Tales from Shakspere

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TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

By MR. AND MISS LAMB.

A NEW EDITION.

TO WHICH ARE NOW ADDED,

SCENES ILLUSTRATING EACH TALE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.— VOL. I.

LONDON:
CHARLES KNIGHT AND CO.,

LUDGATE-STREET.

1844.

London : Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.

f:tBRARY
tii^ffirvrERSITY 0¥ CALIFORMA

SANTA BARIJAir^

ADVERTISEMENT.

The ^ Tales from Shakspere,' by Mr. and Miss
Lamb, were originally designed for the use of
Young Persons. But, like several others of the
best books so addressed, they have become as attrac-
tive to adults as to those for whose use they were
originally intended. There is a constant exchange
going on between the best books for those of ma-
ture years, and the best books for young readers.
' Robinson Crusoe ' and the ' Arabian Nights '
were not written for children ; but what books can
compete with them in the delight which they
afford to children ? On the other hand the most
successful writers of books for the young have
constantly had the satisfaction of finding their per-
formances affording instruction and amusement to

the maturest understandings. Who attempts to

a 2

IV ADVEKTISEMENT.

limit the perusal of Miss Edgeworth's stories, or
Scott's 'Tales of a Grandfather/ by the years
which a reader has numbered ?

The authors of the ' Tales from Shakspere,' in
their Preface state, that " The following Tales are
meant to be submitted to the young reader as an
introduction to the study of Shakspere, for which
purpose his Mords are used whenever it seemed
possible to bring them in ; and in whatever has
been added to give them the regular form of a con-
nected stor}^, diligent care has been taken to select
such words as might least interrupt the effect of
the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote :
therefore, words introduced into our language
since his time have been as far as possible avoided."

It is as "an Introduction to the study of Shak-
spere" that we offer a re-publication of these
Tales, to a more numerous class than that for which
they were written. But looking at this their pur-
pose of an introduction to the study of this greatest
of poets, we have now added to each Tale a few
Scenes, which may be advantageously read after
the perusal of the Tale, to furnish some notion
of the original excellence of the wonderful dramas
upon which the Tales are founded. Ko extract,

ADVERTISEMENT. V

indeed, of single scenes can give a complete notion
of the powers of Shakspere ; for his dramatic art —
that of managing a plot with the most masterly
skill, so as to develop the incidents in the fittest
order, and exhibit the characters through their
actions — is amongst his highest excellences. But
to those who are unfamiliar with Shakspere these
extracts will excite a natural desire for a complete
acquaintance with his works. The wish with
which the authors of the Tales conclude their Pre-
face, is repeated by the present Editor, addressing

ALL EEADERS :

" What these Tales shall have been to the young
readers, that and much more it is the writers' wish
that the true Plays of Shakspere may prove to
them in older years — enrichers of the fancy,
strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all
selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all
sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to
teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity :
for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages
are full."

It is the hope of the Editor of this Series that
he may speedily be enabled to complete a compa-
nion work to these ' Tales,' for which he has made

VI ADVERTISEMENT.

some preparation, entitled * Histories from
Shakspere.' a celebrated German critic says,
" Happy for England that she possesses a poet who
so many years smce has spoken to her people as the
highest and most splendid teacher ! The full con-
sequences of his teaching have not yet been suffi-
ciently revealed ; they may perhaps never wholly
be exhibited. We, however, know that in Eng-
land a praiseworthy zeal for their country's history
prevails among the people. But who first gave
true life to that history ? "

C. K.

vu

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE TEMPEST 3

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 33

A WINTER'S TALE 57

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 85

AS YOU LIKE IT 109

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 141

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 165

CYMBELINE 191

KING LEAR 215

MACBETH 241

( 3 )

THE TEMPEST.

There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabit-
ants of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero,
and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady.
She came to this island so young, that she had no memory
of having seen any other human face than her father's.

They lived in a cave or cell made out ^f a rock ; it
was divided into several apartments, one of which Pros-
pero called his study ; there he kept his books, which
chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time much
affected by all learned men : and the knowledge of this
art he found very useful to him ; for being thrown by a
strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted
by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time
before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released
many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute
her wicked commands. These gentle spirits were ever
after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel
was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous
in his nature, except that he took rather too much plea-
sure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for
he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his old
enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the
woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form
than an ape ; he took him home to his cell, and taught
him to speak ; and Prospero would have been very kind
to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from

b2

4 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE.

his mother Sycorax would not let him learn any thing
good or useful : therefore he was employed like a slave,
to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices ; and
Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel
(who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come
slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in
the mire ; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape,
would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his
shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tum-
bling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp
quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such-
like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,
whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero
commanded him to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will,
Prospero could by their means command the winds, and
the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent
storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the
wild sea-waves tliat every moment threatened to swallow
it up, he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which
he told her was full of living beings like themselves.
" O my dear father," said she, '' if by your art you have
raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress.
See ! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls !
they will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the
sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship should
be destroyed, with all the precious souls within her."

" Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Pros-
pero ; " there is no harm done. I have so ordered it,
that no person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What
I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You
are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and
you know no more of me, but that I am your father, and
live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before
you came to this cell ? I think you cannot^ for you were
not then three years of age."

" Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.

*' By what?" asked Prospero ; "by any other house
or person ? Tell me what you can remember, my child."

THE TEMPEST. 5

Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of
a dream. But had I not once four or five women who
attended upon me ?"

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it
that this still lives in your mind ? Do you remember
how you came here ?"

" No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing more."

" Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero,
" I was duke of Milan, and you were a princess, and my
only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name was
Antonio, to whom I trusted everything ; and as I was
fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the
management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false
brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all
worldly ends, buried among my books, did dedicate my
whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother
Antonio, being thus in possession of my power, began to
think himself the duke indeed. The opportunity I gave
him of making himself popular among my subjects
awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive
me of my dukedom : this he soon effected with the aid
of the king of Naples, a powerful prince, who was my
enemy."

" Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour
destroy us?"

" My child," answered her father, " they durst not,
so dear was the love that my people bore me. Antonio
carried us on board a ship, and when we were some
leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, with-
out either tackle, sail, or mast : there he left us, as he
thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one
Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately placed in the boat
water, provisions, apparel, and some books which I prize
above my dukedom."

" O my father," said Miranda, '' what a trouble must
I have been to you then !"

<' No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a little
cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made
me to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food lasted
till we landed on this desert island, since when my chief

6 TALES raOM SHAKSPERE.

delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and weli have
you profited by my instructions."

'•'■ Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda.
" Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-
storm ?"

" Know then," said her father, " that by means of this
storm, my enemies, the king of Naples and my cruel
brother, are cast ashore upon tliis island." *

Having so said, Prosper© gently touched his daughter
with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep ; for the
spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master,
to give an account of the tempest, and how he had dis-
posed of the ship's company ; and though the spirits were
always invisible to iNIiranda, Prospero did not choose she
should hear him holding converse (as would seem to her)
with the empty air.

'• Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel,
" how have you performed your task ?"

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the
terrors of the mariners ; and how the king's son, Fei-
dinand, was the first who leaped into the sea ; and his
father thought he saw this dear son swallowed up by the
waves and lost. " But he is safe," said Ariel, " in a cor-
ner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lament-
ing the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes
drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and nis
princely garments, though drenched in the sea- waves,
look fi-esher than before."

" That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. '' Bring
him hither : my daughter must see this young prince.
Where is the king, and my brother ?"

"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Fer-
dinand, whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking
they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew not one is
missing ; though each one thinks himself the only one
saved ; and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in
the harbour."

" Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully per-
formed ; but there is more work yet."

* See the Extract from Sb.akspere, No. I.

THE TEMPEST. 7

'' Is there more work ?" said Ariel. *' Let me remind
you, master, you have promised me my liberty. I pray,
remember, I have done you worthy service, told you no
lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge or
grumbling."

*' How now !" said Prosper©. " You do not recollect
what a torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the
wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy was almost
bent double ? Where was she born ? Speak ; tell me."

" Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel.

*' O, was she so'?" said Prospcro. " I. must recount
what you have been, which I find you do not remember.
This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible
to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and
here left by the sailors ; and because you were a spirit
too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut
you up in a tree, where I found you howling. This tor-
ment, remember, I did free you from."

" Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to
seem ungrateful ; *' I will obey your commands."

" Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you free."
He then gave orders what further he would have him
do ; and away went Ariel, first to where he had left Fer-
dinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.

" O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw
him, " I will soon move you. You must be brought, I
find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty
person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing,

" Full fathom five thy father lies :

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

Nothing of him that doth fade.
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell :
Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong-bell."

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the
prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He

8 TALES FROM SHAKSP£B£.

fullowed in amazement the sound of Ariel's voice, tUl it
led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting under
the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen
a man before, except her own father.

" Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what you are
looking at yonder."

*' O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise,
" surely that is a spirit ! Lord ! how it looks about !
Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a
spirit ?"

"No, girl," answered her father; *' it eats, and
sleeps, and has senses such as we have. This young man
you see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by
grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He
has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find
them."

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and
gray beards like her father, w^as delighted with the ap-
pearance of this beautiful young prince ; and Ferdinand,
seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place, and from
the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing but
wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and
that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such
he began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple
maid, and was going to give him an account of herself,
when Prospero interrupted her. He was well pleased to
find they admired each other, for he plainly perceived
they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight : but to
try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some
difl&culties in their way : therefore advancing forward, he
addressed the prince with a stern air, telling him, he
came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who was the
lord of it. " Follow me," said he, '^ I will tie you neck
and feet together. You shall drink sea- water ; shell-fish,
withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be your food."
*'No," said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertain-
ment till I see a more powerful enemy," and drew his
sword ; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him
to the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to
move.

THE TEMPEST. 9

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, " Why are you
so ungentle ? Have pity, sir ; I will be his surety.
This is the second man 1 ever saw, and to me he seems
a true one."

"Silence," said the father; "one word more will
make me chide you, girl ! What ! an advocate for an
impostor ! You think there are no more such fine men,
having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish
girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban."
This he said to prove his daughter's constancy ; and she
replied, " My affections are most humble. I have no
wish to see a goodlier man."

" Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince,
" you have no power to disobey me."

" I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand ; and not
knowing that it was by magic he was deprived of all
power of resistance, he was astonished to find himself so
strangely compelled to follow Prospero : looking back on
Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went
after Prospero into the cave, " My spirits are all bound
up, as if I were in a dream ; but this man's threats, and
the weakness which I feel, would seem light to me if
from my prison I might once a day behold this fair
maid."

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the
cell : he soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a se-
vere task to perform, taking care to let his daughter
know the hard labour he had imposed on him, and then
pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched
them both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some
heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons not being much used
to laborious work, Miranda soon after found her lover
almost dying with fatigue. " Alas !" said she, " do not
work so hard ; my father is at his studies, he is safe for
these three hours : pray rest yourself."

" O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare not. I
must finish my task before I take my rest."

" If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will carry
your logs the while." But this Ferdinand would by no

B 3

10 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

means agree to. Instead of a help Miranda became a
hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that the
business of log-carrying went on very slowly.

Prospero, v, ho had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely
as a trial of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter
supposed, but was standing by them invisible, to overhear
what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him,
saying it was against her father's express command she
did so,

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daugh-
ter's disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his
daughter to fall in love so suddenly, he Mas not angry
that she showed her love by forgetting to obey his com-
mands. And he listened well pleased to a long speech
of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above
all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said
exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, *' I
do not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen
any more men than you, my good friend, and my dear
father. How features are abroad, I know not ; but, be-
lieve me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the
world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape
but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to
you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget."

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much
as to say, *' This goes on exactly as I could wish ; my
girl will be queen of Naples."

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for
young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the inno-
cent Miranda he Mas heir to the crown of Naples, and
that she should be his queen.

" Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to M^eep at M'hat I
am glad of. I M-ill answer you in plain and holy inno-
cence. I am your wife, if you Mill marry me."*

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing
visible before them.

*' Fear nothing, my child," said he ; "I have over-

* Extract II.

THE TEMPEST. 11

heard, and approve of all you have said. And, Ferdi-
nand, if I have too severely used you, I will make you
rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All your
vexations were but trials of your love, and you have nobly
stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love
has worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not
smile that I boast she is above all praise." He then,
telling them that he had business which required his pre-
sence, desired they would sit down and talk together till
he returned ; and this command Miranda seemed not at
all disposed to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel,
who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what
he had done with Prospero's brother and the king of
Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost out of their
senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused
them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering
about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly
set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as
they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them
in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings;
and the feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amaze-
ment, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them
of their cruelty in driving Prosyjero from his dukedom,
and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the
sea ; saying, that for this cause these terrors were suffered
to afflict them.

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, re-
pented the injustice they had done to Prospero; and
Ariel told his master he was certain their penitence was
sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but pity
them.

" Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero : *' if
7ou, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not
I, who am a human being like themselves, have compas-
sion on them ? Bring them quickly, my dainty Ariel."

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old
Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering
at the wild music he played in the air to draw them on
to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the same

12 TALES FROM SHASSPEHE.

who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books
and provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he
thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that they
did not know Prospero. He first discovered himself to
the good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver of his
life ; and then his brother and the king knew that he
was the injured Prospero.

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true
repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness ; and the
king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted
Antonio to depose his brother : and Prospero forgave
them ; and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom,
he said to the king of Naples, ' ' I have a gift in store for
you too ;" and opening a door, showed him his son Ferdi-
nand playing at chess with JNIiranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son
at this unexpected meeting, for they each thought the
other drowned in the storm.

" O wonder !" said Miranda, " what noble creatures
these are ! It nmst surely be a brave world that has
such people in it."

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at
the beauty and excellent gi-aces of the young Miranda
as his son had been. *' Who is this maid?" said he;
*' she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought
us thus together." " No, sir," answered Ferdinand,
smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mistake
that he had done when he first saw i\Iiranda, " she is a
mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine ; I chose
her when I could not ask you, my father, for your con-
sent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter
to this Prospero, who is the famous duke of iNlilan, of
whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him
till now : of him I have received a new life : he has
made himself to me a second father, giving me this dear
lady."

*' Then I must be her father," said the king : " but
oh ! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child
forgiveness I "

THE TEMPEST. 13

" No more of that," said Prosper© : " let us not re-
member our troubles past, since they so happily have
ended." And then Prospero embraced his brother, and
again assured him of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise,
overruling Providence had permitted that he should be
driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter
might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their
meeting in this desert island, it had happened that the
king's son had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to
comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and
remorse, that he wept and was unable to speak ; and the
kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation,
and prayed for blessings on the young couple.*

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the
harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that he and
his daughter would accompany them home the next
morning. " In the mean time," says he, " partake of
such refreshments as my poor cave afltbrds ; and for your
evening's entertainment I will relate the history of my
life from my first landing in this desert island." lie then
called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the cave
in order ; and the company were astonished at the un-
couth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster,
who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to
wait upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel
from his service, to the great joy of that lively little
spirit ; who, though he had been a faithful servant to his
master, was always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to
wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling
flowers. " My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the
little sprite when he made him free, *' I shall miss you ;
yet you shall have your freedom." Thank you, my dear
master," said Ariel ; " but give me leave to attend your
ship home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewell
to the assistance of your faithful spirit ; and then, master,

* Extract III.

14 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

when I am free, how merrily I shall live 1" Here Ariel
sung this pretty song :

" Where the bee sucks, there "suck I ;
In a cowslip's bell I lie :
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

Prosper© then buried deep in the earth his magical
books and wand, for he w^as resolved never more to make
use of the magic art. And having thus overcome his
enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the king
of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happi-
ness but to revisit his native land, to take possession of
his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his
daughter Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the king
said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour
on their return to Naples. At which place, under the
safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant
voyage, soon arrived.*

• Extract IV.

( 15 )

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act I. — Scene II. — Prospero and Miranda.

Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them :
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd
With those that I saw suffer ! a brave vessel.
Who had no doubt some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart ! Poor souls ! they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er *
It should the good ship so have swallow'd, and
The fraughting ^ souls within her.

Pro. Be collected ;

No more amazement : tell your piteous heart,
There 's no harm done.

Mira. O, woe the day !

Pro. No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,
(Of thee, my dear one ! thee, my daughter !) who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

Mira. More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

^ Or e'er — before, sooner than.

*= Fraughtino — constituting the fraught, or freight-

1 6 TALES FHOM SHAKSPERE.

Pro. 'T is time

I should ififorin thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. — So ;

ILai/s down his mantle.
Lie there my art, — Wipe thou Vnine eyes ; have comfort.
The direfid spectacle of the wrack, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order'd, that there is no soul —
No, not so much perdition as an hair,
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saVst sink. Sit

down;
For thou must now know farther.

3Iira. You have often

Begim to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd
And left me to a bootless inquisition ;
Concluding, " Stay, not yet." —

Pro. The hour 's now come ;

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear ;
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell ?
I do not think thou canst ; for then thou wast not
Out three years old.*

Mira. Certainly, sir, I can.

Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ?
Of anything the image tell me that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.

Mira. 'T is far off;

And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants : Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me ?

Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda : But how is it
That this lives in thy mind ? What see'st thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time ?
If thou I'^member'st aught ere thou cam'st here,
How thou cam'st here thou mayst.

3fira. But that I do not.

Pro. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since
Thy father was the duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.

Mira. Sir, are not you my father ?

* Quite three years old.

THE TEMPEST. 17

Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter ; and thy father
Was duke of Milan ; and his only heir
And princess no worse issued,

Mira. O, the heavens !

What foul play had we, that we came from thence ?
Or blessed was 't we did ?

Pro. Both, both, my girl ;

By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence ;
But blessedly holp hither.

Mira. O, my heart bleeds

To think o' the teen ^ that I have turn'd you to.
Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, farther.

Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio, —
I pray thee mark me that a brother should
Be so perfidious ; — he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put
The manage of my state, as, at that time,
Through all the signiories it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity ; and for the liberal arts
Without a parallel : those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle —
Dost thou attend me ?

Mira. Sir, most heedfully.

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

Mira. O good sir, I do.

Pro. I pray thee, mark me.

I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

= Teen — sorrow.

•> A trash is a term to denote a piece of leather, couples, or any other
weight, fastened round the neck of a dog, when he overtops the rest of
the pack, when he hunts too quick.

18 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

To closeness, and the bettering of my mind

With that, which, but by being so retir'd,

O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother

Awak'd an evil nature : and my trust.

Like a good parent, did beget of him

A falsehood, in its contrary as great

As my trust was ; which had, indeed, no limit,

A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded.

Not only with what my revenue yielded.

But what my power might else exact, — like one

Who having unto truth, by telling of it,

Made such a sinner of his memory.

To credit his own lie, — he did believe

He Avas indeed the duke ; out of the substitution,

And executing the outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative : — Hence his ambition growing, —

Dost thou hear ?

Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

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

Mira. O the heavens !

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

Mira. I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother :
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

Pro. Now the condition.

This king of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit ;
Which was, that he, in lieu * o' the premises
Of homage,^ and I know not how much tribute.
Should presently extirpate me and mine

* In lieu — in consideration of, in exchange for.

'' The premises of homage, &c. — the circumstances of homage pre-
mised.

THE TEMPEST. 19

Out of the dukedom ; and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother : Whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan ; and, i' the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me. and thy crying self

Mira. Alack, for pity !

I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint,
That wrings mine eyes to 't.

Pro. Hear a little further.

And then I '11 bring thee to the present bvisiness
Which now 's upon us ; without the which, this story
Were most impertinent.

Mira. Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us ?

Pro. Well demanded, wench;

My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not
(So dear the love my people bore me) ; nor set
A mark so bloody on the business ; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark ;
Bore us some leagiies to sea ; where they prepar'd
A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it : there they hoist us.
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us ; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again.
Did us but loving wrong.

Mira. Alack ! what trouble

Was I then to you !

Pro. O ! a cherubim

Thou wast that did preserve me ! Thou didst smile.
Infused with a fortitude from heaven.
When I have deck'd a the sea with drops full salt ;
Under my burthen groan'd ; which rais'd in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.

Mira. How came we ashore ?

Pi-o. By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that

* Deck'd. In the glossary of the Craven dialect we find that to deg
is to sprinkle.

20 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity (-who being then appointed

blaster of this design) did give us ; with

Eich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,

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

Kno-wing I lov'd my books, he fumish'd me,

From mine o^\'n library, with volvmies that

I prize above my dukedom.

Mira. 'Would I might

But ever see that man !

Pro. Now I arise : —

Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv'd ; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princess can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

Mira. Heavens thank you for 't ! And now, I pray you,
sir,
(For still 't is beating in my mind,) your reason
For raising this sea-storm ?

Pro. Know thus far forth.

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady,* hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore : and by ray prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star ; whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. — Here cease more questions :
Thou art inclin'd to sleep ; 't is a good dulness.
And give it way ; — I know thou canst not choose.

[Miranda sleeps.
Come away, servant, come : I am ready now ;
Approacli, my Ariel ; come.

* Now my dear lady. Fortune is now Prospero's bountiful lady.

THE TEMPEST. 21

II.

Act III. — Scene I. — Enter Ferdinand, hearing a log.

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

Enter Miranda, and Prospero at a distance.

Mira. Alas, now ! pray you,

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

Fer. O most dear mistress.

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

Mira. If you '11 sit down

I '11 bear your logs the while : Pray give me that ;
I '11 carry it to the pile.

Fer. No, precious creature:

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back.
Than you should such dishonour undergo.
While I sit lazy by.

Mira. It would become me

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

22 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

With much more ease ; for my ^ood -will is to it,
And yours it is against.

Pro. Poor w^orm ! thou art infected ;

This visitation shows it.

Mira. You look Trearily.

Ter. No, noble mistress ; 't is fresh morning with me,
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
(Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers,)
What is your name ?

Mira. Miranda : — O my father,

I have broke your hest to say so !

Fer. Admir'd Miranda !

Indeed the top of admiration ; worth
What 's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard ; and many a time
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues
Have I lik'd several women ; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she oVd,
And put it to the foil : But you, O you.
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.

Mira. I do not know

One of my sex ; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have 1 seen
INIore that I may call men, than you, good friend,
And my dear father : how features are abroad,
I am skill-less of ; but, by my modesty,
(The jewel in my dower,) I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you ;
Nor can imagination form a shape.
Beside yourself, to like of: But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father's precepts
I therein do forget.

Fer. I am, in my condition,

A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king ;
(I would not so I) and would no more endure
This wooden slavery, than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. — Hear my soul speak : —
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service ; there resides,
To make me slave to it ; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.

THE TEMPEST. 23

Mira. Do you love me ?

Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me, to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i' the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.

Mira. I am a fool.

To weep at what I am glad of

Pro. Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between them !

Fer. Wherefore weep you ?

Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give ; and much less take
What I shall die to want : but this is trifling ;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning !
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence !
I am your wife, if you will marry me ;
If not, I '11 die your maid : to be your fellow
You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant,
Whether you will or no.

Fer. My mistress, dearest,

And I thus humble ever.

Mira. My husband then

Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e'er of freedom : here 's my hand.

Mira. And mine, with my heart in 't : And now fare-
well,
Till half an hour hence.

Fer. A thousand ! thousand !

\_Exeunt Fer. and Mir.

Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be.
Who are surpris'd with all ; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I '11 to my book ;
For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform
Much business appertaining. [_Kvit.

24 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

III.

Act V. — ScENTE I. — Enter Prospero in his magic robes ,
and Ariel.

Pro. Now does my project gather to a head :
My charms crack not ; my spirits obey ; and Time
Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day ?

Ari. Ou the sixth hour ; at which time, my lord.
You said our work should cease.

Pro. I did say so,

When first I rais'd the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the king and 's followers ?

Ari. Confin'd together

In the same fashion as you gave in charge
Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell ;
They cauuot budge till your release. The king,
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted;
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimfull of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly
Him that you term'd, sir, " The good old lord, Gonzalo ;"
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves of reeds : your charm so strongly works them>
That if you now beheld them your affections
Would become tender.

Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit ?

Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human.

Pro. And mine shall.

Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afllictions ? and shall not myself.
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply.
Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art ?
Though with their high wrongs I am strook to the quick.
Yet, with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury
Do I take part : the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent.
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further : Go, release them, Ariel ;
My charms I '11 break, their senses I '11 restore,
And they shall be themselves.

Ai'i, I '11 fetch them, sir. lExit.

THE TEMPEST. 25

Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,
When he comes back ; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make.
Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight-mushrooms ; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt : the strong-bas'd promontory
Have I made shake ; and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar : graves, at my command,
Have wak'd their sleepers ; op'd, and let them forth
By my so potent art : But this rough magic
I here abjure : and, when I have requir'd
Some heavenly music, (which even now I do,)
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I '11 break my staff.
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth.
And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I '11 drown my book. \_Solemn music.

Re-enter Ariel : after him, Alonso, with a frantic gesture,
attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian and Antonio in like
manner, attended bi/ Adrian and Francisco: theij all
enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand
charmed ; which Prospero observing, speaks.

A solemn air, and the best comforter

To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,

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

For you are spell-stopp'd.

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man.

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,

Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves apace ;

And as the morning steals upon the night.

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason. — 0 good Gonzalo,

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

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

VOL. I. C

26 TAI^S FROM SHAKSPERE.

Home, both in word and deed. — Most cruelly

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter :

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ; —

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

You brother mine, that entertaih'd ambition,

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

(Whose iuM'ard pinches therefore are most strong,)

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

Unnatural though thou art! — Their understanding

Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide

Will shortly fill the reasonable shores,

That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them

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

Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; [£!nY Ariel.

I will disease me, and myself present,

As I was sometime Milan : — quickly, spirit ;

Thou shalt ere long be free.

Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospe210.

Ari, Where the bee sucks, there suck I ;

In a cowslip's bell I lie •
There I couch when owis ao cry,
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Pro. Why, that 's my dainty Ariel : I shall miss thee ;
But yet thou shalt have freedom : so, so, so. —
To the king's ship, invisible as thou art :
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches ; the master, and the boatswain
Being awake, enforce them to this place ;
And presently, I prithee.

Ari. I drink the air before me, and return
Or e'er your pulse twice beat. \^Exit Ariel.

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

Pro. Behold, sir king,

The wronged duke of Milan, Prospero :
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ;
And to thee, and thy company, I bid
A hearty welcome.

Alon. Whe'r thou beest he, or no.

THE TEMPEST. 27

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,

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

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

The affliction of my mind amends, with which,

I fear, a madness held me : this must crave

(An if this be at all) a most strange story.

Thy dukedom I resign ; and do entreat

Thou pardon me my wrongs : — But how should Prospero

Be living, and be here ?

Pro. First, noble friend.

Let me embrace thine age ; whose honour cannot
Be measur'd, or confin'd.

Go7i. Whether this be,

Or be not, I '11 not swear.

Pro. You do yet taste

Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain : — Welcome, my friends all : —
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,

[Aside to Sebas. and Ant.
I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you,
And justify you traitors ; at this time
I '11 tell no tales.

Seb. The devil speaks in him. [Aside.

Pro. No:—

For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault ; all of them ; and require
My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know
Thou must restore.

Aloii. If thou beest Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation :
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wrack'd upon this shore ; where I have lost
(How sharp the point of this remembrance is !)
My dear son Ferdinand.

Pro. I am woe for 't, sir.

Alon. Irreparable is the loss ; and patience
Says it is past her cure.

Pro. I rather think.

You have not sought her help ; of whose soft grace
For the like loss, I have her sovereign aid.
And rest myself content.

Alon. You the like loss ?

Pro. As great to me, as late ; and supportable

c2

28 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you ; for I
Have lost my daughter.

Alon. A daughter?

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

Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter ?

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

1 will requite you with as good a thing ;

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

The entrance of the Cell opens, and discovers Ferdinand
and Miranda plai/ing at chess.

Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false.

Fer. No, my dearest love,

I would not for the world.

Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
And I would call it fair play.

Alon. If this prove

A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.

Seh. A most high miracle I

Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful :
I have curs'd them without cause. [Fer. kneels to AiX)N,

Alon. Now all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about !
Arise, and say how thou cam'st here.

THE TEMPEST. 29

Mira. - O ! wonder !

How many goodly creatures are there here !
How beauteous mankind is ! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!

Pro. 'T is new to thee.

Alon. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at plaj ?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours :
Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us.
And brought us thus together ?

Fer. Sir, she is mortal ;

But, by immortal providence, she 's mine ;
I chose her, when I could not ask my father
For his advice ; nor thought I had one : she
Is daughter to this famous duke of JNIilan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before ; of whom I have
Receiv'd a second life, and second father
This lady makes him to me.

Alon. I am hers :

But O, how oddly will it sound that I
Must ask my child forgiveness !

Fro. There, sir, stop ;

Let us not burthen our remembrances with
A heaviness that's gone

Gon. I have inly wept.

Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown ;
For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way
Which brought us hither !

Alon. I say, amen, Gonzalo I

IV.

Conclusion of Act V. — Prospero speaks to the King
of Naples.

Fro. Sir, I invite your highness, and your train,
To my poor cell : where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which (part of it) T'll waste
With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away : the story of my life,
And the particular accidents gone by,

30 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Since I came to this isle : And in the morn
I '11 bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-belov'd solemnized ;
And thence retire me to my Milan, -vrhere
Every third thought shall be my grave.

Alon. I long

To hear the story of your life, "which must
Take the ear strangely.

Pro. I '11 deliver all ;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales.
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off. — My Ariel ; — chick, —
That is thy charge ; then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well ! — [aside.] Please you, draw
near. \Exeunt.

