Skip to main content

Full text of "The works of Shakespeare : the text regulated by the recently discovered portfolio of 1632, containing early manuscript emendations ; with a history of the stage, a life of the poet, and an introduction to each play"

See other formats

Go ogle 

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on Hbrary shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 
to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 
publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 

We also ask that you: 

+ Make non- commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at http : / /books . google . com/ 











1 853. 

Enteked, according to Act of Congress, in the year One Thousand 
Eight Hundred and Fifty-three, by J. 8. REDFIELD, in the 
Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 

No. 183 WUliom-^tiMt, New-York. 








"As You Like It" was first printed in the folio of 1623, where 
it occupies twenty-three pages, viz. from p. 185 to p. 207 
inclusive, in the division of " Comedies." It preserved its 
place in the three subsequent impressions of that volume 
in 1682, 1664, and 1685; 


" As You Like It" is not only founded upon, but in Borae 
points very closely copied from, a novel by Thomas Lodge, 
under the title of "Rosalynde: Euphues 'Golden LegaciCj'^ 
which was originally printed in 4to, 1590, a second tmie m 
1592, and a third edition came out in 1598. We have no in- 
telligence of any re-impression of it between 1592 and 1598. 
This third edition perhaps appeared early in 1598; and we 
are disposed to think, that the re-publication of so popular a 
work directed Shakespeare's attention to it. If so, " As You 
Like It " may have been written in the summer of 1598, and 
first acted in the winter of the same, or in the spring of the 
following year.' 

The only entry in the reffisterb of the Stationers' Company 
relating to "As You Like It," is confirmatory of this suppo- 
bition. It has been already referred to in the " Introduction" 
to " Much Ado about Nothing ;" and it will be well to insert 
it here, precisely in the manner in which it stands in the 
origintu record : — 

" 4 August. 

" As you like yt, a book. Henry the ffift, a book. Everv 
man in his humor, a book. The Commedie of Much 
adoo about nothinge, a book." 

Opposite this memorandum are added the words " To be 
staiea." " It will be remarked, that there is an important de- 
ficiency in the entrv, as regards the purpose to which wo 
wish to apply it : — the date of the year is not given ; but Ma- 
lone conjectured, and in that conjecture I have expressed con- 
currence, that the clerk who wrote the titles of the four plays, 
with the date of " 4 August," did not think it necessary there 
to repeat the year 1600, as it was found in the memorandum 
immediately preceding that we have above quoted. Shake- 
speare's " lienry the Fifth," and " Much Ado about Nothing^" 
were both printed in 1600, and Bei^ Jonson's *' Every Man m 
his Humour" in the year following ; though Gifibrd, in his 
edition of that poet's works (vol- i. p. 2), by a strange error, 
states, that the first impression was in 1603. The " stay," as 
regards " Henry the Fifth," " Every Man in his Humour," and 
" Much Ado about Nothing," was doubtless soon removed ; 
for " Henry the Fifth " was entered again for publication on 

» If we suppose that the third edition of Lodge's " RoRalynde" wajt 
occasioned by the popularity of Shakespeare's comedy, founded upon 
one of the earlier impressions in 1590 or 1592, it would ahoNir V,Yv«A. Kft 
you Like It " was axiteu in 1598^ and might have been wnlten in VSftl . 



the 14tli Angnst; and, as has been already shown, Wise and 
Asplev took the same coarse with Much Ado about No- 
thing'* on the 28rd An^ost. There is no known edition of 
" As You Like It " prior to its appearance in the folio of 
1623, (where it is divided into Scenes, as well as Acts) and 
we may possiblv assume that the " stay " was not, for some 
unexplained ana uncertain reason^ removed as to that com^d^. 

Malone relied upon u piece of internal evidence, which, if 
examined, seems to be of no value in settling the question 
when ** As You Like It " was first written. The following 
words are put into the mouth of Eosalind; — "I weep for 
nothing, like Diana in the fountain " (A. iv. sc. 1)^ which 
Malone supposed to refer to an alabaster figure of Diana on 
the east or Cheapside, which, according to 8towe*8 " Survey 
of London," was set up in 1598, and was in decay in 1608. 
This figure of Diana did not " weep for Stowe expressly 
states that the water came " prilling from her naked breast." 
Therefore, this passage proves nothing as far as respects the 
date of '* As You Like It." Shakespeare probably intended 
to make no allusion to any particular fountain. 

It is not to be forgotten, in deciding upon the probable date 
of " As You Like It," that Meres makes no mention of it in 
his Palladis Tamia, 1598 ; and as it was entered at Stationers* 

written and acted in that interval. In A. iii. sc. 6. a line from 
the first Sestiad of Marlowe's Hero and Leander " is quoted : 
and as that poem was first printed in 1598, "As You Like It" 
may not have been written until after it appeared. 

There is no doubt that Lodge, when composing his " Rosa- 
lynde : Euphues Golden Legacie," which he did, as he in- 
forms us, while on a voyage with Captain Clarke, " to the isl- 
ands of Terceras and the Canaries," had either " The Coke's 
Tale of Garaelyn " (falsely attributed to Chaucer, as Tyrwhitt 
contends in his Introd. to the Cant. Tales, I. dxxxiii. Edit. 
1880.) strongly in his recollection, or, which does not seem 
very probable in such a situation, with a manuscript of it 
actually before him. It was not printed until more than a 
century afterwards. According to Farmer, Shakespeare 
looked no farther than Lodge's novel, which he followed in 
I ** As You Like It" quite as closely as he did Greene's " Pan- 
dosto" in the " Winter's Tale." There are bne or two coin- 
oi;^ences of expression between " As You Like It " and " The 
Coke's Tale or Gamelyn," but not perhaps more than might 
be accidental, and the opinion of Farmer appears to be sufR- 
oiently borne out. Lodge's '* Eosalvndo " has been recently 
printed as part of *' Shakespeare's Library," and it will be 
dasy, therefore, for the reader to trace the particular resem- 
blances between it and "As You Like It." 
In his Lectures in 1818, Coleridge eloquently and justly 

f (raised the pastoral beauty and simplicity of " As You Like 
t:" but he did not attempt to compare it with Lodge's ** Ro- 
Balynde," where the descrintions of persons and of scenery 
sre comparatively forced ana artificial : — " Shakespeare," said 
Coleridge, " newer gives a description of iwalvc wsewerj mot^^ 

H^l on the 4th August [1600]. 

conclude that it was 



for its own sake, or to show how well he can paint natural 
objects: he is never tedious or elaborate, but while he now 
and then displays marvellous accuracy and minuteness of 
knowledge, he usually only touches upon the larger features 
and broader characteristics, leaving the fillings up to the ima- 
gination. Thus in * As You Like It' he describes an oak of 
many centuries growth in a single line : — 

Other and inferior writers would have dwelt on this descrip- 
tion, and worked it out with all the pettiness and imperti- 
nence of detail. In Shakespeare the ^ antique root ' furnishes 
the whole picture." 

These expressions are copied from notes made at the time ; 
and they partially, though imperfectly, supply an obvious 
deficiency of general criticism in vol. ii. p. 115, of Coleridgo^s 
" Literary Remains." 

Adam Spencer is a character in " The CJoke's Tale of Game- 
lyn," and in Lodge's " Rosalynde :" and a great additional in- 

ance of trnth, that the part was origmally sustained by ohake- 
Bpeare himself. We have this statement on the authority of 
Oldys's MSS. : he is said to have derived it, intermediately of 
course, from Gilbert Shakespeare, who survived the Restora- 
tion, and who had a faint recollection of having seen his bro- 
ther William " in one of his own comedies, wherein, being to 
personate a decrepit old man, he wore a long beard, and ap- 
peared so weak and drooping, and unable to walk, that he 
was forced to be supp6rtea and carried by another person to 
a table, at which he was seated among some company, who 
were eatings and one of them sung a song." This aescription 
very exactly tallies with " As You Like It," A. ii. sc. 7. 

Snakespeare found no prototypes in Ix)dge, nor in any 
other work yet discovered, for the characters of Jaoues, 
Touchstone, and Audrey. On the admirable manner in wnicn 
he has made them part of the staple of his story, and on the 
importance of these additions, it is needless to enlarge. It ia 
ratner singular, that Shakespeare should have introduced two 
characters of the name of Jaques into the same plav ; but in the 
old impressions, Jaques de £k>is, in the prefixes to nis speeches, 
is merely called the Second Brother.^' 

^ Under an oak whose antique root peeps out.' 


Duke, Senior, living in exile. 

FREDERiCEp his Brother, usurper of his dominions. 

Amiens, ) Lords attending upon the exiled 

Jaques, 3 Duke. 

Le Beau, a Courtier. 

Oliver, ) 

Jaques, Sons of Sir Rowland de Bois. 
Orlando, i 

Charles, a Wrestler. 

Touchstone, a Clown. 

Sir Oliver Mar-Text, a Vicar. 

& J Shepherds. 

William, a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey. 

Rosalind, Daughter to the exiled Duke. 
Celia, Daughter to the usurping Duke. 
Fhebe, a Shepherdess. 
Audrey, a Country Wench. 

Lords ; Pages, Foresters, and Attendants. 

The SCENE lies, first, near Oliver's House ; afterwards 
in the Usurper's Court, and in the Forest of Arden. 



SCENE I. — An Orchard, near Oliver's House. 
Enter Orlando and Adam. 

Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion : 
he bequeathed me by will* but a poor thousand crowns; 
and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing 
to breed me well : and there begins my sadness. My 
brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks 
goldenly of his profit : for my part, he keeps me rusti- 
cally 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 stall- 
ing 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 mueh 
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. 

Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he 
will shake me up. [Adam retires,* 

Enter Oliver. 

OH. Now, sir ! what make you here ? 

Orl. Nothing : I am not taught to make any thing. 

on. WhaWmar you then, sir ? 
' Jt wMs apoa tiuM faabion bequeathed^ &o. a Behavioi. * "Kol \u 1. 




Orl. Marry, sir, T am helping you to mar that which 
God made, a poor \mworthy brother of yours, with idle- 

Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught 

Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with 
them? What prodigal portion have I spent that I 
should come to such penury ? 

Oli. Know you where you are, sir? 

Orl. O ! sir, very well : here, in your orchard. 

Oli. Know you before whom, sir ? 

Orl. Ay, better than he I am before knows me. 1 
know, you are my eldest brother ; and, in the gentle 
condition of blood, you should so know me. The cour- 
tesy 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 con- 
fess, your coming before me is nearer to his reverence. 

Oli. What, boy ! 

Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young 
in this. 

Oli. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? 

Orl. I am no villain : I am the youngest son of sir 
Rowland de Bois ; he was my father, and he is thrice 
a villain, that says, such a fkther begot villains. Wert 
ihou not my brother, I would not take this hand from 
thy throat, till this other had pulled out thy tongue for 
saying so. [Shaking him*.] Thou hast railed on thy- 

Adam. [Coming forward.] Sweet masters, be patient : 
for your father's remembrance, be at accord 
Oli. Let me go, I say. 

Orl. I will not, till I please : you shall hear me. 
JMy father charged you in his will to give me good 
education: you have trained me like a peasant, ob- 
scuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like quali- 
ties : the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I 
will no longer endure it ; therefore, allow me such ex- 
ercises 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. 

O/t. And what wilt thou do? beg,%rhen that is 
> A petty malediction. * "Sol m t. 

80. L 



spent ? "Well, sir, get you in : I will not long be trou- 
bled 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 good. 

Oli. Get you with him, you old dog. 

Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I have 
lost my teeth in your service. — God be with my old 
master ! he would not have spoke such a word. 

[Exeunt Orlando and Adam. 

Oli. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon me ? I 
will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand 
crowns neither. Hola, Dennis ! 

Enter Dennis. 

Den. Calls your worship ? 

Oli. Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to 
speak with me ? 

Den. So please you, he is here at the door, and im- 
portunes access to you. 

Oli. Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] — 'T will be a good 
way ; and to-morrow the wrestling is. 

Enter Charles. 

Cha. Good morrow to your worship. 

Oli. Good monsieur Charles, what 's the new news at 
the new court ? 

Cha. There 's no news at the court, sir, but the old 
news ; that is, the old duke is banished by his younger 
brother the new duke, and three or four loving lords 
have put themselves into voluntary exile with him, 
whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke ; there- 
fore he gives them good leave to wander. 

Oli. Can you tell, if Rosalind, the old^ duke's daugh- 
ter, be banished with her father ? 

Cha. ! no ; for the new* 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 daugh- 
ter ; and never two ladies loved as they do. 

Oli. 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 &ay. m^ic^ 

JrT^^'^ in /. «. a This word ia not in {. e. 
Vol, III.-^2 



ACT h 

yoluig gentleman, flock to.him ey^ day, aud fleet th^^. 
time carelessly^ as tKey did in the gplden -vrorld. 

OH. 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 yoiur younger brother, Orlando,^ hath a disposition 
to come, in disguised against me, to try a fall, Tpr 
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 j 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 love 
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 
niy wilL 

Oli. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which, 
thou shalt find, I will most kindly requite. I had 
myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have, 
by underhand means, laboured to dissuade him from 
it ; but he is resolute. I 'll tell thee, Charles : it is 
the stubbomest young fellow of France ; full of ambi- 
tion, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, 
a secret and. villainous contriver against me his natural 
brother: therefore, use thy discretion. I had as lief 
thou didst break his neck as his finger : and thou wert 
best look to '*t ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace,^^ 
or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will 
practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some 
treacherous device, and never leave thee 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 
npt one so young and so villainous 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 gq. alo^e again, I'll never wrestle for prize more. 
And so, Grod keep your worship ! [Eacit. 

Oli. Farewell good Charles.— Now. will I stir this 
gamester. I hope, I shall see an enA. oi Vmxv *, for my 




*)ul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he: 
yet he *8 gentle ; never schooled, and yet learned ; fall 
of noble device ; of all sorts enchantingly beloved, and, 
ihd6ed, so much in the heart of the world, and espe- 
cially of my own people, who best know him, that I am 
altogether misprised. >Bat it shall not be so long; this 
wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains, but that I kin- 
dle the hoy thither. Which now I '11 go about. [Exit, 

SCENE II. — A Lawn before the Duke's Palace. 

Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. 
Itos, Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mis- 
tress of, atid would you yet I' Were merrier ? Unlete 
you could teacih me to forget a banished father^ you 
totist not learn me how to remember any extraordmary 

Cel. Herein, I See, thou lovest me not with the full 
freight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished 
father, hsid banished thy uncle, the duke my father, so 
thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my 
lOve to take thy father for mine : so wouldst thou, if 
the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tem- 
pered, as mine is to thee. 

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, 
to rejoice in yours. 

Cel. You know, my father hath no child but I, nor • 
none is like to have ; and, truly, when he dies, thou 
Shalt be his heir : for what he hath taken away from 
thy father perforce, I will render thee again in afiec- 
tibn : by mine honour, I will ; and when I break that 
^th let me turn monster. Therefore, my sweet Rose, 
my dear Rose, be merry. 

Ros. From henceforth I Will, coz, and devise sports. 
Let me see ; what think you of falling in love ? 

Cel. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal: 
'but love no man in good eameist ; nor no further in 
sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thoU 
may'st in honour come off again. 

Ros. What shall be our sport then ? 

Cel. Let US sit, and mock the good housewife, For- 
ttine, from Her whecil, that her gifts may henceforth be 
biMstowed equally. 

^ J, wu added by Pope, 

16 ' 



Ros. I "vrould, we could do so ; for her benefits are 
mightily misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman 
doth most mistake in her gifts to women. 

Cel. is true, for those that she makes fair, she 
scarce makes honest ] and those that she makes honest, 
she makes very ill-favoured. 

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 sept 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, perceiving our natural wits too dull 
to reason of such goddesses, hath sent this natural for 
our whetstone : 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 ? 

Toiich. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come 
for you. 

Ros. Where learned you that oath, fool ? 

Towh. Of a certain knight, that swore by his honour 
they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour 
the mustard was naught : now, I '11 stand to it, the 
pancakes were naught, and the mustard was good, and 
yet was not the knight forsworn. 

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your 
knowledge ? 

Ros, Ay, marry : now unmuzzle your wisdom. 

Touch. Stand you both forth now; stroke your chins, 
and swear by your beards that I am a knave. 

Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. 

Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; 
but if you swear by that that is not^ you are not for- 
sworn : no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, 
for he never had any ; or if he had, he had sworn it 

86. n. 

a6 irou Lret: it. 


tMtky before 'eref he iia^ those pancakes, or that Intis- 
tard. . 

XHel. iVythiee. who is 't that thou mean'st? 

Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. 

jRo5*. My father's love is enough to honour him 
^fough. S{^ak no more of him : you '11 he whipped 
for taxatiou', one of these days. 

Tomh. The iriore pity, that fools may uot speak 
•msely, wh^rt wi^e men do foolishly. 

Cel. By my troth, thoU say'st trtfe : for sinde the 
Uttle wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery 
that wise men have makes a great show. He!re eomes 
ittonsieur Le Beau. 

Enter Le Beau. 
Ros. With his mouth full of riewis. 
Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeoiis feed their 


Ros. Then shall we be news-cramm'd. 

Cel. All the better ; we shall be the more marketable. 
Bon jour J mottsiettr Le Beau : what ^s the ? 

Le Bern. Fair prin^ss, you have lost much good 

Cd. S]^t» ? Of whit colour ? 

Le Beau. What colour, madam ? How shall I 
answer you ? 

lio5. As i^t and fortuiie Will. 

Touch. Or as the destinies decree. 

Cel. Well said : that \lras laid bh with a trowel. 

Touch. Nay, iif I keep not itay rank,— 

12o». Thou lowest thy old smell. 

Le Beau. Ybu amaze^ hie. ladibs: I would haVe 
told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the 
sight of. 

Jfc)*. Yet teli lis the hiaiineir of the wrestling. 

Le Beau. I -Wrill tell yoti the beginning ] and^ if it 
please your ladyships, you thay see the bnd, for the 
best id yei to do ; dud hieire, where yoii Jire, they ire 
^ihg to perform it. 

Cel. Well, — the beginning, that is dead and buried. 

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

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

' Boom edt. gire tbia tpeeoh to Caia, » ficondol. * wpott \ Vn t. 
' Cenfttu. * 





Le Beau, Three proper yo\mg men, of excellent 
growth and presence 3 — 

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 mo- 
ment threw him, and broke tliree 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 
tiie place appointed for the wrestling, and they are 
ready to perform it. 

Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming : let us now stay 
and see it. 

Flourish. Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, Orlando, 
Charles, and Attendants. 
Duke F. Come on : since the youth will not be 
entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. 
Ros. Is yonder the man ? 
Le Beau. Even he, madam. 

Cel. Alas ! he is too young : yet he looks successfully. 

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

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

Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I can tell 
you, there is such odds in the men*. In pity of the 
challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade him, but he 
will not be entreated : speak to him, ladies ; see if you 
can move him. 

Ce/. Call him hither, good monsieur Le Beau. 
' A kind of i)tib«, or iolbcrt. *iBaa.; *mt.«. 

BO. n. 



Duke F. Do 80 : I '11 not be by. [Duke goes apart, 
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 : 
I come but in, as- others do, to try with him the strength 
of my youth. 

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold fwr 
your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's 
strength : if you saw yourself with our' eyes, or knew 
yourself with our* judgment, the fear of your adventure 
would counsel you to a more equal enterprise. We 
pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own 
safety, and give over this attempt. 

Ros, Do, young sir : your reputation shall not there- 
fore 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 
80 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 

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 entreal 
i « your: in f.«. 

Ah rOV IT. 


Man to a «econd, that bare no imghtily peirsul^ed Mm 
ihtHfH a first. 

Orl. You mean to mock me after : you shottid ixtk 
have mocked me "before : but come your 'wtiys. 

Ros. Now, Herctdes he thy fcpedd, yotmg man! 

Cel.^ I would I were invisible, to catch the strong 
fellow by the 1^. |Chaiil»s and Orlando wrestle, 

Hos. 0, excellent young man ! 

Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I cah teH 
irho flhould down. [Charles is throvm, l^umt. 

Duke F. No more, no more. 

Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace : I am not yet WeH 

Duke F. How dost thou, Charles ? 

Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 

DuJce F. Bear him away. [Charles is home out. 
What is thy name, young man ? ^ 

Orl. Orlando, my liege: the youngest son bf Itir 
Rowland de Bois. 

Duke F. I would, thou hadst been son to some jnan 

The worid esteem'd thy father honourable, 

But I did find him still mine enemy : 

Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed, 

Hadst thou descended from another house. 

But fare thee well ; thou art a gallant youth. 

I would thou hadst told me of another father. 

[Exewnt Duke FAed. Trairij and Le BEiit. 

Crf. Were I my father, coa^ would I do this ? 

Orl. I am more proud to be sir Rowland's son. 
His youngest 6oh, akid would not chimge that calling, 
To be adopted heir to Frederick. 

Ros. My father lov'd sir Rowland all hiis soul, 
Ahd all the world -vlras 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 cousih, 

L<^t lis 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 J as you have exceeded all promise) 
Your mistresa shall be happy. 

80. II. 



. Ros. Gentleman, 

[Criving him a chain. 
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more, hut 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 hotter parts 
Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up 
Is hut a quintaine\ a mere lifeless hlock. 

Ros. He calls us hack. My pride fell with my fortunes; 
\ '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 Celu. 

Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my 

I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. 

Re-enter Le Beau. 
0, poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown. 
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. 

Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you 
To leave this place. Alheit you have deserved 
High commendation, true applause, and loVe, 
Yet such is now the duke's condition. 
That he misconstrues all that ybu have done. 
The duke is humorous : what he is, indeed. 
More suits you to conceive, than me to speak of. 

Orl. I thank you, sir ; and, pray you, tell me this : 
Which of the two was daughter of the duke, 
That here was at the wrestling ? 

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge hy 

But yet, indeed, the shorter* is his daughter: 
The other is daughter to the hanish'd duke, 
And here detained hy her usurping uncle. 
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves 
Xre dearer than the natural hond of sisters. 
But I can tell you, that of late this duke 
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, 
Groimded upon no other argument, 

1 A shieli fastenad to a, pole, or a pnppet, nied at & ina.i\L Va l^\axi%« 
' MWMller : iaf,e. Pope alto made the correotion. 


AB TOtr ZtKK tT. 

ACT t 

But that the pebple 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 flhall desire more love and knowledge of you. 
Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you well. 

[Exit Le B£Ai7. 
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; 
Frwn 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 hiave 
mercy !— Not a Word ? 

'Ros. Not one to throw at a liog. 

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 isousins laid up, when the 
one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad 
without any. 

Cel. But is all this for your father ? 

Ros. No, some of it for my father's child.* 0, how 
full of briars is this working-day World ! 

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown u^n tliee 
in holiday foolery : if we walk not in the trodden 
paths, our very petticoats will catch them. 

^Ros. I could shake them off my eoat : tliese burs 
are in my heart. 

Cel. Hem them away. 

Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem, and have Mm. 
Cel. Come, come ; wrestle with thy affections. 
Ros. ! they take the part of a better wrestler thim 

Cel. 0, 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, dn 
such a sudden, you should fall into fio strong a liking 
with old sir Rowland's youngest sOn ? 

Ros. The duke my father lov'd his fath^ dearty. 

Cel, Doth it therefore ensue, that you i^ouid love 

his son dearly ? By this kiii4 of chiuse, I shiould httte.^ 
him, for my father, hf^ted 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 Igva. 
him, because 1 do. — 

Enter Duke Frederick, ivith Lords. 
Look, here comes the duke. 

Cel. With his eyes full of anger. 

Duke F. Mistress, dispatch you with your futest^ 

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 mth mine own, desires, 
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, 
(As [ do trust I am not) then, dear uncle, 
Never so much as in a thought unborn 
Did I ofiend your highness. 

Ddce 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 

Ros. So was I when your highness took his dukedom ; 

So was I when your highness banish'd hiuL 

Treason is not inherited, my lord ; 

Or if we did derive it from our fnends, 

What 's that to me ? my father was no traitor. 

Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much. 

To think my poverty is treacherous. 
Cel. Dear sovereign, hear me,speak% 
Duke F. Ay, Celia : we stay'd her for youi Bak^ > 




Else had she with her father rang'd 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 he a traitor, 
Why so am I ; we still have slept together, 
Rose at an instant, leam'd, play'd, eat together ; 
And wheresoever we went, like Juno's swans, 
Still we went coupled, and inseparate.* [ness, 

Duke F. She is too suhtle for thee ; and her smooth- 
Her very silence, and her patience, 
Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
Thou art a fool ; she robs thee of thy name ; [ous, 
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtu- 
When she is gone. Then, open not thy lips : 
Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
Which [ have pass'd upon her. She is hanish'd. 

Cel. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege : 
I cannot live out of her company. 

Duke F. You are a fool. — You, niece, provide your- 

If you out-stay the time, upon mine honour, 
And in the greatness of my word, you die. 

[Exeunt Duke Frederick and Lords. 

Cel. 0, my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go ? 
Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. 
I charge thee, be not thou more grieved than I am. 

Ros. I have more cause. 

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin. 

Pr'ythee, be cheerful : know'st thou not, the duke 
Hath hanish'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 sundered ? 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 change upon you. 
To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale. 
Say what thou canst, I '11 go along with thee. 

Jios. Why, whither shall we go ? 

sc. ni. 



Cel. To seek my uncle 

In the forest of Arden. 

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to ns, 
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-ax^ 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. I '11 have no worser' 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 essay'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. \Exeunlf,. 

1 Cutlass. * worse a : in f. e. 

Vol. ni—S 



AOT n. 


SCENE I.— The Forest of Arden. 
Enter Duke, Senior, Amiens, and other Lords, like 

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile, 
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet, 
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 
More free from peril than the envious court ? 
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, 
The seasons' difference, or^ the icy fang. 
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 
Which when it bites, ^nd blows upon my body. 
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say. 
This is no flattery : these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade m6 what I am. 
Sweet are the uses of adversity. 
Which, like the toad,' ugly and venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; 
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. ^ 

Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your grace, 
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, 
Being native burghers of this desert city. 
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads' 
Have their round haunches gor'd. 

1 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 j 
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag. 
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, 

I as : in f. e. s Fenton, in 1569, tells us " there is found in heads 
of old and great toads, a stone which they call borax or steton : it is 
most commonly found in the head of a he-toad." — Knight. * Barbed 

Bc. n. 



Did come to languish : and, indeed, my lord, 

The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, 

That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 

Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears • 

Cours'd one another down his innocent nose 

In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool, 

Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 

Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 

Augmenting it with tears. 

Duke S. But what said Jaques ? 

Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 

1 Lord. O ! yes, into a thousand similes. 
First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; 

Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which nath^ too much." Then, being there 

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends ; 

" 'T is right," quoth he ; " thus misery doth part 

The flux of company." Anon, a careless herd, 

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 

And never stays to greet him : " Ay," quoth Jaques, 

Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 
'T is 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 
Are mere usurpers; tyrants, and what '*s worse, 
To fright the animals, and kill them up 
In their assigned and native dwelling place. 

Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation ? 
' 2 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. 

2 Lord. I '11 bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— A Room in the Palace. 
Enter Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants. 
Duke F. dan it be poFsible that no man saw them ? ^ 
It cannot be : some villains of my court ^ 
' had : in f. e. 





Are of consent and suffer ance in this. 

1 Lord, I cannot hear of any that did see her. 
The ladies, her attendants of her chamber, 
Saw her a-bed ; and in the morning early 

They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. 

2 Lord. My lord, the roynish* clown, at whom so oft 
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 
Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman. 

Confesses that she secretly o'er-heard 

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. 

Dvke F. Send to his brother : fetch that gallant 
hither ; 

If he be absent bring his brother to me, 

I '11 make him find him. Do this suddenly, 

And let not search and inquisition quail 

To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III.— Before Oliver's House. 
Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 
Orl. Who's there? 

Adam. What, my young master? — 0, my gentle 
master ! 

0, my sweet master ! 0, you memory 

Of old Sir Rowland ! why, what make you here ? 

Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? 

Why would you be so fond'' to overcome 

The bony priser 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. 0, unhappy youth ! 

Come not within these doors : beneath* this roof 
T|ie enemy of all your graces lives. 

' Scurvy. « Foolish. * *. mt. 

8c. m. 



Your brother — ^^(no, no brother ; yet the son — 

Yet not the son — will not call him son — 

Of him I was about to call his father,) — 

Hath heard your praises, and this night he means 

To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 

And you within it : if he fail of that, 

He will have other means to cut you off : 

I overheard him, and his practices. 

This is no place ; this house is but a butchery : 

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 

Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go ? 

Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 

Orl. What ! wouldst thou have me go and beg my 

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 j 
Yet this I will not do, do how I can. 
I rather will subject me to the malice 
Of a diverted, proud,* and bloody brother. 

Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred crowna, 
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, 
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse 
When service should in my old limbs lie tome, 
And unregarded age in comers 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 loSk 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 i| 
The means of weakness and debility : 
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go witii 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 favour^ of the antique world, 
When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
Where mm will sweat but for promotion, 

' diverted blood : in f. e. » service : m f . e. 




ACT n. 

And having that; do choke their service np 
Even with the having : it is not bo with thee. 
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, 
That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 
Pn lieu of all thy pains and husbandry. 
But come thy ways : we Ul 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^ Celia for Aliena, ahd 
Clown^ alias Touchstone. 
Ros. Jupiter ! how weary* are my spirits ! 
Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not 

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's 
apparel, and to cry like a woman ; but I must comfort 
the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show 
itself courageous to petticoat : therefore, courage, good 

Cel. I pray you, bear with me : I can go no farther. 

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, mt 

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 tra- 
vellers must be content. 

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. — ^Look you ; who 
comes here ? a young man, and an old, in solenm talk. 
Enter Corin and Silvius. 

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still. 

Sil. Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her ! 

Cor. I partly guess, for I have lov'd ere now. 
* The old oopies hm "xneTry,^' 'wY»ici\i'KiaiS^t wtMsa^ 


SH. No, Corin ; being old, thou canst not guess, 
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover 
ks 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. 

SU. 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 lov'd : 
Or if thou hast not spake^, as I do now. 
Wearying thy hearer in thy mistress' praise. 
Thou hast not lov'd : 
Or if thou hast not broke from company, 
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me. 
Thou hast not lov'd. 

Phebe. Phebe, Phebe ! [Exit Silvius. 
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 remem- 
ber the kissing of her batler', and the cow's dugs that 
her pretty chapped hands had milked : and I remember 
the wooing of a peascod instead of her ; from whom I 
took two cods, and, giving her . them again, said with 
weeping tears, " Wear these for my sake." We, that 
are true lovers, run into strange capers ; but as all is 
mortal in nature, so 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. Love, love !' this shepherd's passion 
Is much upon my fashion. 

Touch. And mine ; but 

It grows something stale with me,* 
And begins to fail 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. 

1 nt : in /. 9. *A bat tued in vrtLshine linen. * Jov«,3oye *. V&.1. 
0. giro tbeMe two linet u one. < This line not in f. e. 



ACT n. 

Touch, Holla, you clown ! 

Ros. Peace, fool : he 'b not tny kinsman. 

Cor. Who calls? 

Touch. Your betters, sir. 

Cor. Else are they very wretched. 

Ros. Peace, I say. — 

Good even to you, friend. 

Cor. And to you, gentle sir ; and to you all. 

Ros. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love, or gold, 
Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed. 
Here 's a young maid with travel much oppress'd, 
And faints for succour. 

Cor. Fair sir, I pity her. 

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own, 
My fortunes were more able to relieve her ; 
But I am shepherd to another man. 
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze : 
My master is of churlish disposition. 
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- 

That little cares for buying any thing. 

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty. 
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock. 
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 

Cel. And we will mend thy wages. I like this 

And willingly could waste my time in it. 

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


sc. V. 



SCENE V.-— Another Part of the Forest. 
Enter Amiens, Jaques. and others. 


Ami. Under the greenwood tree^ 
Who loves to lie with me^ 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet* bird's throaty 
Come hither^ come hither^ come hither : 

Here shall he see no enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 
Jaq. More, more ! I pr'ythee, more. 
Ami. It will make you melancholy, monsieur Jaques. 
Jaq, I thank it. More ! I pr'ythee, more. I can 
suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. 
More ! I pr'ythee, more. 

Ami. My voice is ragged* ; I know I cannot please 

Jaq. I do not desire you to please me ; I do desire 
you to sing. Come, more ; another stanza. Call you 
'em stanzas ? 

Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques. 

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names : they owe me 
nothing. Will you sing? 

Ami. More at your request, than to please myself. 

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I 'U thank 
you; but that they call compliment is like the en- 
counter 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 1 have been all this day to avoid him. 
He is too disputable for my company : I think of as 
many matters as he, but I give heaven thanks, and 
make no boast of them. Come, warble ; come. 


Who doth ambition shun, [All together here. 
And loves to live V the sun^ 
Seeking the food he eats, 
And pleas' d with what he gets, 
2 Bough. 



ACT n. 

Come hither J come hither j come hither : 
Here shall he see, &c. 
Jaq. I '11 give you a verse to this note, that I made 
yesterday in despite of my invention. 
Ami. And I '11 sing it. 
Jaq. Thus it goes : — 

If it do come to pa^s. 
That any man turn ass. 
Leaving his wealth and ease, 
A stubborn, will to please, 
Ducdame. ducdame^ ducdame : 

Here shall he see, gross fools as he. 
An if he will come to me. 
Ami. What 's that ducdame^ ? 

Jaq. 'T is a Greek invocation to call fools into a 
circle. I '11 go sleep if I can : if I cannot, I '11 rail 
against all the first-born of Egypt. 

Ami. And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is 

{Exeunt severally. 

SCENE VL—The Same. 
Enter Orlando and Adam. 
Adam. Dear master, I can go no farther : ! I die 
for food. Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. 
Farewell, kind master. 

Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in 
thee ? Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a 
^ little. If this uncouth forest yield 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 comforted*; hold death awhile at the arm's 
end. I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring 
thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to 
die ; but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker 
of my labour. Well said ! thou look'st cheerily ; and 
I 'li 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. 


1 due-ad-m« (come hither) : layg Haniner. * cozofortable : in f . e« 

sc. fn. 



SCENE VIL— The Same. 
A Table set out. Enter DuKEy Senior j Amiens, 
Lordsy and others. 

Duke S. I think he be transformed into a beast, 
For I can no where find him like a man. 

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence : 
Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical, 
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. — 
Go, seek him : tell him, I would speak with him. 
Enter Jaques. 

1 Lord. He saves my 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 ! 1 met a fool i^ the forest, 

A motley fool ; (a miserable world !) 

As I do live by food, I met a fool, 

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 

And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 

In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 

"Good-morrow, fool," quoth I : "No, sir," quoth he, 

" Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me 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 may we see," quoth he, " how the world wags : 

'T is but an hour ago since it was nine. 

And after one hour more H will be eleven ; 

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe. 

And then from hour to hour we rot and rot ; 

And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear 

The motley fool thus moral on the time, 

My lungs began to crow like dianticleer, - 

That fools should be so deep contemplative ; 

And I did laugh, sans intermission, 

An hour by his dial. — 0, noble fool ! 

A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. 

Duke S. What fool is this ? 

Jaq. 0, 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 



ACT n. 

After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd 
"With observation, the which he vents 
In mangled forms. — 0, that I were a fool ! 
I am ambitious for a motley coat. 

Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 

Jaq. It is my only suit; 

Provided, that you weed your better judgments 
Of all opinion that grows rank in them. 
That I am wise. I must have liberty 
Withal, as large a charter as the wind. 
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
And they that are most galled with my folly, 
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, 
But* 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 th' 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 th' embossed sores, and headed evils, 
That thou with license of free foot hast caught, 
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. 

Jdq. Why, who cries out on pride, 
That can therein tax any private party ? % 
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea. 
Till that the very means of wear' 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 ? 
Or what is he of basest function, 
That says, his bravery is not on my cost. 
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits 
' f. e. ; Not. s tke yexy, yvrj xa»«&i *. \n. i. 

sc. vn. 



His folly to the mettle of my speech ? 
There then; how then? what then? Let me see 

My tongue hath wroxis'd him : if it do him right, 
Then he hath wrong'C himself ; if he be free, 
Why then, my taxing like a wild goose flies, 
Unclaimed of any man. — But who comes here ? 
Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn, 
OrL Forbear, and eat no more. 

Orl Nor shalt hot, till necessity be serv'd. 
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of? 
Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy dis- 

Or else a rude despiser of good manners. 
That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? 

Orl. You touched 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 

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 countehance 
Of stem commandment. But whatever 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 knoU'd to church. 
If ever sat at any good man's feast. 
If ever from your eye-lids wip'd a tear. 
And know what 't is to pity and be pitied. 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. 

In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. 
Vol. III.--4 

Why, I have eat none yet. 




ACT n. 

Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days, 
And have with holy bell been knoU'd to church, 
And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity hath engendered ] 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness. 
And take, upon commend, 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 a-n old poor man. 
Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limp'd in pure love : till he be first suffic'd. 
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 bless'd for your good com- 
fort ! [Exit 

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy : 
This wide and universal theatre 
Presents more woful pageants, than the scene ' 
Wherein we play in. 

Jag. All the world's a stage. 

And all the men and women merely players : 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
And one man in his time plays many parts. 
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. • 
Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel. 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover. 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier. 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in 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 lin'd, 
With eye 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 slipper'd pantaloon. 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
His youthful hosC; well Bav'd, a world too wide 

«C. VII. 


For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 
Re-enter Orlando, Adam. 

Duke S. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden, 
And let him feed. 

Orl. I thank you most for him. 

Adam. So had you need; 
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 

Duke S. Welcome ; fall to : I will not trouble you 
As yet to question you about your fortunes. 
Give us some music : and, good cousin, sing. 

[Confers with Orlando.* 


Blow, bloWy 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 f riendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 
Then, heigh, fw l' 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 remembered not. 
Heigh, ho ! sing, &c. 

Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's 

Ab 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 lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune. 
Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old man, 
^ Not infe. « Weave togethet. 



ACT nx. 

Thou art right welcome as thy master is. 

Support him hy the arm. — Give me your hand^ 

And let me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt, 

ACT m. 

SCENE I.— A Room in the Palace. 
Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords and Attendants, 

Bvke F, Not seen him since ? Sir, sir, that cannot be : 
But were I not the better part made mercy, 
I should not seek an abluent argument 
Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it : 
Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ; • 
Seek him with candle : bring him, dead or living, 
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more 
To seek a living in our territory. 
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine, 
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands, 
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth 
Of what we think against thee. 

Oli. 0, that your highness knew my heart in this ! 
I never lov'd my brother in my life. 

Luke 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 of Arden. 
Enter Orlando, hanging a paper on a tree} 
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, 
' Expeditiougly. > with a paper : va 


ISnter Corin and Touchstone. 
Cor. And how like you this shepherd's* life, master 

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a 
good life ; hut in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it 
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very 
well J hut in respect that it is private, it is* a very vile 
life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me 
well ; hut in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. 
As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well : 
but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much 
against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, 
shepherd ? 

Cor. No more, hut that I know the more one sick- 
ens, the worse at ease he is ; and that he that wants 
money, means, and content, is Without three good 
friends ; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire 
to hum ; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and that 
a great cause of the night, is lack of the sim; that he, 
that hath learned no wit by nature nor art, may 
complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull 

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast 
ever in court, shepherd ? 
Cor. No, truly. 

Tmich. Then thou art damned. 
Cor. Nay, I hope, — 

Touch. Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted 
egg, all on one side. 

Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 

Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never 
saw'fit good manners ; if thou never saw'st good man- 
ners, then thy manners must be wicked ; and wicked- 
ness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou art in a parlous 
state, shepherd. 

Cor. Not a whit. Touchstone : those that are good 
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country, 
as the 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, andthfiii 
fells, jou kaowj axe greasy. 




ACT m. 

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 then! 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 worms-meat, in 
respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed ! — ^Leam of the 
wise, and perpend : civet is of a baser birth than tar ; 
the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, 

Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me : I '11 rest. 
Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? Grod 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 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 twelve- 
month, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of 
all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for 
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds : I 
cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape. 

Cor. Here comes yoiuig master Ganymede, my 
new mistress's brother. 

Enter Rosalind, reading a paper, 
Ros. From the east to western Im, 
No jewel is like Rosalind. 
Her worth, being mounted on the wind^ 
Through all the world bears Rosalind. 
All the pictures, fairest lin^d}^ 
Are but black to Rosalind. 
Let no face be kept in mind, 

Touch. I '11 rhyme you so, eight years together, din- 

^ Delineated 

80. n. 



and suppers, and sleeping honrs excepted : it is 
the right butter- women's raAk^ to market. 
Ros. Out, fool ! 
Touch. For a taste : — 

If a hart do lack a hind, 
Let him seek out Rosalind. 
If the cat will after kind, 
So, be sure, will Rosalind. 
Winter* garments must be lin'd, 
So must slender Rosalind. 
They that reap must sheaf and bind. 
Then to cart with Rosalind. 
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, 
Such a nut is Rosalind. 
He that sweetest rose will find, 
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind." 
This is the very false gallop of verses : why do you 
infect yourself with them ? 
Ros. Peace ! you dull fool : I found them on a tree. 
Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 
Ros. I '11 graff it with you. and then I shall grafi" it 
with a jnedlar : then it will be the earliest fruit i' the 
country : for you '11 be rotten e'er 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 Gelia, reading a paper, 
Ros. Peace! 
Here comes my sister, reading : stand aside. 
Cel. Why should this a* desert be ? 
For it is unpeopled ? No ; 
Tongues Vll 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 smils of friend and friend : 
But upon the fairest boughs, 
Or at every sentence' end. 
Will I Rosalinda write ; 

» Following in jofg-trot, one after another. * YTmtied*. va. I. 
* Pope iiuerted, "a." 



ACT m. 

Teaching dll that read to TcrKsw 
The quintessence of every sprite 
Heaven would in little show. 
Therefore heaven Nature charged, 

That one body shoicld be fiXVd 
With all graces wide enlarged : 

Nature presently distilVa 
Helenas cheeky but not her hearty 

Cleopatra^ s majesty^ 
Atalantd's better part^ 

Sad Lucretia^s modesty. 
Thus Rosalind of many parts 

By heavenly synod was devised j 
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts. 
To have the touches dearest prised. 
Heaven would that she these gifts should have. 
And I to live and die her slave. 
Ros. Oj most gentle Jupiter ! — what tedious homily 
of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and 
never cried, " Have patience, good people ! " 

Cel. How now? back, friends .-—-Shepherd, go off a 
little : — go with him, sirrah. 

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable 
retreat ; though not with bag and baggage, yet with 
Borip and scrippage. [Exeunt Corin and Touchstone. 
Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ? 
Ros. ! 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 th^. 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 

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this ? 

Ros. Is it a man? 

^Rhyming Irish rats to death, is fie<\uently spoken of in old 

80. n. 



CeL And a chain, that you once wore, about his 
neck ? Change you colour ? 
Ros. I pr'ythee, who ? 

Cel, lord, lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to 
meet; but mountains may be removed with earth- 
quakes, and so encounter. 

Ras. Nay, but who is it? 

Cel. Is it possible ? 

Ros, Nay, I pr'ythee, now, with most petitionary 
vehemence, tell me who it is. 

Cel. 0, wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful 
wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, and after that, 
out of all whooping ! 

Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, though 
I am caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and 
hose in my disposition ? One inch of delay more is a 
Southsea of discovery; I pr'ythee, tell me, who is it 
quickly ; and speak apace. I would thou couldst stam- 
mer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man out of 
thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouth'd 
bottle; either too much at once, or none at all. I 
pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may 
drink thy tidings. 

Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 

-Ros. Is he of Grod'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 tripp'd up the wres- 
tler's heels and your heart, both in an instant. 

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking : speak sad' 
brow, and true maid. 

Cel. I 'faith, coz, 'tis he. 

Ros. Orlando? 

CeL Orlando. 

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my doublet 
and hose? — ^What did he, when thou saw'st him? 
What said he ? How look'd 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. 
' Serioui. 




Cel. Yon must borrow me Garagantua's* mouth first: 
't is 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. I found him 
under a tree, like a dropped acorn. 

Ros. It may well be calPd Jove's tree, when it drops 
forth such fruit. 

Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 

Ros. Proceed. 

Cel. There lay he stretoh'd along, like a wounded 

Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well 
becomes the ground. 

Cel. Cry, holla ! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee ; it curvets 
unseasonably. He was furnish' d like a hunter. 

Ros. ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 

Cel. I would sing my song without a burden : thou 
bring' st' me out of tune. 

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, 
I must speak. Sweet, say on. 

Enter Orlando and Jaques. 

Cel. You bring me out. — Soft ! comes he not here ? 

Ros. 'T is he : slink by, and note him. 

[Rosalind and Celia retire. 

Jaq. 1 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. Good bye, you : let 's meet as little as we can. 

Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
, Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing 
love-songs in their barks. 

Orl. I pray you mar no more of my verses with read- 
ing them ill-favouredly. 

Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name ? 

Orl. Yes, just. 

' ^Z>eJais' giant, who swallowed five pilgrims in a salad. > Fattest 
mo out. 

sc. n. 



Ja4f, I do not like her name. 

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you, when she 
was christened. 

Jaq. What stature is she of? 

Orl. Just as high as my heart. 

Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not 
been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conn'd 
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 't was macl« of 
Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me ? and we 
two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our 

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world, but my- 
self, against whom I know most faults. 

Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in love. 

Orl. 'T is a fault I will not change for your best vir- 
tue. I am weary of you. 

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I 
found you. 

Orl. He is drown'd 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 cypher. 

Jaq. I '11 tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good 
signior love. ' 

Orl. I am glad of your departure. Adieu, good 
monsieur melancholy. 

[Exit Jaques. — ^Rosalind and Celia come forward. 

Ros. [Aside to Celia.] I will speak to him like a 
saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave 
with him. [To him.] Do you hear, forester ? 

Orl. Very well : what would you ? 

Ros. I pray you, what is 't o'clock ? 

Orl. You should ask me, what time o' day : there 's 
no clock in the forest. ' 

Ros. Then, there is no true lover in the forest ; else 
sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would 
detect the lazy foot of time as well as a clock. 

Orl. And why not the swift foot of time ? had not 
that been as proper ? 

» In the style of the moral maxims painted in cottmoti -mtb ipv<it.\iw,% 
on cloth^ bung ajrormd rooms like tapestry. 



ACT m. 

Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces 
■with divers persons. I '11 tell you who Time ambles 
withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, 
and who he stands still withal. 

Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal ? 

Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, be- 
tween 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 years. 

Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? 

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man 
that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, 
because he cannot study ; and the other lives merrily, 
because he feels no pain : the one lacking the burden 
of lean and wasteful learning, the other knowing no 
burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles 

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 

Orl. Who stands he> 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 coney, that you see dwell where she is 

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 court- 
ship 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 

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils 
that he laid to the charge of women ? 

^ itaytit*. inf. e. 

8C. n. 



Ros. There were none principal : they were all like 
one another, as half-pence are ; every one fault seem- 
ing monstrous, till his fellow fault came to match it. 

Orl, I pr'ythee, recount some of them. 

Ros. No ; I will not cast away my physic, but on 
those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, 
that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on 
their barks ; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies 
on brambles ; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosa- 
lind : if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give 
him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quo- 
tidian of love upon him. • 

Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, 
tell me your remedy. 

Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you : 
he taught me how to know a man in love : in which 
cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not 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 pardon you for that, for, simply, 
your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue. 
— Then, your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet 
imbanded, 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 youraelf, 
than seeming the lover of any other. 

Orl, Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe 
I love. 

Ros. 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 con- 
sciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs 
the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so ad- 
mired ? 

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 rlijine nor reason can expre8B\iQwmxxs3tL. * 
rr rrr^^'*' ^^^^^ a kind of needle^oTk. 



ACT m. 

Ros. Love IS merely a madness, and, I tell yen, de- 
serves as well a dark house, and a whip, as madmen 
do ; and the reason why they are not so pnnished and 
cured, is, that the lunacy is so ordinary, that the whip- 
pers 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, long- 
ing, and liking ; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, in- 
constant, 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 loving 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. r^ow, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me 
where it is. 

Ros. Go with me to it, and T '11 show it you ; and, 
by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you 
live. Will you go? 

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 

Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. — Come, sis- 
ter, will you go ? [Exeunt, 

Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques behind, 
observing them. 

Touch. Come apace, good Audrey : I will fetch up 
your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the 
man yet ? Doth my simple feature content you ? 

Aitd. Your features ? Lord warranty us ! what fea- 
tures ? 

Touch. I am here with thee an^ ^o^X.^^ Wikft 

•fit!. IH. 



tBmt caprieious poet, honest Ovid, was among the 

Jaq. [Aside.] knowledge ill-inhahited ! worse 
Aan Jove in a thatch'd house 

Touch. When a man's verses cannot he understood, 
nor a man's good wit seconded with the forward child, 
imderstanding, it strikes a man' more dead than a great 
reckoning in a little room. — Truly, I would the gods 
had made thee poetical. 

And. I do not know what poetical is. Is it honest 
in deed, and word ? Is it a true thing ? 

ToiLch. No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most 
feigning ; and lovers are given to poetry, and what 
they swear in poetry, it may he said, as lovers they do 

And. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me 
poetical ? 

Tofich. I do, truly ; for thou swear'st to me, thou art 
hones^t : now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some 
hope thou didst feign. 

And. Would you not have me honest? 

Touch. No truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; 
for honesty coupled to heauty 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. 1 am not a fftlut, though I thank the gods I am 

Touch. Well, praised he the gods for thy foulness : 
sluttishness may come hereafter. But he it as it may 
be, I will marry thee ; and to that end, I have heen 
with sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the next village, 
who hath promised to meet me in this place of the 
forest, and to couple us. 

Ja^q. [Aside.] I would fain see this meeting. 

Aud. Well, the gods give us joy. 

Touch. Amen. A man might, if he were of a fearful 
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we huve no 
temple hut the wood, no assemhly hut hom-heasts. 
But what though ? Courage ! As horns are odious^ 
' Alluding to BsLuoia and Philemon, in Ovid. * BomteVy. 




they are necessary. It is said, — many a man knows 
no end of his goods : right ; many a man has good 
horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the 
dowry of his wife : 't is none of his own getting. Are 
horns given to poor men alone ?* — No, no ; the nohlest 
deer hath them as huge as the rascal*. Is the single 
man therefore blessed ? No : as a walPd town is more 
worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married 
man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor ; 
and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so 
much is a horn more precious than to want. 

Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text. 
Here comes sir Oliver. — Sir Oliver Mar-text, you axe 
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. 

Jaq. [coming forward.] Proceed, proceed : I '11 give 

Tomh. Good even, good Mr. What-ye-call H : 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 coverM. 

Jaq. Will you be married, motley ? 

Touch. As the ox hath his bow,* sir, the horse his 
curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; 
and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. 

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 
pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp. 

Touch. I am not in the mind, but I were better to 
be married of him than of another ; for he is not like 
to marry me well, and not being well married, it will 
be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. 

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. 

Touch. Gome, sweet Audrey : 
We must 'be married, or we must live in bawdry. 

I in f. e. : Horns ? Eren lo Poor men alone ? > Lean, poor deer. 
' Yield jovL, « Yoke, ihaped like & bow. 


«0. IV. 



t'drewell, good master Oliver ! Not 

O swefet Oliver ! brave Oliver ! 
Leave me riot behind thee : 

But wend* away, begone, I say,. 
I will not to wedding bind* thee. 
[Exeunt Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey. 
Sir Oli. is no matter : ne'er a fantastical knave 
bf them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit, 

SCENE IV.— The Same. Before a Cottage. 
Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
Ros. Never talk to me : I will weep. 
Cel. Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace to con- 
8i4er, that tears do not become a man. 
Ros. But have I not cause to weep ? 
Cel. As go^d cause as one would desire : thereford 

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. 

Cel. Something browner than Judas-s. Marry, his 
kisses are Judas's own children. 

Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good colour. 

Cel. An excellent colour : your chestnut was ever 
the only colour. 

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the 
touch of holy btead. 

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 comfcs not ? 

bel. 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 
ftdrse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do think him 
as concave as a oovisred* goblet, or a worm-eaten nut. 

Ros. Not true in love ? 

Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but, I think he is not in. 

Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was. 

Cel. Was is not is : besides, the oath of a lover is 
no stronger than the word of a tapster ; they are both 
the confirmers of false reckonings. He attends here 
in the forest on the duke your father. 

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had m\xc^ 
' wind : inCe, « with : m f. e. » Em"pty. 




