENT,  immediately. 

INCONV,  pretty,  delicate. 

INCORPSED,  incorporated. 

INDENT,  bargain,  n)ake  agreement. 

INDEX,  prologue;  anything  which  gives 
brief  account  of,  or  is  preparatory  to, 
what  is  coming  in  story,  play,  or  pageant 
(in  the  latter  case  possibly  a  painted 
emblem). 

INDIFFERENCY,  impartiality ;  moderate 
size. 

INDIFFERENT,  impartial;  ordinary,  "in 
different  children,"  "indifferent  knit." 

INDIGEST,  without  form;  chaos  (S.),  form- 
less  mass. 

INDIRECTION,  opposed  to  direct  and  honest 
practice  or  means. 

INDURANCE,  confinement  (D.) ;  endurance 
(S.). 

INFORMAL.    See  Formal. 

INGENIOUS,  ingenuous;  "ingenious 
stud ies"  =  befitting  a  well-born  person  ; 
"liberal"  (H.E.D.) ;  "ingenious  feel 
ing,"  "  sense  "  =  conscious,  heartfelt  (S.). 

INHOOPED — cocks,  while  fighting,,  were 
confined  within  hoops. 

INKLE,  tape. 

INNOCENT,  idiot. 

INSANE  ROOT,  hemlock,  or  henbane. 

INSISTURE,  persistency,  constancy  (S.); 
fixedness,  stability  (I).). 

INSTANCE,  motive  ;  proof,  example. 

INTEND,  pretend. 

INTENDMENT,  intention. 

INTENIBLE,  unable  to  hold. 

INTRINSE,  INTRINSICATE,  intricate. 

INTRENCHANT,  which  cannot  be  cut,  not 
divLible. 

INVESTMENTS,  dress. 

INWARD,  intimate  acquaintance  ;  a.  intim 
ate. 

IRREGULOUS,  irregular,  disorderly. 

ITERANCE,  iteration. 


JACK,  used  in  contempt,  "Jack  priest," 
etc.  ;  "play  the  Jack"  =  play  the  knave, 
dp  a  mean  trick  (H.E.D.) ;  "Jack 
o'  the  clock  "  =  figure  that  strikes  tht 
bell  on  the  outside  of  clocks  :  fack-a- 
Lent  =  puppet  thrown  at  during  Lent  :. 
Mirrute- Jack  =  "  fellows  who  watch  the 
minutes  to  offer  their  adulation  ;  "  mark 
ing  every  minute,  changing  with  every 
minute  (S.). 

Jack  =  bowl  at  which  the  players  aim  in 
game  of  bowls  ;  a  quarter  or  half-pint 
measure. 

JAR,    tick. 

JAUNCE,  ride  hard. 

JESSES,  straps  round1  the  legs  of  a 
to  which  the  lea^h  was  attached. 

JET,  strut. 

JOINT-RING,    ring   made  of   closely-fm 
separable  halves. 

JOURNAL,  daily. 

JUMP,  exactly,  just;  z>.  igree  ;  take  the  i 
of. 

JUTTV,  projection,  v.  project. 

KAM,  crooked. 

KECKSY,  kex  ;  dry  stem  of  hemlock, 

other  plants.     H 
KEECH,  "  tallow-keech,"  fat  rolled  up 

lump. 

KEEL-,  cool. 

KEISAR,  caisar,  emperor. 
KERNE,  Irish  foot-soldier. 
KIBE,  a  sore  on  the  heel  from  chap  or 

chilblain. 

KID-FOX,  young  fox  (?  H.EM.).). 
KIND,  nature,  natural  disposition;  a. kindly, 

natural. 

KINDLESS,  unnatural. 
KIRTLE.     See  Half-kirtle. 
KISSING-COMFITS,  perfumed,  to  sweeten  the 

breath. 

KNOT,  flower-bed  ;  company,  band. 
KNOT-GRASS,  supposed  to  hinder  growth. 
KNOTTY-FATED,  block-headed  (H.E.D.). 

LABRAS,  lips  (Span.). 

LACED  MUTTON,  courtesan. 

LADY-SMOCK,  cuckoo  flower  (local :  convol 
vulus,  H.E.U.). 

LAKIN,  ladykin. 

LAMMAS,:  August  ist. 

LAM  PASS,  disease  of  horses. 

LAND-RAKER,  foot-pad. 

LARUM,  alarm  ;  alarum. 

LATCH,  catch;  "latched  the  Athenian's 
eyes  "  =  anointed  (S.  and  lJ.). 

LATED,  belated. 

LATTEN,  a  mixed  metal. 

LAUND,  lawn  ;  glade  (S.)- 

LAVOLT,  LAVOLTA,  a  dance,  consisting  in 
part  of  high  bounds. 

LEASING,  lying. 

LEATHER-COAT,  kind  of  apple. 

LEER,  complexion. 

LEESE,  lose. 

LEET,  "manor  court,  private  jurisdiction 
for  petty  offences. 

LEVEL,  aim  ;  guess. 

LEWD,  vile. 

LIBBARD,  leopard. 


840 


Glossary 


LIBERAL,  licentious,  frank. 
LIGHTLY,  usually. 

.^IB-MEAL,  limb  by  limb. 

^IMBECK,  alembic. 

jiMBO,  borders  of  hell ;  hell. 

,INE,  draw,  paint. 

,INE-GROVE,  linden,  lime. 

,  boundary  ;  v,  listen  ;  please. 
LISTS,  enclosed  space  where  tournaments 
were  held,  or  the  surrounding  barricades. 
LITIIER,  soft,  pliable. 
LIVELIHOOD,  liveliness,  vigour. 
LIVERY,  "delivery,  or  grant  of  possession." 
LOACH,  small  fish. 
LOCK  RAM,  cheap  sort  of  linen. 
LODE-STAR,  pole-star. 
LODGE,  lay  flat. 
LOKFE,  laugh. 

LOGGATS,  small  logs  :  the  game  consisted 
of  throwing  loggats  at  a  stake  fixed  in 
the  ground. 

LONG  STAFF  SIXPENNY  STRIKERS,   "  fellows 

that  infest  the  road  with  long  staffs  and 
knock  men  down  for  sixpence  "  (J.). 

LONGLY,  longingly. 

LOOKED,  luffed,  brought  close  to  the  wind. 

LOON,  LowNj  a  stupid  rascal. 

LOUTEU,  flouted,  mocked. 

LOVE-IN-IDLENESS,  pansy. 

LUCE,  pike. 

LUNKS,  fits  of  frenzy. 

LURCH,  lurk,  rob. 

LUXURIOUS,  unchaste. 

LYM,  sporting-dog. 