( 33 )

MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its
citizens the power of compelling- their daughters to many
whomsoever they pleased : for upon a daughter's refusing
to marry the man her father had chosen to be her hus-
band, the father was empowered by this law to cause her
to be put to death ; but as fathers do not often desire the
death of their own daughters, even though they do
happen to prove a little refractory, this law was seldom
or never put in execution, though perhaps the young
ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by
their parents with the terrors of it.

There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose
name was Egeus, who actually did come before Theseus
(at that time the reigning duke of Athens) , to complain
that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to
marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian
family, refused to obey him, because she loved another
young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded
justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might
be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend
Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ;
but this honourable reason which Hermia gave for not
obeying her father's command, moved not the stern
Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no

c 3

34 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

power to alter the laws of his country ; therefore he
could only give Hermia four days to consider of it : and
at the end of that time, if she still refused to marry Deme-
trius, she was to be put to deatii.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the
duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and told him the
peril she was in, and that she must either give up him
and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil
tidings ; but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived
at some distance from Athens, and that at the place
where she lived the cruel law could not be put in force
against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the
boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she
should steal out of her father's house that night, and go
with him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her.
" I will meet you," said Lysander, " in the wood a few
miles without the city ; in that delightful wood, where
we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant
month of May."

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed ; and she told
no one of her intended flight but her friend Helena.
Helena (as maidens will do foolish things for love) very
ungenerously resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius,
though she could hope no benefit from betraying her
friend's secret but the poor pleasure of following her
faithless lover to the wood ; for she well knew that De-
metrius would go thither in pursuit of Hermia.

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to
meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings known
by the name of Fairies.

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the fairies,
with all their tiny train of followers, in this wood held
their midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement : they never
met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant
wood, but they were quai'relling, till all their fairy elves
would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for
fear.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 35

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's
refusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose
mother had been Titania's friend ; and upon her death
the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought
him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this
wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids of
honour, she met Oberon, attended by his train of fairy
courtiers.

*' 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy
king. The queen replied, " What, jealous Oberon, is it
you ? Fairies, skip hence ; I have forsworn his com-
pany." " Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not I
thy lord ? Why does Titania cross her Oberon ? Give
me your little changeling boy to be my page."

" Set your heart at rest," answered the queen ; " your
whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then
left her lord in great anger. " Well, go your way," said
Oberon : " before the morning dawns I will torment you
for this injury."

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and
privy counsellor.

Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Good-
fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play
comical pranks in the neighbouring villages ; sometimes
getting into the dairies and skimming the milk, sometimes
plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn,
and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn,
in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream
into butter : nor had the village swains any better suc-
cess ; whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the
brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a
few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable
ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in
the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old goody
was going to drink, he would bob against her lips, and
spill the aJe over her withered chin ; and presently after,
when the same old dame was gravely seating herself to
tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story. Puck
would slip her three-legged stool from under her, and

36 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE.

down toppled the poor old woman, and then the old
gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear
they never wasted a merrier hour.

" Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry-
wanderer of the night; "fetch me the flower which
maids call Love in Idleness ; the juice of that little purple
flower laid on the eyelids of those who sleep, will make
them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they see.
Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eye-
lids of my Titania when she is asleep ; and the first thing
she looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in
love with, even though it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling
monkey, or a busy ape ; and before I will take this
charm from off her sight, which I can do with another
charm I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be
my page." *

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly di-
verted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran to
seek the flower ; and M'hile Oberon was waiting the re-
turn of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter
the wood : he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena
for following him, and after many unkind words on his
part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding
him of his former love and professions of true faith to her,
he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts,
and she ran after him as swiftly as she could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers,
felt great compassion for Helena ; and perhaps, as Lysan-
der said they used to walk by moonlight in this pleasant
wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in those happy
times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However
tliat might be, when Puck returned with the little purple
flower, Oberon said to his favourite, " Take a part of
this flower : there has been a sweet Athenian lady here,
who is in love with a disdainful youth ; if you find him
sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but con-
trive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing
he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady. You
will know the man by the Athenian garments which he

* Extract 1.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT S DKEAM. 3/

■wears." Puck promised to manage this matter very dex-
terously ; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania,
to her bower, where she was preparing to go to rest.
Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild thyme,
cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of woodbine,
musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always slept
some part of the night ; her coverlet the enamelled skin
of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide
enough to wrap a fairy in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they
were to employ themselves while she slept. *' Some of
you," said her majesty, " must kill cankers in the musk-
rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their
leathern wings, to make my small elves coats ; and some
of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly
hoots, come not near me : but first sing me to sleep."
Then they began to sing this song : —

You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our Fairy Queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in your sweet lullaby,
Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; luUa. lulla, lullaby :
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh ;
So good night with lullaby.

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this
pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform the important
services she had enjoined them. Oberon then soitly drew
near his I'itania, and dropped some of the love-juice on
her eyelids, saying,

What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take.

But to return to Herraia, who made her escape out of
her father's house that night, to avoid the death she was
doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When she
entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting

38 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house ; but before
they had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so
much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very careful of
this dear lady, who had proved her affection for him
even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to
rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down
himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon
fell fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who
seeing a handsome young man asleep, and perceiving that
his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that a
pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this
must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover
whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he naturally
enough conjectured that, as they were alone together,
she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke :
so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the
juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so
fell out, that Helena came that way, and, instead of
Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he
opened his eyes ; and, strange to relate, so powerful was
the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away,
and Lysander fell in love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder
Puck committed would have been of no consequence, for
he could not love that faithful lady too well ; but for poor
Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget his
own true Hermia, and to run after another lady, and
leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight,
was a sad chance indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been
before related, endeavoured to keep pace with Deme-
trius when he ran away so rudely from her ; but she
could not continue this unequal race long, men being
always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena
soon lost sight of Demetrius ; and as she was wandering
about, dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place
where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah!" said she, "this
is Lysander lying on the ground : is he dead or asleep r"
Then gently touching him, she said, " Good sir, if you
arc alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes,

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 39

and (the love-charm beginning to work) immediately ad-
dressed her in terms of extravagant love and admiration ;
telling her, she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a
dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire for
her sweet sake ; and many more such lover-like speeches.
Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover,
and that he was solemnly engaged to marry her, was in
the utmost rage when she heard herself addressed in this
manner ; for she thought (as well she might) that Lysan-
der was making a jest of her. " Oh !" said she, " why
was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one ? Is
it not enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can
never get a sv>'eet look or a kind word from Demetrius ;
but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to
court me ? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of
more true gentleness." Saying these words in great
anger, she ran away ; and Lysander followed her, quite
forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at find-
ing herself alone. She wandered about the wood, not
knowing what was become of Lysander, or which way to
go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius, not
being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and
fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by O he-
ron fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some questions he
had asked of Puck, that he had applied the love-charm
to the wrong person's eyes ; and now, having found the
person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleep-
ing Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly
awoke ; and the first thing he saw being Helena, he, as
Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches
to her ; and just at that moment Lysander followed by
Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now
become Hermia's turn to run after her lover) made his
appearance ; and then Lysander and Demetrius, both
speaking together, made love to Helena, they being each
one under the influence of the same potent charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Dcmelrius, Ly-
sander, and her once dear friend Hermia, were all in a
plot together to make a jest of her.

40 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she knew
not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved
her, were now become the lovers of Helena ; and to Her-
mia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of
friends, now fell to high words together.

" Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you have set
Lysander on, to vex me with mock praises ; and your
other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me with
his foot, have you not bid him call me goddess, nymph,
rare, precious, and celestial '? He would not speak thus
to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make
a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorn-
ing your poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day
friendship ? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting
on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles
working the same flower, both on the sam.e sampler
wrought ; growing up together in fashion of a double
cherry, scarcely seeming parted ! Hermia, it is not
fi'iendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in
scorning your poor friend."

" I am amazed at your passionate words," said Her-
mia : " I scorn you not ; it seems you scorn me." " Ay,
do," returned Helena, " persevere, counterfeit serious
looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back ; then
wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had
any pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."*

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry
words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them,
to fight together in the wood for the love of Helena.

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they
departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood in
search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, w^ho with
little Puck had been listening to their quarrels, said to
him, " This is your negligence. Puck ; or did you do
this wilfully ?" " Believe me, khig of shadows," an-
swered Puck, " it was a mistake : did not you tell me I
should know the man by his Athenian garments ? How-

* Extract 11

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT S DREAM. 41

ever, I am not sorry this has happened, for I think their
jangling makes excellent sport." " You heard," said
Oberon, " that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek
a convenient place to fight in. I command you to over-
hang the night vi^ith a thick fog, and lead these quarrel-
some lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be
able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices
to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to fol-
low you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they
hear. See you do this, till they are so weary they can
go no farther ; and when you find they are asleep, drop
the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and
when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena,
and return to his old passion for Hermia ; and then the
two fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she
loves, and they will think all that has passed a vexatious
dream. About this quickly. Puck ; and I will go and
see what sweet love my Titania has found."

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown
near her, who had lost his way in the wood, and was
likewise asleep : " This fellow," said he, " shall be my
Titania's true-love ;" and clapping an ass's head over the
clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown
upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's
head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, un-
conscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went to-
wards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

" Ah ! what angel is that I see ?" said Titania, open-
ing her eyes, and the juice of the little purple flower be-
ginning to take effect : " Are you as wise as you are
beautiful ?"

" Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, " if I have
wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have
enough to serve my turn."

" Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the en-
amoured queen. " I am a spirit of no common rate. I
love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies to
attend upon you,"

She then called four of her fairies : their names were
Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.

42 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

" Attend," said the queen, " upon this sweet gentle-
man ; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight ; feed
him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey-
bags from the bees. Come sit with me," said she to the
clown, " and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks,
my beautiful ass ! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle

joy !"

'' Where is Peas-blossom ?" said the ass-headed clown,
not much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very
proud of his new attendants.

" Here, sir," said little Peas-blossom.

" Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where is
Cobweb '?"

" Here, sir," said Cobweb.

*' Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, " kill
me the red humble-bee on the top of that thistle yonder ;
and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do
not fi-et yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not ; I should be sorry
to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is
Mustard-seed ?"

" Here, sir," said Mustard-seed : " what is your
will ?"

" Nothing," said the clown, *' good Mr. Mustard-seed,
but to help Mr. Peas-blossom to scratch : I must go to a
barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvel-
lous hairy about the face."

'* My sweet love," said the queen, " what will you
have to eat ? I have a venturous fairy shall seek the
squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts."

" I had rather have a handful of dried peas," said the
clown, who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite.
" But, I pray, let none of your people disturb me, for
I have a mind to sleep."

" Sleep, then," said the queen, '' and I will wind you
in my arms. O how I love you ! How I dote upon
you !"

When the fairy king saw the cIowti sleeping in the
arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and re-
proached her with having lavished her favours upon an ass.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 43

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleep-
ing within her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her
with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again
demanded the changeling-boy ; which she, ashamed of
being discovered by her lord with her new favourite, did
not dare to refuse him.

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so
long wished for to be his page, took pity on the disgrace-
ful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had
brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the
other flower into her eyes ; and the fairy queen imme-
diately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late
dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the
strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown,
and left him to finish his nap with his own fool's head
upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled,
he related to her the history of the lovers, and their mid-
night quarrels ; and she agreed to go with him, and see
the end of their adventures.*

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their
fair ladies, at no great distance from each other, sleeping
on a grass-plot ; for Puck, to make amends for his former
mistake, had contrived with the utmost diligence to bring
them all to the same spot, unknown to each other ; and
he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of
Ly Sander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander
asleep so near her, was looking at him and wondering at
his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently opening
his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his rea-
son which the fairy-charm had before clouded, and with
his reason his love for Hermia ; and they began to talk
over the adventures of the night, doubting if these things
had really happened, or if they had both been dreaming
the same bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake ; and

• Extract III.

44 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and
angry spirits, she listened with delight to the professions
of love which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to
her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive
were sincere.

These fair night- wandering ladies, now no longer rivals,
became once more true friends ; all the unkind words
which' had passed were forgiven, and they calmly con-
sulted together what was best to be done in their pre-
sent situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius
had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endea-
vour to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sen-
tence of death which had been passed against her. De-
metrius was preparing to return to Athens for this friendly
purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of
Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit
of his runaway daughter.

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not
now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her mar-
riage with Ly Sander, but gave his consent that they should
be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the
same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose
her life ; and on that same day Helena joyfully agreed to
marry her beloved and now faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible specta-
tor of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending
of the lovers' history brought about through the good
offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that these
kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching nup-
tials with sports and revels throughout their fairy king-
dom.*

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies
and their pranks, as judging it incredible and strange,
they have only to think that they have been asleep and
dreaming, and that all these adventures were visions
which they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a
pretty harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.

* Extract IV.

A midsummeu night s dream. 45

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act II. — Scene II. — Enter Oberon, on one side, with Ms
train, and Titania, on the other, with hers.

Obe. Ill met by mooulight, proud Titania.

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

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

Tita. Then I must be thy lady : But I know
When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day.
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida, Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India ?
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd mistress, and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded ; and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity.

Obe. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ?
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigenia, whom he ravished ?
And make him with fair -^gle break his faith.
With Ariadne, and Antiopa ?

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

^ Middle summer's spring. The spring is tlie beginning— as the spring
of the day, a common expression in our early writers. The middle sum-
mer is the midsummer.

b Paved fountain — a fountain or clear stream, rushing over pebblfs.

46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

Therefore, the winds, piping to us in vain.

As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea

Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land,

Have every pelting'' river made so proud,

That they have overborne their continents ;^

The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain.

The ploughman lost his sweat ; and the green corn

Hath rotted, ere his youth attain'd a beard :

The fold stands empty in the drowned field.

And crows are fatted with the murrain flock ;

The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud ; "^

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,

For lack of tread, are undistinguishable ;

The human mortals want ; their winter here,

No night is now with hymn or carol bless'd : —

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air,

That rheumatic diseases do abound :

And thorough this distemperature, we see

The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ;

And on old Hyems' chin, and icy crown.

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set : The spring, the summer,

The childing "^ autumn, angry winter, change

Their wonted liveries ; and the mazed world,

By their increase,^ now knows not which is which :

And this same progeny of evils comes

From our debate, from our dissension ;

We are their parents and original.

Obe. Do you amend it then : it lies in you :
Why shoxild Titania cross her Oberon ?
I do but beg a little changeling boy,
To be my henchman/

* Pelting — petty, contemptible.

*> Continents — banks. A continent is that which contains.

c Upon the green turf of their commons the shepherds and plough-
men of England were wont to cut a rude series of lines, upon which
they arranged eighteen stones, divided between two players, who moved
them alternately, as at chess or draughts, till the game was finislied by
one of the players having all his pieces taken or impounded. This
was the nine men's morris.

d Childing — producing.

^ Increase — produce.

^ Henchman — a page; originally a horseman.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 47

Tita. Set your heart at rest.

The fairy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot'ress of my order :
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side ;
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,
Marking th' embarked traders on the flood ;
When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,
And grow big-bellied, with the wanton wind :
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait,
Following (her womb then rich with my young squire j.
Would imitate ; and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again.
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ;
And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy :
And, for her sake, I will not part with him.

Ohe. How long within this wood intend you stay ?

Tita. Perchance, till after Theseus' wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round.
And see our moonlight revels, go with us ;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away :
We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

{^Exeunt TiTANiA and her train.

Ohe. Well, go thy way : thou shalt not from this grove.
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither : Thou remember'st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back.
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath.
That the rude sea grew civil at her song ;
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.

Puck. I remember.

Ohe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not).
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd ; a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west ;
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon ;

48 TALES mOM SH^VKSPERE.

And the imperial votaress passed on.

In maiden meditation, fancy free.*

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell :

It fell upon a little western flower, —

Before, milk-white ; now, purple with love's wound, —

And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Fetch me that flower ; the herb I show'd thee once ;

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,

Will make or man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

Fetch me this herb : and be thou here again.

Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes. [ Exit Pucx.

II.

Act III. — Scene II.

Hel. Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid !
Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriVd
To bait me with this foul derision ?
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us, — O, and is all forgot ?
All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods.
Have with our needles created both one flower.
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key ;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ;
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem :
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart,
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry.
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.^

^ This is an allusion to the unmarried state of Quceii KlizabeUi who
had received offers from prince and subject.

^ There is a double comparison here — 1st, Of tlie two l)odies, rora-

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 49

And will you rent our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scoi'ning your poor friend ?
It is not friendly, 't is not maidenly :
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it ;
Though I alone do feel the injury.

Her, I am amazed at your passionate words •
I scorn you not ; it seems that you scorn me.

Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
To follow me, and praise my eyes and face ?
And made your other love, Demetrius,
(Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,)
To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare.
Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this
To her he liates ? and wherefore doth Lysander
Deny your love, so rich within his soul.
And tender me, forsooth, aifection ;
But by your setting on, by your consent ?
What though I be not so in grace as you.
So hung upon with love, so fortunate ;
But miserable most, to love unlov'd !
This you should pity, rather than despise.

Her. I understand not what you mean by this.

Hel. Ay, do, *persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back ;
Wink each at other ; hold the sweet jest up :
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.
If you have any pity, grace, or manners,
You would not make me such an argument.
But, fare ye well : 't is partly mine own fault;
Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.

pared to ttvo coats of heraldry ; and, 2ndly, Of the one heart, compared
to the one crest and the one owner. " Our bodies are two, but they are
as united under one heart, as two coats of arms (when quartered or im-
paled) are borne by one person under one crest."

50 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

III.

Act TV. — Scene I. — Enter Titania and Bottom, Fairies
attending ; Oberon behind unseen.

Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,''
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.

Bot. Where 's Peas-blossom?

Peas. Eeady.

Bot. Scratch my head. Peas-blossom. — Where 's monsieur
Cobweb?

Cob. Ready.

Bot. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get your weapons
in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the
top of a thistle ; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-
bag Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur ;
and, good monsieur, have a care the honey.bag break not ;
I would be loth to have you overflown ^ with a honey-bag,
signior. — Where 's monsieur Mustard-seed ?

Must. Ready.

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

Must. What 's your will ?

Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help caj'alero Cob-
web to scratch. I must to the barber's, monsieur ; for, me-
thinks, I am marvellous hairy about the face ; and I am
such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must
scratch.

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

Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music : let us have
the tongs and the bones.

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

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

^ To cm/ is here to caress.
■» Overflown — flooded, drowned. c iVe'^-fist.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 51

Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

Bot. I had rather have a handful, or two, of dried peas.
But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me ; I have an
exposition of sleep come upon me.

Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
Gently entwist ; the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.=*
O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! [77/ey slccrp.

Oberon advances. Enter Puck.

Ohe. Welcome, good Eobin. See'st thou this sweet sight ?
Her dotage now 1 do begin to pity.
For meeting her of late, behind the wood.
Seeking sweet savours for tliis hateful fool,
I did upbraid her and fall out with her :
For she his hairy temples then had rounded
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ;
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls.
Stood now within the pretty flow'rets' eyes.
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.
When I had, at my pleasure, taunted her.
And she, in mild terms, begg'd my patience,
I then did ask of her her changeling child ;
Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent
To bear him to my bower in fairy land.
And now I have the boy, I will undo
This hateful imperfection of her eyes.
And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp
From off the head of this Athenian swain ;
That he awaking when the other do,
May all to Athens back again repair ;
And think no more of this night's accidents,

^ GifTord pointed out the true meaning of this passage in his note
upon a parallel passage in Ben .lonson : —

" behold !

How the blue bindweed doth itself enfold
With hmeijsuc'kle, and both these entwine
Tlieniselves with bryony and jessamine."
" In many of our counties," says GifFord, *' the woodbine is still tne
name for the great cviivulvulus."

d2

52 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
But first I will release the fairy queen.

Be thou, as thou wast wont to be ;

[Touching her eyes with an heib.
See, as thou wast wont to see :
Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania, wake you, ray sweet queen.

Tita. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen !
Methonght I was enamour'd of an ass.
Ohe. There lies your love.

Tita, How came these things to pass ?

0, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now !

Obe. Silence a while.— Robin, take off this head. —
Titania, maisic call ; and strike more dead
Than common sleep, of all these five the sense.
Tita. Music, ho ! music ; such as charmeth sleep.
Puck. When thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes

peep.
Ohe. Sound, music. \_StiU music.'] Come, my queen, take
hands with me.
And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.
Now thou and I are new in amitj' ;
And will, to-morrow midnight, solemnly,
Dance in duke Theseus' house triumphantly.
And bless it to all fair posterity :
There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be
Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.
Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark ;

I do hear the morning lark.
Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad.
Trip Ave after the night's shade :
We the globe can compass soon.
Swifter than the wand'ring moon.
Tita. Come, my lord ; and in our flight.
Tell me how it came this night,
That I sleeping here was found,
With these mortals on the ground. [Exeunt.

[Horns sound within.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 53

IV.

Act V. — Scene II. — Enter Puck.

Puck. Now the hungry lion roars,

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

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

Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,

In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night.

That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite.

In the church-way paths to glide :
And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate's team.
From the presence of the sun,

Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic ; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house :
I am sent, with broom before.
To sweep the dust behind the door.

Enter Oberon and Titania, with th

eir iraxn.

Obe Through the house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire ;
Every elf, and fairy sprite,

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

Tita. First, rehearse this song by rote :
To each word a warbling note.
Hand in hand, with fairy grace.
Will we sing, and bless this place.

SONG, AND DANCE.

Obe. Now, until the break of day.

Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we.
Which by us shall blessed be :

54 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be ;

And the blots of Nature's hand

Shall not in their issue stand ;

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait ;

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace with sweet peace ;

Ever slaall in safety rest.

And the owner of it blest.

Trip away ;

Make no stay :
Meet me all by break of day.

[Exeunt Oberon, 'Titaxia, and Train.

1^ I'r^c

">

1 ^^i^Tl^Jii^

. y

57 )

A. WINTER'S TALE.

Leontes, king- of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful
and virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest har-
mony tog:ether. So happy was Leontes in the love of
this excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified, ex-
cept that he sometimes desired to see again, and to pre-
sent to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow,
Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes
were brought up together from their infancy, but being
by the death of their fathers called to reign over their
respective kingdoms, they had not met for many years,
though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and
loving embassies.

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came
from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend
Leontes a visit.

At first this visit gave nothing- but pleasure to Leontes.
He recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's
particular attention, and seemed in the presence of his
dear friend and old companion to have his felicity quite
completed. They talked over old times ; their school-
days and their youthful pranks were remembered, and
recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part
in these conversations.

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to
depart, Hermione, at tiie desire of her husband, joined
her entreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his
visit.

And now began this good queen's sorrow ; for Polixenes
refusing to stay at the request of licontes, was won over

D 3

58 TALES FKOM SHARSPERE.

by Hermione's gentle and persuasive words to put off
his departure for some weeks longer. Upon this, although
Lcontes had so long known the integrity and honourable
principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excel-
lent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with
an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione
showed to Polixenes, though by her husband's particular
desire, and merely to please him, increased the unfor-
tunate king's jealousy ; and from being a loving and a true
friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes
became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. Send-
ing for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and telling
him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded him
to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man ; and he, well knowing that
the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foundation
in truth, mstcad of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him
with the king his master's orders, and agreed to escape
with him orit of the Sicilian dominions ; and Polixenes,
with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own
kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time
in the king's court, and became the chief friend and
favourite of Polixenes,

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes
still more ; he went to the queen's apartment, where the
good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillus, who
was just beginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse
his mother, when the king entered, and taking the child
away, sent Hermione to pj-ison.

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his
mother tenderly ; and when he saw her so dishonoured,
and found she was taken from him to be put into a prison,
he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away
by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it
was thought his grief would kill him.

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, com-
manded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go
to Del])hos, there to inquire of the oracle at the temple
of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to him.

When Hennione had been a short time in prison, she

A avikter's tale. 59

was brought to "bed of a daughter ; and the poor lady
received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby,
and she said to it, " My poor httle prisoner, 1 am as
innocent as you are."

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord :
and when the lady Paulina heard her royal mistress was
brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione
was confined ; and she said to Emilia, a lady who at-
tended upon Hermione, " I pray you, Emilia, tell the
good queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little
babe, I will carry it to the king its father ; we do not
know how he may soften at the sight of his innocent
child." " Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, " I
will acquaint the queen with your noble offer ; she was
wishing to-day that she had any friend who would venture
to present the child to the king." " And tell her," said
Paulina, " that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her
defence." " May you be for ever blessed," said Emilia,
"for your kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia
then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby
to the care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one
tvould dare venture to present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and foi-cing herself
into the king's presence, notwithstanding her husband,
fearing the king's anger, endeavoured to prevent her, she
laid the babe at its father's feet, and Paulina made a
noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and
she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and im-
plored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child.
But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated
Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered her husband An-
tigonus to take her from his presence.

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at
its father's feet, thinking, when he was alone with it,
he would look upon it, and have pity on its helpless
innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken ; for no sooner was
she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus,

60 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE.

Paulina's husband, to take the child, and carry it out to
sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed
the orders of Leontes ; for he immediately carried the
child on ship-board, and put out to sea, intending to
leave it on the first desert coast he could find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Her-
mione, that he would not wait for the return of Cleomenes
and Dion, whom he had sent to consult the oracle of
Apollo at Delphos ; but before the queen was recovered
from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her
precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before
all the lords and nobles of his court. And when all the
gi'eat lords, the judges, and all the nobility of the land
were assembled together to try Hermione, and that un-
happy queen was standing as a prisoner before her sub-
jects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion
entered the assembly, and presented to the king the
answer of the oracle sealed up ; and Leontes commanded
the seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle to be
read aloud, and these were the words: — " Hermione is
innocent, Poli.renes blameless, Camillo a true subject,
Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king shall live icithout
an heir if that zchich is lost be not found.'' The king
v.'ould give no credit to the words of the oracle : he said
it was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and
he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen ;
but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told
him that the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to
be tried for her life, struck with gi-ief and shame, had
suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear
affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for
her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes, pierced to the
heart by the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy
qnieen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were
her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her
recovery. Paulina soon returned, and told the king that
Hermione was dead.

A winter's tale. 61

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he
repented of his cruelty to her ; and now that he thought
his ill usage had broken Hermione's heart, he believed
her innocent ; and he now thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew " if that which was lost
was not found," which he concluded was his young
daughter, he should be without an heir, the young prince
Mamillus being dead ; and he would give his kingdom
now to recover his lost daughter : and Leontes gave him-
self up to remorse, and passed many years in mournful
thoughts and repentant grief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant prin-
cess out to sea, was driven by a storm upon the coast of
Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king Polixenes.
Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes
where he had lel't his daughter, for as he was going back
to the ship, a bear came out of the Moods, and tore him
to pieces ; a just punishment on him for obeying the
wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels ; for
Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it to
Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a ])aper to its mantle,
with the name of Perdita written thereon, and words
obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.

This poor deserted baby "was found by a shepherd.
He was a humane man, and so he carried the little
Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly ; but
poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize
he had found ; therefore he left that part of the country,
that no one might know where he got his riches, and
with part of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep,
and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per-
dita as his own child, and she knew not she was any
other than a shepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden ; and
though she had no better education than that of a shep-
herd's daughter, yet so did the natural graces she in-
herited from her royal mother shine forth in her untutored

62 rAl.ES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known
she had not been brought up in her father's court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son,
whose name was Florizel. As' this young prince was
hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, he saw the old
man's supposed daughter ; and the beauty, modesty, and
queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love ^vilh her. He soon, under the name ot
Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman, be-
came a constant visiter at the old shepherd's house.

Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Po-
lixenes ; and setting people to watch his son, he dis-
covered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter.

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo,
who had preserved his life from the fury of Leontes ;
and desired that he would accompany him to the house
of the shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the
old shepherd's dwelling while they were celebrating the
feast of sheep-shearing ; and though they were strangers,
yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being made wel-
cx)me, they were invited to walk in, and join in the
general festivity,

Notliing but mirth and jollity was going forward.
Tables were spread, and gi-eat preparations were making
for the rustic feast. Some lads and lasses were dancing
on the green before the house, while others of the young
men were buying ribands, gloves, and such toys, of a
pedler at the door.

AVhile this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and
Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more
pleased with the conversation of each other, than desirous
of engaging in the sports and silly amusements of those
around them.

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his
son could know him ; he therefore advanced near enough
to hear the conversation. The simple yet elegant manner
in which Perdita conversed with his son did not a little
surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo, " This is the

A winter's TALiE. 63

prettiest low-born lass I ever saw ; nothing she does or
says but looks like something greater than herself, too
noble for this place."

Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen of
curds and cream."

" Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old
shepherd, " what fair swain is that talking with your
daughter?" "They call him Doricles," replied the
shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to
speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves
the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she
shall bring him that he little dreams of;" meaning
the remainder of Perdita's jewels ; which, after he had
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully
hoarded up for her marriage portion.^

Polixenes then addressed his son. " How now, young
man !" said he : " your heart seems full of something
that takes off your mind from feasting. When I was
young, I used to load my love with presents ; but you
have let the pedler go, and have bought your lass no
toy."

The young prince, who little thought he was talking
to the king his father, replied, " Old sir, she prizes not
such trifles ; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are
locked up. in my heart." Then turning to Perdita, he
said to her, " O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover ; he
shall hear M'hat I profess." Florizel then called upon
the old stranger to be a witness to a solemn promise of
marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes,
" I ]iray you mark our contract."

" Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, dis-
covering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son for
daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, call-
ing Perdita " shepherd's brat, sheep-hook," and other
disrespectful names ; and threatening, if ever she suffered
his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old
shepherd her father, to a cruel death.

^ Extract I.

64 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered
Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royai
nature was roused by Polixenes's reproaches, said,
" Though we are all undone, I was not much afraid ;
and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him
plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his
palace, hides not his face from our cottage, but looks
on both alike." Then sorrowfully she said, " But now
I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no
farther. Leave me, sir ; I will go milk my ewes and
weep."*

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit
and propriety of Perdita's behaviour ; and perceiving
that the young prince was too deeply in love to give
up his mistress at the command of his royal father, he
thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same
time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontcs, the king of
Sicily, was become a true penitent ; and though Camillo
was now the favoured friend of king Polixones, he could
not help wishing once mere to see his late royal master
and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel
and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the
Sicilian court, where he would engage Leontes should
protect them, till, through his mediation, they could
obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their
marriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and Camillo,
who conducted every thing relative to their flight, allowed
the old shepherd to go along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's
jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper which he had
found pinned to her mantle.

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Ca-
millo and the old shepherd, an'ived in safety at the court
of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his dead Her-.
mione and his lost child, received Camillo with great

» Extract II.

A WINTER S TALE

65

kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel.
But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess,
seemed to engross a,ll Leontes's attention : perceiving a
resemblance between her and his dead queen Hermione,
his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely
creature might his own daughter have been, if he had
not so cruelly destroyed her. " And then, too," said he
to Florizel, " I lost the society and friendship of your
brave father, whom I now desire more than my life once
again to look upon."

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the
king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daugh-
ter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to comparing
the time when he found the little Perdita, with the
manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its
high birth ; from all which it was impossible for him not
to conclude, that Perdita and the king's lost daughter
were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina,
were present when the old shepherd related to the king
the manner in which he had found the child, and also
the circumstance of Antigonus's death, he having seen
the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in
which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the
child ; and he produced a jewel which she remembered
Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and he gave up
the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of her
husband ; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leon-
tes' own daughter : but oh ! the noble struggles of Pau-
lina, between son*ow for her husband's death, and joy
that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long-
lost daughter, being found. When Leontes heard that
Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt
that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made
him that he could say nothing for a long time, but, " O
thy mother, thy mother !"

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene,
with saying to Leontes, that she had a statue, newly
finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, which
was such a perfect resemblance of the queen, that would

66 TALES FKOM SHAKSPESE.

his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look upon
it, he would almost be ready to think it was liermione
herself. Thither then they all went ; the king anxious
to see the semblance of his liermione, and Ferdita long-
ing to behold what the mother she never saw did look
like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed
this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione,
that all the king's sorrow was renewed at the sight : for
a long time he had no ix)wer to speak or move.

"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it
the more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very
like your queen ?"

At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, even
\vith such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet,
Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks."
Paulina replied, " So much the more the carver's excel-
lence, who has made the statue as Hermione would have
looked had she been living now. But let me draw the
curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves."

The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain!
Would I were dead ! See, Camillo, would you not
think it breathed ? Her eye seems to have motion in
it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Pau-
lina. " You are so transported, you will persuade your-
self the statue lives." " O, sweet Paulina," said Leontes,
"make me think so twenty years together! Still me-
thinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel
could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me, for I
wall kiss her." " Good my lord, forbear !" said Paulina.
" The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; you will stain
your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ?"
" No, not these twenty years," said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and be-
holding in silent admiration the statue of her matchless
mother, said now, " And so long could I stay here, look-
ing upon my dear mother."

" Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leon-
tes, " and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare yourself
for more amazement. I can make tlie statue move indeed ;

A winter's tale. 67

ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take you by
the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I
am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers."

" What you can make her do," said the astonished
king, " I am content to look upon. What you can make
her speak, I am content to hear ; for it is as easy to make
her speak as move."

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music,
which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up ;
and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue
came down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms
around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak,
praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child,
the newly found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck,
and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder ; for
the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, the
living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of
Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her
royal mistress's life ; and with the good Paulina, Her-
mione had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes
should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was
found ; for though she had long forgiven the injuries
which Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon
his cruelty to his infant daughter.

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter
found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support
the excess of his owti happiness.

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches
were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents
thanked prince Florizel for loving their lowly-seeming
daughter ; and now they blessed the good old shepherd
for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and
Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an
end of all their faithful services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this
strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now
entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,

68 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to Si-
cily, he conjectured he should find the fugitives here ;
and, following them with all speed, he happened to ar-
rive just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy ; he forgave
his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived
against him, and they once more loved each other with
all the warmth of their first boyish friendship. And
there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his
son's marriage with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook"
now, but the heiress of the crown of Sicily.

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-
suffering Hermione rewarded. That excellent lady lived
many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the hap-
piest of mothers and of queens.

A winter's tale. 69

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act IV. — Scene III. — A Shepherd's Cottage. — Enter
Florizel and Peudita.

-F/o. These your unusual weeds to each part of you
I Do give a life : no shepherdess ; but Flora,
I Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing
\ Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
I And you the queen on 't.

j Per. Sir, my gracious lord,

) To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ;
I O, pardon, that I name them : your high self,
; The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd
\ With a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maid,
I Most goddess-like prank'd up : ^ But that our feasts
j In every mess have folly, and the feeders
j Digest it with a custom, I should blush
j To see you so attir'd ; sworn, I think,
I To show myself a glass.
I Flo. I bless the time

J When ray good falcon made her flight across
; Thy father's ground.

j Per. Now Jove afford you cause !

I To me, the difference forges dread ; your greatness
I Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble
i To think, your father, by some accident,
I Should pass this way, as you did : O, the fates !
( How would he look, to see his work, so noble,
I Vilely bound up ? What would he say ? Or how
I 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

* Prank'd up — dressed splendidly, decorated.

70 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Became a bull, and bellow'd; tlie green Neptune
A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-rob'd god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble s^vain,
As I seem uo^n- : Their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer ;
Nor in a way so chaste : since my desires
Eun not before mine honour; nor my lusts
Burn hotter than my faith.

Per. O but, sir.

Your resolution cannot hold, •n'hen 't is
Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power o' the king ;
One of these two must be necessities.

Which then will speak ; that you must change this purpose,
Or I my life.

Flo. Thou dearest Perdita,

With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, 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 anything to any, if
I be not thine : to this I am most constant.
Though destiny say No. Be merry, gentle ;
Strangle such thoughts as these, with anything
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming :
Lift up your countenance; as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.

Per. O lady Fortune,

Stand you auspicious !

Enter Shepherd, u-ith Polixentes {the King) and Camillo
disguised ; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others.

Flo. See, your guests approach :

Address 3-ourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let s be red with mirth.

Shep. Fie, daughter I when my old wife liv'd, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook ;
Both dame and servant : welcom'd all ; serv'd all :
Would sing her song, and dance her turn ; now here
At upper end o' the table, new i' the middle ;
On his shoulder, and his ; her face o' fire
With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip : You are retir'd
As if you Trere a feasted one, and not

A winter's tale. 71

The hostess of the meeting : Pray you, bid
These unknown friends to us 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. Sir, welcome ! [ To Pol.

It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' the day : — You 're welcome, sir !

[7b Cam.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.— Eeverend sirs,
For you there 's rosemary, and rue ; these keep
Seeming, and savour, all the winter long :
Grace, and remembrance, be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing !

Pol. Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, — •

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, — the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly'vors,"
Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind
Our rustic garden 's barren ; and I care not
To get slips of them.

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them ?

Per. For I have heard it said,

There is an art which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.

Pol. Say, there be ;

Yet nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean : so, over that art.
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.

" Gillyvors — gillyflowers.

72 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Per. So it is.

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly'vors.
And do not call them bastards.

Per. I'll 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 with the sun,
And with him rises weeping ; these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age : You 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 fairest

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 maidenhoods growing : — O, Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon ! daffodils.
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno s eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses.
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright 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 ! O ! these I lack,
To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.

Flo. What ! like a corse ?

Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ;
Not like a corse : or if, — not to be buried,
But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers :
Methinks, I play as I have seen them do.
In Whitsun' pastorals : sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

MEASURE rOB MEASURE. 4 O

Eiagement, and she, turning to Mariana, said, " Little
have you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him,
but soft and low Remember now my brother /"

Mariana was that night conducted to the ap]X)inted
place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she sup-
posed, by this device preserved both her brother's life
and her own honour. But that her brother's life was
safe the duke was not well satisfied, and therefore at
midnight he again repaired to the prison, and it was well
for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that
night been beheaded ; for soon after the duke entered
the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, com-
manding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head
sent to him by five o'clock in the morning. But the duke
persuaded the provost to put off the execution of Claudio,
and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a
man who died that morning in the prison. And to pre-
vail upon the provost to agree to this, the duke, whom
still the provost suspected not to be any thing more or
greater than he seemed, showed the provost a letter
written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his seal,
which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar
must have some secret order from the absent duke, and
therefore he consented to spare Claudio ; and he cut off
the dead man's head, and carried it to Angelo.

Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to Angelo a
letter, saying that certain accidents had put a stop to his
journey, and that he should be in Vienna by the follow-
ing morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at the en-
trance of the city, there to deliver up his authority ; and
the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any
of his subjects craved redress for injustice, they should
exhibit their petitions in the street on his first entrance
into the city.

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and
the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret rea-
sons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was be-
headed ; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had
sent the pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo has
yelcased Claudio from this world. His head is off, and

YOL. II. E

74 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

sent to the deputy.'' The much-grieved sister cried ouf^
" O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world^
most wicked Angelo !" The seeming friar bid her take
comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he ac-
quainted her with the near prospect of the duke's return,
and told her in what manner she should proceed in pre-
ferring her complaint against Angelo ; and he bade her
not to fear if the cause should seem to go against her for
a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he next
went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what manner
she also should act.

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his
own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful
subjects assembled to greet his arrival, entered the city
of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who delivered
up his authority in the proper form. And there came
Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and
said, " Justice, most royal duke ! I am the sister of one
Claudio, who for the seducing a young maid was con-
demned to lose his head. I made my suit to lord An-
gelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tel)
your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled
me, and how I replied ; for this was of much length.
The vile conclusion I now begin with gi'ief and shame
to utter. Angelo would not but by my yielding to his
dishonourable love release my brother ; and after much
debate within myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my
vu'tue, and I did yield" to him. But the next morning
betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant
for my poor brother's head !" The duke affected to dis-
believe her story ; and Angelo said that grief for her
brother's death, who had suffered by the due course of
the law, had disordered her senses. And now another
suitor approached, which was JNIariana ; and jNIariana
said, " Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven,
and truth from breath, as there is sense in truth, and
truth in vutue, I am this man's wife, and, my good lotd,
the words of Isabel are false ; for the night she says she
was wath Angelo, I passed that night with him in the
garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, or

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 75

else for ever be fixed here a marble monument." Then
did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to
friar Lodowick, that being the name the duke had as-
sumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana had both
obeyed his instructions in what they said, the duke in-
tending that the innocence of Isabel should be plainly
proved in that public manner before the whole city of
Vienna ; but Angelo little thought that it was from such
a cause that they thus differed in their story, and he
hoped from their contradictory evidence to be able to
clear himself from the accusation of Isabel ; and he said,
assuming the look of offended innocence, *' I did but
smile till now ; but, good my lord, my patience here is
touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are
but the instruments of some greater one, who sets them
on. Let me have way, my lord, to find this practice
out." — " Ay, with all my heart," said the duke, " and
punish them to the height of your pleasure. You, lord
Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your pains to
discover this abuse ; the friar is sent for that set them on,
and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem
best in any chastisement. I for a while will leave you,
but stir not you, lord Angelo, till you have well deter-
mined upon this slander." The duke then went away,
leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and
umpire in his own cause. But the duke was absent only
while he threw off" his royal robes and put on his friar's
habit ; and in that disguise again he presented himself
before Angelo and Escalus : and the good old Escalus,
who thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to
the supposed friar, '* Come, sir, did you set these women
on to slander lord Angelo?" He replied, "■ Where is
the duke ? It is he should hear me speak." Escalus
said, " The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak
justly." — " Boldly at least," retorted the friar; and then
he blamed the duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in the
hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely of
many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he
said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus
threatened him with the torture for speaking words

e2

76 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

against the state, and for censuring the conduct of the
duke, and ordered him to be taken away to prison.
Then, to the amazement of all present, and to the utter
(X)nfusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his dis-
guise, and they saw it was the duke himself.

The duke first addressed Isabel, lie said to her,
'^ Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince,
but with my habit I have not changed my heart. I am
still devoted to your service." — '• O give me pardon,"
said Isabel, " that I, your vassal, have employed and
troubled your unknown sovereignty." He answered that
he had most need of forgiveness from her, for not having
prevented the death of her brother — for not yet would
lie tell her that Claudio was living ; meaning first to
make a further trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew
the duke had been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and
he said, " O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than
my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when I
perceive your grace, like power divine, has looked upon
my actions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong my
shame, but let my trial be my own confession. Imme-
diate sentence and death is all the grace I beg." The
duke replied, " Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do
condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped
to death ; and with like haste away ^^ith him ; and for his
possessions, Mariana, we do instate and widow you
withal, to buy you a better husband." — " O my dear
lord," said Mariana, " I crave no other, nor no better
man :" and then on her knees, even as Isabel had begged
the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful
husband beg the life of Angelo ; and she said, " Gentle
my liege, O good my lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part !
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I will lend
you, all my life, to do you service !" The duke said,
" Against all sense you importune her. Should Isabel
kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost would
break his paved bed, and take her hence in horror."
Still Mariana said, " Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel
by me, hold up your hand, say nothing ! I will speak
all. They say, best men are moulded out of faults, and

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 77

for the most part become much the better for being a
little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you
not lend a knee?" The duke then said, " He dies for
Claudio." But much pleased was the good duke, when
his own Isabel, from whom he expected all gracious and
honourable acts, kneeled down before him, and said,
" Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, on this man
condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a due
sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look on me.
Since it is so, let him not die ! My brother had but
justice, in that he did the thing for which he died."

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this
noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio
from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful of his des-
tiny, presented to her this lamented brother living ; and
he said to Isabel, " Give me your hand, Isabel ; for your
lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine,
and he shall be my brother too." 13y this time lord
Angelo perceived he was safe ; and the duke, observing
his eye to brighten up a little, said, " Well, Angelo,
look that you love your wife ; her worth has obtained
your pardon : joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo !
I have confessed her, and know her virtue." Angelo
remembered, when dressed in a little brief authority, how
hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy.

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and
offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose
virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince's heart.
Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry ; and
the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a
humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her,
made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered
her ; and when she became duchess of Vienna, the ex-
cellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a
complete reformation among the young ladies of that
city, that from that time none ever fell into the trans-
gression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed
Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke long reigned
with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of
princes.

78 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE,

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

I.

Act II. — Scene II. — A Room in Angelo's House.

Enter Angelo.

Ang. Now, what 's the matter, provost ?

Frov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ?

Ang. Did not I tell thee, yea ? hadst thou not order ?
Why dost thou ask again?

Prov. Lest I might be too rash :

Under your good correction, I have seen,
When, after execution, judgment hath
Repented o'er his doom.

Ang. Go to ; let that be mine :

Do you your oflBce, or give up your place,
And you shall well be spar'd.

Prov. I crave your honour's pardon.—

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ?
She 's very near her hour.

Ang. Dispose of her

To some more fitter place ; and that with speed.

Ee-enter Servant.

Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd,
Desires access to you.

Ang. Hath he a sister ?

Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid,
And to be shortly of a sisterhood,
If not already.

Ang. Well, let her be admitted. [_Exit Servant.

See you, the fornicatress be remov'd ;
Let her have needfiil, but not lavish, means ;
There shall be order for it.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 79

Enter Lucio and Isabella.

Prov. Save your honour ! [Offering to retire.

Ang. Stay a little while. — [To Isab.] You are welcome :
What 's your will ?

Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour,
Please but your honour hear me.

Ang. Well ; what 's your suit ?

Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor,
And most desire should meet the blow of justice ;
For which I would not plead, but that I must ;
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war, 'twixt will, and will not.

Ang. Well ; the matter ?

Isab. I have a brother is condemn' d to die :
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.

Prov. Heaven give thee moving graces !

Ang, Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ?
Why, every fault 's condemn'd, ere it be done :
Mine were the very cipher of a fimction.
To fine* the faults, whose fine stands in record,
And let go by the actor.

Isab. O just, but severe law !

I had a brother then. — Heaven keep your honour !

[^Retiring.

Lucio. [To Isab.]. Give 't not o'er so : to him again, en-
treat him ;
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown ;
You are too cold : if you should need a pin.
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it :
To him, I say.

Isab. Must he needs die ?

Ang. Maiden, no remedy.

Isab, Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him,
And neither Heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy.

Ang. I will not do 't.

Isab. But can you, if you would?

Ang. Look, what I will not that I cannot do.

Isab. But might you do 't, and do the world no wrong.
If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse
As mine is to him ?

Ang. He 's sentenc'd ; 't is too late.

* To fine is to sentence — to bring to an end.

80 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Lucio. You are too cold. [ To Isab.

Isah. Too late? "why, no; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again : Well believe this,'*
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword.
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.

If he had been as you, and you as he,
You would have siipp'd like him ; but he, like yon.
Would not have been so stern.

Aug. Pray you, begone.

Isah. I would to Heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ?
No ; I would tell what 't were to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.

Lucio. Ay, touch him ; there 's the vein. [^Aside.

Ancj. Your bi'other is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.

Isab. Alas ! alas !

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ;
And He that might the vantage best have took
Found out the remedy : How would you be.
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are ? 0, think on that;
And mercy then Avill breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.^

Aug. Be you content, fair maid ;

It is the law, not I, condemns your brother :
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son.
It should be thus with him ; — he must die to-morrow.

Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Sparehim, spare him:
He 's not prepar'd for death ! Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season f shall we serve Heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, bethink you :
Who is it that hath died for this offence ?
There 's many have committed it.

Lucio. Ay, well said.

=* TVell believe this — be well assured of this.

•• This has, \ve think, reference to the fine allusion to the redemption
vhich has gone before: Think on that, and you will then be as mer-
ciful as a man rcrjenerate.

' The fold of season — when in season.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 81

Aug. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept :
Tliose many had not dar'd to do that evil,
If the first that did the edict infringe
Had answer'd for his deed ; now, 't is awake ;
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet,
Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils
(Either now, or by remissness new-conceiv'd,
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born)
Are now to have no successive degrees.
But where they live, to end.

Isab. Yet show some pity.

Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ;
For then I pity those I do not know.
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall ;
And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ;
Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content.

Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence j
And he, that suffers : O, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.

Lucio. That 's well said.

Isab. Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet.
For every pelting, petty officer

Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but thunder.
Merciful Heaven !

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak.
Than the soft myrtle : But man, proud man I
Dress'd in a little brief authority ;
Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd,
His glassy essence, — like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven,
As make the angels weep : who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.^*

Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench: he will relent;
He 's coming, 1 perceive 't.

Prov. Pray Heaven, she win him !

Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself :
Great men may jest with saints : 't is wit in them ;
But, in the less, foul profanation.

^ We understand this passage, — as they are angels, they weep at
foUv ; if tliey had our spleens, they ^oukl laugh, as naorfals.

E 3

82 TALES FROM SnABLSPEKE.

Lucio. Thou 'rt in the right, girl ; more o' that.

Isah. That in the captain 's but a choleric word.
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

Liicio. Art avis'd o' that ? more on 't.

Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ?

Isab. Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself.
That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your bosom ;
Knock there ; and ask your heart, what it doth know
That 's like my brother's fault : if it confess
A natural guiltiness, such as is his.
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue
Against my brother's life.

Ang. She speaks, and 't is

Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. — Fare you well.

Isah. Gentle my lord, turn back.

Ang. I will bethink me : — Come again to-morrow.

Isah. Hark, how I '11 bribe you : Good my lord, turn
back.

Ang. How ! bribe me ?

Isah. Ay, with such gifts that Heaven shall share with you.

Lucio. You had marr'd all else.

Isah. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor
As fancy values them ; but with true prayers
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there,
Ere sunrise : prayers from preserved souls.
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

Ang. Well : come to me to-morrow.

Lucio. Go to : 't is well ; away. \_Aside to Isabel.

Isah. Heaven keep your honour safe !

II.

Act in. — Scene I. — A Room in the Prison,

Enter Duke, Claudio, and Provost.

DuJie. So, then you hope of pardon from lord Angelo ?
Claud. The miserable have no other medicine,

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 83

But only hope :

I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die.

Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death, or life,
Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life :
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art,
(Servile to all the skiey influences,)
That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st.
Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool ;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn'st toward him still : Thou art not noble ;
For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nurs'd by baseness : Thou art by no means valiant ;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork;
Of a poor worm : Thy best of rest is sleep.
And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself j
For thou exist* st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust : Happy thou art not :
For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to get ;
And what thou hast, forgetf st : Thou art not certain ;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects.
After the moon : If thou art rich, thou art poor ;
For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee : Friend hast thou none ;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere efiusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner : Thou hast nor youth, nor age
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep.
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld ; ^ and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What 's yet in this,
That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we fear.
That makes these odds all even.

Claud. I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die ;
And seeking death find life : Let it come on.

* Eld, old age, or old people.

84 TALES TKOM SHAKSPERE.

Enter Isabella.

Isab. "What, ho ! Peace here ; grace and good company !

Prov. Who 's there ? come in : . the wish deserves a wel
come.

T>uke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again.

Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you.

Jsah. I\Iy business is a word or two with Claudio.

Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, here 's your
sister.

Duke. Provost, a word with you.

Proo. As many as you please.

Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be
conceal'd. [Exeunt Duke and Prov.

Claud. Now, sister, what 's the comfort ?

Isab. Why, as all comforts are ; most good, most good
indeed :
Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,
Intends you for his swift ambassador,
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger : "
Therefore your best appointment make with speed ;
To-morroM- you set on.

Claud. Is there no remedy ?

Isab. None, but such remedy as, to save a head,
To cleave a heart in twain.

Claud. But is there any ?

Isab. Yes, brother, yoii may live ;
There is a devilish mercy in the judge,
If you '11 implore it, that will free your life,
But fetter you till death.

Claud. " Perpetual durance ?

Isab. Ay, just, perpetual durance : a restraint,
Though all the world's vastidity you had.
To a determin'd scope.

Claud. But in what nature?

Isab. In such a one as (you consenting to 't)
Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,
And leave you naked.

Claud. Let me know the point.

Isab. 0, I do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake,
Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain.
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die ?

^ A lei^rer ambassador means a resident ambassador.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 85

The sense of death is most in apprehension ;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great,
As when a giant dies.

Claud. Why give you me this shame ?

Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness ? If I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.

Isah. There spake my brother ; there my father's grave
Did utter forth a voice ! Yes, thou must die :
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, —
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth eramew
As falcon doth the fowl, — is yet a devil ;
His filth within being cast, he would appear
A pond as deep as hell.

Claud. The precise Angelo ?

Isah. O, 't is the cunning livery of hell,
The damned'st body to invest and cover
In precise guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio,
If I would yield him my virginity,
Thou might'st be freed ?

Claud. O, Heavens ! it cannot be.

Isah. Yes, he would give 't thee, from this rank offence,
So to offend him still : This night 's the time
That I should do Avhat I abhor to name.
Or else thou diest to-morrow.

Claud. Thou shalt not do 't.

Isah. 0, were it but my life,
I 'd throw it down for your deliverance
As fi'ankly as a pin.

Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel.

Isah. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

Claud. Yes. — Has he affections in him.
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,
When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin •,
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

Isah. Which is the least ?

Claud. If it were damnable, he, being so wise.
Why would he for the momentary trick
Be perdurably fin'd? — O Isabel !

Isah. What says my brother ?

86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEEE.

Claud. Death is a fearful thing.

Isab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. Ay, but to die, and go ive know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted^ spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ;
To be imprison'd in the' viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling ! — 't is too horrible !
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ach, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.

Isah. Alas ! alas !

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live:

What sin you do to save a brother's life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue.

Isab. O, you beast !

O, faithless coward ! O, dishonest wretch !
Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ?
Is 't not a kind of incest, to take life
From thine own sister's shame? What should I think?
Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair !
For such a warped slip of wilderness^
Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance ;
Die ; perish ! might but my bending down
Eeprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed :
I '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death.
No word to save thee.

* Delighted. Does not the word {delighted) mean removed from the
regions of light, which is a strictly classic use of the prepositive particle
de, and very frequent in Shakspere ?

*> TVildei-ness — wildness.

M

===<\

Ui

( 89 )

TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU
WILL.

Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and
lady of Messaline, M'ere twins, and (which was accounted
a great wonder) from their birth they so much resembled
each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they
could not be known apart. They were both born in one
hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of pe-
rishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria
as they were making a sea-voyage together. The ship,
on board of which they w^ere, split on a rock in a violent
storm, and a very small number of the ship's company
escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with
a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small
boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore,
where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own de-
liverance, began to lament her brother's loss ; but the
captain comforted her with the assurance, that he had
seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a
strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything
of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above
the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this
account gave her, and now considered how she was to
dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home ;
and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria.
'* Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, "fori
was born not three hours' travel from this place." —
" Who governs here ?" said Viola. The captain told
her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in
nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her
lather speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then.

^0 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

*' And he is so now," said the captain ; "or was so very
lately, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it
was the general talk (as you know what great ones do the
people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair
Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who
died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection
of her brother, who shortly after died also ; and for the
love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the
sight and company of men." Viola, who was herself in
such a sad affiiction for her brother's loss, wished she
could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a
brother's death. She asked the captain if he could intro-
duce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this
lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to ac-
com])lish, because the lady Olivia would admit no person
into her house since her brother's death, not even the
duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in her
mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve the Duke
Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young
lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy ; but the
forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young
and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land,
must plead her excuse.

She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain,
and that he showed a finendly concern for her welfare,
intrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged
to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him
to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes
to be made of the same colour and in the same fashion
her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was
dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like he-
brother, that some strange errors happened by means oi
their being mistaken for each other ; for, as will after-
wards appear, Sebastian was also saved.

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had trans-
formed this pretty lady into a gentleman, ha\;ing some
mterest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the
feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this
handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that

TWELFTH NIGHT. 91

being the office Viola wished to obtain : and she so well
fulfilled the duties of her new station, and showed such a
ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord,
that she soon became his most favoured attendant. To
Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love for
the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and un-
successful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his
long services, and despising his person, refused to admit
him to her presence ; and for the love of this lady who
had so urdcindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking
the sports of the field and all manly exercises in which
he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth,
listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle
airs, and passionate love-songs ; and neglecting the com-
pany of the wise and learned lords with whom he used to
associate, he was now all day long conversing with young
Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers
thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the
great Duke Orsino.

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the
confidants of handsome young dukes ; which Viola too
soon found to her sorrow, ibr all that Orsino told her he
endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she suffered
for the love of him ; and much it moved her wonder, that
Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord and
master, whom she thought no one should behold without
the deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint
to Orsino, that it was pity he should affect a lady who
was so blind to his worthy qualities ; and she said, " If
a lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and
perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not
love her in return, would you not tell her that you could
not love, and must she not be content with this answer ?"
But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he
denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he
did. He said no woman's heart was big enough to hold
so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the
love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia. Now
though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's
opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite

92 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE,

true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in
it as Orsino's had ; and she said, " Ah, but I know, my

lord " " What do you know, Cesario ? " said Orsino.

" Too well I know," replied Viola, " what love women
may owe to men. They are as true of heart as Me are.
My father had a daughter loved a man, a? I perhaps,
were I a woman, should love your lordship." — " And
what is her history ? " said Orsino. " A blank, my lord,"
replied Viola : " she never told her love, but let conceal-
ment, like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek.
She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow-
melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smil-
ing at grief." The duke inquired if this lady died of
her love, but to this question Viola returned an evasive
answer ; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak
■words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she
suffered for Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom
the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, " So please
you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but
by her handmaid she returned you this answer : Until
seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her
face ; i)ut like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering
her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of
her dead brother." On hearing this, the duke exclaimed,
*' O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this
debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when
the rich golden shaft has touched her heart ! " And
then he said to Viola, '^ You know, Cesario, I have told
you all the secrets of my heart ; therefore, good youth,
go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access ; stand at
her doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow
till you have audience. "^ — " And if I do speak to her,
my lord, what then? " said Viola. '' O then," replied
Orsino, " unfold to her the passion of my love. Make
a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well
become you to act my woes, for she will attend more to
you than to one of graver aspect."

Away then went Viola ; but not -willingly did she
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to

TWELFTH ISIGHT. 93

become a wife to him she wished to many : but having
undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity ; and
OHvia soon heard that a youth was at her door who in-
sisted upon being admitted to her presence. " I told
him," said the servant, " that you were sick : he said he
knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you.
I told him that you were asleep : he seemed to have a
foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he
must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady ?
for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak
with you, whether you will or no." Olivia, curious to
see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he
might be admitted ; and throwing her veil over her face,
she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not
doubting but that he came from the duke, by his impor-
tunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air she
could assume, and aftecting the fine courtier language of
great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, " Most
radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell
me if you are the lady of the house ; for I should be
sorry to cast away my speech upon another ; for besides
that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great
pains to learn it." — "Whence come you, sir?" said
Olivia, " I can say little more than I have studied,"
replied Viola ; " and that question is out of my part." —
" Are you a comedian ? " said Olivia. " No," replied
Viola ; " and yet I am not that which I play ;" meaning,
that she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a man.
And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the
house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola, having
more curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to
deliver her master's message, said, " Good madam, let
me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was
not averse to comply ; for this haughty beauty, whom
the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight
conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble
Cesario.