ACT in. 

tion with him. He asked me, of what parentage I 
was ? I told him, of as good as he ; so he laughed, 
and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when 
there is such a man as Orlando ? 

Cel. 0, that 's a brave man ! he writes brave verses, 
speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks 
them bravely, quite traverse^ athwart the heart of his . 
lover ; as a puny 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.— ^iVlio 
comes here ? 

Enter Gorin. 

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquired 
After the shepherd that complained of love, 
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, 
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess 
That was his mistress. ^ 

Cel. Well ; and what of him ? 

Gor. 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. ! 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 th' accustom^ sight of death makes hard^ 
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck. 
But first begs pardon : will you sterner be 
Than he that kills^ and lives by bloody drops ? 
Enter Rosalind, Gelia, and Gorin, 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 : 
'T is pretty, sure, and very probable, 
That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, 
I die* : iu f. e. 

flC. V. 



Who shut their coward gates on atomies, 

Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers ! 

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; 

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee \ 

Now counterfeit to swoon ; why, now fall down; 

Or, if thou canst not, 0, for shame^ for shame ! 

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. 

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee : 

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 

Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush, 

The cicatrice and palpable^ 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. 

SU. 0! dearPhebe, 

If ever, (as that ever may be near) 
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, 
Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
That love's keen arrows make. 

Phe. But till that time 

Gome 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. 

jRo*. [Advancing.] 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 oridinary 
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 : 
'T is not your inky brows, your black-silk hair. 
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream. 
That can entame my spirits to your worship. — 
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? 
You are a thousand times a properer man. 
Than she a woman : 't is such fools as you, 
' oapabla : in f. e. 

AB YOU LIKfi it. 


That make the world full of ill-favOtur'd children. 
'T is not her glasa, but you, that flatters her ; 
And out of you she sees herself more proper, 
Than any of her lineaments can show her. — 
But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees, 
And thank heaven fasting for a good man's love ; 
For I must tell you friendly in your ear, 
Sell when you can : you are not for all markets. 
Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer : 
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. 
So, take her to thee, shepherd. — Fare you well. 

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together : 
I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. 

Ros. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and 
she '11 fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast 
as she answers thee with frowning looks, I '11 sauce 
her with bitter words. — ^Why look you so upon me ? 

Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, 
For I am falser than vows made in wine : 
Besides, I like you not. — ^If you will know my house, 
'T is at the tuft of olives, here hard by. — 
Will you go, sister? — Shepherd, ply her hard. — 
Come, sister. — Shepherdess, look on him better. 
And be not proud : though all the world could see. 
None could be so abus'd in sight as he. 
Come, to our flock. 

[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and CoRik. 

Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might; 
"Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?"* 

Sil. Sweet Phebe ! 

Phe. Ha ! what say'st thou, Silvius ? 

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 

Phe. Why, I am sorry for theo gentle Silvius. 

Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relii^f would be : 
If you do solprow at my grief in Idve, 
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief 
Were both extermin'd. 

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, 

'An sdlnaion to MarWe and his Hero andLeander, where the qaattif 
tion IB to he found. 

8C. V. 



And yet it is not that I bear thee love ; 

Bat Bince that thou canst talk of love so well, 

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 

I will endure, and I'll employ thee too; 

But do not look for farther recompense. 

Than thine own gladness that thou art employed. 

Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love, 
And I in such a poverty of grace, 
That I. shall think it a most plenteous crop 
To glean the broken ears after the man 
That the main harvest reaps : loose now and then 
A scatter'd smile, and that I '11 live upon. 

Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere 

Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft ; 
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds, 
That the old carlot once was master of. 

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him. 
'T is but a peevish boy ; — ^yet he talks well : — 
But what ftare 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 't is well : 
There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
A little riper, and more lusty red 
Than that mix'd in his cheek : 't was 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 hear it: wilt thou, SilviuB? 


ACT ir. 

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, 


SCENE I.— The Forest of Arden. 
. Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. 

Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better 
acquainted with thee. 

Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow. 

Jaq. I am so : I do love it better than laughing. 

Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are 
abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every 
modem censure worse than drunkards. 

Jaq. Why, 't is good to be sad and say nothing. 

Ros. Why then, 't is good to be a post. 

Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which 
is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; 
nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, 
which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; 
nor the lady's, which is nice'; nor the lover's, which is 
all these ; but it is a melancholy of mine own, com- 
pounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, 
and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels ; 
which by* often rumination wraps me in a most 
humorous sadness. 

Ros. A traveller ! By my faith, you have great 
reason to be sad. 1 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 

Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 

Enter Orlando. 

Ros. And your experience makes you sad. I had 
rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience 
to make me sad. And to travel for it too ! 

Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind. 

' "in wbioh my" is the reading of t\i© ^io\io\ «Ao^^«i^ "Vs^ "Ksu^ht. 

sc. I. 



Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an ypu talk in blank 
verse. [Exit, 

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, [ come within an hour of my 

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 

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.. 

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my 
sight : I had as lief be woo'd of a snail. 

Orl Of a snail? 

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, 
he carries his house .on his head, a better jointure, I 
think, than you 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 
beholden to your wives for : but he comes armed in his 
fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife. 

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker, and my Rosalind is 

Ros. And I am your Rosalind. 

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a 
Rosalind of a better leer^ than you. 

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am in a 
holiday 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 



ACT nr. 

out. they will spit ; and for lovers, lacking (Grod warn 
us !) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 

Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? 

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there 
begins new matter. 

Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved 
mistress ? 

Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis- 
tress, or I ishould thank my honesty rather than my 

Orl. What, out of my suit? 

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your 
suit. Am not I your Rosalind ? 

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would 
be talking of her. 

Ros. Well, in her person I say — 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 j 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 coroners* of that age 
found it was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies : 
men have died from time to time, and worms have 
eaten them, but not for love. 

Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this 
mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 

Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. Bui come, 
now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on-dis- 
position, and ask me what you will, I will grant it. 

Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. [all. 

Ros. Yes, faith will I ; Fridays, and Saturdays, and 

Orl. And wilt thou have me ? 

Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 

Orl. What say'st thou ? 

Ros. Are you not good ? 

think mj houMty ranker than my mt : in f. e. * ohronioleis : 
in f, a. Hanmer also luggested tke o^an^o. 

sc. I. 



Orl. I hope so. 

Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of a good 
tMng? — 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 actions. 

Orl. So do all thoughts : they are winged. 

Ros. Now tell me, how long you would have her, 
after you have possessed her ? 

Orl. For ever, and a day. 

Ros. Say a day, without the ever. No, no, 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 disposed 
to be merry ; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when 
thou art inclined to sleep. 

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 

Orl. ! but she is wise. 

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this : 
the wiser, the waywarder. Make* the doors upon a 
woman's wit, and it will out at the casement ; shut 
that, and H will out at the key-hole ; stop that, 't will 
fly with the smoke out at the chimney. 

' Make fast. 

Vol. ni^e 


Orl. A man that had a wife with nu^ 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 neighhour's bed. 

Orl. And what wit could wit have to excuse that ? 

Ros. Marry, to say, — she came to. seek you there. 
You shall never take her without her answer, imless 
you take her without her tongue. ! that woman 
that cannot make her fault her husband's accusin^,^ 
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 

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. — knew what 
you would prove ; my friends told me as much, and I 
thought no less : — ^that flattering tongue of yours won 
me : — 't is 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 danger- 
ous, 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 Rosalind : so, adieu. 

Ros. Well, time is the old justice that examines all 
such offenders, and let time try you*. 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. ! coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou 
didst know how many fathom deep I am in love ! But 
it cannot be sounded : my affiection hath an imknown 
bottom, like the bay of Portugal. 

1 occasion : in f. e. ^ l^ot in. f. «. 

-sc. ra. 



Cel. Or rather, bottomless ; that as fast afi 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 '11 go find a shadow, 
and sigh till he come. 

Cel. AM ril sleep. [ExetirU. 

SCENE II.— Another Part of the Forest. 
Enter Jaques and Lordsj like Foresters. 
Jaq, Which is he that killed the deer ? 

1 Lord. Sir, it was I. 

Jag. Let 's present him to the duke, like a Roman 
conqueror ; and it would do well to set the deer's horns 
upon his head for a branch of victory. — ^Have you no 
song, forester, for this purpose ? 

2 Lord. Yes, sir. 

Jaq. Sing it : 't is no matter how it be in tune, so it 
make noise enough. 


What shall he have that kilVd the deer ? 
His leather skin^ and hams to wear. 
Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; 
It rms a crest ere thou wctst bom. 

Thy father^ s father wore itj 
And thy father bore it : 
The Aom, the horn, the lusty horn. 
Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. 


SCENE III.— The Forest. 
Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
Ros. How say you now ? Is it not past two o'clock ? 
And here much Orlando ! 
Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled 

He hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and gone* forth — 
To sleep. Look, who comes here. 

Enter Silvius. 
Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth. — 

' is gone : in f. e. 

[Then sing him 
home : the rest 
shall bear thif^ 


AS Irou Lm IT. 


My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this : 

[Criving a letter? Ros. reads it. 
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, 
Were man as rare as Phoenix. Od's my will ! 
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt : 
Why writes she so to me ? — Well, shepherd, well ; 
This is a letter of your own device. 

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

Ros. Come, come, you are a fool, 

And tum'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 H was her hands : 
She has a housewife^s hand : but that 's no matter. 
I say, she never did invent this letter ; 
This is a man's invention, and his hand. 

Sil. Sure, it is hers. 

Ros. Why, H is a boisterous and a cruel style, 
A style for challengers : why, she defies me. 
Like Turk to Christian. Woman's gentle brain 
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention. 
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect 
Than in their countenance. — ^Will you hear the 

Sil. So please you ; for I never heard it yet. 
Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. 

Ros. She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes. 
" Art thou god to shepherd tum'd, 
That a maiden's heart hath bum'd - 
Can a woman rail thus ? 
Sil. Call you this railing ? 
Ros. ^' Why, thy godhead laid apart, 

Warr'st thou with a woman's heart ?" 
Did you ever hear such railing ? — 

I The rest of this stage diieotion not in f. e. 



" Whiles the eye of man did woo me, 

That eould 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 ? 

Whiles you chid me, I tlid love ; 

How then might your prayers move ? 

He that brings this love to thee, 

Little knows this love in me : 

And by him seal up thy mind ; 

Whether that thy youth and kind 

Will the faithful offer take 

Of me, and all that I can make ] 

Or else by him my love deny. 

And then I ^11 study how to die." 
Sil. Call you this chiding? 
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd ! 

Ros. Do you pity him ? no ; he deserves no pity.— 
Wilt thou love such a woman ? — ^What, to make thee 
an instrument, and play false strains upon thee ? not to 
be endured ! — ^Well. go your way to her, (for I see, 
love hath made thee a tame snake) and say this to 
her : — ^that if she love me, I charge her to love thee ; 
if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou 
entreat for her. — ^If you be a true lover, hence, and not 
a word, for here comes more company. [Ex^ SiLVius. 
Enter Oliver. 

Oli. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know, 
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands 
A sheep-cote, fenc'd 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 ber brother." Are not 70U 



ACT 17, 

The owner of the house I did inquire for? 

Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are. 

Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, 
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ? 

Ros. I ani. What must we understand by this ? 

Oli. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me 
What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
This handkerchief was stainM. 

Cel. I pray you, tell it. 

Oli. 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, 
And, mark, what object did present itself ! 
Under an old 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 wreath'd itself. 
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached 
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 't is 
The royal disposition of that beast, 
To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man. 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 

Cel. 0! I have heard him speak ofthat same brother: 
And he did render him the most unnatural 
That liv'd 'mongst men. 

Oli. And well he might so do, 

For well I know he was unnatural. 

Ros. But, to Orlando. — Did he leave him there, 
Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ? 

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so ; 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 
Made him give battle to the lioness, 

8& in. 



Who quickly fell before him : in which hurtling 
From miserable slumber I awak'd. 

Cel. Are you his brother ? 

-Ros. Was it you he rescued ? 

Cel. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill 

Oli. was I ; but 't is not I. I do not shame 
To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? 

Oli. By and by. 

When from the first to last, betwixt us two. 
Tears our recountmenta had most kindly bath'd, 
As, how I came into that desert place, 
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke. 
Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment, 
Committing me unto my brother's love : 
Who led me instantly unto his cave. 
There stripped 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 recovered him, bound up his wound ; 
And, after sqme 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. 

Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Ganymede ? 

[Rosalind swoons. 

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 

Cel. There is more in it. — Cousin !— Ganymede ! 

Oli. Look, he recovers. [Raising' her} 

Ros. I would I were at home. 

Cel. We '11 lead you thither.— 

I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? 

Oli. Be of good cheer, youth. — ^You a man ? You lack 
A man's heart. 

Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah ! a body would 
think this was well counterfeited. I pray you, tell 
your brother how well I counterfeited. — ^Heigh ho !— 

Oli. This was not counterfeit: there is too great 
* Not in f. e. 

AS TOn hlKX IT. 

ACfT V. 

testimony in your complexion, that it was a passion of 

Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
OH. 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. 

OH. That will I, for I must bear answer back. 
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 

Ros. I shall devise something. But, I pray you, 
commend my counterfeiting to him. — ^Will you go ? 


SCENE I.— The Forest of Arden. 
Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 

Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey: patience, 
gentle Audrey. 

Aud. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the 
old gentleman's saying. 

Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey ; a most 
vile Mar-text.^ But, Audrey ; there is a youth here in 
the forest lays claim to you. 

Aud. Ay, I know Yfho 't is ; he hath no interest in 
me in the world. Here comes Ihe man you mean. 
Enter William. 

Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. 
By my troth, we that have good wits have mudi to 
answer for : we shall be flouting ; we cannot hold. 

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, pr'ythee, be covered. How old 
ate you, friend ? 

Will. Five and twenty, sir. 

Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ? 

Will. WiUiam, sir. 

Tot^A, A fair name. Wast bora i' the forest hero? 


sc. L 



Wai Ay, sir, I thank God. 

Touch. Thank God ; — a good answer. Art rich ? 

Will. 'Faith, sir^ so, so. 

Touch. So, so, IS good, very good, very excellent 
good : — and yet it is not ; it is but so so. Art thou wise ? 

Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 

Touch. Why, thou say'st .well. I do now 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. There- 
fore, 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 understand- 
ing, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, 
translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. 
I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in 
steel : I will bandy with thee in faction ; I will over- 
run thee with policy ; I will kill thee a hundred and 
fifty ways : therefore tremble, and depart. 

Aud. Do, good William. 

Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit, 

Enter Corin. 
Cor. Our master and mistress seek you : come, away, 
away ! 

Touch. Trip, Audrey; trip, Audrey. — attend, I 




SCENE II.— The Same. 
Enter Orlando and Oliver. 

Orl. Is 't possible, that on so little acquaintance yoa 
should like her ? that, but seeing, you should love her ; 
and, loving, woo ; and, wooing, she should grant ? and 
will you persever to enjoy her ? 

OH. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the 
poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden woo- 
ing, 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. 

Enter Rosalind. 
Go you, and prepare Aliena ; for, look you, 
Here comes my Rosalind. • 

Ros. Grod save you, brother. 

OH. And you, fair sister. [Exit. 
Ros. ! my deaj Orlando, how it grieves me to see 
thee wear thy heart in a scaif 
Orl. It is my arm. 

Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded with 
the claws of a lion. 

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 

Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited 
to swoon, when he showed me your handkerchief? 

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that. 

Ros. ! I kn5w where you are. — Nay, H is 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 sighed; no 
sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason; 
no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the re- 
medy : and in these degrees have they made a pair of 
stairs to marriage^ which they will climb incontinent, 
or else he incontinent befoie marriage. They are in 

so. n. 



the very wrath of love, and they will together : cluba 
cannot part them. 

Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I will 
bid the duke to the nuptial. But, ! how bitter a 
thing it is to look into happiness through anoCher man's 
eyes ! By so much the rtiore shall I to-morrow be at 
the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall 
think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. 

Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn 
for Rosalind ? 

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 

Ros. I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talk- 
ing. Know of me, then, (for now I speak to some pur- 
pose) that I know you are a gentleman of good con- 
ceit. I speak not this, that you should bear a good 
opinion of my knowledge, insomuch, I say, I know you 
are j 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 years old, conversed with a magician, most 
profound 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 impossible to me, if it appear not incon- 
venient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, 
human as she is, and without any danger. 

Orl. Speak'st thou in sober meanings ? 

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 

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 foUow'd by a faithful shepherd : 
Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. 

Phe» Grood shepherd, tell this youth what H is to love. 

Sil. It 18 to he all made of sighs and tearB *, 




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 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 ot" wishes ; 
All adoration, duty, and obedience' ; 
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 ? 

[7b Rosalind. 

Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ? 

[7b Phebe. 

Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you ? 

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

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

Ros. Pray you, no more of this : 't is like the howl- 
ing of Irish wolves against the moon. — I will help you, 
[7b SiLvius] if I can : — I would love you, [7b Phebe] 
if I could. — To-morrow meet me all together. — I will 
marry you, [7b Phebe] if ever I marry woman, and 
PU be married to-morrow: — I will satisfy you, [7b 
Orlando] if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be 
married to-morrow : — I will content you, [7b Silvius] 
if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be 
married to-morrow. — As you [7b Orlando] love Ro-' 
salind, meet; — as you [7b SiLvirs] love Phebe, meet ; 
and as I love no woman, I '11 meet. — So, fare you well j 
I have left you commands. 

Sil. I ni not fail, if I live. 

Phe. Nor I. 

Orl. Nor L 


i obsenunce : In f. e. Malone aiao va^fg^iX^^ \\ia 

8p« m. 



SCENE III.— The Same. 
Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 
Touch, To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey: to- 
morrow will we be married. 

Aud. I do desire it "with all my heart, and I hope 
it is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of 
the world.* 

Touch. Here come two of the banished duke's pages. 
Enter two Pages. 

1 Pase. Well met, honest gentleman. 

Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit ; sit, and 
a song. 

2 Page. We are for you : sit i' the middle. 

1 Page. Shall we clap into 't roundly, without hawk- 
ing, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are 
only the prologues to a bad voice ? 

2 Page. V faith, i' faith ; and both in a tune, like two 
gypsies on a horse. 


It was a lover^ and his lass, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That ohr 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 nonmo. 
These pretty country folks would lie. 

In spring time, ^'c. 

This carol they began that hour, 

With a My, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

How that our life was but a flower, 
In spring time, Sfc. 

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, Sfc. 
Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was 
no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very 

1 To he m&rried. > nnttineable : in f . e. 

Vol. in.—7 




1 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 Ood 
mend your voices. — Come, Audrey. [Exeunt, 

SCENE IV.— Another Part of the Forest. 
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, 

Oliver, and Celia. 
Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
Can do all this that he hath promised ? 

Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not, 
As those that fear to^ hope, and know they fear. 
Enter RosALrND, Silvius, and Phebe. 
Ros. Patience, once more, whiles our compact is 
heard*. — 

[7b the Duke.] 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. [To Orlando.] And you say, you will have 
her, when I bring her ? 

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 

Ros. [To Phebe.] 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 Ul give yourself to this most faithful shepherd? 

Phe. So is the bargain. 

Ros. [To Silvius.] You say, that you'll have Phebe, 
if she -will ? 

Sil. Though to have her and death were both one 

Ros. I have promised to make all this matter even. 
Keep you your word, duke ! to give your daughter ] — 
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter : — 
Keep you your word, Phebe, that you '11 marry me ; 
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd : — 
Keep your word, Silvius, that you '11 marry her. 
If she refuse me : — and from hence I go, 
To make these doubts all even — even so*. 

[Exeunt Rosalind arid Celia. 

Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour. 
' thejr : in f. e. > turgM : in f. e. * TView tvo ^ox^a ma XLot velC. 

8C. IT. 



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-bom, 
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uiicle, 
Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest. 

Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 

Jaq. Ttiere is, sure, another flood toward, and these 
couples are coming, to the ark. Here comes a pair of 
Tery strange beasts, which in all tongues are called 

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 undone three tailors ; I have had 
four quarrels, and like to have fought one. 

Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ? 

Touck: Taith, we met, and found the quarrel was 
upon the seventh cause. 

Jaq. How the seventh cause ? — Grood my lord, like 
this fellow. 

DuJce S. I like him very well. 

Touch. God 'ild* you^ sir ; I desire you of the like. I 
press in here, sir, among the rest of the country copu- 
latives, to swear, and to forswear, according as mar- 
riage 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 senten- 

Touch. According to the fooPs 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. — Aj3 thus, sir. I 
I Yield. 




did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard : he 
sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he 
was in the mind it was : this is called the " retort 
courteous." If I sent him word again, it was not well 
cut, he would send me word, he cut it to please him- 
self : this is called the quip modest." If again, it 
was not well cut, he disabled my judgment : this is 
called the " reply churlish." If again, it was not well 
cut, he would answer. I spake not true : this is called 
the " reproof valiant." If again, it was not well cut, 
he would say, I lied : 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 
^ell cut ? 

Touch. I durst go no farther than the " lie circum- 
stantial," nor he durst not give me the " lie direct 3" 
and so we measured swords, and parted. 

Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of 
the he ? 

Touch. 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, tiie reproof valiant : the fifth, the counter- 
check quarrelsome; the sixth, the lie with circum- 
stance ; the seventh, the lie direct. All these you may 
avoid, but the lie direct ; and you may avoid that too, 
with an 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 50, then I said so ; and they shook hands and swore 
brothers. Your if is the only peace-maker; much 
virtue in if. 

Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he 's as 
good at any thing, and yet a fool. 

DvJce S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and 
tmder the presentation of that he shoots his wit. 
Enter Hymen, leading Rosalind in woman^s clothes; 
and Celia. 
Still Music. 
Hym. Then is there mirth in heaven^ 
When earthly things made even 

BO. IT. 


AtoM^ together. 
Good duke, receive thy daughter, 
Hymen from heaven brought her; 

Yettj brought her hither^ 
That thou mightstjoin her hand mth his. 
Whose heart within her bosom is. 
Ros. [To Duke S.]To you I give myself, for I am yours. 
[To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. 
Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my 

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. 
Phe. If sight and shape bd true, 
Why then, my love adieu ! 
Ros. [To Duke S.] I '11 have no» father, if you be 
not 'he : — 

[To Orlando.] I '11 have no husband, if you be not he :•— 
To PhebE|] Nor ne'er wed^ woman, if you be not she. 
Hym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion. 
'T is I must make conclusion 

Of these most strange events : 
Here 's eight that must take hands. 
To join in Hymen's bands, 

If truth holds true contents. 
[To Orlando and Rosalind.] You a»d yea 

no cross shall part : 
[To Oliver and Celia.] You and you are 

heart in heart : 
[To Phebs.] You to his love must aocord, 
Or have a viroman to your lord : 
[To Touchstone and Audrey.] You and yoa 

are sure together. 
As the winter to foul weather. 
Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing, 
Feed yourselves with questioning. 
That reason wonder may dinum^, ~ 
How thus we met, and thus we* finish. 


Wedding is great JunxPs crown ; 

0, blessed bond of board ofnd bed ! 
^Tis Hymen 'peoples every town; 

High wedlock^ then, be honoured : 
Honour, high honour, and renown^ 
To Hymen, god in* every town ! 

* Harmonize. » these things : in f. » ot I 'ml. %. 



ACT. V. 

Duke S. Oj my dear niece ! welcome thou art to me : 
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. 

Phe. [To SiLvius.] I will not eat my word, now 
thou art mine : 
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. 

Enter Second Brother. 

2 Bro. Let me have audience for a word or two. 
I am the second son of old Sir Rowland. 
That brings these tidings to this fair assembly. — 
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
AddressM 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 banished brother, 
And all their lands restored to them again, 
That were with him exiPd. 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 endur'd 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-fall'n dignity, 
And fall into our rustic revelry. — 
Play, music ! and you brides and bridegrooms all. 
With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall. 

Jaq. Sir, by your patience. — If I heard you rightly, 
The duke hath put on a religious life, 
And thrown into neglect the pompous court ? 

2 Bro. He hath. 

Jaq. To him will I : out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and leam'd. — 
Vou [To Duke S.J to your formei hoiioxuc I bequeath \ 
Your patiencej and your virtue, we\l ^Leaerr^^ VX. *. — 

sc. IV. 



You [To Orlando.] to a love, that your true faith doth 
merit : — 

You [To Oliver.] to your land, and love, and great 
allies : — 

You [Tb'SiLVius.] to a long and well deserved bed : — 
And you [To Touchstone.] to wrangling; for thy 

loving voyage 
Is but for two months victualPd. — 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 abandoned cave. [Exit. 

Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we will begin these rites, 
As we do trust they '11 end, in true delights. 


Ros. It is not the fashion to see the lady the Epi- 
logue j but it is no more unhandsome, than to see die 
lord the Prologue. If it be true, that good wine 
needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no 
epilogue 3 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 beg- 
gar, therefore to beg will not become me : my way is, 
to conjure you ; and I '11 begin with the women. I 
charge you, women ! for the love you bear to men, 
to like as much of this play as please you : and I 
charge you, 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 womanJ I would Mss 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 
curtsey, bid me farewell. [Exeunt. 

1 Tieekgays, tbia ig an aJlusion to the praotioe oi 'WomnCm 'Qia^» 
beiagpUyed by men. 



" The Taming of the Shrew^' was first printed in the folio of 
1628, where it oocupies twenty-two pages, viz. from p. 208 
to page 229 inclusive, in the division of "Comedies." It 
was reprinted in the three later folios. 


Shaxespeaius was indebted for nearly the whole plot of his 
"Taming of the Shrew" to an older play, published in 1694, 
tinder the title of " The Taming of a Shrew." The mere cir- 
camstance of the adoption of the title, Bubstituting only the 
definite for the indefinite article, proves that he had not the 
slightest intention of concealing nis obligation. 

When Steevens published the "Six Old Plays," more or 
less employed by Snakespeare in six of his own dramte, no 
earlier edition of the " Taming of a Shrew" than that of 1607 
was known. It was conjectured, however, that it had come 
ft-om the press at an earlier date, and Pope appeared to have 
been once in possession of a copy of it, published as early as 
1594. This copy has since been recovered, and is now in the 
collection of the Duke of Devonshire : the exact title of it is 
as follows : — 

" A Pleasant Conceited Historic, called The taming of a 
Shrew. As it was s^indrjr times acted by the Right honorable 
the Earle of Pembrook his seruants. Printed at London by 
Peter Short and are to be sold by Cutbert Burbie, at his shop 
attheBoyall Exchange. 1694." 4to. 

It was reprinted in 1596, and a copy of that edition is in 
the possession of Lord Francis E^erton. The impression of 
1607, the copy used by Steevens, is in the collection of the 
Dake of Devonshire. 

There are three entries in the Eegisters of the Stationers' 
Company relating to *' The Taming of a Shrew" but not one 
referring to Shakespeare's '* Taming of the Shrew." i When 
Blounte and Jaggard, on the 8th Nov. 1628, entered " Mr. 
William Shakspeere's Comedyes, Histories, and Tragedyes, 
soe many of the said copies as are not formerly entered to 
other men," they did not include " The Taming of the Shrew:" 
hmce an inference might be drawn, that at some previous 
tnMB it had been " entered to other men ;" but no such entry 
has been found, and Shakespeare's comedy, probably, was 
never printed until it was inserted in the folio of 1628. 

On tne question, when it was originally composed, opinions, 
including my own, have varied considerably ; out I now think 

1 Malone was mistaken when he said (Shakespeare by Boswell, 
Tol. ii. p. 342.) that " our author's eenuine play was entered at Sta- 
tioners' Hall" on the 17th Nov. The entry is of the 19th Not. and 
I not of Shakespeare's " Taming of the Shrew," but of the old Tun- 
ing of a Shrew." 



we can iirrive at a tolerably satisfactory decision. Malone first 
believed that "The Taminj? of the Shrew" was written in 
1606, and subsequently gave 1596 as its probable date. It 
appears to me, tnat nobody has sufflcientiv attended to the 
apparently unimportant fact that in " Hamlet " Shakespeare 
mistakenly introduces the name of Baptista as that of a wo- 
man, wliile in " The Taming of the Snrew" Baptista is the 
£ithcr of Kiithftrino and Biancn. Had he been aware when he 
wrote " Hamlet" that Baptista was the name of a man, he 
would hardi v have used it for that of a woman : but before he 
produced "'The Taming of the Shrew" he had detected his 
own error. The great probability is, that " Hamlet " was 
written at the earliest in 1601, and "The Taming of the 
Shrew " perhaps came from the pen of its author not very 

The recent reprint of " The Pleasant Comedy of Patient 
Grissill," by Dekker, Chettle, and Hau^hton, from the edition 
of 1603, tends to throw light on this point. Henslowe's Diary 
establishes, that the three dramatists above named were writ- 
ing it in the winter of 1599. It contains various allusions to 
the taming of shrews ; and it is to be recollected that the old 
"Taming of a Shrew" was acted by Henslowe's company, 
and is mentioned by him under the date of 11th June, 1594. 
One of the passages m " Patient Grissill," which seems to con- 
nect the two, occurs in Act v. sc. 2, where Sir Owen pro- 
ducing his wands, says to the marquess, *' I will learn your 
medicines to tame shrews." This expression is remarkable, 
because we find by Hcnslowe's Diary that, in July, 1602, 
Dekker received a payment from the old manager, on account 
of a comedy he was writing under the title of " A Medicine 
for a curst "Wife." My conjecture is, that Shakespeare (in 
coalition, possibly, with some other dramatist, who wrote the 
portions which are admitted not to be in Shakespeare's manner) 
produced his " Taming of the Shrew" soon after " Patient 
Grriasill " had been brought upon the stnge, and as a sort of 
counterpart to it ; and that Dekker followed up the subject in 
the summer of 1602 by his " Medicine for a curst Wife,'' hav- 
ing been incited by the success of Shakespeare's " Taming of 
the Shrew " at a rival theatre. At this time the old " Taming- 
of a Shrew" had been laid by as a public performance, and 
Shakespeare having very nearly adopted its title, Dekker took 
a different one, in accordance with the expression he had used 
two or three years before in " Patient Grissill*." 

The silence of Meres in 1598 regarding any such play by 
Shakespeare is also important : had it then been written, he 
could scarcely have failed to mention it ; so that we have 
strong negative evidence of its non-existenco .before the 
appearance of PaUadis Tamia. When Sir John Harington, 
in nis " Metamorphosis of Ajax," 1596, says, " Read the booke 

9 If vre snppoBe Shakespeare, in Act iv. 8C. 1, to allnde to T. Hey- 
wood's play, "A Woinaiii Killed with Kindness," it would show that 
" The Taming of the Shrew " was written after Feb. 1603-3 ; but the 

expression wa« probably proverbial, and for this reason Heywood took 

2t as the title oihia tragedy. 



of * Taming a Shrew,^ which hath made a niimber of ns so 
perfect that now" every one can rule a shrew in oar country, 
save he that hath her,'' he meant the old Taming of a 
Shrew," reprinted in the same year. In that plav we have 
not only the comedy in which retmchio and Katharine are 
chiefly engaged, but the Induction, which is carried out to 
the clone ; for Sly and the Tapster conclude the piece, as they 
had begun it. 

As it is evident that Shakespeare made great use of the old 
comedy, both in his Induction and in the body of his play, it 
is not necessary to inquire particularly to what originals the 
writer of ** The Taming of a Shrew " resorted. As regards 
the Induction, Douce was of opinion that the story of ** The 
Sleeper awakened," in the ** Arabian Nights' Entertain- 
ments," was the source of the many imitations which have, 
from time to time, been referred to. Warton (Hist. Engl. 
Poetry, iv. 117. Edit. 1824) tells us, that among the books of 
Collins was a collection of tales by Richard Edwards, dated 
in 1570, and including "the. Induction of the Tinker in 
Shakespeare's * Taming of the Shrew.' " This might be the 
original employed by the author of the old ** Taming of a 
. Shrew." For the play itself he, perhaps, availed himself of 
some now unknown translation of Nott. viii. fab. 2, of the 
JPiacevoli Notik of Straparola. 

The ^nppositi of Ariosto, freely translated by Oascoyne, 
(before 1566, when it was acted at Grey's Inn) under the title 
of" The Supposes," seems to have afforded Shakespeare part 
of his plot : it relates to the manner in which Lucentio and 
Tranio pass off the Pedant as Vincentio, which is not found 
in the old " Taming of a Shrew." In the list of persons pre- 
ceding Gascoyne's " Supposes " Shakespeare found the name 
of Petrucio, (a character not so called by Ariosto,) and hence, 
perhaps, he adopted it. It affords another slight link of con- 
nexion between "The Taming of the Shrew" and "The 
Supposes ;" but there exists a third, still slighter, of which no 
notice has been taken. It consists of the use of the word 
"supposes," in A. v. sc. 1, exactly in the substantive sense 
in wnich it is employed by Gascoyne, and in reference to that 

girt of the story whiCh had been derived from his translation, 
ow little Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew " was known 
in the beginning of the eighteenth century, may be judged 
from the fact, that " The Tatler," No. 231, contains the story 
of it, told as of a gentleman's family then residing in Lincoln- 


A Lord. 1 PersonB 

Christophero Sly, a Tinker. Hostess, I in the 
Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Ser- | Indue- 
vants, J tion. 

Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. 

ViNCENTio, an old Gentleman of Pisa. 

LucENTio, Son to Vincentio. 

Petruchio, a Gentleman of Verona. 

HokSsioJ Suitors to Bia^ca. 
Tranio, I Servants to Lucentio. 


Grumio, I Servants to Petruchio. 
Curtis, j 
The Pedant. 

BiaTc?^^^' I Daughters to Baptista. 

Tailor, Haherdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista 
and Petruchio. 

SCENE, sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in 
Petruchio's House in the Country. 



SCENE I. — ^Before an Alehouse on a Heath. 
Enter Hostess and Christophero Sly. 
Sly. I '11 pheese* 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. 
Therefore, paucas pdllabris ; let the world slide. Sessa 
Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? 
Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, J^ronimy ;^ go to thy 
cold bed, and warm thee.* 

Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the 
headborough.* [Exit, 
Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I '11 answer 
him by law ; I '11 not budge an inch, boy : let him come, 

Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting^ with HuntS' 

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 confer, in the coldest fault ? 
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. 

1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord ; 
He cried upon it at the merest loss. 
And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent : 
Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 

> A conunon word in the west of England, where it means to 
chastise^ humble. — Gifford. ^Cessa, cease. 3 f. e. : says Jeronimy. 
Go, by Jeronimy — from Thomas Kyd's Spanish Tragedy, often quoted 
in derision, and as-a cant phrase, by the writers of the day. • This 
is also a quotation from the same play. * Constable ; it is usually 
altered to thirdboTonjjrli. ^ A hound, t Foams at Xht mouth |T<na 

and kindly. 

men and Servants. 




Lord. Thou art a fool : if Echo were as fleet, 
I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 
But sup them well, and look unto them all : 
To-morrow I intend to hunt again. 

1 Hun. I will, my lord. < 

Lord. What 's here ? one dead, or drunk ? See, doth 
he breathe ? 

2 Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd 

with ale, 

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. 

Lord. 0, monstrous beast ! how like a swine he lies. 
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image ! 
Sirs, 1 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? 

1 Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 

2 Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he 


Lord. Even as a flattering dream, or worthless fancy. 
Then take him up, and manage well the jest. 
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber. 
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures ; 
Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters. 
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet : 
Procure me music ready when he wakes. 
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; 
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight. 
And, with a low submissive reverence. 
Say, — ^what is it your honour will command ? 
Let one attend him with a silver bason. 
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 be^en lunatic ; 
When he says what he is,^ say that he dreanis, 
For he is nothing but a mighty lord. 

8 And 'When he aayt )a» \a *. Vxi t. 

so. I. 



This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs ; 
It will be pastime passing excellent, 
If it be husbanded with modesty. 

1 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. — 

[SuT is borne out. A trumpet sounds. 
Sirrah, go see what trumpet H is that sounds : — 

[Exit Servant. 
Belike, some noble gentleman, that means, 
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.— 

Re-enter Servant. 
How now ? who is H ?* 

Serv. An 't* please your honour, players 

That oflfer humble^ service to your lordship. 
Lord. Bid them come near. 

Enter Jive or six Players.* 

Now, fellows, you are welcome. 
Players. We thank your honour. 
Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? 

2 Play. So please your lordship to accept our duty. 
Lord. With all my heart. — ^This fellow I remember, 

Since once he playM a farmer^s eldest son : — 
'T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well, 
I have forgot your name ] but, sure, that part 
Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform^. 

1 Play. I think, 't was Soto that your honour means. 

Lord. 'T is 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 ; 
Bat 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. 

1 Play. Fear not, my lord : we can contain ourselves, 
Were he the veriest antic i§ the world. 

liait : inf. e. 'Anit: inf.e. ' Not inf. e. * Enter Pla>|«T«: 




Lord, Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 
And give them friendly welcome every one : 
Let them want nothing that my house affords.— 

[Exeunt Servant and Players, 
Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew, my page, [To a Servant. 
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 joay love, 
He bear himself with honourable action. 
Such as he hath observed in noble ladies 
Unto their lords by them accomplished : 
Such duty to the drunkard let him do, . 
With soft low tongue, and lowly courtesy ; 
And say, — ^what is H 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 despatched with all the haste Hiou canst : 
Anon I '11 give thee more instructions. [Exit Servant. 
I know, the boy will well usurp the grace. 
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman : 
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband. 
And how my men will stay themselves from laught^, 
When they do homage to this simple peasant. 
I '11 in to counsel them : haply, my presence 
May well abate their over-merry spleen. 
Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [Exeunt, 

SCENE II.— A Bedchamber in the Lord's House. 
Sly is discoveredj with Attendants; some with apparel^ 
others with hason^ ewer, and appurtenances, Entier 
LoRDj dressed like a Servant. 
Sly, For God's sake, a pot oi isnvaW. 

90 H. TilJIINa OF THE SHREW. * 91 

1 Serv, Will H please your lorddiip drink a cup of 

saek ? 

2 Serv. Will 't please your honour taste of these 

. ooBseryes ? 

3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? 
Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour, 

nor lordship : 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 '11 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. [honour ! 

Lord. Heaven cease this eviP humour in your 
! that a mighty man, of such descent, 
Of such possessions, and so high esteem, 
Should be infused with so foul a spirit ! 

Sly. What ! would you make me mad ? Am not I 
Christophero Sly, old Sly's son, of Burton-heath by 
birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by trans- 
mutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a, 
tinker? Ask Marian Racket, the fat alewife of Win- 
cot,' if she know me not : if she say I am not fourteen 
pence on the score for Warwickshire* ale, score me up 
for the lying' st knave in Christendom. What ! I am 
not bestraught*. Here 's — 

1 Serv. ! this it is that makes your lady mourn. 

3 Serv. ! this it is that makes your servants droop. 

Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shun your 

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 

0, 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 

Oil ^}jixp<m trimm'd up for Semiramis. 

1 idle : in f. e. 3 Barton-on-the-Heat^, a village in Warwiokshire, 
is supposed to be alluded to. > A place about fouT m\\Q% itom^U«X<' 
£>rd. * Bbeer : in£.§. * IHstraught^ dwtfvcled. 


Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground : 
Or wilt thou ride, thy horses shall be trappM, 
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. 

1 Serv. Say thou wilt course, thy greyhounds ar6 

as swift 

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 

2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee 


Adonis painted by a running brook. 

And Cytherea all in hedges 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. 

3 Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, 
Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds ; 
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep. 

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. 

Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord : 
Thou hast a lady, far more beautiful 
Than any woman in this waning age. 

1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee, 
Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face. 

She was the fairest creature in the world ; 
And yet she is inferior to none. 

Sly. Am I a lord ? and have 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 the lady hither to our sight ; 
And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale. 

2 Serv. Will H please your mightiness to wash your 

hands ? 

[Servants present an ewer, bason, and nc^pkin, 
0, how we joy to see your wits restored ! 
O, that once more, you knew but what you are ! 
These Mteen years you Ixave lae^n m «k ^ekwni^ 



OTj when yo\i wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept. 

Sly. These fifteen years ! hy my fay, a goodly nftp. 
But did I never speak of all that time ? 

1 Serv. O ! yes, my lord, but very idle words ; 
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, 
Yet would you say, ye -v^ere beaten out of door, 
And rail upon the hostess of the hou»e, 
And say you would present her at the leet,* 
Because she brought stone jugs, and not seal'd' quarts. 
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Racket. 

Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. [maid, 

3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such 
Nor no such men, as you have reokon'd up. 
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, 
And Peter Turf, Mid Henry Pimpemell, 
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 ! 

All. Amen. 

Sly. I thank thee ; thou shalt not lose by it. 

Enter the Page, as a Lady^ with Attendants. 

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 good-man. 

Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and hus- 
band ; 

I am your wife in all obedience. 

Sly. 1 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 about' some fifteen year and more. 

Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, 
Being all this time abandoned from your bed. 

Sly. 'T is 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 ; 

^ i^Conrt leet. ' Sealed or stamped as full quart measTxte . ^ \ 





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 

Enter a Servant. 
Serv. Your honour's players^ hearing your amend- 

Are come to play a pleasant comedy ; 

For so your doctors hold it very meet, 

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood, 

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy : 

Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play, 

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment. 

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. 

Sly. Marry, I will ; let them play it. Is not a com- 
monty a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling-trick ? 

Page. No, my good lord : it is more pleasing stuff. 

Sly. What, household stuff? 

Page. It is a kind of history. 

Sly. Well, we 'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by 
my side, , 
We shall ne'er be younger, and let the world slide.* 


SCENE I.— Padua. A Public Place. 
Enter Lucentio and Tranio. 

Luc. Tranio, since, for the great desire I had 
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, . 
I am arriv'd 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 approv'd in all, 
Here let us breathe, and haply institute 
A course of learning, and ingenious studies. 

' And let the world slip : "we uo^ei \» ^o\mi,w \ vB.i. 

80. I. 



Rsa, renowned foT grave citizens, 

Gave me my being ; and my father, first 

A merchant of great traffic through the world, 

Vincentio. comes 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 I study 

Virtue, and that part of philosophy 

Will I apply, that treats of happiness 

By virtue specially to be achiev'd. 

Tell me thy mind ; for I have Pisa left 

Ajid 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 perdonate^ gentle master mine, 
I am in all affected as yourself, 
Glad that you thus continue your resolve. 
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy 3 
Only, good master, while we do admire 
This virtue, and this rjioral discipline. 
Let 's be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray ; 
Or so devote to Aristotle's Ethics,* 
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd. 
Talk logic with acquaintance that you have. 
And practise rhetoric in your common talk : 
Music and poesy used 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 now were* come ashore, 
We could at once put us in readiness, 
And take a lodging fit to entertain 
Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. 
But stay awhile ; what company is this ? 

Tra. Master, some show to welcome us to town. 

[They stand back.* 

Enter Baptista, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio, and 


Bap. Grentlemen, importune me no farther, 

1 checks : in f. e. Bl&okstone Also loggeited the cih.aik|Sd. ^ 
wert :inf.e. 'aside: in f. e. 


For haw I firmly am regolv'd you know ; 
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter, 
Before I have a husband for the elder. 
If either of you both love Katharina, 
Because I know you well, and love you well, 
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. 

Gre. To cart her rather : she 's too rough for me.— 
There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife ? 

Kath. [To Bap.] I pray you, sir, is it your gracious* 

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 mood.* 

Kath. V faith, sir, you shall never need to fear : 
I wiSp 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. Hush, master ! here is some good pastime 
toward : 

That wencji is stark mad, or wonderful froward. 

Luc. But in the other's silence do I see 
Maids' 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 efiects 
Bianca's grief. 

Gre. Why, will you mew her up, 

> Thi» word ii not in f. o. * mould : in f. o. \Fet. 

sc. I. 



Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, 

And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? 

Bap. Gentlemen, content ye 3 I am resolv'd. — 
Go in, Bianca. — [Exit Bianca. 

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. 

Katk. 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 deviPs dam : your gifts are 
80 good, here 's none will hold you. This* love is not 
80 great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails toge- 
ther, 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 labor and effect 
one thing 'specially. 

Gre. What 's that, I pray ? 

Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. 

Gre. A husband ! a devil. 

Hor. I say, a husband. 

Crre. I say, a devil. Think'st thou, 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 
1 Their : in f. e. > Commend. 

Vol. III.— 9 



ACT h 

with this condition, — ^to be whipped at the high-mss 
every morning. 

Hot, '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 nelping Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband, 
we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have 
to 't afresh. Sweet Bianca ! — Happy man be his dole !^ 
He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, sig- 
nior 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. [advancing.] I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible 
That love should of a sudden take such hold ? 

Luc. 0, 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 bum, 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 touch'd you, nought remains but so, — 
Redime te captunij 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's race,' 
That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, 
When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand. 

Tra. Saw you iio more ? mark'd you not, how her 

' Lot. * Quoted as it stands in Lilr's Grammar, and not as in 
Terenoe. ' Agenor had : in f. e. 

sc. I. 



Began to scold, and raise up such a storm, 
That mortal ears might scarce 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, H is 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 suitors. 

Lite. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father 's he ! 
But art thou not advis'd, he took some care 
To get her cunning masters to instruct her ? 

Tra. Ay, marry am I, sir ; and now H is 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 distinguished 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. 
'T is hatchM, and shall be so : — ^Tranio, at onoe 
Uncase thee ; take my colour'd hat and cloak : 
When Bioudello comes, he waits on thee, 
But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. 

Tra. So had you need. [They exchange habits. 
Be brief, then, sir,* sith it your pleasure is, 
' Id brieff sir : in f. e. 




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, 't was 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, t' achieve that maid 
Whose sudden sight hath thralPd my wond'ring* eye. 

Enter Biondello. 
Here comes the rogue. — Sirrah, where have you been ? 
Bion. Where have I been? Nay, how now? where 
are you ? 

Master, has my fellow Tranio stoPn yo\ir clothes. 
Or you stol'n his, or both ? pray^ what 's the news ? 

Luc. Sirrah, come hither : 't is 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 kill'd a man, and fear I was descried. * 
Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes. 
While I make way from hence to save my life. 
You understand me ? 

Bion. I, sir ? ne'er a whit. 

Luc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth : 
Tranio is changed into Lucentio. 

Bion. The better for him ) 'would I were so too ! 

Tra. So would I, faith, boy, to have the next wish 

That Lucentio, indeed, had Baptista's youngest daugh- 

But, sirrah, not lor my sake, but yo\ir master's, I advise 
You use your manners discreetly in all kind of com- 
panies : 

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio ; 
But in all places else, your master, Lucentio. 

Luc. Tranio, let 's go. — 
One thing more rests, that thyself execute ; 
To make one among these wooers : if thou ask me why, 
Sufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty. 


1 wounded : m i. 

80. U. 



1 Serv. My lord, you nod ; you do not mind, the play. 

Sly. Yes, by saint Anne, do I. A good matter, 
aurely : comes tl^re any more of it ? 

Page, My «lord, 't is but begun. 

Sly. 'Tis a very excellent piec6 of work, madam 
lady ; would 't were done ! 

SCENE II.— The Same. Before Hortensio's House. 
Enter Petruchio and Grumio. 

Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, 
To see my friends in Padua j 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 ; 
And rap me well, or I '11 knock your knave's pate. 

Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome.— I should 
knock you first, 
And then I know after who comes by the worst. 

Pet. Willit not be? 
'Faith, sirrah, an you '11 not knockj I '11 wring it : 
I '11 try how you can sol, fa^ and smg it. 

[He wrings Grumio by the ears, 

Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is mad. 

Pet. Now, knock when I bid you : sirrah ! villain ! 

[Grumio falls domi. 
Enter Hortensio. 

Hot. How now ! what 's the matter ? — My old friend 
Grumio, 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. 

Hor. Alia nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato 
signior mio Petruchio, 
Rise, Grumio, rise : we will compound this quarrel. 

Ghru. [Rising,^] 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, 
i Not in f, 6. 




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 rehears'd, 
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. 

Chru. Katharine the curst ! 
A title for a maid of ^11 titles the worst. 

Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, 
And offer me, disguis'd 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 herpelf. 

Enter Gremio, and Lucentio disguised^ with books 
under his arm. 

Chru. Here 's no knavery ? See, to beguile the old 
folks, how the young folks lay their heads together ! 
Master, master, look about you : who goes there ? ha ! 

Hor. Peace, Grumio ; 't is the rival of my love. 
Petruchio, stand by a while. 

Chru. A proper stripling, and an amorous ! 

[They retire. 

Chre. ! very well j I have perus'd 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 
Siguier Baptista's liberality, 

I '11 mend it with a largess. — Take your papers, too, 
And let me have them very well perfumed. 
For she is sweeter than perfume itself. 
To whom they go.* What will you read to her ? 
1 go to : in folio. 


sc. n. TAMING OF THE SHREW. 105 

Luc. Whatever I read to her, I '11 plead for you, 
As for my patron ; stand you so assur'd, 
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 ! 

Tel.. Peace, sirrah ! 

Hor. Grumio, mum! — [Coming forward. \ — 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 
Ahout a master 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. 'T is 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 belov'd of me. 

Gre. Belov'd of me, and that my deeds shall prove. 

Gru. And that his bags shall prove. 

Hor. Gremio, 't is 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. 

Ure. So said, so done, is well. — 
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? 

Tet. 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 ? 

Tet. Bom in Verona, old Antonio's son : 
My father dead, my fortune lives for me j 
And I do hope good days, and long, to see. 

Grre. ! sir, such a life with such a wife were strange ; 
But if you have a stomach, to 't o' God's name : 
You shall have me assisting you in all. 
But will you woo this wild, cat ? 




Pet, WilllUve? 

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 mine ears ? 
Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? 
Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds, 
Rage like an angry hoar, chafed with sweat ? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field. 
And heaven's artille^ 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 arriv'd. 
My mind presumes, for his own good, and ours*. 

Hor. I promis'd 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. 

Enter Tranio, bravely apparelled; and Biond£Llo. 

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. [Aside. 
Hor. Sir, a word ere you go. 
Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea, or no ? 
Tra. An if I be, sir, is it any offence ? 
Gre. No; if without more words you will get you 

Tra. Why, sir. I pray, are not the streets as free 

1 This word was formerly lynonymouB with terrors, like our bog- 
beuB. « yonxB : in f. e. 

sc. II. 



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, 
That she 's the choice love of signior Gremio. 

Hor, That she 's the chosen 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 

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. 

Ghre. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules, 
And let it be more than Alcides' twelve. 

Pet. Sir, understand you this of me : insooth. 
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 among 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, 
1 seek : in f. e. 



ACT n. 

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 drini as friends. 

Gru. Bum. 0, excellent motion ! Fellows, let 's 

Hor. The motion 's good indeed, and be it so. — 
Petruchio, I shall be your hen vemUo, [Exeunt, 


SCENE I.—TheSame. 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 gards* 
Unbind my hands, I '11 put them off myself, 
Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; 
Or what you will command me will I do, 
So well I know my duty to my elders. 

Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell 
Whom thou lov'st best : see thou dissemble not. 

Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive, 
T never yet beheld that special face 
AVhich I could fancy more than any otlier. 

Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is H not Hortensio ? 

Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear, 
I '11 plead for you myself, but you shall have him. 

Kath. ! 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, 
Vou have but jested with me all this while. 
I pr'ythee, sister Kate, untie my hands. [her. 

Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. [StrUxs 
Enter Baptista. 

Bap. Why, how now, dame ! whence grows this in- 
solence ? — 
' The Latin eonterOj pais ot ipend. % iioo&% \ m C. «. 

sc. I. 



Bianca, stand aside : — ^poor girl ! she weeps. — 
Gro 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 reveng'd. 

[Flies after Bianca. 

Bap. [Holding her}\ 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 barefoot 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 Katharina. 

Bap. Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I ? 
But who comes here ? 

Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in a mean habit; Petru- 
CHio, toith 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, gentlemen ! 
Pet. And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter, 

Call'd Katharina, fair, and virtuous ? 
Bap. J have a daughter, sir, call'd 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 woman's' 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, bom in Mantua. 

1 Low wretch. » ^ot in f. e. • "wondroxa *. mi. 

Vol. III.— 10 



ACT n. 

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. I see, you do not mean to part with her. 
Or else you like not of my company. 

Bap. Mistake me not ; I speak hut a§ 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. 
Backare* : you are marvellous forward. 

Pet. ! pardon me, signior Gremio,- I would fain 
he doing. 

Gre. I doubt it not, sir; hut 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 beholding to you than any, I freely give 
unto you this young 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 Cambio ; pray 
accept his service. 