MACULATE,  spotted,  stained. 
MAGOT-PIE,  magpie. 
MAINED,  maimed. 
MAKELESS,  mateless. 
MALKIN,  diminutive  of  Mary. 
MALT-HORSE,   heavy  dray  horse  ;  used  as 

a  term  of  reproach. 
MALT-WORM,  lover  of  ale. 
MAMMEKING,  hesitating,  muttering. 
MAMMET,  puppet. 
MAMMOCK,  rend  in  pieces. 
MANAGE,   management,    administration  ; 

training  (horse) ;  career,  course. 
.  MANDRAGORA,      MANDRAKE,      supposed 

when   torn  from   the   ground    to    utter 

groans  ;  a  powerful  narcotic. 
MANKIND,  masculine,  mannish. 
MANNER,  "  taken  with  the,"  caught  in  the 

act. 
MANNINGTREE  Ox,  fairs  were  held  at  this 

place. 

MAN-QUELLER,  murderer. 
MARCH-PANE,    sweet    biscuits,     made    of 

sugar,  flour,  and  almonds. 
MARE,  RIDE  THE  WILD,  play  see-saw. 
MARGENT,  margin. 

MARTLEMAS,  Martinmas,  November  nth. 
MARY-BUDS,  marigold. 
MATE,  confound,  stupefy. 
MAUGRE,  in  spite  of. 
AIAZARD,  MAZZARD,  head. 
MEACOCK,  tame  coward. 
MEAL'D,  mingled  ;•  sprinkled,  tainted (S.). 
MEAN,  tenor,  "  means  and  basses." 
MEASURE,  slow  dignified  dance. 
MEASLES,  leprosy. 


MEINY,  attendants  composing  the  house 
hold  ;  retinue. 
MELL,  meddle. 
MEMORY,  memorial. 
MERE,  simple,  only;  absolute. 
M  ERELY,  simply,  absolutely,  entirely. 
MESS,    party   of  four,  "  lower  messes " 

those  who  sat  below  the  salt. 
METAL,  used  frequently  for  mettle. 
METE-YARD,  yard  measure. 
METHEGLIN,  a  mixture  of  various  ingre 
dients,  of  which  the  main  was  honey. 
MEW,  keep  shut  up. 
MICHER,  truant. 

MICHING  MALLECHO,  concealed    mischief 
(mich  =  skulk  ;  mallecho,  probably  from 
Spanish  malhecho  =  evil  action). 
MICKLE,  much. 
MILCH,  "draw  tears." 
MILL    SIXPENCES,   coined  by  a    mill    or 

machine. 

MIND,  call  to  mind. 
MINIM,  at  one  time  the  shortest  note  in 

music. 

MIRABLE,  admirable. 
MISER,  a  miserable  wretch. 
MISERY,  avarice  (D.) ;  S.  gives  ordinary 

signification. 

MISPRISE,  underrate;  mistake. 
MISPRISION,  undervaluing  ;  mistake. 
MISSIVE,  messenger. 
MISTHINK,  judge  wrongly,  think  wrongly 

of. 

Mo,  more. 

MOBLE,  cover  up  the  head. 
MODERN,  common,  trivial,  worthless. 
MODESTY,  moderation  (D.). 
MOLDWARP,  mole. 
MOME,  blockhead. 
MOMENTANY,  lasting  for  a  moment. 
MOON-CALF,  a  deformed    creature,  mon 
ster. 

MOP,  grimace. 
MORAL,  meaning. 
MORALIZE,  interpret,  expound. 
MORISCO,  morris-dancer. 
MORRIS-PIKE,  moorish  pike. 
MORT  o'  THE  DEER,  certain  set   of  notes 
blown  by  the  huntsmen  at  the  death  of 
the  deer. 

MORTAL,  fatal,  deadly. 
MORTIFIED,  lifeless,  inert,  insensible  ;  "  the 

mortified  man  "  =  ascetic  (D.). 
MOSE  IN  THE  CHINE,  disease  of  horses. 
MOTION,  puppet-show,  puppet. 
MOTIVE,  moving  agent ;  cause. 
MOTLEY,    parti-coloured    dress    worn    by 

fools. 

MOUSE,  to  tear  in  pieces,  devour  (as  a  cat 
a  mouse)  (D.),  "mousing  the  flesh  of 
men." 

Mow,  grimace. 
MOY,  piece  of  money. 
MUM-BUDGET,     a    cant     word     implying 

silence. 
MURE,  wall. 
MUSCADEL,  a  rich  wine. 
MUSE,  wonder. 
Muss,    scramble    after    things     that    are 

thrown  down. 
MUTJNES,  mutineers. 


841 


MYSTERY,  art,  trade. 

NAPKIN,  handkerchief. 

NAUGHT,    naughty,     bad;     "be    naught 

awhile,"    a    malediction   equivalent   to 

our  "  be  hanged." 

NAUGHTY,  good  for  nothing,  worthless. 
NAYVVARU,  inclining  to  a  negative,  to  a 

denial. 

NAYWORD,  watchword  ;  by-word. 
NEAT,  horned  cattle. 
NEB,  bill  of  a  bird. 
NEEDLY,  necessarily. 
NEEZE,  sneeze. 
NEIF,  fist  or  hand. 
NETHER-STOCKS,  stockings. 
NICE,   dainty,   precise  ;   over-punctilious  ; 

foolish,  trifling. 
NICELY,  NICENESS,  punctiliously,  subtilely 

(S.);  scrupulousness,  coyness  (S.). 
NICK,  notch  in  a  tally  ;    "  out  of  all  nick  " 

= ' '  out  of  all  reckoning  ";  cut  in  notches, 

fools    being  ' '  shaved  and  nicked   in  a 

particular  manner." 
NIGHT-RULE,  night  revel. 
NINE-MEN'S-MORRIS,    a  game   in  which 

nine  holes  were   made   in    the    ground, 

some   of  the  players  having    pegs,    the 

others  stones. 

NOBLE,  gold  coin  worth  6s.  &d. 
NOISE,  company. 
NONCE,  purpose. 
NOOK-SHOTTEN,      "shooting      out      into 

capes,  etc." 
NOTT-PATED,  having  the  hair  cut  close;  or 

equivalent  to  knotty-pated  (q.  ».). 
NOURISH,  nourice,  nurse. 
NOVUM,  a  game  at  dice. 
NOWL,  head. 
NUTHOOK,     metaphorically     used    for    a 

bailiff. 


OB,  abbreviation  of  obolus,  halfpenny. 

OBLIGATION,  bond. 