AVhen Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, " Have
you any commission from your lord and master to nego-
tiate with my face '? " And then, forgetting her deter-

94 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

mination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside
her veil, saying, " But I will draw the curtain and show
the picture. Is it not well done ? " Viola replied, " It
is beauty truly mixed : the red and white upon your
cheeks is by Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You
are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these
g^races to the grave, and leave the world no copy." — " O,
sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so cruel. The
world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item^
two lips, indifferent red ; item, two gray eyes, with lids
to them ; one neck ; one chin, and so forth. Were you
sent here to praise me ? " Viola replied, " I see what
you are : you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord
and master loves you, O such a love could but be re-
compensed, though you M^ere crow^ned the queen of
beauty ; for Orsino loves you with adoration and with
tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire."
— " Your lord," said Olivia, " knows well my mind. I
cannot love him ; yet I doubt not he is virtuous ; I know
him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless
youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and
valiant ; yet I cannot love him ; he might have taken his
answer long ago." — "If I did love you as my master
does," said Viola, " I would make me a willow cabin at
your gates, and call upon your name. I would write
complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead
of the night ; your name should sound among the hills,
and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air,
cry out Olivia. O you should not rest between the ele-
ments of earth and air, but you should pity me." — " You
might do much," said Olivia : " what is your parentage '?"
Viola replied, " Above my fortunes, yet my state is well.
I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly dismissed
Viola, saying, " Go to your master, and tell him, I can-
not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance
you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola
departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair
Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words,
Above my fortunes^ yet my state is well. I am a gentle-
man. And she said aloud, " I will be sworn he is ; his

TWELFTH NIGHT. 95

tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly
show he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario
was the duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken
on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love ;
but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own
faults has no deep root ; and presently the noble lady
Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes
and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly
reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady's character,
that she resolved to court the love of young Cesario, and
sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the
pretence that he had left it with her as a present fi*om
Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a
present of the ring, she should give him some intimation
of her design ; and truly it did make Viola suspect ; for
knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began
to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expres-
sive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master's
mistress had fallen in love with her. " Alas," said she,
'* the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I
see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruit-
less sighs for me, as I do for Orsino."

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her
lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeating the com-
mand of Olivia, that the duke should trouble her no
more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the
gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to
show some pity, and therefore he bade him he sliould go
to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass
away the tedious interval, he commanded a song which
he loved to be sung ; and he said, " My good Cesario,
when I heard that song last night, methought it did re-
lieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and
plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in
the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread
with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for
it tells of the innocence of love in the old times."

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song,
which in such true simplicity described the pangs of un-
requited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance

96 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were
observed by Orsino, who said to her, " My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked
upon some foce that it loves; has it not, boy?" — "A
little, Mith your leave," replied Viola. " And what kind
of woman, and of what age is she V" said Orsino. " Of
your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola ;
M-hich made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy
loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a
man's dark complexion ; but Viola secretly meant Orsino,
and not a woman like him.^

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found
no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants soon dis-
cover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome
young messengers ; and the instant Viola arrived, the
gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was
shown into Olivia's aj^artment with great respect ; and
when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to
plead in her lord's behalf, this lady said, " I desired you
never to speak of him again ; but if you would undertake
another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than nmsic
from the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but
Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and
openly confessed her love ; and when she saw displeasure
with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, " O
what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and
anger of his lip ! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by
maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so, that, in
spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to con-
ceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed ; Viola
hastened from her presence, threatening never more to
come to plead Orsino's love ; and all the reply she made
to Olivia's fond solicitations was, a declaration of a reso-
lution Never to love- any ivoman.

No sooner iiad Viola left the lady than a claim was
made upon her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suil.or
of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favoiired
the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel.
What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a

a Extract I.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 97

unknown lady ; and, taking off her mask, she proved
to be no niece (as was pretended), but Leonato's very
daughter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure that
this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who
thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy be-
lieve his eyes ; and the prince, who was equally amazed
at what he saw, exclaimed, " Is not this Hero, Hero
that was dead?" Leonato replied, " She died, my lord,
but while her slander lived." The friar promised them
an explanation of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony
was ended ; and was proceeding to marry them, when he
was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married
at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some
demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with
her love for him, which he had learned from Hero, a
pleasant explanation took place ; and they found they
had both been tricked into a belief of love, which had
never existed, and had become lovers in truth by the
power of a false jest : but the affection, which a merry
invention had cheated them into, was grown too powerful
to be shaken by a serious explanation ; and since Bene-
dick proposed to marry, he was resolved to think nothing
to the purpose that the world could say against it ; and
he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that
he took her but for pity, and because he heard she was
dying of love for him ; and Beatrice protested, that she
yielded but upon great persuasion, and partly to save his
life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So these
two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it,
after Claudio and Hero were married ; and to complete
the history, Don John, the contriver of the villainy, was
taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina ; and a
brave punishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man,
to see the joy and feastings which,, by the disappoint-
ment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina.

VOL. I.

98 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act I [I. — Scene I. — Leonato's Garden.
Enter Hero, iSIargaket, and Ursula.

Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour ;
There shalt thou find, my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the prince and Claudio :
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discoui'se
Is all of her ; say, that thou overheard' st us ;
And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter ; — like favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it : — there will she hide her.
To listen our purpose : >* This is thy office.
Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.

Mara. I '11 make her come, I warrant you, presentlv.

\_Exit.

Hero. Now, Ursula, wheu Beatrice doth come,
As we do trace this alley up and down.
Our talk must only be of Benedick :
When I do name him, let it be thy part
To praise him more than ever man did merit :
My talk to thee must be, how Benedick
Is sick in love with Beatrice : Of this matter
Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,
That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin ;

^ Purpose, and propose, have the same meaning — that of conversation.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIKG. 99

Enter Beatrice, behind.

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

Urs. The pleasantest angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream.
And greedily devour the treacherous bait :
So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture :
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. —

[ They advance to the bower.
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ;
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock."

Urs. But are you sure

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ?

Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.

Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam ?

Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it :
But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick,
To wish him wrestle with affection.
And never to let Beatrice know of it,

Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed,
As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ?

Hero. O God of love ! I know he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man :
But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice :
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes.
Misprising ^ what they look on ; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.

Urs. Sure, I think so;

And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

"■ The haggard was a wild and unsocial species of hawk,
b Mispi-ising — undervaluing.

F 2

100 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Hero. Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man.
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd,
But she would spell him backward : if fair fac'd.
She would swear the gentleman should be her sister:
If black, "" why. Nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot : if tall, a lance ill-headed ;
If low, an agate very vilely cut :
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out;
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth,

Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

Hero. No ; not to be so odd, and from all fashions.
As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable :
But who dare tell her so ? If I shoidd speak,
She would mock me into air ; O, she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover' d fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly :
It were a better death than die with mocks ;
Which is as bad as die with tickling.

Urs. Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.

Hero. No ; rather I will go to Benedick,
And counsel him to fight against his passion :
And, truly, I '11 devise some honest slanders
To stain my cousin with : One doth not know
How much an ill word may empoison liking.

Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment,
(Having so swift and excellent a wit
As she is priz'd to have,) as to refuse
So rare a gentleman as signior Benedick.

Hero. He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.

Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy ; signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument,^ and valour.
Goes foremost in report through Italy.

Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

* Black — as opposed to fair ; swarthy.
i" Argument — conversation-

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 101

Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.
When are you married, madam ?

Hero. Why, every day ; — to-morrow : Come, go in ;
I '11 show thee some attires ; and have thy counsel,
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

Urs. She's ta'en, I warrant you; we have caught her,
madam.

Hero. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps :
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

\Exeunt Hero and Ursula.

Beatrice advances.

Beat. What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ?

Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much ?
Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu !

No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee ;

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ;
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in a holy band :
For others say thou dost deserve ; and I
Believe it better than reportingly. [-E«V,

II.

Act IV. — Scene I.

Friar. Hear me a little ;
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady ; I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face ; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ;
And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth : — Call me a fool ;
Trust not my reading, nor my observations.
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenour of my book; trust not my age,

102 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
Under some biting error.

Leon. Friar, it cannot be :

Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left
Is, that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury ; she not denies it :
Why seek' St thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness ?

Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?

Hero. They know that do accuse me ; I know none :
If I know more of any man alive
Than that which maiden modest^' doth warrant,
Let all my sins lack mercy ! — O my father.
Prove you that any man with me conversed
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
Eefiise me, hate me, torture me to death.

Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes.

Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour ;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this.
The practice of it lives in John the bastard.
Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies.

Leon. I know not : If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Njr age so eat up my invention.
Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind.
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind.
Ability in means, and choice of friends.
To quit me of them throughly.

Friar. Pause awhile,

And let my counsel sway you in this case.
Your daughter here the princes left for dead ;
Let her awhile be secretly kept in.
And publish it that she is dead indeed :
Maintain a mourning ostentation ;
And on your family's old monument
Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites
That appertain imto a burial.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 103

Leon. What shall become of this ? What will this do ?

Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse ; that is some good :
But not for that dream I on this strange course.
But on this travail look for greater birth.
She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,
Upon the instant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd.
Of every hearer : For it so falls out.
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost.
Why then we rack » the value, then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours : So will it fare with Claud io :
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination ;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,
More moving-delicate, and full of life.
Into the eye and prospect of his soul.
Than when she liv'd indeed : — then shall he mourn,
(If ever love had interest in his liver,)
And wish he had not so accused her ;
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Let this be so, and doubt not but success
Will fashion the event in better shape
Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
But if all aim but this be levell'd false.
The supposition of the lady's death
Will quench the wonder of her infamy :
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her
(As best befits her wounded reputation)
In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you :
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.

» Racli — strain, stretch, exaggerate : hence racft-rent.

104 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEKE.

Leon. Being that I flow in grief,

The smallest twine may lead me.

Friar. 'T is well consented ; presently away ;

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. —
Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day.

Perhaps, is but prolong' d; have patience, and endure.

III.

Act IV. — Scene II. — A Prison.

Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns ; and the
Watch, with Conrade and Borachio.

J)ogb. Is our whole dissem hly appeared ?
Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton !

Sexton. Which be the malefactors ?

jJogb. Marry, that am I and my partner.
Verg. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhibition to ex-
amine.

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be ex-
amined ? let them come before master constable.

Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What is
your name, friend ?

Bora. Borachio.

Dogb. Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah ?

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dogb. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. — Masters,
do you serve God ?

Con., Bora. Yea, sir, we hope.

Dogb. Masters, it is proved already that you are little
better than false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought
so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ?

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I
will go about with him. — Come you hither, sirrah ; a word
in your ear, sir ; I say to you, it is thought you are false
knaves.

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 105

Dogh. Well, stand aside. — Fore God, they are both in a
tale : Have you writ down, that they are none ?

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine ;
you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

Dogh. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest" way :— Let the watch
come forth : — Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name,
accuse these men.

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that don John, the prince's
brother, was a villain.

Dogh. Write down, prince John a villain : — Why, this is
flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain.

Bora. Master constable, —

Dogh. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I
promise thee.

Sexton. What heard you him say else ?

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats
of don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully.

Dogh. Flat burglary, as ever was committed.
Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow ?

1 Watch. And that count Claudio did mean, upon his
words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not
marry her.

Dogh. O villain !
Sexton. What else ?

2 Watch. This is all.

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away ; Hero
was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused,
and upon the grief of this suddenly died. — Master constable,
let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato ; I will go
before, and show him their examination. ^Exit.

Dogh. Come, let them be opinioned.

Verg. Let them be in the hands —

Con. Off, coxcomb !

Dogh. God 's my life ! where 's the sexton ? let him write

down, the prince's officer, coxcomb. Come, bind them :

Thou naughty varlet !

Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass.

Dogh. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not
suspect my years ? — O that he were here to write me down,

" Eftest — quickest.

F 3

106 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE.

un ass ! but, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though it
be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass : —
No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved
upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; and, which
is more, an officer ; and, which is more, a householder ; and,
which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Mes-
sina ; and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow
enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one
that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him :
— Bring him away. 0 that I had been writ down, an ass !

[_ExeunL-

A^ yqV jSk^ n .

C 109 )

AS YOU LIKE IT.

During the time that France was divided into provinces
(or dukedoms as they were called) there reigned in one
of these provinces an usurper, who had deposed and ba-
nished his elder brother, the lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions,
retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of
Arden ; and here the good duke lived with his loving
friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the
false usurper ; and custom soon made the life of careless
ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp
and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here they
lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this
forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court,
and did fleet the time carelessly, as they did who lived
in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under
the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the play-
ful sports of the wild deer ; and so fond were they of
these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native
inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced
to kill them to supply themselves with venison for their
food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke
feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure
it patiently, and say, " These chilling winds which blow
upon my body are true counsellors : they do not flatter,
but represent truly to me my condition ; and though
they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as
that of unkhidness and ingratitude. I find that, how-

110 TALES FROM SHAKSPEBE.

soever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses
are to be extracted from it ; like the jewel, precious for
medicine, which is taken from ttie head of the venomous
and despised toad." In this manner did the patient
duke draw a useful moral from every thing that he saw ;
and by the help of this moralizing turn, in that life of
his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in
trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones,
and good in every thing. ^

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Ro-
salind, whom the usurper, duke Frederick, when he
banished her father, still retained in his court as a com-
panion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship
subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement
between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia
striving by every kindness in her power to make amends
to Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in depos-
ing the father of Rosalind ; and whenever the thoughts
of her father's banishment, and her own dependence on
the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's
whole care was to comfort and console her.

One day, when Celia -was talking in her usual kind
manner to Rosalind, saying, " I pray you, Rosalind, my
sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger entered from the
duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a ^\Testling
match, which was just going to begin, they must come
instantly to the court before the palace ; and Celia,
thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and
see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practised now
by country cIowtis, was a favourite sport even in the
courts of princes, and before fair ladies and princesses.
To this wrestling match therefore Celia and Rosalind
went. They found that it was likely to prove a very
tragical sight ; for a large and powerful man, who had
long been practised in the art of wrestling, and had
slain many men in contests of this kind, was just going
to wrestle with a very young man, who, from his ex-

a Extract I.

AS YOU LIKE IT. Ill

^remc youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders
all thought would certainly be killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said,
" How now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither to
see the wrestling ? You will take little delight in it,
there is such odds in the men : in pity to this young
man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling.
Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him."

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane
office, and first Celia entreated the young stranger that
he would desist from the attempt ; and then Rosalind
spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling considera-
tion for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead
of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his
purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself
by his courage in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused
the request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful and
modest words, that they felt still more concern for him ;
he concluded his refusal with saying, " I am sorry to
deny such fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let
your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial,
wherein if I be conquered, there is one shamed that was
never gracious ; if I am killed, there is one dead that is
willing to die : I shall do my friends no wron,g, for I
have none to lament me ; the world no injury, for in it I
have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world
which may be better supplied when I have made it
empty."

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished
the young stranger might not be hurt ; but Rosalind felt
most for him. The friendless state which he said he was
in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that
he was like herself unfortunate ; and she pitied him so
much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger
while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at
that moment to have fallen in love with him.

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair
and noble ladies gave him courage and strength, so that
he performed wonders ; and in the end completely con^

112 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE.

quered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that for a
while he was unable to speak or move.

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the cou-
rage and skill shown by this young stranger ; and desired
to know his name and parentage, meaning to take him
under his protection.

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he
was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys.

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been
dead some years ; but when he was living, he had been
a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke :
therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of
his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave
young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the
place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name
of any of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the
valour of the youth, he said, as he went out, that he
wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite
was the son of her father's old friend ; and she said to
Celia, " My father loved sir Rowland de Boys, and if I
had known this young man was his son, I would have
added tears to my entreaties before he should have ven-
tured."

The ladies then went up to him ; and seeing him
abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the duke,
they spoke kind and encouraging words to him ; and Ro-
salind, when they were going away, turned back to
speak some more civil things to the brave young son of
her father's old friend ; and taking a chain from off her
neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear this for me. I am
out of suits with; fortune, or I would give you a more va-
luable present."

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still
of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen
in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she said
to "Rosalind, "Is it possible you should fall in love so
suddenly?" Rosalind replied, " The duke, my father,
loved his father dearly." " But," said Celia, " does it
therefore follow that vou should love his son dearly ? for

AS YOU LIKE IT. 113

then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father ;
yet I do not hate Orlando."

Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland
de Boys' son, which reminded him of the many friends
the banished duke had among the nobility, and having
been for some time displeased with his niece, because the
people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her
good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against
her ; and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Or-
lando, Frederick entered the room, and with looks full
of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace,
and follow her father into banishment ; telling Celia,
who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered
Rosalind to stay upon her account. " I did not then,"
said Celia, " entreat you to let her stay, for I was too
young at that time to value her ; but now that I know
her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose
at the same instant, learned, played, and eat together, I
cannot live out of her company." Frederick replied,
" She is too subtle for you ; her smoothness, her very
silence, and her patience, speak to the people, and they
pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will
seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone ; there-
fore open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which
I have passed upon her is irrevocable."

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her
father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously
resolved to accompany her ; and, leaving her father's
palace that night, she went along with her friend to
seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest ot
Arden.

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be
unsafe for two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes
they then wore ; she therefore proposed that they should
disguise their rank by dressing themselves like country
maids. Rosalind said it w^ould be a still greater protec-
tion if one of them was to be dressed like a man ; and so
it was agrecil on quickly between them, that as Rosalind
was the tallest, she should wear the dress of a young
countryman, and Celia should be habited like a country

114 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

lass, and that they should say they were brother and
sister, and Rosalind said she would be called Ganymede,
and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to
defray their expenses, these fair princesses set out on
their long travel ; for the forest of Arden was a long way
off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's dominions.

The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be
called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on a
manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown
in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made
the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert
a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, the
rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village
maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they
no longer found the convenient inns and good accommo-
dations they had met with on the road ; and being in
want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily
clieered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy re-
marks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so
weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man's
apparel, and cry like a woman ; and Aliena declared she
could go no farther ; and then again Ganymede tried to
recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console
a woman, as the weaker vessel ; and to seem courageous
to his new sister, he said, " Come, have a good heart,
my sister Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel,
m the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and
forced courage would no longer support them ; for though
they were in the forest of Arden, they knew not where
to find the duke : and here the travel of these weary
ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might
have lost themselves, and perished for want of food ; but
providentially, as they were sitting on the grass almost
dying with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a country-
man chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more
tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, " Shepherd,
if love or gold can in this desert place procure us enter-
tainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest our-

AS YOU LIKE IT. 116

selves ; for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued
with travelling, and faints for vi^ant of food."

The man replied, that he was only a servant to a shep-
herd, and that his master's house was just going to be
sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertain-
ment ; but that if they would go with him, they should
be welcome to what there was. They followed the man,
the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength ;
and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and
took the man who conducted them to the shepherd's
house to wait on them ; and being by this means so for-
tunately provided with a neat cottage, and well supplied
with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could
learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their
journey, they began to like their new way of life, and
almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess
they feigned to be ; yet sometimes Ganymede remem-
bered he had once been the same lady Rosalind who had
so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was the
son of old sir Rowland, her father's friend; and though
Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles distant,
even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it
soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of
Arden : and in this manner this strange event came to
pass.

Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys,
who, when he died, left him (Orlando being then very
young) to the care of his eldest brother Oliver, charging
Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a good educa-
tion, and provide for him as became the dignity of their
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother ;
and disregarding the commands of his dying father, he
never put his brother to school, but kept him at home
untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature and
in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much re-
sembled his excellent father, that without any advantages
of education he seemed like a youth who had been bred
with the utmost care ; and Oliver so envied the fine per-
son and dignified manners of his untutored brother, that

116 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

at last he wished to destroy him ; and to effect this he
set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous
wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so
many men. Now it was this cruel brother's neglect of
him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being so
friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed,
his brother proved victorious, Oliver's envy and malice
knew no bounds, and he swore he would burn the cham-
ber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making
this vow by one that had been an old and faithful servant
to their father, and that loved Orlando because he re-
sembled sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet
him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when
he saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in
made him break out into these passionate exclamations :
" O my gentle master, my sweet master, O you memory
of old sir Rowland ! why are you virtuous ? why are you
gentle, strong, and A-aliant ? and why would you be so
fond to overcome the famous wrestler ? Your praise is
come too swiftly home before you." Orlando, wondering
what all this meant, asked him what was the matter.
And then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing
the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke's pa-
lace, intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his
chamber that night ; and in conclusion, advised him to
escape the danger he was in by instant flight : and know-
ing Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the
good old man's name) had brought out with him his own
little hoard, and he said, " I have five hundred crowns,
the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by to
be provision for me when my old limbs should become
unfit for service ; take that, and he that doth the ravens
feed be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; all this
I give to you : let me be your servant ; though I look
old, I will do the service of a younger man in all your
business and necessities." "O good old man!" said
Orlando, " how well appears in you the constant service
of the old world ! You are not for the fashion of these

AS YOU LIKE IT. 117

times. We will go along together, and before your
youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some means
for both our maintenance." '"^

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master
set out ; and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain
what course to pursue, till they came to the forest of
Arden, and there they found themselves in the same dis-
tress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been.
They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till
they w^ere almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam
at last said, " O my dear master, I die for want of food,
I can go no farther !" He then laid himself down,
thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear
master farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state,
took his old servant up in his arms, and carried him under
the shelter of some pleasant trees ; and he said to him,
" Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here a
while, and do not talk of dying !"

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he
happened to arrive at that part of the forest where the
duke was ; and he and his friends were just going to
eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the grass,
under no other canopy than the shady covert of some
large trees.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his
sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said,
'' Forbear, and eat no more; I must have your food!"
The duke asked him if distress had made him so bold, or
if he were a rude despiser of good manners ? On this
Orlando said he was dying with hunger ; and then the duke
told him he w\ts welcome to sit down and eat with them.
Orlando, hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword,
and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he
had demanded their food. " Pardon me, I pray you,"
said he : "I thought that all things had been savage
here, and therefore I put on the countenance of stern
command ; but whatever men you are, that in this desert,
under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect

" Extract 11.

118 TALES FROM SH AKSPERE.

the creeping hours of time ; if ever you have looked on
better days ; if ever you have been where bells have
knolled to church ; if you have ever sat at any good man's
feast ; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear,
and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle
speeches now move you to do me human courtesy !" The
duke replied, " True it is that we are men (as you say)
who have seen better days, and though we have now our
habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and
cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to church,
have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have
wiped the drops which sacred pity has engendered :
therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as
much as will minister to your wants." " There is an old
poor man," answered Orlando, " who has limped after
me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once
with two sad infirmities, age and hunger ; till he be satis-
fied, I must not touch a bit." "Go, find him out, and
bring him hither," said the duke; " we will forbear to
eat till you return." Then Orlando went like a doe to
find its fawn and give it food ; and presently returned,
bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, "Set
down your venerable burthen ; you are both welcome :"
and they fed the old man, and cheered his heart, and he
revived, and recovered his health and strength again.

The duke inquu-ed who Orlando was ; and when he
found that he was the son of his old friend, sir Rowland
de Boys, he took him under his protection, and Orlando
and his old servant lived with the duke in the forest.a

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Gany-
mede and Aliena came there, and (as has been before re-
lated) bought the shepherd's cottage.

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find
tlie name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets
fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind ; and while
they were wondering how this could be, they met Or-
lando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had
given him about his neck.

» Extract III.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 119

Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair
princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension and
favour, had so won his heart that he passed his whole
time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing
sonnets in praise of her beauty : but being much pleased
with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd -youth, he
entered into conversation with him, and he thought he
saw a likeness in Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but
that he had none of the dignified deportment of that
noble lady ; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners
often seen in youths when they are between boys and
men, and with much archness and humour talked to Or-
lando of a certain lover, "who," said he, " haunts our
forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind
upon their barks ; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns,
and elegies on brambles, all praising this same Rosalind.
If I could find this lover, I would give him some good
counsel that would soon cure him of his love."

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom
he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him the good
counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede proposed,
and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should
come every day to the cottage where he and his sister
Aliena dwelt: "And then," said Ganymede, "I will
feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court
me in the same manner as you would do if I was Rosa-
lind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim-
sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of
your love ; and this is the way I propose to cure you."
Orlando had nq, great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed
to come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and feign a
playful courtship ; and every day Orlando visited Gany-
mede and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Gany-
mede his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine
words and flattering compliments which young men de-
light to use when they court their mistresses. It does
not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress
in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive
play (not dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosa-

120 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the
fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost
as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest
in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to
the right pei'son.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with
these young people ; and the good-natured Aliena, seeing
it made Ganymede happy, let him have his own way,
and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not care
to remind Ganymede that the lady Rosalind had not yet
made herself known to the duke her father, whose place
of resort in the forest they had learnt from Orlando.
Ganjinede met the duke one day, and had some talk with
him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came.
Ganymede answered, that he came of as good parentage
as he did ; which made the duke smile, for he did not
suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage.
Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede
was content to put off all further explanation for a few
days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to -vasit Gan\Tnede,
he saw a man lying asleep on the ground, and a large
green snake had twisted itself about his neck. The snake,
seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the bushes.
Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie
couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like
watch, waiting till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said
that lions will prey on nothing that is dead or sleeping).
It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to free
the man from the danger of the snake and lioness ; but
when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that
the sleeper, who was exposed to this double peril, was
his o'^Ti brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him,
and had threatened to destroy him by fire ; and he was
almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness ;
but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature
soon overcame his first anger against his brother ; and he
drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, and slew her,
and thus preserved his brother's life both from the venom-
ous snake and from the furious lioness : but before Orlando

AS YOU LIKE IT. 121

could conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his arms
with her sharp claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver
awaked, and perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom
he had so cruelly treated, was saving him from the fury
of a wild beast at the risk of his own life, shame and re-
morse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy
conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's
pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando re-
joiced to see him so penitent, and readily forgave him :
they embraced each other ; and from that hour Oliver
loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he
had come to the forest bent on his destruction.

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much,
he found himself too weak to go to visit Ganymede, and
therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganymede,
" whom," said Orlando, " I in sport do call my Rosalind,"
the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and
Aliena how Orlando had saved his life : and when he
had finished the story of Orlando's bravery, and his own
providential escape, he owned to them that he was Or-
lando's brother, who had so cruelly used him ; and then
he told them of their reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his of-
fences made such a lively impression on the kind heart of
Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with him ; and
Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress he told
her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with
her. But while Love was thus stealing into the hearts of
Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede,
who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, and that
he was wounded by the lioness, fainted ; and when he
recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the
swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind, and Gany-
mede said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how
well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the
paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and
much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he
said, '• Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart,

VOL. I. Q

122 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

and counterfeit to be a man." " So I do," replied
Ganymede, truly, " but I should have been a woman bv
right."*

Oliver made this visit a very long- one, and when at
last he returned back to his brother, he had much news
to tell him ; for besides the account of Ganymede's fainting
at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told
him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit,
even in this their first interview ; and he talked to his
brother, as of a thing almost settled, that he should marry
Aliena, saying, that he so well loved her, that he would
live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate and house at
home upon Orlando.

" You have my consent," said Orlando. *' Let your
wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and
his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to agree
to this : she is now alone ; for look, here comes her bro-
ther." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom
Orlando had perceived approaching, came to inquire after
the health of his wounded friend.

When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the
sudden love which had taken place between Oliver and
Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother to per-
suade his fair shepherdess to be man-ied on the morrow,
and then he added how much he could wish to be married
on the same day to his Rosalind.

Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement,
said, that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he
professed to do, he should have his wish ; for on the
morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her
own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to
marry Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede
was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he
pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic,
which he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a famous
magician.

• Extract IV.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 123

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half
doubting what he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in
sober meaning. " By my life I do," said Ganymede ;
" therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke
and your friends to your wedding ; for if you desire to be
married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here."

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent
of Aliena, they came into the presence of the duke, and
with them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double
marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing,
there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they
mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of
Orlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that
was to be brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if
he believed the shepherd-boy could really do what he
had promised ; and while Orlando was answering that he
knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked
the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether he would
consent to her marriage with Orlando. *' That I would,"
said the d^ke, " if I had kingdoms to give with her."
Ganymede then said to Orlando, " And you say you will
marry her if I bring her here." " That I would," said
Orlando, " if I were king of many kingdoms."

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and
Ganymede throwing off his male attire, and being once
more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly became Rosa-
lind without the power of magic ; and Aliena, changing
her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as
little trouble transformed into the lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that
he thought the shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter
Rosalind ; and Orlando said, he also had observed the
resemblance.

They had no time to wonder how all this would end,
for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes entered ; and
no longer pretending that it was by the power of magic
that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees
before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed

G 2

124 TALES FROM SHAESPEBE.

SO wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly
appear, that it might well have passed for magic ; but
Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told
him the story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in
the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as
her sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to
the marriage ; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and
Celia, were married at the same time. And though
their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest
with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occa-
sions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed : and
while they were eating their venison under the cool
shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be want-
ing to complete the felicity of this good duke and the
true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the
duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to
him.