Bap. A thousand thanks, signior Gremio : welcome, 
goof Cambio. — But, gentle sir, [To 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. 

1 A word often lued ; it means stand back. 

sc. I. 



Bap. Lucentio is your name ? of whence, I pray? 

Tra. Of Pisa, sir j son to Vincentio. 

Bap. A mighty man of Pisa : by report 
I know him well. You are very welcome, sir. — 
Take you [To Hor.] the lute, and you [To Luc] the 

set of books ; 
You shall go see your pupils presently^ 
Holla, within ! 

^ Enter a Servant. 

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen 
To my daughters ; and tell them both, 
These are their tutors : bid them use them well. 

[Exit Servantj with Hortensio, Lucentio, 
and BiONDELLo. 
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 bettered rather than decreased : 
Then, tell me,— if I get your daughter's love. 
What do>?vTy shall I have with her to wife ? 

Bap. After my death, the one half of my lands. 
And in possession twenty thousand crowns. • 

Pet. And, for that dowry, I '11 assure her of 
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me. 
In all my lands and leases whatsoever. 
Let specialities be therefore drawn between us, 
That covenants may be kept on either hand. 

Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtained, 
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 Yriih 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 may'st thou woo, and happy be thy speed ! 

^ The burthen, says Knight, of an old ballad entitled " The In^eni- 
ont Bnggadooio. ** 




But be thou ajm'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 broken. 

Bap. How now, my friend ! why dost thou look so pale ? 

Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. 

Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? 

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, de^alish spirit, [them 

Frets, call you these ?" quoth she : " I '11 fume with 
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, \nih twenty such vile terms. 
As she had 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 : 
0, how I lodg to have some chat with her ! 

Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited : 
Proceed in patience with my younger daughter ; 
She 's apt to learn, and thanlrful for good turns. — 
Siguier 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 '11 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, aad when be married.— 

d6. 1. 



But here she comes ; and now, Petrachio, speak. 

Enter Katharina. 
Good-morrow, Kate, for that ^s your name, I hear. 
K€Uh. 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 cates : and therefore, Kate, 
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation :— 
Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town. 
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, 
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs. 
Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife. 

Kath. Mov'd ! in good time: let him that mov'd 
you hither. 

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first, 
You were a moveable. 

Pet. Why, what 's a moveable ? 

Kath. A joint-stool. 

Pet. Thou hast hit it : come, sit on me. 

Kaih. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. 

Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. 

Kath. No such jade to bear you,* if me you mea,|i. 

Pet. Alas, good Kate ! I will not burden thee ; 
For, knowing thee to be but young and light, — 

Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch, 
And yet as heavy as my weight should be. 

Pet. Should be ? should buz. 

Kath. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard. 

Pet. O, slow-wing'd turtle ! shall a buzzard take 

Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. 
Pet. Come, come, you wasp ; i' faith, you are too 

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 out where it lies. 
Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his 
sting ? 
In his tail. 

' No Bach fade as you : in f. e. 






In his tongue. 

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 ni try. [Striking him. 

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 ? ! 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 

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 withered. 

fet. 'T is with cares. 

Kath. I care not. 

Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate : in sooth, you 'scape not 
so, [Holding her} 

Kath. 1 chafe you, if I tarry : let me go. 

Pet. No, not a whit : I find you passing gentle. 
'T was told me, you were rough, and coy, and sullen. 
And now I find report a very liar ; 
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous. 
But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. 
Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance. 
Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will ; 
Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ; 
But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers, 
With gentle conference, soft and affable. 
Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? 
0, slanderous world ! Kate, like the hazel-twig, 

1 Hot inf. e. 

sc. I. 



Is straight, and slender : and as brown in hue 
As hazel nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. 
! 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 ? 

! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, 

And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful. 
Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech ? 
Pet. It is extempore, from my mother- wit. 
Kath. A witty mother ! witless else her son. 
Pet. Am I not wise ? 

Kath. Yes ; keep you warm. 

Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy 

And therefore, setting all this chat aside, 
Thus in plain terms : — ^your father hath consented 
That you shall be my wife ; your do^y '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 Baptista, 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 ! in your 

dumps ? 

Kath. Call you me, daughter ? now, I promise you, 
You have showed a tender fatherly regard. 
To wish me wed to one half lunatic ; 
A mad-cap ruffian, and a swearing Jack, 
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. 

Pet. Father, H is thus : — ^yourself and all the world, 
That talked of her, have talked amiss of her 
If she be curst, it is for policy. 
For she 's not frowaxdj but modest as the doive , 


She is not hot, hut temperate as the moon ;^ 
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 '11 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 

Pet. Be patient, gentlemen ; I choose her for myself : 
If she and I be pleas'd, what 's that to you ? 
'T is bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone. 
That she shall still be curst in company. 
I tell you, 't is incredible to believe 
How much she loves me. 0, the kindest Kate ! 
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss 
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, 
That in a twink she won me to her love. 
! you are novices : 't is 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 : 

Grod send you joy ! Petruchio, 't is 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 Katharine, severally. 

Che. Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly ? 

Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part, 
And venture madly on a desperate mart. 

Tra. 'T was a commodity lay fretting by you : 
'T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. 

Bap. The gain I seek is quiet in the match. 

Che. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. — 

' mom : in f, e, > A provex\>ial pbraM, -srorth. a world to sM. 
* Cowanily, 

8C. I. 



But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter. 
Now is the day we long have looked for : 
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 

Tra. And I am one, that love Bianca more 
Than words can witness, or yoxir thoughts can guess. 

Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. 

Tra. Grey-beard, 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'll compound this 
strife : 

'T is deeds must win the prize ; and he, of both, 
That can assure my daughter greatest dower, 
Shall have my Bianoa'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 : ' 
Basons, and ewers, to lave her dainty hands ; 
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry : 
In ivory coffers I have stuflf 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 needle-work, 
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, 
Six score 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 thi^ 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 'U leave her houses three or four as good. 
Within rich Pisa walls, as any one 
Old sigflior Gremio has in Padua ; 
Besides two thousand ducats by the year 
Of fruitful land^ all which shall be her jointure. 
What, have I pmch'd you, signior Gremio ? 

Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land ! 
My land amounts not to so much in a\\ 



ACT n. 

That she shall have : hesides an orgoey, 
That now is lying in Marseilles' road. — 
What, have I chok'd you with an argosy ? 

Tra. GremiO) 't is known, my father hath no less 
Than three great argosies, hesides two galliasses, 
And twelve tight galleys : these I will assure her, 
And twice as much, whatever thou offer'st next. 

Gre. Nay, I have offer'd all, I have no more : 
And she can have ho 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 wwld, 
By your firm promise : Gremio is out-vied. 

Bap. I must confess your offer is the hest j 
And. let your father make her the assurance, 
She is your own ; else, you must 'pardon me : 
If you should die hefore him, where 's her dower ? 

Tra. That 's hut a cavil : he is old, I young. 

Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old? 

Bap. Well, gentlemen, 
I am thus resolv'd. — On Sunday next, you know, 
My daughter Katharine is to he married : 
Now, on the Sunday following shall Bianca 
Be hride to you, if you make this assurance : 
If not, to signior Gremio : 

And so I take my leave, and thank you hoth. [Exit. 

Gre. Adieu, gixxi neighhour. 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 tahle. Tut, a toy ! 
An old Italian fox is not so kind, my hoyT [Exit. 

Tra. A vengeance on your crafty witlier'd hide ! 
Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.^ 
'T is in my head to do my master good : — 
I see no reason, hut suppos'd Lucentio 
Must get a father, calPd — supposed Vincentio ; 
And that 's a wonder : fathers, commonly. 
Do get their children ; hut in this case of winning,' 
A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. 


1 An old proTerbial exprenioB. * -wooing : in f. e. 



ACT m. 

SCENE I. — A Room in 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. Tut, wrangling pedant ! I avouch, 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 
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 oflf all strife, here sit we down : — 
Take you your instrument, play you the whiles ; 
His lecture will be done, ere you have tun'd. 

Hor. You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune? 

[Hortensio retires, 

Lite. That will be never : — tune your instrument. 

Bian. Where left we last ? 

LiLc. Here, madam : 

Hac that Simois ; hie est Sigeia tellus ; 
Hie steterat Priami regia celsa senis. 

Bian. Construe them. 

Luc. Hac ibat, as I told you before, — Simois j I am 
Lucentio, — 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. [Returning^ Madam, my instrument 'sin tune. 

< Butf wraagUng pedant ihii it : inf. e. 



Bian. Let 's hear. — [Hortensio plays. 

fie ! the treble jars. 

Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. 

Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it : Hac ibat 
Simois, I know you not ; — hie est Sigeia tellus^ I trust 
you not ; — Hie steterat Priami, take heed he hear us 
not ; — regia^ presume not ; — eelsa senisj despair not. 

Hor. Madam, 't is now in tune. 

Luc. All hut the hase. 

Hor. The base is right ; 't is the base knave that jars. 
How fiery and forward our pedant is ! 
Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love : 
Pedascule, I '11 watch you better yet. [Aside.^ 

Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. 

Luc. Mistrust it not ; for, sure, ^acides 
Was Ajax, calPd so from his grandfather. 

Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I promise you, 

1 should be arguing still upon that doubt : 
But let it rest. — Now, Licio, to you. — 
Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray. 
That I have been thus pleasant with you both. 

J/or.' [7b LucENTio.] You may go walk, and give 
me leave awhile : 
My lessons make no music in three parts. [wait, 
Luc. Are you so formal, sir? [Aside.] Well, I must 
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 eflfectual. 
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, 

C ifaut, that loves teith all affection : 
D sol re, one cliff, two notes have I: 
E la mi, show pity, or I die. 
Call you this gamut? tut ! I like it not: 
iNotmt. e. 

flC. II. 



Old fashions please me best ; I am not so nice, 
To change trae rules for new inventions. 

Enter a Servant. 
8erv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your 

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. 

Liic. 'Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. 


Hot. 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.— The Same. Before Baptista's House. 
Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, 
Bianca, Lucentio, and Attendants. 

Bap. Siguier Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day 
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 forc'd 
To give my hand, oppos'd 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, yes, 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 st&VB him from his woid: 

Vol. IlL^ll 


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 J weeping, followed by Bianca, and others. 

Bap. Go, girl ; 1 cannot blame thee now to weep, 
For such an injury would vex a very saint, 
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour, 
lb Enter Biondello. 

Bion. Master, master ! news, and such old news' as 
you never heard of ! 

Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be ? 

Bion. Why, is it not news to heaf 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 

Tra. But, say, what is 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 hilt, and chapeless ; with 
two broken points : his horse heaped 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 wind-galls, sped with spavins, rayed with the 
yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the 
staggers, begnawn with the bots ; swayed in the back, 
and shoulder-shotten ; ne'er-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 pierced, 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- 

Bap. Who comes with him? 

Bion. 0, sir ! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned 
* old news, and such ne^s ; in i. e. » Ytvxct • 

sc. n. 



like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg, and a 
kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and 
blue list ; an old hat, and " the amours or* forty fancies" 
pricked in 't for a feather : a monster, a very monster 
in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy, or a gen- 
tleman's lackey. 

Tra. is some odd humour pricks him to this 
fashion ; 

Yet oftentimes he goes but mean apparelPd. 
Bap. I am glad he is come, howsoever he comes. 
Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. 
Bap. Didst thou not say, he comes ? 
Bum. 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 St. Jamy, 

I hold you a penny, 
A horse and a man 
Is more than one. 
And yet not many. 
Enter Petruchio and Grumio, strangely apparelled.^ 
Pet. Come, where be these gallants ? who is at home ? 
Bap. You are welcome, sir. ^ 
Pet. And yet I come not well. 

Bap. And yet you halt not. 

Tra. Not so well apparelPd, 

As I wish you were. 

Pet. Were it much' better, I should fuah in thus. 
But where is Kate ? where is my lovely bride ? — 
How does my father? — Gentles, methinks you frown: 
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? 
'bumonnof: inf.e. « These vords are not Vn f. ©. * "^oit 


Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear : 
Sufiiceth, 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 he satisfied withal. 
But, where is Kate ? I stay too long from her : 
The morning wears, H is time we were at church. 

Tra. See not your hride in these unreverent rohes. 
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, have 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, 
'T were 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, 
^nd seal the title with a loving^ kiss ! 

[Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio, and Biondello. 

Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. 
XVe 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. [Exit» 

Tra. But, to our love* concemeth 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. 
And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 

Luc. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster 
Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly, 
'T were 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 mecm to look into, 
And watch our vantage in this business. 
We 'Jl over-reach the grey-beard, Gremio, 
1 lorely : in f. e. « Bui, »i,>\fiv% *. 1, 

so. II. 



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 

Gre. A bridegroom say you ? 't is a groom indeed; 
A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. 

Tra. Curster than she ? why, 't is 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 '11 tell you, sir, Lucentio : when the priest 
Should ask, — ^if Katharine should be his wife, 
" Ay, by gogs-wouns," quoth he ; and swore so loud, 
That, all-amaz'd. the priest let fall the book, 
And, as he stoop'd again to take it up. 
This mad-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 arose again ? 

Gre. Trembled and shook ; for why, he stamp'd, and 

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 :— quaff'd 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, 

That, at the parting, all the church did echo ; 

And i, seeing this, came thence for very shame ; 

And after me, I know, the rout is coming : 

Such a mad marriage never was before. 

Hark, hark ! I hear the minstrels play. 


I It wu the custom at the time of the play, {oi Qi\si\XAA%* 
aap to be qaatted ia church. — Knight. 




Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Baftista^ 

HoRTENsio, GrumiO; and Train, 
Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank yqia for your 

I knoWj you think to dine with me to-day, 
And have prepar'd 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. h<Hiest 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 y<Hi 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 yw 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 eatOA 
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 j 
For me, I 'U not be gone, till I please myself. — 
'T is like you '11 prove a jolly surly groom, 
That take it on you at the first so roundly. 

Pet. 0, Kate ! content thee : pr'ythee, be not aQg=ry» 

Kath. I will be angry. What hast thou to do?^ 
Father, be quiet ; he shall stay nay leisure. 

Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. 

Kath, Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner. 
/ secj a woman may be mad,« «• iwjl^ 

SQ* I.. 

TAmira OF TBB SARXir. 

If she had not a spiril to reswt. 

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 &et ; 
I will be master of what is mine own. 
She is my goods, my chattels ; she is fny house, 
My household-stuff, my field, my barn. 
My horse, my ox, ray ass, my any thing : 
And here she stands ; tou<^ her whoever dare : 
I '11 bring mine action on the proudest he 
That stops my way in Padua. — Grumb, 
Draw forth thy weapon ; we 're beset with thaeves : 
Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.-^ 
Fear not, sweet wench ; they shall not touch thee, Kate ; 
I '11 buckler thee against a miUion. 

[Exeunt Pstruchiq, Katharina, and Grumio. 

Bap. Nay, let them go, a coi^ple of quiet ones. 

Gre, Went they wt quickly, I should die with 

Tra. Of all mad matches never waa^ the like. 

Xmc. Mistress, what 's your opinion of your sister ? 

Bim. That, beii^g mad herself, she 'a madly mated. 

Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. 

Bap. Neighbours and friends, though brides and 
bridegroom wants 
Fo¥ to supply the places at the tablo, 
You know, there wants no junkets at the feast.--? 
I^ueentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place, 
A»d let 3ianca take her sister's room. 

Tra. Shall sweet Biaoca practise how to bride it ? 

Bap. She sharll, Luoentio. — Come, gentlemen ; let 's 
go. [Exemi» 


SCENE I.— A Hall in Petrucwq's Country Hp^uip^, 
Enter Grumio. 
Gru. Tie, fie, oja aJJ tired jadea, oil, ift tmA xaasiyiCB^ 




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, with blow- 
ing the fire, shall warm myself, for, considering the 
weather, a taller man than I will take cold. HoUa^ 
hoa ! Curtis ! 

Enter Curtis. 

Curt. Who is that, calls so coldly ? 

Gru. A piece of ice : if thou doubt it, thou may^st 
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. ! ay, Curtis, ay ; and therefore fire, fire : 
cast on no water. 

Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she 's reported ? 

Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost ; but 
thou know'st, winter tames man, woman, and beast, 
for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, 
and thyself, fellow Curtis. 

Curt. Away, you three-inch fool ! I am no beast. 

Gru. Am L 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 pr'ythee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes 
the world ? 

Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; 
and, therefore, fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, 
for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. 

Curt. There 's fire ready ; and therefore, good Gru- 
mio, the news ? 

Gru. Why, " Jack, boy ! ho boy !"* and as much 
news as thou wilt. 

Curt. Come, you are so full of conycatching*. — 

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- 

' Beufrayed^ dirtied. « The first NfOTd* of an old drinking round. 
JaeJkSj wen leathern drinking iug». * Triclcery, cKeatiiig. 


rnen in their new fustian, their white stockings, and. 
every officer his wedding-garment on ? Be the Jaclqi 
fair within, the Jills* fair without, the carpets laid, and 
every thing in order ? 

Curt. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, new&? 

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 tale. 
Curt. Let 's ha't, good Grumio. 
Gru. Lend thine ear. 
Curt. Here. 

Gru. There. [Striking him. 

Curt. This 't is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale, 
Gru. And therefore 't is called, a sensible tale ; a^d 
this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech 
listening. Now I begin : Imprimis^ we came down a 
foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress. 
Curt. Both of* one horse ? 
Gra. 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 horsa^ 
fell, and she under her horse ] thou shouldst have 
heaid, 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 j; 
how she prayed, that never prayed before; how \ 
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, f^idt 
thou return unexperienced to thy grave. 

Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew thaob 

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 W 
sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their 
garters of an indifferent knit* : let them curtsey witb 
their left legs, and not presume to touch a haii qC mY 
I Fewter drinking cups. S (m. * MdtcKed. 




meter's horse-tail, till they kiss their hands. Are 
they all ready ? 

Curt. They are. 

Chru. Call them forth. 

Curt. Do you hear? ho ! you must meet my master, 
to countenance my mistress. 

Chru. Why, she hath a face of her own. 
Curt. Who knows not that ? 

Gru. Thou, it seems, that callest for company to 
countenance her. 

Curt. I call them forth to credit her. 

Gru, Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. 

Enter several Servants. 
Nath. Welcome home, Grumio. 
Phil. How now, Grumio ? 
Jos. What. Grumio ! 
Nick. 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 companions, is all ready, and all things neat ? 
Nath. All things is ready. How near is our master? 
Ghru. E'en at hand, alighted by this ; and therefore 
be not, — Cock's passion, silence ! — hear my master. 

[All servants frightened.^ 
Enter Petruchio and Katharina. 
Fet. Where be these knaves ? What ! no man at 
the 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 ? 

Chu. 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 GabriePs pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel j 
There was no link to colour Peter's hat, 
1 Not m f . e. 

sc. I. 



And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing : 
There were none fine, but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory : 
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; 
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. 
Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. — 

[Exeunt some of the Servants. 
" Where is the life that late I led"— [Sings} 
Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome. 
Scud, soud, soud, soud ! 

Re-enter Servants^ with supper. 
Why, when, I say ? — Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. 
Oflf with my boots, you rogues ! you villains, when ? 

" It was the friar of orders grey, [Sings* 
As he forth walked on his way :" — 
Out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry : 
Take that, and mend the plucking of the other. — 

[Kicks him.* 

Be merry, Kate: — some water, here; what, ho ! — 

Enter Servant, with water. 
Where 's my spaniel Troilus ? — Sirrah, get you hence, 
And bid by cousin Ferdinand come hither : — 

[Exit Servant, 

One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. — 
Where are my slippers ? — Shall I have some water ? 

[A bason is presented to him. 
Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. — 
You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall ? [Strikes him. 

Kath. Patience, I pray you ; 't was a fault unwilling. 

Pet. A whoreson, beetleheaded, flap-ear' d knave ! 

[Meat served in. 
Come, Kate, sit down j I know you have a stomach. 
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I ? — 
What's this? mutton? 

1 Serv. Ay. 

Pet. Who brought it? 

1 Serv. I. 

Pet. 'T is 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, f 
And serve it thus to me that love it not ? 
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. 

[Throws the meat, S^e. all about. 
You heedless joltheads, and unmanner'd slaves ! 
i a Not in f. e. » Strikes Kim : ia i. e. 


What ! do you grnmble ? 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. 1 tell thee, Kate, H was burnt and dried away, 
And I expressly am forbid to touch it, 
For it engenders choler, planteth anger : 
And better H were, , 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 Petruchio, Katharina, and Curtis. 

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. [Eoceuntj running} 
Re-enter Petruchio. 

Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, 
And 't is my hope to end successfully. 
My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty. 
And, till she stoop, she must not be full-gorg'd, 
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 those kites. 
That bate, and beat, and will not be obedient. 
She ate no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; 
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not : 
As with the meat, some undeserved fault 
I '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 y 
And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night : 
Andj if she chance to nod, I '11 rail, and brawl, 
1 Thlf "word is not 8u9A«^ m 1. 

sc. u. 



And with the clamour keep her still awake. 

This is the way to kill a wife with kindness ; 

And thus I '11 curh her mad and headstrong humour. 

He that knows hotter how to tame a shrew, 

Now let him speak : 't is charity to shew. [Exit, 

SCENE IL — ^Padua. Before Baptista's House. 

Enter Tranio and Hortensio. 
Tra. Is 't possible, friend Licio, that mistress Bianoa 
Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? 
I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. 

Hot. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 
Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching. 

[They stand aside. 
Enter Bianca and Lucentio. 
Lm. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read ? 
Bian. What, master, read you? first resolve me 

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. [They retire. 

Hot. [Coming forward.] Quick proceeders, marry ! ' 
Now, tell me, I pray. 
You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca 
Lov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio. 

Tra. O, despiteful love ! unconstant womankind ! — 
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderfuL 

Hot. Mistake no more : I am not Licio, 
Nor a musician, as I seem to be. 
But one that scorns to live in this disguise. 
For such a one, as leaves a gentleman. 
And makes a god of such a cuUion. 
Know, sir, that I am calPd Hortensio. 

Tra. Siguier Hortensio, I have often heard 
Of your entire affection to Bianca ; 
And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, 
I wiU with you, if you be so contented, 
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. 

Hot. See, how they kiss and court! — Signior Lu- 

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 
Vol. 111-^12 



That I have fondly fiatter'd her withal. 

Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, 
Never to marry her,' though she entareat.* 
Fie on her ! see, how beastly she doth coart him. 

Hot, Would all the world, but he, had quite fn"- 
sworn her !' 
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 lov'd me, 
As I have lov'd this proud, disdainful haggard. 
And so farewell, signior Luoeatio. — 
Kindness in women ! not their beauteous loolffl. 
Shall win my love : — and so I take my leave, 
Im resolution as I swore before. 

iExit HoRTENSio. — LucBNTio and Bianca advance,] 
>a. Mistress Bianoa, bless you witti such grace. 
As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case ! 
Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love 
And have forsworn you, with Hortensio. 

Bian. Tranio, you jest. But have you both for- 
sworn me ? 
Tra. Mistress, we have. 

Luc. Then we are rid of Licio. 

Tra. V faith, he '11 have a lusty widow now, 
That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day. 
Bian. Grod give him joy ! 
Tra. Ay, and he '11 tame her. 
Bian. He says so, Tranio. 

Tra. 'Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. 
Bian. The taming-sdiool ! 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, 
Erder Biondello, running. 

Bion. master, master ! I have watch'd so long 
That I 'm dog-weary : but at last I spied 
An ancient ambler* coming down the hill, 
Will serve the turn. • 

TrOr. What is he, Biondello ? 

Bion. Master, a mercatante^ or a*pedant, 
I know not what; but formal m apparel, 

' with her : in f. e. ^ -wottld Qiiti««X ; m i. a nnua word ii not 
in f. 0. 4eDgle : inf. e. 

sc. II. 



In gait and countenance sorely like a father. 

Luc. And what of him, Tranio ? 

Tra. If he be credulous, and trust my tale, 
I '11 make him glad to seem Yincentio, 
And give assurance to Baptista Mmola, 
As if he were the right Vinoentio. 
Take in your love, and then let me alone. 

[Exeunt Lucentio and Bumca. 
Enter a Pedant. 

Ted. God save you, sir ! 

Tra. And you, sir : you are welcome. 

Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? 

Ted. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two ; 
But then up farther^ and as far as Rome, 
, And so to Tripoly, if God lend me life. 

Tra. What countryman, i pray ? 

Ted. Of Mantua. 

Tra. Of Mantua, sir ? — ^marry, God forbid ! 
And come to Padua, careless of your life ? 

Ted. My life, sir ! how, I pray ? for that goes hard. 

Tra. 'T is 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 Hwixt your duke and him. 
Hath publish'd and proolaimM it openly. 
'T is marvel ; but that you are but newly come, 
You might have heard it else proclaimed about. 

Ted. Alas, sir ! it is worse for me than so ; 
For I have Ulls for money by exchange 
From Florence, and must here deliver them. 

Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy 
This will I do, an^ this I will advise you.— - 
First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa ? 

Ted. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been ; 
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. 

Tra. Among them, know you one Vincentio ? 

Ted. I know him not, but I have heard of him : 
A merchant of incomparable wealth. 

Tra. He is my father, sir ; aad, sooth to say, 
In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. 

Bion. [Aside. \ As much as on apple doth an oyster, 
and all one. 

Tra. To save your life in this extremity, 
This favour will I do you for his Mto, 



And think it not the worst of all your fortunes, 
That you are so like to Vincentio. 
His name and credit shall you undertake, 
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd. 
Look, that you take upon you as you should : 
You understand me, sir ; — so shall you stay 
Till you have done your business in the city. 
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. 

Fed. ! sir, I do ; and will repute you ever 
The patron of my life and liberty. 

Tra. Then go with me, to make the matter good. 
This, by the way, I let you understand : 
My father is here looked for every day. 
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 
'Twixt me and one Baptista^s daughter here : 
In all these circumstances I '11 instruct you. 
Go with me, to clothe you as becomes you. [Exeunt, 

SCENE III. — A Room in Petruchio's House. 
ErUer Katharina and Grumio. 

(xru. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life. 

Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. 
What, did he marry me to famish me ? 
Beggars, that come unto my father's door, 
Upon entreaty, have a present alms ; 
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity : 
But, I, who never knew how to entreat, 
Nor never needed, that I should entreat, 
Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep ; 
With, oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. 
And that which spites me more than all these wants, 
He does it under name of perfect love j 
As who should say, if I should sleep, or eat, 
'T were deadly sickness, or else present death. 
I pr'ythee go, and get me some repast ; 
1 care not what, so it be wholesome food. 

Gru. What say you to a neat's foot ? 

Kath. 'T is passing good : I pr'ythee let me have it. 

Gru. I fear, it is too choleric a meat. 
How say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd ? 

Kath. I like it well : good Grumio fetch it me. 

Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear, 't is choleric. 
What say you to a piece of beef, and mustard ? 
JCath. A dish that I do love lo 1^ u^xl. 

9C« XH. 



Gru, Ay, but the mustaard k too hot a little. 
Kath. Why, then ihe beef, and let the mustard test. 
Gru. Nay, that I "mil not: you shall have the 
Or else y<m get no beef of Grumio. 
Kath. Then both, or one, or any thiag thou wilt. 
Gru. Why then, lOie mustard without the beef. 
Kath. Gro, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave. 

[]^a$s him. 

That feed'st me with the very name of meat. 
Sorrow obl thee, and all the pack of you, 
That triumph thus upon ray misery ! 
Go : get thee gone, I say. 

Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat, and Hortbnsio. 
Pet. How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, all amort ?^ 
Hot. Mistress, what cheer ? 

Kath. 'Faith, as cold as can be. 

Pet. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. 
Here, love ; thou seest how diligent I am, 
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee : 

[Sets the dish on a table. 
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. 
What ! not a word ? Nay then, thou lov'st it not, 
And all my pains is sorted to no proof. — 
Here, take away this dish. 

Kath. I i»ray 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. SigniOT Petruchio, fie ! you are to blame. 
Come, mi^^^e8s Kate, I '11 bear you company. 
Pet. [Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov'st 
me. — 

I To her.] Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! 
Late,, eat apace. — And now, my honey love, 
Wiil we return unto thy father's house. 
And revel it as bravely as the best. 
With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings, 
With ruifs, and cu&, and farthingales, and things ; 
With searfs, and fans, and double change of bravery, 
With amber bracelete^ beads, and all this knavery. 
What! hast thou din'd ? The tailor stays thy leisure, 
To deck thy body with his rufltong tTeasute. 

' MpMtO, * AppFoof, appTobation. 





Enter Tailor. 
Gome, tail(Nr, let us see these ornaments ; 

ErUer Haberdasher. 
Lay forth the gown. — What news with you, sir ? 

Hob. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. 

Pet: Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; 
A velvet dish : — ^fie, fie ! 't is lewd and filthy. 
Why, *t is a cockle or a walnut shell, 
A Imack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; 
Away with it ! 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. 

Hot. [Aside.] That will not be in haste. 

Kath. Why, sir, I trust, I may have leave to speak, 
And speak I will ; I am no child, no babe : 
Your betters have endur'd me say my mind, 
And, if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, 
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break : 
And, rather than it shall, I will be free, 
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. 

Pet. Why, thou say'st true : it is a paltry cap, 
A custard-coffin', a bauble, a silken pie. 
I love thee well, in that thou lik'st it not. 

Kath. Love me, or love me not, I like the cap. 
And it I will have, or I will have none. 

Pet. Thy gown ? why, ay : — come, tailor, let us see 't. 
0, mercy, God ! — ^what masking stuff is here ? 
What 's this ? a sleeve ? H is like a demi-cannon : 
What ! up and down, carv'd 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, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this ? 

Hor. [Aside.] I see, she 's like to have neither cap 
nor gown. 

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, 
I did not bid you mar it to the time. 
Go, hop me over every kennel home, 
For you shall hop without my custom, sir. 

^ The onut of a ]^ie »o caX!L«^ 


1 '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 

Tai. She says, your worship means to make a puppet 
of her. 

Pet. O, monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou 
Thou thimble, 

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail ! 
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou ! — 
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread ? 
Away ! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, 
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. 
As. thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st. 
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown. 

Tai. Your worship is deceived : the gown is made 
Just as my master had direction. 
Grumio gave order how it should be done. 

Gru. I gave him no order : I gave him the stuff. 

Tai. But how did you desire it should be made ? 

Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. 

Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? 

Gru. Thou hast faced many things. 

Tai. [ 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 guwn ; 
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. 

Tai. " ImprimiSj a loose-bodied go\sTi." 

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. 

Tai. "With a small compassed cape." 
Gru. I confess the cape. 
Tai. "With a trunk sleeve." 
Gru. I confess two sleeves. 

' Bravery was the old word fot Jinerii, 


Tai. " The sleeves curiously cot." 

Pet. Ay, there's the villany. 

Gru, Error the bill, sir ; error ^ the hill. I eom- 
manded the sleeves should he eut out, and sewed up 
again; and that I'U prove upon thee, though thy little 
finger be armed in a thimble. 

Tai. This is true, that 1 say : an I had tiiee in place 
where, thou shouldst know it. 

Gru. I am for thee straight : take thou l^e hilP, give 
me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. 

Hot. God-a-mercy, Grumio: then he shall have ho 

Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. 

(xtu. You are i' the right, sir : 'tis for my mistress. 

Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master's use. 

Gru. Villain, not for thy life ! Take up my mis- 
tress' gown for thy master's use ? 

Pet. Why, sir, what's your conceit in that ? 

€hru. 0, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. 
Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use ? 
0, fie, fie, fie ! 

Pet. [Aside.] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor 
paid. — 

Go take it hence ; be gone, and say no more. 

Hor. Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow: 
Take no unkindness of his hasty words. 
Away, I say ; commend me to thy master. 

[Exeunt Tailor and Haberdasher. 
Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your 

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 ? 
! no, good Kate : neither art thou the worse 
For this poor furniture, and mean array. 
If thou account' st it shame, lay it on me ; 
And therefore frolic : we will hence forthwith, 
1 An old^apoTi 

sc. IV. 



To feast and sport us at thy father's house. — 
Go, call my men, and let us straight to him ; 
And hring our horses unto Long-lane end, 
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. — 
Let 's see ; I think, 't is now some seven o'clock. 
And well we may come there by dinner time. - 

Kath. I dare assure you, sir, 't is almost two, 
And H will 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. — Sire, let 't alone : 
I will not go to-day ; and, ere 1 do, 
It shall be what o'clock I say it is. 

Hot. Why, so this gallant will command the sun. 


SCENE IV.— Padua. Before Baptista's House. 
Enter Tranio, and the Pedant booted^ and dressed 

like ViNCENTIO. 

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 twentv years ago, in Genoa, 
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. 

Tra. 'T is well ; and hold your own, in any case, 
With such austerity as 'longeth to a father. 

Enter Biondello. 

Ped. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy ; 
'T were good, he were school'd. 

Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah, Biondello, 
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you : 
Imagine H were the right Vincentio. 

Bum. 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. — 
Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of. — 
I pray you, stand good father to me now, 
Give me Bianca for^my patrimony. 

' This vrord not in f. e. 




Fed. 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; 
For curious* I cannot be with you, 
Siguier 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. 
Eight 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 happily* done : 
Your son shall have my daughter with consent. 

Tra. I thank you, sir. Where, then, do you hold* 

We be affied, and such assurance ta'en. 

As shall with either part's agreement stand? 

Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, yom know, 
Pitchers have ears, sind 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. 
S©Dd for your daughter by your servant here ; 
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. 
The worst is this, — ^that^ at so slender warning, 
You 're like to have a thin and slender pittance. 

Bap. It likes me w^ll : — Cambio, hie you home, 
And bid Bianca make her ready straight } 
And, if you will, tell what hath happeneid : 

> Particular. * This vnad no| in f . e. ^ know : in f . e. 

00. Tf, 



Lucentio'fi fatiier is axrived in Padua, 
And iiow she like, to be Lucentio's wife. 

Luc. I pray the gods she may with all my heart. 

Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. 
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? 
Welcome : erne mess is like to be your cheer. 
Come, sir ; we will better it in Pisa. 

Ba^. i follow you. 

[Exeunt Tranio, Pedcmtj and BAPmTA. 

Bion. Cambio ! 

Luc. What say'st thou, Biondeilo ? 
Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon 

Luc. Biondeilo, what of that ? 

Bion. 'Faith nothing; but he has left me herd 
behmd, to expound the meaning or m<xral 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 
Lu^. And then ?^ 

Bion. The oid priest at St. Luke's church is at 
your command at all hours. 
Luc. And what of all this ? 

Bion. I cannot tell ; except*, while' they are busied 
about a counterfeit assurance, take you assurance of 
her, eum privilegio ad imprimendum solum. To the 
obnrehl^ake the {driest, clerk, and some sufficient 
honest witnesses. 

If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say. 
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. 

Luc. Hear'st thou, Biondeilo ? 

Bion. I caniK)t 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, sii^. 
My master hath appointed me to go to St. Luke's, to 
bid the priest be ready to come against you come with 
your appendix. [Exit. 

Luc. 'I ma^, and will, if she be so cont^ited : 
She win he pleas'd, then wherefore should I doubt P 
1 «xp«ot : in £. e. > Not in f. e. 




Hap what hap may, I '11 roundly go about her : 

It shall go hard, if Cambio go without her. [ExU. 

SCENE v.— A public Road. 
Enter Petruchio, Katharina, and HOrtensio. 
Pet, Come on, o' God's name : once more toward 
our father's. 

Good lord ! how bright and goodly shines the moon. 

Kath. The moon ! the sun : it is not moonlight now. 

Pet. I say, it is the moon that shines so bright. 

Kath. I know, it is the sun that shines so bright. 

Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that 's myself, 
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list. 
Or ere I journey to your father's house. — 
Go one,^ and fetch our horses back again. — 
Evermore cross'd, and cross'd ; nothing but cross'd. 

Hot. 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, €rod 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 nam'd. even that it is ; 
And so it shall be stilP for Katharine. 

Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways : the field is won. 

Pet. Well, forward, forward ! thus the bowl should 

And not unluckily against the bias. — 
But soft ! what company is coming here ? 

Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress, 
[To Vincentio.] Good-morrow, gentle mistress : where 

away ? — 

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 r— 
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.— 
^ on : in f. e. * so ; in t. e. 

8C. V. 



Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. 

Hor. 'A will make the man mad, to make a woman 
of him. 

Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and 

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, withered. 
And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. 

Kath, Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. 
That have been so bedazzled with the sun, 
That every thing I look on seemeth green. 
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; 
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. [known 

Pet. Do, good old grandsire ; and, withal, make 
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 amaz'd me. 
My name is called Vincentio ; my dwelling, Pisa, 
And bound I am to Padua, there to visit 
A son of mine, which long I have not seen. 

Pet. What is his name ? 

Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. 

Pet. Happily met ; the happier 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 griev'd : she is of good esteem. 
Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth ; 
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 
Upon the company you overtake ? 

Ifor. I do assure thee, father, so it i«. 
/V/. Come, go along, and see the txu^\iei^i\ 
Vol. m.—l3 ' 




For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. 

[Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Vincentio. 
Hot. 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. [Exit. 

ACT .V. 

SCENE I. — ^Padua. Before Lucentio's House. 
Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio, and Bianca ; 
Gremio walking on the other side. 

Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is feady. 

Luc. I iiy, 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 as soon as I 

[Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello. 
Crre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. 
Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Vincentio, and 

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 

Enter Pedant above., at a 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 beloved in Padua. 
— Do you hear, sir ? to leave frivolous circumstances, 
/ prsLy yoiij tell signior Lucentio, \Yi«A,Vd&fa.thfir is come 
from P^SLj and is here at the dooi \a «^«2lL^\^>Kasi. 

sc. I. 



Ted, Thou liest : his father is come from Pisa, and 
here looking out at the window. 
Vin. Art thou his father ? 

Ted. Ay, sir ^ so his mother says, if I may believe 

Tet. Why, how now, gentleman? [To Vincentic] 
why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another 
man's name. 

Ted. 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, Vincentio ! now we are undone, and brought 
to nothing. 

Vin. Come hither, crack-hemp. [Seeing Biondello. 
Bi&n. I hope I may choose, sir. 
Vin. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you for- 
got me ? 

Bum. 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 10, indeed ? [Beats Biondello. 

Bion. Help, help, help ! here's a madman will mur- 
der me. [Exit. 

Ted. Help, son ! help, signior Baptista ! 

[Exit^ from the window. 

Tet. Pr'ythee, Kate, let 's stand aside, and see the 
end of this controversy. [They retire. 

Re-enter Tedant, below : Baptista, Tranio, and 

Tra. Sir, what are you, that offer to beat my servant ? 

Vin. What am I, sir ? nay, what are you, sir ? — 0, 
immortal Gods ! 0, 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? 

^ Conical. 



Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by 
your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, 
sir, what 'cems it you if I wear pearl and gold ? I 
thank my good father, I am able to maintain it. 

Vin. Thy father ? 0, villain ! he is a sail-maker in 

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. 

Ped. Away, away, mad ass ! his name is Lucentio j 
and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, 
signior Vincentio. 

Vin. Lucentio ! ! he hath murdered his master. 
— ^Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke's name. 
— 0, 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 jail. — ^Father Baptista, I 
charge you see that he be forthcoming. 

Vin. Carry me to the jail ! 

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 busmess. I dare swear this is the right 

Ped. Swear, if thou darest. 

Grre. 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 jail with him ! 

Fin. Thus strangers may be handled' and abused. — 
0, monstrous villain ! 

Re-enter Biondello with Lucentio, and Bianca. 

Bion. 0, we are spoiled ! and yonder he is ; deny 
him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. 

Luc. Pardon, sweet father. [Kneeling. 

Vin. Lives my sweet son ? 

[Biondello, Tranio, and Pedant run out. 
Bian. Pardon, dear father, \Kneel%ng. 
1 haled: m{.«. 

sc. L 



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 hlear'd thine eyne. 

Gre. Here 's packing, with a witness, to deceive us all! 

Vin. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, 
That fac'd and brav'd me in this matter so ? 

Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio ? 

Bian. Cambio is changed into Lucentio. 

2/ttc. 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. 
What Tranio did, myself enforcM him to : 
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. 

Vin. I Ul slit the villain's nose, that would have sent 
me to the jail. 

Bap. [To Lucentio.] But do you hea^, 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 Luc. qnd Bian. 

Gre. My cake is dough ; but I '11 in among the rest, 
Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast. [Exit, 
Petruchio and Katharina advance. 

Kath. Husband, let 's follow, to see the end of this ado. 

Tet. 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 )u8S. 

Vet. Why, then, let 's home again.— Come, sirrah, 
let 's away. 

Kath. Nay, I will give thee a kiss : no^ pray thee, 
^ve, stay. 

Pet. Is not this well ? — Come, my sw;eet Kate : 
Better once than never, for never too late. [Exeunt. 





SCENE II. — A Room in Lucsntio's House. 
A Banquet set out ; Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gre- 

Mio, the Pedantj Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, 

Katharina, Hortensio, and Widow. Trakio, 

BioNDELLO, Grumio, and others, attending. 

Luc. At lastj though long, our jarring notes agree : 
And time it is, when raging war is gone,* 
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. [They sit at table. 

Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat ! 

Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. 

Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. 

Hor. For both our sakes I would that word were 

Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. 
Wid. Then, never trust me, if I be afeard. 
Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my 

I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. 

Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. ' 
Pet. Roundly replied. 

Kath. Mistress, how mean you that ? 

Wid. Thus I conceive by him. 
Pet. Conceives by me ! — ^How likes Hortensio that? 
Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. 
Pet. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good 

widow. ^ 
Kath. He that is giddy thinks the world turns 

round: — 

I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. 

Wtd. 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, ^\^\^ 1 \AA«xi you. 

1 doii«*. Val.«. 

sc. IL 



Kath. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. 
Pet. To her, Kate ! 
Hor. To her, widow ! 

Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down. 
Hor. That's my office. 

Pet. Spoke like an officer : — Here 's to thee, lad. 

[Drinks to Hortensio. 
Bap, How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks ? 
Chre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. 
Bian. Head and butt ? an hasty- witted body 
Would say, your head and butt were head and horn. 
Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awakened you ? 
Bian. Ay, but not frighted me ; therefore, I '11 sleep 

Pet. Nay, that you shall not ; since you have begun. 
Have at you for a better jest or two. 

Bian. Am I your bird ? I mean to shift my bush. 
And then pursue me as you draw your bow. — 
You are welcome all. 

[Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and WidovA 

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 slipped me, like his greyhound. 
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: 
'T is thought, your deer does hold you at a bay. 

Bap. O ho, Petruchio ! Tranio hits you now. 

Lac. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. 

Hot. 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, 
'T is 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 several* 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, TNTeuLl-^ ctcr«tm« 

' Thif word is not in 1. e. 




Fet. Twenty crowns ! 
I '11 Tentore so much of my hawk, or hound, 
But twenty times so much upon my wife. 

Imc, a hundred then. ' 

flbr. Content. . 

Pet. A match ! 't is done. 

Ifor. Who shall begin? 
Luc. That wiU I. 

(Jo, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 

Bum. I go. [Exit, 

Bap. Son, I will 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 ! 
Is that an answer ? 

Gre. Ay, and a kind one too : 

Rray Grod, 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 Biondello. 

Pet. Oho! entreat her! 

Nay, then she must needs come. 

Hor. I am afraid, sir, 

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. 

Re-enter Biondello. 
Now, where 's my wife ? 

Bion. She says, you have some goodly jest in hand ; 
She will not come : she bids you come to her. 

Pet. Worse and worse : she will not come ? O vile ! 
Intolerable, not to be endur'd ! 
Sirrah, Grumio, go to your mistress ; say, 
I command her come to me. [Exit Gritmio. 

Hor. I know her answer. 

Pet. What? 

Hor. She will not. 

Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. 

Enter Katharina. 
Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina ! 
Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? 
jPet. Where is your sister, and H.oT\AXMB.Wf^ ? 
J^atA. They sit (»»f©Tri3akg\>y1iiwb^w\wata^. 

60. U. 



J^et. 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 t will add 
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns ; 
Another dowry to another daughter. 
For she is'chang'd, as she had never be€!n. 

Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, 
And show more sign of her obedience, 
Her new-built virtuo and obedience. 

Re-enter Katharina, toith Bianca and Widow. 
See, where she comes, and brings your froward wives 
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — 
Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not ; 
Oflf with that bauble, throw it under foot. 

J Katharina pulls off her cap^ and throws it down. 
. 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, 
Cost me one^ hundred crowns since supper-time.. 
Bian. The more fool you for laying on my duty. 
Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong 

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 
Wid. Come, come, you 're mocking : we will have 
no telling. 

Pet. Come on, I say ; and first begin with her. 
Wid. She shall not. 

Pet. I say, she shall : — and first begin with her. 

Kath. Fie, fie ! unknit that threatening unkind brow, 
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes. 
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : 
It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads. 
Confounds thy fame^ as whirlwinds shake fair buds^ 
* an .* in f. 6. 

154^ - TAMIKa 07 THS SHBSW. ACT T. 

And in no sense is meet, or amiable. 
A woman mov'd 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 's 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 asham'd 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 liow I see our lances are but straws. 
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare. 
That seeming 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. 
My hand is ready, may it do him ease. 
Vet. Why, there 's a wench ! — Come on, and kiss 
me, Kate. 

Im. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha 't. 
Vm, 'T is a good bearing) when children are toward. 
Luc. But a haxBlihearmgj^\i^u^««afe^ 

sc. II. 



Pet. Come, Kate, we '11 to bed. — 
We three are married, but you two are sped. 
'T was I won the wager, though you hit the white ; 


And, being a winner, Grod give you good night. 

[Exeunt Petruchio and Kath. 
Hot. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam'd a curst 

JDttc. is a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd 
so. [Exeunt. 


Vol. Ill— 14 

" All 's Well that Ends Well" was first printed in the folio 
of 1623, and occupies twenty-five pages, viz. from p. 280 to 
p. 254 inclusive, in the division of "Comedies." It fills 
the same space and place in the three later folios. 


The most interestinff question in connexion with " All 's 
"Well that Ends Well " is, whether it was originally called 
" Love's Labour 's Won?" If it were, we may be sure that 
it was written before 1598; because in that year, and under 
the title of " Love Labours Wonne," it is included by Francis 
Meres in the list of Shakespeare's plays introduced into his 
PaUadU Tamia, 

It was the opinion of Coleridge, an opinion which he firsi 
delivered in 1818, and again in 1818, though it is not found 
in his ** Literary Kemains," that " All 's Well that Ends 
Well," as it has come down to us, was written at two diflfer- 
ent, and rather distant periods of the poet's life. He pointed 
out very clearly two distinct styles, not only of thought, but 
of expression ; and Professor Tieck, at a later date, adopted 
and enforced the same belief. So far we are disposed to agree 
with Tieck; but when he adds, that some passages in "All 's 
Well that Ends Well," which it is difficult to understand and 
explain, are relics of the first draught of the play, we do not 
concur, because they are chiefly to be discovered in that por- 
tion of the drama which affords evidence of riper thought, 
and of a more involved and constrained mode of writmg. 
Surely those parts which reminded Tieck, as he slates, of 
"Venus and Adonis," are to be placed among the earlier 
efforts of Shakespeare. There can be little doubt, however, 
that Coleridge and Tieck are right in their conclusion, that 
" All 's Well that Ends Well," which was printed for tho 
first time in the folio of 1628, contains indications of the 
workings of Shakespeare's mind, and specimens of his com- 
position at two separate dates of his career. 

It has been a point recently controverted, whether the 
"Love Labours Won" of Meres were the same piece as 
" All 's Well that Ends Well." The supposition that they 
were identical was first promulgated bv Dr. Farmer, in 1767, 

other hand, the Rev. Joseph Hunter, in his " Disquisition 
on the Tempest," 8vo. 1889, has contended that by **Love 
Labours Won " Meres meant " The Tempest," and that it 
originally bore " Love Labours Won " as its second title. I 
do not think that Mr. Hunter, with all his acuteness and 
learning, has made out his case satisfactorily ; and in our In- 
troduction to " The Tempest," some reasons will be found for 
ViMAgnwg that play to the year 1610, or IftU. lUT.lSLmXwt 

On the 


arguefi that " The Tempest," even more than " All 's Well 
that EncU Well," deserves the significant name of " Love 
Labours Won:" and he certainlv is successful in showing, 
that "Airs Well that Ends Well" bespoke its own title in 
two separate quotations.* They are from towards the dose 
of the play ; and here, perhaps, we meet with the strongest 
evidences that this portion was one of its author^s later efforts. 

My notion is (and the speculation deserves no stronger 
term) that " All 's Well that Ends Well" was in the first in- 
stance, and prior to 1598, called " Love's Labour 's Won," 
and that it had a clear reference to " Love's Labour 's Lost," 
of which it mipfht be considered the counterpart. It was then, 
perhaps, laid by for some years, and revived by its author, 
with iterations and additions, about 1605 or 1606, when the 
new title of " All 's Well that Ends Well " was given to it. 
At this date, however, *' Love's Labour's Lost" probably 
continued to be represented ; and we learn from the Revels' 
Accounts that it was chosen for performance at court between 
Jan. 1 and Jan. 6, 1604-5. The entry runs in these terms : — 
" Betwin Newers Day and Twelfe Day, a play of Loves 
Labours Lost." 

The name of the author^ and of the comjwiny bywhom the 
piece was acted, are not in this instance given. We have no 
information that " All 's Well that Ends Well " met with the 
same distinction; and possibly Shakespeare altered its name, 
in order to give an appearance of greater novelty to the repre- 
eentation on its revival. This surmise, if well founded, would 
account for the difference in the titles, as we find them in 
Meres and in the folio of 1628. 

Without here entering into the question, whether Shake- 
speare understood Italian, of which, we think, little doubt 
can be entertained, we need not suppose that he went to Boc- 
caccio's Decameron for the story of " All 's Well that Ends 
Well," because he found it already translated to his hands, in 
" The Palace of Pleasure," by WUliam Painter, of which the 
first volume was published in 1566, and the second in 1567.' 

1 The t-wo passages run as follows : — 

" We must away ; 

Our -waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us : 

All 's well that ends well ; still the fine 's the crown." 

A. iv. sc. 4. 

" All 's well that ends well yet, 

Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit." 
Mr. Hunter prints " All 's well that ends well " in Italic, and with 
oapitals, in both instances, as if it were a title ; but in the original 
edition the words appear only in the ordinary type and in the usual 
way. According to mv supposition, these passages, as well as an- 
other in the Epilogue, " All is well ended, if this suit is won," were 
added when the comedy was revived in 1605 or 1606, and when a new 
name was given to it. " All 's well that ends well " is merely a 

Sroverbial phrase, which was in use in our language long before 
hakespeare wrote. 

• They were published together in 1575, and hence has arisen tkft- 
error into whicn some modem editors have fallen, when they suppose 
th&t " The Palace of Pleasure " waa firet iptititftd in that year. Painter 
dates the dedication of his "BeconA tomft" '^'■Ttotq. m^^^'WM^ 
begidea the Towre of London, th« ui^. ol^^o^waJo«,\5firi' 


It is the 9th novel of the third day of Boccaccio, and the 28th 
novel of the first vohime of " The Palace of Pleasure." In 
the Decameron it bears the followinjr title, wliich is very lite- 
rally translated by Painter: — Giglietta di Nerbona guarisce 
il Re di Francia dUina fistola: domanda per man to Beltramo 
di Rossiglione ; il quale contra sua voglia sposatala, a Firenze 
86 ne va per isdegno ; dove vagheggiando una giovane. in 
persona di lei Giglietta giacque con lui, e hebbene due flgliu- 
oli ; perchd egli poi havutala cara per moglie la tiene." The 
Engfish version by Painter may be read in '* Shakespeare's 
Library and hence it will appear, that the poet was only 
bdebted to Boccaccio for the mere outline of his plot, as re- 
gards Helena, Bertram, the Widow, and Diana. All that 
Belongs to the characters of the Countess, the Clown, and 
Parolles, and the comic business in which the last is engaged, 
were, as far as we now know, the invention of Shakespeare. 
The only names Boccaccio (and after him Painter) gives are 
Giglietta and Beltramo: the latter Shakespeare anglicised to 
Bertram, and he changed Giglietta to Helena, probably be- 
cause he had already made Juliet the name of one of his hero- 
ines. Shakespeare much degrades the character of Bertram, 
towards the end of the drama, by the duplicity, and even 
£ilsehood, he makes him display: Coleridge (Lit. "Rem. ii. 121) 
was offended by the fact, that in A. iii. sc. 5, Helena, " Shake- 
speare's loveliest character," speaks that which is untrue 
under the appearance of necessity ; but Bertram is convicted 
by the King of telling a deliberate untruth, and of persisting 
in it, in the face of the whole court of France. In Boccaccio 
the winding up of the story occurs at Rousillon, as in Shake- 
bpeare, but the King is no party to the scene. 