OBSEQUIOUS,  pertaining  to  funeral  rites ; 

careful  of  performing  all  funeral  rites. 
OBSEQUIOUSLY,  as  one  at  a  funeral. 
OBSERVANCE,  observation. 
OBSERVANTS,  obsequious  attendants. 
ODDLY,  unevenly. 

O'ERCOUNT,  out-number,   perhaps  "  over 
reach." 

O'ERLOOKED,  bewitched. 
O'ER-PARTED,   having  a  part  assigned  to 

him  beyond  his  powers. 
O'ER-RAUGHT,  over-reached,  overtaken. 
OLD,    wold;  a. 'frequent,  abundant,   "old 

swearing,"      "old     abusing    of    God's 

patience." 

ONCE,  at  some  time  or  other  ;  once  for  all. 
ONEYERS,  "great  oneyers,"   of  uncertain 

meaning;    S.    suggests,    "persons  who 

converse  with  great  ones." 
OPINION,  credit,  reputation  ;  conceit. 
OPPOSITE,     antagonist  ;    a.  antagonistic, 

hostile. 

ORB,  orbit ;  fairy-ring. 
ORDINANCE,     rank ;    ordnance  ;    fate,  or 

"  divine  dispensation  "  (S.). 
ORDINANT,  ORDINATE,  ordaining. 


Glossary 

where  each  pays 
ow,  appearance. 


ORDINARY,  public  dinner  where  each  pays 

his  share. 

ORGULOUS,  proud. 
ORT,  scrap. 

OSTENT, OSTENTATION,  show,  appearan 
OTHERGATES,  otherways. 
OUPH,  fairy,  sprite. 
OUSEL,  blackbird. 
OVER-PEER,    overhang,     look    down    on ; 

rise  above  (S.). 
OVERSCUTCHED,     possibly    corruption    of 

"  overswitched ; "  whipped  at  the  cart's 

tail ;  "  worn  in  the  service  "  (Malone). 
OUCH,  OWCH,   brooch,    or  other  precious 

ornament. 
OWE,  own. 
OYES  (Fr.  oyez),  hear  ye  !    the  word  with 

which  the  crier  begins  his  proclamation. 


PACK,    enter  into  clandestine   agreement 

with,  intrigue  ;  arrange  or  shuffle  cards 

in  a  cheating  way. 
PACKING,  underhand  connivance. 
FACTION,  pact,  compact. 
PADDOCK,  toad,  frog. 
PAINTED  CLOTH,  cloth,  or  canvas,  paint 

with  subjects    and  devices  or  mottoes, 

with  which  rooms  were  hung. 
PALABRAS,    Spanish  for   words    "paucas 

pallabris  "  (pocas  palabras),  few  words. 
PALE,  enclose. 
PALL,  fail,  wane. 
PALLIAMENT,  robe. 
PALTER,  shuffle,  equivocate. 
PANTLER,  servant  in  care  of  the  pantry. 
PARAGON,  excel,  compare ;  set  forth  as  a 

model. 

PARCEL,  part;  v.  "enumerate  by  items"(S.). 
PARCELED,  "  particular  "  (S.). 
PARISH-TOP,    a  top  kept    in    villages    to 

keep  the  peasants  in  exercise  and   out 

of  mischief  when  work  was  slack. 
PARITOR,    officer  of   the   Bishop's   Court, 

who  delivers  summonses. 
PARLOUS,  perilous. 
PARTAKE,  communicate. 
PARTAKER,  confederate. 
PARTED,  gifted  with  parts,  endowed. 
PARTISAN,  pike,  halberd. 
PARTLET,  ruff. 

PASH,  head  (H.E.D.);  v.  strike  violently. 
PASS,  care  for,  regard. 
PASSADO,  a  forward  thrust  in  fencing. 
PASSAGE,   passing  to  and   fro  of  people, 

("no  passage"?);  event,  circumstance. 
PASSIONATE,  give  expression  in  words  to 

passion. 

PASSIONATE,  sorrowful. 
PASSY-MEASURE,  a  slow  dance. 
PASTRY,  pastry-room. 
PATCH,  fool. 
PATCJJERY,  knavery;  "botchery  intended 

to  hide  faults  "(S.). 

PATHETICAL,  pathetic  (H.E.D.),  "pleas 
ing  or  displeasing  in  a  high  degree  "  (S.)- 
PATINE,  plate  on  which  the  bread  is  laid 

at  the  Eucharist ;  or  the  cover  of  chalice. 
PAVIN,  a  grave  Spanish  dance. 
PAX,  a  plate  of  various   material    passed 

round  to  the  people  at  mass  to  be  kissed. 


Glossary 


PEAK,  (?)  droop  in  health  and  spirits,  waste 
away  (H.E.D.)  ;  mope,  sneak. 

PEAKiNG,skulking,mean-spirited(H.E.D.). 

PEAT,  pet. 

PEDASCULE,  pedant,  preceptor. 

PEEVISH,  foolish,  idle,  trifling. 

PEISE,  weigh  down,  oppress. 

PELT,  rage. 

PELTING,  paltry. 

PERDURABLE,  lasting. 

PEREGRINATE,  foreign  in  ways  and  man 
ners. 

PERFECT,  certain. 

PERIAPT,  amulet. 

PERIOD,  end. 

PERPEND,  consider,  think  over. 

PERSPECTIVE,  a  picture  or  figure  con 
structed  so  as  to  produce  some  fantastic 
effect"  (H.E.D.). 

PERTLY,  alertly. 

PETAR,  PETARD,  engine  used  to  blow  up 
gates,  etc. 

PHEEZE,  beat ;  "  any  kind  of  teazing  and 
annoying"  (S.)- 

PHILIP,  a  familiar  appellation  for  a  spar 
row. 

PICKT-HATCH,  noted  resort  for  .bad  char 
acters. 

PIGHT,  pitched. 

PILCH ER,  scabbard. 

PILL,  pillage. 

PIN-AND-WEB,  disease  of  the  eye. 

PINK,  small,  half-shut,  "pink  eyne." 

PITCH,  the  height  to  which  a  falcon  soar.s. 

PLACKET,  (?)  petticoat,  or  opening  in  it, 
stomacher. 

PLAIN-SONG,  simple  notes  without  vari 
ation,  opposed  to  "  prick  song." 

PLANCHED,  planked. 

PLANTAGE,  plants  generally. 

PLASH,  pool. 

PLATE,  piece  of  silver  money. 

PLATFORM,  plan. 

PLAUSIVE,  pleasing,  plausible. 

PLEACH,  intertwine. 

PLEASANCE,  pleasure,  delight. 

POINT,  tagged  lace. 

POINT-DEVISE,  nice  to  excess. 

POISE,  weight,  importance. 