The^ usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter
Celia, and hearing that every day men of great worth re-
sorted to the forest of Arden to join the lawful duke in
his exile, much envying that his brother should be so
highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head
of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intend-
ing to seize his brother, and put him, with all his faithful
followers, to the sword ; but, by a wonderful interposition
of Providence, this bad brother was converted from his
evil intention ; for just as he entered the skirts of the
wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit,
with whom he had much talk, and who in the end com-
pletely turned his heart from his wicked design. Thence-
forward he became a true penitent, and resolved, relin-
quishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder ct
his days in a religious house. The first act of his newly-
conceived penitence was to send a messenger to his
brother (as has been related), to offer to restore to him
his dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with it
the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful fol-
lowers of his adversity.

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome,

AS YOU LIKE IT. 125

came opportunely to heighten the festivity and rejoicings
at the wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented
her cousin on this good fortune which had happened to
the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished joy very sin-
cerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the
dukedom, but by this restoration which her father had
made, Rosalind was now the heir : so completely was the
love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of
jealousy or envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those
true friends who had stayed with him in his banishment ;
and these worthy followers, though they had patiently
shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to re-
turn in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful
duke.

126 taLlES from shakspebe.

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSRERE.

Act II. — Scene I. — The Forest o/'Arden.

Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of

Foresters.

Zhike 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, — as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wii;d,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say
This is no flattery, — these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous.
Wears } et 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 everything.

Ami. I would not change it : Happy is your grace
That can translate the stubbornness of fortime
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.

a Irlis me. This active use of the verb irk has become obsolete. TLe
meaning is obvious from the adjective, which we still retain, irksome.
b F(/rked heads— ths heads of barbed arrows.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 127

1 Lord. Indeed, my lord.

The melaucholy Jaques grieves at that ;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish' d you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood :
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag.
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
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 into the needless * stream ;
" Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much." Then being there alone,
Left and abandon' d of his velvet friend ; ^
" '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 iuvectively 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 to kill them up, "=
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

* Needless — needing not.

^ Friend. The singular is often used for the plural wiih a seuHc
more abstracted, and ilierefore in many instances more poetical.

e Kill them up. In the same way' Shakspere has " Hatter up," —
«' stifle up," — " poisons up."

128

TALES TKOM SHAKSPERE.

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

II.

Act II. — Scene III. — Before Oliver's House.
Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting.

Orl. Who 's there ?

Adam. What ! my young master ! — 0, my gentle master,
O, my sweet master, O you memory
Of old sir Rowland ! why, what make you here ?
Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser 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 vix-tues, gentle master.
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it !

Orl. Why, what 's the matter ?

Adam. O unhappy youth.

Come not within these doors ; within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives :
Your brother — (no, no brother ; yet the son —
Yet not the son ; I will not call him son —
Of him I was about to call his father) —
Hath heard your praises ; and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it : if he fail of that.
He will have other means to cut you off :

* Cope — encounter.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 129

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 food ?
Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce
A thievish living on the common road ?
This I must do, or know not what to do :
Yet this I will not do, do how I can ;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood,** and bloody brother.

Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred crowns.
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 lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown ;
Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow.
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ;
All this I give you : Let me be your servant ;
Though I look old, yet I am strong and l\isty :
For in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood :
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter.
Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ;
I '11 do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

Orl. O good old man ; how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion ;
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having : it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry :
But come thy ways, we '11 go along together :

"■ This is no place— this is no abiding-place.

*> A diverted blood — affections alienated and turned out of their na-
tural course; as a stream of water is said to be diverted,

g3

130

TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

And ere we have thy youthful -svages spent.
We '11 light upon some settled low content.

Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee.
To the last ga^p, 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 fortimes seek;
But at fourscore, it is too late a week :*
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better,
Thau to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt,

III.

Act II. — Scene VI. — TTie same.

Enter Orlando a)id Adam.

Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for
food ! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Fare-
well, kind master.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee ?
Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little : If
this imcoiith forest yield anything 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 comfort-
able,*^ 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
cheerly : and I '11 be with thee quickly.— Yet thou liest in
the bleak air : Come, I will bear thee to some shelter ; and
thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any-
thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! [Exeunt.

Scene VII. — The same. — A table set out.
Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Lords, and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast ;
For I can nowhere find him like a man.

" Too late a week — an indefinite period, but still a short period ;
somewhat too late.

*> Be comfortable — become susceptible of comfort.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 131

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 thiSj
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 we may see," quoth he, " how the world wags :
'T is but an hour ago, since it was nine ;
And after one hour more, 't will be eleven ;
And so, from hour to hour, Ave ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time.
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ;
And I did laugh, sans intermission.
An hour by his dial. — O noble fool !
A worthy fool ! — Motley 's the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this ?

Jaq. O worthy fool !— One that hath been a courtier ;
And says, if ladies be but young, and fair,
They have the gift to know it : and in his brain, —
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents

Compact — compounded, made up of.

132 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

In mangled forms ! — O, that I were a fool !
I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Tliou 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.
Not to seem senseless of the bob :^ if not.
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley ; give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,
If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst do.

Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good ?

Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin :
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself;
And all the embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught,
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride,
That can therein tax any private party ?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea.
Till that the weary •= very means do ebb ?
What woman in the city do I name
When that I say. The city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ?
Who can come in, and say that I mean her.
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour ?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says, his bravery ^ is not on my cost,
(Thinking that I mean him,) but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech ?

* Suit — request. b Bob — rap.

« Weary — exhausted. d Bravery — finery.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 133

There then : How then ? what then ? Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,
Why, then my taxing'' like a wild goose flies,
Unclaim'd of any man. — But who comes here ?

Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.

Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.

Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet.

Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of?

Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress ;
Or else a rude despiser of good manners.
That in civility thou seem'st so empty ?

Orl. You touch'd my vein at first ; the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show
Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred.
And know some nurture.^ But, forbear, I say ;
He dies that touches any of this fruit,
Till I and my affairs are answered.

Jaq, An you will not be answered with reason, I must
die.

Duke S. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall
force
^lore than your force move us to gentleness.

Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it.

Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table

Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you :
I thought that all things had been savage here ;
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment : But whate'er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible.
Under the shade of melancholy boughs.
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ;
If ever you have look'd on better days ;
[f ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ;
If ever sat at any good man's feast ;
If ever from your eyelids 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.

^ Taking — censure, reproach. t* Nurture — education.

l34 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Diike S. True is it that we have seen better days ;
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ;
And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd :
And therefore sit you down in gentleness.
And take upon command ^ what help we have,
That to your wanting may be minister'd.

Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while,
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn.
And give it food. There is an old poor man.
Who after me hath many a weary step
Limp'd in pure love ; till he be first suflfic'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 comfort !

lExit.

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

Jaq. All the world 's a stage.

And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits, and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms :
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school : and then, the lover.
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow : Then, a soldier ;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth: and then, the justice;
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd.
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ;

^ Upon command — at your pleasure.
•> fFcak evils — causes of weakness.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 135

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ;
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice.
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Re-enter Orlando, ivith Adam.

DuTie S. Welcome : Set down your venerable burthen,
And let him feed.

Orl. I thank you most for him.

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

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

Amiens sings.
SONG.

Blow, l)lo\v, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind*
As mun's ingratitude ;

Thy tooth is not so keen.

Because thou art not seen,
Altliough thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly :
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ;

Then, heigh ho ! the holly !

This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot !
Tliough thou the waters warp,"*
Thy sting is not so sharp
As fiiend remember'd not.
Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! &c.

Duke S. If that you were the good sir Rowland's son, —
As you have whisper'd faithfully you were ;
And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

** Unkind — unnatural.

b fVarp. There was an old Saxon proverb, ff'inter shall warp water

136 TALES TKOM SHAKSPEKE.

Most ti-uly Hmn'd, and living in your face,

Be truly -o-elcome 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,

Thou art right -welcome as thy master is ;

Support him by the arm. — Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand. lExeu?it.

IV.

Act IV. — Scene III.
Enter Oliver.

OH. Good morro-sv, 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 her brother." Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for ?

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

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

Bos. I am : What must we understand by this ?

on. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stain' d.

Cel. I pray you, tell it

Oil. When last the young Orlando parted from you,
He left a promise to return again

* Left on your right luind — being, as you pass, left.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 137

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, approach'd

The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly

Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,

And with indented glides did slip away

Into a bush : under which bush's shade

A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir ; for '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. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother ;
And he did render ^^ him the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men.

on. And well he might so do.

For well I know he was unnatural.

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

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so :
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge.
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,^
Made him give battle to the lioness.
Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak'd.

Cel. Are you his brother ?

Bos. Was it you he rescued ?

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

Oli. 'T 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,

^ Render — represent.

*> Juat occasion — such reasonable ground as might have amply justi
fied, or given just occasion for, abandoning him.

1 38 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPEHB.

When from the first to last, betwixt us two,

Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,

As, how I came into that desert place ; —

In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,

AVho gave me fresh array and entertainment,

Committing me unto my brother's love ;

"Who led me instantly unto his cave.

There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away,

Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted,

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

Brief, I recover'd him ; bound up his wound ;

And, after some small space, being strong at heart,

He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

To tell this story, that you might excuse

His broken promise, and to give this napkin,

Dyed in this blood, unto the shepherd youth

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

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

[RoSALIND/oiWtS.

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

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

Oli. Look, he recovers.

Eos. 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 !

OIL This was not counterfeit ; there is too great testimony
in your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest.

Itos. Counterfeit, I assure you.

OIL Well, then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be
a man.

Eos. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have been a woman
by right.

Cel. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray } ou, draw
homewards : — Good sir, go with us.

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

Eos. I shall devise something: But, I pray you, com-
mend my counterfeiting to him : — Will you go ?

[Exeunt.

_ ^.^

wo •

GENTLEMEM
YERO^ A .

/J

M^

( 141 )

THE

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen,
whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom
a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted.
They pursued their studies together, and their hours of
leisure were always passed in each other's company,
except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with ;
and these visits to his mistress, and this passion of Pro-
teus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which
these two friends disagreed ; for Valentine, not being
himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing
his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would
laugh at Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the pas-
sion of love, and declare that no such idle fancies should
ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as he said) the
free and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and
fears of the lover Proteus.

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him
that they must for a time be separated, for that he was
going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling to paii; with his
friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine
not to leave him; but Valentine said, " Cease to per-
suade me, my loving Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard,
wear out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping
youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were
not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia,

142 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders
of the world abroad ; but since you are a lover, love on
still, and may your love be prosperous !"

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable
friendship. "Sweet Valentine, adieu!" said Proteus;
" think on me, when you see some rare object worthy
of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness."

Valentine began his journey that same day towards
Milan ; and when his friend had left him, Proteus sat
down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her
maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she
was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did not
become her maiden dignity too easily to be won ; there-
fore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and gave
him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she
would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking letters
from Proteus, and ordered her to leave the room. But
she so much wished to see what was written in the letter,
that she soon called in her maid again ; and when Lucetta
returned, she said, " What o'clock is it ?" Lucetta, who
knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than to
know the time of day, without answering her question,
again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her
maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know
what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and
threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out
of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to
pick up the fragments of the torn letter ; but Julia, who
meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger,
" Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would
be fingering them to anger me."

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could
the torn fragments. She first made out these words,
*' Love- wounded Proteus ;" and lamenting over these
and such like loving words, which she made out though
they were all torn asunder, or. she said, wounded (the
expression *' Love- wounded Proteus " giving her that

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 143

idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she
would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their
wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several
piece, to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-
like childishness, till finding herself unable to make out
the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroy-
ing such sweet and loving words, as she called them, she
wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever
done before.

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favour-
able answer to his letter ; and while he was reading it,
he exclaimed, "Sweet love, SM^eet lines, sweet life!"
In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his
father. " How now!" said the old gentleman; " what
letter are you reading there ?"

" My lord," replied Proteus, " it is a letter from my
friend Valentine, at Milan."

" Lend me the letter," said his father: " let me see
what news."

" There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly
alarmed, " but that he writes how well beloved he is of
the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favours ; and
how he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune."

"And how stand you affected to his wish ?" asked
the father.

" As one relying on your lordship's will, and not
depending on his friendly wish," said Proteus.

Now it had happened that Proteus's father had just
been talking with a friend on this very subject ; his friend
had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his son to
spend his youth at home, while most men were sending
their sons to seek preferment abroad ; " some," said he,
** to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to
discover islands far away, and some to study in foreign
universities ; and there is his companion Valentine, he
is gone to the duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit for
any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage
to him in his riper age not to have travelled in his
youth."

144 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE.

Proteus's father thought the advice of his friend was
very good, and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine
*' wished him with him, the partner of his fortune," he
at once determined to send his son to ^Slilan ; and with-
out giving Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution,
it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said, " My
will is the same as Valentine's wish ;" and seeing his son
look astonished, he added, " Look not amazed, that I so
suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the duke
of Milan's court ; for what 1 will I will, and there is an
end. To-mon'ovv be in readiness to go. Make no ex-
cuses ; for I am peremptory."

Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to
his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will ;
and he blamed himself for telling his father an untruth
about Julia's letter, which had brought upon him the sad
necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus
for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference ;
and they bade each other a mournful farewell, with many
vows of love and constancy. Proteus and Julia ex.
changed rings, which they both promised to keep for
ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, taking a
sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his jom-ney to Milan,
the abode of his friend Valentine.*

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to
his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan ; and
another event had happened to him, of which Proteus
did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the
freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was
become as passionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valen-
tine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan,
and she also loved him ; but they concealed their love
from the duke, because although he showed much kind-
ness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his

* Proteus had a servant Launce, a comical fellow, who accompanied
him on his journey. Extract II, shows the feelings of Launce when he
is leaving home. — Ed.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 145

palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young
courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this
Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent
qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one
day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining
Silvia with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule,
when the duke himself entered the room, and told Va-
lentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus's arrival.
Valentine said, " If I had wished a thing, it would have
been to have seen him here !" and then he highly praised
Proteus to the duke, saying, " My lord, though I have
been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend made use
and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person
and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman."

" Welcome him then according to his worth," said the
duke. ''Silvia, I speak to you, and you. Sir Thurio ;
for Valentine, I need not bid him do so," They were
here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valen-
tine introduced him to Silvia, saying, " Sweet lady,
entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship."

When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit,
and were alone together, Valentine said, " Now tell me
how all does from whence you came ? How does your
lady, and how thrives your love ?" Proteus replied,
" My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy
not in a love discourse."

" Ay, Proteus," returned Valentine, " but that life
is altered now. I have done penance for condemning
love. For in revenge of my contempt of Love, Love
has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle
Proteus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled
me, thdt I confess there is no woe like his correction,
nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like
no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break
my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of
love."

This acknowledgment of the change which love had
made in the disposition of Valentine was a great triumph
to his friend Proteus. But " friend " Proteus must be

146 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

called no longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love,
of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they were
talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was
working in the heart of Proteus ; and he, who had till
this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friend-
ship, was now, in one short interview with Silvia, become
a false friend and a faithless lover ; for at the first sight of
Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream,
nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him from
endea^ ouring to supplant him in her affections ; and
although, as it will always be, when people of dispositions
naturally good become unjust, he had many scruples
before he determined to forsake Julia, and becoihe the
rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense
of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse,
to his new unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole
history of his love, and how carefully they had concealed
it from the duke her father, and told him, that, despair-
ing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he had
prevailed upon Sihia to leave her father's palace that
night, and go with him to Mantua ; then he showed
Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to
assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of the
palace, after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest
secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was,
that Proteus resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the
whole to him.

This false friend began his tale with many artful
speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of friend-
snip he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal,
but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him,
and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell thai
which else no worldly good should draw from him. He
then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting
the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which Valentine
meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity,
in that he preferred telling his friend's intention ratlier

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 147

than he would conceal an unjust action ; hig-hly com-
mended him, and promised him not to let Valentine
know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by-
some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself.
For this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valen-
tine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards
the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-
ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, " Whither
away so fast, Valentine ?" — " May it please your grace,"
said Valentine, " chere is a messenger that stays to bear
my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver
them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better
success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his
father.

" Be they of much import ?" said the duke.

" No more, my lord," said Valentine, " than to tell
my father I am well and happy at your grace's court."

'' Nay, then," said the duke, " no matter ; stay with
me a while. I wish your counsel about some affairs that
concern me nearly." He then told Valentine an artful
story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, saying,
that Valentine knew he. wished to match his daughter
with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient
to his commands, *' neither regarding," said he, " that
she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father.
And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my
love from her. I had thought my age should have been
cherished by her child-like duty. I now am resolved to
take a wife, and turn her out to whosoever will take her
in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and
my possessions she esteems not."

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made
answer, " And what would your grace have me to do in
all this ?"

" Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to
marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my
aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is
much changed since I was young : now I would willingly

h2

148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to
woo."

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes oi
courtship then practised by young men, when they wished
to win a fair lady's love, such as presents, frequent visits,
and the like.

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a
present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly
kept by her father, that no man might have access to her
by day.

" Why, then," said Valentine, " you must visit her
by night."

" But at night," said the artful duke, who was no\y
comins: to the drift of his discourse, " her doors are fast
locked: "

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the duke
should get into the lady's chamber at night by means
of a ladder of ropes, saying, he would procure him one
fitting for that purpose ; and in conclusion advised him
to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that
which he now wore. " Lend me your cloak," said the
duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to
have a pretence to get off the cloak ; so, upon saying
these words, he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and
throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of
ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly
opened, and read ; and this letter contained a full account
of their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraid-
ing Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the
favour he had shown him, by endeavouring to steal away
his daughter, banished him from the court and city of
Milan for ever ; and Valentine was forced to depart that
night, without even seeing Silvia.

While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine,
Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus ;
and her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense
of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona, and seek
her lover at Milan ; and to secure herself from danger on
the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in
men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 149

arrived at Milan soon after Valentine was banished from
that city through the treachery of Proteus.

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her
abode at an inn ; and her thoughts being all on her dear
Proteus, she entered into conversation with the innkeeper,
or host, as he was called, thinking by that means to learn
some news of Proteus.

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young
gentleman (as he took her to be), who, from his appear-
ance, he concluded was of high rank, spoke so familiarly
to him ; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry to
see him look so melancholy ; and to amuse his young
guest, he offered to take him to hear some line music,
with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going
to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that
she did not well know what Proteus would think of the
imprudent step she had taken ; for she knew he had
loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of
character, and she feared she should lower herself in his
esteem ; and this it was that made her wear a sad and
thoughtful countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with
him, and hear the music ; for she secretly hoped she
might meet Proteus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host
conducted her, a very different effect was produced to
what the kind host intended ; for there, to her heart's
sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Proteus,
serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia
overheard Silvia from a window talk with Proteus, and
reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and for
his ingratitude to his friend Valentine : and then Silvia
left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and
his fine speeches ; for she was a faithful lady to her
banished Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous con-
duct of his false friend Proteus.*

» Extract III.

150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just
witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Proteus ; and
hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, she
contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly
innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page ; andv
Proteus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with
letters and presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent
by her the very ring she gave him as a parting gift at
Verona,

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was
most glad to find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of
Proteus ; and Julia, or the page Sebastian as she was
called, entered into conversation with Silvia about Pro-
teus's first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She putting in
(as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew
Julia ; as well sht might, being herself the Julia of
whom she spoke ; telling how fondly Julia loved her
master Proteus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve
her : and then she with a pretty equivocation went on :
*' Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the
colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine :" and
indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's
attire, Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who
was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved : and when
Julia offered the ring which Proteus had sent, refused it,
saying, " The more shame for him that he sends me that
ring ; I will not take it, for I have often heard him say
his Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for
pitying her, poor lady ! Here is a purse ; I give it you
for Julia's sake." These comfortable words coming from
her kind rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the
disguised lady.

But to return to the banished Valentine ; who scarce
knew which way to bend his course, being unwilling to
return home to his father a disgraced and banished man :
as he was wandering over a lonely forest, not far distant
from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear treasure,
the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who de-
manded his money.

Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 151

adversity, that he was going into banishment, and that
he had no money, the clothes he had on being all his
riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man,
and being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour,
told him, if he would live with them, and be their chiei!,
or captain, they would put themselves under his com-
mand ; but that if he refused to accept their offer, they
would kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself,
said, he would consent to live with them and be their
captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor
passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood,
of whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and
outlawed banditti ; and in this situation he was found by
Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her
father insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last
to the resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, at
which place she had heard her lover had taken refuge ;
but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived
in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of
their captain, but taking no part in their depredations,
and using the authority which they had imposed upon
him in no other way than to compel them to show com-
passion to the travellers they robbed.

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's
palace in company with a worthy old gentleman, whose
name was Eglamour, whom she took along with her for
protection on the road. She had to pass through the
forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt ; and one
of these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have
taken Eglamour, but he escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the teiTor
she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that he was only
going to carry her to a cave where his captain lived, and
that she need not be afraid, for their captain had an
honourable mind, and always showed humanity to women.
Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be

152 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless ban-
ditti. " O Valentine," she cried, " this I endure for
thee !"

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his
captain, he was stopped by Proteus, who, still attended
by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the
flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to this forest. Pro-
teus now rescued her from the hands of the robber ; but
scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had
done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his
love-suit ; and while he was rudely pressing her to con-
sent to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was
standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest
the great service which Proteus had just done to Silvia
should win her to show him some favour, they were all
strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valen-
line, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady
prisoner, came to console and relieve her.

Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much
ashamed of being caught by his friend, that he was all
at once seized with penitence and remorse ; and he ex-
pressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had done
to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble
and generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave
and restored him to his former place in his friendship,
but in a sudden flight of heroism he said, " I freely do
forgive you ; and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give
it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her master
as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus
would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse
Silvia, fainted, and they were all employed in recovering
her : else would Silvia have been offended at being thus
made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think
that Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained
and too generous act of friendship. When Julia re-
covered from the fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot,
my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia."
Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one
he gave to Julia, in return for that which he received
from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 153

to Silvia. *' How is this?" said he, "this is Julia's
rins^ : how came you by it, boy ?" Julia answered,
" Julia herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath
brought it hither."

Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly per-
ceived that the page Sebastian was no other than the
lady Julia herself: and the proof she had given of her
constancy and true love so wrought in him, that his
love for her returned into his heart, and he took again
his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions
to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who had so well deserved
her.

Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness
in their reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful
ladies, when they were surprised with the sight of the
duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of
Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia,
saying, " Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to
him in a very spirited manner, " Thurio, keep back : if
once again you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace
your death. Here she stands, take but possession of her
with a touch ! I dare you but to breathe upon my love."
Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward,
drew back, and said he cared not for her, and that none
but a fool would fight for a girl who lo ;ed him not.

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said
now in great anger, " The more base and degenerate in
you to take such means for her as you have done, and
leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to
Valentine, he said, " I do applaud your spirit, Valentine^
and think you worthy of an empress's love. You shall
have Silvia, for you have well deserved her." Valentine
then with great humility kissed the duke's hand, and
accepted the noble present which he had made him of
his daughter with becoming thankfulness : taking occa-
sion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured
duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated
in the forest, assuring him, that when reformed and
restored to society, there would be found among them

h3

154 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

many good, and fit for great employment ; for the most
of them had been banished, like Valentine, for state
offences, rather than for any black crimes they had been
guilty of. To this the ready duke consented : and now
nothing remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was
ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted faults,
to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves
and falsehoods before the duke ; and the shame of the
recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient
punishment ; which being done, the lovers, all four, re-
turned back to Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized
in the presence of the duke, with high triumphs and
feasting.*

a Extract IV.

TWO GENTL,EMEN OF VERONA. 155

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act I. — Scene I.— Verona.
Enter Valentine and Pkoteus.

Val. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ;
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits ;
Were 't not alFection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
I rather would entreat thy company,
To see the wonders of the world abroad.
Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home,
Wear out tliy youth with shapeless idleness.
But, since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein.
Even as I would, when I to love begin.

Pro. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine, adieu !
Think on thy Proteus, when thou, haply, seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel
Wish me partaker in thy happiness.
When thou dost meet good hap : and in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee.
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Val. And on a love-book pray for my success ?

Pro. Upon some book I love, I '11 pray for thee.

Val. That 's on some shallow story of deep love,
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.

Pro. That 's a deep story of a deeper love ;
For he was more than over shoes in love.

Val. 'T is true ; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swom the Hellespont.

Pro. Over the boots ? nay, give me not the boots.a

» Nay, give me not the loots. It is concluded that the allusion is to
the instrument of torture called the boots.

166 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

Pro. What ?

Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans ;
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's

mirth
With twentj' watchful, weary, tedious nights :
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain ;
If lost, why then a grievous labour won ;
However,* but a folly bought with wit.
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

Val. So, by your circumstance,** I fear you '11 prove.

Pro. 'T is love you cavil at ; I am not love.

Val. Love is your master, for he masters you :
And he that is so yoked by a f ^ol,
Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.

Pro. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all,

Val. And writers say, as the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow.
Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly ; blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime.
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee.
That art a votary to fond desire ?
Once more adieu : my father at the road
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.

Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Val. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our leave.
To Milan let me hear from thee by letters.
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend ;
And I likewise will visit thee with mine.

Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan !

Val. As much to you at home I and so. farewell.

[Exit Valentine.

* However — in whatsoever way.

•> Circumstance. Proteus employs the word in the meaning of cir
attmstanttal deduction; — Valentine in tliat of pusitiux.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA, 157

II.

Act II. — Scene IIL — Tite same. A Street.
Enter Launce, leading a Dog.

Laun. Nay, 't will be this hour ere I have done weeping ;
all the kind of the Launces have this very fault : I have
received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am
going with sir Proteus to the imperial's court. I think
Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives : my
mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our
maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our
house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted
cur shed one tear : he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and
has no more pity in him than a dog : a Jew would have
wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grandam, having
no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay,
I '11 show you the manner of it : This shoe is my father ; —
no, this left shoe "^ is my father ; no, no, this left shoe is my
mother ; — nay, that cannot be so neither : — yes, it is so, it is
so ; it hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it,
is my mother, and this my father ; A vengeance on 't '.
there 't is : now, sir, this staff is my sister ; for, look you,
she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand : this hat
is Nan, our maid ; I am the dog : — no, the dog is himself,
and I am the dog, — O, the dog is me, and I am myself; ay,
so, so. Now come I to my father ; " Father, your blessing ;"
now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping ; now
should I kiss my father ; well, he weeps on : — now come I
to my mother, (O, that she could speak now!) like a wood^
woman;— well, I kiss her; — why, there 'tis; here's my
mother's breath up and down ; now come I to my sister ;
mark the moan she makes : now the dog all this while
sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; but see how I lay the
dust with my tears.

* This left slwe. A passage in • King John ' also shows that eacli foct
was formerly fitted with its shoe.
b IFood — mad, wild.

15H TALES FROM SHAKSPEBE.

III.

Act IV.— Scene II.

Enter Host, and Jitlia in hoy's clothes, to a court of the
Palace, where Proteus and others are assembled.

Host. Now, my yonng gviest ! methinks you 're ally-
cholly ; I pray you, why is it ?

Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

Host. Come, we '11 have you merry : I '11 bring you where
you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked
for.

Jul. But shall I hear him speak ?

Host. Ay, that you shall.

Jul. That will be music. ^Music plays.

Host. Hark! hark!

Jxd. Is he among these ?

Host. Ay : but peace, let's hear 'em.

SONG.

Who is Silvia ? what is she,

That all our swains commend her ?
Holy, fair, and wise is she,

The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired he.

Is she kind as she is fair ?

For beauty lives with kindness :
Love doth to her eyes repair.

To help him of liis blindness;
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing.

Upon the dull earth dwelling :
To her let us garlands bring.

Host. How now ? are you sadder than you were before ?
How do you, man ? the music likes* you not.
Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not.
Host. Why, my pretty youth ?
Jul. He plays false, father.
Host. How ? out of tune on the strings ?

* Lilies — pleases.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 159

Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very
heartstrings.

* * * *

Silvia appears above, at her window.

Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship.

Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen :
Who is that, that spake ?

Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it.

Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.

•Sil. What 's your will ?

Pro. That I may compass yours.

Sil. You have your wish ; my will is even this, —
That presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man !
Think'st thou, I am so shallow, so conceitless.
To be seduced by thy flattery.
That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows ?
Eeturn, return, and make thy love amends.
For me, — by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request.
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit ;
And by and by intend to chide myself,
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady ;
But she is dead.

Jul. 'T were false, if I should speak it ;
For I am sure she is not buried. ^ [^Adde.

Sil. Say that she be ; yet Valentine, thy friend,
Survives ; to whom, thyself art witness,
I am betroth' d : And art thou not asham'd
To wrong him with thy importimacy ?

Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

Sil. And so suppose am I ; for in his grave
Assure thyself my love is buried.

Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Sil. Go to thy lady^s grave, and call hers thence ;
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.

Jul. He heard not that \^Aside,

160 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

IV.

Act V. — Scene IV. — Valentine, Proteus, Silvla., and
Julia.

Vol. Thou common ft-iend, that 's without faith or love ;
(For such is a friend now ;) treacherous man !
Thou hast beguil'd my hopes ; nought but mine eye
Could have persuaded me : Now I dare not say
I have one friend alive ; thou wouldst disprove me,
Who should be trusted when one's own right hand
Is perjur'd to the bosom? Proteus,
I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
Ijut count the world a stranger for thy sake.
'Ilie private wound is deepest : O time most accurs'd !
'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst.

Pro. My shame, and guilt, confounds me. —
Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer
As e'er I did commit.