The substitution of Helena for Diana (as in " Measure for 
Measure " we had that of Mariana for Isabella) was a common 
incident in Italian novels. One of these was inserted in 
" Narbonus : the Laberynth of Libertie," by Austin Saker, 
4to, 1580: a ron!iance in which the scene is laid in Vienna, 
but the manners are those of London: there the object was 
to impose a wife upon her reluctant husband ; but the resem- 
blance to the same incident in " All 's Well that Ends Well " 
is only general. 


King of France. 

Duke of Florence. 

Bertram, Count of Rousillon. 

Lafeu, un old Lord. 

Parolles. a Follower of Bertram. 

French Envoy, serving with Bertram. 

French Gentleman, also serving with Bertram. 

RiNALDO, Steward to the Countess of Rousillon. 

Clown, in her household. 

A Page. 

Countess of Rousillon, Mother to Bertram. 
Helena, a (rcntlewoman protected by the Coun^ 

A Widow of Florence. 

Diana, Daughter to the Widow. 

M^i^a" } Neighbours and Friends to the Widow. 

Lords, attending on the King; Officers, Soldiers. 
&c., French and Florentine. 

SCENE, partly in France, and partly in Tuscany. 


ACT 1. 

SCENE I. — ^Roufiillon. A Room in the Countess's 

Enter Beftram, the Countess of Rousillon, Helena, 
and Lafe J, all in hlmk. 

Count. In delivering my son from me, I bury a 
second livsbai^d. 

Ber. And I, in going, madam, ■w:eep 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 
tunes 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 amend* 

Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; 
under whose practices he hath persecuted time with 
hope, and finds no other advantage in the process, but 
only the losing of hope by time. 

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, — 0, 
that had ! how sad a passage 't is — ^whose skill,^ almost 
as great as his honesty, had it stretched so far would 
have made nature immortal, and death should hav* 
play for lack of work. Would, for the king's sake, he 
were living ! I think it would be the death of the 
king's disease. 

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. 

1 Hein of large estatej -vrere, during fheir minonty, ^^x^a til ^« 
Jdag. »fe. insert ufos. 

164 all's well that snbs well. aotl 

He was skilful enough to hare lived still, if knowledge 
could be set up against mortality. 

Ber. What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of? 

Laf. A fistula, my lord. 

Ber. I heard not of it before. 

Laf. I would it were not notorious. — Was this gen- 
tlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? 

Count. His sole child, my lordj and bequeathed to 
my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that 
her education promises: her dispositions she inherits, 
which make fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean 
mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations 
go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too : in her 
they are the better for their simpleness; she derives 
her honesty, and achieves her goodness. 

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears. 

Count. 'T is 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. 

Hel. I do affect a sorrow, indeed ; but I have it too. 

Laf Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, 
excessive grief the enemy to the living. 

Count. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess 
makes it soon mortal. 

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. 

Laf How understand we that ? 

Count. Be thou blest, Bertram; and succeed thy 

In manners, as in shape ! thy blood, and virtue. 
Contend for empire in thee ; and thy goodness 
Share with thy birth-right ! Love all, trust a few. 
Do wrong to none : be able for thine enemy 
Rather in power than use ; and keep thy friend 
Under thy own life's key : be checked for silence. 
But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will, 
That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down, 
Fall on thy head ! — Farewell, my lord : 
'T is an unseasoned courtier : good my lord, 
Advise him. 

£qf. He cannot want the best 
That shall attend his love. 

8C. I. all's well that ends well. 


Cmnt. Heaven bless him ! — 
Farewell, Bertram. [Exit Countess, 

Ber. [To Helena.] The best wishes that can bo 
fc^ged in your thoughts be servants to you ! Be com- 
fortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much 
of her. 

Laf. Farewell, pretty lady : you must hold the credit 
of your father. [Eoceunt Bertram and Lafeu. 

Hel. O, were that all ! — I think not on my father; 
And these great tears grace his remembrance more 
Than those I shed for him. What was he like ? 
I have forgot him : my imagination 
Carries no favour in 't, but only^ Bertram's. 
I am undone : there is no living, none, 
If Bertram be away. It were all one. 
That I should love a bright particular star, 
And think to wed it, he is so above me : 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself : 
The hind that would be mated by the lion. 
Must die for love. 'T was pretty, though a plague, 
To see him every hour ; to sit and draw 
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, 
In my heart's table ; heart, too capable 
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour : 
But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy 
Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here ? 

Enter Parolles. 
One that goes with him : I love him for his sake, 
And yet I know him a notorious liar, 
Thiilk 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 in the cold wind : withal, full oft we see 
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 

Par. Save you, fair queen. 

Hel. And you, monarch.* 

Par. No. 

Hel. And no. 

Par. Are you meditating t)n virginity? 
Hel. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; 
» Not in f. e. » Thi* maj be a play on the 'wotA Motvatclw^^ 

166 all's well that ends well. act l 

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 war- 
like resistance. 

Par. There is none : man, sitting down before you, 
will undermine 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? 

Far. 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 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. Vir- 
ginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found : by 
being ever kept, it is ever lost. 'T is too cold a com- 
panion : away with h. 

Hel. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I 
die a virgin. 

Far. There 's little can be said in H : H is against the 
rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to 
accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobe- 
dience. 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 in- 
hibited sin in the canon. Keep it not: you cannot 
choose but lose by H. Out with 't : within two' years 
it will make itself two,' which is a goodly increase, and 
the principal itself not much the worse. Away with H. 

Hel. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own 

Far. Let me see : marry, ill ; to like him that ne'er 
it likes. 'T is a commodity will lose the gloss with 
lying ] the longer kept, the less worth : off with 't, wliile 
H is vendible : answer the time of request. Virginity, 
I *teii; mt. 

sc. n. all's well that 'ends well. 167 

like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; 
richly suited, but unsuitable : just like the brooch and 
the tooth-pick, which wear not now. Your date is 
better in your pie and your porridge, than in your 
cheek : and your virginity, your old virginity, is like 
one of our French withered pears : it looks ill, it eats 
dryly ; marry, 't is a withered pear : it was formerly 
better ; marry, yet, H is a withered pear. Will you do* 
any thing with it ? 

Hel. Not with* my virginity yet. 
There shall your master have a thousand loves, 
A mother, and a mistress, and a friend, 
A phoenix, captain, and an enemy, 
A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, 
A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear 
His humble ambition, proud humility, 
His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet. 
His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world 
Of pYetty, fond, adoptions 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 — 
Par. What one, i' faith ? , 
Hel That I wish well.— 'T is pity- 
Par. What's pity? 

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in 't. 
Which might be felt : that we, the poorer bom. 
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes, 
Ikfight with effects of them follow our friends. 
And show what we alone must think 3 which never 
Returns us thanks. 

Enter a Page. ^ 
Page. Monsieur ParoUes, my lord calls for you. 

[Exit Page, 

Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remember thee, 
I will think of thee at court. 

Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were bom under a cha- 
ritable 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 bom under Mars. 

» «Notmf.e. 


all's well ^hat sstdb well. 


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 liie 
safety ; but the composition that your valour and fear 
make in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the 
wear well. 

Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot amswer 
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 nciie, remember thy 
friends. Get thee a good husband, and use him as he 
uses thee : so farewell. [Exit. 

Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. 
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 't which mounts my love so high j 
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ? 
The mightiest space in nature fortune brings.^ 
To join like likes, and kiss like native things. 
Impossible be strange attempts to those 
That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose, 
What hath been cannot be. 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 XL— Paris. A Room in the King's Palace. 
Flourish of comets. Enter the Kino of France^ wUh 

King. The Florentines and Senoys" are by th' ears; 
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue 
A braving war. 

King. Nay, 't is most credible : we here receive it 
A certainty^ vouch'd from our cousin Austria, 

' fortune natnie 'bxings : ia f . e. % TY^a 'Becs^^A «1 ^vnoatu 

1 Lord. 

So 't is reported, sir. 

sc. I. all's well that ends well. 169 

With caution, that the Florentine will move us 
¥ox speedy aid ; wherein our dearest friend 
Prejudicates the business, and would seem 
To have us make denial. 

1 Lord. His love and wisdom, 
Approved so to your majesty, may plead 

For amplest credence. 

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. 

2 Lord. It may well serve 
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick 

For breathing and exploit. 

King. What 's he comes here*? 

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 

1 Lord. It is the count Rousillon, my good lord, 
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 
May'st thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris. 

Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's. 

King. I would I had that corporal soundness now, 
As when thy father, and myself, in friendship 
First tried our soldiership. He did look far 
Into the service of the time, and was 
Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long ; 
But on us both did haggish age steal on. 
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me 
To talk of your good father. In his youth 
He had the wit, which I can well observe 
To-day in our young lords ; but they may jest. 
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted, 
Ere they can hide their levity in honour : 
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness 
Were in his pride, or sharpness ; if they were, 
His equal had awak'd them : and his honour, 
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 
Exception bid him speak, and at this time 
His tongue obey'd his hand : who were below him 
He us'd as creatures of anotlier place, 
And how^d his eminent top to their low T«tBk», 

Vol. Ill— 15 

170 all's well that ends welu act I. 

Making them proud of his humility, 

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man 

Might be a copy to these younger times, 

Which, foUow'd well, would demonstrate them now 

But goers backward. 

Ber. His good remembrance, sir, 

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

King. 'Would I were with him ! He would always 

IMethinks. I hear him now ; his plausive words 
le scattered not in ears, but grafted them, 
To grow there, and to bear.) — " Let me not live," — 
Thus his good melancholy oft began, 
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime. 
When it was out, " let me not live," quoth he, 
" After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff 
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 
All but new things disdain : whose judgments arc 
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. 

2 Lard. You are lov'd, sir ; 

They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first. 

King. I fill a place, I Imow 't. — How long is 't, count, 
Since the physician at your father's died ? 
He was much fam'd. 

Ber. Some six months since, my lord. 

King. If he were living, I would try him yet : — 
Lend me an arm : — ^the rest have worn me out 
With several applications : nature and sickness 
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count ; 
My son 's no dearer. 

Ber. Thank your majesty. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — ^Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 

Enter Countess, Steward, and Clown. 
Count. I will now hear-, what say you of this 
gentlewoman ! 

BO. ni. all's wkll that ends well. 171 

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 thera. 

Count. What does this knave here ? Get you gone, 
sirrah : the complaints I have heard of you, I do not 
all believe : 't is my slowness, that I do not ; for I know 
you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability 
enough to make such knaveries yours. 

Clo. is not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor 

Count. Well, sir. 

Clo. No, madam ; 't is 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. 

Count. In what case ? 

Clo. In IsbePs case, and mine own. Service is no 
heritage ; and, I think, I shall never have the blessing 
of God, till I have issue of my body, for they say, 
bairns are blessings. 

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry. 

Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it : I am driven 
on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil 

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. 

Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. 

Clo. You are shallow, madam ; e'en* great friends ; 
for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am 
a-weary of. He, that ears my land, spares my team, 
and gives me leave to inn the crop : if I be his cuiokold^ 
^Tobe muried. a The old copia* ; in. 

m all's well that EJTDS well. A.CT I. 

he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the 
cherisher of my flesh and Wood ; he that cherishes my 
flesh and hlood, loves my flesh and blood; he that 
loves my flesh and blood is my friend ; ergo, he that 
kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be con- 
tented to be what they are, there were no fear in mar- 
riage ; for young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam 
the papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in 
religion, their heads are both one ; they may joll horns 
together, like any deer i' the herd. 

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouAed and calum- 
nious knave ? 

Clo. A prophet I, madam: and I speak the truth 
the next* way : 

For I the ballad will repeat^ 
Which men full true shall find; 

Your marriage comes by destiny. 
Your cuckoo sings by kind. 

Count. Get you gone, sir : I '11 talk with you more 

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen 
oome 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, quoth she, the cause,^ 
Why the Grecians sacked Troy ? 
Fond^ done, done fond,*' sood sooth it ivas; 

Was this King Prianvs joyt 
With that she sighed as she stood* 
' And gave this sentence then ; 
Among nine bad if one be good,' 
There ^s yet one good in ten. 
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^, and mending o' the sex. 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 
bom — ^but one* — every blazing star, or at an earth- 

' NemrMt. > the eaiMe. quotk she : in f. «. * Foolishly. * Tk« 
re$t of this line is not in t. e. * * TYvea© Wnw itfe^«.\«^^ SjdlI.*. 
' The net of thiB ientence not In t. c. » «© Vn t. « 

sc. lu. all's well that ends well. 


quake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may 
draw his heart out, ere he pluck one. 

Count. You '11 be gone, sir knave, and do as I com- 
mand you ? 

do. 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. — am going, for- 
sooth : the business is for Helen to come hither. [ExU* 

Count. Well, now. 

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman 

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, I was very late more near her than, 
I think, she wished me : alone she was, and did com- 
municate to herself, her own words to her own ears ; 
she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any 
stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son : 
fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such 
difference betwixt their two estates ; love, no god, that 
would not extend his might, only where qualities were 
level : Diana, no queen of virgins, that would suffer 
her poor knight to be 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 yourself. Many likelihoods informed me of this 
before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that I 
could neither believe, nor misdoubt. Pray you, leave 
me : stall this in your bosom, and I thank you for your 
honest care. I will speak with you farther, anon. 

[Exit Steward. 

Count. 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 boTn; 
It is the show and seal of nature's tmtYi, 



Where love's Btttmg pMeion k impMs'd in youth. 

Enter Helena.^ 
Bjr our remembrances of days foregone 
Search we out faults, for* then we thought ^m none. 
Her eye is side on 't : I observe her now. 

Hd. What is your pleasure, madam? 

Count. YoH know, Helen, 

I am a mother to you. 

Hel. Mine h^ioarable 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, 
Aad put you in the catalogue of those 
That were enwombed mine. 'T is often seen,. • 
Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breeds 
A native slip to us from foreign seeds : 
You ne'er oppressed me with a mother's groan. 
Yet I express to you a mother's eare. — 
God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood, 
To say, I am thy mother ? What 's the matter. 
That tl^s distemper'd messenger of wet, 
The many-oolour'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 nwMre 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. 
Grod shield, you mean it not ! daughter, and mother, 

' This gtage direction is giyeu six. ^Jafta •.'mi.*. * "S^aaVv -veel 
our faultf ; or, &c. : in f. e. 



So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again ? 

My fear hath eatch'd your fondness : Now I see 

The mystery of your loneliness, and find 

Your salt tears^ head. Now to all sense H is gross, 

You love my son : invention is asham'd 

Against the proclamation of thy passion. 

To say, thou dost not : therefore, tell me true ; 

But tell me then, H is so : — ^for, look, thy cheeks 

Confess it, th' one to the other ; and thine eyes 

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours. 

That in their kind they speak it : only sin, 

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue. 

That truth should be, suspected. Speak, is H so ? 

If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue ; 

If it be not, forswear 't : howe'er, I charge thee, 

As heaven shall woric 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, [Kneeling.^ 

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you. 
That before you, and next unto high heaven, 
I love your son. — [Rising.^ 
My friends were poor, but honest ; so 's my love : 
Be not offended, for it hurts not him. 
That he is lov'd of me. I follow him not 
By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him. 
Yet never know how that desert should be. 
I know 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 of him no more. My dearest maAa.m.j 

» a Not in f. e. 

176 all's well that ends well. actl 

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, ! then, give pity 
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose 
But lend and give where she is sure to lose ; 
That seeks not to find that her search implies, 
But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 

Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly. 
To go to Paris ? 

Hel. Madam, I had. 

Count. Wherefore ? tell true. 

Hel. I will tell truth, by grace itself I swear. 
You know, my father left me some prescriptions 
Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading 
And manifold^ 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 rendered lost. 

Count. This was your motive 

For Paris, was it ? speak. 

Hel. My lord, your son, made me to think of this ; 
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, 
Had, from the conversation of my thoughts. 
Haply been absent then. 

Count. But think you, Helen, 

If you should tender your supposed aid, 
He would receive it ? He and his physicians 
Are of a mind ; he, that they cannot help him. 
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 H, 
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest 
Of his profession, that his good receipt 
Shallj for my legacy, be sanctified 


By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your 

But give me leave to try success, [ M 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 

Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings 

To those of mine in court. I '11 slay at home, 

And pray God's blessing unto thy attempt. 

Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this. 

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. [Exeunt. 


SCENE 1.— Paris. A Room in the King's Palace. 
Flourish. Enter King, with young Lords taking leave 
for the Florentine war; Bertram, Parolles, and 

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 't is receiv'd, 
And is enough for both. 

1 Lord. 'T is our hope, sir. 
After well-enter'd soldiers, to return 

Aifd 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. 

2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty ! 
King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them. 

They say, our French Jack language to deny, 



If they demand : beware of being captives, 
Before you serve. 

Both. Our hearts receive your warnings. 

King. Farewell — Come hither to me. 

[The King retires to a couch. 

1 Lord. 0, my sweet lord, that you will stay be- 

hind us ! 

Par. 'T is not his fault, the spark, 

2 Lord. 0, 't is brave wars ! 
Par. Most admirable : I have seen those wars. 
Ber. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with ; 

" Too ydung," and ^* the next year," and " H is 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. 

1 Lord. There 's honour in the theft. 

Par. Commit it, count. 

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


1 Lord. Farewell, captain. 

2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles ! 

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. 
Good sparks, and lustrous, a word, good metals : — ^you 
shall find in the regiment of the Spinii, one captain 
Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on 
his sinister cheek : it was this very sword entrenched 
it : say to him, I live, and observe his reports of me. 

2 Lord. We shall, noble captain. [Exeunt Lords. 

Par. Mars dote on you for his novices ! — ^What will 
you do ? 

Ber. Stay ; the king — [Seeing him rise. 

Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble 
lords ; you have restrained yourself within the lists 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. 



Far. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy 
sword-men. [Exeunt Bertram and Parolles. 

Enter Lafeu. 
Laf. Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings. 


King. I '11 see thee to stand up. 

Laf. Then here^ a man stands, that has brought his 
pardon. [Rising.^ 
I would, you had kneePd, 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. Goodfaith, across. But, my good lord, 't is thus : 
Will you be curM of your infirmity ? 

King. No. 

Laf ! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? 
Yes, but you will, ay, 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 upraise" king Pepin, nay. 
To give great Charlemaine a pen in 's hand. 
To write to her a love-line. 

King. What her is this ? 

Laf Why, doctor she. My lord, there 's one arriv'd. 
If you will see her : — ^now, by my faith and honour. 
If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke 
With one, that in her sex, her years, profession. 
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amazM mo 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 
By wond'ring how thou took'st it. 

Laf Nay, I '11 fit you. 

And not be all day neither. [Exit Lafeu. 

King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues. 
Re-enter Lafeu, with Helena. 

Laf Nay, come your ways. 

1 here : in f. e. > Not in f. e. ' araise : in f e 


all's wvus that EKDS WBLL. AOTn. 

King, This haste haih 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 ? 

Hel. Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was my 
father ; 

In what he did profess well found. 

King. I knew him. 

Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards him; 
Ejiowing 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 th' only darling, 
He bad me store up as a triple eye. 
Safer than mine own two, more dear. 1 have so; 
And, hearing your high majesty is touch'd 
With that malignant cause, wherein the honour 
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, 
I come to tender it, and my appliance, 
With all bound humbleness. 

King. We thank you, maiden : 

But may not be so credulous of cure : 
When our most learned doctors leave us, and 
The congregated college have concluded 
That labouring art can never ransom nature 
From her inaidable estate, I say, we must not 
So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope, 
To prostitute our past-cure malady 
To empirics; or to dissever so 
Our great self and our credit, to esteem 
A senseless help, when help past sense we deem. 

Hel. My duty, then, shall pay me for my pains : 
I will no more enforce mine office on you ; 
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts 
A modest one, to bear me back again. 

King. I cannot give thee less, to be 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 judgment 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 us'd, must by thyself be paid : 
Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward. 

Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd. 
It is not so with him that all things knows, • 
As 't is 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. 

£ing. Art thou so confident? Within what spaoe 
Hop'st thou my cure ? 

Hel. The greatest grace lending grace, 

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ; 
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp 
Moist Hesperus hath quenched 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 dar'st thou venture ? 

Hel. Tax of impudence, 

A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame, 
Traduc'd by odious ballads ; my maiden's name 
Sear'd otherwise ; ne worse of worst extended, 
With vilest torture let my life be ended. [*P^^) 

King. Methinks, in thee some blessed spirit dotk 
1 Pom reads : aiti. 

Vol. Ill,— 16 


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, honour,* all 
That happiness in* prime can happy caU : 
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 prtoperty 
Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die ; 
And well deserv'd. 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 : 
E vmpted 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 observ'd, 
Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd : 
So make the choice of thy own time ; for I, 
Thy resolvM patient, on thee still rely. 
More should I question thee, and more I must. 
Though more to know could not be more to trust. 
From whence thou cam'st, how tended on; but rest 
Unquestioned welcome, and undoubted blest. — 
Give me some help here, ho ! — If thou proceed 
As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. 

[Flourish, Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 
Enter Countess and Clown, 
Count. Come on, sir: I shall now put you to the 
lie^ht of your breeding. 

1 Not in f . e. * «bTi3L ; m I. ft. 


Clo. I will show myself highly fed, and lowly taught. 
I know my business is but to the court. 

Count. To the court ! why, what place make you 
special, when you put off that with such contempt ? 
But to the court ! 

Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any 
manners, he may easily put it off at court : he- that 
cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand, and 
say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap ; and, 
indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the 
court. But, for me, I have an answer will serve all 

Count. Marry, that 's a bountiful answer, that fits 
all questions. ' . 

Clo. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks ; 
the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, 
or any buttock. 

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions? 

Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attor- 
ney, as your French crown for your taffata 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. 

Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness 
for all questions ? 

Clo. From below your duke, to beneath your consta- 
ble, it will fit any question. 

Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous 
size, that must fit all demands. 

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned 
should speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that be- 
longs to 't : ask me, if I am a courtier ; it shall do you 
no harm to learn. 

Count. To be young again, if we could. I will be a 
fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. 
I pray you, sir, are you a courtier ? 

Clo. Lord, sir ! — ^there 's a simple putting off.— 
More, more^ a hundred of them. 

Count, Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves 

^ Rnsh rings are often spoken of ai interohanged between tuetia 
loren. * 



Clo, Lord, sir ! — ^Thick, thick, spare not me. 
Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely 

Clo. Lord, sir ! — Nay, put me to 't, I warrant you. 

Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. 

Clo. Lord, sir ! — Spare not me. 

Count. Do you cry, Lord, sir," at your whipping, 
and " spare not me ?" Indeed, your " Lord, sir," is 
very sequent to your whipping : you would answer very 
well to a whipping, if you were but bound to H. 

Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life, in my — " 
Lord, sir." I see, things may serve long, but not serve 

Count. •! play the noble housewife with the time, to 
entertain it so merrily with a fool. 

Clo. Lord, sir ! — ^why, there 't serves well again. 

Count. An end, sir : to your business. Give Helen this. 
And urge her to a present answer back : 
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son. 
This is not much. 

Clo. Not much commendation to them. 

Count. Not much employment for you : you under* 
stand me ? 

Clo. Most fruitfully : I am there before my legs. 
Count. Haste you again. [Exeunt severally. 

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

Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Paroll&s. 

Laf. They say, miracles are past ; and we have our 
philosophical persons, to make m6dem* 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, H is 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. 
Zqf, That gave him out incurable^-*- 
1 Common. 


Par, Why, there H is ; so say I too. 

laf. Not to be helped, — 

Par. Right ; as 't were a man assured of an — 

Laf. Uncertain life, and sure death. 

Par. Just, you say well ; so would I have said. 

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

Par. It is, indeed : if you will have it in showing, 
you shall read it in, — what do you call there ? — 

ia/. In showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly 

Par. That 's it I would have said ; the very same. 

Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier : 'fore me, I 
speak in respect — 

Par. Nay, 't is strange ; H is very strange, that is the 
brief and the tedious of it ; and he is of a most facino- 
rous s]Mrit, 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 tran- 
scendence \ which should, indeed, give us a further use 
to be made, than alone the recovery of the king, as to 
be — 

Laf. Generally thankful. 

Evdtr Kino, Helena, amd Attendants. 

Par. I would have said it; you say well. Here 
comes the king. 

Laf. Lustick, 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. — 

[Exit an Attendant. 
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 promis'd gift. 
Which but attends thy naming. 

Enter several Lords. ■ 
Fair maid, send forth thine eye : this youthful parcel 
Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, 

1 The word came in nra from Holland, a\)out ^ A \vDe\<i| 



all's wbll that bvdb wbll. actil 

O'er whom both soTefeign's^ power toad father's Toice 

1 have, to use : thy frank eleetioH make. 

Thou hast power to choose, and they acne to forsake. 

Hel. To each of you one fair and yirtnotM mistress 
Fall, when love please ! — ^marry, to ea^, hut one.' 

Laf. I 'd give bay curtal,' and his fumitare, 
My mouth no more were broken* than these boys'. 
And with* as little^ beard. 

King. Peruse them well : 

Not one of those but had a noble father. 

Hel. Gentlemen, 
Hearen hath through me restor'd the king to health. 

AIL ,We understand it, and thank heaven for you. 

Hel. I am a simple maid ; and therein wealthiest, 
That, f 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 refus'd, 
Let the white death sit on thy eheek few ever : 
We '11 ne'er come there again." 

King. Make choice, and see; 

Who shuns thy love, shuns all hia love in me. 

Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly. 
And to imperial Love, that god most high, 
Do my sighs steam. — Sir, will you hear my suit ? 

1 Lord. And grant it. 

Hel. Thanks, sir : all the rest is mute. 

Laf. I had rather be in this choice, and throw ames- 
ace* for my life. 

Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes, 
Before I speak, too threateningly replies : 
Love make your fortunes twenty times above 
Her that so wishes, and her humble love ! 

2 Lord. No better, if you please. 

Hel. My wish receive, 

Which great Love grant ! and so I take my leave. 

Laf. Do all they deny her ? An thesy were sons of 
mine, I'd have them whipped, or I would send themfo 
the Turk to make eunuchs of. 

Hel. [To 3 Lord.] Be not afraid that I your hand 
should take ; 

I loyereign : in f. e. ^ Except one. > ^ docked horse. * I ha^ lost 
no more teoth. * vnit : in f. e. * Both, aces: an ezBrenion fot ill 


1 '11 never do yott wrong for your ow 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 Fren<^ 
ne'er got them. 

UeL You are too young, too happy, and too good, 
To make yourself a son out of my blood. 

4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so. 

Laf. There 's one grape yet : — am sure, thy fathei^ 
drank wine. — But if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth 
of fourteen : I have known thee already. [I give 

Ud. \To BERTRAM.] I dare not say I ^ake you; but 
Me, and my service, ever whilst I live, 
Into your guiding power. — This is the man. 

King. Why then., young Bertram, take her ; she '» 
thy wife. [Bertram (kraws back} 

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, 

What she has done for me ? 

Ber. Yes, my good lord : 

But never hope to know why I should marry her. 

King. Thou know'st, she has rais'd me from my 
sickly bed. 

Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down 
Must answer for your raising ? I know her well : 
She had her breeding at my father's charge. 
A poor physician's daughter my wife ? — Disdain 
Rather corrupt me ever ! 

King. 'T is 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 dislik'st, 
A poor physician's daughter) thou dislik'st 
Of virtue for the name ; but do not so : 
From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, 
The place is dignified by the doer's deed : 
Where great additions swell 's,* and virtue none, 
[t is a dropsied honour : good alone 

^ Not in f. e. 3 g^ell us. 

188 all's well that ends well, act a 

Is good, without a name; vileness is so : « 

The property by what it is should go, 

Not by ttie 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 bom, 

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, 

Debauch'd on every tomb ; on every grave, 

A lying trophy, and as oft is dumb, 

Where dust, and damned oblivion, is the tomb 

Of honoured 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 wrongest thyself, if thou shouldst strive 
to choose. 

Hel. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad. 
Let the rest go. 

King. My honour 's at the stake, which to defend,* 
I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, 
Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift, 
That dost in vile misprision shackle up 
My love, and her desert ; that canst not dream. 
We, poising us in her defective scale, 
Shall weigh thee to the beam ; that wilt hot 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 
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 
Of youth and ignorance ; both my revenge and hate, 
Loosing upon thee in the name of justice, 
Without all terms of pity. Speak : thine answer. 

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 

^ defeat : in f. e. 

sc. m, ALL ^8 WELL THAV «HDB WbU. I8d 

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now 

The praised of the king ; who, so ennobled, 
Is, as 't were, bom so. 

King. Take her by the banc * 

And tell her, she is thine ; to whom I promii 
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 bom' brief, 
And be performed to-night : the solemn feast 
Shall more attend upon the coming space. 
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her. 
Thy love 's to me religious, else, does err. 

[Exeunt King, Bertram, Helena, Lordsj and 

Laf. Do you hear, monsieur ? a word with you. 
Par. Your pleasure, sir ? 

Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his re- 

Par. Recantation ! — 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 

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

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

Laf. I must tell thee, 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 scarft, and the ban- 
nerets about thee, did manifoldly dissuade me from 
believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have 
now found thee : when I lose thee again, I care not ; 
yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that 
thou 'rt scarce worth. 

1 The old copies : borne. * Dining in your company twice. 


all's well that ends well. actil 

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 drachm of it ; and I will 
not bate thee a scruple. 

Par. Well, I shall be wiser. 

Laf. E'en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull 
at a smack o' the contrary. If ever thou be'st bound 
in thy scarf, and beaten, thou 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 vexa- 
tion. , 

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, scurv}' 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 conve- 
nience, an he were double and double a lord. I '11 have 
no more pity of his age, than I would have of — '11 beat 
him : an if I could but meet him again. 

Re-enter Laf£U. 

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 J whom I serve above is my master. 

Laf Who? God? 

Par. Ay, sir. 

Laf. The devil it is, that 's thy master. Why dost 
thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose 
of thy sleeves ? do other servants so ? Thou wert best 
set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine 


sc. ni. ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 191 

honour, if I were but two hours younger I 'd beat thee : 
methinks, thou art a general offence, and every man 
should beat thee. I think, thou wast 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 condition* of your 
birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not 
worth another word, else I 'd call you knave. I leave 
you. [Exit. 
Enter Bertram. 

Par. Good, very good ; it is so then : — good, very 
good. Let it be concealed a while. 

Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever ! 

Par. What is the matter, sweetheart? 

Ber. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn, 
I will not bed her. 

Par. What ? what, sweet heart ? 

Ber. 0, my ParoUes, 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 im- 
port is, 
I know not yet. 

Par. Ay. that would be knowTi. To the wars, my 
boy I to the wars ! 
He wears his honour in a box, unseen, 
That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home. 
Spending his manly marrow in her arms, 
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet 
Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions ! 
France is a stable ; we. that dwell in 't, jades ; 
Therefore, to the wars ! 

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. 

1 oommiBsion : in f. e. 


all's well that ends well, acth^ 

Par. "Will this capriccio hold in thee, art sure ? 

Ber. Gro with me to my chamher, and advise me. 
I '11 send her straight away : to-morrow 
I '11 to the wars, she to her single sorrow. 

Par. Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it; 
H is hard. 

A young man married is a man that 's marr'd : 
Therefore away, and leave her : bravely go ; 
The king has done you wrong ; but, hush ! 't is so. 


SCENE IV.— The Same. Another Room in the Same. 
Enter Helena and Clown. 

Hel. My mother greets me kindly: is she well? 

Clo. She is not well ; but yet she has her 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 well ? 

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

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 ! 

Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine 
own good fortunes. 

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on ; and to 
keep them on, have them still. — O, my knave ! How 
does my old lady? 

Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her 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 'rt a knave. 

Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave thou 'rt 
a knave; that is, before me thou 'rt a knave : this had 
bden 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 ? 

Par. Go to, I say : I have found thee : no more ; I 
found thee, a witty fool.* 

Clo. 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 compelled restraint ; 
Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets. 
Which they distil now in the curbed time 
To make the coming hour overflow 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 obtained, you presently 
Attend his further pleasure. 

Hel. In every thing I wait upon his will. 

Par. I shall report it so. 

Hel. I pray you. — Come, sirrah. [Exeunt. 

SCENE V. — Another Room in the Same. 
Enter Lafeu and Bertram. 
Laf. But, I hope, your lordship thinks not him a 

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 
1 This ipeeoh is not in f. e. > Owing to. 

Vol. m.— 17 

194 all's well that ends well. ACTn. 

is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to 
repent. Here he comes. I pray yon^ make us MendB: 
I will pursue the amity. 

Enter Parolles. 

Par. [To Bertram ] These things shall be done, sir. 

Laf. Pray you, sir, who 's his tailor ? ' 

Par. Sir? 

Laf. ! I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, is a 
good workman, a very good tailor. 

Ber. [Aside to Parolles.] Is she gone to the king? 
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. 

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, 

Ber. Is there any unkindness between my lord and 
you, monsieur ? 

Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into my 
lord's displeasure. 

Laf. You have made shift to run into 't, boots and 
spurs and all, like him that leaped into the custard,' 
and out of it you '11 run again, rather than suffer ques- 
tion for your residence. 

Ber. It may be, you have mistaken him, my lord. 

Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at his 
prayers. Fare you well, my lord ; and believe this of 
me, there can be no kernel in this light nut ; the soul 
of this man is his clothes : trust him not in matter of 
heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and 
know their natures. — Farewell, monsieur: I have 
spoken better of you, than you have or will deserve at 
my hand : but we must do good against evil. [Exit. 

Par. An idle lord, I swear.' 

^ f. e. : And. The change is also found in Lonl F. Egerton's MS. 
annotated copy of the first folio. 3 a frequent exploit of the fool at 
great entertainments. A custard was a dish in great request, and 
tkerefore large. 



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. 
'T will be two days ere I shall see you : so, 
I leave you to ydur wisdom. 

Hel. Sir, I can nothing say, 

But that I am your most obedient servant. 

Ber. Cbme, come, no more of that. 

Hel. And ever shall 

With true observance seek to eke out that, 
Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd 
To equal my great fortune. 

Ber. Let that go : 

My haste is very great. Farewell : hie home. 

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, H is 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. — 

1 Own. 



I would not tell you what I would, my lord — ^'faith. 

Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 

Ber. T pray you stay not, but in haste to horse. 

Hel. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord. 
Where are my other men? monsieur, farewell.* [Exit. 

Ber. Go thou toward home ; where I will never come, 
Whilst I can shake my sword, or hear the drum. — 
Away ! and for our flight. 

Par. Bravely, coragio ! [Exeunt. 

ACT m. 

SCENE I. — ^Florence. A Room in the Duke's 

nourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, attended; 

two Frenchmen and Soldiers. 
Duke. So that, from point to point, now have you 

The fundamental reasons of this war. 

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth. 

And more thirsts after. 

1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel. 

Upon your grace's part ; black and fearful 
On the opposer. 

Duke. Therefore we marvel much our cousin France 
Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom 
Against our borrowing prayers. 

Fr. Env. Good, my lord, 

The reasons of our state I cannot yield. 
But like a common and an outward man. 
That the great figure of a council frames 
By self-unable motion : therefore, dare not 
Say what I think of it, since I have found 
Myself in my uncertain grounds to fail 
As often as I guess'd. 

Duke. Be it his pleasure. 

Fr. Gent. But I am sure, the younger of our nature, 
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day 
Come here for physic. 

> Mod. eds. give this line to Bertram. 



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 ,11. — ^Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 
Enter Countess atid Clown. 

Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it, 
save that he comes not along with her. 

Clo. ^y my troth, I take my young lord to be a 
very melancholy man. 

Count. By what observance, I pray you? 

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing; 
mend his 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 'vdien 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 distaiice. My duty to 

" Your unfortunate son, 


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 misprizing of a maid, too virtuous 
For the contempt of empire ! 

1 The tbp of the loose boot which turned over e&lled the >tejf, 
w ruffle, s Old copies : hold ; which Knight retains, -undentandin^ 
a song as the tenure br which it was held. 



all's well that knds well. ACTm. 

Re-enter Clown, 
Clo. madam ! yonder is heavy news within, be- 
tween two soldiers and my young lady. 
Count. What is the matter ? 

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some 
comfort: your son will not be killed so soon as I 
thought he would. 

Count. Why should he be killed ? 

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he 
does : the danger is in standing to 't ; that 's the loss of 
men, though it be the getting of children. Here they 
come will tell you more ; for my part, I only hear your 
son was run away. [Exit Clown, 

Enter Helena and two French Gentlemen. 

Fr. Env. Save you, good madam. 

Hel. Madam, my lord is gone ; for ever gone. 

Fr. Gen. Do not say so. 

Count. Think upon patience. — ^^Pray you, gentle- 
men, — 

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, 
That the first face of neither, on the start, 
Can woman me unto H : — ^where is my son, I pray you? 
Fr. Gen. Madam, he 's gone to serve the duke of 
Florence : 

We met him thitherward ; for thence we came, 
And, after some despatch in hand at court. 
Thither we bend again. 

Hel. Look on his letter, madam : here 's my pass- 

[22ea(Z5.] " When thou canst get the ring upon my 
finger, which never shall come oflf, and show me 
a child begotten of thy body, that I am father 
to, then call me husband : but in such a then I 
write a never. 
This is a dreadful sentence. 

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? 
Fr. Env. Ay, madam; 

And for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains. 

Count. I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer ; 
If thou engrossest all the griefs as^ 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? 

1 are : in f. e. 

8C. II. all's well that ends well. 


Fr. Gen. Ay, madam. 

Count. And to be a soldier ? 

Fr. Gen. 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 ? 

Fr. Env. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of 

Hel. [Reads.] " Till I have no wife, I have nothing 
in France." 
»T is bitt«r. 

Count. Find you that there ? 

Hel. Ay, madam. 

Fr. Env. 'T is but the boldness of his hand, haply, 
Which his heart was not consenting to. 

Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife ! 
There 's nothing here that is too good for him, 
But only she ; and she deserves a lord, 
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon, 
And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him ? 

Fr. Env. A servant only, and a gentleman 
Which I have some time known. 

Count. Parolles, was it not ? 

Fr. Env. Ay, my good lady, he. 

Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked- 

My son corrupts a well-derived nature 
With his inducement. 

Fr. Env. Indeed, good lady. 

The fellow has a deal of that too much, 
Which 'hoves* him much to leave.* 

Count. 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. 

Fr. Gen. 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 French Crentlemen. 

Hel " Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France." 
Nothing in France, until he has no wife ! 

^ kolds : in f. e. * have : in t e. 


all's well that ends well. ACTm. 

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France ; 

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I 

That chase thee from thy country, and expose 

Those tender limbs of thine to the event 

Of the non-sparing war ? and is it I 

That drive thfee from the sportive court, where thou 

Was shot at With fair eyes, to be the mark 

Of smoky muskets ? ! you leaden messengers, 

That ride upon the volant^ speed of fire, 

Fly with false aim ; wound* the still-piercing* 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 un the caitiff that do hold him to it ; 

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 

His death was so effected. Better 't were, 

I met the ravefuing* lion when he roar'd 

With sharp constraint of hunger ; better H were 

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 offic'd all : I will be gone. 

That pitiful rumour may report my flight, 

To consolate thine ear. Come, night : end, day : 

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, Bertram, 
Parolles, Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others. 

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 th' extreme edge of hazard. 

Ihike. Then go thou forth, 

And fortune play Upon thy prosperous helm, 

^ Tiolent : in f. e. > move : in f. e. ' still-peering : in f. e. ^ 
* rarin : in f. e. 

sc. IV. all's well that ends well. 


« As thy auspicious mistress ! 

Ber. This very day,; 

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file : 
Make me hut like my thoughts, and I shall prove 
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV. Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 

Enter Countess and her Steward. 
Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter of her ? 
Might you not know, she would do as she has done, 
By sending me a letter ? Read it again. 
Stew. [Reads.] "I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither ' 

Ambitious love hath so in me offended, 
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon, 

With sainted vow my faults to have amended. 
Write, -wTite, 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 dog the heels of worth : 
He is too good and fair for death and me. 
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free." 

Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest 
words ! — 

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice 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. madam : 

If I had given you this at over-night, 
Ste might have been o'erta'en ; and yet she writes, 
Pursuit would be but vain. 

Cmnt. 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. — ^Write, write, Rinaldo, 
To this unworthy husband of his wife : 
Let every word weigh heavy of her worth, 

?802 all's well that inds well, actih. 

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief, 
Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 
Despatch the most convenient messenger. — 
When, haply, he shall hear that ahe 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 or* 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. 


SCENE v.— Without the Walls of Florence. 
A tucket^ afar off. Enter an old Widow of Florence^ 
Diana, Violenta, Mariana, a/nd other Citizens. 
Wid. Nay, come \ for if they do approach the city, 
we shall lose all the sight. 

Dio. They say. the French count has done most 
honourable service. 

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their greatest 
commander, and that with his own hand he slew the 
Duke's brother. We have lost our labour; they are 
gone a contrary way : hark ! you may know by their 

Mar. Come ; let 's return again, and suffice our- 
selves 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, entice- 
ments, 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 farther 
danger known, but the modesty which is so lost. 
^ in : in f. e. > Flourish of a trumpet. ' Temptations. 

BCk y. all's well that ends well. 2Q3 

Dia. You shall not need to fear me. 

Enter Helena in the dress of a Pilgrim, 

Wid. I hope so. — ^Look. here comes a pilgrim : I 
know she will lie at my house • thither they send one 

I '11 question her. — God save you, pilgrim ! 
Whither are you bound ? 

Hel. Xo 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 ? 

Wid. Ay, marry, is 't. — Hark you! [A march afar off. 
They come this way. — 
If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, 
But till the troops come by, 
I will conduct you where you shall be lodged ; 
The rather, for I think I know your hostess ' 
As ample as myself. 

Hel. Is it yourself? 

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. 

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

Wid. You came, I think, from France ? 

Hel. I did so. 

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

Hel. His name, I pray you. 

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

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

Dia. Whatsoe'er he is. 

He 's bravely taken here. He stole from France, 
, As 't is reported, for the king had married 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. ! I believe with him, 

In argument of praise, or to the worth 
Of the great count himself, she is too mean 
To have her name repeated : all her deserving 
Is a reserved honesty, and that 
I have not heard examin'd. 


all's well that ends well. ACTm. 

Dta. Alas^ poor lady ! 

'T ifl 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 pleas'd. 

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 honestest defence. 

ErUer with drum and colours^ a party of the Florentine 
army J Bertram, ana Parolles. 

Mar. The gods forbid else ! 

Wid. So, now they come. — 

That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest son; 
That, Escalus. 

Hel Which is the Frenchman ? 

Dia. He; 
That with the plume : 't is a most gallant fellow ; 
I would he lov'd his wife. If he were honester, 
He were much goodlier ; is 't not a handsome gentleman? 

Hel. I like him well. 

Dia. ^T is pity, he is not honest. Yond 's that same 

That leads him to these places : were I his lady, 
I would poison that vile rascal. 

Hel. Which is he ! 

Dia. That jackanapes with scarfs. Why is he me- 
lancholy ? 

Hel. Perchance he 's hurt P the battle. 

Par. Lose our drum ! well. 

Mar. He's shrewdly vexed at something. Look, he 
has spied us. 

Wtd. Marry, hang you ! 
Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier ! 
\Exeunt Bertram, Parolles, Officers^ and Soldiers. 
Wid. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring 

Where you shall host : of enjoin'd penitents 
1 Ay, right : in 9d foUo. 


There 's four or five, to great saint Jaques bound, 
Already at my house. 

Hel. I iumhly 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 farther, 
I will bestow some precepts of* this virgin, 
Worthy the note. 

Both. We '11 take your ofi*er kindly. [Exeunt 

SCENE VI.— Camp before Florence. 
Enter Bertram, and the two Frenchmen. 

Fr. Env. Nay, good my lord, put him to H : let him 
have his way. 

Fr. Gent. If your lordship find him not a hilding,' 
hold me no more in your respect. 

Fr. Env. On my life, my lord, a bubble. 

Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him ? 

Fr. Env. 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 enter- 

Fr. Gent. It were fit you knew him, lest reposing 
too far in his virtue, which he hath not. he might, at 
some great and trusty business in a main danger, fail 

Ber. T would I knew in what particular action to 
try him. 

Fr. Gent. None better than to let him fetch ofi" his 
drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake 
to do. 

Fr. Env. I, with a troop of Florentines, will sud- 
denly surprise him : such I will have, whom, I am 
sure, he knows not from the enemy. We will bind 
and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose no other 
but that he is carried into the leaguer^ of the adversa- 
ries, 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 compul- 
sion of base fear, ofier to betray you, and deliver all 
the ^intelligence in his power against you, and that 

1 on : in 2d folio. * Low, cowardly fellow. > Camp. 

Vol. III.— 18 


ynth the dirine forfeit of his soul, upoa oath, never 
Irust my judgment in any thing. 

Fr. Gent. ! for the love of laughter, let him fetch 
oflf * his drum : he says he has a stratagem for 't. When 
your lordship sees the hottom of his success in H, and 
to what metal this counterfeit lump of ores' will be 
melted, if you give him not John Drum's entertain- 
ment,' your inclining cannot be removed. Here he 

Enter Parolles. 
Fr. Env. ! for the love of laughter, hinder not the 
honour of his design : let him fetch off his drum in any 

Ber. How now, monsieur ? this drum sticks sorely 
in your disposition. 

Fr. Gent. A pox on 't ! let it go : 't is but a drum. 

Par. But a drum ! Is 't but a drum ? A drum so 
lost ! — There was an excellent command, to charge in 
with our horse upon our own vnngs, and to rend our 
own soldiers ! 

Fr. Gent. That was not to be blamed in the com- 
mand 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 3 but 
it is not to be recovered. 

Par. It might have been recovered. 

Ber. It might ; but it is not now. 

Pctr. It is to be recovered. But that the merit of 
service is seldom attributed to the true and exact per- 
former, I would have that drum or another, or hicjacet. 

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 enterprise, and go on; I wjU grace 
the attempt for a worthy exploit : if you speed well in 
it, the Duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you 
what farther 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. 

' This word ia not in f. e. ' ot« : in f. e. 'A common phrase, 
meaning to turn one out of doon. 

ac. Yi. all's well that ends well. 


Par. I '11 about it this evening : and I will presently 
pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my cer- 
tainty, put myself into my mortal preparation, and by 
midnight look to hear farther from me. 

Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are 
gone about it ? 

Par. I know not what the success will be, my lord ; 
but the attempt I vow. 

Ber. I know thou art valiant, and to the possibility 
of thy soldiership will subscribe for thee. Farewell. 

Par. I love not many words. [Exit. 

Fr. Env. 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 hims^elf to do, and dares better be 
damned than to do 't ? 

Fr. Grent. 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 discove- 
ries ; 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 ? 

Fr. Env. None in the world, but return with an in- 
vention, and clap upon you two or three probable lies. 
But we have almost embossed* him, you shall see his 
fall to-night for, indeed, he is not for your lordship's 

Fr. Gent. 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 sja^t you shall find him, which you shall 
see this very night. 

Fr. Env.. I must go look my twigs : he shall be caught. 

Ber. Your brother, he shall go along with me. 

Fr. Gent. As't please your lordship. 

Fr. Env. I'll leave you. [Exit. 

Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and show you 
The lass I spoke of. 

Fr. Gent. 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 ; 

' Run him down till h» famaa at t^e moulYi. * Fla^j. 


And this is all I have done. She 's a fair creature : 
Will you go see her ? 

Fr. Gent. With all my heart, my lord. [Exetmt 

SCENE VII.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's 

Enter Helena and Widow. 

Hel. Tf you misdoubt me that I am not she, 
I know not how I shall assure you farther, 
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. 

Wid. Though my estate be fall'n, I was well bom, 
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 w^hat to your sworn counsel I have spoken. 
Is so, from word to word ; and then you cannot, 
By the good aid that 1 of you shall borrow. 
Err in bestowing it. 

Wid. I should believe you ; 

For you have show'd me that, which well approves 
You are 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 woos your 

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty. 
Resolved to carry her : let her, in fine, consent, 
As we '11 direct her how H is best to bear it. 
Now, his important* blood will nought deny 
That she '11 demand : a ring the county wears. 
That downward hath succeeded in his house 
From son to son, some four or five descents 
Since the first father wore it : this 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, 
1 Importanato 

80. I. ALL 'S WELL THAT £ND8 WELL. 209 

Desires this ring ; appoints him an encounter ; 
In fine, delivers me to fill the time, 
Herself most diastely absent. After this, 
To marry her, I '11 add three thousand crowns 
To what is past already. 

Wid. T have yielded. 

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever. 
That time and place, with this deceit so lawful, 
May prove coherent. Every night he comes. 
With musics of all sorts, and songs composed 
To her unworthiness : it nothing steads us. 
To chide him from our eaves^ for he persists 
As if his life lay on 

Hel, Why then, to-night 

Let us assay our plot ; which, if it speed, 
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed, 
An* lawful meaning in a lawful act ; 
Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact. 
Bat let 's about it. [Exeimt, 


SCENE I.—Without the Florentine Camp. 
Enter French Envoy^ with five or six soldiers in ambush. 

Fr. Env. He can come no other way but by this 
hedge comer. When you sally upon him, speak what 
terrible language you will : though you understand it 
not yourselves, no matter ; for we must not seem to 
understand him, unless some one among us, whom we 
must produce for an interpreter. 

1 Sold. Good captain, let me be the interpreter. 

Fr. Env. Art not acquainted with him ? knows he 
aot thy voice ? 

1 Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 

Fr. Env. But what linsy-woolsy hast thou to speak 
to us again ? 

1 Sold. Even such as you speak to me. 

Fr. Env. 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 go straight to our purpose : chough's language, gab- 
ble 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. [They stand back} 
Enter Parolles. 

Par. Ten o'clock : within these three hours 't will be 
time enough to go home. What shall I say I have 
done ? It must be a very plausive invention that car- 
ries 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. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] 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 drum, being not ignorant of the 
impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose ? I 
must give myself some hurts, and say, I got them in 
exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it : they will 
say, " Game you oflf 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. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] 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. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] We cannot afford you so. 

Par. Or the baring of my beard ; and to say, it was 
in stratagem. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] 'T would not do. 

Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] Hardly serve. 

Par. Though I swore I leaped from the window of 
the citadel — 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] How deep ? 

Par. Thirty fathom. 

Fr. Env. [Aside.] Three great oaths would scarce 
make that be believed. 

I Not in f. e. 

80. I. ALL ^8 WKLL THAT ENDS WELL. 21 1 

Per. I would I had any dram of the enemy's : I 
would swear I recovered it. \ 

Fr. Env. [Aside.^ You shall hear one anon. 

Far. A drum, now, of the enemy's ! 

[Alarum within, 

Fr. Env. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. 

All. Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo. 

Par. ! ransom, ransom ! — Do not hide mine eyes. 

[They seize and blindfold him, 

1 Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos. 

Par. I know you are the Muskos' regiment ; 
And I shall lose my life for want of language. 
If there he here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 
Italian, or French, let him speak to me : 
I will discover that which shall undo 
The Florentine. 

1 Sold. Boskos vauvado : — 

I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. — 
Kerelybonto. — Sir, 

Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards 
Are at thy hosom. 
Par. ! 

1 Sold. ! pray, pray, pray. — 

Manka revania duUhe. 

Fr. Env. Oscorbidulchos volivorcho. 

1. Sold. The general is content to spare thee yet, 
And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on 
To gather from thee : haply, thou may'st inform 
Something to save thy life. 

Par. ! let me live. 

And all the secrets of our camp I '11 show. 
Their force, their purposes ; nay, I '11 speak that 
Which youwill wonder at. 

1 Sold. But wilt thou faithfully? 

Par. If I do not, damn me. 

1 Sold. Acordo lirUa. — 
Come on ; thou art granted space. 

[Exit with Parolles guarded, 
Fr, Env. Go, tell the count Rousillon, and my bro- 

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him 

Till we do hear from them. 

2 Sold, Captain, I will. 

S12 all's well that sndb wkll. act it. 

Ft, Env. A' will betray us all unto ouiselyes : 
Inform on that. 

2 Sold. So I will, sir. 

Fr. Env. Till then, I '11 keep him dark, and safely 
locked. [Kuunt. 

SCENE II.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's 

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 stone 
And now you should be as your mother was, 
When your sweet self was got. 

Dia. She then was h<^nest. 

Ber. So should you be. 

• Dm. No : 

My mother did but duty ; such, my lord. 
As you owe to your wife. 

Ber. No more o' that : 

I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows. 
I was compelled to her ; but I love thee 
By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever 
Do thee all rights of service. 

Dia. Ay, so you serve us, 

Till we serve you ; but when you have our roses, 
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, 
And mock us with our bareness. 

Ber. How have I sworn? 

Dia. 'T is not the many oaths that make the truth, 
But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true. 
What is not holy, that we swear not by, 
But take the highest to witness : then, pray you, tell me, 
If I should swear by Jove's great attributes, 
I lov'd you dearly, woul4 you believe my oaths, 
When I did love you ill ? this has no holding, 
To swear by him, whom I protest to love, 
^ stem'. 

BC. n. ALL well THAT ENDS WELL. 218 

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 off, 
But gire thyself imto 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 hopes in such a suit^ 
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. 

Dta. Will you not, my lord? 

Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our house, 
J 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 't 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. 
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 

When back again this ring shall be deliver'd : 
And on your finger, in the night, I '11 put 
Another ring; that what in time proceeds 
May token to the future our past deeds. 
Adieu, till then ; then, fail not. You have won 
A wife of me, though there my hope be none*. 
'£o. : nuLke xopw in tnch a icam. ^ doii« *. Vu 1. 

SI 4 ALL 'b well that ENDS WELt. ACT IT. 

Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee. 


Dia. For which lire 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. 

SCENE ni.^The Florentine Camp. 

Enter the two Frenchmen^ and iwo or three Soldiers. 

Fr. Gent. You have not given him his mother's letter. 

Ft. Env.. I have delivered it an hour since : there is 
something in 't that stings his nature, for on the read- 
ing it he changed almost into another man. 

Fr. Gent. He has much worthy blame laid upon him, 
for shaking off so good a wife, and so sweet a lady. 

Fr. Env. 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 within you. 

Fr. Gent. When you have spoken it, H is dead, and 
I am the grave of it. 

Fr. Env. He hath perverted a young ^ntlewoman, 
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 him- 
self made in the unchaste composition. 

Fr. Gent. Now, God delay our rebellion : as we are 
ourselves, wiiat things are we ! 

Fr. Env. Merely our own traitors : and as in the 
common course of all treasons, we still see ihem reveal 
themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends, so he 
that in this action contrives against his own nobility, 
in his proper stream overflows himself. 

Fr. Gent. Is it not most^ damnable in us, to be trum- 
peters of our unlawful intentfi ? We shall not then 
have his oompaay to-night. 

\ Z)«ceit/ul. » m«»iu^ Vul- %, 

ac. m. ALL *n wsll that ends wsll. 215 

Fr. Env, Not till after midnight, for he is dieted to 
his hour. 

Fr. Gent. That approaches apace : I would gladly 
have him see his companion* anatomized, that he might 
take a measnre of his own judgment, wherein so curi- 
ously he had set this counterfeit. 

J^. Env. We will not meddle with him till he come, 
for his presence must be the whip of the other. 

Fr. Gent. In the mean time, what hear you of these 

Fr. Env. I hear there is an overture of peace. 

Fr. Gent. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded. 

Fr. Env. What will count Rousillon do then ? will 
he travel higher, or return again into France ? 

Fr. Gent. I perceive by this demand you are not 
altogether of his council. 

Fr. Env. Let it be forbid, sir ; so should I be a great 
deal of his act. 

Fr. Gent. Sir, his wife some two months since fled 
from his house ; her pretence is a pilgrimage to saint 
Jaques le Grand, which holy undertaking with most 
austere sanctimony she accomplished ; and, there re- 
siding, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey 
to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath, 
and now she sings in heaven. 

Fr. Env. How is this justified ? 

Fr. Gent. The stranger* part of it by her own letters, 
which make her story true, even to the point of her 
death : her death itself, which could not be her office 
to say, is come, and" faithfully confirmed by the rector 
of the place. 

Fr. Env. Hath the count all this intelligence? 

Fr. Gent. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point 
from point, to the full arming of the verity. 

Fr. Env. I am heartily sorry that he '11 be glad of this. 

Fr. Gent. How mightily, sometimes, we make us 
comforts of our losses. 

Fr. Env. 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. 

Fr. Gent. The web of our life is of ar mingled yam. 
good and ill together : our virtues would be proud, if 
1 eompanyl: in f. e. aatronger : in f. e. * "ww. Vo.1. 



our faults whipped them not ; and our crimes would 
despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues. 

Enter a Servant, 
How now ? where 's your master ? 

Serv, He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom 
he hath taken a solemn leave : his lordship will next 
morning for France. The duke hath oflfered him letters 
of commendations to the king. 

Fr. Env. They shall be no more than needful there, 
if they were more than they can commend. 

Enter Bertram. 

Fr. GerU. They cannot be too sweet for the king's 
tartness. Here 's his lordship now. — How now, my 
lord ! is 't not after midnight ? 

Ber. I have to-night despatched sixteen businesses, 
a month's length a-piece, by an abstract of success : I 
have conge'd with the duke, done my adieu with his 
nearest, buried a wife, mourned for her, writ to my 
lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy ; 
and between these main parcels of despatch effected 
many nicer needs : the last was the greatest, but that 
I have not ended yet. 

Fr. Env. If the business be of any difficulty, and 
this morning 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 medal: he has deceived me, like a 
double-meaning prophesier. 

Fr. Env. Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.] He 
has sat i' the stocks all night, poor gallant knave. 

Ber. No matter ; his heels have deserved it, in usurp- 
ing his spurs so long. How does he carry himself? 

Fr. Env. I have told your lordship already ; the stocks 
carry him. But, to answer you as you would be un- 
derstood, he weeps, like a wench that had shed her 
milk. He hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom 
he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remem- 
brance, to this very instant disaster of his sitting i' the 
stocks, and what think you he hath confessed ? 

Ber. Nothing of me, has he ? 

Fr. Env. His confession is taken, and it shall be 

sc. m. all's well that ends well. 217 

read to his face : if your lordship be in 't, as I believe 
you are, you must have the patience to hear it. 
Re-enter Soldiers^ with Parolles. 

Ber. A plague upon him ! muffled ? he can say no- 
thing of me : hush ! hush ! 

Fr. Gent. Hoodman* comes ! — Partotartarossa. 

1 Sold. He calls for the tortures : what will you say 
without 'em ? 

Par. I will confess what I know without constraint : 
if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more. 

1 Sold. Bosko chimurko. 

Fr. Gent. Boblibindo ehicunnurco. 

1 Sold. You are a merciful general. — Our general 
bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a 

Par. And truly, as I hope to live. 

1 Sold. 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 un- 
serviceable : the troops are all scattered, and the com- 
manders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and 
credit, and as I hope to live. ^ 

1 Sold. Shall I set down your answer so ? 

Par. Do: I'll take my sacrament on't, how and 
which way you will. 

1 Sold. All 's one to him.' 

Ber. What a past-saving slave is this ! 

Fr. Gent. Y' are deceived, my lord : this is monsieur 
Parolles, the- gallant militarist, (that was his own 
phrase) that had the whole theorick of war in the knot of 
his scarf, and the practice in the chape^ of his dagger. 

Fr. Env. 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. 

1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. 

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said, — will say 
trae,— or thereabouts, set down, — for I '11 speak truth. 

Fr. Gent. He 's very near the truth in this. 

Ber. But I con* him no thanks for 't, in the nature 
he delivers it. 

Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say. 

1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. 

»An allusion to blind man's buflf.— Knight. 
words to Bertram. > Hook, by which it 7ra» «;tt«Ahftdi. ^ Ovie. 

Vol. UI.—19 

21€ Jllv'^b well that bnds welu act it. 

Par. I humbly thank you, sir. A truth 's a truth: 
the rogues are marvellous 'poor, 

1 Sold. " Demand of him, of what strength they 
are a^foot." What say you to that ? 

Par. By my troth, sir, if I wer^B to live this present 
hour, I will tell true. Lot me see : Spurio a hundred 
and fifty, Sebastian so many, Corambus so many, Jaques 
so many ; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two 
hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, 
Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each : so that the 
muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts 
not to fifteen thousand poll ; half of the which dare 
not shake the snow from off their cassocks, lest they 
shake themselves to pieces. 

Ber. What shall be done to him ? 

Fr. Gent. Nothing, but let him have thanks. — 
Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have 
with the duke. 

1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. " You shall demand 
of him, whether one captain Dumaine 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 suras of gold to corrupt him to a revolt." 
What say you to this ? what do you know of it ? 

Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular 
of the intergatories : demand them singly. 

1 Sold. Do you know this captain Dumaine ? 

Par. I know him : he was a botcher's 'prentice in 
Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the 
sheriff's fool with child ; a dumb innocent, that could 
not say him, nay. [Dumaine lifts up his hand in anger. 

Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands ; though, 
I know, his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls. 

1 Sold. Well, is this captain in the duke of Florence's 

Par. Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy. 

Fr. Crent. Nay, look not so upon me ; we shall hear 
of your lordship anon. 

1 Sold. What is his reputation with the duke ? 

Par. The duke knows him for no other but a poor 
officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn 
him out o' the band : I think, I have his letter in my 

sc. m. all's well that ends well* 3i9 

1 Sold, Marry, we '11 search. 

Par. In good sadness, I do not know: either it in 
Aere, or it is upon a file, with tiie duke's other letters, 
in my tent. 

1 Sold. Here 't is j here 's a paper : shall I read it to 

Par. I do not know if it be it, or no. 
Ber. Our interpreter does it well. 
Fr. Gent. Excellently. 

1 Sold. [Reads.] Dian, the count 's a fool, and full 
of gold,"— 

Par. That is not the duke's letter, sir: that is an 
advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, 
to take heed of the allurement of one count Rousillon, 
a foolish idle boy, but, for all that, very ruttish. I 
pray you, sir, put it up again. 

1 Sold. Nay, I '11 read it first, by your favour. 

Par. My meaning in 't, I protest, was very honest 
in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young 
count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a 
whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds. 

Ber. Damnable, both-sides rogue ! 

1 Sold. [Reads.] " When he swears oaths, bid him 
drop gold, and take it ; 

After he scores, he never pays the score : 
Half won is match well made ; match, and well make it : 

He ne'er pays after debts ; take it before. 
And say, a soldier, Dian, told thee this. 
Men are to melP with, boys are not to kiss : 
For coimt of this, the count 's a fool, I know it. 
Who pays before, but not where he does owe it. 
" Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear, 
" Parolles." 

Ber. He shall be whipped through the army, with 
this rhyme in 's forehead. 

Fr. Env. This is your devoted friend, sir ; the mani- 
fold linguist, and the armipotent soldier. 

Ber. I could endure any thing before but a cat, and 
BOW he 's a cat to me. 

1 Sold. I perceive, sir, by our 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 ofiences being many, I would 
1 MiddU, do. 


repent oat the remainder of nature. Let me liye, sir, 
in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or any where, so I may live. 

1 Sold. We '11 see what may be done, so you confess 
freely : therefore, once more to this captain Dumaine. 
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 ra\'ishments he parallels Nessus. He pro- 
fesses not keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is 
stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such 
volubility, that you would think truth were a fool. 
Drunkenness is his best virtue ; for he 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. 

Fr. Gent. I begin to love him for this. 

Ber. For this description of thine honesty ? A pox 
upon him ! for me he is more and more a cat. 

1 Sold. What say you to his expertness in war ? 

Par. Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the 
English tragedians, — ^to belie him, I will not, — and 
more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that 
country, he had the 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. 

Fr. Gent. He hath out- villained villany so far, that 
the rarity redeems him. 

Ber. A pox on him ! he 's a cat still. 

1 Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, I need 
not ask you, if gold will corrupt him to revolt. 

Par. Sir, for a quart d'ecu^ he will sell the fee-simple 
of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the 
entail from all rem8,inders, and a perpetual succession 
for it perpetually. 

1 Sold. What 's his brother, the other captain Du- 
maine ? 

Fr. Env. Why does he ask him of me ? 
1 Sold. What's he? 

' A place where the Londonen Nrete otteu mwstftTed and 
* About eight-pence Englisli. 


Par. E'en a craw o' the same nest ; not altogethelr 
m great an the first in goodness, but greater a great 
deal in eril* He excels his brother for a coward, yet 
his brother is reputed one of the best that is. In a 
retreat he out^runs any lackey ; marry, in coming on 
lie has the cramp. 

1 Sold. If your life be saved, will you undertake to 
betray the Florentine ? 

Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, count Rou- 

1 Sdd. PU whisper with the general, and faiow 
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 

1 Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die. 
The general says, you, that have so traitorously dis-^ 
covered the secrets of your army, and made such pes* 
tiferous 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 ! 

1 Sold. That shall you ; and take your leave of all 
your friends. [Unmuffling him. 

So, look about you : know you any here ? 

Ber. Good-morrow, noble captain. 

Fr. Env. God bless you, captain Parolles. 

Ft. Gent. God save you, noble captain. 

Fr. Env. Captain, what greeting will you to my 
lord Lafeu ? I am for France. 

Fr. Gent. Good captain, will you give me a copy of 
the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the count 
Rousillon ? an I were not a very coward, I 'd compel it 
of you ; but fhre you well. 

[Exeunt Bertram, Frenchmen, 

1 Sold. You are undone, captain ; all but your soaif, 
that has a knot on 't yet. 

Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot ? 

1 Sold. If you* could find out a country where but 
women were, that had received bo m\X(^\i «\)AxeA^i^ 

S22 all's wbll that bnds wbll. act it. 

might begin an impudent nation. Fare yon well, sir; 
I am for France too : we shall speak of you there. [ExU, 

Par. Yet am I thankful : if my heart were great, 
'T would 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 ! cool, blushes ! and ParoUes. live 
Safest in shame ! being fooPd, by foolery thrive ! 
There 's place and means for every man alive. 
I '11 after them. [ExU» 

SCENE IV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's 

Enter Helena, Widow^ and Diana. 
Hel. That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd 

One of the greatest in the Christian world 

Shall be my surety ; 'fore whose throne, 't is 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 madam, 

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 0, strange men ! 
That can such sweet use make of what they hate, 
When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts 
DeGlea the pitchy night I bo \\xb\, ^lo\)cl 

0C. V. all's wbll that snds 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 world' the time will bring on summer, 
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns. 
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away ; 
Our waggon is prepared, and time reviles^ us : 
" All 's well that ends well still the fine 's the crown ; 
Whatever the course, the end is the renown. [Exeunt. 

SCENE v.— Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 

Enter Countess, Lafeu, and Chum. 

Laf. No, no, no ; your son was misled with a snipt- 
taffata 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 liave owed her a more rooted love. 

Laf. 'T was a good lady, 't was a good lady : we may 
pick a thousand salads, ere we light on such another 

Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the 
salad, or, rather the herb of grace. 

Laf. They are not pot-herbs*, you knave : they are 

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? 

* word : in f. e. a revives : in f. e. ^ Saffron was used to color 
starch, a yellow hue being then fashionable in dress. It W8£ aUo 
used to color pie-crust. * salad-herbs : in f. e. 


Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman's servieo, and a knate 
at a man's. 

Laf. Your distinction ? 

Clo. I would cozen the man of his wifo, and do Yati 

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. 

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

Laf Who 's that ? a Frenchman ? ' 

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

Laf. What prince is that? 

Ch. The black prince, sir ; aliasj the prince of dark- 
ness ; alias J the devil. 

Laf Hold thee, there's my purse. I give thee not 
this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of : 
Berve him still. 

Clo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always lored 
a great fire : and the master I speak of, ever keeps a 
good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world ; let 
the 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 Are. 

Laf Go thy ways, I begin to be a- weary of thee ; 
and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out 
with thee. Go thy ways : let my horses be well looked 
to, without any tricks. 

Clo. If T put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall be 
jades' tricks, which are their own right by the law of 
nature. [Exit. 

Laf A shrewd knave, and an unhappy'. 

Count. So a' is. My lord, that 's gone, made himself 

' A short stick, vriXYi a fool's head^ or a small figure, at the end of it. 
An inflated bladdei ^ras w>me\itae« aUaAV^^di. ^QTi^ c<ar^vA\ tsaIsa. 
' Mischievous. 



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 place^^ but runs where he will. 

Laf. I like him well ; H is not amiss. And I was 
about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady's 
death, and that my lord, your son, was upon his return 
home, I moved the king, my master, to speak in the 
behalf of my daughter ; which, in the minority of them 
both, his 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 : a' will be here 
to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intel- 
ligence hath seldom failed. 

Count. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere 
I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night : 
I shall beseech your lordship, to remain with me till 
they meet together. 

Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what 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. 0, madam ! yonder 's my lord your son with a 
patch of velvet on's face: whether there be a scar 
under it, or no, the velvet knows ; but 't is a goodly 
patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile 
and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare. 

Laf A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good 
livery of honour ; so, belike, is that. 

Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face. 

Laf. Let us go see your son, I jHray you : I long to 
talk with the young noble soldier. 

Clo. 'Faith, there 's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fine 
hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head, 
and nod at every man. [Exeunt. 

> pace : in f . e 


all's well that bnds well, act v. 


SCENE I.— MarseiUes. A Street. 

Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, vnth two 

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 limhs in my affairs, 
Be bold, you do so grow in my requital. 
As nothing can unroot you. In happy time. 
Enter a Gentleman^ a Stranger} 
This man may help me to his majesty's ear. 
If he would spend his power. — God save you. sir. 

CkrU. And you. 

Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France. 

Gent. I have been sometimes there. 

Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen 
From the report that goes upon your goodness ; 
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions 
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to 
The use of your own virtues, for the which 
I shall continue thankful. 

Gent. What 's your will ? 

Hel. That it will please you 
To give this poor petition to the king. 
And aid me with that store of power you have. 
To come into his presence. [Givmg it to Atm. 

Gent. The king 's not here. 

Hel. Not here, sir ? 

Gent. Not, indeed : 

He hence removed last mght, and with more haste 
Than is his use. 

Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains ! 

Hel. 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 Rousillon ; 
Whither I am going. 

Hel. I do beseech you, sir, 

Since you are like to see the king before me, 
Commend the paper to his gracious hand ; 

1 a gtniU Astringer : inf. 


"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 '11 do for you. 

Hel. And you shall find yourself to be well thai^'ijj 
Whate'or falls more. — We must to horse again :— 
Go, go, provide. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II.— B'Ousillon. The inner Court of the 
Countess's Palace. 
Enter Clowrij and Parolles, ill-favoured} 

Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord Lafei^ 
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, 9J>d 
^ell 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. Pr'ythee, allow th^ 

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. Pr'ythee, 
get thee farther. 

Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper. 

Clo. Fob ! pr'ythee, stand away : a paper from for- 
tune's close-stool to give to a nobleman ! Look, here 
he comes himself. 

Enter Lafeu. 
Here is a pur of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's cat, 
^ (but not a musk-cat) that has fallen into the unclean 
' fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied 
withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for he 
looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally 
knave. I do pity his distress in my smiles of comfort, 
and leave him to your lordship. [Exit Clown, 

Par. My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath 
cruelly scratched. 

Laf. And what would you have me to do ? 't is too 
late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played 
the kaaye with fortune, that she should ^^^.^ 
' Thu word is not add«d in f . «. 


all's well that ends well, act v. 

who of herself is a good lady, and would not haye 
knaves thrive long under her ? There 's a quart cPem 
for you. Let the justices make you and fortune friends j 
I am for other business. 

Par. I beseech your honour to Lear me one single 

Laf. You beg a single penny more : come, you shall 
ha H ; save yout word. 

Par. My name, my good lord, is ParoUes. 

Laf. You beg more than one word, then. — Cox' my 
passion ! give me your hand. — ^How does your drum? 

Par. 0, my good lord ! you were the first that found 
me. [thee. 

Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that lost 

Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some 
grace, for you did bring me out. 

Laf. Out upon thee, knave ! dost thou put upon me 
at once both the office of God and the devil ? one 
brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out. 
[Trumpets smnd.] The king 's coming; I know by his 
trumpets. — Sirrah, inquire farther 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.— The Same. A Room in the Countess's 

Flourish. Enter King, Countess, Lafeu, Lords^ 
Gentlemen, Guards, ifc. 

King. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem 
Was made much poorer by it ; but your son, 
As mad in folly, lacked the sense to know 
Her estimation home. 

Count. 'T is past, my liege ; 

And I beseech your majesty to make it 
Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze' of youth ; 
When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force, 
O'erbears it, and bums on. 

King. My honoured lady, 

I have forgiven and forgotten all. 
Though my revenges were high bent upon him, > 
And watch'd the time to shoot. 



But first I beg my pardon^ — ^the young lord 
Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady, 
Offence of mighty note, but to himself 
The greatest wrong of all : he lost a wife, 
Whose beauty did astonish the survey 
Of richest eyes j whose words all ears took captive ; 
"Whose dear perfection hearts that scorned to serve 
Humbly call'd mistress. 

King. Praising what is lost 

Makes the remembrance dear. — Well, call him 

We are reconcird, and tfie 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 't is our will he should. 

Gent. I shall, my liege. [Exit Gentleman. 

King. What says he to your daughter? have you 
spoke ? 

Laf. All that he is hath reference to your high- 

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 H. 

King. I am not a day of season, 
For thou may'st 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 blames. 

Dear sovereign, pardon to me. 

King, All is whole 3 

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 
Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time 
Steals, ere we can effect them. You remember 
The daughter of this lord ? 

Ber, Admiringly. 
My lie^^ at iirst 

Vol. IU.—20 

230 all's well that ends well, act 7. 

I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart 
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue : 
Where the impression of mine eye infixing. 
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, 
Which warp'd the line of every other favour, 
Soom'd a fair colour, or expressed it stolen, 
Extended or contracted all proportions. 
To a most hideous object. Thence it came. 
That she, whom all men praisM, and whom myself, 
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye 
The dust that did offend it. 

King. Wefl excus'd : 

That thou didst love her strikes some scores away 
From the great compt. But love, that comes too late, 
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried. 
To the great sender turns a sore* offence. 
Crying, that 's good that 's gone. Our rash faults 
Make trivial price of serious things we have. 
Not knowing them, until- we know their grave : 
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust. 
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust ; 
Our own love, waking, cries to see what 's done,* 
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. 
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. 

Laf. Which better than the first. 0, dear heaven, 
bless !^ 

Or, ere they meet, in me, nature, cease*. 
Come on, my son, in whom my house's name 
Must be digested, give a favour from you. 
To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter. 
That she may quickly come. — ^By my old beard. 
And every hair that 's on 't, Helen, that 's dead. 
Was a sweet creature : such a ring as this. 
The last time ere she* 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 H.— 

' BOUT : in f. e. > This and the next line are erased by tiie MS. 
emend&toT of the folio, 1632. ' 1. e. u»\gTL ^aA. ^Joa next Une t9 
the Counteu, « Old copies : cease. ^ «ie\ *. «. 



This ring was mine ; and, when I gare it Helen, 

I hade her, if her fortunes ever stood 

Necessitied to help, that hy this token 

I would relieve her. Had you that craft td restve her 

Of what should stead her most ? 

Ber. My gracious sovereign, 

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

Count. Son, on my life, 

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

Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. 

Ber. You are deceived : my lord, she never saw it. 
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, 
Wrapp'd in a paper, which contained the name 
Of her that threw it. Nohle she was, and thought 
I stood engaged ; but when I had subscribed 
To mine own fortune, and informed 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 tinot and multiplying medicine,* 
Hath not in nature's mystery more science. 
Than I have in this ring : H was mine, H was Helen's, 
Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know 
That you are well acquainted with 't yourself. 
Confess H was hers, and by what rough enforcement 
You got it from her. She calPd 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 it falsely, as I love mine honour, 
And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me. 
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove 
That thou art so inhuman, — H will 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, 
^ An aUosion to the Alohemista. 


all's well that ends well. acty. 

More than to see this ring. — Take him away. — 

[Guards seize Bertram. 
My fore-past proofs, however the matter fall, 
Shall tax my fears of little vanity, 
Having vainly feared too little. — Away with him ! 
We '11 sift this matter farther. 

Ber. If you shall prove 

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy 
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, 
Where yet she never was. [Exit Bertram, guarded. 
Enter the Gentleman, a Stranger} 

King. I am wrapped in dismal thinkings. 

Gent. Gracious sovereign, 

Whether I have been to blame, or no, I know not : 
Here 's a petition from a Florentine, 
Who hath, for four or five removes, oome 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 j 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, 
king ! in you it best lies ; otherwise a seducer flour- 
ishes, and a poor maid is undone. " Capilet." 

Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll' 
him : for this, I '11 none of him. 

King. The heavens have thought well on thee, 

To bring forth this discovery. — Seek these suitors. — 
Go speedily, and bring again the count. 

[Exeunt Gentleman^ and some Attendants. 
I am afeard, the life of Helen, lady, 
Was foully snatch'd. 

Count, Now, justice on the doers ! 

^ Enter a Gentleman: in f. e. 3 a "toll" -was paid for tka 
privilege of selling a hone at a fait. 

8C. m. all's TfXLL TBAT JBKDS WILL. 


Re-^entet Behtram, guarded. 
King. I wonder, sir, for, wives are monsters to you/ 
And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, 
Yet you desire to marry. — ^What woman 's that ? 
Re-enter Gentleman^ mth WidoWj and Diana. 
Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, 
Derived from the ancient Gapilet : [Kneeling.^ 
My suit, as I do understand, you know, 
And therefore know how far I may be pitied, 

Wid. I am her miother, sir, whose age and honour 
Both suffer under this complaint we bring. 
And both shall cease, without your remedy. 
King. Come hither, county^. Do you know these 
women ? 

Ber. My lord, I neither can, nor will deny 
But that I know them. Do they charge me farther? 
Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your wife ? 


Ber. She 's nme of mine, ray Ica-d. 

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 ,* 
£i^^ both, or none. 

Laf. [To Bertram.] Your reputation comes too 
short for my daughter : you afe no husband for her. " 

Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate erecUure, 
Whom sometime I have laugh'd with. Let yooy 

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour, 

Than so to think that I would sink it here. [friend, 

King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have Uiem ill 
Till your deeds gain them : fairer prove your honeuT) 
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. ^e 's impttdeni, my l<nd ; 

^ This word is inserted in place of " sir," in Lord F. Egvrtoa's 
MS. annotated feUv, 1083. » Not in f. e. > conuit *. in 1. ^ 
iaf. 0. 



all's will that bnds will. AOTT. 

And wafi 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. ! behold this ring, 
Whose high respect, and rich validity. 
Did lack a parallel ; yet, for all that, 
He gave it to a commoner o' the camp, 
If I be one. 

Count. He blushes, and 't is his.^ 
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem 
Gonferr'd by testament to the sequent issue, 
Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife : 
That ring 's a thousand proofs. 

King. Methought, you said. 

You saw one here in court could witness it. 

Dia. I did, my lord, but loth am to produce 
So bad an instrument : his name 's ParoUes. 

Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man he be. 

King. Find him, and bring him hither. 

Ber. What of him? . 

He 's quoted for a most perfidious slave, 
With all the spots o' the world tax'd and debauch'd^ 
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 lik'd her, 
And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth. 
She knew her distance, and did angle for me, 
Madding my eagerness with her restraint, 
As all impediments in fancy's course 
Are motives of more fancy ; and, in fine, 
Her infinite cunning,^ with her modem grace. 
Subdued me to her rate : she got the ring. 
And I had that, which any inferior might 
At market-price have bought. 

Dia. I must be patient : 

You, that tum'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. 

' Old copies : hit (the old fona of itV ' insuit coming : in £ e. 
'£e, hare tnn^d. 

60. m. all's wbll that bnds w£ll. 235' 

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 

Dia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed. 
King. The story then goes false, — ^you threw it 

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 

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 honourable gentleman : tricks he hath had in him, 
which gentlemen have. 

King. Come, come; to the purpose. Did he love 
this woman ? 

Par. 'Faith, sir, he did love her ; but how ? 

King. How, I pray you ? 

Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a 
King. How is that ? 

Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not. 

King. As thou art a Imave, and no knave. — 
What .an equivocal companion is this ! 

Par. I am a poor man, and at your majesty's 

Laf. He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty 

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 know'st ? 
Par. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between 
tbetoi, as I asddj but more thaii\Yial^\A Vs^^\k&T^ 



ALL 'd yrVLh tUAT BKD8 WELL* AOT t. 

for, indeed/ he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, 
and of limbo, and of fUrieB, 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 oth^ mol^ons, as * 
promising her marriage, and things that would derive 
me ill will to speak of: therefore, I will not speak 
what I know. 
King. Thott hast i^ken all already, unless thou 

Say they are married. But thou art too find 
In thy evidence ; therefere, stand aside.-* 
This ring, you say, was yours? 

Dia. Ay, my goocf lord. 

King. Where did you buy it ? or who gave it 

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 yduris by none of all these ways, 
How oould you give it him ? 

Dia. I liever gave it him. 

Laf. This Woman 's an easy glove, my lord : she 
goes ofi* and on at pleasure. 

King. This ring was mine: I gave it his first 

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. V\\ never tell you. 

King. Take her away. 

Dia. ril put in bail, my liege. 

King, I think thee now some common customer. 
Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 't was you. 
King. WhereSfore hast thou aceus'd him all this 

Dia. Because he 's gtiilty, and he is not gtxilty. 
He knbws I am no maid, and he '11 swear to 't : 
I '11 swei^ I am a maid, and he knows not. 
Gnmt Ms^) I am no strumpet, by my Ufe ! 

8c. m. all's will that ends well. 


I am either maid, or else this old man 's wife. 

[Pointing to Lafeu. 
King. She does abuse our ears. To prison with 

Dia, Good mother, fetch my bail. — [Exit Widow.] 
Stay, royal sir : 
The jeweller that owes the ring, is sent for. 
And he shall surety me. But for this lord. 
Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself, 
Though yet he never harmed me, here I quit him. 
He knows himself my bed he hath defil'd. 
And at that time he got his wife with child : 
Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick : 
So there 's my riddle, one that 's dead is quick ; 
And now behold the meaning. 

Re-enter Widow, with Helena. 

King. Is there no exorcist 

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes ? 
Is. 't real, that I see? 

Hel. No, my good lord : 

'T is but the shadow of a wife you see ; 
The name, and not the thing. 

Ber. Both, both ! 0, pardon ! [Kneeling.^ 

Hel. O ! my good lord, when I was like this maid, 
I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring ; 
And look you, here 's your letter : this it says : 
" When from my finger 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, [Rising} 
I '11 love her dearly, ever, ever dearly. 

Hel. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue. 
Deadly divorce step between me and you ! — 
! my dear mother, do I see you living ? 

Laf. Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep anon. — 
Good Tom Drum, [To Parolles.] lend me a handker- 
chief : so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I '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 Diana.] If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower, 

» » Not in f. e. 


lajL^n WELL mjjt ksfm wkll. Am v. 

Choose thou thy htuband, and I '11 pay thy doirer ; 
For I can guess, that by thy honest aid 
Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a nsaid. — 
Of that, and all the progress, more and less, 
Resolvedly mare leisure shall express : 
All yet seems well ; and if it end so medt^ 
The bitter past, more welcome is the s^eet. 



The king's a beggar, now the play is dmie. 
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 : 
Oun^ be your patience then, and yours our parts ; 
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. 

[Exeunt omncs. 

^ Tkis li&e is not in f. e. 



Twelfe Night, Or what yon Will," was first printed in the 
folio of 1623, where it occupies twenty-one pages ; viz. from 
p. 255 to 275 inclusive, in the division of Comedies," 
p. 276 having been left blank, and unpaged. It appears in 
the same form in the three later folios. 


We have no record of the performance of " Twelfth-Night" 
at court, nor is there any mention of it in the books at Sta- 
tioners' Hall until November 8, 1628, when it was registered 
by Blount and Jaggard, as about to be included in the first 
folio of "JMr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories, 
and Tragedies." It appeared originally in that volume, under 
the double title, " Twelfth-Night, or What You Will," with 
tile Acts and Scenes duly notea. 

We cannot determine with precision when it was first 
written, but we know that it was acted on the celebration of 
the Readers' Feast at the Middle Temple on Feb. 2, 1602, 
according to our modern computation ot the year. The fact 
of its performance we have on the evidence of an eye-witness, 
who seems to have been a barrister, and whose Diary, in his 
own hand-writing, is preserved in the British Museum (Harl. 
MSS. 5353). The memorandum runs, literatim, as follows: — 

"Feby. 2. 1601 [21. At our feast we had a play called 
Twelve-Night, or What You Will, much like the comedy of 
errors, or Menechmi in Plautus, but most like and neere to 
that in Italian, called Inganni, A good practise in it to make 
the steward believe his lady widdowe was in love with him, • 
by counterlayting a letter, as from his lady, in generall termea 
telling him what shoe liked best in him,* and prescribing his 
gestures, inscribing his apparaile, &c., and then when he 
came to practise, making him beleeve they tooke him to bo 

This remarkable entry was pointed out in the " History of 
English Dramatic Poetry and the Stage," vol. i. p. 827. 8vo, 
1881, and the Rev. Joseph Hunter, in his *' Disquisition on 
The Tempest," Svo, 1889, has ascertained that it was made 
by a person of the name of Manningham. It puts an end to 
the conjecture of Malone, that ** Twelfth-Night " was written 
in 1607, and to the less probable speculation of Tyrwhitt, that 
it was not produced until 1614. Even if it should be objected 
that we have no evidence to show that this €omedjr was com- 
posed shortly prior to its representation at the Middle Tem- 
ple, it may be answered, that it i^ capable of proof that it was 
written posterior to the publication of the translation of Lin- 
Bohoten's *' Discours of Vojrages into the East and West In- 
dies." In A. ii. sc. 2. Maria says of MalvoVvo*.— ^^"^^ ^'i^a 
amUe bia face into more lines than are in n^rw 

Vol. 111.^21 


the ancrmentation of the Indies/' When Malone prepared 
his "Chronological Order" he had "not been able to learn 
the date of the map here alluded to," but Linschoten's "Dis- 
cours of Voyages" was published in folio in English in 1598, 
and in that volume is inserted " the new map with the auff- 
mentation of the Indies." Mercs takes no notice of " Twelftn- 
Night" in his list, published in the same year, and we may 
conclude that the Comedy was not then in existence. The 
words "new map," employed by Shakespeare, may be 
thought to show that Lin!»choten's " Discours " had not made 
its appearance long before "Twelfth-Night" was produced;* 
but on the whole, we are inclined to fix the period of its com- 
position at the end of 1600, or in the beginning of 1601 : it 
might be acted at the Globe in the summer of the same year, 
ana from thence transferred to the Middle Temple about six 
months afterwards, on account of its continued popularity. 

Several originals of "Twelfth-Night," in English, French, 
and Italian, have been pointed out, nearly all of them dis- 
covered within the present century, and to these we' shall now 

A voluminous and various author of the name of Bamabe 
Bich, who had been brought up a soldier, published a volume, 
which he called " Rich his Farewell to Military Profession," 
without date, but between the years 1578 and 1581: a re- 
impression of it appeared in 1606, and it contains a novel 
entitled " Apolonius and Silla," which has many points of 
resemblance to Shakespeare's comedy. To this production 
more particular reference is not necessary, as it forms part 
of the publication called " Shakespeare's' Library." If our 
great dramatist at all availed himself of its incidents, he must 
of course have used an earlier edition than that of 1606. One 
minute circumstance in relation to it may deserve notice. 
Manningham in his Diary calls Olivia a " widow," and in 
Kich's novel the lady Julina, who answers to Olivia, is a 
• widow, but in Shakespeare she never had been married. It 
is possible that in the form in which the comedy was per- 
formed on Feb. 2, 1601-2, she was a widow, and that the 
author subsequently made the change ; but it is more likely, 
as Olivia must have been in mourning for the loss of her 
brother, that Manningham mistook her condition, and con- 
cluded hastily that she lamented the loss of her husband. 

Eich furnishes us with the title of no work to which he was 
indebted ; but we may conclude that, either immediately or 
intermediately, he derived his chief materials from the Italian 
of BandcUo, or from the French of Belleforest. In Bandello 
it forms the thirty-sixth novel of the Seconda Parley in the 
Lucca edit. 1554. 4to, where it bears the subsequent title; — 
" Nicuola, innamorata di Lattantio, v^ k servirlo vesiita da 
paggio; e dopo molti casi seco si marita: e ci6 che ad un 
Buo fratello avvenne." In the collection by Belleforest, 
printed at Paris in 1572, 12hio, it is headed as follows:— 
"Comme une fille Eomaine, se vestant en page, servist long 
temps un sien amy sans estre cogneue, et depuis I'eust & 
majj, aveo autres dWera diacovvta."*^ k\^wygQ. "B^Vv^i^^^^ 



inserts no names in bis title,- he adopts those of Bandello, hnt 
abridges or omits many of the speecnes and some portions of 
the narrative : what in Bandello occupies several pages is some- 
times included by Belleforest in a single paragraph. We quote 
the subsequent passage, because it will more exactly show the 
degree of connexion between "Twelfth-Night" and the old 
French version : it is where Nicuola, the Viola of Shakespeare, 
disguised as a page, and under the name of Komnle, has an 
interview with Catelle, the Olivia of "Twelfth-Night," on 
behalf of Lattance, who answers to the Duke. 

" Mais Catelle, gui avoit plus Poeil sur Porateur et sur la 
naive beauts, que Poreille aux paroles venant d'ailleurs, estoit 
en une estrange peine, et volontiers se fut jett^e k son col 
pour le baiser tout k son aise ; mais la honte la retint pour un 
temps: k la fin n'en pouvant plus, et vaincue de ceste impa- 
tience d'amour, et se trouvant favoris^e de la commodity, ne 
sceut de tant bo commander, que I'embrassant fort estroite- 
nient elle ne le baisast d^une douzaine de fois, et ce avec telle 
lascivit^ et gestes effrontez, que Bomule s'apparceut bien que 
oette-cy avait plus chere son acoointance que les ambassades 
de oeluy qui la courtisoit. A ceste cause luv dit, Je vous 
prie, madame, me faire tant de bien que me donnant cong^, 
j'aje de vous quelque ^aciense responce, avec laquelle je 
puisse faire content et joyeux mon seigneur, lequel est en 
Boucy et tourment contmuel pour ne sgavoir votre volenti 
vers luy, et s'il a rien acquis en vos bonnes graces. Catelle, 
humant de plus en plus le venin d^amour par les yeux, luy 
sembloit que Komule devint de fois k autre plus beau." 

Upon the novel bjr Bandello two Italian plays were com- 
posed, which were printed, and have come down to our time. 
The title of one of these is given by Manningham, where he 
says that Shakespeare's " Twelfth-Night " was " most like 
and neere to that in Italian called IngannV^ It was first 
acted in 1547, and the earliest edition of it, with which I am 
acquainted, did not appear until 1582, when it bore the title * 
of GP Jnganni Comedia del Signor N. S. The other Italian 
drama, founded upon Bandello's novel, bears a somewhat 
similar title: — GV Ingannuti Coinmedia degV Accademici Jnr- 
tronati di Siena, which was several times printed; last, per- 
haps, in the collection DeUe Gommedie degV Accademici Jntro- 
nati di Siena, 1611, 12mo. Whether our great dramatist saw 
either of thes^e pieces before he wrote his " Twelfth-Night " 
may admit of doubt; but looking at the terms Manningnam 
employs, it might seem as if it were a matter understood, at 
the time " Twelfth-Night " was acted at the Temple on Feb. 
2, 1602. that it was founded upon the Jnganni, There is no 
indication in the MS. Diary that the writer of it was versed 
in Italian literature, and GV Inganni might at that day be a 
known comedy of which it was believed Shakespeare had 
availed himself. An analysis of it is given in a small tract, 
called " Farther Particulars of Shakespeare and his Works," 
8vo, 1889, but as only fifty copies of it were printed, it may 
be necessary here to enter into some few details of its ^lot^ 
conduct, and cb&mcterB, The ATgumenX.)''^ Oft ^x^va^NATI 


Prologue, which precedes the flrat scene, will show that tl^ 
«atlior of GV Inganni did not adhere to Bandello by anf 
zneana closely, and that he adopted entirely different names 
for bis personages. 

Anselrao, a Genoese merchant who traded to the Levant, 
having left his wife in Genoa great with child, had two ehU* 
dren by her, one a boy called Fortunato, and the other a 
girl named Gineura. After he had borne for four years tJkB 
desire of seeing his wife and family, he returned home to 
them, and wishing to depart again, he took them with him; 
and wiien they were embarked on board the vessel, he dressed 
them both in short clothes for greater convenience, so that the 
girl looked like a boy. And on the voyage to Soria he was 
taken by Corsairs and carried into I^atolia, where he re- 
mained in slavery for fourteen years. 'His children had a 
different fortune; for the boy was several times sold, but 
finally here in this city, which, on this occasion, shall be Na- 
ples ; and he now serves Dorotea, a courtesan, who lives there 
at that little door. The mother and Gineura, after various 
accidents, were bought by M. Massimo Caraccioli, who lives 
where you see this door ; but by the advice of the mother, 
who has been dead six years, Gineura has changed her naaao 
and caused herself to be called Euberto ; and, as her mother 
while living persuaded her, alwavs gave herself out to be a 
boy, thinking in this way that sue should be better able to 
preserve her chastity. Fortunato and Euberto, by the infor- 
mation of their mother, know themselves to be l>rother and 
sister. M. Massimo has a son, whom they call Goetaiuso, and 
A daughter named Portia. Goetanzo is in love with Dorotea, 
the courtesan to whom Fortunato is servant. Portia, his 
«ister, is in love with Euberto, notwithstanding she is a i^H, 
because she has always been thought a man. Euberto, the 
g^rl, not knowing how to satisfy tlie desires of Portia, who 
xsonstantiy importunes her, has ^metimes at night conveyed 
her brother into the house in her place: he has got Portia wit^ 
child, and she is now every hour expectine to be brought to 
bed. On the other hand, Euberto, as a girl and in love wilii 
ber young master Gostanzo, has double suffering — one fron 
ihe passion which torments her, and the other from the fear 
lest the pregnancy of Portia should be discovered. MassiBio, 
the father of Portia and Gostanzo, is aware of the condition 
of his daughter, and has sent to Genoa to inquire into tibs 
{»aAntage of Euberto. in order that if he ind him ignobki, 
and unworthy to be the husband of his daughter, whom he 
believes to be with child by him, he may have him killed. 
But, by what I have heard, the father of the twins, who has 
escaped from the hands of the Tarks, ought this day to be 
returned with the messenger, and I think that every thiof 
will be accommodated.^' 

In this play, therefore, Portia, who is the Olivia of Shake* 
Bpeare, is not stated to bo a widow, and our great dramatist 
svoided the needless indelicacy of representing her to be witli 
ofaiid. In GV Inganni^ Gineura (i. e, Viola,) as will have 
befiu seen from the Argumei^,''^ \& Ytf)\> ^^^V^xXx^ xsAsi-vUiL 


whom she is in love, bnt to Portia : while Gostanzo, whose 
affection Ginetira is anxious to obtain, is brother to her mis- 
tress. This of course makes an important difference in the 
relative situations of the parties, because Gineura, disguised 
as Rnberto, is not employed to carry letters and nieasages 
between the characters who represent the Duke and Olivia. 
Gostanzo beinff in love with a courtesan, named Dorotea, in 
the first Act, Gineura endeavours to dissuade him from his 
lawless passion, in a manner that distantly, and only dis- 
tantly, reminds us of Shakespeare. Ruberto (i. e. Gineura) 
tells Gostanzo to find some object worthy of his affection : — 

" Gostanzo. And where shall I find her ? 

Ruberto. I know one who is more lost for love of you, than yon are 

for this carrion. 
Gostanzo. Is she fair ? 
Ruberto. Indifferently. 
Gostanzo. Where is she ? 
Ruberto. Not far from you. 

Gostanzo. And will she be content that I should lie with her. 

Ruberto. If God wills that you should do it. 

Gostanzo. How shall I get to her ? 

Ruberto. As you would come to me. 

Gostanzo. How do you know that she loves me ? 

Ruberto. Because she often talks to me of her love. 

Gostanzo. Do I know her ? 

Ruberto. As well as you know me. 

Gostanzo. Is she young ? 

Ruberto. Of my age. 

Gostanzo. And loves me ? 

Ruberto. Adores you. 

Gostanzo. Have I ever seen her ? 

Ruberto. As often as you have seen me. 

Gostanzo. Why does she not discover herself to me ? 

Ruberto. Because she sees you the slave of another woman." 

The resemblance between Gineura and her brother Fortn- 
nato is so ^eat, that Portia has mistaken the on^ for the 
other, and m the end, like Sebastian and Olivia, they are 
united ; while Gostanzo, being cured of his passion for Doro- 
tea, and ^teful for the persevering and disinterested affec- 
tion of Gmeura, is married to her. Our great dramatist has 
given an Actual, as well as an intellectual elevation to the whole 
Bubject, by the manner in which he has treated it ; and has 
oonverted what may, in most respects, be considered a low 
comedy into a fine romantic drama. 

So much for OV Jngcmni, and it now remains to speak of 
OV Ingannatiy a comedy to which, in relation to ** Twelfth- 
Night," attention was first directed by the Eev. Joseph Hunter 
in his " Disauisition on Shakespeare's Tempest," p. 78. GP 
hMwnnati follows Bandello's novel with more exactness than 
OV Inganni, though both change the names of the parties; 
and here we have the inoportant feature that the heroine, 
called Lelia, (disguised as Fabio) is page to Flamminio, with 
whom she is in love, but who is in love with a lady named 
Isabella. Lelia, as in Shakespeare, is employed by F\a.mmv- 
nh to forward Mb suit with Isabella. uaX wxwftfe^^S&^^«tf^ 


346 TSTVLomscnoSp 

of the Dialogue between Ldis, in her viale attire, a&d FliM* 
minio : — 

^' Lelia. Do as I advise. Abandon Isabella, and love one who lorst 
yon in return. You may not find her as beautiful ; but, tell me, is 
there nobody else whom you can love, and who loves you ? 

F^mminio. There was a yonng lady named Leha, whom, I was a 
thousand times aboift to tell yon, yon are much like. 8he was thought 
the fairest, the cleverest, and the most courteous damael of this coua* 
try. I will show you her one of these days, for I formerly looked upon 
her with some regard. She was then rich and about the court, and 1 
continued in love with her for nearlv a year, during which time die 
showed me much favour. Afterwards she went to Mirandola, and it 
was my fate to fall in love with Isabella, who has been as cruel to 
me as Lelia was kind. 

Lelia. Then you deserve the treatment yoa have received. Simct 
▼ou slighted her who loved you, you ought to be slighted in return 
by others. 

Flamminio. What do you say ? 

Lelia. If this T>oor girl were your first love, and still loves you more 
ttian ever, why aid you abandon her for Isabella? I know not who 
could pardon that offence. Ah! signw Flamminio, you did ber 
grievous wrong. 

Flamminio. You are only a boy, Fabio, and know not the power 
of love. I tell you that I cannot help loving Isabella : I adore h«r, 
nor do I wish to think of any other woman." 

Elsewhere the reBemblance between " Twelfth-Night " and 
GV InffanmUj in point of situation ia quite as strong, bat 
there the likeness ends, for in the dialogue we can trace no 
connexion between the two. The author of the Italian com- 
edy has obviously founded himself entirely upon Bandello^a 
novel, of which there might be some translation in the time 
of Shakespeare more nearly approaching tlie original, than 
the version which Bich published before our great dramatist 
visited the metropolis. Whether any such literal trandation 
had or had not oeen made, Shakespeare may have gone to 
the Italian story, and Le Novelle di-Bandello were very well 
known in England as eariy as abont the middle of the six- 
teenth century. If Shakespeare had followed Kich we should 
probably have discovered some verbal trace of his obligation, 
as in the cases where he followed Painter's Palace of Plea* 
sure," or, still more strikingly, where he availed himself of 
the works of Greene and Lodge. Ia GP Iiwmnati we find 
nothing but incident in common with "Twelfth-Night." 
The vast inferiority of the former to the latter in language and 
sentiment may be seen in every psfre, in every line. Tht 
mistake of the brother for the sister, by Isabella, ia the same 
in both, and it terminates in a somewhat similar manner, for 
the female attendant of the lady, meeting Fabricio (who is 
dressed, like his sister l^lia, in white) in Uie street, conducti 
him to her mistreps, who receives him with 4>pen arms. 
Flamminio and Lelia are of oounie united st the end of the 

The likeness between QP IngannaH and Twelfth-Night" 
it certainly in some pdnts of the story, stroiiger than tiuil 
between GfV In^omni and Bbfikea^^eejre'a drama ^ bat to neitte 
euz B&y, with any degree of oeiVNiiX^^^lbaX w ^^mX^ 


matist resorted, althoagh he had perhaps read both, when he 
was oonsidering the best mode of adaptin&r to the stage the 
inddents of Bandello^s novel. There is no hint, in any sooroe 
yet discovered, for the smallest portion of the comic business 
of " Twelfth-Night." In both the Italian dramas it is of the 
most homely and vulgar materials, by the intervention of em- 
pirics, braggarts, pedants, and servants, who deal in the 
coarsest jokes, ana are guilty of the grossest buffoonery. 
Shakespeare shows his infinite superiority in each depart- 
ment: m the more serious portion of his drama he employed 
the incidents furnished by predecessors as the mere sc^old- 
ing for the erection of his own beautiful edifice : and for the 
comic scenes, combining so admirably \ntb, ana assisting so 
importantly in the progress of the main plot, he seems, as 
usual, to have drawn merely upon his own interminable re- 

It was an opinion, confidently stated by Coleridge in his 
lectures in 1818, that the passage in Act ii. ac. 4, banning 

Too old, by heaven : let still the woman take 
An elder than herself," Icg. 

had a direct application to the circumstances of his own mar- 
riage with Anne Hathaway, who was so much senior to the 
poet. Some of Shakespeare^s biographers had previously 
enforced this notion, and othera have since followed it up ; 
but Coleridge took the opportunity of enlarging eloquently on 
the manner in which young poets have frequently connected 
themselves with women of very ordinary personal and mental 
attractions, the imagination supplying all aeticiencies, clothing 
the object of affection with grace ana beauty, and fumiahing 
her with every accomplishment. 


Orsino, Duke of lUyria. 
Sebastian, Brother to Viola. 
Antonio, a Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian. 
A Sea Captain, Friend to Viola. 

[ Gentlemen attending on the Dak«. 

Olivia, a rich Countess. 
Viola, in Love with the Duke. 
Maria, Olivia's Woman. 

Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and Attend- 

Sir Toby Belch, Uncle to Olivia. 
Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek. 
Malvolio, Steward to Olivia. 

I Servants to Olivia. 


SCENE, a City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. 



SCENE I. — An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. 
Enter Duke, Curio, Lords. Music playing} 

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 : 
! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,* 
That breathes upon a bank of Tiolets, 
Stealing, and giving odour. — Enough ! no more : 

[Music ceases? 

'T is not so sweet now, as it was before. 
0, spirit of love ! how quick and fresh art thou. 
That, notwithstanding thy capacity 
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there. 
Of what validity* and pitdi soe'er, 
But falls into abatement and low price. 
Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy. 
That it alcme is high-fantastical. 

Cur. Will yon go hunt, my lord ? 

Duke. What, Curio? 

Cur. The hart 

Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have. 
! when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence : 
That instant was I tum'd into a hart. 
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds. 
E'er since pursue me.* — ^How now ! what news from her ? 

1 MusMana attending : in f. e. * The old copies read : Mttiid ; 
Pope made the change. * Not in f. e. * Value. * My thouf kts, 
like hounda, panne me to mj death.—" Daniel's DUia^" 


•twelfth-night: or, 


Enter Valentine. 

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 ; 
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. ! 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 kilPd the flock of all affections else 
That live in her : when liver, brain, and heart. 
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and filPd, 
(Her sweet perfections) with one self king. — 
Away, before me to sweet beds of flowers ; 
tove-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. 


SCENE n.— The Sea-fcoast. 
Enter Viola, Captain^ and Sailors. 
Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 
Cap. This is lUyria, lady. 

Vio. And what should I do in lUyria ? 
My brother he is in Elysium. 

Perchance, he is not drown'd : — what think you, sailors ? 
Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd. 
Vio. 0, 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 fot avxl\voT\\.7^ 

sc. n. WHAT YOU WILL. . 261 

The like of him. KnoVst thou this country ? 

Cap. Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and bom, 
Not three hours' travel from this very place. 
Fto. Who governs here ? 

Cap. A noble duke, in nature 

As in name. 

Vio. What is his name ? 

Cap. Orsino. 

Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father name him : 
He was a bachelor then. 

Cap. And so is now, or was so very late ; 
For but a month ago I went from hence. 
And then 't was fresh in murmur, (as, you know, 
What great ones do the less will prattle of) 
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 
Vio. What's she? 

Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count 
That died some twelvemonth since ; then leaving her 
In the protection of his son, her brother. 
Who shortly also died : for whose dear love, 
They say, she hath abjur'd the company, 
And sight* of men. 

Vio. ! 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 pr'ythee, (and I '11 pay thee bounteously) 
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid 
For such disguise as haply shall become 
The form of my intent. I '11 serve this duke : 
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. 
It may be 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 ; 

1 Old eds. : sight, and oom^tuD.^. 


Only, shape thou thy sileiice to my wit. 

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I '11 be : 
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. 

Fto. I thank thee. Lead me on. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III.— A Room in 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. 

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 quafiing and drinking will undo you : 1 
heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish 
knight, that you brought in one night here to be her 

Sir. To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek ? 
Mar. Ay, he. 

Sir To. He 's as talP a man as any 's in Illyria. 
Mar. What 's that to the purpose ? 
Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a 

Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these 
ducats : he 's a very fool, and a prodigal. 

Sir To. Fie, that you '11 say so ! he plays o' the 
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages 
word for word without book, and hath all the good 
gifts of nature. 

Mar. He hath, indeed, — all most 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, 't is thought among the prudent he would 
quickly have the gift of a grave. 

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels, and sub- 
straotora that say so of him. Who are they? 

1 ViM, btvr«. 



Mar, They that add, moreover, he druiaJc nigjitly 
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 coistril,^ 
that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' 
the toe like a parish-top.'' What, wench ! Castiliano 
vulgOj^ for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. 
Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 

Sir. And. Sir "^oby Belch ! how now, sir Toby Belch ? 

Sir To. Sweet sir Andrew. 

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 

Mar. And you too, sir. 

Sir To. Accost, sir Andrew, accost. 

Sir. And. What's that? 

Sir To. My niece's chamber-maid. 

Sir And. Good mistress Accost, I desire better ac- 

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 her* part so, sir Andrew, would 
thou mightst 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 hand ? 

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 

Sir And. Marr)i, but you shall have ; Bjnd here 's my 

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 
I can keep my hand dry. But what 's your jest ? 

^ From kestrel^ a mongrel kind of hawk. 2 x laree top was former- 
ly kept in parishes or towns, for the use of the pnhlic. * Sir Toby's 
mistiJce, says Verplanck, for «o2<o-*Put on a mro face. * Th» word 
is not in f. e. ^ This was considered a sign ol d«\>i\iX'^. 




Mar. A dry jest, sir. 

Sir And. Are you full of them? 

Mar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fingers' ends : mar- 
ry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. \Exit Maru. 

Sir To. knight ! thou lack'st a cup of canary. 
When did I see thee so put down ? 

Sir And. Never in your life, I think ; unless you see 
canary put me down. Methinks, 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 'd forswear it. I '11 
ride home to-morrow, sir Toby. 

Sir To. Pourquoij 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. 0, had ! but 
followed the arts ! 

Sir To. Then hadst thou 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 H 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'll home to-morrow. Sir Toby: 
your niece will not be seen ; or, if she be, it 's four to 
one she '11 none of me. The count himself, here hard 
by, woos her. 

Sir To. She '11 none o' the counf : she '11 not match 
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit ; I 
have heard her swear it. Tut, there 's life in 't, man. 

Sir 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 kick-shaws, 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. 

1 A quick, dwiftt. 

8C. IV. 



Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't. 

Sir And. And, I think, I have the hack-trick, simply 
as strong as any man in lUyria. [Dances fantastically.^ 

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid ? wherefore 
have these gifts a curtain hefore them? are they like 
to take dust, like Mistress Mall's' picture ? why dost 
thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in 
a coranto ?^ My very walk should he a jig : I would 
not so much as make water, hut in a sink-a-pace.* 
Wha,\ dost thou mean ? is it a world to hide virtues in ? 
I did think, hy the excellent constitution of thy leg, it 
was formed under the star of a galliard. 

Sir And. Ay, 't is strong, and it does indifferent well 
in a dun-coloured* stock . Shall we set ahout some revels ? 

Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not horn 
under Taurus ? 

Sir And. Taurus ? that 's sides and heart.* 

Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see 
thee caper. [Sir AiUD. dances again.y Ha! higher: 
ha, ha ! — excellent ! [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV .~A Room in the Duke's Palace. 

Enter Valentine, and Viola in man^s attire. 
Vol. If the duke continue these favours towards you, 
Cesario, you are like to he much advanced : he hath 
known you hut three days, and already you are no 

Vio. You either fear his humour or my negligence, 
that you call in question the continuance of his love. 
Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? 

Val. No, helieve me. 

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 

Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. 

Luke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 

Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; here. 

Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. [Cwrto, ^c. retire.^ 
— Cesario, 

Thou know'st no less hut all : I have unclasp'd 

1 Not in f. e. ' Mary Frith, a great notoriety of the time, who 
irent about in male attire ; a wood cut of her may be found prefixed 
to " Roving Girl," in Dodsley's Old Plays, Vol. 6, and in the Pictorial 
Shakespeare. * Quick dance for two persons. ♦ The name of a dance, 
the measures whereof are regulated oy the number five. — Sir John 
Hawkins. ^ flame-coloured : in f. e. ^ An allusion to the repre* 
sentation of man, and the signs of the zodv&& in old. ^lmA.'iAK.%. 
^»Not inf. e. 


twelfth-night: or, 


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. 

Fto. Sure, my noble lordj 

If she be so abandoned 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. ! then unfold the passion of my love j 
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith : 
It shall become thee well to act my woes ; 
She will attend it better in thy youth. 
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 

Vio. I think 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 'II do my best. 

To woo your lady : [Aside.] yet, 0,* barful* strife ! 
Whoe'er I woo, myself wouM be his wife. [Exeunt. 

SCENE v.— A Room in Olivia's House. 
Enter Maria, and Cl6um\ 
Mar. Nay j 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 

Ch. Let her hang me : he that lis well hanged in 
this world needs to fear no colours. 

Ma/. Make that good. / 
€lo. He shall see none to fear. 

1 a : in f. e. > Fu\l oi \)8n ot \m^ViELVBt?au 

80. V. 



Mat. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where 
that saying was bom, of, I fear no colours. 

Clo. Where, good n^istress 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 ab- 
sent : or. to be turned away, is not that as good as a 
hanging to you ? 

Ch. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage ; 
and for turning away, let summer bear it out. 

Mar. You are resolute, then ? 

Clo. Not so neither ; but I am resolved on two points.* 

Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold ; or, if 
both break, your gaskins* fall. 

Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy 
way : if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as 
witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria. 

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here 
comes my lady : make your excuse wisely ; you were 
best. \ExiX, 
Enter Olivia, and Malvolio. 

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 ^hee, may pass for a 
wise man : for what says Quinapalus ? Better a witty 
fool, than a foolish wit. — God bless thee, lady ! 

Oli. Take the fool away. 

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the 

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 coun- 
sel 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 'a a. flowet.— TV'Ci \^ 
' ' PointB were strings to hold up fke eaAViiA ox liOM. 





WLe 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, cu- 
ctUlus non facit moriachum : that 's as much as to say,. 
I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give 
me leave to prove you a fool. 

Oli. Gan you do it ? 

Clo. Dexteriously, good madoima. 

Oli. Make your proof. 

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Grood 
' my mouse of virtue, answer me. 

Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness I '11 'bide 
your proof. 

Clo. Good madonna, why moum'st thou ? 

Oli. Good fool, for my liother'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, 

Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? doth h» 
not mend ? 

Mai. Yes ; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake 
him : infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make 
the better fool. 

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the 
better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby will be sworn 
that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for two- 
pence that you are no fool. 

Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 

Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such 
a barren rascal : I saw him put down the other day 
with 831 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, to be no better than the 
fools' zanies. 

Oli. 0, 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, tbirt you deem oaBnon-hullets. There is no 
Blanaer in an allowed fool, \ko\x^ m'QKfli%\ivs^ 

BO, y. 


rail ; nor no railing in a known dieereet 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 gentle- 
man much desires to speak with you. 

Oli. From the count Orsino, is it ? 

Mar. I know not, madam : 't ia a fair young mai^ 
and well attended. 

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 

Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you : he speaks nothing 
but madman. Fie on him ! [Exit Maria.] Go you, 
Malvolio : if it be a suit fVom the count, I am sick, or 
not at home ; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit Mal- 
volio.] 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 comes one of thy kin, that has a most 
weak pia mater. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch. 

Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. — ^What is he at 
the gate, cousin ? 

Sir To. A gentleman. 

Oli. A gentleman ! What gentleman ? 

Sir To. 'T is a gentleman here.— A plague o? these 
pidcle-herrings ! — How now, sot ? 

Clo. Good sir Toby, — 

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by 
this lethargy ? 

Sir To. Lechery ! I defy leehery. 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 L Well, it 's all one. [Exit, 

Oli. What 's a drunl^en man like, fool ? 

Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madmafi: 
one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second 
mads him, and a third drowns him. 

Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit 
o' my coz, for he 's in the third degree of drink ; he 
dtown^d : go, look after him. 




Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; and the fool shall 
look to the madman. [Exit Clown. 

Re-enter Malvolio. 

Mai. Madam, yond' young fellow swears he will 
speak with you. I told him you were sick : he takes 
on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to 
speak with you. I told him you were asleep : he seems 
to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore 
comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, 
lady ? he 's fortified against any denial. 

OH. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. 

Mai. He has been told so ; and he says, he '11 stand 
at your door like a sheriffs post,* or' be the supporter 
to a bench, but he '11 speak with you. 

Oli. What kind of man is he ? 

Mai. Why, of man kind. 

Oli. What manner of man ? 

Mai. Of very ill manner : he '11 speak with you, will 
you, or no. 

OH. 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 't is a peascod, 
or a codling when 't is almost an apple : 't is with him 
e'en 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 

OH. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. 
Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit. 

Re-enter Maria. / 
OH. Give me my veil : come, throw it o'er my face. 
We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. 

Enter Viola. 

Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she ? 

Oli. 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. 

' A post at the door of a sliohff, to -wYi\c\i'ptoQ\«bnAi\oTi«a.iid placards 
were affixed. « and ; in f e. 'An unn^pe "poA.. ^ Sensxtwt. 

sc. y. 


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 speech. 

Oli. Are you a comedian ? 

Vio. No, my profound heart ; and yet, by the very 
fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are 
you the lady of the house ? 

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, y6u 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 't is 

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 yoitr aj^roach, rather to wonder at you than 
to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone ; if you have 
reason, be brief: 't is 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 hulP here a little 
longer. — Seme mollification for your giant', sweet lady. 
T^ll me your mind : I am a messenger. 

Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, 
when the courtesy of it is* so fearful. Speak yom 

Vio. It alon^ concerns your ear. I bring no over- 
ture 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 
leam'd 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 

1 Lt«, or remain. > An allusion to the vrardeuft oC Udm 




divinity. [Exit Maru.] Now, sir; what is yotir 

Vio. Most sweet lady, — 

on. 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 

Oli. ! 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 pic- 
ture. Look you, sir; such a one I am at this pre- 
sent* : is 't not well done ? [ Unveiling. 

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 

Oli. 'T is in grain, sir : H will endure wind and 

Vio. 'T is 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. ! 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 what you are : you are too proud ; 
But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
My lord and master loves you : ! such love 
Should be but recompens'd, though you were crowned 
The nonpareil of beauty ! 

Oli. How does he love me ? ^ 

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

Oli. 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; 

I TO thU jit^wnX \ W 1. 



In voices well divulg'd, free, leam'd, and valiant, 
And in dimension, and the shape of nature, 
A gracious person ; but yet t cannot love him. 
He might have took his answer long ago. 

Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
With such a suffering, such a deadly life, 
In your denial I would find no sense : 
I would not understand it. 

OH. Why, what would you ? 

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. 

OH. You might do much. What is your parentage ? 

Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
I am a gentleman. 

OH. 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. 

[Offering her purse. ^ 

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady ; keep your purse : 
My ma£ter, not myself, lacks recompense. 
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love, 
And let your fervour, like my master's, be 
Plac'd in contempt ! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit, 

OH. What is your parentage ? 
" Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
I am a gentleman." — I '11 be sworn thou art : 
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, 
Do give thee five-fold blazon. — Not too fast : — soft ! 

Unless the master were the man. — How now ? 
Even 80 quickly may one catch the plague. 
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections, 
With an invisible and subtle stealth. 
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. — 
i An old word for c&ntoi. * "Slo\ Vsl 1. 




What, ho! Mahrdio.^ 

Be-enter Maltolio. 

3M. Here, madam, at your servioe. 

Oli. Run after that n^rne peeriah^ measeDger, 
The ooanty's man : he left this ring hehind him, 
Would I. or not : tell him, V 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 retusons for 't. Hie thee, Malvolio. 

Mai Madam, I wiU. [Exit. 

Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find 
Mine eye too great a ^tterer for my mind. 
Fate, show thy force : ourselves we do not owe* ; 
What is decreed must be, and be this so ! [Exit, 


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 
extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a 
touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me 
what I am willing to keep in : therefore, it charges me 
in manners the rather to express myself. You must 
know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, 
which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian 
of Messaline, whom, I know, you have heard of: he 
left behind him, myself, and a sister, both bom in an 
hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had 
80 ended ! but, you, sir, altered that ; for some hour 
before you took me from the breach of the sea was my 
BiBter diDwned. 

Be. n. WHAT YOU WILL. 265 

Ant. Alas, the day ! 

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resem- 
bled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful : but, 
though I could not with self-estimation wander so far to 
believe that* ; yet thus far I will boldly publish her — 
she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She 
is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem 
to drown her remembrance again vrith more. 

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad ente^ainment. 

Seb. O, good Antonio ! forgive me your trouble. 

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me 
be your servant. 

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that 
is, kill him whom you have recovered, 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 ; fare- 
well. [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 ; 
Butj 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 arrived but hither. 

Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir: you might 
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away your- 
self. She adds, moreover, that you should put your 
lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. 
And one thing more ; that you be never so hardy to 
come again in his affairs, imless it be to report your 
lord's taking of this : receive it so. 

Vio. She took no* 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. 

1 "with rach estimable wonder oreifiBX beliwe Wl&V. ^^^*. 

Vol. 111—23 



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 't is. 
Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, 
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, if 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 ! 
time ! thou must untangle this, not I ; 
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie. [Exit. 

SCENE III.— A Room in Olivia's House. 
Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 

Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew : not to be a-bed after 
midnight 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 miduight, 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 art a scholar ; let us therefore eat and 
drink. — Marian, I say ! — a stoop of wine ! 

"Suit. * diluculo surgwt scUuberrimum est. A.vl adage (quoted 
in Lilj^a Latin Grammar. 

&0, ni. 



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 Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians 
passing the equinoctial of Queubus : 't was very good, 

faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy lemon': hadst it ? 

Clo. I did impeticote thy gratuity: for Malvolio's 
nose is no whipstock : my lady has a white hand, and 
the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. 

Sir And. Excellent ! Why this is the best fooling, 
when all is done. Now, a song. 

Sir To. Come on : there is sixpence for you ; let 's 
have a song. 

Sir And. There 's a testril of me, too : if one knight 
give away sixpence so will I give another : go to, a song.* 

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good 

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. 

Sir And. Ay, ay ; I cate not for good life. 


Clo. 0, mistress mine ! where are you roaming ? 

Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith. 
Sir To. Good, good. 

Clo. What is lave ? His not hereafter ; 

Present mirth hath present laughter ; 

What ^s to come is still unsure : 
In delay there lies no plenty; 
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty^ 

Youth ^s a stuff will not endure. 

* A common tayern »ien and print, of t\ro fools, -vrith the inscrip- 
tion, " we be three" — the spectator forming the third. * Used 
synonymously irith voice. ^ Mi8tre$$. ^ i. e. «xi^>i^vg««^'CK^\ 
"if one knight give ar-" » and hear : in t. 

That can sing both high and low. 

Every wise man^s son doth 




Sir And. A mellifluous "voiee, as I am troe 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 oenla' 
gion. 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 H : I am a dog 
at a catch. 

Clo. By 'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch welL 
Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be, " Thou 

Clo. " Hold thy peace, thou knave," knight ? I shaJl 
be constrained in H to call the knave, knight. 

Sir And. 'T is not the first time I have constrain'd 
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. 

[They sing a catch. 

Enter Maria. 

Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep here ! If 
my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio, and 
bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. 

Sir To. My lady 's a Cataian' ; we are politicians j 
Malvolio 's a Peg-a-Ramsey', and " Three merry men 
be we.*" Am not I consanguineous ? am I not of her 
blood ? Tilly- valley, lady ! There dwelt a man in 
Babylon, lady, lady !"• [Singing. 

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight 's in sidmirable 

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, 
and so do I too : he does it with a better ^race, but I 
do it more natural. 

Sir To. " ! the twelfth day of December "— 


Mar. For the love o' God, peace ! 

1 Contained in Ravenscroft^s " DeuteromeUa,^' 1609, where the air 
is given to these words : 

" Hold thy peace, and Ijtr*ythee hold thy peace. 

Thou knave, thou knave! hold thy peace, thou knave.*^ 
3 May mean a sharper or a Chinese. ' A popular tune. * The burden, 
with yariations, as " Three merry boys,*' ate, of several old soagi. 
' From the ballad of The GodVy a.u4 Cou«\aAt wyfe^ Susannah—* 
tUnzA it in Percy^s B>eUq.\xe»,'Vo\.l. 

80. in. 



Enter Malvolio. 
Mai. My masters, are you mad ? or what are you ? 
Have you no wit, mamiers, nor honesty, hut to gahhle 
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 plac^, persons, nor time, 
in you? 

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
Snick up.' 

Mai. Sir Tohy, 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."' [Singing.* 

Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. 

Clo. " His eyes do show his days are almost done." 


Mai. Is h even so ? 

Sir To. " But I will never die." 

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 

Mai. This is much credit to you. 

Sir To. " Shall I bid him go ?" 

Clo. " What an if you do ?" 

Sir To. " Shall I bid him go, and spare not ?" 

Clo. "0! 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 P the right. — Go, sir: rub your 
chain with crumbs*. — A stoop of wine, Maria ! 

Md. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour 

1 Botchers'. > The deriration of this is not kno-vrn : it means, " Go, 
and be hanged." ^ The ballad from %rhich this is taken is in Percy's 
Reliques, Vol. I. * » Not in f. e. • So the old copies ; Theobald 
nads : time. These dainties \rere eaten on Saints' days, greatly 
to the horror of the Puritans, for trhose benefit the passage may have 
been intended. 8 Stewards -wrore gold chains, which were cleaned 
trith crumbM. 





at any thing more thiCn oontempt, you would not give 
means for this uncivil raid : she shall know of it, by 

Mar. Go shake your ears. 

Sir And. were as good a deed as to drink when a 
man 's a-hungry, to challenge him to 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, « 
I '11 deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. 

Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night. Since 
that youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she 
is much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me 
alontf 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. [him. 

Sir To. Possess us, possess us : tell us something of 

Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. 

Sir And. O ! if 1 thought that, I 'd beat him like adof. 

Sir To. What ! for being a Puritan ? thy exquisite 
reascm, 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 excellences, that it is his ground of faith, that all 
that look on him love him; and on that vice in him 
will my revenge find notable cause to work. 

Sir To. What ^It thou do ? 

Mar. I will drop in his way some* obscure epistles 
of love ] wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape 
of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure at his 
eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find Mmself 
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 «iy nose, too. 

Sir To. He shall think, by the letter that thou wilt 
drop, that it oomes from my niece, and that she is in 
love with him. 

this hand. 

» By-word, a lougfcing-stoek. » ldSftciV»^..'\ 

80. IT. 


Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. 
Sir And. And your horse, now, would made him an 

Mar. Ass I douht not. 

Sir And. ! 't will be admirable. 

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you : I know, my physi© 
will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the 
fool make a third, where he shall find the letter : ob- 
serve his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and 
dream on the event. Farewell. [Exk, 

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 6* that ? 

Sir And. I was adored once too. 

Sir 7b. Let 's to bed, knight. — Thou haidst need send 
for more money. 

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a ibul 
way out. 

Sir To. Send for money, knight : if thou hast her 
not i' the end, cftll me out^. 

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me ; take it how 
you will. 

Sir To. Gome, come : I '11 go bum some sack, 't is too 
late to go to bed now. Come, knight : come, knight. 


SCENE IV.— A Room in the Duke's Palace. 
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. 
Duke. Give me some music. [Music.*] — ^Now, good 
morrow, friends. — 
Now, good Cesario, but liiat 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 tunes' : 
Come ; but one verse. 

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that 
should sing it. 

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 



Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. 

[Exit Curio. — Musk again} 
Gome hither, boy : if ever thou shalt love, [To Viola.* 
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 belovM.- — 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' 

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 won, 
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 displayed, 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 chaunt it : it is silly sooth, 
And dallies with the innocence of love, 
Like the old age. 

Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 
' Music : in f. e. * Not in t. ©. * Coun\fttL"»a»%. ^ C^^um^^^-oa^ 

sc. IV. 



Duke. Ay, pr'ythee, sing. [Music* 


Clo. Come away, come away, deaths 
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^ stvAJc all with yew, 

1 prepare it : 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower J not afUmer sweety 
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 thoiisand sighs to save, 

Lay me, ! where 
Sad true lover never find my grave. 
To weep there. 
Duke. There for thy pains. [Giving him money.^ 
Clo. No pain^, sir : I take pleasure in singing, sir. 
Duke. I '11 pay thy pleasure then. 
Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one Umn 
or another. 

Duke. I give thee now leave to leave me.* 
Ch. Now, the melancholy god protect thee, and the 
tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy 
mind is a very opal ! — I would have men of such con- 
stancy put to sea, that their business might be every- 
thing, and their intent every where ; for that 's it, thibt 
always makes a good voyage of nothing. — Farewell. 

[Exit Clowii. 

Duke. Let a.11 the rest give plaee. — 

[Exeunt Corio and Attendants, 
Once more, Gesario, 
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 't is that miracle, and queen of gems. 
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. 
Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir ? 
' Not in f. e. « (jive me aow le&ye to Ua^e \W *. Val. ^» 



ACT n. 

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 ? 

Dtike. 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 suffers 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, — 

Dtike. What dost thou know ? 

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe : 
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
My father had a daughter lov'd a man, 
Afl it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
I should your lordship. 

Duke. And what 's her history ? 

Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, — 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud. 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought : 
And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
She sat like patience on a monument, 
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
We men may say more, swear more ; but, indeed, 
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove 
Much in our vows, but little in our love. 

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? 

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, 
And all the brothers too ; and yet I knoi*" 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, 

BO. V. 



SCENE v.— Olivia's Garden. 
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, and 

Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian. 

Fab. Niiy, I '11 come : if I lose a scrapie of this sport, 
let me be boiled to death with melancholy. 

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the nig- 
gardly, 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. 
Enter Maria. 

Sir To. Here comes the little villain. — 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 ! [The men hide themselves \ 
Lie thou there ] [drops a letter] for here comes the 
trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit Maria. 
Enter Malvolio. 

Mai. 'T is but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once 
told me, she did affect me ; and I have heard herself 
come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be 
one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a 
more exalted respect than any one else that follows 
her. What should I think on 't ? 

Sir To. Here 's an over-weening rogue ! 

Fab. 0, peace ! Contemplation makes a rate turkey- 
cock of him: how he jets under his advanced 
plumes ! 

Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue. — 

Sir To. Peace ! I say. 

Mai. To be count Malvolio. — 

Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 

1 Heart of goU. 



Sir To. Peace ! peace ! 

Mai. There is example for : the lady of the Strachy 
married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel. 

Fab. O, peace ! now he 's deeply in : look, how ima- 
gination blows him. 

Mai. Having been three months married to her, sit- 
ting in my state, — 

Sir To. O, for a stone bow* to hit him in the eye ! 

Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my branched 
velvet gown, having come from a day-bed, where I 
have left Olivia sleeping : — 

Sir To. Fire and brimstone ! 

Fhb. O, peace ! peace ! 

MaL And then to have the honour* 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. 0, 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 ; court' sies there to me. 

Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 

jPo6. Though our silence be drawn from us by th' 
ears' ; yet peace ! 

Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my 
familiar smile with an austere regard of control. 

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the 
lips then ? 

Mai. Saying, " Cousin Toby, my fortunes, having cast 
me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech."— 
Sir To. What, what ? 

Mai. " You must amend your drunkemiess." 
Sir To. Out, scab ! 

Fah. Nay, patience, or ye break the sinews of our plot. 
3fa/. " Besides, you waste the treasure of your time 
with a foolish knight." 

Sir And. That 's me, I warrant you. 
Mai. " One sir Andrew." 

Sir And. I knew 't was I ; for many do call me fool. 
' A bow for tkrowine itones. * kvnaouc ; in £ e. * wHk ean : 

sc. V. 



Mai. [Seeing the letter.] What employment have we 
here ? 

Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 

Sir To. O, peace ! and the spirit of humours inti- 
mate reading aloud to him ! 

Mai. [Taking up the letter.] By my life, this is my 
lady's hand ! these be her very CPs, her Z7'5, and her 
Ts ; and thus makes she her great P^s. It is, in con- 
tempt of question, her hand. 

Sir And. Her &s, her IPs, and her Ts: Why that ? 

Mai. [Reads.] " To the unknown beloved, this, and 
my good wishes her very phrases ! — ^By your leave, 
wax. — Soft ! — and the impressure her Lucrece, with 
which she uses to seal : 't is 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 nuihber 
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 j 
But silence, like a Lucrece knife. 
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore : 
M, 0, A, I, doth sway my life." 
Fab. A fustian riddle. 
Sir To. Excellent wench, say L 
Mai. " M, 0, A, I, doth sway my life."— Nay, but 
first let me see, — let me see, — ^let me see. 

Fab. What a dish of poison has she dressed him ! 
Sir To. And with what wing the stannyel* checks 
at it! 

3Ial. T may command where I adore." Why^she 
may command me : I serve her ; she is my lady. Why, 
this is evident to any formal' capacity. 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 ! — M, 0, A, L — 

Sir To. ! ay, make up that. He is now at a cold 
scent. \ 

_ ' BfLdg9r. a A tpeoies of ha-wk. * Om vik\a» mum. 

Fox. /A— 24 



ACT n. 

Fab. Sowter^ will ciy upon 't, for all this, though it 
be not as rank as a fox. 

Med. M; — Malvolio : — M, — ^why that begins my 

Fab, Did not I say, he would work it out ? the car 
is excellent at faults. 

Mai. M. — But then there is no oonsonancy in the 
sequel ; that suffers under probation : A should follow, 
but does. 

Fab. And ! shall end, I hope. 

Sir To. Ay, or I '11 cudgel him, and make him cry, ! 

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 

Mai. M, 0, A, I : — ^this simulation is not as the 
former ; — and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow 
to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. 
Soft ! here follows prose. — [Reads.] " If this fall into 
thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee ; but 
be not afraid of greatness : some are bom great, some 
achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 
them. Thy fates open their hands ; let thy blood and 
spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what 
thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear 
fresh. Be opposite with a Idnsman, surly with servants : 
let thy tongue tang arguments of state : put thyself 
into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee, 
that sighs for thee. Rtemember 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 stew- 
ard still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch 
fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter ser- 
vices with thee. 

The fortunate-unhappy." 
Day-light and champaign* discovers not more : this is 
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, 1 
will bafiie sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, 
I will be point-device' the very man. I do not now 
fool myself, to let imagination jade me, for ev«ry 
reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She 
did commend my yellow atoekingiB of late ^ she. did 

sc. V. 



praise my leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she 
manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunc- 
tion drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank 
my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in 
yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the 
swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised ! 
— ^Here is yet a postscript. [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 every thing that thou wilt have me. 


Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a pen- 
sion of thousands to be paid from the Sophy. 

Sir To. I 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. 

Sir And. Nor I neither. 

Enter Maria. 
Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 
Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck ? 
Sir And. Or o' mine either ? 

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip,' and 
become thy bond-slave ? 

Sir And. 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 H is a colour she abhors ; 
and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests ; and he will 
smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her 
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 Tartarus, thou most excel- 
lent devil of wit ! 

Sir And. I Ul make one too. [Exeunt. 
* 1 Soma game of die*. 


ACT m. 

SCENE I.— Olivia's Garden. 
Enter Viola, and Clown playing on pipe and tabor. 
Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy muaic. Dost tho^ 
live by thy tabor ? 

Clo. No, sir ; I live by the church. 
Vio. Art thou a churchman ? 
Clo. No suoh matter, sir : I do live by the church j 
for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by 
the church. 

Vio. So thou may'st say, tlie king lives 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 sen- 
tence is but a cheveriP 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. [sir. 

Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, 

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 

Vio. Thy reason, man ? 

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words ; 
and words are grown so false, I am loath to provd 
reason with them. 

Vio. I \yarrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest 
for nothing. 

Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something: but m 
my conscience, sir, I do not care for you : if that be 
to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you 

Vio. Art not thou tiie 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, bull 
her corrupter of words. 

Fio, 1 saw thee late at the comt Oraiao's. 

so. I. 



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. [Giving money} 

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send 
thee a beard. 

Vio. By my troth, I '11 tell thee : I am almost sick 
for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. 
Is thy lady within ? 

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. 

Via. I understand you, sir : 't is well begg'd. 

[Giving more.* 

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging 
but a beggar : Cressida was a beggar. My lady is 
within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come ; 
who you are, and what you would, are out of my 
welkin : I might say element, but the word is over- 
worn. [Exit. 

Via. This fellow 's wise enough to play the fool, 
And to do that well craves a kind of wit : 
He must observe their mood on whom he jests. 
The quality of persons, and the time, 
Not' like the haggard*, check at every feather 
That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
As full of labour as a wise man's art ; 
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit. 
But wise men's folly fall'n quite taints' their wit. 
Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew 

Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 

Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. 
Vio. Et vous aussi : voire 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. 

I * Not in f. e. ' And : in f. e. * Wild, untrained ha'vk. » So 
the old copies, which TTTvrhitt changed to meii) loW^f •IqXNaxi^ 



TWBLFTH-KieHT : €», 


Vio. I am bound to your meee, sir : I mean, she is 
the list* of my TOyage. ^ 

Sir To. Taste your legs, sir : put them to motion. 

Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I 
luiderstand what you mean by bidding me taste my 

Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. 

Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance. 
But we are prevented*. 

Enter Olivia and Maaia. 
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens raia 
odours on you ! 

Sir And. That youth 's a rare eourtier. Rain 
odours !" welL 

Vio. My matter hath no voice^ lady, but to your 
own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 

Sir And. " Odours," pregnant," and " vouch- 
safed :" — 'U get 'em all three all ready. 

[ Writing in his table-book.^ 

Oli. Let the garden docN* be shut, and leave me to, 
my hearing. [Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maru. 
Give me your hand. sir. 

Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service. 

Oli. What is your name ? 

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

Oli. My servant, sir? 'T was never merry world, 
Since lowly feigning was called 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. 

Oli. 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. — 

Oli. ! by your leave, I pray you : 

I bade you ilever speak again of him ; 
But, would you undertake another suit, 
I had rather hear you to solicit that, 
Than music from the spheres. 

Vio. Dear lady,— 

Oli. Give me leave, 'beseech you. I did send, 
After the last enchantment you did here, 
A ring in chaao of you : so did I «LbuaQ 

1 Limit, aim. « Anticipated. * "So^ I. 

SjGfk I. 



Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. 

Under your hard construction must I sit, 

To force that on you, in a shamefac'd^ citing, 

Which you knew none of yours : what might you think ? 

Have you not set mine honoijr at the stake. 

And baited it with all th' unmuzzled thoughts [in* 

That tyrannous heart can think ? To one of your recei* 

Enough is shown ; a Cyprus*, not a bosom. 

Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak. 

Vio. I jiity you. 

OH. That 's a degree to love. 

Vio. No, not a grise' ; for 't is a vulgar proof, 
That very oft we pity enemies. 

OH. Why, then, methinks, 't is time to smile again. 

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 'tend your ladyship. 
You '11 nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 

OH. Stay: 

1 pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me. 

Vio. That you do think you are not what you are. 

OH. 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. 

OH. ! 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 my pride. 
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. 
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, 

1 shameful : in f. e. * A reil of cypruB or crape. * Step. ♦ A 
ccmmoa phrase, rued by the Thames -watermen. 



ACT ra. 

For, that I woo, thou therfefore hast no cause ; 
But rather, reason thus with reason fetter : 
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 

Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth. 
And that no woman has ; nor never none 
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
And so adieu, good madam : never more 
Will I my master's tears to you deplore. 

OH. Yet come again ; for thou, perhaps, may'st move 
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IT. — A Room in Olivia's House. 
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, 
ana 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 judgment and reason. 

Sir To. And they have been grand jury-men since 
before Noah was a sailor. 

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 baulked : the double gilt of 
this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are 
now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion ; where 
you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, 
unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, 
flither of valour, or polict- 
Sir And. An 't be any way, \\. TKV]^\.\i?i -wSXV^iXftxa.^ 

sc. U, WUA^T you WILL. 3|9$ 

for policy I ha4;e : I had as lijcf be a Brwn<oi8t^ a« a 

Sir To. Why then, build me thy fortunes upon th^ 
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 j and assure thyself^ there is no love- 
broker in the world can more prevail in man's com* 
mendation 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 

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand ; be curst 
and brief j it is 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 Hes as will lie in thy sheet of 
paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed 
of Ware in England, set ^em down. Go, about it. 
Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou 
write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it. 

Sir And. Where shall I find you? 

Sir To. We '11 call thee at the cuhiculo. Go. 

[Exit Sir Andrew. 

Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, sir Toby. 

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad : some two 
thousand strong, or so. 

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him; but 
you '11 not deliver it. 

Sir To. Never trust me then ; and by all njieans stif 
on the youth to an answer. I think, oxen and wain- 
ropes cannot hale them together. For sir 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 

* Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh your- 
selves into stitches, follow me. Yond' gull Malvolio is 
turned heathen, a very renegade; for there is no 

I A sect (afterwards the Independents) much ridiculed by th« 
-wnten of the time. 



ACT m. 

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 villainously ; like a pedant that keeps a 
school i' the church. — have dogged him like his 
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that 
I dropped to betray him : he does smile his face into 
more lines than are in the new map, with the aug- 
mentation of the Indies^ . You have not seen such a 
thing as H is ; I can hardly forbear hurling things at 
him. I know, my lady will strike him : if she rfo, 
he ^11 smile, and take 't for a great favour. 

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. [Exeunt. 

SCENE HI.— 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 farther chide you. 

Ant. I could not stay behind you : my desire, 
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 
And not all love to see you, (though so much. 
As might have drawn one to a, longer voyage) 
But jealousy what might 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 argu/nents of fear, 
Set forth Ik your pursuit. 

Seb. My kind Antonio, 

I can no other answer make, but, thanks, 
And thanks, still thanks,* and very' oft good turns 
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay ; 
But, were my wealth*, 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 H is long to night. 
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 

1 A map ennayed forLinsohoten's Voyages, a translation of -vrhioh 
•WW published Hn 1598. A portion, showing its many lines, is en- 
gTBvedin " Knight's Pictorial 8hakeBp«ai«." « The wotds^ "still 
tiutnka," are not in f. e. > ever *. in 1. * Va.!. %. 

so. IV. 



With the memorials, and the things of fame, 
That do renown this city. 

Ant. 'Would, you 'd pardon me : 

I do not without danger walk these streets. 
Once, in a sea-fight 'gainst the county's galleys 
I did some service ; of such note, indeed, 
That, were I ta'en her§, 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 traffick'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, 
I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 

Seb. I '11 be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an 

Ant. To the Elephant.— 

Seb. I do remember. [Eoceunt. 

SCENE IV.— Olivia's Garden. 
Enter Olivia and Maria. 
Oli. 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 possess'd, madam. . 

Oli. Why, what 's the matter ? does he rave ? 
I On. s Grave and foimal. 



ACfT m. 

Mar. No, madam ; he does nothing but smile : your 
ladyship were best to have some guard about you, Lf he 
come, for sure the man is tainted in 's wits. 

01%. Go call him hither. [Exit Maria.^] — am u 
mad as he, 
If sad and merry madness equal be. — 

Enter Malvolio and Maria.* 
How now, Malvolio? 

Mai. Sweet lady, ha, ha ! [Smiles ridiculously. 

OK. SmiPstthou? 
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 

Med. Sad, lady? I could be sad. This does make 
some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering ; but 
what of that ? if it please the eye of one, it is with me 
as the very true sonnet hath it, Please one, and please 

OH. 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 conmiands shaU 
be executed : I think we do know the sweet Roman 

OH. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? 

Mai. To bed ? ay, sweet-heart, and I '11 come to thee. 

OH. 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 

Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness 
before my lady? 

Mai. "Be not afraid of greatness:" — 'Twas well 

OH. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio ? 
Mai. " Some are bom great," — 
OH. Ha? 

Mai. " Some achieve greatness," — 
OH. What say'st thou ? 

Mai. " And some have greatness thrust upon them." 
OH. Heaven restore thee ! 

Mai. " Remember, who commended thy yellow 
stockings ;" — 

' Not in f. e. ^ JEnttr M-ALVOiao ; liv i. ^ TckSt^ «sl qU 
Udlad'tunej caUed Black vaU -^aWoir 

sc. IV. 



on. Thy yellow stockings ? 

Mai. " And wished to see thee cross-gartered." 

OIL Cross-gartered? 

Mai. Go to : thou art made, if thou desirest to he 

OH. Am I made? 

Mai. If not, let me see thee a servant still." 

OH. 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. 

OH. 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. Oh, ho ! do you come near me now ? no worse 
man than sir Toby to look to me? This concurs 
directly with the letter : she sends him on purpose, that 
I may appear stubborn to him for she incites me to 
that in the letter. Cast thy humble slough," says 
she; — "be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser- 
vants, — let thy tongue tang with arguments of state, — 
put thyself into the trick of singularity:" — and conse- 
quently 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 incred- 
ulous 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 Belch, and Fabian. 

Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? 
If all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion 
himself possess him, yet V 11 speak to him. 

Fab. Here he is, here he is. — ^How is 't with you, sir ? 
how is 't with you, man ? 

' Taken in the old sense of companioii. 

Vol. JII.—25 


AOf IB. 

Mai, GrO off; I discard you : let me enjoy my privacy: 
go off. 

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him ! 
did not I tell you ? — Sir Toby, my lady prays you to 
have a care of him. 

Mai. Ah, ha ! does she so ? 

Sir To. Go to, go to : peace ! peace ! we must deal 
gently with him ; let me alone. — How do you, Malvo- 
lio ? how -is 't with you ? What, man ! defy the devil : 
consider, he 's an enemy to mankind. 

Mai. Do you know what you say ? 

Mar. La, you ! an you speak ill of the devil, how he 
takes it at heart. Pray God, he be not bewitched ! 

Fab. Carry his water to the* wise woman. 
' Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morn- 
ing, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more 
than I '11 say. 

Mai. How now, mistress ? 

Mar. lord ! 

Sir To. Pr'ythee, hold thy peace : this is not the 
way. Do you not see you move him ? let ma alone 
with hira. 

Fab. No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the 
fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. 

Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, 
chuck ? 

Mai. Sir! 

Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with n?e. What, man ! H is 
not for gravity to play at cherry-pit* with Satan. Hang 
him, foul collier ! 

Mar. Get him to say his prayers ; good sir Toby, get 
him to pray. 

Mai. My prayers, minx ! 

Mar. No, I warrant you; he will not hear of godli- 

Mai. 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. 

» Played by pitching oYietrf-itouwVuVi 

sc. IV. 



Mar, Nay, pursue hira now, lest the device taKe air, 
and taint. 

Fah. 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 
mad : we may carry it thus, for our pleasure, and his 
penance, till our very pastime,, tired out of breath, 
prompts us to have mercy on him ; at which time, we 
will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a 
finder of madmen. But see, but see. * 
Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 

Fab. More matter for a May morning. 

Sir And. Here 's the challenge ; read it : J warrant, 
there 's vinegar and pepper in 't. 

Fab. Is H so saucy? 

Sir And. Ay, is 't, I warrant him : do but read. 
Sir To. Give me. [Reads.] " Youth ; whatsoever 
thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow." 
Fab. Good, and valiant. * 

Sir^To. " Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, 
why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason 

Fab. A good note, that keeps you from the blow of 
the law. 

Sir To. " Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my 
sight she uses thee kindly : but thou liest in thy throat; 
that is not the matter I challenge thee for." 

Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense-less. 

Sir To. "I will way-lay thee going home; where, if 
it be thy chance to kill me," — 

Fab. Good. 

Sir To. Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain." 

Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good. 

Sir To. " Fare thee well ; and God have mercy upon 
one of our souls ! He may have mercy upon mine ; 
but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy 
friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, 
Andrew Ague-cheek." 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 oonunerce with my lady, and will by and 
by depart. 

Sir To. Go tOj sir Andrew ; bcouI tftft fet tos\. ^Jcl^ 


twelfth-night: or, 

ACT in. 

comer of the orchard, like a bum-hailie. 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 ter- 
ror in the youth : he will find it comes from a clodpole. 
But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth ; 
set upon Ague-che^k 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 

Fab. Refe 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. 

[ExeurU Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maru. 
Re-enter Olivia, with Viola. 

Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of stone. 
And laid mine honour too unchary on H. 
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. 
Go on my master's griefs. 

OH. Here ; wear this jewel for me : 't is my picture. 
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you ; 
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow. 
What shall you ask of me, that I '11 deny, 
That, honour sav'd, may 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. 

0/i. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well : 
A Send like thee might \)ear my bo\\V \¥lxVx. 

■0. IV. 



Re-enter Sir Toby Belch, and Fabian. 
Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee. 
Vio. And you, sir. 

Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee to 't: 
of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I 
know not ; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody 
as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dis- 
mount 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 

Vio. I pray you, sir. what is he ? 

Sir To. He is a knight, dubbed with unhatch'd* 
rapier, and on carpet consideration.* but he is a devil 
in a private brawl : souls and bodies hath he divorced 
three, and his incensement at this moment is so im- 
placable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of 
death and sepulchre. Hob, nob,* is his word ; give 't, 
or take H. 

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 undertake that with me, which with as 
much safety you might answer him : therefore, on, strip 
your sword stark naked ; for meddle you must, that *fl 
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 neg- 
ligence, nothing of my purpose. 

1 Rapier. * Nimble. * Vhhaeked. ♦ Referring to carpet-knights, 
or titoee who were not dabbed on the field oi \>e.X\.\e^ ox Vst «Rirvv^« 
'A corruption of Aap^ or ne hay. 



twelfth-night: oe, 

ACT m. 

Sir To. I will do bo. Signior Fabian, stay you by 
this gentleman till my return. [Exit Sir Toby. 

Vio. Pray you. sir, do you know of this matter ? 

Fob. I know, the knight is incensed against you, 
even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the cir- 
cumstance more. 

Vio. I beseech you, what manner of man is he ? 

FcA. 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 skil- 
ful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly 
have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk to- 
wards 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 would 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 hanging back.^ 

Sir To. Why, man, he's a very devil, I have not 
Been 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. 

Sir And. Plague on't; an I thought he had been 
valiant, and so cunning in fence, I 'd have seen him 
damned ere I 'd have challenged him. Let him let 
the matter slip, and I '11 give him my horse, grey 

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 aTid Viola, unwillingly.* 
I have his horse [To Fab.] to take up the quarrel. I 
have persuaded him, the youth 's a devil. 

Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him; [To Sir 
Toby] and pants, and looks pale, as if a bear were at 
his heels. 

' The words ^'•hanging back," ai% uol iivt. *T\>i%'««^Ssk^<A. 
tddid in f. e. 

so. IV. 



Sir To. There 's no remedy, sir : [To Viola] he will 
fight with you for 's oath sake. Marry, he hath bet- 
ter 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, j 
he will not hurt you. Come on ; to 't. 

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. [Drawhig. 
Sir To. You. sir ? why, what are you ? 
Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more. 
Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. 

Fab. 0, 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 pro- 
mised you, I '11 be as good as my word. He will bear 
you easily, and reins well. 

1 Off. This is the man : do thy office. 

2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 
Of count Orsino. 

Afit. You do mistake me, sir. 

1 Off. No, sir, no jot : I know your favour well, 
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. — 
Take him away : he knows, I know him well. 

Ant. I must obey. — [To Viola.] This comes with 

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his ' 

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

[They draw, and 
go back from 
each other. Y 

Enter Officers. 


seeking you ; 

1 Prates : in i. e. 



ACT m. 

Bat thm 's no remedy : I shall answer it. 

What will you do ? Now my necessity 

Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me 

Much more for what I cannot do for you, 

Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz'd, 

But be of comfort. 

2 Off. Come, sir, away. 

Aid. I must entreat of you some of that money. 

Fto. 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 Ul 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. 

Fto. 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. 

Ami. 0, heavens themselves ! 

2 Off. Come, sir : I pray you, go. [see here. 

Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth, that you 
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death ; 
Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love, 
And to his image, which, methought, did promise 
Most veritable* worth, did I devotion. 

1 Off. What 's that to us ? The time goes by : away ! 

Ant. But, 0, 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'erflourishM by the devil. 

1 Off. The man grows mad : away with him ! 
Oome, come, sir. 

sc. I. 



Ant. Lead me on. [Exeunt Officers^ with Antonio. 

Vio. Methinks, his words do from such passion fly, 
That he believes himself ; so do not I. 
Prove true, imagination, ! 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 nam'd Sebastian : I my brother know 
Yet living in my glass ; even such, and so. 
In favour was my brother ; and he went 
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, 
For him I imitate. ! if it prove, 
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love ! [Exit. 

Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a 
coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears, in leaving 
his friend here in necessity, and denying him ] and for 
his cowardship, ask Fabian. [it. 

Fah. A coward, a most devout coward : religious in 

Sir And. 'Slid, I '11 after him again, and beat him. 

Sir To. Do ; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy 

Sir And. An I do not, — [Exit. 

Fab. Gome, let 's see the event. 

Sir To. I dare lay any money 't will be nothing yet. 



SCENE I.— The Street before Olivia's House. 

Enter Sebastian and Clown. 
Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not sent 
for you ? 

Seh. Go to, go to ; thou art a foolish fellow : 
Let me be clear of thee. 

Ch. 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. 

Seh I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else : 
Tbon kDow^st not me. 




Clo. Vent my folly ! He has heard that word of 
some ^eat man, and now applies it to a fool. Tent 
my folly ! I am afraid this great lubherly world* will 
proTe a cockney. I pr'ythee now. ungird thy strange- 
ness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall 
I yent to her that thou art coming ? 

Seb. I pr'ythee, 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, 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. [Striking SEbASTiAN. 

Seb. Why, there 's for thee, and there, and there. — 
Are all the people mad ? [Beating Sir Andrew. 

Sir To. Hold, sir, or I '11 throw your dagger o'er the 

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not 
be in some of your coats for two-pence. [Eocit Clown. 

Sir To. Come on, sir : hold ! [Holding Sebastian. 

Sir And. Nay, let him alone ; I '11 go another way 
to work .with him: I'll have an action of battery 
against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I 
struck him first ; yet it 's no matter for that. 

Seb. Let go thy hand. 

Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my 
young soldier, put up your iron : you are well fleshed. 
Come on. 

Seb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou 
now ? [Breaking away.* 

If thou dar'st tempt me farther, draw thy sword. 

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

[They draw and fence. ^ 
Enter Olivia. 
OH. Hold, Toby ! on thy life, I charge thee, hold ! 
Sir To. Madam— 

OH. Will it be ever thus ? Ungracious wretch ! 

> this great lubber, the vorld : in f. e. > foolish and merry Greek, 
ware terms applied to jocular persons. > This wa« a high (tw^^lre 
being the usual) late oi ]^\itcV«&ft.— YeTplaaclc. ^^^^ va. f. a. 
* Draws : in f. e. 

Ba IT. 


Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous cares, 
Where manners ne'er were preached. Out of my 

sight ! — 
Be not offended, dear Cesario.— 
Rudesby, be gone ! — I pr'ythee, gentle friend, 

[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabun. 
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 
May'st 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 pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be 
ruPd by me ! 

Seb. Madam, I will. 

OH, ! say so, and so be. 


SCENE II.— A Room in Olivia's House. 
Enter Maria and Clown. 
Mar. Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown, and this 
beard : make him believe thou art sir Topas, the cu- 
rate : do it quickly ; I '11 call sir Toby the whilst. 

[Exit Maria. 

Clo. Well, I '11 put it on, and I will dissemble my- 
self in 't : and I would I were the first that ever dis- 
sembled in such a gown. [Putting it on.*] 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 
eompetitors' enter. 

Enter Sir Toby Belch 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^ 
' Noiin f. «. a LuHy^ «<mt. > C<m/edkT«U«. 




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. 

[Opening a door} 

Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good 

Mai. [Within.] Who calls there? 

Clo. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Mal- 
volio the lunatic. 

Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, good sir Topas. go to my 

C/o. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou this 
man. Talkest thou nothing but of ladies ? 

Sir To. Well said, master parson. 

3ial. 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 Sathan ! I call thee by the 
most modest terms ; for I am one of those gentle ones, 
that will use the devil himself virith courtesy. Say'st 
thou that house is dark ? 

Mai. As hell, sir Topas. 

Clo. Why, it hath bay-windows transparent as bar- 
ricadoes, and the clear stories' towards the south-north 
are 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 dark- 
ness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled 
than the Egyptians in their fog. 

Mai. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though 
ignorance were as dark as hell ; and I say, there was 
never man thus abused. I am no more mad than 
you are ; make the trial of it in any constant ques- 

Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning 

Mat. That the soul of our grandam might haply in- 
habit a bird. 

Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 

Not in' f. e. > Tlie oleie-storf of «. cVvxtc^Vv^ xtj^ ^r*lL 
above the aiilei, haying ge&enXly «.to^ ol toi^otw*. 

80. II. WHAT YOU WILL. 801 

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. [Closing the door} 

Mai. Sir Topas ! sir Topas ! — 

Sir To. My most exquisite sir Topas. 

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 all well 
rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently deli- 
vered, I would he were ; for I am now so far in offenca 
with my niece, that I cannot pursue with any safety 
this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my cham- 
ber. [Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria. 

Ch. " Hey Robin, jolly Robin, 

Tell me how thy lady does."* [Singing. 

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 ? 

[Opening the door.^ 

Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at 
my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. 
As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee 
for H. 

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, send ministers to me, asses ! and do all they 
can to face me out of my wits. 

I Not ia i.e. » This ballad may fouud ixk. "Pwef * 
*Notin f. e. * TaJr«n ponenion of. 

Vol. UL—26 


Clo. Advise yon what you say : the minister is here. 
[Speaking as sir Topas}] — Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits 
the heavens restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, and 
leave thy vain bibhle babble. 

Mai. Sir Topas, — 

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow.— 
Who, I, sir ? not I, sir. God b' wi^ you, good sir 
Topas. — Marry, amen. — I will, sir, I virill. 

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 Ill>Tia. 

Clo. Weil-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 Ul ne'er believe a madman, till I see his 
brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. 

'Mai. Fool, I '11 requite it in the highest degree : I 
pr'ythee, be gone. 

Clo. [Singing. y lam gone, sir, 
And anon, sir, 
lUl be with you again, 
With* a trice, 
Like the^ old vice*, 
Your need to sustain; 

Who with dagger of lath, 
In his rage aria his wrath, 

Cries ^ Ah^ ha ! to the devil: 
Like a mad ladj 
Pare thy nails, dad, 
Adieu, goodman driveP, [Exit. 

1 Not in f. e. a Rebuked. « Not in f. e. * In: in f. e. » To the^ 
in f. e. « A oharacter in the early English drama. ? dtvU: 
in f. e. 

go. m. YO0 WILL. M3 

SCENE III.— Olivia's Garden. 
Enter Sebastian. 

Seb. This is the air ; that is the glorious sun; 
This pearl she gave me, I do feel 't, and see *t ; 
And ^ough 't is wonder that enwraps me thns. 
Yet 't is not madness. Where 's Antonio then ? 
I could not find him at the Elephant ; 
Yet there he was, and there I found 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 't were so, 
She could not sway her house, command her followers, 
Take, and give back, and thus despatch affairs. 
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. 
. EfUer Olivia cmd a Priest. 

Oli. 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? 

Seh. I '11 follow this good man, and go with you, 
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true. 

on. Then lead the way, good father ; and heavens 
80 shine. 

That they may fairly note this act of mine ! [Exeunt, 





SCENE I.— The Street before Olivia's House. 

Enter Clown and Fabian. 

Fab. Now, as thou lov'st 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, and Attendants. 

Duke. Belong you to the lady Olivia, friends ? 

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 y so that, con- 
clusions 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. [Giving money. ^ 

Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I 
would you could make it another. 

Duke. ! you give me ill counsel. 

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this 
once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 

DfJce. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a 
double dealer : there 's another. 

Clo. Prima, secundo, tertio, is a good play ; and the 
old saying is, the third pays for all : the triplet', sir, is 

00. T. 



a good tripping measure ; or the bells of St. Bennet, 
sir, may put you in mind— one, two, three. 

DvJce. 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. [Exit Chum. 

Enter Antonio and Officers. 

Vio Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. 

Duke. That face of his I do remember well ; 
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd. 
As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war. 
A bawbling vessel was he captain of. 
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable. 
With which such scathful grapple did he make 
With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 
That very envy, and the tongue of loss. 
Cried fame and honour on him. — ^What 's the matter ? 

1 Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio, 
That took the Phcenix, 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, 
Biit, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me ; 
I know not what 't was, 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. Orsine. noble sir. 

Be i^as'd that I shake off these names you give me : 
Antonio never yet was thief, or pirate, 
Thou^, I eonfess, on basd and ground enough, 
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither : 
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side. 
From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mou4ii 
Did I redeem : a wreck past hope he was. 

' From tk« 8&xon dere, 





His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
My love, without retention, or restraint, 
All his in dedication : for his sake, 
Did I expose myself, pure for his love, 
Into the danger of this adverse town ; 
Drew to defend him, when he was beset : 
Where being apprehended, his false cunning 
(Not meaning to partake with me in danger) 
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance*, 
And grew a twenty-years-removed thing. 
While one would wink ; denied me mine own purse, 
Which I had recommended to his use 
Not half an hour before. 
^ Vio. How can this be ? 

Dfike. When came he to this town ? 

Ant. To-day, my lord ; and for three months before, 
No interim, not a minute's vacancy, 
Both day and night did we keep company. 

Enter Olivia and Attendants. 

Duke. Here comes the countess : now heaven walks 
on earth ! — 

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness: 
Three months this youth hath tended upon me ; 
But more of that anon. — ^Take him aside. 

OH. What would my lord, but that he may not have, 
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? — 
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 

Vio. Madam? 

Duke. Gracious Olivia, — 

OH. What do you say, Cesario ? — Good my lord, — 

Vio. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me. 

OH. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, — 
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear, 
As howling after music. 

Duke. Still so cruel ? 

OH. Still so constant, lord. 

Duke. What, to perverseness ? you uncivil lady, 
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars 
My soul the faithfulPst offerings hath breath'd out. 
That e'er devotion tendered. What shall I do? 

OH. Even what it please my lord, that shall become 

Duke. Why should 1 not, laaA. 1 \Yie to do it^ 
Like to the Egyptian thiei ipomX oi ^^^\Jcl^ 

sc. I. 



Kill what I love ?^ a savage jealousy, 

That sometimes savours nobly. — But hear me this : 

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 

And that I partly know the instrument 

That screws me from my true place in your favour, 

Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still ; 

But this your minion, whom, I know, you love, 

And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly. 

Him will I tear out of that cruel eye. 

Where he sits crowned in his masters spite. — 

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. [Going, 

Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, 
To do you rest a thousand deaths would die. [Follcywing, 

Oli. Where goes Oesario ? 

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 -vsitnesses above 
Punish my life for tainting of my love ! 

Oli. Ah me ! detested ? how am I beguil'd ! 

Vio. Who does beguile you ? who does do you wrong? 

Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? [s it so long ? — 
Call forth the holy father. [Exit an Attendant. 

Duke. Come away. [To Viola. 

Oli. Whither, my lord ? — Cesario, husband, stay. 

Duke. Husband? 

Oli. Ay. husband : can he that deny ? 

Duke. Her husband, sirrah? 

Vio. No, my lord, not I. 

Oli. Alas ! it is the baseness of thy fear, 
That makes thee strangle thy propriety. 
Fear not, Cesario : take thy fortunes up ; 
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art 
As great as that thou fear'st.--0, welcome, father ! 

Re-enter Attendant with the Priest. 
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence. 
Here to unfold (though lately we intended * 
To keep in darkness, what occasion now 
Reveals before 't is ripe), what thou dost know, 
Hath newly past between this youth and me. 

> Thyaniis, in the Greek romance, the " EtYiioipW ^«\v^i4.WM^ 
tntulsted into EngliBh neax the end ot the ftvx\Aeu\\i <&«TL\.ur; . 


twelfth-sight: or, 

Priest. A contract and^ eternal bond of love, 
Confinn'd by mutual joinder of your bands, 
Attested by the holy close of lips. 
Strengthened by interchangement of your rings ; 
And all the ceremony of this compad; 
SeaPd in my function, by my testimony : 
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave 
I have travelled but two hours. 

Ihike. 0, thou dissembling cub ! what wilt thou be, 
When time hath sow'd a grizzle cm 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, — 

OH. O ! do not swear : 

Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. 
Enter Sir Andrew Aoue-cheek, toith his head broken. 

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon ! send one 
presently to Sir Toby. 

OH. 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. 

OH. Who has done this, sir Andrew ? 

Sir And. The count's gentleman, one Cesario. We 
took him for a coward, but he 's the very devil inear- 

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 Belch, drunk, led by the Clown. 
Here comes sir Toby halting : you shall hear more : 
but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled 
you othergates than he did. 

Luke. How now, gentlftmoa*, Ww ia 't with, you ? 

80. L 



Sir To. That's all one : he has hurt me, and there 's 
the end on 't. — Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot ? 

Clo. 01 he 's drunk, sir Tohy, an hour agpne : 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 cox- 
comb, and a knave ! a thin-faced knave, a gull ! 

Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to. 

[Exeunt Clown. Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew. 
Enter Sebastian (all start^). 

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 nae, 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 ! 0, my dear Antonio ! 
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd 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 ? 

Oli. Most wonderful ! 

Seb. Do I stand there ? I never had a brother ; 
Nor can there be that deity in my nature. 
Of here and every where. I had a sister, 
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.— 
[To Viola.] Of charity, what kin are you to me ? 
What countryman ? what name ? what parentage ? 

Vio. Of Messaline : Sebastian was my father ; 

* The jNzvt'n, or ptaeoek danee^ wm glow and heavy ; the passa 
nuzzo, was a formiil step. > " all start^'** not in f. e. ^ A picture 
painted on a board, so ent as to present a different appearance when 
looked At in front or at the side. 




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. 

8eb. ♦ A spirit I am indeed ; 

But am in that dimension grossly clad, 
Which from the womb I did participate. 
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, 
And say — ^thrice welcome, drowned Viola ! 

Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 

Seb. And so had mine. 

Vio. And died that day, when Viola from her birth 
Had numbered thirteen years. 

Seb. ! 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's in this town. 
Where lie my maiden weeds ; by whose gentle help 
I was preserved to serve this noble count. 
All the occurrence of my fortune since 
Hath been between this lady, and this lord. 

Seb. So comes it, lady, [To Olivia.] you have been 
mistook ; 

But nature to her bias true* in that. 
You would have been contracted to a maid, 
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived : 
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man. 

DtJce. Be not amaz'd ; right noble is his blood. — 
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, 
I shall have share in this most happy wreck. 
Boy, [To Viola.] thou hast said to me a thousand times, 
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 

Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear, 
And all those swearings keep as true in soul, 
As doth that orbed continent, the fire 
That severs day from night. 

Puke. Giy^ thy hand \ 

^ di%\T \ int. 

90. I. 


And let me see thee in thy troman's weeds. 

Fto. The captain, that did hring me first on shore, 
Hath my maid's garments : he, upon some action, 
Is now in durance at Malvolio's suit, 
A gentleman, and follower of my lady's. 

OH, He shall enlarge him. — Fetch Malvolio hithw ; — '* 
And yet, alas ! now I remember me. 
They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract. 
A most distracting* frenzy of mine own 
From my remembrance clearly bauish'd his. — 

Re-enter Clown, with a letter. 
How does he, sirrah ? 

Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at the stave's 
end. as well as a man in his case may do. He has here 
writ a letter to you : I should have given it you to-day 
morning ] but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, 
BO it skills' not much when they are delivered. 

OH. Open it, and read it. 

Clo. hook then to be well edified, when the fool de- 
livers the madman: — [iJeocis.] "By the^'Lord, ma- 
dam," — 

OH. 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 

OH, Pr'ythee, 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. 

OH. Read it you, sirrah. [To Fabian. 

Fah. [Reads.] ''By the Lord, madam, you wrong 
me, and the world shall know it : though you have put 
me into darkness, and given your dmnken cousin rule 
over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well ^ 
your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced 
me to the semblance I put on : with the which I doubt 
not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. 
Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little 
unthought of, and speak out of my injury. 

" The madly-used Malvolio.'* 

OH. Did he write this? 

Clo, Ay, madam. 

Duke, This savours not much of distraction. 
^ extracting : ia f. e. > SigN^* 



OH. See him deliver'd, Fabian : bring him hither. 

[Exit Fabian. 

My lord, so please you, these things farther thought on, 
To think me as well a sister as a wife, 
One day shall crown the alliance, and* so please you, 
Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 

Duke. Madam, I am most apt t' embrace your offer. — 
[To Viola.] Your master quits you; and for your ser- 
vice done him, 
So much against the mettle of your sex, 
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding. 
And since you call'd me master for so long. 
Here is my hand ; you shall from this time be 
Your master's mistress. 

OH. A sister : you are she. 

Re-enter Fabian, with Malvolio,' vdth straw about Aim, 
as from prison. 

Duke. Is this the madman ? 

OH. Ay, my lord, this same. 

How now, Malvolio ? 

Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong, 

Notorious wrong. 

OH. 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, 't is not your seal, nor your invention : 
You can say none of this. Weli, 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 suffered me to be imprisoned, 
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest. 
And made the most notorious geck^ and gull, 
That e'er invention play'd on ? tell me why. 

OH. Alas ! Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
Though, I confess, much like the character ; 
But, out of question, h is Maria's hand : 
And now I do bethink me, it was she 

1 the alliance on H : in i. «. ^ tetsX til ^Cfi^a iSowM^vb. not in 
f. a. » Object of »com% 




First told me thou WMt mad ; thon^ cam'st in smiling, 
And in such forms which here were preimpos'd' 
Upon thee in the letter. Pr'ythee, be content : 
This practice hath most shrewdly pa£s'd upon thee ; 
But when we l^now the grounds and authors of it, 
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge 
Of thine own cause. 

Fab. Good madam, hear me Bj^ek ; 

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to confte. 
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 followed, 
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, 
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd. 
That have on both sides past. 

OH. Alas, poor soul,' how have they baffled thee ! 

Clo. Why " some are bwn great, some achieve 
greatness, and some have greatness thrust* upon them." 
I was one. sir, in this interlude ; one sir Topas, sir ; 
but that 's all one. — " By the Lord, fool, I am not mad 
— ^But do you remember ? " Madam, why laugh you 
at such a barren rascal ? an you smile not, he 's gagg'd 
And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 

Mai. J '11 be reveng'd on the whole pack of you. [Exit. 

OH. He hath been most notoriously abus'd. 

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 : — mean time, 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. 

» then: inf. e. » presupposed : in f. e. 8fool:inf.6. *tlirown: 
inf. e. 

Vol. in.— 27 


Clown singSj^ to pipe and tabor. 

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, the wind and the rain, 

^Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came, alas ! to wive. 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

For tne rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came unto my bed. 

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 

With toss-pots still had drunken head, 
For the rain it raineth every day, 

A great while ago the world begun, 
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 

But that ^s all one, our play is done. 

And we HI strive to please you every day. 

1 The rest of tMs direction not in f e. not in f. e. 


could I never thrive, 


"The Winter's Tale'' was first printed in folio in 1628, 
where it occupies twenty-seven pages, from p. 277 to 808, 
and is the last in the division of " Comedies." Tlie back 
of p. 803 ia left blank and unpaged. The later folios adopt 
the same arrangement. 


LiTTLB doabt can be entertained, that " The Winter's Tale " 
was produced at the Globe, very soon after that theatre had 
been opened for what might be called the summer season in 
1611. In the winter, as has been well ascertained, the king's 
plavers performed at ''the private house in Black-friars," 
and they usually removed to the Globe, which was open to 
the sky, late in the spring. 

Three pieces of evidence tend to the conclusion, that " The 
"Winter's Tale " was brought out early in 1611 : the jSrst of 
these has never until now been adduced, and it consists of 
the following entir in the account of the Master of the Bevels, 
Sir George Bnc, from the 81st of October, 1611, to the same 
day, 1612:— 

" The 6th of November : A play called the winters 
nightes Tayle." 
No author's name is mentioned, but the piece was represented 
at Whitehall, by " the king's players^" as we jSnd stated in 
the margin, and there can be no hesitation in deciding that 
" The Winter's Night's Tayle " was Shakespeare's " Winter's 
Tale." The fact of its i)erformance has been established by 
Mr. Peter Cunningham, in his valuable work, entitled, Ex- 
tracts from the Accounts of the Bevels at Court," 8vo, 1842j 
printed for the Shakespeare Society^ " The Winter's Tale '» 
was probably selected on account of its novelty and popu- 

The second piece of evidence on this point has also reoent- 

1 From the Introduction to the game work, we find that " The 
Winter's Tale " was also represented at court on Easter Tuesday, 

s The expenses of eleven other plays are included in the same ao* 
count, viz. -'The Tempest," "King and no King," "The City Gal- 
lant," " The Almanack," " The Twins' Tragedy," " Cupid^s Re- 
venge," "The Silver Age," "Lucretia," "The Nobleman," "Hy- 
men's Holiday," and " The Maid's Tragedy." At most^ only one of 
these had been printed before they were thus acted, and some of them 
never came from the press " The Nobleman," by Cyril Tourneur, 
was entered at Stationers' Hall for publication on 15th February, 
1611. " Lucretia" may have been a different play from Hey wood's 
" Rape of Lucrece," which bears date in 1606 : if so, there is no ex- 
ception, and all that came from the press at any period were printed 
subsequently to 1611-12, the earliest in 1613, and the latest in 1655. 
Hence a strong inference mav be drawn, that they were all drieimas 
which had been recommended for court-performance by their novelty 
*ad popularity. ^ 



)y oome to liffht. It is contained in a MS. Diary, or Note- 
book, kept by Dr. Simon Forman, (MSS. Ashm. 208.) in 
whicti, under date of the 15th May, 1611, he states that he 
saw " The Winter's Tale" at tlie Globe Theatre : this was the 
May precedlnfiT the representation of it at Court on the 5th 
November. He gives the following brief account of the plot, 
which ingeniously includes all the mean incidents : — 

** Observe there how Leontos, king of Sicilia, waa overcome 
with jealousy of his wife with the king of Bohemia, his friend 
that came to see him ; and how he contrived hia death, and 
would have had his cupnbearer to have poisoned [him], who 
gave the king of Bohemia warning thereof, and fled with him 
to Bc^emia. Remember, also, how he sent to the oracle of 
Apollo, and the answer of Apollo that abe was guiltless, and 
tbat the king was jealous, &c. ; and how, except the child was 
fbund again that was lost, the kinff ahould die* without issue; 
for the (^lild was carried into Bohemia, and there laid in a 
forest, and brought up by a shepherd ; and the kin^ of Bohe- 
mia's son married that wench, and how thev fled into Sicilia 
to Leontea; and the shepherd having showea the letter of the 
nobleman whom Leontes sent, it was that child, and Thy] the 
jfiwds found about her, she was known to be Leontes'^ daugh- 
tar, and was then sixteen years old. Bemember, also, the 
K^ue that came in aU tattered, like Coll Plnci, and how he 
feigned him sick, and to have been robbed or all he had; and 
kow be cozened the poor man of all his money, and after 
came to the sheep-sheer with a pedlar's packe. and there 
Hotened them again of all their money. And how he changed 
apparel with the king of Bohemia's son, and then how he 
turned courtier, <feo. Beware of trusting feigned beggars or 
&wning fellows." 

We have reason to think that " The Winter's Tale '^ was in 
its first run tm the 16th May, 1611, and that the Globe Thea- 
tfe had not then been long opened for the season. 

The opinion that the play was then a novelty, is stron^y 
oonfirmed by^ the third piece of evidence, which Malone dis- 
covered late in life, and which induced him to relinquish his* 
earlier opinion, that ** The Winter's Tale " was written in 
1604. He found a memorandum in the oflfioe-book of Sir 
Senry Herbert, Master of the Bevels, dated the 19th August, 
1628, in which it was stated that The Winter's Tale." was 
** an old play formerly allowed of by Sir George Buo." Sir 
George Buo was Master of the Bevels from October, 1610, 
until May, 1622. Sir George Buc must, therefore, have 
lioensed "The Winter's Tale" between October, 1610, when 
he was appointed to his office, and May, 1611, when Forman 
saw it at the Globe. 

It might have been composed by Shakespeare in the autumn 
and winter of 1610-11, with a view to its production on the 
Bonk-side, as soon as the usual performances by the King's 
layers oommenoed there. Sir Henry Herbert informs us, 
that when he gave permission to revive " The Winter's Tale " 
ih August 16^8, "tbe aWov-ed book" ^tbot to which Sir 
Gfeoi^e Buc had appended \na fe\g\i«.V0Lt^'^ '''' \£a»iSa\%^^ \k 

IKTRC»>1XCTI0K. S^l©* 

had no doabt beeo defttroved when the €rlobe Theatre wn 
conramcd by fire on 29th Jnne, 1618. 

We have seen that "The Tempest" and "The Winter's 
Tale'' were both acted at Whitenall, and included in Sir 
Qeorjare Buc'b account of the expeunes of the Bevels from 
October, 1611, to October, 1612*. How much older "The 
Tempe!*t" might be than *' The Winter's Tale," we have no 
means of determining ; but there is a circnmstanoe which 
shows that the composition of " The Tempest " was anterior 
to that of " The Winter's Tale ;" and this brings us lo speidc 
of the novel upon which the latter is founded. 

As early as the year 1588, Hobert Greene printed a tract 
called ** Pandosto : The Triumnh of Time," better known aa 
" The History of Dorasius and Fawnia," the title it bore in 
some of the later copies. As far as we now know, it was not 
reprinted untH 1607, and a third impresaion appeared in 1609: 
it afterwards went through many editions*; but it seems not 
unlikely that Shakespeare was directed to it, as a proper sub- 
ject for dramatic representation, by the third impression 
which came out the year before we suppose him to have com- 
menced writing bis Winter's Tale»." In many respects our 
great dramatist follows Greene's story very closely, as may 
bo seen by some of the notes in the course of the play, and 
by the recent republication of " Pandosto " from the unique 
copy of 1588, in '* Shakespeare's Library." There is, how- 
ever, one remarkable variation, which it is necessary to point 
out. Greene says : — 

" The guard left her " (the Queen) " in this perplexitie^ 
and carried the child to the king, who, ouite devoide of pity, 
commanded that without delay it shoula be put in the boat, 
having neither sail nor rudder to guide it, and so to be car- 
ried into the midst of the sea, and there left to the wind and 
wave, as the destinies please to appoint." 

> Thecircumstftnce that The Tempest" and " The Winter's Tale " 
vere both acted at court at this period, and that they might belong to 
nearly the same date of composition, seems to give great additional 
Probability to the opinion, that Ben Jonson alluded to them in the 
ibllowing passage in the Induction to his " Bartholomew Fair." which 
was acted in 1614, while Shakespeare's two plays were still high in 
popular favour : — " If there be never a Servanumonster V the ?Vi»r, 
who can helt> it, he says ? nor a nest of Antieks ? He is loth to make 
nature afraid in his Playes, like those that beget Tales^ Tempests^ 
and such like Drolleries." The Italic type and the capitals are as 
they stand in the original edition in folio, 1631. GiiTord (l^en Jon- 
Eon^s Works, Vol. iv. p. 370) could not be brought to acknowledge 
that the words " Servant-monster," ''Antieks," '"Tales," and "Tem- 
pests," applied to Shakespeare, but with our present information the 
lact seems hardly disputable. 

^ How long it oontinued popular, may be judged from the fact that 
it was printed as a chap-book as recently as the year 1735, when it 
was called " The Fortunate Lovers ; or the History of Dorastus, Prince 
of Sicily, and of Fawnia, only daughter and heir to the King of Bo- 
hemia," 12mo. 

* In a note ^ipon a passage in Act iii. se. 3, a reason is assigned for 
thinking that Snakespeare did not employ the first edition of tireene^s 
MnJ, but in aiJ probabiUty ihiX of 1606. 


The child thus " left to the wind and wave " is the Perdita 
of Shakespeare, who describeft the way in which the infant 
was exposed very differently, and probably for this reason: — 
that in The Tempest " he* had previously (perhaps not long 
before) represented Prosper© and Miranda turned adrift at 
sea in the same manner as Greene had stated his heroine to 
have been disposed of. When, therefore, Shakespeare came 
to write The Winter's Tale," instead of following Greene, 
as he had usually done in other minor circumstances, he 
varied from the original narrative, in order to avoid an objec- 
tionable similarity of incident in his two dramas. It is true, 
that in the conclusion Shakespeare has also made important 
and most judicious changes in the story; since nothing could 
well be more revoking than for Panclosto (who answers to 
Leontes) first to fall dotingly in love with his own daughter, 
and afterwards to commit suicide. The termination to which 
our great dramatist brings the incidents is at onco striking, 
natural, and beautiful, and is an equal triumph of judgment 
and power. 

It is, perhaps, singular that Malone. who observed upon 
the " involved parenthetical sentences " prevailing in ** The 
Winter's Tale," did not in that very peculiarity find a proof 
that it must have been one of Shakespeare's later productions. 
In the Stationers' Registers there is no earlier entry of it than 
that of Nov. 8, 1628, when the Dublication of the first folio 
was contemplated by Blount ana Jaggard : it originally ap- 
peared in that volume, where it is regularly divided into Acts 
and Scenes: the " Wynter's Nighte's Pastime," noticed in 
the registers under date of May 22, 1594, must have been a 
different work. If any proof of the kind were wanted, we 
learn from two lines in " Dido, Queen of Carthage," by Mar- 
lowe and Nash, 1594, 4to, that a winter's tale " was a then 
current phrase : — 

" Who would not undergoe all kinde of toyle 
To be well stor'd with such a winter^s tale?^^ Sign. D. 3 b. 

In representing Bohemia to be a maritime country, Shake- 
speare adopted the popular notion, as it had been encouraged 
smce 1588 by Greene's " Pandosto." With regard to the pre- 
vailing ignorance of geography, the subsequent passage from 
John Taylor's •* Travels to Prague in Bohemia," a journey per- 
formed Dv him in 1620, shows that the satirical writer did not 
consider it strange that an alderman of London was not aware 
that a fleet of ships could not arrive at a port of Bohemia : — 
" I am no sooner eased of him, but Gregory Gandei^oose, an 
Alderman of Gotham, catches me by the goll, demanding if 
Bohemia be a great town, and whether there be any meat in 
it, and whether the last fleet of ships be arrived th^re." It 
is to be observed, that Shakespeare reverses the scene of 
" Pandosto," and repre.<»ent8 as passing in Sicily, what Greene 
had made to occur in Bohemia. In several places he more 
verbally followed Greene in this play than he did even Lodge 
in "As You Like It;" "bultVvft aetvw«\ NwcSsXAftn* «x«^eater 
firom Pandosto" tJuai from *^"B«esiSc3ix<\».^'' ^JtosJiMK^wK^ 



does not adopt one of the appellations given by Greene ; and 
it may be noticed that, jut^t anterior to the time of our poet, 
the name he assigns to the Queen of 'Leontes had been em- 
ployed as that of a male character : in ^* The rare Triumphs 
of Love and Fortune," acted at court in 1681-2, and printed 
in 1589, Hermione is the lover of the heroine. 

** The idea of this delightfnl drama " (i»ays Coleridge in his 
Lit. Rem. vol. ii. p. 250) is a genuine jealousy of disposition, 
and it should be immediately followed by the perusal of 
* Othello,' which is the direct contrast of it in every particu- 
lar. For jealousy is a vice of the mind, a culpable tendency 
of temper, having certain well known and well defined eflFects 
and concomitants, all of which are visible in Leontes, and I 
boldly say, not one of which marks its presence in Othello : — 
such as, first, an excitability by the most inadequate causes, 
and an eagerness to snatch at proofs ; secondly, a grossnese 
of conception, and a disposition to degrade the object of the 
passion W sensual fancies and images ; thirdly, a sense of 
shame of his own feelings exhibited in a solitary moodiness 
of humour, and yet from the violence of the passion forced to 
utter itselfj and therefore catching occasions to ease the mind 
by ambiguities, and equivoqjaes, by talking to those who can- 
not, and who are known not to be able to understand what 
is said to them ; in short, by soliloquy in the form of dialogue, 
and hence a confused, broken, and fragmentary manner ; 
fourthly, a dread of vulgar ri^oule, as distinct from a high 
sense of honour, or a mistaken sense of duty ; and lastly, and 
immediately consequent on this, a spirit of selfish vindictive- 

In his lectures in 1815, Coleridge dwelt on the " not easily 
jealous " frame of Othello's mind, and on the art of the great 
poet in working upon his generous and unsuspecting nature : 
ne contrasted the characters of Othello^ and Leontes in this 
respect, the latter from predisposition requiring no such ma- 
lignant instigator as lago. 


Leont£s, King of Sicilia. 
Mamillius, young Prince of Sicilia. 

Lords of Sicilia. , 

Dion, J 

RoGERO, a Gentleman of Sicilia. 
Officers of a Court of Judicature. 
PoLiXENES, King of Bohemia. 
Florizel, Prince of Bohemia. 
Archidamus, a Lord of Bohemia. 
A Mariner. 

An old Shepherd, reputed Father of Perdita. 

Clown, his Son. 

Servant to the old Shepherd. 

AuTOLYcus, a Rogue. 

Time, the Chorus. 

Hermione, Queen to Leontes. 

Perdita, Daughter to Leontes and Hermione. 

Paulina, Wife to Antigonus. 

Emilia, a Lady attending the Queen. 

D^ZX } Shepherdesses. 

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Satyrs, Shepherds, 
Shepherdesses, Guards, &c. 

SCENE, sometimes in Sicilia, sometimes in Bohemia. 



SCENE I. — Sicilia. An Antechamber in Leontes' 

Enter Gamillo and Archidamus. 

Arch. If you should 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 kitig 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 ; flfr, indeed, — 

Cam. Beseech you, — 

Arch. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my know- 
ledge : 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 insuffi- 
cience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little 
accuse us. 

Cam. You pay a great deal too dear for what 's given 

Arch. Believe me, I speak as my understanding in- 
structs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance. 

Cam. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohe- 
mia. They were trained together in thei^; childhoods ; 
and there rooted betwixt them then such an afiTection, 
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 so* royally attomey'd, with 
interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies, that 
they have seemed to be together, though absent, shook 
' Thifl word it not in 1. «. 


THX winter's TALB. 


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 woiid either 
malice, or matter, to alter it. You have an unspeak- 
able 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 bom, 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 Hkey 
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.— The Same. A Room of State in the 

Enter Leontes, Polixbnes, Hermione, Mamillius, 
Gas^lo, and Attendants. 

Pol. Nine changes of the watery star have been 
The shepherd's note, since we have left our throne 
Without a burden : 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 more 
That go before it. 

Leon. Stay your thanks awhile, 

And pay them when you part. 

Pol. Sir, that 's to*morrow. 

I am questioned by my fears, of what may ehance, 
Or breed upon our absence ; may there' blow 
No sneaping' winds at home, to make us say, 
"This is put forth too early'." Besides, I have stay'd 
To tire your royalty. 

Leon. We are tougher, brother, 

Than you can put us to 't. 

Pol. No loniger stay. 


THH winter's tale. 


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 gain-saying. 

Pol. Press me not, beseech you. 

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 
'T were needful I denied it. My affairs 
Bo even drag me homeward ; which to hinder, 
Were in your love a whip to me, my stay 
To you a charge, and trouble : to save bo*h, 
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. [He walks apart.^ 

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. — [venture 
Yet of your royal presence [To Polixenes.] I '11 ad- 
The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia 
You take my lord, I '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 should her lord. You '11 stay ? 

Pol. No, madam. 

Her. Nay, but you will ? 

Pol. I may not, verily. 

Her. Verily ! 
You put me off with limber vows ; but I, 
Though you would seek t' unsphere the stars with oaths, 
Should yet say, " Sir, no going." Verily, " 
You shall not go : a lady's verily is 
As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet ? 
Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 

» Not in f. e. « Period: a "word deme^i itom ^% "SwftsJsL^^U* 
'Indeed. *A tick. 

Vol. UL—28 




Not like a guest, so you shall pay your tees, * 
When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you ? 
My prisoner, or my guest ? hy your dread verily, 
One of them you shall be. 

Pol. Your guest then, madun : 

To be your prisoner should import offending ; 
Which is for me less easy to commit, 
Than you to punish. 

Her. Not your jailor, then. 

But your kind hostess. Come, I '11 question you 
Of my lord's tricks, and yours, when you were boys j 
You were pretty lordliugs then. 

Pol. We were, fair queen, 

Two lads, that thought there was no more behind, 
Bat 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 V the 

And bleat the one at th' other : what we chang'd^ 
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 heav^ 
Boldly " not guilty 3" the imposition clear'd. 
Hereditary ours. 

Her. By this we gather. 

You have tripp'd since. 

Pol. ! my most sacred lady. 

Temptations have since then been bom to 's ; for 
In those unfledg'd 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 ! 

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say. 
Your queen and I are devils : yet, go on ; 
Th? 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 ? [Coming forward.^ 

Her. He 'U stayj my \ot^. 

8a n. 

THE winter's tale. 

Le<m. At my request he would not. 

Hermione^ my dearest, thou never spok'st 
To hotter purpose. 

Her. Never ? 

Leon. Never, hut once. 

Her. What ? have I twice said well ? when was H 
hefore ? 

I pr'ythee, tell me. Cramps 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 clear* an acre. But to the good* — 

My last good deed was to entreat his stay : 

What was my first ? it has an elder sister, 

Or I mistake you : 0, would her name were Grace ! 

But once hefore I spoke to the purpose : When ? 

Nay, let me have 't ; I long. 

Lem. Why, that was when 

Three crahhed months had sour'd themselves to death, 
Ere T could make thee open thy white hand, 
And clap* thyself my love : then didst thou utter 
" I am yours for ever." 

Her, It is Grace, indeed. — 

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice : 
The one for ever earn'd a royal hushand, 
Th' other for some while a friend. 

[Giving her hand to Polixenes. 

Leon. Too hot, too hot ! [Aside, 

To mingle friendship far is mingling hloods. 
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's fertile* bosom. 
And well become the agent : 't may, I grant ; 
But to be paddling palms, and pinching fingers. 
As now they are ; and making practised smiles. 
As in a looking-glass and then to sigh, as 't were 
The mort* o' the deer ; ! that is entertainment 
My bosom likes not, nor my brows. — Mamillius, 
Art thou my boy ? 

1 heat : in f. e. > eoal : in f. e. ' To clap, or join hands^jxras part 
of the betrothal. * from bounty, fertile &c. *. in £. %. *Thft lous^ 
blut Bounded at the death of the deox. 


THE winter's TALB. 


Mam. Ay, my good lord. 

Le(m. V fecks ? 

Why, that 's my bawcock.* What ! hast smutched thy 
nose ? — 

They say, it is a copy out of mine. 
Gome, captain. 

We must be neat ; not neat, but cleanly, captain : 
And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf, 
Are ail calPd neat. — Still virginalling* 

[Observing Polixenes and Hermionx. 
Upon his palm ? — How now, you wanton calf : 
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 our dead* blacks, as wind, as waters j false 
As dice are to be wished, 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 ! 
Most dear'st ! my coUop ! — Can thy dam? — ^may't be 
Affection ?^ thy intention stabs the* centre ; 
Thou dost make possible things not so held, 
Communicat'st with dreams ; — (how can this be ?) — 
With what 's unreal thou coactive art. 
And fellow' st nothing. Then, 't is very credent, 
Thou may'st 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 ! 

1 Supposed to be derived from beau eoq. a Playing with her 
fingers, as on a virginal, which was an oblong; musical instrument, 
played with keys, Tike a piano. ' Head. * Fully. • o'er-dyed : in 
I. e. s Blue, like the sky. i This passage is usually pointed, with a 
period before affection — which thus commences a sentence — it has the 
sense, taken in connection with this reading, of imagination — inten- 
tion, that of intensity. The punctuation of the text is that of the 
old copies. The passace ^to the end of the s^ech) is crossed out by 
the M8. emendator of the lolVo ot lOOSl. V?*^ 'On'^ 


TBX WI^UXSl's talk. 


Leon. What cheer ? how is h wit^ you, best brother? 

[Holding his forehead^ 

Her. You look, 

As if you held a brow of much distraction : 
Are you mov'd, my lord ? 

Leon. No, in good earnest.-^ 

How sometimes nature will betray its folly, \Asidel^ 
Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime 
To harder bosoms ! Looking on the lines [7b them.* 
Of my boy's faoe, my* thoughts 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 t6 this kernel. 
This squash,^ Ihis gentleman. — ^Mitie honest friend, 
Will you take eggs for money ?• 

Mam. No, my lord, I '11 fight. 

Leon. You Will ? why, happy man be his dole 
My brother. 
Are you so Ibnd 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 abort as December j 
And with his varying childness euros in me 
Thoughts that would thick my blood. 

Leon. So stands this squire 

Offic'd with me. We two will walk, my lord, 
■And leave yon to your graver steps. — Hermione, 
How thou lov'st us, show in oi^r brother's welcome : 
Let what is dear in Sicily, be cheap. 
Nejd; to thyself, and my young rovM, 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 dit^ose you: you'll be 

Be you beneath the sky. — [Jswfe.] I am angling now, 

1 « » Not in f. e. ♦ Old ccuaieg : me: my is the MS. emendatioii of 
Lord F. Kjrerton'fl folio, Wa. » Unripe pearpod. • A. ^toxetli €<a 
beating an affront, f Portion, at lot : Wua U QV'i 



THE winter's tale. 


Though yon perceive me not how I give line, 
€ro to, go to ! 

How she holds up the neh, the bill to him ; 
vAnd arms her with the boldness of a wife 
To her allowing husband. Gone already ! 

[Exeunt Polixenes, Hermione, and Attendants. 
Inch-thick; knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd 

one ! — 

€ro play, boy, play ; — ^thy mother plays, and I 
Play too, but so disgracM a part, whose issue 
Will hiss me to my grave : contempt and clamour 
Will be my knell.--Go play, boy, play. — There have 

Or [ am much deceivM, cuckolds ere now ; 

And many a man there is, (even at this present. 

Now, while I speak this) holds his wife by th' arm, 

That little thinks she has been sluic'd in 's absence, 

And his pond fishM by his next neighbour, by 

Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there 's comfort in 

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 H is predominant : and 't is powerful, think it, 

From east, west, north, and south : be it concluded, 

No barricade for a belly : know it ; 

It will let in and out the enemy. 

With bag and baggage. Many a thousand on 's 

Have the disease, and feel H 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 ? 

Cam. He would not stay at your petitions ; made 
His business more material. 

Leon, Dvdst T^tceive it ? — 

so. n. 

THE winter's tale. 


They're here with me* already; whispering, round- 

" Sicilia is a" — so forth. 'T is 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 't, 
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 ? — 
Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, 
With all the nearest things to my heirrt, as well 
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou 
Hast cleans'd my bosom : I from thee departed 
Thy penitent reformed ; but we have been 
Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceived 
In that which seems so. 

Cam. Be it forbid, my lord ! 

Leon. To bide upon 't, — ^thou art not honest j or, 
If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward. 
Which boxes* 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 tak'st it all for jest. 

Cam. My gracious lord, 

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful : 

1 They are aware of my condition. * An old word for whispering. 
8 Tagte, or be aware of. * People sitting at lower tables — the lower 
eUuuet. * Hamstrings. 

tarn wintbb'b talk. 


In «yery aoe of theae bo man is free, 
Bat that his negligence, his folly, fear, 
Amongst the infinite doings of the world, 
Sometime puts forth. In your afiain, my loid, 
If ever I were wilful-negligent, 
It was my foUy ; if indnstriously 
I play'd the fool, it was my negUgence, 
Not weighing well the end ; if ever fearfrQ 
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, 
Whereof the execution did cry out 
Against the nou-perfbrmance, 't was a iear 
Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lc»d. 
Are such allowed infirmities, that honesty 
Is never free of: but, beseech your graee, 
Be plainer with me : let me know my trespass 
By its own visage ; if I then deny it, 
'T is none of mine. 

Leon. Have not you seen, Gamillo, 

(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 it') 
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 hobbyhorse ; deserves a name 
As rank as any fiax-weneh, that puts to 
Before her troth-plight : say 't, and justify 

Cam, I would not be a stander-by, to hear 
My sovereign mistress douded 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 whimpering 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 comers ? wishing clocks more swift ? 
Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes blind 

sc. n. ' THE winter's tale. 


With the pin and web^, but theirs, theirs only, 
That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ? 
Why, then the world, and all that is in 't, is nothing j 
The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing ; 
My wife is nothing ; nor nothing have these nothings, 
If this be nothing. 

Cam. Good my lord, be cur'd 

Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes ; 
For H is most dangerous. 

Leon. Say, it be ; 't is true. 

Cam. No, no. my lord. 

Leon. It is ; you lie, you lie : 

I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I 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 a' 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 cup-bearer, — ^whom 1 from meaner form 
Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship, who may'st see 
Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven, 
How I am galled, — mightst bespice a cup, 
To give mine enemy a lasting wink, 
Which draught to me were cordial. 

Cam. Sure, my lord, 

I could do this, and that with no rash potion, 
put 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 lov'd 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, 

' An old name for a oataraAt iu tiie e^w. ^ *. vtk. ^. 


THE winter's TALB« 

[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 ? 
Gould man so blench 

Cam. I must believe you, sir : 

I do ; and will fetch off Bohemia for 't ; 
Provided, that when he 's removM, 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 j 
If from me he have wholesome beverage, 
Account me not your servant. 

Leon. This is all : 

Do H, and thou hast the one half of my heart ; 
Do h not, thou split'st thine own. 

Cam. I '11 do 't. my lord. 

Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me. 


Cam. 0, 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 follovirs ; if I could find example 
Of thousands that had struck anointed kings, 
And flourished after, I 'd not do H; but since 
Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one, 
Let villany itself forswear H. I must 
Forsake the court : to do' t, or no, is certain 
To me a break-neck. Happy star, reign now ! 
Here comes Bohemia. 

1 Starts or Jly (if. 

SG. n. 

THE winter's tale. 



Enter Polixenes. 

This is strange. Methinks, 

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak ?- 
Grood-day, Camillo. 

Cam. Hail, most royal sir ! 

Pol. What is the news i' the court ? 

Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance, 
As he had lost some province, and a region 
Lov'd as he loves himself: even now I met him 
With customary compliment, -vdien he^ 
Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling 
A lip of much cont^pt, 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 ? 'T is 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 j for I must be 
A party in this alteration, finding 
Myself thus altered with 't. 

Cam. There is a sickness 

Which puts some of us in distemper ; but 
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 better 
By my regard, but kilPd none so. Camillo, — 
As you are certainly a gentleman ; thereto 
Clerk-like, experienced, which no less adorns 
Our gentry than our parents' noble names. 
In whose success we are gentle,— I beseech you. 
If yw know aught which does behove my knowledge 
Thereof to be inform^, imprison it not 
In ignorant concealment. 

Cam. I may not answer. 

Pol. A sickness caAight of me, aiid yet I well ? 
I must be ansWer'd.— Dost thou heaJr, Camillo, 
/ conjure thee, by all the parts 61 mm 


None rare, my lord. 




Which honour does acknowledge, — whereof the least 

la 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 charg'd in honour, and by him 
That I think honourable. Therefore, mark my counsel, 
Which must be even as swiftly followed, as 
I mean to utter it, or both yourself and I 
Cry, " lost," and so good-night. 
Pol. On, good Camillo. 

Cam. I am appointed him to murder you. 
Pol. By whom, Camillo ? 

Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears, 
As he had seen 't, or been an instrument 
To vice**yo^ ^ — ^^hat you have touched his queen 

Pol. 1 then my best blood turn 

To an infected jelly, and my name 
Be yok'd with his that did betray the Best ! 
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 greatest infection 
That e'er was heard, or read ! 

Cam. Swear this though 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 piFd upon his faith, and will continue 
The standing of his body. 

Pol. How should this grow? 

Cam. I know not ; but, I am sure, h is safer to 
Avoid what 's grown, than question how 't is bom. 
If therefore you dare trust my honesty, 
That lies enclosed in this trujok, whidh you 
Shall bear along impawn! vvr^L-^ Vy-m^Kt. 


By the king. 

For what? 

^ ScreWt cft iiicite. 

80. I. 

THE winter's tale. 


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 
Than one condemned 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 
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 j and as he does conceive 
He is dishonoured by a man which ever 
Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must 
In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me : 
Grood expedition be my friend : heaven comfort* 
The gracious queen, part of his dream', 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 ! 



SCENE I.—The Same. 

Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies. 

Her. Take the boy to you : he so troubles me, 

'T is past enduring. 

1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord : 

Shall I be your play-fellow? 

1 Good expedition, 1>« my friend, and comCoTt^ fcc*. in t. 
' theme : in i. e. 

Vol. Ill— 29 


THB winter's tale. 


No, I 41 Tion»<^ you. 

1 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. 

2 Lady, And why so, my lord ? 

Your brows are blacker ; yet black Iwrows, they say, 
Become some women best, so that there be not 
Too much hair there, but in a semi-circle, 
Or a half-moon made with a pen. 

2 Lady. Who taught this? 

Mam. I leam'd it out of women's faces.^Pray now, 
What colour are your eyebrows ? 

1 Lady. Blue, my lord. 
Mam. Nay, that 's a mock : I have seen a lady's no«e 

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. 

2 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 'd wanton with us, 
If we would have you. 

1 Lady. She is spread of late 

Into a goodly bulk : good time encounter her ! 

Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you ? Come, sir; 

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 church-yard. — ^I will tell it softly; 
Yond' crickets shall not hear it. 

Her. Come on then, 

And give 't me in mine ear. 

Enter Leontbs, Antigonus, Lords ^ and others. 

Leon. Was he met there ? his train ? Camillo with him? 

1 Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I met them : never 
Saw I men bcout ao on t\Lcvt . \ «^^\^'wcw 


Not for because 

•to. I. 

THE Winter's tale. 

Even to their ships. 

Leon. How bless'd am I [Aside.'^ 

Ia 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 a part,* 
And yet partake no yenom,' for his knowledge 
Is not infected ; but if one present 
The abhorred 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. 
Oamillo was his help in this, his pander. — 
There is a plot against my life, my crown : 
All 's true that is mistrusted that false villain, 
Whom I employ'd, was pre-employ'd by him. 
He has discovered my design, and I 
Remain a pinch'd thing ; yea, a very trick* 
For them to play at will.— How came the posterns 

[To them^ 

So easily open ? 

1 Lord. By his great authority; 
Which often hath no less prevailed than so, 
On your command. 

Lem. I know H too well. — 

Give me the boy. [To Hermione.] I am glad, you did 

not nurse him : 
Though he does bear some sigi» 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 

Away with him : and let her sport herself 
With that she 's big with ; for H is Polixenes 
Has made thee swell thus. 

Her. But, I 'd say he had not, 

And, I '11 be sworn, you would believe my saying, 
Howe'er you 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, 

} Not in f. e. > drink, depart, ico. : in f. e. > It was an old ]>MTiIar 
belief that spiders were poisonous. * JUavines. ^ FMpfet. * Net 
in f. e. 


THE winter's tale. 


" 'T is 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 petty brands, 
That calumny doth use, — 0, 1 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 H known, 
From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, 
She 's an adulteress. 

Her. Should a villain say so. 

The most replenished 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. 0, thou thing ! 
Which I '11 not call 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 feodary 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. 

Her. No, by my life. 

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, 
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 
You did mistake. 

Leon. No ^ if I mistake 

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 ! 
He, who shall speak for her, is afar off guilty. 
But that he speaks. 

Her. There 'a some ill planet reigns : 

I must be patient, tiH ^lew^t^Visi^ 

so. n. 

THE WINTBr's tale. 


With an aapoot more favcrarable. — Good my lords, 
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
Commonly are, the Trant of which vain dew, 
Perchance, shall dry your pities ; bnt I have 
That honourable grief lodg'd here, which bums 
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 performed. 
Leon. Shall 1 be heard ? [To the Guards, 

Her. Who is't that goes with me?— Beseech your 

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 mistress 

Has deserv'd 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. Gro, do our bidding : hence ! 

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies» 

I 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, yottr son. 

1 Lord. For her, my lord, 

I dare my life lay down, and will do 't, sir. 
Please you t' accept it, that the queen is spotless 
V the eyes of heaven, and to you : I mean, 
In this which you aocuse h«r. 

Ant. If it prove 

She 's otherwise, I *U keep me stable* 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, it fahM, 
If she be. 

Leon. Hold your peaces ! 

1 Lord. Grood my lord,— 

Ant. It is for you we spedc, not for ourselves; 
You are abus'd, and by some putter-on, 
That will be daMn'd for 't ; would I knew the villaiH) 
1 my BtablBs : in f . «. 


THE winter's tale. 


1 would lamback' him. Be she honotur-flawM, — 
I have three daughters ; the eldest is eleven, 
The second, and the third, nine, and some five ] 
If this prove true, they'll pay for 't : by mine honour, 
I '11 geld them 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. 

Zjeon. Cease ! no more. 

You smell tMs business with a sense as cold 
As is a dead man'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? 

1 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 blam'd for H how you might. 

Leon. Why, what need we 

Commune with you of this, but rather follow 
Our fDrceful 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 judgment tried it, 
Without more overture. 

Leon. How could that be ? 

Either thou art most ignorant by age, 
Or thou wert bom 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^ d.o\,\i ^ws>h. «n. this proceeding : 


THE winter's tale. 

Yet, for a greater oonfirmation, 

(For in an act of this importance 't were 

Most piteous to be wild) I have despatched in post, 

To sacred Delphos, to ApoUo^s temple, 

Gleomenes and Dion, whom you know 

Of stuflPd sufficiency. Now. from the oracle 

They will bring all ; whose spiritual counsel had, 

Shall stop, or spur me. Have I done well ? 

1 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. [Eoceunt. 

SCENE II.— The Same. The outer Room of a Prison. 
Enter Paulina and Attendants. 

Paul. The keeper of the prison, — call to him : 

[Exit an Attendant, 
Let him have knowledge who I am. — Good lady ! 
No court in Europe is too good for thee, 
What dost thou then in prison ? — ^Now, good sir, 

Re-enter Attendant^ with the Jailor, 
You know me, do you not ? 

Jailor. For a worthy lady, 

And one whom much I honour. 

Paul. Pray you then, 

Conduct me to the queen. 

Jailor. I may not, madam : to the contrary 
I have express commandment. 

Paid. Here 's ado, 

To lock up honesty and honour from 
Th' access of gentle visitors ! — ^Is 't lawful, pray you, 
To see her women? any of them? Emilia? 

Jailor. So please you, madam. 
To put apart these your attendants, [ 
Shall hnng Emilia forth. 

S44 winter's talc* actil 

Paul. I pnj now, eall ho*.*^ 

Withdraw yourielroB. [JEbDrunt iiften^. 

Jaihr. AMj madam, 

I must be present at your oonfoirencd. 

Paul. Well, be 't so, pr'ythee. [Exit Jailor, 

Here 's sudh ado to make no stain a stain, 
As passes cx^lonring. 

Re-enter Jailor ^ toith Emilia. 

Dear gentlewdman, 

How fares our graoions lady ? 

EmU. As well as one so gt^at, and so forlorn, 
May hold toge^er. On her frights, and griefSj 
(Which never tender lady hath borne greater) 
She is, somethihg before her time, delivered. 

Paul. Ahoy? 

Emil. A daughter ; and a goodly babe, 

Lusty, and like to live : the queen receives 
Much comfort in 't, says, " My poor prisoner, 
I am innocent as you." 

Paul. I dare be swotn 

These dangerous, unsane^ Iv^ies i' the king^ besht«w 

He must be told on % and he shall : the office 
Becomes a woman best ; I '11 take H upon me. 
If I prove honey'^mouth'd, let my tongue blister, 
And nevOT to my red-looked anger be 
The trumpet any more.— Pray you, Emililt, 
Commend my best obedience to the queen : 
If she dajres trust me with her little babe, 
I '11 show 't the king, Mid underttike to be 
Her advocate to the loud'st. We do not know 
How he may seften at the sight o' the child : 
The silence often of pu^ innocSn^e 
Persuades, when speaking fails. 

Emil. Most wor&y msditt) 

Your honout, and your goodness) are so «^dent) 
That your free undertaking oannot miss 
A thriving issue : there is no lady living 
So meet for this great errand. Please your ladysidp 
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 tem^t a minister of honour, 

6C. UI. 

THE winter's tale. 


Lest she should be denied. 

Paul. Tell her, Emilia, 

I ^11 use that tongue I have : if wit flow from it, 
A.8 boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted 
I shall do good. 

Emil. Now, be you blest for it I 

I'll to the queen. — Please you, come something nearer. 

Jailor. Madam, if H please the queen to send the babe, 
I know not what I shall incur to pass it, 
Having no warrant. 

Paid. You need not fear it^ sir : 

The 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. 

Jailor. I do believe it. 

Paul. Do not you fear : upon mine honour, I 

Will stand betwixt you and danger. 


SCENE III.— The Same. A Room in the Palace. 
Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and other 

Leon. Nor night, nor day, no rest. It is but weak- 

To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If 
The cause were not in being, part o' the cause, 
She, th' 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 ? 

1 AUen. My lord. 

Leon. How does the boy ? 

1 Atten. He took good rest to-night : 

'T is hop'd, his sickness is discharged. 

Leon. To see his nobleness ! 

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother, 
He straight declined, droop'd, took it deeply, 
Fastened and fix'd the shame on 't in himself, 
Threw oflf his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 
And dowDTight langaish'd. — •Lea've i&ft «fi\!^V) \ — 



See how he fares. [Exit Attend.] — ^Fie, fie ! no thon^ 
of him: — 

The very thought of my reyenges that way 
Recoil upon me : in himjielf 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 oould reaeh them; nor 
Shall she, within my power. 

Enter Paulina, behind} j with a Child. 

1 Lord. You must not enter. 

Paul. Nay, rather, good my Iwds, 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. 

1 Atten. Madam, he hath not slept to-night ; com- 
None should come at him. 

Paul. Not so hot, good sir : 

I come to bring him sleep. 'T is fiittch 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. 9^0 noke, my lord; but needful eonferenoe, 

[Coming forwards 
About some gossips for your highness. 

Leon. How 
Away with that audacious lady. Antigonus, 
I charg'd thee, that she should not come about me : 
I knew she would. 

AiH. I told her so, my lord, 

On your displeasure's peril, and on mine, 
She should not visit you. 

Leon. What ! eanst not rule her ? 

Paul. From all dishonesty he can : in this, 

(Unless he take the course that you have done^ 
/ommit me for eoimnUting honour) trust it, 

se. m. 

THE winter's tale. 

He shall not rule me. 

Ant, Lo, you now ! you hoar. 

When she will take the rein, I let her run ; 
But she '11 not stumble. 

Faul. 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 ; 

Lem. 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 ofi*. 
But first I '11 do my errand. — The good queen. 
For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter : 
Here 't is ) commends it to your blessing. 

[Laying down the Child, 

Lem. Out ! 

A mankind* witch ! Hence with her, out o' 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 w^urrant. 
As this world goes, to pass for honest. 

Leon. Traitors ! 

Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard. — 
Thou, dotard, [To Antigonus.] thou art woman-tir'd,' 

By thy dame Partlet here. — Take up the bastard : 
Take 't up, I say ; give 'tno thy crone. 

Paul, For ever 

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness 
Which he has put upwi 't ! 

Lem. He dreads his wife. 

Paul. So I would you did ; then, 't were past all doubt^ 


THB winter's talk. 

ACT n. 

You 'd call yomr children yours. 

A nest of traitors ! 

Ant. I am none, by this good light. 

Paul. Nor I ; nor any, 

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 remore 
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. 

Faul. It is yours ; 

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge, 
So like you, 't is the worse. — Behold, my lords. 
Although the print be little, the whole matter 
And copy of the father : eye, nose, lip, 
The trick of his 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, lozeP, thou art worthy to be hang'd. 
That wilt not stay her tongue. 

Ani. Hang all the husbands 

That cannot do that feat, you '11 leave yourself 
Hardly one subject. • 

Leon. Once more, take her hence. 

Faul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord 
Can do no more. 

Leon. I '11 ha' thee bum'd. 

Faul. I care not : 

It is an heretic that makes the fire, 

lAuwmano/lotockatacter. ^ A wonVteu 

80. in. 

THB winter's talk. 


Not she "vrhich burns in I '11 not call you tyrant ; 

But this most cruel usage of your queen 

(Not able to produce more accusation 

Than your own weak hing'd fancy) something savours 

Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, 

Yea, scandalous to the world. 

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 your babe, my lord ; 't is yours : Jove send her 
A better guiding spirit ! — ^What need these hands ? — 
You, that are tlius so tender o'er his follies, 
Will never do him good, not one of you. 
So, so : — ^farewell ; we are gone. [Exit. 

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 consum'd with fire : 
Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight. 
Within this hour bring me word 't is done, 
(And by good testimony) or I '11 seize thy life. 
With what thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse. 
And wilt encounter with my wrathj say so ; 
The bastard-brains with these my proper hands 
Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire. 
For thou sett'st on thy wife. 

Ant. I did not, sir : 

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, 
Can clear me in 't. 

1 Lord. We can : my royal liege, 

He is not guilty of her coming hither. 

Leon. You 're liars all. 

1 Lord. Beseech your highness, give us better credit. 
We have always truly serv'd 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. 

Leon. Am I a feather for each wind that blows ? 
Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel 
And call me father ? Better bum \l iwsrw. 

Vol. IIL—30 


THB wnrrxR^s talb. 


Than eurse it then. But, be it ; let it live : — 
It shall not neither. — You, sir, come you hither ; 

[To Antigonus. 
You, that have been so tenderly officious 
With lady Margery, your midwife, there, 
To save this bastard's life, — for 't is a bastard, 
So sure as thy* beard 's grey, — ^what will you adventure 
To save this brat's life ? 

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 j 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 liegeman 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 the€|, 
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 : 

[Taking it up.^ 
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 doth 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. 

2 Old copies : tUs *. tKy \b t\i« «m«ud.«.UQTL of Lord F. Egerton's 
folio, 1623. sKotinle. 

to. I. 

THE winter's talk. 


1 Atten. 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. 

1 Lord. So please you, sir, their speed 

Hath been beyond account. 

Leon. Twenty-three days 

They have been absent : 't is good speed, for6tels, 
The great Apollo suddenly will have 
The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords : 
Summon a session, that we may arraign 
Our most disloyal lady ; for, as she hath 
Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have 
A just and open trial. While she lives, 
My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, 
And think upon my bidding. [ExeuTit. 

ACT m. 

SCENE I.— The Same. A Street in some Town. 
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. 1 shall report. 

For most it caught me, the celestial habits, 
(Methinks, I so should term them) and the reverence 
Of the grave wearers. 0, 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 th' event o' the journey 

Prove as successful to the queen, — 0, be 't so ! — 
As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy. 
The time is worth the use on h. 

CUo. Great Apollo, 

Turn all to the best ! These pTOclamalio^ 


THE winter's TALB. 


So forcing faults upon Hermione, 
I little like. 

Dion. The violent carriage of it 
Will clear, or end, the business : when the oracle, 
(Thus by Apollo's great divine seaPd up) 
Shall the contents discover, something rare, 
Even then, will rush to knowledge.— -Go, — afresh 
horses ; — 

And grafcious be the issue. [Exeunt. 
SCENE II.— The Same. A Court of 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 
Of us too much belov'd. 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. 

Offi. It is his highness' pleasure, that the queen 
Appear in person here in court. [Silence.^ 
Enter Hermione, to her trialj^ guarded ; Paulina and 
Ladies attending. 

Leon. Read the indictment. 

Offi. "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 receiv'd. But thus: — If powers divine 

1 Printed as a stage direction in the 1st folio ; the others omit it. 
Mod. eds., with Malone, usuaWj «AdL\X >^«'gt«^\<s<QA v^ech. > Thp 
words, " to ker trial,-' not in t. 

•CI. n. 

THE winter's tale. 


Behold our hnmftn actions, (as they do) 

I douht 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 devis'd. 

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 I would spare : for honour, 

'T is a derivative from me 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 

Have stray' d^ 't appear thus : if one jot beyond 

The bound of honour, or, in act, or will. 

That way inclining, hardened be the hearts 

Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin 

Cry, " Fie !" upon my grave. 

Lem. 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 : 

Though 't is 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, 

iWith whom I am accus'd) I do confess, 
lov'd him, as in honour he requir'd. 
With such a kind of love as might become 
A lady like me ; with a love, even sudt. 
So and no other, as yourself commanded : 
Which not to have done, I think, had been ill me 
Both disobedienee and ingratitude 

> (Hon, > «tnm^& : lut. 


THE wiktbr's talk. aothl 

To you^ and toward your friend, whose love had 8p(^, 

Even since it cbuld 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 know 
What you have undertaken to do in 's absence. 

Her. Sir, 

You speak a language that I understand not : 
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 
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, 
Starred most unluckily, is from my breast. 
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 
Haled out to murder : myself on every post 
Proclaimed 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 thiB *, mistake me not. — No : life, 

80. n. 

THE winter's tale. 


I prize it not a straw ; but for mine honour. 

i Which I would free) if I shall be condemn d 
Jpon surmises, all proofs sleeping else 
But what your jealousies awake, I tell you, 
'T is rigour, and not law. — ^Your honours all, 
I do refer me to the oracle : 
Apollo be my judge. 

1 Lord. This your request 

Is altogether just. Therefore, bring forth. 
And in Apollo's name, his oracle. [Exeunt Officers, 

Her. The emperor of Russia was my father : 
! 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. 
Offi. 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 seard-up oracle, by the hand delivered 
Of great Apollo's priest ; and that, since then. 
You have not dar'd to break the holy seal, 
Nor read the secrets in 't. 

Cleo. Dion. All this we swear. 

Leon. Break up the seals, and read. 
Offi. [Reads ^ " Hermione is chaste, Polixenes blame- 
less, 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 

Lords. Now, blessed be the great Apollo ! 

Her. Praised ! 

Leon. Hast thou read truth ? 

Ofii. . 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 a Servant ^ in Jmste. 

Serv. My lord the king, the king ! 

Leon. What is the business ? 

Serv. sir ! I shall be hated to report it : 
The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear 
Of the queen's speed, ^ is gone. 

' Of how the queen xa&y vpeed.— ^« \ssa%. 

THS winter's tale. 


Leon. How! gone? 

Serv. Is dead. [Hermione swoons, 

Leon. Apollo '» angry, and the heavens themselves 
Do strike at my injustice. How now there ! 

Pauly This news is mortal to the queen. — Lock 

And see what death is doing. 

Leon. Take her hence : 

Her heart is hut o'ercharg'd ; she will recover. — 
I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion : — 
Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
Some remedies for life. — Apollo, pardon 

[ExeufU Paulina and Ladies^ with Herm. 
My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle ! — 
I '11 reconcile me to 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 filPd with honour, to my king ly guest 
Unclasp'd my practice ; quit his fortunes here. 
Which you knew great, and to the hazard 
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 Pauliwa. 

Paul. Woe the while ! 

0, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, 
Break too ! 

1 Lord. What fit is this, good lady? 

Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me ? 
What wheels ? racks ? fires ? What flaying ? burning, 

In lead, or oil ? what old, or newer torture 
Must I receive, whose every word deserves 
To taste of thy moat woisl? TYi-^ t^winY^ 
Together working wi\Yk \iKy i€>«2toKMaft»^— 

8C. n. 

THE winter's talk. 


Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle 
For girls of nine, — I 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, H was nothing ; 
That did but show thee of a fool, inconstant, 
And damnable ungrateful : nor was H much. 
Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour, 
To have him kill a king ; poor trespasses. 
More monstrous standing by ! wherefore 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 don 't : 
Nor is H 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 foolish sire 
Blemish'd his gracious dam : this is not, no. 
Laid to thy answer : but the last, — 0, lords ! 
When I have said, cry, woe ! — ^the queen, the queen, 
The sweet' st, dear'st creature 's dead ; and vengeance 

Not dropped down yet. 

1 Lord. The higher powers forbid ! 

Paid. I say, she 's dead ; I '11 swear 't : if word, nor 

Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring 
Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye, 
Heat outwardly, or breath within, I '11 serve you 
As I would do the gods. — ^But, thou tyrant ! 
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
Than all thy woes can stir ; therefore, betake thee 
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. 

1 Lord. Say no more : 

Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault 
I' the boldness of your speech. 

Paul. I wa eotTY for : 


THS winter's talk. ACT m. 

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, 

I do repent. Alas ! I have show'd too much 

The rashness of a woman. He is touched 

To the nohle heart. — ^What 's gone, and what 's past help, 

Should he past grief : do not receive afSiiction 

At repetition,* I heseech 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. Pr'ythee, 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 too it. Come, and lead me 
To these sorrows. [Exeunt. 

SCENE III. — ^Bohemia. A Desert Country near the 

Enter Antioonus, mth the Babe ; 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, 
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, 
The heavens with that we have in hand are aii^iy^ 
And frown upon us. 

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 : 't is like to be loud weather : 
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures 
^ my i^\\X\ou *. VB. 1. %. 


80. m. 

THE winter's tale. 


Of prey that keep upon 

Ant. Go thou away : 

I '11 follow instantly. 

Mar. I am glad at heart 

To be 60 rid o' the business. [Exit. 

Ant. Come, poor babe : — 

I have heard, (but not believ'd) the spirits o' the dead 
May walk again : if such thing be, thy mother 
Appeared 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 filPd, and so o'er-running^ : 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 wend,* and leave it crying ; and, for the babe 

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita 
" I pr'ythce, 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, superstitiously, 
I will be squar'd 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 
Of its right father. — ^Blossom, speed thee well ! 

[Laying down the Babe. 
There lie ; and there thy character* : there these, 

[Laying down a Bundle. 
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 expos'd [Thunder. 
' heooxning : in f. e. » "wecp : in i. * DesmpWwv. 

THE winter's tale. 


To loss, and what may follow. — Weep I cannot, 
But my heart bleeds, and most accurs'd am I, 
To be by oath enjoined to this. — Farewell ! 
The day frowns more and more : thou art like to hare 
A lullaby too rough. I never saw [clamour ?— 

The heavens so dim by day. [Bear roars.] A savage 
Well may I get aboard ! — ^This is the chase 5 
I am gone for ever. [Exitj pursued by a bear. 

Enter an old 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, 't is by the sea-side, 
browzing of ivy. Good luck, an H be thy will ! what 
have we here? [Taking up the Babe.] Mercy on 's, a 
barn ; a very pretty barn ! 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-gen 
tlewoman 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. 
I '11 take it up for pity ; yet 1 '11 tarry till my son come : 
he halloed 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 ail'st 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 : bet^sdxt 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. 0, 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 mainmast ; and anon 
swallowed with yesl aiv^ ^loWv^ ^•o\jL'd thrust a cork 

Qd. lit. 

THE winter's tale. 

iiito a hogshead. And then for the land service ^to 
see how the bear tore out his shoulder bone ; how he 
cried to rtie for help, and said his name was Antigo- 
ntts, a nobleman. — But to make an end of the ship r 
— to see how the sea flap-dragoned it* — ^but, first, how 
the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them; — 

mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea, or 

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 imder 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 

Clo. I would you had been by the ship's side, to 
have helped her : there your charity would have lacked 

Shep. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! but look thee 
here, boy. Now bless thyself : thou met'st with things 
dying, I with things new bom. Here 's a sight for 
thee ; look thee : a bearing-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 't will prove so : up 
with it, keep it close ; home, home, the next way. We 
are lucky, boy ; and to be so still requires nothing but 
secrecy. — Let my sheep go. — Come, good boy, the next 
way home. 

Clo. 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 may'st discern 
by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to 
the sight of him. 

and how the poor gentleman 

1 SwiQlowed ships u drinkers avraiUo-w iLv^vi^Tar-^^XBa&k «!5t>[i 
gUuacea ioating on liquoT, which "W%xe E^^I^o'Wft^ watLVtL^, 

Vol. UL— 31 

362 THE winter's tale. act ly. 

Clo. Macrry, I will ; and you shall help to put him 
\' the ground. 

Shep. is a lucky day, hoy, and we '11 do good deeds 
*n H. [Exeunt. 

ErUer Time, the Chorus, 

Time. I, that please some, try all ; hoth joy, and terror, 
Of good and had ; that make, and unfold error. 
Now take upon me, in the name of Time, 
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 
To me, or my 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 overthrow law, and in one self-horn hour 
To plant and overwhelm custom. Let me pass 
The same I am, ere ancient'st order was. 
Or what is now receiv'd : 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 
Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, 
I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing. 
As you had slept between. Leontes leaving 
Th' effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving 
That he shuts up himself, imagine me. 
Gentle spectators, that I now may he 
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 

And what to her adheres, which follows after. 

Is th' 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 eameBtlv 70x1 Tiwet tjv«:^ . [fixit. 

sc. I. 

THE winter's tale. 


SCENE I.— The Same. A Room in the Palace of 


Enter Polixenes and Camillo. 

Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more impor- 
tunate : 't is a sickness denying thee anything, 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 sufiiciently manage, must either stay to execute 
them thyself, or take away with thee the very services 
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, pr'ythee 
speak no more, whose very naming punishes me with 
the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call'st 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 saw'st 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 musingly^ noted, he is of late much retired 
from court, and is less frequent to his princely exer- 
cises than formerly he hath appeared. 

Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with 
some care ; so far, that I 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 

1 missingly : in i. e. 




rery nothing, and beyond the imagination of his nei^- 
bonxB, IB grown into an unspeakable estate. 

Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, ^o hath a 
daughter of most rare note : the report of her is ex- 
tended more than can be thought to begin from such 
a cottage. 

Pol. That 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 appear- 
ing what we are, have some question with the shep- 
herd ; from whose simplicity, I think it not uneasy to 
get the cause of my son's resort thither. Pr'ythee, 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. 


SCENE II.— The Same. A Road near the Shep- 
herd's Cottage. 

Enter Autolycus, singing. 

When daffodils begin to peer.,— [l Tune.^ 

With^ neigh ! the doxy over the dale, — 

Why J then comes in the sweet o' the year ; 
For the red blood reigns in the winter^ s pale. 

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, — 

Withy heigh ! the sweet birds., 0, how they sing 

Doth set my prigging^ tooth on edge ; 
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 

The larky that tirra-lirra chants^ — 

With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay j 
Are summer songs for me and my aunts j 

While we lie tumbling in the my. 

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 ? [2 TVi^.* 

The pale moon shines by night ; 
And when I wander, here and there, 

I then do most go right. 

' Not in f e. « pugging : va i. e. * Fisw «el«et, ^ \».V. ^» 

sc. n. 

THE winter's tale. 


If tinkers may have leave to live, [3 Tune} 

And bear the sow-skih 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. 
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 seej 
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 r 
but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to 
hornpipes. I must have saflfron, to colour the warden* 
pies ; mace,— dates, none ; that 's out of my note : 
" nutmegs, 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. 0, that ever I was born ! 

[Grovelling on the ground. 

Clo. V the name of me ! — 

Aut. 0, help me, help me ! pluck but oflf these rags, 
and then, death, death ! 

Clo. Alack, poor soul ! thou hast need of more rags 
to lay on thee, rather than have these oflf. 

Aut. 0, sir ! the loathsomeness of them oflfends me 

> Not in f. e. « A tod is twemty-^igVit i^^xti&% ^1 ^wA.. ^ ^vckjsos^' 
of gongs for three voices. * A late, hard pear. 


AOT 17, 

more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty 
ones, and millions. 

Clo. Alas, poor man ! a million of beating may come 
to a great matter. 

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 horse-man, or a foot-man? 

Aut. A foot-man, sweet sir, a foot-man. 

Clo. Indeed, he should be a foot-man, by the gar- 
ments he hath left with thee : if this be a horse-man's 
eoat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, 
I '11 help thee : come, lend me thy hand. 

[Helpiyig him up. 

Aut. ! good sir, tenderly, ! 
Clo. Alas, poor soul ! 

Aut. 0, good sir ! softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my 
ahoulder-blade is out. 

Clo. How now ? canst stand ? 

Aut. Softly, dear sir: [Cuts his purse. ^] 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, 
imto 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 tFol-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 ouf of the 

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 abide*. 

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 

^ Picks his pocket : in i. * Xtv %kcel« T^tembUog bagiUelk. 
' Jteauin foratimA. ^ A puppet-sKow. 

sc. m. 


many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue : 
some call him Autolycus. 

Clo. Out upon him ! Prig, for my life, prig : he 
haunts wakes, fairs, and hear^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 'd havQ 

Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter : I 
am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I war- 
rant him. 

Clo. How do you now ? 

Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was: I caH 
stand, and walk. I will even take my leave of you, 
and pace softly towards my kinsman's. 

Clo. Shall I bring thee m the way ? 

Aut. No, good-faced sir ; no. sweet sir. 

Clo. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for 
our sheep-shearing. [Exit Clown, 

Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir !— 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 enrolled^, and my name put in the book oi 
virtue ! 

Jog o», jog on, the foot-path way 

And merrily hent the stile-a : 
A merry heart goes all the day. 

Your sad tires in a mik-a. [Exit. 

SCENE III.— The Same. A Shepherd's 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-shearing, 
Is as a meeting of the petty gods. 
And you the queen on 't. 

Per. Sure', my gracious lord, 

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 
! pardon, that I name them : your high self, 
The gracious mark o' the land, you have obsciur'd 
With a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, 
^ ^Muolled : ill f. 0. ^ &ix ; Vul. 




Most goddesD-like prank'd up. But that our feasts 
In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
Digest it with a custom, I should hlush 
To see you so attir'd, so worn', I think, 
To show myself a glass. 

Flo. I hless the time, 

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 us'd 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, in these my 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-rob' d god, 
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, 
As I seem now. Their transformations 
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer. 
Nor any* way so chaste ; since my desires 
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts 
Bum hotter than my faith. 

Per. O ! but, sir, 

Your resolution cannot hold, when 't is 
Oppos'd, 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 

Or I my life. 

Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 

With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not 
The mirth o' the feast : or I '11 be thine, my fair, 
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, girl* ; 

X attired, B-wroru : in f . e. » iu «. *. \u 1. * i«t>fik» \ ^. 

TAB WIKTKr's talk. 

Strangle fiuch thoughts as these with any thing 
That you behold the while. Your guests are c<»ning : 
Lift up your countenance, as H were the day 
Of celebration of that nuptial, which 
We two have sworn shall come. 

Per. 0, lady fortune, 

Stand you auspicious ! 

Enter Shepherd^ with Polixenes cmd Camillo, dis» 
guisea; Cloumj Mopsa, Dorcas, atid others. 

Flo. See, your guests approach : 

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly. 
And let 's be red with mirth. 

Shep. Fie, daughter ! when my old wife liv'd, upon 
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook ; 
Both dame and servant ; weloom'd all ; serv'd all ; 
Would sing her song, and dance her turn ; now here, 
At upper end o' the table, now, i' the middle j 
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 retir'd, 
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 welcome 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 wel- 
come, 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, 
4nd 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,T-- 

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
Of trembling winter,-^the fairest flowers o' the aee^fm 


THB winter's tale. 


Are our carnations, and streakM gillyflowers' 
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, o'er that art, 
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 gilly-flowers, 
And do not call them bastards. 

Per. I '11 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, 't were 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 : thfese are flowers 
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 
To men of middle age. You are very welcome. 

Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock. 
And only live by gazing. 

Per. Out, alas ! 

You 'd be so 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 ! 
For the flowers now, tYia.\., M^Yil^id.^ tVvou. let'st fall 

* did co-pVea *. ^VWT*«a. 

9c. m. 

THE WINTBb's tale. 


From Die'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 Phoebus in his strength, a malady 

Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 

The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds. 

The flower-de-luce being one. ! 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, 
But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers. 
Methinks, I play as I have seen them do 
In Whitsun-pastoral^: sure, this robe of mine 
Does change my disposition. 

Flo. What you do 

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
I 'd have you do it ever : when you sing, 
I 'd have you buy and sell so ) so give alms ; 
Pray so ; and, for the ordering your afiairs. 
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. 

Your praises are too large : but that your youth, 
And the true blood, which peeps so fairly through it. 
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 skilP to fear, as 1 have purpose 
To put you to 't. — But, come ; our dance, I pray. 
Your hand, my Perdita : so turtles pair. 
That never mean to part. 


Doricles ! 


ril swear for 'em. 

^ Reason. 


THE WIKTKr's talc. 

Pol. This is the prettiest low-bora ksK, that evcir 
Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does, or says^, 
But smacks of something greater than herself j 
Too noble for this place. 

Cam. He tells her something, 

That wakes her blood : — ^look on H.* Grood sooth, she i* 
The queen of curds and cream. 

Clo. Come on, strike up. 

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress : marry, garlick. 
To mend her kissing with. — 

Mop. Now, in good time — 

Clo. Not a word, a word : we stand upon our man* 
ners. — 

Come, strike up. [Music. 

SHere a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. 
. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this. 
Which dances with your daughter ? 

Shep. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself 
To have a worthy breeding ; but I have it 
Upon his own repojrt, and I believe it : 
He looks like sooth. He says, he loves my daughter : 
I think so too ; for never gaz'd the moon 
Upon the water, as he ^11 stand, and read, 
As h were, 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 a Servant. 
Serv. master ! if yon did but h6ar the pedler at 
the door, you 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 mat- 
ter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, 
and sung lamentably. 
Serv. He hath. soivgB, fox 'votaan.^of all sizes : 

1 ceems : in f. e. * Th«X m«3Ma wft}\.v VblI. ^. 

TBB WINTSr's tale. 

tt9 milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He 
has iAie prettiest love-songs for maids ; so without 
bawdry, which is strange ; with such delicate burdens 
of "dildos" and "fadings*;" "jump her and thump 
Ikerj" and where some stretchM-mouth'd rascal would, 
as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul jape' in 
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-con* 
oeited fellow. Has he any embroided* wares ? 

Serv. He hath ribands of all the colours i' the rain- 
bow; 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 them over, as they were gods or goddesses. You 
would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to 
tile sleeve-band^, and the work about the square* on 't. 

Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in, and let him approach 

Per. Forewarn him, that he use no scurrilous words 
in 's tunes. 

Clo. You have of these pedlers, that have more in 
them than you 'd think, sister. 

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. 

Enter Autolycus, singing. 
LawUj as white as driven snow ; 
Cyprus^ black as e^er was crow ; 
Gloves J as sweet as damask roses ; 
Masks for faces, and for noses ; 
Bugle-bracelet^ necklace amber j 
Perfume for a lady's chamber : 
Golden quoifs, and stomachers, 

What maids lack from head to heel : 
Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; 
Buy, lads J or else your lasses cry : 

^ A fading was also a danoe. * Jest. t. e. : gap. ' nnbraided : 
in f. e. « Tags to the strings used to fasten dresses. « Tape. < GaC- 
loon. ' fJeeve-hand : in 1 e. • Bosom. * A3iftdL^'«\kA^V«».\«^Nft ^ 
the plaits of rnfs. 

Come, buy. 

9 plaits of rnffs. 

Vol. III.— 32 


THE winter's tale. 


Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shonldst 
take no money of me ; but being enthralled bb I am, 
it will also be the bondage of certain ribands and 

Mop. I was promised them against the feast, but 
they come not too late now. 

Dor. He hath promised you more than that, ot 
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 whisper* off these secrets, but 
you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests ? is 
well they are whispering. Charm' 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 ? 

Aui. And, indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; 
therefore, it behoves men to be wary. 

Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing 

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 Ipve 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 was brought to bed of twenty money- 
bags at a burden ; and 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 
Taleporter, and five or six honest wives' that were 
present. Why should I carry lies abroad ? 

Mop. 'Pray you now, buy it. 

80. lU. 

THE winter's tale. 


Clo. Come on, lay it by ; and let first see more 
ballads ; we '11 buy the other things anon. 

Avt. Here 's another ballad, of a fish, that appeared 
upon the coafit, on Wednesday the fourscore of April, 
forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this bal- 
lad 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? 

Aut. Five justices' hands at it, and witnesses more 
than my pack will hold. 

Clo. Lay it by too : another. 

Avt. 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 : 't is in re- 
quest, I can tell you. 

Mop. We can both sing it : if thou 'It bear a part, 
thou shalt hear ; 't is in three parts. 

Dor. We had the tune on 't a month ago. 

Aut. I can bear my part ; you must know, 't is my 
occupation : have at it with you. 


Aut. Get you hence, for I must go. 
Whither fits not you to know. 
Dor. Whither? 
Mop. ! whither ? 
Dor. Whither^ 

Mop. It becomes thy oath full well, 

Thou to me iky secrets tell. 
Dor. Me too : let me go thither. 
Mop. Or thou go^st to the grange, or mill : 
Dor. If to either, thou dost ill, 
Aut. Neither. 
Dor. What, neither? 
Aut. Neither. 

Dor. Thou hast sworn my love to be ; 
Mop. Thou hast sworn it more to me : 

Then, whither go^st ? say, whither ? 
Clo. We '11 have this song out anon by ourselves. 
My father and the gentlemen are in sad* talk, and 
^ Beiiouft. 




we '11 not trouble them : come, bring away thy padc 
after rae. Wenches, I '11 buy far you both. Pedlar, 
let 's have the first choice. Follow me, girls. 

[Exeunt Clown^ Dorcas, cmd Mopsa? 
Aut. And you shall pay well for 'em. [Asiit, 
Will you buy any tape, 
p Or ktce for your cape^ 

My dainty duck, my aear-a ? 
Any stlkj any thready 
Any toys for your head, 
Of the newest, and fin^st^ Jm'st wear-a ? 
Come to the pedler ; 
Money 's a medler, 
That doth titter all men^s voare^i. 

[Exit after ikem. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Master, there is three carters, three ^h^ 
berds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have 
made themselves all men of hair : they call themselvoB 
■altiers ; and they have a dance which the wenches say 
is a gallimaufry^ of gambols, because they are noting; 
but they themselves are o' the mind, (if it be not too 
reugh 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 

Pol. You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let 'fi 
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 square.' 

Shep. Leave your prating. Since these good men 
are pleased, let them come in : but quiddy now. 

Serv. Why, they stay at*door, sir. [Exit, 

Re-enter Servant, with Twelve Rustics habited iike 
Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt. 

Pol. father ! you '11 know more of that here- 
after, — 

Is it not too far gone ? — 'T is time to part them. — 
He 's simple, and tells much. How now, fair shepherd? 

> in f. e. these o^anLAteia make tkeir exit -virith Autoltcub, «ftfr 
the next song. ■ A. dish msAe -05 ««t».^%. ^^t. es«^«L\«nr«^ «. foot- 

80. m. 



Your heart is full of somethingj that does take 

Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young, 

And handled love as you do, I was wont 

To load my she with knacks : I would have ransacked 

The pedler's silken treasury, and have pour'd it 

To her acceptance ; you have let him go. 

And nothing marted with him. If your lass 

Interpretation should ahuse, 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 packed and lock'd 
Up in my heart, which I have given already. 
But not delivered. — ! hear me breathe my life 
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem. 
Hath sometimes lov'd : 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 sense,* 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. This shows a sound affection. 

Shep. But, my daughter, 

Say you the like to him? 

Per, I cannot speak 

So well, nothing so well ; no, not meftn b«l\Af . 
^ ibioo : iu f . «• 



THB winter's tale. 


By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out 
The purity of his. 

Shep, Take hands; a bargain: — 

[Joining their hands} 
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't. 
I give my daughter to him, and will make 
Her portion equal his. 

Flo. 0! that must be 

r the virtue of your daughter : one being dead, 
I jihall have more than you ean dream of yet } 
Enough then for your wonder. But, come on ; 
Contract us 'fore these witnesses. 

Sh^. Come, your hand; 

And, daughter, yours. 

Pol. Soft.) swain, awhile, beseech you. 

Have you a father ? 

Flo. I have ; but what of him? 

Pd. Knows he of this ? 

jF7o.^ He neither does, nor dialL 

IPo/. Methinks, a father 
Is at the nuptial of his son a ^est 
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 ? dispose* his own estate ? 
Lies he not bed-rid ? and again, does nothing. 
But what he did being childish? 

Flo. No, good sir : 

He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed. 
Than most havo 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 eouiisel 
In such a business. 

Flo. I yield this; 

But for some otto* reasons, my grave sir. 
Which H is not fit you know, I nckt aequaint 
My father of this bneiness. 

Pol. 'L^\ftSEa.Yajts«n'>\». 

TBB winter's TAUB. 

Flo. He Bhall not. 



Rr'ytihee, let Jiim. 

No, he must net. 

^lep. Let him, ray son : he shall not need to grieve 
At knowing of thy choice. 

Flo. Come, come, he must not. — 

Mark our contract. 

Whom son I dare not call : thou art too base 
To be acknowledged. Thou a sceptre's heir, 
That , thus aflfect'st a sheep-hook ! — Thou old traitor, 
I am sorry, that by 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 cop'st with^ 

Per. 0, my heart ! 

Pol. I '11 have thy beauty scratched with briars, ant 

More homely than thy state. — ^For thee, fond bo^r, "I 

If I may ever know, thou dost but sigh 

That thou no more shalt never* see this knack, (as never 

I mean thou shalt) we '11 bar thee from succession ; 

Not hold thee of our blood, no not oux 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 herdsfflfian; 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 self-fiame sun that shines upon his court. 
Hides not his visage fiX)m our cottage, but 
Looks OA alike.^WiU 't please you, sir, be gone ? 

I told you, what would come of thia. Beaeech yo», 
^ Doubling negatives -was frequent "vVkk ''WVteTft ^^"onA. 


Mark your divorce, young sir, 

[Discovering himself. 

[To FLORiziai. 



THE winter's tale. 


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, 

[To Florizel. 
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. — 0, cursed wretch ! 

[7b Perdita. 

That knew'st this was the prince, and wouldst adven- 

To mingle faith with him. — Undone ! undone ! 

If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd 

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 't would be thus? 
How often said my dignity would last 
But till 't were 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 successioii wipe m^, i«iORKt\ \ 
Am heir to my aSectVon. 

80. HI. 

T«B winter's TALB. 

Cam, Be advis'd. 

Flo. I am ; and by my fancy* : if my reason 
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ; 
If not, my senses, better pleas'd 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. Oamillo, 
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
Be thereat gleanM ; 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 belov'd. Therefore, I pray you, 
As you have ever been my father's honour^ 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 
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. 0, my lord ! 

I would your spirit were easier for advice, 
Or stronger for your need. 

Flo. / Hark, Perdita.— 

[ To C AMiLLO.] I '11 hear you by and by. [ They talk apart 

Cam. He irremovable J 

Resolv'd 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. 
^ Fh. Now, good Camillo, 

I am so fraught with serious business, that 
I leave out ceremony. [Going, 

Cam. Sir, I think. 

You have heard of my poor services, i' the love 
That I have borne your father ? 

* Love. « Ho^ in 1. 


THE winter's tale. 


Flo. y, Very nobly 

Have you deservM : 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 's nearest to him, which is 
Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, 
your more ponderous and settled project 

ay suflfer 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. 
And, after that, trust to thee. 

Cam. Have you thought on 

A place whereto you '11 go? 

Flo. Not any yet ; 

But as th' unthought-on accident is guilty 
To what we wildly do, so we profess 
Ourselves to he 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 yoyself, and your fair princess, 
(For so, I see, she must be) 'fore Leontes : 
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 't were 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 : th' one 
He chides to hell, and bids the other grow 
Faster than thought, oi tm^. 

Flo. ^sst^ ^vsss^^ 

so. m. 

THB WIKTBb's talk. 


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'll 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 promising 

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 loth to be. Besides, you know. 
Prosperity 's the very bond of love. 
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 

Be bom another such. 

Flo. My good Camillo, 

She IS as forward of her breeding, as 
She is i' the rear of birth. 

Cam. I cannot sa^, H is 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, 0, 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 Boli©mia.'% wix^ 


TW winter's TMJt, 

ACT m 

Nor shall appear 't^ in Sicily. 

My lord, 

Feaj noDe of this. T 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 true.* For instance, sir, 
That you may know you shall not want, — one word. 

Aut. Ha, ha ! what a fool honesty is ! and trust, hk 
sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! I have sold 
all my trumpery, not a counterfeit-stone, not a riband, 
glass, pomander," brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape^ 
glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack 
from fasting : they thronged who should buy first; as if 
my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a bene^ 
diction 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 wantis but some- 
thing 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 
ars : you might have pinched a placket, it was sense- 
less ; H was nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse ; I 
would have filed keys off, 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 m with a whoo-bub* against his 
daughter and the king's son, and scared my chough* 
from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole 

[Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita, come forward. 
Cam. Nay, btft 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 Leofi^ 

Cam. Shall satisfy your father. 
Per. Happy be you ! 

All that you speak shows fair. 

Cam. Whom have we here ?— [Seeing Autoltous. 

I appear in Sicilia ; in i. » tDxuft *. Vu i. ^% * i*. batt of ifef 
fumes, ^HulkM^ 

Enter Autoltous. 

8C. m. 

THE winter's tale. 


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 shakesf 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 will 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 h) and change 
garments with this gentleman. Though the penny- 
worth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there 's 
some boot. [Griving moTiey.^ 

Avt. I am a poor fellow, sir. — {Aside.\ I know ye 
well enough. 

Cam, Nay, pr'ythee, dispatch : the gentleman is half 
flayed already. 

Aut. Are you in earnest, sir ? — [Aside^ I smell the 
trick of it. 

Flo. Dispatch, I pr'ythee. 

Aut. Indeed, I have had earnest ; but I cannot with 
conscience take it. 

Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle. — * 
[Flo. and Autol. exchange garments. 
Fortunate mistress, (let my prophecy 
Come home to you !) 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 ever*) to ship-board 
Get undescried. 

Per. I see, the play so lies, 

That I must bear a part. 

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. 

[Gives it to Perdita.* 
Come, lady, come.— -Farewell, my friend. 

Avt. Adieu, sir. 

1 Not in f. e. a Old copies : <rrw e«er» \* W^^Vl^, «i![xvfiL<^Aicw^^ siL 
Lord F. Egerton'M folio, 16*23. » Hot m 1. 

Vol. m.-^3 


THE winter's tale. 


Flo. Perdita ! what have vte twain forgot ? 
Pray you, a word. taik apart. 

Cam. "What I do next shall be to tell the king 
Of this escape, and whither they are bound ; 
Wherein, my hope is, I shall bo 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 !— 

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. 

Cam. The swifter speed, the better. 

[Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, aiid Camillo. 

Aut. I understand the business ; I hear it. To have 
an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is neces- 
sary 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 ex- 
change had this been without boot ! what a boot is 
here with this exchange ! Sure, the gods do this ^^ear 
connive at us, and we may do any thing extempore. 
The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity ; stealiDg 
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. 

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. 

Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, your 
flesh and blood has not ofiended the king ; and so your 
flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show 
those things 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 tha king al^ every word, yea, and 
his son's pranks too*, ^-\io,\tiv«^ ^^i-jSa'oaV'cw^^ 

8C. ni. 

THE winter's tale. 


neither to his father, nor to me, to go about to make 
me the king's brother-in-law. 

Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the furthest 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. 

uiut. [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 sometimes by chance :— let me pocket up my 
pedler's excrement^ — [Takes off his false beard.] How 
now, rustics ! whither are you bound ? 

$kep. 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 
4o not give us the lie. 

Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, if 
jqti^L had not taken yourself with the manner^. 

Shep. 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 ? re- 
ceives not thy nose court-odour from me ? reflect I not 
on thy baseness court-contempt? Think'st thou, for 
that I insinuate, or touze* from thee thy business, I am 
therefore no courtier ? I am courtier, cap-a-pie ; 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. 
Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? 
Shep. I know not, an H like you. 

• » Hair, fMtlSy and fceUherSf were so called. « Estate. 8 the 
act. 4 Full. 


THE winter's talk. 


Clo. Advocate's the court- word for a pheasant*; 
say, you have none. 

Shep, None, sir: I have no pheasant, cock, nor 

Aut. How hlessM are we that are not simple men ! 
Yet nature might have made me as these are, 
Therefore I '11 not disdain. 

Clo. This cannot hut he a great courtier. 

Shep. His garments are rich, hut he wears them not 

Clo. He seems to he the more nohle in being fan- 
tastical : a great man, I '11 warrant; I know, by the 
picking on 's teeth. 

Aut. The fardel there? what 'si' the fardel? Where- 
fore that box ? 

Shep. Sir, there lie 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 be'st capable of things serious, thou must know, 
the king is full of grief. 

Shep. So 't is 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 ger- 
mane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come 
under the hangman : 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. 

Clo. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, 
an 't like you, sir ? 

I A pheasant vas a coxomoti Y^wxtX. tram. ^-vx.-tk\r;x&ATL to gpreat 

9C. m. 

THj: wii^tkr's talk. 


Avt. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive, then, 
'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp's 
nest ; there 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 at, their 
oflfences 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 efiect your suits, here is man shall 
do it. 

Ch. He seems to be of great authority : close with 
him, give him gold ; and though authority be a stub- 
bom 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 1 

Shep. An 't please you, sir, to undertake the business 
for us, here is that gold I have : I '11 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. ! that 's the case of the shepherd's 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, 't is none 
of your daughter nor my 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. 

Avt. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea- 
side : go on the right hand ; I will but look upon the 
hedgOj and follow you. 


THE winter's tale. 


Clo. We are blessed in this man, as I may sayj 
even blessed. 

Shep. Let 's before, as he bids us. He was provided 
to do us good. [EoceurU Shepherd and Clown. 

Avt. 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 luck* 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 offi- 
cious ; 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. 


SCENE I. — Sicilia. A Room in the Palace of Leontes. 
Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and 

Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have performed 
A saint-like sorrow : no fault could you make. 
Which you have not redeem'd ; 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, 1 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 
DestroyM the sweet'st companion, that e'er man 
Bred his hopes out of : true.' 

Paul. 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 killed 

1 back : in f. e. * T'V\.eo\ia.\3i, ^.ti^ mo%\.xaxA, «>^.>ctw»A«t'^oMk^«!l 
to the beginning of t\xe next 

sc. I. 

THE winter's tale. 


Would be unparallel'd. 

Leon, I think so. KilPd ! 

She I kilPd ? I did so ; but thou strik'st 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 grac'd 
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 ? 

Paul. There is none worthy, 

Respecting her that 's gone. Besides, the gods 
Will have fulfiU'd their secret purposes ; 
For has not the divine Apollo said, 
Is 't not the tenour 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. 'T is your counsel. 
My lord should to the heavens be contrary. 
Oppose against their wills. — 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, — 0, that ever I 
Had squar'd me to thy counsel ! — ^then, even now, 
* So old copies; »o8tmodL.«^%,Te^\ damt. 


THB winter's tale. 


I might have looked upon my queen's full eyes, 
Have taken treasure from her lips, — 

More rich, for what they yielded. 

Leon. Thou speak'st truth. 

No more such wives ; therefore, no wife : one worse, 
And hotter us'd, would make her sainted spirit 
Again possess her corpse ; and, on this stage, 
(Where we offenders now appear) soul- vex' d, 
Begin, " And why to me ?" 

Paul. Had she such power, 

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 walked, I 'd hid you mark 
Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in 't 
You chose her ? then I'd shriek, that even your ears 
Should rift to hear me, and the words that follow'd 
Should he, " Rememher mine.i' 

Leon. Stars, stars ! 

And all eyes else dead coals. — ^Fear thou no wife ; 
I '11 have no wife, Paulina. 

Never to marry, but by my free leave ? 

Leon. Never, Paulina ; so he hless'd 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. Good madam, I have done. 

Paul. 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 bidd'st us. 

Paul. That 
Shall be when your first queen 's again in breath : 
Never till then. 


And l^f^ them 


Will you swear 

sc. I. 

THE winter's tale. 


Enter a Gentleman. 

Crent. One that gives out himself prince Florizel, 
Son of Polixenes, with his princess, (she 
The fairest I have yet heheld,) 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 
'T is not a visitation fram'd, but forc'd 
By need, and accident. What train ? 

Gent. But few, 

And those but mean. 

Leon. His princess, say you, with him ? 

Gent. Ay; the most peerless piece of earth, I think, 
That e'er the sun shone bright on. 

Paul. Hermione ! 

As every present time doth boast itself 
Above a better, gone, so must thy grace^ 
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 : 't is shrewdly ebb'd, 
To say you have seen a better. 

Gent. Pardon, madam : 

The one I have almost forgot, (your pardon) 
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 whom she did but 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 honoured friends. 
Bring them to our embracement. — Still 't is strange, 

[Exeunt Cleomenes, Lords, and Gentleman. 
He should thus steal upon us. 

Paul. Had our Prince 

(Jewel of children) seen this hour, he had pair'd 

^ Old copies : grave ; grace, is the MS. emendation of Lord F. 
Bgerton^M toliOf 1623. 


THE winter's talk. 


Well with this lord : there wa* not full a month 
Between their births. 

Leon. Pr'ythee, 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 
Unfumish me of reason. — They are come. — 
Re-enter Cleomenes, with Florizel, Perdita, and 

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 performed before. Most dearly welcome ! 
And your fair princess, goddess ! — 0, alas ! 
I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth 
Might thus have stood, begetting wonder as, 
You, gracious couple, do. And then T 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 touched Sicilia ; and from him 
Give you all greetings, that a king, as* friend. 
Can send his brother ; and, but inl&rmity 

SVhich waits upon worn times) hath something seized 
is 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. 0, 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 th'^ earth. And hath he, too, 
Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage 
(At least ungentle) of the dreadful Neptune, 

1 Old copies : at ; as, is 1^^. «tiv«iidatlon of Lord F. £gexto«'t 
folio, 1623: 

sc. I. 

THE winter's tale. 


To greet a man not worth her pains, much less 
Th' adventure of her person ? 

Flo. Good, my lord, 

She came fronl Libya. 

Leon. Where the warlike Smalus* 

That noble, honoured lord, is fear'd, and lov'd ? 

Flo. Most royal sir, from thence ; from him, whose 

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^, 

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 noble' 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 bless'd 
(As he from heaven merits it) with you. 
Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, 
Might I a son and daughter now have looked 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 ; 
Desires you to attach his son, who has 

iHis dignity and duty both cast oflf) 
"'led 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 miarvel, and my message. To your court 
Whiles he was hastening (in the chase, it seems. 
Of this fair couple) meets he on the "wa-y 
1 holy ; iu I. %. 


THE winter's talk. 


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, 
Endur'd all weathers. 

Lord. Lay 't so to his charge : 

He 's with the king your father. 

Lem. 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. 0, 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. 
Where you were tied in duty ; and as sorry. 
Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, 
That you might well eiyoy her. 

Flo. Dear, look up : 

Though fortune, visible an enemy. 
Should chase us with my father, power no jot 
Hath she to change oxir loves. — Beseech you, sir, 
Remember since you ow'd 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 'd beg your precious mis- 


Which he coTmta \xi^<&. 

8C. n. 

THH winter's tale. 


Your eye hath too much youth in H : not a month 
'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes 
Than what you look on now. 

Leon, I thought of her, 

£yen in these looks I made. — ^But your petition 

[To Florizel. 
Is yet unanswered. T will to your father : 
Your honour not overthrown hy your desires, 
I am a friend to them, and you ; upon which errand 
I now go toward him. Therefore, follow me, 
And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord. 


SCENE II.— The S^me. Before the Palace. 

Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. 
Aut. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this re* 

1 (xent. 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. 

Avt. I would most glaidly know the issue of it. 

1 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 ex- 
tremity of the one it must needs be. 

Enter another Crentleman. 
Here comes a gentleman, that, haply, knows more.— 
The news, Rogero? 

2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is ful- 
filled ; 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. 

Enter a third Crentleman. 
Here comes the lady Paulina's steward : he caadelivet 
you more. — ^How goes it now, e\T'^ 
Vol. ni—M 




is called true, is so like an old tale, that the Yerity of 
it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir ? 

3 Gent. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by 
circumstance : that which you hear, you '11 swear you 
see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of 
queen Hermione ; — ^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 noble- 
ness, 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 ? 

2 Gent. No. 

3 Gent. Then you have 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 man- 

* ner, 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, " 0, thy mother, thy mo- 
ther !" then asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces 
his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter 
with clipping'' her : now he thanks the old shepherd, 
which stands by, like a weather-beaten' conduit of 
many kings' reigns. I never heard of such another 
encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes 
description to show* it. 

2 Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that 
carried hence the child ? 

3 Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have mat- 
ter to rehearse, though credit be asleep, and not an ear 
open. He was torn to pieces with a bear : this avou- 
ches the shepherd's son, who has not only his inno- 
cence (which seems much) to justify him, but a hand- 
kerchief, and rings of his that Paulina knows. 

1 Gent. What became of his bark, and his followers ? 
3 Gent. Wrecked, the same instant of their master's 
death, and in the view of the shepherd : so that all the 

^Countenance. * Embracing. * 's»ft«}OEk!a-^>\^V«fBL\ vft.\.^» *do: 
in f. e. 

80. II. 



instruments, which aided to expose the child, were even 
then lost, when it was found. But, ! the nohle com- 
bat, 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 fulfilled: she 
lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in 
embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that 
she might no more be in danger of losing, her. 

1 Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the audi- 
ence of kings and princes, for by such was it acted. 

3 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, heavily* 
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 it, the 
woe had been universal. 

1 Gent. Are they returned to the court? 

3 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 affec- 
tion, are they gone, and there they intend to sup. 

2 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 ? 

1 Gent. Who would be thence, that has the benefit 
of access ? every wink of an eye, some new grace will 
be bom : our absence makes us unthrifty to our know- 
ledge. 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 j)rought 


THX wnrraR's talk. 


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, over-fond of the shepherd's daugh- 
ter, (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 
't is all one to me ; for had I been the finder out of 
this secret, it would not have relished among my other 

Enter Shepherd and Clown^^ in new apparel. 
Here come those I have done good to against my will, 
and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune. 

Shep. Come, boy ; I am past more children ; but thy 
sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. 

C/o. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with 
me this other day, because I was no gentleman bom : 
see you these clothes ? say, you see them not, and think 
me still no gentleman bom : you were best say, these 
robes are not gentlemen bom. Give me the lie, do, 
and try whether I am not now a gentleman bom. 

Atit, I know, you are now, sir, a gentleman bom. 

do. 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 bora 
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 gen- 
tleman-like tears that ever we shed. 

Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. 

Clo. Ay ; or else 't were hard luck, being in so pre- 
posterous estate as we are. 

Aut. I humbly beseecdi 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. 

Shep, Pr'ythee, son, do ; for we must be gentle, now 
we are gentlemen. 

Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life? 

Avt. Ay, an it like your good worship. 

Clo. Give me thy hand : I will swear to the jmnoe, 
thOu art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia. 

Shep^ You may ftoy it, not swear it. 

I Tb.e test ol ^Vroa\wm. \» ^<>\i Vil 1. 

THE winter's tale. 


C/o. 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 talP 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 darest venture to be drunk, not 
being a tall fellow, trust me not. — [Trumpets.^] 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, 

SCENE III.-— The Same. A Chapel in Paulina's 

Enier Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, 
Camillo, Paulina, Xo^(25, and AttendarUs, 

Leon, ! grave and good Paulina, the great comfort 
That I have had of thee ! 

Paul. What, sovereign sir, 

I did not well, I meant well. AH my services. 
You have paid home ; but that you have vouchsaf d, 
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. Paulina ! 

We honour you with trouble. But we came 
To see the statue of our queen : yoiir gallery 
Have we pass'd through, not without much content . 
In ii^any singularities, but we saw not 
That which my daughter came to look upon, 
The statue of her mother. 

Paul. As she liv'd 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 
i Brave, fint. «l%ojt\Tki.%. 



THE WINTBr's tale. 


To see the life as lively moek'd, as ever 
Still sleep moek'd death : behold ! and say, 't is well. 
[Paulina undraws a curtain^ and discovers a statue} 
Music playing. — A pause. 
I like your silence : it the more shows off 
your wonder ; but yet speak : — ^first you, my liege. 
Gomes it not something near? 

Leon. Her natural postiure.— 

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. 
Poi. 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 liv'd now. 

Leon. As now -she might have dcme, 

So much to my good comfort, as it is 
Now |»ercing to my wul. ! thus she stood, 
Even with such life of majesty, (warm life. 
As now it coldly stands) when first I woo^d her 
I am asham'd : does not the stone rebuke me, 
For being more stone than it ? — 0, royal piece ! 
There 's magic in thy majesty, which has 
My evils coiyur'd to remembrance ; and 
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits. 
Standing like «tone with thee. 

Per. And give me leave. 

I kneel, and thus implore her blessing. — Lady, 
Dear queen, that ended when I but began. 
Give me that hand of yours to kiss. 

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 kill'd itself much sooner. 

Pol. Dear my brother, 

» The lest ot ikuji das%^'«mA& u-oit Vb.1. *. ^'^^jXysslS.,^. 

And do not say 't is superstition, that 



O, patience ! 

86. jn. 



Let him that was the cause of this, hare power 
To take off so mnch grief from you, as he 
Will piece up in hiimelf. 

f aid. Indeed, my lord, 

had thought, the sight of my poor image 
Would thus have wrought you, (for the stone is mine) 
I 'd not have show'd it. [Offers to draw} 

Leon, Do not draw the curtain. 

Faul. No longer «hall you gaze on H, lest your fancy 
May think anwi it moves. 

Leon. Let be, let be ! 

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already 
I am but dead, st(»ie looking upon stone^. — 
What was he that did make it ? — See, my lord. 
Would you not deem it breath-d, and that those veins 
Did verily bear blood ? 

FoL Masterly done : 

The very life seems warm upon her lip. 

.'Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in 't, 
As we are mocked with art. 

Faul. I 'til draw the curtain. 

My lord '« almost so far transported, that 

{Offers again to dmw? 

He '11 think ason it lives. 

Leon, O, >sweet Paulina ! 

Make me to think so twenty years together : 
No settled senses of the world 4)an matdi 
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 tiiis affliction has a taste as sweet 
As any cordial comfort. — Still, methinks. 
There is an air comes from her : what fine chisel 
Gould ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me. 
For I will kiss her. 

Faul. Good my lord, forbear. [She stays km.* 
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 eould I 

> >T(ot i«f. e. •This lime is not in f. e. 9 « These directioju 
we not in f. e. 




Stand by, a looker on. 

Paul. Eitber forbear, 

Quit preeently the chapel, or resolye 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 't is 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 ! — [Musk. 

'T is time ; descend ; be stone no more : approach ; 
Strike all that look upon with manrel. Gome; 
I '11 fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away; 
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from Mm 
Dear life redeems you. — ^You perceive, she stirs. 

[Hermione descends slowly from the pedestal. 
Start not : her actions shall be holy, as 
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, 
Ip she become the suitor ? 

Leon, O ! she 's warm. [Embracing her. 

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 life, let her speak too. 

Pol. Ay; and make it manifest where she has liVd, 
Or how stol'n 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 e^^ak uot. Majk a little while. — 
Please you to inteti^oaft, xa»A»s£L\ >ss3fis3^ 

BO. ni. 

THB winter's tale. 


And pray your mother's blessing. — ^Tum, good lady, 
Our Perdita is found. [Perdita kneels to Hermione. 

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 liv'd?how 

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 withered bough, and there 
My mate, that 's never to be found again, 
Lament till I am lost. 

Leon. peace, Paulina ! 

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent. 
As [ by thine, a wife : this is a match, 
And made between 's by vows. Thou hast found mine; 
But how is to be questioned, 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, 
And take her 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) 
[s 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, 
. 1 Take her by the hand : in f. e. 




FEB 2*5 1955