POK ING-STICK,  stick,  or  iron,  for  setting 
the  plaits  of  ruffs. 

POLACK,  Pole;  much  controversy  as  to  the 
meaning  of  the  "sledded  Polacks." 

POLLED,  stripped,  shorn,  plundered. 

POMANDER,  ball  filled  with  perfumes. 

POMEWATER.  kind  of  apple. 

POOR-JOHN,  hake. 

POPINJAY,  parrot. 

PORPENTINE,  porcupine. 

PORT,  state  ;  gate  ;  bearing. 

PORTABLE,  bearable. 

PORTAGE,  port ;  port-hole. 

PORTANCE,  carriage,  deportment. 

POTABLE,  drinkable. 

POTCH  (POACH),  thrust. 

POTENT,  potentate. 

POTTLE,  two  quarts. 

POULTER,  poulterer. 

POUNCET-BOX,  perforated  perfume  box. 

PRACTICE,  treachery,  deceit,  artifice. 

PRACTISANTS,  confederates  in  treachery. 


PRACTISE,  to  use  artifice,  plot. 

PRECEDENT,  rough  draft. 

PRECEPT,  warrant. 

PREGNANT,  ready,  apt,  quick  of  percep 
tion  ;  artful,  designing ;  full  of  meaning, 
conviction,  intelligence,  information. 

PREMISED,  sent  beforehand. 

PRE  NOMINATE,  foretell ;  name  beforehand. 

PRESCRIPT,  direction,  written  order ;  a. 
prescribed,  written ;  prescriptive,  im 
memorial  (?  S.). 

PRESENTLY,  immediately. 

PRESS,  commission  for  forcing  men  into 
military  service ;  ».  impress,  force  into 
service. 

PRESSURE,  impression. 

PREST,  ready. 

PRETENCE,  intention,  design. 

PRETEND,  intend. 

PREVENT,  anticipate. 

PRICK-SONG,  music  written  down,  noted 
down  with  pricks  or  dots. 

PRICKET,  buck  of  the  second  year. 

PRIME,  eager. 

PRIMERO,  game  at  cards. 

PRINCOX,  pert,  forward  youth. 

PRINT,  "in  print,"  with  exactness. 

PRIZE,  privilege. 

PRODIGIOUS,  portentous,  unnatural,  hor 
rible. 

PRODITOR,  traitor. 

PROLIXIOUS,  prolix,  causing  delay. 

PRONE,  prompt,  ready. 

PROPER,  belonging  co  a  particular  person, 
own  ;  private  ;  handsome. 

PROPOSE,  conversation;  v>  converse. 

PUGGING,  thievish  (S.);  "pegging,  peg- 
tooth  =  canine  tooth"  (Walter,  quoted 
by  S.). 

PUKE  (stocking),  either  colour  or  material, 
in  either  case  "dark-coloured." 

PUN,  pound. 

PUNTO,  thrust,  hit  in.  fencing;  "punto 
reverso  "  =  back-handed  stroke. 

PURCHASE,  cant  term  used  by  thieves  for 
their  plunder. 

PURPLES,  purple  orchis. 

PUT  ON,  instigate. 

PUTTOCK,  kite. 

PUZZEL,  drab. 


QUAIL,  overpower ;  faint. 

QUAINT,  neat,    elegant,   ingenious;  "my 

quaint  Ariel "  =  ingenious,    clever   (D.>; 

fine,  neat,  pretty  (S.). 
QUALITY,  profession. 
QUARREL,   ("that  quarrel    fortune");    a 

square  dart ;  or,  quarreller  (S.). 
QUAT,  spot  on  the  skin. 
IUATCH,  square,  flat. 

IUEAN,  slut. 

IUEASY,  fastidious,  delicate  ;  disgusted. 

•  UELL,  kill. 

>UERN,  hand-mill. 
QUEST,  inquest. 

QUEST  ANT,  candidate,  competitor. 
QUESTION,  conversation. 
QUESTIONABLE,    "provoking    question"; 

"capable  of  being  conversed  with." 
QUICK,  living. 


843 


Glossan 


(UIDDITS,  quiddities,  legal  subtleties. 
IUILLETS,  sly  turn  in  argument,  chicanery. 
juiNTAiN.a  figure  set  up  for  riders  to  tilt  at. 
IUIT,  requite. 

QUITTANCE,  acquittance  ;  requital. 
>UIVER,  nimble. 
}UOIF,  cap. 
QUOTE,  note,  mark. 


R,  "for  the  dog,"  because  of  the  sound 
being  like  a  dog's  snarl. 

RABATO,  ruff,  band  ;  originally  a  turned- 
back  collar. 

RABBIT-SUCKER,  sucking  rabbit. 

RACE,  flavour  ;  natural  disposition  (S.); 
breed. 

RACK  "OK  GINGER,"  root 

RACK,  floating  vapourous  clouds  ;  z>.  move 
like  clouds. 

RAMPALLIAN,  a  term  of  low  abuse. 

RANK,  row;  "rank  to  market  "«=  some 
interpret  ".pace." 

RAPTURE,  lit. 

RASCAL,  lean  deer,  unfit  to  hunt. 

RASH,  strike  (applied  particularly  to  the 
stroke  of  a  boar). 

RAT,  "  Irish  rat,"  it  was  believed  in  Ire 
land  that  rats. could  be  rhymed  to  death. 

R  AUGHT,  reached. 

RAVIN,  devour. 

RAWNESS,  hasty,  unprepared  manner. 

RAYED,  denied,  dirtied  (S.). 

RAZE,  race,  root ;  package  (?  S.). 

RAZED,  slashed. 

READ,  REDE,  counsel. 

REAR  (rere)  MOUSE,  bat. 

REBATE,  render  obtuse,  blunt. 

REBECK,  stringed  instrument. 

RECEIVING^- "  ready  apprehension." 

RECH EAT,  notes  Sounded  on  the  horn  to 
call  the  dogs  off. 

RECORDER,  a  kind  of  flute,  or  flageolet. 

RED  LATTICE,  pertaining  to  the  ale-house, 
formerly  distinguished  by  its  coloured 
lattice. 

REDUCE,  bring  back. 

REECHY,  smoky,  greasy,  filthy. 

REPELLED,  refuted. 

REGIMENT,  government,  sovereign  sway. 

REMONSTRANCE,  manifestation. 

REMORSE,  pity,  compassion. 

REMOTION,  "act  of  keeping  aloof,  non- 
appearance  "  (S.). 

REMOVED,  secluded,  remote. 

RENEGE,  deny. 

REPLICATION,  reply. 

REPORT,  "  so  likely  to  report,"—  "  so  near 
to  speech  "  (J.). 