Val. Then I am paid ;

And once agaiu I do receive thee honest : —
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleas'd ;
By penitence the Eternal's wrath 's appeas'd, —
And, that my love may appear plain and free,
All that was mine, in Silvia, I give thee.

Jul. O me, unhappy ! \^Faints.

Pro. Look to the boy.

Val. Why, boy !

Why, wag ! how now ? what *s the matter ? Look up ;
speak.

Jul. 0 good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring
to madam Silvia ; which, out of my neglect, was never
done.

Pro. Where is that ring, boy 1

Jul. Here 't is : this is it. [^Gives a ring.

Pro, How ! let me see :
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.

Jul. O, cry your mercy, sir, I have mistook ;
This is the ring you sent to Silvia. \ Shows another ring.

TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. IGl

Pro. But how earnest thou by this ring ? at my depart, I
gave this uuto Julia.

Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

Pro. How ! Julia !

Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths.
And entertain'd them deeply in her heart :
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root ?

0 Proteus, let this habit make thee blush I
Be thou asham'd, that I have took upon me
Such an immodest raiment ; if shame live
In a disguise of love :

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds.

Women to change their shapes, than men their minds.

Pro. Than men their minds ! 't is true ; O Heaven ! were*
man
But constant, he were perfect : that one error
Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all th' sins :
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins :
What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ?

Val. Come, come, a hand from either :
Let me be bless'd to make this happy close ;
'T were pity two such friends should be long foes.

Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.

Jul. And I mine.

Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Tetorio.

Out. A prize, a prize, a prize !

Val. Forbear, forbear, I say ; it is my lord the duke.
Your grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd.
Banished Valentine.

Duke. Sir Valentine !

Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvin, 's mine.

Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;
Come not within the measure of my wrath :
Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again,
Milan shall not behold thee. Here she stands ;
Take but possession of her with a touch ; —

1 dare thee but to breathe upon my love. —

Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I ;
I hold him but a fool, that will endanger
His body for a girl that loves him not :
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.

162 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Duhe. The more degenerate and base art thou.
To make such means for her as thou hast done,
And leave her on such slight conditions. —
Now, by the honour of my ancestry,
I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,
And think thee worthy of an empress' love
Know then, I here forget all former griefs,
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again. —
Plead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit.
To which I thus subscribe, — Sir Valentine,
Thou art a gentleman, and well derived ;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her.

Val. I thank your grace; the gift hath made me happy.
I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake.
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

iJuhe. I grant it, for thine own, whatever it be.

Val. These banish'd men, that I have kept withal,
Are men endued with worthy qualities ;
Forgive them what they have committed here,
And let them be recall'd from their exile :
They are reformed, civil, full of good,
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

Duke. Thou hast prevail'd ; I pardon them, and thee;
Dispose of them, as thou know'st their deserts.
Come, let us go ; we will include all jars
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnit}^

Val. And, as we Avalk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your gTace to smile :
What think you of this page, my lord ?

Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him ; he blushes.

Val. I warrant you, my lord ; more gi'ace than boy.

Duke. What mean you by that saying ?

Val. Please you, I '11 tell you as we pass along,
That you will wonder what hath fortuned. —
Come, Proteus ; 't is your penance, but to hear
The story of your loves discovered :
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours ;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [^Exeunt.

s^

THEIVIERCHAMT OF

VENICE

( 165 )

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice : he was an usurer,
who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money
at great interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being
a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money
he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by
all good men, and particularly by Antonio, a young
merchant of Venice ; and Shylock as much hated Anto-
nio, because he used to lend money to people in distress,
and would never take any interest for the money he lent ;
therefore there was groat enmity between this covetous
Jew and the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever
Antonio met Shylock on the Rial to (or Exchange), he
used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings,
which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while
he secretly meditated revenge.

Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best con-
ditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing
courtesies ; indeed he was one in whom the ancient Ro-
man honour more appeared than in any that drew breath
in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citi-
zens ; but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his
heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a
small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his little fortune
by living in too expensive a manner for his slender means,
as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too
apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio
assisted him ; and it seemed as if they had but one heart
and one purse between them.

166 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told liiui that
he wished to repau' his fortune by a wealthy marriage
with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose father, that
was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large
estate ; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit
at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady
had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages,
that seemed to say he Mould be no unwelcome suitor ;
but not having money to furnish himself with an appear-
ance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought
Antonio to add to the many lav ours he had shown him,
by lending him three thousand ducats.

Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his
friend ; but expecting soon to have some ships come home
laden with merchandise, he said he would go to Shylock,
the rich money-lender, and bon-ow the money upon the
credit of those ships.

Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and
Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats
upon an interest he should require, to be paid out of the
merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this, Shy-
lock thought within himself, " If I can once catch him
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I beai*
him : he hates our Jewish nation ; he lends out money
gratis ; and among the merchants he rails at me and my
w^ell-eamed bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed
be my tribe if I forgive him !" Antonio finding he was
musing within himself and did not answer, and being im-
patient for the money, said, "Shylock, do you hear?
will you lend the money?" To this question the Jew
replied, " Signior Antonio, on the Rial to many a time
and often you have railed at me about my monies and
my usuries, and I have borne it with a patient shrug, for
sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; and then you
have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon
my Jewish garments, and spumed at me with your foot,
as if I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need
my help ; and you come to me, and say, Shylock, lend
Tiie monies. Has a dog money ? Is it possible a cur
should lend thi'ee thousand ducats ? Shjdl I bend low

i

MERCHANT OF VEXICE. 167

and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last,
another time you called me dog, and for these courtesies
I am to lend you monies." Antonio replied, " I am as
like to call you so again, to spit on you again, and spurn
you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not to
me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy,
that, if I break, you may with better face exact the pe-
nalty."— " Why, look you," said Shylock, " how you
storm ! I would be friends with you, and have your love.
1 will forget the shames you have put upon me. I will
supply your wants, and take no interest for my money."
This seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio ; and
then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all he
did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would
lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no interest
for his money ; only Antonio should go with him to a
lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he
did not repay the money by a certain day, he would for-
feit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part of his
body that Shylock pleased.

" Content," said Antonio : " I will sign to this bond,
and say there is much kindness in the Jew."

Bassanio said, Antonio should not sign to such a bond
for him ; but still Antonio insisted that he would sign it,
for that before the day of payment came, his ships would
return laden with many times the value of the money.

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O father
Abraham, what suspicious people these ChiTstians are !
Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the
thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio : '
if he should break this day, what should I gain by the
exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh,
taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable nei-
ther, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to buy his
favour I offer this friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not,
adieu."

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwith-
standing all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did
not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking

168 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the bond, thinking
it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived
near Venice, at a place called Belmont : her name was
Portia, and in the graces of her person and her mind she
was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we read,
who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his
friend Antonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for Bel-
mont with a splendid train, and attended by a gentleman
of the name of Gratiano.

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a
short time consented to accept of him for a husband.

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune,
and that his high birth and noble ancestry was all that
he could boast of; she, w^ho loved him for his worthy
qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth in
a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she
would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten
thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him ;
and then the accomplished Portia prettily dispraised her-
self, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, un-
practised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and
that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed
and governed by him in all things ; and she said, " My-
self and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted.
But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair man-
sion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants ;
and now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours,
my lord ; I give them with this ring :" presenting a ring
to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and won-
der at the gracious manner in which the rich and noble
Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes, that he
could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady
who so honoured him, by any thing but broken words of
love and thankfulness ; and taking the ring, he vowed
never to part with it.

Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in

MERCHANT Or VENICE. 1^

attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia so
gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bas-
sunio ; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the generous
lady joy, desired permissioiji, to be married at the samv
time. f'

"■ With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, " if you
can get a wife."

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair
waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, hnd that she had promised
to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. Portia
asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, " Ma-
dam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly
consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then our Med-
ding-feast shall be much honoured by your maiTiage,
Gratiano."

The happiness of these lovers was sadly cj'ossed at this
moment by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a
letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When
Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it was to
teil him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so
pale ; and inquiring what w^as the news which had so dis-
tressed him, he said, " O sweet Portia, here are a few
of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper : gentle
lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I freely told
vou all the wealth 1 had ran in my veins ; but I should
na^e told you that I had less than nothing, being in
debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here
related, of his bon-owing the money of Antonio, and^ of
Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of "the
bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound
of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day : and then
Bassanio read Antonio's letter ; the words of which were,
" Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the
Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible 1
should live, I could wish to see you at my death ; not-
withstanding, use your pleasure ; if your love for me do
not persuade you to come, let not my letter" " O my
dear love," said Portia, " despatch all business, and bo
gone ; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times
over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bas-

VOi. I, I

170 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

sanio's fault ; and as you are so dearly bought, I will
dearly love you." Portia then said she would be married
to Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal right to
her money ; and that same day they were married, and
Gratiano was also married to Nerissa ; and Bassanio and
Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great
haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in
prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would
not accept of the money which Bassanio offered him, but
insisted upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day
was appointed to try this shocking cause before the duke
of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the
event of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke
cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend
along with him when he returned ; yet she feared it
would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left
alone, she began to think and consider within herself, if
she could by any means be instrumental in saving the
life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; and notwithstanding,
when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said to
him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she
would submit in all things to be governed by his superior
wisdom, yet being now called forth into action by the
peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did nothing
doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her
own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go
herself to Venice, and speak in Antonio's defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law ;
to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote,
and stating the case to him, desired his opinion, and that
with his advice he would also send her the dress worn
by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he
brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed,
and also every thing necessary for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's
apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she
took Nerissa along with her as her clerk ; and setting out
immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day of

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 171

the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house,
when Portia entered this high court of justice, and pre-
sented a letter from Bellario, in which that learned coun-
sellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have come
himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented
by sickness, and he requested that the learned young
doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be per-
mitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted,
much wondering at the youthful appearance of the stran-
ger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes
and her large wig.

And now began this important trial. Portia looked
around her, and she saw the merciless Jew ; and she saw
Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was
standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress and fear
for his friend.

The importance of the arduous task Portia had en-
gaged in gave this tender lady courage, and she boldly
proceeded in the duty slie had undertaken to perforai ;
and first of all she addressed herself to Shylock ; and
allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to
have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so
sweetly of the noble quality of mercy ^ as would have
softened any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's ; saying,
that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon the
place beneath ; and how mercy was a double blessing, it
blessed him that gave, and him that received it ; and how
it became monarchs better than their crowns, being an
attribute of God himself ; and that earthly power came
nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice ;
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for
mercy, that same prayer should teach us to show mercy.
Shylock only answered her by desiring to have the pe-
nalty forfeited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the
money ?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew
the payment of the three thousand ducats as many times
over as he should desire ; which Shylock refusing, and
still insisting upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh,
Bassanio begged the learned voung counsellor would en-

i2

1V2 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

deavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life.
But Portia gravely answered, that laws once established
must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that
the law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she
was pleading in his favour, and he said, " A Daniel
is come to judgment ! O wise young judge, how I do
honour you ! How much elder are you than your looks !"

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the
bond ; and when she had read it, she said, '' This bond
is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully claim a
pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's
heart." Then she said to Shylock, " Be merciful : take
the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy
would the cruel Shylock show; and he said, " By my
soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to
alter me." — *' Why then, Antonio," said Portia, " you
must prepare your bosom for the knife :" and while Shy-
lock was sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to
cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have
you any thing to say '?" Antonio with a calm resigna-
tion replied, that he had but little to say, for that he had
prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio,
" Give me your hand, Bassanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve
not that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Com-
mend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I
have loved you !" Bassanio in the deepest afiiiction re-
plied, *' Antonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear
to me as life itself; but life itself, my w^ife and all the
world, are not esteemed with me above your life : I
would lose ail, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, to
deliver you."

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was
not at all offended with her husband for expressing the
love he owed to so true a friend as Antonio in these
strong terms, yet could not help answering, " Your wife
would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hear
you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to
copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech
like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who
was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 173

have a wife, whom I protest I love ; I wish she were in
heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to
change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." " It is
well you wish this behind her back, else you would have
but an unquiet house," said Nerissa.

Shylock now cried out impatiently, " We trifle time;
I ])ray pronounce the sentence." And now all was
awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full
of grief for Antonio.

Fortia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the
flesh ; and she said to the Jew, " Shylock, you must have
some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." Shylock,
whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to
death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia
replied, "It is not so named in the bond, but what of
that ? It were good you did so much for charity." To
this all the answer Shylock would make, was, " I cannot
find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia,
"a ])ound of Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows
it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this flesh
from off his breast. The law allows it, and the court
awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, " O wise and
upright judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment !" And
then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking
eagerl}^ on Antonio, he said, " Come, prepare!"

" Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there is some-
thing else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood ;
the words expressly are, ' a pound of flesh.' If in the
cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of
Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the law to
be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was
utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of
flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood, this wise
discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that
was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio ; and
all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young coun-
sellor, who had so happily thought of this expedient,
plaudits resounded from every part of the senate-house ;
and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shvlock

174 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

had used, "O wise and upright judge I mark, Jew, a
Daniel is come to judgment !"

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent,
said with a disappointed look, that he would take the
money ; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at Anto-
nio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, " Here is the
money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly;
there is no haste ; the Jew shall have nothing but the pe-
nalty : therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh ;
but mind you shed no blood ; nor do not cut off more nor
less than just a pound ; be it more or less by one poor
scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single
hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die,
and all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." " Give
me my money, and let me go," said Shylock. " I have
it ready," said Bassanio : " here it is."

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia
again stopped him, saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet
another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your
wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at
the mercy of the duke ; therefore down on your knees,
and ask him to pardon you."

The duke then said to Shylock, " That you may see
the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your
life before you ask it ; half your wealth belongs to Anto-
nio, the other half comes to the state."

The generous Antonio then said, that he would give
up his share of Shy lock's wealth, if Shylock would sign
a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and
her husband ; for Antonio knew that the Jew had an
only daughter, who had lately married against his con-
sent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of
Antonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he liad
disinherited her.

The Jew agreed to this : and being thus disappointed
in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, " I
am ill. Let me go home ; send the deed after me, and
I will sign over half my riches to my daughter." —

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 175

'' Get thee gone then," said the duke, *' and sign it;
and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the
state will forgive you the fine of the otlier half of your
riches."*

The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the
court. He then highly praised the wisdom and inge-
nuity of the young counsellor, and invited him home to
dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before
her husband, replied, *' I humbly thank your grace, but
I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he
had not leisure to stay and dine with him ; and turning
to Antonio, he added, " Reward this gentleman ; for hi
my mind you are much indebted to him."

The duke and his senators left the court ; and then
Bassanio said to Portia, " Most worthy gentleman, I
and my friend Antonio have by your wisdom been this
day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will
accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew."
" And we shall stand indebted to you over and above,"
said Antonio, " in love and service evermore."

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the
money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of
some reward, she said, " Give me your gloves ; I will
wear them for your sake :" and then Bassanio taking off
his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him
upon his finger : now it was the ring the wily lady
wanted to get from him to make a merry jest when she
saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for his
gloves ; and she said, when she saw the ring, " And for
your love I will take this ring from you." Bassanio was
sadly distressed, that the counsellor should ask him for
the only thing he could not part with, and he replied in
great confusion, that he could not give him that ring,
because it Mas his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to
part with it : but that he would give him the most va-
luable ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation.
On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left the
court, saying, " You teach me, sir, how a beggar should
be answered."

' Extract I.

176 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

*' Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, " let him have the
ring ; let my love and the great service he has done for
me be valued against your wife's displeasure." Bassanio,
ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gra-
tiano after Portia with the ring ; and then the clerk Ne-
rissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged
his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in
generosity by his lord) gave it to her. And there was
laughing among these ladies to think, when they got
home, how they would tax their husbands with giving
away their rings, and swear that they had given them as a
present to some woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper
of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of
having performed a good action ; her cheerful spirits en-
joyed every thing she saw : the moon never seemed to
shine so bright before ; and M'hen that pleasant moon
was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw fiom
her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy,
and she said to Nerissa, " That light we see is burning
in my hall ; how far that little candle throws its beams !
so shines a good deed in a naughty world :" and hearing
the sound of music from her house, she said, " Methinks
that music sounds much sweeter than by day.'"^

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and
dressing themselves in their own apparel, they awaited
the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them
with Antonio ; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend
to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings
of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived Ne-
rissa and her husband quarrelling in a corner of the room.
"A quarrel already V" said Portia. "What is the
matter?" Gratiano replied, " Lady, it is about a paltry
gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like
the poetry on a cutler's knife : Love me, and leave me
not."

^ Shakspere makes Portia return home at the time when Lorenzo
and Jessica (the Jew's daughter), whom she had welcomed to her house,
were seated in the garden, looking at the beautiful sky. It is one of
the prettiest scenes in Shakspere. Extract II. — Ed.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 177

" What does the poetry or the value of the ring- sig-
nify ?" said Nerissa. " You swore to me, when I gave
it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of death ;
and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk, I
know you gave it to a woman." — " By this hand," re-
plied Gratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a
little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself; he was
clerk to the young counsellor, that by his wise pleading
saved Antonio's life : this prating boy begged it for a fee,
and I could not for my life deny him," Portia said,
" You were to blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's
first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and I am
sm-e he would not part with it for all the world." Gra-
tiano, in excuse for his fault, now said, " My lord Bassa-
nio gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the
boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing, he begged
my ring."

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and re*-
preached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; and she
said, Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that
she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very
unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said
with great earnestness, " No, by my honour, no woman
had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand
ducats of me, and begged the ring, which when I denied
him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet
Portia ? I was so beset with shame for my seeming in
gratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after him.
Pardon me, good lady ; had you been there, I think yon
would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy
doctor."

" Ah!" said Antonio, " I am the unhappy cause of
these quarrels."

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he
was welcome notwithstanding ; and then Antonio said,
" I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake ; and but
for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I should
have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul
upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his
faith with you." — " Then you shall be his surety," said

I 3

178 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Portia; '' give him this ring, and bid him keep it better
than the other."

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he "^as strangely
surprised to find it was the same he gave away ; and
then Portia told him, how she was the young counsellor,
and Nerissa was her clerk ; and Bassanio found, to his
unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble
courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was
saved.

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him
letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands,
which contained an account of Antonio's ships, that were
supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbour. So
these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story
were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which
ensued ; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical ad-
venture of the rings, and the husbands that did not know
their own wives : Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of
rhyming speech, that

while he lived, he 'd fear no other thing

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 179

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

I.

Act IV. — Scene I. — Venice. A Court of Justice.

Tlie Duias, the Magnificoes ; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano,
Salarino, Solanio, and others.

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.

Duke. Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ?

For. I did, my lord.

Duke. You are welcome : take your place.

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

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

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Por. Is your name Shylock ?

Shi/. Shylock is my name.

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. —
You stand within his danger,* do you not ? [ 7y Ant.

Ant. Ay, so he says.

Por. Do you confess the bond ?

Ant. I do.

Por. Then must the Jew be merciful.

Sht/. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that.

Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes
'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes

" Dr. Jamieson says, — " In his davmger, under Ms dnwvger, in his
power as a captive.'' The old French danger frequently occurs as sig-
niiying power , dominion.

180 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

The throned monarch better than his crown ;

His sceptre shows tlie force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings :

But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this —

That in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,

To mitigate the justice of thy plea ;

Which Tf thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Shr/. INIy deeds upon my head ! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

For. Is he not able to discharge the money ?

Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ;
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er.
On forfeit of my hands, m j head, my heart :
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth.'^ And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority :
To do a great right do a little wrong ;
And curb this cruel devil of his will.

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

Shi/. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea. a Daniel I
O wise young judge, how do I honour thee !

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

Shi/. Here 't is, most reverend doctor, here it is.

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

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

For. Why, this bond is forfeit ;

» Truth is here used in the sense of honestv.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 181

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

Sill/. When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to ju.dgment : by my soul I swear,
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me : I stay here on ray bond.

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

Par. Why, then, thus it is :

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man !

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

Shy. 'T is very true ; O wise and upright judge !
How much more elder art thou than thy looks !

Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.

Shy. Ay, his breast :

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

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

Shy. I have them ready,

Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death.

Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ?

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

Shy. I cannot find it ; 't is not in the bond,

Por. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ?

Ant. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd, —
Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well !
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom : it is still her use.
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth.
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow.
An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.

182 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Commend me to your honourable wife :
Tell her the process of Antonio's end,
Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend.
And he repents not that he pays your debt ;
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enouojh,
1 '11 pay it instantly with all my heart.

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

Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by, to hear you make the offer;

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

Ner. 'T is well you offer it behind her back ;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.

Shy. These be the Christian husbands : I have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barrabas

Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! {^Aside.
We trifle time ; I pray thee pursue sentence.

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ;
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shy. Most rightful judge !

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

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

Por. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. —
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ;
The words expressly are a pound of flesh :
Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.

Gra. O upright judge !— Mark, Jew ! — 0 learned judcc !

Shy. Is that the law ?

For. Thvself shall see the act :

MERCHANT OF VENICE. 183

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

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

Shy. I take this oflfer then, — pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.

Bass. Here is the money.

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

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

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

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

For. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture.

Shij. Give me my principal, and let me go.

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

For. He hath refus'd it in the open court ;
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.

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

Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ?

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

8hy. Why, then the devil give him good of it !
I '11 stay no longer question.

For. Tarry, Jew ;

The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, —
If it be proVd against an alien,
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st:

184 TAI^S FROM SHAKSPERE.

For it appears by manifest proceeding,
That, indirectly, and directly too,
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehcars'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

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

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

For. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio.

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

For. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ?

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

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

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

For. Art thou contented, Jew ; what dost thou say ?

Shy. I am content.

For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence :
I am not well ; send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.

Duke. Get thee gone, but do it.

» In use— lent on interest.

MERCHANT or VEKICE. 1S5

II.

Act V. — Scene I. — Belmont. Avenue to Portia's House,
Enter Lorenzo and Jessica.

Lor. The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise, — in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents.
Where Cressid lay that night.

Jes. In such a night,

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

Z,or. In such a night,

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

Jes. In such a night,

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

Lor. In such a night,

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

Jes. In such a night.

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

Lor. In such a night,

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

Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come :
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

Enter Stephano.

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

Steph. A friend.

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

Steph. Stephano is my name; and I bring word,
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont ; she doth stray about

186 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
For happy -vredlock hours.

Lor. Who comes ■with her ?

Steph. None, but a holy hermit, and her maid.
T pray you, is my master yet return'd ?

Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. —
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
Enter Launcelot (a Servant).

Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola!

Lor. Who calls ?

Laun. Sola ! Did you see master Lorenzo, and mistress
Lorenzo ? sola, sola !

Lor. Leave hollaing, man ; here.

Laun. Sola! Where? where?

Lor. Here.

Laun. Tell him there 's a post come from my master,
with his horn fiill of good news ; my master will be here
ere morning. [Exit.

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

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

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

* Patines. A patine is the small flat disli or plate used in the service
of the altar.

MERCHANT OF VENICE. IS/

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

[Music.

Lor. The reason is your spirits are attentive :
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood ;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears.
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand.
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze.
By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ,•
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage.
But music for the time doth change his nature ;
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds.
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night.
And his aifections dark as Erebus :
Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music.

Enter Portia and Nerissa at a distance.

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

Ner. When the moon shone we did not see the candle.

For. So doth the greater glory dim the less :
A substitute shines brightly as a king.
Until a king be by ; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music ! hark !

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

For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect ;
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

For. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended ; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise and true perfection ! —

188 TALES FHOM SHAKSPERE.

Peace ! How the moon sleeps with Endymion,

And would not be awak'd ! [Music ceases.

Lor. That is the voice,

Or I am much deceiVd, of Portia.

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

Z,or. Dear lady, welcome home.

For. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare,
AYhich speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd ?

Lor. Madam, they are not yet ;

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

Por. Go in, Nerissa ;

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

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

Por. This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick.
It looks a little paler ; 't is a day
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

(pr'N\3L0^'^-^

( 191 )

CYMBELINE.

During the time of Augustus Cassar, emperor of Rome,
there reigned in England (which was then called Britain)
a king whose name was Cymbeline.

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children
(two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen,
the eldest of these children, was brought up in her
father's court ; but by a strange chance the two sons of
Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the
eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest quite
an infant : and Cymbeline could never discover what was
become of them, or by whom they were conveyed away.

Cymbeline was twice married : his second wife was a
wicked plotting woman, and a cruel step-mother to Imo-
gen, Cymbeline's daughter by his first wife.

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her
to marry a son of her own by a former husband (she also
having been twice married) : for by this means she hoped
upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown of Bri-
tain upon the head of her son Cloten ; for she knew that,
if the king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen
must be the king's heir. But this design was prevented
by Imogen herself, who married without the consent or
even knowledge of her father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's hus-
band) was the best scholar and most accomplished gentle-
man of that age. His father died fighting in the wars
for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his mother died
also for grief at the loss of her husband.

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan,
took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given him that name

192 TAU:S PROM SHAKSPEKE.

because he was bom after his father's death), and edu-
cated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same
masters, and were play-fellows from their infancy : they
loved each other tenderly when they were children, and
their affection continuing to increase with their years,
when they grew up they privately married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she
kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of her
daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king of the
marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when
he heard that his daughter had been so forgetful of her
high dignity as to marry a subject. He commanded Post-
humus to leave Britain, and banished him from his na-
tive country for ever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the
grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to pro-
cure them a private meeting before Posthumus set out on
his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for his
residence in his banishment : this seeming kindness she
showed, the better to succeed in her future designs in
regard to her son Cloten ; for she meant to persuade
Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her marriage
was not laM'ful, being contracted without the consent of
the king.

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave
of each other. Imogen gave her husband a diamond
ring, which had been her mother's, and Posthumus pro-
mised never to part with the ring ; and he fastened a
bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she
would preserve with great care, as a token of his love :
they then bid each other farewell, with many vows of
everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her
father's court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place
he had chosen for his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay
young men of different nations, who were talking freely
of ladies : each one praising the ladies of his own country,

CYMBELINE. 198

and his own mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his
own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the
fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant
lady in the world.

One of these gentlemen, whose name was lachimo,
being offended that a lady of Britain should be so praised
above the Roman ladies, his country-women, provoked
Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of his so
highly-praised wife ; and at length, after much alterca-
tion, Posthumus consented to a proposal of lachimo's,
that he (lachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour to
gain the love of the married Imogen. They then laid a
wager, that if lachimo did not succeed in this wicked
design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money ; but if he
could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give
him the bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly de-
sired she would keep as a token of his love, then the
wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving to lachi-
mo the ring, which was Imogen's love-present when she
parted with her husband. Such firm faith had Post-
humus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he thought he ran
no hazard in this trial of her honour.

lachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance,
and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her
husband ; but when he began to make professions of love
to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon found
that he could have no hope of succeeding in his disho-
nourable design.

The desire lachimo had to win the wager made him
now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Post-
I humus, and for this purpose he bribed some of Imogen's
i attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bed-
chamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained
shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen
asleep ; and then getting out of the trunk, he examined
the chamber with great attention, and wrote down every
thing he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which

She observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly un-
loosing the bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus had
1 given to her, he retired into the chest again ; and the

194 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and
boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the
bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in
her chamber : and in this manner lachimo told his false
tale: "Her bedchamber," said he, "was hung with
tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proud Cleo-
patra when she met her Antony^ a piece of work most
bravely wrought."

" This is true," said Posthumus ; " but this you might
have heard spoken of without seeing."

" Then the chimney," said lachimo, " is south of the
chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing ; never
saw I figures livelier expressed."

" This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said
Posthumus ; *' for it is much talked of."

lachimo as accurately described the roof of the cham-
ber, and added, " I had almost forgot her andirons ; they
were two winking Ctipids made of silver, each on one
foot standing." He then took out the bracelet, and said,
"Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She
took it from her arm. I see her yet : her pretty action
did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave
it me, and said, she prized it once ." He last of all de-
scribed the mole he had observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful
recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the
most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He deli-
vered up the diamond ring to lachimo, which he had
agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from
Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a
gentleman of Britain, who was one of Imogen's attend-
ants, and had long been a faithful friend to Posthumus ;
and after telling him what proof he had of his wife's dis-
loyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to Mil-
ford- Haven, a sea-port of Wales, and there kill her.
And at the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imo-
gen, desiring her to go with Pisanio, for that finding he
could live no longer without seeing her, though he was
forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, he

CYMBELLNE. 195

would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged
she would meet him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who
loved her husband above all things, and desired more
than her life to see him, hastened her departure with
Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter she
set out.

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio,
who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to
serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the cruel
Oi-der he had received.

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved
husband, found herself doomed by that husband to suffer
death, was afflicted beyond measure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with
patient fortitude for the time when Posthumus should see
and repent his injustice : in the mean time, as she refused
in her distress to return to her father's court, he advised
her to dress herself in boy's clothes for more security in
travelling ; to which advice she agreed, and thought in
that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her
husband, whom, though he had used her so barbarously,
she could not forget to love.

When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel,
he left her to her uncertain fortune, being obliged to re-
turn to court ; but before he departed he gave her a phial
of cordial, which he said the queen had given him as a
sovereign remedy in all disorders.

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend
to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this phial, which
she supposed contained poison, she having ordered her
physician to give her some poison, to try its effects (as
she said) upon animals ; but the physician, knowing her
malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poi-
son, but gave her a drug which would do no other mis-
chief than causing a person to sleep with every appear-
ance of death for a few hours. This mixture, which
Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, de-
siring her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it ;
and so, with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy
deliverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her.

k2

196 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the
dwelling of her t^yo brothers, who had been stolen away
in their infancy. Belarius, who stole them away, was a
lord in the court of Cymbeline,. and having been falsely
accused to the king of treason, and banished from the
court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbe-
line, and brought them up in a forest, where he lived,
concealed in a cave. He stole them through rc.cnge,
but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been
his own children, educated them carefully, and they
grew up fine youths, their princely spirits leading them
to bold and daring actions ; and as they subsisted by
hunting, they were active and hardy, and were always
pressing their supjx)sed father to let them seek their for-
tune in the wars.''

At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was Imo-
gen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her way in a large
forest, through which her road lay to Milford-Haven
(from which she meant to embark for Rome) ; and being
unable to find any place where she could purchase food,
she was with weariness and hunger almost dying ; for it
is not merely putting on a man's apparel that will enable
a young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue
of wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing
this cave, she entered, hoping to find some one within of
■whom she could procure food. She found the cave
empty, but looking about she discovei'ed some cold meat,
and her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait
for an invitation, but sat down and began to eat. " Ah !"
said she, talking to herself, " I see a man's life is a te-
dious one : how tired am I ! for two nights together I
have made the ground my bed : my resolution helps me,
or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford-
Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seemed !"
Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate
came across her, and she said, " My dear Posthumus,
thou art a false one !"

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting
with their reputed father Belarius, were by this time

a Extract I.

CYMBELIXE. 197

returned home. Belarius had given them the names of
Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but sup-
posed that Belarius was their father ; but the real names
of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Belarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen,
stopped them, saying, ''Come not in yet; it eats our
victuals, or I should think that it was a fairy."

"What is the matter, sir?" said the young men.
'' By Jupiter," said Belarius again, " there is an angel
in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon." So beau-
tiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the
cave, and addressed them in these words : " Good mas-
ters, do not harm me. Before I entered your cave, I had
thought to have begged or bought what I have eaten.
Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had
found gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my
meat, which I would have left on the board when I had
made my meal, and parted with prayers for the pro-
vider." They refused her money with great earnest-
ness. *' I see you are angry with me," said the timid
Imogen ; " but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know
that I should have died if I had not made it."

"Whither are you bound?" asked Belarius, "and
what is your name ?"

" Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. " I have a
kinsman, who is bound for Italy ; he embarked at Milford-
Haven, to whom being going, almost spent with hunger,
I am fallen into this offence."

" Prithee, fair youth," said old Belarius, " do not
think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this
rude place we live in. You are well encountered ; it is
almost night. You shall have better cheer before you
depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him
welcome."

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imo-
gen to their cave with many kind expressions, saying
they would love her (or, as they said, liim) as a brother ;
and they entered the cave, where (they having killed
venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted

198 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

them with her neat housewifery, assisting: them in pre-
paring their supper ; for though it is not the custom now
for young women of high birth to understand cookery, it
was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art ; and,
as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their
roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno
had been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. " And
then," said Polydore to his brother, " how angel-like he
sings I"

They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele
smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud
his lovely face, as if grief and patience had together taken
possession of him.

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their
near relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or,
as the boys called her, Fidele) became the doting-piece
of her brothers, and she scarcely less loved them, think-
ing that but for the memory of her dear Posthumus, she
could live and die in the cave with these wild forest
youths ; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till
she was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to
pursue her way to Milford-Haven.

When the venison they had taken was all eat^(l, and
they Avere going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not
accompany them, because she was unwell. Sorrow, no
doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the
fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the cause of her
illness.

They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt,
praising all the way the noble parts and graceful de-
meanour of the youth Fidele.*

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected
the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it oiF, and
presently fell into a sound and deathlike sleep.

When Belarius and her brothers returned from hunt'
ing, Polydore went first into the cave, and supposing her
asleep, pulled oft' his heavy shoes, that he might tread
softly and not awake her ; so did true gentleness spring
up in the minds of these princely foresters ; but he soon

^ Extract II.

CYMBELINE. 199

discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise,
and concluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented
over her with dear and brotherly regret, as if they had
never from their infancy been parted.

Belarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest,
and there celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn
dirges, as was then the custom.

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady
covert, and there laying her gently on the grass, they
sang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her over
with leaves and flowers, Polydore said, " While summer
lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy sad
grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy
face ; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins ; and the leaf of
eglantine, which is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all
these will I strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss
in winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet
corse."

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they
departed very sorrowful.'"

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect
of the sleepy drug going off", she awaked, and easily
shaking ofl' the slight covering of leaves and flowers they
had thrown over her, she arose, and imagining she had
been dreaming, she said, " I thought I was a cave-
keeper, and cook to honest creatures ; how came I here,
covered with flowers?" Not being able to find her w^ay
back to the cave, and seeing nothing of her new compa-
nions, she concluded it was certainly all a dream ; and
once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage,
hoping at last she should find her way to Milford-Haven,
and thence get a passage in some ship bound for Italy ;
for all her thoughts were still with her husband Posthu-
mus, whom she intended to seek in the disguise of a page.

But great events were happening at this time, of which
Imogen knew nothing ; for a war had suddenly broken
out between the Roman emperor Augustus Caesar, and
Cymbeline the king of Britain ; and a Roman army had
landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very

* Extract III.

200 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this
army came Posthumus.

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Ro-
man army, he did not mean to fight on their side against
his own countrymen, but intended to join the army of
Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who had ba-
nished him.

He still believed Imogen false to him ; yet the death
of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too
(Pisanio having written him a letter to say he had obeyed
his command, and that Imogen was dead), sat heav}- on
his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring
either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by
Cymbeline for returning home from banishment.

Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into
the hands of the Roman army ; and her presence and de-

EDrtment recommending her, she was made a page to
ucius, the Roman general.

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy,
and when they entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal
joined the king's army. The young men were eager to
engage in acts of valour, though they little thought they
were going to fight for their own royal father : and old
Belarius went with them to the battle. He had long
since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline
in carrying away his sons ; and having been a Marrior in
his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king
he had so injured.

And now a great battle commenced between the two
armies, and the Britons would have been defeated, and
Cymbeline himself killed, but for the extraordinary valour
of Posthumus, and Belarius, and the two sons of Cym-
beline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and
so entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Bri-
tons gained the victory.

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not
ibund the death he sought for, surrendered himself up to
one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the
death which was to be his punishment if he returned
from banishment.

CYMBELINE.

201

Imogen and the master she served were taken pri-
soners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was also her
old enemy lachimo, who was an officer in the Roman
army ; and when these prisoners were before the king,
Posthumns was brought in to receive his sentence of
death ; and at this strange juncture of time, Belarius
with Polydore and Cadwal were also brought before
Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the great ser-
vices they had by their valour done for the king. Pisa-
nio, being one of the king's attendants, was likewise
present.

Therefore there were now standing in the king's pre-
sence (but with very different hopes and fears) Posthu-
mus, and Imogen, with her new master the Roman
general ; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friend
lachimo ; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline,
with Belarius, who had stolen them away.

The Roman general was the first who spoke ; the rest
stood silent before the king, though there was many a
beating heart among them,

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he
was in the disguise of a peasant ; but he did not know
her in her male attire : and she knew lachimo, and she
saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her
own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the
author of all her troubles : and she stood before her own
father a prisoner of war.

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed
her in the garb of a boy, " It is my mistress," thought
he ; " since she is living, let the time run on to good or
bad." Belarius knew her too, and softly said to Cad-
wal, "Is not this boy revived from death?" — "One
sand," replied Cadwal, "does not more resemble an-
other than that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele." —
**The same dead thing alive," said Polydore. " Peace,
peace," said Belarius ; " if it were he, I am sure he
would have spoken to us." — " But we saw him dead,"
again whispered Polydore. "Be silent," replied Bela-
rius.

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sen-

k3

202 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

tence of his own death ; and he resolved not to disclose
to the king that he had saved his life in the battle, lest
that should move Cymbeline to pardom him.

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen
under his protection as his page, was the first (as has
been before said) who spoke to the king. He was a
man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was his
speech to the king :

** I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but
doom them ail to death : I am a Roman, and with a Ro-
man heart will suffer death. But there is one thing for
which I would entreat." Then bringing Imogen before
the king, he said, " This boy is a Briton born. Let him
be ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page
so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true,
so nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though
he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no one
beside."

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen.
He knew her not in that disguise ; but it seemed that all-
powerful Nature spake in his heart, for he said, " I have
surely seen him, his face appears familiar to me. I know
not why or wherefore I say. Live, boy ; but I give you
your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will
grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the
noblest prisoner I have."

" I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen.

What was then called granting a boon was the same
as a promise to give any one thing, whatever it might
be, that the person on whom that favour was conferred
chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear what
thing the page would ask for ; and Lucius her master
said to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know
that is what you will ask for." — " No, no, alas !" said
Imogen, "I have other work in hand, good master;
your life I cannot ask for."

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished
the Roman general.

Imogen then, fixing her eye on lachimo, demanded
no other boon than this : that lachimo should be made

CTMBELINE.

203

to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his
finger.

Cynibelino granted her this boon, and threatened
lachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he
came by the diamond ring on his finger.

lachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his
villainy, telling, as has been before related, the whole
story of his wager with Posthumus, and how he had suc-
ceeded in imposing upon his credulity.

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the in-
nocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. He instantly
came forward, and confessed to Cymbeline the cruel
sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute upon
the princess ; exclaiming wildly, " O Imogen, my queen,
my life, my wife ! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen !"

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this
distress without discovering herself, to the unutterable
joy of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a weight
of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of the
dear lady he had so cruelly treated.

Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with
joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely recovered,
received her to her former place in his fatherly affection,
and not only gave her husband Posthumus his life, but
consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law.

Belarius chose this time of jo}'- and reconciliation to
make his confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal
to the king, telling him they were his two lost sons,
Guiderius and Arviragus.

Cymbeline forgave old Belarius ; for who could think
of punishments at a season of such universal happiness ?
To find his daughter living, and his lost sons in the
persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so
bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed !

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services
for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose
life the king her father readily granted at her request ;
and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was
concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which
was kept inviolate many years.

204 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despau* of
bringing her projects to pass, and touched with remorse
of conscience, sickened and died, having first lived to see
her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had
provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happy
conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is
sufficient that all were made happy who were deserving ;
and even the treacherous lachimo, in consideration of his
villainy having missed its final aim, was dismissed without
punishment.

CYMBELINE. 205

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

I.

Act III. — Scene HI. — Wales. A mountainous Country
with a Cave.

Enter Belabius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such
Whose roof 's as low as ours ! Stoop, boys : This gate
Instructs you how to adore the heavens ; and bows you
To a morning's holy office : The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious tutbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun. — Hail, thou fair heaven,
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.

Gui. Hail, heaven !

Arv. Hail, heaven !

Bel. Now for our mountain sport : Up to yon hill,
Your legs are young ; I '11 tread these flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a crow.
That it is place which lessens and sets off;
And you may then revolve what tales I have told you
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war :
This service is not service, so being done,
But being so allow'd : To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see :
And often, to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life
Is nobler, than attending for a check ;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe ;
Prouder, than rustling in vinpaid-for silk :
Such gains the cap of him that makes him fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd : no life to ours.

Gui. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor unfleg'd.

206 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE,

Have never ■wing'd from view o' the nest ; nor know not

What air 's from home. Haply, this life is best,

If quiet life be best ; sweeter to you.

That have a sharper known ; well corresponding

With your stiff age : but unto us it is

A cell of ignorance ; travelling abed ;

A prison for a debtor, that not dares

To stride a limit.

Arv. What should we speak of,

When we are old as you ? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how.
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing :
We are beastly ; subtle as the fox, for prey ;
Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat :
Our valour is to chase what flies ; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird.
And sing our bondage freely.

Bel. How you speak !

Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly : the art o' the court,
As hard to leave, as keep ; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery that
The fear 's as bad as falling : the toil of the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I' the name of fame and honour : which dies i' the search ;
And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph
As record of fair act ; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well ; what 's worse,
Must court'sy at the censure : — O, boys, this story
The world may read in me : My body 's mark'd
With Eoman swords ; and my report was once
First with the best of note • Cymbeline lov'd me ;
And when a soldier was the theme my name
Was not far off: Then was I as a tree
Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves.
And left me bare to weather.

Giii. Uncertain favour !

JBel. jNIy fault being nothing (as I have told you oft)
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans : so,

CYMBELINE. 207

Follow'd my banishment ; and, this twenty years,

This rock and these demesnes have been my world :

Where I have liv'd at honest freedom ; paid

More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time. — But, up to the mountains ;

This is not hunters' language : — He that strikes

The venison first shall be the lord o' the feast ;

To him the other two shall minister ;

And we will fear no poison, which attends

In place of greater state. I '11 meet you in the valleys.

'[Exeimt Gui. and Arv.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature !
These boys know little they are sons to the king ;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine: and, though train'd up thus

meanly
r the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces ; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, — ■
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The king his father call'd Guiderius, — Jove !
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story : say, — *' Thus mine enemy fell ;
And thus I set my foot on his neck " — even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
(Once Arviragus,) in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving. Hark ! the game is rous'd ! —
O Cymbeline ! heaven, and my conscience, knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me : whereon.
At three, and two years old, I stole these babes y
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft' St me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave :
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd.
They take for natural father. The game is up, [_Exit.

208 TALE5 rAOM SHAKSPESE,

II.

Act IV.— Scene II.— Before the Cave.

Enter, from the Cave, Belarius, Guidep^ius, Arviragcs,
and Imogen.

Bel. You are not -well : [ To Imogen.] remain here in
the cave ;
We *11 come to you after hunting,

Arv. Brother, stay here : [ To Imogen*

Are we not brothers ?

Imo. So man and man should be ;

But clay and clay differs in dignity,
"Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.

Qui. Go you to Inxnting: I'll abide with him.

Imo. So sick I am not ; — yet I am not well :
But not so citizen a wanton, as
To seem to die, ere sick : So please you, leave me ;
Stick to your journal course ; the breach of custom
Is breach of all. I am ill ; but your being by me
Cannot amend me : Society is no comfort
To one not sociable : I am not very sick.
Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here:
I '11 rob none but myself; and let me die,
Stealing so poorly.

Gul. I love thee; I have spoke it:

How much the quantity, the weight as much.
As I do love my father.

Bel. What? how? how?

Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me
In my good brother's fault : I know not why
I love this youth ; and I have heard you say,
Love's reason 's without reason : the bier at door,
And a demand who is 't shall die, I 'd say,
*' My father, not this youth."

Bel. O noble strain ! lAside,

0 worthiness of nature ! breed of greatness !
Cowards father cowards, and base things sire base :
Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.

1 'm not their father ; yet who this should be
Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me. —

'T is the ninth hour of the morn.

CYMBELINE. 209

Arv. Brother, farewell.

Imo. I wish ye sport.

Arv. You health.— So please you, sir.

Imo. [Aside.'] These are kind creatures. Gods, what
lies I have heard !
Our courtiers say all 's savage, but at court:
Experience, O, thou disprov'st report !
The imperious seas breed monsters ; for the dish,
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish.
I am sick still ; heart-sick : — Pisanio,
I '11 now taste of thy drug.

Gut. I could not stir him :

He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ;
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.

Arv. Thus did he answer me : yet said, hereafter
I might know more.

Bel To the field, to the field :—

We '11 leave you for this time ; go in and rest.

Arv. We '11 not be long away.

Bel Pray, be not sick,

For you must be our housewife.

Imo. Well, or ill,

I am bound to you.

Bel. And shalt be ever. [Erit Imogen.

This youth, howe'er distress'd he appears, hath had
Good ancestors.

Arv. How angel-like he sings !

Gui. But his neat cookery ! He cut our roots in cha-
racters ;
And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter.

Arv. Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh : as if the sigh
Was that it was, for not being such a smile ;
The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly
From so divine a temple, to commix
With winds that sailors rail at.

Gui. I do note

That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
Mingle their spurs together.

Arv. Grow, patience !

And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine
His perishing root with the increasing vine !

Bel. It is great morning. Come ; away. —

210 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEKE.

III.

Be-enter Arvlragus, bearing Imogen as dead in Ids arms.

Bel Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
Of what we blame him for !

Arv. ■ The bird is dead.

That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.

Gid. O sweetest, fairest lily I

My brother wears thee not the one-half so well.
As when thou grew'st thyself.

Bel. O, melancholy !

"Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare '
Might easiliest harK.nr in ? — Thou blessed thing !
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made ; but I,
Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy I
How found you him ?

Arv. Stark,^ as you see :

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at : his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.

Gid. Where?

Arv. O' the floor :

His arms thus leagued : I thought he slept ; and put
My clouted brogues'^ from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answer'd my steps too loud.

Gid. Why, he but sleeps :

If he be gone, he '11 make his grave a bed ;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted.
And worms will not come to thee.

Arv. With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I '11 sweeten thy sad grave : Thou shalt not lack
The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor

'^ Crare is a small vessel ; and the word is often used by Holinshed
and by Drayton.

^ Stark — stiff. <^ Brogues — rude slioes.

CTMUELINE. 211

The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Outsweeten'd not thy breath : the ruddock would,
With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this ;
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none.
To winter-ground thy corse.

Gui. Prithee, have done ;

And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let us bury him.
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt. — To the grave.

Arv. Say, where shall 's lay him ?

Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother.

Arv. Be 't so :

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
As once our mother ; use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui. Cadwal,
I cannot sing : I '11 weep, and word it with thee :
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arv. We '11 speak it then.

Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less : for Cloton
Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys :
And, though he came our enemy, remember
He was paid for that : Though mean and mighty, rotting
Together, have one dust ; yet reverence
(That angel of the world) doth make distinction
Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely ;
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.

Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither.

Thersites' body is as good as Ajax,
When neither are alive.

Arv. If you '11 go fetch him.

We '11 say our song the whilst. — Brother, begin. \_Exit Bel.

Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east :
My father hath a reason for 't.

Arv. 'T is true.

Gui. Come on then, and remove him.

Arv. So, — begin.

212 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

SONG.

Gui. Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's raj^es ;

Thou thy worHly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages :

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

^rv. Fear no more the frown o' the great
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;

Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak :

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

(fi,i. Fear no more the liglitning flash;
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ;
Arv. Thou hast tinish'd joy and moan :
Bjth. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Gui. No exorciser harm thee !
^JT. Nor no witchcraft charm thee !
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee !
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee !
Both. Quiet consummation have ;
And renowned be thy grave!

"/\^^'V! ^

( 215 )

KING LEAR.

Leak, king of Britain, had three daughters : Goneril,
wife to the duke of Albany ; llegan, wife to the duke of
Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love
the king of France and duke of Burgundy were joint
suitors, and were at this time making stay for that pur-
pose in the court of Lear.

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of
government, he being more than fourscore years old, de-
termined to take no further part in state affairs, but to
leave the management to younger strengths, that he
might have time to prepare for death, which must at no
long period ensue. With this intent he called his three
daughters to him, to know from their own lips which of
them loved him best, that he might part his kingdom
among them in such proportions as their affection for him
should seem to deserve.

Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father
more than words could give out, that he was dearer to
her than the light of her own eyes, dearer than life and
liberty, with a deal of such profes,sing stuff, which is easy
to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a few
fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in
that case. The king, delighted to hear from her own
mouth this assurance of her love, and thinking truly that
her heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness be-
stowed upon her and her husband one-third of his ample
kingdom.

Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded

216 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

what she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same
hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her
professions, but rather declared that what her sister had
spoken came short of the love which she professed to
bear for his highness ; insomuch that she found all other
joys dead, in comparison with the pleasure which she
took in the love of her dear king and father.

Lear blessed himself in having such loving children,
as he thought ; and could do no less, after the handsome
assurances which Regan had made, than bestow a third
of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in size
to that which he had already given away to Goneril,

Then tuniing to his youngest daughter Cordelia,
whom he called his joy, he asked what she had to say,
thinking no doubt that she would glad his ears with the
same lo\ing speeches which her sisters had uttered, or
rather that her expressions would be so much stronger
than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and fa-
voured by him above either of them. But Cordelia,
disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts
she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all
then- coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle
the old king out of his dominions, that they and their hus-
bands might reign in his lifetime, made no other reply
but this, — that she loved his majesty according to her
duty, neither more nor less.

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude
in his favourite child, desired her to consider her words,
and to mend her speech, lest it should mar her for-
tunes.

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father,
that he had given her breeding, and loved her ; that she
returned those duties back as was most fit, and did obey
him, love him, and most honour him. But that she
could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her
sisters hatl done, or promise to love nothing else in the
world. Why had her sistei-s husbands, if (as they said)
they had no love for anything but their father ? If she
should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave
her hand would want half her love, half of her care and

KING LEAR. 217

duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her
father all.

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even
almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do,
would have plainly told him so at any other time, in
more daughter-like and loving terms, and without these
qualifications which did indeed sound a little ungracious ;
but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters,
which she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she
thought the handsomest thing she could do was to love
and be silent. This put her affection out of suspicion of
mercenary ends, and showed that she loved, but not for
gain ; and that her professions, the less ostentatious they
were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity than
her sisters*.

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so
enraged the old monarch — who in his best of times
always showed much of spleen and rashness, and in whom
the dotage incident to old age had so clouded over his
reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor
a gay painted speech from words that came from the
heart — that in a fury of resentment he retracted the third
part of his kingdom which yet remained, and which he
had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away from her,
sharing it equally between her two sisters and their hus-
bands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall : whom he
now called to him, and in presence of all his cour-
tiers, bestowing a coronet between them, invested them
jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution of
government, only retaining to himself the name of king ;
all the rest of royalty he resigned ; with this reservation,
that himself, with a hundred knights for his attendants,
M'as to be maintained by monthly course in each of his
daughters' palaces in turn.

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little
guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his
courtiers with astonishment and sorrow ; but none of
them had the courage to interpose between this incensed
king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was
beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the

VOL. I. 1

218 TALES YROM SHAKSPERE.

passionate Lear, on pain of death, commanded him to
desist ; but the good Kent was not so to be repelled.
He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured
as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master ; and
had never esteemed his life further than as a pawn to
wage against his royal master's enemies, nor feared to
lose it when Lear's safety was the motive ; nor now that
Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of
the king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed
Lear, to do Lear good ; and was unmannerly only be-
cause Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful coun-
sellor in times past to the king, and he besought him now,
that he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many
weighty matters), and go by his advice still ; and in his
best consideration recall this hideous rashness : for he
would answer with his life, his judgment that Lear's
youngest daughter did not love him least, nor M'ere
those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of
hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was
bound to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he
do to him, whose life was already at his service ? That
should not hinder duty from speaking.

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only
stirred u}) the king's wrath the more, and like a frantic
patient who kills his physician, and loves his mortal dis-
ease, he banished this true servant, and allotted him but
five days to make his preparations for departure ; but if
on the sixth his hated person ^A'as found within the realm
of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent
bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he chose to
show himself in such fashion, it was but banishment to
stay there ; and before he went, he recommended Cor-
delia to the protection of the gods, the maid who had so
rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken ; and only
wished that her sisters' large speeches might be answered
•with deeds of love : and then he went, as he said, to
shape his old course to a new country.

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now
called in to hear the determination of Lear about his
youngest daughter, and to know whether they would

KIXG LEAR. 219

persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was
under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but
her own person to recommend her : and the duke of
Burgundy declined the match, and would not take her to
wife upon such conditions ; but the king of France, un-
derstanding what the nature of the fault had been which
had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a
tardiness of speech, and the not being able to frame her
tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this young maid
by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry
above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her
sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind,
and she should go with him, and be queen of him and of
fair France, and reign over fairer possessions than her
sisters : and he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt
a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid
had in a moment run all away like water.

Then Cordelia, with weeping eyes, took leave of her
sisters, and besought them to love their father well, and
make good their professions : and they sullenly told her
not to prescribe to them, for they knew their duty ; but
to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as
they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And
Cordelia with a heavy heai't departed, for she knew the
cunning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better
hands than she was about to leave him in,

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispo-
sitions of her sisters began to show themselves in their
true colours. Even before the expiration of the first
month, which Lear was to spend by agreement with his
eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out
the difference between promises and performances. This
wretch having got from her father all that he had to
bestow, even to the giving away of the crown from off
his head, began to grudge even those small remnants of
royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to
please his fancy with the idea of being still a king. She
could not bear to see him and his hundred knights.
Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning
countenance ; and when the old man wanted to speak

1.2

220 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

with her, she would feign sickness, or anything to be rid
of the sight of him ; for it was plain that she esteemed
his old age a useless burden, and his attendants an unne-
cessary expense : not only she herself slackened in her
expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and
(it is to be feared) not without her private instructions,
her very servants aft'ected to treat him with neglect, and
would either refuse to obey his orders, or still more con-
temptuously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not
but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his daugh-
ter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could,
as people commonly are unwilling to believe the unplea-
sant consequences which their own mistakes and obsti-
nacy have brought upon them. *
True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by
ill^ than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conci-
liated by good usage. This eminently appears in the
instance of the good earl of Kent, who, though banished
by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in
Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long
as there was a chance of his being useful to the king his
master. See to what mean shifts and disguises poor
loyalty is forced to submit sometimes ; yet it counts no-
thing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where
it owes an obligation ! In the disguise of a serving man,
all his greatness and pomp laid aside, this good earl prof-
fered his services to the king, who not knowing him to
be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain
plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers which the
earl put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery
which he had so much reason to be sick of, having found
the effects not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was
quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his service by
the name of Caias, as he called himself, never suspecting
him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty
earl of Kent.

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity
and love to his royal master ; for Goneril's steward that
same day behaving in a disrespectful manner to Lear, and
giving him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was

KJKG LEAR. 221

secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, not en-
during to hear so open an affront put upon his majesty,
made no more ado but presently tripped up his heels,
and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel ; for which
friendly service Lear became more and more attached to
him.

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his
degree, and as far as so insignificant a personage could
show his love, the poor fool, or jester, that had been of
his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the custom
of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool
(as he was called) to make them sport after serious busi-
ness : this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given
away his crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up
his good humour, though he could not refrain sometimes
from jeering at his master for his imprudence, in un-
crowning himself, and giving all away to his daughters :
at which time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these
daughters

For sudden Joy did weep,

And he for sorrow sung,
That such a king should play bo-peep,

And go the fools among.

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of
which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured
out his heart even in the presence of Goneril herself, in
n)any a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the quick : such
as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds
the young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and
then has its head bit off for its pains ; and saying, that an
ass may know when the cart draws the horse (meaning
that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind, now
ranked before their father) ; and that Lear was no longer
Lear, but the shadow of Lear : for which free speeches
he was once or twice threatened to be whipped.

The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had
begun to perceive, were not all which this foolish fond
father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter : she
now plainly told him that his staying in her palace was

222 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an
establishment of a hundred knights ; that this establish-
ment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill
her court with riot and feasting ; and she prayed him
that he would lessen their number, and keep none but
old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age.

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor
that it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He
could not believe that she who had received a crown
from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudge him
the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in
her undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited,
that he called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke
an untruth ; and so indeed she did, for the hundred
knights were all men of choice behaviour and sobriety of
manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given
to rioting and feasting, as she said. And he bid his
horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other
daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights : and he
spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted
devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea-
monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so
as was terrible to hear ; praying that she might never
have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return
that scorn and contempt u})on her which she had shown
to him ; that she might feel how sharper than a serpent's
tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Goneril's
husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse him-
self for any share which Lear might suppose he had in
the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a
rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with
liis followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter.
And Lear thought to himself how small the fault of
Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in comparison
with her sister's, and he wept ; and then he was ashamed
that such a creature as Goneril should have so much
power over his manhood as to make him weep.

Regan and her husband were keeping their court in
great pomp and state at their palace ; and Lear dispatched
his servant Caius with letters to his daughter, that she

KESTG LEAR. 223

might be prepared for his reception, while he and his
train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had
been beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan,
accusing her father of waywardness and ill humours, and
advising her not to receive so great a train as he was
bringing with him. This messenger arrived at the same
time with Caius, and Caius and he met : and who should
it be but Caius's old enemy the steward, whom he had
formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour
to Lear ! Caius not liking the fellow's look, and suspect-
ing what he came for, began to revile him, and chal-
lenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in
a fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mis-
chief-maker and carrier of wicked messages deserved ;
which coming to the ears of Regan and her husband,
they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he
was a messenger from the king her father, and in that
character demanded the highest respect: so that the
first thing the king saw when he entered the castle, was
his faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situa-
tion.

This was but a bad omen of the reception which he
was to expect ; but a worse followed, when upon inquiry
for his daughter and her husband, he was told they were
weary with travelling all night, and could not see him ;
and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and
angry manner to see them, they came to gi'eet him,
whom should he see in their company but the hated Go-
neril, who had come to tell her own story, and set her
sister against the king her father !

This sight much moved the old man, and still more to
see Regan take her by the hand ; and he asked Goneril
if she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard.
And Regan advised him to go home again with Goneril,
and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attend
dants, and to ask her forgiveness ; for he was old and
wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons
that had more discretion than himself. And Lear showed
how preposterous that would sound, if he were to down
on his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food and

224 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

raiment, and he argned against such an unnatural de-
pendence, declaring his resolution never to return with
her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his
liundred knights ; for he said that she had not forgot the
half of the kingdom which he had endowed her with,
and that her eyes were not fierce like Goneril's, but
mild and kind. And he said that rather than return to
Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would go over to
France, and beg a wretched pension of the king there,
who had married his youngest daughter without a portion.