REPROOF,  disproof. 

REPROVE,  disprove. 

REPUGN,  resist. 

REKUKED,  purified. 

REPUTING,  "  valuing  at  a  high  rate  "  (S.). 

RESOLUTION,  assurance,  conviction. 

RESOLVE,  dissolve  ;  convince,  satisfy ; 
"  make  up  one's  mind  fully  "  (D.). 

RESOLVED,  convinced. 

RESPECT,  regard. 

RESPECTIVE,  worthy  of  regard ;  consi 
derate  ;  respectful,  formal. 


REST,  "  set  up  one's  rest,"  to  be  fully 
determined  ;  a  metaphor  borrowed  from 
gaming. 

REVERB,  reverberate. 
RHEUMATIC,  choleric. 
RIGOL,  circle. 
RIVAL,  associate. 
RIVALITY,  equality,  association. 
RIVE,  split ;  used  to  express  the  bursting 

sound  of  artillery. 
ROAD,  roadstead. 
ROISTING,  bullying,  defying. 
ROMAGE,  tumultuous  movement. 
RONYON,  mangy  animal. 
ROOKED,  squatted. 
ROPERY,  roguery. 
ROTE,  repeat  from  memory. 
ROTHER,    horned    cattle    (some  editions 

"brother"). 

ROUND,  plain  spoken  ;  v.  whisper. 
ROUSE,  carouse. 
RUB,  an  expression  borrowed  from  gam? 

of  bowls. 

RUDDOCK,  redbreast. 
RUDESBY,  a  rude,  underbred  person. 
RUFFLE,  to  be  turbulent  and  boisterous. 
RUSH,  rush -ring  ;  used  for  rural  marriages, 

or  mock  marriages. 
RUSH,  openly,  eagerly  evade  (S.)  ;  "  rush'd 

aside  the  law." 


SACK,  a  dry  Spanish  wine. 

SACKBUT,  kind  of  trumpet,  trombone. 

SACKERSON,  a  famous  bear  at  Paris-gar 
den  ;  name  probably  that  of  his  master. 

SAD,  serious. 

SADLY,  seriously. 

SAG,  hang  down,  flag. 

SAGITTARY,  the  Centaur  who  fought  in 
the  armies  of  the  Trojans  ;  building  in 
Venice  bearing  sign  of. 

SALLET,  helmet,  headpiece  ;  salad. 

SALT,  licentious. 

SALTIERS,  blunder  for  satyrs. 

SALUTE,  touch,  affect  (S.). 

SAND-BLIND,  having  imperfect  sight. 

SANDED,  sandy. 

SAVAGERY,  wildness  of  growth. 

SAW,  saying. 

SAY,  a  kind  of  silk,  or  satin  ;  taste,  relish  ; 
assay. 

SCALD,  low,  shabby,  "scabby." 

SCALE,  weigh. 

SCAMBLE,  scramble. 

SCAMEL,  uncertain  meaning  ;  perhaps  sea- 
mell,  i.  e.  sea-mew. 

SCANTLING,  a  given  portion. 

SCAPE,  escape ;  misdemeanour. 

SCAR,  broken  precipice. 

SCARFED,  hung  with  flags. 

SCATHE,  injury. 

SCONCE,  round  fortification  ;  head. 

SCOTCH,  score,  make  shallow  cuts. 

SCRIMER,  fencer. 

SCRIP,  slip  of  writing,  list ;  a  small  bag 
"  scrip  and  scrippage." 

SCROYLE,  low  wretch. 

SCULL,  shoal. 

SCUT,  tail. 

SEAM,  grease,  lard. 


844 


Glossary 


SEASON,  temper  ;  "  seasons  him  his 
enemy,"  "  my  blessing  season  this  in 
thee,"  confirm  (D.)  ;  mature  (S.). 

SKCT,  sex  ;  section,  cutting. 

SECURE,  SECURELY,  SECURITY,  rashly  con 
fident,  etc. 

SEEL,  close  the  eyes  ;  the  eyes  of  hawks 
were  seeled  by  passing  a  fine  thread  or 
small  feather  through  the  eyelids. 

SEEN,  skilled  ;  "  well  seen  in  music." 

SEIZED,  possessed  (legal  term). 

SELDOM-WHEN,  rarely. 

SELF,  same,  self-same  ;  "  that  self  hand." 

SEMBLABLE,  likeness. 

SEMBLATIVE,  resembling  ;  appearing, 
seeming  (S.). 

SENNET,  set  of  notes,  or  flourish,  on  the 
trumpet. 

SENSELESS,  without  feeling,  perception. 

SENSIBLE,  having  feeling,  sensation,  per 
ception. 

SERE,  catch  in  a  gunlock  ;  "tickle  of  the 
sere,"  a  gun  which  explodes  on  the  least 
touch  on  the  sere.  (See  Wright,  quoted  by 

SERPIGO,  eruption. 

SESSA,  "  probably  a  cry  exciting  to  swift 
running  "  (S.). 

SEVERAL,  private,  "inclosed  pasture,  as 
opposed  to  common  land." 

SEWER,  the  attendant  who  set  on  and 
removed  dishes. 

SHALE,  shell. 

SHARD,  hard  wing-case,  "shard-borne," 
"  sharded  "  ;  fragment  of  broken  pot 
tery. 

SHARKED,  "collected  in  a  banditti-like 
manner." 

SHEER,  clear,  transparent ;  nothing  but, 
mere. 

SHENT,  scolded,  reproached,  disgraced. 

SHIP-TIRE,  head-dress  in  some  way  resem 
bling  a  ship. 

SHIVE,  a  small  slice. 

SHOTTEN,  "  having  cast  its  spawn  "  (D.). 

SHOUGH,  shaggy  dog. 

SHOVE-GROAT,  SHOVEL-BOARD,  game  in 
which  coins  were  pushed  to  reach  a 
certain  mark. 

SHRIEVE,  sheriff. 

SHRIFT,  confession. 

SHROWD,  shelter. 

SIB,  akin. 

SIEGE,  seat  ;  rank. 

SIGHTLESS,  invisible  ;  unsij 


SILLY,  simple,  rustic,  harmless. 
SIMPLICITY,  foolishness. 
SIMULAR,  counterfeited. 
SINK -A-P ACE.     See  Cinque-pace. 
SIR-REVERENCE,  save-reverence. 

SlTH,  SlTHENCE,  Since. 

SIZES,  portions,  allowances. 
SKAINS-MATES,  sword-mates  (S.)  ;  skain  = 

"  scapegrace  "(Staunton)  ;  "swaggering- 

companions  "  (Nares). 
SKILL,  matter,  "  it  skills  not." 
SKIRR,  scour. 
SLAB,  moist  and  glutinous. 
SLEAVE,  soft  floss  silk  used  for  weaving. 
SLEEVELESS,  useless,  fruitless. 
SLEIDED,  raw,  untwisted,   "sleided  silk." 


SLIP,  counterfeit  coin;  noose  in.  which 
greyhounds  were  held,  before  they  were 
let  loose  to  start  foi  the  game. 

SLIVER,  slip,  portion  broken  off. 

SLOP,  SLOPS,  loose  trousers,  or  breeches. 

SLUBBER,  to  do  things  in  a  slovenly  way  ; 
to  obscure  "  by  smearing  ovei." 

SMATCH,  taste,  smack. 

SMOOTH,  flatter. 

SNEAK -CUP,  one  who  sneaks  from  his 
glass. 

SNEAP,  snubbing,  rebuke  ;  check,  nip. 

SNEEK-UP,  ".go  and  be  hanged." 

SNUFF,  anger;  "take  in  snuff "=  take 
offence. 

SOILED,  high  fed. 

SOLIDARE,  small  coin. 

SONTIES,  supposed  corruption  of  saints,  or 
sanctity. 

SOOTH,  truth  ;  sweetness. 

SOOTH,  SOOTHER,  flatter,  smooth  over ; 
flatterer. 

SOP  o'  THE  MOONSHINE,  "  old  dish  of  eggs 
in  moonshine  :  i.  e.  broken  au<,l,bQiled  in 
salad-oil  till  the  yolks  become  hard,  and 
eaten  with  slices  of  onion"  (Douce). 

SORE,  buck  of  the  fourth  year.1 

SOREL,  buck  of'the  third  year. 

SORT,  company;  v.  choose;  suit,  fit;  con 
trive  (S.). 

SOUSED,  pickled. 

SOWL,  pull  by  the  ears. 

SOWTER,  cobbler,  name  of  a  hound. 

SPAN-COUNTER,  a  player  throws  a  coin,  or 
counter,  to  try  and  hit  another,  or  come 
within  a  span  of  it ;  sometimes  played 
with  marbles. 

SPAVIN,  disease  of  horses. 

SPECULATION,  power  of  vision,  "specula 
tors,  observers  "  (S.). 

SPECULATIVE,  visual  (D.)  ;  "  speculative 
.  .  .  instruments." 

SPERR,  make  fast. 

SPILL,  destroy  (D.). 

SPILTH,  spilling. 

SPIKIT  OF  SENSE,  "utmost  refinement  of  sen 
sation  ";  "sense  or  sensibility  itself  "  (S.). 

SPLEEN.caprice, humour;  impetuous  haste  ; 
"  hate  ;  any  uncontrollable  impulse,  fit ; 
fire,  eagerness  "  (S.). 

SPLEENY,  ill-tempered,  peevish  (D.)  : 
eager,  headstrong  (S.). 

SPLINTER,  put  into  splints. 

SPRAG,  sprack,  alert. 

SPRIGHTED,  haunted. 

SPRINGHALT,  a  kind  of  lameness  in  horses. 

SQUARE,  quarrel. 

SQUASH,  unripe  peas  pod. 

SQUINY,  squint. 

SQUIRE,  square,  or  measure. 

STAIN,  disgrace  ;  "  stain  to  all  nymphs  "  = 
that  sullies  by  contrast  (L>.);  v.  taint, 
dim,  disfigure. 

STALE,  decoy ;  stalking-horse. 

STALKING-HORSE,  a  real  or  artificial  horse, 
behind  which  the  shooter  hid  himself 
from  the  game. 

STANIEL,  an  inferior  kind  of  hawk. 

STARRED,  fated  by  the  stars. 

START-UP,  up-start. 

STATE,  chair  of  state. 


845 


Glossary 


STATION,  mode  of  standing  ;  state  of  rest, 
as  opposed  to  motion. 

STATUTE-CAPS,  woollen  caps,  worn,  as  de 
creed  by  statute,  by  all  but  the  nobility, 
after  a  certain  age,  on  Sundays  and 
holidays. 

STELLED,  "  quenched  the  stelled  fires," 
starry  ;  fixed  (S.). 

STERNAGE,  steerage. 

STICKLER,  umpire. 

STIGMATIC,  one  who  has  been  stigmatised, 
branded  ;  stigmatised  with  deformity. 

STIGMATICAL,  marked  with  a  stigma  of 
deformity. 

STINT,  stop. 

STITHY,  smithy. 

STOCCADO,  a  thrust  in  fencing. 

STOCK.     See  Stoccado. 

STOMACH,  arrogance,  anger ;  stubborn 
courage;  inclination  ;  v.  resent  (D.). 

STOUT,  bold  ;  unbending,  obstinate  (D.)  ; 
overbearing  (S.). 

STRAIGHT-PIGHT,  straight-pitched, straight- 
built,  upright  (D.). 

STRAIN,  lineage ;  disposition. 

STRAIT,  close-fitted. 

STRAITED,  puzzled. 

STRANGE,  foreign  ;  shy. 

STRANGELY,  wonderfully;  distantly,  like  a 
stranger. 

STRANGENESS,  coyness,  shyness. 

STRAPPADO,  a  torture  which  broke  and 
dislocated  the  arms  and  joints. 

STRATAGEM,  calamity,  dire  event. 

STRICTURE,  strictness. 

STRIKE,  blast  by  secret  influence,  "then 
no  planets  strike." 

STROND,  strand. 

.STROSSERS^  trossers,  trousers. 

SUBSCRIBE,  yield,  submit. 

SUBTILTIES,  "  when  a  dish  appeared  un 
like  what  it  really  was,  they  called  it  a 
subtilty  "  (Steevens). 

SUCCESS,  succession  ^result,  consequence. 

SUGGEST,  prompt,  tempt. 

SUMPTER,  horse  or  mule  to  carry  baggage. 

SUPER-SERVICEABLE,  over-officious. 

SUPPLIANCE,  supply,  gratification,  pastime 
(S.)  ;  "  suppliance  of  a  minute." 

SUR-REINED,  over-worked. 

SWEETING,  a  kind  of  apple. 

SWINGE-BUCKLER,  a  roisterer. 

SWINGED,  whipped. 

TABLE,  palm  of  the  hand  ;  tablet. 
TABLE-BOOK,  memorandum- book. 
TABOR,  a  small  drum. 
TAKE,  blast,  bewitch. 
TAKE  IN,  conquer. 
TAKE  UP,  borrow  ;  obtain  on  credit. 
TALL,  valiant. 