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of
Regan than he had experienced from her sister Goneril.
As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial behaviour,
she declared that she thought fifty knights too many to
wait upon him : that five-and-twenty were enough. Then
Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril, and said
that he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled
five-and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much as
Regan's. But Goneril excused herself, and said. What
need of so many as five-and-twenty ? or even ten ? or
+ive ? when he might be waited upon by her servants, or
her sister's servants ? So these two wicked daughters,
as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their
old father who had been so good to them, by little and
little would have abated him of all his train, all respect
(little enough for him that once commanded a kingdom),
which was left him to show that he had once been a
king! Not that a splendid train is essential to happi-
ness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from
commanding millions to be without one attendant ; and
it was the ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more
than what he would sufier by the want of it, which
pierced this poor king to the heart ; insomuch, that with
this double ill usage, and vexation for having so foolishly
given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled,
and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge
against those unnatural hags, and to make examples of
them that should be a terror to the earth !

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak
arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud

KING LEAB. 225

storm of thunder and lightning with rain ; and his daugh-
ters still persisting in their resolution not to admit his
followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to
encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay
under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters :
and they, saying that the injuries which wilful men pro-
cure to themselves are their just punishment, suffered
him to go in that condition, and shut their doors upon
him.**

The winds were high, and the rain and storm in-
creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat with
the elements, less sharp than his daughters' unkindness.
For many miles about there was scarce a bush ; and there
upOn a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark
night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds
and the thunder : and he bid the winds to blow the earth
into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till they
drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any
such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now
left with no other companion than the poor fool, who still
abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to out-
jest misfortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to
swim in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his
daughter's blessing :

But he that has a little tiny wit,
With heigh ho, the wind and the rain !
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day :

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride.
Thus poorly accompanied this once great monarch was
found by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent,
now transformed to Caius, who ever followed close at his
side, though the king did not know him to be the carl ;
and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that
love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful
storm has driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's
nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear." And
Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser evils were not

» Extract I.

l3

226 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

felt, where a greater malady was fixed. When the mind
is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate ; but the
tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from his
senses, but of that which beat at his heart. And he
spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if the
mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it ; for pa-
rents were hands and food and every thing to children.

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties
that the king would not stay out in the open air, at last
persuaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which
stood upon the heath, where the fool first entering, sud-
denly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit.
But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing
more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into
this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his talk about
devils frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics who
are either mad, or fei^ to be so, the better to extort
charity from the compassionate country people, who go
about the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor
Turlygod, saying, " Who gives any thing to poor
Tom ?" sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary
into their arms to make them bleed ; and with such hor-
rible actions, partly by prayers and partly with lunatic
curses, they move or teiTify the ignorant country-folks
into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a
one ; and the king seeing him in so wretched a plight,
with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover his
nakedness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow-
was some father who had given all away to his daughters,
and brought himself to that pass : for nothing he thought
could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having
unkind daughters.

And from this and many such wild speeches which he
uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived that he was
not in his perfect mind, but that his daughters' ill usage
had really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of
this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential
services than he had hitherto found opportunity to per-
fonn. For with the assistance of some of the king's at-
tendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his

KLNG L£AE. 227

royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover,
where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent,
chiefly lay ; and himself embarking for France, hastened
to the court of Cordelia, and did there in such moving-
terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal father,
and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of hei-
sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears
besought the king her husband, that he would give her
leave to embark for England with a sufficient power to
subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and re-
store the old king her father to his throne ; which being
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed at
Dover.

Lear having by some chance escaped from the guar-
dians which the good earl of Kent had put over him to
take care of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cor-
delia's train, wandering about the fields near Dover, in a
pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to him-
self, with a crown upon his head which he had made of
straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had
picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the phy-
sicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her
father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till, by
sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave him,
he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid
of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all
her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king,
Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter.

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this
father and daughter ; to see the struggles between the
joy of this poor old king at beholding again his once
darling child, and the shame at receiving such filial kind-
ness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in
his displeasure ; both these passions struggling with the
remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain
sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where
he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and
spoke to him : and then he would beg the standers-by not
to laugh at him, if he were mistaken in thinking this lady
to be his daughter Cordelia ! And then to see him fall

228 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

on his knees to beg pardon of his child ; and she, good
lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and
telling him that it did not become him to kneel, but it
was her duty, for she was his child, his true and very
child Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said) to
kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they
might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind
father with his white beard out into the cold air, when
her enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily
expressed it), should have staid by her fire such a night
as that, and warmed himself. And she told her father
how she had come from France with purpose to bring
him assistance ; and he said that she must forget and for-
give, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what
he did ; but that to be sure she had great cause not to
love him, but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said,
that she had no cause, no more than they had.

So we will leave this old king in the protection of this
dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and
medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded
in winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the
cruelty of his other daughters had so violently shaken.
Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel
daughters.

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false
to their old father, could not be expected to prove more
faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired
of paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and
in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon
another. It happened that the object of their guilty
loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of
the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had
succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful
heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices v.-as
now earl himself; a wicked man, and a fit object for the
love of such wicked creatures as Goneril and Regan. It
falling out about this time that the duke of Cornwall,
Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately declared her
intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rous-
ing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to

KIXG LEAR. 229

Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times professed
love, Goneril found means to make away with her sister
by poison ; but being detected in her practices, and im-
prisoned by her husband the duke of Albany for this
deed, and for her guilty passion for the earl which had
come to his ears, she, in a fit of disappointed love and
rage, shortly put an end to her own life. Thus the jus-
tice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked daughters.

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, ad-
miring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the
same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight to
admire at the mysterious ways of the same power in the
melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the
lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a
more fortunate conclusion : but it is an awful truth, that
innocence and piety are not always successful in this
world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had sent
out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester
were victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this
wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand be-
tween him and the throne, ended her life in prison.
Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her
young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious
example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive this
kind child.

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still
attended his old master's steps from the first of his
daughters' ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried
to make him understand that it was he who had followed
him under the name of Caius ; but Lear's care-crazed
brain at that time could not comprehend how that could
be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person ;
so Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explana-
tions at such a time ; and Lear soon after expiring, this
faithful servant to the king, between age and gi'ief for
his old master's vexations, soon followed him to the
grave.*

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl
of Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and him-

* Extract 11.

230 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

self slain in single combat with his brother, the lawful
earl ; and how Goneril's husband, the duke of Albany,
who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never
encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against
her father, ascended the throne of Britain "after the
death of Lear, is needless here to narrate ; Lear and his
Three Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone
concern our story.

KING LEAR. 231

EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act II.— Scene IV.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Glostek, and Servants.

Lear. Good morrow to you both.

Corn. Hail to your grace '

[Kent is set at iiherty.

Beg. I am glad to see your highness.

Lear. Regan, I think you are : I know what reason
I have to think so ; if thou shoiddst not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,
Sepulch'ring an adultress.— O, are you free ? [ To Kent.
Some other time for that. — Beloved Regan,
Thy sister 's naught : O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here,—

[^Points to his heart,
I can scarce speak to thee : thou 'It not believe.
With how deprav'd a quality — O Regan !

Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience ; I have hope
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.a

Lear. Say, how is that ?

Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation : If, sir, perchance,
She have restrain'd the riots of your followers,
'T is on such ground, and to such wholesome end.
As clears her from all blame.

Lear. My curses on her !

Reg. 0, sir, you are old ;

Nature in you stands on the very verge

» The construction here is involved, but the meaning is evident.
You less know how to value her desert than she knows to scant her
duty.

a32 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

Of her confine : you should be rul'd and led
By some discretion, that discerns your state
Better than you yourself: Therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return :
Say, you have wrong'd her.

Lear. Ask her forgiveness?

Do you but mark how this becomes the house ?*
" Dear daughter, I confess that I am old
Age is unnecessary^ : on my knees I beg,
That you '11 vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food."

Reg. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks :
Return you to my sister.

Lear. Never, Regan:

She hath abated me of half my train ;
Look'd black upon me ; strook me with her tongue,
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart : —
All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall
On her ingrateful top ! Strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness !

Corn. Fye, sir, fye !

Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall and blister.

Reg. O the blest gods !

So will you wish on me, when the rash mood 's on.

Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse ;
Thy tender-hefted*^ nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness ; her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burn : 'T is not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train.
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,"^
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in : thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood.
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude ;

» The house. Capell says, " This is one of the lines that mark
Shakspere: . . . tAe /io?«e; is an expression worthy his genius : fathers
are not the heads only of a house or a family, but its representatives ;
thev are the house, what aftects them affects the rest of its body."

b" Tender-hefted. Heft— haft, is that which is haved—held; and thus,
thy tender -hefted nature may be thy nature which may be held by ten-
derness.

« Sizes — allowances. A sizar in a college is one to whom certain
iizes or portions are allowed.

KING LEAR. 233

Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd.

Beg. Good sir, to the purpose.

\_Trumpets within.

Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks ?

Corn. What trumpet 's that ?

Enter Steward.

Reg. I know 't, my sister's : this approves her letter,
That'she would soon be here. — Is your lady come?

Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows : —
Out, varlet, from my sight !

Corn. What means your grace ?

Lear. Who stock'd my servant ? Regan, I have good hope
Thou didst not know on 't. — Who comes here ? O heavens,

Enter Gonehil.
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old.
Make it your cause ; send down, and take my part ! —
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard ? — [ To Gon.

0, Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand ?

Gon. Why not by the hand, sir ? How have I offended ?
All 's not offence that indiscretion finds,
And dotage terms so.

Lear. O, sides, you are too tough !

Will you yet hold ? — How came my man i' the stocks ?

Corn. I set him there, sir : but his own disorders
Deserved much less advancement.

Lear. You ! did you ?

Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If, till the expiration of your month,
You will return and sojourn with my sister.
Dismissing half your train, come then to me ;
I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd ?
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the enmity o' the air ;
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, —
Necessity's sharp pinch ! — Return with her ?
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
Our youngest born, I could as well be brought

234 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg

To keep base life afoot : — Keturn with her ?

Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter

To this detested groom. [Looking on the Steward.

Gon. At your choice, sir.

Zea?: I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad;
I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell :
We '11 no more meet, no more see one another: —
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter ;
Or, rather, a disease that 's in my flesh.
Which I must needs call mine ; thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, or embossed carbvmcle,
In my corrupted blood. But I '11 not chide thee ;
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it :
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove :
iSIend, when thou canst ; be better, at thy leisure :
I can be patient ; I can stay with Eegan,
I, and my hundred knights.

lieg. Not altogether so ;

I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
For your fit welcome : Give ear, sir, to my sister ;
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to think you old, and so —
But she knows what she does.

Zear. Is this well spoken ?

Jieg. I dare avouch it, sir : What, fifty followers ?
Is it not well ? What should you need of more ?
Yea, or so many? sith that both charge and danger
Speak 'gainst so great a number ? How, in one house,
Should many people, under two commands,
Hold amity ? 'T is hard; almost impossible.

Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
From those that she calls servants, or from mine ?

Jieg. Why not, my lord ? If then they chanc'd to slack
you,
We could control them : If you will come to me,
(For now I spy a danger,) I entreat you
To bring but five-and-twenty ; to no more
Will I give place, or notice.

Lear. I gave you all —

Keg. And in good time you gave it.

Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ;
But kept a reservation to be follow'd

KING LEAR. 235

With such a number : What, must I come to you
With five-and-twenty, Regan ? said you so ?

Jieg. And speak 't again, my lord ; no more with me.

Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd !
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some rank of praise : — I '11 go with thee ;

[To GONERIL.

Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,
And thou art twice her love.

Gon. Hear me, my lord ;

What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Have a command to tend you ?

Reg. What need one ?

Lear. 0, reason not the need : our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous :
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's : thou art a lady ;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. — But, for true need, —
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need !
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age ; wretched in both !
If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger !
And let not women's weapons, water-drops.
Stain my man's cheeks ! — No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall — I will do such things —
What they are yet I know not ; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I '11 weep :
No, I '11 not weep —

I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,""
Gr ere 1 '11 weep : — O, fool, I shall go mad !

[Exeunt Leak, Gloster, Kent, and Fool.

^ Flaw. Douce conjectures that Jlaw might signify a frigme^it in
Shakspere's tirne, as well as a crack.

236 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

II.

Act V. — Scene III.

Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar,
Officer, and others.

Lear. Howl, howl, howl ! — O,' you are men of stones ;
Had I your tongues and eyes I 'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack : — She 's gone for ever ! —
I know when one is dead, and when one lives ;
She is dead as earth : — Lend me a looking-glass ;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why then she lives.

Kent. Is this the promis'd end ? *

Edg. Or image of that horror ?

Alb. Fall and cease !

Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives ; if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.

Kent. O my good master ! [Kneeling.

Lear. Prithee, away.

Edg. 'T is noble Kent, your friend.

Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all !
I might have sav'd her ; now she 's gone for ever !
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha !
What is 't thou saj-'st ? — Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low ; an excellent thing in woman : —
I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.

OJf. 'T is true, my lords, he did.

Lear. Did I not, fellow ?

I have seen the day, with my good biting faulchion
I wordd have made them skip : I am old now.
And these same crosses spoil me. — Who are you ?
^line eyes are not o' the best : — I '11 tell you straight.

Kejit. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated,
One of them we behold.

Lear. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent ?

Kent. The same

Your servant Kent : Where is your servant Caius ?

Lear. He 's a good fellow, I can tell you that ;
He '11 strike, and quickly too : He 's dead and rotten.

= The promis'd end — the end of the world foretold in the Scriptures.
The " image of that horror" is the same as " the great doom's image"
of ' Macbeth.'

KING LEAR.

237

Kent. No, my good lord ; I am the very man ;—

Lear. I '11 see that straight.

Kent. That, from your first of difference and decay,
Have follow'd your sad steps.

Lear. You are welcome hither.

Kent. Nor no man else ; all 's cheerless, dark, and dead-
ly-—
Your eldest daughters have fore-done themselves,
And desperately are dead.

Lear. Ay, so I think.

Alh. He knows not what he says ; and vain it is
That we present us to him.

Edg. Very bootless.

Enter an OflBcer.

Off. Edmund is dead, my lord.

Alh. That 's but a trifle here. —

You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied : For us, we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power : — You, to your rights ;

[ To Edgar and Kent.
With boot, and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. — All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. — 0, see, see !

Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd ! No, no, no life :
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life.
And thou no breath at all ? Thou 'It come no more.
Never, never, never, never, never ! —
Pray you undo this button: Thank you, sir. —
Do you see this ? Look on her, — look, — her lips, —
Look there, look there ! [^He dies.

Edg. He faints ! My lord, my lord, —

Kent. Break, heart ; I prithee, break !

Edg. Look up, my lord.

Kent. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass ! he hates him
That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.

u

jf^/:

X

^

^H\ '^ ^ «

( 241 )

MACBETH.

When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland , there
lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This
Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great
esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars ;
an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a
rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible
numbers.

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, re-
turning victorious from this great battle, their way lay
over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by the
strange appearance of three figures like women, except
that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild
attire made them look not like any earthly creatures.
Macbeth first addressed them, when they, seemingly
offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her
skinny lips, in token of silence ; and the first of them
saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The
general was not a little startled to find himself known by
such creatures ; but how much more, when the second of
them followed up that salute by giving him the title of
thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pretensions ;
and again the third bid him '' All hail! king that shalt
be hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting might well
amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons lived he
could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning
to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling
terms, to be lesser than Macbeth and greater I not so
happy, hut much happier! and prophesied that though

VOL. I. M

242 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

he should never reign, yet his sons after him should
be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air and
vanished ; by which the generals knew them to be the
weird sisters, or witches.

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this
adventure, there arrived certain messengers from the
king, who were empowered by him to confer upon Mac-
beth the dignity of thane of Cawdor : an event so miracu-
lously corresponding with the prediction of the witches
astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement,
unable to make reply to the messengers ; and in that
point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind, that the
prediction of the third witch might in like manner have
its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign
king in Scotland.

Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you not hope that
your children shall be kings, when what the witches pro-
mised to me has so wonderfully come to pass ?" " That
hope," answered the general, " might enkindle you to
aim at the throne ; but oftentimes these ministers of dark-
ness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds
of greatest consequence."

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk
too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend
to the warnings of the good Banquo. From that time
he bent all his thoughts how to compass the throne of
Scotland.

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the
strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its partial
accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious woman, and
so as her husband and herself could arrive at greatness,
she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the
reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at
the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the
murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the
fulfilment of the flattering prophecy.

It happened at this time that the king, who out of his
royal condescension would oftentimes visit his principal
nobility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house,
attended by his two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a

MACBETH. 243

numerous train of thanes and attendants, the more to
honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars.

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the
air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared
by the nests which the martlet, or swallow, had built
under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building-,
wherever it found a place of advantage ; for where those
birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be
delicate. The king entered well pleased wdtli the place,
and not less so with the attentions and respect of his
honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the art of
covering treacherous purposes with smiles ; and. could
look like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the
serpent under it.

The king, being tired with his journey, went early to
bed, and in his state-room two grooms of his chamber
(as was the custom) slept beside him. He had been
unusually pleased with his reception, and had made pre-
sents before he retired to his principal officers ; and
among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Mac-
beth, greeting her by the name of his most kind hostess.

Now was the middle of night, when over half the
world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's
minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the murderer is
abroad. This was the time when lady Macbeth waked
to plot the murder of the king. She would not have
undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she
feared her husband's nature, that if was too full of the
milk of human kindness to do a contrived murder. She
knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous,
and not yet prepared for that height of crime which
commonly in the end accompanies inordinate ambition.
She had won him to consent to the murder, but she
doubted his resolution ; and she feared that the natural
tenderness of his disposition (more humane than her own)
would come between, and defeat the purpose. So with
her own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the
king's bed ; having taken care to ply the grooms of his
chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and
careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound

M 2

244 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE.

sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed
him earnestly, there was something in his face, as he
slept, which resembled her own father ; and she had not
the courage to proceed.

She returned to confer with her husband. His reso-
lution had begun to stagger. He considered that there
were strong reasons against the deed. In the first place,
he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to the
king ; and he had been his host and entertainer that day,
whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to shut the
door against his murderers, not bear the knife himself.
Then he considered how just and merciful a king this
Duncan had been, how clear of offence to his subjects,
how loving to his nobility, and in particular to him ; that
such kings are the peculiar cai*e of Heaven, and their
subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Besides,
by the favom-s of the king, Macbeth stood high in the
opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours
be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder !

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her
husband, inclining to the better pai't, and resolving to
proceed no further. But she being a woman not easily
shaken from her evil purpose, began to pom- in at his
ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit into
his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should
not shrink from what he had undertaken : how easy the
deed was ; how soon it would be over ; and how the
action of one short night would give to all their nights
and days to come sovereign sway and royalty ! Then
she threw contempt on his change of purpose, and accused
him of fickleness and cowardice ; and declai'ed that she
had given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the
babe that milked her ; but she would, while it was smiling
in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed
its brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had
sworn to perform that murder. Then she added, how
practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon the
drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her
tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he
once more summoned up courage to the bloody business.

MACBETH. 245

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in
the dark to the room where Duncan lay ; and as he went,
he thought he saw another dagger in the air, with the
handle towards him, and on the blade and at the point of
it drops of blood ; but when he tried to grasp at it, it
was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from
his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had
in hand.

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room,
whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just
as he had done the murder, one of the grooms, who slept
in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the other cried,
"Murder!" which woke them both; but they said a
short prayer; one of them said, " God bless us!" and
the other answered " Amen ;" and addressed themselves
to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them,
tried to say, " Amen," when the fellow said, " God
bless us !" but, though he had most need of a blessing, the
word stuck in his throat, and he could not pronounce it.

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried " Sleep
no more : Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep,
that nourishes life." Still it cried, " Sleep no more," to
all the house, " Glamis hath murdered sleep, and there-
fore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no
more."

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to
his listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his
purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. He
came in so distracted a state, that she reproached him
with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands
of the blood which stained them, while she took his
dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms
with blood, to make it seem their guilt.

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder,
which could not be concealed ; and though Macbeth and
his lady made great show of grief, and the proofs against
the grooms (the dagger being produced against them and
their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong,
yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose in-
ducements to such a deed were so much more forcible

246 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

than such poor silly grooms could be supposed to have ;
and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought
for refuge in the English court ; and the youngest, Donal-
bain, made his escape to Ireland,

The king's sons, who should have succeeded him,
having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir
was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird
sisters w^as literally accomplished.

Though placed so high, ^Macbeth and his queen could
not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though
Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the
children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The
thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands
with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the
posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within
them, that they determined to put to death both Banquo
and his son, to make void the predictions of the weird
sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably
brought to pass.

For this purpose they made a great supper, to which
they invited all the chief thanes ; and, among the rest,
with marks of particular respect, Banquo and his son
Fleance w'ere invited. The way by which Banquo was
to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers
appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo ; but in the
scuffle Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended
a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish
throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland and the
First of England, under whom the two crowns of Eng-
land and Scotland were united.

At supper the queen, whose manners were in the
highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess with
a gracefulness and attention which conciliated e^ery one
present, and ^lacbeth discoursed freely with his thanes
and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the
country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend
Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather
have to chide for neglect, than to lament for any mis-
chance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom
he had caused to be murdered, entered the room, and

MACBETH. 247

placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to
occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one
that could have faced the devil without trembling-, at this
horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he
stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost.
His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but
perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an empty
chair, took it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached
him, whispering that it was but the same fancy which
had made him see the dagger in the air, when he was
about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see
the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could say, while
he addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant,
that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be dis-
closed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the
infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled
with.

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His
c(ueen and he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible
dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled them not
more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they looked
upon as father to a line of kings, who should keep their
posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts
they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more
to seek out the weird sisters, and know from them the
worst.

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they,
who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in
preparing their dreadful charms, by which they conjured
up infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. Their
horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the
eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a
lizard, and the wing of the night owl, the scale of a dragon,
the tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt sea
shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous
hemlock (this to have eftect must be digged in the dark),
the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of
the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of
a dead child : all these were set on to boil in a great
kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was

248 TALES FROM SHAKSPEEE.

cooled with a baboon's blood : to these they poured in
the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they
threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a
murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the
infernal spirits to answer their questions.

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have
his doubts resolved by them, or by their masters, the
spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful ceremonies
which he saw, boldly answered, " Where are they? let
me see them." And they called the spirits, which were
three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed
head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him
beware of the thane of Fife ; for which caution Macbeth
thanked him ; for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of
Macduff, the thane of Fife.

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody
child, and he called jNIacbeth by name, and bid him have
no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of
woman born should have power to hurt him ; and he
advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. " Then
live, Macduff!" cried the king; " what need I fear of
thee ? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou
shalt not live ; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies,
and sleep in spite of thunder."

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form
of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called
Macbeth by name, and comforted him against conspira-
cies, saying, that he should never be vanquished, until
the wood of Biniam to Dunsinane Hill should come
against him. "Sweet bodements ! good!" cried Mac-
beth ; "who can unfix the forest, and move it from its
earth-bound roots ? I see I shall live the usual period of
man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But
my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your
art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in
this kingdom ?" Here the caldron sunk into the ground,
and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like
kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a
glass which showed the figures of many more, and Ban-
quo all bloody smiled upon jMacbeth, and pointed to

MACBETH. 249

them ; by which Macbeth knew that these were the pos-
terity of Banquo, who should reign after him in Scotland ;
and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with
dancing, making a show of duty and w^elcome to Mac-
beth, vanished. And from this time the thoughts of
Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful.

The first thing he heard when he got out of the
witches' cave, was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled
to England, to join the army which was forming against
him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with
intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right
heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set
upon the castle of Macduff and put his wife and children,
whom the thane had .left behind, to the sword, and ex-
tended the slaughter to all who claimed the least relation-
ship to Macduff.

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his
chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with
Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching with
a powerful army which they had raised in England ; and
the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for
fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His
recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant,
nobody loved or honoured him ; but all suspected him,
and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he
had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against
whom treason had done its worst : steel ."nor poison, do-
mestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any
longer.

While these things were acting, the queen, who had
been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom
he could sometimes seek a momentary repose from those
terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly, died,
it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the re-
morse of guilt, and public hate ; by which event he was
left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a
friend to whom he could confide his wicked purposes.

He grew careless of life, and wished lor death ; but
the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what
remained of his ancient courage, and he determined to

250 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

die (as he expressed it) ''with armour on his back."
Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had
filled him with false confidence, and he remembered the
sayings of the spirits, that none of woman bom was to
hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till
Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he
thousrht could never be. So he shut himself up in his
castle, whose impregnable strength Avas such as defied a
siege : here he sullenly waited the approach of Malcolm.
When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale
and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which
he had seen ; for he averred, that as he stood upon his
watch on the hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his
thinking the wood began to move! " Liar and slave,"
cried Macbeth; " if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang
alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy
tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me :" for
Macbeth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt
the equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear
till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane ; and now a
wood did move! " However," said he, " if this which
he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no
flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary of
the sun, and wish my life at an end." With these des-
perate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who
had now come up to the castle.

The strange appearance which had given the mes-
senger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When
the besieging army marched through the wood of Birnam,
Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed his soldiers to
hew down every one a bough, and bear it before him, by
way of concealing the true numbers of his host. This
marching of the soldiers with boughs had at a distance
the appearance which had frightened the messenger.
Thus were the words of the spirit brought to pass, in a
sense different from that in which ^lacbeth had under-
stood them, and one great hold of his confidence was
gone.

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which
Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who called

MACBETH. 251

themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant and
inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought
with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to pieces all
who were opposed to him, till he came to where Mac-
duff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the
caution of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid
Macduff above all men, he would have turned, but Mac-
duff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight,
opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued ; Mac-
duff giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of
his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged
enough with blood of that family already, would still
have declined the combat ; but Macduff still urged him
to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and
villain.

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit,
how none of woman born should hurt him ; and smiling
confidently he said to Macduff, ' ' Thou losest thy labour,
Macduff. As easily thou mayst impress the air with thy
sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life,
which must not yield to one of woman born."

"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that
lying spirit, whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Mac-
duff was never bom of woman, never as the ordinary
manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken,
from his mother."

" Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the
trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence
give way ; ' ' and let never man in future believe the
lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who
deceive us in words which have double senses, and while
they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes
with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee."

" Then live !" said the scornful Macduff; " we will
have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a painted
board, on which shall be written, ' Here men may see
the tyrant ! ' "

" Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with
despair; "I will not live to kiss the ground before
young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with the curses

252 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE.

of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsi-
nane, and thou opposed to me, who wast never bom of
woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic
words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a se-
vere struggle, in the end overcame him, and cutting off
his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful
king, Malcolm ; who took upon him the government
which, by the machinations of the usurper, he had so
long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Dun-
can the Meek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and
the people.

MACBETH. 253

EXTRACT FROM SHAKSPERE.

Act II. — Scene I. Court within Macbeth's Castle.
Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.

Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready.
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. \_Exit Serv.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee :
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. __
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation.
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses.
Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon,* gouts of blood.
Which was not so before. — There 's no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes.— Now o'er the one half world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep : witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings ; and wither'd murther,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf.
Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design,

Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time, '_

" Dudgeon — the handle of the dagger.

254 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE.

Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

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

Enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady M. That which hath made them drunk hath made
me bold :
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire : —
Hark ! Peace ! It was the owl that shriek'd,
The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night.
He is about it : The doors are open ;

And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores :
I have drugg'd their possets.
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live, or die.

Mach. [ Within J] Who 's there ? — what, hoa !

Lady M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 't is not done : — the attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us : — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready.
He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done 't — My husband !

Enter Macbeth.

Mach. I have done the deed : — Didst thou not hear a
noise ?

Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak ?

Mach. When ?

Lady M. Now.

Mach. As, I descended?

Lady M. Ay.

Mach. Hark!—
Who lies i' the second chamber ?

Lady M. Donalbain.

3Iach. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands.

Lady AT. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

Mach. There 's one did laugh in his sleep.
And one cried, " Murther !" that they did wake each other-j
I stood and heard them : but they did say their prayers,
And address'd them again to sleep.

MACBETH. 255

Lad}/ M. There are two lodg'd together.

Much. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen," the
other ;
As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, amen.
When they did say, God bless us.

Lady M. Consider it not so deeply.

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

Lady M. These deeds must not be thought

After these ways ; so, it will make us mad.

Macb. Methought, I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no more !
Macbeth does murther sleep, the innocent sleep ;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave* of care.
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."

Lady M. What do you mean ?

Macb. Still it cried, " Sleep no more \" to all the house :
" Glamis hath murther'd sleep : and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more !"

Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy
thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things : — Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. —
Why did you bring these daggers from the place ?
They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood,

Macb. I '11 go no more :

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

Lady M. Infirm of purpose !

Give me the daggers : The sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures ; 't is the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I '11 gild the faces of the grooms withal.
For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.

Macb. Whence is that knocking ?

How is 't with me, when every noise appals me ?
What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes !

^ Sleave — unwrought silk.

256 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green — one red.

He-enter Lady Macbeth.

Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. iKiiock.'] I hear a knocking
At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber :
A little water clears us of this deed :
How easy is it then ! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.'] Hark ! more knock-
ing:
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers : — Be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.

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

[Knock.
Wake Duncan with thy knocking ; I would thou couldst !

[Exeunt.

END or VOLUME

London : Printed by "V\'illiam Ci,o'>vzs and Sons, Stamford Street.

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