TALLOW-KEECH.    See  Keech. 
TANLING,  one  tanned  by  the  suni 
TARRE,  set  on. 
TARTAR,  Tartarus. 
TASK,  tax. 

TASSEL-GENTLE,  tiercel,  male  goshawk. 
TAXATION,     sarcasm,     censure,    vituper 
ation. 

TEEN,  grief,  misfortune. 
TENDER-HEFTED.    See  Heft. 


TENT,  probe  a  wound.  Tent  being  a  roll 
of  lint,  used  as  a  probe. 

TERMAGANT,  a  Saracen  god. 

TERMLESS,  "  beyond  the  power  of  words" 
(D.). 

TESTER,  a  coin  worth  sixpence. 

TETCHY,  touchy. 

THARBOROUGH,  corruption  of  Thirdbor- 
ough  ;  constable,  or  constable's  assistant. 

THRASONICAL,  boastful. 

THREAD  AND  THRUM,  "  the  thread  is  the 
substance  of  the  warp,  the  thrum  the 
small  tuft  beyond,  where  it  is  tied." 

THREE-MAN  BEETLE,  implement  for  pile- 
driving. 

THROSTLE,  thrush. 

THRUM.    See  Thread.' 

THRUMMED,  made  of  thrums,  or  of  v< 
coarse  cloth. 

THUNDER-STONE,  thunder-bolt. 

TICK-TACK,  sort  of  backgammon  (D.). 

TICKLE,  ticklish,  precariou.s(ly). 

TIKE,  common  sort  of  dog. 

TILTH,  tilled  land  ;  tillage. 

TIMELESS,  untimely. 

TIRE,    head-dress ;    z>.    pull,     tear, 
eagerly,  as  birds  of  prey  their  food. 

TOD,  twenty-eight  pounds  of  wool. 

TOGE,  gown. 

TOKEN'D,  shewing  plague  tokens,  spots. 

TOM  o'  BEDLAM,  the  Bedlam  beggars  wrre 
men  who  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  be 
let  out  of  Bedlam,  and  were  licensed  to 
go  begging  ;  many  impostors  were  about 
who  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a  mad 
house. 

TOPLESS,  not  to  be  topped,  surpassed. 

TORTIVE,  tortuous. 

TOUCH,  test  by  the  touchstone. 

TOUSE,  drag,  tear,  pluck. 

TOYS,  "there's  toys  abroad "=  "rumours, 
idle  reports,"  "tricks,  devices,"  "follies 
in  the  world  "  (S.). 

TOZE.     See  Touse. 

TRADE,  traffic;  in  the  "  gap  and  trade  "  = 
"  practised  method,  general  course  "  (J.). 

TRAIN,  artifice,  stratagem. 

TRAMMEL,  confine,  tie  up. 

TRANECT,  probably  from  Italian  traghetto 
=  ferry  (S.). 

TRASH,  "  trash  for  overtopping,"  lop,  crop 
(S.) ;  Nares  decided  that  it  was  some 
kind  of  strap,  or  implement  to  hold  back 
a  hound ;  according  to  Madden  (quoted 
by  S.)  "when  the  hound  was  running, 
the  long  strap,  dragged  along  the  ground, 
handicapped  the  overtopping  hound." 

TRAY-DRIP,  a  game  played  with  cards  and 
dice ;  success  in  it  depended  upon  throw 
ing  a  trots  (treys). 

TREACHER,  traitor. 

TRENCH,  cut,  carve. 

TRIBULATION,  probably  name  of  a  puri 
tanical  society  ;  or  applied  to  the  whole 
sect  of  Puritans  (S.). 

TRICKING,  dress,  ornament. 

TRICKSY,  clever,  adroit  (D.)  ;  full  of  tricks 
and  devices  (S.). 

TRIGON,  astrological  term,  signifying  the 
meeting  of  the  three  upper  planets,  which 
were  then  called  the  "fiery  Trigon." 


846 


Glossary 


TROJAN,  cant  term  for  thief;  "a  farm- 
liar  name  for  any  equal  or  inferior" 
(Nares). 

TROLL-MY-DAMES,  TROLL-MADAM,  TROU- 
MADAM,  a  game  known  in  England  as 
pigeon-holes,  small  balls  being  bowled 
into  these  from  the  farther  end  of  the 
board. 

TROPICALLY,  figuratively. 

TRUNDLE-TAIL,  dog  with  a  curly  tail. 

TUCKET,  flourish,  certain  set  of  notes  on 
the  trumpet. 

TUN-DISH,  funnel. 

TURK,  "  turn  Turk,"  undergo  a  complete 
change  (S.  adds  "  for  the  worse  "). 

TURLYGOOD,  TURLYGOD,  apparently  a 
name  for  a  "  bed  lam- beggar." 

TVVIGGEN,  covered  with  wicker-work. 

TYPE,  symbol. 

UNANELED,  not  having  received  extreme 
unction. 

UNAVOIDED,  unavoidable. 

UNBARBED,  unbarbered,  unshorn. 

UNBATED,  not  blunted,  as  foils  are. 

UNBOLTED,  unsifted. 

UNBRAIDED,  not  counterfeit,  or,  blunder 
for  embroidered  (?  S.). 

UNCAPE,  probably  "  uncouple  "  (S.);  it  has 
been  interpreted  as  "unearth";  "turn 
fox  out  of  bag." 

UNCLEW,  UNCLUE,  unwind. 

UNCOINED,  "not  counterfeit";  real,  unre 
fined,  unadorned  ;  having  received  nc 
previous  impression  ;  without  the 
current  stamp,  i.e.  insinuating  words, 
etc."  (S.). 

UNCONFIRMED,  without  experience. 

UNCOUTH,  unknown,  strange. 

UNDERBEAR,  undergo,  bear. 

UNDERSKINKER,  undertapster. 

UNEARED,  untilled. 

UNEATH,  hardly,  scarcely. 

UNEXPERIENT,  inexperienced. 

UNEXPRESSIVE,  inexpressible. 

UNHAPPY,       UNHAPPILY,       waggish(ly) ; 

mischievous(ly),  evilly  (S.). 
•UNHAPPINESS,     mischief,     "dreamed     of 
unhappiness,"  *=  wanton  or  mischievous 
tricks  (S.). 

UNHOUSELED,  without  receiving  the 
sacrament. 

UNIMIROVED,  unreproved,  unimpeached 
(D.);  not  yet  used  to  advantage,  turned 
to  account  (S.). 

UNION,  pearl  of  fine  quality. 

UNKIND,  unnatural. 

UNMANNED,  untamed  (term  in  falcony). 

UNOWED,  unowned. 

UNPLAUSIVE,  unapplauding. 

UNPREGNANT.     See  Pregnant. 

UNPROPER,  not  the  property  of  one  alone. 

UNQUALITIED,  deprived  of  faculties. 

UNQUESTIONABLE,  opposed  to  convers 
ation. 

UNRECURING,  incurable. 

UNRESPECTIVE,  without  respect,  incon 
siderate;  "  unrespective  sieve,"  un 
valued  (D.),  used  at  random  (S.). 

UNSISTING,  unresting  (?  S.). 

UNSQUARED,  unfitted  to  the  purpose. 


UNTENTED.not  to  be  probed, incurable  (S.). 

UNVALUED,  invaluable. 

UPSPRING,    upstart ;  or,    a    wild   German 

dance  "  Hiipfauf." 
URCHIN,  hedgehog. 
USANCE,  interest  on  money. 
UTIS  (Fr.  huit),  eighth  day,   or  space  of 

eight   days,  after  a  feast  =  the   octave; 

festivities  during  same. 
UTTERANCE  (Fr.  outrance),  extremity. 

VADE,  fade. 

VAIL,    lower,    "angels    vailing-clouds"  = 

"  letting    these  clouds    which  obscured 

their  brightness  sink  from  before  them  " 

(J.),  clouds  letting  down,  bearing  down, 

angels  (?  S.). 
VALIDITY,  value. 
VANTAGE,  advantage  ;  "to  the  vantage" 

=  in  addition,  to  boot ;  "  of  vantage  "  = 

same  sense  (S.). 
VANTBRACE,  VAMBRACE,  armour  for  the 

arm. 

VARLET,  servant  to  a  knight. 
VARY,  variation. 
VAST  (Waste),  "the  darkness  of  midnight 

in  which  the  prospect  is  not  bounded  in 

by  distinct  objects  "  (S.). 
VASTIDITY,  immensity. 
VASTY,  vast. 
VAUNT,  van,  beginning. 
VAWARD,  vanward. 
VENEW,   VENEY,   VENUE,  thrust,  attack, 

bout  in.fencing. 
VENGEANCE,  harm. 
VENTAGE,  hole  or  stop  in  a  flute. 
VERBAL,  verbose,  or  plain-spoken. 
VICE,  a  personage  in  the  old  moralities, 

sometimes  dressed  as  a  buffoon  ;  armed 

at  times  with  a  wooden  dagger,   "  Vice's 

dagger. " 

VIE,  wager,  contend  in  rivalry. 
VIEWLESS,  invisible. 
VILLIAGO  (VILLIACO),  villain. 
VINEWEDST,  most  mouldy. 
VIOL-DE-GAM  BOYS,   a   viol   held   between 

the  legs,  bass-viol,  violoncello. 
VIRGINALLING,  playing  with  the  fingers  as 

on  a  virginal. 
VULGAR,  common,   general,   "the    vulgar 

air  ;  "  of  common  report,  "  most  sure  and 

vulgar. " 
VULGARLY,  publicly. 

WAFT,  beckon  ;  turn,  "wafting  his  eyes." 

WAFTAGE,  passage  by  water. 

WAKE,  to  keep  night  revel. 

WANION,  WANNION,  "with  a  wanion," 
apparently  equivalent  to  "with  a  ven 
geance." 

WAPPENED,  worn. 

WARD,  posture  of  defence. 

WARDEN,  hard  pear  used  for  baking, 
"warden-pie." 

WARDER,  kind  of  truncheon. 

WASSAIL,  festivity,  drinking-bout. 

WATCH,  "I'll  watch  him  tame;"  hawks 
were  kept  awake  to  tame  them. 

WATER-WORK,  water-colour  painting. 

WAX,  grow,  increase. 

WEAL,  welfare ;  commonwealth. 


847 


Gloss 


WEALS-MAN,  commonwealth  man,  states 
man. 

WEAR,  fashion. 

WEEDS,  dress. 

WEEN,  suppose,  imagine. 

WEET.  know. 

WEIRD,  concerned  with  fate,  "  subservient 
to  destiny"  (S.).;  "weird  sisters  "  = 
Fates. 

WELKIN,   sky. 

WELKIN-EVE,  blue,  "heavenly"  (S.). 

WELL-FOUND,  tried,  approved  (S.). 

WELL-SEEN,  accomplished. 

WHEEL  "how  the  wheel  becomes  it," 
burden  of  a  ballad  (this  is  queried  by  S.). 

WHELK,  wheal,  protuberance. 

WHELKED,  with  protuberances,  or  "twist 
ed,  convolved." 

WHIFFLER,  a  person  who  cleared  the  way 
for  a  procession  ;  originally  a  fifer. 

WHILE,  until. 

WHIPSTOCK,  handle  of  whip. 

WHITING-TIME,  bleaching-time. 

WHITSTKR,  WHITESTER,  bleacher. 
•WHITTLE,  small  clasp-knife. 

WHOOBUB,  hubbub. 

WIDE  "speak  so  wide,"  far  from  the  mark. 

WILDERNESS,  wildness. 

WIMPLED,  veiled,  hoodwinked. 

WINTER-GROUND,  protect  from  winter 
weather. 

Wis,  think,  suppose  (i-wis  =  certainly, 
indeed). 


" 


WISH,   recommend,    "desire,    invite, 

(S.). 

WISTLY,  earnestly,  eagerly. 
WIT,  know. 
WITHOUT,  beyond. 
WONDERED,  able  to  perform  wonders. 
WOOD,  mad. 

WOODCOCK,  a  proverbially  foolish  bird. 
WOOLWARD,  dressed  in  wool  only. 
WORLD,     "go     to    the    world,"  =  marry ; 

"  woman  of  the  world,"  =  married. 
WORM,  serpent. 
WORT,    cabbages,     and     similar     plants ; 

sweet   infusion    of  malt    before    it 

ments. 
WOT,  know. 
WREAK,  revenge. 
WREST,  tuning  key. 
WRITHLED,  wrinkled. 
WROTH,  ruth,  misfortune. 
WRY,  go  astray. 

YARE,  quick,  ready,  active. 

YCLEPED,  named, 

YEARN,  grieve. 

YELLOWS,  jaundice  in  horses. 

YELLOWNESS,  jealousy. 

YESTY,  frothy. 

ZANY,  fool,  buffoon. 

ZED,     "  unnecessary    letter,"     since 

place  may  be  supplied  by  S." 
ZENITH,  highest  point  of  fortune. 


END    OF    VOL    I. 


Richard  Clay  &*  Sans,  Limited,  London  and  Sunday, 


Shakespeare,  William 

Shakespeare ! s  comedies 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 


UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY