Comedies

by

William Shakespeare

Play Index

All's Well That Ends Well

As You Like It

The Comedy of Errors

Love's Labour's Lost

Measure For Measure

The Merchant of Venice

The Merry Wives of Windsor

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Much Ado About Nothing

Pericles, Prince of Tyre

The Taming of the Shrew

The Tempest

Twelfth Night

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

The Two Noble Kinsmen *

The Winter's Tale

* Written jointly with John Fletcher.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act III, Scene VI

Act III, Scene VII

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Epilogue

List of Characters

KING OF FRANCE.

THE DUKE OF FLORENCE.

BERTRAM: Count of Rousillon.

LAFEU: an old Lord.

PAROLLES: a follower of Bertram.

Several young French Lords, that serve with Bertram in the Florentine War.

Steward: Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

Clown: Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

A Page: Servant to the Countess of Rousillon.

COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON: Mother to Bertram.

HELENA: a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.

An old Widow of Florence.

DIANA: daughter to the Widow.

VIOLENTA: neighbour and friend to the Widow.

MARIANA: neighbour and friend to the Widow.

Lords attending on the KING; Officers; Soldiers, &c., French and Florentine.

SCENE: Partly in France, and partly in Tuscany.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, all in black.]

COUNTESS.

In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.

BERTRAM.

And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew; but I must attend his majesty's command, to whom I am now in ward, evermore in subjection.

LAFEU.

You shall find of the king a husband, madam;—you, sir, a father: he that so generally is at all times good, must of necessity hold his virtue to you; whose worthiness would stir it up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such abundance.

COUNTESS.

What hope is there of his majesty's amendment?

LAFEU.

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam; under whose practices he hath persecuted time with hope; and finds no other advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.

COUNTESS.

This young gentlewoman had a father—O, that 'had!' how sad a passage 'tis!—whose skill was almost as great as his honesty; had it stretched so far, would have made nature immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for the king's sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of the king's disease.

LAFEU.

How called you the man you speak of, madam?

COUNTESS.

He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his great right to be so—Gerard de Narbon.

LAFEU.

He was excellent indeed, madam; the king very lately spoke of him admiringly and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have liv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.

BERTRAM.

What is it, my good lord, the king languishes of?

LAFEU.

A fistula, my lord.

BERTRAM.

I heard not of it before.

LAFEU.

I would it were not notorious.—Was this gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon?

COUNTESS.

His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity,—they are virtues and traitors too: in her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.

LAFEU.

Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.

COUNTESS.

'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena,—go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have.

HELENA.

I do affect a sorrow indeed; but I have it too.

LAFEU.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living.

COUNTESS.

If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal.

BERTRAM.

Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

LAFEU.

How understand we that?

COUNTESS.

Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood and virtue

Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness

Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,

Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy

Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend

Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence,

But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,

That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down,

Fall on thy head! Farewell.—My lord,

'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,

Advise him.

LAFEU.

He cannot want the best

That shall attend his love.

COUNTESS.

Heaven bless him!—Farewell, Bertram.

[Exit COUNTESS.]

BERTRAM.

The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoughts be servants to you! [To HELENA.] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her.

LAFEU.

Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the credit of your father.

[Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU.]

HELENA.

O, were that all!—I think not on my father;

And these great tears grace his remembrance more

Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

I have forgot him; my imagination

Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.

I am undone: there is no living, none,

If Bertram be away. It were all one

That I should love a bright particular star,

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:

The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,

To see him every hour; to sit and draw

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart's table,—heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:

But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy

Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?

One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;

And yet I know him a notorious liar,

Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;

Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him

That they take place when virtue's steely bones

Looks bleak i' the cold wind: withal, full oft we see

Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

[Enter PAROLLES.]

PAROLLES.

Save you, fair queen!

HELENA.

And you, monarch!

PAROLLES.

No.

HELENA.

And no.

PAROLLES.

Are you meditating on virginity?

HELENA.

Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you: let me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it against him?

PAROLLES.

Keep him out.

HELENA.

But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant in the defence, yet is weak: unfold to us some warlike resistance.

PAROLLES.

There is none: man, setting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.

HELENA.

Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up!—Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?

PAROLLES.

Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase; and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is ever lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with it!

HELENA.

I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a virgin.

PAROLLES.

There's little can be said in't; 'tis against the rule of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity murders itself; and should be buried in highways, out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by't: out with't! within ten years it will make itself ten, which is a goodly increase; and the principal itself not much the worse: away with it!

HELENA.

How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?

PAROLLES.

Let me see: marry, ill to like him that ne'er it likes. 'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with't while 'tis vendible; answer the time of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of fashion; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek. And your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French withered pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a wither'd pear. Will you anything with it?

HELENA.

Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,

A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,

A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear:

His humble ambition, proud humility,

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,

His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—

I know not what he shall:—God send him well!—

The court's a learning-place;—and he is one,—

PAROLLES.

What one, i' faith?

HELENA.

That I wish well.—'Tis pity—

PAROLLES.

What's pity?

HELENA.

That wishing well had not a body in't

Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,

Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

Might with effects of them follow our friends

And show what we alone must think; which never

Returns us thanks.

[Enter a PAGE.]

PAGE.

Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you.

[Exit PAGE.]

PAROLLES.

Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court.

HELENA.

Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.

PAROLLES.

Under Mars, I.

HELENA.

I especially think, under Mars.

PAROLLES.

Why under Mars?

HELENA.

The wars hath so kept you under that you must needs be born under Mars.

PAROLLES.

When he was predominant.

HELENA.

When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

PAROLLES.

Why think you so?

HELENA.

You go so much backward when you fight.

PAROLLES.

That's for advantage.

HELENA.

So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the wear well.

PAROLLES.

I am so full of business I cannot answer thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none, remember thy friends: get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee: so, farewell.

[Exit.]

HELENA.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky

Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull

Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.

What power is it which mounts my love so high,—

That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?

The mightiest space in fortune nature brings

To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose

What hath been cannot be: who ever strove

To show her merit that did miss her love?

The king's disease,—my project may deceive me,

But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Paris. A room in the King's palace.

[Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters; Lords and others attending.]

KING.

The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears;

Have fought with equal fortune, and continue

A braving war.

FIRST LORD.

So 'tis reported, sir.

KING.

Nay, 'tis most credible; we here receive it,

A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,

With caution, that the Florentine will move us

For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend

Prejudicates the business, and would seem

To have us make denial.

FIRST LORD.

His love and wisdom,

Approv'd so to your majesty, may plead

For amplest credence.

KING.

He hath arm'd our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes:

Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see

The Tuscan service, freely have they leave

To stand on either part.

SECOND LORD.

It well may serve

A nursery to our gentry, who are sick

For breathing and exploit.

KING.

What's he comes here?

[Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.]

FIRST LORD.

It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,

Young Bertram.

KING.

Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;

Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,

Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts

Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

BERTRAM.

My thanks and duty are your majesty's.

KING.

I would I had that corporal soundness now,

As when thy father and myself in friendship

First tried our soldiership! He did look far

Into the service of the time, and was

Discipled of the bravest: he lasted long;

But on us both did haggish age steal on,

And wore us out of act. It much repairs me

To talk of your good father. In his youth

He had the wit which I can well observe

To-day in our young lords; but they may jest

Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,

Ere they can hide their levity in honour

So like a courtier: contempt nor bitterness

Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,

His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,

Clock to itself, knew the true minute when

Exception bid him speak, and at this time

His tongue obey'd his hand: who were below him

He us'd as creatures of another place;

And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,

Making them proud of his humility,

In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man

Might be a copy to these younger times;

Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate them now

But goers backward.

BERTRAM.

His good remembrance, sir,

Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;

So in approof lives not his epitaph

As in your royal speech.

KING.

Would I were with him! He would always say,—

Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words

He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them

To grow there, and to bear,—'Let me not live,'—

This his good melancholy oft began,

On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,

When it was out,—'Let me not live' quoth he,

'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff

Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses

All but new things disdain; whose judgments are

Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies

Expire before their fashions:'—This he wish'd:

I, after him, do after him wish too,

Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,

I quickly were dissolved from my hive,

To give some labourers room.

SECOND LORD.

You're lov'd, sir;

They that least lend it you shall lack you first.

KING.

I fill a place, I know't.—How long is't, Count,

Since the physician at your father's died?

He was much fam'd.

BERTRAM.

Some six months since, my lord.

KING.

If he were living, I would try him yet;—

Lend me an arm;—the rest have worn me out

With several applications:—nature and sickness

Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;

My son's no dearer.

BERTRAM.

Thank your majesty.

[Exeunt. Flourish.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Rousillon. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter COUNTESS, STEWARD, and CLOWN.]

COUNTESS.

I will now hear: what say you of this gentlewoman?

STEWARD.

Madam, the care I have had to even your content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

COUNTESS.

What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe; 'tis my slowness that I do not; for I know you lack not folly to commit them, and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.

CLOWN.

'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.

COUNTESS.

Well, sir.

CLOWN.

No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned: but if I may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.

COUNTESS.

Wilt thou needs be a beggar?

CLOWN.

I do beg your good will in this case.

COUNTESS.

In what case?

CLOWN.

In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no heritage: and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue of my body; for they say bairns are blessings.

COUNTESS.

Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

CLOWN.

My poor body, madam, requires it: I am driven on by the flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.

COUNTESS.

Is this all your worship's reason?

CLOWN.

Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.

COUNTESS.

May the world know them?

CLOWN.

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.

COUNTESS.

Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

CLOWN.

I am out of friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for

my wife's sake.

COUNTESS.

Such friends are thine enemies, knave.

CLOWN.

Y'are shallow, madam, in great friends: for the knaves come to do that for me which I am a-weary of. He that ears my land spares my team, and gives me leave to in the crop: if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge: he that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the papist, howsome'er their hearts are severed in religion, their heads are both one; they may joll horns together like any deer i' the herd.

COUNTESS.

Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?

CLOWN.

A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

For I the ballad will repeat,

Which men full true shall find;

Your marriage comes by destiny,

Your cuckoo sings by kind.

COUNTESS.

Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.

STEWARD.

May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you; of her I am to speak.

COUNTESS.

Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen I mean.

CLOWN.

[Sings.]

Was this fair face the cause, quoth she

Why the Grecians sacked Troy?

Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam's joy?

With that she sighed as she stood,

With that she sighed as she stood,

And gave this sentence then:—

Among nine bad if one be good,

Among nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.

COUNTESS.

What, one good in ten? you corrupt the song, sirrah.

CLOWN.

One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o' the song: would God would serve the world so all the year! we'd find no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson: one in ten, quoth 'a! an we might have a good woman born before every blazing star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out ere he pluck one.

COUNTESS.

You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you!

CLOWN.

That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!—Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.—I am going, forsooth:the business is for Helen to come hither.

[Exit.]

COUNTESS.

Well, now.

STEWARD.

I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.

COUNTESS.

Faith I do: her father bequeathed her to me; and she herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there is more owing her than is paid; and more shall be paid her than she'll demand.

STEWARD.

Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she wished me: alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son: Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana no queen of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surprise, without rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you something to know it.

COUNTESS.

You have discharged this honestly; keep it to yourself; many likelihoods informed me of this before, which hung so tottering in the balance that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pray you leave me: stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for your honest care: I will speak with you further anon.

[Exit STEWARD.]

Even so it was with me when I was young:

If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn

Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;

Our blood to us, this to our blood is born;

It is the show and seal of nature's truth,

Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth:

By our remembrances of days foregone,

Such were our faults:—or then we thought them none.

[Enter HELENA.]

Her eye is sick on't;—I observe her now.

HELENA.

What is your pleasure, madam?

COUNTESS.

You know, Helen,

I am a mother to you.

HELENA.

Mine honourable mistress.

COUNTESS.

Nay, a mother.

Why not a mother? When I said a mother,

Methought you saw a serpent: what's in mother,

That you start at it? I say I am your mother;

And put you in the catalogue of those

That were enwombed mine. 'Tis often seen

Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds

A native slip to us from foreign seeds:

You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,

Yet I express to you a mother's care:—

God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood

To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,

That this distemper'd messenger of wet,

The many-colour'd iris, rounds thine eye?

Why,—that you are my daughter?

HELENA.

That I am not.

COUNTESS.

I say, I am your mother.

HELENA.

Pardon, madam;

The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:

I am from humble, he from honour'd name;

No note upon my parents, his all noble;

My master, my dear lord he is; and I

His servant live, and will his vassal die:

He must not be my brother.

COUNTESS.

Nor I your mother?

HELENA.

You are my mother, madam; would you were,—

So that my lord your son were not my brother,—

Indeed my mother!—or were you both our mothers,

I care no more for than I do for heaven,

So I were not his sister. Can't no other,

But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?

COUNTESS.

Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law:

God shield you mean it not! daughter and mother

So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?

My fear hath catch'd your fondness: now I see

The mystery of your loneliness, and find

Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross

You love my son; invention is asham'd,

Against the proclamation of thy passion,

To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;

But tell me then, 'tis so;—for, look, thy cheeks

Confess it, one to the other; and thine eyes

See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours,

That in their kind they speak it; only sin

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?

If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;

If it be not, forswear't: howe'er, I charge thee,

As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

To tell me truly.

HELENA.

Good madam, pardon me!

COUNTESS.

Do you love my son?

HELENA.

Your pardon, noble mistress!

COUNTESS.

Love you my son?

HELENA.

Do not you love him, madam?

COUNTESS.

Go not about; my love hath in't a bond

Whereof the world takes note: come, come, disclose

The state of your affection; for your passions

Have to the full appeach'd.

HELENA.

Then I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,

That before you, and next unto high heaven,

I love your son:—

My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love:

Be not offended; for it hurts not him

That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;

Yet never know how that desert should be.

I know I love in vain, strive against hope;

Yet in this captious and intenible sieve

I still pour in the waters of my love,

And lack not to lose still: thus, Indian-like,

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,

Let not your hate encounter with my love,

For loving where you do; but if yourself,

Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,

Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian

Was both herself and love; O, then, give pity

To her whose state is such that cannot choose

But lend and give where she is sure to lose;

That seeks not to find that her search implies,

But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!

COUNTESS.

Had you not lately an intent,—speak truly,—

To go to Paris?

HELENA.

Madam, I had.

COUNTESS.

Wherefore? tell true.

HELENA.

I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.

You know my father left me some prescriptions

Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading

And manifest experience had collected

For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me

In heedfullest reservation to bestow them,

As notes whose faculties inclusive were

More than they were in note: amongst the rest

There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,

To cure the desperate languishings whereof

The king is render'd lost.

COUNTESS.

This was your motive

For Paris, was it? speak.

HELENA.

My lord your son made me to think of this;

Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,

Had from the conversation of my thoughts

Haply been absent then.

COUNTESS.

But think you, Helen,

If you should tender your supposed aid,

He would receive it? He and his physicians

Are of a mind; he, that they cannot help him;

They, that they cannot help: how shall they credit

A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,

Embowell'd of their doctrine, have let off

The danger to itself?

HELENA.

There's something in't

More than my father's skill, which was the greatest

Of his profession, that his good receipt

Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified

By th' luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your honour

But give me leave to try success, I'd venture

The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure.

By such a day and hour.

COUNTESS.

Dost thou believe't?

HELENA.

Ay, madam, knowingly.

COUNTESS.

Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave, and love,

Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings

To those of mine in court: I'll stay at home,

And pray God's blessing into thy attempt:

Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,

What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Paris. A room in the King's palace.

[Flourish. Enter the King, with young LORDS taking leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and Attendants.]

KING.

Farewell, young lord; these war-like principles

Do not throw from you:—and you, my lord, farewell;—

Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,

The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis received,

And is enough for both.

FIRST LORD.

It is our hope, sir,

After well-enter'd soldiers, to return

And find your grace in health.

KING.

No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart

Will not confess he owes the malady

That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;

Whether I live or die, be you the sons

Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy,—

Those bated that inherit but the fall

Of the last monarchy,—see that you come

Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when

The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,

That fame may cry you aloud: I say farewell.

SECOND LORD.

Health, at your bidding, serve your majesty!

KING.

Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;

They say our French lack language to deny,

If they demand: beware of being captives

Before you serve.

BOTH.

Our hearts receive your warnings.

KING.

Farewell.—Come hither to me.

[The king retires to a couch.]

FIRST LORD.

O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!

PAROLLES.

'Tis not his fault; the spark—

SECOND LORD.

O, 'tis brave wars!

PAROLLES.

Most admirable: I have seen those wars.

BERTRAM.

I am commanded here and kept a coil with,

'Too young' and next year' and ''tis too early.'

PAROLLES.

An thy mind stand to it, boy, steal away bravely.

BERTRAM.

I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,

Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,

Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn

But one to dance with! By heaven, I'll steal away.

FIRST LORD.

There's honour in the theft.

PAROLLES.

Commit it, count.

SECOND LORD.

I am your accessary; and so farewell.

BERTRAM.

I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured body.

FIRST LORD.

Farewell, captain.

SECOND LORD.

Sweet Monsieur Parolles!

PAROLLES.

Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals.—You shall find in the regiment of the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword entrenched it: say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.

FIRST LORD.

We shall, noble captain.

PAROLLES.

Mars dote on you for his novices!

[Exeunt LORDS.]

What will ye do?

BERTRAM.

Stay; the king—

PAROLLES.

Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrained yourself within the list of too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are to be followed: after them, and take a more dilated farewell.

BERTRAM.

And I will do so.

PAROLLES.

Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.

[Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES.]

[Enter LAFEU.]

LAFEU.

Pardon, my lord [kneeling], for me and for my tidings.

KING.

I'll fee thee to stand up.

LAFEU.

Then here's a man stands that has bought his pardon.

I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy;

And that at my bidding you could so stand up.

KING.

I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,

And ask'd thee mercy for't.

LAFEU.

Good faith, across;

But, my good lord, 'tis thus: will you be cured

Of your infirmity?

KING.

No.

LAFEU.

O, will you eat

No grapes, my royal fox? yes, but you will

My noble grapes, and if my royal fox

Could reach them: I have seen a medicine

That's able to breathe life into a stone,

Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary

With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch

Is powerful to araise King Pipin, nay,

To give great Charlemain a pen in his hand

And write to her a love-line.

KING.

What 'her' is that?

LAFEU.

Why, doctor 'she': my lord, there's one arriv'd,

If you will see her,—now, by my faith and honour,

If seriously I may convey my thoughts

In this my light deliverance, I have spoke

With one that in her sex, her years, profession,

Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more

Than I dare blame my weakness: will you see her,—

For that is her demand,—and know her business?

That done, laugh well at me.

KING.

Now, good Lafeu,

Bring in the admiration; that we with the

May spend our wonder too, or take off thine

By wondering how thou took'st it.

LAFEU.

Nay, I'll fit you,

And not be all day neither.

[Exit LAFEU.]

KING.

Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

[Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA.]

LAFEU.

Nay, come your ways.

KING.

This haste hath wings indeed.

LAFEU.

Nay, come your ways;

This is his majesty: say your mind to him.

A traitor you do look like; but such traitors

His majesty seldom fears: I am Cressid's uncle,

That dare leave two together: fare you well.

[Exit.]

KING.

Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

HELENA.

Ay, my good lord. Gerard de Narbon was

My father; in what he did profess, well found.

KING.

I knew him.

HELENA.

The rather will I spare my praises towards him.

Knowing him is enough. On his bed of death

Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one,

Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,

And of his old experience the only darling,

He bade me store up as a triple eye,

Safer than mine own two, more dear: I have so:

And, hearing your high majesty is touch'd

With that malignant cause wherein the honour

Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,

I come to tender it, and my appliance,

With all bound humbleness.

KING.

We thank you, maiden:

But may not be so credulous of cure,—

When our most learned doctors leave us, and

The congregated college have concluded

That labouring art can never ransom nature

From her inaidable estate,—I say we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady

To empirics; or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.

HELENA.

My duty, then, shall pay me for my pains:

I will no more enforce mine office on you;

Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts

A modest one to bear me back again.

KING.

I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful.

Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give

As one near death to those that wish him live:

But what at full I know, thou know'st no part;

I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

HELENA.

What I can do can do no hurt to try,

Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.

He that of greatest works is finisher

Oft does them by the weakest minister:

So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,

When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown

From simple sources; and great seas have dried

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there

Where most it promises; and oft it hits

Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

KING.

I must not hear thee: fare thee well, kind maid;

Thy pains, not used, must by thyself be paid:

Proffers, not took, reap thanks for their reward.

HELENA.

Inspired merit so by breath is barred:

It is not so with Him that all things knows,

As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows:

But most it is presumption in us when

The help of heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent:

Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor, that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim;

But know I think, and think I know most sure,

My art is not past power nor you past cure.

KING.

Art thou so confident? Within what space

Hop'st thou my cure?

HELENA.

The greatest grace lending grace.

Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring

Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring;

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp

Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp;

Or four-and-twenty times the pilot's glass

Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass;

What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,

Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.

KING.

Upon thy certainty and confidence

What dar'st thou venture?

HELENA.

Tax of impudence,—

A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame,—

Traduc'd by odious ballads; my maiden's name

Sear'd otherwise; ne worse of worst extended,

With vilest torture let my life be ended.

KING.

Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak;

His powerful sound within an organ weak:

And what impossibility would slay

In common sense, sense saves another way.

Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate

Worth name of life in thee hath estimate:

Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all

That happiness and prime can happy call;

Thou this to hazard needs must intimate

Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.

Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try:

That ministers thine own death if I die.

HELENA.

If I break time, or flinch in property

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die;

And well deserv'd. Not helping, death's my fee;

But, if I help, what do you promise me?

KING.

Make thy demand.

HELENA.

But will you make it even?

KING.

Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.

HELENA.

Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly hand

What husband in thy power I will command:

Exempted be from me the arrogance

To choose from forth the royal blood of France,

My low and humble name to propagate

With any branch or image of thy state:

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know

Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

KING.

Here is my hand; the premises observ'd,

Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd;

So make the choice of thy own time, for I,

Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely.

More should I question thee, and more I must,—

Though more to know could not be more to trust,—

From whence thou cam'st, how tended on.—But rest

Unquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.—

Give me some help here, ho!—If thou proceed

As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.]

COUNTESS.

Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your breeding.

CLOWN.

I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught: I know my business is but to the court.

COUNTESS.

To the court! why, what place make you special, when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

CLOWN.

Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

COUNTESS.

Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all questions.

CLOWN.

It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks—the pinbuttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-buttock, or any buttock.

COUNTESS.

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

CLOWN.

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffety punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove-Tuesday, a morris for Mayday, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.

COUNTESS.

Have you, I, say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?

CLOWN.

From below your Duke to beneath your constable, it will fit any question.

COUNTESS.

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit all demands.

CLOWN.

But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn.

COUNTESS.

To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

CLOWN.

O Lord, sir!—There's a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.

COUNTESS.

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.

CLOWN.

O Lord, sir!—Thick, thick; spare not me.

COUNTESS.

I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.

CLOWN.

O Lord, sir!—Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.

COUNTESS.

You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.

CLOWN.

O Lord, sir!—Spare not me.

COUNTESS.

Do you cry 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and 'spare not me'? Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very sequent to your whipping. You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to't.

CLOWN.

I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my—'O Lord, sir!' I see thing's may serve long, but not serve ever.

COUNTESS.

I play the noble housewife with the time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool.

CLOWN.

O Lord, sir!—Why, there't serves well again.

COUNTESS.

An end, sir! To your business. Give Helen this,

And urge her to a present answer back:

Commend me to my kinsmen and my son:

This is not much.

CLOWN.

Not much commendation to them.

COUNTESS.

Not much employment for you: you understand me?

CLOWN.

Most fruitfully: I am there before my legs.

COUNTESS.

Haste you again.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

Paris. The KING'S palace.

[Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.]

LAFEU.

They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.

PAROLLES.

Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot out in our latter times.

BERTRAM.

And so 'tis.

LAFEU.

To be relinquish'd of the artists,—

PAROLLES.

So I say; both of Galen and Paracelsus.

LAFEU.

Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

PAROLLES.

Right; so I say.

LAFEU.

That gave him out incurable,—

PAROLLES.

Why, there 'tis; so say I too.

LAFEU.

Not to be helped,—

PAROLLES.

Right; as 'twere a man assured of a,—

LAFEU.

Uncertain life and sure death.

PAROLLES.

Just; you say well: so would I have said.

LAFEU.

I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world.

PAROLLES.

It is indeed: if you will have it in showing, you shall read it in,—What do you call there?—

LAFEU.

A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly actor.

PAROLLES.

That's it; I would have said the very same.

LAFEU.

Why, your dolphin is not lustier: 'fore me, I speak in respect,—

PAROLLES.

Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange; that is the brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a most facinerious spirit that will not acknowledge it to be the,—

LAFEU.

Very hand of heaven.

PAROLLES.

Ay; so I say.

LAFEU.

In a most weak,—

PAROLLES.

And debile minister, great power, great transcendence: which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone the recov'ry of the king, as to be,—

LAFEU.

Generally thankful.

PAROLLES.

I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the king.

[Enter KING, HELENA, and Attendants.]

LAFEU.

Lustic, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head: why, he's able to lead her a coranto.

PAROLLES.

'Mor du vinager!' is not this Helen?

LAFEU.

'Fore God, I think so.

KING.

Go, call before me all the lords in court.—

[Exit an Attendant.]

Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side;

And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense

Thou has repeal'd, a second time receive

The confirmation of my promis'd gift,

Which but attends thy naming.

[Enter severaol Lords.]

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,

O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice

I have to use: thy frank election make;

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.

HELENA.

To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when love please!—marry, to each, but one!

LAFEU.

I'd give bay Curtal and his furniture,

My mouth no more were broken than these boys',

And writ as little beard.

KING.

Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father.

HELENA.

Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restor'd the king to health.

ALL.

We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

HELENA.

I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest

That I protest I simply am a maid.—

Please it, your majesty, I have done already:

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me—

'We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refus'd,

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever;

We'll ne'er come there again.'

KING.

Make choice; and, see:

Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.

HELENA.

Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,

And to imperial Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream.—Sir, will you hear my suit?

FIRST LORD.

And grant it.

HELENA.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

LAFEU.

I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my life.

HELENA.

The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,

Before I speak, too threateningly replies:

Love make your fortunes twenty times above

Her that so wishes, and her humble love!

SECOND LORD.

No better, if you please.

HELENA.

My wish receive,

Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.

LAFEU.

Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I'd have them whipped; or I would send them to the Turk to make eunuchs of.

HELENA.

[To third Lord.]

Be not afraid that I your hand should take;

I'll never do you wrong for your own sake:

Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

LAFEU.

These boys are boys of ice: they'll none have her: Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne'er got 'em.

HELENA.

You are too young, too happy, and too good,

To make yourself a son out of my blood.

FOURTH LORD.

Fair one, I think not so.

LAFEU.

There's one grape yet,—I am sure thy father drank wine.—But if thou beest not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known thee already.

HELENA.

[To BERTRAM.]

I dare not say I take you; but I give

Me and my service, ever whilst I live,

Into your guiding power.—This is the man.

KING.

Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.

BERTRAM.

My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your highness,

In such a business give me leave to use

The help of mine own eyes.

KING.

Know'st thou not, Bertram,

What she has done for me?

BERTRAM.

Yes, my good lord;

But never hope to know why I should marry her.

KING.

Thou know'st she has rais'd me from my sickly bed.

BERTRAM.

But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

Must answer for your raising? I know her well;

She had her breeding at my father's charge:

A poor physician's daughter my wife!—Disdain

Rather corrupt me ever!

KING.

'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which

I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off

In differences so mighty. If she be

All that is virtuous,—save what thou dislik'st,

A poor physician's daughter,—thou dislik'st

Of virtue for the name: but do not so:

From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,

The place is dignified by the doer's deed:

Where great additions swell's, and virtue none,

It is a dropsied honour: good alone

Is good without a name; vileness is so:

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;

In these to nature she's immediate heir;

And these breed honour: that is honour's scorn

Which challenges itself as honour's born,

And is not like the sire: honours thrive

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our fore-goers: the mere word's a slave,

Debauch'd on every tomb; on every grave

A lying trophy; and as oft is dumb

Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb

Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid,

I can create the rest: virtue and she

Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.

BERTRAM.

I cannot love her, nor will strive to do 't.

KING.

Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.

HELENA.

That you are well restor'd, my lord, I am glad:

Let the rest go.

KING.

My honour's at the stake; which to defeat,

I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift;

That dost in vile misprision shackle up

My love and her desert; that canst not dream

We, poising us in her defective scale,

Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know

It is in us to plant thine honour where

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good;

Believe not thy disdain, but presently

Do thine own fortunes that obedient right

Which both thy duty owes and our power claims

Or I will throw thee from my care for ever,

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,

Without all terms of pity. Speak! thine answer!

BERTRAM.

Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit

My fancy to your eyes: when I consider

What great creation, and what dole of honour

Flies where you bid it, I find that she, which late

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

The praised of the king; who, so ennobled,

Is as 'twere born so.

KING.

Take her by the hand,

And tell her she is thine: to whom I promise

A counterpoise; if not to thy estate,

A balance more replete.

BERTRAM.

I take her hand.

KING.

Good fortune and the favour of the king

Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony

Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,

And be perform'd to-night: the solemn feast

Shall more attend upon the coming space,

Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her,

Thy love's to me religious; else, does err.

[Exeunt KING, BERTAM, HELENA, Lords, and Attendants.]

LAFEU.

Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.

PAROLLES.

Your pleasure, sir?

LAFEU.

Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.

PAROLLES.

Recantation!—my lord! my master!

LAFEU.

Ay; is it not a language I speak?

PAROLLES.

A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master!

LAFEU.

Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?

PAROLLES.

To any count; to all counts; to what is man.

LAFEU.

To what is count's man: count's master is of another style.

PAROLLES.

You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too old.

LAFEU.

I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age cannot bring thee.

PAROLLES.

What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

LAFEU.

I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might pass: yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have now found thee; when I lose thee again I care not: yet art thou good for nothing but taking up; and that thou art scarce worth.

PAROLLES.

Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee,—

LAFEU.

Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good window of lattice, fare thee well: thy casement I need not open, for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.

PAROLLES.

My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

LAFEU.

Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

PAROLLES.

I have not, my lord, deserved it.

LAFEU.

Yes, good faith, every dram of it: and I will not bate thee a scruple.

PAROLLES.

Well, I shall be wiser.

LAFEU.

E'en as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o' th' contrary. If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default, he is a man I know.

PAROLLES.

My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.

LAFEU.

I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am past; as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES.

Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord!—Well, I must be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a lord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I would have of—I'll beat him, an if I could but meet him again.

[Re-enter LAFEU.]

LAFEU.

Sirrah, your lord and master's married; there's news for you; you have a new mistress.

PAROLLES.

I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs: he is my good lord: whom I serve above is my master.

LAFEU.

Who? God?

PAROLLES.

Ay, sir.

LAFEU.

The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms o' this fashion? dost make hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee: methink'st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

PAROLLES.

This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.

LAFEU.

Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller: you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the heraldry of your birth and virtue gives you commission. You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES.

Good, very good, it is so then.—Good, very good; let it be concealed awhile.

[Enter BERTRAM.]

BERTRAM.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

PAROLLES.

What's the matter, sweet heart?

BERTRAM.

Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

PAROLLES.

What, what, sweet heart?

BERTRAM.

O my Parolles, they have married me!—

I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

PAROLLES.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits

The tread of a man's foot:—to the wars!

BERTRAM.

There's letters from my mother; what the import is

I know not yet.

PAROLLES.

Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the wars!

He wears his honour in a box unseen

That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home,

Spending his manly marrow in her arms,

Which should sustain the bound and high curvet

Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions!

France is a stable; we that dwell in't, jades;

Therefore, to the war!

BERTRAM.

It shall be so; I'll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,

And wherefore I am fled; write to the king

That which I durst not speak: his present gift

Shall furnish me to those Italian fields

Where noble fellows strike: war is no strife

To the dark house and the detested wife.

PAROLLES.

Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?

BERTRAM.

Go with me to my chamber and advise me.

I'll send her straight away: to-morrow

I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

PAROLLES.

Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:

A young man married is a man that's marr'd:

Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go:

The king has done you wrong: but, hush, 'tis so.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

The same. Another room in the same.

[Enter HELENA and CLOWN.]

HELENA.

My mother greets me kindly: is she well?

CLOWN.

She is not well, but yet she has her health: she's very merry, but yet she is not well: but thanks be given, she's very well, and wants nothing i' the world; but yet she is not well.

HELENA.

If she be very well, what does she ail that she's not very well?

CLOWN.

Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.

HELENA.

What two things?

CLOWN.

One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! The other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

[Enter PAROLLES.]

PAROLLES.

Bless you, my fortunate lady!

HELENA.

I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good fortunes.

PAROLLES.

You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on, have them still. O, my knave,—how does my old lady?

CLOWN.

So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she did as you say.

PAROLLES.

Why, I say nothing.

CLOWN.

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing: to say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title; which is within a very little of nothing.

PAROLLES.

Away! thou art a knave.

CLOWN.

You should have said, sir, before a knave thou art a knave; that is before me thou art a knave: this had been truth, sir.

PAROLLES.

Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.

CLOWN.

Did you find me in yourself, sir? or were you taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find in you, even to the world's pleasure and the increase of laughter.

PAROLLES.

A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.—

Madam, my lord will go away to-night:

A very serious business calls on him.

The great prerogative and right of love,

Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;

But puts it off to a compell'd restraint;

Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets;

Which they distil now in the curbed time,

To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy

And pleasure drown the brim.

HELENA.

What's his will else?

PAROLLES.

That you will take your instant leave o' the king,

And make this haste as your own good proceeding,

Strengthen'd with what apology you think

May make it probable need.

HELENA.

What more commands he?

PAROLLES.

That, having this obtain'd, you presently

Attend his further pleasure.

HELENA.

In everything I wait upon his will.

PAROLLES.

I shall report it so.

HELENA.

I pray you.—Come, sirrah.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

Another room in the same.

[Enter LAFEU and BERTRAM.]

LAFEU.

But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.

BERTRAM.

Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

LAFEU.

You have it from his own deliverance.

BERTRAM.

And by other warranted testimony.

LAFEU.

Then my dial goes not true: I took this lark for a bunting.

BERTRAM.

I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge, and accordingly valiant.

LAFEU.

I have, then, sinned against his experience and transgressed against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you make us friends; I will pursue the amity

[Enter PAROLLES.]

PAROLLES.

[To BERTRAM.] These things shall be done, sir.

LAFEU.

Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?

PAROLLES.

Sir!

LAFEU.

O, I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, 's a good workman, a very good tailor.

BERTRAM.

[Aside to PAROLLES.] Is she gone to the king?

PAROLLES.

She is.

BERTRAM.

Will she away to-night?

PAROLLES.

As you'll have her.

BERTRAM.

I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

Given order for our horses; and to-night,

When I should take possession of the bride,

End ere I do begin.

LAFEU.

A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten.—God save you, Captain.

BERTRAM.

Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?

PAROLLES.

I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's displeasure.

LAFEU.

You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs and all, like him that leapt into the custard; and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer question for your residence.

BERTRAM.

It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.

LAFEU.

And shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me, there can be no kernal in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes; trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame, and know their natures.—Farewell, monsieur; I have spoken better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we must do good against evil.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES.

An idle lord, I swear.

BERTRAM.

I think so.

PAROLLES.

Why, do you not know him?

BERTRAM.

Yes, I do know him well; and common speech

Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

[Enter HELENA.]

HELENA.

I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,

Spoke with the king, and have procur'd his leave

For present parting; only he desires

Some private speech with you.

BERTRAM.

I shall obey his will.

You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,

Which holds not colour with the time, nor does

The ministration and required office

On my particular. Prepared I was not

For such a business; therefore am I found

So much unsettled: this drives me to entreat you:

That presently you take your way for home,

And rather muse than ask why I entreat you:

For my respects are better than they seem;

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not. This to my mother:

[Giving a letter.]

'Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so

I leave you to your wisdom.

HELENA.

Sir, I can nothing say

But that I am your most obedient servant.

BERTRAM.

Come, come, no more of that.

HELENA.

And ever shall

With true observance seek to eke out that

Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd

To equal my great fortune.

BERTRAM.

Let that go:

My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.

HELENA.

Pray, sir, your pardon.

BERTRAM.

Well, what would you say?

HELENA.

I am not worthy of the wealth I owe;

Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;

But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal

What law does vouch mine own.

BERTRAM.

What would you have?

HELENA.

Something; and scarce so much:—nothing, indeed.—

I would not tell you what I would, my lord:—Faith, yes;—

Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.

BERTRAM.

I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.

HELENA.

I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.

Where are my other men? Monsieur, farewell,

[Exit HELENA.]

Go thou toward home, where I will never come

Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum:—

Away, and for our flight.

PAROLLES.

Bravely, coragio!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Florence. A room in the DUKE's palace.

[Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended; two French Lords, and Soldiers.]

DUKE.

So that, from point to point, now have you heard

The fundamental reasons of this war;

Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,

And more thirsts after.

FIRST LORD.

Holy seems the quarrel

Upon your grace's part; black and fearful

On the opposer.

DUKE.

Therefore we marvel much our cousin France

Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom

Against our borrowing prayers.

SECOND LORD.

Good my lord,

The reasons of our state I cannot yield,

But like a common and an outward man

That the great figure of a council frames

By self-unable motion; therefore dare not

Say what I think of it, since I have found

Myself in my incertain grounds to fail

As often as I guess'd.

DUKE.

Be it his pleasure.

FIRST LORD.

But I am sure the younger of our nature,

That surfeit on their ease, will day by day

Come here for physic.

DUKE.

Welcome shall they be;

And all the honours that can fly from us

Shall on them settle. You know your places well;

When better fall, for your avails they fell:

To-morrow to th' field.

[Flourish. Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN.]

COUNTESS.

It hath happened all as I would have had it, save that he comes not along with her.

CLOWN.

By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy man.

COUNTESS.

By what observance, I pray you?

CLOWN.

Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a song.

COUNTESS.

Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.

[Opening a letter.]

CLOWN.

I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old ling and our Isbels o' the country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels o' the court. The brains of my Cupid's knocked out; and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

COUNTESS.

What have we here?

CLOWN.

E'en that you have there.

[Exit.]

COUNTESS.

[Reads.] 'I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath recovered the king and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded her; and sworn to make the "not" eternal. You shall hear I am run away: know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.

Your unfortunate son,

BERTRAM.'

This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,

To fly the favours of so good a king;

To pluck his indignation on thy head

By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous

For the contempt of empire.

[Re-enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers and my young lady.

COUNTESS.

What is the matter?

CLOWN.

Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your son will not be killed so soon as I thought he would.

COUNTESS.

Why should he be killed?

CLOWN.

So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does: the danger is in standing to 't; that's the loss of men, though it be the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more: for my part, I only hear your son was run away.

[Exit.]

[Enter HELENA and the two Gentlemen.]

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Save you, good madam.

HELENA.

Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Do not say so.

COUNTESS.

Think upon patience.—Pray you, gentlemen,—

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief

That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me unto 't.—Where is my son, I pray you?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Florence:

We met him thitherward; for thence we came,

And, after some despatch in hand at court,

Thither we bend again.

HELENA.

Look on this letter, madam; here's my passport.

[Reads.] 'When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband; but in such a "then" I write a "never."

This is a dreadful sentence.

COUNTESS.

Brought you this letter, gentlemen?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam;

And for the contents' sake, are sorry for our pains.

COUNTESS.

I pr'ythee, lady, have a better cheer;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,

Thou robb'st me of a moiety. He was my son:

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art all my child.—Towards Florence is he?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam.

COUNTESS.

And to be a soldier?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Such is his noble purpose: and, believe 't,

The Duke will lay upon him all the honour

That good convenience claims.

COUNTESS.

Return you thither?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.

HELENA.

[Reads.] 'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'

'Tis bitter.

COUNTESS.

Find you that there?

HELENA.

Ay, madam.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

'Tis but the boldness of his hand haply,

Which his heart was not consenting to.

COUNTESS.

Nothing in France until he have no wife!

There's nothing here that is too good for him

But only she; and she deserves a lord

That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,

And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

A servant only, and a gentleman

Which I have sometime known.

COUNTESS.

Parolles, was it not?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Ay, my good lady, he.

COUNTESS.

A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.

My son corrupts a well-derived nature

With his inducement.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Indeed, good lady,

The fellow has a deal of that too much

Which holds him much to have.

COUNTESS.

You are welcome, gentlemen.

I will entreat you, when you see my son,

To tell him that his sword can never win

The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you

Written to bear along.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

We serve you, madam,

In that and all your worthiest affairs.

COUNTESS.

Not so, but as we change our courtesies.

Will you draw near?

[Exeunt COUNTESS and Gentlemen.]

HELENA.

'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'

Nothing in France until he has no wife!

Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France;

Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,

That ride upon the violent speed of fire,

Fly with false aim: move the still-peering air,

That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord!

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;

Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;

And though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected: better 'twere

I met the ravin lion when he roar'd

With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rousillon,

Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,

As oft it loses all. I will be gone:

My being here it is that holds thee hence:

Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house,

And angels offic'd all: I will be gone,

That pitiful rumour may report my flight

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Florence. Before the DUKE's palace.

[Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Lords, Soldiers, and others.]

DUKE.

The general of our horse thou art; and we,

Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence

Upon thy promising fortune.

BERTRAM.

Sir, it is

A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet

We'll strive to bear it, for your worthy sake

To the extreme edge of hazard.

DUKE.

Then go thou forth;

And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,

As thy auspicious mistress!

BERTRAM.

This very day,

Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;

Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove

A lover of thy drum, hater of love.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter COUNTESS and Steward.]

COUNTESS.

Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done,

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

STEWARD.

[Reads.] 'I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone: Ambitious love hath so in me offended That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon, With sainted vow my faults to have amended. Write, write, that from the bloody course of war My dearest master, your dear son, may hie: Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far His name with zealous fervour sanctify: His taken labours bid him me forgive; I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, Where death and danger dog the heels of worth: He is too good and fair for death and me; Whom I myself embrace to set him free.'

COUNTESS.

Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!—

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much

As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,

I could have well diverted her intents,

Which thus she hath prevented.

STEWARD.

Pardon me, madam:

If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o'er ta'en; and yet she writes,

Pursuit would be but vain.

COUNTESS.

What angel shall

Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,

Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice.—Write, write, Rinaldo,

To this unworthy husband of his wife:

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth,

That he does weigh too light: my greatest grief,

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

Dispatch the most convenient messenger:—

When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone

He will return; and hope I may that she,

Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,

Led hither by pure love: which of them both

Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense

To make distinction:—provide this messenger:—

My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

Without the walls of Florence.

[Enter an old Widow of Florence, DIANA, VIOLENTA, MARIANA, and other Citizens.]

WIDOW.

Nay, come; for if they do approach the city we shall lose all the sight.

DIANA.

They say the French count has done most honourable service.

WIDOW.

It is reported that he has taken their greatest commander; and that with his own hand he slew the Duke's brother. [A tucket afar off.] We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their trumpets.

MARIANA.

Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her name; and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

WIDOW.

I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a gentleman his companion.

MARIANA.

I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles: a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl.—Beware of them, Diana; their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are not the things they go under; many a maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.

DIANA.

You shall not need to fear me.

WIDOW.

I hope so.—Look, here comes a pilgrim. I know she will lie at my house: thither they send one another; I'll question her.—

[Enter HELENA in the dress of a pilgrim.]

God save you, pilgrim! Whither are bound?

HELENA.

To Saint Jaques-le-Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?

WIDOW.

At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.

HELENA.

Is this the way?

WIDOW.

Ay, marry, is't. Hark you! They come this way.

[A march afar off.]

If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;

The rather for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.

HELENA.

Is it yourself?

WIDOW.

If you shall please so, pilgrim.

HELENA.

I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.

WIDOW.

You came, I think, from France?

HELENA.

I did so.

WIDOW.

Here you shall see a countryman of yours

That has done worthy service.

HELENA.

His name, I pray you.

DIANA.

The Count Rousillon: know you such a one?

HELENA.

But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him:

His face I know not.

DIANA.

Whatsoe'er he is,

He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,

As 'tis reported, for the king had married him

Against his liking: think you it is so?

HELENA.

Ay, surely, mere the truth; I know his lady.

DIANA.

There is a gentleman that serves the count

Reports but coarsely of her.

HELENA.

What's his name?

DIANA.

Monsieur Parolles.

HELENA.

O, I believe with him,

In argument of praise, or to the worth

Of the great count himself, she is too mean

To have her name repeated; all her deserving

Is a reserved honesty, and that

I have not heard examin'd.

DIANA.

Alas, poor lady!

'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife

Of a detesting lord.

WIDOW.

Ay, right; good creature, wheresoe'er she is

Her heart weighs sadly: this young maid might do her

A shrewd turn, if she pleas'd.

HELENA.

How do you mean?

May be, the amorous count solicits her

In the unlawful purpose.

WIDOW.

He does, indeed;

And brokes with all that can in such a suit

Corrupt the tender honour of a maid;

But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard

In honestest defence.

MARIANA.

The gods forbid else!

WIDOW.

So, now they come:—

[Enter, with a drum and colours, a party of the Florentine army, BERTRAM, and PAROLLES.]

That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest son;

That, Escalus.

HELENA.

Which is the Frenchman?

DIANA.

He;

That with the plume: 'tis a most gallant fellow.

I would he lov'd his wife: if he were honester

He were much goodlier: is't not a handsome gentleman?

HELENA.

I like him well.

DIANA.

'Tis pity he is not honest? yond's that same knave

That leads him to these places; were I his lady

I would poison that vile rascal.

HELENA.

Which is he?

DIANA.

That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?

HELENA.

Perchance he's hurt i' the battle.

PAROLLES.

Lose our drum! well.

MARIANA.

He's shrewdly vex'd at something.

Look, he has spied us.

WIDOW.

Marry, hang you!

MARIANA.

And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!

[Exeunt BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Officers, and Soldiers.]

WIDOW.

The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you

Where you shall host: of enjoin'd penitents

There's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,

Already at my house.

HELENA.

I humbly thank you:

Please it this matron and this gentle maid

To eat with us to-night; the charge and thanking

Shall be for me: and, to requite you further,

I will bestow some precepts of this virgin,

Worthy the note.

BOTH.

We'll take your offer kindly.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE VI.

Camp before Florence.

[Enter BERTRAM, and the two French Lords.]

FIRST LORD.

Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his way.

SECOND LORD.

If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold me no more in your respect.

FIRST LORD.

On my life, my lord, a bubble.

BERTRAM.

Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

FIRST LORD.

Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he's a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's entertainment.

SECOND LORD.

It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty business, in a main danger fail you.

BERTRAM.

I would I knew in what particular action to try him.

SECOND LORD.

None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you hear him so confidently undertake to do.

FIRST LORD.

I with a troop of Florentines will suddenly surprise him; such I will have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy; we will bind and hoodwink him so that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at his examination; if he do not, for the promise of his life, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judgment in anything.

SECOND LORD.

O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for't: when your lordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum's entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes.

FIRST LORD.

O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in any hand.

[Enter PAROLLES.]

BERTRAM.

How now, monsieur! this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

SECOND LORD.

A pox on 't; let it go; 'tis but a drum.

PAROLLES.

But a drum! Is't but a drum? A drum so lost!—There was excellent command! to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.

SECOND LORD.

That was not to be blamed in the command of the service; it was a disaster of war that Caesar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.

BERTRAM.

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is not to be recovered.

PAROLLES.

It might have been recovered.

BERTRAM.

It might, but it is not now.

PAROLLES.

It is to be recovered: but that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hic jacet.

BERTRAM.

Why, if you have a stomach, to't, monsieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit; if you speed well in it, the Duke shall both speak of it and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

PAROLLES.

By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

BERTRAM.

But you must not now slumber in it.

PAROLLES.

I'll about it this evening: and I will presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself into my mortal preparation; and, by midnight, look to hear further from me.

BERTRAM.

May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are gone about it?

PAROLLES.

I know not what the success will be, my lord, but the attempt I vow.

BERTRAM.

I know thou art valiant; and, to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.

PAROLLES.

I love not many words.

[Exit.]

FIRST LORD.

No more than a fish loves water.—Is not this a strange fellow, my lord? that so confidently seems to undertake this business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do, and dares better be damned than to do't.

SECOND LORD.

You do not know him, my lord, as we do: certain it is that he will steal himself into a man's favour, and for a week escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out, you have him ever after.

BERTRAM.

Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this, that so seriously he does address himself unto?

FIRST LORD.

None in the world: but return with an invention, and clap upon you two or three probable lies: but we have almost embossed him, —you shall see his fall to-night: for indeed he is not for your lordship's respect.

SECOND LORD.

We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him. He was first smok'd by the old Lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you shall see this very night.

FIRST LORD.

I must go look my twigs; he shall be caught.

BERTRAM.

Your brother, he shall go along with me.

FIRST LORD.

As't please your lordship: I'll leave you.

[Exit.]

BERTRAM.

Now will I lead you to the house, and show you

The lass I spoke of.

SECOND LORD.

But you say she's honest.

BERTRAM.

That's all the fault: I spoke with her but once,

And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,

By this same coxcomb that we have i' the wind,

Tokens and letters which she did re-send;

And this is all I have done. She's a fair creature;

Will you go see her?

SECOND LORD.

With all my heart, my lord.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE VII.

Florence. A room in the WIDOW'S house.

[Enter HELENA and Widow.]

HELENA.

If you misdoubt me that I am not she,

I know not how I shall assure you further,

But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

WIDOW.

Though my estate be fallen, I was well born,

Nothing acquainted with these businesses;

And would not put my reputation now

In any staining act.

HELENA.

Nor would I wish you.

First give me trust, the count he is my husband,

And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken

Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,

By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

Err in bestowing it.

WIDOW.

I should believe you;

For you have show'd me that which well approves

You're great in fortune.

HELENA.

Take this purse of gold,

And let me buy your friendly help thus far,

Which I will over-pay, and pay again

When I have found it. The count he woos your daughter

Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,

Resolv'd to carry her: let her in fine, consent,

As we'll direct her how 'tis best to bear it,

Now his important blood will naught deny

That she'll demand: a ring the county wears,

That downward hath succeeded in his house

From son to son, some four or five descents

Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds

In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,

To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,

Howe'er repented after.

WIDOW.

Now I see

The bottom of your purpose.

HELENA.

You see it lawful then: it is no more

But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,

Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;

In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

Herself most chastely absent; after this,

To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns

To what is pass'd already.

WIDOW.

I have yielded:

Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,

That time and place, with this deceit so lawful,

May prove coherent. Every night he comes

With musics of all sorts, and songs compos'd

To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us

To chide him from our eaves; for he persists,

As if his life lay on 't.

HELENA.

Why, then, to-night

Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,

Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,

And lawful meaning in a lawful act;

Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact:

But let's about it.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Without the Florentine camp.

[Enter first Lord with five or six Soldiers in ambush.]

FIRST LORD.

He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner. When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will; though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must not seem to understand him, unless some one among us, whom we must produce for an interpreter.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Good captain, let me be the interpreter.

FIRST LORD.

Art not acquainted with him? knows he not thy voice?

FIRST SOLDIER.

No, sir, I warrant you.

FIRST LORD.

But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again?

FIRST SOLDIER.

E'en such as you speak to me.

FIRST LORD.

He must think us some band of strangers i' the adversary's entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all neighbouring languages, therefore we must every one be a man of his own fancy; not to know what we speak one to another, so we seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs' language, gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes; to beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

[Enter PAROLLES.]

PAROLLES.

Ten o'clock. Within these three hours 'twill be time enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a very plausive invention that carries it ;they begin to smoke me: and disgraces have of late knocked too often at my door. I find my tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my tongue.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue was guilty of.

PAROLLES.

What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery of this drum: being not ignorant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say I got them in exploit: yet slight ones will not carry it: they will say Came you off with so little? and great ones I dare not give. Wherefore, what's the instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-woman's mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

PAROLLES.

I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

We cannot afford you so.

PAROLLES.

Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in stratagem.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

'Twould not do.

PAROLLES.

Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripped.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

Hardly serve.

PAROLLES.

Though I swore I leap'd from the window of the citadel,—

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

How deep?

PAROLLES.

Thirty fadom.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.

PAROLLES.

I would I had any drum of the enemy's; I would swear I recovered it.

FIRST LORD.

[Aside.]

You shall hear one anon.

PAROLLES.

A drum now of the enemy's!

[Alarum within.]

FIRST LORD.

Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.

ALL.

Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.

PAROLLES.

O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.

[They seize and blindfold him.]

FIRST SOLDIER.

Boskos thromuldo boskos.

PAROLLES.

I know you are the Muskos' regiment,

And I shall lose my life for want of language:

If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,

Italian, or French, let him speak to me;

I'll discover that which shall undo the Florentine.

SECOND SOLDIER.

Boskos vauvado. I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. Kerelybonto. Sir, Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards Are at thy bosom.

PAROLLES.

O!

FIRST SOLDIER.

O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.

FIRST LORD.

Oscorbidulchos volivorco.

FIRST SOLDIER.

The General is content to spare thee yet;

And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on

To gather from thee: haply thou mayst inform

Something to save thy life.

PAROLLES.

O, let me live,

And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,

Their force, their purposes: nay, I'll speak that

Which you will wonder at.

FIRST SOLDIER.

But wilt thou faithfully?

PAROLLES.

If I do not, damn me.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Acordo linta.—

Come on; thou art granted space.

[Exit, with PAROLLES guarded.]

FIRST LORD.

Go, tell the Count Rousillon and my brother

We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled

Till we do hear from them.

SECOND SOLDIER.

Captain, I will.

FIRST LORD.

'A will betray us all unto ourselves;—

Inform 'em that.

SECOND SOLDIER.

So I will, sir.

FIRST LORD.

Till then I'll keep him dark, and safely lock'd.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Florence. A room in the WIDOW'S house.

[Enter BERTRAM and DIANA.]

BERTRAM.

They told me that your name was Fontibell.

DIANA.

No, my good lord, Diana.

BERTRAM.

Titled goddess;

And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,

In your fine frame hath love no quality?

If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,

You are no maiden, but a monument;

When you are dead, you should be such a one

As you are now, for you are cold and stern;

And now you should be as your mother was

When your sweet self was got.

DIANA.

She then was honest.

BERTRAM.

So should you be.

DIANA.

No:

My mother did but duty; such, my lord,

As you owe to your wife.

BERTRAM.

No more of that!

I pr'ythee, do not strive against my vows:

I was compell'd to her; but I love thee

By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever

Do thee all rights of service.

DIANA.

Ay, so you serve us

Till we serve you; but when you have our roses

You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,

And mock us with our bareness.

BERTRAM.

How have I sworn?

DIANA.

'Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,

But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.

What is not holy, that we swear not by,

But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you, tell me,

If I should swear by Jove's great attributes

I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths

When I did love you ill? This has no holding,

To swear by him whom I protest to love

That I will work against him: therefore your oaths

Are words and poor conditions; but unseal'd,—

At least in my opinion.

BERTRAM.

Change it, change it;

Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy;

And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts

That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

But give thyself unto my sick desires,

Who then recover: say thou art mine, and ever

My love as it begins shall so persever.

DIANA.

I see that men make hopes in such a case,

That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

BERTRAM.

I'll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power

To give it from me.

DIANA.

Will you not, my lord?

BERTRAM.

It is an honour 'longing to our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors;

Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world

In me to lose.

DIANA.

Mine honour's such a ring:

My chastity's the jewel of our house,

Bequeathed down from many ancestors;

Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world

In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom

Brings in the champion honour on my part

Against your vain assault.

BERTRAM.

Here, take my ring:

My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine,

And I'll be bid by thee.

DIANA.

When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-window;

I'll order take my mother shall not hear.

Now will I charge you in the band of truth,

When you have conquer'd my yet maiden-bed,

Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me:

My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them

When back again this ring shall be deliver'd;

And on your finger in the night, I'll put

Another ring; that what in time proceeds

May token to the future our past deeds.

Adieu till then; then fail not. You have won

A wife of me, though there my hope be done.

BERTRAM.

A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.

[Exit.]

DIANA.

For which live long to thank both heaven and me!

You may so in the end.—

My mother told me just how he would woo,

As if she sat in's heart; she says all men

Have the like oaths: he had sworn to marry me

When his wife's dead; therefore I'll lie with him

When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,

Marry that will, I live and die a maid:

Only, in this disguise, I think't no sin

To cozen him that would unjustly win.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The Florentine camp.

[Enter the two French Lords, and two or three Soldiers.]

FIRST LORD.

You have not given him his mother's letter?

SECOND LORD.

I have deliv'red it an hour since: there is something in't that stings his nature; for on the reading, it he changed almost into another man.

FIRST LORD.

He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so sweet a lady.

SECOND LORD.

Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his bounty to sing happiness to him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.

FIRST LORD.

When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.

SECOND LORD.

He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.

FIRST LORD.

Now, God delay our rebellion: as we are ourselves, what things are we!

SECOND LORD.

Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of all treasons, we still see them reveal themselves till they attain to their abhorred ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own nobility, in his proper stream, o'erflows himself.

FIRST LORD.

Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?

SECOND LORD.

Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.

FIRST LORD.

That approaches apace: I would gladly have him see his company anatomized, that he might take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.

SECOND LORD.

We will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of the other.

FIRST LORD.

In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?

SECOND LORD.

I hear there is an overture of peace.

FIRST LORD.

Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

SECOND LORD.

What will Count Rousillon do then? will he travel higher, or return again into France?

FIRST LORD.

I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether of his counsel.

SECOND LORD.

Let it be forbid, sir: so should I be a great deal of his act.

FIRST LORD.

Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques-le-Grand: which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last breath; and now she sings in heaven.

SECOND LORD.

How is this justified?

FIRST LORD.

The stronger part of it by her own letters, which makes her story true, even to the point of her death: her death itself which could not be her office to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector of the place.

SECOND LORD.

Hath the count all this intelligence?

FIRST LORD.

Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from point, to the full arming of the verity.

SECOND LORD.

I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this.

FIRST LORD.

How mightily, sometimes, we make us comforts of our losses!

SECOND LORD.

And how mightily, some other times, we drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquired for him shall at home be encountered with a shame as ample.

FIRST LORD.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.—

[Enter a Servant.]

How now? where's your master?

SERVANT.

He met the Duke in the street, sir; of whom he hath taken a solemn leave: his lordship will next morning for France. The Duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the king.

SECOND LORD.

They shall be no more than needful there, if they were more than they can commend.

FIRST LORD.

They cannot be too sweet for the king's tartness. Here's his lordship now.

[Enter BERTRAM.]

How now, my lord, is't not after midnight?

BERTRAM.

I have to-night despatch'd sixteen businesses, a month's length apiece; by an abstract of success: I have conge'd with the Duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourned for her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; entertained my convoy; and between these main parcels of despatch effected many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet.

SECOND LORD.

If the business be of any difficulty and this morning your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.

BERTRAM.

I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the fool and the soldier?—Come, bring forth this counterfeit module has deceived me like a double-meaning prophesier.

SECOND LORD.

Bring him forth.

[Exeunt Soldiers.]

Has sat i' the stocks all night, poor gallant knave.

BERTRAM.

No matter; his heels have deserved it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry himself?

FIRST LORD.

I have told your lordship already; the stocks carry him. But to answer you as you would be understood: he weeps like a wench that had shed her milk; he hath confessed himself to Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i' the stocks: and what think you he hath confessed?

BERTRAM.

Nothing of me, has he?

SECOND LORD.

His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his face; if your lordship be in't, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it.

[Re-enter Soldiers, with PAROLLES.]

BERTRAM.

A plague upon him! muffled! he can say nothing of me; hush, hush!

FIRST LORD.

Hoodman comes! Portotartarossa.

FIRST SOLDIER.

He calls for the tortures: what will you say without 'em?

PAROLLES.

I will confess what I know without constraint; if ye pinch me like a pasty I can say no more.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Bosko chimurcho.

FIRST LORD.

Boblibindo chicurmurco.

FIRST SOLDIER.

You are a merciful general:—Our general bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

PAROLLES.

And truly, as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER.

'First demand of him how many horse the Duke is strong.' What say you to that?

PAROLLES.

Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Shall I set down your answer so?

PAROLLES.

Do; I'll take the sacrament on 't, how and which way you will.

BERTRAM.

All's one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

FIRST LORD.

You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase),that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

SECOND LORD.

I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean; nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Well, that's set down.

PAROLLES.

'Five or six thousand horse' I said—I will say true—or thereabouts, set down,—for I'll speak truth.

FIRST LORD.

He's very near the truth in this.

BERTRAM.

But I con him no thanks for't in the nature he delivers it.

PAROLLES.

Poor rogues, I pray you say.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Well, that's set down.

PAROLLES.

I humbly thank you, sir: a truth's a truth, the rogues are

marvellous poor.

FIRST SOLDIER.

'Demand of him of what strength they are a-foot.' What say you to that?

PAROLLES.

By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty, Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each: so that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks lest they shake themselves to pieces.

BERTRAM.

What shall be done to him?

FIRST LORD.

Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my condition, and what credit I have with the Duke.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Well, that's set down. 'You shall demand of him whether one Captain Dumain be i' the camp, a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honesty, expertness in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to a revolt.' What say you to this? what do you know of it?

PAROLLES.

I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the inter'gatories: demand them singly.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Do you know this Captain Dumain?

PAROLLES.

I know him: he was a botcher's 'prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve's fool with child: a dumb innocent that could not say him nay.

[FIRST LORD lifts up his hand in anger.]

BERTRAM.

Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence's camp?

PAROLLES.

Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

FIRST LORD.

Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

FIRST SOLDIER.

What is his reputation with the Duke?

PAROLLES.

The Duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him out o' the band: I think I have his letter in my pocket.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Marry, we'll search.

PAROLLES.

In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it is upon a file, with the Duke's other letters, in my tent.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Here 'tis; here's a paper. Shall I read it to you?

PAROLLES.

I do not know if it be it or no.

BERTRAM.

Our interpreter does it well.

FIRST LORD.

Excellently.

FIRST SOLDIER.

[Reads.] 'Dian, the Count's a fool, and full of gold,—'

PAROLLES.

That is not the Duke's letter, sir; that is an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish: I pray you, sir, put it up again.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Nay, I'll read it first by your favour.

PAROLLES.

My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid; for I knew the young count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

BERTRAM.

Damnable! both sides rogue!

FIRST SOLDIER.

[Reads.]

'When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it:

After he scores, he never pays the score;

Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;

He ne'er pays after-debts, take it before;

And say a soldier, 'Dian,' told thee this:

Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;

For count of this, the count's a fool, I know it,

Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.

Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear,

PAROLLES.

BERTRAM.

He shall be whipped through the army with this rhyme in his forehead.

SECOND LORD.

This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.

BERTRAM.

I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he's a cat to me.

FIRST SOLDIER.

I perceive, sir, by our general's looks we shall be fain to hang you.

PAROLLES.

My life, sir, in any case: not that I am afraid to die, but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the remainder of nature: let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.

FIRST SOLDIER.

We'll see what may be done, so you confess freely; therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answered to his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour: what is his honesty?

PAROLLES.

He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool: drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of his honesty; he has everything that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should have he has nothing.

FIRST LORD.

I begin to love him for this.

BERTRAM.

For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him for me; he's more and more a cat.

FIRST SOLDIER.

What say you to his expertness in war?

PAROLLES.

Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English tragedians,—to belie him I will not,—and more of his soldiership I know not, except in that country he had the honour to be the officer at a place there called Mile-end to instruct for the doubling of files: I would do the man what honour I can, but of this I am not certain.

FIRST LORD.

He hath out-villanied villainy so far that the rarity redeems him.

BERTRAM.

A pox on him! he's a cat still.

FIRST SOLDIER.

His qualities being at this poor price, I need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

PAROLLES.

Sir, for a cardecue he will sell the fee-simple of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut the entail from all remainders and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.

FIRST SOLDIER.

What's his brother, the other Captain Dumain?

SECOND LORD.

Why does he ask him of me?

FIRST SOLDIER.

What's he?

PAROLLES.

E'en a crow o' the same nest; not altogether so great as the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the best that is; in a retreat he outruns any lackey: marry, in coming on he has the cramp.

FIRST SOLDIER.

If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray the Florentine?

PAROLLES.

Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count Rousillon.

FIRST SOLDIER.

I'll whisper with the general, and know his pleasure.

PAROLLES.

[Aside.] I'll no more drumming; a plague of all drums! Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy the count, have I run into this danger: yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?

FIRST SOLDIER.

There is no remedy, sir, but you must die: the general says you that have so traitorously discovered the secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore you must die. Come, headsman, off with his head.

PAROLLES.

O Lord! sir, let me live, or let me see my death.

FIRST SOLDIER.

That shall you, and take your leave of all your friends.

[Unmuffling him.]

So look about you; know you any here?

BERTRAM.

Good morrow, noble captain.

SECOND LORD.

God bless you, Captain Parolles.

FIRST LORD.

God save you, noble captain.

SECOND LORD.

Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France.

FIRST LORD.

Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? an I were not a very coward I'd compel it of you; but fare you well.

[Exeunt BERTRAM, Lords, &c.]

FIRST SOLDIER.

You are undone, captain: all but your scarf; that has a knot on't yet.

PAROLLES.

Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

FIRST SOLDIER.

If you could find out a country where but women were that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES.

Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,

'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more;

But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft

As captain shall: simply the thing I am

Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,

Let him fear this; for it will come to pass

That every braggart shall be found an ass.

Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live

Safest in shame! being fool'd, by foolery thrive.

There's place and means for every man alive.

I'll after them.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

Florence. A room in the Widow's house.

[Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA.]

HELENA.

That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd you!

One of the greatest in the Christian world

Shall be my surety; 'fore whose throne 'tis needful,

Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel:

Time was I did him a desired office,

Dear almost as his life; which gratitude

Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth,

And answer, thanks: I duly am informed

His grace is at Marseilles; to which place

We have convenient convoy. You must know

I am supposed dead: the army breaking,

My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding,

And by the leave of my good lord the king,

We'll be before our welcome.

WIDOW.

Gentle madam,

You never had a servant to whose trust

Your business was more welcome.

HELENA.

Nor you, mistress,

Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour

To recompense your love: doubt not but heaven

Hath brought me up to be your daughter's dower,

As it hath fated her to be my motive

And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!

That can such sweet use make of what they hate,

When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts

Defiles the pitchy night! so lust doth play

With what it loathes, for that which is away:

But more of this hereafter.—You, Diana,

Under my poor instructions yet must suffer

Something in my behalf.

DIANA.

Let death and honesty

Go with your impositions, I am yours

Upon your will to suffer.

HELENA.

Yet, I pray you:

But with the word the time will bring on summer,

When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,

And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;

Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us:

All's well that ends well: still the fine's the crown;

Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Rousillon. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter COUNTESS, LAFEU, and CLOWN.]

LAFEU.

No, no, no, son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villanous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour: your daughter-in-law had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more advanced by the king than by that red-tail'd humble-bee I speak of.

COUNTESS.

I would I had not known him! It was the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating: if she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a more rooted love.

LAFEU.

'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady: we may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

CLOWN.

Indeed, sir, she was the sweet marjoram of the salad, or, rather, the herb of grace.

LAFEU.

They are not salad-herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.

CLOWN.

I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in

grass.

LAFEU.

Whether dost thou profess thyself,—a knave or a fool?

CLOWN.

A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a knave at a man's.

LAFEU.

Your distinction?

CLOWN.

I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.

LAFEU.

So you were a knave at his service, indeed.

CLOWN.

And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.

LAFEU.

I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool.

CLOWN.

At your service.

LAFEU.

No, no, no.

CLOWN.

Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a prince as you are.

LAFEU.

Who's that? a Frenchman?

CLOWN.

Faith, sir, 'a has an English name; but his phisnomy is more hotter in France than there.

LAFEU.

What prince is that?

CLOWN.

The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of darkness; alias, the devil.

LAFEU.

Hold thee, there's my purse: I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of; serve him still.

CLOWN.

I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire; and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in his court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender; and they'll be for the flow'ry way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.

LAFEU.

Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary of thee; and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my horses be well looked to, without any tricks.

CLOWN.

If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall be jades' tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.

[Exit.]

LAFEU.

A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.

COUNTESS.

So he is. My lord that's gone made himself much sport out of him; by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs where he will.

LAFEU.

I like him well; 'tis not amiss. And I was about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady's death, and that my lord your son was upon his return home, I moved the king my master to speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of them both, his majesty out of a self-gracious remembrance did first propose: His highness hath promised me to do it; and, to stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

COUNTESS.

With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily effected.

LAFEU.

His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as when he numbered thirty; he will be here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such intelligence hath seldom failed.

COUNTESS.

It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with me till they meet together.

LAFEU.

Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be admitted.

COUNTESS.

You need but plead your honourable privilege.

LAFEU.

Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my God, it holds yet.

[Re-enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

O madam, yonder's my lord your son with a patch of velvet on's face; whether there be a scar under it or no, the velvet knows; but 'tis a goodly patch of velvet: his left cheek is a cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

LAFEU.

A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honour; so belike is that.

CLOWN.

But it is your carbonadoed face.

LAFEU.

Let us go see your son, I pray you; I long to talk with the young noble soldier.

CLOWN.

Faith, there's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Marseilles. A street.

[Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA, with two Attendants.]

HELENA.

But this exceeding posting day and night

Must wear your spirits low: we cannot help it.

But since you have made the days and nights as one,

To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,

Be bold you do so grow in my requital

As nothing can unroot you. In happy time;—

[Enter a GENTLEMAN.]

This man may help me to his majesty's ear,

If he would spend his power.—God save you, sir.

GENTLEMAN.

And you.

HELENA.

Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.

GENTLEMAN.

I have been sometimes there.

HELENA.

I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen

From the report that goes upon your goodness;

And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,

Which lay nice manners by, I put you to

The use of your own virtues, for the which

I shall continue thankful.

GENTLEMAN.

What's your will?

HELENA.

That it will please you

To give this poor petition to the king;

And aid me with that store of power you have

To come into his presence.

GENTLEMAN.

The king's not here.

HELENA.

Not here, sir?

GENTLEMAN.

Not indeed.

He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste

Than is his use.

WIDOW.

Lord, how we lose our pains!

HELENA.

All's well that ends well yet,

Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.

I do beseech you, whither is he gone?

GENTLEMAN.

Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;

Whither I am going.

HELENA.

I do beseech you, sir,

Since you are like to see the king before me,

Commend the paper to his gracious hand;

Which I presume shall render you no blame,

But rather make you thank your pains for it:

I will come after you with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

GENTLEMAN.

This I'll do for you.

HELENA.

And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,

Whate'er falls more.—We must to horse again;—

Go, go, provide.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Rousillon. The inner court of the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Enter CLOWN and PAROLLES.]

PAROLLES.

Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter: I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in fortune's mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure.

CLOWN.

Truly, Fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of: I will henceforth eat no fish of fortune's buttering. Pr'ythee, allow the wind.

PAROLLES.

Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by a metaphor.

CLOWN.

Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or against any man's metaphor. Pr'ythee, get thee further.

PAROLLES.

Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

CLOWN.

Foh, pr'ythee stand away. A paper from Fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.

[Enter LAFEU.]

Here is a pur of fortune's, sir, or of fortune's cat (but not a musk-cat), that has fallen into the unclean fishpond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal: pray you, sir, use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.

[Exit.]

PAROLLES.

My lord, I am a man whom fortune hath cruelly scratched.

LAFEU.

And what would you have me to do? 'tis too late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with fortune, that she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive long under her? There's a quart d'ecu for you: let the justices make you and fortune friends; I am for other business.

PAROLLES.

I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.

LAFEU.

You beg a single penny more: come, you shall ha't: save your word.

PAROLLES.

My name, my good lord, is Parolles.

LAFEU.

You beg more than word then.—Cox' my passion! give me your hand:—how does your drum?

PAROLLES.

O my good lord, you were the first that found me.

LAFEU.

Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost thee.

PAROLLES.

It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for you did bring me out.

LAFEU.

Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me at once both the office of God and the devil? one brings the in grace, and the other brings thee out.

[Trumpets sound.]

The king's coming; I know by his trumpets.—Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had talk of you last night: though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat: go to; follow.

PAROLLES.

I praise God for you.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The same. A room in the COUNTESS'S palace.

[Flourish. Enter KING, COUNTESS, LAFEU, Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, &c.]

KING.

We lost a jewel of her; and our esteem

Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know

Her estimation home.

COUNTESS.

'Tis past, my liege:

And I beseech your majesty to make it

Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth,

When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,

O'erbears it and burns on.

KING.

My honour'd lady,

I have forgiven and forgotten all;

Though my revenges were high bent upon him,

And watch'd the time to shoot.

LAFEU.

This I must say,—

But first, I beg my pardon,—the young lord

Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,

Offence of mighty note; but to himself

The greatest wrong of all: he lost a wife

Whose beauty did astonish the survey

Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;

Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve

Humbly call'd mistress.

KING.

Praising what is lost

Makes the remembrance dear.—Well, call him hither;—

We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill

All repetition:—let him not ask our pardon;

The nature of his great offence is dead,

And deeper than oblivion do we bury

Th' incensing relics of it; let him approach,

A stranger, no offender; and inform him,

So 'tis our will he should.

GENTLEMAN.

I shall, my liege.

[Exit Gentleman.]

KING.

What says he to your daughter? have you spoke?

LAFEU.

All that he is hath reference to your highness.

KING.

Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me

That sets him high in fame.

[Enter BERTRAM.]

LAFEU.

He looks well on 't.

KING.

I am not a day of season,

For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail

In me at once: but to the brightest beams

Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;

The time is fair again.

BERTRAM.

My high-repented blames,

Dear sovereign, pardon to me.

KING.

All is whole;

Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let's take the instant by the forward top;

For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees

The inaudible and noiseless foot of time

Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord?

BERTRAM.

Admiringly, my liege: at first

I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart

Durst make too bold herald of my tongue:

Where the impression of mine eye infixing,

Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,

Which warp'd the line of every other favour;

Scorned a fair colour, or express'd it stolen;

Extended or contracted all proportions

To a most hideous object: thence it came

That she whom all men prais'd, and whom myself,

Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye

The dust that did offend it.

KING.

Well excus'd:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away

From the great compt: but love that comes too late,

Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,

To the great sender turns a sour offence,

Crying, That's good that's gone. Our rash faults

Make trivial price of serious things we have,

Not knowing them until we know their grave:

Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,

Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust:

Our own love waking cries to see what's done,

While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her.

Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin:

The main consents are had; and here we'll stay

To see our widower's second marriage-day.

COUNTESS.

Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!

Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!

LAFEU.

Come on, my son, in whom my house's name

Must be digested, give a favour from you,

To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

That she may quickly come.—

[BERTRAM gives a ring to Lafeu.]

By my old beard,

And every hair that's on 't, Helen, that's dead,

Was a sweet creature: such a ring as this,

The last that e'er I took her leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

BERTRAM.

Hers it was not.

KING.

Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,

While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to it.—

This ring was mine; and when I gave it Helen

I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to 'reave her

Of what should stead her most?

BERTRAM.

My gracious sovereign,

Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,

The ring was never hers.

COUNTESS.

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon'd it

At her life's rate.

LAFEU.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

BERTRAM.

You are deceiv'd, my lord; she never saw it:

In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,

Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name

Of her that threw it: noble she was, and thought

I stood engag'd: but when I had subscrib'd

To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully

I could not answer in that course of honour

As she had made the overture, she ceas'd,

In heavy satisfaction, and would never

Receive the ring again.

KING.

Plutus himself,

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,

Hath not in nature's mystery more science

Than I have in this ring: 'twas mine, 'twas Helen's,

Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know

That you are well acquainted with yourself,

Confess 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement

You got it from her: she call'd the saints to surety

That she would never put it from her finger

Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,—

Where you have never come,—or sent it us

Upon her great disaster.

BERTRAM.

She never saw it.

KING.

Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;

And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me

Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove

That thou art so inhuman,—'twill not prove so:—

And yet I know not:—thou didst hate her deadly.

And she is dead; which nothing, but to close

Her eyes myself, could win me to believe

More than to see this ring.—Take him away.

[Guards seize BERTRAM.]

My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

Having vainly fear'd too little.—Away with him;—

We'll sift this matter further.

BERTRAM.

If you shall prove

This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy

Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where she yet never was.

[Exit, guarded.]

KING.

I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.

[Enter a Gentleman.]

GENTLEMAN.

Gracious sovereign,

Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:

Here's a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes, come short

To tender it herself. I undertook it,

Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech

Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,

Is here attending: her business looks in her

With an importing visage; and she told me

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

KING.

[Reads.] 'Upon his many protestations to marry me, when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the count Rousillon a widower; his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour's paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice: grant it me, O king; in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone.

DIANA CAPULET.'

LAFEU.

I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll this: I'll none of him.

KING.

The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,

To bring forth this discovery.—Seek these suitors:—

Go speedily, and bring again the count.

[Exeunt Gentleman, and some Attendants.]

I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,

Was foully snatch'd.

COUNTESS.

Now, justice on the doers!

[Enter BERTRAM, guarded.]

KING.

I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters to you.

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,

Yet you desire to marry.—What woman's that?

[Re-enter Widow and DIANA.]

DIANA.

I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,

Derived from the ancient Capulet;

My suit, as I do understand, you know,

And therefore know how far I may be pitied.

WIDOW.

I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring,

And both shall cease, without your remedy.

KING.

Come hither, count; do you know these women?

BERTRAM.

My lord, I neither can nor will deny

But that I know them: do they charge me further?

DIANA.

Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

BERTRAM.

She's none of mine, my lord.

DIANA.

If you shall marry,

You give away this hand, and that is mine;

You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine;

You give away myself, which is known mine;

For I by vow am so embodied yours

That she which marries you must marry me,

Either both or none.

LAFEU.

[To BERTRAM] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter; you are no husband for her.

BERTRAM.

My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature

Whom sometime I have laugh'd with: let your highness

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour

Than for to think that I would sink it here.

KING.

Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend

Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour

Than in my thought it lies!

DIANA.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity.

KING.

What say'st thou to her?

BERTRAM.

She's impudent, my lord;

And was a common gamester to the camp.

DIANA.

He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so

He might have bought me at a common price:

Do not believe him. O, behold this ring,

Whose high respect and rich validity

Did lack a parallel; yet, for all that,

He gave it to a commoner o' the camp,

If I be one.

COUNTESS.

He blushes, and 'tis it:

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem,

Conferr'd by testament to the sequent issue,

Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife;

That ring's a thousand proofs.

KING.

Methought you said

You saw one here in court could witness it.

DIANA.

I did, my lord, but loath am to produce

So bad an instrument; his name's Parolles.

LAFEU.

I saw the man to-day, if man he be.

KING.

Find him, and bring him hither.

[Exit an Attendant.]

BERTRAM.

What of him?

He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,

With all the spots o' the world tax'd and debauch'd:

Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth:

Am I or that or this for what he'll utter,

That will speak anything?

KING.

She hath that ring of yours.

BERTRAM.

I think she has: certain it is I lik'd her,

And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth:

She knew her distance, and did angle for me,

Madding my eagerness with her restraint,

As all impediments in fancy's course

Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine,

Her infinite cunning with her modern grace,

Subdu'd me to her rate: she got the ring;

And I had that which any inferior might

At market-price have bought.

DIANA.

I must be patient:

You that have turn'd off a first so noble wife

May justly diet me. I pray you yet,—

Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband,—

Send for your ring, I will return it home,

And give me mine again.

BERTRAM.

I have it not.

KING.

What ring was yours, I pray you?

DIANA.

Sir, much like

The same upon your finger.

KING.

Know you this ring? This ring was his of late.

DIANA.

And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.

KING.

The story, then, goes false you threw it him

Out of a casement.

DIANA.

I have spoke the truth.

BERTRAM.

My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.

KING.

You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts you.—

[Re-enter Attendant, with PAROLLES.]

Is this the man you speak of?

DIANA.

Ay, my lord.

KING.

Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true I charge you,

Not fearing the displeasure of your master,—

Which, on your just proceeding, I'll keep off,—

By him and by this woman here what know you?

PAROLLES.

So please your majesty, my master hath been an honourable gentleman; tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.

KING.

Come, come, to the purpose: did he love this woman?

PAROLLES.

Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?

KING.

How, I pray you?

PAROLLES.

He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.

KING.

How is that?

PAROLLES.

He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

KING.

As thou art a knave and no knave. What an equivocal companion is this!

PAROLLES.

I am a poor man, and at your majesty's command.

LAFEU.

He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.

DIANA.

Do you know he promised me marriage?

PAROLLES.

Faith, I know more than I'll speak.

KING.

But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st?

PAROLLES.

Yes, so please your majesty; I did go between them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her,—for indeed he was mad for her, and talked of Satan, and of limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising her marriage, and things which would derive me ill-will to speak of; therefore I will not speak what I know.

KING.

Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are married: but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand aside.—This ring, you say, was yours?

DIANA.

Ay, my good lord.

KING.

Where did you buy it? or who gave it you?

DIANA.

It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.

KING.

Who lent it you?

DIANA.

It was not lent me neither.

KING.

Where did you find it then?

DIANA.

I found it not.

KING.

If it were yours by none of all these ways,

How could you give it him?

DIANA.

I never gave it him.

LAFEU.

This woman's an easy glove, my lord; she goes off and on at pleasure.

KING.

This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.

DIANA.

It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.

KING.

Take her away, I do not like her now;

To prison with her: and away with him.—

Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring,

Thou diest within this hour.

DIANA.

I'll never tell you.

KING.

Take her away.

DIANA.

I'll put in bail, my liege.

KING.

I think thee now some common customer.

DIANA.

By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.

KING.

Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all this while?

DIANA.

Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty:

He knows I am no maid, and he'll swear to't:

I'll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.

Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life;

I am either maid, or else this old man's wife.

[Pointing to LAFEU.]

KING.

She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.

DIANA.

Good mother, fetch my bail.—Stay, royal sir;

[Exit WIDOW.]

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,

And he shall surety me. But for this lord

Who hath abus'd me as he knows himself,

Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him:

He knows himself my bed he hath defil'd;

And at that time he got his wife with child.

Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick;

So there's my riddle:—One that's dead is quick;

And now behold the meaning.

[Re-enter Widow with HELENA.]

KING.

Is there no exorcist

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?

Is't real that I see?

HELENA.

No, my good lord;

'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see—

The name, and not the thing.

BERTRAM.

Both, both; O, pardon!

HELENA.

O, my good lord, when I was like this maid;

I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring,

And, look you, here's your letter. This it says,

'When from my finger you can get this ring,

And are by me with child, &c.'— This is done:

Will you be mine now you are doubly won?

BERTRAM.

If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly,

I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

HELENA.

If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,

Deadly divorce step between me and you!—

O my dear mother, do I see you living?

LAFEU.

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon:—

Good Tom Drum [to PAROLLES], lend me a handkercher: so, I

thank thee; wait on me home, I'll make sport with thee:

let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

KING.

Let us from point to point this story know,

To make the even truth in pleasure flow:—

If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower,

[To DIANA.]

Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;

For I can guess that, by thy honest aid,

Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.

Of that and all the progress, more and less,

Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

[Flourish.]

EPILOGUE.

The king's a beggar, now the play is done;

All is well-ended if this suit be won,

That you express content; which we will pay

With strife to please you, day exceeding day:

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

AS YOU LIKE IT

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act II, Scene VI

Act II, Scene VII

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Epilogue

List of Characters

DUKE, living in exile.

FREDERICK: Brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his Dominions.

AMIENS: Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment.

JAQUES: Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment.

LE BEAU: a Courtier attending upon Frederick.

CHARLES: his Wrestler.

OLIVER: Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

JAQUES: Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

ORLANDO: Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

ADAM: Servant to Oliver.

DENNIS: Servant to Oliver.

TOUCHSTONE: a Clown.

SIR OLIVER MARTEXT: a Vicar.

CORIN: Shepherd.

SILVIUS: Shepherd.

WILLIAM: a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.

A person representing HYMEN.

ROSALIND: Daughter to the banished Duke.

CELIA: Daughter to Frederick.

PHEBE: a Shepherdess.

AUDREY: a Country Wench.

Lords belonging to the two Dukes; Pages, Foresters, and other Attendants.

The SCENE lies first near OLIVER'S house; afterwards partly in

the Usurper's court and partly in the Forest of Arden.

ACT I. SCENE I.

An Orchard near OLIVER'S house.

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]

ORLANDO.

As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion,—bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept: for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me, the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems to take from me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude; I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy how to avoid it.

ADAM.

Yonder comes my master, your brother.

ORLANDO.

Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.

[ADAM retires]

[Enter OLIVER.]

OLIVER.

Now, sir! what make you here?

ORLANDO.

Nothing: I am not taught to make anything.

OLIVER.

What mar you then, sir?

ORLANDO.

Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.

OLIVER.

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

ORLANDO.

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

OLIVER.

Know you where you are, sir?

ORLANDO.

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

OLIVER.

Know you before whom, sir?

ORLANDO.

Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you are my eldest brother: and in the gentle condition of blood, you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us: I have as much of my father in me as you, albeit; I confess, your coming before me is nearer to his reverence.

OLIVER.

What, boy!

ORLANDO.

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

OLIVER.

Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain?

ORLANDO.

I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois: he was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou has railed on thyself.

ADAM.

[Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's remembrance, be at accord.

OLIVER.

Let me go, I say.

ORLANDO.

I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My father charged you in his will to give me good education: you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it: therefore, allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy my fortunes.

OLIVER.

And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir, get you in; I will not long be troubled with you: you shall have some part of your will: I pray you leave me.

ORLANDO.

I no further offend you than becomes me for my good.

OLIVER.

Get you with him, you old dog.

ADAM.

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

[Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.]

OLIVER.

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

[Enter DENNIS.]

DENNIS.

Calls your worship?

OLIVER.

Was not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?

DENNIS.

So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access to you.

OLIVER.

Call him in.

[Exit DENNIS.]

—'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

[Enter CHARLES.]

CHARLES.

Good morrow to your worship.

OLIVER.

Good Monsieur Charles!—what's the new news at the new court?

CHARLES.

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

OLIVER.

Can you tell if Rosalind, the Duke's daughter, be banished with her father?

CHARLES.

O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,—being ever from their cradles bred together,—that she would have followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter; and never two ladies loved as they do.

OLIVER.

Where will the old Duke live?

CHARLES.

They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England: they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

OLIVER.

What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new Duke?

CHARLES.

Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal; that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into; in that it is thing of his own search, and altogether against my will.

OLIVER.

Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret and villainous contriver against me his natural brother: therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other: for, I assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.

CHARLES.

I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again I'll never wrestle for prize more: and so, God keep your worship!

[Exit.]

OLIVER.

Farewell, good Charles.—Now will I stir this gamester: I hope I shall see an end of him: for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never schooled and yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised: but it shall not be so long; this wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither, which now I'll go about.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

A Lawn before the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

CELIA.

I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

ROSALIND.

Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any extraordinary pleasure.

CELIA.

Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I love thee; if my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously tempered as mine is to thee.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports: let me see; what think you of falling in love?

CELIA.

Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal: but love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again.

ROSALIND.

What shall be our sport, then?

CELIA.

Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favouredly.

ROSALIND.

Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature.

CELIA.

No? When Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire?—Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument?

[Enter TOUCHSTONE.]

ROSALIND.

Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.

CELIA.

Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone: for always the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.—How now, wit? whither wander you?

TOUCHSTONE.

Mistress, you must come away to your father.

CELIA.

Were you made the messenger?

TOUCHSTONE.

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

ROSALIND.

Where learned you that oath, fool?

TOUCHSTONE.

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

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

CELIA.

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

TOUCHSTONE.

By my knavery, if I had it, then I were: but if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or that mustard.

CELIA.

Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st?

TOUCHSTONE.

One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

CELIA.

My father's love is enough to honour him enough: speak no more of him: you'll be whipp'd for taxation one of these days.

TOUCHSTONE.

The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.

CELIA.

By my troth, thou sayest true: for since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

ROSALIND.

With his mouth full of news.

CELIA.

Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young.

ROSALIND.

Then shall we be news-crammed.

CELIA.

All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

[Enter LE BEAU.]

Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news?

LE BEAU.

Fair princess, you have lost much good sport.

CELIA.

Sport! of what colour?

LE BEAU.

What colour, madam? How shall I answer you?

ROSALIND.

As wit and fortune will.

TOUCHSTONE.

Or as the destinies decrees.

CELIA.

Well said: that was laid on with a trowel.

TOUCHSTONE.

Nay, if I keep not my rank,—

ROSALIND.

Thou losest thy old smell.

LE BEAU.

You amaze me, ladies; I would have told you of good wrestling, which you have lost the sight of.

ROSALIND.

Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling.

LE BEAU.

I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please your ladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do; and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it.

CELIA.

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

LE BEAU.

There comes an old man and his three sons,—

CELIA.

I could match this beginning with an old tale.

LE BEAU.

Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence—

ROSALIND.

With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by these presents,'—

LE BEAU.

The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him: so he served the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the beholders take his part with weeping.

ROSALIND.

Alas!

TOUCHSTONE.

But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost?

LE BEAU.

Why, this that I speak of.

TOUCHSTONE.

Thus men may grow wiser every day! It is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.

CELIA.

Or I, I promise thee.

ROSALIND.

But is there any else longs to see this broken music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin?

LE BEAU.

You must, if you stay here: for here is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it.

CELIA.

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

[Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, ORLANDO, CHARLES, and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK.

Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril on his forwardness.

ROSALIND.

Is yonder the man?

LE BEAU.

Even he, madam.

CELIA.

Alas, he is too young: yet he looks successfully.

DUKE FREDERICK.

How now, daughter and cousin? are you crept hither to see the wrestling?

ROSALIND.

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

DUKE FREDERICK.

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

CELIA.

Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Do so; I'll not be by.

[DUKE FREDERICK goes apart.]

LE BEAU.

Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you.

ORLANDO.

I attend them with all respect and duty.

ROSALIND.

Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler?

ORLANDO.

No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth.

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the wrestling might not go forward.

ORLANDO.

I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts: wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial: wherein if I be foiled there is but one shamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that is willing to be so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me: the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty.

ROSALIND.

The little strength that I have, I would it were with you.

CELIA.

And mine to eke out hers.

ROSALIND.

Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be deceived in you!

CELIA.

Your heart's desires be with you.

CHARLES.

Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to lie with his mother earth?

ORLANDO.

Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.

DUKE FREDERICK.

You shall try but one fall.

CHARLES.

No; I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.

ORLANDO.

You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before; but come your ways.

ROSALIND.

Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man!

CELIA.

I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg.

[CHARLES and ORLANDO wrestle.]

ROSALIND.

O excellent young man!

CELIA.

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

[CHARLES is thrown. Shout.]

DUKE FREDERICK.

No more, no more.

ORLANDO.

Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet well breathed.

DUKE FREDERICK.

How dost thou, Charles?

LE BEAU.

He cannot speak, my lord.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Bear him away.

[CHARLES is borne out.]

What is thy name, young man?

ORLANDO.

Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

DUKE FREDERICK.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else.

The world esteem'd thy father honourable,

But I did find him still mine enemy:

Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deed

Hadst thou descended from another house.

But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;

I would thou hadst told me of another father.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, Train, and LE BEAU.]

CELIA.

Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

ORLANDO.

I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,

His youngest son;—and would not change that calling

To be adopted heir to Frederick.

ROSALIND.

My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,

And all the world was of my father's mind:

Had I before known this young man his son,

I should have given him tears unto entreaties

Ere he should thus have ventur'd.

CELIA.

Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him, and encourage him:

My father's rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserv'd:

If you do keep your promises in love

But justly, as you have exceeded promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

ROSALIND.

Gentleman,

[Giving him a chain from her neck.]

Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,

That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.—

Shall we go, coz?

CELIA.

Ay.—Fare you well, fair gentleman.

ORLANDO.

Can I not say, I thank you? My better parts

Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

ROSALIND.

He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes:

I'll ask him what he would.—Did you call, sir?—

Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown

More than your enemies.

CELIA.

Will you go, coz?

ROSALIND.

Have with you.—Fare you well.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ORLANDO.

What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue?

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

O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown:

Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.

[Re-enter LE BEAU.]

LE BEAU.

Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you

To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd

High commendation, true applause, and love,

Yet such is now the Duke's condition,

That he misconstrues all that you have done.

The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,

More suits you to conceive than I to speak of.

ORLANDO.

I thank you, sir: and pray you tell me this;

Which of the two was daughter of the Duke

That here was at the wrestling?

LE BEAU.

Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;

But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter:

The other is daughter to the banish'd Duke,

And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,

To keep his daughter company; whose loves

Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.

But I can tell you that of late this Duke

Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,

Grounded upon no other argument

But that the people praise her for her virtues

And pity her for her good father's sake;

And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady

Will suddenly break forth.—Sir, fare you well!

Hereafter, in a better world than this,

I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.

ORLANDO.

I rest much bounden to you: fare you well!

[Exit LE BEAU.]

Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;

From tyrant Duke unto a tyrant brother:—

But heavenly Rosalind!

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

A Room in the Palace.

[Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.]

CELIA.

Why, cousin; why, Rosalind;—Cupid have mercy!—Not a word?

ROSALIND.

Not one to throw at a dog.

CELIA.

No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

ROSALIND.

Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.

CELIA.

But is all this for your father?

ROSALIND.

No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how full of briers is this working-day world!

CELIA.

They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

ROSALIND.

I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart.

CELIA.

Hem them away.

ROSALIND.

I would try, if I could cry hem and have him.

CELIA.

Come, come, wrestle with thy affections.

ROSALIND.

O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself.

CELIA.

O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite of a fall.—But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in good earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?

ROSALIND.

The Duke my father loved his father dearly.

CELIA.

Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando.

ROSALIND.

No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake.

CELIA.

Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

ROSALIND.

Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I do.—Look, here comes the Duke.

CELIA.

With his eyes full of anger.

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with Lords.]

DUKE FREDERICK.

Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste,

And get you from our court.

ROSALIND.

Me, uncle?

DUKE FREDERICK.

You, cousin:

Within these ten days if that thou be'st found

So near our public court as twenty miles,

Thou diest for it.

ROSALIND.

I do beseech your grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;

If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,—

As I do trust I am not,—then, dear uncle,

Never so much as in a thought unborn

Did I offend your highness.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Thus do all traitors;

If their purgation did consist in words,

They are as innocent as grace itself:—

Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not.

ROSALIND.

Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:

Tell me whereon the likelihood depends.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough.

ROSALIND.

So was I when your highness took his Dukedom;

So was I when your highness banish'd him:

Treason is not inherited, my lord:

Or, if we did derive it from our friends,

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

Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much

To think my poverty is treacherous.

CELIA.

Dear sovereign, hear me speak.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Ay, Celia: we stay'd her for your sake,

Else had she with her father rang'd along.

CELIA.

I did not then entreat to have her stay;

It was your pleasure, and your own remorse:

I was too young that time to value her;

But now I know her: if she be a traitor,

Why so am I: we still have slept together,

Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;

And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,

Still we went coupled and inseparable.

DUKE FREDERICK.

She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,

Her very silence, and her patience

Speak to the people, and they pity her.

Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;

And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous

When she is gone: then open not thy lips;

Firm and irrevocable is my doom

Which I have pass'd upon her;—she is banish'd.

CELIA.

Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege:

I cannot live out of her company.

DUKE FREDERICK.

You are a fool.—You, niece, provide yourself:

If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,

And in the greatness of my word, you die.

[Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and Lords.]

CELIA.

O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?

Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am.

ROSALIND.

I have more cause.

CELIA.

Thou hast not, cousin;

Pr'ythee be cheerful: know'st thou not the Duke

Hath banish'd me, his daughter?

ROSALIND.

That he hath not.

CELIA.

No! hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one:

Shall we be sund'red? shall we part, sweet girl?

No; let my father seek another heir.

Therefore devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us:

And do not seek to take your charge upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee.

ROSALIND.

Why, whither shall we go?

CELIA.

To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden.

ROSALIND.

Alas! what danger will it be to us,

Maids as we are, to travel forth so far?

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

CELIA.

I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,

And with a kind of umber smirch my face;

The like do you; so shall we pass along,

And never stir assailants.

ROSALIND.

Were it not better,

Because that I am more than common tall,

That I did suit me all points like a man?

A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,

A boar spear in my hand; and,—in my heart

Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will,—

We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,

As many other mannish cowards have

That do outface it with their semblances.

CELIA.

What shall I call thee when thou art a man?

ROSALIND.

I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,

And, therefore, look you call me Ganymede.

But what will you be call'd?

CELIA.

Something that hath a reference to my state:

No longer Celia, but Aliena.

ROSALIND.

But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal

The clownish fool out of your father's court?

Would he not be a comfort to our travel?

CELIA.

He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;

Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,

And get our jewels and our wealth together;

Devise the fittest time and safest way

To hide us from pursuit that will be made

After my flight. Now go we in content

To liberty, and not to banishment.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

The Forest of Arden.

[Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other LORDS, in the dress of foresters.]

DUKE SENIOR.

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 wind,

Which when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,

'This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.'

Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

AMIENS.

I would not change it. Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune

Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

DUKE SENIOR.

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.

FIRST LORD.

Indeed, my lord,

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;

And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp

Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.

To-day my lord of Amiens and myself

Did steal behind him as he lay along

Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along this wood:

To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,

That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,

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

The wretched animal 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 SENIOR.

But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

FIRST 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 abandoned of his velvet friends;

''Tis right'; quoth he; 'thus misery doth part

The flux of company:' anon, a careless herd,

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him

And never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth Jaques,

'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'

Thus most invectively he pierceth through

The body of the country, city, court,

Yea, and of this our life: swearing that we

Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,

To fright the animals, and to kill them up

In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

DUKE SENIOR.

And did you leave him in this contemplation?

SECOND LORD.

We did, my lord, weeping and commenting

Upon the sobbing deer.

DUKE SENIOR.

Show me the place:

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,

For then he's full of matter.

FIRST LORD.

I'll bring you to him straight.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

A Room in the Palace.

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK.

Can it be possible that no man saw them?

It cannot be: some villains of my court

Are of consent and sufferance in this.

FIRST LORD.

I cannot hear of any that did see her.

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,

Saw her a-bed; and in the morning early

They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.

SECOND LORD.

My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft

Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.

Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,

Confesses that she secretly o'erheard

Your daughter and her cousin much commend

The parts and graces of the wrestler

That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;

And she believes, wherever they are gone,

That youth is surely in their company.

DUKE FREDERICK.

Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither:

If he be absent, bring his brother to me,

I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;

And let not search and inquisition quail

To bring again these foolish runaways.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

Before OLIVER'S House.

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.]

ORLANDO.

Who's there?

ADAM.

What, my young master?—O my gentle master!

O my sweet master! O you memory

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

Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?

And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?

Why would you be so fond to overcome

The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?

Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies?

No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.

O, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it!

ORLANDO.

Why, what's the matter?

ADAM.

O unhappy youth,

Come not within these doors; within this roof

The enemy of all your graces lives:

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

Yet not the son; I will not call him son—

Of him I was about to call his father,—

Hath heard your praises; and this night he means

To burn the lodging where you use to lie,

And you within it: if he fail of that,

He will have other means to cut you off;

I overheard him and his practices.

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

Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

ORLANDO.

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

ADAM.

No matter whither, so you come not here.

ORLANDO.

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 lusty:

For in my youth I never did apply

Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood;

Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo

The means of weakness and debility;

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,

Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;

I'll do the service of a younger man

In all your business and necessities.

ORLANDO.

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'll go along together;

And ere we have thy youthful wages spent

We'll light upon some settled low content.

ADAM.

Master, go on; and I will follow thee

To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.—

From seventeen years till now almost fourscore

Here lived I, but now live here no more.

At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;

But at fourscore it is too late a week:

Yet fortune cannot recompense me better

Than to die well and not my master's debtor.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

The Forest of Arden.

[Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed like a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.]

ROSALIND.

O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!

TOUCHSTONE.

I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

I pray you bear with me; I can go no further.

TOUCHSTONE.

For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you: yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse.

ROSALIND.

Well, this is the Forest of Arden.

TOUCHSTONE.

Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

ROSALIND.

Ay, be so, good Touchstone.—Look you, who comes here?, a young man and an old in solemn talk.

[Enter CORIN and SILVIUS.]

CORIN.

That is the way to make her scorn you still.

SILVIUS.

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

CORIN.

I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.

SILVIUS.

No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess;

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:

But if thy love were ever like to mine,—

As sure I think did never man love so,—

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?

CORIN.

Into a thousand that I have forgotten.

SILVIUS.

O, thou didst then never love so heartily:

If thou remember'st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not lov'd:

Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,

Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,

Thou hast not lov'd:

Or if thou hast not broke from company

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,

Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe!

[Exit Silvius.]

ROSALIND.

Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,

I have by hard adventure found mine own.

TOUCHSTONE.

And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chapp'd hands had milk'd: and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears, 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

ROSALIND.

Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of.

TOUCHSTONE.

Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it.

ROSALIND.

Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion

Is much upon my fashion.

TOUCHSTONE.

And mine: but it grows something stale with me.

CELIA.

I pray you, one of you question yond man If he for gold will give us any food: I faint almost to death.

TOUCHSTONE.

Holla, you clown!

ROSALIND.

Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman.

CORIN.

Who calls?

TOUCHSTONE.

Your betters, sir.

CORIN.

Else are they very wretched.

ROSALIND.

Peace, I say.—

Good even to you, friend.

CORIN.

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

ROSALIND.

I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold

Can in this desert place buy entertainment,

Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:

Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,

And faints for succour.

CORIN.

Fair sir, I pity her,

And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,

My fortunes were more able to relieve her:

But I am shepherd to another man,

And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:

My master is of churlish disposition,

And little recks to find the way to heaven

By doing deeds of hospitality:

Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,

Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,

By reason of his absence, there is nothing

That you will feed on; but what is, come see,

And in my voice most welcome shall you be.

ROSALIND.

What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?

CORIN.

That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,

That little cares for buying anything.

ROSALIND.

I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,

Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,

And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

CELIA.

And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,

And willingly could waste my time in it.

CORIN.

Assuredly the thing is to be sold:

Go with me: if you like, upon report,

The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,

I will your very faithful feeder be,

And buy it with your gold right suddenly.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others.]

AMIENS.

[Sings.]

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES.

More, more, I pr'ythee, more.

AMIENS.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES.

I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more.

AMIENS.

My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.

JAQUES.

I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more: another stanza. Call you them stanzas?

AMIENS.

What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES.

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

AMIENS.

More at your request than to please myself.

JAQUES.

Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: but that they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you that will not, hold your tongues.

AMIENS.

Well, I'll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while: the Duke will drink under this tree:—he hath been all this day to look you.

JAQUES.

And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble, come.

SONG

[All together here.]

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas'd with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither.

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

JAQUES.

I'll give you a verse to this note that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

AMIENS.

And I'll sing it.

JAQUES.

Thus it goes:

If it do come to pass

That any man turn ass,

Leaving his wealth and ease

A stubborn will to please,

Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame;

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,

An if he will come to me.

AMIENS.

What's that "ducdame?"

JAQUES.

'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

AMIENS.

And I'll go seek the Duke; his banquet is prepared.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT II. SCENE VI.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.]

ADAM.

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

ORLANDO.

Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouth 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 comfortable: hold death awhile at the arm's end: I will here be with thee presently; and if I bring thee not something to eat, I'll give thee leave to die: but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st cheerily: and I'll be with thee quickly.—Yet thou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to some shelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there live anything in this desert. Cheerily, good Adam!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE VII.

Another part of the Forest.

[A table set. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others.]

DUKE SENIOR.

I think he be transform'd into a beast;

For I can nowhere find him like a man.

FIRST LORD.

My lord, he is but even now gone hence;

Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

DUKE SENIOR.

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.

FIRST LORD.

He saves my labour by his own approach.

[Enter JAQUES.]

DUKE SENIOR.

Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company?

What! you look merrily!

JAQUES.

A fool, a fool!—I met a fool i' the forest,

A motley fool;—a miserable world!—

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

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

And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,

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

'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I: 'No, sir,' quoth he,

'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune.'

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:

Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;

And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;

And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep contemplative;

And I did laugh sans intermission

An hour by his dial.—O noble fool!

A worthy fool!—Motley's the only wear.

DUKE SENIOR.

What fool is this?

JAQUES.

O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier,

And says, if ladies be but young and fair,

They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage,—he hath strange places cramm'd

With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms.—O that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

DUKE SENIOR.

Thou shalt have one.

JAQUES.

It is my only suit,

Provided that you weed your better judgments

Of all opinion that grows rank in them

That I am wise. I must have liberty

Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:

And they that are most galled with my folly,

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 squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through

Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

DUKE SENIOR.

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

JAQUES.

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

DUKE SENIOR.

Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;

For thou thyself hast been a libertine,

As sensual as the brutish sting itself;

And all the embossed sores and headed evils

That thou with license of free foot hast caught

Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world.

JAQUES.

Why, who cries out on pride

That can therein tax any private party?

Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,

Till that the 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 metal of my speech?

There then; how then? what then? Let me see wherein

My tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,

Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,

Why then, my taxing like a wild-goose flies,

Unclaim'd of any man.—But who comes here?

[Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.]

ORLANDO.

Forbear, and eat no more.

JAQUES.

Why, I have eat none yet.

ORLANDO.

Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd.

JAQUES.

Of what kind should this cock come of?

DUKE SENIOR.

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?

ORLANDO.

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.

JAQUES.

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

DUKE SENIOR.

What would you have? your gentleness shall force

More than your force move us to gentleness.

ORLANDO.

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

DUKE SENIOR.

Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

ORLANDO.

Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:

I thought that all things had been savage here;

And therefore put I on the countenance

Of stern commandment. But whate'er you are

That in this desert inaccessible,

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;

If ever you have look'd on better days,

If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,

If ever sat at any good man's feast,

If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,

And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:

In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

DUKE SENIOR.

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.

ORLANDO.

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 suffic'd,—

Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,—

I will not touch a bit.

DUKE SENIOR.

Go find him out.

And we will nothing waste till you return.

ORLANDO.

I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR.

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

JAQUES.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;

Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a 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,

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 with ADAM.]

DUKE SENIOR.

Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,

And let him feed.

ORLANDO.

I thank you most for him.

ADAM.

So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

DUKE SENIOR.

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

I.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

II.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! &c.

DUKE SENIOR.

If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,—

As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

Most truly limn'd and living in your face,—

Be truly welcome hither: I am the Duke

That 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.

[Exeunt]

ACT III. SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace.

[Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords and Attendants.]

DUKE FREDERICK.

Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:

But were I not the better part made mercy,

I should not seek an absent argument

Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it:

Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is:

Seek him with candle; bring him dead or living

Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more

To seek a living in our territory.

Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine

Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands,

Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth

Of what we think against thee.

OLIVER.

O that your highness knew my heart in this!

I never lov'd my brother in my life.

DUKE FREDERICK.

More villain thou.—Well, push him out of doors,

And let my officers of such a nature

Make an extent upon his house and lands:

Do this expediently, and turn him going.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The Forest of Arden.

[Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.]

ORLANDO.

Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;

And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey

With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway.

O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,

And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,

That every eye which in this forest looks

Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where.

Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CORIN.

And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?

TOUCHSTONE.

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

CORIN.

No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

TOUCHSTONE.

Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court, shepherd?

CORIN.

No, truly.

TOUCHSTONE.

Then thou art damned.

CORIN.

Nay, I hope,—

TOUCHSTONE.

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

CORIN.

For not being at court? Your reason.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

CORIN.

Not a whit, Touchstone; those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute not at the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if courtiers were shepherds.

TOUCHSTONE.

Instance, briefly; come, instance.

CORIN.

Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells, you know, are greasy.

TOUCHSTONE.

Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: a better instance, I say; come.

CORIN.

Besides, our hands are hard.

TOUCHSTONE.

Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again: a more sounder instance; come.

CORIN.

And they are often tarred over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's hands are perfumed with civet.

TOUCHSTONE.

Most shallow man! thou worm's-meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed!—Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar,—the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd.

CORIN.

You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.

TOUCHSTONE.

Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw.

CORIN.

Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

TOUCHSTONE.

That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get your living by the copulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether; and to betray a she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for this, the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else how thou shouldst 'scape.

CORIN.

Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother.

[Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND.

'From the east to western Ind,

No jewel is like Rosalind.

Her worth, being mounted on the wind,

Through all the world bears Rosalind.

All the pictures fairest lin'd

Are but black to Rosalind.

Let no face be kept in mind

But the fair of Rosalind.'

TOUCHSTONE.

I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted. It is the right butter-women's rank to market.

ROSALIND.

Out, fool!

TOUCHSTONE.

For a taste:—

If a hart do lack a hind,

Let him seek out Rosalind.

If the cat will after kind,

So be sure will Rosalind.

Winter garments must be lin'd,

So must slender Rosalind.

They that reap must sheaf and bind,—

Then to cart with Rosalind.

Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,

Such a nut is Rosalind.

He that sweetest rose will find

Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.

This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infect yourself with them?

ROSALIND.

Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree.

TOUCHSTONE.

Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND.

I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit in the country: for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

TOUCHSTONE.

You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge.

[Enter CELIA, reading a paper.]

ROSALIND.

Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

CELIA.

'Why should this a desert be?

For it is unpeopled? No;

Tongues I'll hang on every tree

That shall civil sayings show:

Some, how brief the life of man

Runs his erring pilgrimage,

That the streching of a span

Buckles in his sum of age.

Some, of violated vows

'Twixt the souls of friend and friend;

But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence end,

Will I Rosalinda write,

Teaching all that read to know

The quintessence of every sprite

Heaven would in little show.

Therefore heaven nature charg'd

That one body should be fill'd

With all graces wide-enlarg'd:

Nature presently distill'd

Helen's cheek, but not her heart;

Cleopatra's majesty;

Atalanta's better part;

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devis'd,

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest priz'd.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have,

And I to live and die her slave.'

ROSALIND.

O most gentle Jupiter!—What tedious homily of love have you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Have patience, good people!'

CELIA.

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

TOUCHSTONE.

Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage.

[Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE.]

CELIA.

Didst thou hear these verses?

ROSALIND.

O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them had in them more feet than the verses would bear.

CELIA.

That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.

ROSALIND.

Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.

CELIA.

But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be hanged and carved upon these trees?

ROSALIND.

I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree: I was never so berhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can hardly remember.

CELIA.

Trow you who hath done this?

ROSALIND.

Is it a man?

CELIA.

And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour?

ROSALIND.

I pray thee, who?

CELIA.

O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; but mountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter.

ROSALIND.

Nay, but who is it?

CELIA.

Is it possible?

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

So you may put a man in your belly.

ROSALIND.

Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard?

CELIA.

Nay, he hath but a little beard.

ROSALIND.

Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful: let me stay the growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin.

CELIA.

It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an instant.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

I' faith, coz, 'tis he.

ROSALIND.

Orlando?

CELIA.

Orlando.

ROSALIND.

Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?—What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

CELIA.

You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a word too great for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no to these particulars is more than to answer in a catechism.

ROSALIND.

But doth he know that I am in this forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled?

CELIA.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover:—but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it with good observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

Give me audience, good madam.

ROSALIND.

Proceed.

CELIA.

There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight.

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

'Tis he: slink by, and note him.

{CELIA and ROSALIND retire.]

[Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.]

JAQUES.

I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone.

ORLANDO.

And so had I; but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank you too for your society.

JAQUES.

God buy you: let's meet as little as we can.

ORLANDO.

I do desire we may be better strangers.

JAQUES.

I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs in their barks.

ORLANDO.

I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them ill-favouredly.

JAQUES.

Rosalind is your love's name?

ORLANDO.

Yes, just.

JAQUES.

I do not like her name.

ORLANDO.

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

JAQUES.

What stature is she of?

ORLANDO.

Just as high as my heart.

JAQUES.

You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings?

ORLANDO.

Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence you have studied your questions.

JAQUES.

You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will rail against our mistress the world, and all our misery.

ORLANDO.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.

JAQUES.

The worst fault you have is to be in love.

ORLANDO.

'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I am weary of you.

JAQUES.

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

ORLANDO.

He is drowned in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him.

JAQUES.

There I shall see mine own figure.

ORLANDO.

Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.

JAQUES.

I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love.

ORLANDO.

I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit JAQUES.—CELIA and ROSALIND come forward.]

ROSALIND.

I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey, and under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear, forester?

ORLANDO.

Very well: what would you?

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal?

ROSALIND.

Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized; if the interim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year.

ORLANDO.

Who ambles time withal?

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

Who doth he gallop withal?

ROSALIND.

With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

ORLANDO.

Who stays it still withal?

ROSALIND.

With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how time moves.

ORLANDO.

Where dwell you, pretty youth?

ROSALIND.

With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

ORLANDO.

Are you native of this place?

ROSALIND.

As the coney, that you see dwell where she is kindled.

ORLANDO.

Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

ROSALIND.

I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

There were none principal; they were all like one another as halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault came to match it.

ORLANDO.

I pr'ythee recount some of them.

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.

ORLANDO.

What were his marks?

ROSALIND.

A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye and sunken; which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a beard neglected; which you have not: but I pardon you for that, for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue:—then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other.

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

ORLANDO.

I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

ROSALIND.

But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

ORLANDO.

Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

ROSALIND.

Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

ORLANDO.

Did you ever cure any so?

ROSALIND.

Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and women are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in 't.

ORLANDO.

I would not be cured, youth.

ROSALIND.

I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote and woo me.

ORLANDO.

Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is.

ROSALIND.

Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

ORLANDO.

With all my heart, good youth.

ROSALIND.

Nay, you must call me Rosalind.—Come, sister, will you go?

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES at a distance observing them.]

TOUCHSTONE.

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

AUDREY.

Your features! Lord warrant us! what features?

TOUCHSTONE.

I am here with thee and thy goats, as the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths.

JAQUES.

[Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited! Worse than Jove in a thatch'd house!

TOUCHSTONE.

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

AUDREY.

I do not know what "poetical" is: is it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?

TOUCHSTONE.

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

AUDREY.

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

TOUCHSTONE.

I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didst feign.

AUDREY.

Would you not have me honest?

TOUCHSTONE.

No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.

JAQUES.

[Aside] A material fool!

AUDREY.

Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make me honest!

TOUCHSTONE.

Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

AUDREY.

I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

JAQUES.

[Aside] I would fain see this meeting.

AUDREY.

Well, the gods give us joy!

TOUCHSTONE.

Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said,—"Many a man knows no end of his goods;" right! many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none of his own getting. Horns? Ever to poor men alone?—No, no; the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable than the bare brow of a bachelor: and by how much defence is better than no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver.

[Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT.]

Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel?

MARTEXT.

Is there none here to give the woman?

TOUCHSTONE.

I will not take her on gift of any man.

MARTEXT.

Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful.

JAQUES.

[Discovering himself.] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her.

TOUCHSTONE.

Good even, good Master 'What-ye-call't': how do you, sir? You are very well met: God 'ild you for your last company: I am very glad to see you:—even a toy in hand here, sir:—nay; pray be covered.

JAQUES.

Will you be married, motley?

TOUCHSTONE.

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

JAQUES.

And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and like green timber, warp, warp.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

JAQUES.

Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

TOUCHSTONE.

Come, sweet Audrey;

We must be married or we must live in bawdry.

Farewell, good Master Oliver!—Not—

"O sweet Oliver,

O brave Oliver,

Leave me not behind thee."

But,—

"Wind away,—

Begone, I say,

I will not to wedding with thee."

[Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY.]

MARTEXT.

'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage.

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ROSALIND.

Never talk to me; I will weep.

CELIA.

Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.

ROSALIND.

But have I not cause to weep?

CELIA.

As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.

ROSALIND.

His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

CELIA.

Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are Judas's own children.

ROSALIND.

I' faith, his hair is of a good colour.

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

ROSALIND.

But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

CELIA.

Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.

ROSALIND.

Do you think so?

CELIA.

Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.

ROSALIND.

Not true in love?

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

You have heard him swear downright he was.

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. —Who comes here?

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN.

Mistress and master, you have oft enquired

After the shepherd that complain'd of love,

Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

That was his mistress.

CELIA.

Well, and what of him?

CORIN.

If you will see a pageant truly play'd

Between the pale complexion of true love

And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,

If you will mark it.

ROSALIND.

O, come, let us remove:

The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.

Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

SILVIUS.

Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:

Say that you love me not; but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,

Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck

But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

[Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance.]

PHEBE.

I would not be thy executioner:

I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.

Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye:

'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,

That eyes,—that are the frail'st and softest things,

Who shut their coward gates on atomies,—

Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers!

Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

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

Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;

Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,

Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:

Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains

Some scar of it; lean upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,

Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyes

That can do hurt.

SILVIUS.

O dear Phebe,

If ever,—as that ever may be near,—

You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,

Then shall you know the wounds invisible

That love's keen arrows make.

PHEBE.

But till that time

Come not thou near me; and when that time comes

Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As till that time I shall not pity thee.

ROSALIND.

[Advancing]

And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,—

As, by my faith, I see no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed,—

Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?

I see no more in you than in the ordinary

Of nature's sale-work:—Od's my little life,

I think she means to tangle my eyes too!—

No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;

'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,

Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,

That can entame my spirits to your worship.—

You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,

Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?

You are a thousand times a properer man

Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you

That makes the world full of ill-favour'd children:

'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;

And out of you she sees herself more proper

Than any of her lineaments can show her;—

But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,

And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:

For I must tell you friendly in your ear,—

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:

Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;

Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.

So take her to thee, shepherd;—fare you well.

PHEBE.

Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together:

I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

ROSALIND.

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

PHEBE.

For no ill-will I bear you.

ROSALIND.

I pray you do not fall in love with me,

For I am falser than vows made in wine:

Besides, I like you not.—If you will know my house,

'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by.—

Will you go, sister?—Shepherd, ply her hard.—

Come, sister.—Shepherdess, look on him better,

And be not proud; though all the world could see,

None could be so abused in sight as he.

Come to our flock.

[Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN.]

PHEBE.

Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;

'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?'

SILVIUS.

Sweet Phebe,—

PHEBE.

Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS.

Sweet Phebe, pity me.

PHEBE.

Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SILVIUS.

Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:

If you do sorrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your sorrow and my grief

Were both extermin'd.

PHEBE.

Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?

SILVIUS.

I would have you.

PHEBE.

Why, that were covetousness.

Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;

And yet it is not that I bear thee love:

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,

Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,

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

But do not look for further recompense

Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

SILVIUS.

So holy and so perfect is my love,

And I in such a poverty of grace,

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: lose now and then

A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

PHEBE.

Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?

SILVIUS.

Not very well; but I have met him oft;

And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds

That the old carlot once was master of.

PHEBE.

Think not I love him, though I ask for him;

'Tis but a peevish boy:—yet he talks well;—

But what care I for words? yet words do well

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.

It is a pretty youth:—not very pretty:—

But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

He'll make a proper man: the best thing in him

Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.

He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;

His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well:

There was a pretty redness in his lip;

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him

In parcels as I did, would have gone near

To fall in love with him: but, for my part,

I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more cause to hate him than to love him:

For what had he to do to chide at me?

He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black;

And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me:

I marvel why I answer'd not again:

But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.

I'll write to him a very taunting letter,

And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS.

Phebe, with all my heart.

PHEBE.

I'll write it straight,

The matter's in my head and in my heart:

I will be bitter with him and passing short:

Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

SCENE I. The Forest of Arden.

[Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.]

JAQUES.

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

ROSALIND.

They say you are a melancholy fellow.

JAQUES.

I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

ROSALIND.

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

JAQUES.

Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing.

ROSALIND.

Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

JAQUES.

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

ROSALIND.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

JAQUES.

Yes, I have gained my experience.

ROSALIND.

And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too.

[Enter ORLANDO.]

ORLANDO.

Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!

JAQUES.

Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.

ROSALIND.

Farewell, monsieur traveller: look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES.] Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover!—An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

ORLANDO.

My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

ROSALIND.

Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

ORLANDO.

Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

Of a snail!

ROSALIND.

Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman: besides, he brings his destiny with him.

ORLANDO.

What's that?

ROSALIND.

Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

ORLANDO.

Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

ROSALIND.

And I am your Rosalind.

CELIA.

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

ROSALIND.

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent.—What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind?

ORLANDO.

I would kiss before I spoke.

ROSALIND.

Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking,—God warn us!—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

ORLANDO.

How if the kiss be denied?

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

ROSALIND.

Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

ORLANDO.

What, of my suit?

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

ORLANDO.

Then, in mine own person, I die.

ROSALIND.

No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was—Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

Then love me, Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.

ORLANDO.

And wilt thou have me?

ROSALIND.

Ay, and twenty such.

ORLANDO.

What sayest thou?

ROSALIND.

Are you not good?

ORLANDO.

I hope so.

ROSALIND.

Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando:—What do you say, sister?

ORLANDO.

Pray thee, marry us.

CELIA.

I cannot say the words.

ROSALIND.

You must begin,—'Will you, Orlando'—

CELIA.

Go to:—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

ORLANDO.

I will.

ROSALIND.

Ay, but when?

ORLANDO.

Why, now; as fast as she can marry us.

ROSALIND.

Then you must say,—'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.'

ORLANDO.

I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

ROSALIND.

I might ask you for your commission; but,—I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband:—there's a girl goes before the priest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before her actions.

ORLANDO.

So do all thoughts; they are winged.

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

For ever and a day.

ROSALIND.

Say "a day," without the "ever." No, no, Orlando: men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.

ORLANDO.

But will my Rosalind do so?

ROSALIND.

By my life, she will do as I do.

ORLANDO.

O, but she is wise.

ROSALIND.

Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut that, and it will out at the keyhole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

ORLANDO.

A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,—'Wit, whither wilt?'

ROSALIND.

Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife's wit going to your neighbour's bed.

ORLANDO.

And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

ROSALIND.

Marry, to say,—she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer, unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband's occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.

ORLANDO.

For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

ROSALIND.

Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!

ORLANDO.

I must attend the Duke at dinner; by two o'clock I will be with thee again.

ROSALIND.

Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less:—that flattering tongue of yours won me:—'tis but one cast away, and so,—come death!—Two o'clock is your hour?

ORLANDO.

Ay, sweet Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.

ORLANDO.

With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so, adieu!

ROSALIND.

Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try: adieu!

[Exit ORLANDO.]

CELIA.

You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate: we must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

ROSALIND.

O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

CELIA.

Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

ROSALIND.

No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blind rascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love.—I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come.

CELIA.

And I'll sleep.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of Foresters.]

JAQUES.

Which is he that killed the deer?

LORD.

Sir, it was I.

JAQUES.

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

LORD.

Yes, sir.

JAQUES.

Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

SONG.

What shall he have that kill'd the deer?

His leather skin and horns to wear.

Then sing him home. The rest shall bear

This burden.

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere thou wast born.

Thy father's father wore it;

And thy father bore it;

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.]

ROSALIND.

How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock?

And here much Orlando!

CELIA.

I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth—to sleep. Look, who comes here.

[Enter SILVIUS.]

SILVIUS.

My errand is to you, fair youth;—

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this:

[Giving a letter.]

I know not the contents; but, as I guess

By the stern brow and waspish action

Which she did use as she was writing of it,

It bears an angry tenor: pardon me,

I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND.

Patience herself would startle at this letter,

And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:

She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;

She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,

Were man as rare as Phoenix. Od's my will!

Her love is not the hare that I do hunt;

Why writes she so to me?—Well, shepherd, well,

This is a letter of your own device.

SILVIUS.

No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write it.

ROSALIND.

Come, come, you are a fool,

And turn'd into the extremity of love.

I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,

A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did think

That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;

She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter:

I say she never did invent this letter:

This is a man's invention, and his hand.

SILVIUS.

Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND.

Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;

A style for challengers: why, she defies me,

Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brain

Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,

Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect

Than in their countenance.—Will you hear the letter?

SILVIUS.

So please you, for I never heard it yet;

Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty.

ROSALIND.

She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes.

[Reads]

'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd,

That a maiden's heart hath burn'd?'

Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS.

Call you this railing?

ROSALIND.

'Why, thy godhead laid apart,

Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?'

Did you ever hear such railing?

'Whiles the eye of man did woo me,

That could do no vengeance to me.'—

Meaning me a beast.—

'If the scorn of your bright eyne

Have power to raise such love in mine,

Alack, in me what strange effect

Would they work in mild aspect?

Whiles you chid me, I did love;

How then might your prayers move?

He that brings this love to thee

Little knows this love in me:

And by him seal up thy mind;

Whether that thy youth and kind

Will the faithful offer take

Of me and all that I can make;

Or else by him my love deny,

And then I'll study how to die.'

SILVIUS.

Call you this chiding?

CELIA.

Alas, poor shepherd!

ROSALIND.

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

[Exit SILVIUS.]

[Enter OLIVER.]

OLIVER.

Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,

Where in the purlieus of this forest stands

A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

CELIA.

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.

OLIVER.

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?

CELIA.

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

OLIVER.

Orlando doth commend him to you both;

And to that youth he calls his Rosalind

He sends this bloody napkin:—are you he?

ROSALIND.

I am: what must we understand by this?

OLIVER.

Some of my shame; if you will know of me

What man I am, and how, and why, and where,

This handkerchief was stain'd.

CELIA.

I pray you, tell it.

OLIVER.

When last the young Orlando parted from you,

He left a promise to return again

Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest,

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,

Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,

And, mark, what object did present itself!

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,

Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck

A green and gilded snake had 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 cat-like watch,

When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis

The royal disposition of that beast

To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:

This seen, Orlando did approach the man,

And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

CELIA.

O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural

That liv'd amongst men.

OLIVER.

And well he might so do,

For well I know he was unnatural.

ROSALIND.

But, to Orlando:—did he leave him there,

Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness?

OLIVER.

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.

CELIA.

Are you his brother?

ROSALIND.

Was it you he rescued?

CELIA.

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

OLIVER.

'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shame

To tell you what I was, since my conversion

So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

ROSALIND.

But, for the bloody napkin?—

OLIVER.

By and by.

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,

Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,

Committing me unto my brother's love,

Who led me instantly unto his cave,

There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm

The lioness had torn some flesh away,

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

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.

Brief, 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,

Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd-youth

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[ROSALIND faints.]

CELIA.

Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede!

OLIVER.

Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

CELIA.

There is more in it:—Cousin—Ganymede!

OLIVER.

Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND.

I would I were at home.

CELIA.

We'll lead you thither:—I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

OLIVER.

Be of good cheer, youth:—you a man?—You lack a man's heart.

ROSALIND.

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

OLIVER.

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

ROSALIND.

Counterfeit, I assure you.

OLIVER.

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

ROSALIND.

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

CELIA.

Come, you look paler and paler: pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.

OLIVER.

That will I, for I must bear answer back

How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go?

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Forest of Arden.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE.

We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

AUDREY.

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

TOUCHSTONE.

A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

AUDREY.

Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in me in the world: here comes the man you mean.

[Enter WILLIAM.]

TOUCHSTONE.

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

WILLIAM.

Good even, Audrey.

AUDREY.

God ye good even, William.

WILLIAM.

And good even to you, sir.

TOUCHSTONE.

Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

WILLIAM.

Five and twenty, sir.

TOUCHSTONE.

A ripe age. Is thy name William?

WILLIAM.

William, sir.

TOUCHSTONE.

A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here?

WILLIAM.

Ay, sir, I thank God.

TOUCHSTONE.

"Thank God;"—a good answer. Art rich?

WILLIAM.

Faith, sir, so-so.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

WILLIAM.

Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

TOUCHSTONE.

Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying; 'The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?

WILLIAM.

I do, sir.

TOUCHSTONE.

Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

WILLIAM.

No, sir.

TOUCHSTONE.

Then learn this of me:—to have is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I am he.

WILLIAM.

Which he, sir?

TOUCHSTONE.

He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in the vulgar, leave,—the society,—which in the boorish is company,—of this female,—which in the common is woman,—which together is abandon the society of this female; or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with thee in faction; will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart.

AUDREY.

Do, good William.

WILLIAM.

God rest you merry, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter CORIN.]

CORIN.

Our master and mistress seek you; come away, away!

TOUCHSTONE.

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

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.]

ORLANDO.

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

OLIVER.

Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say, with her, that she loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy each other: it shall be to your good; for my father's house, and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.

ORLANDO.

You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither will I invite the Duke and all's contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

[Enter ROSALIND.]

ROSALIND.

God save you, brother.

OLIVER.

And you, fair sister.

[Exit.]

ROSALIND.

O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

ORLANDO.

It is my arm.

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he show'd me your handkercher?

ORLANDO.

Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND.

O, I know where you are:—nay, 'tis true: there was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's thrasonical brag of "I came, saw, and overcame:" for your brother and my sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked, but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed; no sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy: and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are in the very wrath of love, and they will together: clubs cannot part them.

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

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

ORLANDO.

I can live no longer by thinking.

ROSALIND.

I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. Know of me then,—for now I speak to some purpose,—that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things: I have, since I was three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her:—I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without any danger.

ORLANDO.

Speak'st thou in sober meanings?

ROSALIND.

By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover of hers.

[Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.]

PHEBE.

Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,

To show the letter that I writ to you.

ROSALIND.

I care not if I have: it is my study

To seem despiteful and ungentle to you:

You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;

Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHEBE.

Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love.

SILVIUS.

It is to be all made of sighs and tears;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE.

And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO.

And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

And I for no woman.

SILVIUS.

It is to be all made of faith and service;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE.

And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO.

And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

And I for no woman.

SILVIUS.

It is to be all made of fantasy,

All made of passion, and all made of wishes;

All adoration, duty, and observance,

All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,

All purity, all trial, all observance;—

And so am I for Phebe.

PHEBE.

And so am I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO.

And so am I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND.

And so am I for no woman.

PHEBE.

[To ROSALIND.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

SILVIUS.

[To PHEBE.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

Why do you speak too,—'Why blame you me to love you?'

ORLANDO.

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

ROSALIND.

Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon.—[to SILVIUS] I will help you if I can;—[to PHEBE] I would love you if I could.—To-morrow meet me all together.—[to PHEBE] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow:—[to ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow:—[to SILVIUS] I will content you if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married to-morrow. [to ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;—and as I love no woman, I'll meet.—So, fare you well; I have left you commands.

SILVIUS.

I'll not fail, if I live.

PHEBE.

Nor I.

ORLANDO.

Nor I.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE.

To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we be married.

AUDREY.

I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Here come two of the banished Duke's pages.

[Enter two Pages.]

FIRST PAGE.

Well met, honest gentleman.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

SECOND PAGE.

We are for you: sit i' the middle.

FIRST PAGE.

Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?

SECOND PAGE.

I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on a horse.

SONG.

I.

It was a lover and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o'er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

II.

Between the acres of the rye,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

III.

This carol they began that hour,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

IV.

And therefore take the present time,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crowned with the prime,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:

Sweet lovers love the spring.

TOUCHSTONE.

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

FIRST PAGE.

You are deceived, sir; we kept time, we lost not our time.

TOUCHSTONE.

By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be with you; and God mend your voices! Come, Audrey.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Another part of the Forest.

[Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR.

Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy

Can do all this that he hath promised?

ORLANDO.

I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not:

As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

[Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.]

ROSALIND.

Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:—

[To the Duke.]

You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,

You will bestow her on Orlando here?

DUKE SENIOR.

That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.

ROSALIND.

[To Orlando.]

And you say you will have her when I bring her?

ORLANDO.

That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

ROSALIND.

[To Phebe.]

You say you'll marry me, if I be willing?

PHEBE.

That will I, should I die the hour after.

ROSALIND.

But if you do refuse to marry me,

You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

PHEBE.

So is the bargain.

ROSALIND.

[To Silvius.]

You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will?

SILVIUS.

Though to have her and death were both one thing.

ROSALIND.

I have promis'd to make all this matter even.

Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter;—

You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter;—

Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me;

Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:—

Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry her

If she refuse me:—and from hence I go,

To make these doubts all even.

[Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.]

DUKE SENIOR.

I do remember in this shepherd-boy

Some lively touches of my daughter's favour.

ORLANDO.

My lord, the first time that I ever saw him

Methought he was a brother to your daughter:

But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,

And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments

Of many desperate studies by his uncle,

Whom he reports to be a great magician,

Obscured in the circle of this forest.

JAQUES.

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

[Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.]

TOUCHSTONE.

Salutation and greeting to you all!

JAQUES.

Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.

TOUCHSTONE.

If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.

JAQUES.

And how was that ta'en up?

TOUCHSTONE.

Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.

JAQUES.

How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow.

DUKE SENIOR.

I like him very well.

TOUCHSTONE.

God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear; according as marriage binds and blood breaks:—A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will; rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor-house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

DUKE SENIOR.

By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

TOUCHSTONE.

According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.

JAQUES.

But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

TOUCHSTONE.

Upon a lie seven times removed;—bear your body more seeming, Audrey:—as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called the Retort courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself: this is called the Quip Modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is called the Reply Churlish. If again, it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true: this is called the Reproof Valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say I lie: this is called the Countercheck Quarrelsome: and so, to the Lie Circumstantial, and the Lie Direct.

JAQUES.

And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?

TOUCHSTONE.

I durst go no further than the Lie Circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the Lie Direct; and so we measured swords and parted.

JAQUES.

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?

TOUCHSTONE.

O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you have books for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too with an 'If'. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an 'If', as: 'If you said so, then I said so;' and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your 'If' is the only peace-maker;—much virtue in 'If.'

JAQUES.

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

DUKE SENIOR.

He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

[Enter HYMEN, leading ROSALIND in woman's clothes; and CELIA.]

[Still MUSIC.]

HYMEN.

Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even

Atone together.

Good Duke, receive thy daughter;

Hymen from heaven brought her,

Yea, brought her hither,

That thou mightst join her hand with his,

Whose heart within his bosom is.

ROSALIND.

[To DUKE SENIOR.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

[To ORLANDO.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

DUKE SENIOR.

If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

ORLANDO.

If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

PHEBE.

If sight and shape be true,

Why then, my love, adieu!

ROSALIND.

[To DUKE SENIOR.] I'll have no father, if you be not he;—

[To ORLANDO.] I'll have no husband, if you be not he;—

[To PHEBE.] Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

HYMEN.

Peace, ho! I bar confusion:

'Tis I must make conclusion

Of these most strange events:

Here's eight that must take hands

To join in Hymen's bands,

If truth holds true contents.

[To ORLANDO and ROSALIND.] You and you no cross shall part:

[To OLIVER and CELIA.] You and you are heart in heart;

[To PHEBE.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:—

[To TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.] You and you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish,

How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG

Wedding is great Juno's crown;

O blessed bond of board and bed!

'Tis Hymen peoples every town;

High wedlock then be honoured;

Honour, high honour, and renown,

To Hymen, god of every town!

DUKE SENIOR.

O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me!

Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

PHEBE.

[To SILVIUS.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;

Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

[Enter JAQUES DE BOIS.]

JAQUES DE BOIS.

Let me have audience for a word or two;

I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,

That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:—

Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day

Men of great worth resorted to this forest,

Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,

In his own conduct, purposely to take

His brother here, and put him to the sword:

And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;

Where, meeting with an old religious man,

After some question with him, was converted

Both from his enterprise and from the world;

His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,

And all their lands restored to them again

That were with him exil'd. This to be true

I do engage my life.

DUKE SENIOR.

Welcome, young man:

Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's wedding:

To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,

A land itself at large, a potent Dukedom.

First, in this forest, let us do those ends

That here were well begun and well begot:

And after, every of this happy number,

That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,

Shall share the good of our returned fortune,

According to the measure of their states.

Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,

And fall into our rustic revelry:—

Play, music!—and you brides and bridegrooms all,

With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.

JAQUES.

Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,

The Duke hath put on a religious life,

And thrown into neglect the pompous court?

JAQUES DE BOIS.

He hath.

JAQUES.

To him will I: out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learn'd.—

[To DUKE SENIOR] You to your former honour I bequeath;

Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:—

[To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:—

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

[To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed:—

[To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyage

Is but for two months victuall'd.—So to your pleasures;

I am for other than for dancing measures.

DUKE SENIOR.

Stay, Jaques, stay.

JAQUES.

To see no pastime I; what you would have

I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave.

[Exit.]

DUKE SENIOR.

Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,

As we do trust they'll end, in true delights.

[A dance.]

EPILOGUE.

ROSALIND.

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in, then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me: my way is to conjure you; and I'll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women;—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them,—that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

SOLINUS: Duke of Ephesus.

AEGEON: a Merchant of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE: Twin brothers and sons to Aegion and Aemelia, but unknown to each other.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS, DROMIO OF SYRACUSE: Twin brothers, and attendants on the two Antipholuses.

BALTHAZAR: a Merchant.

ANGELO: a Goldsmith.

A MERCHANT: friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.

PINCH: a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer.

AEMILIA: Wife to Aegeon, an Abbess at Ephesus.

ADRIANA: Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.

LUCIANA: her Sister.

LUCE: her Servant.

A COURTEZAN

Gaoler, Officers, Attendants

SCENE: Ephesus

ACT I. SCENE I.

A hall in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter the DUKE, AEGEON, GAOLER, OFFICERS, and other ATTENDANTS.]

AEGEON.

Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,

And, by the doom of death, end woes and all.

DUKE.

Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;

I am not partial to infringe our laws:

The enmity and discord which of late

Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your Duke

To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,—

Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives,

Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,—

Excludes all pity from our threat'ning looks.

For, since the mortal and intestine jars

'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,

It hath in solemn synods been decreed,

Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,

To admit no traffic to our adverse towns;

Nay, more, if any born at Ephesus be seen

At any Syracusian marts and fairs;—

Again, if any Syracusian born

Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,

His goods confiscate to the Duke's dispose;

Unless a thousand marks be levied,

To quit the penalty and to ransom him.—

Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,

Cannot amount unto a hundred marks:

Therefore by law thou art condemn'd to die.

AEGEON.

Yet this my comfort,—when your words are done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

DUKE.

Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, the cause

Why thou departedst from thy native home,

And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus.

AEGEON.

A heavier task could not have been impos'd

Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable!

Yet, that the world may witness that my end

Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,

I'll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.

In Syracuse was I born; and wed

Unto a woman, happy but for me,

And by me too, had not our hap been bad.

With her I liv'd in joy; our wealth increas'd

By prosperous voyages I often made

To Epidamnum, till my factor's death,

And he,—great care of goods at random left,—

Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:

From whom my absence was not six months old,

Before herself,—almost at fainting under

The pleasing punishment that women bear,—

Had made provision for her following me,

And soon and safe arrived where I was.

There had she not been long but she became

A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

And, which was strange, the one so like the other

As could not be disdnguish'd but by names.

That very hour, and in the self-same inn,

A mean woman was delivered

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:

Those,—for their parents were exceeding poor,—

I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,

Made daily motions for our home return:

Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon!

We came aboard:

A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd

Before the always-wind-obeying deep

Gave any tragic instance of our harm;

But longer did we not retain much hope:

For what obscured light the heavens did grant

Did but convey unto our fearful minds

A doubtful warrant of immediate death;

Which though myself would gladly have embrac'd,

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,

Weeping before for what she saw must come,

And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,

That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear,

Forc'd me to seek delays for them and me.

And this it was,—for other means was none.—

The sailors sought for safety by our boat,

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us;:

My wife, more careful for the latter-born,

Had fast'ned him unto a small spare mast,

Such as sea-faring men provide for storms:

To him one of the other twins was bound,

Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.

The children thus dispos'd, my wife and I,

Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,

Fast'ned ourselves at either end the mast,

And, floating straight, obedient to the stream,

Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.

At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,

Dispers'd those vapours that offended us;

And, by the benefit of his wish'd light,

The seas wax'd calm, and we discover'd

Two ships from far making amain to us,—

Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:

But ere they came—O, let me say no more!—

Gather the sequel by that went before.

DUKE.

Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so;

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

AEGEON.

O, had the gods done so, I had not now

Worthily term'd them merciless to us!

For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,

We were encount'red by a mighty rock,

Which being violently borne upon,

Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;

So that, in this unjust divorce of us,

Fortune had left to both of us alike

What to delight in, what to sorrow for.

Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened

With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,

Was carried with more speed before the wind;

And in our sight they three were taken up

By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.

At length another ship had seiz'd on us;

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,

Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wreck'd guests;

And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

Had not their bark been very slow of sail,

And therefore homeward did they bend their course.—

Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;

That by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,

To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

DUKE.

And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,

Do me the favour to dilate at full

What have befall'n of them and thee till now.

AEGEON.

My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,

At eighteen years became inquisitive

After his brother, and importun'd me

That his attendant,—so his case was like,

Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name,—

Might bear him company in the quest of him:

Whom whilst I laboured of a love to see,

I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd.

Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,

Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,

And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;

Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought

Or that or any place that harbours men.

But here must end the story of my life;

And happy were I in my timely death,

Could all my travels warrant me they live.

DUKE.

Hapless Aegeon, whom the fates have mark'd

To bear the extremity of dire mishap!

Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,

Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,

Which princes, would they, may not disannul,

My soul should sue as advocate for thee.

But though thou art adjudged to the death,

And passed sentence may not be recall'd

But to our honour's great disparagement,

Yet will I favour thee in what I can:

Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day

To seek thy help by beneficial help:

Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus:

Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,

And live; if not, then thou art doom'd to die.—

Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

GAOLER.

I will, my lord.

AEGEON.

Hopeless and helpless doth Aegeon wend.

But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

A public place.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, and a MERCHANT.]

MERCHANT.

Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,

Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.

This very day a Syracusian merchant

Is apprehended for arrival here;

And, not being able to buy out his life,

According to the statute of the town,

Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.—

There is your money that I had to keep.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,

And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.

Within this hour it will be dinner-time;

Till that, I'll view the manners of the town,

Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,

And then return and sleep within mine inn;

For with long travel I am stiff and weary.—

Get thee away.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Many a man would take you at your word,

And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Exit DROMIO.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,

When I am dull with care and melancholy,

Lightens my humour with his merry jests.

What, will you walk with me about the town,

And then go to my inn and dine with me?

MERCHANT.

I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,

Of whom I hope to make much benefit:

I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o'clock,

Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart,

And afterward consort you till bed-time:

My present business calls me from you now.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Farewell till then: I will go lose myself,

And wander up and down to view the city.

MERCHANT.

Sir, I commend you to your own content.

[Exit MERCHANT.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

He that commends me to mine own content

Commends me to the thing I cannot get.

I to the world am like a drop of water

That in the ocean seeks another drop;

Who, failing there to find his fellow forth,

Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:

So I, to find a mother and a brother,

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

[Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

Here comes the almanac of my true date.

What now? How chance thou art return'd so soon?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late.

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;

The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell—

My mistress made it one upon my cheek:

She is so hot because the meat is cold;

The meat is cold because you come not home,;

You come not home because you have no stomach;

You have no stomach, having broke your fast;

But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,

Are penitent for your default to-day.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Stop—in your wind, sir; tell me this, I pray:

Where have you left the money that I gave you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

O,—sixpence that I had o'Wednesday last

To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper;—

The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I am not in a sportive humour now;

Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?

We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust

So great a charge from thine own custody?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner:

I from my mistress come to you in post:

If I return, I shall be post indeed;

For she will score your fault upon my pate.

Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock,

And strike you home without a messenger.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;

Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.

Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me!

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,

And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

My charge was but to fetch you from the mart

Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:

My mistress and her sister stay for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,

In what safe place you have bestow'd my money:

Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours,

That stands on tricks when I am undispos'd;

Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I have some marks of yours upon my pate,

Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,

But not a thousand marks between you both.—

If I should pay your worship those again,

Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thy mistress' marks! what mistress, slave, hast thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;

She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,

And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,

Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

What mean you, sir? for God's sake hold your hands!

Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.

[Exit DROMIO.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Upon my life, by some device or other,

The villain is o'er-raught of all my money.

They say this town is full of cozenage;

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,

Soul-killing witches that deform the body,

Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties of sin:

If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.

I'll to the Centaur to go seek this slave:

I greatly fear my money is not safe.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A public place.

[Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.]

ADRIANA.

Neither my husband nor the slave return'd

That in such haste I sent to seek his master!

Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.

LUCIANA.

Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,

And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.

Good sister, let us dine, and never fret:

A man is master of his liberty;

Time is their master; and when they see time,

They'll go or come. If so, be patient, sister.

ADRIANA.

Why should their liberty than ours be more?

LUCIANA.

Because their business still lies out o' door.

ADRIANA.

Look when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

LUCIANA.

O, know he is the bridle of your will.

ADRIANA.

There's none but asses will be bridled so.

LUCIANA.

Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.

There's nothing situate under heaven's eye

But hath his bound in earth, in sea, in sky;

The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,

Are their males' subjects, and at their controls:

Man, more divine, the masters of all these,

Lord of the wide world and wild wat'ry seas,

Indued with intellectual sense and souls

Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,

Are masters to their females, and their lords:

Then let your will attend on their accords.

ADRIANA.

This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

LUCIANA.

Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

ADRIANA.

But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

LUCIANA.

Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.

ADRIANA.

How if your husband start some other where?

LUCIANA.

Till he come home again, I would forbear.

ADRIANA.

Patience unmov'd, no marvel though she pause:

They can be meek that have no other cause.

A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity,

We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;

But were we burd'ned with like weight of pain,

As much, or more, we should ourselves complain:

So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,

With urging helpless patience would relieve me:

But if thou live to see like right bereft,

This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

LUCIANA.

Well, I will marry one day, but to try:—

Here comes your man, now is your husband nigh.

[Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

ADRIANA.

Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.

ADRIANA.

Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear.

Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

LUCIANA.

Spake he so doubtfully thou could'st not feel his meaning?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Nay, he struck so plainly I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.

ADRIANA.

But say, I pr'ythee, is he coming home?

It seems he hath great care to please his wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

ADRIANA.

Horn-mad, thou villain?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I mean not cuckold-mad; but, sure, he's stark mad.

When I desir'd him to come home to dinner,

He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:

"Tis dinner time' quoth I; 'My gold,' quoth he:

'Your meat doth burn' quoth I; 'My gold,' quoth he:

'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold,' quoth he:

'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'

'The pig' quoth I 'is burn'd'; 'My gold,' quoth he:

'My mistress, sir,' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress;

I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'

LUCIANA.

Quoth who?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Quoth my master:

'I know' quoth he 'no house, no wife, no mistress:'

So that my errand, due unto my tongue,

I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;

For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

ADRIANA.

Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Go back again! and be new beaten home?

For God's sake, send some other messenger.

ADRIANA.

Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

And he will bless that cross with other beating:

Between you I shall have a holy head.

ADRIANA.

Hence, prating peasant: fetch thy master home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Am I so round with you, as you with me,

That like a football you do spurn me thus?

You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:

If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

[Exit.]

LUCIANA.

Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

ADRIANA.

His company must do his minions grace,

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.

Hath homely age the alluring beauty took

From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:

Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?

If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,

Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:

Do their gay vestments his affections bait?

That's not my fault; he's master of my state:

What ruins are in me that can be found

By him not ruin'd? then is he the ground

Of my defeatures: my decayed fair

A sunny look of his would soon repair;

But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale

And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

LUCIANA.

Self-harming jealousy!—fie, beat it hence.

ADRIANA.

Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.

I know his eye doth homage otherwhere;

Or else what lets it but he would be here?

Sister, you know he promis'd me a chain;—

Would that alone, alone he would detain,

So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!

I see the jewel best enamelled

Will lose his beauty; yet the gold 'bides still

That others touch, yet often touching will

Wear gold; and no man that hath a name

By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,

I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.

LUCIANA.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The same.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up

Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave

Is wander'd forth in care to seek me out.

By computation and mine host's report

I could not speak with Dromio since at first

I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

[Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter'd?

As you love strokes, so jest with me again.

You know no Centaur? you receiv'd no gold?

Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,

That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Even now, even here, not half-an-hour since.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I did not see you since you sent me hence,

Home to the Centaur with the gold you gave me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt;

And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;

For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeas'd.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I am glad to see you in this merry vein:

What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?

Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

[Beating him.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Hold, sir, for God's sake: now your jest is earnest:

Upon what bargain do you give it me?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Because that I familiarly sometimes

Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,

Your sauciness will jest upon my love,

And make a common of my serious hours.

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,

But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.

If you will jest with me, know my aspect,

And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and ensconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.—But I pray, sir, why am I beaten?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Dost thou not know?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Shall I tell you why?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Ay, sir, and wherefore; for, they say, every why hath a wherefore.—

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why, first,—for flouting me; and then wherefore, for urging it the second time to me.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,

When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason?—

Well, sir, I thank you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thank me, sir! for what?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I'll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

In good time, sir, what's that?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Basting.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Your reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Well, sir, learn to jest in good time; there's a time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I durst have denied that before you were so choleric.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

By what rule, sir?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Let's hear it.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

There's no time for a man to recover his hair, that grows bald by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

May he not do it by fine and recovery?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Yes, to pay a fine for a peruke, and recover the lost hair of another man.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why, but there's many a man hath more hair than wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

For what reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

For two; and sound ones too.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Nay, not sound, I pray you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Sure ones, then.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Certain ones, then.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Name them.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

But your reason was not substantial why there is no time to recover.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and, therefore, to the world's end will have bald followers.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I knew 't'would be a bald conclusion; but soft, who wafts us yonder?

[Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.]

ADRIANA.

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown;

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects:

I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.

The time was, once, when thou unurg'd wouldst vow

That never words were music to thine ear,

That never object pleasing in thine eye,

That never touch well welcome to thy hand,

That never meat sweet-savour'd in thy taste,

Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carv'd to thee.

How comes it now, my husband, oh, how comes it,

That thou art then estranged from thyself?

Thyself I call it, being strange to me,

That, undividable, incorporate,

Am better than thy dear self's better part.

Ah, do not tear away thyself from me;

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall

A drop of water in the breaking gulf,

And take unmingled thence that drop again,

Without addition or diminishing,

As take from me thyself, and not me too.

How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,

Should'st thou but hear I were licentious,

And that this body, consecrate to thee,

By ruffian lust should be contaminate!

Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,

And hurl the name of husband in my face,

And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot brow,

And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,

And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?

I know thou canst; and, therefore, see thou do it.

I am possess'd with an adulterate blot;

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:

For if we two be one, and thou play false,

I do digest the poison of thy flesh,

Being strumpeted by thy contagion.

Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;

I live dis-stain'd, thou undishonoured.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:

In Ephesus I am but two hours old,

As strange unto your town as to your talk;

Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd,

Want wit in all one word to understand.

LUCIANA.

Fie, brother! how the world is chang'd with you:

When were you wont to use my sister thus?

She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

By Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

By me?

ADRIANA.

By thee; and this thou didst return from him,—

That he did buffet thee, and in his blows

Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?

What is the course and drift of your compact?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Villain, thou liest; for even her very words

Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I never spake with her in all my life.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

How can she thus, then, call us by our names,

Unless it be by inspiration?

ADRIANA.

How ill agrees it with your gravity

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,

Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!

Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt,

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine:

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,

Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,

Makes me with thy strength to communicate:

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;

Who all, for want of pruning, with intrusion

Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme:

What, was I married to her in my dream?

Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?

What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?

Until I know this sure uncertainty

I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy.

LUCIANA.

Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.

This is the fairy land;—O spite of spites!

We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites;

If we obey them not, this will ensue,

They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

LUCIANA.

Why prat'st thou to thyself, and answer'st not?

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I am transformed, master, am not I?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thou hast thine own form.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No, I am an ape.

LUCIANA.

If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

'Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass.

'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be

But I should know her as well as she knows me.

ADRIANA.

Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,

To put the finger in the eye and weep,

Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn.—

Come, sir, to dinner;—Dromio, keep the gate:—

Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day,

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks:—

Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,

Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.—

Come, sister:—Dromio, play the porter well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?

Sleeping or waking, mad, or well-advis'd?

Known unto these, and to myself disguis'd!

I'll say as they say, and persever so,

And in this mist at all adventures go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

ADRIANA.

Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

LUCIANA.

Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

The same.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, DROMIO OF EPHESUS, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all.

My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:

Say that I linger'd with you at your shop

To see the making of her carcanet,

And that to-morrow you will bring it home.

But here's a villain that would face me down.

He met me on the mart; and that I beat him,

And charg'd him with a thousand marks in gold;

And that I did deny my wife and house:—

Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know:

That you beat me at the mart I have your hand to show;

If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,

Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I think thou art an ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Marry, so it doth appear

By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.

I should kick, being kick'd; and being at that pass,

You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

You are sad, Signior Balthazar; pray God our cheer

May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

BALTHAZAR.

I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,

A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.

BALTHAZAR.

Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words.

BALTHAZAR

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest.

But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;

Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.

But, soft; my door is lock'd: go bid them let us in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Jen!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

[Within]

Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch!

Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch:

Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store,

When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on's feet.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Who talks within there? Ho, open the door!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Right, sir; I'll tell you when an you'll tell me wherefore.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Wherefore! For my dinner: I have not dined to-day.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

What art thou that keep'st me out from the house I owe?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office and my name;

The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.

If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,

Thou wouldst have chang'd thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.

LUCE.

[Within.] What a coil is there! Dromio, who are those at the gate?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Let my master in, Luce.

LUCE.

Faith, no, he comes too late;

And so tell your master.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

O Lord, I must laugh;—

Have at you with a proverb:—Shall I set in my staff?

LUCE.

Have at you with another: that's—When? can you tell?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

If thy name be called Luce,—Luce, thou hast answer'd him well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in, I hope?

LUCE.

I thought to have ask'd you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

And you said no.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

So, Come, help: well struck; there was blow for blow.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Thou baggage, let me in.

LUCE.

Can you tell for whose sake?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Master, knock the door hard.

LUCE.

Let him knock till it ache.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

LUCE.

What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

ADRIANA.

[Within.] Who is that at the door, that keeps all this noise?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

ADRIANA.

Your wife, sir knave! go, get you from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

If you went in pain, master, this knave would go sore.

ANGELO.

Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either.

BALTHAZAR.

In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.

Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold:

It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Go, fetch me something, I'll break ope the gate.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Break any breaking here, and I'll break your knave's pate.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

A man may break a word with you, sir; and words are but wind;

Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

It seems thou want'st breaking; out upon thee, hind!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Here's too much out upon thee: I pray thee, let me in.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Well, I'll break in; go borrow me a crow.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

A crow without feather; master, mean you so?

For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather:

If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Go, get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.

BALTHAZAR.

Have patience, sir: O, let it not be so:

Herein you war against your reputation,

And draw within the compass of suspect

The unviolated honour of your wife.

Once this,—your long experience of her wisdom,

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty,

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be rul'd by me; depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner:

And, about evening, come yourself alone,

To know the reason of this strange restraint.

If by strong hand you offer to break in,

Now in the stirring passage of the day,

A vulgar comment will be made of it;

And that supposed by the common rout

Against your yet ungalled estimation

That may with foul intrusion enter in,

And dwell upon your grave when you are dead:

For slander lives upon succession,

For ever hous'd where it gets possession.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

You have prevail'd. I will depart in quiet,

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.

I know a wench of excellent discourse,—

Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle;—

There will we dine: this woman that I mean,

My wife,—but, I protest, without desert,—

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal;

To her will we to dinner.—Get you home

And fetch the chain: by this I know 'tis made:

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine;

For there's the house; that chain will I bestow,—

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife,—

Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste:

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,

I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.

ANGELO.

I'll meet you at that place some hour hence.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Do so; this jest shall cost me some expense.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same.

[Enter LUCIANA with ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]

LUCIANA.

And may it be that you have quite forgot

A husband's office? Shall, Antipholus,

Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinate?

If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness;

Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

Muffle your false love with some show of blindness;

Let not my sister read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;

Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;

Bear a fair presence though your heart be tainted;

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;

Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?

What simple thief brags of his own attaint?

'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed

And let her read it in thy looks at board:—

Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;

Ill deeds is doubled with an evil word.

Alas, poor women! make us but believe,

Being compact of credit, that you love us:

Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;

We in your motion turn, and you may move us.

Then, gentle brother, get you in again;

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:

'Tis holy sport to be a little vain

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,

Nor by what wonder you do hit on mine,—

Less, in your knowledge and your grace, you show not

Than our earth's wonder: more than earth divine.

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;

Lay open to my earthy gross conceit,

Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,

The folded meaning of your words' deceit.

Against my soul's pure truth why labour you

To make it wander in an unknown field?

Are you a god? would you create me new?

Transform me, then, and to your power I'll yield.

But if that I am I, then well I know

Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,

Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:

Far more, far more, to you do I decline.

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:

Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;

Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lie;

And, in that glorious supposition, think

He gains by death that hath such means to die:—

Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

LUCIANA.

What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

LUCIANA.

It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

LUCIANA.

Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

LUCIANA.

Why call you me love? call my sister so.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thy sister's sister.

LUCIANA.

That's my sister.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

No;

It is thyself, mine own self's better part;

Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart;

My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim,

My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

LUCIANA.

All this my sister is, or else should be.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee;

Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life:

Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife;

Give me thy hand.

LUCIANA.

O, soft, sir, hold you still;

I'll fetch my sister to get her good-will.

[Exit LUCIANA.]

[Enter from the house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why, how now, Dromio? where runn'st thou so fast?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and beside myself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What woman's man? and how besides thyself?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What claim lays she to thee?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse: and she would have me as a beast; not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What is she?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of without he say sir-reverence. I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

How dost thou mean?—a fat marriage?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and all grease; and I know not what use to put her to, but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags, and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday, she'll burn week longer than the whole world.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What complexion is she of?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Swart, like my shoe; but her face nothing like so clean kept: for why? she sweats, a man may go over shoes in the grime of it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

That's a fault that water will mend.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What's her name?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Nell, sir; but her name and three-quarters, that is an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Then she bears some breadth?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe: I could find out countries in her.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

In what part of her body stands Ireland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, sir, in her buttocks; I found it out by the bogs.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where Scotland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of the hand.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where France?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her hair.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where England?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where Spain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where America,—the Indies?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

O, sir, upon her nose, an o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of carracks to be ballast at her nose.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

O, sir, I did not look so low.—To conclude: this drudge or diviner laid claim to me; called me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch.

And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith and my heart of steel,

She had transformed me to a curtail-dog, and made me turn i' the wheel.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Go, hie thee presently post to the road;

An if the wind blow any way from shore,

I will not harbour in this town to-night.

If any bark put forth, come to the mart,

Where I will walk till thou return to me.

If every one knows us, and we know none,

'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

As from a bear a man would run for life,

So fly I from her that would be my wife.

[Exit.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

There's none but witches do inhabit here;

And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.

She that doth call me husband, even my soul

Doth for a wife abhor; but her fair sister,

Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,

Of such enchanting presence and discourse,

Hath almost made me traitor to myself:

But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,

I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.

[Enter ANGELO.]

ANGELO.

Master Antipholus?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Ay, that's my name.

ANGELO.

I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain;

I thought to have ta'en you at the Porcupine:

The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What is your will that I shall do with this?

ANGELO.

What please yourself, sir; I have made it for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

ANGELO.

Not once nor twice, but twenty times you have:

Go home with it, and please your wife withal;

And soon at supper-time I'll visit you,

And then receive my money for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I pray you, sir, receive the money now,

For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more.

ANGELO.

You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.

[Exit.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What I should think of this I cannot tell:

But this I think, there's no man is so vain

That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.

I see a man here needs not live by shifts,

When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.

I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay;

If any ship put out, then straight away.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The same.

[Enter a MERCHANT, ANGELO, and an OFFICER.]

MERCHANT.

You know, since Pentecost the sum is due,

And since I have not much importun'd you;

Nor now I had not, but that I am bound

To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage;

Therefore make present satisfaction,

Or I'll attach you by this officer.

ANGELO.

Even just the sum that I do owe to you

Is growing to me by Antipholus;

And in the instant that I met with you

He had of me a chain; at five o'clock

I shall receive the money for the same:

Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,

I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, and DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

OFFICER.

That labour may you save: see where he comes.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou

And buy a rope's end; that will I bestow

Among my wife and her confederates,

For locking me out of my doors by day.—

But, soft; I see the goldsmith: get thee gone;

Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I buy a thousand pound a year! I buy a rope!

[Exit DROMIO.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

A man is well holp up that trusts to you:

I promised your presence, and the chain;

But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me:

Belike you thought our love would last too long,

If it were chain'd together; and therefore came not.

ANGELO.

Saving your merry humour, here's the note,

How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat;

The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion;

Which doth amount to three odd ducats more

Than I stand debted to this gentleman:

I pray you, see him presently discharg'd,

For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I am not furnished with the present money;

Besides I have some business in the town:

Good Signior, take the stranger to my house,

And with you take the chain, and bid my wife

Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof;

Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

ANGELO.

Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

ANGELO.

Well, sir, I will: have you the chain about you?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

An if I have not, sir, I hope you have,

Or else you may return without your money.

ANGELO.

Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain;

Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,

And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Good Lord, you use this dalliance to excuse

Your breach of promise to the Porcupine:

I should have chid you for not bringing it,

But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

MERCHANT.

The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, despatch.

ANGELO.

You hear how he importunes me: the chain,—

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.

ANGELO.

Come, come, you know I gave it you even now;

Either send the chain or send by me some token.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Fie! now you run this humour out of breath:

Come, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

MERCHANT.

My business cannot brook this dalliance:

Good sir, say whe'r you'll answer me or no;

If not, I'll leave him to the officer.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I answer you! What should I answer you?

ANGELO.

The money that you owe me for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I owe you none till I receive the chain.

ANGELO.

You know I gave it you half-an-hour since.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.

ANGELO.

You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:

Consider how it stands upon my credit.

MERCHANT.

Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

OFFICER.

I do,

And charge you in the Duke's name to obey me.

ANGELO.

This touches me in reputation:

Either consent to pay this sum for me,

Or I attach you by this officer.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Consent to pay thee that I never had!

Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar'st.

ANGELO.

Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer:—

I would not spare my brother in this case,

If he should scorn me so apparently.

OFFICER.

I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I do obey thee till I give thee bail:—

But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear

As all the metal in your shop will answer.

ANGELO.

Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,

To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

[Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, there's a bark of Epidamnum

That stays but till her owner comes aboard,

And then, sir, bears away: our fraughtage, sir,

I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought

The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae.

The ship is in her trim; the merry wind

Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all

But for their owner, master, and yourself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

How now! a madman? Why, thou peevish sheep,

What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Thou drunken slave! I sent the for a rope;

And told thee to what purpose and what end.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

You sent me, sir, for a rope's end as soon:

You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I will debate this matter at more leisure,

And teach your ears to list me with more heed.

To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:

Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk

That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry

There is a purse of ducats; let her send it:

Tell her I am arrested in the street,

And that shall bail me: hie thee, slave; be gone.

On, officer, to prison till it come.

[Exeunt MERCHANT, ANGELO, OFFICER, and ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

To Adriana! that is where we din'd,

Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:

She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.

Thither I must, although against my will,

For servants must their masters' minds fulfil.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

The same.

[Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.]

ADRIANA.

Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?

Might'st thou perceive austerely in his eye

That he did plead in earnest, yea or no?

Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?

What observation mad'st thou in this case

Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?

LUCIANA.

First he denied you had in him no right.

ADRIANA.

He meant he did me none; the more my spite.

LUCIANA.

Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

ADRIANA.

And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

LUCIANA.

Then pleaded I for you.

ADRIANA.

And what said he?

LUCIANA.

That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.

ADRIANA.

With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

LUCIANA.

With words that in an honest suit might move.

First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

ADRIANA.

Didst speak him fair?

LUCIANA.

Have patience, I beseech.

ADRIANA.

I cannot, nor I will not hold me still;

My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.

He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,

Ill-fac'd, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;

Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;

Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

LUCIANA.

Who would be jealous then of such a one?

No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.

ADRIANA.

Ah! but I think him better than I say,

And yet would herein others' eyes were worse:

Far from her nest the lapwing cries, away;

My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

[Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Here, go; the desk, the purse: sweet now, make haste.

LUCIANA.

How hast thou lost thy breath?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

By running fast.

ADRIANA.

Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.

A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;

One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;

A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;

A wolf—nay worse, a fellow all in buff;

A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands

The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;

A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry foot well;

One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to hell.

ADRIANA.

Why, man, what is the matter?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.

ADRIANA.

What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I know not at whose suit he is arrested, well;

But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.

Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

ADRIANA.

Go fetch it, sister. This I wonder at,

[Exit LUCIANA]

Thus he unknown to me should be in debt.—

Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;

A chain, a chain: do you not hear it ring?

ADRIANA.

What, the chain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No, no, the bell; 'tis time that I were gone.

It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.

ADRIANA.

The hours come back! that did I never hear.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

O yes. If any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back for very fear.

ADRIANA.

As if time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth to season.

Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say

That Time comes stealing on by night and day?

If he be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,

Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

[Enter LUCIANA.]

ADRIANA.

Go, Dromio, there's the money, bear it straight;

And bring thy master home immediately.—

Come, sister; I am press'd down with conceit—

Conceit my comfort and my injury.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The same

.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

There's not a man I meet but doth salute me

As if I were their well-acquainted friend;

And every one doth call me by my name.

Some tender money to me, some invite me;

Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

Some offer me commodities to buy;

Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop,

And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,

And therewithal took measure of my body.

Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

[Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, here's the gold you sent me for: what, have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What gold is this? What Adam dost thou mean?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Not that Adam that kept the paradise, but that Adam that keeps the prison; he that goes in the calf's skin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I understand thee not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

No? Why, 'tis a plain case: he that went like a bass-viol in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob, and 'rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

What! thou mean'st an officer?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Ay, sir,—the sergeant of the band: that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says 'God give you good rest!'

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy, Delay: here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

The fellow is distract, and so am I;

And here we wander in illusions:

Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

[Enter a COURTEZAN.]

COURTEZAN.

Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.

I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:

Is that the chain you promis'd me to-day?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, is this Mistress Satan?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

It is the devil.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Nay, she is worse,—she is the devil's dam; and here she comes in the habit of a light wench; and thereof comes that the wenches say 'God damn me!' That's as much to say 'God make me a light wench!' It is written they appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn: come not near her.

COURTEZAN.

Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.

Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, if you do; expect spoon-meat, or bespeak a long spoon.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Why, Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Avoid then, fiend! What tell'st thou me of supping?

Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress;

I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

COURTEZAN.

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis'd,

And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Some devils ask but the paring of one's nail, A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, A nut, a cherry-stone; but she, more covetous, Would have a chain. Master, be wise; an if you give it her, The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.

COURTEZAN.

I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain;

I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Fly pride, says the peacock: Mistress, that you know.

[Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

COURTEZAN.

Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,

Else would he never so demean himself:

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,

And for the same he promis'd me a chain;

Both one and other he denies me now:

The reason that I gather he is mad,—

Besides this present instance of his rage,—

Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,

Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.

Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,

On purpose shut the doors against his way.

My way is now to hie home to his house,

And tell his wife that, being lunatic,

He rush'd into my house and took perforce

My ring away: this course I fittest choose,

For forty ducats is too much to lose.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The same.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS and an OFFICER.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Fear me not, man; I will not break away:

I'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,

To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for.

My wife is in a wayward mood to-day;

And will not lightly trust the messenger

That I should be attach'd in Ephesus;

I tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her ears.

[Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS, with a rope's end.]

Here comes my man: I think he brings the money.

How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

But where's the money?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Five hundred ducats, villain, for rope?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

To a rope's end, sir; and to that end am I return'd.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

[Beating him.]

OFFICER. Good sir, be patient.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Nay, 'tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

OFFICER.

Good now, hold thy tongue.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Thou whoreson senseless villain!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I am an ass indeed; you may prove it by my long 'ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows: when I am cold he heats me with beating; when I am warm he cools me with beating. I am waked with it when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed home with it when I return: nay, I bear it on my shoulders as beggar wont her brat; and I think, when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

[Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, and the COURTEZAN, with PINCH and others.]

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Mistress, respice finem, respect your end; or rather, the prophesy, like the parrot, 'Beware the rope's-end.'

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Wilt thou still talk?

[Beats him.]

COURTEZAN.

How say you now? is not your husband mad?

ADRIANA.

His incivility confirms no less.—

Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;

Establish him in his true sense again,

And I will please you what you will demand.

LUCIANA.

Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!

COURTEZAN.

Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

PINCH.

Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

PINCH.

I charge thee, Satan, hous'd within this man,

To yield possession to my holy prayers,

And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:

I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Peace, doting wizard, peace; I am not mad.

ADRIANA.

O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

You minion, you, are these your customers?

Did this companion with the saffron face

Revel and feast it at my house to-day,

Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut,

And I denied to enter in my house?

ADRIANA.

O husband, God doth know you din'd at home,

Where would you had remain'd until this time,

Free from these slanders and this open shame!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I din'd at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Were not my doors lock'd up and I shut out?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Perdy, your doors were lock'd and you shut out.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

And did not she herself revile me there?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Sans fable, she herself revil'd you there.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Certes, she did: the kitchen-vestal scorn'd you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

And did not I in rage depart from thence?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

In verity, you did;—my bones bear witness,

That since have felt the vigour of his rage.

ADRIANA.

Is't good to soothe him in these contraries?

PINCH.

It is no shame; the fellow finds his vein,

And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest me.

ADRIANA.

Alas! I sent you money to redeem you,

By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Money by me! heart and goodwill you might,

But surely, master, not a rag of money.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Went'st not thou to her for purse of ducats?

ADRIANA.

He came to me, and I deliver'd it.

LUCIANA.

And I am witness with her that she did.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

God and the rope-maker, bear me witness

That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

PINCH.

Mistress, both man and master is possess'd;

I know it by their pale and deadly looks:

They must be bound, and laid in some dark room.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?—

And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

ADRIANA.

I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

And, gentle master, I receiv'd no gold;

But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out.

ADRIANA.

Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in both.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;

And art confederate with a damned pack,

To make a loathsome abject scorn of me:

But with these nails I'll pluck out these false eyes

That would behold in me this shameful sport.

[PINCH and assistants bind ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS and DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

ADRIANA.

O, bind him, bind him; let him not come near me.

PINCH.

More company;—the fiend is strong within him.

LUCIANA.

Ah me, poor man! how pale and wan he looks!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,

I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them

To make a rescue?

OFFICER.

Masters, let him go:

He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

PINCH.

Go, bind this man, for he is frantic too.

ADRIANA.

What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?

Hast thou delight to see a wretched man

Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

OFFICER.

He is my prisoner: if I let him go,

The debt he owes will be requir'd of me.

ADRIANA.

I will discharge thee ere I go from thee;

Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,

And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.

Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd

Home to my house.—O most unhappy day!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

O most unhappy strumpet!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Master, I am here enter'd in bond for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Out on thee, villian! wherefore dost thou mad me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master; cry, the devil.—

LUCIANA.

God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!

ADRIANA.

Go bear him hence.—Sister, go you with me.—

[Exeunt PINCH and Assistants, with ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS and DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?

OFFICER.

One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him?

ADRIANA.

I know the man: what is the sum he owes?

OFFICER.

Two hundred ducats.

ADRIANA.

Say, how grows it due?

OFFICER.

Due for a chain your husband had of him.

ADRIANA.

He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

COURTEZAN.

When as your husband, all in rage, to-day

Came to my house, and took away my ring,—

The ring I saw upon his finger now,—

Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

ADRIANA.

It may be so, but I did never see it:

Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is,

I long to know the truth hereof at large.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, with his rapier drawn, and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

LUCIANA.

God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

ADRIANA.

And come with naked swords: let's call more help,

To have them bound again.

OFFICER.

Away, they'll kill us.

[Exeunt OFFICER, ADRIANA, and LUCIANA.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I see these witches are afraid of swords.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

She that would be your wife now ran from you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence;

I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I will not stay to-night for all the town;

Therefore away to get our stuff aboard.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The same.

[Enter MERCHANT and ANGELO.]

ANGELO.

I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you;

But I protest he had the chain of me,

Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

MERCHANT.

How is the man esteem'd here in the city?

ANGELO.

Of very reverend reputation, sir;

Of credit infinite, highly belov'd,

Second to none that lives here in the city:

His word might bear my wealth at any time.

MERCHANT.

Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

ANGELO.

'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck

Which he forswore most monstrously to have.

Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him.—

Signior Andpholus, I wonder much

That you would put me to this shame and trouble;

And, not without some scandal to yourself,

With circumstance and oaths so to deny

This chain, which now you wear so openly:

Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,

You have done wrong to this my honest friend;

Who, but for staying on our controversy,

Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day;

This chain you had of me; can you deny it?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I think I had: I never did deny it.

MERCHANT.

Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Who heard me to deny it or forswear it?

MERCHANT.

These ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear thee.

Fie on thee, wretch! 'tis pity that thou liv'st

To walk where any honest men resort.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Thou art a villain to impeach me thus;

I'll prove mine honour and mine honesty

Against thee presently, if thou dar'st stand.

MERCHANT.

I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.

[They draw.]

[Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, COURTEZAN, and others.]

ADRIANA.

Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake; he is mad.

Some get within him, take his sword away:

Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Run, master, run; for God's sake, take a house.

This is some priory;—in, or we are spoil'd.

[Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE to the priory.]

[Enter the ABBESS.]

ABBESS.

Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

ADRIANA.

To fetch my poor distracted husband hence:

Let us come in, that we may bind him fast,

And bear him home for his recovery.

ANGELO.

I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

MERCHANT.

I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

ABBESS.

How long hath this possession held the man?

ADRIANA.

This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,

And much different from the man he was:

But till this afternoon his passion

Ne'er brake into extremity of rage.

ABBESS.

Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea?

Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye

Stray'd his affection in unlawful love?

A sin prevailing much in youthful men

Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.

Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

ADRIANA.

To none of these, except it be the last;

Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.

ABBESS.

You should for that have reprehended him.

ADRIANA.

Why, so I did.

ABBESS.

Ay, but not rough enough.

ADRIANA.

As roughly as my modesty would let me.

ABBESS.

Haply in private.

ADRIANA.

And in assemblies too.

ABBESS.

Ay, but not enough.

ADRIANA.

It was the copy of our conference.

In bed, he slept not for my urging it;

At board, he fed not for my urging it;

Alone, it was the subject of my theme;

In company, I often glanced it;

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

ABBESS.

And thereof came it that the man was mad:

The venom clamours of a jealous woman

Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing:

And thereof comes it that his head is light.

Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy upbraidings:

Unquiet meals make ill digestions;

Thereof the raging fire of fever bred;

And what's a fever but a fit of madness?

Thou say'st his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls:

Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue

But moody and dull melancholy,—

Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,—

And, at her heels, a huge infectious troop

Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?

In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest,

To be disturb'd would mad or man or beast:

The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits

Hath scar'd thy husband from the use of's wits.

LUCIANA.

She never reprehended him but mildly,

When he demean'd himself rough, rude, and wildly.—

Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not?

ADRIANA.

She did betray me to my own reproof.—

Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.

ABBESS.

No, not a creature enters in my house.

ADRIANA.

Then let your servants bring my husband forth.

ABBESS.

Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,

And it shall privilege him from your hands

Till I have brought him to his wits again,

Or lose my labour in assaying it.

ADRIANA.

I will attend my husband, be his nurse,

Diet his sickness, for it is my office,

And will have no attorney but myself;

And therefore let me have him home with me.

ABBESS.

Be patient; for I will not let him stir

Till I have used the approved means I have,

With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,

To make of him a formal man again:

It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,

A charitable duty of my order;

Therefore depart, and leave him here with me.

ADRIANA.

I will not hence and leave my husband here;

And ill it doth beseem your holiness

To separate the husband and the wife.

ABBESS.

Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have him.

[Exit ABBESS.]

LUCIANA.

Complain unto the Duke of this indignity.

ADRIANA.

Come, go; I will fall prostrate at his feet,

And never rise until my tears and prayers

Have won his grace to come in person hither

And take perforce my husband from the abbess.

MERCHANT.

By this, I think, the dial points at five:

Anon, I'm sure, the Duke himself in person

Comes this way to the melancholy vale;

The place of death and sorry execution,

Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

ANGELO.

Upon what cause?

MERCHANT.

To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,

Who put unluckily into this bay

Against the laws and statutes of this town,

Beheaded publicly for his offence.

ANGELO.

See where they come: we will behold his death.

LUCIANA.

Kneel to the Duke before he pass the abbey.

[Enter the DUKE, attended; AEGEON, bareheaded; with the HEADSMAN and other OFFICERS.]

DUKE.

Yet once again proclaim it publicly,

If any friend will pay the sum for him,

He shall not die; so much we tender him.

ADRIANA.

Justice, most sacred Duke, against the abbess!

DUKE.

She is a virtuous and a reverend lady;

It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.

ADRIANA.

May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband,—

Who I made lord of me and all I had,

At your important letters,—this ill day

A most outrageous fit of madness took him;

That desp'rately he hurried through the street,—

With him his bondman all as mad as he,—

Doing displeasure to the citizens

By rushing in their houses, bearing thence

Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like.

Once did I get him bound and sent him home,

Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went,

That here and there his fury had committed.

Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,

He broke from those that had the guard of him;

And, with his mad attendant and himself,

Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords,

Met us again, and, madly bent on us,

Chased us away; till, raising of more aid,

We came again to bind them: then they fled

Into this abbey, whither we pursued them:

And here the abbess shuts the gates on us,

And will not suffer us to fetch him out,

Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.

Therefore, most gracious Duke, with thy command

Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help.

DUKE.

Long since thy husband serv'd me in my wars;

And I to thee engag'd a prince's word,

When thou didst make him master of thy bed,

To do him all the grace and good I could.—

Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate,

And bid the lady abbess come to me:

I will determine this before I stir.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!

My master and his man are both broke loose,

Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor;

Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire;

And ever as it blazed they threw on him

Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair:

My master preaches patience to him, while

His man with scissors nicks him like a fool:

And, sure, unless you send some present help,

Between them they will kill the conjurer.

ADRIANA.

Peace, fool, thy master and his man are here;

And that is false thou dost report to us.

SERVANT.

Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true:

I have not breath'd almost since I did see it.

He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,

To scorch your face, and to disfigure you:

[Cry within.]

Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress; fly, be gone!

DUKE.

Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds.

ADRIANA.

Ah me, it is my husband! Witness you

That he is borne about invisible.

Even now we hous'd him in the abbey here,

And now he's there, past thought of human reason.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS and DROMIO OF EPHESUS.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Justice, most gracious Duke; oh, grant me justice!

Even for the service that long since I did thee,

When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took

Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood

That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

AEGEON.

Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,

I see my son Antipholus, and Dromio.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there.

She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife;

That hath abused and dishonour'd me

Even in the strength and height of injury!

Beyond imagination is the wrong

That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

DUKE.

Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

This day, great Duke, she shut the doors upon me,

While she with harlots feasted in my house.

DUKE.

A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou so?

ADRIANA.

No, my good lord;—myself, he, and my sister,

To-day did dine together. So befall my soul

As this is false he burdens me withal!

LUCIANA.

Ne'er may I look on day nor sleep on night

But she tells to your highness simple truth!

ANGELO.

O peflur'd woman! they are both forsworn.

In this the madman justly chargeth them.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

My liege, I am advised what I say;

Neither disturb'd with the effect of wine,

Nor, heady-rash, provok'd with raging ire,

Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.

This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner:

That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,

Could witness it, for he was with me then;

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain.

Promising to bring it to the Porcupine,

Where Balthazar and I did dine together.

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,

I went to seek him. In the street I met him,

And in his company that gentleman.

There did this perjur'd goldsmith swear me down,

That I this day of him receiv'd the chain,

Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which

He did arrest me with an officer.

I did obey, and sent my peasant home

For certain ducats: he with none return'd.

Then fairly I bespoke the officer

To go in person with me to my house.

By the way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more

Of vile confederates: along with them

They brought one Pinch; a hungry lean-faced villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller;

A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch;

A living dead man; this pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer;

And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,

And with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me,

Cries out, I was possess'd: then altogether

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence;

And in a dark and dankish vault at home

There left me and my man, both bound together;

Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,

I gain'd my freedom, and immediately

Ran hither to your grace; whom I beseech

To give me ample satisfaction

For these deep shames and great indignities.

ANGELO.

My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,

That he din'd not at home, but was lock'd out.

DUKE.

But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

ANGELO.

He had, my lord: and when he ran in here

These people saw the chain about his neck.

MERCHANT.

Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine

Heard you confess you had the chain of him,

After you first forswore it on the mart,

And thereupon I drew my sword on you;

And then you fled into this abbey here,

From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I never came within these abbey walls,

Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me:

I never saw the chain, so help me heaven!

And this is false you burden me withal.

DUKE.

What an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup.

If here you hous'd him, here he would have been:

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly:—

You say he din'd at home: the goldsmith here

Denies that saying:—Sirrah, what say you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porcupine.

COURTEZAN.

He did; and from my finger snatch'd that ring.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.

DUKE.

Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here?

COURTEZAN.

As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace.

DUKE.

Why, this is strange:—Go call the abbess hither:

I think you are all mated, or stark mad.

[Exit an Attendant.]

AEGEON.

Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word;

Haply, I see a friend will save my life

And pay the sum that may deliver me.

DUKE.

Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

AEGEON.

Is not your name, sir, call'd Antipholus?

And is not that your bondman Dromio?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Within this hour I was his bondman, sir,

But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords:

Now am I Dromio and his man unbound.

AEGEON.

I am sure you both of you remember me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;

For lately we were bound as you are now.

You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir?

AEGEON.

Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I never saw you in my life, till now.

AEGEON.

Oh! grief hath chang'd me since you saw me last;

And careful hours with Time's deformed hand,

Have written strange defeatures in my face:

But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Neither.

AEGEON.

Dromio, nor thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

No, trust me, sir, nor I.

AEGEON.

I am sure thou dost.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

AEGEON.

Not know my voice! O time's extremity!

Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue,

In seven short years that here my only son

Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares?

Though now this grained face of mine be hid

In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,

And all the conduits of my blood froze up,

Yet hath my night of life some memory,

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,

My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:

All these old witnesses,—I cannot err,—

Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I never saw my father in my life.

AEGEON.

But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,

Thou know'st we parted; but perhaps, my son,

Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

The Duke and all that know me in the city,

Can witness with me that it is not so:

I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life.

DUKE.

I tell thee, Syracusan, twenty years

Have I been patron to Antipholus,

During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa:

I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

[Enter the ABBESS, with ANTIPHOLUS SYRACUSAN and DROMIO SYRACUSAN.]

ABBESS.

Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong'd.

[All gather to see them.]

ADRIANA.

I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.

DUKE.

One of these men is genius to the other;

And so of these. Which is the natural man,

And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

I, sir, am Dromio; command him away.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

I, sir, am Dromio; pray let me stay.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

Aegeon, art thou not? or else his ghost?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

O, my old master! who hath bound him here?

ABBESS.

Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,

And gain a husband by his liberty.—

Speak, old Aegeon, if thou be'st the man

That hadst a wife once called Aemilia,

That bore thee at a burden two fair sons:

O, if thou be'st the same Aegeon, speak,

And speak unto the same Aemilia!

AEGEON.

If I dream not, thou art Aemilia:

If thou art she, tell me where is that son

That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

ABBESS.

By men of Epidamnum, he and I,

And the twin Dromio, all were taken up:

But, by and by, rude fishermen of Corinth

By force took Dromio and my son from them,

And me they left with those of Epidamnum:

What then became of them I cannot tell;

I to this fortune that you see me in.

DUKE.

Why, here begins his morning story right:

These two Antipholus', these two so like,

And these two Dromios, one in semblance,—

Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,—

These are the parents to these children,

Which accidentally are met together.

Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth first?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.

DUKE.

Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

And I with him.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,

Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

ADRIANA.

Which of you two did dine with me to-day?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I, gentle mistress.

ADRIANA.

And are not you my husband?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

No; I say nay to that.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

And so do I, yet did she call me so;

And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,

Did call me brother.—What I told you then,

I hope I shall have leisure to make good;

If this be not a dream I see and hear.

ANGELO.

That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

I think it be, sir; I deny it not.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

ANGELO.

I think I did, sir: I deny it not.

ADRIANA.

I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,

By Dromio; but I think he brought it not.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

No, none by me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

This purse of ducats I receiv'd from you,

And Dromio my man did bring them me:

I see we still did meet each other's man,

And I was ta'en for him, and he for me,

And thereupon these errors are arose.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

These ducats pawn I for my father here.

DUKE.

It shall not need; thy father hath his life.

COURTEZAN.

Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.

ABBESS.

Renowned Duke, vouchsafe to take the pains

To go with us into the abbey here,

And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes:—

And all that are assembled in this place,

That by this sympathized one day's error

Have suffer'd wrong, go, keep us company,

And we shall make full satisfaction—

Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons; nor till this present hour

My heavy burdens are delivered:—

The Duke, my husband, and my children both,

And you the calendars of their nativity,

Go to a gossips' feast, and go with me;

After so long grief, such nativity!

DUKE.

With all my heart, I'll gossip at this feast.

[Exeunt DUKE, ABBESS, AEGEON, Courtezan, Merchant, ANGELO, and Attendants.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.

Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

He speaks to me; I am your master, Dromio:

Come, go with us: we'll look to that anon:

Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.

[Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, ADRIANA, and LUCIANA.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

There is a fat friend at your master's house,

That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner:

She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:

I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

Not I, sir; you are my elder.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

That's a question; how shall we try it?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

We'll draw cuts for the senior: till then, lead thou first.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

Nay, then, thus:

We came into the world like brother and brother:

And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act III, Scene I

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

List of Characters

FERDINAND: King of Navarre

BEROWNE: Lord attending on the King

LONGAVILLE: Lord attending on the King

DUMAINE: Lord attending on the King

BOYET: Lord attending on the Princess of France

MARCADE: Lord attending on the Princess of France

DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO: a fantastical Spaniard

SIR NATHANIEL: a Curate

HOLOFERNES: a Schoolmaster

DULL: a Constable

COSTARD: a Clown

MOTH: Page to Armado

A FORESTER

THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE

ROSALINE: Lady attending on the Princess

MARIA: Lady attending on the Princess

KATHARINE: Lady attending on the Princess

JAQUENETTA: a country wench

Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

SCENE: Navarre

ACT I. SCENE I.

The King of Navarre's park

[Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.]

KING.

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,

Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs,

And then grace us in the disgrace of death;

When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,

The endeavour of this present breath may buy

That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge,

And make us heirs of all eternity.

Therefore, brave conquerors—for so you are

That war against your own affections

And the huge army of the world's desires—

Our late edict shall strongly stand in force:

Navarre shall be the wonder of the world;

Our court shall be a little academe,

Still and contemplative in living art.

You three, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville,

Have sworn for three years' term to live with me,

My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes

That are recorded in this schedule here:

Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names,

That his own hand may strike his honour down

That violates the smallest branch herein.

If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do,

Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.

LONGAVILLE.

I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast:

The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:

Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits

Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

DUMAINE.

My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified:

The grosser manner of these world's delights

He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves;

To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die,

With all these living in philosophy.

BEROWNE.

I can but say their protestation over;

So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,

That is, to live and study here three years.

But there are other strict observances:

As, not to see a woman in that term,

Which I hope well is not enrolled there:

And one day in a week to touch no food,

And but one meal on every day beside;

The which I hope is not enrolled there:

And then to sleep but three hours in the night

And not be seen to wink of all the day,—

When I was wont to think no harm all night,

And make a dark night too of half the day,—

Which I hope well is not enrolled there.

O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep.

KING.

Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these.

BEROWNE.

Let me say no, my liege, an if you please:

I only swore to study with your Grace,

And stay here in your court for three years' space.

LONGAVILLE.

You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest.

BEROWNE.

By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.

What is the end of study? let me know.

KING.

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

BEROWNE.

Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense?

KING.

Ay, that is study's god-like recompense.

BEROWNE.

Come on, then; I will swear to study so,

To know the thing I am forbid to know,

As thus: to study where I well may dine,

When I to feast expressly am forbid;

Or study where to meet some mistress fine,

When mistresses from common sense are hid;

Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath,

Study to break it, and not break my troth.

If study's gain be thus, and this be so,

Study knows that which yet it doth not know.

Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no.

KING.

These be the stops that hinder study quite,

And train our intellects to vain delight.

BEROWNE.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain

Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain:

As painfully to pore upon a book,

To seek the light of truth; while truth the while

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.

Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile;

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,

Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.

Study me how to please the eye indeed,

By fixing it upon a fairer eye;

Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed,

And give him light that it was blinded by.

Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,

That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks;

Small have continual plodders ever won,

Save base authority from others' books.

These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights

That give a name to every fixed star

Have no more profit of their shining nights

Than those that walk and wot not what they are.

Too much to know is to know nought but fame;

And every godfather can give a name.

KING.

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

DUMAINE.

Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

LONGAVILLE.

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

BEROWNE.

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

DUMAINE.

How follows that?

BEROWNE.

Fit in his place and time.

DUMAINE.

In reason nothing.

BEROWNE.

Something then in rime.

LONGAVILLE.

Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost

That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

BEROWNE.

Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast

Before the birds have any cause to sing?

Why should I joy in any abortive birth?

At Christmas I no more desire a rose

Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows;

But like of each thing that in season grows;

So you, to study now it is too late,

Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.

KING.

Well, sit out; go home, Berowne; adieu.

BEROWNE.

No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you;

And though I have for barbarism spoke more

Than for that angel knowledge you can say,

Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore,

And bide the penance of each three years' day.

Give me the paper; let me read the same;

And to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name.

KING.

How well this yielding rescues thee from shame!

BEROWNE.

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

LONGAVILLE.

Four days ago.

BEROWNE.

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

LONGAVILLE.

Marry, that did I.

BEROWNE.

Sweet lord, and why?

LONGAVILLE.

To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

BEROWNE.

A dangerous law against gentility!

'Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.'

This article, my liege, yourself must break;

For well you know here comes in embassy

The French king's daughter, with yourself to speak—

A mild of grace and complete majesty—

About surrender up of Aquitaine

To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father:

Therefore this article is made in vain,

Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither.

KING.

What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot.

BEROWNE.

So study evermore is over-shot:

While it doth study to have what it would,

It doth forget to do the thing it should;

And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,

'Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost.

KING.

We must of force dispense with this decree;

She must lie here on mere necessity.

BEROWNE.

Necessity will make us all forsworn

Three thousand times within this three years' space;

For every man with his affects is born,

Not by might master'd, but by special grace.

If I break faith, this word shall speak for me:

I am forsworn 'on mere necessity.'

So to the laws at large I write my name; [Subscribes]

And he that breaks them in the least degree

Stands in attainder of eternal shame.

Suggestions are to other as to me;

But I believe, although I seem so loath,

I am the last that will last keep his oath.

But is there no quick recreation granted?

KING.

Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted

With a refined traveller of Spain;

A man in all the world's new fashion planted,

That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;

One who the music of his own vain tongue

Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;

A man of complements, whom right and wrong

Have chose as umpire of their mutiny:

This child of fancy, that Armado hight,

For interim to our studies shall relate,

In high-born words, the worth of many a knight

From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate.

How you delight, my lords, I know not, I;

But, I protest, I love to hear him lie,

And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

BEROWNE.

Armado is a most illustrious wight,

A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight.

LONGAVILLE.

Costard the swain and he shall be our sport;

And so to study three years is but short.

[Enter DULL, with a letter, and COSTARD.]

DULL.

Which is the Duke's own person?

BEROWNE.

This, fellow. What wouldst?

DULL.

I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood.

BEROWNE.

This is he.

DULL.

Signior Arm—Arm—commends you. There's villainy abroad: this letter will tell you more.

COSTARD.

Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

KING.

A letter from the magnificent Armado.

BEROWNE.

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

LONGAVILLE.

A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

BEROWNE.

To hear, or forbear laughing?

LONGAVILLE.

To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or, to forbear both.

BEROWNE.

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

COSTARD.

The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

BEROWNE.

In what manner?

COSTARD.

In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner,—it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman, for the form,—in some form.

BEROWNE.

For the following, sir?

COSTARD.

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

KING.

Will you hear this letter with attention?

BEROWNE.

As we would hear an oracle.

COSTARD.

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

KING.

'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god and body's fostering patron,'—

COSTARD.

Not a word of Costard yet.

KING.

'So it is,'—

COSTARD.

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

KING.

Peace!

COSTARD.

Be to me, and every man that dares not fight!

KING.

No words!

COSTARD.

Of other men's secrets, I beseech you.

KING.

'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I upon; it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where, it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'—

COSTARD.

Me.

KING.

'That unlettered small-knowing soul,'—

COSTARD.

Me.

KING.

'That shallow vassal,'—

COSTARD.

Still me?

KING.

'Which, as I remember, hight Costard,'—

COSTARD.

O, me!

KING.

'Sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with—with,—O! with but with this I passion to say wherewith,'—

COSTARD.

With a wench.

KING.

'With a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him, I,—as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on,—have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.'

DULL.

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

KING.

'For Jaquenetta,—so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,—I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty,

Don Adriano de Armado.'

BEROWNE.

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

KING.

Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this?

COSTARD.

Sir, I confess the wench.

KING.

Did you hear the proclamation?

COSTARD.

I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it.

KING.

It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to be taken with a wench.

COSTARD.

I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damsel.

KING.

Well, it was proclaimed 'damsel'.

COSTARD.

This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a 'virgin'.

KING.

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

COSTARD.

If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid.

KING.

This maid not serve your turn, sir.

COSTARD.

This maid will serve my turn, sir.

KING.

Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water.

COSTARD.

I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.

KING.

And Don Armado shall be your keeper.

My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o'er:

And go we, lords, to put in practice that

Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

[Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.]

BEROWNE.

I'll lay my head to any good man's hat

These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.

Sirrah, come on.

COSTARD.

I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The park.

[Enter ARMADO and MOTH.]

ARMADO.

Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

MOTH.

A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

ARMADO.

Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.

MOTH.

No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

ARMADO.

How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

MOTH.

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

ARMADO.

Why tough senior? Why tough senior?

MOTH.

Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal?

ARMADO.

I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

MOTH.

And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

ARMADO.

Pretty and apt.

MOTH.

How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty?

ARMADO.

Thou pretty, because little.

MOTH.

Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

ARMADO.

And therefore apt, because quick.

MOTH.

Speak you this in my praise, master?

ARMADO.

In thy condign praise.

MOTH.

I will praise an eel with the same praise.

ARMADO.

What! That an eel is ingenious?

MOTH.

That an eel is quick.

ARMADO.

I do say thou art quick in answers. Thou heat'st my blood.

MOTH.

I am answered, sir.

ARMADO.

I love not to be crossed.

MOTH.

[Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him.

ARMADO.

I have promised to study three years with the Duke.

MOTH.

You may do it in an hour, sir.

ARMADO.

Impossible.

MOTH.

How many is one thrice told?

ARMADO.

I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

MOTH.

You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

ARMADO.

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

MOTH.

Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

ARMADO.

It doth amount to one more than two.

MOTH.

Which the base vulgar do call three.

ARMADO.

True.

MOTH.

Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here's three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

ARMADO.

A most fine figure!

MOTH.

[Aside] To prove you a cipher.

ARMADO.

I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love?

MOTH.

Hercules, master.

ARMADO.

Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage.

MOTH.

Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love.

ARMADO.

O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth?

MOTH.

A woman, master.

ARMADO.

Of what complexion?

MOTH.

Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

ARMADO.

Tell me precisely of what complexion.

MOTH.

Of the sea-water green, sir.

ARMADO.

Is that one of the four complexions?

MOTH.

As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

ARMADO.

Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit.

MOTH.

It was so, sir, for she had a green wit.

ARMADO.

My love is most immaculate white and red.

MOTH.

Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours.

ARMADO.

Define, define, well-educated infant.

MOTH.

My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me!

ARMADO.

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

MOTH.

If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne'er be known;

For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,

And fears by pale white shown.

Then if she fear, or be to blame,

By this you shall not know,

For still her cheeks possess the same

Which native she doth owe.

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

ARMADO.

Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

MOTH.

The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune.

ARMADO.

I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.

MOTH.

[Aside] To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.

ARMADO.

Sing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love.

MOTH.

And that's great marvel, loving a light wench.

ARMADO.

I say, sing.

MOTH.

Forbear till this company be past.

[Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA.]

DULL.

Sir, the Duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the dey-woman. Fare you well.

ARMADO.

I do betray myself with blushing. Maid—

JAQUENETTA.

Man.

ARMADO.

I will visit thee at the lodge.

JAQUENETTA.

That's hereby.

ARMADO.

I know where it is situate.

JAQUENETTA.

Lord, how wise you are!

ARMADO.

I will tell thee wonders.

JAQUENETTA.

With that face?

ARMADO.

I love thee.

JAQUENETTA.

So I heard you say.

ARMADO.

And so, farewell.

JAQUENETTA.

Fair weather after you!

DULL.

Come, Jaquenetta, away!

[Exit with JAQUENETTA.]

ARMADO.

Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.

COSTARD.

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

ARMADO.

Thou shalt be heavily punished.

COSTARD.

I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded.

ARMADO.

Take away this villain: shut him up.

MOTH.

Come, you transgressing slave: away!

COSTARD.

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

MOTH.

No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.

COSTARD.

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

MOTH.

What shall some see?

COSTARD.

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

[Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.]

ARMADO.

I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn,—which is a great argument of falsehood,—if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil; there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

The King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a distance.

[Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, and other Attendants.]

BOYET.

Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:

Consider who the king your father sends,

To whom he sends, and what's his embassy:

Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,

To parley with the sole inheritor

Of all perfections that a man may owe,

Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight

Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.

Be now as prodigal of all dear grace

As Nature was in making graces dear

When she did starve the general world beside,

And prodigally gave them all to you.

PRINCESS.

Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,

Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:

Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,

Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues.

I am less proud to hear you tell my worth

Than you much willing to be counted wise

In spending your wit in the praise of mine.

But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,

You are not ignorant, all-telling fame

Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,

Till painful study shall outwear three years,

No woman may approach his silent court:

Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course,

Before we enter his forbidden gates,

To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,

Bold of your worthiness, we single you

As our best-moving fair solicitor.

Tell him the daughter of the King of France,

On serious business, craving quick dispatch,

Importunes personal conference with his Grace.

Haste, signify so much; while we attend,

Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will.

BOYET.

Proud of employment, willingly I go.

PRINCESS.

All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.

[Exit BOYET.]

Who are the votaries, my loving lords,

That are vow-fellows with this virtuous Duke?

FIRST LORD.

Longaville is one.

PRINCESS.

Know you the man?

MARIA.

I know him, madam: at a marriage feast,

Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir

Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized

In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.

A man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd,

Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms:

Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.

The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,—

If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,—

Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will;

Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills

It should none spare that come within his power.

PRINCESS.

Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?

MARIA.

They say so most that most his humours know.

PRINCESS.

Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow.

Who are the rest?

KATHARINE.

The young Dumaine, a well-accomplish'd youth,

Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd;

Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,

For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,

And shape to win grace though he had no wit.

I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;

And much too little of that good I saw

Is my report to his great worthiness.

ROSALINE.

Another of these students at that time

Was there with him, if I have heard a truth:

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour's talk withal.

His eye begets occasion for his wit,

For every object that the one doth catch

The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,

Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,

Delivers in such apt and gracious words

That aged ears play truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished;

So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

PRINCESS.

God bless my ladies! Are they all in love,

That every one her own hath garnished

With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

FIRST LORD.

Here comes Boyet.

[Re-enter BOYET.]

PRINCESS.

Now, what admittance, lord?

BOYET.

Navarre had notice of your fair approach,

And he and his competitors in oath

Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,

Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;

He rather means to lodge you in the field,

Like one that comes here to besiege his court,

Than seek a dispensation for his oath,

To let you enter his unpeopled house.

Here comes Navarre.

[The LADIES mask.]

[Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.]

KING.

Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.

PRINCESS.

'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.

KING.

You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

PRINCESS.

I will be welcome then: conduct me thither.

KING.

Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.

PRINCESS.

Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn.

KING.

Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

PRINCESS.

Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else.

KING.

Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

PRINCESS.

Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,

Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.

I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping:

'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,

And sin to break it.

But pardon me, I am too sudden bold:

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.

Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,

And suddenly resolve me in my suit.

[Gives a paper.]

KING.

Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.

PRINCESS.

You will the sooner that I were away,

For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay.

[The King reads.]

BEROWNE.

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

ROSALINE.

Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

BEROWNE.

I know you did.

ROSALINE.

How needless was it then

To ask the question!

BEROWNE.

You must not be so quick.

ROSALINE.

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

BEROWNE.

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

ROSALINE.

Not till it leave the rider in the mire.

BEROWNE.

What time o' day?

ROSALINE.

The hour that fools should ask.

BEROWNE.

Now fair befall your mask!

ROSALINE.

Fair fall the face it covers!

BEROWNE.

And send you many lovers!

ROSALINE.

Amen, so you be none.

BEROWNE.

Nay, then will I be gone.

KING.

Madam, your father here doth intimate

The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;

Being but the one half of an entire sum

Disbursed by my father in his wars.

But say that he or we,—as neither have,—

Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid

A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which,

One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,

Although not valued to the money's worth.

If then the King your father will restore

But that one half which is unsatisfied,

We will give up our right in Aquitaine,

And hold fair friendship with his majesty.

But that, it seems, he little purposeth,

For here he doth demand to have repaid

A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,

On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,

To have his title live in Aquitaine;

Which we much rather had depart withal,

And have the money by our father lent,

Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is.

Dear Princess, were not his requests so far

From reason's yielding, your fair self should make

A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast,

And go well satisfied to France again.

PRINCESS.

You do the king my father too much wrong,

And wrong the reputation of your name,

In so unseeming to confess receipt

Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.

KING.

I do protest I never heard of it;

And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back

Or yield up Aquitaine.

PRINCESS.

We arrest your word.

Boyet, you can produce acquittances

For such a sum from special officers

Of Charles his father.

KING.

Satisfy me so.

BOYET.

So please your Grace, the packet is not come,

Where that and other specialties are bound:

To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

KING.

It shall suffice me; at which interview

All liberal reason I will yield unto.

Meantime receive such welcome at my hand

As honour, without breach of honour, may

Make tender of to thy true worthiness.

You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates;

But here without you shall be so receiv'd

As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,

Though so denied fair harbour in my house.

Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:

To-morrow shall we visit you again.

PRINCESS.

Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!

KING.

Thy own wish wish I thee in every place.

[Exeunt KING and his Train.]

BEROWNE.

Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.

ROSALINE.

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

BEROWNE.

I would you heard it groan.

ROSALINE.

Is the fool sick?

BEROWNE.

Sick at the heart.

ROSALINE.

Alack! let it blood.

BEROWNE.

Would that do it good?

ROSALINE.

My physic says 'ay.'

BEROWNE.

Will you prick't with your eye?

ROSALINE.

Non point, with my knife.

BEROWNE.

Now, God save thy life!

ROSALINE.

And yours from long living!

BEROWNE.

I cannot stay thanksgiving.

[Retiring.]

DUMAINE.

Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?

BOYET.

The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.

DUMAINE.

A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well.

[Exit.]

LONGAVILLE.

I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?

BOYET.

A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.

LONGAVILLE.

Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.

BOYET.

She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.

LONGAVILLE.

Pray you, sir, whose daughter?

BOYET.

Her mother's, I have heard.

LONGAVILLE.

God's blessing on your beard!

BOYET.

Good sir, be not offended.

She is an heir of Falconbridge.

LONGAVILLE.

Nay, my choler is ended.

She is a most sweet lady.

BOYET.

Not unlike, sir; that may be.

[Exit LONGAVILLE.]

BEROWNE.

What's her name in the cap?

BOYET.

Rosaline, by good hap.

BEROWNE.

Is she wedded or no?

BOYET.

To her will, sir, or so.

BEROWNE.

You are welcome, sir. Adieu!

BOYET.

Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

[Exit BEROWNE.—LADIES unmask.]

MARIA.

That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord;

Not a word with him but a jest.

BOYET.

And every jest but a word.

PRINCESS.

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

BOYET.

I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.

MARIA.

Two hot sheeps, marry!

BOYET.

And wherefore not ships?

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

MARIA.

You sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

BOYET.

So you grant pasture for me.

[Offering to kiss her.]

MARIA.

Not so, gentle beast.

My lips are no common, though several they be.

BOYET.

Belonging to whom?

MARIA.

To my fortunes and me.

PRINCESS.

Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree;

This civil war of wits were much better us'd

On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd.

BOYET.

If my observation, which very seldom lies,

By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,

Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

PRINCESS.

With what?

BOYET.

With that which we lovers entitle affected.

PRINCESS.

Your reason.

BOYET.

Why, all his behaviours did make their retire

To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;

His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd,

Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd;

His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,

Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;

All senses to that sense did make their repair,

To feel only looking on fairest of fair.

Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,

As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;

Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd,

Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.

His face's own margent did quote such amazes

That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.

I'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his,

An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.

PRINCESS.

Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd.

BOYET.

But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd.

I only have made a mouth of his eye,

By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.

ROSALINE.

Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully.

MARIA.

He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.

ROSALINE.

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

BOYET.

Do you hear, my mad wenches?

MARIA.

No.

BOYET.

What, then, do you see?

ROSALINE.

Ay, our way to be gone.

BOYET.

You are too hard for me.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

The King of Navarre's park.

[Enter ARMADO and MOTH.]

ARMADO.

Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

MOTH [Singing.]

Concolinel,—

ARMADO.

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

MOTH.

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

ARMADO.

How meanest thou? brawling in French?

MOTH.

No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note,—do you note me?—that most are affected to these.

ARMADO.

How hast thou purchased this experience?

MOTH.

By my penny of observation.

ARMADO.

But O—but O,—

MOTH.

'The hobby-horse is forgot.'

ARMADO.

Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'?

MOTH.

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

ARMADO.

Almost I had.

MOTH.

Negligent student! learn her by heart.

ARMADO.

By heart and in heart, boy.

MOTH.

And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.

ARMADO.

What wilt thou prove?

MOTH.

A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her.

ARMADO.

I am all these three.

MOTH.

And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all.

ARMADO.

Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter.

MOTH.

A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador for an ass.

ARMADO.

Ha, ha! what sayest thou?

MOTH.

Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

ARMADO.

The way is but short: away!

MOTH.

As swift as lead, sir.

ARMADO.

The meaning, pretty ingenious?

Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

MOTH.

Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

ARMADO.

I say lead is slow.

MOTH.

You are too swift, sir, to say so:

Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun?

ARMADO.

Sweet smoke of rhetoric!

He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he;

I shoot thee at the swain.

MOTH.

Thump then, and I flee.

[Exit.]

ARMADO.

A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!

By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.

My herald is return'd.

[Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.]

MOTH.

A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin.

ARMADO.

Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin.

COSTARD.

No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain.

ARMADO.

By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word l'envoy for a salve?

MOTH.

Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve?

ARMADO.

No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain

Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.

I will example it:

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

There's the moral. Now the l'envoy.

MOTH.

I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again.

ARMADO.

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

MOTH.

Until the goose came out of door,

And stay'd the odds by adding four.

Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy.

The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,

Were still at odds, being but three.

ARMADO.

Until the goose came out of door,

Staying the odds by adding four.

MOTH.

A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more?

COSTARD.

The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat.

Sir, your pennyworth is good an your goose be fat.

To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:

Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.

ARMADO.

Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

MOTH.

By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.

Then call'd you for the l'envoy.

COSTARD.

True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in; Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought; and he ended the market.

ARMADO.

But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?

MOTH.

I will tell you sensibly.

COSTARD.

Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l'envoy:

I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,

Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

ARMADO.

We will talk no more of this matter.

COSTARD.

Till there be more matter in the shin.

ARMADO.

Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee.

COSTARD.

O! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this.

ARMADO.

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

COSTARD.

True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose.

ARMADO.

I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:—[Giving a letter.] Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [Giving money.] there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.

[Exit.]

MOTH.

Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.

COSTARD.

My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew!

[Exit MOTH.]

Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that's the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. 'What's the price of this inkle?' 'One penny.' 'No, I'll give you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word.

[Enter BEROWNE.]

BEROWNE.

O! My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met.

COSTARD.

Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration?

BEROWNE.

What is a remuneration?

COSTARD.

Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

BEROWNE.

Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.

COSTARD.

I thank your worship. God be wi' you!

BEROWNE.

Stay, slave; I must employ thee:

As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,

Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

COSTARD.

When would you have it done, sir?

BEROWNE.

O, this afternoon.

COSTARD.

Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.

BEROWNE.

O, thou knowest not what it is.

COSTARD.

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

BEROWNE.

Why, villain, thou must know first.

COSTARD.

I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

BEROWNE.

It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this:

The princess comes to hunt here in the park,

And in her train there is a gentle lady;

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,

And Rosaline they call her: ask for her

And to her white hand see thou do commend

This seal'd-up counsel.

[Gives him a shilling.]

There's thy guerdon: go.

COSTARD.

Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon—remuneration!

[Exit.]

BEROWNE.

And I, forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip;

A very beadle to a humorous sigh;

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;

A domineering pedant o'er the boy,

Than whom no mortal so magnificent!

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;

Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,

Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator, and great general

Of trotting 'paritors: O my little heart!

And I to be a corporal of his field,

And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!

What! I love! I sue, I seek a wife!

A woman, that is like a German clock,

Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,

And never going aright, being a watch,

But being watch'd that it may still go right!

Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all;

And, among three, to love the worst of all,

A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,

With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;

Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed,

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:

And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!

To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:

Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The King of Navarre's park.

[Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER.

PRINCESS.

Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

BOYET.

I know not; but I think it was not he.

PRINCESS.

Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind.

Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;

On Saturday we will return to France.

Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush

That we must stand and play the murderer in?

FORESTER.

Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

PRINCESS.

I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.

FORESTER.

Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

PRINCESS.

What, what? First praise me, and again say no?

O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe!

FORESTER.

Yes, madam, fair.

PRINCESS.

Nay, never paint me now;

Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.

Here, good my glass, take this for telling true:

[Gives money]

Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

FORESTER.

Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

PRINCESS.

See, see! my beauty will be sav'd by merit.

O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.

But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,

And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:

Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;

If wounding, then it was to show my skill,

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.

And out of question so it is sometimes,

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,

When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,

We bend to that the working of the heart;

As I for praise alone now seek to spill

The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

BOYET.

Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty

Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be

Lords o'er their lords?

PRINCESS.

Only for praise; and praise we may afford

To any lady that subdues a lord.

[Enter COSTARD.]

BOYET.

Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

COSTARD.

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

PRINCESS.

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

COSTARD.

Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

PRINCESS.

The thickest and the tallest.

COSTARD.

The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth.

An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,

One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.

Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here.

PRINCESS.

What's your will, sir? What's your will?

COSTARD.

I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.

PRINCESS.

O! thy letter, thy letter; he's a good friend of mine.

Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;

Break up this capon.

BOYET.

I am bound to serve.

This letter is mistook; it importeth none here.

It is writ to Jaquenetta.

PRINCESS.

We will read it, I swear.

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

BOYET.

'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar— O base and obscure vulgar!—videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Who overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side? the king's; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king's, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? —me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.

Thine in the dearest design of industry,

Don Adriano de Armado.

Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar

'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;

Submissive fall his princely feet before,

And he from forage will incline to play.

But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then?

Food for his rage, repasture for his den.'

PRINCESS.

What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?

What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better?

BOYET.

I am much deceiv'd but I remember the style.

PRINCESS.

Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.

BOYET.

This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;

A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport

To the Prince and his book-mates.

PRINCESS.

Thou fellow, a word.

Who gave thee this letter?

COSTARD.

I told you; my lord.

PRINCESS.

To whom shouldst thou give it?

COSTARD.

From my lord to my lady.

PRINCESS.

From which lord to which lady?

COSTARD.

From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine,

To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.

PRINCESS.

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

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

[Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN.]

BOYET.

Who is the shooterr? Who is the shooter?

ROSALINE.

Shall I teach you to know?

BOYET.

Ay, my continent of beauty.

ROSALINE.

Why, she that bears the bow.

Finely put off!

BOYET.

My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,

Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.

Finely put on!

ROSALINE.

Well then, I am the shooter.

BOYET.

And who is your deer?

ROSALINE.

If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.

Finely put on indeed!

MARIA.

You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow.

BOYET.

But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?

ROSALINE.

Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it?

BOYET.

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

ROSALINE.

Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

BOYET.

An I cannot, cannot, cannot,

An I cannot, another can.

[Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.]

COSTARD.

By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

MARIA.

A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it.

BOYET.

A mark! O! mark but that mark; A mark, says my lady!

Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.

MARIA.

Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out.

COSTARD.

Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.

BOYET.

An' if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

COSTARD.

Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

MARIA.

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

COSTARD.

She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl.

BOYET.

I fear too much rubbing. Good-night, my good owl.

[Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.]

COSTARD.

By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!

Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!

O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit!

When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.

Armado, o' the one side, O! a most dainty man!

To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!

To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a' will swear!

And his page o' t'other side, that handful of wit!

Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.

[Shouting within.] Sola, sola!

[Exit running.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

The same.

Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.

NATHANIEL.

Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience.

HOLOFERNES.

The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth.

NATHANIEL.

Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head.

HOLOFERNES.

Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

DULL.

Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.

HOLOFERNES.

Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination,—after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,—to insert again my haud credo for a deer.

DULL.

I said the deer was not a 'auld grey doe'; 'twas a pricket.

HOLOFERNES.

Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus!

O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!

NATHANIEL.

Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book;

He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink:

His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:

And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be,

Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify in us more than he;

For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,

So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school.

But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father's mind:

Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

DULL.

You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit,

What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five weeks old as yet?

HOLOFERNES.

Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull.

DULL.

What is Dictynna?

NATHANIEL.

A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.

HOLOFERNES.

The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,

And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.

The allusion holds in the exchange.

DULL.

'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange.

HOLOFERNES.

God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange.

DULL.

And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that 'twas a pricket that the Princess killed.

HOLOFERNES.

Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, I have call'd the deer the Princess killed, a pricket.

NATHANIEL.

Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

HOLOFERNES.

I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility.

The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket;

Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting.

The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket—

Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.

If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel!

Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L.

NATHANIEL.

A rare talent!

DULL.

[Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.

HOLOFERNES.

This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.

NATHANIEL.

Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth.

HOLOFERNES.

Mehercle! If their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

[Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.]

JAQUENETTA.

God give you good morrow, Master parson.

HOLOFERNES.

Master parson, quasi pierce-one?. And if one should be pierced, which is the one?

COSTARD.

Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

HOLOFERNES.

'Of piercing a hogshead'—a good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well.

JAQUENETTA.

Good Master parson [Giving a letter to NATHANIEL.], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you read it.

HOLOFERNES.

'Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra

Ruminat,'

and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: —

Venetia, Venetia,

Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia.

Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. [He sings.]

Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.

Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his— What, my soul, verses?

NATHANIEL.

Ay, sir, and very learned.

HOLOFERNES.

Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine.

NATHANIEL.

[Reads.]

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?

Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd;

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove;

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed.

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,

Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend:

If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice.

Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;

Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire.

Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.

Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong,

That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.

HOLOFERNES.

You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the 'tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you?

JAQUENETTA.

Ay, sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords.

HOLOFERNES.

I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.'—Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu.

JAQUENETTA.

Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life!

COSTARD.

Have with thee, my girl.

[Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.]

NATHANIEL.

Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith—

HOLOFERNES.

Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

NATHANIEL.

Marvellous well for the pen.

HOLOFERNES.

I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society.

NATHANIEL.

And thank you too; for society,—saith the text,—is the happiness of life.

HOLOFERNES.

And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The same.

[Enter BEROWNE, with a paper.]

BEROWNE.

The king he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil: I am tolling in a pitch,—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word! Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I am the fool: well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o' my side. I will not love; if I do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O! but her eye,—by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love; and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already; the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper; God give him grace to groan!

[Gets up into a tree.]

[Enter the KING, with a paper.]

KING.

Ay me!

BEROWNE.

[Aside.]

Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

KING.

[Reads.]

So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote

The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows;

Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright

Through the transparent bosom of the deep,

As doth thy face through tears of mine give light.

Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep:

No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;

So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.

Do but behold the tears that swell in me,

And they thy glory through my grief will show:

But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep

My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.

O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel

No thought can think nor tongue of mortal tell.

How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper:

Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?

[Steps aside.]

What, Longaville! and reading! Listen, ear.

[Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.]

BEROWNE.

Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

LONGAVILLE.

Ay me! I am forsworn.

BEROWNE.

Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

KING.

In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

BEROWNE.

One drunkard loves another of the name.

LONGAVILLE.

Am I the first that have been perjur'd so?

BEROWNE.

I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know;

Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,

The shape of love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.

LONGAVILLE.

I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.

O sweet Maria, empress of my love!

These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

BEROWNE.

O! rimes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:

Disfigure not his slop.

LONGAVILLE.

This same shall go.

[He reads the sonnet.]

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,

Persuade my heart to this false perjury?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:

Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,

Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:

If broken, then it is no fault of mine:

If by me broke, what fool is not so wise

To lose an oath to win a paradise!

BEROWNE.

This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity;

A green goose a goddess; pure, pure idolatry.

God amend us, God amend! We are much out o' the way.

LONGAVILLE.

By whom shall I send this?—Company! Stay.

[Steps aside.]

BEROWNE.

All hid, all hid; an old infant play.

Like a demigod here sit I in the sky,

And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye.

More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish.

[Enter DUMAINE, with a paper.]

Dumaine transformed: four woodcocks in a dish!

DUMAINE.

O most divine Kate!

BEROWNE.

O most profane coxcomb!

DUMAINE.

By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye!

BEROWNE.

By earth, she is but corporal; there you lie.

DUMAINE.

Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted.

BEROWNE.

An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.

DUMAINE.

As upright as the cedar.

BEROWNE.

Stoop, I say;

Her shoulder is with child.

DUMAINE.

As fair as day.

BEROWNE.

Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

DUMAINE.

O! that I had my wish.

LONGAVILLE.

And I had mine!

KING.

And I mine too, good Lord!

BEROWNE.

Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word?

DUMAINE.

I would forget her; but a fever she

Reigns in my blood, and will remember'd be.

BEROWNE.

A fever in your blood! Why, then incision

Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

DUMAINE.

Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.

BEROWNE.

Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit.

DUMAINE.

[Reads his sonnet.]

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month is ever May,

Spied a blossom passing fair

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan passage find;

That the lover, sick to death,

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

Air, would I might triumph so!

But, alack! my hand is sworn

Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;

Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not call it sin in me,

That I am forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I send, and something else more plain,

That shall express my true love's fasting pain.

O! would the King, Berowne and Longaville

Were lovers too. Ill, to example ill,

Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note;

For none offend where all alike do dote.

LONGAVILLE.

[Advancing.]

Dumaine, thy love is far from charity,

That in love's grief desir'st society;

You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,

To be o'erheard and taken napping so.

KING.

[Advancing.]

Come, sir, you blush; as his, your case is such.

You chide at him, offending twice as much:

You do not love Maria; Longaville

Did never sonnet for her sake compile;

Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart

His loving bosom, to keep down his heart.

I have been closely shrouded in this bush,

And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush.

I heard your guilty rimes, observ'd your fashion,

Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:

Ay me! says one. O Jove! the other cries;

One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other's eyes:

[To LONGAVILLE]

You would for paradise break faith and troth;

[To DUMAINE]

And Jove, for your love would infringe an oath.

What will Berowne say when that he shall hear

Faith infringed which such zeal did swear?

How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!

How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it!

For all the wealth that ever I did see,

I would not have him know so much by me.

BEROWNE.

Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

[Descends from the tree.]

Ah! good my liege, I pray thee pardon me:

Good heart! what grace hast thou thus to reprove

These worms for loving, that art most in love?

Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears

There is no certain princess that appears:

You'll not be perjur'd; 'tis a hateful thing:

Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.

But are you not asham'd? nay, are you not,

All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?

You found his mote; the king your mote did see;

But I a beam do find in each of three.

O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen;

O me! with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat;

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,

And profound Solomon to tune a jig,

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

Where lies thy grief, O! tell me, good Dumaine?

And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?

And where my liege's? all about the breast:

A caudle, ho!

KING.

Too bitter is thy jest.

Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view?

BEROWNE.

Not you by me, but I betray'd by you.

I that am honest; I that hold it sin

To break the vow I am engaged in;

I am betrayed by keeping company

With men like men, men of inconstancy.

When shall you see me write a thing in rime?

Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time

In pruning me? When shall you hear that I

Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,

A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,

A leg, a limb?—

KING.

Soft! whither away so fast?

A true man or a thief that gallops so?

BEROWNE.

I post from love; good lover, let me go.

[Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.]

JAQUENETTA.

God bless the king!

KING.

What present hast thou there?

COSTARD.

Some certain treason.

KING.

What makes treason here?

COSTARD.

Nay, it makes nothing, sir.

KING.

If it mar nothing neither,

The treason and you go in peace away together.

JAQUENETTA.

I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read;

Our parson misdoubts it; 'twas treason, he said.

KING.

Berowne, read it over.

[Giving the letter to him.]

Where hadst thou it?

JAQUENETTA.

Of Costard.

KING.

Where hadst thou it?

COSTARD.

Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

[BEROWNE tears the letter.]

KING.

How now! What is in you? Why dost thou tear it?

BEROWNE.

A toy, my liege, a toy: your Grace needs not fear it.

LONGAVILLE.

It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it.

DUMAINE.

[Picking up the pieces.]

It is Berowne's writing, and here is his name.

BEROWNE.

[To COSTARD.]

Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame.

Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess.

KING.

What?

BEROWNE.

That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess;

He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I,

Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.

O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

DUMAINE.

Now the number is even.

BEROWNE.

True, true, we are four.

Will these turtles be gone?

KING.

Hence, sirs; away!

COSTARD.

Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

[Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.]

BEROWNE.

Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace!

As true we are as flesh and blood can be:

The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;

Young blood doth not obey an old decree:

We cannot cross the cause why we were born,

Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.

KING.

What! did these rent lines show some love of thine?

BEROWNE.

'Did they?' quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde

At the first op'ning of the gorgeous east,

Bows not his vassal head and, strucken blind,

Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?

What peremptory eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty?

KING.

What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee now?

My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;

She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.

BEROWNE.

My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne.

O! but for my love, day would turn to night.

Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek,

Where several worthies make one dignity,

Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,—

Fie, painted rhetoric! O! she needs it not:

To things of sale a seller's praise belongs;

She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.

A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn,

Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:

Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,

And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy.

O! 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine!

KING.

By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

BEROWNE.

Is ebony like her? O wood divine!

A wife of such wood were felicity.

O! who can give an oath? Where is a book?

That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,

If that she learn not of her eye to look.

No face is fair that is not full so black.

KING.

O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,

The hue of dungeons, and the school of night;

And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.

BEROWNE.

Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

O! if in black my lady's brows be deck'd,

It mourns that painting and usurping hair

Should ravish doters with a false aspect;

And therefore is she born to make black fair.

Her favour turns the fashion of the days,

For native blood is counted painting now;

And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,

Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.

DUMAINE.

To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

LONGAVILLE.

And since her time are colliers counted bright.

KING.

And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack.

DUMAINE.

Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.

BEROWNE.

Your mistresses dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash'd away.

KING.

'Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain,

I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.

BEROWNE.

I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.

KING.

No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

DUMAINE.

I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

LONGAVILLE.

[Showing his shoe.]

Look, here's thy love, my foot and her face see.

BEROWNE.

O! if the streets were paved with thine eyes,

Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.

DUMAINE.

O vile! Then, as she goes, what upward lies

The street should see as she walk'd over head.

KING.

But what of this? Are we not all in love?

BEROWNE.

Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

KING.

Then leave this chat; and, good Berowne, now prove

Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

DUMAINE.

Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

LONGAVILLE.

O! some authority how to proceed;

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

DUMAINE.

Some salve for perjury.

BEROWNE.

O, 'tis more than need.

Have at you, then, affection's men-at-arms:

Consider what you first did swear unto,

To fast, to study, and to see no woman;

Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth.

Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young,

And abstinence engenders maladies.

And where that you you have vow'd to study, lords,

In that each of you have forsworn his book,

Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look?

For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,

Have found the ground of study's excellence

Without the beauty of a woman's face?

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:

They are the ground, the books, the academes,

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.

Why, universal plodding poisons up

The nimble spirits in the arteries,

As motion and long-during action tires

The sinewy vigour of the traveller.

Now, for not looking on a woman's face,

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes,

And study too, the causer of your vow;

For where is author in the world

Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?

Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,

And where we are our learning likewise is:

Then when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes,

Do we not likewise see our learning there?

O! we have made a vow to study, lords,

And in that vow we have forsworn our books:

For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,

In leaden contemplation have found out

Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes

Of beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with?

Other slow arts entirely keep the brain;

And therefore, finding barren practisers,

Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil;

But love, first learned in a lady's eyes,

Lives not alone immured in the brain,

But with the motion of all elements,

Courses as swift as thought in every power,

And gives to every power a double power,

Above their functions and their offices.

It adds a precious seeing to the eye;

A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind;

A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound,

When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd:

Love's feeling is more soft and sensible

Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:

Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.

For valour, is not Love a Hercules,

Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?

Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical

As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Make heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Never durst poet touch a pen to write

Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs;

O! then his lines would ravish savage ears,

And plant in tyrants mild humility.

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:

They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;

They are the books, the arts, the academes,

That show, contain, and nourish, all the world;

Else none at all in aught proves excellent.

Then fools you were these women to forswear,

Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.

For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love,

Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men,

Or for men's sake, the authors of these women;

Or women's sake, by whom we men are men,

Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,

Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.

It is religion to be thus forsworn;

For charity itself fulfils the law;

And who can sever love from charity?

KING.

Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

BEROWNE.

Advance your standards, and upon them, lords;

Pell-mell, down with them! be first advis'd,

In conflict that you get the sun of them.

LONGAVILLE.

Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by:

Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

KING.

And win them too; therefore let us devise

Some entertainment for them in their tents.

BEROWNE.

First, from the park let us conduct them thither;

Then homeward every man attach the hand

Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon

We will with some strange pastime solace them,

Such as the shortness of the time can shape;

For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours,

Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.

KING.

Away, away! No time shall be omitted,

That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

BEROWNE.

Allons! allons! Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn;

And justice always whirls in equal measure:

Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;

If so, our copper buys no better treasure.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The King of Navarre's park.

[Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.]

HOLOFERNES.

Satis quod sufficit.

NATHANIEL.

I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

HOLOFERNES.

Novi hominem tanquam te. His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.

NATHANIEL.

A most singular and choice epithet.

[Draws out his table-book.]

HOLOFERNES.

He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt; det when he should pronounce debt,—d, e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable,—it insinuateth me of insanie. Ne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.

NATHANIEL.

Laus Deo, bone intelligo.

HOLOFERNES.

Bone? bone for bene: Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve.

[Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.]

NATHANIEL.

Videsne quis venit?

HOLOFERNES.

Video, et gaudeo.

ARMADO.

[To MOTH] Chirrah!

HOLOFERNES.

Quare 'chirrah', not 'sirrah'?

ARMADO.

Men of peace, well encountered.

HOLOFERNES.

Most military sir, salutation.

MOTH.

[Aside to COSTARD.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps.

COSTARD.

O! they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.

MOTH.

Peace! the peal begins.

ARMADO.

[To HOLOFERNES.] Monsieur, are you not lettered?

MOTH.

Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head?

HOLOFERNES.

Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

MOTH.

Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.

HOLOFERNES.

Quis, quis, thou consonant?

MOTH.

The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I.

HOLOFERNES.

I will repeat them,—a, e, i,—

MOTH.

The sheep; the other two concludes it,—o, u.

ARMADO.

Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect: true wit!

MOTH.

Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.

HOLOFERNES.

What is the figure? What is the figure?

MOTH.

Horns.

HOLOFERNES.

Thou disputes like an infant; go, whip thy gig.

MOTH.

Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy manu cita. A gig of a cuckold's horn.

COSTARD.

An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say.

HOLOFERNES.

O, I smell false Latin! 'dunghill' for unguem.

ARMADO.

Arts-man, praeambula; we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain?

HOLOFERNES.

Or mons, the hill.

ARMADO.

At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.

HOLOFERNES.

I do, sans question.

ARMADO.

Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.

HOLOFERNES.

The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir; I do assure.

ARMADO.

Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy courtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let that pass: for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass. The very all of all is, but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, that the King would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance.

HOLOFERNES.

Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess, I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies.

NATHANIEL.

Where will you find men worthy enough to present them?

HOLOFERNES.

Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules,—

ARMADO.

Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club.

HOLOFERNES.

Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.

MOTH.

An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.

ARMADO.

For the rest of the Worthies?—

HOLOFERNES.

I will play three myself.

MOTH.

Thrice-worthy gentleman!

ARMADO.

Shall I tell you a thing?

HOLOFERNES.

We attend.

ARMADO.

We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow.

HOLOFERNES.

Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while.

DULL.

Nor understood none neither, sir.

HOLOFERNES.

Allons! we will employ thee.

DULL.

I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.

HOLOFERNES.

Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

The same. Before the Princess's pavilion.

[Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE and MARIA.]

PRINCESS.

Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,

If fairings come thus plentifully in.

A lady wall'd about with diamonds!

Look you what I have from the loving king.

ROSALINE.

Madam, came nothing else along with that?

PRINCESS.

Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rime

As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper

Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all,

That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.

ROSALINE.

That was the way to make his godhead wax;

For he hath been five thousand years a boy.

KATHARINE.

Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.

ROSALINE.

You'll ne'er be friends with him: a' kill'd your sister.

KATHARINE.

He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;

And so she died: had she been light, like you,

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,

She might ha' been a grandam ere she died;

And so may you, for a light heart lives long.

ROSALINE.

What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

KATHARINE.

A light condition in a beauty dark.

ROSALINE.

We need more light to find your meaning out.

KATHARINE.

You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff;

Therefore I'll darkly end the argument.

ROSALINE.

Look what you do, you do it still i' the dark.

KATHARINE.

So do not you; for you are a light wench.

ROSALINE.

Indeed, I weigh not you; and therefore light.

KATHARINE.

You weigh me not? O! that's you care not for me.

ROSALINE.

Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.'

PRINCESS.

Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd.

But, Rosaline, you have a favour too:

Who sent it? and what is it?

ROSALINE.

I would you knew.

An if my face were but as fair as yours,

My favour were as great: be witness this.

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne;

The numbers true, and, were the numbering too,

I were the fairest goddess on the ground:

I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs.

O! he hath drawn my picture in his letter.

PRINCESS.

Anything like?

ROSALINE.

Much in the letters; nothing in the praise.

PRINCESS.

Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion.

KATHARINE.

Fair as a text B in a copy-book.

ROSALINE.

'Ware pencils! how! let me not die your debtor,

My red dominical, my golden letter:

O, that your face were not so full of O's!

KATHARINE.

A pox of that jest! and beshrew all shrows!

PRINCESS.

But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?

KATHARINE.

Madam, this glove.

PRINCESS.

Did he not send you twain?

KATHARINE.

Yes, madam; and, moreover,

Some thousand verses of a faithful lover;

A huge translation of hypocrisy,

Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity.

MARIA.

This, and these pearl, to me sent Longaville;

The letter is too long by half a mile.

PRINCESS.

I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart

The chain were longer and the letter short?

MARIA.

Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

PRINCESS.

We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

ROSALINE.

They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Berowne I'll torture ere I go.

O that I knew he were but in by th' week!

How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,

And wait the season, and observe the times,

And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rimes,

And shape his service wholly to my hests,

And make him proud to make me proud that jests!

So perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state

That he should be my fool, and I his fate.

PRINCESS.

None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd,

As wit turn'd fool: folly, in wisdom hatch'd,

Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school

And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool.

ROSALINE.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess

As gravity's revolt to wantonness.

MARIA.

Folly in fools bears not so strong a note

As fool'ry in the wise when wit doth dote;

Since all the power thereof it doth apply

To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

[Enter BOYET.]

PRINCESS.

Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

BOYET.

O! I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her Grace?

PRINCESS.

Thy news, Boyet?

BOYET.

Prepare, madam, prepare!—

Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are

Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis'd,

Armed in arguments; you'll be surpris'd:

Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;

Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

PRINCESS.

Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they

That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say.

BOYET.

Under the cool shade of a sycamore

I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour;

When, lo, to interrupt my purpos'd rest,

Toward that shade I might behold addrest

The king and his companions: warily

I stole into a neighbour thicket by,

And overheard what you shall overhear;

That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here.

Their herald is a pretty knavish page,

That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage:

Action and accent did they teach him there;

'Thus must thou speak' and 'thus thy body bear,'

And ever and anon they made a doubt

Presence majestical would put him out;

'For' quoth the King 'an angel shalt thou see;

Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.'

The boy replied 'An angel is not evil;

I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.'

With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on the shoulder,

Making the bold wag by their praises bolder.

One rubb'd his elbow, thus, and fleer'd, and swore

A better speech was never spoke before.

Another with his finger and his thumb

Cried 'Via! we will do't, come what will come.'

The third he caper'd, and cried 'All goes well.'

The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell.

With that they all did tumble on the ground,

With such a zealous laughter, so profound,

That in this spleen ridiculous appears,

To check their folly, passion's solemn tears.

PRINCESS.

But what, but what, come they to visit us?

BOYET.

They do, they do, and are apparell'd thus,

Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess.

Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance;

And every one his love-feat will advance

Unto his several mistress; which they'll know

By favours several which they did bestow.

PRINCESS.

And will they so? The gallants shall be task'd:

For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd;

And not a man of them shall have the grace,

Despite of suit, to see a lady's face.

Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,

And then the king will court thee for his dear;

Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,

So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline.

And change you favours too; so shall your loves

Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes.

ROSALINE.

Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight.

KATHARINE.

But, in this changing, what is your intent?

PRINCESS.

The effect of my intent is to cross theirs;

They do it but in mocking merriment;

And mock for mock is only my intent.

Their several counsels they unbosom shall

To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal

Upon the next occasion that we meet

With visages display'd to talk and greet.

ROSALINE.

But shall we dance, if they desire us to't?

PRINCESS.

No, to the death, we will not move a foot,

Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace;

But while 'tis spoke each turn away her face.

BOYET.

Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart,

And quite divorce his memory from his part.

PRINCESS.

Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt

The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out.

There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown,

To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own:

So shall we stay, mocking intended game,

And they well mock'd, depart away with shame.

[Trumpet sounds within.]

BOYET.

The trumpet sounds: be mask'd; the maskers come.

[The LADIES mask.]

[Enter BLACKAMOORS with music; MOTH, the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in Russian habits, and masked.]

MOTH.

'll hail, the richest heauties on the earth!

BOYET.

Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.

MOTH.

A holy parcel of the fairest dames

[The LADIES turn their backs to him.]

That ever turn'd their—backs—to mortal views.

BEROWNE.

'Their eyes,' villain, 'their eyes.'

MOTH.

That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views.

Out—

BOYET.

True; 'out,' indeed.

MOTH.

Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe

Not to behold—

BEROWNE.

'Once to behold,' rogue.

MOTH.

Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes—

With your sun-beamed eyes—

BOYET.

They will not answer to that epithet;

You were best call it 'daughter-beamed eyes.'

MOTH.

They do not mark me, and that brings me out.

BEROWNE.

Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue.

[Exit MOTH.]

ROSALINE.

What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet.

If they do speak our language, 'tis our will

That some plain man recount their purposes:

Know what they would.

BOYET.

What would you with the princess?

BEROWNE.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

ROSALINE.

What would they, say they?

BOYET.

Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

ROSALINE.

Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.

BOYET.

She says you have it, and you may be gone.

KING.

Say to her we have measur'd many miles

To tread a measure with her on this grass.

BOYET.

They say that they have measur'd many a mile

To tread a measure with you on this grass.

ROSALINE.

It is not so. Ask them how many inches

Is in one mile? If they have measured many,

The measure then of one is easily told.

BOYET.

If to come hither you have measur'd miles,

And many miles, the Princess bids you tell

How many inches doth fill up one mile.

BEROWNE.

Tell her we measure them by weary steps.

BOYET.

She hears herself.

ROSALINE.

How many weary steps

Of many weary miles you have o'ergone

Are number'd in the travel of one mile?

BEROWNE.

We number nothing that we spend for you;

Our duty is so rich, so infinite,

That we may do it still without accompt.

Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,

That we, like savages, may worship it.

ROSALINE.

My face is but a moon, and clouded too.

KING.

Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!

Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,

Those clouds remov'd, upon our watery eyne.

ROSALINE.

O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;

Thou now requests'st but moonshine in the water.

KING.

Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change.

Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange.

ROSALINE.

Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.

[Music plays.]

Not yet! No dance! thus change I like the moon.

KING.

Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?

ROSALINE.

You took the moon at full; but now she's chang'd.

KING.

Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.

The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.

ROSALINE.

Our ears vouchsafe it.

KING.

But your legs should do it.

ROSALINE.

Since you are strangers, and come here by chance,

We'll not be nice: take hands; we will not dance.

KING.

Why take we hands then?

ROSALINE.

Only to part friends.

Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

KING.

More measure of this measure: be not nice.

ROSALINE.

We can afford no more at such a price.

KING.

Price you yourselves? what buys your company?

ROSALINE.

Your absence only.

KING.

That can never be.

ROSALINE.

Then cannot we be bought: and so adieu;

Twice to your visor, and half once to you!

KING.

If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.

ROSALINE.

In private then.

KING.

I am best pleas'd with that.

[They converse apart.]

BEROWNE.

White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

PRINCESS.

Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.

BEROWNE.

Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,

Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!

There's half a dozen sweets.

PRINCESS.

Seventh sweet, adieu:

Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.

BEROWNE.

One word in secret.

PRINCESS.

Let it not be sweet.

BEROWNE.

Thou griev'st my gall.

PRINCESS.

Gall! bitter.

BEROWNE.

Therefore meet.

[They converse apart.]

DUMAINE.

Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

MARIA.

Name it.

DUMAINE.

Fair lady,—

MARIA.

Say you so? Fair lord,

Take that for your fair lady.

DUMAINE.

Please it you,

As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.

[They converse apart.]

KATHARINE.

What, was your visord made without a tongue?

LONGAVILLE.

I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

KATHARINE.

O! for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.

LONGAVILLE.

You have a double tongue within your mask,

And would afford my speechless visor half.

KATHARINE.

'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf?

LONGAVILLE.

A calf, fair lady!

KATHARINE.

No, a fair lord calf.

LONGAVILLE.

Let's part the word.

KATHARINE.

No, I'll not be your half.

Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox.

LONGAVILLE.

Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!

Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

KATHARINE.

Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

LONGAVILLE.

One word in private with you ere I die.

KATHARINE.

Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry.

[They converse apart.]

BOYET.

The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen

As is the razor's edge invisible,

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen,

Above the sense of sense; so sensible

Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings,

Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

ROSALINE.

Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.

BEROWNE.

By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!

KING.

Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.

PRINCESS.

Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites.

[Exeunt KING, LORDS, Music, and Attendants.]

Are these the breed of wits so wondered at?

BOYET.

Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out.

ROSALINE.

Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

PRINCESS.

O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!

Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?

Or ever, but in vizors, show their faces?

This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.

ROSALINE.

O! They were all in lamentable cases!

The King was weeping-ripe for a good word.

PRINCESS.

Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.

MARIA.

Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:

'Non point,' quoth I; my servant straight was mute.

KATHARINE.

Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart;

And trow you what he call'd me?

PRINCESS.

Qualm, perhaps.

KATHARINE. Y

es, in good faith.

PRINCESS.

Go, sickness as thou art!

ROSALINE.

Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.

But will you hear? The king is my love sworn.

PRINCESS.

And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me.

KATHARINE.

And Longaville was for my service born.

MARIA.

Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

BOYET.

Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:

Immediately they will again be here

In their own shapes; for it can never be

They will digest this harsh indignity.

PRINCESS.

Will they return?

BOYET.

They will, they will, God knows,

And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows;

Therefore, change favours; and, when they repair,

Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.

PRINCESS.

How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood.

BOYET.

Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud:

Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown,

Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

PRINCESS.

Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do

If they return in their own shapes to woo?

ROSALINE.

Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd,

Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd.

Let us complain to them what fools were here,

Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;

And wonder what they were, and to what end

Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd,

And their rough carriage so ridiculous,

Should be presented at our tent to us.

BOYET.

Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

PRINCESS.

Whip to our tents, as roes run over land.

[Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA.]

[Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in their proper habits.]

KING.

Fair sir, God save you! Where's the princess?

BOYET.

Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty

Command me any service to her thither?

KING.

That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

BOYET.

I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.

[Exit.]

BEROWNE.

This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,

And utters it again when God doth please:

He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares

At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;

And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,

Have not the grace to grace it with such show.

This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;

Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve:

He can carve too, and lisp: why this is he

That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy;

This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,

That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice

In honourable terms; nay, he can sing

A mean most meanly; and in ushering

Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;

The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

This is the flower that smiles on every one,

To show his teeth as white as whales-bone;

And consciences that will not die in debt

Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

KING.

A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,

That put Armado's page out of his part!

[Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants.]

BEROWNE.

See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou,

Till this man show'd thee? and what art thou now?

KING.

All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!

PRINCESS.

'Fair' in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive.

KING.

Construe my speeches better, if you may.

PRINCESS.

Then wish me better: I will give you leave.

KING.

We came to visit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then.

PRINCESS.

This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:

Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur'd men.

KING.

Rebuke me not for that which you provoke:

The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

PRINCESS.

You nickname virtue: vice you should have spoke;

For virtue's office never breaks men's troth.

Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure

As the unsullied lily, I protest,

A world of torments though I should endure,

I would not yield to be your house's guest;

So much I hate a breaking cause to be

Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity.

KING.

O! you have liv'd in desolation here,

Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

PRINCESS.

Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;

We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game.

A mess of Russians left us but of late.

KING.

How, madam! Russians?

PRINCESS.

Ay, in truth, my lord;

Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.

ROSALINE.

Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:

My lady, to the manner of the days,

In courtesy gives undeserving praise.

We four indeed confronted were with four

In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour,

And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,

They did not bless us with one happy word.

I dare not call them fools; but this I think,

When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.

BEROWNE.

This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,

Your wit makes wise things foolish:when we greet,

With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye,

By light we lose light: your capacity

Is of that nature that to your huge store

Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.

ROSALINE.

This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye—

BEROWNE.

I am a fool, and full of poverty.

ROSALINE.

But that you take what doth to you belong,

It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.

BEROWNE.

O! am yours, and all that I possess.

ROSALINE.

All the fool mine?

BEROWNE.

I cannot give you less.

ROSALINE.

Which of the visors was it that you wore?

BEROWNE.

Where? when? what visor? why demand you this?

ROSALINE.

There, then, that visor; that superfluous case

That hid the worse,and show'd the better face.

KING.

We are descried: they'll mock us now downright.

DUMAINE.

Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.

PRINCESS.

Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad?

ROSALINE.

Help! hold his brows! he'll swound. Why look you pale?

Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

BEROWNE.

Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.

Can any face of brass hold longer out?—

Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;

Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;

Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;

Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;

And I will wish thee never more to dance,

Nor never more in Russian habit wait.

O! never will I trust to speeches penn'd,

Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue,

Nor never come in visor to my friend,

Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper's song.

Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,

Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation,

Figures pedantical; these summer-flies

Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:

I do forswear them; and I here protest,

By this white glove,—how white the hand, God knows!—

Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd

In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes;

And, to begin, wench,—so God help me, la!—

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

ROSALINE.

Sans 'sans,' I pray you.

BEROWNE.

Yet I have a trick

Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;

I'll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see:

Write 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three;

They are infected; in their hearts it lies;

They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:

These lords are visited; you are not free,

For the Lord's tokens on you do I see.

PRINCESS.

No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

BEROWNE.

Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo us.

ROSALINE.

It is not so. For how can this be true,

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?

BEROWNE.

Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

ROSALINE.

Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

BEROWNE.

Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end.

KING.

Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression

Some fair excuse.

PRINCESS.

The fairest is confession.

Were not you here but even now, disguis'd?

KING.

Madam, I was.

PRINCESS.

And were you well advis'd?

KING.

I was, fair madam.

PRINCESS.

When you then were here,

What did you whisper in your lady's ear?

KING.

That more than all the world I did respect her.

PRINCESS.

When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

KING.

Upon mine honour, no.

PRINCESS.

Peace! peace! forbear;

Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.

KING.

Despise me when I break this oath of mine.

PRINCESS.

I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline,

What did the Russian whisper in your ear?

ROSALINE.

Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear

As precious eyesight, and did value me

Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,

That he would wed me, or else die my lover.

PRINCESS.

God give thee joy of him! The noble lord

Most honourably doth uphold his word.

KING.

What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,

I never swore this lady such an oath.

ROSALINE.

By heaven, you did; and, to confirm it plain,

You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

KING.

My faith and this the princess I did give;

I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.

PRINCESS.

Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;

And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.

What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

BEROWNE.

Neither of either; I remit both twain.

I see the trick on't: here was a consent,

Knowing aforehand of our merriment,

To dash it like a Christmas comedy.

Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,

Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,

That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick

To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd,

Told our intents before; which once disclos'd,

The ladies did change favours, and then we,

Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.

Now, to our perjury to add more terror,

We are again forsworn, in will and error.

Much upon this it is: [To BOYET.] and might not you

Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?

Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire,

And laugh upon the apple of her eye?

And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,

Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?

You put our page out: go, you are allow'd;

Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.

You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye

Wounds like a leaden sword.

BOYET.

Full merrily

Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

BEROWNE.

Lo! he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.

[Enter COSTARD

Welcome, pure wit! thou part'st a fair fray.

COSTARD.

O Lord, sir, they would know

Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no?

BEROWNE.

What, are there but three?

COSTARD.

No, sir; but it is vara fine,

For every one pursents three.

BEROWNE.

And three times thrice is nine.

COSTARD.

Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope it is not so.

You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know.

I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,—

BEROWNE.

Is not nine.

COSTARD.

Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

BEROWNE.

By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

COSTARD.

O Lord, sir! it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.

BEROWNE.

How much is it?

COSTARD.

O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.

BEROWNE.

Art thou one of the Worthies?

COSTARD.

It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great; for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy; but I am to stand for him.

BEROWNE.

Go, bid them prepare.

COSTARD.

We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.

[Exit COSTARD.]

KING.

Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach.

BEROWNE.

We are shame-proof, my lord, and 'tis some policy

To have one show worse than the king's and his company.

KING.

I say they shall not come.

PRINCESS.

Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now.

That sport best pleases that doth least know how;

Where zeal strives to content, and the contents

Die in the zeal of those which it presents;

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,

When great things labouring perish in their birth.

BEROWNE.

A right description of our sport, my lord.

[Enter ARMADO.]

ARMADO.

Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words.

[Converses apart with the KING, and delivers a paper to him.]

PRINCESS.

Doth this man serve God?

BEROWNE.

Why ask you?

PRINCESS.

He speaks not like a man of God his making.

ARMADO.

That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain, too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!

[Exit.]

KING.

Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents

Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate,

Alexander; Armado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus:

And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,

These four will change habits and present the other five.

BEROWNE.

There is five in the first show.

KING.

You are deceived, 'tis not so.

BEROWNE.

The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy:—

Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again

Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

KING.

The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.

[Enter COSTARD, armed for POMPEY.]

COSTARD.

I Pompey am—

BEROWNE.

You lie, you are not he.

COSTARD.

I Pompey am—

BOYET.

With libbard's head on knee.

BEROWNE.

Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee.

COSTARD.

I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big—

DUMAINE.

'The Great.'

COSTARD.

It is 'Great,' sir; Pompey surnam'd the Great,

That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat:

And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France.

If your ladyship would say 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done.

PRINCESS.

Great thanks, great Pompey.

COSTARD.

'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in 'Great.'

BEROWNE.

My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

[Enter SIR NATHANIEL armed, for ALEXANDER.]

NATHANIEL.

When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander;

By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might:

My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander—

BOYET.

Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right.

BEROWNE.

Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight.

PRINCESS.

The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander.

NATHANIEL.

When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander;—

BOYET.

Most true; 'tis right, you were so, Alisander.

BEROWNE.

Pompey the Great,—

COSTARD.

Your servant, and Costard.

BEROWNE.

Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

COSTARD.

[To Sir Nathaniel.] O! sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this; your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! Run away for shame, Alisander. [Nathaniel retires.] There, an't shall please you: a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed! He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander,—alas! you see how 'tis—a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

PRINCESS.

Stand aside, good Pompey.

[Enter HOLOFERNES armed, for JUDAS; and MOTH armed, for HERCULES.]

HOLOFERNES.

Great Hercules is presented by this imp,

Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canis;

And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,

Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.

Quoniam he seemeth in minority,

Ergo I come with this apology.

Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.—[MOTH retires.]

Judas I am—

DUMAINE.

A Judas!

HOLOFERNES.

Not Iscariot, sir.

Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus.

DUMAINE.

Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.

BEROWNE.

A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas?

HOLOFERNES.

Judas I am—

DUMAINE.

The more shame for you, Judas.

HOLOFERNES.

What mean you, sir?

BOYET.

To make Judas hang himself.

HOLOFERNES.

Begin, sir; you are my elder.

BEROWNE.

Well follow'd: Judas was hanged on an elder.

HOLOFERNES.

I will not be put out of countenance.

BEROWNE.

Because thou hast no face.

HOLOFERNES.

What is this?

BOYET.

A cittern-head.

DUMAINE.

The head of a bodkin.

BEROWNE.

A death's face in a ring.

LONGAVILLE.

The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

BOYET.

The pommel of Caesar's falchion.

DUMAINE.

The carved-bone face on a flask.

BEROWNE.

Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch.

DUMAINE.

Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

BEROWNE.

Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance.

HOLOFERNES.

You have put me out of countenance.

BEROWNE.

False: we have given thee faces.

HOLOFERNES.

But you have outfaced them all.

BEROWNE.

An thou wert a lion we would do so.

BOYET.

Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

DUMAINE.

For the latter end of his name.

BEROWNE.

For the ass to the Jude? give it him:—Jud-as, away!

HOLOFERNES.

This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

BOYET.

A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble.

PRINCESS.

Alas! poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited.

[Enter ARMADO armed, for HECTOR.]

BEROWNE.

Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms.

DUMAINE.

Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

KING.

Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.

BOYET.

But is this Hector?

DUMAINE.

I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd.

LONGAVILLE.

His leg is too big for Hector's.

DUMAINE.

More calf, certain.

BOYET.

No; he is best indued in the small.

BEROWNE.

This cannot be Hector.

DUMAINE.

He's a god or a painter; for he makes faces.

ARMADO.

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift—

DUMAINE.

A gilt nutmeg.

BEROWNE.

A lemon.

LONGAVILLE.

Stuck with cloves.

DUMAINE.

No, cloven.

ARMADO.

Peace!

The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;

A man so breath'd that certain he would fight ye,

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

I am that flower—

DUMAINE.

That mint.

LONGAVILLE.

That columbine.

ARMADO.

Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

LONGAVILLE.

I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

DUMAINE.

Ay, and Hector's a greyhound.

ARMADO.

The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.

PRINCESS.

Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.

ARMADO.

I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper.

BOYET.

[Aside to DUMAINE.] Loves her by the foot.

DUMAINE.

[Aside to BOYET.] He may not by the yard.

ARMADO.

This Hector far surmounted Hannibal;

The party is gone—

COSTARD.

Fellow Hector, she is gone! She is two months on her way.

ARMADO.

What meanest thou?

COSTARD.

Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in her belly already; 'tis yours.

ARMADO.

Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.

COSTARD.

Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.

DUMAINE.

Most rare Pompey!

BOYET.

Renowned Pompey!

BEROWNE.

Greater than 'Great'. Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge!

DUMAINE.

Hector trembles.

BEROWNE.

Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on!

DUMAINE.

Hector will challenge him.

BEROWNE.

Ay, if a' have no more man's blood in his belly than will sup a flea.

ARMADO.

By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

COSTARD.

I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.

DUMAINE.

Room for the incensed Worthies!

COSTARD.

I'll do it in my shirt.

DUMAINE.

Most resolute Pompey!

MOTH.

Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.

ARMADO.

Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

DUMAINE.

You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.

ARMADO.

Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

BEROWNE.

What reason have you for 't?

ARMADO.

The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

BOYET.

True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next his heart for a favour.

[Enter MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.]

MARCADE.

God save you, madam!

PRINCESS.

Welcome, Marcade;

But that thou interrupt'st our merriment.

MARCADE.

I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring

Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father—

PRINCESS.

Dead, for my life!

MARCADE.

Even so: my tale is told.

BEROWNE.

Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud.

ARMADO.

For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

[Exeunt WORTHIES.]

KING.

How fares your Majesty?

PRINCESS.

Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night.

KING.

Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay.

PRINCESS.

Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,

For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide

The liberal opposition of our spirits,

If over-boldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath; your gentleness

Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!

A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.

Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks

For my great suit so easily obtain'd.

KING.

The extreme parts of time extremely forms

All causes to the purpose of his speed,

And often at his very loose decides

That which long process could not arbitrate:

And though the mourning brow of progeny

Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince;

Yet, since love's argument was first on foot,

Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it

From what it purpos'd; since, to wail friends lost

Is not by much so wholesome-profitable

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

PRINCESS.

I understand you not: my griefs are double.

BEROWNE.

Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;

And by these badges understand the king.

For your fair sakes have we neglected time,

Play'd foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,

Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours

Even to the opposed end of our intents;

And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,—

As love is full of unbefitting strains;

All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;

Form'd by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,

Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,

Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll

To every varied object in his glance:

Which parti-coated presence of loose love

Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,

Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities,

Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults

Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,

Our love being yours, the error that love makes

Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,

By being once false for ever to be true

To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:

And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,

Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

PRINCESS.

We have receiv'd your letters, full of love;

Your favours, the ambassadors of love;

And, in our maiden council, rated them

At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy,

As bombast and as lining to the time;

But more devout than this in our respects

Have we not been; and therefore met your loves

In their own fashion, like a merriment.

DUMAINE.

Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest.

LONGAVILLE.

So did our looks.

ROSALINE.

We did not quote them so.

KING.

Now, at the latest minute of the hour,

Grant us your loves.

PRINCESS.

A time, methinks, too short

To make a world-without-end bargain in.

No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,

Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:

If for my love,—as there is no such cause,—

You will do aught, this shall you do for me:

Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed

To some forlorn and naked hermitage,

Remote from all the pleasures of the world;

There stay until the twelve celestial signs

Have brought about the annual reckoning.

If this austere insociable life

Change not your offer made in heat of blood,

If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds,

Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,

But that it bear this trial, and last love,

Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts;

And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,

I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut

My woeful self up in a mournful house,

Raining the tears of lamentation

For the remembrance of my father's death.

If this thou do deny, let our hands part,

Neither intitled in the other's heart.

KING.

If this, or more than this, I would deny,

To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,

The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!

Hence hermit then my heart is in thy breast.

DUMAINE.

And what to me, my love? But what to me?

A wife?

KATHARINE.

A wife! A beard, fair health, and honesty;

With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

DUMAINE.

O! shall I say I thank you, gentle wife?

KATHARINE.

No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day

I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say.

Come when the King doth to my lady come;

Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some.

DUMAINE.

I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

KATHARINE.

Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

LONGAVILLE.

What says Maria?

MARIA.

At the twelvemonth's end

I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

LONGAVILLE.

I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.

MARIA.

The liker you; few taller are so young.

BEROWNE.

Studies my lady? mistress, look on me;

Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

What humble suit attends thy answer there.

Impose some service on me for thy love.

ROSALINE.

Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,

Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue

Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;

Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,

Which you on all estates will execute

That lie within the mercy of your wit:

To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,

And therewithal to win me, if you please,—

Without the which I am not to be won,—

You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day,

Visit the speechless sick, and still converse

With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,

With all the fierce endeavour of your wit

To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

BEROWNE.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death?

It cannot be; it is impossible:

Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

ROSALINE.

Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,

Whose influence is begot of that loose grace

Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,

Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans,

Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,

And I will have you and that fault withal;

But if they will not, throw away that spirit,

And I shall find you empty of that fault,

Right joyful of your reformation.

BEROWNE.

A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall,

I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

PRINCESS.

[To the King.]

Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave.

KING.

No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

BEROWNE.

Our wooing doth not end like an old play:

Jack hath not Jill; these ladies' courtesy

Might well have made our sport a comedy.

KING.

Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,

And then 'twill end.

BEROWNE.

That's too long for a play.

[Enter ARMADO.]

ARMADO.

Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me,—

PRINCESS.

Was not that not Hector?

DUMAINE.

The worthy knight of Troy.

ARMADO.

I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three yeasr. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show.

KING.

Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

ARMADO.

Holla! approach.

[Enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD, and others.]

This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.

VER.

When daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

Do paint the meadows with delight,

The cuckoo then on every tree

Mocks married men, for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,

When turtles tread, and rooks and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

The cuckoo then, on every tree,

Mocks married men, for thus sings he:

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,

Unpleasing to a married ear!

HIEMS.

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl:

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who—a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl:

Tu-who;

Tu-whit, to-who—a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

ARMADO.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

You that way: we this way.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

VICENTIO: Duke of Vienna.

ANGELO: Lord Deputy in the Duke's absence.

ESCALUS: an ancient Lord, joined with Angelo in the deputation.

CLAUDIO: a young Gentleman.

LUCIO: a Fantastic.

Two other like Gentlemen.

VARRIUS: a Gentleman, Servant to the Duke.

PROVOST.

THOMAS: friar.

PETER: friar.

A JUSTICE.

ELBOW: a simple Constable.

FROTH: a foolish Gentleman.

CLOWN: Servant to Mistress Overdone.

ABHORSON: an Executioner.

BARNARDINE: a dissolute Prisoner.

ISABELLA: Sister to Claudio.

MARIANA: betrothed to Angelo.

JULIET: beloved by Claudio.

FRANCISCA: a nun.

MISTRESS OVERDONE: a Bawd.

Lords, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, and other Attendants.

SCENE: Vienna

ACT I. SCENE I.

An apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, ESCALUS, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS.]

DUKE.

Escalus,—

ESCALUS.

My lord.

DUKE.

Of government the properties to unfold,

Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse;

Since I am put to know that your own science

Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

My strength can give you: then no more remains

But that to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work. The nature of our people,

Our city's institutions, and the terms

For common justice, you are as pregnant in

As art and practice hath enriched any

That we remember. There is our commission,

From which we would not have you warp.—Call hither,

I say, bid come before us, Angelo.—

[Exit an Attendant.]

What figure of us think you he will bear?

For you must know we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply;

Lent him our terror, drest him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs

Of our own power: what think you of it?

ESCALUS.

If any in Vienna be of worth

To undergo such ample grace and honour,

It is Lord Angelo.

[Enter ANGELO.]

DUKE.

Look where he comes.

ANGELO.

Always obedient to your grace's will,

I come to know your pleasure.

DUKE.

Angelo,

There is a kind of character in thy life

That to th' observer doth thy history

Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd

But to fine issues: nor nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech

To one that can my part in him advertise;

Hold, therefore, Angelo;

In our remove be thou at full ourself:

Mortality and mercy in Vienna

Live in thy tongue and heart! Old Escalus,

Though first in question, is thy secondary:

Take thy commission.

ANGELO.

Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,

Before so noble and so great a figure

Be stamped upon it.

DUKE.

No more evasion:

We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice

Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

Our haste from hence is of so quick condition

That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd

Matters of needful value. We shall write to you

As time and our concernings shall importune,

How it goes with us; and do look to know

What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:

To the hopeful execution do I leave you

Of your commissions.

ANGELO.

Yet give leave, my lord,

That we may bring you something on the way.

DUKE.

My haste may not admit it;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple: your scope is as mine own:

So to enforce or qualify the laws

As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

I'll privily away: I love the people,

But do not like to stage me to their eyes:

Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause and 'aves' vehement:

Nor do I think the man of safe discretion

That does affect it. Once more, fare you well.

ANGELO.

The heavens give safety to your purposes!

ESCALUS.

Lead forth and bring you back in happiness.

DUKE.

I thank you. Fare you well.

[Exit.]

ESCALUS.

I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave

To have free speech with you; and it concerns me

To look into the bottom of my place:

A pow'r I have, but of what strength and nature

I am not yet instructed.

ANGELO.

'Tis so with me.—Let us withdraw together,

And we may soon our satisfaction have

Touching that point.

ESCALUS.

I'll wait upon your honour.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

A street.

[Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.]

LUCIO.

If the Duke, with the other Dukes, come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the Dukes fall upon the king.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary's!

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Amen.

LUCIO.

Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the ten commandments, but scraped one out of the table.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Thou shalt not steal?

LUCIO.

Ay, that he razed.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions; they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I never heard any soldier dislike it.

LUCIO.

I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

No? A dozen times at least.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

What? in metre?

LUCIO.

In any proportion or in any language.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I think, or in any religion.

LUCIO.

Ay! why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy. As, for example;—thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.

LUCIO.

I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou'rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee: I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now?

LUCIO.

I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I think I have done myself wrong; have I not?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.

LUCIO.

Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to—

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

To what, I pray?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Judge.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

To three thousand dollars a year.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Ay, and more.

LUCIO.

A French crown more.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Thou art always figuring diseases in me, but thou art full of error; I am sound.

LUCIO.

Nay, not, as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow: impiety has made a feast of thee.

[Enter BAWD.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?

BAWD.

Well, well; there's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Who's that, I pray thee?

BAWD.

Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior Claudio.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Claudio to prison! 'tis not so.

BAWD.

Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.

LUCIO.

But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this?

BAWD.

I am too sure of it: and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child.

LUCIO.

Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

But most of all agreeing with the proclamation.

LUCIO.

Away; let's go learn the truth of it.

[Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen.]

BAWD.

Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. How now! what's the news with you?

[Enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

Yonder man is carried to prison.

BAWD.

Well: what has he done?

CLOWN.

A woman.

BAWD.

But what's his offence?

CLOWN.

Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

BAWD.

What! is there a maid with child by him?

CLOWN.

No; but there's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you?

BAWD.

What proclamation, man?

CLOWN.

All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down.

BAWD.

And what shall become of those in the city?

CLOWN.

They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.

BAWD.

But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?

CLOWN.

To the ground, mistress.

BAWD.

Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me?

CLOWN.

Come, fear not you; good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place you need not change your trade; I'll be your tapster still. Courage; there will be pity taken on you: you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered.

BAWD.

What's to do here, Thomas Tapster? Let's withdraw.

CLOWN.

Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison: and there's Madam Juliet.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and Officers; LUCIO and two Gentlemen.]

CLAUDIO.

Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

PROVOST.

I do it not in evil disposition,

But from Lord Angelo by special charge.

CLAUDIO.

Thus can the demi-god Authority

Make us pay down for our offence by weight.—

The words of heaven;—on whom it will, it will;

On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just.

LUCIO.

Why, how now, Claudio, whence comes this restraint?

CLAUDIO.

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:

As surfeit is the father of much fast,

So every scope by the immoderate use

Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue,—

Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,—

A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die.

LUCIO.

If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment.—What's thy offence, Claudio?

CLAUDIO.

What but to speak of would offend again.

LUCIO.

What, is't murder?

CLAUDIO.

No.

LUCIO.

Lechery?

CLAUDIO.

Call it so.

PROVOST.

Away, sir; you must go.

CLAUDIO.

One word, good friend.—Lucio, a word with you.

[Takes him aside.]

LUCIO.

A hundred, if they'll do you any good.

Is lechery so look'd after?

CLAUDIO.

Thus stands it with me:—Upon a true contract

I got possession of Julietta's bed:

You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

Save that we do the denunciation lack

Of outward order;: this we came not to

Only for propagation of a dower

Remaining in the coffer of her friends;

From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

Till time had made them for us. But it chances

The stealth of our most mutual entertainment,

With character too gross, is writ on Juliet.

LUCIO.

With child, perhaps?

CLAUDIO.

Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the Duke,—

Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,

Or whether that the body public be

A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur:

Whether the tyranny be in his place,

Or in his eminence that fills it up,

I stagger in.—But this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties

Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by the wall

So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round

And none of them been worn; and, for a name,

Now puts the drowsy and neglected act

Freshly on me; 'tis surely for a name.

LUCIO.

I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the Duke, and appeal to him.

CLAUDIO.

I have done so, but he's not to be found.

I pr'ythee, Lucio, do me this kind service:

This day my sister should the cloister enter,

And there receive her approbation:

Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him;

I have great hope in that: for in her youth

There is a prone and speechless dialect

Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art

When she will play with reason and discourse,

And well she can persuade.

LUCIO.

I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her.

CLAUDIO.

I thank you, good friend Lucio.

LUCIO.

Within two hours,—

CLAUDIO.

Come, officer, away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

A Monastery.

[Enter DUKE and FRIAR THOMAS.]

DUKE.

No; holy father; throw away that thought;

Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

Can pierce a complete bosom: why I desire thee

To give me secret harbour hath a purpose

More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

Of burning youth.

FRIAR.

May your grace speak of it?

DUKE.

My holy sir, none better knows than you

How I have ever lov'd the life remov'd,

And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps.

I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo,—

A man of stricture and firm abstinence,—

My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

And he supposes me travell'd to Poland;

For so I have strew'd it in the common ear,

And so it is received. Now, pious sir,

You will demand of me why I do this?

FRIAR.

Gladly, my lord.

DUKE.

We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—

The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds,—

Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep,

Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave,

That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch,

Only to stick it in their children's sight

For terror, not to use, in time the rod

Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees,

Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;

And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

Goes all decorum.

FRIAR.

It rested in your grace

To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas'd;

And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd

Than in Lord Angelo.

DUKE.

I do fear, too dreadful:

Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope,

'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done

When evil deeds have their permissive pass

And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

I have on Angelo impos'd the office;

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet my nature never in the fight

To do in slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as 'twere a brother of your order,

Visit both prince and people: therefore, I pr'ythee,

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

How I may formally in person bear me

Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

At our more leisure shall I render you;

Only, this one:—Lord Angelo is precise;

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite

Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

A Nunnery.

[Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA.]

ISABELLA.

And have you nuns no further privileges?

FRANCISCA.

Are not these large enough?

ISABELLA.

Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more,

But rather wishing a more strict restraint

Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.

LUCIO.

[Within.] Ho! Peace be in this place!

ISABELLA.

Who's that which calls?

FRANCISCA.

It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella,

Turn you the key, and know his business of him;

You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn:

When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men

But in the presence of the prioress;

Then, if you speak, you must not show your face;

Or, if you show your face, you must not speak.

He calls again; I pray you answer him.

[Exit FRANCISCA.]

ISABELLA.

Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls?

[Enter LUCIO.]

LUCIO.

Hail, virgin, if you be; as those cheek-roses

Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me

As bring me to the sight of Isabella,

A novice of this place, and the fair sister

To her unhappy brother Claudio?

ISABELLA.

Why her unhappy brother? let me ask;

The rather, for I now must make you know

I am that Isabella, and his sister.

LUCIO.

Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you:

Not to be weary with you, he's in prison.

ISABELLA.

Woe me! For what?

LUCIO.

For that which, if myself might be his judge,

He should receive his punishment in thanks:

He hath got his friend with child.

ISABELLA.

Sir, make me not your story.

LUCIO.

It is true.

I would not—though 'tis my familiar sin

With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest,

Tongue far from heart—play with all virgins so:

I hold you as a thing ensky'd and sainted;

By your renouncement an immortal spirit;

And to be talk'd with in sincerity,

As with a saint.

ISABELLA.

You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.

LUCIO.

Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus:

Your brother and his lover have embraced:

As those that feed grow full: as blossoming time,

That from the seedness the bare fallow brings

To teeming foison; even so her plenteous womb

Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.

ISABELLA.

Some one with child by him?—My cousin Juliet?

LUCIO.

Is she your cousin?

ISABELLA.

Adoptedly, as school-maids change their names

By vain though apt affection.

LUCIO.

She it is.

ISABELLA.

O, let him marry her!

LUCIO.

This is the point.

The Duke is very strangely gone from hence;

Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

In hand, and hope of action: but we do learn

By those that know the very nerves of state,

His givings out were of an infinite distance

From his true-meant design. Upon his place,

And with full line of his authority,

Governs Lord Angelo: a man whose blood

Is very snow-broth; one who never feels

The wanton stings and motions of the sense.

But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge

With profits of the mind, study, and fast.

He,—to give fear to use and liberty,

Which have for long run by the hideous law,

As mice by lions,—hath pick'd out an act,

Under whose heavy sense your brother's life

Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it;

And follows close the rigour of the statute

To make him an example; all hope is gone.

Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer

To soften Angelo: and that's my pith

Of business 'twixt you and your poor brother.

ISABELLA.

Doth he so seek his life?

LUCIO.

Has censur'd him

Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath

A warrant for his execution.

ISABELLA.

Alas! what poor ability's in me

To do him good.

LUCIO.

Assay the power you have.

ISABELLA.

My power! alas, I doubt,—

LUCIO.

Our doubts are traitors,

And make us lose the good we oft might win

By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,

And let him learn to know, when maidens sue,

Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

All their petitions are as freely theirs

As they themselves would owe them.

ISABELLA.

I'll see what I can do.

LUCIO.

But speedily.

ISABELLA.

I will about it straight;

No longer staying but to give the Mother

Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you:

Commend me to my brother: soon at night

I'll send him certain word of my success.

LUCIO.

I take my leave of you.

ISABELLA.

Good sir, adieu.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A hall in ANGELO'S house.

[Enter ANGELO, ESCALUS, a JUSTICE, PROVOST, Officers, and other Attendants.]

ANGELO.

We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,

And let it keep one shape till custom make it

Their perch, and not their terror.

ESCALUS.

Ay, but yet

Let us be keen, and rather cut a little

Than fall and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman,

Whom I would save, had a most noble father.

Let but your honour know,—

Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,—

That, in the working of your own affections,

Had time coher'd with place, or place with wishing,

Or that the resolute acting of your blood

Could have attain'd the effect of your own purpose,

Whether you had not sometime in your life

Err'd in this point which now you censure him,

And pull'd the law upon you.

ANGELO.

'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,

Another thing to fall. I not deny

The jury, passing on the prisoner's life,

May, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two

Guiltier than him they try. What's open made to justice,

That justice seizes. What knows the laws

That thieves do pass on thieves? 'Tis very pregnant,

The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it,

Because we see it; but what we do not see

We tread upon, and never think of it.

You may not so extenuate his offence

For I have had such faults; but rather tell me,

When I, that censure him, do so offend,

Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,

And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

ESCALUS.

Be it as your wisdom will.

ANGELO.

Where is the provost?

PROVOST.

Here, if it like your honour.

ANGELO.

See that Claudio

Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:

Bring him his confessor; let him be prepard;

For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage.

[Exit PROVOST.]

ESCALUS.

Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all!

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:

Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none,

And some condemned for a fault alone.

[Enter ELBOW, FROTH, CLOWN, Officers, &c.]

ELBOW.

Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law; bring them away.

ANGELO.

How now, sir! What's your name? and what's the matter?

ELBOW.

If it please your honour, I am the poor Duke's constable, and my name is Elbow; I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors.

ANGELO.

Benefactors! Well; what benefactors are they? are they not malefactors?

ELBOW.

If it please your honour, I know not well what they are; but precise villains they are, that I am sure of; and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have.

ESCALUS.

This comes off well; here's a wise officer.

ANGELO.

Go to;—what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? Why dost thou not speak, Elbow?

CLOWN.

He cannot, sir; he's out at elbow.

ANGELO.

What are you, sir?

ELBOW.

He, sir? a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.

ESCALUS.

How know you that?

ELBOW.

My wfe, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour,—

ESCALUS.

How! thy wife!

ELBOW.

Ay, sir; who, I thank heaven, is an honest woman,—

ESCALUS.

Dost thou detest her therefore?

ELBOW.

I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.

ESCALUS.

How dost thou know that, constable?

ELBOW.

Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.

ESCALUS.

By the woman's means?

ELBOW.

Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone's means: but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.

CLOWN.

Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so.

ELBOW.

Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it.

ESCALUS.

[To ANGELO.] Do you hear how he misplaces?

CLOWN.

Sir, she came in great with child; and longing,—saving your honour's reverence—for stew'd prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit dish, a dish of some threepence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes.

ESCALUS.

Go to, go to; no matter for the dish, sir.

CLOWN.

No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right; but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly;—for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you threepence again,—

FROTH.

No, indeed.

CLOWN.

Very well; you being then, if you be remember'd, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,—

FROTH.

Ay, so I did indeed.

CLOWN.

Why, very well: I telling you then, if you be remember'd, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you,—

FROTH.

All this is true.

CLOWN.

Why, very well then.

ESCALUS.

Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What was done to Elbow's wife that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.

CLOWN.

Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.

ESCALUS.

No, sir, nor I mean it not.

CLOWN.

Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour's leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir, a man of fourscore pound a-year; whose father died at Hallowmas:—was't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?

FROTH.

All-hallond eve.

CLOWN.

Why, very well; I hope here be truths: He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir;—'twas in the 'Bunch of Grapes', where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not?—

FROTH.

I have so; because it is an open room, and good for winter.

CLOWN.

Why, very well then;—I hope here be truths.

ANGELO.

This will last out a night in Russia,

When nights are longest there: I'll take my leave,

And leave you to the hearing of the cause;

Hoping you'll find good cause to whip them all.

ESCALUS.

I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.

[Exit ANGELO.]

Now, sir, come on; what was done to Elbow's wife, once more?

CLOWN.

Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once.

ELBOW.

I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.

CLOWN.

I beseech your honour, ask me.

ESCALUS.

Well, sir: what did this gentleman to her?

CLOWN.

I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face.—Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; 'tis for a good purpose.—Doth your honour mark his face?

ESCALUS.

Ay, sir, very well.

CLOWN.

Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.

ESCALUS.

Well, I do so.

CLOWN.

Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

ESCALUS.

Why, no.

CLOWN.

I'll be supposed upon a book his face is the worst thing about him. Good then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable's wife any harm? I would know that of your honour.

ESCALUS.

He's in the right. Constable, what say you to it?

ELBOW.

First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman.

CLOWN.

By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all.

ELBOW.

Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet: the time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child.

CLOWN.

Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.

ESCALUS.

Which is the wiser here, Justice or Iniquity?—is this true?

ELBOW.

O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her? If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor Duke's officer.—Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I'll have mine action of battery on thee.

ESCALUS.

If he took you a box o' th' ear, you might have your action of slander too.

ELBOW.

Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is't your worship's pleasure I should do with this wicked caitiff?

ESCALUS.

Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are.

ELBOW.

Marry, I thank your worship for it.—Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what's come upon thee; thou art to continue now, thou varlet; thou art to continue.

ESCALUS.

[To FROTH.] Where were you born, friend?

FROTH.

Here in Vienna, sir.

ESCALUS.

Are you of fourscore pounds a-year?

FROTH.

Yes, an't please you, sir.

ESCALUS.

So.—[To the CLOWN.] What trade are you of, sir?

CLOWN.

A tapster; a poor widow's tapster.

ESCALUS.

Your mistress' name?

CLOWN.

Mistress Overdone.

ESCALUS.

Hath she had any more than one husband?

CLOWN.

Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.

ESCALUS.

Nine!—Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

FROTH.

I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse but I am drawn in.

ESCALUS.

Well, no more of it, Master Froth: farewell.

[Exit FROTH.]

Come you hither to me, master tapster; what's your name, master tapster?

CLOWN.

Pompey.

ESCALUS.

What else?

CLOWN.

Bum, sir.

ESCALUS.

'Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster. Are you not? come, tell me true; it shall be the better for you.

CLOWN.

Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

ESCALUS.

How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade?

CLOWN.

If the law would allow it, sir.

ESCALUS.

But the law will not allow it, Pompey: nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

CLOWN.

Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?

ESCALUS.

No, Pompey.

CLOWN.

Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to't then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

ESCALUS.

There is pretty orders beginning, I can tell you. It is but heading and hanging.

CLOWN.

If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you'll be glad to give out a commission for more heads. If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I'll rent the fairest house in it, after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so.

ESCALUS.

Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you,—I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever, no, not for dwelling where you do; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so for this time, Pompey, fare you well.

CLOWN.

I thank your worship for your good counsel; but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine.

Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade;

The valiant heart's not whipt out of his trade.

[Exit.]

ESCALUS.

Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master Constable. How long have you been in this place of constable?

ELBOW.

Seven year and a half, sir.

ESCALUS.

I thought, by the readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time.—You say seven years together?

ELBOW.

And a half, sir.

ESCALUS.

Alas, it hath been great pains to you!—They do you wrong to put you so oft upon't. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it?

ELBOW.

Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all.

ESCALUS.

Look you, bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.

ELBOW.

To your worship's house, sir?

ESCALUS.

To my house. Fare you well. [Exit ELBOW.] What's o'clock, think you?

JUSTICE.

Eleven, sir.

ESCALUS.

I pray you home to dinner with me.

JUSTICE.

I humbly thank you.

ESCALUS.

It grieves me for the death of Claudio;

But there's no remedy.

JUSTICE.

Lord Angelo is severe.

ESCALUS.

It is but needful:

Mercy is not itself that oft looks so;

Pardon is still the nurse of second woe:

But yet,—Poor Claudio!—There's no remedy.

Come, sir.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Another room in the same.

[Enter PROVOST and a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight.

I'll tell him of you.

PROVOST.

Pray you do.

[Exit Servant.]

I'll know

His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas,

He hath but as offended in a dream!

All sects, all ages, smack of this vice; and he

To die for it!

[Enter ANGELO.]

ANGELO.

Now, what's the matter, provost?

PROVOST.

Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow?

ANGELO.

Did not I tell thee yea? hadst thou not order?

Why dost thou ask again?

PROVOST.

Lest I might be too rash:

Under your good correction, I have seen

When, after execution, judgment hath Repented o'er his doom.

ANGELO.

Go to; let that be mine:

Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spared.

PROVOST.

I crave your honour's pardon:

What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

She's very near her hour.

ANGELO.

Dispose of her

To some more fitter place; and that with speed.

[Re-enter Servant.]

SERVANT.

Here is the sister of the man condemned

Desires access to you.

ANGELO.

Hath he a sister?

PROVOST.

Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid,

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

If not already.

ANGELO.

Well, let her be admitted.

[Exit Servant.]

See you the fornicatress be remov'd;

Let her have needful but not lavish means;

There shall be order for it.

[Enter Lucio and ISABELLA.]

PROVOST.

[Offering to retire.] Save your honour!

ANGELO.

Stay a little while.—

[To ISABELLA.] You are welcome. What's your will?

ISABELLA.

I am a woeful suitor to your honour,

Please but your honour hear me.

ANGELO.

Well; what's your suit?

ISABELLA.

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.

ANGELO.

Well; the matter?

ISABELLA.

I have a brother is condemn'd to die;

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

PROVOST.

Heaven give thee moving graces.

ANGELO.

Condemn the fault and not the actor of it!

Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done;

Mine were the very cipher of a function,

To find the faults whose fine stands in record,

And let go by the actor.

ISABELLA.

O just but severe law!

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

[Retiring.]

LUCIO.

[To ISABELLA.]

Give't not o'er so: to him again, entreat 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.

ISABELLA.

Must he needs die?

ANGELO.

Maiden, no remedy.

ISABELLA.

Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,

And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.

ANGELO.

I will not do't.

ISABELLA.

But can you, if you would?

ANGELO.

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

ISABELLA.

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?

ANGELO.

He's sentenc'd; 'tis too late.

LUCIO.

[To ISABELLA.] You are too cold.

ISABELLA.

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 slipp'd like him;

But he, like you, would not have been so stern.

ANGELO.

Pray you, be gone.

ISABELLA.

I would to heaven I had your potency,

And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?

No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge

And what a prisoner.

LUCIO.

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

ANGELO.

Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

And you but waste your words.

ISABELLA.

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? O, think on that;

And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

Like man new made.

ANGELO.

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.

ISABELLA.

To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him!

He's not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens

We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven

With less respect than we do minister

To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:

Who is it that hath died for this offence?

There's many have committed it.

LUCIO.

Ay, well said.

ANGELO.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:

Those many had not dared to do that evil

If the first that did the edict infringe

Had answer'd for his deed: now 'tis awake;

Takes note of what is done; and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass that shows what future evils,—

Either now, or by remissness new 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.

ISABELLA.

Yet show some pity.

ANGELO.

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.

ISABELLA.

So you must be the first that gives this sentence;

And he that suffers. O, it is excellent

To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.

LUCIO.

That's well said.

ISABELLA.

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,

Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak

Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man!

Dress'd in a little brief authority,—

Most ignorant of what he's most assured,

His glassy essence,—like an angry ape,

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As makes 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; I perceive 't.

PROVOST.

Pray heaven she win him!

ISABELLA.

We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:

Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them;

But, in the less, foul profanation.

LUCIO.

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

ISABELLA.

That in the captain's but a choleric word

Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

LUCIO.

Art advised o' that? more on't.

ANGELO.

Why do you put these sayings upon me?

ISABELLA.

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.

ANGELO.

She speaks, and 'tis

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

ISABELLA.

Gentle my lord, turn back.

ANGELO.

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

ISABELLA.

Hark how I'll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back.

ANGELO.

How! bribe me?

ISABELLA.

Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

LUCIO.

You had marr'd all else.

ISABELLA.

Not with fond sickles 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.

ANGELO.

Well; come to me tomorrow.

LUCIO.

[Aside to ISABELLA.] Go to; 'tis well; away.

ISABELLA.

Heaven keep your honour safe!

ANGELO.

[Aside.] Amen:

For I am that way going to temptation,

Where prayers cross.

ISABELLA.

At what hour to-morrow

Shall I attend your lordship?

ANGELO.

At any time 'fore noon.

ISABELLA.

Save your honour!

[Exeunt LUCIO, ISABELLA, PROVOST.]

ANGELO.

From thee; even from thy virtue!—

What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine?

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha!

Not she; nor doth she tempt; but it is I

That, lying by the violet, in the sun

Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower,

Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be

That modesty may more betray our sense

Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!

What dost thou? or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, let her brother live;

Thieves for their robbery have authority

When judges steal themselves. What! do I love her,

That I desire to hear her speak again

And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on?

O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,

With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous

Is that temptation that doth goad us on

To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet,

With all her double vigour, art, and nature,

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite.—Ever till now,

When men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd how.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

A Room in a prison.

[Enter DUKE, habited like a Friar, and PROVOST.]

DUKE.

Hail to you, provost! so I think you are.

PROVOST.

I am the provost. What's your will, good friar?

DUKE.

Bound by my charity and my bless'd order,

I come to visit the afflicted spirits

Here in the prison: do me the common right

To let me see them, and to make me know

The nature of their crimes, that I may minister

To them accordingly.

PROVOST.

I would do more than that, if more were needful.

[Enter JULIET.]

Look, here comes one; a gentlewoman of mine,

Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,

Hath blister'd her report. She is with child;

And he that got it, sentenc'd: a young man

More fit to do another such offence Than die for this.

DUKE.

When must he die?

PROVOST.

As I do think, to-morrow.—

[To JULIET.] I have provided for you; stay a while

And you shall be conducted.

DUKE.

Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

JULIET.

I do; and bear the shame most patiently.

DUKE.

I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,

And try your penitence, if it be sound

Or hollowly put on.

JULIET.

I'll gladly learn.

DUKE.

Love you the man that wrong'd you?

JULIET.

Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him.

DUKE.

So then, it seems, your most offenceful act

Was mutually committed.

JULIET.

Mutually.

DUKE.

Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.

JULIET.

I do confess it, and repent it, father.

DUKE.

'Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent

As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,—

Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven,

Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,

But as we stand in fear,—

JULIET.

I do repent me as it is an evil,

And take the shame with joy.

DUKE.

There rest.

Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,

And I am going with instruction to him.—

Grace go with you! Benedicite!

[Exit.]

JULIET.

Must die to-morrow! O, injurious law,

That respites me a life whose very comfort

Is still a dying horror!

PROVOST.

'Tis pity of him.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

A Room in ANGELO'S house.

[Enter ANGELO.]

ANGELO.

When I would pray and think, I think and pray

To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words;

Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,

Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth,

As if I did but only chew his name;

And in my heart the strong and swelling evil

Of my conception. The state whereon I studied

Is, like a good thing, being often read,

Grown sear'd and tedious; yea, my gravity,

Wherein—let no man hear me—I take pride,

Could I with boot change for an idle plume,

Which the air beats for vain. O place! O form!

How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,

Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls

To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:

Let's write good angel on the devil's horn,

'Tis not the devil's crest.

[Enter Servant.]

How now, who's there?

SERVANT.

One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you.

ANGELO.

Teach her the way.

[Exit SERVANT.]

O heavens!

Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

Making both it unable for itself

And dispossessing all the other parts

Of necessary fitness?

So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons;

Come all to help him, and so stop the air

By which he should revive: and even so

The general, subject to a well-wished king

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

Must needs appear offence.

[Enter ISABELLA.]

How now, fair maid?

ISABELLA.

I am come to know your pleasure.

ANGELO.

That you might know it, would much better please me

Than to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot live.

ISABELLA.

Even so?—Heaven keep your honour!

[Retiring.]

ANGELO.

Yet may he live awhile: and, it may be,

As long as you or I: yet he must die.

ISABELLA.

Under your sentence?

ANGELO.

Yea.

ISABELLA.

When? I beseech you? that in his reprieve,

Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

That his soul sicken not.

ANGELO.

Ha! Fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

To pardon him that hath from nature stolen

A man already made, as to remit

Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image

In stamps that are forbid; 'tis all as easy

Falsely to take away a life true made

As to put metal in restrained means

To make a false one.

ISABELLA.

'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

ANGELO.

Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly.

Which had you rather,—that the most just law

Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem him,

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

As she that he hath stain'd?

ISABELLA.

Sir, believe this,

I had rather give my body than my soul.

ANGELO.

I talk not of your soul; our compell'd sins

Stand more for number than for accompt.

ISABELLA.

How say you?

ANGELO.

Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak

Against the thing I say. Answer to this;—

I, now the voice of the recorded law,

Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life:

Might there not be a charity in sin,

To save this brother's life?

ISABELLA.

Please you to do't,

I'll take it as a peril to my soul

It is no sin at all, but charity.

ANGELO.

Pleas'd you to do't at peril of your soul,

Were equal poise of sin and charity.

ISABELLA.

That I do beg his life, if it be sin,

Heaven let me bear it! You granting of my suit,

If that be sin, I'll make it my morn prayer

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

ANGELO.

Nay, but hear me:

Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant

Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good.

ISABELLA.

Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good

But graciously to know I am no better.

ANGELO.

Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

When it doth tax itself: as these black masks

Proclaim an enshielded beauty ten times louder

Than beauty could, displayed.—But mark me;

To be received plain, I'll speak more gross:

Your brother is to die.

ISABELLA.

So.

ANGELO.

And his offence is so, as it appears,

Accountant to the law upon that pain.

ISABELLA.

True.

ANGELO.

Admit no other way to save his life,—

As I subscribe not that, nor any other,

But, in the loss of question,—that you, his sister,

Finding yourself desir'd of such a person,

Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,

Could fetch your brother from the manacles

Of the all-binding law; and that there were

No earthly mean to save him but that either

You must lay down the treasures of your body

To this suppos'd, or else to let him suffer;

What would you do?

ISABELLA.

As much for my poor brother as myself:

That is, were I under the terms of death,

The impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies,

And strip myself to death, as to a bed

That longing have been sick for, ere I'd yield

My body up to shame.

ANGELO.

Then must your brother die.

ISABELLA.

And 'twere the cheaper way:

Better it were a brother died at once

Than that a sister, by redeeming him,

Should die for ever.

ANGELO.

Were not you, then, as cruel as the sentence

That you have slandered so?

ISABELLA.

Ignominy in ransom and free pardon

Are of two houses; lawful mercy

Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

ANGELO.

You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant;

And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother

A merriment than a vice.

ISABELLA.

O, pardon me, my lord! It oft falls out,

To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean:

I something do excuse the thing I hate

For his advantage that I dearly love.

ANGELO.

We are all frail.

ISABELLA.

Else let my brother die,

If not a feodary, but only he,

Owe, and succeed by weakness.

ANGELO.

Nay, women are frail too.

ISABELLA.

Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves;

Which are as easy broke as they make forms.

Women! Help heaven! men their creation mar

In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail;

For we are soft as our complexions are,

And credulous to false prints.

ANGELO.

I think it well:

And from this testimony of your own sex,—

Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger

Than faults may shake our frames,—let me be bold;—

I do arrest your words. Be that you are,

That is, a woman; if you be more, you're none;

If you be one,—as you are well express'd

By all external warrants,—show it now

By putting on the destin'd livery.

ISABELLA.

I have no tongue but one: gentle, my lord,

Let me intreat you, speak the former language.

ANGELO.

Plainly conceive, I love you.

ISABELLA.

My brother did love Juliet; and you tell me

That he shall die for it.

ANGELO.

He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.

ISABELLA.

I know your virtue hath a license in't,

Which seems a little fouler than it is,

To pluck on others.

ANGELO.

Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose.

ISABELLA.

Ha! little honour to be much believed,

And most pernicious purpose!—Seeming, seeming!—

I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't:

Sign me a present pardon for my brother

Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world

Aloud what man thou art.

ANGELO.

Who will believe thee, Isabel?

My unsoil'd name, th' austereness of my life,

My vouch against you, and my place i' the state,

Will so your accusation overweigh

That you shall stifle in your own report,

And smell of calumny. I have begun,

And now I give my sensual race the rein:

Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes

That banish what they sue for: redeem thy brother

By yielding up thy body to my will;

Or else he must not only die the death,

But thy unkindness shall his death draw out

To lingering sufferance: answer me to-morrow,

Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,

Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.

[Exit.]

ISABELLA.

To whom should I complain? Did tell this,

Who would believe me? O perilous mouths

That bear in them one and the self-same tongue

Either of condemnation or approof!

Bidding the law make court'sy to their will;

Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite,

To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother:

Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,

Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour

That, had he twenty heads to tender down

On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up

Before his sister should her body stoop

To such abhorr'd pollution.

Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:

More than our brother is our chastity.

I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request,

And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

A Room in the prison.

[Enter DUKE, CLAUDIO, and PROVOST.]

DUKE.

So, then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

CLAUDIO.

The miserable have no other medicine

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; mere'y, 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:

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, forgett'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 effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,

But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,

Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed youth

Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich

Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this

That bears the name of life? Yet in this life

Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

That makes these odds all even.

CLAUDIO.

I humbly thank you.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die;

And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on.

ISABELLA.

[Within.] What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company!

PROVOST.

Who's there? Come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

DUKE.

Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again.

CLAUDIO.

Most holy sir, I thank you.

[Enter ISABELLA.]

ISABELLA.

My business is a word or two with Claudio.

PROVOST.

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

DUKE.

Provost, a word with you.

PROVOST.

As many as you please.

DUKE.

Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal'd.

[Exeunt DUKE and PROVOST.]

CLAUDIO.

Now, sister, what's the comfort?

ISABELLA.

Why,

As all comforts are; most good, most good, in deed:

Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

Intends you for his swift ambassador,

Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:

Therefore, your best appointment make with speed;

To-morrow you set on.

CLAUDIO.

Is there no remedy?

ISABELLA.

None, but such remedy as, to save a head,

To cleave a heart in twain.

CLAUDIO.

But is there any?

ISABELLA.

Yes, brother, you may live:

There is a devilish mercy in the judge,

If you'll implore it, that will free your life,

But fetter you till death.

CLAUDIO.

Perpetual durance?

ISABELLA.

Ay, just; perpetual durance; a restraint,

Though all the world's vastidity you had,

To a determin'd scope.

CLAUDIO.

But in what nature?

ISABELLA.

In such a one as, you consenting to't,

Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

And leave you naked.

CLAUDIO.

Let me know the point.

ISABELLA.

O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,

Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,

And six or seven winters more respect

Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die?

The sense of death is most in apprehension;

And the poor beetle that we tread upon

In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

As when a giant dies.

CLAUDIO.

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.

ISABELLA.

There spake my brother; there my father's grave

Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:

Thou art too noble to conserve a life

In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,—

Whose settled visage and deliberate word

Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew

As falcon doth the fowl,—is yet a devil;

His filth within being cast, he would appear

A pond as deep as hell.

CLAUDIO.

The precise Angelo?

ISABELLA.

O, 'tis 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 mightst be freed?

CLAUDIO.

O heavens! it cannot be.

ISABELLA.

Yes, he would give it thee, from this rank offence,

So to offend him still. This night's the time

That I should do what I abhor to name,

Or else thou diest to-morrow.

CLAUDIO.

Thou shalt not do't.

ISABELLA.

O, were it but my life,

I'd throw it down for your deliverance

As frankly as a pin.

CLAUDIO.

Thanks, dear Isabel.

ISABELLA.

Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow.

CLAUDIO.

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.

ISABELLA.

Which is the least?

CLAUDIO.

If it were damnable, he, being so wise,

Why would he for the momentary trick

Be perdurably fined?—O Isabel!

ISABELLA.

What says my brother?

CLAUDIO.

Death is a fearful thing.

ISABELLA.

And shamed life a hateful.

CLAUDIO.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods or to reside

In thrilling 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 thought

Imagine howling!—'tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment

Can lay on nature is a paradise

To what we fear of death.

ISABELLA.

Alas, alas!

CLAUDIO.

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.

ISABELLA.

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

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed:

I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,—

No word to save thee.

CLAUDIO.

Nay, hear me, Isabel.

ISABELLA.

O fie, fie, fie!

Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade:

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:

'Tis best that thou diest quickly.

[Going.]

CLAUDIO.

O, hear me, Isabella.

[Re-enter DUKE.]

DUKE.

Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

ISABELLA.

What is your will?

DUKE.

Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit.

ISABELLA.

I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile.

DUKE.

[To CLAUDIO aside.] Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures; she, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive: I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible: to-morrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready.

CLAUDIO.

Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it.

DUKE.

Hold you there. Farewell. [Exit CLAUDIO.] [Re-enter PROVOST.] Provost, a word with you.

PROVOST.

What's your will, father?

DUKE.

That, now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me a while with the maid; my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company.

PROVOST.

In good time.

[Exit PROVOST.]

DUKE.

The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good; the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother?

ISABELLA.

I am now going to resolve him; I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good Duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government.

DUKE.

That shall not be much amiss: yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation; he made trial of you only.—Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings; to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business.

ISABELLA.

Let me hear you speak further; I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.

DUKE.

Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at sea?

ISABELLA.

I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

DUKE.

She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo.

ISABELLA.

Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?

DUKE.

Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending, in her, discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestow'd her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not.

ISABELLA.

What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life that it will let this man live!—But how out of this can she avail?

DUKE.

It is a rupture that you may easily heal; and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.

ISABELLA.

Show me how, good father.

DUKE.

This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection; his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point: only refer yourself to this advantage,—first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience: this being granted in course, and now follows all. We shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense: and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it?

ISABELLA.

The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

DUKE.

It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo; if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke's; there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and despatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly.

ISABELLA.

I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The Street before the Prison.

[Enter DUKE, as a Friar; to him, ELBOW, CLOWN and Officers.]

ELBOW.

Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.

DUKE.

O heavens! what stuff is here?

CLOWN.

'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox on lamb-skins too, to signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.

ELBOW.

Come your way, sir.—Bless you, good father friar.

DUKE.

And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?

ELBOW.

Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.

DUKE.

Fie, sirrah, a bawd, a wicked bawd;

The evil that thou causest to be done,

That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back

From such a filthy vice: say to thyself—

From their abominable and beastly touches

I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

CLOWN.

Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove—

DUKE.

Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer;

Correction and instruction must both work

Ere this rude beast will profit.

ELBOW.

He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning: The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremaster, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.

DUKE.

That we were all, as some would seem to be,

Free from our faults, as faults from seeming free!

ELBOW.

His neck will come to your waist, a cord, sir.

CLOWN.

I spy comfort; I cry bail! Here's a gentleman, and a friend of mine.

[Enter LUCIO.]

LUCIO.

How now, noble Pompey? What, at the wheels of Caesar! Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly made woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply, ha? What say'st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is't not drowned i' the last rain, ha? What say'st thou to't? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it?

DUKE.

Still thus, and thus: still worse!

LUCIO.

How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

CLOWN.

Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.

LUCIO.

Why, 'tis good: it is the right of it: it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd—an unshunned consequence:; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

CLOWN.

Yes, faith, sir.

LUCIO.

Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell; go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

ELBOW.

For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

LUCIO.

Well, then, imprison him: if imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right: bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too: bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

CLOWN.

I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

LUCIO.

No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: if you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.—Bless you, friar.

DUKE.

And you.

LUCIO.

Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

ELBOW.

Come your ways, sir; come.

CLOWN.

You will not bail me then, sir?

LUCIO.

Then, Pompey, nor now.—What news abroad, friar? what news?

ELBOW.

Come your ways, sir; come.

LUCIO.

Go,—to kennel, Pompey, go:

[Exeunt ELBOW, CLOWN, and Officers.]

What news, friar, of the Duke?

DUKE.

I know none. Can you tell me of any?

LUCIO.

Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you?

DUKE.

I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.

LUCIO.

It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo Dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to't.

DUKE.

He does well in't.

LUCIO.

A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

DUKE.

It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.

LUCIO.

Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied: but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?

DUKE.

How should he be made, then?

LUCIO.

Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes.—But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative; that's infallible.

DUKE.

You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.

LUCIO.

Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.

DUKE.

I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.

LUCIO.

O, sir, you are deceived.

DUKE.

'Tis not possible.

LUCIO.

Who, not the Duke? yes, your beggar of fifty;—and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish: the Duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too: that let me inform you.

DUKE.

You do him wrong, surely.

LUCIO.

Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke: and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing.

DUKE.

What, I pr'ythee, might be the cause?

LUCIO.

No,—pardon;—'tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips: but this I can let you understand,—the greater file of the subject held the Duke to be wise.

DUKE.

Wise? why, no question but he was.

LUCIO.

A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.

DUKE.

Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking; the very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must, upon a warranted need, give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.

LUCIO.

Sir, I know him, and I love him.

DUKE.

Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.

LUCIO.

Come, sir, I know what I know.

DUKE.

I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the Duke return,—as our prayers are he may,—let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it: I am bound to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name?

LUCIO.

Sir, my name is Lucio; well known to the Duke.

DUKE.

He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.

LUCIO.

I fear you not.

DUKE.

O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But, indeed, I can do you little harm: you'll forswear this again.

LUCIO.

I'll be hanged first! thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no?

DUKE.

Why should he die, sir?

LUCIO.

Why? for filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of were returned again: this ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would never bring them to light: would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar; I pr'ythee pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He's not past it; yet, and, I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic. Say that I said so.—Farewell.

[Exit.]

DUKE.

No might nor greatness in mortality

Can censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny

The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong

Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

But who comes here?

[Enter ESCALUS, PROVOST, BAWD, and Officers.]

ESCALUS.

Go, away with her to prison.

BAWD.

Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.

ESCALUS.

Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant.

PROVOST.

A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it please your honour.

BAWD.

My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me: Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke's time; he promised her marriage: his child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob; I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me.

ESCALUS.

That fellow is a fellow of much license:—let him be called before us.—Away with her to prison. Go to; no more words.

[Exeunt BAWD and Officers.]

Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered, Claudio must die to-morrow: let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation: if my brother wrought by my pity it should not be so with him.

PROVOST.

So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for the entertainment of death.

ESCALUS.

Good even, good father.

DUKE.

Bliss and goodness on you!

ESCALUS.

Of whence are you?

DUKE.

Not of this country, though my chance is now

To use it for my time: I am a brother

Of gracious order, late come from the see

In special business from his holiness.

ESCALUS.

What news abroad i' the world?

DUKE.

None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and as it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accurst: much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the Duke?

ESCALUS.

One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself.

DUKE.

What pleasure was he given to?

ESCALUS.

Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which professed to make him rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation.

DUKE.

He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice: yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life; which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and now he is resolved to die.

ESCALUS.

You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty; but my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed —justice.

DUKE.

If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well: wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.

ESCALUS.

I am going to visit the prisoner; fare you well.

DUKE.

Peace be with you!

[Exeunt ESCALUS and PROVOST.]

He who the sword of heaven will bear

Should be as holy as severe;

Pattern in himself to know,

Grace to stand, and virtue go;

More nor less to others paying

Than by self-offences weighing.

Shame to him whose cruel striking

Kills for faults of his own liking!

Twice treble shame on Angelo,

To weed my vice and let his grow!

O, what may man within him hide,

Though angel on the outward side!

How may likeness, made in crimes,

Making practice on the times,

To draw with idle spiders' strings

Most pond'rous and substantial things!

Craft against vice I must apply;

With Angelo to-night shall lie

His old betrothed but despis'd;

So disguise shall, by the disguis'd,

Pay with falsehood false exacting,

And perform an old contracting.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A Room in Mariana's House.

[MARIANA discovered sitting; a Boy singing.]

SONG

Take, O, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn;

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn:

But my kisses bring again

Bring again;

Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,

Sealed in vain.

MARIANA.

Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away;

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

Hath often still'd my brawling discontent.—

[Exit BOY.]

[Enter DUKE.]

I cry you mercy, sir; and well could wish

You had not found me here so musical:

Let me excuse me, and believe me so,

My mirth it much displeas'd, but pleas'd my woe.

DUKE.

'Tis good: though music oft hath such a charm

To make bad good and good provoke to harm.

I pray you ,tell me hath anybody inquired for me here to-day?

much upon this time have I promised here to meet.

MARIANA.

You have not been inquired after: I have sat here all day.

[Enter ISABELLA.]

DUKE.

I do constantly believe you.—The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little: may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.

MARIANA.

I am always bound to you.

[Exit.]

DUKE.

Very well met, and welcome.

What is the news from this good deputy?

ISABELLA.

He hath a garden circummur'd with brick,

Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd;

And to that vineyard is a planched gate

That makes his opening with this bigger key:

This other doth command a little door

Which from the vineyard to the garden leads;

There have I made my promise to call on him

Upon the heavy middle of the night.

DUKE.

But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

ISABELLA.

I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't;

With whispering and most guilty diligence,

In action all of precept, he did show me

The way twice o'er.

DUKE.

Are there no other tokens

Between you 'greed concerning her observance?

ISABELLA.

No, none, but only a repair i' the dark;

And that I have possess'd him my most stay

Can be but brief: for I have made him know

I have a servant comes with me along,

That stays upon me; whose persuasion is

I come about my brother.

DUKE.

'Tis well borne up.

I have not yet made known to Mariana

A word of this.—What ho, within! come forth.

[Re-enter MARIANA.]

I pray you be acquainted with this maid;

She comes to do you good.

ISABELLA.

I do desire the like.

DUKE.

Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

MARIANA.

Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.

DUKE.

Take, then, this your companion by the hand,

Who hath a story ready for your ear:

I shall attend your leisure; but make haste;

The vaporous night approaches.

MARIANA.

Will't please you walk aside?

[Exeunt MARIANA and ISABELLA.]

DUKE.

O place and greatness, millions of false eyes

Are stuck upon thee! volumes of report

Run with these false, and most contrarious quest

Upon thy doings! Thousand 'scapes of wit

Make thee the father of their idle dream,

And rack thee in their fancies!—Welcome! how agreed?

[Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA.]

ISABELLA.

She'll take the enterprise upon her, father,

If you advise it.

DUKE.

It is not my consent,

But my entreaty too.

ISABELLA.

Little have you to say,

When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

'Remember now my brother.'

MARIANA.

Fear me not.

DUKE.

Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all;

He is your husband on a pre-contract:

To bring you thus together 'tis no sin,

Sith that the justice of your title to him

Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go;

Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A Room in the prison.

[Enter PROVOST and CLOWN.]

PROVOST.

Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head?

CLOWN.

If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can: but if he be a married man, he's his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman's head.

PROVOST.

Come, sir, leave me your snatches and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper; if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping; for you have been a notorious bawd.

CLOWN.

Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow-partner.

PROVOST.

What ho, Abhorson! Where's Abhorson, there?

[Enter ABHORSON.]

ABHORSON.

Do you call, sir?

PROVOST.

Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.

ABHORSON.

A bawd, sir? Fie upon him; he will discredit our mystery.

PROVOST.

Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale.

[Exit.]

CLOWN.

Pray, sir, by your good favour,—for, surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look,—do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?

ABHORSON.

Ay, sir; a mystery.

CLOWN.

Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery: but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.

ABHORSON.

Sir, it is a mystery.

CLOWN.

Proof.

ABHORSON.

Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough; so every true man's apparel fits your thief.

[Re-enter PROVOST.]

PROVOST.

Are you agreed?

CLOWN.

Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth oftener ask forgiveness.

PROVOST.

You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe tomorrow four o'clock.

ABHORSON.

Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.

CLOWN.

I do desire to learn, sir; and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn.

PROVOST.

Call hither Barnardine and Claudio.

[Exeunt CLOWN and ABHORSON.]

Th'one has my pity; not a jot the other,

Being a murderer, though he were my brother.

[Enter CLAUDIO.]

Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:

'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow

Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine?

CLAUDIO.

As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour

When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones:

He will not wake.

PROVOST.

Who can do good on him?

Well, go, prepare yourself. But hark, what noise?

[Knocking within.]

Heaven give your spirits comfort!

[Exit CLAUDIO.]

By and by!—

I hope it is some pardon or reprieve

For the most gentle Claudio.—Welcome, father.

[Enter DUKE.]

DUKE.

The best and wholesom'st spirits of the night

Envelop you, good provost! Who call'd here of late?

PROVOST.

None, since the curfew rung.

DUKE.

Not Isabel?

PROVOST.

No.

DUKE.

They will then, ere't be long.

PROVOST.

What comfort is for Claudio?

DUKE.

There's some in hope.

PROVOST.

It is a bitter deputy.

DUKE.

Not so, not so: his life is parallel'd

Even with the stroke and line of his great justice;

He doth with holy abstinence subdue

That in himself which he spurs on his power

To qualify in others: were he meal'd

With that which he corrects, then were he tyrannous;

But this being so, he's just.—Now are they come.

[Knocking within—PROVOST goes out.]

This is a gentle provost: seldom when

The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.—

How now? what noise? That spirit's possess'd with haste

That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.

[PROVOST returns, speaking to one at the door.]

PROVOST.

There he must stay until the officer

Arise to let him in; he is call'd up.

DUKE.

Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,

But he must die tomorrow?

PROVOST.

None, sir, none.

DUKE.

As near the dawning, Provost, as it is,

You shall hear more ere morning.

PROVOST.

Happily

You something know; yet I believe there comes

No countermand; no such example have we:

Besides, upon the very siege of justice,

Lord Angelo hath to the public ear

Profess'd the contrary.

[Enter a Messenger.]

DUKE.

This is his lordship's man.

DUKE.

And here comes Claudio's pardon.

MESSENGER.

My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for as I take it, it is almost day.

PROVOST.

I shall obey him.

[Exit Messenger.]

DUKE.

[Aside.]

This is his pardon, purchas'd by such sin,

For which the pardoner himself is in:

Hence hath offence his quick celerity,

When it is borne in high authority:

When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended

That for the fault's love is the offender friended.—

Now, sir, what news?

PROVOST.

I told you: Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before.

DUKE.

Pray you, let's hear.

PROVOST.

[Reads.] 'Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock; and, in the afternoon, Barnardine: for my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.'

What say you to this, sir?

DUKE.

What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in the afternoon?

PROVOST.

A Bohemian born; but here nursed up and bred: one that is a prisoner nine years old.

DUKE.

How came it that the absent Duke had not either delivered him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so.

PROVOST.

His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.

DUKE.

It is now apparent?

PROVOST.

Most manifest, and not denied by himself.

DUKE.

Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touched?

PROVOST.

A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless, of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality and desperately mortal.

DUKE.

He wants advice.

PROVOST.

He will hear none; he hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not: drunk many times a-day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him at all.

DUKE.

More of him anon. There is written in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite; for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy.

PROVOST.

Pray, sir, in what?

DUKE.

In the delaying death.

PROVOST.

Alack! How may I do it? having the hour limited; and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest.

DUKE.

By the vow of mine order, I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo.

PROVOST.

Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour.

DUKE.

O, death's a great disguiser: and you may add to it. Shave the head and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death. You know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life.

PROVOST.

Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.

DUKE.

Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the deputy?

PROVOST.

To him and to his substitutes.

DUKE.

You will think you have made no offence if the Duke avouch the justice of your dealing?

PROVOST.

But what likelihood is in that?

DUKE.

Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the character, I doubt not; and the signet is not strange to you.

PROVOST.

I know them both.

DUKE.

The contents of this is the return of the Duke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not: for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour: perchance of the Duke's death; perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine's head: I will give him a present shrift, and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed: but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Another Room in the same.

[Enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession: one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine score and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks ready money: marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Threepile the mercer, for some four suits of peachcoloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deepvow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starvelackey, the rapier and dagger man, and young Dropheir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shoetie the great traveller, and wild Halfcan that stabbed Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.'

[Enter ABHORSON.]

ABHORSON.

Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

CLOWN.

Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine!

ABHORSON.

What ho, Barnardine!

BARNARDINE.

[Within.] A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you?

CLOWN.

Your friend, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.

BARNARDINE.

[Within.] Away, you rogue, away; I am sleepy.

ABHORSON.

Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.

CLOWN.

Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards.

ABHORSON.

Go in to him, and fetch him out.

CLOWN.

He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.

[Enter BARNARDINE.]

ABHORSON.

Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?

CLOWN.

Very ready, sir.

BARNARDINE.

How now, Abhorson? what's the news with you?

ABHORSON.

Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come.

BARNARDINE.

You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for't.

CLOWN.

O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night and is hanged betimes in the morning may sleep the sounder all the next day.

[Enter DUKE.]

ABHORSON.

Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you?

DUKE.

Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you.

BARNARDINE.

Friar, not I; I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets: I will not consent to die this day, that's certain.

DUKE.

O, Sir, you must; and therefore I beseech you,

Look forward on the journey you shall go.

BARNARDINE.

I swear I will not die today for any man's persuasion.

DUKE.

But hear you,—

BARNARDINE.

Not a word; if you have anything to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day.

[Exit.]

DUKE.

Unfit to live or die. O gravel heart!—

After him, fellows; bring him to the block.

[Exeunt ABHORSON and CLOWN.]

[Enter PROVOST.]

PROVOST.

Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?

DUKE.

A creature unprepar'd, unmeet for death;

And to transport him in the mind he is

Were damnable.

PROVOST.

Here in the prison, father,

There died this morning of a cruel fever

One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,

A man of Claudio's years; his beard and head

Just of his colour. What if we do omit

This reprobate till he were well inclined;

And satisfy the deputy with the visage

Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?

DUKE.

O, 'tis an accident that Heaven provides!

Despatch it presently; the hour draws on

Prefix'd by Angelo: see this be done,

And sent according to command; whiles I

Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.

PROVOST.

This shall be done, good father, presently.

But Barnardine must die this afternoon:

And how shall we continue Claudio,

To save me from the danger that might come

If he were known alive?

DUKE.

Let this be done;—

Put them in secret holds; both Barnardine and Claudio.

Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting

To the under generation, you shall find

Your safety manifested.

PROVOST.

I am your free dependant.

DUKE.

Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo.

[Exit PROVOST.]

Now will I write letters to Angelo,—

The provost, he shall bear them,—whose contents

Shall witness to him I am near at home,

And that, by great injunctions, I am bound

To enter publicly: him I'll desire

To meet me at the consecrated fount,

A league below the city; and from thence,

By cold gradation and well-balanced form.

We shall proceed with Angelo.

[Re-enter PROVOST.]

PROVOST.

Here is the head; I'll carry it myself.

DUKE.

Convenient is it. Make a swift return;

For I would commune with you of such things

That want no ear but yours.

PROVOST.

I'll make all speed.

[Exit.]

ISABELLA.

[Within.] Peace, ho, be here!

DUKE.

The tongue of Isabel.—She's come to know

If yet her brother's pardon be come hither:

But I will keep her ignorant of her good,

To make her heavenly comforts of despair

When it is least expected.

[Enter ISABELLA.]

ISABELLA.

Ho, by your leave!

DUKE.

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.

ISABELLA.

The better, given me by so holy a man.

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon?

DUKE.

He hath released him, Isabel, from the world:

His head is off and sent to Angelo.

ISABELLA.

Nay, but it is not so.

DUKE.

It is no other.  Show your wisdom, daughter,

In your close patience.

ISABELLA.

O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes!

DUKE.

You shall not be admitted to his sight.

ISABELLA.

Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel!

Injurious world! Most damned Angelo!

DUKE.

This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot:

Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to Heaven.

Mark what I say; which you shall find

By every syllable a faithful verity:

The Duke comes home to-morrow;—nay, dry your eyes;

One of our convent, and his confessor,

Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried

Notice to Escalus and Angelo,

Who do prepare to meet him at the gates,

There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom

In that good path that I would wish it go,

And you shall have your bosom on this wretch,

Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart,

And general honour.

ISABELLA.

I am directed by you.

DUKE.

This letter, then, to Friar Peter give;

'Tis that he sent me of the Duke's return.

Say, by this token, I desire his company

At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours

I'll perfect him withal; and he shall bring you

Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo

Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self,

I am combined by a sacred vow,

And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter:

Command these fretting waters from your eyes

With a light heart; trust not my holy order,

If I pervert your course.—Who's here?

[Enter LUCIO.]

LUCIO.

Good even.

Friar, where is the provost?

DUKE.

Not within, sir.

LUCIO.

O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red; thou must be patient: I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical Duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.

[Exit ISABELLA.]

DUKE.

Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.

LUCIO.

Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do: he's a better woodman than thou takest him for.

DUKE.

Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well.

LUCIO.

Nay, tarry; I'll go along with thee; I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke.

DUKE.

You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true: if not true, none were enough.

LUCIO.

I was once before him for getting a wench with child.

DUKE.

Did you such a thing?

LUCIO.

Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it: they would else have married me to the rotten medlar.

DUKE.

Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well.

LUCIO.

By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

A Room in ANGELO'S house.

[Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS.]

ESCALUS.

Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.

ANGELO.

In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness; pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and re-deliver our authorities there?

ESCALUS.

I guess not.

ANGELO.

And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering that, if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street?

ESCALUS.

He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints; and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us.

ANGELO.

Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim'd:

Betimes i' the morn I'll call you at your house:

Give notice to such men of sort and suit

As are to meet him.

ESCALUS.

I shall, sir: fare you well.

[Exit.]

ANGELO.

Good night.—

This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant,

And dull to all proceedings. A deflower'd maid!

And by an eminent body that enforced

The law against it!—But that her tender shame

Will not proclaim against her maiden loss,

How might she tongue me? Yet reason dares her—no:

For my authority bears a so credent bulk,

That no particular scandal once can touch

But it confounds the breather. He should have liv'd,

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense,

Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge,

By so receiving a dishonour'd life

With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had liv'd!

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,

Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Fields without the town.

[Enter DUKE in his own habit, and Friar PETER.]

DUKE.

These letters at fit time deliver me. [Giving letters.]

The provost knows our purpose and our plot.

The matter being afoot, keep your instruction

And hold you ever to our special drift;

Though sometimes you do blench from this to that

As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavius' house,

And tell him where I stay: give the like notice

To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus,

And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;

But send me Flavius first.

PETER.

It shall be speeded well.

[Exit FRIAR.]

[Enter VARRIUS.]

DUKE.

I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste:

Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends

Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

Street near the City Gate.

[Enter ISABELLA and MARIANA.]

ISABELLA.

To speak so indirectly I am loath;

I would say the truth; but to accuse him so,

That is your part: yet I am advis'd to do it;

He says, to 'vailfull purpose.

MARIANA.

Be ruled by him.

ISABELLA.

Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure

He speak against me on the adverse side,

I should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic

That's bitter to sweet end.

MARIANA.

I would Friar Peter.—

ISABELLA.

O, peace! the friar is come.

[Enter FRIAR PETER.]

PETER.

Come, I have found you out a stand most fit,

Where you may have such vantage on the Duke

He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded;

The generous and gravest citizens

Have hent the gates, and very near upon

The Duke is entering; therefore, hence, away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

A public place near the city gate.

[MARIANA (veiled), ISABELLA, and PETER, at a distance. Enter at opposite doors DUKE, VARRIUS, Lords; ANGELO, ESCALUS, LUCIO, PROVOST, Officers, and Citizens.]

DUKE.

My very worthy cousin, fairly met;—

Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

ANGELO and ESCALUS.

Happy return be to your royal grace!

DUKE.

Many and hearty thankings to you both.

We have made inquiry of you; and we hear

Such goodness of your justice that our soul

Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks,

Forerunning more requital.

ANGELO.

You make my bonds still greater.

DUKE.

O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,

When it deserves, with characters of brass,

A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time

And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand,

And let the subject see, to make them know

That outward courtesies would fain proclaim

Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus;

You must walk by us on our other hand:

And good supporters are you.

[Enter PETER and ISABELLA come forward.]

PETER.

Now is your time; speak loud, and kneel before him.

ISABELLA.

Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard

Upon a wrong'd, I'd fain have said, a maid!

O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye

By throwing it on any other object

Till you have heard me in my true complaint,

And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!

DUKE.

Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief:

Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice.

Reveal yourself to him.

ISABELLA.

O worthy Duke,

You bid me seek redemption of the devil:

Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak

Must either punish me, not being believ'd,

Or wring redress from you; hear me, O, hear me here!

ANGELO.

My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:

She hath been a suitor to me for her brother,

Cut off by course of justice.

ISABELLA.

By course of justice!

ANGELO.

And she will speak most bitterly and strange.

ISABELLA.

Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak:

That Angelo's forsworn, is it not strange?

That Angelo's a murderer, is't not strange?

That Angelo is an adulterous thief,

An hypocrite, a virgin-violator,

Is it not strange and strange?

DUKE.

Nay, it is ten times strange.

ISABELLA.

It is not truer he is Angelo

Than this is all as true as it is strange:

Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth

To the end of reckoning.

DUKE.

Away with her!—Poor soul,

She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.

ISABELLA.

O prince! I conjure thee, as thou believ'st

There is another comfort than this world,

That thou neglect me not with that opinion

That I am touch'd with madness: make not impossible

That which but seems unlike; 'tis not impossible

But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground,

May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute,

As Angelo; even so may Angelo,

In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,

Be an arch-villain; believe it, royal prince,

If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more,

Had I more name for badness.

DUKE.

By mine honesty,

If she be mad, as I believe no other,

Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,

Such a dependency of thing on thing,

As e'er I heard in madness.

ISABELLA.

O gracious Duke,

Harp not on that: nor do not banish reason

For inequality; but let your reason serve

To make the truth appear where it seems hid

And hide the false seems true.

DUKE.

Many that are not mad

Have, sure, more lack of reason.—What would you say?

ISABELLA.

I am the sister of one Claudio,

Condemn'd upon the act of fornication

To lose his head; condemn'd by Angelo:

I, in probation of a sisterhood,

Was sent to by my brother: one Lucio

As then the messenger;—

LUCIO.

That's I, an't like your grace:

I came to her from Claudio, and desir'd her

To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo

For her poor brother's pardon.

ISABELLA.

That's he, indeed.

DUKE.

You were not bid to speak.

LUCIO.

No, my good lord;

Nor wish'd to hold my peace.

DUKE.

I wish you now, then;

Pray you take note of it: and when you have

A business for yourself, pray Heaven you then Be perfect.

LUCIO.

I warrant your honour.

DUKE.

The warrant's for yourself; take heed to it.

ISABELLA.

This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.

LUCIO.

Right.

DUKE.

It may be right; but you are in the wrong

To speak before your time.—Proceed.

ISABELLA.

I went

To this pernicious caitiff deputy.

DUKE.

That's somewhat madly spoken.

ISABELLA.

Pardon it;

The phrase is to the matter.

DUKE.

Mended again. The matter;—proceed.

ISABELLA.

In brief,—to set the needless process by,

How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd,

How he refell'd me, and how I replied,—

For this was of much length,—the vile conclusion

I now begin with grief and shame to utter:

He would not, but by gift of my chaste body

To his concupiscible intemperate lust,

Release my brother; and, after much debatement,

My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,

And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes,

His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant

For my poor brother's head.

DUKE.

This is most likely!

ISABELLA.

O, that it were as like as it is true!

DUKE.

By heaven, fond wretch, thou know'st not what thou speak'st,

Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour

In hateful practice. First, his integrity

Stands without blemish:—next, it imports no reason

That with such vehemency he should pursue

Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended,

He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself,

And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on;

Confess the truth, and say by whose advice

Thou cam'st here to complain.

ISABELLA.

And is this all?

Then, O you blessed ministers above,

Keep me in patience; and, with ripen'd time,

Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up

In countenance!—Heaven shield your grace from woe,

As I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go!

DUKE.

I know you'd fain be gone.—An officer!

To prison with her!—Shall we thus permit

A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall

On him so near us? This needs must be a practice.

Who knew of your intent and coming hither?

ISABELLA.

One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

DUKE.

A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?

LUCIO.

My lord, I know him; 'tis a meddling friar.

I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord,

For certain words he spake against your grace

In your retirement, I had swing'd him soundly.

DUKE.

Words against me? This's a good friar, belike!

And to set on this wretched woman here

Against our substitute!—Let this friar be found.

LUCIO.

But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,

I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar,

A very scurvy fellow.

PETER.

Bless'd be your royal grace!

I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard

Your royal ear abus'd. First, hath this woman

Most wrongfully accus'd your substitute;

Who is as free from touch or soil with her

As she from one ungot.

DUKE.

We did believe no less.

Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?

PETER.

I know him for a man divine and holy;

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,

As he's reported by this gentleman;

And, on my trust, a man that never yet

Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace.

LUCIO.

My lord, most villainously; believe it.

PETER.

Well, he in time may come to clear himself;

But at this instant he is sick, my lord,

Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request,—

Being come to knowledge that there was complaint

Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo,—came I hither

To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know

Is true and false; and what he, with his oath

And all probation, will make up full clear,

Whensoever he's convented. First, for this woman—

To justify this worthy nobleman,

So vulgarly and personally accus'd,—

Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

Till she herself confess it.

DUKE.

Good friar, let's hear it.

[ISABELLA is carried off, guarded; and MARIANA comes forward.]

Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?—

O heaven! the vanity of wretched fools!

Give us some seats.—Come, cousin Angelo;

In this I'll be impartial; be you judge

Of your own cause.—Is this the witness, friar?

First let her show her face, and after speak.

MARIANA.

Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face

Until my husband bid me.

DUKE.

What! are you married?

MARIANA.

No, my lord.

DUKE.

Are you a maid?

MARIANA.

No, my lord.

DUKE.

A widow, then?

MARIANA.

Neither, my lord.

DUKE.

Why, you are nothing then:—neither maid, widow, nor wife?

LUCIO.

My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.

DUKE.

Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause To prattle for himself.

LUCIO.

Well, my lord.

MARIANA.

My lord, I do confess I ne'er was married,

And I confess, besides, I am no maid:

I have known my husband; yet my husband knows not

That ever he knew me.

LUCIO.

He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better.

DUKE.

For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!

LUCIO.

Well, my lord.

DUKE.

This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

MARIANA.

Now I come to't, my lord:

She that accuses him of fornication,

In self-same manner doth accuse my husband;

And charges him, my lord, with such a time

When I'll depose I had him in mine arms,

With all the effect of love.

ANGELO.

Charges she more than me?

MARIANA.

Not that I know.

DUKE.

No? you say your husband.

MARIANA.

Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,

Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body,

But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's.

ANGELO.

This is a strange abuse.—Let's see thy face.

MARIANA.

My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [Unveiling.]

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo,

Which once thou swor'st was worth the looking on:

This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract,

Was fast belock'd in thine; this is the body

That took away the match from Isabel,

And did supply thee at thy garden-house

In her imagin'd person.

DUKE.

Know you this woman?

LUCIO.

Carnally, she says.

DUKE.

Sirrah, no more.

LUCIO.

Enough, my lord.

ANGELO.

My lord, I must confess I know this woman;

And five years since there was some speech of marriage

Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off,

Partly for that her promis'd proportions

Came short of composition; but in chief

For that her reputation was disvalued

In levity: since which time of five years

I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,

Upon my faith and honour.

MARIANA.

Noble prince,

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,

As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,

I am affianc'd this man's wife as strongly

As words could make up vows: and, my good lord,

But Tuesday night last gone, in his garden-house,

He knew me as a wife. As this is true,

Let me in safety raise me from my knees,

Or else for ever be confixed here,

A marble monument!

ANGELO.

I did but smile till now;

Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice;

My patience here is touch'd. I do perceive

These poor informal women are no more

But instruments of some more mightier member

That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,

To find this practice out.

DUKE.

Ay, with my heart;

And punish them to your height of pleasure.—

Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,

Compact with her that's gone, thinkst thou thy oaths,

Though they would swear down each particular saint,

Were testimonies against his worth and credit,

That's seal'd in approbation?—You, Lord Escalus,

Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains

To find out this abuse, whence 'tis deriv'd.—

There is another friar that set them on;

Let him be sent for.

PETER.

Would lie were here, my lord; for he indeed

Hath set the women on to this complaint:

Your provost knows the place where he abides,

And he may fetch him.

DUKE.

Go, do it instantly.—

[Exit PROVOST.]

And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin,

Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,

Do with your injuries as seems you best

In any chastisement. I for a while

Will leave you: but stir not you till you have well

Determined upon these slanderers.

ESCALUS.

My lord, we'll do it throughly.

[Exit DUKE.]

Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?

LUCIO.

Cucullus non facit monachum: honest in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke.

ESCALUS.

We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him: we shall find this friar a notable fellow.

LUCIO.

As any in Vienna, on my word.

ESCALUS.

Call that same Isabel here once again [to an Attendant]; I would speak with her. Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I'll handle her.

LUCIO.

Not better than he, by her own report.

ESCALUS.

Say you?

LUCIO.

Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, publicly, she'll be ashamed.

[Re-enter Officers, with ISABELLA.]

ESCALUS.

I will go darkly to work with her.

LUCIO.

That's the way; for women are light at midnight.

ESCALUS.

Come on, mistress [to ISABELLA]; here's a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.

LUCIO.

My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of, here with the Provost.

[Re-enter the DUKE in his friar's habit, and PROVOST.]

ESCALUS.

In very good time:—speak not you to him till we call upon you.

LUCIO.

Mum.

ESCALUS.

Come, sir: did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.

DUKE.

'Tis false.

ESCALUS.

How! Know you where you are?

DUKE.

Respect to your great place! and let the devil

Be sometime honour'd for his burning throne!—

Where is the Duke? 'tis he should hear me speak.

ESCALUS.

The Duke's in us; and we will hear you speak:

Look you speak justly.

DUKE.

Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls,

Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox,

Good night to your redress! Is the Duke gone?

Then is your cause gone too. The Duke's unjust

Thus to retort your manifest appeal,

And put your trial in the villain's mouth

Which here you come to accuse.

LUCIO.

This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.

ESCALUS.

Why, thou unreverend and unhallow'd friar,

Is't not enough thou hast suborn'd these women

To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth,

And in the witness of his proper ear,

To call him villain?

And then to glance from him to the Duke himself,

To tax him with injustice? Take him hence;

To the rack with him!—We'll touze you joint by joint,

But we will know his purpose.—What! unjust?

DUKE.

Be not so hot; the Duke

Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he

Dare rack his own; his subject am I not,

Nor here provincial. My business in this state

Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble

Till it o'errun the stew: laws for all faults,

But faults so countenanc'd that the strong statutes

Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop,

As much in mock as mark.

ESCALUS.

Slander to the state!

Away with him to prison!

ANGELO.

What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio?

Is this the man that you did tell us of?

LUCIO.

'Tis he, my lord. Come hither, good-man bald-pate. Do you know me?

DUKE.

I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice. I met you at the prison, in the absence of the Duke.

LUCIO.

O did you so? And do you remember what you said of the Duke?

DUKE.

Most notedly, sir.

LUCIO.

Do you so, sir? And was the Duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?

DUKE.

You must, sir, change persons with me ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse.

LUCIO.

O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?

DUKE.

I protest I love the Duke as I love myself.

ANGELO.

Hark how the villain would gloze now, after his treasonable abuses!

ESCALUS.

Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison!—Where is the provost?—Away with him to prison! lay bolts enough upon him: let him speak no more.—Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion!

[The PROVOST lays hands on the DUKE.]

DUKE.

Stay, sir; stay awhile.

ANGELO.

What! resists he?—Help him, Lucio.

LUCIO.

Come, sir; come, sir! come, sir; foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal! you must be hooded, must you? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you! show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will't not off?

[Pulls off the Friar's hood and discovers the DUKE.]

DUKE.

Thou art the first knave that e'er made a Duke.—

First, Provost, let me bail these gentle three:—

Sneak not away, sir [To Lucio.]; for the friar and you

Must have a word anon:—Lay hold on him.

LUCIO.

This may prove worse than hanging.

DUKE.

[To ESCALUS.] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down.—

We'll borrow place of him.—[To ANGELO.] Sir, by your leave.

Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence,

That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,

Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out.

ANGELO.

O my dread lord,

I should be guiltier than my guiltiness,

To think I can be undiscernible,

When I perceive your grace, like power divine,

Hath look'd upon my passes. Then, good Prince,

No longer session hold upon my shame,

But let my trial be mine own confession:

Immediate sentence then, and sequent death,

Is all the grace I beg.

DUKE.

Come hither, Mariana:—

Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman?

ANGELO.

I was, my lord.

DUKE.

Go, take her hence and marry her instantly.

Do you the office, friar; which consummate,

Return him here again.—Go with him, Provost.

[Exeunt ANGELO, MARIANA, PETER, and PROVOST.]

ESCALUS.

My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour

Than at the strangeness of it.

DUKE.

Come hither, Isabel:

Your friar is now your prince. As I was then

Advertising and holy to your business,

Not changing heart with habit, I am still

Attorney'd at your service.

ISABELLA.

O, give me pardon,

That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd

Your unknown sovereignty.

DUKE.

You are pardon'd, Isabel.

And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.

Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart;

And you may marvel why I obscur'd myself,

Labouring to save his life, and would not rather

Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power

Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid,

It was the swift celerity of his death,

Which I did think with slower foot came on,

That brain'd my purpose. But peace be with him!

That life is better life, past fearing death,

Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,

So happy is your brother.

ISABELLA.

I do, my lord.

[Re-enter ANGELO, MARIANA, PETER, and PROVOST.]

DUKE.

For this new-married man approaching here,

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd

Your well-defended honour, you must pardon

For Mariana's sake: but as he adjudg'd your brother,—

Being criminal, in double violation

Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach,

Thereon dependent, for your brother's life,—

The very mercy of the law cries out

Most audible, even from his proper tongue,

'An Angelo for Claudio, death for death.'

Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure;

Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure.

Then, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested,—

Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage.—

We do condemn thee to the very block

Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like haste.—

Away with him.

MARIANA.

O my most gracious lord,

I hope you will not mock me with a husband!

DUKE.

It is your husband mock'd you with a husband.

Consenting to the safeguard of your honour,

I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,

For that he knew you, might reproach your life,

And choke your good to come: for his possessions,

Although by confiscation they are ours,

We do instate and widow you withal

To buy you a better husband.

MARIANA.

O my dear lord,

I crave no other, nor no better man.

DUKE.

Never crave him; we are definitive.

MARIANA.

Gentle my liege—[Kneeling.]

DUKE.

You do but lose your labour.—

Away with him to death!—[To LUCIO.] Now, sir, to you.

MARIANA.

O my good lord!—Sweet Isabel, take my part;

Lend me your knees, and all my life to come

I'll lend you all my life to do you service.

DUKE.

Against all sense you do importune her.

Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact,

Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break,

And take her hence in horror.

MARIANA.

Isabel,

Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me;

Hold up your hands, say nothing,—I'll speak all.

They say, best men moulded out of faults;

And, for the most, become much more the better

For being a little bad: so may my husband.

O Isabel, will you not lend a knee?

DUKE.

He dies for Claudio's death.

ISABELLA.

[Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir,

Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd,

As if my brother liv'd: I partly think

A due sincerity govern'd his deeds

Till he did look on me; since it is so,

Let him not die. My brother had but justice,

In that he did the thing for which he died:

For Angelo,

His act did not o'ertake his bad intent,

And must be buried but as an intent

That perish'd by the way. Thoughts are no subjects;

Intents but merely thoughts.

MARIANA.

Merely, my lord.

DUKE.

Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, I say.—

I have bethought me of another fault.—

Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded

At an unusual hour?

PROVOST.

It was commanded so.

DUKE.

Had you a special warrant for the deed?

PROVOST.

No, my good lord; it was by private message.

DUKE.

For which I do discharge you of your office:

Give up your keys.

PROVOST.

Pardon me, noble lord:

I thought it was a fault, but knew it not;

Yet did repent me, after more advice:

For testimony whereof, one in the prison,

That should by private order else have died,

I have reserved alive.

DUKE.

What's he?

PROVOST.

His name is Barnardine.

DUKE.

I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.—

Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him.

[Exit PROVOST.]

ESCALUS.

I am sorry one so learned and so wise

As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear'd,

Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood

And lack of temper'd judgment afterward.

ANGELO.

I am sorry that such sorrow I procure:

And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart

That I crave death more willingly than mercy;

'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.

[Re-enter PROVOST, with BARNARDINE, CLAUDIO (muffled) and JULIET.]

DUKE.

Which is that Barnardine?

PROVOST.

This, my lord.

DUKE.

There was a friar told me of this man:—

Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul,

That apprehends no further than this world,

And squar'st thy life according. Thou'rt condemn'd;

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all,

And pray thee take this mercy to provide

For better times to come:—Friar, advise him;

I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow's that?

PROVOST.

This is another prisoner that I sav'd,

Who should have died when Claudio lost his head;

As like almost to Claudio as himself.

[Unmuffles CLAUDIO.]

DUKE.

[to ISABELLA]

If he be like your brother, for his sake

Is he pardon'd; and for your lovely sake,

Give me your hand and say you will be mine;

He is my brother too: but fitter time for that.

By this Lord Angelo perceives he's safe;

Methinks I see a quick'ning in his eye.—

Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well":

Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.—

I find an apt remission in myself;

And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon.—

[to Lucio] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward,

One all of luxury, an ass, a madman;

Wherein have I so deserved of you

That you extol me thus?

LUCIO.

Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.

DUKE.

Whipp'd first, sir, and hang'd after.—

Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city,

If any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow,—

As I have heard him swear himself there's one

Whom he begot with child,—let her appear,

And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish'd,

Let him be whipp'd and hang'd.

LUCIO.

I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore! Your highness said even now I made you a Duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.

DUKE.

Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.

Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal

Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison;

And see our pleasure herein executed.

LUCIO.

Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.

DUKE.

Slandering a prince deserves it.—

[Exeunt Officers with LUCIO.]

She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore.—

Joy to you, Mariana!—Love her, Angelo;

I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue.—

Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness

There's more behind that is more gratulate.

Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy;

We shall employ thee in a worthier place.—

Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home

The head of Ragozine for Claudio's:

The offence pardons itself.—Dear Isabel,

I have a motion much imports your good;

Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline,

What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine:—

So, bring us to our palace; where we'll show

What's yet behind that's meet you all should know.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act II, Scene VI

Act II, Scene VII

Act II, Scene VIII

Act II, Scene IX

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

THE DUKE OF VENICE

THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO: suitor to Portia

THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON: suitor to Portia

ANTONIO: a merchant of Venice

BASSANIO: his friend

SOLANIO: friend to Antonio and Bassanio

SALERIO: friend to Antonio and Bassanio

GRATIANO: friend to Antonio and Bassanio

LORENZO: in love with Jessica

SHYLOCK: a rich Jew

TUBAL: a Jew, his friend

LAUNCELOT GOBBO: a clown, servant to Shylock

OLD GOBBO: father to Launcelot

LEONARDO: servant to Bassanio

BALTHASAR: servant to Portia

STEPHANO: servant to Portia

PORTIA: a rich heiress

NERISSA: her waiting-maid

JESSICA: daughter to Shylock

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants

SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent

ACT I. SCENE I.

Venice. A street

[Enter ANTONIO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO]

ANTONIO.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;

It wearies me; you say it wearies you;

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,

I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me

That I have much ado to know myself.

SALERIO.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean;

There where your argosies, with portly sail—

Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,

Or as it were the pageants of the sea—

Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That curtsy to them, do them reverence,

As they fly by them with their woven wings.

SOLANIO.

Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,

The better part of my affections would

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,

Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;

And every object that might make me fear

Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt

Would make me sad.

SALERIO.

My wind, cooling my broth

Would blow me to an ague, when I thought

What harm a wind too great might do at sea.

I should not see the sandy hour-glass run

But I should think of shallows and of flats,

And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,

Vailing her high top lower than her ribs

To kiss her burial. Should I go to church

And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,

Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,

Would scatter all her spices on the stream,

Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,

And, in a word, but even now worth this,

And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought

That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?

But tell not me; I know Antonio

Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

ANTONIO.

Believe me, no; I thank my fortune for it,

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,

Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate

Upon the fortune of this present year;

Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

SALERIO.

Why, then you are in love.

ANTONIO.

Fie, fie!

SALERIO.

Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad

Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy

For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:

Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,

And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper;

And other of such vinegar aspect

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile

Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

[Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.]

Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well;

We leave you now with better company.

SALERIO.

I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

ANTONIO.

Your worth is very dear in my regard.

I take it your own business calls on you,

And you embrace th' occasion to depart.

SALERIO.

Good morrow, my good lords.

BASSANIO.

Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when.

You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?

SALERIO.

We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO.]

LORENZO.

My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

We two will leave you; but at dinner-time,

I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

BASSANIO.

I will not fail you.

GRATIANO.

You look not well, Signior Antonio;

You have too much respect upon the world;

They lose it that do buy it with much care.

Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

ANTONIO.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;

A stage, where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

GRATIANO.

Let me play the fool;

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;

And let my liver rather heat with wine

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Why should a man whose blood is warm within

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster,

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio—

I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks—

There are a sort of men whose visages

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,

And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;

As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,

And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.'

O my Antonio, I do know of these

That therefore only are reputed wise

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.

I'll tell thee more of this another time.

But fish not with this melancholy bait,

For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.

Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile;

I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

LORENZO.

Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

GRATIANO.

Well, keep me company but two years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

ANTONIO.

Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear.

GRATIANO.

Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable

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

[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.]

ANTONIO.

Is that anything now?

BASSANIO.

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

ANTONIO.

Well; tell me now what lady is the same

To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,

That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?

BASSANIO.

'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,

How much I have disabled mine estate

By something showing a more swelling port

Than my faint means would grant continuance;

Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd

From such a noble rate; but my chief care

Is to come fairly off from the great debts

Wherein my time, something too prodigal,

Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,

I owe the most, in money and in love;

And from your love I have a warranty

To unburden all my plots and purposes

How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

ANTONIO.

I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;

And if it stand, as you yourself still do,

Within the eye of honour, be assur'd

My purse, my person, my extremest means,

Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

BASSANIO.

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

The self-same way, with more advised watch,

To find the other forth; and by adventuring both

I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,

Because what follows is pure innocence.

I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,

That which I owe is lost; but if you please

To shoot another arrow that self way

Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,

As I will watch the aim, or to find both,

Or bring your latter hazard back again

And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

ANTONIO.

You know me well, and herein spend but time

To wind about my love with circumstance;

And out of doubt you do me now more wrong

In making question of my uttermost

Than if you had made waste of all I have.

Then do but say to me what I should do

That in your knowledge may by me be done,

And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak.

BASSANIO.

In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair and, fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages:

Her name is Portia—nothing undervalu'd

To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,

For the four winds blow in from every coast

Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,

And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio! had I but the means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift

That I should questionless be fortunate.

ANTONIO.

Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;

Neither have I money nor commodity

To raise a present sum; therefore go forth,

Try what my credit can in Venice do;

That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,

To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia.

Go presently inquire, and so will I,

Where money is; and I no question make

To have it of my trust or for my sake.

[Exeunt]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house

[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.]

PORTIA.

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

NERISSA.

You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.

PORTIA.

Good sentences, and well pronounced.

NERISSA.

They would be better, if well followed.

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?

PORTIA.

I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection.

NERISSA.

First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

PORTIA.

Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.

NERISSA.

Then is there the County Palatine.

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

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

PORTIA.

God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.

NERISSA.

What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

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

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

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

PORTIA.

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

NERISSA.

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

PORTIA.

I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

How now! what news?

SERVANT.

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

PORTIA.

If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me.

Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.

Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

[Exeunt]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Venice. A public place

[Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK.]

SHYLOCK.

Three thousand ducats; well?

BASSANIO.

Ay, sir, for three months.

SHYLOCK.

For three months; well?

BASSANIO.

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

SHYLOCK.

Antonio shall become bound; well?

BASSANIO.

May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?

SHYLOCK.

Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.

BASSANIO.

Your answer to that.

SHYLOCK.

Antonio is a good man.

BASSANIO.

Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

SHYLOCK.

Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient; yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, land-thieves and water-thieves,—I mean pirates,—and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats— I think I may take his bond.

BASSANIO.

Be assured you may.

SHYLOCK.

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

BASSANIO.

If it please you to dine with us.

SHYLOCK.

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

[Enter ANTONIO]

BASSANIO.

This is Signior Antonio.

SHYLOCK.

[Aside]

How like a fawning publican he looks!

I hate him for he is a Christian;

But more for that in low simplicity

He lends out money gratis, and brings down

The rate of usance here with us in Venice.

If I can catch him once upon the hip,

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,

Even there where merchants most do congregate,

On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,

Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe

If I forgive him!

BASSANIO.

Shylock, do you hear?

SHYLOCK.

I am debating of my present store,

And, by the near guess of my memory,

I cannot instantly raise up the gross

Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?

Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,

Will furnish me. But soft! how many months

Do you desire? [To ANTONIO] Rest you fair, good signior;

Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

ANTONIO.

Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow

By taking nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,

I'll break a custom. [To BASSANIO] Is he yet possess'd

How much ye would?

SHYLOCK.

Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

ANTONIO.

And for three months.

SHYLOCK.

I had forgot; three months; you told me so.

Well then, your bond; and, let me see. But hear you,

Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow

Upon advantage.

ANTONIO.

I do never use it.

SHYLOCK.

When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep,—

This Jacob from our holy Abram was,

As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,

The third possessor; ay, he was the third,—

ANTONIO.

And what of him? Did he take interest?

SHYLOCK.

No, not take interest; not, as you would say,

Directly interest; mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himself were compromis'd

That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied

Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,

In end of autumn turned to the rams;

And when the work of generation was

Between these woolly breeders in the act,

The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,

And, in the doing of the deed of kind,

He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,

Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time

Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest;

And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

ANTONIO.

This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for;

A thing not in his power to bring to pass,

But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.

Was this inserted to make interest good?

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

SHYLOCK.

I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast.

But note me, signior.

ANTONIO.

Mark you this, Bassanio,

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

An evil soul producing holy witness

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,

A goodly apple rotten at the heart.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

SHYLOCK.

Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.

Three months from twelve; then let me see the rate.

ANTONIO.

Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

SHYLOCK.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft

In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys and my usances;

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,

For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe;

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,

And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,

And all for use of that which is mine own.

Well then, it now appears you need my help;

Go to, then; you come to me, and you say

'Shylock, we would have moneys.' You say so:

You that did void your rheum upon my beard,

And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur

Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.

What should I say to you? Should I not say

'Hath a dog money? Is it possible

A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or

Shall I bend low and, in a bondman's key,

With bated breath and whisp'ring humbleness,

Say this:—

'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;

You spurn'd me such a day; another time

You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies

I'll lend you thus much moneys?'

ANTONIO.

I am as like to call thee so again,

To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too.

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not

As to thy friends,—for when did friendship take

A breed for barren metal of his friend?—

But lend it rather to thine enemy;

Who if he break thou mayst with better face

Exact the penalty.

SHYLOCK.

Why, look you, how you storm!

I would be friends with you, and have your love,

Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,

Supply your present wants, and take no doit

Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:

This is kind I offer.

BASSANIO.

This were kindness.

SHYLOCK.

This kindness will I show.

Go with me to a notary, seal me there

Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

If you repay me not on such a day,

In such a place, such sum or sums as are

Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit

Be nominated for an equal pound

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken

In what part of your body pleaseth me.

ANTONIO.

Content, in faith; I'll seal to such a bond,

And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

BASSANIO.

You shall not seal to such a bond for me;

I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

ANTONIO.

Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it;

Within these two months, that's a month before

This bond expires, I do expect return

Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

SHYLOCK.

O father Abram, what these Christians are,

Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect

The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this;

If he should break his day, what should I gain

By the exaction of the forfeiture?

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

Is not so estimable, profitable neither,

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

To buy his favour, I extend this friendship;

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

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

ANTONIO.

Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

SHYLOCK.

Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;

Give him direction for this merry bond,

And I will go and purse the ducats straight,

See to my house, left in the fearful guard

Of an unthrifty knave, and presently

I'll be with you.

[Exit SHYLOCK]

ANTONIO.

Hie thee, gentle Jew.

This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

BASSANIO.

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

ANTONIO.

Come on; in this there can be no dismay;

My ships come home a month before the day.

[Exeunt]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.

[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his Followers; PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.]

PRINCE OF Morocco.

Mislike me not for my complexion,

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

To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.

Bring me the fairest creature northward born,

Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,

And let us make incision for your love

To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.

I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine

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

The best-regarded virgins of our clime

Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

PORTIA.

In terms of choice I am not solely led

By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;

Besides, the lottery of my destiny

Bars me the right of voluntary choosing;

But, if my father had not scanted me

And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself

His wife who wins me by that means I told you,

Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair

As any comer I have look'd on yet

For my affection.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

Even for that I thank you:

Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets

To try my fortune. By this scimitar,—

That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince,

That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,—

I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look,

Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,

Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,

Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,

To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!

If Hercules and Lichas play at dice

Which is the better man, the greater throw

May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:

So is Alcides beaten by his page;

And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,

Miss that which one unworthier may attain,

And die with grieving.

PORTIA.

You must take your chance,

And either not attempt to choose at all,

Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,

Never to speak to lady afterward

In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance.

PORTIA.

First, forward to the temple: after dinner

Your hazard shall be made.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

Good fortune then!

To make me blest or cursed'st among men!

[Cornets, and exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Venice. A street

[Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.]

LAUNCELOT.

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

[Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket]

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

[Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO.

No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.

LAUNCELOT.

Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young

Master Launcelot.

GOBBO.

Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.

LAUNCELOT.

But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO.

Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

LAUNCELOT.

Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,—according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,—is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

Do you not know me, father?

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

I cannot think you are my son.

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

[Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.]

BASSANIO.

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

[Exit a SERVANT]

LAUNCELOT.

To him, father.

GOBBO.

God bless your worship!

BASSANIO.

Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me?

GOBBO.

Here's my son, sir, a poor boy—

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify—

GOBBO.

His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins—

LAUNCELOT.

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

GOBBO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

BASSANIO.

One speak for both. What would you?

LAUNCELOT.

Serve you, sir.

GOBBO.

That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

BASSANIO.

I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit.

Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,

And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment

To leave a rich Jew's service to become

The follower of so poor a gentleman.

LAUNCELOT.

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

BASSANIO.

Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.

Take leave of thy old master, and inquire

My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery

More guarded than his fellows'; see it done.

LAUNCELOT.

Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.

[Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.]

BASSANIO.

I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:

These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,

Return in haste, for I do feast to-night

My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go.

LEONARDO.

My best endeavours shall be done herein.

[Enter GRATIANO.]

GRATIANO.

Where's your master?

LEONARDO.

Yonder, sir, he walks.

[Exit.]

GRATIANO.

Signior Bassanio!—

BASSANIO.

Gratiano!

GRATIANO.

I have suit to you.

BASSANIO.

You have obtain'd it.

GRATIANO.

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

BASSANIO.

Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;

Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice;

Parts that become thee happily enough,

And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;

But where thou art not known, why there they show

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain

To allay with some cold drops of modesty

Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour

I be misconstrued in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes.

GRATIANO.

Signior Bassanio, hear me:

If I do not put on a sober habit,

Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen';

Use all the observance of civility,

Like one well studied in a sad ostent

To please his grandam, never trust me more.

BASSANIO.

Well, we shall see your bearing.

GRATIANO.

Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me

By what we do to-night.

BASSANIO.

No, that were pity;

I would entreat you rather to put on

Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends

That purpose merriment. But fare you well;

I have some business.

GRATIANO.

And I must to Lorenzo and the rest;

But we will visit you at supper-time.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The same. A room in SHYLOCK's house.

[Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.]

JESSICA.

I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:

Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,

Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.

But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee;

And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see

Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:

Give him this letter; do it secretly.

And so farewell. I would not have my father

See me in talk with thee.

LAUNCELOT.

Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu!

JESSICA.

Farewell, good Launcelot.

[Exit LAUNCELOT]

Alack, what heinous sin is it in me

To be asham'd to be my father's child!

But though I am a daughter to his blood,

I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo!

If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,

Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

[Exit]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

The same. A street

[Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO.]

LORENZO.

Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,

Disguise us at my lodging, and return

All in an hour.

GRATIANO.

We have not made good preparation.

SALERIO.

We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.

SOLANIO.

'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,

And better in my mind not undertook.

LORENZO.

'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours

To furnish us.

[Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter.]

Friend Launcelot, what's the news?

LAUNCELOT.

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

LORENZO.

I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand,

And whiter than the paper it writ on

Is the fair hand that writ.

GRATIANO.

Love news, in faith.

LAUNCELOT.

By your leave, sir.

LORENZO.

Whither goest thou?

LAUNCELOT.

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

LORENZO.

Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica

I will not fail her; speak it privately.

Go, gentlemen,

[Exit LAUNCELOT]

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?

I am provided of a torch-bearer.

SALERIO.

Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

SOLANIO.

And so will I.

LORENZO.

Meet me and Gratiano

At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.

SALERIO.

'Tis good we do so.

[Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO.]

GRATIANO.

Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

LORENZO.

I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed

How I shall take her from her father's house;

What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with;

What page's suit she hath in readiness.

If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,

It will be for his gentle daughter's sake;

And never dare misfortune cross her foot,

Unless she do it under this excuse,

That she is issue to a faithless Jew.

Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest;

Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

[Exeunt]

ACT II. SCENE V.

The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house

[Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT.]

SHYLOCK.

Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge,

The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:—

What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize,

As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!—

And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out—

Why, Jessica, I say!

LAUNCELOT.

Why, Jessica!

SHYLOCK.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

[Enter JESSICA.]

JESSICA.

Call you? What is your will?

SHYLOCK.

I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:

There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?

I am not bid for love; they flatter me;

But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon

The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,

Look to my house. I am right loath to go;

There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,

For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

LAUNCELOT.

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

SHYLOCK.

So do I his.

LAUNCELOT.

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

SHYLOCK.

What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:

Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum,

And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,

Clamber not you up to the casements then,

Nor thrust your head into the public street

To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces;

But stop my house's ears— I mean my casements;

Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter

My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear

I have no mind of feasting forth to-night;

But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;

Say I will come.

LAUNCELOT.

I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this;

There will come a Christian by

Will be worth a Jewes eye.

[Exit LAUNCELOT.]

SHYLOCK.

What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?

JESSICA.

His words were 'Farewell, mistress'; nothing else.

SHYLOCK.

The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;

Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day

More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me,

Therefore I part with him; and part with him

To one that I would have him help to waste

His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in;

Perhaps I will return immediately:

Do as I bid you, shut doors after you:

'Fast bind, fast find,'

A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

[Exit.]

JESSICA.

Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,

I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE VI.

The same.

[Enter GRATIANO and SALERIO, masqued.]

GRATIANO.

This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo

Desir'd us to make stand.

SALERIO.

His hour is almost past.

GRATIANO.

And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,

For lovers ever run before the clock.

SALERIO.

O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly

To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont

To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

GRATIANO.

That ever holds: who riseth from a feast

With that keen appetite that he sits down?

Where is the horse that doth untread again

His tedious measures with the unbated fire

That he did pace them first? All things that are

Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.

How like a younker or a prodigal

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,

Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!

How like the prodigal doth she return,

With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,

Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!

SALERIO.

Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter.

[Enter LORENZO.]

LORENZO.

Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;

Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:

When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,

I'll watch as long for you then. Approach;

Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?

[Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.]

JESSICA.

Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.

LORENZO.

Lorenzo, and thy love.

JESSICA.

Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,

For who love I so much? And now who knows

But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

LORENZO.

Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

JESSICA.

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,

For I am much asham'd of my exchange;

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

The pretty follies that themselves commit,

For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformed to a boy.

LORENZO.

Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.

JESSICA.

What! must I hold a candle to my shames?

They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light.

Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love,

And I should be obscur'd.

LORENZO.

So are you, sweet,

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

But come at once;

For the close night doth play the runaway,

And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.

JESSICA.

I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.

[Exit above.]

GRATIANO.

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

LORENZO.

Beshrew me, but I love her heartily;

For she is wise, if I can judge of her,

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,

Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

[Enter JESSICA.]

What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!

Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

[Exit with JESSICA and SALERIO.]

[Enter ANTONIO]

ANTONIO.

Who's there?

GRATIANO.

Signior Antonio!

ANTONIO.

Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?

'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you.

No masque to-night: the wind is come about;

Bassanio presently will go aboard:

I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

GRATIANO.

I am glad on't: I desire no more delight

Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE VII.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.

[Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains.]

PORTIA.

Go draw aside the curtains and discover

The several caskets to this noble prince.

Now make your choice.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

The first, of gold, who this inscription bears:

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

The second, silver, which this promise carries:

'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt:

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

How shall I know if I do choose the right?

PORTIA.

The one of them contains my picture, prince;

If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;

I will survey the inscriptions back again.

What says this leaden casket?

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

Must give: for what? For lead? Hazard for lead!

This casket threatens; men that hazard all

Do it in hope of fair advantages:

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;

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

What says the silver with her virgin hue?

'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,

And weigh thy value with an even hand.

If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough

May not extend so far as to the lady;

And yet to be afeard of my deserving

Were but a weak disabling of myself.

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

I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,

In graces, and in qualities of breeding;

But more than these, in love I do deserve.

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

Let's see once more this saying grav'd in gold:

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

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

From the four corners of the earth they come,

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:

The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds

Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now

For princes to come view fair Portia:

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head

Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come

As o'er a brook to see fair Portia.

One of these three contains her heavenly picture.

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

To think so base a thought; it were too gross

To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

Or shall I think in silver she's immur'd,

Being ten times undervalu'd to tried gold?

O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England

A coin that bears the figure of an angel

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

But here an angel in a golden bed

Lies all within. Deliver me the key;

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

PORTIA.

There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,

Then I am yours.

[He unlocks the golden casket.]

PRINCE OF MOROCCO.

O hell! what have we here?

A carrion Death, within whose empty eye

There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.

'All that glisters is not gold,

Often have you heard that told;

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold:

Gilded tombs do worms infold.

Had you been as wise as bold,

Young in limbs, in judgment old,

Your answer had not been inscroll'd:

Fare you well, your suit is cold.'

Cold indeed; and labour lost:

Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!

Portia, adieu! I have too griev'd a heart

To take a tedious leave; thus losers part.

[Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.]

PORTIA.

A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go.

Let all of his complexion choose me so.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE VIII.

Venice. A street

[Enter SALERIO and SOLANIO.]

SALERIO.

Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail;

With him is Gratiano gone along;

And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

SOLANIO.

The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke,

Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

SALERIO.

He came too late, the ship was under sail;

But there the duke was given to understand

That in a gondola were seen together

Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.

Besides, Antonio certified the duke

They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

SOLANIO.

I never heard a passion so confus'd,

So strange, outrageous, and so variable,

As the dog Jew did utter in the streets.

'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!

Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!

Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!

A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,

Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter!

And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones,

Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.'

SALERIO.

Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,

Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

SOLANIO.

Let good Antonio look he keep his day,

Or he shall pay for this.

SALERIO.

Marry, well remember'd.

I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,

Who told me,—in the narrow seas that part

The French and English,—there miscarried

A vessel of our country richly fraught.

I thought upon Antonio when he told me,

And wish'd in silence that it were not his.

SOLANIO.

You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

SALERIO.

A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:

Bassanio told him he would make some speed

Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so;

Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,

But stay the very riping of the time;

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

Let it not enter in your mind of love:

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts

To courtship, and such fair ostents of love

As shall conveniently become you there.'

And even there, his eye being big with tears,

Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

And with affection wondrous sensible

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

SOLANIO.

I think he only loves the world for him.

I pray thee, let us go and find him out,

And quicken his embraced heaviness

With some delight or other.

SALERIO.

Do we so.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IX.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.

[Enter NERISSA, with a SERVITOR.]

NERISSA.

Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight;

The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,

And comes to his election presently.

[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their Trains.]

PORTIA.

Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince:

If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,

Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd;

But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

You must be gone from hence immediately.

ARRAGON.

I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:

First, never to unfold to any one

Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail

Of the right casket, never in my life

To woo a maid in way of marriage;

Lastly,

If I do fail in fortune of my choice,

Immediately to leave you and be gone.

PORTIA.

To these injunctions every one doth swear

That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

ARRAGON.

And so have I address'd me. Fortune now

To my heart's hope! Gold, silver, and base lead.

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

You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard.

What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see:

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

What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant

By the fool multitude, that choose by show,

Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;

Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the martlet,

Builds in the weather on the outward wall,

Even in the force and road of casualty.

I will not choose what many men desire,

Because I will not jump with common spirits

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.

Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

And well said too; for who shall go about

To cozen fortune, and be honourable

Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume

To wear an undeserved dignity.

O! that estates, degrees, and offices

Were not deriv'd corruptly, and that clear honour

Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer!

How many then should cover that stand bare;

How many be commanded that command;

How much low peasantry would then be glean'd

From the true seed of honour; and how much honour

Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times

To be new varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:

'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'

I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,

And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

[He opens the silver casket.]

PORTIA.

Too long a pause for that which you find there.

ARRAGON.

What's here? The portrait of a blinking idiot,

Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.

How much unlike art thou to Portia!

How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!

'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'

Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?

Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better?

PORTIA.

To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,

And of opposed natures.

ARRAGON.

What is here?

'The fire seven times tried this;

Seven times tried that judgment is

That did never choose amiss.

Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow's bliss;

There be fools alive, I wis,

Silver'd o'er, and so was this.

Take what wife you will to bed,

I will ever be your head:

So be gone; you are sped.'

Still more fool I shall appear

By the time I linger here;

With one fool's head I came to woo,

But I go away with two.

Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath,

Patiently to bear my wroth.

[Exit ARAGON with his train.]

PORTIA.

Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth.

O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose,

They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

NERISSA.

The ancient saying is no heresy:

'Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.'

PORTIA.

Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

Where is my lady?

PORTIA.

Here; what would my lord?

SERVANT.

Madam, there is alighted at your gate

A young Venetian, one that comes before

To signify th' approaching of his lord;

From whom he bringeth sensible regreets;

To wit,—besides commends and courteous breath,—

Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen

So likely an ambassador of love.

A day in April never came so sweet,

To show how costly summer was at hand,

As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

PORTIA.

No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard

Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,

Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.

Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see

Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.

NERISSA.

Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Venice. A street

[Enter SOLANIO and SALERIO.]

SOLANIO.

Now, what news on the Rialto?

SALERIO.

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

SOLANIO.

I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true,—without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk,—that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!—

SALERIO.

Come, the full stop.

SOLANIO.

Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship.

SALERIO.

I would it might prove the end of his losses.

SOLANIO.

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

[Enter SHYLOCK.]

How now, Shylock! What news among the merchants?

SHYLOCK.

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

SALERIO.

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

SOLANIO.

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

SHYLOCK.

She is damned for it.

SALERIO.

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

SHYLOCK.

My own flesh and blood to rebel!

SOLANIO.

Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?

SHYLOCK.

I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood.

SALERIO.

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

SHYLOCK.

There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond.

SALERIO.

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

SHYLOCK.

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

[Enter a Servant.]

SERVANT.

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

SALERIO.

We have been up and down to seek him.

[Enter TUBAL.]

SOLANIO.

Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be match'd, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

[Exeunt SOLANIO, SALERIO, and Servant.]

SHYLOCK.

How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter?

TUBAL.

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

SHYLOCK.

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

TUBAL.

Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa,—

SHYLOCK.

What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck?

TUBAL.

—hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.

SHYLOCK.

I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true?

TUBAL.

I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack.

SHYLOCK.

I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! ha, ha! ha! Heard in Genoa!

TUBAL.

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

SHYLOCK.

Thou stick'st a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats!

TUBAL.

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

SHYLOCK.

I am very glad of it; I'll plague him, I'll torture him; I am glad of it.

TUBAL.

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

SHYLOCK.

Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: It was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

TUBAL.

But Antonio is certainly undone.

SHYLOCK.

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

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.

[Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants.]

PORTIA.

I pray you tarry; pause a day or two

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,

I lose your company; therefore forbear a while.

There's something tells me, but it is not love,

I would not lose you; and you know yourself

Hate counsels not in such a quality.

But lest you should not understand me well,—

And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,—

I would detain you here some month or two

Before you venture for me. I could teach you

How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;

So will I never be; so may you miss me;

But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,

They have o'erlook'd me and divided me:

One half of me is yours, the other half yours,

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

And so all yours. O! these naughty times

Puts bars between the owners and their rights;

And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,

Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.

I speak too long, but 'tis to peise the time,

To eke it, and to draw it out in length,

To stay you from election.

BASSANIO.

Let me choose;

For as I am, I live upon the rack.

PORTIA.

Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess

What treason there is mingled with your love.

BASSANIO.

None but that ugly treason of mistrust,

Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love:

There may as well be amity and life

'Tween snow and fire as treason and my love.

PORTIA.

Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,

Where men enforced do speak anything.

BASSANIO.

Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.

PORTIA.

Well then, confess and live.

BASSANIO.

'Confess' and 'love'

Had been the very sum of my confession:

O happy torment, when my torturer

Doth teach me answers for deliverance!

But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

PORTIA.

Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:

If you do love me, you will find me out.

Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof;

Let music sound while he doth make his choice;

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,

Fading in music: that the comparison

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream

And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

And what is music then? Then music is

Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

To a new-crowned monarch; such it is

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,

With no less presence, but with much more love,

Than young Alcides when he did redeem

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy

To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice;

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

With bleared visages come forth to view

The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules!

Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay

I view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray.

[A Song, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself.]

Tell me where is fancy bred,

Or in the heart or in the head,

How begot, how nourished?

[ALL.] Reply, reply.

It is engend'red in the eyes,

With gazing fed; and fancy dies

In the cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring fancy's knell:

I'll begin it.—Ding, dong, bell.

[ALL.] Ding, dong, bell.

BASSANIO.

So may the outward shows be least themselves:

The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt

But, being season'd with a gracious voice,

Obscures the show of evil? In religion,

What damned error but some sober brow

Will bless it, and approve it with a text,

Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

There is no vice so simple but assumes

Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.

How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false

As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins

The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;

Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;

And these assume but valour's excrement

To render them redoubted! Look on beauty

And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight:

Which therein works a miracle in nature,

Making them lightest that wear most of it:

So are those crisped snaky golden locks

Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,

Upon supposed fairness, often known

To be the dowry of a second head,

The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre.

Thus ornament is but the guiled shore

To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf

Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,

The seeming truth which cunning times put on

To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,

Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught,

Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,

And here choose I: joy be the consequence!

PORTIA.

[Aside]

How all the other passions fleet to air,

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair,

And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy!

O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy;

In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess;

I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,

For fear I surfeit!

BASSANIO.

What find I here? [Opening the leaden casket.]

Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god

Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?

Or whether riding on the balls of mine,

Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,

Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar

Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs

The painter plays the spider, and hath woven

A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men

Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes!—

How could he see to do them? Having made one,

Methinks it should have power to steal both his,

And leave itself unfurnish'd: yet look, how far

The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow

In underprizing it, so far this shadow

Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,

The continent and summary of my fortune.

'You that choose not by the view,

Chance as fair and choose as true!

Since this fortune falls to you,

Be content and seek no new.

If you be well pleas'd with this,

And hold your fortune for your bliss,

Turn to where your lady is

And claim her with a loving kiss.'

A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; {Kissing her.]

I come by note, to give and to receive.

Like one of two contending in a prize,

That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,

Hearing applause and universal shout,

Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt

Whether those peals of praise be his or no;

So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so,

As doubtful whether what I see be true,

Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.

PORTIA.

You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,

Such as I am: though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish

To wish myself much better, yet for you

I would be trebled twenty times myself,

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times

More rich;

That only to stand high in your account,

I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,

Exceed account. But the full sum of me

Is sum of something which, to term in gross,

Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd;

Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; happier than this,

She is not bred so dull but she can learn;

Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit

Commits itself to yours to be directed,

As from her lord, her governor, her king.

Myself and what is mine to you and yours

Is now converted. But now I was the lord

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,

Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,

This house, these servants, and this same myself,

Are yours— my lord's. I give them with this ring,

Which when you part from, lose, or give away,

Let it presage the ruin of your love,

And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

BASSANIO.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words,

Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;

And there is such confusion in my powers

As, after some oration fairly spoke

By a beloved prince, there doth appear

Among the buzzing pleased multitude;

Where every something, being blent together,

Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,

Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring

Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:

O! then be bold to say Bassanio's dead.

NERISSA.

My lord and lady, it is now our time,

That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,

To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady!

GRATIANO.

My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,

I wish you all the joy that you can wish;

For I am sure you can wish none from me;

And when your honours mean to solemnize

The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you

Even at that time I may be married too.

BASSANIO.

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

GRATIANO.

I thank your lordship, you have got me one.

My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:

You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;

You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission

No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.

Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,

And so did mine too, as the matter falls;

For wooing here until I sweat again,

And swearing till my very roof was dry

With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,

I got a promise of this fair one here

To have her love, provided that your fortune

Achiev'd her mistress.

PORTIA.

Is this true, Nerissa?

NERISSA.

Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.

BASSANIO.

And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

GRATIANO.

Yes, faith, my lord.

BASSANIO.

Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.

GRATIANO.

We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand

ducats.

NERISSA.

What! and stake down?

GRATIANO.

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

But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel?

What, and my old Venetian friend, Solanio!

[Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SOLANIO.]

BASSANIO.

Lorenzo and Solanio, welcome hither,

If that the youth of my new interest here

Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,

I bid my very friends and countrymen,

Sweet Portia, welcome.

PORTIA.

So do I, my lord;

They are entirely welcome.

LORENZO.

I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,

My purpose was not to have seen you here;

But meeting with Solanio by the way,

He did entreat me, past all saying nay,

To come with him along.

SOLANIO.

I did, my lord,

And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio

Commends him to you.

[Gives BASSANIO a letter]

BASSANIO.

Ere I ope his letter,

I pray you tell me how my good friend doth.

SOLANIO.

Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;

Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there

Will show you his estate.

GRATIANO.

Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.

Your hand, Solanio. What's the news from Venice?

How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?

I know he will be glad of our success:

We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

SOLANIO.

I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

PORTIA.

There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper.

That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek:

Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world

Could turn so much the constitution

Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!

With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,

And I must freely have the half of anything

That this same paper brings you.

BASSANIO.

O sweet Portia!

Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words

That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

I freely told you all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;

And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much I was a braggart. When I told you

My state was nothing, I should then have told you

That I was worse than nothing; for indeed

I have engag'd myself to a dear friend,

Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy,

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

The paper as the body of my friend,

And every word in it a gaping wound

Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Solanio?

Hath all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?

From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,

From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?

And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks?

SOLANIO.

Not one, my lord.

Besides, it should appear that, if he had

The present money to discharge the Jew,

He would not take it. Never did I know

A creature that did bear the shape of man,

So keen and greedy to confound a man.

He plies the duke at morning and at night,

And doth impeach the freedom of the state,

If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants,

The duke himself, and the magnificoes

Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;

But none can drive him from the envious plea

Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond.

JESSICA.

When I was with him, I have heard him swear

To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,

That he would rather have Antonio's flesh

Than twenty times the value of the sum

That he did owe him; and I know, my lord,

If law, authority, and power, deny not,

It will go hard with poor Antonio.

PORTIA.

Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?

BASSANIO.

The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,

The best condition'd and unwearied spirit

In doing courtesies; and one in whom

The ancient Roman honour more appears

Than any that draws breath in Italy.

PORTIA.

What sum owes he the Jew?

BASSANIO.

For me, three thousand ducats.

PORTIA.

What! no more?

Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond;

Double six thousand, and then treble that,

Before a friend of this description

Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.

First go with me to church and call me wife,

And then away to Venice to your friend;

For never shall you lie by Portia's side

With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold

To pay the petty debt twenty times over:

When it is paid, bring your true friend along.

My maid Nerissa and myself meantime,

Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!

For you shall hence upon your wedding day.

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer;

Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.

But let me hear the letter of your friend.

BASSANIO.

'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.'

PORTIA.

O love, dispatch all business and be gone!

BASSANIO.

Since I have your good leave to go away,

I will make haste; but, till I come again,

No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,

Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Venice. A street

[Enter SHYLOCK, SALERIO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler.]

SHYLOCK.

Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy;

This is the fool that lent out money gratis:

Gaoler, look to him.

ANTONIO.

Hear me yet, good Shylock.

SHYLOCK.

I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond.

I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs;

The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,

Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond

To come abroad with him at his request.

ANTONIO.

I pray thee hear me speak.

SHYLOCK.

I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak;

I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.

I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield

To Christian intercessors. Follow not;

I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond.

[Exit.]

SALERIO.

It is the most impenetrable cur

That ever kept with men.

ANTONIO.

Let him alone;

I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.

He seeks my life; his reason well I know:

I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures

Many that have at times made moan to me;

Therefore he hates me.

SALERIO.

I am sure the Duke

Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

ANTONIO.

The Duke cannot deny the course of law;

For the commodity that strangers have

With us in Venice, if it be denied,

'Twill much impeach the justice of the state,

Since that the trade and profit of the city

Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go;

These griefs and losses have so bated me

That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh

To-morrow to my bloody creditor.

Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come

To see me pay his debt, and then I care not.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.

[Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR.]

LORENZO.

Madam, although I speak it in your presence,

You have a noble and a true conceit

Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly

In bearing thus the absence of your lord.

But if you knew to whom you show this honour,

How true a gentleman you send relief,

How dear a lover of my lord your husband,

I know you would be prouder of the work

Than customary bounty can enforce you.

PORTIA.

I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now; for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit,

Which makes me think that this Antonio,

Being the bosom lover of my lord,

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

How little is the cost I have bestowed

In purchasing the semblance of my soul

From out the state of hellish cruelty!

This comes too near the praising of myself;

Therefore, no more of it; hear other things.

Lorenzo, I commit into your hands

The husbandry and manage of my house

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

I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow

To live in prayer and contemplation,

Only attended by Nerissa here,

Until her husband and my lord's return.

There is a monastery two miles off,

And there we will abide. I do desire you

Not to deny this imposition,

The which my love and some necessity

Now lays upon you.

LORENZO.

Madam, with all my heart

I shall obey you in an fair commands.

PORTIA.

My people do already know my mind,

And will acknowledge you and Jessica

In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.

So fare you well till we shall meet again.

LORENZO.

Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

JESSICA.

I wish your ladyship all heart's content.

PORTIA.

I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd

To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica.

[Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.]

Now, Balthasar,

As I have ever found thee honest-true,

So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,

And use thou all th' endeavour of a man

In speed to Padua; see thou render this

Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario;

And look what notes and garments he doth give thee,

Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed

Unto the traject, to the common ferry

Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,

But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee.

BALTHASAR.

Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

[Exit.]

PORTIA.

Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand

That you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands

Before they think of us.

NERISSA.

Shall they see us?

PORTIA.

They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit

That they shall think we are accomplished

With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,

And wear my dagger with the braver grace,

And speak between the change of man and boy

With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride; and speak of frays

Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies,

How honourable ladies sought my love,

Which I denying, they fell sick and died;

I could not do withal. Then I'll repent,

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

And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,

That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school

About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,

Which I will practise.

NERISSA.

Why, shall we turn to men?

PORTIA.

Fie, what a question's that,

If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!

But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device

When I am in my coach, which stays for us

At the park gate; and therefore haste away,

For we must measure twenty miles to-day.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

The same. A garden.

[Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.]

LAUNCELOT.

Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.

JESSICA.

And what hope is that, I pray thee?

LAUNCELOT.

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

JESSICA.

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

LAUNCELOT.

Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways.

JESSICA.

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

LAUNCELOT.

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

JESSICA.

I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes.

[Enter LORENZO.]

LORENZO.

I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners.

JESSICA.

Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork.

LORENZO.

I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.

LAUNCELOT.

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

LORENZO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

LORENZO.

Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner.

LAUNCELOT.

That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word.

LORENZO.

Will you cover, then, sir?

LAUNCELOT.

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

LORENZO.

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

LAUNCELOT.

For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.

[Exit.]

LORENZO.

O dear discretion, how his words are suited!

The fool hath planted in his memory

An army of good words; and I do know

A many fools that stand in better place,

Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word

Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica?

And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?

JESSICA.

Past all expressing. It is very meet

The Lord Bassanio live an upright life,

For, having such a blessing in his lady,

He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;

And if on earth he do not merit it,

In reason he should never come to heaven.

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,

And on the wager lay two earthly women,

And Portia one, there must be something else

Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world

Hath not her fellow.

LORENZO.

Even such a husband

Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

JESSICA.

Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

LORENZO.

I will anon; first let us go to dinner.

JESSICA.

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

LORENZO.

No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;

Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things

I shall digest it.

JESSICA.

Well, I'll set you forth.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Venice. A court of justice

[Enter the DUKE: the Magnificoes; ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALERIO, SOLANIO, and Others.]

DUKE.

What, is Antonio here?

ANTONIO.

Ready, so please your Grace.

DUKE.

I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

ANTONIO.

I have heard

Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,

And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury, and am arm'd

To suffer with a quietness of spirit

The very tyranny and rage of his.

DUKE.

Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

SALERIO.

He is ready at the door; he comes, my lord.

[Enter SHYLOCK.]

DUKE.

Make room, and let him stand before our face.

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice

To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,

Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange

Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;

And where thou now exacts the penalty,—

Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,—

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,

But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,

Forgive a moiety of the principal,

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

That have of late so huddled on his back,

Enow to press a royal merchant down,

And pluck commiseration of his state

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd

To offices of tender courtesy.

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

SHYLOCK.

I have possess'd your Grace of what I purpose,

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn

To have the due and forfeit of my bond.

If you deny it, let the danger light

Upon your charter and your city's freedom.

You'll ask me why I rather choose to have

A weight of carrion flesh than to receive

Three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that,

But say it is my humour: is it answer'd?

What if my house be troubled with a rat,

And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats

To have it ban'd? What, are you answer'd yet?

Some men there are love not a gaping pig;

Some that are mad if they behold a cat;

And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,

Cannot contain their urine; for affection,

Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood

Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:

As there is no firm reason to be render'd,

Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;

Why he, a harmless necessary cat;

Why he, a wauling bagpipe; but of force

Must yield to such inevitable shame

As to offend, himself being offended;

So can I give no reason, nor I will not,

More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing

I bear Antonio, that I follow thus

A losing suit against him. Are you answered?

BASSANIO.

This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

SHYLOCK.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

BASSANIO.

Do all men kill the things they do not love?

SHYLOCK.

Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

BASSANIO.

Every offence is not a hate at first.

SHYLOCK.

What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

ANTONIO.

I pray you, think you question with the Jew:

You may as well go stand upon the beach,

And bid the main flood bate his usual height;

You may as well use question with the wolf,

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

You may as well forbid the mountain pines

To wag their high tops and to make no noise

When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;

You may as well do anything most hard

As seek to soften that—than which what's harder?—

His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,

Make no moe offers, use no farther means,

But with all brief and plain conveniency.

Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.

BASSANIO.

For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

SHYLOCK.

If every ducat in six thousand ducats

Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,

I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

DUKE.

How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?

SHYLOCK.

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchas'd slave,

Which, fike your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts,

Because you bought them; shall I say to you

'Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season'd with such viands? You will answer

'The slaves are ours.' So do I answer you:

The pound of flesh which I demand of him

Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it.

If you deny me, fie upon your law!

There is no force in the decrees of Venice.

I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

DUKE.

Upon my power I may dismiss this court,

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day.

SALERIO.

My lord, here stays without

A messenger with letters from the doctor,

New come from Padua.

DUKE.

Bring us the letters; call the messenger.

BASSANIO.

Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!

The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,

Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

ANTONIO.

I am a tainted wether of the flock,

Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit

Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.

You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,

Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

[Enter NERISSA dressed like a lawyer's clerk.]

DUKE.

Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

NERISSA.

From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.

[Presents a letter.]

BASSANIO.

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

SHYLOCK.

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

GRATIANO.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

SHYLOCK.

No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

GRATIANO.

O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!

And for thy life let justice be accus'd.

Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,

To hold opinion with Pythagoras

That souls of animals infuse themselves

Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit

Govern'd a wolf who, hang'd for human slaughter,

Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,

And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,

Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires

Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd and ravenous.

SHYLOCK.

Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,

Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud;

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

DUKE.

This letter from Bellario doth commend

A young and learned doctor to our court.

Where is he?

NERISSA.

He attendeth here hard by,

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

DUKE OF VENICE.

With all my heart: some three or four of you

Go give him courteous conduct to this place.

Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter.

CLERK.

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

DUKE.

You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes;

And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

[Enter PORTIA, dressed like a doctor of laws.]

Give me your hand; come you from old Bellario?

PORTIA.

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?

PORTIA.

I am informed throughly of the cause.

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

DUKE OF VENICE.

Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

PORTIA.

Is your name Shylock?

SHYLOCK.

Shylock is my name.

PORTIA.

Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

[To ANTONIO.]

You stand within his danger, do you not?

ANTONIO.

Ay, so he says.

PORTIA.

Do you confess the bond?

ANTONIO.

I do.

PORTIA.

Then must the Jew be merciful.

SHYLOCK.

On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.

PORTIA.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway,

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That in the course of justice none of us

Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy,

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea,

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

SHYLOCK.

My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

PORTIA.

Is he not able to discharge the money?

BASSANIO.

Yes; here I tender it for him in the court;

Yea, twice the sum; if that will not suffice,

I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart;

If this will not suffice, it must appear

That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you,

Wrest once the law to your authority;

To do a great right do a little wrong,

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

PORTIA.

It must not be; there is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established;

'Twill be recorded for a precedent,

And many an error by the same example

Will rush into the state. It cannot be.

SHYLOCK.

A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel!

O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!

PORTIA.

I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

SHYLOCK.

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

PORTIA.

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

SHYLOCK.

An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven.

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice.

PORTIA.

Why, this bond is forfeit;

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off

Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful.

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

SHYLOCK.

When it is paid according to the tenour.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge;

You know the law; your exposition

Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law,

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me. I stay here on my bond.

ANTONIO.

Most heartily I do beseech the court

To give the judgment.

PORTIA.

Why then, thus it is:

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

SHYLOCK.

O noble judge! O excellent young man!

PORTIA.

For the intent and purpose of the law

Hath full relation to the penalty,

Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

SHYLOCK.

'Tis very true. O wise and upright judge,

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

PORTIA.

Therefore, lay bare your bosom.

SHYLOCK.

Ay, 'his breast':

So says the bond:—doth it not, noble judge?—

'Nearest his heart': those are the very words.

PORTIA.

It is so. Are there balance here to weigh

The flesh?

SHYLOCK.

I have them ready.

PORTIA.

Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

SHYLOCK.

Is it so nominated in the bond?

PORTIA.

It is not so express'd; but what of that?

'Twere good you do so much for charity.

SHYLOCK.

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

PORTIA.

You, merchant, have you anything to say?

ANTONIO.

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.

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 but you that you shall lose your friend,

And he repents not that he pays your debt;

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,

I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.

BASSANIO.

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.

PORTIA.

Your wife would give you little thanks for that,

If she were by to hear you make the offer.

GRATIANO.

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.

NERISSA.

'Tis well you offer it behind her back;

The wish would make else an unquiet house.

SHYLOCK.

These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter;

Would any of the stock of Barabbas

Had been her husband, rather than a Christian!

We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.

PORTIA.

A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine.

The court awards it and the law doth give it.

SHYLOCK.

Most rightful judge!

PORTIA.

And you must cut this flesh from off his breast.

The law allows it and the court awards it.

SHYLOCK.

Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare.

PORTIA.

Tarry a little; there is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;

The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh':

Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate

Unto the state of Venice.

GRATIANO.

O upright judge!

Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

SHYLOCK.

Is that the law?

PORTIA.

Thyself shalt see the act;

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.

GRATIANO.

O learned judge! Mark, Jew: alearned judge!

SHYLOCK.

I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,

And let the Christian go.

BASSANIO.

Here is the money.

PORTIA.

Soft!

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:—

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

GRATIANO.

O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!

PORTIA.

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.

GRATIANO.

A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.

PORTIA.

Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture.

SHYLOCK.

Give me my principal, and let me go.

BASSANIO.

I have it ready for thee; here it is.

PORTIA.

He hath refus'd it in the open court;

He shall have merely justice, and his bond.

GRATIANO.

A Daniel still say I; a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

SHYLOCK.

Shall I not have barely my principal?

PORTIA.

Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

SHYLOCK.

Why, then the devil give him good of it!

I'll stay no longer question.

PORTIA.

Tarry, Jew.

The law hath yet another hold on you.

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be prov'd 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;

For it appears by manifest proceeding

That indirectly, and directly too,

Thou hast contrived against the very life

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd

The danger formerly by me rehears'd.

Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

GRATIANO.

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 spirits,

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;

The other half comes to the general state,

Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

PORTIA.

Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.

SHYLOCK.

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.

PORTIA.

What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

GRATIANO.

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

ANTONIO.

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.

PORTIA.

Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say?

SHYLOCK.

I am content.

PORTIA.

Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

SHYLOCK.

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.

GRATIANO.

In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers;

Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,

To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font.

[Exit SHYLOCK.]

DUKE.

Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

PORTIA.

I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon;

I must away this night toward Padua,

And it is meet I presently set forth.

DUKE.

I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.

Antonio, gratify this gentleman,

For in my mind you are much bound to him.

[Exeunt DUKE, Magnificoes, and Train.]

BASSANIO.

Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend

Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted

Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof

Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,

We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

ANTONIO.

And stand indebted, over and above,

In love and service to you evermore.

PORTIA.

He is well paid that is well satisfied;

And I, delivering you, am satisfied,

And therein do account myself well paid:

My mind was never yet more mercenary.

I pray you, know me when we meet again:

I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

BASSANIO.

Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further;

Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,

Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you,

Not to deny me, and to pardon me.

PORTIA.

You press me far, and therefore I will yield.

[To ANTONIO]

Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake.

[To BASSANIO]

And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you.

Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;

And you in love shall not deny me this.

BASSANIO.

This ring, good sir? alas, it is a trifle;

I will not shame myself to give you this.

PORTIA.

I will have nothing else but only this;

And now, methinks, I have a mind to it.

BASSANIO.

There's more depends on this than on the value.

The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,

And find it out by proclamation:

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

PORTIA.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers;

You taught me first to beg, and now methinks

You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.

BASSANIO.

Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;

And, when she put it on, she made me vow

That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it.

PORTIA.

That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.

And if your wife be not a mad-woman,

And know how well I have deserv'd this ring,

She would not hold out enemy for ever

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

[Exeunt PORTIA and NERISSA.]

ANTONIO.

My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:

Let his deservings, and my love withal,

Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.

BASSANIO.

Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;

Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,

Unto Antonio's house. Away! make haste.

[Exit GRATIANO.]

Come, you and I will thither presently;

And in the morning early will we both

Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

The same. A street

[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.]

PORTIA.

Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed,

And let him sign it; we'll away tonight,

And be a day before our husbands home.

This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.

[Enter GRATIANO.]

GRATIANO.

Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en.

My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice,

Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat

Your company at dinner.

PORTIA.

That cannot be:

His ring I do accept most thankfully;

And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,

I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house.

GRATIANO.

That will I do.

NERISSA.

Sir, I would speak with you.

[Aside to PORTIA.]

I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,

Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

PORTIA.

[To NERISSA]

Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing

That they did give the rings away to men;

But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.

Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry.

NERISSA.

Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Belmont. The avenue to PORTIA's house.

[Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.]

LORENZO.

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,

And they did make no noise, in such a night,

Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls,

And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night.

JESSICA.

In such a night

Did Thisby fearfully o'ertrip the dew,

And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,

And ran dismay'd away.

LORENZO.

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.

JESSICA.

In such a night

Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs

That did renew old AEson.

LORENZO.

In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice

As far as Belmont.

JESSICA.

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.

LORENZO.

In such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

JESSICA.

I would out-night you, did no body come;

But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

[Enter STEPHANO.]

LORENZO.

Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

STEPHANO.

A friend.

LORENZO.

A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend?

STEPHANO.

Stephano is my name, and I bring word

My mistress will before the break of day

Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about

By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays

For happy wedlock hours.

LORENZO.

Who comes with her?

STEPHANO.

None but a holy hermit and her maid.

I pray you, is my master yet return'd?

LORENZO.

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.]

LAUNCELOT.

Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

LORENZO.

Who calls?

LAUNCELOT.

Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola!

LORENZO.

Leave holloaing, man. Here!

LAUNCELOT.

Sola! Where? where?

LORENZO.

Here!

LAUNCELOT.

Tell him there's a post come from my master with his horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning.

[Exit]

LORENZO.

Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.

And yet no matter; why should we go in?

My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,

Within the house, your mistress is at hand;

And bring your music forth into the air.

[Exit STEPHANO.]

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

[Enter Musicians.]

Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn;

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear.

And draw her home with music.

[Music.]

JESSICA.

I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

LORENZO.

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 affections dark as Erebus.

Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.]

PORTIA.

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.

NERISSA.

When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

PORTIA.

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!

NERISSA.

It is your music, madam, of the house.

PORTIA.

Nothing is good, I see, without respect:

Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

NERISSA.

Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

PORTIA.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark

When neither is attended; and I think

The nightingale, if she should sing by day,

When every goose is cackling, would be thought

No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season'd are

To their right praise and true perfection!

Peace, ho! The moon sleeps with Endymion,

And would not be awak'd!

[Music ceases.]

LORENZO.

That is the voice,

Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia.

PORTIA.

He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,

By the bad voice.

LORENZO.

Dear lady, welcome home.

PORTIA.

We have been praying for our husbands' welfare,

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.

Are they return'd?

LORENZO.

Madam, they are not yet;

But there is come a messenger before,

To signify their coming.

PORTIA.

Go in, Nerissa:

Give order to my servants that they take

No note at all of our being absent hence;

Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.

[A tucket sounds.]

LORENZO.

Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet.

We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not.

PORTIA.

This night methinks is but the daylight sick;

It looks a little paler; 'tis a day

Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

[Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their Followers.]

BASSANIO.

We should hold day with the Antipodes,

If you would walk in absence of the sun.

PORTIA.

Let me give light, but let me not be light,

For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,

And never be Bassanio so for me:

But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.

BASSANIO.

I thank you, madam; give welcome to my friend:

This is the man, this is Antonio,

To whom I am so infinitely bound.

PORTIA.

You should in all sense be much bound to him,

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

ANTONIO.

No more than I am well acquitted of.

PORTIA.

Sir, you are very welcome to our house.

It must appear in other ways than words,

Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

GRATIANO.

[To NERISSA]

By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;

In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk.

Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,

Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

PORTIA.

A quarrel, ho, already! What's the matter?

GRATIANO.

About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring

That she did give me, whose posy was

For all the world like cutlers' poetry

Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'

NERISSA.

What talk you of the posy, or the value?

You swore to me, when I did give it you,

That you would wear it till your hour of death,

And that it should lie with you in your grave;

Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,

You should have been respective and have kept it.

Gave it a judge's clerk! No, God's my judge,

The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.

GRATIANO.

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

NERISSA.

Ay, if a woman live to be a man.

GRATIANO.

Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,

A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy

No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk;

A prating boy that begg'd it as a fee;

I could not for my heart deny it him.

PORTIA.

You were to blame,—I must be plain with you,—

To part so slightly with your wife's first gift,

A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,

And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.

I gave my love a ring, and made him swear

Never to part with it, and here he stands,

I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it

Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth

That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,

You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief;

An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.

BASSANIO.

[Aside]

Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,

And swear I lost the ring defending it.

GRATIANO.

My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away

Unto the judge that begg'd it, and indeed

Deserv'd it too; and then the boy, his clerk,

That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;

And neither man nor master would take aught

But the two rings.

PORTIA.

What ring gave you, my lord?

Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me.

BASSANIO.

If I could add a lie unto a fault,

I would deny it; but you see my finger

Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.

PORTIA.

Even so void is your false heart of truth;

By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed

Until I see the ring.

NERISSA.

Nor I in yours

Till I again see mine.

BASSANIO.

Sweet Portia,

If you did know to whom I gave the ring,

If you did know for whom I gave the ring,

And would conceive for what I gave the ring,

And how unwillingly I left the ring,

When nought would be accepted but the ring,

You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

PORTIA.

If you had known the virtue of the ring,

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,

Or your own honour to contain the ring,

You would not then have parted with the ring.

What man is there so much unreasonable,

If you had pleas'd to have defended it

With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty

To urge the thing held as a ceremony?

Nerissa teaches me what to believe:

I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.

BASSANIO.

No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,

No woman had it, but a civil doctor,

Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,

And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him,

And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away;

Even he that had held up the very life

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

I was enforc'd to send it after him;

I was beset with shame and courtesy;

My honour would not let ingratitude

So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady;

For, by these blessed candles of the night,

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

The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

PORTIA.

Let not that doctor e'er come near my house;

Since he hath got the jewel that I loved,

And that which you did swear to keep for me,

I will become as liberal as you;

I'll not deny him anything I have,

No, not my body, nor my husband's bed.

Know him I shall, I am well sure of it.

Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus;

If you do not, if I be left alone,

Now, by mine honour which is yet mine own,

I'll have that doctor for mine bedfellow.

NERISSA.

And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd

How you do leave me to mine own protection.

GRATIANO.

Well, do you so: let not me take him then;

For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.

ANTONIO.

I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

PORTIA.

Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

BASSANIO.

Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;

And in the hearing of these many friends

I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,

Wherein I see myself,—

PORTIA.

Mark you but that!

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself,

In each eye one; swear by your double self,

And there's an oath of credit.

BASSANIO.

Nay, but hear me:

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear

I never more will break an oath with thee.

ANTONIO.

I once did lend my body for his wealth,

Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,

Had quite miscarried; I dare be bound again,

My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord

Will never more break faith advisedly.

PORTIA.

Then you shall be his surety. Give him this,

And bid him keep it better than the other.

ANTONIO.

Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring.

BASSANIO.

By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor!

PORTIA.

I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,

For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.

NERISSA.

And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano,

For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,

In lieu of this, last night did lie with me.

GRATIANO.

Why, this is like the mending of high ways

In summer, where the ways are fair enough.

What! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv'd it?

PORTIA.

Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz'd:

Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;

It comes from Padua, from Bellario:

There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,

Nerissa there, her clerk: Lorenzo here

Shall witness I set forth as soon as you,

And even but now return'd; I have not yet

Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;

And I have better news in store for you

Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;

There you shall find three of your argosies

Are richly come to harbour suddenly.

You shall not know by what strange accident

I chanced on this letter.

ANTONIO.

I am dumb.

BASSANIO.

Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?

GRATIANO.

Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

NERISSA.

Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,

Unless he live until he be a man.

BASSANIO.

Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:

When I am absent, then lie with my wife.

ANTONIO.

Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;

For here I read for certain that my ships

Are safely come to road.

PORTIA.

How now, Lorenzo!

My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

NERISSA.

Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.

There do I give to you and Jessica,

From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,

After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.

LORENZO.

Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way

Of starved people.

PORTIA.

It is almost morning,

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied

Of these events at full. Let us go in;

And charge us there upon inter'gatories,

And we will answer all things faithfully.

GRATIANO.

Let it be so: he first inter'gatory

That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,

Whe'r till the next night she had rather stay,

Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:

But were the day come, I should wish it dark,

Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk.

Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing

So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Act V, Scene V

List of Characters

SIR JOHN FALSTAFF

FENTON: a young gentleman

SHALLOW: a country justice

SLENDER: cousin to Shallow

FORD: Gentleman dwelling at Windsor

PAGE: Gentleman dwelling at Windsor

WILLIAM PAGE: a boy, son to Page

SIR HUGH EVANS: a Welsh parson

DOCTOR CAIUS: a French physician

HOST of the Garter Inn

BARDOLPH, PISTOL, NYM: Followers of Falstaff

ROBIN: page to Falstaff

SIMPLE: servant to Slender

RUGBY: servant to Doctor Caius

MISTRESS FORD

MISTRESS PAGE

MISTRESS ANNE PAGE: her daughter, in love with Fenton

MISTRESS QUICKLY: servant to Doctor Caius

SERVANTS to Page, Ford, &c.

SCENE: Windsor; and the neighbourhood

ACT I. SCENE I.

Windsor. Before PAGE'S house.

[Enter JUSTICE SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]

SHALLOW.

Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.

SLENDER.

In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace, and 'coram.'

SHALLOW.

Ay, cousin Slender, and 'cust-alorum.'

SLENDER.

Ay, and 'rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation—Armigero.

SHALLOW.

Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years.

SLENDER.

All his successors, gone before him, hath done't; and all his ancestors, that come after him, may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat.

SHALLOW.

It is an old coat.

EVANS.

The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love.

SHALLOW.

The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat.

SLENDER.

I may quarter, coz?

SHALLOW.

You may, by marrying.

EVANS.

It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.

SHALLOW.

Not a whit.

EVANS.

Yes, py'r lady! If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures; but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my benevolence to make atonements and compremises between you.

SHALLOW.

The Council shall hear it; it is a riot.

EVANS.

It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that.

SHALLOW.

Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it.

EVANS.

It is petter that friends is the sword and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity.

SLENDER.

Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman.

EVANS.

It is that ferry person for all the 'orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed—Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!—give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.

SHALLOW.

Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound?

EVANS.

Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.

SHALLOW.

I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts.

EVANS.

Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts.

SHALLOW.

Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there?

EVANS.

Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks.] What, hoa! Got pless your house here!

PAGE.

[Within.] Who's there?

EVANS.

Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings.

[Enter PAGE.]

PAGE.

I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

Master Page, I am glad to see you; much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?—and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart.

PAGE.

Sir, I thank you.

SHALLOW.

Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.

PAGE.

I am glad to see you, good Master Slender.

SLENDER.

How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall.

PAGE.

It could not be judged, sir.

SLENDER.

You'll not confess, you'll not confess.

SHALLOW.

That he will not: 'tis your fault; 'tis your fault. 'Tis a good dog.

PAGE.

A cur, sir.

SHALLOW.

Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog; can there be more said? he is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here?

PAGE.

Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you.

EVANS.

It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.

SHALLOW.

He hath wronged me, Master Page.

PAGE.

Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.

SHALLOW.

If it be confessed, it is not redressed: is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he hath;—at a word, he hath, —believe me; Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged.

PAGE.

Here comes Sir John.

[Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, and PISTOL.]

FALSTAFF.

Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King?

SHALLOW.

Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge.

FALSTAFF.

But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter?

SHALLOW.

Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

FALSTAFF.

I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered.

SHALLOW.

The Council shall know this.

FALSTAFF.

'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you'll be laughed at.

EVANS.

Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts.

FALSTAFF.

Good worts! good cabbage! Slender, I broke your head; what matter have you against me?

SLENDER.

Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket.

BARDOLPH.

You Banbury cheese!

SLENDER.

Ay, it is no matter.

PISTOL.

How now, Mephostophilus!

SLENDER.

Ay, it is no matter.

NYM.

Slice, I say! Pauca, pauca; slice! That's my humour.

SLENDER.

Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin?

EVANS.

Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is—Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.

PAGE.

We three to hear it and end it between them.

EVANS.

Ferry goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can.

FALSTAFF.

Pistol!

PISTOL.

He hears with ears.

EVANS.

The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, 'He hears with ear'? Why, it is affectations.

FALSTAFF.

Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse?

SLENDER.

Ay, by these gloves, did he—or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else!—of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yead Miller, by these gloves.

FALSTAFF.

Is this true, Pistol?

EVANS.

No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

PISTOL.

Ha, thou mountain-foreigner!—Sir John and master mine,

I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.

Word of denial in thy labras here!

Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest.

SLENDER.

By these gloves, then, 'twas he.

NYM.

Be avised, sir, and pass good humours; I will say 'marry trap' with you, if you run the nuthook's humour on me; that is the very note of it.

SLENDER.

By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.

FALSTAFF.

What say you, Scarlet and John?

BARDOLPH.

Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences.

EVANS.

It is his 'five senses'; fie, what the ignorance is!

BARDOLPH.

And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier'd; and so conclusions passed the careires.

SLENDER.

Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no matter; I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick; if I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.

EVANS.

So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

FALSTAFF.

You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it.

[Enter ANNE PAGE with wine; MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.]

PAGE.

Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we'll drink within.

[Exit ANNE PAGE.]

SLENDER.

O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.

PAGE.

How now, Mistress Ford!

FALSTAFF.

Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met; by your leave, good mistress. [Kissing her.]

PAGE.

Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner; come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.

[Exeunt all but SHALLOW, SLENDER, and EVANS.]

SLENDER.

I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here.

[Enter SIMPLE.]

How, Simple! Where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you?

SIMPLE.

Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas?

SHALLOW.

Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 'twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here: do you understand me?

SLENDER.

Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason.

SHALLOW.

Nay, but understand me.

SLENDER.

So I do, sir.

EVANS.

Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will description the matter to you, if you pe capacity of it.

SLENDER.

Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says; I pray you pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here.

EVANS.

But that is not the question; the question is concerning your marriage.

SHALLOW.

Ay, there's the point, sir.

EVANS.

Marry is it; the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page.

SLENDER.

Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands.

EVANS.

But can you affection the 'oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth: therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid?

SHALLOW.

Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?

SLENDER.

I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason.

EVANS.

Nay, Got's lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her.

SHALLOW.

That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her?

SLENDER.

I will do a greater thing than that upon your request, cousin, in any reason.

SHALLOW.

Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz; what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid?

SLENDER.

I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another; I hope upon familiarity will grow more contempt. But if you say 'Marry her,' I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.

EVANS.

It is a fery discretion answer; save, the fall is in the ort 'dissolutely:' the ort is, according to our meaning, 'resolutely.' His meaning is good.

SHALLOW.

Ay, I think my cousin meant well.

SLENDER.

Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la!

SHALLOW.

Here comes fair Mistress Anne.

[Re-enter ANNE PAGE.]

Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne!

ANNE.

The dinner is on the table; my father desires your worships' company.

SHALLOW.

I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne!

EVANS.

Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace.

[Exeunt SHALLOW and EVANS.]

ANNE.

Will't please your worship to come in, sir?

SLENDER.

No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well.

ANNE.

The dinner attends you, sir.

SLENDER.

I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow.

[Exit SIMPLE.]

A justice of peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born.

ANNE.

I may not go in without your worship: they will not sit till you come.

SLENDER.

I' faith, I'll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did.

ANNE.

I pray you, sir, walk in.

SLENDER.

I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes—and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i' the town?

ANNE.

I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of.

SLENDER.

I love the sport well; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not?

ANNE.

Ay, indeed, sir.

SLENDER.

That's meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed; but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favoured rough things.

[Re-enter PAGE.]

PAGE.

Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you.

SLENDER.

I'll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.

PAGE.

By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come.

SLENDER.

Nay, pray you lead the way.

PAGE.

Come on, sir.

SLENDER.

Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.

ANNE.

Not I, sir; pray you keep on.

SLENDER.

Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong.

ANNE.

I pray you, sir.

SLENDER.

I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong indeed, la!

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same.

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.]

EVANS.

Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which is the way; and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer.

SIMPLE.

Well, sir.

EVANS.

Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a 'oman that altogether's acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master's desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone: I will make an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN.]

FALSTAFF.

Mine host of the Garter!

HOST.

What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely.

FALSTAFF.

Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers.

HOST.

Discard, bully Hercules; cashier; let them wag; trot, trot.

FALSTAFF.

I sit at ten pounds a week.

HOST.

Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap; said I well, bully Hector?

FALSTAFF.

Do so, good mine host.

HOST.

I have spoke; let him follow. [To BARDOLPH] Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word; follow.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.

BARDOLPH.

It is a life that I have desired; I will thrive.

PISTOL.

O base Hungarian wight! Wilt thou the spigot wield?

[Exit BARDOLPH.]

NYM.

He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited?

FALSTAFF.

I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box: his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer—he kept not time.

NYM.

The good humour is to steal at a minim's rest.

PISTOL.

'Convey' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh!

A fico for the phrase!

FALSTAFF.

Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.

PISTOL.

Why, then, let kibes ensue.

FALSTAFF.

There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.

PISTOL.

Young ravens must have food.

FALSTAFF.

Which of you know Ford of this town?

PISTOL.

I ken the wight; he is of substance good.

FALSTAFF.

My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

PISTOL.

Two yards, and more.

FALSTAFF.

No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished rightly, is 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'

PISTOL.

He hath studied her will, and translated her will out of honesty into English.

NYM.

The anchor is deep; will that humour pass?

FALSTAFF.

Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he hath a legion of angels.

PISTOL.

As many devils attend her! And 'To her, boy,' say I.

NYM.

The humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels.

FALSTAFF.

I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly.

PISTOL.

Then did the sun on dunghill shine.

NYM.

I thank thee for that humour.

FALSTAFF.

O! she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

PISTOL.

Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,

And by my side wear steel? then Lucifer take all!

NYM.

I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep the haviour of reputation.

FALSTAFF.

[To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly;

Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.

Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;

Trudge, plod away o' hoof; seek shelter, pack!

Falstaff will learn the humour of this age;

French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page.

[Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN.]

PISTOL.

Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,

And high and low beguile the rich and poor;

Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,

Base Phrygian Turk!

NYM.

I have operations

In my head which be humours of revenge.

PISTOL.

Wilt thou revenge?

NYM.

By welkin and her star!

PISTOL.

With wit or steel?

NYM.

With both the humours, I:

I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.

PISTOL.

And I to Ford shall eke unfold

How Falstaff, varlet vile,

His dove will prove, his gold will hold,

And his soft couch defile.

NYM.

My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous: that is my true humour.

PISTOL.

Thou art the Mars of malcontents; I second thee; troop on.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

A room in DOCTOR CAIUS'S house.

[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, and SIMPLE.]

QUICKLY.

What, John Rugby!

[Enter RUGBY.]

I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i' faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the King's English.

RUGBY.

I'll go watch.

QUICKLY.

Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.

[Exit RUGBY.]

An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is?

SIMPLE.

Ay, for fault of a better.

QUICKLY.

And Master Slender's your master?

SIMPLE.

Ay, forsooth.

QUICKLY.

Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife?

SIMPLE.

No, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow beard—a Cain-coloured beard.

QUICKLY.

A softly-sprighted man, is he not?

SIMPLE.

Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener.

QUICKLY.

How say you?—O! I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?

SIMPLE.

Yes, indeed, does he.

QUICKLY.

Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master: Anne is a good girl, and I wish—

[Re-enter RUGBY.]

RUGBY.

Out, alas! here comes my master.

QUICKLY.

We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long. What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home.

[Exit Rugby.]

[Sings.] And down, down, adown-a, &c.

[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]

CAIUS.

Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet une boitine verde—a box, a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box.

QUICKLY.

Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad.

CAIUS.

Fe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour la grande affaire.

QUICKLY.

Is it this, sir?

CAIUS.

Oui; mettez le au mon pocket: depechez, quickly—Vere is dat knave, Rugby?

QUICKLY.

What, John Rugby? John!

[Re-enter Rugby.]

RUGBY.

Here, sir.

CAIUS.

You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby: come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to de court.

RUGBY.

'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.

CAIUS.

By my trot, I tarry too long—Od's me! Qu'ay j'oublie? Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.

QUICKLY.

[Aside.] Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad!

CAIUS.

O diable, diable! vat is in my closet?—Villainy! larron! [Pulling SIMPLE out.] Rugby, my rapier!

QUICKLY.

Good master, be content.

CAIUS.

Verefore shall I be content-a?

QUICKLY.

The young man is an honest man.

CAIUS.

What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.

QUICKLY.

I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh.

CAIUS.

Vell.

SIMPLE.

Ay, forsooth, to desire her to—

QUICKLY.

Peace, I pray you.

CAIUS.

Peace-a your tongue!—Speak-a your tale.

SIMPLE.

To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage.

QUICKLY.

This is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire, and need not.

CAIUS.

Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, baillez me some paper: tarry you a little-a while. [Writes.]

QUICKLY.

I am glad he is so quiet: if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself—

SIMPLE.

'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand.

QUICKLY.

Are you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding,—to tell you in your ear,—I would have no words of it—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind, that's neither here nor there.

CAIUS.

You jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in de Park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here: by gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog.

[Exit SIMPLE.]

QUICKLY.

Alas, he speaks but for his friend.

CAIUS.

It is no matter-a ver dat:—do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon. By gar, I vill myself have Anne Page.

QUICKLY.

Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer!

CAIUS.

Rugby, come to the court vit me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.

[Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY.]

QUICKLY.

You shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven.

FENTON.

[Within.] Who's within there? ho!

QUICKLY.

Who's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you.

[Enter FENTON.]

FENTON.

How now, good woman! how dost thou?

QUICKLY.

The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask.

FENTON.

What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?

QUICKLY.

In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it.

FENTON.

Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not lose my suit?

QUICKLY.

Troth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye?

FENTON.

Yes, marry, have I; what of that?

QUICKLY.

Well, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk of that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company;—but, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing. But for you —well, go to.

FENTON.

Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend me.

QUICKLY.

Will I? i' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers.

FENTON.

Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.

QUICKLY.

Farewell to your worship.—[Exit FENTON.] Truly, an honest gentleman; but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out upon 't, what have I forgot?

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Before PAGE'S house

[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

What! have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see.

'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy: you are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy; you love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, that I love thee. I will not say, pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me.

By me, thine own true knight, by day or night,

Or any kind of light, with all his might,

For thee to fight, John Falstaff.'

What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant. What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked, with the devil's name! out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth:—Heaven forgive me! Why, I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings.

[Enter MISTRESS FORD.]

MISTRESS FORD.

Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.

MISTRESS PAGE.

And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Faith, but you do, in my mind.

MISTRESS FORD.

Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page! give me some counsel.

MISTRESS PAGE.

What's the matter, woman?

MISTRESS FORD.

O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour!

MISTRESS PAGE.

Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it?—Dispense with trifles;—what is it?

MISTRESS FORD.

If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted.

MISTRESS PAGE.

What? thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry.

MISTRESS FORD.

We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised women's modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.' What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names, sure, more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two: I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.

MISTRESS FORD.

'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck.

MISTRESS PAGE.

So will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again. Let's be revenged on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance.

MISTRESS FORD.

You are the happier woman.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither.

[They retire.]

[Enter FORD, PISTOL, and PAGE and NYM.]

FORD.

Well, I hope it be not so.

PISTOL.

Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:

Sir John affects thy wife.

FORD.

Why, sir, my wife is not young.

PISTOL.

He woos both high and low, both rich and poor,

Both young and old, one with another, Ford;

He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend.

FORD.

Love my wife!

PISTOL.

With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,

Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels.—

O! odious is the name!

FORD.

What name, sir?

PISTOL.

The horn, I say. Farewell:

Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by night;

Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing.

Away, Sir Corporal Nym.

Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.

[Exit PISTOL.]

FORD.

[Aside] I will be patient: I will find out this.

NYM.

[To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak, and I avouch 'tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese; and there's the humour of it. Adieu.

[Exit NYM.]

PAGE.

[Aside.] 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights English out of his wits.

FORD.

I will seek out Falstaff.

PAGE.

I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.

FORD.

If I do find it: well.

PAGE.

I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o' the town commended him for a true man.

FORD.

'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.

PAGE.

How now, Meg!

MISTRESS PAGE.

Whither go you, George?—Hark you.

MISTRESS FORD.

How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?

FORD.

I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.

MISTRESS FORD.

Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George? [Aside to MISTRESS FORD] Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight.

MISTRESS FORD.

[Aside to MISTRESS PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her: she'll fit it.

[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

You are come to see my daughter Anne?

QUICKLY.

Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Go in with us and see; we'd have an hour's talk with you.

[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

PAGE.

How now, Master Ford!

FORD.

You heard what this knave told me, did you not?

PAGE.

Yes; and you heard what the other told me?

FORD.

Do you think there is truth in them?

PAGE.

Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service.

FORD.

Were they his men?

PAGE.

Marry, were they.

FORD.

I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter?

PAGE.

Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head.

FORD.

I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing 'lie on my head': I cannot be thus satisfied.

PAGE.

Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily.

[Enter HOST and SHALLOW.]

How now, mine host!

HOST.

How now, bully-rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. Cavaliero-justice, I say!

SHALLOW.

I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand.

HOST.

Tell him, cavaliero-justice; tell him, bully-rook.

SHALLOW.

Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor.

FORD.

Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you.

HOST.

What say'st thou, my bully-rook?

[They go aside.]

SHALLOW.

[To PAGE.] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart.]

HOST.

Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaliero?

FORD.

None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest.

HOST.

My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress; said I well? and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?

SHALLOW.

Have with you, mine host.

PAGE.

I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier.

SHALLOW.

Tut, sir! I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what: 'tis the heart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.

HOST.

Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag?

PAGE.

Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight.

[Exeunt HOST, SHALLOW, and PAGE.]

FORD.

Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into 't; and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL.]

FALSTAFF.

I will not lend thee a penny.

PISTOL.

Why then, the world's mine oyster,

Which I with sword will open.

I will retort the sum in equipage.

FALSTAFF.

Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow, Nym; or else you had looked through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not.

PISTOL.

Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence?

FALSTAFF.

Reason, you rogue, reason. Thinkest thou I'll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you: go: a short knife and a throng!—to your manor of Picht-hatch! go. You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue!—you stand upon your honour!—Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you!

PISTOL.

I do relent; what wouldst thou more of man?

[Enter ROBIN.]

ROBIN.

Sir, here's a woman would speak with you.

FALSTAFF.

Let her approach.

[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

QUICKLY.

Give your worship good morrow.

FALSTAFF.

Good morrow, good wife.

QUICKLY.

Not so, an't please your worship.

FALSTAFF.

Good maid, then.

QUICKLY.

I'll be sworn; As my mother was, the first hour I was born.

FALSTAFF.

I do believe the swearer. What with me?

QUICKLY.

Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two?

FALSTAFF.

Two thousand, fair woman; and I'll vouchsafe thee the hearing.

QUICKLY.

There is one Mistress Ford, sir,—I pray, come a little nearer this ways:—I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius.

FALSTAFF.

Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,—

QUICKLY.

Your worship says very true;—I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways.

FALSTAFF.

I warrant thee nobody hears—mine own people, mine own people.

QUICKLY.

Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants!

FALSTAFF.

Well: Mistress Ford, what of her?

QUICKLY.

Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord, Lord! your worship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray.

FALSTAFF.

Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford—

QUICKLY.

Marry, this is the short and the long of it. You have brought her into such a canaries as 'tis wonderful: the best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary; yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly,—all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman's heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her.

FALSTAFF.

But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury.

QUICKLY.

Marry, she hath received your letter; for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven.

FALSTAFF.

Ten and eleven?

QUICKLY.

Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet woman leads an ill life with him; he's a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart.

FALSTAFF.

Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her.

QUICKLY.

Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship: Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too; and let me tell you in your ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other; and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la! yes, in truth.

FALSTAFF.

Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.

QUICKLY.

Blessing on your heart for 't!

FALSTAFF.

But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me?

QUICKLY.

That were a jest indeed! They have not so little grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does; do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will; and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy.

FALSTAFF.

Why, I will.

QUICKLY.

Nay, but do so then; and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for 'tis not good that children should know any wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world.

FALSTAFF.

Fare thee well; commend me to them both. There's my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman.—

[Exeunt MISTRESS QUICKLY and ROBIN.]

This news distracts me.

PISTOL.

This punk is one of Cupid's carriers;

Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights;

Give fire; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

Say'st thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I'll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter.

[Enter BARDOLPH, with a cup of sack.]

BARDOLPH.

Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain speak with you and be acquainted with you: and hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack.

FALSTAFF.

Brook is his name?

BARDOLPH.

Ay, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Call him in. [Exit BARDOLPH.] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? Go to; via!

[Re-enter BARDOLPH, with FORD disguised.]

FORD.

Bless you, sir!

FALSTAFF.

And you, sir; would you speak with me?

FORD.

I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you.

FALSTAFF.

You're welcome. What's your will?—Give us leave, drawer.

[Exit BARDOLPH.]

FORD.

Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much: my name is Brook.

FALSTAFF.

Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you.

FORD.

Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are: the which hath something embold'ned me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open.

FALSTAFF.

Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.

FORD.

Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me; if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage.

FALSTAFF.

Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter.

FORD.

I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing.

FALSTAFF.

Speak, good Master Brook; I shall be glad to be your servant.

FORD.

Sir, I hear you are a scholar,—I will be brief with you, and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy is it to be such an offender.

FALSTAFF.

Very well, sir; proceed.

FORD.

There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband's name is Ford.

FALSTAFF.

Well, sir.

FORD.

I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this,

Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues;

Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.

FALSTAFF.

Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands?

FORD.

Never.

FALSTAFF.

Have you importuned her to such a purpose?

FORD.

Never.

FALSTAFF.

Of what quality was your love, then?

FORD.

Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it.

FALSTAFF.

To what purpose have you unfolded this to me?

FORD.

When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations.

FALSTAFF.

O, sir!

FORD.

Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife: use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon as any.

FALSTAFF.

Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously.

FORD.

O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour that the folly of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves; I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to't, Sir John?

FALSTAFF.

Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife.

FORD.

O good sir!

FALSTAFF.

I say you shall.

FORD.

Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none.

FALSTAFF.

Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me her assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed.

FORD.

I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir?

FALSTAFF.

Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not; yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home.

FORD.

I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him.

FALSTAFF.

Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night.

[Exit.]

FORD.

What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. But Cuckold! Wittol!—Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold!

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

A field near Windsor.

[Enter CAIUS and RUGBY.]

CAIUS.

Jack Rugby!

RUGBY.

Sir?

CAIUS.

Vat is de clock, Jack?

RUGBY.

'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet.

CAIUS.

By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible vell dat he is no come: by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come.

RUGBY.

He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came.

CAIUS.

By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.

RUGBY.

Alas, sir, I cannot fence!

CAIUS.

Villany, take your rapier.

RUGBY.

Forbear; here's company.

[Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.]

HOST.

Bless thee, bully doctor!

SHALLOW.

Save you, Master Doctor Caius!

PAGE.

Now, good Master Doctor!

SLENDER.

Give you good morrow, sir.

CAIUS.

Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?

HOST.

To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead?

CAIUS.

By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face.

HOST.

Thou art a Castalion King Urinal! Hector of Greece, my boy!

CAIUS.

I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come.

SHALLOW.

He is the wiser man, Master doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page?

PAGE.

Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace.

SHALLOW.

Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.

PAGE.

'Tis true, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW.

It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor.

HOST.

Pardon, guest-justice.—A word, Monsieur Mockwater.

CAIUS.

Mock-vater! Vat is dat?

HOST.

Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.

CAIUS.

By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman.—Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears.

HOST.

He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.

CAIUS.

Clapper-de-claw! Vat is dat?

HOST.

That is, he will make thee amends.

CAIUS.

By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it.

HOST.

And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag.

CAIUS.

Me tank you for dat.

HOST.

And, moreover, bully—but first: Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore.

[Aside to them.]

PAGE.

Sir Hugh is there, is he?

HOST.

He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well?

SHALLOW.

We will do it.

PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.

Adieu, good Master Doctor.

[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]

CAIUS.

By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page.

HOST.

Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler; go about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? Said I well?

CAIUS.

By gar, me tank you for dat: by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients.

HOST.

For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page: said I well?

CAIUS.

By gar, 'tis good; vell said.

HOST.

Let us wag, then.

CAIUS.

Come at my heels, Jack Rugby.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

A field near Frogmore.

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE.]

EVANS.

I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic?

SIMPLE.

Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way.

EVANS.

I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way.

SIMPLE.

I will, Sir.

[Exit.]

EVANS.

Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot opportunities for the 'ork: pless my soul!

[Sings]

To shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sings madrigals;

There will we make our peds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies.

To shallow—

Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.

[Sings.]

Melodious birds sing madrigals,—

Whenas I sat in Pabylon,—

And a thousand vagram posies.

To shallow,—

[Re-enter SIMPLE.]

SIMPLE.

Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh.

EVANS.

He's welcome.

[Sings]

To shallow rivers, to whose falls—

Heaven prosper the right!—What weapons is he?

SIMPLE.

No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way.

EVANS.

Pray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.

[Reads in a book.]

[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]

SHALLOW.

How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful.

SLENDER.

[Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page!

PAGE.

'Save you, good Sir Hugh!

EVANS.

Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you!

SHALLOW.

What, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson?

PAGE.

And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day!

EVANS.

There is reasons and causes for it.

PAGE.

We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson.

EVANS.

Fery well; what is it?

PAGE.

Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw.

SHALLOW.

I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect.

EVANS.

What is he?

PAGE.

I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician.

EVANS.

Got's will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge.

PAGE.

Why?

EVANS.

He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen,—and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal.

PAGE.

I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him.

SLENDER.

[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!

SHALLOW.

It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes Doctor Caius.

[Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY.]

PAGE.

Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon.

SHALLOW.

So do you, good Master Doctor.

HOST.

Disarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English.

CAIUS.

I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear: verefore will you not meet-a me?

EVANS.

[Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you use your patience; in good time.

CAIUS.

By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape.

EVANS.

[Aside to CAIUS.] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.

[Aloud.] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments.

CAIUS.

Diable!—Jack Rugby,—mine Host de Jarretiere,—have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint?

EVANS.

As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter.

HOST.

Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaullia; French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer!

CAIUS.

Ay, dat is very good; excellent!

HOST.

Peace, I say! Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so;—give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow.

SHALLOW.

Afore God, a mad host!—Follow, gentlemen, follow.

SLENDER.

[Aside] O, sweet Anne Page!

[Exeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and HOST.]

CAIUS.

Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha?

EVANS.

This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter.

CAIUS.

By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too.

EVANS.

Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

A street in Windsor.

[Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels?

ROBIN.

I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf.

MISTRESS PAGE.

O! you are a flattering boy: now I see you'll be a courtier.

[Enter FORD.]

FORD.

Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home?

FORD.

Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Be sure of that—two other husbands.

FORD.

Where had you this pretty weathercock?

MISTRESS PAGE.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight's name, sirrah?

ROBIN.

Sir John Falstaff.

FORD.

Sir John Falstaff!

MISTRESS PAGE.

He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed?

FORD.

Indeed she is.

MISTRESS PAGE.

By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.

[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]

FORD.

Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage; and now she's going to my wife, and Falstaff's boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind: and Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots! They are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go.

[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, SIR HUGH EVANS, CAIUS, and RUGBY.]

SHALLOW, PAGE, &c.

Well met, Master Ford.

FORD.

Trust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me.

SHALLOW.

I must excuse myself, Master Ford.

SLENDER.

And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I'll speak of.

SHALLOW.

We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

SLENDER.

I hope I have your good will, father Page.

PAGE.

You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you. But my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether.

CAIUS.

Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush.

HOST.

What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry 't, he will carry 't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry 't.

PAGE.

Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild Prince and Pointz; he is of too high a region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way.

FORD.

I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh.

SHALLOW.

Well, fare you well; we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's.

[Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER.]

CAIUS.

Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.

[Exit RUGBY.]

HOST.

Farewell, my hearts; I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him.

[Exit HOST.]

FORD.

[Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him. I'll make him dance. Will you go, gentles?

ALL.

Have with you to see this monster.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

A room in FORD'S house.

[Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.]

MISTRESS FORD.

What, John! what, Robert!

MISTRESS PAGE.

Quickly, quickly:—Is the buck-basket—

MISTRESS FORD.

I warrant. What, Robin, I say!

[Enter SERVANTS with a basket.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Come, come, come.

MISTRESS FORD.

Here, set it down.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Give your men the charge; we must be brief.

MISTRESS FORD.

Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side.

MISTRESS PAGE.

You will do it?

MISTRESS FORD.

I have told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are called.

[Exeunt SERVANTS.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Here comes little Robin.

[Enter ROBIN.]

MISTRESS FORD.

How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?

ROBIN.

My Master Sir John is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

MISTRESS PAGE.

You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us?

ROBIN.

Ay, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it; for he swears he'll turn me away.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Thou 'rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I'll go hide me.

MISTRESS FORD.

Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone.

[Exit ROBIN.]

Mistress Page, remember you your cue.

MISTRESS PAGE.

I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.

[Exit.]

MISTRESS FORD.

Go to, then; we'll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we'll teach him to know turtles from jays.

[Enter FALSTAFF.]

FALSTAFF.

'Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?' Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the period of my ambition: O this blessed hour!

MISTRESS FORD.

O, sweet Sir John!

FALSTAFF.

Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish; I would thy husband were dead. I'll speak it before the best lord, I would make thee my lady.

MISTRESS FORD.

I your lady, Sir John! Alas, I should be a pitiful lady.

FALSTAFF.

Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond; thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance.

MISTRESS FORD.

A plain kerchief, Sir John; my brows become nothing else; nor that well neither.

FALSTAFF.

By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it.

MISTRESS FORD.

Believe me, there's no such thing in me.

FALSTAFF.

What made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple-time; I cannot; but I love thee, none but thee; and thou deservest it.

MISTRESS FORD.

Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page.

FALSTAFF.

Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln.

MISTRESS FORD.

Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it.

FALSTAFF.

Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind.

ROBIN.

[Within] Mistress Ford! Mistress Ford! here's Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.

FALSTAFF.

She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras.

MISTRESS FORD.

Pray you, do so; she's a very tattling woman.

[FALSTAFF hides himself.]

[Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]

What's the matter? How now!

MISTRESS PAGE.

O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You're shamed, you are overthrown, you are undone for ever!

MISTRESS FORD.

What's the matter, good Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE.

O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion!

MISTRESS FORD.

What cause of suspicion?

MISTRESS PAGE.

What cause of suspicion? Out upon you! how am I mistook in you!

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, alas, what's the matter?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence: you are undone.

MISTRESS FORD.

'Tis not so, I hope.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Pray heaven it be not so that you have such a man here! but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.

MISTRESS FORD.

What shall I do?—There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house.

MISTRESS PAGE.

For shame! never stand 'you had rather' and 'you had rather': your husband's here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance; in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket; if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men to Datchet-Mead.

MISTRESS FORD.

He's too big to go in there. What shall I do?

FALSTAFF.

[Coming forward] Let me see 't, let me see 't. O, let me see 't! I'll in, I'll in; follow your friend's counsel; I'll in.

MISTRESS PAGE.

What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight?

FALSTAFF.

I love thee and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here. I'll never—

[He gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight!

MISTRESS FORD.

What, John! Robert! John!

[Exit ROBIN.]

[Re-enter SERVANTS.]

Go, take up these clothes here, quickly; where's the cowl-staff? Look how you drumble! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-Mead; quickly, come.

[Enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]

FORD.

Pray you come near. If I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me, then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now, whither bear you this?

SERVANT.

To the laundress, forsooth.

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing.

FORD.

Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! ay, buck; I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear.

[Exeunt SERVANTS with the basket.]

Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my chambers; search, seek, find out. I'll warrant we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door.] So, now escape.

PAGE.

Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much.

FORD.

True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen, you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen.

[Exit.]

EVANS.

This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies.

CAIUS.

By gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France.

PAGE.

Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search.

[Exeunt EVANS, PAGE, and CAIUS.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Is there not a double excellency in this?

MISTRESS FORD.

I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John.

MISTRESS PAGE.

What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket!

MISTRESS FORD.

I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress.

MISTRESS FORD.

I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.

MISTRESS PAGE.

I will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine.

MISTRESS FORD.

Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment?

MISTRESS PAGE.

We will do it; let him be sent for to-morrow eight o'clock, to have amends.

[Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]

FORD.

I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that he could not compass.

MISTRESS PAGE.

[Aside to MISTRESS FORD.] Heard you that?

MISTRESS FORD.

You use me well, Master Ford, do you?

FORD.

Ay, I do so.

MISTRESS FORD.

Heaven make you better than your thoughts!

FORD.

Amen!

MISTRESS PAGE.

You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford.

FORD.

Ay, ay; I must bear it.

EVANS.

By Jesu, if there be anypody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!

CAIUS.

Be gar, nor I too; there is no bodies.

PAGE.

Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle.

FORD.

'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it.

EVANS.

You suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a 'omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too.

CAIUS.

By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.

FORD.

Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park: I pray you pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page; I pray you pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me.

PAGE.

Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we'll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?

FORD.

Any thing.

EVANS.

If there is one, I shall make two in the company.

CAIUS.

If there be one or two, I shall make-a the turd.

FORD.

Pray you go, Master Page.

EVANS.

I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host.

CAIUS.

Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart.

EVANS.

A lousy knave! to have his gibes and his mockeries!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

A room in PAGE'S house.

[Enter FENTON, ANNE PAGE, and MISTRESS QUICKLY. MISTRESS QUICKLY stands apart.]

FENTON.

I see I cannot get thy father's love;

Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.

ANNE.

Alas! how then?

FENTON.

Why, thou must be thyself.

He doth object, I am too great of birth;

And that my state being gall'd with my expense,

I seek to heal it only by his wealth.

Besides these, other bars he lays before me,

My riots past, my wild societies;

And tells me 'tis a thing impossible

I should love thee but as a property.

ANNE.

May be he tells you true.

FENTON.

No, heaven so speed me in my time to come!

Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth

Was the first motive that I wooed thee, Anne:

Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value

Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags;

And 'tis the very riches of thyself

That now I aim at.

ANNE.

Gentle Master Fenton,

Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir.

If opportunity and humblest suit

Cannot attain it, why then,—hark you hither.

[They converse apart.]

[Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

SHALLOW.

Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall speak for himself.

SLENDER.

I'll make a shaft or a bolt on 't. 'Slid, 'tis but venturing.

SHALLOW.

Be not dismayed.

SLENDER.

No, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard.

QUICKLY.

Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you.

ANNE.

I come to him. [Aside.] This is my father's choice.

O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults

Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

QUICKLY.

And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you.

SHALLOW.

She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father!

SLENDER.

I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle.

SHALLOW.

Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.

SLENDER.

Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire.

SHALLOW.

He will maintain you like a gentlewoman.

SLENDER.

Ay, that I will come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire.

SHALLOW.

He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure.

ANNE.

Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself.

SHALLOW.

Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz; I'll leave you.

ANNE.

Now, Master Slender.

SLENDER.

Now, good Mistress Anne.—

ANNE.

What is your will?

SLENDER.

My will! 'od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest indeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature, I give God praise.

ANNE.

I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me?

SLENDER.

Truly, for mine own part I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions; if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can. You may ask your father; here he comes.

[Enter PAGE and MISTRESS PAGE.]

PAGE.

Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.

Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here?

You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:

I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos'd of.

FENTON.

Nay, Master Page, be not impatient.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Good Master Fenton, come not to my child.

PAGE.

She is no match for you.

FENTON.

Sir, will you hear me?

PAGE.

No, good Master Fenton.

Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.

Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton.

[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]

QUICKLY.

Speak to Mistress Page.

FENTON.

Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter

In such a righteous fashion as I do,

Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners,

I must advance the colours of my love

And not retire: let me have your good will.

ANNE.

Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

MISTRESS PAGE.

I mean it not; I seek you a better husband.

QUICKLY.

That's my master, Master doctor.

ANNE.

Alas! I had rather be set quick i' the earth.

And bowl'd to death with turnips.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton,

I will not be your friend, nor enemy;

My daughter will I question how she loves you,

And as I find her, so am I affected.

Till then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in;

Her father will be angry.

FENTON.

Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan.

[Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE and ANNE.}

QUICKLY.

This is my doing now: 'Nay,' said I, 'will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.' This is my doing.

FENTON.

I thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night

Give my sweet Nan this ring. There's for thy pains.

QUICKLY.

Now Heaven send thee good fortune!

[Exit FENTON.]

A kind heart he hath; a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her; I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised, and I'll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.]

FALSTAFF.

Bardolph, I say,—

BARDOLPH.

Here, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in 't.

[Exit BARDOLPH.]

Have I lived to be carried in a basket, and to be thrown in the Thames like a barrow of butcher's offal? Well, if I be served such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch's puppies, fifteen i' the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell I should down. I had been drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man; and what a thing should I have been when had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy.

[Re-enter BARDOLPH, with the sack.]

BARDOLPH.

Here's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you.

FALSTAFF.

Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my belly's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in.

BARDOLPH.

Come in, woman.

[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

QUICKLY.

By your leave. I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow.

FALSTAFF.

Take away these chalices. Go, brew me a pottle of sack finely.

BARDOLPH.

With eggs, sir?

FALSTAFF.

Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage.

[Exit BARDOLPH.]

How now!

QUICKLY.

Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford.

FALSTAFF.

Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford.

QUICKLY.

Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault: she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection.

FALSTAFF.

So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's promise.

QUICKLY.

Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine; I must carry her word quickly. She'll make you amends, I warrant you.

FALSTAFF.

Well, I will visit her. Tell her so; and bid her think what a man is; let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit.

QUICKLY.

I will tell her.

FALSTAFF.

Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou?

QUICKLY.

Eight and nine, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Well, be gone; I will not miss her.

QUICKLY.

Peace be with you, sir.

[Exit.]

FALSTAFF.

I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within. I like his money well. O! here he comes.

[Enter FORD disguised.]

FORD.

Bless you, sir!

FALSTAFF.

Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford's wife?

FORD.

That, indeed, Sir John, is my business.

FALSTAFF.

Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her house the hour she appointed me.

FORD.

And how sped you, sir?

FALSTAFF.

Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook.

FORD.

How so, sir? did she change her determination?

FALSTAFF.

No. Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's love.

FORD.

What! while you were there?

FALSTAFF.

While I was there.

FORD.

And did he search for you, and could not find you?

FALSTAFF.

You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford's approach; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

FORD.

A buck-basket!

FALSTAFF.

By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril.

FORD.

And how long lay you there?

FALSTAFF.

Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane; they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door; who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of that; a man of my kidney, think of that, that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw: it was a miracle to 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, hissing hot, think of that, Master Brook!

FORD.

In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit, then, is desperate; you'll undertake her no more.

FALSTAFF.

Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.

FORD.

'Tis past eight already, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed, and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her: adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford.

[Exit.]

FORD.

Hum! ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, Master Ford. There's a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This 'tis to be married; this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take the lecher; he is at my house. He cannot scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepper box; but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not, shall not make me tame; if I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me; I'll be horn-mad.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The street.

[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and WILLIAM.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Is he at Master Ford's already, think'st thou?

QUICKLY.

Sure he is by this; or will be presently; but truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly.

MISTRESS PAGE.

I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; 'tis a playing day, I see.

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.]

How now, Sir Hugh, no school to-day?

EVANS.

No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play.

QUICKLY.

Blessing of his heart!

MISTRESS PAGE.

Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence.

EVANS.

Come hither, William; hold up your head; come.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master; be not afraid.

EVANS.

William, how many numbers is in nouns?

WILLIAM.

Two.

QUICKLY.

Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say 'Od's nouns.'

EVANS.

Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' William?

WILLIAM.

Pulcher.

QUICKLY.

Polecats! There are fairer things than polecats, sure.

EVANS.

You are a very simplicity 'oman; I pray you, peace. What is 'lapis,' William?

WILLIAM.

A stone.

EVANS.

And what is 'a stone,' William?

WILLIAM.

A pebble.

EVANS.

No, it is 'lapis'; I pray you remember in your prain.

WILLIAM.

Lapis.

EVANS.

That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles?

WILLIAM.

Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined: Singulariter, nominativo; hic, haec, hoc.

EVANS.

Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case?

WILLIAM.

Accusativo, hinc.

EVANS.

I pray you, have your remembrance, child. Accusativo, hung, hang, hog.

QUICKLY.

'Hang-hog' is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.

EVANS.

Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative case, William?

WILLIAM.

O vocativo, O.

EVANS.

Remember, William: focative is caret.

QUICKLY.

And that's a good root.

EVANS.

'Oman, forbear.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Peace.

EVANS.

What is your genitive case plural, William?

WILLIAM.

Genitive case?

EVANS.

Ay.

WILLIAM.

Genitivo horum, harum, horum.

QUICKLY.

Vengeance of Jenny's case; fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore.

EVANS.

For shame, 'oman.

QUICKLY.

You do ill to teach the child such words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call 'whore 'm'! Fie upon you!

EVANS.

'Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Prithee, hold thy peace.

EVANS.

Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns.

WILLIAM.

Forsooth, I have forgot.

EVANS.

It is qui, quae, quod; if you forget your 'quis', your 'quaes', and your 'quods', you must be preeches. Go your ways and play; go.

MISTRESS PAGE.

He is a better scholar than I thought he was.

EVANS.

He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Adieu, good Sir Hugh.

[Exit SIR HUGH.]

Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A room in FORD'S house.

[Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS FORD.]

FALSTAFF.

Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now?

MISTRESS FORD.

He's a-birding, sweet Sir John.

MISTRESS PAGE.

[Within.] What ho! gossip Ford, what ho!

MISTRESS FORD.

Step into the chamber, Sir John.

[Exit FALSTAFF.]

[Enter MISTRESS PAGE.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

How now, sweetheart! who's at home besides yourself?

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, none but mine own people.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Indeed!

MISTRESS FORD.

No, certainly.—[Aside to her.] Speak louder.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here.

MISTRESS FORD.

Why?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying 'Peer out, peer out!' that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here.

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, does he talk of him?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.

MISTRESS FORD.

How near is he, Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Hard by, at street end; he will be here anon.

MISTRESS FORD.

I am undone! the knight is here.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why, then, you are utterly shamed, and he's but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! better shame than murder.

MISTRESS FORD.

Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again?

[Re-enter FALSTAFF.}

FALSTAFF.

No, I'll come no more i' the basket. May I not go out ere he come?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Alas! three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here?

FALSTAFF.

What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney.

MISTRESS FORD.

There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Creep into the kiln-hole.

FALSTAFF.

Where is it?

MISTRESS FORD.

He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.

FALSTAFF.

I'll go out then.

MISTRESS PAGE.

If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised,—

MISTRESS FORD.

How might we disguise him?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Alas the day! I know not! There is no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape.

FALSTAFF.

Good hearts, devise something: any extremity rather than a mischief.

MISTRESS FORD.

My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brainford, has a gown above.

MISTRESS PAGE.

On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he is; and there's her thrummed hat, and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John.

MISTRESS FORD.

Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Quick, quick! we'll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while.

[Exit FALSTAFF.]

MISTRESS FORD.

I would my husband would meet him in this shape; he cannot abide the old woman of Brainford; he swears she's a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards!

MISTRESS FORD.

But is my husband coming?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Ay, in good sadness is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.

MISTRESS FORD.

We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it as they did last time.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Nay, but he'll be here presently; let's go dress him like the witch of Brainford.

MISTRESS FORD.

I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight.

[Exit.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough.

We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do,

Wives may be merry and yet honest too.

We do not act that often jest and laugh;

'Tis old but true: 'Still swine eats all the draff.'

[Exit.]

[Re-enter MISTRESS FORD, with two SERVANTS.]

MISTRESS FORD.

Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders; your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly, dispatch.

[Exit.]

FIRST SERVANT.

Come, come, take it up.

SECOND SERVANT.

Pray heaven, it be not full of knight again.

FIRST SERVANT.

I hope not; I had lief as bear so much lead.

[Enter FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]

FORD.

Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching!

PAGE.

Why, this passes, Master Ford! you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned.

EVANS.

Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog.

SHALLOW.

Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed.

FORD.

So say I too, sir.—

[Re-enter MISTRESS FORD.]

Come hither, Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, Mistress, do I?

MISTRESS FORD.

Heaven be my witness, you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty.

FORD.

Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah.

[Pulling clothes out of the basket.]

PAGE.

This passes!

MISTRESS FORD.

Are you not ashamed? Let the clothes alone.

FORD.

I shall find you anon.

EVANS.

'Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife's clothes? Come away.

FORD.

Empty the basket, I say!

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, man, why?

FORD.

Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is; my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen.

MISTRESS FORD.

If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's death.

PAGE.

Here's no man.

SHALLOW.

By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you.

EVANS.

Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart; this is jealousies.

FORD.

Well, he's not here I seek for.

PAGE.

No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.

[Servants carry away the basket.]

FORD.

Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me 'As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more; once more search with me.

MISTRESS FORD.

What, hoa, Mistress Page! Come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber.

FORD.

Old woman? what old woman's that?

MISTRESS FORD.

Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brainford.

FORD.

A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what's brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag you; come down, I say!

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, good sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman.

[Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, led by MISTRESS PAGE.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand.

FORD.

I'll prat her.—[Beats him.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! Out, out! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you.

[Exit FALSTAFF.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, he will do it. 'Tis a goodly credit for you.

FORD.

Hang her, witch!

EVANS.

By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch indeed; I like not when a 'oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under her muffler.

FORD.

Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.

PAGE.

Let's obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen.

[Exeunt FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and EVANS.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully methought.

MISTRESS PAGE.

I'll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service.

MISTRESS FORD.

What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge?

MISTRESS PAGE.

The spirit of wantonness is sure scared out of him; if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again.

MISTRESS FORD.

Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers.

MISTRESS FORD.

I'll warrant they'll have him publicly shamed; and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly shamed.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Come, to the forge with it then; shape it. I would not have things cool.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter HOST and BARDOLPH.]

BARDOLPH.

Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses; the Duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him.

HOST.

What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English?

BARDOLPH.

Ay, sir; I'll call them to you.

HOST.

They shall have my horses, but I'll make them pay; I'll sauce them; they have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests. They must come off; I'll sauce them. Come.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

A room in FORD'S house.

[Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS.]

EVANS.

'Tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever I did look upon.

PAGE.

And did he send you both these letters at an instant?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Within a quarter of an hour.

FORD.

Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt;

I rather will suspect the sun with cold

Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand,

In him that was of late an heretic,

As firm as faith.

PAGE.

'Tis well, 'tis well; no more.

Be not as extreme in submission

As in offence;

But let our plot go forward: let our wives

Yet once again, to make us public sport,

Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,

Where we may take him and disgrace him for it.

FORD.

There is no better way than that they spoke of.

PAGE.

How? To send him word they'll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come!

EVANS.

You say he has been thrown in the rivers; and has been grievously peaten as an old 'oman; methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punished; he shall have no desires.

PAGE.

So think I too.

MISTRESS FORD.

Devise but how you'll use him when he comes,

And let us two devise to bring him thither.

MISTRESS PAGE.

There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,

Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,

Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,

Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;

And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,

And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain

In a most hideous and dreadful manner:

You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know

The superstitious idle-headed eld

Received, and did deliver to our age,

This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

PAGE.

Why, yet there want not many that do fear

In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak.

But what of this?

MISTRESS FORD.

Marry, this is our device;

That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us,

Disguis'd, like Herne, with huge horns on his head.

PAGE.

Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come,

And in this shape. When you have brought him thither,

What shall be done with him? What is your plot?

MISTRESS PAGE.

That likewise have we thought upon, and thus:

Nan Page my daughter, and my little son,

And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress

Like urchins, ouphs, and fairies, green and white,

With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads,

And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden,

As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met,

Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once

With some diffused song; upon their sight

We two in great amazedness will fly:

Then let them all encircle him about,

And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight;

And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel,

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread

In shape profane.

MISTRESS FORD.

And till he tell the truth,

Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound,

And burn him with their tapers.

MISTRESS PAGE.

The truth being known,

We'll all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit,

And mock him home to Windsor.

FORD.

The children must

Be practis'd well to this or they'll ne'er do 't.

EVANS.

I will teach the children their behaviours; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber.

FORD.

That will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards.

MISTRESS PAGE.

My Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies,

Finely attired in a robe of white.

PAGE.

That silk will I go buy. [Aside.] And in that time

Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away,

And marry her at Eton. Go, send to Falstaff straight.

FORD.

Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook;

He'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he'll come.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Fear not you that. Go, get us properties

And tricking for our fairies.

EVANS.

Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures, and ferry honest knaveries.

[Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Go, Mistress Ford.

Send Quickly to Sir John to know his mind.

[Exit MISTRESS FORD.]

I'll to the Doctor; he hath my good will,

And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.

That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;

And he my husband best of all affects:

The Doctor is well money'd, and his friends

Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,

Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter HOST and SIMPLE.]

HOST.

What wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap.

SIMPLE.

Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender.

HOST.

There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed; 'tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go knock and call; he'll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee; knock, I say.

SIMPLE.

There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber; I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed.

HOST.

Ha! a fat woman? The knight may be robbed. I'll call. Bully knight! Bully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls.

FALSTAFF.

[Above] How now, mine host?

HOST.

Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend; my chambers are honourible. Fie! privacy? fie!

[Enter FALSTAFF.]

FALSTAFF.

There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with, me; but she's gone.

SIMPLE.

Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of Brainford?

FALSTAFF.

Ay, marry was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her?

SIMPLE.

My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no.

FALSTAFF.

I spake with the old woman about it.

SIMPLE.

And what says she, I pray, sir?

FALSTAFF.

Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it.

SIMPLE.

I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him.

FALSTAFF.

What are they? Let us know.

HOST.

Ay, come; quick.

SIMPLE.

I may not conceal them, sir.

FALSTAFF.

Conceal them, or thou diest.

SIMPLE.

Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page: to know if it were my master's fortune to have her or no.

FALSTAFF.

'Tis, 'tis his fortune.

SIMPLE.

What sir?

FALSTAFF.

To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so.

SIMPLE.

May I be bold to say so, sir?

FALSTAFF.

Ay, Sir Tike; like who more bold?

SIMPLE.

I thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings.

[Exit.]

HOST.

Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee?

FALSTAFF.

Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning.

[Enter BARDOLPH.]

BARDOLPH.

Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!

HOST.

Where be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto.

BARDOLPH.

Run away, with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off, from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses.

HOST.

They are gone but to meet the Duke, villain; do not say they be fled; Germans are honest men.

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS.]

EVANS.

Where is mine host?

HOST.

What is the matter, sir?

EVANS.

Have a care of your entertainments: there is a friend of mine come to town tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you; you are wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.

[Exit.]

[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]

CAIUS.

Vere is mine host de Jarteer?

HOST.

Here, Master Doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.

CAIUS.

I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a Duke de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that the court is know to come; I tell you for good will: Adieu.

[Exit.]

HOST.

Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly, run, hue and cry, villain; I am undone!

[Exeunt HOST and BARDOLPH.]

FALSTAFF.

I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent.

[Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

Now! whence come you?

QUICKLY.

From the two parties, forsooth.

FALSTAFF.

The devil take one party and his dam the other! And so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear.

QUICKLY.

And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her.

FALSTAFF.

What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow; and was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brainford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i' the stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch.

QUICKLY.

Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber; you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed.

FALSTAFF.

Come up into my chamber.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

Another room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter FENTON and HOST.]

HOST.

Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy; I will give over all.

FENTON.

Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,

And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee

A hundred pound in gold more than your loss.

HOST.

I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel.

FENTON.

From time to time I have acquainted you

With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page,

Who, mutually, hath answered my affection,

So far forth as herself might be her chooser,

Even to my wish. I have a letter from her

Of such contents as you will wonder at;

The mirth whereof so larded with my matter

That neither, singly, can be manifested

Without the show of both; wherein fat Falstaff

Hath a great scare: the image of the jest

I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host:

To-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one,

Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;

The purpose why is here: in which disguise,

While other jests are something rank on foot,

Her father hath commanded her to slip

Away with Slender, and with him at Eton

Immediately to marry; she hath consented. Now, sir,

Her mother, even strong against that match

And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed

That he shall likewise shuffle her away,

While other sports are tasking of their minds;

And at the deanery, where a priest attends,

Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot

She seemingly obedient likewise hath

Made promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests:

Her father means she shall be all in white;

And in that habit, when Slender sees his time

To take her by the hand and bid her go,

She shall go with him: her mother hath intended

The better to denote her to the doctor,—

For they must all be mask'd and vizarded—

That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob'd,

With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head;

And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,

To pinch her by the hand: and, on that token,

The maid hath given consent to go with him.

HOST.

Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

FENTON.

Both, my good host, to go along with me:

And here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar

To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one,

And in the lawful name of marrying,

To give our hearts united ceremony.

HOST.

Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar.

Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.

FENTON.

So shall I evermore be bound to thee;

Besides, I'll make a present recompense.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

A room in the Garter Inn.

[Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

FALSTAFF.

Prithee, no more prattling; go: I'll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away! go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away!

QUICKLY.

I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns.

FALSTAFF.

Away, I say; time wears; hold up your head, and mince.

[Exit MISTRESS QUICKLY.]

[Enter FORD.]

How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight, or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall see wonders.

FORD.

Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed?

FALSTAFF.

I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man; but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you: he beat me grievously in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along with me; I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me: I'll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Windsor Park.

[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.]

PAGE.

Come, come; we'll couch i' the castle-ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter—

SLENDER.

Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry 'mum'; she cries 'budget,' and by that we know one another.

SHALLOW.

That's good too; but what needs either your 'mum' or her 'budget'? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock.

PAGE.

The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let's away; follow me.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The street in Windsor.

[Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and DOCTOR CAIUS.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Master Doctor, my daughter is in green; when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park; we two must go together.

CAIUS.

I know vat I have to do; adieu.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Fare you well, sir. [Exit CAIUS.] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying my daughter; but 'tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heart break.

MISTRESS FORD.

Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil, Hugh?

MISTRESS PAGE.

They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne's oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff's and our meeting, they will at once display to the night.

MISTRESS FORD.

That cannot choose but amaze him.

MISTRESS PAGE.

If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked.

MISTRESS FORD.

We'll betray him finely.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Against such lewdsters and their lechery,

Those that betray them do no treachery.

MISTRESS FORD.

The hour draws on: to the oak, to the oak!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Windsor Park

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS, disguised, with others as Fairies.]

EVANS.

Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE V.

Another part of the Park.

[Enter FALSTAFF disguised as HERNE with a buck's head on.]

FALSTAFF.

The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some other a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl: think on't, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe?

[Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE.]

MISTRESS FORD.

Sir John! Art thou there, my deer? my male deer?

FALSTAFF.

My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of 'Greensleeves'; hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.

[Embracing her.]

MISTRESS FORD.

Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart.

FALSTAFF.

Divide me like a brib'd buck, each a haunch; I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!

[Noise within.]

MISTRESS PAGE.

Alas! what noise?

MISTRESS FORD.

Heaven forgive our sins!

FALSTAFF.

What should this be?

MISTRESS FORD.

Away, away!

MISTRESS PAGE.

Away, away!

[They run off.]

FALSTAFF.

I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus.

[Enter SIR HUGH EVANS like a Satyr, PISTOL as a Hobgoblin, ANNE PAGE as the the Fairy Queen, attended by her Brothers and Others, as fairies, with waxen tapers on their heads.]

ANNE.

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,

You moonshine revellers, and shades of night,

You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,

Attend your office and your quality.

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

PISTOL.

Elves, list your names: silence, you airy toys!

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:

Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths unswept,

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:

Our radiant Queen hates sluts and sluttery.

FALSTAFF.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:

I'll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.

[Lies down upon his face.]

EVANS.

Where's Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,

Rein up the organs of her fantasy,

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy;

But those as sleep and think not on their sins,

Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins.

ANNE.

About, about!

Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room,

That it may stand till the perpetual doom,

In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit,

Worthy the owner and the owner it.

The several chairs of order look you scour

With juice of balm and every precious flower:

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, evermore be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,

Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring:

The expressure that it bears, green let it be,

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;

And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write

In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white;

Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,

Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee.

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Away! disperse! But, till 'tis one o'clock,

Our dance of custom round about the oak

Of Herne the hunter let us not forget.

EVANS.

Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set;

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be,

To guide our measure round about the tree.

But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

FALSTAFF.

Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

PISTOL.

Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.

ANNE.

With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:

If he be chaste, the flame will back descend

And turn him to no pain; but if he start,

It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

PISTOL.

A trial! come.

EVANS.

Come, will this wood take fire?

[They burn him with their tapers.]

FALSTAFF.

Oh, oh, oh!

ANNE.

Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!

About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;

And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

SONG.

Fie on sinful fantasy!

Fie on lust and luxury!

Lust is but a bloody fire,

Kindled with unchaste desire,

Fed in heart, whose flames aspire,

As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.

Pinch him, fairies, mutually;

Pinch him for his villany;

Pinch him and burn him and turn him about,

Till candles and star-light and moonshine be out.

[During this song the Fairies pinch FALSTAFF. DOCTOR CAIUS comes one way, and steals away a fairy in green; SLENDER another way, and takes off a fairy in white; and FENTON comes, and steals away ANNE PAGE. A noise of hunting is heard within. All the fairies run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's head, and rises.]

[Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD. They lay hold on FALSTAFF.]

PAGE.

Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch'd you now:

Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

MISTRESS PAGE.

I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher.

Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives?

See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes

Become the forest better than the town?

FORD.

Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his horns, Master Brook; and, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook.

MISTRESS FORD.

Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again; but I will always count you my deer.

FALSTAFF.

I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.

FORD.

Ay, and an ox too; both the proofs are extant.

FALSTAFF.

And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent when 'tis upon ill employment!

EVANS.

Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you.

FORD.

Well said, fairy Hugh.

EVANS.

And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you.

FORD.

I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English.

FALSTAFF.

Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a cox-comb of frieze? 'Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese.

EVANS.

Seese is not good to give putter: your belly is all putter.

FALSTAFF.

'Seese' and 'putter'! Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight?

FORD.

What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax?

MISTRESS PAGE.

A puffed man?

PAGE.

Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails?

FORD.

And one that is as slanderous as Satan?

PAGE.

And as poor as Job?

FORD.

And as wicked as his wife?

EVANS.

And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles?

FALSTAFF.

Well, I am your theme; you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me; use me as you will.

FORD.

Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction.

MISTRESS FORD.

Nay, husband, let that go to make amends;

Forget that sum, so we'll all be friends.

FORD.

Well, here's my hand: all is forgiven at last.

PAGE.

Yet be cheerful, knight; thou shalt eat a posset tonight at my

house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now

laughs at thee. Tell her, Master Slender hath married her daughter.

MISTRESS PAGE.

[Aside] Doctors doubt that; if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife.

[Enter SLENDER.]

SLENDER.

Whoa, ho! ho! father Page!

PAGE.

Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched?

SLENDER.

Dispatched! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were hanged, la, else!

PAGE.

Of what, son?

SLENDER.

I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy: if it had not been i' the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir! and 'tis a postmaster's boy.

PAGE.

Upon my life, then, you took the wrong.

SLENDER.

What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him.

PAGE.

Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments?

SLENDER.

I went to her in white and cried 'mum' and she cried 'budget' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy.

EVANS.

Jeshu! Master Slender, cannot you see put marry poys?

PAGE.

O I am vexed at heart: what shall I do?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married.

[Enter DOCTOR CAIUS.]

CAIUS.

Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why, did you take her in green?

CAIUS.

Ay, by gar, and 'tis a boy: by gar, I'll raise all Windsor.

[Exit.]

FORD.

This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne?

PAGE.

My heart misgives me; here comes Master Fenton.

[Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE.]

How now, Master Fenton!

ANNE.

Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon!

PAGE.

Now, Mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender?

MISTRESS PAGE.

Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid?

FENTON.

You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.

You would have married her most shamefully,

Where there was no proportion held in love.

The truth is, she and I, long since contracted,

Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us.

The offence is holy that she hath committed,

And this deceit loses the name of craft,

Of disobedience, or unduteous title,

Since therein she doth evitate and shun

A thousand irreligious cursed hours,

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.

FORD.

Stand not amaz'd: here is no remedy:

In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state:

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

FALSTAFF.

I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced.

PAGE.

Well, what remedy?—Fenton, heaven give thee joy!

What cannot be eschew'd must be embrac'd.

FALSTAFF.

When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chas'd.

MISTRESS PAGE.

Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,

Heaven give you many, many merry days!

Good husband, let us every one go home,

And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;

Sir John and all.

FORD.

Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word;

For he, to-night, shall lie with Mistress Ford.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

THESEUS: Duke of Athens.

EGEUS: Father to Hermia.

LYSANDER: in love with Hermia.

DEMETRIUS: in love with Hermia.

PHILOSTRATE: Master of the Revels to Theseus.

QUINCE: the Carpenter.

SNUG: the Joiner.

BOTTOM: the Weaver.

FLUTE: the Bellows-mender.

SNOUT: the Tinker.

STARVELING: the Tailor.

HIPPOLYTA: Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus.

HERMIA: daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.

HELENA: in love with Demetrius.

OBERON: King of the Fairies.

TITANIA: Queen of the Fairies.

PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW: a Fairy.

PEASBLOSSOM: Fairy.

COBWEB: Fairy.

MOTH: Fairy.

MUSTARDSEED: Fairy.

PYRAMUS, THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION: Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns.

Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.

Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

SCENE: Athens, and a wood not far from it.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Athens. A room in the Palace of THESEUS.

[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and Attendants.]

THESEUS

Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour

Draws on apace; four happy days bring in

Another moon; but, oh, methinks, how slow

This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,

Like to a step-dame or a dowager,

Long withering out a young man's revenue.

HIPPOLYTA

Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time;

And then the moon, like to a silver bow

New bent in heaven, shall behold the night

Of our solemnities.

THESEUS

Go, Philostrate,

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;

Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;

Turn melancholy forth to funerals—

The pale companion is not for our pomp. —

[Exit PHILOSTRATE.]

Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword,

And won thy love doing thee injuries;

But I will wed thee in another key,

With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

[Enter EGEUS, HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS.]

EGEUS

Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

THESEUS

Thanks, good Egeus: what's the news with thee?

EGEUS

Full of vexation come I, with complaint

Against my child, my daughter Hermia.—

Stand forth, Demetrius.—My noble lord,

This man hath my consent to marry her:—

Stand forth, Lysander;—and, my gracious duke,

This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child.

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,

And interchang'd love-tokens with my child:

Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,

With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;

And stol'n the impression of her fantasy

With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,

Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats,—messengers

Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth;—

With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart;

Turned her obedience, which is due to me,

To stubborn harshness.—And, my gracious duke,

Be it so she will not here before your grace

Consent to marry with Demetrius,

I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,—

As she is mine I may dispose of her:

Which shall be either to this gentleman

Or to her death; according to our law

Immediately provided in that case.

THESEUS

What say you, Hermia? be advis'd, fair maid:

To you your father should be as a god;

One that compos'd your beauties: yea, and one

To whom you are but as a form in wax,

By him imprinted, and within his power

To leave the figure, or disfigure it.

Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

HERMIA

So is Lysander.

THESEUS

In himself he is:

But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice,

The other must be held the worthier.

HERMIA

I would my father look'd but with my eyes.

THESEUS

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

HERMIA

I do entreat your grace to pardon me.

I know not by what power I am made bold,

Nor how it may concern my modesty

In such a presence here to plead my thoughts:

But I beseech your grace that I may know

The worst that may befall me in this case

If I refuse to wed Demetrius.

THESEUS

Either to die the death, or to abjure

For ever the society of men.

Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires,

Know of your youth, examine well your blood,

Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,

You can endure the livery of a nun;

For aye to be shady cloister mew'd,

To live a barren sister all your life,

Chanting faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon.

Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood

To undergo such maiden pilgrimage:

But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd

Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,

Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

HERMIA

So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,

Ere I will yield my virgin patent up

Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke

My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

THESEUS

Take time to pause; and by the next new moon,—

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me

For everlasting bond of fellowship,—

Upon that day either prepare to die

For disobedience to your father's will;

Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would;

Or on Diana's altar to protest

For aye austerity and single life.

DEMETRIUS

Relent, sweet Hermia;—and, Lysander, yield

Thy crazed title to my certain right.

LYSANDER

You have her father's love, Demetrius;

Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.

EGEUS

Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love;

And what is mine my love shall render him;

And she is mine; and all my right of her

I do estate unto Demetrius.

LYSANDER

I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he,

As well possess'd; my love is more than his;

My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,

If not with vantage, as Demetrius's;

And, which is more than all these boasts can be,

I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia:

Why should not I then prosecute my right?

Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,

Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,

And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,

Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,

Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

THESEUS

I must confess that I have heard so much,

And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;

But, being over-full of self-affairs,

My mind did lose it.—But, Demetrius, come;

And come, Egeus; you shall go with me;

I have some private schooling for you both.—

For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself

To fit your fancies to your father's will,

Or else the law of Athens yields you up,—

Which by no means we may extenuate,—

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

Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?

Demetrius, and Egeus, go along;

I must employ you in some business

Against our nuptial, and confer with you

Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

EGEUS

With duty and desire we follow you.

[Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, DEMETRIUS, and Train.]

LYSANDER

How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

HERMIA

Belike for want of rain, which I could well

Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

LYSANDER

Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth:

But either it was different in blood,—

HERMIA

O cross! Too high to be enthrall'd to low!

LYSANDER

Or else misgraffed in respect of years;—

HERMIA

O spite! Too old to be engag'd to young!

LYSANDER

Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:

HERMIA

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

LYSANDER

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,

War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,

Making it momentary as a sound,

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;

Brief as the lightning in the collied night

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,

And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!

The jaws of darkness do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

HERMIA

If then true lovers have ever cross'd,

It stands as an edict in destiny:

Then let us teach our trial patience,

Because it is a customary cross;

As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs,

Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.

LYSANDER

A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia.

I have a widow aunt, a dowager

Of great revenue, and she hath no child:

From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;

And she respects me as her only son.

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;

And to that place the sharp Athenian law

Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,

Steal forth thy father's house tomorrow night;

And in the wood, a league without the town,

Where I did meet thee once with Helena,

To do observance to a morn of May,

There will I stay for thee.

HERMIA

My good Lysander!

I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow,

By his best arrow, with the golden head,

By the simplicity of Venus' doves,

By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,

And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,

When the false Trojan under sail was seen,—

By all the vows that ever men have broke,

In number more than ever women spoke,—

In that same place thou hast appointed me,

Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.

LYSANDER

Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

[Enter HELENA.]

HERMIA

God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

HELENA

Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.

Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair!

Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air

More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,

When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

Sickness is catching: O, were favour so,

Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;

My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,

My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.

Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,

The rest I'd give to be to you translated.

O, teach me how you look; and with what art

You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart!

HERMIA

I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

HELENA

O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

HERMIA

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

HELENA

O that my prayers could such affection move!

HERMIA

The more I hate, the more he follows me.

HELENA

The more I love, the more he hateth me.

HERMIA

His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

HELENA

None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

HERMIA

Take comfort; he no more shall see my face;

Lysander and myself will fly this place.—

Before the time I did Lysander see,

Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me:

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell,

That he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell!

LYSANDER

Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:

To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold

Her silver visage in the watery glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,—

A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,—

Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.

HERMIA

And in the wood where often you and I

Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie,

Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,

There my Lysander and myself shall meet:

And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,

To seek new friends and stranger companies.

Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us,

And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!—

Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight

From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight.

LYSANDER

I will, my Hermia.

[Exit HERMIA.]

LYSANDER

Helena, adieu:

As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

[Exit LYSANDER.]

HELENA

How happy some o'er other some can be!

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;

He will not know what all but he do know.

And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,

So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;

And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste;

Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:

And therefore is love said to be a child,

Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.

As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjur'd everywhere:

For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,

He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;

And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

So he dissolv'd, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight;

Then to the wood will he to-morrow night

Pursue her; and for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:

But herein mean I to enrich my pain,

To have his sight thither and back again.

[Exit HELENA.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The Same. A Room in a Cottage.

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

QUINCE

Is all our company here?

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

QUINCE

You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

BOTTOM

What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

QUINCE

A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.

BOTTOM

That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest:—yet my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.

The raging rocks

And shivering shocks

Shall break the locks

Of prison gates:

And Phibbus' car

Shall shine from far,

And make and mar

The foolish Fates.

This was lofty.—Now name the rest of the players.—This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein;—a lover is more condoling.

QUINCE

Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

FLUTE

Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE

Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

FLUTE

What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

QUINCE

It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

FLUTE

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

Well, proceed.

QUINCE

Robin Starveling, the tailor.

STARVELING

Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE

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

SNOUT

Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE

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

SNUG

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

ALL

That would hang us every mother's son.

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

Why, what you will.

BOTTOM

I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.

QUINCE

Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced.— But, masters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse: for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.

BOTTOM

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

QUINCE

At the duke's oak we meet.

BOTTOM

Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A wood near Athens.

[Enter a FAIRY at One door, and PUCK at another.]

PUCK

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

FAIRY

Over hill, over dale,

Thorough bush, thorough brier,

Over park, over pale,

Thorough flood, thorough fire,

I do wander everywhere,

Swifter than the moon's sphere;

And I serve the fairy queen,

To dew her orbs upon the green.

The cowslips tall her pensioners be:

In their gold coats spots you see;

Those be rubies, fairy favours,

In those freckles live their savours;

I must go seek some dew-drops here,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:

Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

PUCK

The king doth keep his revels here to-night;

Take heed the Queen come not within his sight.

For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,

Because that she, as her attendant, hath

A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king;

She never had so sweet a changeling:

And jealous Oberon would have the child

Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild:

But she perforce withholds the loved boy,

Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy:

And now they never meet in grove or green,

By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,

But they do square; that all their elves for fear

Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.

FAIRY

Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite

Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he

That frights the maidens of the villagery;

Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,

And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;

And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;

Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?

Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,

You do their work, and they shall have good luck:

Are not you he?

PUCK

Thou speak'st aright;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.

I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,

When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,

Neighing in likeness of a filly foal;

And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,

In very likeness of a roasted crab;

And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,

And on her withered dewlap pour the ale.

The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,

Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;

Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,

And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;

And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe,

And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear

A merrier hour was never wasted there.—

But room, fairy, here comes Oberon.

FAIRY

And here my mistress.—Would that he were gone!

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

OBERON

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

TITANIA

What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence;

I have forsworn his bed and company.

OBERON

Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?

TITANIA

Then I must be thy lady; but I know

When thou hast stol'n 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.

OBERON

How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,

Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,

Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?

Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night

From Perigenia, whom he ravish'd?

And make him with fair Aegle break his faith,

With Ariadne and Antiopa?

TITANIA

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.

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,

Hath every pelting river made so proud

That they have overborne their continents:

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

The ploughman lost his sweat; and the green corn

Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard:

The fold stands empty in the drowned field,

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

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

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,

For lack of tread, are undistinguishable:

The human mortals want their winter here;

No night is now with hymn or carol blest:—

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air,

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;

And on old Hyem's thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

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

The childing autumn, angry winter, change

Their wonted liveries; and the maz'd 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.

OBERON

Do you amend it, then: it lies in you:

Why should Titania cross her Oberon?

I do but beg a little changeling boy

To be my henchman.

TITANIA

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 the embarked traders on the flood;

When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,

And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;

Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait

Following,—her womb then rich with my young squire,—

Would imitate; and sail upon the land,

To fetch me trifles, and return again,

As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;

And for her sake do I rear up her boy:

And for her sake I will not part with him.

OBERON

How long within this wood intend you stay?

TITANIA

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.

OBERON

Give me that boy and I will go with thee.

TITANIA

Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away:

We shall chide downright if I longer stay.

[Exit TITANIA with her Train.]

OBERON

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.

OBERON

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;

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 showed thee once:

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid

Will make or man or woman madly dote

Upon the next live creature that it sees.

Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again

Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

PUCK

I'll put a girdle round about the earth

In forty minutes.

[Exit PUCK.]

OBERON

Having once this juice,

I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:

The next thing then she waking looks upon,—

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,—

She shall pursue it with the soul of love.

And ere I take this charm from off her sight,—

As I can take it with another herb,

I'll make her render up her page to me.

But who comes here? I am invisible;

And I will overhear their conference.

[Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him.]

DEMETRIUS

I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.

Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.

Thou told'st me they were stol'n into this wood,

And here am I, and wode within this wood,

Because I cannot meet with Hermia.

Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

HELENA

You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;

But yet you draw not iron, for my heart

Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw,

And I shall have no power to follow you.

DEMETRIUS

Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth

Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you?

HELENA

And even for that do I love you the more.

I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:

Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,

Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,

Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love,

And yet a place of high respect with me,—

Than to be used as you use your dog?

DEMETRIUS

Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;

For I am sick when I do look on thee.

HELENA

And I am sick when I look not on you.

DEMETRIUS

You do impeach your modesty too much,

To leave the city, and commit yourself

Into the hands of one that loves you not;

To trust the opportunity of night,

And the ill counsel of a desert place,

With the rich worth of your virginity.

HELENA

Your virtue is my privilege for that.

It is not night when I do see your face,

Therefore I think I am not in the night;

Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company;

For you, in my respect, are all the world:

Then how can it be said I am alone

When all the world is here to look on me?

DEMETRIUS

I'll run from thee, and hide me in the brakes,

And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

HELENA

The wildest hath not such a heart as you.

Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd;

Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind

Makes speed to catch the tiger,—bootless speed,

When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

DEMETRIUS

I will not stay thy questions; let me go:

Or, if thou follow me, do not believe

But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

HELENA

Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,

You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:

We cannot fight for love as men may do:

We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.

I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,

To die upon the hand I love so well.

[Exeunt DEMETRIUS and HELENA.]

OBERON

Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,

Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.—

[Re-enter PUCK.]

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

PUCK

Ay, there it is.

OBERON

I pray thee give it me.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,

Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;

And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:

And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,

And make her full of hateful fantasies.

Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:

A sweet Athenian lady is in love

With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;

But do it when the next thing he espies

May be the lady: thou shalt know the man

By the Athenian garments he hath on.

Effect it with some care, that he may prove

More fond on her than she upon her love:

And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

PUCK

Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Another part of the wood.

[Enter TITANIA, with her Train.]

TITANIA

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;

Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;

Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds;

Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,

To make my small elves coats; and some keep back

The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders

At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;

Then to your offices, and let me rest.

SONG.

I.

FIRST FAIRY

You spotted snakes, with double tongue,

Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;

Newts and blind-worms do no wrong;

Come not near our fairy queen:

CHORUS.

Philomel, with melody,

Sing in our sweet lullaby:

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nigh;

So good-night, with lullaby.

II.

SECOND FAIRY

Weaving spiders, come not here;

Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence;

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor snail do no offence.

CHORUS

Philomel with melody, &c.

FIRST FAIRY

Hence away; now all is well.

One, aloof, stand sentinel.

[Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.]

[Enter OBERON.]

OBERON

What thou seest when thou dost wake,

[Squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids.]

Do it for thy true-love take;

Love and languish for his sake;

Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,

Pard, or boar with bristled hair,

In thy eye that shall appear

When thou wak'st, it is thy dear;

Wake when some vile thing is near.

[Exit.]

[Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA.]

LYSANDER

Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;

And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way;

We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,

And tarry for the comfort of the day.

HERMIA

Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,

For I upon this bank will rest my head.

LYSANDER

One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;

One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.

HERMIA

Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,

Lie farther off yet, do not lie so near.

LYSANDER

O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence;

Love takes the meaning in love's conference.

I mean that my heart unto yours is knit;

So that but one heart we can make of it:

Two bosoms interchained with an oath;

So then two bosoms and a single troth.

Then by your side no bed-room me deny;

For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

HERMIA

Lysander riddles very prettily:—

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride

If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied!

But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy

Lie further off; in human modesty,

Such separation as may well be said

Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid:

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend:

Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!

LYSANDER

Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I;

And then end life when I end loyalty!

Here is my bed: Sleep give thee all his rest!

HERMIA

With half that wish the wisher's eyes be pressed!

[They sleep.]

[Enter PUCK.]

PUCK

Through the forest have I gone,

But Athenian found I none,

On whose eyes I might approve

This flower's force in stirring love.

Night and silence! Who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear:

This is he, my master said,

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul! she durst not lie

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the power this charm doth owe;

When thou wak'st let love forbid

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:

So awake when I am gone;

For I must now to Oberon.

[Exit.]

[Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running.]

HELENA

Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS

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

HELENA

O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

DEMETRIUS.

Stay on thy peril; I alone will go.

[Exit DEMETRIUS.]

HELENA

O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!

The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.

Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies,

For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.

How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:

If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.

No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;

For beasts that meet me run away for fear:

Therefore no marvel though Demetrius

Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.

What wicked and dissembling glass of mine

Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?—

But who is here?—Lysander! on the ground!

Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.

Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

LYSANDER

[Waking.]

And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.

Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,

That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.

Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word

Is that vile name to perish on my sword!

HELENA

Do not say so, Lysander; say not so:

What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?

Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

LYSANDER.

Content with Hermia? No: I do repent

The tedious minutes I with her have spent.

Not Hermia but Helena I love:

Who will not change a raven for a dove?

The will of man is by his reason sway'd;

And reason says you are the worthier maid.

Things growing are not ripe until their season;

So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;

And touching now the point of human skill,

Reason becomes the marshal to my will,

And leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook

Love's stories, written in love's richest book.

HELENA

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?

When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?

Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,

That I did never, no, nor never can

Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,

But you must flout my insufficiency?

Good troth, you do me wrong,—good sooth, you do—

In such disdainful manner me to woo.

But fare you well: perforce I must confess,

I thought you lord of more true gentleness.

O, that a lady of one man refus'd

Should of another therefore be abus'd!

[Exit.]

LYSANDER

She sees not Hermia:—Hermia, sleep thou there;

And never mayst thou come Lysander near!

For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things

The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;

Or, as the heresies that men do leave

Are hated most of those they did deceive;

So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,

Of all be hated, but the most of me!

And, all my powers, address your love and might

To honour Helen, and to be her knight!

[Exit.]

HERMIA

[Starting.]

Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best

To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!

Ay me, for pity!—What a dream was here!

Lysander, look how I do quake with fear!

Methought a serpent eat my heart away,

And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.—

Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!

What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?

Alack, where are you? speak, an if you hear;

Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.

No?—then I well perceive you are not nigh:

Either death or you I'll find immediately.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

The Wood. The Queen of Fairies lying asleep.

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

BOTTOM

Are we all met?

QUINCE

Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the duke.

BOTTOM

Peter Quince,—

QUINCE

What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

BOTTOM

There are things in this comedy of 'Pyramus and Thisby' that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?

SNOUT

By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

STARVELING

I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

BOTTOM

Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear.

QUINCE

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

BOTTOM

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

SNOUT

Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

STARVELING

I fear it, I promise you.

BOTTOM

Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to bring in, God shield us! a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing: for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to it.

SNOUT

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

BOTTOM

Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect,—'Ladies,' or, 'Fair ladies, I would wish you, or, I would request you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are:'—and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.

QUINCE

Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber: for, you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight.

SNOUT

Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

BOTTOM

A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine.

QUINCE

Yes, it doth shine that night.

BOTTOM

Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber-window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement.

QUINCE

Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.

SNOUT

You can never bring in a wall.—What say you, Bottom?

BOTTOM

Some man or other must present wall: and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.

QUINCE

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

[Enter PUCK behind.]

PUCK

What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here,

So near the cradle of the fairy queen?

What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor;

An actor too perhaps, if I see cause.

QUINCE

Speak, Pyramus.—Thisby, stand forth.

PYRAMUS

'Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet,'

QUINCE

Odours, odours.

PYRAMUS

'—odours savours sweet:

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.—

But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,

And by and by I will to thee appear.'

[Exit.]

PUCK

A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here!

[Aside.—Exit.]

THISBE

Must I speak now?

QUINCE

Ay, marry, must you: for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.

THISBE

'Most radiant Pyramus, most lily white of hue,

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,

Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,

As true as truest horse, that would never tire,

I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.'

QUINCE

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

[Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head.]

THISBE

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

PYRAMUS

'If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine:—'

QUINCE

O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help!

[Exeunt Clowns.]

PUCK

I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round,

Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier;

Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,

A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,

Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

[Exit.]

BOTTOM

Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

[Re-enter SNOUT.]

SNOUT

O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee?

BOTTOM

What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?

[Re-enter QUINCE.]

QUINCE

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.

[Exit.]

BOTTOM

I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can: I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

[Sings.]

The ousel cock, so black of hue,

With orange-tawny bill,

The throstle with his note so true,

The wren with little quill.

TITANIA

[Waking.]

What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

BOTTOM

[Sings.]

The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,

The plain-song cuckoo gray,

Whose note full many a man doth mark,

And dares not answer nay;—

for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so?

TITANIA

I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again;

Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note.

So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;

And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me,

On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

BOTTOM

Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days: the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.

TITANIA

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

BOTTOM

Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

TITANIA

Out of this wood do not desire to go;

Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no.

I am a spirit of no common rate,—

The summer still doth tend upon my state;

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me,

I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee;

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,

And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep:

And I will purge thy mortal grossness so

That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.—

Peasblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

[Enter Four Fairies.]

FIRST FAIRY

Ready.

SECOND FAIRY

And I.

THIRD FAIRY

And I.

FOURTH FAIRY

Where shall we go?

TITANIA

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;

Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;

Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;

The honey bags steal from the humble-bees,

And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs,

And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,

To have my love to bed and to arise;

And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

FIRST FAIRY

Hail, mortal!

SECOND FAIRY

Hail!

THIRD FAIRY

Hail!

FOURTH FAIRY

Hail!

BOTTOM

I cry your worships mercy, heartily.—I beseech your worship's name.

COBWEB

Cobweb.

BOTTOM

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

PEASBLOSSOM

Peasblossom.

BOTTOM

I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peasblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too.—Your name, I beseech you, sir?

MUSTARDSEED

Mustardseed.

BOTTOM

Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well: That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your house: I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed.

TITANIA

Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.

The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye;

And when she weeps, weeps every little flower;

Lamenting some enforcèd chastity.

Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Another part of the wood.

[Enter OBERON.]

OBERON

I wonder if Titania be awak'd;

Then, what it was that next came in her eye,

Which she must dote on in extremity.

[Enter PUCK.]

Here comes my messenger.—How now, mad spirit?

What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

PUCK

My mistress with a monster is in love.

Near to her close and consecrated bower,

While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,

A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,

Were met together to rehearse a play

Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day.

The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort

Who Pyramus presented in their sport,

Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake;

When I did him at this advantage take,

An ass's nowl I fixèd on his head;

Anon, his Thisbe must be answered,

And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,

Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,

Rising and cawing at the gun's report,

Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,

So at his sight away his fellows fly:

And at our stamp here, o'er and o'er one falls;

He murder cries, and help from Athens calls.

Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong,

Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;

For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;

Some sleeves, some hats: from yielders all things catch.

I led them on in this distracted fear,

And left sweet Pyramus translated there:

When in that moment,—so it came to pass,—

Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.

OBERON

This falls out better than I could devise.

But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes

With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

PUCK

I took him sleeping,—that is finish'd too,—

And the Athenian woman by his side;

That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd.

[Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA.]

OBERON

Stand close; this is the same Athenian.

PUCK

This is the woman, but not this the man.

DEMETRIUS

O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?

Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

HERMIA

Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse;

For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.

If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,

Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,

And kill me too.

The sun was not so true unto the day

As he to me: would he have stol'n away

From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon

This whole earth may be bor'd; and that the moon

May through the centre creep and so displease

Her brother's noontide with the antipodes.

It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;

So should a murderer look; so dead, so grim.

DEMETRIUS

So should the murder'd look; and so should I,

Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty:

Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,

As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

HERMIA

What's this to my Lysander? where is he?

Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

DEMETRIUS

I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

HERMIA

Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv'st me past the bounds

Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then?

Henceforth be never number'd among men!

Oh! once tell true; tell true, even for my sake;

Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake,

And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch!

Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?

An adder did it; for with doubler tongue

Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

DEMETRIUS

You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood:

I am not guilty of Lysander's blood;

Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

HERMIA

I pray thee, tell me, then, that he is well.

DEMETRIUS

An if I could, what should I get therefore?

HERMIA

A privilege never to see me more.—

And from thy hated presence part I so:

See me no more whether he be dead or no.

[Exit.]

DEMETRIUS

There is no following her in this fierce vein:

Here, therefore, for a while I will remain.

So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow

For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;

Which now in some slight measure it will pay,

If for his tender here I make some stay.

[Lies down.]

OBERON

What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite,

And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight:

Of thy misprision must perforce ensue

Some true love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true.

PUCK

Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth,

A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

OBERON

About the wood go, swifter than the wind,

And Helena of Athens look thou find:

All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer,

With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.

By some illusion see thou bring her here;

I'll charm his eyes against she do appear.

PUCK

I go, I go; look how I go,—

Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.

[Exit.]

OBERON

Flower of this purple dye,

Hit with Cupid's archery,

Sink in apple of his eye!

When his love he doth espy,

Let her shine as gloriously

As the Venus of the sky.—

When thou wak'st, if she be by,

Beg of her for remedy.

[Re-enter PUCK.]

PUCK

Captain of our fairy band,

Helena is here at hand,

And the youth mistook by me

Pleading for a lover's fee;

Shall we their fond pageant see?

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

OBERON

Stand aside: the noise they make

Will cause Demetrius to awake.

PUCK

Then will two at once woo one,—

That must needs be sport alone;

And those things do best please me

That befall preposterously.

[Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.]

LYSANDER

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?

Scorn and derision never come in tears.

Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,

In their nativity all truth appears.

How can these things in me seem scorn to you,

Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

HELENA

You do advance your cunning more and more.

When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!

These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?

Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:

Your vows to her and me, put in two scales,

Will even weigh; and both as light as tales.

LYSANDER

I had no judgment when to her I swore.

HELENA

Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.

LYSANDER

Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

DEMETRIUS

[Awaking.]

O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show

Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,

Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow

When thou hold'st up thy hand: O, let me kiss

This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

HELENA

O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent

To set against me for your merriment.

If you were civil, and knew courtesy,

You would not do me thus much injury.

Can you not hate me, as I know you do,

But you must join in souls to mock me too?

If you were men, as men you are in show,

You would not use a gentle lady so;

To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,

When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.

You both are rivals, and love Hermia;

And now both rivals, to mock Helena:

A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,

To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes

With your derision! None of noble sort

Would so offend a virgin, and extort

A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.

LYSANDER

You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;

For you love Hermia: this you know I know:

And here, with all good will, with all my heart,

In Hermia's love I yield you up my part;

And yours of Helena to me bequeath,

Whom I do love and will do till my death.

HELENA

Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

DEMETRIUS

Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:

If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.

My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd;

And now to Helen is it home return'd,

There to remain.

LYSANDER

Helen, it is not so.

DEMETRIUS

Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,

Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.—

Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.

[Enter HERMIA.]

HERMIA

Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,

The ear more quick of apprehension makes;

Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,

It pays the hearing double recompense:—

Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;

Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound.

But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

LYSANDER

Why should he stay whom love doth press to go?

HERMIA

What love could press Lysander from my side?

LYSANDER

Lysander's love, that would not let him bide,—

Fair Helena,—who more engilds the night

Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.

Why seek'st thou me? could not this make thee know

The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so?

HERMIA

You speak not as you think; it cannot be.

HELENA

Lo, she is one of this confederacy!

Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three

To fashion this false sport in spite of me.

Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!

Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd,

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, 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.

And will you rent our ancient love asunder,

To join with men in scorning your poor friend?

It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly:

Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,

Though I alone do feel the injury.

HERMIA

I am amazed at your passionate words:

I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me.

HELENA

Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,

To follow me, and praise my eyes and face?

And made your other love, Demetrius,—

Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,—

To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare,

Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this

To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander

Deny your love, so rich within his soul,

And tender me, forsooth, affection,

But by your setting on, by your consent?

What though I be not so in grace as you,

So hung upon with love, so fortunate;

But miserable most, to love unlov'd?

This you should pity rather than despise.

HERMIA

I understand not what you mean by this.

HELENA

Ay, do persever, counterfeit sad looks,

Make mows upon me when I turn my back;

Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:

This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.

If you have any pity, grace, or manners,

You would not make me such an argument.

But fare ye well: 'tis partly my own fault;

Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.

LYSANDER

Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse;

My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!

HELENA

O excellent!

HERMIA

Sweet, do not scorn her so.

DEMETRIUS

If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

LYSANDER

Thou canst compel no more than she entreat;

Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.—

Helen, I love thee; by my life I do;

I swear by that which I will lose for thee

To prove him false that says I love thee not.

DEMETRIUS

I say I love thee more than he can do.

LYSANDER

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

DEMETRIUS

Quick, come,—

HERMIA

Lysander, whereto tends all this?

LYSANDER

Away, you Ethiope!

DEMETRIUS

No, no, sir:—he will

Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow:

But yet come not. You are a tame man; go!

LYSANDER

Hang off, thou cat, thou burr: vile thing, let loose,

Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.

HERMIA

Why are you grown so rude? what change is this,

Sweet love?

LYSANDER

Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!

Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence!

HERMIA

Do you not jest?

HELENA

Yes, sooth; and so do you.

LYSANDER

Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

DEMETRIUS

I would I had your bond; for I perceive

A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust your word.

LYSANDER

What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?

Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so.

HERMIA

What! can you do me greater harm than hate?

Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love?

Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?

I am as fair now as I was erewhile.

Since night you lov'd me; yet since night you left me:

Why then, you left me,—O, the gods forbid!—

In earnest, shall I say?

LYSANDER

Ay, by my life;

And never did desire to see thee more.

Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt,

Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest

That I do hate thee and love Helena.

HERMIA

O me! you juggler! you cankerblossom!

You thief of love! What! have you come by night,

And stol'n my love's heart from him?

HELENA

Fine, i' faith!

Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,

No touch of bashfulness? What! will you tear

Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?

Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!

HERMIA

Puppet! why so? Ay, that way goes the game.

Now I perceive that she hath made compare

Between our statures; she hath urg'd her height;

And with her personage, her tall personage,

Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him.—

And are you grown so high in his esteem

Because I am so dwarfish and so low?

How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;

How low am I? I am not yet so low

But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

HELENA

I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,

Let her not hurt me. I was never curst;

I have no gift at all in shrewishness;

I am a right maid for my cowardice;

Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,

Because she is something lower than myself,

That I can match her.

HERMIA

Lower! hark, again.

HELENA

Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.

I evermore did love you, Hermia;

Did ever keep your counsels; never wrong'd you;

Save that, in love unto Demetrius,

I told him of your stealth unto this wood:

He follow'd you; for love I follow'd him;

But he hath chid me hence, and threaten'd me

To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too:

And now, so you will let me quiet go,

To Athens will I bear my folly back,

And follow you no farther. Let me go:

You see how simple and how fond I am.

HERMIA

Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?

HELENA

A foolish heart that I leave here behind.

HERMIA

What! with Lysander?

HELENA

With Demetrius.

LYSANDER

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

DEMETRIUS

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

HELENA

O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd:

She was a vixen when she went to school;

And, though she be but little, she is fierce.

HERMIA

Little again! nothing but low and little!—

Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

Let me come to her.

LYSANDER

Get you gone, you dwarf;

You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made;

You bead, you acorn.

DEMETRIUS

You are too officious

In her behalf that scorns your services.

Let her alone: speak not of Helena;

Take not her part; for if thou dost intend

Never so little show of love to her,

Thou shalt aby it.

LYSANDER

Now she holds me not;

Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right,

Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.

DEMETRIUS

Follow! nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole.

[Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS.]

HERMIA

You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you:

Nay, go not back.

HELENA

I will not trust you, I;

Nor longer stay in your curst company.

Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray;

My legs are longer though, to run away.

[Exit.]

HERMIA

I am amaz'd, and know not what to say.

[Exit, pursuing HELENA.]

OBERON

This is thy negligence: still thou mistak'st,

Or else commit'st thy knaveries willfully.

PUCK

Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.

Did not you tell me I should know the man

By the Athenian garments he had on?

And so far blameless proves my enterprise

That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes:

And so far am I glad it so did sort,

As this their jangling I esteem a sport.

OBERON

Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight;

Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;

The starry welkin cover thou anon

With drooping fog, as black as Acheron,

And lead these testy rivals so astray

As one come not within another's way.

Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,

Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;

And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;

And from each other look thou lead them thus,

Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep

With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:

Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye;

Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,

To take from thence all error with his might

And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.

When they next wake, all this derision

Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision;

And back to Athens shall the lovers wend

With league whose date till death shall never end.

Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,

I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy;

And then I will her charmed eye release

From monster's view, and all things shall be peace.

PUCK

My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,

For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast;

And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger,

At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there,

Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,

That in cross-ways and floods have burial,

Already to their wormy beds are gone;

For fear lest day should look their shames upon

They wilfully exile themselves from light,

And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.

OBERON

But we are spirits of another sort:

I with the morning's love have oft made sport;

And, like a forester, the groves may tread

Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,

Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,

Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams.

But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:

We may effect this business yet ere day.

[Exit OBERON.]

PUCK

Up and down, up and down;

I will lead them up and down:

I am fear'd in field and town.

Goblin, lead them up and down.

Here comes one.

[Enter LYSANDER.]

LYSANDER

Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

PUCK

Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou?

LYSANDER

I will be with thee straight.

PUCK

Follow me, then,

To plainer ground.

[Exit LYSANDER as following the voice.]

[Enter DEMETRIUS.]

DEMETRIUS

Lysander! speak again.

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

Speak. In some bush? where dost thou hide thy head?

PUCK

Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,

Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,

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

I'll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled

That draws a sword on thee.

DEMETRIUS

Yea, art thou there?

PUCK

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

[Exeunt.]

[Re-enter LYSANDER.]

LYSANDER

He goes before me, and still dares me on;

When I come where he calls, then he is gone.

The villain is much lighter heeled than I:

I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly;

That fallen am I in dark uneven way,

And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day!

[Lies down.]

For if but once thou show me thy grey light,

I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.

[Sleeps.]

[Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS.]

PUCK

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not?

DEMETRIUS

Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot

Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place;

And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face.

Where art thou?

PUCK

Come hither; I am here.

DEMETRIUS

Nay, then, thou mock'st me.

Thou shalt buy this dear,

If ever I thy face by daylight see:

Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me

To measure out my length on this cold bed.—

By day's approach look to be visited.

[Lies down and sleeps.]

[Enter HELENA.]

HELENA

O weary night, O long and tedious night,

Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east,

That I may back to Athens by daylight,

From these that my poor company detest:—

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,

Steal me awhile from mine own company.

[Sleeps.]

PUCK

Yet but three? Come one more;

Two of both kinds makes up four.

Here she comes, curst and sad:—

Cupid is a knavish lad,

Thus to make poor females mad.

[Enter HERMIA.]

HERMIA

Never so weary, never so in woe,

Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers;

I can no further crawl, no further go;

My legs can keep no pace with my desires.

Here will I rest me till the break of day.

Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

[Lies down.]

PUCK

On the ground

Sleep sound:

I'll apply

To your eye,

Gentle lover, remedy.

[Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eye.]

When thou wak'st,

Thou tak'st

True delight

In the sight

Of thy former lady's eye:

And the country proverb known,

That every man should take his own,

In your waking shall be shown:

Jack shall have Jill;

Nought shall go ill;

The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.

[Exit PUCK.—DEMETRIUS, HELENA &c, sleep.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Wood.

[Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM; PEASBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, MUSTARDSEED, and other FAIRIES attending; OBERON behind, unseen.]

TITANIA

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.

BOTTOM

Where's Peasblossom?

PEASBLOSSOM

Ready.

BOTTOM

Scratch my head, Peasblossom. Where's Monsieur Cobweb?

COBWEB

Ready.

BOTTOM

Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get you 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 loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior.—Where's Monsieur Mustardseed?

MUSTARDSEED

Ready.

BOTTOM

Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good monsieur.

MUSTARDSEED

What's your will?

BOTTOM

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

TITANIA

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

BOTTOM

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

TITANIA

Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat.

BOTTOM

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

TITANIA

I have a venturous fairy that shall seek

The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

BOTTOM

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.

TITANIA

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!

[They sleep.]

[OBERON advances. Enter PUCK.]

OBERON

Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight?

Her dotage now I do begin to pity.

For, meeting her of late behind the wood,

Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,

I did upbraid her and fall out with her:

For she his hairy temples then had rounded

With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;

And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,

Stood now within the pretty 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

But as the fierce vexation of a dream.

But first I will release the fairy queen.

Be as thou wast wont to be;

[Touching her eyes with an herb.]

See as thou was wont to see.

Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower

Hath such force and blessed power.

Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

TITANIA

My Oberon! what visions have I seen!

Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.

OBERON

There lies your love.

TITANIA

How came these things to pass?

O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!

OBERON

Silence awhile.—Robin, take off this head.

Titania, music call; and strike more dead

Than common sleep, of all these five, the sense.

TITANIA

Music, ho! music; such as charmeth sleep.

PUCK

Now when thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes peep.

OBERON

Sound, music. [Still music.] Come, my queen, take hands with me,

And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.

Now thou and I are new in amity,

And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,

And bless it to all fair prosperity:

There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be

Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.

PUCK

Fairy king, attend and mark;

I do hear the morning lark.

OBERON

Then, my queen, in silence sad,

Trip we after night's shade.

We the globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wand'ring moon.

TITANIA

Come, my lord; and in our flight,

Tell me how it came this night

That I sleeping here was found

With these mortals on the ground.

[Exeunt. Horns sound within.]

[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.]

THESEUS

Go, one of you, find out the forester;—

For now our observation is perform'd;

And since we have the vaward of the day,

My love shall hear the music of my hounds,—

Uncouple in the western valley; go:—

Despatch, I say, and find the forester.—

[Exit an ATTENDANT.]

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,

And mark the musical confusion

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

HIPPOLYTA

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once

When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear

With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear

Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,

The skies, the fountains, every region near

Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

THESEUS

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew;

Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls;

Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tuneable

Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly.

Judge when you hear.—But, soft, what nymphs are these?

EGEUS

My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;

And this Lysander; this Demetrius is;

This Helena, old Nedar's Helena:

I wonder of their being here together.

THESEUS

No doubt they rose up early to observe

The rite of May; and, hearing our intent,

Came here in grace of our solemnity.—

But speak, Egeus; is not this the day

That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

EGEUS

It is, my lord.

THESEUS

Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.

[Horns, and shout within. DEMETRIUS, LYSANDER,HERMIA, and HELENA awake and start up.]

Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past;

Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

LYSANDER

Pardon, my lord.

[He and the rest kneel to THESEUS.]

THESEUS

I pray you all, stand up.

I know you two are rival enemies;

How comes this gentle concord in the world,

That hatred is so far from jealousy

To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

LYSANDER

My lord, I shall reply amazedly,

Half 'sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear,

I cannot truly say how I came here:

But, as I think,—for truly would I speak—

And now I do bethink me, so it is,—

I came with Hermia hither: our intent

Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be,

Without the peril of the Athenian law.

EGEUS

Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough;

I beg the law, the law upon his head.—

They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius,

Thereby to have defeated you and me:

You of your wife, and me of my consent,—

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

DEMETRIUS

My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,

Of this their purpose hither to this wood;

And I in fury hither follow'd them,

Fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,—

But by some power it is,—my love to Hermia,

Melted as the snow—seems to me now

As the remembrance of an idle gawd

Which in my childhood I did dote upon:

And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

The object and the pleasure of mine eye,

Is only Helena. To her, my lord,

Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia:

But, like a sickness, did I loathe this food;

But, as in health, come to my natural taste,

Now I do wish it, love it, long for it,

And will for evermore be true to it.

THESEUS

Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:

Of this discourse we more will hear anon.—

Egeus, I will overbear your will;

For in the temple, by and by with us,

These couples shall eternally be knit.

And, for the morning now is something worn,

Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside.—

Away with us to Athens, three and three,

We'll hold a feast in great solemnity.—

Come, Hippolyta.

[Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.]

DEMETRIUS

These things seem small and undistinguishable,

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

HERMIA

Methinks I see these things with parted eye,

When every thing seems double.

HELENA

So methinks:

And I have found Demetrius like a jewel.

Mine own, and not mine own.

DEMETRIUS

It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream.—Do not you think

The duke was here, and bid us follow him?

HERMIA

Yea, and my father.

HELENA

And Hippolyta.

LYSANDER

And he did bid us follow to the temple.

DEMETRIUS

Why, then, we are awake: let's follow him;

And by the way let us recount our dreams.

[Exeunt.]

[As they go out, BOTTOM awakes.]

BOTTOM

When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is 'Most fair Pyramus.'—Heigh-ho!—Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stol'n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say what dream it was.—Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the duke: peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Athens. A Room in QUINCE'S House.

[Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.]

QUINCE

Have you sent to Bottom's house? is he come home yet?

STARVELING

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

FLUTE

If he come not, then the play is marred; it goes not forward, doth it?

QUINCE

It is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

FLUTE

No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens.

QUINCE

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

FLUTE

You must say paragon: a paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught.

[Enter SNUG.]

SNUG

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

FLUTE

O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have 'scaped sixpence a-day; an the duke had not given him sixpence a-day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a-day in Pyramus, or nothing.

[Enter BOTTOM.]

BOTTOM

Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

QUINCE

Bottom!—O most courageous day! O most happy hour!

BOTTOM

Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out.

QUINCE

Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

BOTTOM

Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together; good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look over his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words: away! go; away!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of THESEUS.

[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, Lords, and Attendants.]

HIPPOLYTA

'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

THESEUS

More strange than true. I never may believe

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

Are of imagination all compact:

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;

That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,

Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,

That, if it would but apprehend some joy,

It comprehends some bringer of that joy;

Or in the night, imagining some fear,

How easy is a bush supposed a bear?

HIPPOLYTA

But all the story of the night told over,

And all their minds transfigur'd so together,

More witnesseth than fancy's images,

And grows to something of great constancy;

But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

[Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA.]

THESEUS

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.—

Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love

Accompany your hearts!

LYSANDER

More than to us

Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

THESEUS

Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours

Between our after-supper and bed-time?

Where is our usual manager of mirth?

What revels are in hand? Is there no play

To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.

PHILOSTRATE

Here, mighty Theseus.

THESEUS

Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?

What masque? what music? How shall we beguile

The lazy time, if not with some delight?

PHILOSTRATE

There is a brief how many sports are ripe;

Make choice of which your highness will see first.

[Giving a paper.]

THESEUS

[Reads.]

'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung

By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.'

We'll none of that: that have I told my love,

In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,

Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.'

That is an old device, and it was play'd

When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death

Of learning, late deceas'd in beggary.'

That is some satire, keen and critical,

Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus

And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.'

Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!

That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow.

How shall we find the concord of this discord?

PHILOSTRATE

A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,

Which is as brief as I have known a play;

But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,

Which makes it tedious: for in all the play

There is not one word apt, one player fitted:

And tragical, my noble lord, it is;

For Pyramus therein doth kill himself:

Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess,

Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears

The passion of loud laughter never shed.

THESEUS

What are they that do play it?

PHILOSTRATE

Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,

Which never labour'd in their minds till now;

And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories

With this same play against your nuptial.

THESEUS

And we will hear it.

PHILOSTRATE

No, my noble lord,

It is not for you: I have heard it over,

And it is nothing, nothing in the world;

Unless you can find sport in their intents,

Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain,

To do you service.

THESEUS

I will hear that play;

For never anything can be amiss

When simpleness and duty tender it.

Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

[Exit PHILOSTRATE.]

HIPPOLYTA

I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged,

And duty in his service perishing.

THESEUS

Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

HIPPOLYTA

He says they can do nothing in this kind.

THESEUS

The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.

Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:

And what poor duty cannot do,

Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.

Where I have come, great clerks have purposed

To greet me with premeditated welcomes;

Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,

Make periods in the midst of sentences,

Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears,

And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,

Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,

Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome;

And in the modesty of fearful duty

I read as much as from the rattling tongue

Of saucy and audacious eloquence.

Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity

In least speak most to my capacity.

[Enter PHILOSTRATE.]

PHILOSTRATE

So please your grace, the prologue is address'd.

THESEUS

Let him approach.

[Flourish of trumpets. Enter PROLOGUE.]

PROLOGUE

'If we offend, it is with our good will.

That you should think, we come not to offend,

But with good will. To show our simple skill,

That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then, we come but in despite.

We do not come, as minding to content you,

Our true intent is. All for your delight

We are not here. That you should here repent you,

The actors are at hand: and, by their show,

You shall know all that you are like to know,'

THESEUS

This fellow doth not stand upon points.

LYSANDER

He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

HIPPOLYTA

Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

THESEUS

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

[Enter PYRAMUS and THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION, as in dumb show.]

PROLOGUE

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;

But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.

This man is Pyramus, if you would know;

This beauteous lady Thisby is certain.

This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present

Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;

And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content

To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.

This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,

Presenteth Moonshine: for, if you will know,

By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn

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

This grisly beast, which by name Lion hight,

The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,

Did scare away, or rather did affright;

And as she fled, her mantle she did fall;

Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain:

Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall,

And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain;

Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,

He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast;

And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,

Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,

At large discourse while here they do remain.

[Exeunt PROLOGUE, THISBE, LION, and MOONSHINE.]

THESEUS

I wonder if the lion be to speak.

DEMETRIUS

No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.

WALL

In this same interlude it doth befall

That I, one Snout by name, present a wall:

And such a wall as I would have you think

That had in it a crannied hole or chink,

Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,

Did whisper often very secretly.

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show

That I am that same wall; the truth is so:

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

THESEUS

Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

DEMETRIUS

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

THESEUS

Pyramus draws near the wall; silence.

[Enter PYRAMUS.]

PYRAMUS

O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black!

O night, which ever art when day is not!

O night, O night, alack, alack, alack,

I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!—

And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall,

That stand'st between her father's ground and mine;

Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,

Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne.

[WALL holds up his fingers.]

Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!

But what see what see I? No Thisby do I see.

O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss,

Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

THESEUS

The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

PYRAMUS

No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me' is Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you.—Yonder she comes.

[Enter THISBE.]

THISBE

O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me:

My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones:

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

PYRAMUS

I see a voice; now will I to the chink,

To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face.

Thisby!

THISBE

My love! thou art my love, I think.

PYRAMUS

Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace;

And like Limander am I trusty still.

THISBE

And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.

PYRAMUS

Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

THISBE

As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

PYRAMUS

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

THISBE

I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

PYRAMUS

Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?

THISBE

'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay.

WALL

Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so;

And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

[Exeunt WALL, PYRAMUS and THISBE.]

THESEUS

Now is the mure raised between the two neighbours.

DEMETRIUS

No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

HIPPOLYTA

This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

THESEUS

The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

HIPPOLYTA

It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

THESEUS

If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a moon and a lion.

[Enter LION and MOONSHINE.]

LION

You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear

The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,

May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here,

When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am

A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam:

For, if I should as lion come in strife

Into this place, 'twere pity on my life.

THESEUS

A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

DEMETRIUS

The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw.

LYSANDER

This lion is a very fox for his valour.

THESEUS

True; and a goose for his discretion.

DEMETRIUS

Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose.

THESEUS

His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

MOONSHINE

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present:

DEMETRIUS

He should have worn the horns on his head.

THESEUS

He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference.

MOONSHINE

This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;

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

THESEUS

This is the greatest error of all the rest: the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' the moon?

DEMETRIUS

He dares not come there for the candle: for, you see, it is already in snuff.

HIPPOLYTA

I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

THESEUS

It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane: but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time.

LYSANDER

Proceed, moon.

MOON

All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I, the man i' the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

DEMETRIUS

Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe.

[Enter THISBE.]

THISBE

This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?

LION

O—!

[The LION roars.—THISBE runs off.]

DEMETRIUS

Well roared, lion.

THESEUS

Well run, Thisbe.

HIPPOLYTA

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

[The LION tears THISBE'S Mantle, and exit.]

THESEUS

Well moused, lion.

DEMETRIUS

And so comes Pyramus.

LYSANDER

And then the lion vanishes.

[Enter PYRAMUS.]

PYRAMUS

Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;

I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright:

For, by thy gracious golden, glittering streams,

I trust to take of truest Thisby's sight.

But stay;—O spite!

But mark,—poor knight,

What dreadful dole is here!

Eyes, do you see?

How can it be?

O dainty duck! O dear!

Thy mantle good,

What! stained with blood?

Approach, ye furies fell!

O fates! come, come;

Cut thread and thrum;

Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!

THESEUS

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

HIPPOLYTA

Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

PYRAMUS

O wherefore, nature, didst thou lions frame?

Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear;

Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame

That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer.

Come, tears, confound;

Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus:

Ay, that left pap,

Where heart doth hop:—

Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.

Now am I dead,

Now am I fled;

My soul is in the sky:

Tongue, lose thy light!

Moon, take thy flight!

Now die, die, die, die, die.

[Dies. Exit MOONSHINE.]

DEMETRIUS

No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

LYSANDER

Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.

THESEUS

With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass.

HIPPOLYTA

How chance moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover?

THESEUS

She will find him by starlight.—Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.

[Enter THISBE.]

HIPPOLYTA

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

DEMETRIUS

A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better.

LYSANDER

She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

DEMETRIUS

And thus she moans, videlicet.—

THISBE

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise,

Speak, speak. Quite dumb?

Dead, dead? A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone:

Lovers, make moan!

His eyes were green as leeks.

O Sisters Three,

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,

Since you have shore

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word:—

Come, trusty sword;

Come, blade, my breast imbrue;

And farewell, friends:—

Thus Thisbe ends;

Adieu, adieu, adieu.

[Dies.]

THESEUS

Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead.

DEMETRIUS

Ay, and wall too.

BOTTOM

No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company?

THESEUS

No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone.

[Here a dance of Clowns.]

The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:—

Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.

I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,

As much as we this night have overwatch'd.

This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd

The heavy gait of night.—Sweet friends, to bed.—

A fortnight hold we this solemnity,

In nightly revels and new jollity.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter PUCK.]

PUCK

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon;

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,

All with weary task 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 its 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 their Train.]

OBERON

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.

TITANIA

First, rehearse your song by rote,

To each word a warbling note;

Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

Will we sing, and bless this place.

[Song and Dance.]

OBERON

Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray,

To the best bride-bed will we,

Which by us shall blessed be;

And the issue there create

Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three

Ever true in loving be;

And the blots of Nature's hand

Shall not in their issue stand:

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.—

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gate;

And each several chamber bless,

Through this palace, with sweet peace;

E'er shall it in safety rest,

And the owner of it blest.

Trip away:

Make no stay:

Meet me all by break of day.

[Exeunt OBERON, TITANIA, and Train.]

PUCK

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this,—and all is mended,—

That you have but slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend;

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call:

So, good night unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

[Exit.]

THE END

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

List of Characters

DON PEDRO: Prince of Arragon.

DON JOHN: his bastard Brother.

CLAUDIO: a young Lord of Florence.

BENEDICK: a young Lord of Padua.

LEONATO: Governor of Messina.

ANTONIO: his Brother.

BALTHAZAR: Servant to Don Pedro.

BORACHIO: follower of Don John.

CONRADE: follower of Don John.

DOGBERRY: a Constable.

VERGES: a Headborough.

FRIAR FRANCIS.

A Sexton.

A Boy.

HERO: Daughter to Leonato.

BEATRICE: Niece to Leonato.

MARGARET: Waiting-gentlewoman attending on Hero.

URSULA: Waiting-gentlewoman attending on Hero.

Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c.

SCENE. Messina.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Before LEONATO'S House.

[Enter LEONATO, HERO, BEATRICE and others, with a Messenger.]

LEONATO.

I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.

MESSENGER.

He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him.

LEONATO.

How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

MESSENGER.

But few of any sort, and none of name.

LEONATO.

A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.

MESSENGER.

Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.

LEONATO.

He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.

MESSENGER.

I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness.

LEONATO.

Did he break out into tears?

MESSENGER.

In great measure.

LEONATO.

A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed; how much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

BEATRICE.

I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no?

MESSENGER.

I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort.

LEONATO.

What is he that you ask for, niece?

HERO.

My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

MESSENGER.

O! he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was.

BEATRICE.

He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat all of his killing.

LEONATO.

Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

MESSENGER.

He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

BEATRICE.

You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it; he is a very valiant trencher-man; he hath an excellent stomach.

MESSENGER.

And a good soldier too, lady.

BEATRICE.

And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord?

MESSENGER.

A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues.

BEATRICE.

It is so indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing,—well, we are all mortal.

LEONATO.

You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her; they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them.

BEATRICE.

Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one! so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.

MESSENGER.

Is't possible?

BEATRICE.

Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

MESSENGER.

I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

BEATRICE.

No;an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

MESSENGER.

He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

BEATRICE.

O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere a' be cured.

MESSENGER.

I will hold friends with you, lady.

BEATRICE.

Do, good friend.

LEONATO.

You will never run mad, niece.

BEATRICE.

No, not till a hot January.

MESSENGER.

Don Pedro is approached.

[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHAZAR, and Others.]

DON PEDRO.

Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

LEONATO.

Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.

DON PEDRO.

You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter.

LEONATO.

Her mother hath many times told me so.

BENEDICK.

Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

LEONATO.

Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.

DON PEDRO.

You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honourable father.

BENEDICK.

If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is.

BEATRICE.

I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.

BENEDICK.

What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?

BEATRICE.

Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence.

BENEDICK.

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart;for, truly, I love none.

BEATRICE.

A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

BENEDICK.

God keep your ladyship still in that mind;so some gentleman or other shallscape a predestinate scratched face.

BEATRICE.

Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.

BENEDICK.

Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

BEATRICE.

A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

BENEDICK.

I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's name; I have done.

BEATRICE.

You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.

DON PEDRO.

That is the sum of all, Leonato: Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartly prays some occasion may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

LEONATO.

If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.

[To DON JOHN] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

DON JOHN.

I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you.

LEONATO.

Please it your Grace lead on?

DON PEDRO.

Your hand, Leonato;we will go together.

[Exeunt all but BENEDICK and CLAUDIO.]

CLAUDIO.

Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

BENEDICK.

I noted her not; but I looked on her.

CLAUDIO.

Is she not a modest young lady?

BENEDICK.

Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?

CLAUDIO.

No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

BENEDICK.

Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise; only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her.

CLAUDIO.

Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her.

BENEDICK.

Would you buy her, that you enquire after her?

CLAUDIO.

Can the world buy such a jewel?

BENEDICK.

Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song?

CLAUDIO.

In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.

BENEDICK.

I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter: there's her cousin an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

CLAUDIO.

I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

BENEDICK.

Is't come to this, i' faith? Hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you.

[Re-enter DON PEDRO.]

DON PEDRO.

What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's?

BENEDICK.

I would your Grace would constrain me to tell.

DON PEDRO.

I charge thee on thy allegiance.

BENEDICK.

You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but on my allegiance mark you this, on my allegiance: he is in love. With who? now that is your Grace's part. Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato's short daughter.

CLAUDIO.

If this were so, so were it uttered.

BENEDICK.

Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor 'twas not so; but indeed, God forbid it should be so.'

CLAUDIO.

If my passion change not shortly. God forbid it should be otherwise.

DON PEDRO.

Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.

CLAUDIO.

You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

By my troth, I speak my thought.

CLAUDIO.

And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

BENEDICK.

And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.

CLAUDIO.

That I love her, I feel.

DON PEDRO.

That she is worthy, I know.

BENEDICK.

That I neither feel how she should be loved nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

DON PEDRO.

Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty.

CLAUDIO.

And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will.

BENEDICK.

That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks; but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,—for the which I may go the finer,—I will live a bachelor.

DON PEDRO.

I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

BENEDICK.

With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid.

DON PEDRO.

Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.

BENEDICK.

If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam.

DON PEDRO.

Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.'

BENEDICK.

The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, 'Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'

CLAUDIO.

If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.

DON PEDRO.

Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

BENEDICK.

I look for an earthquake too then.

DON PEDRO.

Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation.

BENEDICK.

I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you—

CLAUDIO.

To the tuition of God: from my house, if I had it,—

DON PEDRO.

The sixth of July: your loving friend, Benedick.

BENEDICK.

Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you.

[Exit.]

CLAUDIO.

My liege, your highness now may do me good.

DON PEDRO.

My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,

And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn

Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

CLAUDIO.

Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

DON PEDRO.

No child but Hero;s he's his only heir.

Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

CLAUDIO.

O! my lord,

When you went onward on this ended action,

I looked upon her with a soldier's eye,

That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand

Than to drive liking to the name of love;

But now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts

Have left their places vacant, in their rooms

Come thronging soft and delicate desires,

All prompting me how fair young Hero is,

Saying, I lik'd her ere I went to wars.

DON PEDRO.

Thou wilt be like a lover presently,

And tire the hearer with a book of words.

If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,

And I will break with her, and with her father,

And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end

That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?

CLAUDIO.

How sweetly you do minister to love,

That know love's grief by his complexion!

But lest my liking might too sudden seem,

I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.

DON PEDRO.

What need the bridge much broader than the flood?

The fairest grant is the necessity.

Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lov'st,

And I will fit thee with the remedy.

I know we shall have revelling to-night:

I will assume thy part in some disguise,

And tell fair Hero I am Claudio;

And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart,

And take her hearing prisoner with the force

And strong encounter of my amorous tale:

Then, after to her father will I break;

And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.

In practice let us put it presently.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

A room in LEONATO'S house.

[Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, meeting.]

LEONATO.

How now, brother! Where is my cousin your son? Hath he provided this music?

ANTONIO.

He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.

LEONATO.

Are they good?

ANTONIO.

As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it.

LEONATO.

Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

ANTONIO.

A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself.

LEONATO.

No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you, and tell her of it.

[Several persons cross the stage.]

Cousins, you know what you have to do. O!I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Another room in LEONATO'S house.

[Enter DON JOHN and CONRADE.]

CONRADE.

What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad?

DON JOHN.

There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit.

CONRADE.

You should hear reason.

DON JOHN.

And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it?

CONRADE.

If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.

DON JOHN.

I wonder that thou, being, —as thou say'st thou art,—born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man's jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man's leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man's business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour.

CONRADE.

Yea; but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.

DON JOHN.

I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me.

CONRADE.

Can you make no use of your discontent?

DON JOHN.

I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here?

[Enter Borachio.]

What news, Borachio?

BORACHIO.

I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your brother is royally entertained by Leonato; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.

DON JOHN.

Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?

BORACHIO.

Marry, it is your brother's right hand.

DON JOHN.

Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

BORACHIO.

Even he.

DON JOHN.

A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he?

BORACHIO.

Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.

DON JOHN.

A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

BORACHIO.

Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.

DON JOHN.

Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?

CONRADE.

To the death, my lord.

DON JOHN.

Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go to prove what's to be done?

BORACHIO.

We'll wait upon your lordship.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A hall in LEONATO'S house.

[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and Others.]

LEONATO.

Was not Count John here at supper?

ANTONIO.

I saw him not.

BEATRICE.

How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

HERO.

He is of a very melancholy disposition.

BEATRICE.

He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.

LEONATO.

Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face,—

BEATRICE.

With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world ifa' could get her good will.

LEONATO.

By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

ANTONIO.

In faith, she's too curst.

BEATRICE.

Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.

LEONATO.

So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns?

BEATRICE.

Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

LEONATO.

You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

BEATRICE.

What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell.

LEONATO.

Well then, go you into hell?

BEATRICE.

No; but to the gate; and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here's no place for you maids: 'so deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

ANTONIO.

[To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father.

BEATRICE.

Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy, and say, 'Father, as it please you:'— but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, 'Father, as it please me.'

LEONATO.

Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

BEATRICE.

Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kinred.

LEONATO.

Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

BEATRICE.

The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinquepace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

LEONATO.

Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

BEATRICE.

I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight.

LEONATO.

The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.

[Enter, DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR, DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA, and Others, masked.]

DON PEDRO.

Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

HERO.

So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

DON PEDRO.

With me in your company?

HERO.

I may say so, when I please.

DON PEDRO.

And when please you to say so?

HERO.

When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case!

DON PEDRO.

My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.

HERO.

Why, then, your visor should be thatch'd.

DON PEDRO.

Speak low, if you speak love.

[Takes her aside.]

BALTHAZAR.

Well, I would you did like me.

MARGARET.

So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities.

BALTHAZAR.

Which is one?

MARGARET.

I say my prayers aloud.

BALTHAZAR.

I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen.

MARGARET.

God match me with a good dancer!

BALTHAZAR.

Amen.

MARGARET.

And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.

BALTHAZAR.

No more words: the clerk is answered.

URSULA.

I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio.

ANTONIO.

At a word, I am not.

URSULA.

I know you by the waggling of your head.

ANTONIO.

To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

URSULA.

You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he.

ANTONIO.

At a word, I am not.

URSULA.

Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an end.

BEATRICE.

Will you not tell me who told you so?

BENEDICK.

No, you shall pardon me.

BEATRICE.

Nor will you not tell me who you are?

BENEDICK.

Not now.

BEATRICE.

That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales.' Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so.

BENEDICK.

What's he?

BEATRICE.

I am sure you know him well enough.

BENEDICK.

Not I, believe me.

BEATRICE.

Did he never make you laugh?

BENEDICK.

I pray you, what is he?

BEATRICE.

Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me!

BENEDICK.

When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.

BEATRICE.

Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders.

BENEDICK.

In every good thing.

BEATRICE.

Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning.

[Dance. Then exeunt all but DON JOHN, BORACHIO, and CLAUDIO.]

DON JOHN.

Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

BORACHIO.

And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

DON JOHN.

Are you not Signior Benedick?

CLAUDIO.

You know me well; I am he.

DON JOHN.

Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may do the part of an honest man in it.

CLAUDIO.

How know you he loves her?

DON JOHN.

I heard him swear his affection.

BORACHIO.

So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

DON JOHN.

Come, let us to the banquet.

[Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO.]

CLAUDIO.

Thus answer I in name of Benedick,

But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.

'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.

Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love:

herefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself

And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch

Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.

This is an accident of hourly proof,

Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

[Re-enter Benedick.]

BENEDICK.

Count Claudio?

CLAUDIO.

Yea, the same.

BENEDICK.

Come, will you go with me?

CLAUDIO.

Whither?

BENEDICK.

Even to the next willow, about your own business, count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer's chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.

CLAUDIO.

I wish him joy of her.

BENEDICK.

Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would have served you thus?

CLAUDIO.

I pray you, leave me.

BENEDICK.

Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.

CLAUDIO.

If it will not be, I'll leave you.

[Exit.]

BENEDICK.

Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The prince's fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it is the base though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.

[Re-enter Don Pedro.]

DON PEDRO.

Now, signior, where's the count? Did you see him?

BENEDICK.

Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

DON PEDRO.

To be whipped! What's his fault?

BENEDICK.

The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy'd with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it.

DON PEDRO.

Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer.

BENEDICK.

Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird's nest.

DON PEDRO.

I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner.

BENEDICK.

If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly.

DON PEDRO.

The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you.

BENEDICK.

O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it, would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her.

[Re-enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO.]

DON PEDRO.

Look! here she comes.

BENEDICK.

Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me?

DON PEDRO.

None, but to desire your good company.

BENEDICK.

O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue.

[Exit.]

DON PEDRO.

Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.

BEATRICE.

Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it.

DON PEDRO.

You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

BEATRICE.

So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

DON PEDRO.

Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

CLAUDIO.

Not sad, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

How then? Sick?

CLAUDIO.

Neither, my lord.

BEATRICE.

The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.

DON PEDRO.

I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy!

LEONATO.

Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it!

BEATRICE.

Speak, Count, 'tis your cue.

CLAUDIO.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.

BEATRICE.

Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

DON PEDRO.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

BEATRICE.

Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.

CLAUDIO.

And so she doth, cousin.

BEATRICE.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

DON PEDRO.

Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

BEATRICE.

I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your Grace ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

DON PEDRO.

Will you have me, lady?

BEATRICE.

No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your Grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

DON PEDRO.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

BEATRICE.

No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy!

LEONATO.

Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

BEATRICE.

I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace's pardon.

[Exit.]

DON PEDRO.

By my troth, a pleasant spirited lady.

LEONATO.

There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing.

DON PEDRO.

She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

LEONATO.

O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

DON PEDRO.

She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

LEONATO.

O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.

DON PEDRO.

Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

CLAUDIO.

To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.

LEONATO.

Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind.

DON PEDRO.

Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules' labours, which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction.

LEONATO.

My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings.

CLAUDIO.

And I, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

And you too, gentle Hero?

HERO.

I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.

DON PEDRO.

And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Another room in LEONATO'S house.

[Enter DON JOHN and BORACHIO.]

DON JOHN.

It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato.

BORACHIO.

Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

DON JOHN.

Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?

BORACHIO.

Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.

DON JOHN.

Show me briefly how.

BORACHIO.

I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentlewoman to Hero.

DON JOHN.

I remember.

BORACHIO.

I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.

DON JOHN.

What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?

BORACHIO.

The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio,—whose estimation do you mightily hold up,—to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

DON JOHN.

What proof shall I make of that?

BORACHIO.

Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue?

DON JOHN.

Only to despite them, I will endeavour anything.

BORACHIO.

Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown.

DON JOHN.

Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.

BORACHIO.

Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me.

DON JOHN.

I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

LEONATO'S Garden.

[Enter Benedick.]

BENEDICK.

Boy!

[Enter a Boy.]

BOY.

Signior?

BENEDICK.

In my chamber-window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard.

BOY.

I am here already, sir.

BENEDICK.

I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.

[Exit Boy.]

I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

[Withdraws.]

[Enter DON PEDRO, LEONATO, and CLAUDIO, followed by BALTHAZAR and Musicians.]

DON PEDRO.

Come, shall we hear this music?

CLAUDIO.

Yea, my good lord.

How still the evening is,

As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!

DON PEDRO.

See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

CLAUDIO.

O! very well, my lord: the music ended,

We'll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth.

DON PEDRO.

Come, Balthazar, we'll hear that song again.

BALTHAZAR.

O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice

To slander music any more than once.

DON PEDRO.

It is the witness still of excellency,

To put a strange face on his own perfection.

I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

BALTHAZAR.

Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;

Since many a wooer doth commence his suit

To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes;

Yet will he swear he loves.

DON PEDRO.

Nay, pray thee come;

Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Do it in notes.

BALTHAZAR.

Note this before my notes;

There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

DON PEDRO.

Why these are very crotchets that he speaks;

Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing!

[Music.]

BENEDICK.

Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheep's gutsshould hale souls out of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all's done.

[Balthasar sings.]

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so,

But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo

Of dumps so dull and heavy;

The fraud of men was ever so,

Since summer first was leavy.

Then sigh not so, But let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

DON PEDRO.

By my troth, a good song.

BALTHAZAR.

And an ill singer, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

BENEDICK.

[Aside.] An he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it.

DON PEDRO.

Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window.

BALTHAZAR.

The best I can, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

Do so: farewell.

[Exeunt BALTHAZAR and Musicians.]

Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?

CLAUDIO.

O! ay:— [Aside to DON PEDRO] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man.

LEONATO.

No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.

BENEDICK.

[Aside.] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

LEONATO.

By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

DON PEDRO.

May be she doth but counterfeit.

CLAUDIO.

Faith, like enough.

LEONATO.

O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it.

DON PEDRO.

Why, what effects of passion shows she?

CLAUDIO.

[Aside.] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.

LEONATO.

What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio.] You heard my daughter tell you how.

CLAUDIO.

She did, indeed.

DON PEDRO.

How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.

LEONATO.

I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick.

BENEDICK.

[Aside] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.

CLAUDIO.

[Aside.] He hath ta'en the infection: hold it up.

DON PEDRO.

Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

LEONATO.

No; and swears she never will: that's her torment.

CLAUDIO.

Tis true, indeed;so your daughter says: 'Shall I,' says she, 'that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?'

LEONATO.

This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she'll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

CLAUDIO.

Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

LEONATO.

O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

CLAUDIO.

That.

LEONATO.

O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her: 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.'

CLAUDIO.

Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; 'O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!'

LEONATO.

She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.

DON PEDRO.

It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.

CLAUDIO.

To what end? he would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse.

DON PEDRO.

An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She's an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous.

CLAUDIO.

And she is exceeding wise.

DON PEDRO.

In everything but in loving Benedick.

LEONATO.

O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

DON PEDRO.

I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what a' will say.

LEONATO.

Were it good, think you?

CLAUDIO.

Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness.

DON PEDRO.

She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a contemptible spirit.

CLAUDIO.

He is a very proper man.

DON PEDRO.

He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

CLAUDIO.

Fore God, and in my mind, very wise.

DON PEDRO.

He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

CLAUDIO.

And I take him to be valiant.

DON PEDRO.

As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear.

LEONATO.

If he do fear God, a' must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling.

DON PEDRO.

And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love?

CLAUDIO.

Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel.

LEONATO.

Nay, that's impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

DON PEDRO.

Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

LEONATO.

My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

CLAUDIO.

[Aside.] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

DON PEDRO.

[Aside.] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentle-woman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter: that's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

[Exeunt DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO.]

BENEDICK.

[Advancing from the arbour.]

This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her;they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: 'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she's a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her.

[Enter BEATRICE.]

BEATRICE.

Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

BENEDICK.

Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

BEATRICE.

I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.

BENEDICK.

You take pleasure then in the message?

BEATRICE.

Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well.

[Exit.]

BENEDICK.

Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,' there's a double meaning in that. 'I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,' that's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Leonato's Garden

.

[Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.]

HERO.

Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour;

There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice

Proposing with the prince and Claudio:

Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursala

Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse

Is all of her; say that thou overheard'st us,

And bid her steal into the pleached bower,

Where honey-suckles, ripen'd by the sun,

Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites,

Made proud by princes, that advance their pride

Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her,

To listen our propose. This is thy office;

Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

MARGARET.

I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

[Exit.]

HERO.

Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,

As we do trace this alley up and down,

Our talk must only be of Benedick:

When I do name him, let it be thy part

To praise him more than ever man did merit.

My talk to thee must be how Benedick

Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter

Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,

That only wounds by hearsay.

[Enter BEATRICE, behind.]

Now begin;

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs

Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

URSULA.

The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish

Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,

And greedily devour the treacherous bait:

So angle we for Beatrice; who even now

Is couched in the woodbine coverture.

Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

HERO.

Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing

Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

[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.

URSULA.

But are you sure

That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

HERO.

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

URSULA.

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.

URSULA.

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-endear'd.

URSULA.

Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good

She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

HERO.

Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely 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 antick,

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.

URSULA.

Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

HERO.

No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions,

As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,

She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me

Out of myself, press me to death with wit.

Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,

Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:

It were a better death than die with mocks,

Which is as bad as die with tickling.

URSULA.

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'll devise some honest slanders

To stain my cousin with. One doth not know

How much an ill word may empoison liking.

URSULA.

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.

URSULA.

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.

URSULA.

His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.

When are you married, madam?

HERO.

Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:

I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel

Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

URSULA.

She's lim'd, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.

HERO.

If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

[Exeunt HERO and URSULA.]

BEATRICE.

[Advancing.]

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

Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?

Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!

No glory lives behind the back of such.

And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand:

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

To bind our loves up in a holy band;

For others say thou dost deserve, and I

Believe it better than reportingly.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

A Room in LEONATO'S House.

[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and LEONATO.]

DON PEDRO.

I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon.

CLAUDIO.

I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me.

DON PEDRO.

Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

BENEDICK.

Gallants, I am not as I have been.

LEONATO.

So say I: methinks you are sadder.

CLAUDIO.

I hope he be in love.

DON PEDRO.

Hang him, truant! there's no true drop of blood in him, to be truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money.

BENEDICK.

I have the tooth-ache.

DON PEDRO.

Draw it.

BENEDICK.

Hang it.

CLAUDIO.

You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

DON PEDRO.

What! sigh for the tooth-ache?

LEONATO.

Where is but a humour or a worm?

BENEDICK.

Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.

CLAUDIO.

Yet say I, he is in love.

DON PEDRO.

There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

CLAUDIO.

If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a' brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode?

DON PEDRO.

Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

CLAUDIO.

No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls.

LEONATO.

Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

DON PEDRO.

Nay, a' rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that?

CLAUDIO.

That's as much as to say the sweet youth's in love.

DON PEDRO.

The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

CLAUDIO.

And when was he wont to wash his face?

DON PEDRO.

Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him.

CLAUDIO.

Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and new-governed by stops.

DON PEDRO.

Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love.

CLAUDIO.

Nay, but I know who loves him.

DON PEDRO.

That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

CLAUDIO.

Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him.

DON PEDRO.

She shall be buried with her face upwards.

BENEDICK.

Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear.

[Exeunt BENEDICK and LEONATO.]

DON PEDRO.

For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

CLAUDIO.

'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet.

[Enter DON JOHN.]

DON JOHN.

My lord and brother, God save you!

DON PEDRO.

Good den, brother.

DON JOHN.

If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

DON PEDRO.

In private?

DON JOHN.

If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him.

DON PEDRO.

What's the matter?

DON JOHN.

[To CLAUDIO.] Means your lordship to be married to-morrow?

DON PEDRO.

You know he does.

DON JOHN.

I know not that, when he knows what I know.

CLAUDIO.

If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.

DON JOHN.

You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent and labour ill bestowed!

DON PEDRO.

Why, what's the matter?

DON JOHN.

I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she has been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal.

CLAUDIO.

Who, Hero?

DON JOHN.

Even she: Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero.

CLAUDIO.

Disloyal?

DON JOHN.

The word's too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind.

CLAUDIO.

May this be so?

DON PEDRO.

I will not think it.

DON JOHN.

If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.

CLAUDIO.

If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her.

DON PEDRO.

And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her.

DON JOHN.

I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.

DON PEDRO.

O day untowardly turned!

CLAUDIO.

O mischief strangely thwarting!

DON JOHN.

O plague right well prevented!So will you say when you have seen the sequel.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

A Street.

[Enter DOGBERRY and VERGES, with the Watch.]

DOGBERRY.

Are you good men and true?

VERGES.

Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul.

DOGBERRY.

Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch.

VERGES.

Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

DOGBERRY.

First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable?

FIRST WATCH.

Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read.

DOGBERRY.

Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

SECOND WATCH.

Both which, Master Constable,—

DOGBERRY.

You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.

SECOND WATCH.

How, if a' will not stand?

DOGBERRY.

Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave.

VERGES.

If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the prince's subjects.

DOGBERRY.

True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

SECOND WATCH.

We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch.

DOGBERRY.

Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

SECOND WATCH.

How if they will not?

DOGBERRY.

Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for.

SECOND WATCH.

Well, sir.

DOGBERRY.

If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty.

SECOND WATCH.

If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him?

DOGBERRY.

Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.

VERGES.

You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

DOGBERRY.

Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

VERGES.

If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it.

SECOND WATCH.

How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?

DOGBERRY.

Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats.

VERGES.

'Tis very true.

DOGBERRY.

This is the end of the charge. You constable, are to present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him.

VERGES.

Nay, by'r lady, that I think, a' cannot.

DOGBERRY.

Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will.

VERGES.

By'r lady, I think it be so.

DOGBERRY.

Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour.

SECOND WATCH.

Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.

DOGBERRY.

One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you.

[Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES.]

[Enter BORACHIO and CONRADE.]

BORACHIO.

What, Conrade!

WATCH.

[Aside.] Peace! stir not.

BORACHIO.

Conrade, I say!

CONRADE.

Here, man. I am at thy elbow.

BORACHIO.

Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow.

CONRADE.

I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale.

BORACHIO.

Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee.

WATCH.

[Aside.] Some treason, masters; yet stand close.

BORACHIO.

Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

CONRADE.

Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?

BORACHIO.

Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will.

CONRADE.

I wonder at it.

BORACHIO.

That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man.

CONRADE.

Yes, it is apparel.

BORACHIO.

I mean, the fashion.

CONRADE.

Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

BORACHIO.

Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is?

WATCH.

[Aside.] I know that Deformed; a' bas been a vile thief this seven years; a' goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name.

BORACHIO.

Didst thou not hear somebody?

CONRADE.

No: 'twas the vane on the house.

BORACHIO.

Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting; sometime like god Bel's priests in the old church-window; sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?

CONRADE.

All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

BORACHIO.

Not so neither; but know, that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress' chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

CONRADE.

And thought they Margaret was Hero?

BORACHIO.

Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the devil my master, knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o'er night, and send her home again without a husband.

FIRST WATCH.

We charge you in the prince's name, stand!

SECOND WATCH.

Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth.

FIRST WATCH.

And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, a' wears a lock.

CONRADE.

Masters, masters!

SECOND WATCH.

You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.

CONRADE.

Masters,—

FIRST WATCH.

Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.

BORACHIO.

We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills.

CONRADE.

A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

A Room in LEONATO'S House.

[Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.]

HERO.

Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise.

URSULA.

I will, lady.

HERO.

And bid her come hither.

URSULA.

Well.

[Exit.]

MARGARET.

Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

HERO.

No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

MARGARET.

By my troth's not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so.

HERO.

My cousin 's a fool, and thou art another: I'll wear none but this.

MARGARET.

I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown 's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they praise so.

HERO.

O! that exceeds, they say.

MARGARET.

By my troth 's but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a blush tinsel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't.

HERO.

God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy.

MARGARET.

'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

HERO.

Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

MARGARET.

Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, 'saving your reverence, a husband:' an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier for a husband'? None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.

[Enter BEATRICE.]

HERO.

Good morrow, coz.

BEATRICE.

Good morrow, sweet Hero.

HERO.

Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

BEATRICE.

I am out of all other tune, methinks.

MARGARET.

Clap's into 'Light o' love'; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I'll dance it.

BEATRICE.

Ye, light o' love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes.

MARGARET.

O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

BEATRICE.

'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho!

MARGARET.

For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

BEATRICE.

For the letter that begins them all, H.

MARGARET.

Well, an you be not turned Turk, there's no more sailing by the star.

BEATRICE.

What means the fool, trow?

MARGARET.

Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!

HERO.

These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume.

BEATRICE.

I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.

MARGARET.

A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching of cold.

BEATRICE.

O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension?

MARGARET.

Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely!

BEATRICE.

It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick.

MARGARET.

Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

HERO.

There thou prick'st her with a thistle.

BEATRICE.

Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this benedictus.

MARGARET.

Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted, I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do.

BEATRICE.

What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

MARGARET.

Not a false gallop.

[Re-enter URSULA.]

URSULA.

Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town, are come to fetch you to church.

HERO.

Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

Another Room in LEONATO'S House

[Enter LEONATO and DOGBERRY and VERGES.]

LEONATO.

What would you with me, honest neighbour?

DOGBERRY.

Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that decerns you nearly.

LEONATO.

Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

DOGBERRY.

Marry, this it is, sir.

VERGES.

Yes, in truth it is, sir.

LEONATO.

What is it, my good friends?

DOGBERRY.

Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

VERGES.

Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I.

DOGBERRY.

Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

LEONATO.

Neighbours, you are tedious.

DOGBERRY.

It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

LEONATO.

All thy tediousness on me! ha?

DOGBERRY.

Yea, an 't were a thousand pound more than 'tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it.

VERGES.

And so am I.

LEONATO.

I would fain know what you have to say.

VERGES.

Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina.

DOGBERRY.

A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, 'when the age is in, the wit is out.' God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour.

LEONATO.

Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

DOGBERRY.

Gifts that God gives.

LEONATO.

I must leave you.

DOGBERRY.

One word, sir: our watch, sir, hath indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship.

LEONATO.

Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you.

DOGBERRY.

It shall be suffigance.

LEONATO.

Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

[Enter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband.

LEONATO.

I'll wait upon them: I am ready.

[Exeunt LEONATO and Messenger.]

DOGBERRY.

Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men.

VERGES.

And we must do it wisely.

DOGBERRY.

We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Inside of a Church.

[Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, &c.]

LEONATO.

Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards.

FRIAR.

You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?

CLAUDIO.

No.

LEONATO.

To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her.

FRIAR.

Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?

HERO.

I do.

FRIAR.

If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it.

CLAUDIO.

Know you any, Hero?

HERO.

None, my lord.

FRIAR.

Know you any, count?

LEONATO.

I dare make his answer; none.

CLAUDIO.

O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do!

BENEDICK.

How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he!

CLAUDIO.

Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:

Will you with free and unconstrained soul

Give me this maid, your daughter?

LEONATO.

As freely, son, as God did give her me.

CLAUDIO.

And what have I to give you back whose worth

May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

DON PEDRO.

Nothing, unless you render her again.

CLAUDIO.

Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.

There, Leonato, take her back again:

Give not this rotten orange to your friend;

She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.

Behold! how like a maid she blushes here.

O! what authority and show of truth

Can cunning sin cover itself withal.

Comes not that blood as modest evidence

To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,

All you that see her, that she were a maid,

By these exterior shows? But she is none:

She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;

Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

LEONATO.

What do you mean, my lord?

CLAUDIO.

Not to be married,

Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

LEONATO.

Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,

Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,

And made defeat of her virginity,—

CLAUDIO.

I know what you would say: if I have known her,

You'll say she did embrace me as a husband,

And so extenuate theforehand sin: No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large;

But, as a brother to his sister, show'd

Bashful sincerity and comely love.

HERO.

And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?

CLAUDIO.

Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

But you are more intemperate in your blood

Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals

That rage in savage sensuality.

HERO.

Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

LEONATO.

Sweet prince, why speak not you?

DON PEDRO.

What should I speak?

I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about

To link my dear friend to a common stale.

LEONATO.

Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

DON JOHN.

Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

BENEDICK.

This looks not like a nuptial.

HERO.

True! O God!

CLAUDIO.

Leonato, stand I here? Is this the prince?

Is this the prince's brother?

Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own?

LEONATO.

All this is so; but what of this, my lord?

CLAUDIO.

Let me but move one question to your daughter,

And by that fatherly and kindly power

That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

LEONATO.

I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

HERO.

O, God defend me! how am I beset!

What kind of catechizing call you this?

CLAUDIO.

To make you answer truly to your name.

HERO.

Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name

With any just reproach?

CLAUDIO.

Marry, that can Hero:

Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.

hat man was he talk'd with you yesternight

Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one?

Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

HERO.

I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

Why, then are you no maiden.

Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my honour,

Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,

Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,

Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window;

Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,

Confess'd the vile encounters they have had

A thousand times in secret.

DON JOHN.

Fie, fie! they are not to be nam'd, my lord,

Not to be spoke of;

There is not chastity enough in language

Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,

I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

CLAUDIO.

O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,

If half thy outward graces had been plac'd

About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!

But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,

Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!

For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,

And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,

To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,

And never shall it more be gracious.

LEONATO.

Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?

[HERO swoons.]

BEATRICE.

Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

DON JOHN.

Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,

Smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN and CLAUDIO.]

BENEDICK.

How doth the lady?

BEATRICE.

Dead, I think! help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

LEONATO.

O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand:

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish'd for.

BEATRICE.

How now, cousin Hero?

FRIAR.

Have comfort, lady.

LEONATO.

Dost thou look up?

FRIAR.

Yea; wherefore should she not?

LEONATO.

Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing

Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood?

Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;

For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,

Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,

Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,

Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one?

Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?

O! one too much by thee. Why had I one?

Why ever wast thou lovely in mine eyes?

Why had I not with charitable hand

Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,

Who smirched thus, and mir'd with infamy,

I might have said, 'No part of it is mine;

This shame derives itself from unknown loins?'

But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd,

And mine that I was proud on, mine so much

That I myself was to myself not mine,

Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen

Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea

Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,

And salt too little which may season give

To her foul-tainted flesh.

BENEDICK.

Sir, sir, be patient.

For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,

I know not what to say.

BEATRICE.

O! on my soul, my cousin is belied!

BENEDICK.

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

BEATRICE.

No, truly, not; although, until last night I have this

twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

LEONATO.

Confirm'd, confirm'd! O! that is stronger made,

Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron.

Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie,

Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness,

Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

FRIAR.

Hear me a little;

For I have only been silent so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,

By noting of the lady: I have mark'd

A thousand blushing apparitions

To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames

In angel whiteness 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 tenure of my book; trust not my age,

My reverence, calling, nor divinity,

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here

Under some biting error.

LEONATO.

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 modesty doth warrant,

Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father!

Prove you that any man with me convers'd

At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight

Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,

Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.

FRIAR.

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

BENEDICK.

Two of them have the very bent of honour;

And if their wisdoms be misled in this,

The practice of it lives in John the bastard,

Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

LEONATO.

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

These hands shall tear her;if they wrong her honour,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

Nor age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,

Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,

But they shall find, 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 unto a burial.

LEONATO.

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 Claudio:

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 be 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.

BENEDICK.

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.

LEONATO.

Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me.

FRIAR.

'Tis well consented: presently away;

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.

Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day

Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.

[Exeunt FRIAR, HERO, and LEONATO.]

BENEDICK.

Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

BEATRICE.

Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

BENEDICK.

I will not desire that.

BEATRICE.

You have no reason; I do it freely.

BENEDICK.

Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

BEATRICE.

Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her.

BENEDICK.

Is there any way to show such friendship?

BEATRICE.

A very even way, but no such friend.

BENEDICK.

May a man do it?

BEATRICE.

It is a man's office, but not yours.

BENEDICK.

I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?

BEATRICE.

As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

BENEDICK.

By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

BEATRICE.

Do not swear by it, and eat it.

BENEDICK.

I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you.

BEATRICE.

Will you not eat your word?

BENEDICK.

With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.

BEATRICE.

Why then, God forgive me!

BENEDICK.

What offence, sweet Beatrice?

BEATRICE.

You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved

you.

BENEDICK.

And do it with all thy heart.

BEATRICE.

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

BENEDICK.

Come, bid me do anything for thee.

BEATRICE.

Kill Claudio.

BENEDICK.

Ha! not for the wide world.

BEATRICE.

You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

BENEDICK.

Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

BEATRICE.

I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

BENEDICK.

Beatrice,—

BEATRICE.

In faith, I will go.

BENEDICK.

We'll be friends first.

BEATRICE.

You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

BENEDICK.

Is Claudio thine enemy?

BEATRICE.

Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place.

BENEDICK.

Hear me, Beatrice,—

BEATRICE.

Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying!

BENEDICK.

Nay, but Beatrice,—

BEATRICE.

Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

BENEDICK.

Beat—

BEATRICE.

Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

BENEDICK.

Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

BEATRICE.

Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

BENEDICK.

Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

BEATRICE.

Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul.

BENEDICK.

Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A Prison.

[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and SEXTON, in gowns; and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO.]

DOGBERRY.

Is our whole dissembly appeared?

VERGES.

O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

SEXTON.

Which be the malefactors?

DOGBERRY.

Marry, that am I and my partner.

VERGES.

Nay, that's certain: we have the exhibition to examine.

SEXTON.

But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master constable.

DOGBERRY.

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

BORACHIO.

Borachio.

DOGBERRY.

Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

CONRADE.

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

DOGBERRY.

Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God?

BOTH.

Yea, sir, we hope.

DOGBERRY.

Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?

CONRADE.

Marry, sir, we say we are none.

DOGBERRY.

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.

BORACHIO.

Sir, I say to you we are none.

DOGBERRY.

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.

DOGBERRY.

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

FIRST WATCH.

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

DOGBERRY.

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

BORACHIO.

Master Constable,—

DOGBERRY.

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

SEXTON.

What heard you him say else?

SECOND WATCH.

Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

DOGBERRY.

Flat burglary as ever was committed.

VERGES.

Yea, by the mass, that it is.

SEXTON.

What else, fellow?

FIRST WATCH.

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

DOGBERRY.

O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.

SEXTON.

What else?

SECOND 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 manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's: I will go before and show him their examination.

[Exit.]

DOGBERRY.

Come, let them be opinioned.

VERGES.

Let them be in the hands—

CONRADE.

Off, coxcomb!

DOGBERRY.

God's my life! where's the sexton? let him write down the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet!

CONRADE.

Away! you are an ass; you are an ass.

DOGBERRY.

Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Before LEONATO'S House.

[Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO.]

ANTONIO.

If you go on thus, you will kill yourself

And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief

Against yourself.

LEONATO.

I pray thee, cease thy counsel,

Which falls into mine ears as profitless

As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;

Nor let no comforter delight mine ear

But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:

Bring me a father that so lov'd his child,

Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,

And bid him speak to me of patience;

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine,

And let it answer every strain for strain,

As thus for thus and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard;

Bid sorrow wag, cry 'hem' when he should groan,

Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk

With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men

Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

Their counsel turns to passion, which before

Would give preceptial medicine to rage,

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience

To those that wring under the load of sorrow,

But no man's virtue nor sufficiency

To be so moral when he shall endure

The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:

My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

ANTONIO.

Therein do men from children nothing differ.

LEONATO.

I pray thee peace! I will be flesh and blood;

For there was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently,

However they have writ the style of gods

And made a push at chance and sufferance.

ANTONIO.

Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;

Make those that do offend you suffer too.

LEONATO.

There thou speak'st reason: nay, I will do so.

My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;

And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince,

And all of them that thus dishonour her.

ANTONIO.

Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily.

[Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO.]

DON PEDRO.

Good den, good den.

CLAUDIO.

Good day to both of you.

LEONATO.

Hear you, my lords,—

DON PEDRO.

We have some haste, Leonato.

LEONATO.

Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord:

Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one.

DON PEDRO.

Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

ANTONIO.

If he could right himself with quarrelling,

Some of us would lie low.

CLAUDIO.

Who wrongs him?

LEONATO.

Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou.

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not.

CLAUDIO.

Marry, beshrew my hand,

If it should give your age such cause of fear.

In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

LEONATO.

Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me:

I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,

As, under privilege of age, to brag

What I have done being young, or what would do,

Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,

Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me

That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by,

And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,

Do challenge thee to trial of a man.

I say thou hast belied mine innocent child:

Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,

And she lied buried with her ancestors;

O! in a tomb where never scandal slept,

Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany!

CLAUDIO.

My villany?

LEONATO.

Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.

DON PEDRO.

You say not right, old man,

LEONATO.

My lord, my lord,

I'll prove it on his body, if he dare,

Despite his nice fence and his active practice,

His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

CLAUDIO.

Away! I will not have to do with you.

LEONATO.

Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child;

If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

ANTONIO.

He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:

But that's no matter; let him kill one first:

Win me and wear me; let him answer me.

Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me.

Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence;

Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.

LEONATO.

Brother,—

ANTONIO.

Content yourself. God knows I lov'd my niece;

And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,

That dare as well answer a man indeed

As I dare take a serpent by the tongue.

Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

LEONATO.

Brother Antony,—

ANTONIO.

Hold your content. What, man! I know them, yea,

And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,

Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,

That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,

Go antickly, show outward hideousness,

And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,

How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;

And this is all!

LEONATO.

But, brother Antony,—

ANTONIO.

Come, 'tis no matter:

Do not you meddle, let me deal in this.

DON PEDRO.

Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter's death;

But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing

But what was true and very full of proof.

LEONATO.

My lord, my lord—

DON PEDRO.

I will not hear you.

LEONATO.

No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.—

ANTONIO.

And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

[Exeunt LEONATO and ANTONIO.]

[Enter BENEDICK.]

DON PEDRO.

See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.

CLAUDIO.

Now, signior, what news?

BENEDICK.

Good day, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray.

CLAUDIO.

We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth.

DON PEDRO.

Leonato and his brother. What think'st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.

BENEDICK.

In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.

CLAUDIO.

We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?

BENEDICK.

It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it?

DON PEDRO.

Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

CLAUDIO.

Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

DON PEDRO.

As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry?

CLAUDIO.

What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

BENEDICK.

Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.

CLAUDIO.

Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross.

DON PEDRO.

By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed.

CLAUDIO.

If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

BENEDICK.

Shall I speak a word in your ear?

CLAUDIO.

God bless me from a challenge!

BENEDICK.

[Aside to CLAUDIO.] You are a villain, I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.

CLAUDIO.

Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.

DON PEDRO.

What, a feast, a feast?

CLAUDIO.

I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too?

BENEDICK.

Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

DON PEDRO.

I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit. 'True,' says she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a great wit.' 'Right,' said she, 'a great gross one.' 'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit.' 'Just,' said she, 'it hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman is wise.' 'Certain,' said she,a wise gentleman.' 'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues.' 'That I believe' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there's a double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy.

CLAUDIO.

For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not.

DON PEDRO.

Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man's daughter told us all.

CLAUDIO.

All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden.

DON PEDRO.

But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head?

CLAUDIO.

Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick the married man!'

BENEDICK.

Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him.

[Exit.]

DON PEDRO.

He is in earnest.

CLAUDIO.

In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice.

DON PEDRO.

And hath challenged thee?

CLAUDIO.

Most sincerely.

DON PEDRO.

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

CLAUDIO.

He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.

DON PEDRO.

But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled?

[Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO.]

DOGBERRY.

Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

DON PEDRO.

How now! two of my brother's men bound! Borachio, one!

CLAUDIO.

Hearken after their offence, my lord.

DON PEDRO.

Officers, what offence have these men done?

DOGBERRY.

Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves.

DON PEDRO.

First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge?

CLAUDIO.

Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

DON PEDRO.

Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What's your offence?

BORACHIO.

Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night overheard me confessing to this man how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villany they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain.

DON PEDRO.

Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

CLAUDIO.

I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it.

DON PEDRO.

But did my brother set thee on to this?

BORACHIO.

Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it.

DON PEDRO.

He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery:

And fled he is upon this villany.

CLAUDIO.

Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear

In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first.

DOGBERRY.

Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass.

VERGES.

Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too.

[Re-enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, and the Sexton.]

LEONATO.

Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,

That, when I note another man like him,

I may avoid him. Which of these is he?

BORACHIO.

If you would know your wronger, look on me.

LEONATO.

Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd

Mine innocent child?

BORACHIO.

Yea, even I alone.

LEONATO.

No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:

Here stand a pair of honourable men;

A third is fled, that had a hand in it.

I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death:

Record it with your high and worthy deeds.

'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

CLAUDIO.

I know not how to pray your patience;

Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;

Impose me to what penance your invention

Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not

But in mistaking.

DON PEDRO.

By my soul, nor I:

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,

I would bend under any heavy weight

That he'll enjoin me to.

LEONATO.

I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;

That were impossible; but, I pray you both,

Possess the people in Messina here

How innocent she died; and if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention,

Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones: sing it to-night.

To-morrow morning come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law,

Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter,

Almost the copy of my child that's dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us:

Give her the right you should have given her cousin,

And so dies my revenge.

CLAUDIO.

O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!

I do embrace your offer; and dispose

For henceforth of poor Claudio.

LEONATO.

To-morrow then I will expect your coming;

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,

Who, I believe, was pack'd in all this wrong,

Hired to it by your brother.

BORACHIO.

No, by my soul she was not;

Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me;

But always hath been just and virtuous

In anything that I do know by her.

DOGBERRY.

Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,—this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God's sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point.

LEONATO.

I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

DOGBERRY.

Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise God for you.

LEONATO.

There's for thy pains.

DOGBERRY.

God save the foundation!

LEONATO.

Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

DOGBERRY.

I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.

[Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES.]

LEONATO.

Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

ANTONIO.

Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

DON PEDRO.

We will not fail.

CLAUDIO.

To-night I'll mourn with Hero.

[Exeunt DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO.]

LEONATO.

[To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We'll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

LEONATO'S Garden.

[Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting.]

BENEDICK.

Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

MARGARET.

Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

BENEDICK.

In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it.

MARGARET.

To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs?

BENEDICK.

Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth; it catches.

MARGARET.

And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit, but hurt not.

BENEDICK.

A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers.

MARGARET.

Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own.

BENEDICK.

If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

MARGARET.

Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.

BENEDICK.

And therefore will come.

[Exit MARGARET.]

[Sings.]

The god of love,

That sits above,

And knows me, and knows me,

How pitiful I deserve,—

I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to 'lady' but 'baby', an innocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn', a hard rime; for 'school', 'fool', a babbling rhyme; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.

[Enter BEATRICE.]

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

BEATRICE.

Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.

BENEDICK.

O, stay but till then!

BEATRICE.

'Then' is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.

BENEDICK.

Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

BEATRICE.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

BENEDICK.

Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

BEATRICE.

For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

BENEDICK.

'Suffer love,' a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.

BEATRICE.

In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

BENEDICK.

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

BEATRICE.

It appears not in this confession: there's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

BENEDICK.

An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

BEATRICE.

And how long is that think you?

BENEDICK.

Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?

BEATRICE.

Very ill.

BENEDICK.

And how do you?

BEATRICE.

Very ill too.

BENEDICK.

Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

[Enter URSULA.]

URSULA.

Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently?

BEATRICE.

Will you go hear this news, signior?

BENEDICK.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle's.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The Inside of a Church.

[Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and Attendants, including a Lord and Musicians, with tapers,]

CLAUDIO.

Is this the monument of Leonato?

A LORD.

It is, my lord.

CLAUDIO.

[Reads from a scroll.]

Done to death by slanderous tongues

Was the Hero that here lies:

Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,

Gives her fame which never dies.

So the life that died with shame

Lives in death with glorious fame.

Hang thou there upon the tomb,

Praising her when I am dumb.

Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

SONG.

Pardon, goddess of the night,

Those that slew thy virgin knight;

For the which, with songs of woe,

Round about her tomb they go.

Midnight, assist our moan;

Help us to sigh and groan,

Heavily, heavily:

Graves, yawn and yield your dead,

Till death be uttered,

Heavily, heavily.

LORD.

Now, unto thy bones good night!

Yearly will I do this rite.

DON PEDRO.

Good morrow, masters: put your torches out.

The wolves have prey'd; and look, the gentle day,

Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.

CLAUDIO.

Good morrow, masters: each his several way.

DON PEDRO.

Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;

And then to Leonato's we will go.

CLAUDIO.

And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's,

Than this for whom we rend'red up this woe!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

A Room in LEONATO'S House.

[Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEATRICE, MARGARET, URSULA, FRIAR FRANCIS, and HERO.]

FRIAR.

Did I not tell you she was innocent?

LEONATO.

So are the prince and Claudio, who accus'd her

Upon the error that you heard debated:

But Margaret was in some fault for this,

Although against her will, as it appears

In the true course of all the question.

ANTONIO.

Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

BENEDICK.

And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

LEONATO.

Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all,

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And when I send for you, come hither mask'd:

The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour

To visit me. You know your office, brother;

You must be father to your brother's daughter,

And give her to young Claudio.

[Exeunt Ladies.]

ANTONIO.

Which I will do with confirm'd countenance.

BENEDICK.

Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

FRIAR.

To do what, signior?

BENEDICK.

To bind me, or undo me; one of them.

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,

Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

LEONATO.

That eye my daughter lent her: 'tis most true.

BENEDICK.

And I do with an eye of love requite her.

LEONATO.

The sight whereof I think, you had from me,

From Claudio, and the prince. But what's your will?

BENEDICK.

Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:

But, for my will, my will is your good will

May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd

In the state of honourable marriage:

In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

LEONATO.

My heart is with your liking.

FRIAR.

And my help. Here comes the prince and Claudio.

[Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with Attendants.]

DON PEDRO.

Good morrow to this fair assembly.

LEONATO.

Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:

We here attend you. Are you yet determin'd

To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?

CLAUDIO.

I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

LEONATO.

Call her forth, brother: here's the friar ready.

[Exit ANTONIO.]

DON PEDRO.

Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter,

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

CLAUDIO.

I think he thinks upon the savage bull.

Tush! fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold,

And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

BENEDICK.

Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low:

And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow,

And got a calf in that same noble feat,

Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

CLAUDIO.

For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.

[Re-enter ANTONIO, with the ladies masked.]

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

ANTONIO.

This same is she, and I do give you her.

CLAUDIO.

Why then, she's mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

LEONATO.

No, that you shall not, till you take her hand

Before this friar, and swear to marry her.

CLAUDIO.

Give me your hand: before this holy friar,

I am your husband, if you like of me.

HERO.

And when I liv'd, I was your other wife:

[Unmasking.]

And when you lov'd, you were my other husband.

CLAUDIO.

Another Hero!

HERO.

Nothing certainer:

One Hero died defil'd, but I do live,

And surely as I live, I am a maid.

DON PEDRO.

The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

LEONATO.

She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd.

FRIAR.

All this amazement can I qualify:

When after that the holy rites are ended,

I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:

Meantime, let wonder seem familiar,

And to the chapel let us presently.

BENEDICK.

Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

BEATRICE.

[Unmasking.]

I answer to that name. What is your will?

BENEDICK.

Do not you love me?

BEATRICE.

Why, no; no more than reason.

BENEDICK.

Why, then, your uncle and the prince and Claudio

Have been deceived; for they swore you did.

BEATRICE.

Do not you love me?

BENEDICK.

Troth, no; no more than reason.

BEATRICE.

Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,

Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did.

BENEDICK.

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

BEATRICE.

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

BENEDICK.

Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

BEATRICE.

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

LEONATO.

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

CLAUDIO.

And I'll be sworn upon 't that he loves her;

For here's a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion'd to Beatrice.

HERO.

And here's another,

Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

BENEDICK.

A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

BEATRICE.

I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

BENEDICK.

Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.]

BENEDICK.

I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of witcrackers cannout flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.

CLAUDIO.

I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

BENEDICK.

Come, come, we are friends. Let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels.

LEONATO.

We'll have dancing afterward.

BENEDICK.

First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverent than one tipped with horn.

[Enter Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina.

BENEDICK.

Think not on him till to-morrow: I'll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!

[Dance. Exeunt.]

THE END

PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE

List of Characters

Act I, Chorus

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act II, Chorus

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act III, Chorus

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act IV, Chorus

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act IV, Scene VI

Act V, Chorus

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Epilogue

List of Characters

ANTIOCHUS: king of Antioch.

PERICLES: prince of Tyre.

HELICANUS, ESCANES: two lords of Tyre.

SIMONIDES: kIng of Pentapolis.

CLEON: governor of Tarsus.

LYSIMACHUS: governor of Mytilene.

CERIMON: a lord of Ephesus.

THALIARD: a lord of Antioch.

PFIILEMON: servant to Cerimon.

LEONINE: servant to Dionyza.

Marshal.

A Pandar.

BOULT: his servant.

The Daughter of Antiochus.

DIONYZA: wife to Cleon.

THAISA: daughter to Simonides.

MARINA: daughter to Pericles and Thaisa.

LYCHORIDA: nurse to Marina.

A Bawd.

Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers.

DIANA.

GOWER: as Chorus.

SCENE: Dispersedly in various countries.

ACT I. CHORUS

[Enter GOWER.]

To sing a song that old was sung,

From ashes ancient Gower is come;

Assuming man's infirmities,

To glad your ear, and please your eyes.

It hath been sung at festivals,

On ember-eves and holy-ales;

And lords and ladies in their lives

Have read it for restoratives:

The purchase is to make men glorious;

Et bonum quo antiquius, eo melius.

If you, born in these latter times,

When wit's more ripe, accept my rhymes,

And that to hear an old man sing

May to your wishes pleasure bring,

I life would wish, and that I might

Waste it for you, like taper-light.

This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great

Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat;

The fairest in all Syria,

I tell you what mine authors say:

This king unto him took a fere,

Who died and left a female heir,

So buxom, so blithe, and full of face,

As heaven had lent her all his grace;

With whom the father liking took,

And her to incest did provoke:

Bad child; worse father! to entice his own

To evil should be done by none:

But custom what they did begin

Was with long use account no sin.

The beauty of this sinful dame

Made many princes thither frame,

To seek her as a bed-fellow,

In marriage-pleasures play-fellow:

Which to prevent he made a law,

To keep her still, and men in awe,

That whoso ask'd her for his wife,

His riddle told not, lost his life:

So for her many a wight did die,

As yon grim looks do testify.

What now ensues, to the judgement your eye

I give, my cause who lest can justify.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE I.

Antioch. A room in the palace.

[Enter ANTIOCHUS, PRINCE PERICLES, and followers.]

ANTIOCHUS.

Young prince of Tyre, you have at large received

The danger of the task you undertake.

PERICLES.

I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul

Embolden'd with the glory of her praise,

Think death no hazard in this enterprise.

ANTIOCHUS.

Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,

For the embracements even of Jove himself;

At whose conception, till Lucina reign'd,

Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence,

The senate-house of planets all did sit,

To knit in her their best perfections.

[Music. Enter the Daughter of Antiochus.]

PERICLES

See where she comes, apparell'd like the spring,

Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king

Of every virtue gives renown to men!

Her face the book of praises, where is read

Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence

Sorrow were ever razed, and testy wrath

Could never be her mild companion.

You gods that made me man, and sway in love,

That have inflamed desire in my breast

To taste the fruit of yon celestal tree,

Or die in the adventure, be my helps,

As I am son and servant to your will,

To compass such a boundless happiness!

ANTIOCHUS.

Prince Pericles, —

PERICLES.

That would be son to great Antiochus.

ANTIOCHUS.

Before thee stands this fair Hesperides,

With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch'd;

For death-like dragons here affright thee hard:

Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view

Her countless glory, which desert must gain;

And which, without desert, because thine eye

Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die.

Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself,

Drawn by report, adventurous by desire,

Tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale,

That without covering, save yon field of stars,

Here they stand Martyrs, slain in Cupid's wars;

And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist

For going on death's net, whom none resist.

PERICLES.

Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught

My frail mortality to know itself,

And by those fearful objects to prepare

This body, like to them, to what I must;

For death remember'd should be like a mirror,

Who tells us life 's but breath, to trust it error.

I'll make my will then, and, as sick men do

Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe,

Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did;

So I bequeath a happy peace to you

And all good men, as every prince should do;

My riches to the earth from whence they came;

But my unspotted fire of love to you.

[To the daughter of Antiochus.]

Thus ready for the way of life or death,

I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus.

ANTIOCHUS.

Scorning advice, read the conclusion, then:

Which read and not expounded, 'tis decreed,

As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed.

DAUGHTER.

Of all say'd yet, mayst thou prove prosperous!

Of all say'd yet, I wish thee happiness!

PERICLES

Like a bold champion, I assume THe lists,

Nor ask advice of any other thought

But faithfulness and courage.

[He reads the riddle.]

I am no viper, yet I feed

On mother's flesh which did me breed.

I sought a husband, in which labour

I found that kindness in a father:

He's father, son, and husband mild;

I mother, wife, and yet his child.

How they may be, and yet in two,

As you will live, resolve it you.

Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers

That give heaven countless eyes to view men's acts,

Why cloud they not their sights perpetually,

If this be true, which makes me pale to read it?

Fair glass of light, I loved you, and could still,

[Takes hold of the hand of the Princess.]

Were not this glorious casket stored with ill:

But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt;

For he's no man on whom perfections wait

That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate,

You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings;

Who, finger'd to make man his lawful music,

Would draw heaven down, and all the gods to hearken;

But being play'd upon before your time,

Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.

Good sooth, I care not for you.

ANTIOCHUS.

Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,

For that's an article within our law,

As dangerous as the rest. Tour time's expired:

Either expound now, or receive your sentence.

PERICLES.

Great king,

Few love to hear the sins they love to act;

'Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.

Who has a book of all that monarchs do,

He's more secure to keep it shut than shown:

For vice repeated is like the wandering wind,

Blows dust in others' eyes, to spread itself;

And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,

The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear

To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts

Copp'd hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng'd

By man's oppression; and the poor worm doth die for't.

Kind are earth's gods; in vice their law's their will;

And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?

It is enough you know; and it is fit,

What being more known grows worse, to smother it.

All love the womb that their first bred,

Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.

ANTIOCHUS.

[Aside]

Heaven, that I had thy head! he has found the meaning:

But I will gloze with him. — Young prince of Tyre.

Though by the tenour of our strict edict,

Your exposition misinterpreting,

We might proceed to cancel of your days;

Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree

As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise:

Forty days longer we do respite you;

If by which time our secret be undone,

This mercy shows we'll joy in such a son:

And until then your entertain shall be

As doth befit our honour and your worth.

[Exeunt all but Pericles.]

PERICLES.

How courtesy would seem to cover sin,

When what is done is like an hypocrite,

The which is good in nothing but in sight!

If it be true that I interpret false,

Then were it certain you were not so bad

As with foul incest to abuse your soul;

Where now you're both a father and a son,

By your untimely claspings with your child,

Which pleasure fits an husband, not a father;

And she an eater of her mother's flesh,

By the defiling of her parent's bed;

And both like serpents are, who though they feed

On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.

Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men

Blush not in actions blacker than the night,

Will shun no course to keep them from the light.

One sin, I know, another doth provoke;

Murder's as near to lust as flame to smoke:

Poison and treason are the hands of sin,

Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame:

Then, lest my life be cropp'd to keep you clear,

By flight I 'II shun the danger which I fear.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter Antiochus.]

ANTIOCHUS.

He gath found the meaning, for which we mean

To have his head.

He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy,

Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin

In such a loathed manner;

And therefore instantly this prince must die;

For by his fall my honour must keep high.

Who attends us there?

[Enter Thaliard.]

THALIARD.

Doth your highness call?

ANTIOCHUS.

Thaliard,

You are of our chamber, and our mind partakes

Her private actions to your secrecy;

And for your faithfulness we will advance you.

Thaliard, behold, here's poison, and here's gold;

We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him:

It fits thee not to ask the reason why,

Because we Bid it. Say, is it done?

THALIARD.

My lord,

Tis done.

ANTIOCHUS.

Enough.

[Enter a Messenger.]

Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste.

MESSENGER.

My lord, prlnce Pericles is fled.

[Exit.]

ANTIOCHUS.

As thou wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow

Shot from a well-experienced archer hits

The mark his eye doth level at,

So thou ne'er return unless thou say

'Prince Pericles is dead.'

THALIARD.

My lord, If I can get him within my pistol's length, I'll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness.

ANTIOCHUS.

Thaliard! adieu!

[Exit Thaliard.]

Till Pericles be dead,

My heart can lend no succour to my head.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Tyre. A room in the palace.

[Enter Pericles.]

PERICLES.

[To Lords without.]

Let none disturb us. — Why should this change of thoughts,

The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy,

Be my so used a guest as not an hour,

In the day's glorious walk, or peaceful night,

The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet?

Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them,

And danger, which I fear'd, is at Antioch,

Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here:

Yet neither pleasure's art can joy my spirits,

Nor yet the other's distance comfort me.

Then it is thus: the passions of the mind,

That have their first conception by mis-dread

Have after-nourishment and life by care;

And what was first but fear what might he done,

Grows elder now and cares it be not done.

And so with me: the great Antiochus,

'Gainst whom I am too little to contend,

Since he 's so great can make his will his act,

Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence;

Nor boots it me to say I honour him.

If he suspect I may dishonour him:

And what may make him blush in being known,

He'll stop the course by which it might be known;

With hostile forces he'11 o'erspread the land,

And with the ostent of war will look so huge,

Amazement shall drive courage from the state;

Our men be vanquish'd ere they do resist,

And subjects punish'd that ne'er thought offence:

Which care of them, not pity of myself,

Who am no more but as the tops of trees,

Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them,

Makes both my body pine and soul to languish,

And punish that before that he would punish.

[Enter Helicanus, with other Lords.]

FIRST LORD.

Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast!

SECOND LORD.

And keep your mind, till you return to us,

Peaceful and comfortable!

HELICANUS.

Peace, peace, and give experience tongue.

They do abuse the king that flatter him:

For flattery is the bellows blows up sin;

The thing the which is flatter'd, but a spark,

To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing:

Whereas reproof, obedient and in order,

Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err.

When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace,

He flatters you, makes war upon your life.

Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please;

I cannot be much lower than my knees.

PERICLES.

All leave us else; but let your cares o'erlook

What shipping and what lading is in our haven,

And then return to us.

[Exeunt Lords.]

Helicanus, thou

Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks?

HELICANUS.

An angry brow, dread lord.

PERICLES.

If there be such a dart in princes' frowns,

How durst thy tongue move anger to our face?

HELICANUS.

How dare the plants look up to heaven, from whence

They have their nourishment?

PERICLES.

Thou know'st I have power

To take thy life from thee.

HELICANUS.

[Kneeling.]

I have ground the axe myself;

Do you but strike the blow.

PERICLES.

Rise, prithee, rise.

Sit down: thou art no flatterer:

I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid

That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid!

Fit counsellor and servant for a prince,

Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant,

What wouldst thou have me do?

HELICANUS.

To bear with patience

Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself.

PERICLES.

Thou speak'st like a physician, Helicanus,

That minister'st a potion unto me

That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself.

Attend me, then: I went to Antioch,

And there as thou know'st, against the face of death,

I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty,

From whence an issue I might propagate,

Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects.

Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder;

The rest — hark in thine ear — as black as incest:

Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father

Seem'd not to strike, but smooth: but thou know'st this,

'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled,

Under the covering of a careful night,

Who seem'd my good protector; and, being here,

Bethought me what was past, what might succeed.

I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears

Decrease not, but grow faster than the years:

And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,

That I should open to the listening air

How many worthy princes' bloods were shed,

To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,

To lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms,

And make pretence of wrong that I have done him;

When all, for mine, if I may call offence,

Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence:

Which love to all, of which thyself art one,

Who now reprovest me for it, —

HELICANUS.

Alas, sir!

PERICLES.

Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks,

Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts

How I might stop this tempest ere it came;

And finding little comfort to relieve them,

I thought it princely charity to grieve them.

HELICANUS.

Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak,

Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear,

And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant,

Who either by public war or private treason

Will take away your life.

Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while,

Till that his rage and anger be forgot,

Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life.

Your rule direct to any; if to me,

Day serves not light more faithful than I'll be.

PERICLES.

I do not doubt thy faith;

But should he wrong my liberties in my absence?

HELCANUS.

We'll mingle our bloods together in the earth,

From whence we had our being and our birth.

PERICLES.

Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus

Intend my travel, where I'll hear from thee;

And by whose letters I'll dispose myself.

The care I had and have of subjects' good

On thee I lay, whose wisdom's strength can bear it.

I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath:

Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both:

But in our orbs we'll live so round and safe,

That time of both this truth shall ne'er convince,

Thou show'dst a subject's shine, I a true prince.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Tyre. An ante-chamber in the Palace.

[Enter Thaliard.]

THALIARD.

So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I Kill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am sure to be hanged at home: 'tis dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired he might know none of his secrets: now do I see he had some reason for 't; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he's bound by the indenture of his oath to be one. Hush! here come the lords of Tyre.

[Enter Helicanus and Escanes, with other Lords of Tyre.]

HELICANUS.

You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre,

Further to question me of your king's departure:

His seal'd commission, left in trust with me,

Doth speak sufficiently he 's gone to travel.

THALIARD. [Aside.]

How! the king gone!

HELICANUS.

If further yet you will be satisfied,

Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves,

He would depart, I 'II give some light unto you.

Being at Antioch —

THALIARD.

[Aside.]

What from Antioch?

HELICANUS.

Royal Antiochus — on what cause I know not

Took some displeasure at him; at least he judged so:

And doubting lest that he had err'd or sinn'd,

To show his sorrow, he 'ld correct himself;

So puts himself unto the shipman's toil,

With whom each minute threatens life or death.

THALIARD.

[Aside.]

Well, I perceive

I shall not be hang'd now, although I would;

But since he 's gone, the king's seas must please

He 'scaped the land, to perish at the sea.

I 'll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre!

HELICANUS.

Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome.

THALIARD.

From him I come

With message unto princely Pericles;

But since my landing I have understood

Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels,

My message must return from whence it came.

HELICANUS.

We have no reason to desire it,

Commended to our master, not to us:

Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire,

As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

Tarsus. A room in the Governor's house.

[Enter Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, with Dionyza, and others.]

CLEON.

My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,

And by relating tales of others' griefs,

See if 'twill teach us to forqet our own?

DIONYZA.

That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it;

For who digs hills because they do aspire

Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.

O my distressed lord, even such our griefs are;

Here they're but felt, and seen with mischief's eyes,

But like to groves, being topp'd, they higher rise.

CLEON.

O Dionyza,

Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,

Or can conceal his hunger till he famish?

Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep

Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep,

Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder;

That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want,

They may awake their helps to comfort them.

I'll then discourse our woes, felt several years,

And wanting breath to speak help me with tears.

DIONYZA.

I'll do my best, sir.

CLEON.

This Tarsus, o'er which I have the government,

A city on whom plenty held full hand,

For riches strew'd herself even in the streets;

Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss'd the clouds,

And strangers ne'er beheld but wonder'd at;

Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn'd,

Like one another's glass to trim them by:

Their tables were stored full, to glad the sight,

And not so much to feed on as delight;

All poverty was scorn'd, and pride so great,

The name of help grew odious to repeat.

DIONYZA.

O, 'tis too true.

CLEON.

But see what heaven can do! By this our change,

These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air,

Were all too little to content and please,

Although they gave their creatures in abundance,

As houses are defiled for want of use,

They are now starved for want of exercise:

Those palates who, not yet two sumMers younger,

Must have inventions to delight the taste,

Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it:

Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes,

Thought nought too curious, are ready now

To eat those little darlings whom they loved.

So sharp are hunger's teeth, that man and wife

Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life:

Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping;

Here many sink, yet those which see them fall

Have scarce strength left to give them burial.

Is not this true?

DIONYZA.

Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it.

CLEON.

O, let those cities that of plenty's cup

And her prosperities so largely taste,

With their superflous riots, hear these tears!

The misery of Tarsus may be theirs.

[Enter a Lord.]

LORD.

Where's the lord governor?

CLEON.

Here.

Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring'st in haste,

For comfort is too far for us to expect.

LORD.

We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore,

A portly sail of ships make hitherward.

CLEON.

I thought as much.

One sorrow never comes but brings an heir,

That may succeed as his inheritor;

And so in ours: some neighbouring nation,

Taking advantage of our misery,

Math stuff'd these hollow vessels with their power,

To beat us down, the which are down already;

And make a conquest of unhappy me,

Whereas no glory's got to overcome.

LORD.

That's the least fear; for, by the semblance

Of their white flags display'd, they bring us peace,

And come to us as favourers, not as foes.

CLEON.

Thou speak'st like him's untutor'd to repeat:

Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.

But bring they what they will and what they can,

What need we fear?

The ground's the lowest, and we are half way there.

Go tell their general we attend him here,

To know for what he comes, and whence he comes,

And what he craves.

LORD.

I go, my lord.

[Exit.]

CLEON.

Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist;

If wars, we are unable to resist.

[Enter Pericles with Attendants.]

PERICLES.

Lord governor, for so we hear you are,

Let not our ships and number of our men

Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes.

We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre,

And seen the desolation of your streets:

Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears,

But to relieve them of their heavy load;

And these our ships, you happily may think

Are like the Trojan horse was stuff'd within

With bloody veins, expecting overthrow,

Are stored with corn to make your needy bread,

And give them life whom hunger starved half dead.

ALL.

The gods of Greece protect you!

And we'll pray for you.

PERICLES.

Arise, I pray you, rise:

We do not look for reverence, but for love,

And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men.

CLEON.

The which when any shall not gratify,

Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought,

Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves,

The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils!

Till when, — the which I hope shall ne'er be seen, —

Your grace is welcome to our town and us.

PERICLES.

Which welcome we'll accept; feast here awhile,

Until our stars that frown lend us a smile.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. CHORUS

[Enter Gower.]

GOWER.

Here have you seen a mighty king

His child, iwis, to incest bring;

A better prince and benign lord,

That will prove awful both in deed word.

Be quiet then as men should be,

Till he hath pass'd necessity.

I'll show you those in troubles reign,

Losing a mite, a mountain gain.

The good in conversation,

To whom I give my benison,

Is still at Tarsus, where each man

Thinks all is writ he speken can;

And, to remember what he does,

Build his statue to make him glorious:

But tidings to the contrary

Are brought your eyes; what need speak I?

DUMB SHOW.

[Enter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon talking with CLEON; all the train with them. Enter at another door a Gentleman, with a letter to Pericles; Pericles shows the letter to Cleon; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another.]

Good Helicane, that stay'd at home.

Not to eat honey like a drone

From others' labours; for though he strive

To killen bad, keep good alive;

And to fulfil his prince' desire,

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre:

How Thaliard came full bent with sin

And had intent to murder him;

And that in Tarsus was not best

Longer for him to make his rest.

He, doing so, put forth to seas,

Where when men been, there's seldom ease;

For now the wind begins to blow;

Thunder above and deeps below

Make such unquiet, that the ship

Should house him safe is wreck'd and split;

And he, good prince, having all lost,

By waves from coast to coast is tost:

All perishen of man, of pelf,

Ne aught escapen but himself;

Till fortune, tired with doing bad,

Threw him ashore, to give him glad:

And here he comes. What shall be next,

Pardon old Gower, — this longs the text.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Pentapolis. An open place by the sea-side.

[Enter Pericles, wet.]

PERICLES.

Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!

Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man

Is but a substance that must yield to you;

And I, as fits my nature, do obey you:

Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,

Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath

Nothing to think on but ensuing death:

Let it suffice the greatness of your powers

To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes;

And having thrown him from your watery grave,

Here to have death in peace is all he'll crave.

[Enter three Fishermen.]

FIRST FISHERMAN.

What, ho, Pilch!

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Ha, come and bring away the nets!

FIRST FISHERMAN.

What, Patch-breech, I say!

THIRD FISHERMAN.

What say you, master?

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Look how thou stirrest now! come away, or I'll fetch thee with a wanion.

THIRD FISHERMAN.

'Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves.

THIRD FISHERMAN.

Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? they say they're half fish, half flesh: a plague on them, they ne'er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a' plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. such whales have I heard on o' the land, who never leave gaping till they they've swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells, and all.

PERICLES.

[Aside.]

A pretty moral.

THIRD FISHERMAN.

But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in the belfry.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Why, man?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

Because he should have swallowed me too; and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church, and parish, up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind, —

PERICLES.

[Aside.]

Simonides?

THIRD FISHERMAN.

We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey.

PERICLES.

[Aside.]

How from the finny subjec of the sea

These fishers tell the infirmities of men;

And from their watery empire recollect

All that may men approve or men detect!

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Honest! good fellow, what's that; If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it.

PERICLES.

May see the sea hath cast upon your coast.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way!

PERICLES.

A man whom both the waters and the wind,

In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball

For them to play upon, entreats you pity him;

He asks of you, that never used to beg.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

No, friend, cannot you beg? Here's them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Canst thou catch any fishes, then?

PERICLES.

I never practised it.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here's nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for 't.

PERICLES.

What I have been I have forgot to know;

But what I am, want teaches me to think on:

A man throng'd up with cold: my veins are chill,

And have no more of life than may suffice

To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid! I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we'll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo'er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome.

PERICLES.

I thank you, sir.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg.

PERICLES.

I did but crave.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

But crave! Then I'll turn craver too, and so I shall 'scape whipping.

PERICLES.

Why, are your beggars whipped, then?

SECOND FISHERMAN.

O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I'll go draw up the net.

[Exit with Third Fisherman.]

PERICLES.

[Aside.]

How well this honest mirth becomes their 1abour!

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are?

PERICLES.

Not well.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Why, I'll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our king the good Simonides.

PERICLES.

The good King Simonides, do you call him?

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and good government.

PERICLES.

He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good government. How far is his court distant from this shore?

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Marry sir, half a day's journey: and I'll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is her birth-day; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to just and tourney for her love.

PERICLES.

Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for — his wife' soul.

[Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net.]

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out. Ha! bots on't, 'tis come at last, and 'tis turned to a rusty armour.

PERICLES.

An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.

Thanks, fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses,

Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself,

And though it was mine own, part of my heritage,

Which my dead father did bequeath to me,

With this strict charge, even as he left his life.

'Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield

'Twixt me and death;' — and pointed to this brace; —

For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity —

The which the gods protect thee from! — may defend thee.'

It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it;

Till the rough seas, that spare not any man,

Took it in rage, though calm'd have given't again:

I thank thee for 't: my shipwreck now's no ill,

Since I have here my father's gift in's will.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

What mean you' sir?

PERICLES.

To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth,

For it was sometime target to a king;

I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly,

And for his sake I wish the having of it;

And that you'ld guide me to your sovereign court,

Where with it I may appear a gentleman;

And if that ever my fortune's better,

I'll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?

PERICLES.

I'll show the virtue I have borne in arms.

FIRST FISHERMAN.

Why, do'e take it, and the gods give thee good on 't!

SECOND FISHERMAN.

Ay, but hark you, my friend; 'twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you'll remember from whence you had it.

PERICLES.

Believe't I will.

By your furtherance I am clothed in steel;

And, spite of all the rapture of the sea,

This jewel holds his building on my arm:

Unto thy value I will mount myself

Upon a courser, whose delightful steps

Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.

Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided

Of a pair of bases.

SECOND FISHERMAN.

We'll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair; and I'll bring thee to the court myself.

PERICLES.

Then honour be but a goal to my will,

This day I'll rise, or else add ill to ill.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The same. A public way, or platform leading to the lists. A pavilion by the side of it for the reception of the King, Princess, Lords, etc.

[Enter Simonides, Lords and Attendants.]

SIMONIDES.

Are the knights ready to begin the triumph?

FIRST LORD.

They are, my liege;

And stay your coming to present themselves.

SIMONIDES.

Return them, we are ready; and our daughter,

In honour of whose birth these triumphs are,

Sits here, like beauty's child, whom nature gat

For men to see, and seeing wonder at.

[Exit a Lord.]

THALIARD.

It pleaseth you1 my royal father, to express

My commendations great, whose merit's less.

SIMONIDES.

It's fit it should be so; for princes are

A model, which heaven makes like to itself:

As jewels lose their glory if neglected,

So princes their renowns if not respected.

'Tis now your honour, daughter, to explain

The labour of each knight in his device.

THALIARD.

Which, to preserve mine honour, I'll perform.

[Enter a Knight; he passes over, and his Squire presents his shield to the Princess.]

SIMONIDES.

Who is the first that doth prefer himself?

THALIARD.

A knight of Sparta, my renowned father;

And the device he bears upon his shield

Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun:

The word, Lux tua vita mihi.

SIMONIDES.

He loves you well that holds his life of you.

[The Second Knight passes over.]

Who is the second that presents himself?

THALIARD.

A prince of Macedon, my royal father;

And the device he bears upon his shield

Is an arm'd knight that's conquer'd by a lady;

The motto thus, in Spanish, Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.

[The Third Knight passes over.]

SIMONIDES.

And what's the third?

THALIARD.

The third of Antioch;

And his device, a wreath of chivalry;

The word, Me pompae provexit apex.

[The Fourth Knight passes over.]

SIMONIDES.

What is the fourth?

THALIARD.

A burning torch that's turned upside down;

The word, Quod me alit, me extinguit.

SIMONIDES.

Which shows that beauty hath his power and will,

Which can as well inflame as it can kill.

[The Fifth Knight passes over.]

THALIARD.

The fifth, an hand environed with clouds,

Holding out gold that's by the touchstone tried;

The motto thus, Sic spectanda fides.

[The Sixth Knight, Pericles, passes over.]

SIMONIDES.

And what's

The sixth and last, the which the knight himself

With such a graceful courtesy deliver'd?

THALIARD.

He seems to be a stranger; but his present is

A wither'd branch, that's only green at top;

The motto, In hac spe vivo.

SIMONIDES.

A pretty moral;

From the dejected state wherein he is,

He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.

FIRST LORD.

He had need mean better than his outward show

Can any way speak in his just commend;

For by his rusty outside he appears

To have practised more the whipstock than the lance.

SECOND LORD.

He well may be a stranger, for he comes

To an honour'd triumph strangely furnished.

THIRD LORD.

And on set purpose let his armour rust

Until this day, to scour it in the dust.

SIMONIDES.

Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan

The outward habit by the inward man.

But stay, the knights are coming: we will withdraw

Into the gallery.

[Exeunt.]

[Great shouts within, and all cry 'The mean knight!']

ACT II. SCENE III.

The same. A hall of state: a banquet prepared.

[Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants, and Knights, from tilting.]

SIMONIDES.

Knights,

To say you're welcome were superfluous.

To place upon the volume of your deeds,

As in a title-page, your worth in arms,

Were more than you expect, or more than's fit,

Since every worth in show commends itself.

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast:

You are princes and my guests.

THAISA.

But you, my knight and guest;

To whom this wreath of victory I give,

And crown you king of this day's happiness.

PERICLES.

'Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit.

SIMONIDES.

Call it by what you will, the day is yours;

And here, I hope, is none that envies it.

In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed,

To make some good, but others to exceed;

And you are her labour'd scholar. Come queen of the feast, —

For, daughter, so you are, — here take your place:

Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.

KNIGHTS.

We are honour'd much by good Simonides.

SIMONIDES.

Your presence glads our days; honour we love;

For who hates honour hates the gods above.

MARSHALL.

Sir, yonder is your place.

PERICLES.

Some other is more fit.

FIRST KNIGHT.

Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen

That neither in our hearts nor outward eyes

Envy the great nor do the low despise.

PERICLES.

You are right courteous knights.

SIMONIDES.

Sit, sir, sit.

[Aside.]

By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts,

These cates resist me, she but thought upon.

THAISA.

[Aside.]

By Juno, that is queen of marriage,

All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury,

Wishing him my meat. Sure, he's a gallant gentleman.

SIMONIDES.

He's but a country gentleman;

Has done no more than other knights have done;

Has broken a staff or so; so let it pass.

THAISA.

To me he seems like diamond to glass.

PERICLES.

Yon king's to me like to my father's picture,

Which tells me in that glory once he was;

Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne,

And he the sun, for them to reverence;

None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights,

Did vail their crowns to his supremacy:

Where now his son's like a glow-worm in the night,

The which hath fire in darkness, none in light:

Whereby I see that Time's the king of men,

He's both their parent, and he is their grave,

And gives them what he will, not what they crave.

SIMONIDES.

What, are you merry, knights?

KNIGHTS.

Who can be other in this royal presence?

SIMONIDES.

Here, with a cup that's stored unto the brim, —

As you do love, fill to your mistress' lips, —

We drink this health to you.

KNIGHTS.

We thank your grace.

SIMONIDES.

Yet pause awhile:

Yon knight doth sit too melancholy,

As if the entertainment in our court

Had not a show might countervail his worth.

Note it not you, Thaisa?

THAISA.

What is it to me, my father?

SIMONIDES.

O attend, my daughter:

Princes in this should live like god's above,

Who freely give to every one that comes To honour them:

And princes not doing so are like to gnats,

Which make a sound, but kill'd are wonder'd at.

Therefore to make his entrance more sweet,

Here, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him.

THAISA.

Alas, my father, it befits not me

Unto a stranger knight to be so bold:

He may my proffer take for an offence,

Since men take women's gifts for impudence.

SIMONIDES.

How! Do as I bid you, or you'll move me else.

THAISA.

[Aside]

Now, by the gods, he could not please me better.

SIMONIDES.

And furthermore tell him, we desire to know of him,

Of whence he is, his name and parentage.

THAISA.

The king my father, sir, has drunk to you.

PERICLES.

I thank him.

THAISA.

Wishing it so much blood unto your life.

PERICLES.

I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely.

THAISA.

And further he desires to know of you,

Of whence you are, your name and parentage.

PERICLES.

A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles;

My education been in arts and arms;

Who, looking for adventures in the world,

Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men,

And after shipwreck driven upon this shore.

THAISA.

He thanks your grace; names himself Pericles,

A gentleman of Tyre,

Who only by misfortune of the seas

Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore.

SIMONIDES.

Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune,

And will awake him from his melancholy.

Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,

And waste the time, which looks for other revels.

Even in your armours, as you are address'd,

Will very well become a soldier's dance.

I will not have excuse, with saying this,

Loud music is too harsh for ladies' heads

Since they love men in arms as well as beds.

[The Knights dance.]

So, this was well ask'd, 'twas so well perform'd.

Come, sir; here is a lady which wants breathing too:

And I have heard you nights of Tyre

Are excellent in making ladies trip;

And that their measures are as exceltent.

PERICLES.

In those that practise them they are, my lord.

SIMONIDES.

O, that's as much as you would be denied

Of your fair courtesy.

[The Knights and Ladies dance.]

Unclasp, unclasp:

Thanks gentlemen, to all; all have done well.

[To Pericles.]

But you the you the best. Pages and lights to conduct

These knights unto their several lodging.

[To Pericles.]

Yours, sir, we have given order to be next our own.

PERICLES.

I am at your grace's pleasure.

SIMONIDES.

Princes, it is too late to talk of love;

And that's the mark I know you level at:

Therefore each one betake him to his rest;

To-morrow all for speeding do their best.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

Tyre. A room in the Govenor's house.

[Enter Helicanus and Escanes.]

HELICANUS.

No, Escanes, know this of me,

Antiochus from incest lived not free:

For which, the most high gods not minding longer

To withhold the vengeance that they had in store

Due to this heinous capital offence,

Even in the height and pride of all his glory,

When he was seated in a chariot

Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him,

A fire from heavn came and shrivell'd up

Their bodies, even to loathing; for they so stunk,

That all those eyes adored them ere their fall

Scorn now their hand should give them burial.

ESCANES.

'Twas very strange

HELICANUS.

And yet but justice; for though

This king were great; his greatness was no guard.

To bar heaven's shaft, but sin had his reward.

ESCANES.

'Tis very true.

[Enter two or three Lords.]

FIRST LORD.

See, not a man in private conference

Or council has respect with him but he.

SECOND LORD.

It shall no longer grieve with out reproof.

THIRD LORD.

And cursed be he that will not second it.

FIRST LORD.

Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a word.

HELICANE.

With me? and welcome: happy day, my lords.

FIRST LORD.

Know that our griefs are risen to the top,

And now at length they overflow their banks.

HELICANE.

Your griefs! for what? wrong not your prince your love.

FIRST LORD.

Wrong not yourself, then, noble Helicane;

But if the prince do live, let us salute him.

Or know what ground's made happy by his breath.

If in the world he live, we'll seek him there;

And be resolved he lives to govern us,

Or dead, give's cause to mourn his funeral,

And leave us to our free election.

SECOND LORD.

Whose death indeed 's the strongest in our censure:

And knowing this kingdom is without a head, —

Like goodly buildings left without a roof

Soon fall to ruin, — your noble self,

That best know how to rulle and how to reign,

We thus submit unto, — our sovereign.

ALL.

Live, noble Helicane!

HELICANUS.

For honour's cause, forbear your suffrages:

If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear.

Take I your wish, I leap into the seas,

Where's hourly trouble for a minute's ease.

A twelve month longer, let me entreat you to

Forbear the absence of your king;

If in which time expired, he not return,

I shall with aged patience bear your yoke.

But if I cannot win you to this love,

Go search like nobles, like noble subjects,

And in your search spend your adventurous worth;

Whom if you find, and win unto return,

You shall like diamonds sit about his crown.

FIRST LORD.

To wisdom he's a fool that will not yield;

And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us,

We with our travels will endeavour us.

HELICANUS.

Then you love us, we you, and we'll clasp hands:

When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

Pentapolis. A room in the palace.

[Enter Simonides, reading a letter at one door: the Knights meet him.]

FIRST KNIGHT.

Good morrow to the good Simonides.

SIMONIDES.

Knights, from my daughter this I let you know,

That for this twelvemonth she'll not undertake

A married life.

Her reason to herself is only known,

Which yet from her by no means can I get.

SECOND KNIGHT.

May we not get access to her, my lord?

SIMONIDES.

'Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly tied

Her to her chamber, that 'tis impossible.

One twelve moons more she'll wear Diana's livery;

This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow'd,

And on her virgin honour will not break it.

THIRD KNIGHT.

Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves.

[Exeunt Knights.]

SIMONIDES.

So, they are well dispatch'd; now to my daughter's letter:

She tells me here, she'll wed the stranger knight.

Or never more to view nor day nor light.

'Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine;

I like that well: nay, how absolute she's in it,

Not minding whether I dislike or no!

Well, I do commend her choice;

And will no longer have it delay'd.

Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it.

[Enter Pericles.]

PERICLES.

All fortune to the good Simonides!

SIMONIDES.

To you as much, sir! I am beholding to you

For your sweet music this last night: I do

Protest my ears were never better fed

With such delightful pleasing harmony.

PERICLES.

It is your grace's pleasure to commend;

Not my desert.

SIMONIDES.

Sir, you are music's master.

PERICLES.

The worst of all her scholars, my good lord.

SIMONIDES.

Let me ask you one thing:

What do you think of my daughter, sir?

PERICLES.

A most virtuous princess.

SIMONIDES.

And she is fair too, is she not?

PERICLES.

As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair.

SIMONIDES.

Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you;

Ay, so well, that you must be her master,

And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it.

PERICLES.

I am unworthy for her schoolmaster.

SIMONIDES.

She thinks not so; peruse this writing else.

PERICLES.

[Aside.]

A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre!

'Tis the king's subtilty to have my life.

O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord,

A stranger and distressed gentleman,

That never aim'd so high to love your daughter,

But bent all offices to honour her.

SIMONIDES.

Thou hast bewitch'd my daughter,

And thou art a villain.

PERICLES.

By the gods, I have not:

Never did thought of mine levy offence;

Nor never did my actions yet commence

A deed might gain her love or your displeasure.

SIMONIDES.

Traitor, thou liest.

PERICLES.

Traitor!

SIMONIDES.

Ay, traitor;

PERICLES.

Even in his throat — unless it be the king —

That calls me traitor, I return the lie.

SIMONIDES.

[Aside.]

Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage.

PERICLES.

My actions are as noble as my thoughts,

That never relish'd of a base descent.

I came unto your court for honour's cause,

And not to be a rebel to her state;

And he that otherwise accounts of me,

This sword shall prove he's honour's enemy.

SIMONIDES.

No?

Here comes my daughter, she can witness it.

[Enter Thaisa.]

PERICLES.

Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,

Resolve your angry father, if my tongue

Did e'er solicit, or my hand subscribe

To any syllable that made love to you.

THAISA.

Why, sir, say if you had,

Who takes offence at that would make me glad?

SIMONIDES.

Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory?

[Aside.] I am glad on't with all my heart. —

I'll tame you; I'll bring you in subjection.

Will you, not having my consent,

Bestow your love and your affections

Upon a stranger? [Aside.] who, for aught I know,

May be, nor can I think the contrary,

As great in blood as I myself. —

Therefore hear you, mistress; either frame your will

Too mine, — and you, sir, hear you, either be

Ruled by me, or I will make you — Man and wife:

Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too:

And being join'd, I'll thus your hopes destroy;

And for a further grief, — God give you joy! —

What, are you both pleased?

THAISA.

Yes, if you love me, sir.

PERICLES.

Even as my life my blood that fosters it.

SIMONIDES.

What, are you both agreed?

BOTH.

Yes, if it please your majesty.

SIMONIDES.

It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed;

And then with what haste you can get you to bed.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. CHORUS

[Enter Gower.]

GOWER.

Now sleep yslaked hath the rout;

No din but snores the house about,

Made louder by the o'er-fed breast

Of this most pompous marriage-feast.

The cat, with eyne of burning coal,

Now couches fore the mouse's hole;

And crickets sing at the oven's mouth,

E'er the blither for their drouth.

Hymen hath brought the bride to bed,

Where, by the loss of maidenhead,

A babe is moulded. Be attent,

And time that is so briefly spent

With your fine fancies quaintly eche:

What's dumb in show I'll plain with speech.

[Dumb Show.]

[Enter, Pericles and Simonides, at one door, with Attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles shows it Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lychorida a nurse. The King shows her the letter; she rejoices: she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart, with Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the rest.]

By many a dern and painful perch

Of Pericles the careful search,

By the four opposing coigns

Which the world together joins,

Is made with all due diligence

That horse and sail and high expense

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre,

Fame answering the most strange inquire,

To the court of King Simonides

Are letters brought, the tenour these:

Antiochus and his daughter dead;

The men of Tyrus on the head

Of Helicanus would set on

The crown of Tyre, but he will none:

The mutiny he there hastes t' oppress;

Says to 'em, if King Pericles

Come not home in twice six moons,

He, obedient to their dooms,

Will take the crown. The sum of this,

Brought hither to Pentapolis

Y-ravished the regions round,

And every one with claps can sound,

'Our heir-apparent is a king!

Who dream'd, who thought of such a thing?'

Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre:

His queen with child makes her desire —

Which who shall cross? — along to go:

Omit we all their dole and woe:

Lychorida, her nurse, she takes,

And so to sea. Their vessel shakes

On Neptune's billow; half the flood

Hath their keel cut: but fortune's mood

Varies again; the grisled north

Disgorges such a tempest forth,

That, as a duck for life that dives,

So up and down the poor ship drives:

The lady shrieks, and well-a-near

Does fall in travail with her fear:

And what ensues in this fell storm

Shall for itself itself perform.

I nill relate, action may

Conveniently the rest convey;

Which might not what by me is told.

In your imagination hold

This stage the ship, upon whose deck

The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

On shipboard.

[Enter Pericles, on shipboard.]

PERICLES.

Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges,

Which wash forth both heaven and hell; and thou that hast

Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,

Having call'd them from the deep! O, still

Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench

Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida,

How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously;

Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistle

Is as a whisper in the ears of death,

Unheard. Lychorida! — Lucina, O

Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To those that cry by night, convey thy deity

Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs

Of my queen's travails!

[Enter Lychorida, with an Infant.]

Now, Lychorida!

LYCHORIDA.

Here is a thing too young for such a place,

Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I

Am like to do: take in your aims this piece

Of your dead queen.

PERICLES.

How, how, Lychorida!

LYCHORIDA.

Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.

Here's all that is left living of your queen,

A little daughter: for the sake of it,

Be manly, and take comfort.

PERICLES.

O you gods!

Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,

And snatch them straight away? We here below

Recall not what we give, and therein may

Use honour with you.

LYCHORIDA.

Patience, good sir.

Even for this charge.

PERICLES.

Now, mild may be thy life!

For a more blustrous birth had never babe:

Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for

Thou art the rudliest welcome to this world

That ever was prince's child. Happy what follows!

Thiou hast as chiding a nativity

As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,

To herald thee from the womb: even at the first

Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit,

With all thou canst find here, Now, the good gods

Throw their best eyes upon't!

{Enter two Sailors.]

FIRST SAILOR.

What courage, sir? God save you!

PERICLES.

Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw;

It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love

Of ths poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer,

I would it would be quiet.

FIRST SAILOR.

Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself.

SECOND SAILOR.

But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not.

FIRST SAILOR.

Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead.

PERICLES.

That's your superstition.

FIRST SAILOR.

Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it has been still observed; and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard straight.

PERICLES.

As you think meet. Most wretched queen!

LYCHORIDA.

Here she lies, sir.

PERICLES.

A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear;

No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements

Forgot thee utterly; nor have I time

To give thee hallow'd to thy grave, but straight

Must cast thee, scarcely coffin'd, in the ooze;

Where, for a monument upon thy bones,

And e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whale

And humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse,

Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida.

Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,

My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander

Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe

Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say

A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.

[Exit Lychorida.]

SECOND SAILOR.

Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready.

PERICLES.

I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?

SECOND SAILOR.

We are near Tarsus.

PERICLES.

Thither, gentle mariner,

Alter thy course for Tyre. When, canst thou reach it?

SECOND SAILOR.

By break of day, if the wind cease.

PERICLES.

O, make for Tarsus!

There will I visit Cleon, for the babe

Cannot hold out to Tyrus there I'll leave it

At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner:

I'll bring the body presently.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's house.

[Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwrecked.]

CERIMON.

Philemon, ho!

[Enter Philemon.]

PHILEMON.

Doth my lord call?

CERIMON.

Get fire and meat for these poor men:

'T has been a turbulent and stormy night.

SERVANT.

I have been in many; but such a night as this,

Till now, I ne'er endured.

CERIMON.

Your master will be dead ere you return;

There's nothing can be minister'd to nature

That can recover him.

[To Philemon.]

Give this to the 'pothecary,

And tell me how it works.

[Exeunt all but Cerimon.]

[Enter two Gentlemen.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Good morrow.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Good morrow to your lordship.

CERIMON.

Gentlemen,

Why do you stir so early?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Sir, our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,

Shook as the earth did quake;

The very principals did seem to rend,

And all-to topple: pure surprise and fear

Made me to quit the house.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

That is the cause we trouble you so early;

'Tis not our husbandry.

CERIMON.

O, you say well.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

But I much marvel that your lordship, having

Rich tire about you, should at these early hours

Shake off the golden slumber of repose.

'Tis most strange,

Nature should be so conversant with pain.

Being thereto not compell'd.

CERIMON.

I hold it ever,

Virtue and cunning were endowments greater

Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs

May the two latter darken and expend;

But immortality attends the former,

Making a man a god. 'Tis known, I ever

Have studied physic, through which secret art,

By turning o'er authorities, I have,

Together with my practice, made familiar

To me and to my aid the blest infusions

That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;

And I can speak of the disturbances

That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me

A more content in course of true delight

Than to be thirsty after tottering honour,

Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,

To please the fool and death.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Your honour has

Through Ephesus pour'd forth your charity,

And hundreds call themselves your creatures, who

By you have been restored: and not your knowledge,

Your personal pain, but even your purse, still open,

Hath built Lord Cerimon such strong renown

As time shall never —

[Enter two or three Servants with a chest.]

FIRST SERVANT.

So; lift there.

CERIMON.

What is that?

FIRST SERVANT.

Sir, even now

Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest:

'Tis of some wreck.

CERIMON.

Set 't down, let's look upon 't.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

'Tis like a coffin, sir.

CERIMON.

Whate'er it be,

'Tis wondrous heavy. Did the sea cast it up?

FIRST SERVANT.

I never saw so huge a billow, sir,

As toss'd it upon shore.

CERIMON.

Wrench it open straight:

If the sea's stomach be o'ercharged with gold,

'Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

'Tis so, my lord.

CERIMON.

How close 'tis caulk'd and bitumed! Soft! it smells

Most sweetly in my sense.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

A delicate odour.

CERIMON.

As ever hit my nostril. So up with it.

O you most potent gods! what's here? a corpse!

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Most strange!

CERIMON.

Shrouded in cloth of state;

Balmed and entreasured with full bags of spices!

A passport too! Apollo, perfect me

In the characters!

[Reads from a scroll.]

'Here I give to understand,

If e'er this coffin drive a-land,

I, King Pericles, have lost

This queen, worth all our mundane cost.

Who her, give her burying;

She was the daughter of a king:

Besides this treasure for a fee,

The gods requite his charity!'

If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart

That even cracks for woe! This chanced tonight.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Most likely, sir.

CERIMON.

Nay, certainly to-night;

For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough

That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within

Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet.

[Exit a Servant.]

Death may usurp on nature many hours,

And yet the fire of life kindle again

The o'erpress'd spirits. I heard of an Egyptian

That had nine hours lien dead,

Who was by good appliance recovered.

[Re-enter a Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire.

Well said, well said; the fire and cloths.

The rough and woeful music that we have,

Cause it to sound, beseech you

The viol once more: how thou stirr'st, thou block!

The music there! — I pray you, give her air.

Gentlemen, this queen will live: nature awakes;

A warmth breathes out of her: she hath not been

Entranced above five hours: see how she 'gins

To blow into life's flower again!

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

The heavens,

Through you, increase our wonder and set up

Your fame for ever.

CERIMON.

She is alive; behold,

Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels

Which Pericles hath lost, begin to part

Their fringes of bright gold; the diamonds

Of a most praised water doth appear,

To make the world twice rich. Live, and make

Us weep to hear your fate, fair creature,

Rare as you seem to be.

[She moves.]

THAISA.

O dear Diana, where am I? Where's my lord?

What world is this?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Is not this strange?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Most rare.

CERIMON.

Hush, my gentle neighbours!

Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her.

Get linen: now this matter must be look'd to,

For her, relapse is mortal. Come, come;

And Aesculapius guide us!

[Exeunt, carrying her away.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Tarsus. A room in Cleon's house.

[Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza, and Lychorida with Marina in her arms.]

PERICLES.

Most honour'd Cleon, I must needs be gone;

My twelve months are expired, and Tyrus stands

In a litigious peace. You, and your lady,

Take from my heart all thankfulness! The gods

Make up the rest upon you!

CLEON.

Your shafts of fortune,

Though they hurt you mortally, yet glance

Full wanderingly on us.

DIONYZA.

O, your sweet queen!

That the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither,

To have bless'd mine eyes with her!

PERICLES.

We cannot but obey

The powers above us. Could I rage and roar

As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end

Must be as 'tis. My gentle babe Marina, whom,

For she was born at sea, I have named so, here

I charge your charity withal, leaving her

The infant of your care; beseeching you

To give her princely training, that she may be

Manner'd as she is born.

CLEON.

Fear not, my lord, but think

Your grace, that fed my country with your corn,

For which the people's prayers still fall upon you,

Must in your child be thought on. If neglection

Should therein make me vile, the common body,

By you relieved, would force me to my duty:

But if to that my nature need a spur,

The gods revenge it upon me and mine,

To the end of generation!

PERICLES.

I believe you;

Your honour and your goodness teach me to 't,

Without your vows. Till she be married, madam,

By bright Diana, whom we honour, all

Unscissar'd shall this hair of mine remain,

Though I show ill in 't. So I take my leave

Good madam, make me blessed in your care

In bringing up my child.

DIONYZA.

I have one myself,

Who shall not be mere dear to my respect

Than yours, my lord.

PERICLES.

Madam, my thanks and prayers.

CLEON.

We'll bring your grace e'en to the edge o' the shore,

Then give you up to the mask'd Neptune and

The gentlest winds of heaven.

PERICLES.

I will embrace your offer. Come, dearest madam.

O, no tears, Lychorida, no tears:

Look to your little mistress, on whose grace

You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's house.

[Enter Cerimon and Thaisa.]

CERIMON.

Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,

Lay with you in your coffer: which are now

At your command. Know you the character?

THAISA.

It is my lord's.

That I was shipp'd at sea, I well remember,

Even on my eaning time; but whether there

Deliver'd, by the holy gods,

I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles,

My wedded lord, I ne'er shall see again,

A vestal livery will I take me to,

And never more have joy.

CERIMON.

Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak,

Diana's temple is not distant far,

Where you may abide till your date expire.

Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine

Shall there attend you.

THAISA.

My recompense is thanks, that's all;

Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. CHORUS.

[Enter Gower.]

GOWER.

Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre,

Welcomed and settled to his own desire.

His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus,

Unto Diana there a votaress.

Now to Marina bend your mind,

Whom our fast-growing scene must find

At Tarsus, and by Cleon train'd

In music, letters; who hath gain'd

Of education all the grace,

Which makes her both the heart and place

Of general wonder. But, alack,

That monster envy, oft the wrack

Of earned praise, Marina's life

Seeks to take off by treason's knife.

And in this kind hath our Cleon

One daughter, and a wench full grown,

Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid

Hight Philoten: and it is said

For certain in our story, she

Would ever with Marina be:

Be't when she weaved the sleided silk

With fingers long, small, white as milk;

Or when she would with sharp needle wound,

The cambric, which she made more sound

By hurting it; or when to the lute

She sung, and made the night-bird mute

That still records with moan; or when

She would with rich and constant pen

Vail to her mistress Dian; still

This Philoten contends in skill

With absolute Marina: so

With the dove of Paphos might the crow

Vie feathers white. Marina gets

All praises, which are paid as debts,

And not as given. This so darks

In Philoten all graceful marks,

That Cleon's wife, with envy rare,

A present murderer does prepare

For good Marina, that her daughter

Might stand peerless by this slaughter.

The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,

Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:

And cursed Dionyza hath

The pregnant instrument of wrath

Prest for this blow. The unborn event

I do commend to your content:

Only I carry winged time

Post on the lame feet of my rhyme;

Which never could I so convey,

Unless your thoughts went on my way.

Dionyza does appear,

With Leonine, a murderer.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Tarsus. An open place near the sea-shore.

[Enter Dionyza and Leonine.]

DIONYZA.

Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do 't:

'Tis but a blow, which never shall be known.

Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,

To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience,

Which is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom,

Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be

A soldier to thy purpose.

LEONINE.

I will do't; but yet she is a goodly creature.

DIONYZA.

The fitter, then, the gods should have her.

Here she comes wweeping for her only mistress' death.

Thou art resolved?

LEONINE.

I am resolved.

[Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers.]

MARINA.

No, I will rob Tellus of her weed

To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues,

The purple violets, and marigolds,

Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave,

While summer-days do last. Ay me! poor maid,

Born in a tempest, when my mother died,

This world to me is like a lasting storm,

Whirring me from my friends.

DIONYZA.

How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?

How chance my daughter is not with you?

Do not consume your blood with sorrowing:

Have you a nurse of me. Lord, how your favour's

Changed with this unprofitable woe!

Come, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it.

Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there,

And it pierces and sharpens the stomach.

Come, Leonine,

Take her by the arm, walk with her.

MARINA.

No, I pray you;

I'll not bereave you of your servant.

DIONYZA.

Come, come;

I love the king your father, and yourself,

With more than foreign heart. We every day

Expect him here: when he shall come and find

Our paragon to all reports thus blasted,

He will repent the breadth of his great voyage;

Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken

No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you,

Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve

That excellent complexion, which did steal

The eyes of young and old. Care not for me;

I can go home alone.

MARINA.

Well, I will go;

But yet I have no desire to it.

DIONYZA.

Come, come, I know 'tis good for you.

Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least:

Remember what I have said.

LEONINE.

I warrant you, madam.

DIONYZA.

I'll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while:

Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood:

What! I must have a care of you.

MARINA.

My thanks, sweet madam.

[Exit Dionyza.]

Is this wind westerly that blows?

LEONINE.

South-west.

MARINA.

When I was born, the wind was north.

LEONINE.

Was 't so?

MARINA.

My father, as nurse said, did never fear,

But cried 'Good seamen!' to the sailors, galling

His kingly hands, haling ropes;

And, clasping to the mast, endured a sea

That almost burst the deck.

LEONINE.

When was this?

MARINA.

When I was born:

Never was waves nor wind more violent;

And from the ladder-tackle washes off

A canvas-climber. 'Ha!' says one, wilt out?'

And with a dropping industry they skip

From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and

The master calls, and trebles their confusion.

LEONINE.

Come, say your prayers.

MARINA.

What mean you?

LEONINE.

If you require a little space for prayer,

I grant it: pray; but be not tedious,

For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn

To do my work with haste.

MARINA.

Why will you kill rne?

LEONINE.

To satisfy my lady.

MARINA.

Why would she have me kill'd?

Now, as I can remember, by my troth,

I never did her hurt in all my life:

I never spoke bad word, nor did ill turn

To any living creature: believe me, la,

I never kill'd a mouse, nor hurt a fly:

I trod upon a worm against my will,

But I wept for it. How have I offended,

Wherein my death might yield her any profit,

Or my life imply her any danger?

LEONINE.

My commission

Is not to reason of the deed, but do it.

MARINA.

You will not do 't for all the world, I hope.

You are well favour'd, and your looks foreshow

You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately,

When you caught hurt in parting two that fought:

Good sooth, it show'd well in you: do so now:

Your lady seeks my life; come you between,

And save poor me, the weaker.

LEONINE.

I am sworn,

And will dispatch.

[He seizes her.]

[Enter Pirates.]

FIRST PIRATE.

Hold, villain!

[Leonine runs away.]

SECOND PIRATE.

A prize! a prize!

THIRD PIRATE.

Half-part, mates, half-part! Come, let's have her aboard suddenly.

[Exeunt Pirates with Marina.]

[Re-enter Leonine.]

LEONINE.

These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes;

And they hav seized Marina. Let her go:

Thre's no hope she will return. I'll swear she's dead

And thrown into the sea. But I'll see further:

Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her,

Not carry her aboard. If she remain,

Whom they have ravish'd must by me be slain.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Mytilene. A room in a brothel.

[Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult.]

PANDAR.

Boult!

BOULT.

Sir?

PANDAR.

Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless.

BAWD.

We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten.

PANDAR.

Therefore let's have fresh ones, whate'r we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper.

BAWD.

Thou sayest true: 'tis not our bringing up of poor bastards, —as, I think, I have bought up some eleven —

BOULT.

Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market?

BAWD.

What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blo it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden.

PANDAR.

Thou sayest true; they're too unwholesome, o' conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage.

BOULT.

Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I'll go search the market.

[Exit.]

PANDAR.

Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.

BAWD.

Why to give over, I pray you? is it a shame to get when we are old?

PANDAR.

O, our credit comes not in like the commodity , nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therfore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, 'twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over.

BAWD.

Come, others sorts offend as well as we.

PANDAR.

As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it's no calling. But here comes Boult.

[Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina.]

BOULT

[To Pirates.]

Come your ways. My masters, you say she's a virgin?

FIRST PIRATE.

O, sir, we doubt it not.

BOULT.

Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest.

BAWD.

Boult, has she any qualities?

BOULT.

She has a good face, speaks well, and has excellent clothes: ther's no further necessity of qualities can make her be refused.

BAWD.

What is her price, Boult?

BOULT.

I cannot be baited one doit of a thousand pieces.

PANDAR.

Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment.

[Exeunt Pandar and Pirates.]

BAWD.

Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her hair, complexion, height, age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry 'He that will give most shall have her first.' Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you.

BOULT.

Performance shall follow.

[Exit.

MARINA.

Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow!

He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates,

Not enough barbarous, had not o'erboard thrown me

For to seek my mother!

BARD.

Why lament you, pretty one?

MARINA.

That I am pretty.

BAWD.

Come, the gods have done their part in you.

MARINA.

I accuse them not.

BAWD.

You are light into my hands, where you are like to live.

MARINA.

The more my fault

To scape his hands where I was like to die.

BAWD.

Ay, and you shall live in pleasure.

MARINA.

No.

BAWD.

Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions: you shall fare well; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears?

MARINA.

Are you a woman?

BAWD.

What would you have me be, an I be not a woman?

MARINA.

An honest woman, or not a woman.

BAWD.

Marry, whip the, gosling: I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you're a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you.

MARINA.

The gods defend me!

BAWD.

If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men must stir you up. Boult's returned.

[Re-enter Boult.]

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market?

BOULT.

I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs; I have drawn her picture with my voice.

BAWD.

And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort?

BOULT.

'Faith, they listened to me as they would have hearkened to their father's testament. There was a Spaniard's mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description.

BAWD.

We shall have him here to-morrow: with his best ruff on.

BOULT.

To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i' the hams?

BAWD.

Who, Monsieur Veroles?

BOULT.

Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her to-morrow.

BAWD.

Well. well; as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun.

BOULT.

Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign.

[To Marina.]

Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully which you commit willingly, despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers: seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit.

MARINA.

I understand you not.

BOULT.

O, take her home, mistress, take her home: these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practice.

BAWD.

Thou sayest true, i' faith so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant.

BOULT.

'Faith, some do and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint, —

BAWD.

Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit.

BOULT.

I may so.

BAWD.

Who should deny it? Come young one, I like the manner of your garments well.

BOULT.

Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet.

BAWD.

Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a sojourner we have; you'll lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report.

BOULT.

I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her Beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I'll bring home some to-night.

BAWD.

Come your ways; follow me.

MARINA.

If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep,

Untied I still my virgin knot will keep.

Diana, aid my purpose!

BAWD.

What have we to do with Diana? Pray you, will you go with us?

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

Tarsus. A room in Cleon's house.

[Enter Cleon and Dionyza.]

DIONYZA.

Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone?

CLEON.

O, Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter

The sun and moon ne'er look'd upon!

DIONYZA.

I think

You'll turn a child agan.

CLEON.

Were I chief lord of all this spacious world,

I'ld give it to undo the deed. 0 lady,

Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess

To equal any single crown o' the earth

I' the justice of compare! O villain Leonine!

Whom thou hast poison'd too:

If thou hadst drunk to him, 't had been a kindness

Becoming well thy fact: what canst thou say

When noble Pericles shall demand his child?

DIONYZA.

That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates,

To foster it, nor ever to preserve.

She died at night; I'11 say so. Who can cross it?

Unless you play the pious innocent,

And for an honest attribute cry out

'She died by foul play.'

CLEON.

O, go to. Well, well,

Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods

Do like this worst.

DIONYZA.

Be one of those that think.

The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence,

And open this to Pericles. I do shame

To think of what a noble strain you are,

And of how coward a spirit.

CLEON.

To such proceeding

Whoever but his approbation added,

Though not his prime consent, he did not flow

From honourable sources,

DIONYZA.

Be it so, then:

Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead,

Nor none can know, Leonine being gone.

She did distain my child, and stood between

Her and her fortunes: none would look on her,

But cast their gazes on Marina's face;

Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin

Not worth the time of day. It pierced me through;

And though you call my course unnatural,

You not your child well loving, yet I find

It greets me as an enterprise of kindness

Perform'd to your sole daughter.

CLEON.

Heavens forgive it!

DIONYZA.

And as for Pericles, What should he say?

We wept after her hearse,

And yet we mourn: her monument

Is almost finish'd, and her epitaphs

In glittering golden characters express

A general praise to her, and care in us

At whose expense 'tis done.

CLEON.

Thou art like the harpy,

Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel's face,

Seize with thine eagle's talons.

DIONYZA.

You are like one that superstitiously

Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies:

But yet I know you'll do as I advise.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

[Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina at Tarsus.]

GOWER.

Thus time we waste, and longest leagues make short;

Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for 't;

Making, to take your imagination,

From bourn to bourn, region to region.

By you being pardon'd, we commit no crime

To use one language in each several clime

Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you

To learn of me, who stand i' the gaps to teach you,

The stages of our story. Pericles

Is now again thwarting the wayward seas

Attended on by many a lord and knight,

To see his daughter, all his life's deight.

Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late

Advanced in time to great and high estate.

Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind,

Old Helicanus goes along behind

Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought

This king to Tarsus, — think his pilot thought;

So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on, —

To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone.

Like motes and shadows see them move awhile;

Your ears unto your eyes I'll reconcile.

[Dumb Show.]

[Enter Pericles, at one door, with all his train; Cleon and Dionyza, at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs. Then exeunt Cleon and Dionyza.]

See how belief may suffer by foul show;

This borrow'd passion stands for true old woe;

And Pericles, in sorrow all devour'd,

With sighs shot through; and biggest tears o'ershower'd,

Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears

Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs:

He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears

A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,

And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit

The epitaph is for Marina writ

By wicked Dionyza.

[Reads the inscription on Marina's monument.]

'The fairest, sweet'st, and best lies here,

Who wither'd in her spring of year.

She was of Tyrus the king's daughter,

On whom foul death hath made this slaughter;

Marina was she call'd; and at her birth,

Thetis, being proud, swallow'd some part o' the earth:

Therefore the earth, fearing to be o'erflow'd,

Hath Thetis' birth-child on the heavens bestow'd:

Wherefore she does, and swears she'll never stint,

Make raging battery upon shores of flint.'

No visor does become black villany

So well as soft and tender flattery.

Let Pericles believe his daughter's dead,

And bear his courses to be ordered

By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play

His daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day

In her unholy service. Patience, then,

And think you now are all in Mytilene.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

Mytilene. A street before the brothel.

[Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Did you ever hear the like?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy-houses: shall's go hear the vestals sing?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I'll do any thing now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE VI.

The same. A room in the brothel.

[Enter Pandar, Bawd, and Boult.]

PANDAR.

Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne'er come here.

BAWD.

Fie, fie upon her! she's able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her.

BOULT.

'Faith, I must ravish her, or she'll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests.

PANDAR.

Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for me!

BAWD.

'Faith, there's no way to be rid on't but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised.

BOULT.

We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers.

[Enter Lysimachus.]

LYSIMACHUS.

How now! How a dozen of virginities?

BAWD.

Now, the gods to bless your honour!

BOULT.

I am glad to see your honour in good health.

LYSIMACHUS.

You may so; 'tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now! wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon?

BAWD.

We have here one, sir, if she would — but there never came her like in Mytilene.

LYSIMACHUS.

If she'ld do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say.

BAWD.

Your honour knows what 'tis to say well enough.

LYSIMACHUS.

Well, call forth, call forth.

BOULT.

For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but —

LYSIMACHUS.

What, prithee?

BOULT.

O, sir, I can be modest.

LYSIMACHUS.

That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste.

[Exit Boult.]

BAWD.

Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never plucked yet, I can assure you.

[Re-enter Boult with Marina.]

Is she not a fair creature?

LYSIMACHUS.

'Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea. Well, there's for you: leave us.

BAWD.

I beseech your honour, give me leave: a word, and I'll have done presently.

LYSIMACHUS.

I beseech you, do.

BAWD.

[To Marina.]

First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man.

MARINA.

I desire to find him so, that I may worthily note him.

BAWD.

Next, he's the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to.

MARINA.

If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not.

BAWD.

Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold.

MARINA.

What he will do graciously, I will thankfully receive.

LYSIMACHUS.

Ha' you done?

BAWD.

My lord, she's not paced yet: you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy ways.

[Exeunt Bawd, Pandar, and Boult.]

LYSIMACHUS.

Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade?

MARINA.

What trade, sir?

LYSIMACHUS.

Why, I cannot name't but I shall offend.

MARINA.

I cannot be offended with my trade. Please you to name it.

LYSIMACHUS.

How long have you been of this profession?

MARINA.

E'er since I can remember?

LYSIMACHUS.

Did you go to't so young? Were you a gamester at five or at seven?

MARINA.

Earlier, too, sir, if now I be one.

LYSIMACHUS.

Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale.

MARINA.

Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into 't? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place.

LYSIMACHUS.

Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am?

MARINA.

Who is my principal?

LYSIMACHUS.

Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place: come, come.

MARINA.

If you were born to honour, show it now;

If put upon you, make the judgement good

That thought you worthy of it.

LYSIMACHUS.

How 's this? how 's this? Some more; be sage.

MARINA.

For me,

That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune

Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came,

Diseases have been sold dearer than physic,

O, that the gods

Would set me free from this unhallow'd place,

Though they did change me to the meanest bird

That flies i' the purer air!

LYSIMACHUS.

I did not think

Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne'er dream'd thou couldst.

Had I brought hither a corrupted mind,

Thy speech had alter'd it. Hold, here 's gold for thee:

Persever in that clear way thou goest,

And the gods strengthen thee!

MARINA.

The good gods preserve you!

LYSIMACHUS.

For me, be you thoughten

That I came with no ill intent; for to me

The very doors and windows savour vilely.

Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and

I doubt not but thy training hath been noble.

Hold, here's more gold for thee.

A curse upon him, die he like a thief,

That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost

Hear from me, it shall be for thy good.

[Re-enter Boult.]

BOULT.

I beseech your honour, one piece for me.

LYSIMACHUS.

Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper!

Your house but for this virgin that doth prop it,

Would sink and overwhelm you. Away!

[Exit.]

BOULT.

How's this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways.

MARINA.

Whither would you have me?

BOULT.

I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We'll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say.

[Re-enter Bawd.]

BAWD.

How now! what's the matter?

BOULT.

Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.

BAWD.

O Abominable!

BOULT.

She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods.

BAWD.

Marry, hang her up for ever!

BOULT.

The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too.

BAWD.

Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable.

BOULT.

An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed.

MARINA.

Hark, hark, you gods!

BAWD.

She conjures: away with her! Would she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang you! She's born to undo us. Will you not go the way of women-kind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays!

[Exit.]

BOULT.

Come, mistress; come your ways with me.

MARINA.

Whither wilt thou have me?

BOULT.

To take from you the jewel you hold so dear.

MARINA.

Prithee, tell me one thing first.

BOULT.

Come now, your one thing.

MARINA.

What canst thou wish thine enemy to be?

BOULT.

Why, I could wish him to he my master, or rather, my mistress.

MARINA.

Neither of these are so had as thou art,

Since they do better thee in their command.

Thou hold'st a place, for which the pained'st fiend

Of hell would not in reputation change:

Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every

Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib;

To the choleric fisting of every rogue

Thy ear is liable, thy food is such

As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.

BOULT.

What would you have me do? go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one?

MARINA.

Do any thing but this thou doest. Empty

Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth;

Serve by indenture to the common hangman:

Any of these ways are yet better than this;

For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak,

Would own a name too dear. O, that the gods

Would safely deliver me from this place!

Here, here's gold for thee.

If that thy master would gain by me,

Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,

With other virtues, which I'll keep from boast;

And I will undertake all these to teach.

I doubt not but this populous city will

Yield many scholars.

BOULT.

But can you teach all this you speak of?

MARINA.

Prove that I cannot, take me home again,

And prostitute me to the basest groom

That doth frequent your house.

BOULT.

Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if I can place thee, I will.

MARINA.

But amongst honest women.

BOULT.

'Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there's no going but by their consent: therefore I will make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, I'll do for thee what I can; come your ways.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. CHORUS

[Enter Gower.]

GOWER.

Marina thus the brothel 'scapes, and chances

Into an honest house, our story says.

She sings like one immortal, and she dances

As goddess-like to her admired lays;

Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her neeld composes

Nature's own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry,

That even her art sistrs the natural roses;

Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry:

That pupils lacks she none of noble race,

Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain

She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place;

And to her father turn our thoughts again,

Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost;

Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived

Here where his daughter dwells; and on this coast

Suppose him now at anchor. The city strived

God Neptune's annual feast to keep: from whence

Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies,

His banners sable, trimm'd with rich expense;

And to him in his barge with fervour hies.

In your supposing once more put your sight

Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark:

Where what is done in action, more, if might,

Shall be discover'd; please you, sit and hark.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

On board Pericles' ship, off Mytilene. A close pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel.

[Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to the barge; to them Helicanus.]

TYRIAN SAILOR.

[To the Sailor of Mytilene.]

Where is lord Helicanus? he can resolve you.

O, here he is.

Sir, there's a barge put off from Mytilene,

And in it is Lysimachus the governor,

Who craves to come aboard. What is your will?

HELICANUS.

That he have his. Call up some gentlemen.

TYRIAN SAILOR.

Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls.

[Enter two or three Gentlemen.]

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Doth your lordship call?

HELICANUS.

Gentlemen, there is some of worth would come aboard;

I pray ye, greet them fairly.

[The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend, and go on board the barge. Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with the Gentlemen and the two sailors.]

TYRIAN SAILOR.

Sir,

This is the man that can, in aught you would,

Resolve you.

LYSIMACHUS.

Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you!

HELICANUS.

And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,

And die as I would do.

LYSIMACHUS.

You wish me well.

Being on shore, honouring of Neptune's triumphs,

Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,

I made to it, to know of whence you are.

HELICANUS.

First, what is your place?

LYSIMACHUS.

I am the governor of this place you lie before.

HELICANUS.

Sir, our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;

A man who for this three months hath not spoken

To any one, nor taken sustenance

But to prorogue his grief.

LYSIMACHUS.

Upon what ground is his distemperature?

HELICANUS.

'Twould be too tedious to repeat;

But the main grief springs from the loss

Of a beloved daughter and a wife.

LYSIMACHUS.

May we not see him?

HELICANUS.

You may;

But bootless is your sight: he will not speak

To any.

LYSIMACHUS.

Yet let me obtain my wish.

HELICANUS.

Behold him.

[Pericles discovered.]

This was a goodly person.

Till the disaster that, one mortal night,

Drove him to this.

LYSIMACHUS.

Sir king, all hail! the gods preserve you!

Hail, royal sir!

HELICANUS.

It is in vain; he will not speak to you.

FIRST LORD.

Sir,

We have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager,

Would win some words of him.

LYSIMACHUS.

'Tis well bethought.

She questionless with her sweet harmony

And other chosen attractions, would allure,

And make a battery through his deafen'd parts,

Which now are midway stopp'd:

She is all happy as the fairest of all,

And, with her fellow maids, is now upon

The leafy shelter that abuts against

The island's side.

[Whispers a Lord, who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus.]

HELICANUS.

Sure, all's effectless; yet nothing we'll omit

That bears recovery's name. But, since your kindness

We have stretch'd thus far, let us beseech you

That for our gold we may provision have,

Wherein we are not destitute for want,

But weary for the staleness.

LYSIMACHUS.

O, sir, a courtesy

Which if we should deny, the most just gods

For every graff would send a catepillar,

And so afflict our province. Yet once more

Let me entreat to know at large the cause

Of your king's sorrow.

HELICANUS.

Sit, sir, I will recount it to you:

But, see, I am prevented.

[Re-enter, from the barge, Lord, with Marina, and a young Lady.]

LYSIMACHUS.

O, here is

The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one!

Is't not a goodly presence?

HELICANUS.

She's a gallant lady.

LYSIMACHUS.

She's such a one, that, were I well assured

Came of a gentle kind and noble stock,

I'ld wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.

Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty

Expect even here, where is a kingly patient:

If that thy prosperous and artificial feat

Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,

Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay

As thy desires can wish.

MARINA.

Sir, I will use

My utmost skill in his recovery, provided

That none but I and my companion maid

Be suffer'd to come near him.

LYSIMACHUS.

Come, let us leave her,

And the gods make her prosperous!

[Marina sings.]

LYSIMACHUS.

Mark'd he your music?

MARINA.

No, nor look'd on us,

LYSIMACHUS.

See, she will speak to him.

MARINA.

Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear.

PERICLES.

Hum, ha!

MARINA.

I am a maid,

My lord, that ne'er before invited eyes,

But have been gazed on like a cornet: she speaks,

My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief

Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh'd.

Though wayward fortune did malign my state,

My derivation was from ancestors

Who stood equivalent with mighty kings:

But time hath rooted out my parentage,

And to the world and awkward casualties

Bound me in servitude.

[Aside.]

I will desist;

But there is something glows upon my cheek,

And whispers in mine ear 'Go not till he speak.'

PERICLES.

My fortunes — parentage — good parentage —

To equal mine! — was it not thus? what say you?

MARINA.

I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage.

You would not do me violence.

PERICLES.

I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.

You are like something that — What country-woman?

Here of these shores?

MARINA.

No, nor of any shores:

Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am

No other than I appear.

PERICLES.

I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.

My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one

My daughter might have been: my queen's square brows;

Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;

As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like

And cased as richly; in pace another Juno;

Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,

The more she gives them speech. Where do you live?

MARINA.

Where I am but a stranger: from the deck

You may discern the place.

PERICLES.

Where were you bred?

And how achieved you these endowments, which

You make more rich to owe?

MARINA.

If I should tell my history, it would seem

Like lies disdain'd in the reporting.

PERICLES.

Prithee, speak:

Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look'st

Modest as Justice, and thou seem'st a palace

For the crown'd Truth to dwell in: I will believe thee,

And make my senses credit thy relation

To points that seem impossible; for thou look'st

Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends?

Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back —

Which was when I perceived thee — that thou earnest

From good descending?

MARINA.

So indeed I did.

PERICLES.

Report thy parentage. I think thou said'st

Thou hadst been toss'd from wrong to injury,

And that thou thought'st thy griefs might equal mine,

If both were open'd.

MARINA.

Some such thing,

I said, and said no more but what my thoughts

Did warrant me was likely.

PERICLES.

Tell thy story;

If thine consider'd prove the thousandth part

Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I

Have suffer'd like a girl: yet thou dost look

Like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling

Extremity out of act. What were thy friends?

How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin?

Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me.

MARINA.

My name is Marina.

PERICLES.

O, I am mocked,

And thou by some incensed god sent hither

To make the world to laugh at me.

MARINA.

Patience, good sir,

Or here I'll cease.

PERICLES.

Nay, I'll be patient.

Thou little know'st how thou dost startle me,

To call thyself Marina.

MARINA.

The name

Was given me by one that had some power,

My father, and a king.

PERICLES.

How! a king's daughter?

And call'd Marina?

MARINA.

You said you would believe me;

But, not to be a troubler of your peace,

I will end here.

PERICLES.

But are you flesh and blood?

Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy?

Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born?

And wherefore call'd Marina?

MARINA.

Call'd Marina

For I was born at sea.

PERICLES.

At sea! what mother?

MARINA.

My mother was the daughter of a king;

Who died the minute I was born,

As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft

Deliver'd weeping.

PERICLES.

O, stop there a little!

[Aside.]

This is the rarest dream that e'er dull sleep

Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be:

My daughter's buried. Well: where were: you bred?

I'll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,

And never interrupt you.

MARINA.

You scorn: believe me, 'twere best I did give o'er. —

PERICLES.

I will believe you by the syllable

Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:

How came you in these parts? where were you bred?

MARINA.

The king my father did in Tarsus leave me;

Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,

Did seek to murder me: and having woo'd

A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do 't,

A crew of pirates came and rescued me;

Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir.

Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It may be,

You think me an impostor: no, good faith;

I am the daughter to King Pericles,

If good King Pericles be.

PERICLES.

Ho, Helicanus!

HELICANUS.

Calls my lord?

PERICLES.

Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,

Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,

What this maid is, or what is like to be,

That thus hath made me weep?

HELICANUS.

I know not; but

Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene

Speaks nobly of her.

LYSIMACHUS.

She would never tell

Her parentage; being demanded that,

She would sit still and weep.

PERICLES.

O Helicanus, strike me, honour'd sir;

Give me a gash, put me to present pain;

Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me

O'erbear the shores of my mortality,

And drown me with their sweetness. O, come hither,

Thou that beget'st him that did thee beget;

Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,

And found at sea again! O Helicanus,

Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud

As thunder threatens us: this is Marina.

What was thy mother's name? tell me but that,

For truth can never be confirm'd enough,

Though doubts did ever sleep

MARINA.

First, sir, I pray,

What is your title?

PERICLES.

I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now

My drown'd queen's name, as in the rest you said

Thou hast been godlike perfect,

The heir of kingdoms and another like

To Pericles thy father.

MARINA.

Is it no more to be your daughter than

To say my mother's name was Thaisa?

Thaisa was my mother, who did end

The minute I began.

PERICLES.

Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child.

Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus;

She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been,

By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all;

When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge

She is thy very princess. Who is this?

HELICANUS.

Sir, 'tis the governor of Mytilene,

Who, hearing of your melancholy state,

Did come to see you.

PERICLES.

I embrace you.

Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.

O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music?

Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him

O'er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,

How sure you are my daughter. But, what music?

HELICANUS.

My lord, I hear none.

PERICLES.

None!

The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.

LYSIMACHUS.

It is not good to cross him; give him way

PERICLES.

Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear?

LYSIMACHUS.

My lord, I hear.

[Music.]

PERICLES.

Most heavenly music!

It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber

Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest.

[Sleeps.]

LYSIMACHUS.

A pillow for his head:

So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends,

If this but answer to my just belief,

I'll well remember you.

[Exeunt all but Pericles.]

[Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision.]

DIANA.

My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,

And do upon mine altar sacrifice.

There, when my maiden priests are met together,

Before the people all,

Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:

To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter's, call

And give them repetition to the life.

Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe:

Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!

Awake, and tell thy dream.

[Disappears.]

PERICLES.

Celestial Dian, goddess argentine,

I will obey thee. Helicanus!

[Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus, and Marina.]

HELICANUS.

Sir?

PERICLES.

My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike

The inhospitable Cleon; but I am

For other service first: toward Ephesus

Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I'll tell thee why

[To Lysimachus.]

Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,

And give you gold for such provision

As our intents will need?

LYSIMACHUS.

Sir, with all my heart;

And when you come ashore, I have another suit.

PERICLES.

You shall prevail, were it to woo my daughter;

For it seems you have been noble towards her.

LYSIMACHUS.

Sir, lend me your arm.

PERICLES.

Come, my Marina.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

Enter Gower, before the temple of Diana at Ephesus.

GOWER.

Now our sands are almost run;

More a little, and then dumb.

This, my last boon, give me,

For such kindness must relieve me,

That you aptly will suppose

What pageantry, what feats, what shows,

What minstrelsy, and pretty din,

The regent made in Mytilene

To greet the king. So he thrived,

That he is promised to be wived

To fair Marina; but in no wise

Till he had done his sacrifice,

As Dian bade: whereto being bound,

The interim, pray you, all confound.

In feather'd briefness sails are fill'd,

And wishes fall out as they're will'd.

At Ephesus, the temple see,

Cur king and all his company.

That he can hither come so soon,

Is by your fancy's thankful doom.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and other inhabitants of Ephesus attending.

[Enter Pericles, with his train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina, and a Lady.]

PERICLES.

Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command,

I here confess myself the king of Tyre;

Who, frighted from my country, did wed

At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa.

At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth

A maid-child call'd Marina; who, O goddess,

Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus

Was nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years

He sought to murder: but her better stars

Brought her to Mytilene; 'gainst whose shore

Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,

Where by her own most clear remembrance, she

Made known herself my daughter.

THAISA.

Voice and favour!

You are, you are — O royal Pericles!

[Faints.]

PERICLES.

What means the nun? she dies! help, gentlemen!

CERIMON.

Noble sir,

If you have told Diana's altar true,

This is your wife.

PERICLES.

Reverend appearer, no;

I threw her overboard with these very arms.

CERIMON.

Upon this coast, I warrant you.

PERICLES.

'Tis most certain.

CERIMON.

Look to the lady; O, she's but o'er-joy'd.

Early in blustering morn this lady was

Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin,

Found there rich jewels; recover'd her, and placed her

Here in Diana's temple.

PERICLES.

May we see them?

CERIMON.

Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house,

Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is

Recovered.

THAISA.

O, let me look!

If he be none of mine, my sanctity

Will to my sense bend no licentious ear,

But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord,

Are you not Pericles? Like him you spake,

Like him you are: did you not name a tempest,

A birth, and death?

PERICLES.

The voice of dead Thaisa!

THAISA.

That Thaisa am I, supposed dead

And drown'd.

PERICLES.

Immortal Dian!

THAISA.

Now I know you better,

When we with tears parted Pentapolis,

The king my father gave you such a ring.

[Shows a ring.]

PERICLES.

This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness

Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well,

That on the touching of her lips I may

Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried

A second time within these arms.

MARINA.

My heart

Leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom.

[Kneels to Thaisa.]

PERICLES.

Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa;

Thy burden at the sea, and call'd Marina

For she was yielded there.

THAISA.

Blest, and mine own!

HELICANUS.

Hail, madam, and my queen!

THAISA.

I know you not.

PERICLES.

You have heard me say, when did fly from Tyre,

I left behind an ancient substitute:

Can you remember what I call'd the man

I have named him oft.

THAISA.

'Twas Helicanus then.

PERICLES.

Still confirmation:

Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.

Now do I long to hear how you were found:

How possibly preserved; and who to thank,

Besides the gods, for this great miracle.

THAISA.

Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,

Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can

From first to last resolve you.

PERICLES.

Reverend sir,

The gods can have no mortal officer

More like a god than you. Will you deliver

How this dead queen re-lives?

CERIMON.

I will, my lord

Beseech you, first go with me to my house,

Where shall be shown you all was found with her;

How she came placed here in the temple;

No needful thing omitted.

PERICLES.

Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I

Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,

This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter,

Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now,

This ornament

Makes me look dismal will I clip to form;

And what this fourteen years no razor touch'd

To grace thy marriage-day, I'll beautify.

THAISA.

Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir,

My father's dead.

PERICLES.

Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen,

We'll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves

Will in that kingdom spend our following days:

Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign.

Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay

To hear the rest untold: sir, lead's the way.

[Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE.

[Enter Gower.]

GOWER.

In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard

Of monstrous lust the due and just reward:

In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen,

Although assail'd with fortune fierce and keen,

Virtue preserved from fell destruction's blast,

Led on by heaven, and crown'd with joy at last:

In Helicanus may you well descry

A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty:

In reverend Cerimon there well appears

The worth that learned charity aye wears:

For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame

Had spread their cursed deed, and honour'd name

Of Pericles, to rage the city turn,

That him and his they in his palace burn;

The gods for murder seemed so content

To punish them although not done but meant.

So, on your patence evermore attending,

New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.

[Exit.]

THE END

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

List of Characters

Induction, Scene I

Induction, Scene II

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene V

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

List of Characters

Persons in the Induction

A LORD

CHRISTOPHER SLY: a tinker

HOSTESS

PAGE

PLAYERS

HUNTSMEN

SERVANTS

BAPTISTA MINOLA: a rich eman of Padua

VINCENTIO: an old gentleman of Pisa

LUCENTIO: son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca

PETRUCHIO: a gentleman of Verona; suitor to Katherina

Suitors to Bianca

GREMIO

HORTENSIO

Servants to Lucentio

TRANIO BIONDELLO

Servants to Petruchio

GRUMIO

CURTIS

PEDANT: set up to personate Vincentio

Daughters to Baptista

KATHERINA, the shrew

BIANCA

WIDOW

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio

SCENE: Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes in PETRUCHIO'S house in

the country.

INDUCTION. SCENE I.

Before an alehouse on a heath.

[Enter HOSTESS and SLY.]

SLY.

I'll feeze you, in faith.

HOSTESS.

A pair of stocks, you rogue!

SLY.

Y'are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!

HOSTESS.

You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

SLY.

No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

HOSTESS.

I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough.

[Exit.]

SLY.

Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law. I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.]

[Horns winded. Enter a LORD from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants.]

LORD.

Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;

Brach Merriman, the poor cur, is emboss'd,

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.

Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good

At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

FIRST HUNTSMAN.

Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;

He cried upon it at the merest loss,

And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent;

Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

LORD.

Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen such.

But sup them well, and look unto them all;

To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

FIRST HUNTSMAN.

I will, my lord.

LORD.

[ Sees Sly.] What's here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

SECOND HUNTSMAN.

He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale,

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

LORD.

O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!

Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.

What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,

Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,

A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes,

Would not the beggar then forget himself?

FIRST HUNTSMAN.

Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

SECOND HUNTSMAN.

It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd.

LORD.

Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.

Then take him up, and manage well the jest.

Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,

And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet.

Procure me music ready when he wakes,

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,

And with a low submissive reverence

Say 'What is it your honour will command?'

Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,

And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'

Some one be ready with a costly suit,

And ask him what apparel he will wear;

Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease.

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;

And, when he says he is—say that he dreams,

For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs;

It will be pastime passing excellent,

If it be husbanded with modesty.

FIRST HUNTSMAN.

My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,

As he shall think by our true diligence,

He is no less than what we say he is.

LORD.

Take him up gently, and to bed with him,

And each one to his office when he wakes.

[SLY is bourne out. A trumpet sounds.]

Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds:

[Exit SERVANT.]

Belike some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

[Re-enter SERVANT.]

How now! who is it?

SERVANT.

An it please your honour, players

That offer service to your lordship.

LORD.

Bid them come near.

[Enter PLAYERS.]

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

PLAYERS.

We thank your honour.

LORD.

Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

PLAYER.

So please your lordship to accept our duty.

LORD.

With all my heart. This fellow I remember

Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son;

'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.

I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.

PLAYER.

I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.

LORD.

'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.

Well, you are come to me in happy time,

The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

But I am doubtful of your modesties,

Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,—

For yet his honour never heard a play,—

You break into some merry passion

And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

If you should smile, he grows impatient.

PLAYER.

Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,

Were he the veriest antick in the world.

LORD.

Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

And give them friendly welcome every one:

Let them want nothing that my house affords.

[Exit one with the PLAYERS.]

Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page,

And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady;

That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,

And call him 'madam,' do him obeisance.

Tell him from me—as he will win my love,—

He bear himself with honourable action,

Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished;

Such duty to the drunkard let him do,

With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,

And say 'What is't your honour will command,

Wherein your lady and your humble wife

May show her duty and make known her love?'

And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

And with declining head into his bosom,

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd

To see her noble lord restor'd to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

And if the boy have not a woman's gift

To rain a shower of commanded tears,

An onion will do well for such a shift,

Which, in a napkin being close convey'd,

Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.

See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst;

Anon I'll give thee more instructions.

[Exit SERVANT.]

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman;

I long to hear him call the drunkard husband;

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter

When they do homage to this simple peasant.

I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence

May well abate the over-merry spleen,

Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

[Exeunt.]

INDUCTION. SCENE II.

A bedchamber in the LORD'S house.

[SLY is discovered in a rich nightgown, with ATTENDANTS: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD, dressed like a servant.]

SLY.

For God's sake! a pot of small ale.

FIRST SERVANT.

Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

SECOND SERVANT.

Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?

THIRD SERVANT.

What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

SLY.

I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.

LORD.

Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!

O, that a mighty man of such descent,

Of such possessions, and so high esteem,

Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

SLY.

What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. Here's—

THIRD SERVANT.

O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.

SECOND SERVANT.

O! this is it that makes your servants droop.

LORD.

Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.

Look how thy servants do attend on thee,

Each in his office ready at thy beck:

Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays,

[Music]

And twenty caged nightingales do sing:

Or wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch

Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed

On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground:

Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp'd,

Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.

Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar

Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?

Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them

And fetch shall echoes from the hollow earth.

FIRST SERVANT.

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

SECOND SERVANT.

Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook,

And Cytherea all in sedges hid,

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath

Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

LORD.

We'll show thee Io as she was a maid

And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,

As lively painted as the deed was done.

THIRD SERVANT.

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

LORD.

Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful

Than any woman in this waning age.

FIRST SERVANT.

And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee

Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world;

And yet she is inferior to none.

SLY.

Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?

Or do I dream? Or have I dream'd till now?

I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;

And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;

And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.

SECOND SERVANT.

Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands?

[Servants present a ewer, basin, and napkin.]

O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream,

Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.

SLY.

These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.

But did I never speak of all that time?

FIRST SERVANT.

O! yes, my lord, but very idle words;

For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,

Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,

And rail upon the hostess of the house,

And say you would present her at the leet,

Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts.

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

SLY.

Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

THIRD SERVANT.

Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,

Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,

As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,

And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell;

And twenty more such names and men as these,

Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

SLY.

Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!

ALL.

Amen.

SLY.

I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

[Enter the PAGE, as a lady, with ATTENDANTS.]

PAGE.

How fares my noble lord?

SLY.

Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough.

Where is my wife?

PAGE.

Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

SLY.

Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?

My men should call me lord: I am your goodman.

PAGE.

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;

I am your wife in all obedience.

SLY.

I know it well. What must I call her?

LORD.

Madam.

SLY.

Alice madam, or Joan madam?

LORD.

Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies.

SLY.

Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd

And slept above some fifteen year or more.

PAGE.

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

SLY.

'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

PAGE.

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two;

Or, if not so, until the sun be set:

For your physicians have expressly charg'd,

In peril to incur your former malady,

That I should yet absent me from your bed:

I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

SLY.

Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry, in despite of the flesh and the blood.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

Your honour's players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy;

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

SLY.

Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a

Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

PAGE.

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

SLY.

What! household stuff?

PAGE.

It is a kind of history.

SLY.

Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let

the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.

[Flourish.]

ACT I. SCENE I.

Padua. A public place.

[Enter LUCENTIO and TRANIO.]

LUCENTIO.

Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy,

And by my father's love and leave am arm'd

With his good will and thy good company,

My trusty servant well approv'd in all,

Here let us breathe, and haply institute

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my being and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.

Vincentio's son, brought up in Florence,

It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv'd,

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:

And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,

Virtue and that part of philosophy

Will I apply that treats of happiness

By virtue specially to be achiev'd.

Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left

And am to Padua come as he that leaves

A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

TRANIO.

Mi perdonato, gentle master mine;

I am in all affected as yourself;

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.

Only, good master, while we do admire

This virtue and this moral discipline,

Let's be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;

Or so devote to Aristotle's checks

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practise rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you;

The mathematics and the metaphysics,

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en;

In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

LUCENTIO.

Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness,

And take a lodging fit to entertain

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay awhile; what company is this?

TRANIO.

Master, some show to welcome us to town.

[Enter BAPTISTA, KATHERINA, BIANCA, GREMIO,and HORTENSIO. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand aside.]

BAPTISTA.

Gentlemen, importune me no further,

For how I firmly am resolv'd you know;

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder.

If either of you both love Katherina,

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

GREMIO.

To cart her rather: she's too rough for me.

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

KATHERINA.

[To BAPTISTA] I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

HORTENSIO.

Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

KATHERINA.

I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;

I wis it is not halfway to her heart;

But if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool,

And paint your face, and use you like a fool.

HORTENSIO.

From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

GREMIO.

And me, too, good Lord!

TRANIO.

Husht, master! Here's some good pastime toward:

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

LUCENTIO.

But in the other's silence do I see

Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio!

TRANIO.

Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

BAPTISTA.

Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said,—Bianca, get you in:

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.

KATHERINA.

A pretty peat! it is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

BIANCA.

Sister, content you in my discontent.

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to look, and practise by myself.

LUCENTIO.

Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak.

HORTENSIO.

Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our good will effects

Bianca's grief.

GREMIO.

Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

BAPTISTA.

Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd.

Go in, Bianca.

[Exit BIANCA.]

And for I know she taketh most delight

In music, instruments, and poetry,

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,

Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,

Prefer them hither; for to cunning men

I will be very kind, and liberal

To mine own children in good bringing up;

And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;

For I have more to commune with Bianca.

[Exit.]

KATHERINA.

Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not?

What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,

I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha!

[Exit.]

GREMIO.

You may go to the devil's dam: your gifts are so good here's none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out; our cake's dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father.

HORTENSIO.

So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's love,—to labour and effect one thing specially.

GREMIO.

What's that, I pray?

HORTENSIO.

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

GREMIO.

A husband! a devil.

HORTENSIO.

I say, a husband.

GREMIO.

I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?

HORTENSIO.

Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough.

GREMIO.

I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp'd at the high cross every morning.

HORTENSIO.

Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten apples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to't afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO.

I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on.

[Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO.]

TRANIO.

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

LUCENTIO.

O Tranio! till I found it to be true,

I never thought it possible or likely;

But see, while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love in idleness;

And now in plainness do confess to thee,

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,

Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl.

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

TRANIO.

Master, it is no time to chide you now;

Affection is not rated from the heart:

If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so:

Redime te captum quam queas minimo.

LUCENTIO.

Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents;

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound.

TRANIO.

Master, you look'd so longly on the maid.

Perhaps you mark'd not what's the pith of all.

LUCENTIO.

O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had,

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,

When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand.

TRANIO.

Saw you no more? mark'd you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

LUCENTIO.

Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air;

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.

TRANIO.

Nay, then, 'tis time to stir him from his trance.

I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd,

That till the father rid his hands of her,

Master, your love must live a maid at home;

And therefore has he closely mew'd her up,

Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors.

LUCENTIO.

Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he!

But art thou not advis'd he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

TRANIO.

Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now 'tis plotted.

LUCENTIO.

I have it, Tranio.

TRANIO.

Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

LUCENTIO.

Tell me thine first.

TRANIO.

You will be schoolmaster,

And undertake the teaching of the maid:

That's your device.

LUCENTIO.

It is: may it be done?

TRANIO.

Not possible; for who shall bear your part

And be in Padua here Vincentio's son;

Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends;

Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?

LUCENTIO.

Basta; content thee, for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we be distinguish'd by our faces

For man or master: then it follows thus:

Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,

Keep house and port and servants, as I should;

I will some other be; some Florentine,

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.

'Tis hatch'd, and shall be so: Tranio, at once

Uncase thee; take my colour'd hat and cloak.

When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

[They exchange habits]

TRANIO.

So had you need.

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient;

For so your father charg'd me at our parting,

'Be serviceable to my son,' quoth he,

Although I think 'twas in another sense:

I am content to be Lucentio,

Because so well I love Lucentio.

LUCENTIO.

Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;

And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid

Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye.

Here comes the rogue.

[Enter BIONDELLO.]

Sirrah, where have you been?

BIONDELLO.

Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stol'n your clothes?

Or you stol'n his? or both? Pray, what's the news?

LUCENTIO.

Sirrah, come hither: 'tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.

Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,

Puts my apparel and my count'nance on,

And I for my escape have put on his;

For in a quarrel since I came ashore

I kill'd a man, and fear I was descried.

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,

While I make way from hence to save my life.

You understand me?

BIONDELLO.

I, sir! Ne'er a whit.

LUCENTIO.

And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:

Tranio is changed to Lucentio.

BIONDELLO.

The better for him: would I were so too!

TRANIO.

So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest daughter.

But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master's, I advise

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;

But in all places else your master, Lucentio.

LUCENTIO.

Tranio, let's go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute,

to make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why,

sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty.

[Exeunt.]

[The Presenters above speak.]

FIRST SERVANT.

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

SLY.

Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?

PAGE.

My lord, 'tis but begun.

SLY.

'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would

'twere done!

[They sit and mark.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Padua. Before HORTENSIO'S house.

[Enter PETRUCHIO and his man GRUMIO.]

PETRUCHIO.

Verona, for a while I take my leave,

To see my friends in Padua; but of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.

Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.

GRUMIO.

Knock, sir! Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebused your worship?

PETRUCHIO.

Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

GRUMIO.

Knock you here, sir! Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir?

PETRUCHIO.

Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;

And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's pate.

GRUMIO.

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

PETRUCHIO.

Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, I'll ring it;

I'll try how you can sol,fa, and sing it.

[He wrings GRUMIO by the ears.]

GRUMIO.

Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

PETRUCHIO.

Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

[Enter HORTENSIO.]

HORTENSIO.

How now! what's the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

PETRUCHIO.

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say.

HORTENSIO.

Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

GRUMIO.

Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out?

Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first,

Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

PETRUCHIO.

A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

GRUMIO.

Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain: 'Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly'? And come you now with 'knocking at the gate'?

PETRUCHIO.

Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

HORTENSIO.

Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio's pledge;

Why, this's a heavy chance 'twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

PETRUCHIO.

Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes farther than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few,

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceas'd,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may;

Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

HORTENSIO.

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife?

Thou'dst thank me but a little for my counsel;

And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich: but th'art too much my friend,

And I'll not wish thee to her.

PETRUCHIO.

Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife,

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,

Be she as foul as was Florentius' love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates' Xanthippe or a worse,

She moves me not, or not removes, at least,

Affection's edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas:

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

GRUMIO.

Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though she has as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

HORTENSIO.

Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in,

I will continue that I broach'd in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous;

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman:

Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,—

Is, that she is intolerable curst

And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,

That, were my state far worser than it is,

I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

PETRUCHIO.

Hortensio, peace! thou know'st not gold's effect:

Tell me her father's name, and 'tis enough;

For I will board her, though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

HORTENSIO.

Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katherina Minola, Renown'd in

Padua for her scolding tongue.

PETRUCHIO.

I know her father, though I know not her;

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;

And therefore let me be thus bold with you,

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

GRUMIO.

I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O' my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so; why, that's nothing; and he begin once, he'll rail in his rope-tricks. I'll tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.

HORTENSIO.

Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista's keep my treasure is:

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love;

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehears'd,

That ever Katherina will be woo'd:

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en,

That none shall have access unto Bianca

Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.

GRUMIO.

Katherine the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

HORTENSIO.

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me disguis'd in sober robes,

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca;

That so I may, by this device at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her,

And unsuspected court her by herself.

GRUMIO.

Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

[Enter GREMIO, and LUCENTIO disguised, with books under his arm.]

Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha?

HORTENSIO.

Peace, Grumio! 'tis the rival of my love.

Petruchio, stand by awhile.

GRUMIO.

A proper stripling, and an amorous!

GREMIO.

O! very well; I have perus'd the note.

Hark you, sir; I'll have them very fairly bound:

All books of love, see that at any hand,

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me. Over and beside

Signior Baptista's liberality,

I'll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,

And let me have them very well perfum'd;

For she is sweeter than perfume itself

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

LUCENTIO.

Whate'er I read to her, I'll plead for you,

As for my patron, stand you so assur'd,

As firmly as yourself were still in place;

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

GREMIO.

O! this learning, what a thing it is.

GRUMIO.

O! this woodcock, what an ass it is.

PETRUCHIO.

Peace, sirrah!

HORTENSIO.

Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

GREMIO.

And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.

I promis'd to enquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;

And by good fortune I have lighted well

On this young man; for learning and behaviour

Fit for her turn, well read in poetry

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

HORTENSIO.

'Tis well; and I have met a gentleman

Hath promis'd me to help me to another,

A fine musician to instruct our mistress:

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so belov'd of me.

GREMIO.

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

GRUMIO.

[Aside.] And that his bags shall prove.

HORTENSIO.

Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love:

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,

I'll tell you news indifferent good for either.

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katherine;

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

GREMIO.

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

PETRUCHIO.

I know she is an irksome brawling scold;

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

GREMIO.

No, say'st me so, friend? What countryman?

PETRUCHIO.

Born in Verona, old Antonio's son.

My father dead, my fortune lives for me;

And I do hope good days and long to see.

GREMIO.

O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange!

But if you have a stomach, to't i' God's name;

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wild-cat?

PETRUCHIO.

Will I live?

GRUMIO.

Will he woo her? Ay, or I'll hang her.

PETRUCHIO.

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?

And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?

Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

GRUMIO.

[Aside] For he fears none.

GREMIO.

Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arriv'd,

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

HORTENSIO.

I promis'd we would be contributors,

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er.

GREMIO.

And so we will, provided that he win her.

GRUMIO.

I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

[Enter TRANIO, bravely apparelled;and BIONDELLO.]

TRANIO.

Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

BIONDELLO.

He that has the two fair daughters; is't he you mean?

TRANIO.

Even he, Biondello!

GREMIO.

Hark you, sir, you mean not her to—

TRANIO.

Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do?

PETRUCHIO.

Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

TRANIO.

I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let's away.

LUCENTIO.

[Aside] Well begun, Tranio.

HORTENSIO.

Sir, a word ere you go.

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

TRANIO.

And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

GREMIO.

No; if without more words you will get you hence.

TRANIO.

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

For me as for you?

GREMIO.

But so is not she.

TRANIO.

For what reason, I beseech you?

GREMIO.

For this reason, if you'll know,

That she's the choice love of Signior Gremio.

HORTENSIO.

That she's the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

TRANIO.

Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen,

Do me this right; hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman,

To whom my father is not all unknown;

And were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers;

Then well one more may fair Bianca have;

And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

GREMIO.

What!this gentleman will out-talk us all.

LUCENTIO.

Sir, give him head; I know he'll prove a jade.

PETRUCHIO.

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

HORTENSIO.

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter?

TRANIO.

No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

PETRUCHIO.

Sir, sir, the first's for me; let her go by.

GREMIO.

Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides' twelve.

PETRUCHIO.

Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors,

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed;

The younger then is free, and not before.

TRANIO.

If it be so, sir, that you are the man

Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

HORTENSIO.

Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

TRANIO.

Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress' health;

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

GRUMIO, BIONDELLO.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let's be gone.

HORTENSIO.

The motion's good indeed, and be it so:—

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Padua. A room in BAPTISTA'S house.

[Enter KATHERINA and BIANCA.]

BIANCA.

Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;

That I disdain; but for these other gawds,

Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,

Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;

Or what you will command me will I do,

So well I know my duty to my elders.

KATHERINA.

Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell

Whom thou lov'st best: see thou dissemble not.

BIANCA.

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHERINA.

Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio?

BIANCA.

If you affect him, sister, here I swear

I'll plead for you myself but you shall have him.

KATHERINA.

O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:

You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA.

Is it for him you do envy me so?

Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive

You have but jested with me all this while:

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHERINA.

If that be jest, then an the rest was so.

[Strikes her.]

[Enter BAPTISTA.]

BAPTISTA.

Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence?

Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps.

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHERINA.

Her silence flouts me, and I'll be reveng'd.

[Flies after BIANCA.]

BAPTISTA.

What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

[Exit BIANCA.]

KATHERINA.

What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see

She is your treasure, she must have a husband;

I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,

And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.

Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep

Till I can find occasion of revenge.

[Exit.]

BAPTISTA.

Was ever gentleman thus griev'd as I?

But who comes here?

[Enter GREMIO, with LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man; PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a musician; and TRANIO, with BIONDELLO bearing a lute and books.]

GREMIO.

Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA.

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO.

And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter

Call'd Katherina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA.

I have a daughter, sir, call'd Katherina.

GREMIO.

You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO.

You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,

Am bold to show myself a forward guest

Within your house, to make mine eye the witness

Of that report which I so oft have heard.

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

[Presenting HORTENSIO.]

Cunning in music and the mathematics,

To instruct her fully in those sciences,

Whereof I know she is not ignorant.

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:

His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA.

You're welcome, sir, and he for your good sake;

But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO.

I see you do not mean to part with her;

Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA.

Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO.

Petruchio is my name, Antonio's son;

A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA.

I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO.

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,

Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too.

Backare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO.

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

GREMIO.

I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar, [Presenting LUCENTIO.] that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service.

BAPTISTA.

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio.—[To TRANIO.] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

TRANIO.

Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,

That, being a stranger in this city here,

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,

Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,

In the preferment of the eldest sister.

This liberty is all that I request,

That, upon knowledge of my parentage,

I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo,

And free access and favour as the rest:

And, toward the education of your daughters,

I here bestow a simple instrument,

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA.

Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray?

TRANIO.

Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA.

A mighty man of Pisa: by report

I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.

[To HORTENSIO.] Take you the lute,

[To LUCENTIO.] and you the set of books;

You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within!

[Enter a SERVANT.]

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my two daughters, and tell them both

These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

[Exit SERVANT, with HORTENSIO, LUCENTIO, and BIONDELLO.]

We will go walk a little in the orchard,

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

PETRUCHIO.

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo.

You knew my father well, and in him me,

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,

Which I have bettered rather than decreas'd:

Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,

What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA.

After my death, the one half of my lands,

And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO.

And, for that dowry, I'll assure her of

Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,

In all my lands and leases whatsoever.

Let specialities be therefore drawn between us,

That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA.

Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd,

That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,

I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;

And where two raging fires meet together,

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:

Though little fire grows great with little wind,

Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all;

So I to her, and so she yields to me;

For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA.

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!

But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO.

Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,

That shake not though they blow perpetually.

[Re-enter HORTENSIO, with his head broke.]

BAPTISTA.

How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO.

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

BAPTISTA.

What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO.

I think she'll sooner prove a soldier:

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA.

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO.

Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,

'Frets, call you these?' quoth she 'I'll fume with them';

And with that word she struck me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way;

And there I stood amazed for a while,

As on a pillory, looking through the lute;

While she did call me rascal fiddler,

And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,

As she had studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!

I love her ten times more than e'er I did:

O! how I long to have some chat with her!

BAPTISTA.

[To HORTENSIO.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;

She's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

PETRUCHIO.

I pray you do. I will attend her here.

[Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, and HORTENSIO.]

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:

Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash'd with dew:

Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;

Then I'll commend her volubility,

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:

If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,

As though she bid me stay by her a week:

If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

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

[Enter KATHERINA.]

Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear.

KATHERINA.

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:

They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

PETRUCHIO.

You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,

Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,

For dainties are all cates: and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;

Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town,

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—

Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.

KATHERINA.

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

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,

You were a moveable.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, what's a moveable?

KATHERINA.

A joint-stool.

PETRUCHIO.

Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

KATHERINA.

Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO.

Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHERINA.

No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.

PETRUCHIO.

Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;

For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—

KATHERINA.

Too light for such a swain as you to catch;

And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO.

Should be! should buz!

KATHERINA.

Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO.

O, slow-wing'd turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHERINA.

Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO.

Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.

KATHERINA.

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO.

My remedy is, then, to pluck it out.

KATHERINA.

Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

PETRUCHIO.

Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

In his tail.

KATHERINA.

In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue?

KATHERINA.

Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO.

What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,

Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHERINA.

That I'll try.

[Striking him.]

PETRUCHIO.

I swear I'll cuff you if you strike again.

KATHERINA.

So may you lose your arms:

If you strike me, you are no gentleman;

And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

PETRUCHIO.

A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.

KATHERINA.

What is your crest? a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO.

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHERINA.

No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

KATHERINA.

It is my fashion when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, here's no crab, and therefore look not sour.

KATHERINA.

There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO.

Then show it me.

KATHERINA.

Had I a glass I would.

PETRUCHIO.

What, you mean my face?

KATHERINA.

Well aim'd of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO.

Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

KATHERINA.

Yet you are wither'd.

PETRUCHIO.

'Tis with cares.

KATHERINA.

I care not.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you 'scape not so.

KATHERINA.

I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.

PETRUCHIO.

No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.

'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar;

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers.

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;

But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers;

With gentle conference, soft and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig

Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue

As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

KATHERINA.

Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

PETRUCHIO.

Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,

And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

KATHERINA.

Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO.

It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

KATHERINA.

A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO.

Am I not wise?

KATHERINA.

Yes; keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO.

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed;

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife your dowry 'greed on;

And will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,—

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,—

Thou must be married to no man but me;

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Conformable as other household Kates.

Here comes your father. Never make denial;

I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

[Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO.]

BAPTISTA.

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO.

How but well, sir? how but well?

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA.

Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?

KATHERINA.

Call you me daughter? Now I promise you

You have show'd a tender fatherly regard

To wish me wed to one half lunatic,

A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO.

Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world

That talk'd of her have talk'd amiss of her:

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For she's not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity;

And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHERINA.

I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.

GREMIO.

Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee hang'd first.

TRANIO.

Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!

PETRUCHIO.

Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;

If she and I be pleas'd, what's that to you?

'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,

That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe

How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate

She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love.

O! you are novices: 'tis a world to see,

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.

Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,

To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.

BAPTISTA.

I know not what to say; but give me your hands.

God send you joy, Petruchio! 'Tis a match.

GREMIO, TRANIO.

Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO.

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;

We will have rings and things, and fine array;

And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o' Sunday.

[Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA, severally.]

GREMIO.

Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA.

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part,

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO.

'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;

'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA.

The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

GREMIO.

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:

Now is the day we long have looked for;

I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO.

And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO.

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO.

Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO.

But thine doth fry.

Skipper, stand back; 'tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO.

But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA.

Content you, gentlemen; I'll compound this strife:

'Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both

That can assure my daughter greatest dower

Shall have my Bianca's love.

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

GREMIO.

First, as you know, my house within the city

Is richly furnished with plate and gold:

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;

My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;

In ivory coffers I have stuff'd my crowns;

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needle-work;

Pewter and brass, and all things that belong

To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm

I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,

Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,

And all things answerable to this portion.

Myself am struck in years, I must confess;

And if I die to-morrow this is hers,

If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO.

That 'only' came well in. Sir, list to me:

I am my father's heir and only son;

If I may have your daughter to my wife,

I'll leave her houses three or four as good

Within rich Pisa's walls as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.

What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO.

Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

My land amounts not to so much in all:

That she shall have, besides an argosy

That now is lying in Marseilles' road.

What, have I chok'd you with an argosy?

TRANIO.

Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,

And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,

And twice as much, whate'er thou offer'st next.

GREMIO.

Nay, I have offer'd all; I have no more;

And she can have no more than all I have;

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO.

Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,

By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA.

I must confess your offer is the best;

And let your father make her the assurance,

She is your own; else, you must pardon me;

If you should die before him, where's her dower?

TRANIO.

That's but a cavil; he is old, I young.

GREMIO.

And may not young men die as well as old?

BAPTISTA.

Well, gentlemen,

I am thus resolv'd. On Sunday next, you know,

My daughter Katherine is to be married;

Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance;

If not, to Signior Gremio.

And so I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO.

Adieu, good neighbour.

[Exit BAPTISTA.]

Now, I fear thee not:

Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all, and in his waning age

Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy!

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

[Exit.]

TRANIO.

A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide!

Yet I have fac'd it with a card of ten.

'Tis in my head to do my master good:

I see no reason but suppos'd Lucentio

Must get a father, call'd 'suppos'd Vincentio';

And that's a wonder: fathers commonly

Do get their children; but in this case of wooing

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Padua. A room in BAPTISTA'S house.

[Enter LUCENTIO, HORTENSIO, and BIANCA.]

LUCENTIO.

Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katherine welcome'd you withal?

HORTENSIO.

But, wrangling pedant, this is

The patroness of heavenly harmony:

Then give me leave to have prerogative;

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

LUCENTIO.

Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music was ordain'd!

Was it not to refresh the mind of man

After his studies or his usual pain?

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And while I pause serve in your harmony.

HORTENSIO.

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

BIANCA.

Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong,

To strive for that which resteth in my choice.

I am no breeching scholar in the schools,

I'll not be tied to hours nor 'pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself.

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down;

Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;

His lecture will be done ere you have tun'd.

HORTENSIO.

You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

[Retires.]

LUCENTIO.

That will be never: tune your instrument.

BIANCA.

Where left we last?

LUCENTIO.

Here, madam:—

Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

BIANCA.

Construe them.

LUCENTIO.

'Hic ibat,' as I told you before, 'Simois,' I am Lucentio, 'hic est,' son unto Vincentio of Pisa, 'Sigeia tellus,' disguised thus to get your love, 'Hic steterat,' and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, 'Priami,' is my man Tranio, 'regia,' bearing my port, 'celsa senis,' that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

HORTENSIO. {Returning.]

Madam, my instrument's in tune.

BIANCA.

Let's hear.—

[HORTENSIO plays.]

O fie! the treble jars.

LUCENTIO.

Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

BIANCA.

Now let me see if I can construe it: 'Hic ibat Simois,' I know you not; 'hic est Sigeia tellus,' I trust you not; 'Hic steterat Priami,' take heed he hear us not; 'regia,' presume not; 'celsa senis,' despair not.

HORTENSIO.

Madam, 'tis now in tune.

LUCENTIO.

All but the base.

HORTENSIO.

The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.

How fiery and forward our pedant is!

[Aside] Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:

Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.

BIANCA.

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

LUCENTIO.

Mistrust it not; for sure, AEacides

Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.

BIANCA.

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt;

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.

Good master, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

HORTENSIO.

[To LUCENTIO] You may go walk and give me leave awhile;

My lessons make no music in three parts.

LUCENTIO.

Are you so formal, sir?

[Aside] Well, I must wait, And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd,

Our fine musician groweth amorous.

HORTENSIO.

Madam, before you touch the instrument,

To learn the order of my fingering,

I must begin with rudiments of art;

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,

Than hath been taught by any of my trade:

And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

BIANCA.

Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

HORTENSIO.

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

BIANCA.

'Gamut' I am, the ground of all accord,

'A re,' to plead Hortensio's passion;

'B mi,' Bianca, take him for thy lord,

'C fa ut,' that loves with all affection:

'D sol re,' one clef, two notes have I

'E la mi,' show pity or I die.

Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not:

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,

To change true rules for odd inventions.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,

And help to dress your sister's chamber up:

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

BIANCA.

Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone.

[Exeunt BIANCA and SERVANT.]

LUCENTIO.

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

[Exit.]

HORTENSIO.

But I have cause to pry into this pedant:

Methinks he looks as though he were in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble

To cast thy wand'ring eyes on every stale,

Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging,

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same. Before BAPTISTA'S house.

[Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, LUCENTIO, and ATTENDANTS.]

BAPTISTA.

[To TRANIO.]

Signior Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day

That Katherine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? What mockery will it be

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

KATHERINA.

No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd

To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart,

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen;

Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;

And to be noted for a merry man,

He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage,

Make friends invited, and proclaim the banns;

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd.

Now must the world point at poor Katherine,

And say 'Lo! there is mad Petruchio's wife,

If it would please him come and marry her.'

TRANIO.

Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word:

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;

Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest.

KATHERINA.

Would Katherine had never seen him though!

[Exit, weeping, followed by BIANCA and others.]

BAPTISTA.

Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep,

For such an injury would vex a very saint;

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

[Enter BIONDELLO.]

Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard of!

BAPTISTA.

Is it new and old too? How may that be?

BIONDELLO.

Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming?

BAPTISTA.

Is he come?

BIONDELLO.

Why, no, sir.

BAPTISTA.

What then?

BIONDELLO.

He is coming.

BAPTISTA.

When will he be here?

BIONDELLO.

When he stands where I am and sees you there.

TRANIO.

But, say, what to thine old news?

BIONDELLO.

Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with pack-thread.

BAPTISTA.

Who comes with him?

BIONDELLO.

O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the 'humour of forty fancies' prick'd in't for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman's lackey.

TRANIO.

'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;

Yet oftentimes lie goes but mean-apparell'd.

BAPTISTA.

I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes.

BIONDELLO.

Why, sir, he comes not.

BAPTISTA.

Didst thou not say he comes?

BIONDELLO.

Who? that Petruchio came?

BAPTISTA.

Ay, that Petruchio came.

BIONDELLO.

No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

BAPTISTA.

Why, that's all one.

BIONDELLO.

Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one,

And yet not many.

[Enter PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO.]

PETRUCHIO.

Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home?

BAPTISTA.

You are welcome, sir.

PETRUCHIO.

And yet I come not well.

BAPTISTA.

And yet you halt not.

TRANIO.

Not so well apparell'd

As I wish you were.

PETRUCHIO.

Were it better, I should rush in thus.

But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?

How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;

And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet or unusual prodigy?

BAPTISTA.

Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:

First were we sad, fearing you would not come;

Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,

An eye-sore to our solemn festival.

TRANIO.

And tell us what occasion of import

Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife,

And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

PETRUCHIO.

Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;

Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word,

Though in some part enforced to digress;

Which at more leisure I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal.

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her;

The morning wears, 'tis time we were at church.

TRANIO.

See not your bride in these unreverent robes;

Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

PETRUCHIO.

Not I, believe me: thus I'll visit her.

BAPTISTA.

But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

PETRUCHIO.

Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha' done with words;

To me she's married, not unto my clothes.

Could I repair what she will wear in me

As I can change these poor accoutrements,

'Twere well for Kate and better for myself.

But what a fool am I to chat with you

When I should bid good-morrow to my bride,

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

[Exeunt PETRUCHIO, GRUMIO, and BIODELLO.]

TRANIO.

He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

We will persuade him, be it possible,

To put on better ere he go to church.

BAPTISTA.

I'll after him and see the event of this.

[Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO and ATTENDENTS.]

TRANIO.

But to her love concerneth us to add

Her father's liking; which to bring to pass,

As I before imparted to your worship,

I am to get a man,—whate'er he be

It skills not much; we'll fit him to our turn,—

And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,

And make assurance here in Padua,

Of greater sums than I have promised.

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,

And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

LUCENTIO.

Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster

Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly,

'Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;

Which once perform'd, let all the world say no,

I'll keep mine own despite of all the world.

TRANIO.

That by degrees we mean to look into,

And watch our vantage in this business.

We'll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,

The narrow-prying father, Minola,

The quaint musician, amorous Licio;

All for my master's sake, Lucentio.

[Re-enter GREMIO.]

Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

GREMIO.

As willingly as e'er I came from school.

TRANIO.

And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

GREMIO.

A bridegroom, say you? 'Tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

TRANIO.

Curster than she? Why, 'tis impossible.

GREMIO.

Why, he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

TRANIO.

Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam.

GREMIO.

Tut! she's a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him.

I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest

Should ask if Katherine should be his wife,

'Ay, by gogs-wouns' quoth he, and swore so loud

That, all amaz'd, the priest let fall the book;

And as he stoop'd again to take it up,

The mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff

That down fell priest and book, and book and priest:

'Now take them up,' quoth he 'if any list.'

TRANIO.

What said the wench, when he rose again?

GREMIO.

Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp'd and swore

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done,

He calls for wine: 'A health!' quoth he, as if

He had been abroad, carousing to his mates

After a storm; quaff'd off the muscadel,

And threw the sops all in the sexton's face,

Having no other reason

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly

And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking.

This done, he took the bride about the neck,

And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack

That at the parting all the church did echo.

And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;

And after me, I know, the rout is coming.

Such a mad marriage never was before.

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.

[Music.]

[Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA, HORTENSIO, GRUMIO, and Train.]

PETRUCHIO.

Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:

I know you think to dine with me to-day,

And have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer

But so it is—my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

BAPTISTA.

Is't possible you will away to-night?

PETRUCHIO.

I must away to-day before night come.

Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all,

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.

Dine with my father, drink a health to me.

For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

TRANIO.

Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

PETRUCHIO.

It may not be.

GREMIO.

Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO.

It cannot be.

KATHERINA.

Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO.

I am content.

KATHERINA.

Are you content to stay?

PETRUCHIO.

I am content you shall entreat me stay;

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

KATHERINA.

Now, if you love me, stay.

PETRUCHIO.

Grumio, my horse!

GRUMIO.

Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses.

KATHERINA.

Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;

No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself.

The door is open, sir; there lies your way;

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;

For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself.

'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

PETRUCHIO.

O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry.

KATHERINA.

I will be angry: what hast thou to do?

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

GREMIO.

Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

KATHERINA.

Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:

I see a woman may be made a fool,

If she had not a spirit to resist.

PETRUCHIO.

They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.

Obey the bride, you that attend on her;

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own.

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything;

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;

I'll bring mine action on the proudest he

That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves;

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.

Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate;

I'll buckler thee against a million.

[Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, and GRUMIO.]

BAPTISTA.

Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

GREMIO.

Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

TRANIO.

Of all mad matches, never was the like.

LUCENTIO.

Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?

BIANCA.

That, being mad herself, she's madly mated.

GREMIO.

I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

BAPTISTA.

Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants

For to supply the places at the table,

You know there wants no junkets at the feast.

Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place;

And let Bianca take her sister's room.

TRANIO.

Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

BAPTISTA.

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let's go.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A hall in PETRUCHIO'S country house.

[Enter GRUMIO.]

GRUMIO.

Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray'd? Was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis!

[Enter CURTIS.]

CURTIS.

Who is that calls so coldly?

GRUMIO.

A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis.

CURTIS.

Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

GRUMIO.

O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water.

CURTIS.

Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported?

GRUMIO.

She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowest winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.

CURTIS.

Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

GRUMIO.

Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,—thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

CURTIS.

I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

GRUMIO.

A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death.

CURTIS.

There's fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news?

GRUMIO.

Why, 'Jack boy! ho, boy!' and as much news as thou wilt.

CURTIS.

Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

GRUMIO.

Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where's the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order?

CURTIS.

All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news?

GRUMIO.

First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.

CURTIS.

How?

GRUMIO.

Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.

CURTIS.

Let's ha't, good Grumio.

GRUMIO.

Lend thine ear.

CURTIS.

Here.

GRUMIO.

[Striking him.] There.

CURTIS.

This 'tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

GRUMIO.

And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your car and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,—

CURTIS.

Both of one horse?

GRUMIO.

What's that to thee?

CURTIS.

Why, a horse.

GRUMIO.

Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled; how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat me because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed before; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.

CURTIS.

By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

GRUMIO.

Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest; let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brush'd and their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master's horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?

CURTIS.

They are.

GRUMIO.

Call them forth.

CURTIS.

Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my mistress.

GRUMIO.

Why, she hath a face of her own.

CURTIS.

Who knows not that?

GRUMIO.

Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her.

CURTIS.

I call them forth to credit her.

GRUMIO.

Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

[Enter several SERVANTS.]

NATHANIEL.

Welcome home, Grumio!

PHILIP.

How now, Grumio!

JOSEPH.

What, Grumio!

NICHOLAS.

Fellow Grumio!

NATHANIEL.

How now, old lad!

GRUMIO.

Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat?

NATHANIEL.

All things is ready. How near is our master?

GRUMIO.

E'en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,—

Cock's passion, silence! I hear my master.

[Enter PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA.]

PETRUCHIO.

Where be these knaves? What! no man at door

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse?

Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?—

ALL SERVANTS.

Here, here, sir; here, sir.

PETRUCHIO.

Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!

You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms!

What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?

Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

GRUMIO.

Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

PETRUCHIO.

You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,

And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

GRUMIO.

Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel;

There was no link to colour Peter's hat,

And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing;

There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;

The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

PETRUCHIO.

Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in.

[Exeunt some of the SERVANTS.]

Where is the life that late I led?

Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.

Soud, soud, soud, soud!

[Re-enter SERVANTS with supper.]

Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.—

Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when?

[Sings.]

It was the friar of orders grey,

As he forth walked on his way—

Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:

[Strikes him.]

Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.

Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!

Where's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence

And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:

[Exit SERVANT.]

One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with.

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.—

[SERVANT lets the ewer fall. PETRUCHIO strikes him.]

You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

KATHERINA.

Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault unwilling.

PETRUCHIO.

A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave!

Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?—

What's this? Mutton?

FIRST SERVANT.

Ay.

PETRUCHIO.

Who brought it?

PETER.

I.

PETRUCHIO.

'Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.

What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?

How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,

And serve it thus to me that love it not?

[Throws the meat, etc., at them.]

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.

You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves!

What! do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.

KATHERINA.

I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet;

The meat was well, if you were so contented.

PETRUCHIO.

I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away,

And I expressly am forbid to touch it;

For it engenders choler, planteth anger;

And better 'twere that both of us did fast,

Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,

Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.

Be patient; to-morrow 't shall be mended.

And for this night we'll fast for company:

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

[Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, and CURTIS.]

NATHANIEL.

Peter, didst ever see the like?

PETER.

He kills her in her own humour.

[Re-enter CURTIS.]

GRUMIO.

Where is he?

CURTIS.

In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;

And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,

Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,

And sits as one new risen from a dream.

Away, away! for he is coming hither.

[Exeunt.]

[Re-enter PETRUCHIO.]

PETRUCHIO.

Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And 'tis my hope to end successfully.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty.

And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg'd,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard,

To make her come, and know her keeper's call,

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat, and will not be obedient.

She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not;

As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I'll find about the making of the bed;

And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets;

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her;

And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:

And if she chance to nod I'll rail and brawl,

And with the clamour keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;

And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak; 'tis charity to show.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house.

[Enter TRANIO and HORTENSIO.]

TRANIO.

Is 't possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

HORTENSIO.

Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,

Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching.

[They stand aside.]

[Enter BIANCA and LUCENTIO.]

LUCENTIO.

Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

BIANCA.

What, master, read you, First resolve me that.

LUCENTIO.

I read that I profess, The Art to Love.

BIANCA.

And may you prove, sir, master of your art!

LUCENTIO.

While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.

[They retire.]

HORTENSIO.

Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,

You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca

Lov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio.

TRANIO.

O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!

I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

HORTENSIO.

Mistake no more; I am not Licio.

Nor a musician as I seem to be;

But one that scorn to live in this disguise

For such a one as leaves a gentleman

And makes a god of such a cullion:

Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio.

TRANIO.

Signior Hortensio, I have often heard

Of your entire affection to Bianca;

And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,

I will with you, if you be so contented,

Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

HORTENSIO.

See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow

Never to woo her more, but do forswear her,

As one unworthy all the former favours

That I have fondly flatter'd her withal.

TRANIO.

And here I take the like unfeigned oath,

Never to marry with her though she would entreat;

Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him!

HORTENSIO.

Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,

I will be married to a wealtlly widow

Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov'd me

As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love; and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.

[Exit HORTENSIO. LUCENTIO and BIANCA advance.]

TRANIO.

Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace

As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case!

Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love,

And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

BIANCA.

Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me?

TRANIO.

Mistress, we have.

LUCENTIO.

Then we are rid of Licio.

TRANIO.

I' faith, he'll have a lusty widow now,

That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day.

BIANCA.

God give him joy!

TRANIO.

Ay, and he'll tame her.

BIANCA.

He says so, Tranio.

TRANIO.

Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

BIANCA.

The taming-school! What, is there such a place?

TRANIO.

Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master,

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,

To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.

[Enter BIONDELLO, running.]

BIONDELLO.

O master, master! I have watch'd so long

That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied

An ancient angel coming down the hill

Will serve the turn.

TRANIO.

What is he, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.

Master, a mercatante or a pedant,

I know not what; but formal in apparel,

In gait and countenance surely like a father.

LUCENTIO.

And what of him, Tranio?

TRANIO.

If he be credulous and trust my tale,

I'll make him glad to seem Vincentio,

And give assurance to Baptista Minola,

As if he were the right Vincentio.

Take in your love, and then let me alone.

[Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.]

[Enter a PEDANT.]

PEDANT.

God save you, sir!

TRANIO.

And you, sir! you are welcome.

Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?

PEDANT.

Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;

But then up farther, and as far as Rome;

And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

TRANIO.

What countryman, I pray?

PEDANT.

Of Mantua.

TRANIO.

Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid,

And come to Padua, careless of your life!

PEDANT.

My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard.

TRANIO.

'Tis death for any one in Mantua

To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?

Your ships are stay'd at Venice; and the duke,—

For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him,—

Hath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly.

'Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come

You might have heard it else proclaim'd about.

PEDANT.

Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence, and must here deliver them.

TRANIO.

Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you:

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

PEDANT.

Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,

Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

TRANIO.

Among them know you one Vincentio?

PEDANT.

I know him not, but I have heard of him,

A merchant of incomparable wealth.

TRANIO.

He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

BIONDELLO.

[Aside.] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

TRANIO.

To save your life in this extremity,

This favour will I do you for his sake;

And think it not the worst of all your fortunes

That you are like to Sir Vincentio.

His name and credit shall you undertake,

And in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd;

Look that you take upon you as you should!

You understand me, sir; so shall you stay

Till you have done your business in the city.

If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.

PEDANT.

O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever

The patron of my life and liberty.

TRANIO.

Then go with me to make the matter good.

This, by the way, I let you understand:

My father is here look'd for every day

To pass assurance of a dower in marriage

'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here:

In all these circumstances I'll instruct you.

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

A room in PETRUCHIO'S house.

[Enter KATHERINA and GRUMIO.]

GRUMIO.

No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.

KATHERINA.

The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars that come unto my father's door

Upon entreaty have a present alms;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity;

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love;

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat

'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.

I prithee go and get me some repast;

I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

GRUMIO.

What say you to a neat's foot?

KATHERINA.

'Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it.

GRUMIO.

I fear it is too choleric a meat.

How say you to a fat tripe finely broil'd?

KATHERINA.

I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.

GRUMIO.

I cannot tell; I fear 'tis choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

KATHERINA.

A dish that I do love to feed upon.

GRUMIO.

Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

KATHERINA.

Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

GRUMIO.

Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,

Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

KATHERINA.

Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

GRUMIO.

Why then the mustard without the beef.

KATHERINA.

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

[Beats him.]

That feed'st me with the very name of meat.

Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you

That triumph thus upon my misery!

Go, get thee gone, I say.

[Enter PETRUCHIO with a dish of meat; and HORTENSIO.]

PETRUCHIO.

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

HORTENSIO.

Mistress, what cheer?

KATHERINA.

Faith, as cold as can be.

PETRUCHIO.

Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,

To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee:

[Sets the dish on a table.]

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.

What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not,

And all my pains is sorted to no proof.

Here, take away this dish.

KATHERINA.

I pray you, let it stand.

PETRUCHIO.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks;

And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

KATHERINA.

I thank you, sir.

HORTENSIO.

Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.

Come, Mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.

PETRUCHIO.

[Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!

Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,

Will we return unto thy father's house

And revel it as bravely as the best,

With silken coats and caps, and golden rings,

With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;

With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,

With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.

What! hast thou din'd? The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.

[Enter TAILOR.]

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;

Lay forth the gown.—

[Enter HABERDASHER.]

What news with you, sir?

HABERDASHER.

Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, this was moulded on a porringer;

A velvet dish: fie, fie! 'tis lewd and filthy:

Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap:

Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

KATHERINA.

I'll have no bigger; this doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

PETRUCHIO.

When you are gentle, you shall have one too,

And not till then.

HORTENSIO.

[Aside] That will not be in haste.

KATHERINA.

Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;

And speak I will. I am no child, no babe.

Your betters have endur'd me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,

Or else my heart, concealing it, will break;

And rather than it shall, I will be free

Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, thou say'st true; it is a paltry cap,

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;

I love thee well in that thou lik'st it not.

KATHERINA.

Love me or love me not, I like the cap;

And it I will have, or I will have none.

[Exit HABERDASHER.]

PETRUCHIO.

Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see't.

O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?

What's this? A sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon.

What, up and down, carv'd like an appletart?

Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,

Like to a censer in a barber's shop.

Why, what i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?

HORTENSIO.

[Aside] I see she's like to have neither cap nor gown.

TAILOR.

You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

PETRUCHIO.

Marry, and did; but if you be remember'd,

I did not bid you mar it to the time.

Go, hop me over every kennel home,

For you shall hop without my custom, sir.

I'll none of it: hence! make your best of it.

KATHERINA.

I never saw a better fashion'd gown,

More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable;

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.

TAILOR.

She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

PETRUCHIO.

O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, thou thimble,

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!

Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread!

Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st!

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.

TAILOR.

Your worship is deceiv'd: the gown is made

Just as my master had direction.

Grumio gave order how it should be done.

GRUMIO.

I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

TAILOR.

But how did you desire it should be made?

GRUMIO.

Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

TAILOR.

But did you not request to have it cut?

GRUMIO.

Thou hast faced many things.

TAILOR.

I have.

GRUMIO.

Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be fac'd nor brav'd. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

TAILOR.

Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

PETRUCHIO.

Read it.

GRUMIO.

The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so.

TAILOR.

'Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.'

GRUMIO.

Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread; I said, a gown.

PETRUCHIO.

Proceed.

TAILOR.

'With a small compassed cape.'

GRUMIO.

I confess the cape.

TAILOR.

'With a trunk sleeve.'

GRUMIO.

I confess two sleeves.

TAILOR.

'The sleeves curiously cut.'

PETRUCHIO.

Ay, there's the villainy.

GRUMIO.

Error i' the bill, sir; error i' the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out, and sew'd up again; and that I'll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

TAILOR.

This is true that I say; an I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it.

GRUMIO.

I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

HORTENSIO.

God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds.

PETRUCHIO.

Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

GRUMIO.

You are i' the right, sir; 'tis for my mistress.

PETRUCHIO.

Go, take it up unto thy master's use.

GRUMIO.

Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress' gown for thy master's use!

PETRUCHIO.

Why, sir, what's your conceit in that?

GRUMIO.

O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use! O fie, fie, fie!

PETRUCHIO.

[Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.

[To Tailor.] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

HORTENSIO.

[Aside to Tailor.] Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow;

Take no unkindness of his hasty words.

Away, I say! commend me to thy master.

[Exit TAILOR.]

PETRUCHIO.

Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's

Even in these honest mean habiliments.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor

For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honour peereth in the meanest habit.

What, is the jay more precious than the lark

Because his feathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel

Because his painted skin contents the eye?

O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse

For this poor furniture and mean array.

If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me;

And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith,

To feast and sport us at thy father's house.

Go call my men, and let us straight to him;

And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;

There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.

Let's see; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock,

And well we may come there by dinner-time.

KATHERINA.

I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two,

And 'twill be supper-time ere you come there.

PETRUCHIO.

It shall be seven ere I go to horse.

Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,

You are still crossing it. Sirs, let 't alone:

I will not go to-day; and ere I do,

It shall be what o'clock I say it is.

HORTENSIO.

Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house.

[Enter TRANIO, and the PEDANT dressed like VINCENTIO.]

TRANIO.

Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call?

PEDANT.

Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,

Signior Baptista may remember me,

Near twenty years ago in Genoa,

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

TRANIO.

'Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,

With such austerity as 'longeth to a father.

PEDANT.

I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;

'Twere good he were school'd.

[Enter BIONDELLO.]

TRANIO.

Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,

Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.

Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio.

BIONDELLO.

Tut! fear not me.

TRANIO.

But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

BIONDELLO.

I told him that your father was at Venice,

And that you look'd for him this day in Padua.

TRANIO.

Thou'rt a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.

Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

[Enter BAPTISTA and LUCENTIO.]

Signior Baptista, you are happily met.

[To the PEDANT]

Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;

I pray you stand good father to me now;

Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

PEDANT.

Soft, son!

Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua

To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio

Made me acquainted with a weighty cause

Of love between your daughter and himself:

And,—for the good report I hear of you,

And for the love he beareth to your daughter,

And she to him,—to stay him not too long,

I am content, in a good father's care,

To have him match'd; and, if you please to like

No worse than I, upon some agreement

Me shall you find ready and willing

With one consent to have her so bestow'd;

For curious I cannot be with you,

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

BAPTISTA.

Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.

Your plainness and your shortness please me well.

Right true it is your son Lucentio here

Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,

Or both dissemble deeply their affections;

And therefore, if you say no more than this,

That like a father you will deal with him,

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done:

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

TRANIO.

I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best

We be affied, and such assurance ta'en

As shall with either part's agreement stand?

BAPTISTA.

Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants;

Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,

And happily we might be interrupted.

TRANIO.

Then at my lodging, an it like you:

There doth my father lie; and there this night

We'll pass the business privately and well.

Send for your daughter by your servant here;

My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.

The worst is this, that at so slender warning

You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

BAPTISTA.

It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,

And bid Bianca make her ready straight;

And, if you will, tell what hath happened:

Lucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua,

And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife.

LUCENTIO.

I pray the gods she may, with all my heart!

TRANIO.

Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?

Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;

Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

BAPTISTA.

I follow you.

[Exeunt TRANIO, Pedant, and BAPTISTA.]

BIONDELLO.

Cambio!

LUCENTIO.

What say'st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.

You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?

LUCENTIO.

Biondello, what of that?

BIONDELLO.

Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.

LUCENTIO.

I pray thee moralize them.

BIONDELLO.

Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

LUCENTIO.

And what of him?

BIONDELLO.

His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.

LUCENTIO.

And then?

BIONDELLO.

The old priest at Saint Luke's church is at your command at all hours.

LUCENTIO.

And what of all this?

BIONDELLO.

I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum; to the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

[Going.]

LUCENTIO.

Hear'st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.

I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke's to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.

[Exit.]

LUCENTIO.

I may, and will, if she be so contented.

She will be pleas'd; then wherefore should I doubt?

Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her;

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her:

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE V.

A public road

[Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, HORTENSIO, and SERVANTS.]

PETRUCHIO.

Come on, i' God's name; once more toward our father's.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

KATHERINA.

The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now.

PETRUCHIO.

I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

KATHERINA.

I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

PETRUCHIO.

Now by my mother's son, and that's myself,

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or ere I journey to your father's house.

Go on and fetch our horses back again.

Evermore cross'd and cross'd; nothing but cross'd!

HORTENSIO.

Say as he says, or we shall never go.

KATHERINA.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;

And if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

PETRUCHIO.

I say it is the moon.

KATHERINA.

I know it is the moon.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

KATHERINA.

Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun;

But sun it is not when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind.

What you will have it nam'd, even that it is,

And so it shall be so for Katherine.

HORTENSIO.

Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

PETRUCHIO.

Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,

And not unluckily against the bias.

But, soft! Company is coming here.

[Enter VINCENTIO, in a travelling dress.]

[To VINCENTIO]

Good-morrow, gentle mistress; where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,

Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks!

What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty

As those two eyes become that heavenly face?

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.

Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.

HORTENSIO.

'A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.

KATHERINA.

Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child;

Happier the man whom favourable stars

Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd,

And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

KATHERINA.

Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,

That have been so bedazzled with the sun

That everything I look on seemeth green:

Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;

Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

PETRUCHIO.

Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known

Which way thou travellest: if along with us,

We shall be joyful of thy company.

VINCENTIO.

Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,

That with your strange encounter much amaz'd me,

My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa;

And bound I am to Padua, there to visit

A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

PETRUCHIO.

What is his name?

VINCENTIO.

Lucentio, gentle sir.

PETRUCHIO.

Happily met; the happier for thy son.

And now by law, as well as reverend age,

I may entitle thee my loving father:

The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,

Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,

Nor be not griev'd: she is of good esteem,

Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;

Beside, so qualified as may beseem

The spouse of any noble gentleman.

Let me embrace with old Vincentio;

And wander we to see thy honest son,

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

VINCENTIO.

But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,

Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest

Upon the company you overtake?

HORTENSIO.

I do assure thee, father, so it is.

PETRUCHIO.

Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

[Exeunt all but HORTENSIO.]

HORTENSIO.

Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.

Have to my widow! and if she be froward,

Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Padua. Before LUCENTIO'S house.

[Enter on one side BIONDELLO, LUCENTIO, and BIANCA; GREMIO walking on other side.]

BIONDELLO.

Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready.

LUCENTIO.

I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need the at home, therefore leave us.

BIONDELLO.

Nay, faith, I'll see the church o' your back; and then come back to my master's as soon as I can.

[Exeunt LUCENTIO, BIANCA, and BIONDELLO.]

GREMIO.

I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

[Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, VINCENTIO, and ATTENDANTS.]

PETRUCHIO.

Sir, here's the door; this is Lucentio's house:

My father's bears more toward the market-place;

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

VINCENTIO.

You shall not choose but drink before you go.

I think I shall command your welcome here,

And by all likelihood some cheer is toward.

[Knocks.]

GREMIO.

They're busy within; you were best knock louder.

[Enter PEDANT above, at a window.]

PEDANT.

What's he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

VINCENTIO.

Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

PEDANT.

He's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

VINCENTIO.

What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to make merry withal?

PEDANT.

Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.

PEDANT.

Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window.

VINCENTIO.

Art thou his father?

PEDANT.

Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

PETRUCHIO.

[To VINCENTIO] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery to take upon you another man's name.

PEDANT.

Lay hands on the villain: I believe 'a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

[Re-enter BIONDELLO.]

BIONDELLO.

I have seen them in the church together: God send 'em good shipping! But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Now we are undone and brought to nothing.

VINCENTIO.

[Seeing BIONDELLO.] Come hither, crack-hemp.

BIONDELLO.

I hope I may choose, sir.

VINCENTIO.

Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?

BIONDELLO.

Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life.

VINCENTIO.

What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master's father, Vincentio?

BIONDELLO.

What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; see where he looks out of the window.

VINCENTIO.

Is't so, indeed?

[He beats BIONDELLO.]

BIONDELLO.

Help, help, help! here's a madman will murder me.

[Exit.]

PEDANT.

Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!

[Exit from the window.]

PETRUCHIO.

Prithee, Kate, let's stand aside and see the end of this controversy.

[They retire.]

[Re-enter PEDANT below; BAPTISTA, TRANIO, and SERVANTS.]

TRANIO.

Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?

VINCENTIO.

What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.

TRANIO.

How now! what's the matter?

BAPTISTA.

What, is the man lunatic?

TRANIO.

Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what 'cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

VINCENTIO.

Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo.

BAPTISTA.

You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name?

VINCENTIO.

His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio.

PEDANT.

Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vicentio.

VINCENTIO.

Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the Duke's name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son, Lucentio?

TRANIO.

Call forth an officer.

[Enter one with an OFFICER.]

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming.

VINCENTIO.

Carry me to the gaol!

GREMIO.

Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison.

BAPTISTA.

Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison.

GREMIO.

Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

PEDANT.

Swear if thou darest.

GREMIO.

Nay, I dare not swear it.

TRANIO.

Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio.

GREMIO.

Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

BAPTISTA.

Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

VINCENTIO.

Thus strangers may be haled and abus'd: O monstrous villain!

[Re-enter BIONDELLO, with LUCENTIO and BIANCA.]

BIONDELLO.

O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.

LUCENTIO.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, sweet father.

VINCENTIO.

Lives my sweetest son?

[BIONDELLO, TRANIO, and PEDANT, run out.]

BIANCA.

[Kneeling.] Pardon, dear father.

BAPTISTA.

How hast thou offended?

Where is Lucentio?

LUCENTIO.

Here's Lucentio,

Right son to the right Vincentio;

That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,

While counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyne.

GREMIO.

Here 's packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

VINCENTIO.

Where is that damned villain, Tranio,

That fac'd and brav'd me in this matter so?

BAPTISTA.

Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

BIANCA.

Cambio is chang'd into Lucentio.

LUCENTIO.

Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio,

While he did bear my countenance in the town;

And happily I have arriv'd at the last

Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforc'd him to;

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

VINCENTIO.

I'll slit the villain's nose that would have sent me to the gaol.

BAPTISTA.

[To LUCENTIO.] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will?

VINCENTIO.

Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy.

[Exit.]

BAPTISTA.

And I to sound the depth of this knavery.

[Exit.]

LUCENTIO.

Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.

[Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.]

GREMIO.

My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest;

Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.

[Exit.]

[PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA advance.]

KATHERINA.

Husband, let's follow to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO.

First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHERINA.

What! in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO.

What! art thou ashamed of me?

KATHERINA.

No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, then, let's home again. Come, sirrah, let's away.

KATHERINA.

Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

PETRUCHIO.

Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:

Better once than never, for never too late.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

A room in LUCENTIO'S house.

[Enter BAPTISTA, VINCENTIO, GREMIO, the PEDANT, LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, HORTENSIO, and WIDOW. TRANIO, BIONDELLO, and GRUMIO, and Others, attending.]

LUCENTIO.

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:

And time it is when raging war is done,

To smile at 'scapes and perils overblown.

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,

While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.

Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina,

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,

Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:

My banquet is to close our stomachs up,

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;

For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

[They sit at table.]

PETRUCHIO.

Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

BAPTISTA.

Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

PETRUCHIO.

Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

HORTENSIO.

For both our sakes I would that word were true.

PETRUCHIO.

Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.

WIDOW.

Then never trust me if I be afeard.

PETRUCHIO.

You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:

I mean Hortensio is afeard of you.

WIDOW.

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

PETRUCHIO.

Roundly replied.

KATHERINA.

Mistress, how mean you that?

WIDOW.

Thus I conceive by him.

PETRUCHIO.

Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

HORTENSIO.

My widow says thus she conceives her tale.

PETRUCHIO.

Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

KATHERINA.

'He that is giddy thinks the world turns round':

I pray you tell me what you meant by that.

WIDOW.

Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,

Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe;

And now you know my meaning.

KATHERINA.

A very mean meaning.

WIDOW.

Right, I mean you.

KATHERINA.

And I am mean, indeed, respecting you.

PETRUCHIO.

To her, Kate!

HORTENSIO.

To her, widow!

PETRUCHIO.

A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

HORTENSIO.

That's my office.

PETRUCHIO.

Spoke like an officer: ha' to thee, lad.

[Drinks to HORTENSIO.]

BAPTISTA.

How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

GREMIO.

Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

BIANCA.

Head and butt! An hasty-witted body

Would say your head and butt were head and horn.

VINCENTIO.

Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken'd you?

BIANCA.

Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I'll sleep again.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun,

Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

BIANCA.

Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush,

And then pursue me as you draw your bow.

You are welcome all.

[Exeunt BIANCA, KATHERINA, and WIDOW.]

PETRUCHIO.

She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;

This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not:

Therefore a health to all that shot and miss'd.

TRANIO.

O, sir! Lucentio slipp'd me like his greyhound,

Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

PETRUCHIO.

A good swift simile, but something currish.

TRANIO.

'Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:

'Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

BAPTISTA.

O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

LUCENTIO.

I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

HORTENSIO.

Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here?

PETRUCHIO.

A' has a little gall'd me, I confess;

And, as the jest did glance away from me,

'Tis ten to one it maim'd you two outright.

BAPTISTA.

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

PETRUCHIO.

Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance,

Let's each one send unto his wife,

And he whose wife is most obedient,

To come at first when he doth send for her,

Shall win the wager which we will propose.

HORTENSIO.

Content. What's the wager?

LUCENTIO.

Twenty crowns.

PETRUCHIO.

Twenty crowns!

I'll venture so much of my hawk or hound,

But twenty times so much upon my wife.

LUCENTIO.

A hundred then.

HORTENSIO.

Content.

PETRUCHIO.

A match! 'tis done.

HORTENSIO.

Who shall begin?

LUCENTIO.

That will I.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

BIONDELLO.

I go.

[Exit.]

BAPTISTA.

Son, I'll be your half, Bianca comes.

LUCENTIO.

I'll have no halves; I'll bear it all myself.

[Re-enter BIONDELLO.]

How now! what news?

BIONDELLO.

Sir, my mistress sends you word

That she is busy and she cannot come.

PETRUCHIO.

How! She's busy, and she cannot come!

Is that an answer?

GREMIO.

Ay, and a kind one too:

Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

PETRUCHIO.

I hope, better.

HORTENSIO.

Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife

To come to me forthwith.

[Exit BIONDELLO.]

PETRUCHIO.

O, ho! entreat her!

Nay, then she must needs come.

HORTENSIO.

I am afraid, sir,

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

[Re-enter BIONDELLO.]

Now, where's my wife?

BIONDELLO.

She says you have some goodly jest in hand:

She will not come; she bids you come to her.

PETRUCHIO.

Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,

Intolerable, not to be endur'd!

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; say,

I command her come to me.

[Exit GRUMIO.]

HORTENSIO.

I know her answer.

PETRUCHIO.

What?

HORTENSIO.

She will not.

PETRUCHIO.

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

[Re-enter KATHERINA.]

BAPTISTA.

Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina!

KATHERINA.

What is your sir, that you send for me?

PETRUCHIO.

Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife?

KATHERINA.

They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

PETRUCHIO.

Go, fetch them hither; if they deny to come,

Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.

Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

[Exit KATHERINA.]

LUCENTIO.

Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

HORTENSIO.

And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

PETRUCHIO.

Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,

An awful rule, and right supremacy;

And, to be short, what not that's sweet and happy.

BAPTISTA.

Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won; and I will add

Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;

Another dowry to another daughter,

For she is chang'd, as she had never been.

PETRUCHIO.

Nay, I will win my wager better yet,

And show more sign of her obedience,

Her new-built virtue and obedience.

See where she comes, and brings your froward wives

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

[Re-enter KATHERINA with BIANCA and WIDOW.]

Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not:

Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.

[KATHERINA pulls off her cap and throws it down.]

WIDOW.

Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh

Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

BIANCA.

Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

LUCENTIO.

I would your duty were as foolish too;

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time!

BIANCA.

The more fool you for laying on my duty.

PETRUCHIO.

Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

WIDOW.

Come, come, you're mocking; we will have no telling.

PETRUCHIO.

Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

WIDOW.

She shall not.

PETRUCHIO.

I say she shall: and first begin with her.

KATHERINA.

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labour both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks, and true obedience;

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?—

I am asham'd that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,

Unapt to toll and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms!

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason haply more,

To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

But now I see our lances are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband's foot:

In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

PETRUCHIO.

Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

LUCENTIO.

Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha't.

VINCENTIO.

'Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

LUCENTIO.

But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

PETRUCHIO.

Come, Kate, we'll to bed.

We three are married, but you two are sped.

[To LUCENTIO.]

'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white;

And being a winner, God give you good night!

[Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA.]

HORTENSIO.

Now go thy ways; thou hast tam'd a curst shrew.

LUCENTIO.

'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd so.

[Exeunt.]

THE END

THE TEMPEST

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act V, Scene I

Epilogue

List of Characters

ALONSO: King of Naples

SEBASTIAN: his Brother

PROSPERO: the right Duke of Milan

ANTONIO: his Brother, the usurping Duke of Milan

FERDINAND: Son to the King of Naples

GONZALO: an honest old counsellor

ADRIAN: Lord

FRANCISCO: Lord

CALIBAN: a savage and deformed Slave

TRINCULO: a Jester

STEPHANO: a drunken Butler

MASTER OF A SHIP

BOATSWAIN

MARINERS

MIRANDA: Daughter to Prospero

ARIEL: an airy Spirit

IRIS: presented by Spirits

CERES: presented by Spirits

JUNO: presented by Spirits

NYMPHS: presented by Spirits

REAPERS: presented by Spirits

Other Spirits attending on Prospero

SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island

ACT I. SCENE I.

On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard

[Enter a SHIPMASTER and a BOATSWAIN severally]

MASTER.

Boatswain!

BOATSWAIN.

Here, master: what cheer?

MASTER.

Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to't yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.

[Exit]

[Enter MARINERS]

BOATSWAIN.

Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to th' master's whistle.—Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough.

[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO, and OTHERS]

ALONSO.

Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master? Play the men.

BOATSWAIN.

I pray now, keep below.

ANTONIO.

Where is the master, boson?

BOATSWAIN.

Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.

GONZALO.

Nay, good, be patient.

BOATSWAIN.

When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! silence! Trouble us not.

GONZALO.

Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

BOATSWAIN.

None that I more love than myself. You are counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say.

[Exit]

GONZALO.

I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him: his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang'd, our case is miserable.

[Exeunt]

[Re-enter BOATSWAIN]

BOATSWAIN.

Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi' th' maincourse. [A cry within] A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our office.—

[Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO]

Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o'er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink?

SEBASTIAN.

A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

BOATSWAIN.

Work you, then.

ANTONIO.

Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent noisemaker, we are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

GONZALO.

I'll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.

BOATSWAIN.

Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her off.

[Enter MARINERS, Wet]

MARINERS.

All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

[Exeunt]

BOATSWAIN.

What, must our mouths be cold?

GONZALO.

The King and Prince at prayers! let us assist them, For our case is as theirs.

SEBASTIAN.

I am out of patience.

ANTONIO.

We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.—This wide-chapp'd rascal—would thou might'st lie drowning The washing of ten tides!

GONZALO.

He'll be hang'd yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid'st to glut him.

[A confused noise within:—'Mercy on us!'—'We split, we split!'—'Farewell, my wife and children!'—'Farewell, brother!'—'We split, we split, we split!'—]

ANTONIO.

Let's all sink wi' the King.

[Exit]

SEBASTIAN.

Let's take leave of him.

[Exit]

GONZALO.

Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die dry death.

[Exit]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The Island. Before the cell of PROSPERO

[Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA]

MIRANDA.

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 th' welkin's cheek,

Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

Who had, no doubt, some noble creatures 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.

PROSPERO.

Be collected:

No more amazement: tell your piteous heart

There's no harm done.

MIRANDA.

O! woe the day!

PROSPERO.

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.

MIRANDA.

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

PROSPERO.

'Tis time

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me.—So:

[Lays down his mantle]

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

The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch'd

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art

So safely ordered that there is no soul—

No, not so much perdition as an hair

Betid to any creature in the vessel

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

For thou must now know farther.

MIRANDA.

You have often

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

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding 'Stay; not yet.'

PROSPERO.

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.

MIRANDA.

Certainly, sir, I can.

PROSPERO.

By what? By any other house, or person?

Of any thing the image, tell me, that

Hath kept with thy remembrance.

MIRANDA.

'Tis far off,

And rather like a dream than an assurance

That my remembrance warrants. Had I not

Four, or five, women once, that tended me?

PROSPERO.

Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it

That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else

In the dark backward and abysm of time?

If thou rememb'rest aught ere thou cam'st here,

How thou cam'st here, thou mayst.

MIRANDA.

But that I do not.

PROSPERO.

Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,

Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and

A prince of power.

MIRANDA.

Sir, are not you my father?

PROSPERO.

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.

MIRANDA.

O, the heavens!

What foul play had we that we came from thence?

Or blessed was't we did?

PROSPERO.

Both, both, my girl.

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

But blessedly holp hither.

MIRANDA.

O! my heart bleeds

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

Which is from my remembrance. Please you, further.

PROSPERO.

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 signories it was the first,

And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed

In dignity, and for the liberal arts,

Without a parallel: those being all my study,

The government I cast upon my brother,

And to my state grew stranger, being transported

And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—

Dost thou attend me?

MIRANDA.

Sir, most heedfully.

PROSPERO.

Being once perfected how to grant suits,

How to deny them, who t' advance, and who

To trash for over-topping; new created

The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd 'em,

Or else new form'd 'em: 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.

MIRANDA.

O, good sir! I do.

PROSPERO.

I pray thee, mark me.

I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated

To closeness and the bettering of my mind

With that, which, but by being so 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, into truth, by telling of it,

Made such a sinner of his memory,

To credit his own lie,—he did believe

He was indeed the Duke; out o' the substitution,

And executing th' outward face of royalty,

With all prerogative.—Hence his ambition growing—

Dost thou hear?

MIRANDA.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

PROSPERO.

To have no screen between this part he play'd

And him he play'd it for, he needs will be

Absolute Milan. Me, poor man—my library

Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties

He thinks me now incapable; confederates,—

So dry he was for sway,—wi' th' 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.

MIRANDA.

O the heavens!

PROSPERO.

Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me

If this might be a brother.

MIRANDA.

I should sin

To think but nobly of my grandmother:

Good wombs have borne bad sons.

PROSPERO.

Now the condition.

This King of Naples, being an enemy

To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit;

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

Of homage and I know not how much tribute,

Should presently extirpate me and mine

Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,

With all the honours on my brother: whereon,

A treacherous army levied, one midnight

Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open

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

The ministers for th' purpose hurried thence

Me and thy crying self.

MIRANDA.

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.

PROSPERO.

Hear a little further,

And then I'll bring thee to the present business

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

Were most impertinent.

MIRANDA.

Wherefore did they not

That hour destroy us?

PROSPERO.

Well demanded, wench:

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

So dear the love my people bore me, nor set

A mark so bloody on the business; but

With colours fairer painted their foul ends.

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,

Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared

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

Nor tackle, sail, nor mast: the very rats

Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us,

To cry to th' sea, that roar'd to us: to sigh

To th' winds, whose pity, sighing back again,

Did us but loving wrong.

MIRANDA.

Alack! what trouble Was I then to you!

PROSPERO.

O, a cherubin

Thou wast that did preserve me! Thou didst smile,

Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

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

Under my burden groan'd: which rais'd in me

An undergoing stomach, to bear up

Against what should ensue.

MIRANDA.

How came we ashore?

PROSPERO.

By Providence divine.

Some food we had and some fresh water that

A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,

Out of his charity,—who being then appointed

Master of this design,—did give us, with

Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,

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

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me,

From mine own library with volumes that

I prize above my dukedom.

MIRANDA.

Would I might But ever see that man!

PROSPERO.

Now I arise:—

[Resumes his mantle]

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 princes can, that have more time

For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

MIRANDA.

Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir,—

For still 'tis beating in my mind,—your reason

For raising this sea-storm?

PROSPERO.

Know thus far forth.

By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,

Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies

Brought to this shore; and by my prescience

I find my zenith doth depend upon

A most auspicious star, whose influence

If now I court not but omit, my fortunes

Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions;

Thou art inclin'd to sleep; 'tis a good dulness,

And give it way;—I know thou canst not choose.—

[MIRANDA sleeps]

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

Approach, my Ariel; Come!

[Enter ARIEL]

ARIEL.

All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come

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

To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride

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

Ariel and all his quality.

PROSPERO.

Hast thou, spirit,

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

ARIEL.

To every article.

I boarded the King's ship; now on the beak,

Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,

I flam'd amazement; sometime I'd divide,

And burn in many places; on the topmast,

The yards, and boresprit, would I flame distinctly,

Then meet and join: Jove's lightning, the precursors

O' th' dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary

And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks

Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune

Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,

Yea, his dread trident shake.

PROSPERO.

My brave spirit!

Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil

Would not infect his reason?

ARIEL.

Not a soul

But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd

Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners

Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,

Then all afire with me: the King's son, Ferdinand,

With hair up-staring—then like reeds, not hair—

Was the first man that leapt; cried 'Hell is empty,

And all the devils are here.'

PROSPERO.

Why, that's my spirit!

But was not this nigh shore?

ARIEL.

Close by, my master.

PROSPERO.

But are they, Ariel, safe?

ARIEL.

Not a hair perish'd;

On their sustaining garments not a blemish,

But fresher than before: and, as thou bad'st me,

In troops I have dispers'd them 'bout the isle.

The king's son have I landed by himself,

Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs

In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,

His arms in this sad knot.

PROSPERO.

Of the King's ship

The mariners, say how thou hast dispos'd,

And all the rest o' th' fleet?

ARIEL.

Safely in harbour

Is the King's ship; in the deep nook, where once

Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew

From the still-vex'd Bermoothes; there she's hid:

The mariners all under hatches stowed;

Who, with a charm join'd to their suff'red labour,

I have left asleep: and for the rest o' th' fleet

Which I dispers'd, they all have met again, A

nd are upon the Mediterranean flote

Bound sadly home for Naples,

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

And his great person perish.

PROSPERO.

Ariel, thy charge

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

What is the time o' th' day?

ARIEL.

Past the mid season.

PROSPERO.

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

Must by us both be spent most preciously.

ARIEL.

Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,

Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd,

Which is not yet perform'd me.

PROSPERO.

How now! moody?

What is't thou canst demand?

ARIEL.

My liberty.

PROSPERO.

Before the time be out! No more!

ARIEL.

I prithee,

Remember I have done thee worthy service;

Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd

Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise

To bate me a full year.

PROSPERO.

Dost thou forget

From what a torment I did free thee?

ARIEL.

No.

PROSPERO.

Thou dost; and think'st it much to tread the ooze

Of the salt deep,

To run upon the sharp wind of the north,

To do me business in the veins o' th' earth

When it is bak'd with frost.

ARIEL.

I do not, sir.

PROSPERO.

Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot

The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy

Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?

ARIEL.

No, sir.

PROSPERO.

Thou hast. Where was she born?

Speak; tell me.

ARIEL.

Sir, in Argier.

PROSPERO.

O! was she so? I must

Once in a month recount what thou hast been,

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

For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible

To enter human hearing, from Argier,

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

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

ARIEL.

Ay, sir.

PROSPERO.

This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought with child,

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

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

And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate

To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands,

Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,

By help of her more potent ministers,

And in her most unmitigable rage,

Into a cloven pine; within which rift

Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain

A dozen years; within which space she died,

And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans

As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island—

Save for the son that she did litter here,

A freckl'd whelp, hag-born—not honour'd with

A human shape.

ARIEL.

Yes; Caliban her son.

PROSPERO.

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

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

What torment I did find thee in; thy groans

Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts

Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment

To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax

Could not again undo; it was mine art,

When I arriv'd and heard thee, that made gape

The pine, and let thee out.

ARIEL.

I thank thee, master.

PROSPERO.

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

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.

ARIEL.

Pardon, master:

I will be correspondent to command,

And do my spriting gently.

PROSPERO.

Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee.

ARIEL.

That's my noble master!

What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do?

PROSPERO.

Go make thyself like a nymph o' th' sea: be subject

To no sight but thine and mine; invisible

To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape,

And hither come in 't: go, hence with diligence!

[Exit ARIEL]

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

Awake!

MIRANDA.

[Waking] The strangeness of your story put

Heaviness in me.

PROSPERO.

Shake it off. Come on;

We'll visit Caliban my slave, who never

Yields us kind answer.

MIRANDA.

'Tis a villain, sir,

I do not love to look on.

PROSPERO.

But as 'tis,

We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,

Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices

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

Thou earth, thou! Speak.

CALIBAN.

[Within] There's wood enough within.

PROSPERO.

Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee:

Come, thou tortoise! when?

[Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph.]

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,

Hark in thine ear.

ARIEL.

My lord, it shall be done.

[Exit]

PROSPERO.

Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself

Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!

[Enter CALIBAN]

CALIBAN.

As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd

With raven's feather from unwholesome fen

Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye,

And blister you all o'er!

PROSPERO.

For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,

Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins

Shall forth at vast of night that they may work

All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch'd

As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging

Than bees that made them.

CALIBAN.

I must eat my dinner.

This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,

Which thou tak'st from me. When thou cam'st first,

Thou strok'st me and made much of me; wouldst give me

Water with berries in't; and teach me how

To name the bigger light, and how the less,

That burn by day and night: and then I lov'd thee,

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

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

Curs'd be I that did so! All the charms

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

For I am all the subjects that you have,

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

In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me

The rest o' th' island.

PROSPERO.

Thou most lying slave,

Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us'd thee,

Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg'd thee

In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate

The honour of my child.

CALIBAN.

Oh ho! Oh ho! Would it had been done!

Thou didst prevent me; I had peopl'd else

This isle with Calibans.

PROSPERO.

Abhorred slave,

Which any print of goodness wilt not take,

Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour

One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like

A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes

With words that made them known: but thy vile race,

Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures

Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou

Deservedly confin'd into this rock,

Who hadst deserved more than a prison.

CALIBAN.

You taught me language, and my profit on't

Is, I know how to curse: the red plague rid you,

For learning me your language!

PROSPERO.

Hag-seed, hence!

Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou 'rt best,

To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice?

If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly

What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps,

Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar,

That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

CALIBAN.

No, pray thee.—

[Aside] I must obey. His art is of such power,

It would control my dam's god, Setebos,

And make a vassal of him.

PROSPERO.

So, slave: hence!

[Exit CALIBAN]

[Re-enter ARIEL invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND following]

[ARIEL'S SONG.]

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Curtsied when you have, and kiss'd,—

The wild waves whist,—

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.

Hark, hark!

[Burden: Bow, wow, dispersedly.]

The watch dogs bark:

[Burden: Bow, wow, dispersedly.]

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting Chanticleer

[Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.]

FERDINAND.

Where should this music be? i' th' air or th' earth?

It sounds no more;—and sure it waits upon

Some god o' th' island. Sitting on a bank,

Weeping again the king my father's wrack,

This music crept by me upon the waters,

Allaying both their fury and my passion,

With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it,—

Or it hath drawn me rather,—but 'tis gone.

No, it begins again.

[ARIEL sings]

Full fathom five thy father lies:

Of his bones are coral made:

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

[Burden: Ding-dong.]

Hark! now I hear them—ding-dong, bell.

FERDINAND.

The ditty does remember my drown'd father.

This is no mortal business, nor no sound

That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.

PROSPERO.

The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

MIRANDA.

What is't? a spirit?

Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,

It carries a brave form:—but 'tis a spirit.

PROSPERO.

No, wench; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses

As we have, such; this gallant which thou see'st

Was in the wrack; and but he's something stain'd

With grief,—that beauty's canker,—thou mightst call him

A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows

And strays about to find 'em.

MIRANDA.

I might call him

A thing divine; for nothing natural

I ever saw so noble.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] It goes on, I see,

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

Within two days for this.

FERDINAND.

Most sure, the goddess

On whom these airs attend!—Vouchsafe, my prayer

May know if you remain upon this island;

And that you will some good instruction give

How I may bear me here: my prime request,

Which I do last pronounce, is,—O you wonder!—

If you be maid or no?

MIRANDA.

No wonder, sir;

But certainly a maid.

FERDINAND.

My language! Heavens!—

I am the best of them that speak this speech,

Were I but where 'tis spoken.

PROSPERO.

How! the best?

What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?

FERDINAND.

A single thing, as I am now, that wonders

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

And, that he does, I weep: myself am Naples,

Who with mine eyes,—never since at ebb,—beheld

The King, my father wrack'd.

MIRANDA.

Alack, for mercy!

FERDINAND.

Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan,

And his brave son being twain.

PROSPERO.

[Aside.]

The Duke of Milan,

And his more braver daughter could control thee,

If now 'twere fit to do't.—At the first sight [Aside.]

They have changed eyes;—delicate Ariel,

I'll set thee free for this!—[To FERDINAND] A word, good sir:

I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.

MIRANDA.

[Aside.]

Why speaks my father so ungently? This

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

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

To be inclin'd my way!

FERDINAND.

[Aside.]

O! if a virgin,

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

The Queen of Naples.

PROSPERO.

Soft, sir; one word more—

[Aside]

They are both in either's powers: but this swift

business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning

Make the prize light. [To FERDINAND] One word more:

I charge thee

That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp

The name thou ow'st not; and hast put thyself

Upon this island as a spy, to win it

From me, the lord on't.

FERDINAND.

No, as I am a man.

MIRANDA.

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

If the ill spirit have so fair a house,

Good things will strive to dwell with't.

PROSPERO.

{To FERDINAND] Follow me.—

[To MIRANDA] Speak not you for him; he's a traitor.—

[To FERDINAND] Come;

I'll manacle thy neck and feet together:

Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be

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

Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

FERDINAND.

No;

I will resist such entertainment till

Mine enemy has more power.

[He draws, and is charmed from moving.]

MIRANDA.

O dear father!

Make not too rash a trial of him, for

He's gentle, and not fearful.

PROSPERO.

What! I say,

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

Who mak'st a show, but dar'st not strike, thy conscience

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

For I can here disarm thee with this stick

And make thy weapon drop.

MIRANDA.

Beseech you, father!

PROSPERO.

Hence! Hang not on my garments.

MIRANDA.

Sir, have pity;

I'll be his surety.

PROSPERO.

Silence! One word more

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

An advocate for an impostor? hush!

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

Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!

To the most of men this is a Caliban,

And they to him are angels.

MIRANDA.

My affections

Are then most humble; I have no ambition

To see a goodlier man.

PROSPERO.

[To FERDINAND] Come on; obey:

Thy nerves are in their infancy again,

And have no vigour in them.

FERDINAND.

So they are:

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

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

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

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

Might I but through my prison once a day

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

Let liberty make use of; space enough

Have I in such a prison.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] It works.—[To FERDINAND] Come on.—

Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [To FERDINAND] Follow me.—

[To ARIEL] Hark what thou else shalt do me.

MIRANDA.

Be of comfort;

My father's of a better nature, sir,

Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted,

Which now came from him.

PROSPERO.

Thou shalt be as free

As mountain winds; but then exactly do

All points of my command.

ARIEL.

To the syllable.

PROSPERO.

[To FERDINAND] Come, follow.—Speak not for him.

[Exeunt]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Another part of the island

[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and OTHERS]

GONZALO.

Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,

So have we all, of joy; for our escape

Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe

Is common: every day, some sailor's wife,

The masters of some merchant and the merchant,

Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,

I mean our preservation, few in millions

Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh

Our sorrow with our comfort.

ALONSO.

Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN.

He receives comfort like cold porridge.

ANTONIO.

The visitor will not give him o'er so.

SEBASTIAN.

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

GONZALO.

Sir,—

SEBASTIAN.

One: tell.

GONZALO.

When every grief is entertain'd that's offer'd, Comes to the entertainer—

SEBASTIAN.

A dollar.

GONZALO.

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

SEBASTIAN.

You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

GONZALO.

Therefore, my lord,—

ANTONIO.

Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!

ALONSO.

I prithee, spare.

GONZALO.

Well, I have done: but yet—

SEBASTIAN.

He will be talking.

ANTONIO.

Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?

SEBASTIAN.

The old cock.

ANTONIO.

The cockerel.

SEBASTIAN.

Done. The wager?

ANTONIO.

A laughter.

SEBASTIAN.

A match!

ADRIAN.

Though this island seem to be desert,—

SEBASTIAN.

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

ADRIAN.

Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—

SEBASTIAN.

Yet—

ADRIAN.

Yet—

ANTONIO.

He could not miss it.

ADRIAN.

It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.

ANTONIO.

Temperance was a delicate wench.

SEBASTIAN.

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

ADRIAN.

The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

SEBASTIAN.

As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

ANTONIO.

Or, as 'twere perfum'd by a fen.

GONZALO.

Here is everything advantageous to life.

ANTONIO.

True; save means to live.

SEBASTIAN.

Of that there's none, or little.

GONZALO.

How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

ANTONIO.

The ground indeed is tawny.

SEBASTIAN.

With an eye of green in't.

ANTONIO.

He misses not much.

SEBASTIAN.

No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

GONZALO.

But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost

beyond credit,—

SEBASTIAN.

As many vouch'd rarities are.

GONZALO.

That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stain'd with salt water.

ANTONIO.

If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?

SEBASTIAN.

Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

GONZALO.

Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.

SEBASTIAN.

'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.

ADRIAN.

Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.

GONZALO.

Not since widow Dido's time.

ANTONIO.

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

SEBASTIAN.

What if he had said, widower Aeneas too? Good Lord, how you take it!

ADRIAN.

Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

GONZALO.

This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

ADRIAN.

Carthage?

GONZALO.

I assure you, Carthage.

ANTONIO.

His word is more than the miraculous harp.

SEBASTIAN.

He hath rais'd the wall, and houses too.

ANTONIO.

What impossible matter will he make easy next?

SEBASTIAN.

I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.

ANTONIO.

And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

ALONSO.

Ay.

ANTONIO.

Why, in good time.

GONZALO.

[To ALONSO.] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now Queen.

ANTONIO.

And the rarest that e'er came there.

SEBASTIAN.

Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

ANTONIO.

O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

GONZALO.

Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.

ANTONIO.

That sort was well fish'd for.

GONZALO.

When I wore it at your daughter's marriage?

ALONSO.

You cram these words into mine ears against

The stomach of my sense. Would I had never

Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,

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

Who is so far from Italy remov'd,

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

Of Naples and of Milan! what strange fish

Hath made his meal on thee?

FRANCISCO.

Sir, he may live:

I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs: he trod the water,

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted

The surge most swoln that met him: his bold head

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

Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke

To th' shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bowed,

As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt

He came alive to land.

ALONSO.

No, no; he's gone.

SEBASTIAN.

Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,

That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,

But rather lose her to an African;

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

Who hath cause to wet the grief on't.

ALONSO.

Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN.

You were kneel'd to, and importun'd otherwise

By all of us; and the fair soul herself

Weigh'd between loathness and obedience at

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

I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have

More widows in them of this business' making,

Than we bring men to comfort them; the fault's your own.

ALONSO.

So is the dearest of the loss.

GONZALO.

My lord Sebastian,

The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness

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

When you should bring the plaster.

SEBASTIAN.

Very well.

ANTONIO.

And most chirurgeonly.

GONZALO.

It is foul weather in us all, good sir,

When you are cloudy.

SEBASTIAN.

Foul weather?

ANTONIO.

Very foul.

GONZALO.

Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

ANTONIO.

He'd sow 't with nettle-seed.

SEBASTIAN.

Or docks, or mallows.

GONZALO.

And were the king on't, what would I do?

SEBASTIAN.

'Scape being drunk for want of wine.

GONZALO.

I' the commonwealth I would by contraries

Execute all things; for no kind of traffic

Would I admit; no name of magistrate;

Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,

And use of service, none; contract, succession,

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

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

No occupation; all men idle, all:

And women too, but innocent and pure;

No sovereignty,—

SEBASTIAN.

Yet he would be king on't.

ANTONIO.

The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.

GONZALO.

All things in common nature should produce

Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony,

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

Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,

Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance,

To feed my innocent people.

SEBASTIAN.

No marrying 'mong his subjects?

ANTONIO.

None, man: all idle; whores and knaves.

GONZALO.

I would with such perfection govern, sir,

To excel the golden age.

SEBASTIAN.

Save his Majesty!

ANTONIO.

Long live Gonzalo!

GONZALO.

And,—do you mark me, sir?

ALONSO.

Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.

GONZALO.

I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.

ANTONIO.

'Twas you we laugh'd at.

GONZALO.

Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you; so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still.

ANTONIO.

What a blow was there given!

SEBASTIAN.

An it had not fallen flat-long.

GONZALO.

You are gentlemen of brave mettle: you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing.

[Enter ARIEL, invisible, playing solemn music]

SEBASTIAN.

We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling.

ANTONIO.

Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

GONZALO.

No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?

ANTONIO.

Go sleep, and hear us.

[All sleep but ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, and ANTONIO]

ALONSO.

What! all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes

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

They are inclin'd to do so.

SEBASTIAN.

Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it:

It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,

It is a comforter.

ANTONIO.

We two, my lord,

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

ALONSO.

Thank you. Wondrous heavy!

[ALONSO sleeps. Exit ARIEL.]

SEBASTIAN.

What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

ANTONIO.

It is the quality o' th' climate.

SEBASTIAN.

Why

Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not

Myself dispos'd to sleep.

ANTONIO.

Nor I: my spirits are nimble.

They fell together all, as by consent;

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

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

And yet methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should'st be: The occasion speaks thee; and

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head.

SEBASTIAN.

What! art thou waking?

ANTONIO.

Do you not hear me speak?

SEBASTIAN.

I do: and surely

It is a sleepy language, and thou speak'st

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

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

ANTONIO.

Noble Sebastian,

Thou let'st thy fortune sleep—die rather: wink'st

Whiles thou art waking.

SEBASTIAN.

Thou dost snore distinctly:

There's meaning in thy snores.

ANTONIO.

I am more serious than my custom; you

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

Trebles thee o'er.

SEBASTIAN.

Well, I am standing water.

ANTONIO.

I'll teach you how to flow.

SEBASTIAN.

Do so: to ebb,

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

ANTONIO.

O!

If you but knew how you the purpose cherish

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

You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed,

Most often, do so near the bottom run

By their own fear or sloth.

SEBASTIAN.

Prithee, say on:

The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim

A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed

Which throes thee much to yield.

ANTONIO.

Thus, sir:

Although this lord of weak remembrance, this

Who shall be of as little memory

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

For he's a spirit of persuasion, only

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

'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd

As he that sleeps here swims.

SEBASTIAN.

I have no hope

That he's undrown'd.

ANTONIO.

O! out of that 'no hope'

What great hope have you! No hope that way is

Another way so high a hope, that even

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me

That Ferdinand is drown'd?

SEBASTIAN.

He's gone.

ANTONIO.

Then tell me,

Who's the next heir of Naples?

SEBASTIAN.

Claribel.

ANTONIO.

She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells

Ten leagues beyond man's life; she that from Naples

Can have no note, unless the sun were post—

The Man i' th' Moon's too slow—till newborn chins

Be rough and razorable: she that from whom

We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again,

And by that destiny, to perform an act

Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come

In yours and my discharge.

SEBASTIAN.

What stuff is this!—How say you?

'Tis true, my brother's daughter's Queen of Tunis;

So is she heir of Naples; 'twixt which regions

There is some space.

ANTONIO.

A space whose every cubit

Seems to cry out 'How shall that Claribel

Measure us back to Naples?—Keep in Tunis,

And let Sebastian wake.'—Say this were death

That now hath seiz'd them; why, they were no worse

Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples

As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate

As amply and unnecessarily

As this Gonzalo: I myself could make

A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore

The mind that I do! What a sleep were this

For your advancement! Do you understand me?

SEBASTIAN.

Methinks I do.

ANTONIO.

And how does your content

Tender your own good fortune?

SEBASTIAN.

I remember

You did supplant your brother Prospero.

ANTONIO.

True.

And look how well my garments sit upon me;

Much feater than before; my brother's servants

Were then my fellows; now they are my men.

SEBASTIAN.

But, for your conscience,—

ANTONIO.

Ay, sir; where lies that? If 'twere a kibe,

'Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not

This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences

That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they

And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother,

No better than the earth he lies upon,

If he were that which now he's like, that's dead:

Whom I, with this obedient steel,—three inches of it,—

Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,

To the perpetual wink for aye might put

This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who

Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,

They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk:

They'll tell the clock to any business that

We say befits the hour.

SEBASTIAN.

Thy case, dear friend,

Shall be my precedent: as thou got'st Milan,

I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke

Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'st,

And I the king shall love thee.

ANTONIO.

Draw together:

And when I rear my hand, do you the like,

To fall it on Gonzalo.

SEBASTIAN.

O! but one word.

[They converse apart.]

[Music. Re-enter ARIEL, invisible.]

ARIEL.

My master through his art foresees the danger

That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth—

For else his project dies—to keep thee living.

[Sings in GONZALO'S ear]

While you here do snoring lie,

Open-ey'd Conspiracy

His time doth take.

If of life you keep a care,

Shake off slumber, and beware.

Awake! awake!

ANTONIO.

Then let us both be sudden.

GONZALO.

Now, good angels

Preserve the King!

[They wake]

ALONSO.

Why, how now! Ho, awake! Why are you drawn?

Wherefore this ghastly looking?

GONZALO.

What's the matter?

SEBASTIAN.

Whiles we stood here securing your repose,

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

Like bulls, or rather lions; did't not wake you?

It struck mine ear most terribly.

ALONSO.

I heard nothing.

ANTONIO.

O! 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear,

To make an earthquake: sure it was the roar

Of a whole herd of lions.

ALONSO.

Heard you this, Gonzalo?

GONZALO.

Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,

And that a strange one too, which did awake me.

I shak'd you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open'd,

I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise,

That's verily. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard,

Or that we quit this place: let's draw our weapons.

ALONSO.

Lead off this ground: and let's make further search

For my poor son.

GONZALO.

Heavens keep him from these beasts!

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

ALONSO.

Lead away.

[Exit with the others.]

ARIEL.

Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:

So, King, go safely on to seek thy son.

[Exit]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Another part of the island

[Enter CALIBAN, with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard]

CALIBAN.

All the infections that the sun sucks up

From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him

By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,

And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch,

Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i' the mire,

Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark

Out of my way, unless he bid 'em; but

For every trifle are they set upon me:

Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me,

And after bite me; then like hedge-hogs which

Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount

Their pricks at my foot-fall; sometime am I

All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues

Do hiss me into madness.—

[Enter TRINCULO]

Lo, now, lo!

Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me

For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat;

Perchance he will not mind me.

TRINCULO.

Here's neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' th' wind; yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls.—What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish: a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now,—as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg'd like a man, and his fins like arms! Warm, o' my troth! I do now let loose my opinion: hold it no longer; this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by thunderbolt. [Thunder] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.

[Enter STEPHANO singing; a bottle in his hand]

STEPHANO.

I shall no more to sea, to sea,

Here shall I die a-shore:—

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral:

Well, here's my comfort.

[Drinks]

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

The gunner, and his mate,

Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,

But none of us car'd for Kate:

For she had a tongue with a tang,

Would cry to a sailor 'Go hang!'

She lov'd not the savour of tar nor of pitch,

Yet a tailor might scratch her wher-e'er she did itch.

Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang.

This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comfort.

[Drinks]

CALIBAN.

Do not torment me: O!

STEPHANO.

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

CALIBAN.

The spirit torments me: O!

STEPHANO.

This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that; if I can recover him and keep him tame and get to Naples with him, he's a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat's-leather.

CALIBAN.

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

STEPHANO.

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

CALIBAN.

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

STEPHANO.

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

TRINCULO.

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

STEPHANO.

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

TRINCULO.

Stephano!

STEPHANO.

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

TRINCULO.

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

STEPHANO.

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

TRINCULO.

I took him to be kill'd with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drown'd, Stephano? I hope now thou are not drown'd. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans 'scaped!

STEPHANO.

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

CALIBAN.

[Aside] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites.

That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor;

I will kneel to him.

STEPHANO.

How didst thou 'scape? How cam'st thou hither? swear by this bottle how thou cam'st hither—I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved overboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree, with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore.

CALIBAN.

I'll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject, for the liquor is not earthly.

STEPHANO.

Here: swear then how thou escapedst.

TRINCULO.

Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I'll be sworn.

STEPHANO.

[Passing the bottle] Here, kiss the book [gives TRINCULO a drink]. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.

TRINCULO.

O Stephano! hast any more of this?

STEPHANO.

The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! How does thine ague?

CALIBAN.

Hast thou not dropped from heaven?

STEPHANO.

Out o' the moon, I do assure thee: I was the Man in the Moon, when time was.

CALIBAN.

I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee, my mistress showed me thee, and thy dog and thy bush.

STEPHANO.

Come, swear to that; kiss the book; I will furnish it anon with new contents; swear.

TRINCULO.

By this good light, this is a very shallow monster.—I afeard of him!—A very weak monster. —The Man i' the Moon! A most poor credulous monster!—Well drawn, monster, in good sooth!

CALIBAN.

I'll show thee every fertile inch o' the island;

And I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god.

TRINCULO.

By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster: when his god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle.

CALIBAN.

I'll kiss thy foot: I'll swear myself thy subject.

STEPHANO.

Come on, then; down, and swear.

TRINCULO.

I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,—

STEPHANO.

Come, kiss.

TRINCULO.

But that the poor monster's in drink: an abominable monster!

CALIBAN.

I'll show thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee

berries; I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.

A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!

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

Thou wondrous man.

TRINCULO.

A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!

CALIBAN.

I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;

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

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

To snare the nimble marmozet; I'll bring thee

To clust'ring filberts, and sometimes I'll get thee

Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?

STEPHANO.

I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking—Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here.—Here, bear my bottle.—Fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by and by again.

CALIBAN.

Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! [Sings drunkenly]

TRINCULO.

A howling monster, a drunken monster.

CALIBAN.

No more dams I'll make for fish;

Nor fetch in firing

At requiring,

Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish;

'Ban 'Ban, Ca—Caliban,

Has a new master—Get a new man.

Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom,

high-day, freedom!

STEPHANO.

O brave monster! lead the way.

[Exeunt]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Before PROSPERO'S cell

[Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log.]

FERDINAND.

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, least when I do it.

[Enter MIRANDA: and PROSPERO behind.]

MIRANDA.

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,

'Twill weep for having wearied you. My father

Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself:

He's safe for these three hours.

FERDINAND.

O most dear mistress,

The sun will set, before I shall discharge

What I must strive to do.

MIRANDA.

If you'll sit down,

I'll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that;

I'll carry it to the pile.

FERDINAND.

No, precious creature:

I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,

Than you should such dishonour undergo,

While I sit lazy by.

MIRANDA.

It would become me

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

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

And yours it is against.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] Poor worm! thou art infected:

This visitation shows it.

MIRANDA.

You look wearily.

FERDINAND.

No, noble mistress; 'tis fresh morning with me

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

Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers—

What is your name?

MIRANDA.

Miranda—O my father!

I have broke your hest to say so.

FERDINAND.

Admir'd Miranda!

Indeed, the top of admiration; worth

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

I have ey'd 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 ow'd,

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

So perfect and so peerless, are created

Of every creature's best.

MIRANDA.

I do not know

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

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

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

And my dear father: how features are abroad,

I am 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,

Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle

Something too wildly, and my father's precepts

I therein do forget.

FERDINAND.

I am, in my condition,

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

I would not so!—and would no more endure

This wooden slavery than to suffer

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

The very instant that I saw you, did

My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me slave to it; and for your sake

Am I this patient log-man.

MIRANDA.

Do you love me?

FERDINAND.

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.

MIRANDA.

I am a fool

To weep at what I am glad of.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace

On that which breeds between them!

FERDINAND.

Wherefore weep you?

MIRANDA.

At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer

What I desire to give; and much less take

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

And all the more it seeks to hide itself,

The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!

And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

I am your wife, if you will marry me;

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

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

Whether you will or no.

FERDINAND.

My mistress, dearest;

And I thus humble ever.

MIRANDA.

My husband, then?

FERDINAND.

Ay, with a heart as willing

As bondage e'er of freedom: here's my hand.

MIRANDA.

And mine, with my heart in't: and now farewell

Till half an hour hence.

FERDINAND.

A thousand thousand!

[Exeunt FERDINAND and MIRANDA severally.]

PROSPERO.

So glad of this as they, I cannot be,

Who are surpris'd withal; but my rejoicing

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

For yet, ere supper time, must I perform

Much business appertaining.

[Exit]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Another part of the island

[Enter CALIBAN, with a bottle, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO.]

STEPHANO.

Tell not me:—when the butt is out we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board 'em.—Servant-monster, drink to me.

TRINCULO.

Servant-monster! The folly of this island! They say there's but five upon this isle; we are three of them; if th' other two be brained like us, the state totters.

STEPHANO.

Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head.

TRINCULO.

Where should they be set else? He were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.

STEPHANO.

My man-monster hath drown'd his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard.

TRINCULO.

Your lieutenant, if you list; he's no standard.

STEPHANO.

We'll not run, Monsieur monster.

TRINCULO.

Nor go neither: but you'll lie like dogs, and yet say nothing neither.

STEPHANO.

Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf.

CALIBAN.

How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I'll not serve him: he is not valiant.

TRINCULO.

Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half fish and half a monster?

CALIBAN.

Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?

TRINCULO.

'Lord' quoth he!—That a monster should be such a natural!

CALIBAN.

Lo, lo again! bite him to death, I prithee.

STEPHANO.

Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree! The poor monster's my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity.

CALIBAN.

I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas'd to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?

STEPHANO.

Marry will I; kneel, and repeat it: I will stand, and so shall Trinculo.

[Enter ARIEL, invisible]

CALIBAN.

As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.

ARIEL.

Thou liest.

CALIBAN.

Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou;

I would my valiant master would destroy thee;

I do not lie.

STEPHANO.

Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.

TRINCULO.

Why, I said nothing.

STEPHANO.

Mum, then, and no more.—[To CALIBAN] Proceed.

CALIBAN.

I say, by sorcery he got this isle;

From me he got it: if thy greatness will ,

Revenge it on him,—for I know, thou dar'st;

But this thing dare not,—

STEPHANO.

That's most certain.

CALIBAN.

Thou shalt be lord of it and I'll serve thee.

STEPHANO.

How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party?

CALIBAN.

Yea, yea, my lord: I'll yield him thee asleep,

Where thou may'st knock a nail into his head.

ARIEL.

Thou liest: thou canst not.

CALIBAN.

What a pied ninny's this! Thou scurvy patch!—

I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows,

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

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

Where the quick freshes are.

STEPHANO.

Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further and, by this hand, I'll turn my mercy out o' doors, and make a stock-fish of thee.

TRINCULO.

Why, what did I? I did nothing. I'll go farther off.

STEPHANO.

Didst thou not say he lied?

ARIEL.

Thou liest.

STEPHANO.

Do I so? Take thou that. [Strikes TRINCULO.] As you like this, give me the lie another time.

TRINCULO.

I did not give the lie:—out o' your wits and hearing too?—A pox o' your bottle! this can sack and drinking do.—A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers!

CALIBAN.

Ha, ha, ha!

STEPHANO.

Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee stand further off.

CALIBAN.

Beat him enough: after a little time, I'll beat him too.

STEPHANO.

Stand farther.—Come, proceed.

CALIBAN.

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

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

Having first seiz'd his books; or with a log

Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,

Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember

First to possess his books; for without them

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

One spirit to command: they all do hate him

As rootedly as I. Burn but his books;

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

Which, when he has a house, he'll deck withal:

And that most deeply to consider is

The beauty of his daughter; he himself

Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman

But only Sycorax my dam and she;

But she as far surpasseth Sycorax

As great'st does least.

STEPHANO.

Is it so brave a lass?

CALIBAN.

Ay, lord: she will become thy bed, I warrant,

And bring thee forth brave brood.

STEPHANO.

Monster, I will kill this man; his daughter and I will be king and queen,—save our graces!—and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo?

TRINCULO.

Excellent.

STEPHANO.

Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.

CALIBAN.

Within this half hour will he be asleep;

Wilt thou destroy him then?

STEPHANO.

Ay, on mine honour.

ARIEL.

This will I tell my master.

CALIBAN.

Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure.

Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch

You taught me but while-ere?

STEPHANO.

At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any

reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing.

[Sings]

Flout 'em and scout 'em;

And scout 'em and flout 'em:

Thought is free.

CALIBAN.

That's not the tune.

[ARIEL plays the tune on a Tabor and Pipe.]

STEPHANO.

What is this same?

TRINCULO.

This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody.

STEPHANO.

If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take't as thou list.

TRINCULO.

O, forgive me my sins!

STEPHANO.

He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee.—Mercy upon us!

CALIBAN.

Art thou afeard?

STEPHANO.

No, monster, not I.

CALIBAN.

Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,

That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open and show riches

Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak'd,

I cried to dream again.

STEPHANO.

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

CALIBAN.

When Prospero is destroyed.

STEPHANO.

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

TRINCULO.

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

STEPHANO.

Lead, monster: we'll follow.—I would I could see this taborer! he lays it on. Wilt come?

TRINCULO.

I'll follow, Stephano.

[Exeunt]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Another part of the island

[Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and OTHERS.]

GONZALO.

By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;

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

Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,

I needs must rest me.

ALONSO.

Old lord, I cannot blame thee,

Who am myself attach'd with weariness

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

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

No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd

Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks

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

ANTONIO.

[Aside to SEBASTIAN]

I am right glad that he's so out of hope.

Do not, for one repulse, forgo the purpose

That you resolv'd to effect.

SEBASTIAN.

[Aside to ANTONIO]

The next advantage Will we take throughly.

ANTONIO.

[Aside to SEBASTIAN]

Let it be to-night;

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

Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance

As when they are fresh.

SEBASTIAN.

[Aside to ANTONIO]

I say, to-night: no more.

[Solemn and strange music: and PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and inviting the KING, &c., to eat, they depart.]

ALONSO.

What harmony is this? my good friends, hark!

GONZALO.

Marvellous sweet music!

ALONSO.

Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?

SEBASTIAN.

A living drollery. Now I will believe

That there are unicorns; that in Arabia

There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix

At this hour reigning there.

ANTONIO.

I'll believe both;

And what does else want credit, come to me,

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

Though fools at home condemn them.

GONZALO.

If in Naples

I should report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say, I saw such islanders,—

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

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

Their manners are more gentle-kind than of

Our human generation you shall find

Many, nay, almost any.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] Honest lord,

Thou hast said well; for some of you there present

Are worse than devils.

ALONSO.

I cannot too much muse

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

Although they want the use of tongue,—a kind

Of excellent dumb discourse.

PROSPERO.

[Aside] Praise in departing.

FRANCISCO.

They vanish'd strangely.

SEBASTIAN.

No matter, since

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

Will't please you taste of what is here?

ALONSO.

Not I.

GONZALO.

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

Who would believe that there were mountaineers

Dewlapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at them

Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men

Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find

Each putter-out of five for one will bring us

Good warrant of.

ALONSO.

I will stand to, and feed,

Although my last; no matter, since I feel

The best is past.—Brother, my lord the duke,

Stand to and do as we.

[Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes]

ARIEL.

You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,

That hath to instrument this lower world

And what is in't,—the never-surfeited sea

Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island

Where man doth not inhabit; you 'mongst men

Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad:

[Seeing ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, &c., draw their swords]

And even with such-like valour men hang and drown

Their proper selves. You fools! I and my fellows

Are ministers of fate: the elements

Of whom your swords are temper'd may as well

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish

One dowle that's in my plume; my fellow-ministers

Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,

And will not be uplifted. But, remember—

For that's my business to you,—that you three

From Milan did supplant good Prospero;

Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit it,

Him, and his innocent child: for which foul deed

The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,

Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,

They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me

Lingering perdition,—worse than any death

Can be at once,—shall step by step attend

You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from—

Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls

Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow,

And a clear life ensuing.

[He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carry out the table]

PROSPERO.

[Aside]

Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou

Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring;

Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated

In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life

And observation strange, my meaner ministers

Their several kinds have done. My high charms work,

And these mine enemies are all knit up

In their distractions; they now are in my power;

And in these fits I leave them, while I visit

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

And his and mine lov'd darling.

[Exit above]

GONZALO.

I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you

In this strange stare?

ALONSO.

O, it is monstrous! monstrous!

Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it;

The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,

That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd

The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.

Therefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded; and

I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,

And with him there lie mudded.

[Exit]

SEBASTIAN.

But one fiend at a time, I'll fight their legions o'er.

ANTONIO.

I'll be thy second.

[Exeunt SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]

GONZALO.

All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,

Like poison given to work a great time after,

Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you

That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly

And hinder them from what this ecstasy

May now provoke them to.

ADRIAN.

Follow, I pray you.

[Exeunt]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Before PROSPERO'S cell

[Enter PROSPERO! FERDINAND, and MIRANDA]

PROSPERO.

If I have too austerely punish'd you,

Your compensation makes amends: for

Have given you here a third of mine own life,

Or that for which I live; who once again

I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations

Were but my trials of thy love, and thou

Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,

I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand!

Do not smile at me that I boast her off,

For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,

And make it halt behind her.

FERDINAND.

I do believe it

Against an oracle.

PROSPERO.

Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition

Worthily purchas'd, take my daughter: but

If thou dost break her virgin knot before

All sanctimonious ceremonies may

With full and holy rite be minister'd,

No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall

To make this contract grow; but barren hate,

Sour-ey'd disdain, and discord, shall bestrew

The union of your bed with weeds so loathly

That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,

As Hymen's lamps shall light you.

FERDINAND.

As I hope

For quiet days, fair issue, and long life,

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

The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion

Our worser genius can, shall never melt

Mine honour into lust, to take away

The edge of that day's celebration,

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

Or Night kept chain'd below.

PROSPERO.

Fairly spoke:

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

What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!

[Enter ARIEL]

ARIEL.

What would my potent master? here I am.

PROSPERO.

Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service

Did worthily perform; and I must use you

In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,

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

Incite them to quick motion; for I must

Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple

Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,

And they expect it from me.

ARIEL.

Presently?

PROSPERO.

Ay, with a twink.

ARIEL.

Before you can say 'Come' and 'Go,'

And breathe twice; and cry 'so, so,'

Each one, tripping on his toe,

Will be here with mop and mow.

Do you love me, master? no?

PROSPERO.

Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach

Till thou dost hear me call.

ARIEL.

Well, I conceive.

[Exit]

PROSPERO.

Look, thou be true; do not give dalliance

Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw

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

Or else good night your vow!

FERDINAND.

I warrant you, sir;

The white-cold virgin snow upon my heart

Abates the ardour of my liver.

PROSPERO.

Well.—

Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,

Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.

No tongue! all eyes! be silent.

[Soft music]

[A Masque. Enter IRIS]

IRIS.

Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas

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

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,

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

Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,

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

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,

Being lass-lorn: thy pole-clipt vineyard;

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

Where thou thyself dost air: the Queen o' the sky,

Whose watery arch and messenger am I,

Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,

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

To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain:

Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

[Enter CERES]

CERES.

Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er

Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;

Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers

Diffusest honey drops, refreshing showers:

And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown

My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down,

Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen

Summon'd me hither to this short-grass'd green?

IRIS.

A contract of true love to celebrate,

And some donation freely to estate

On the blest lovers.

CERES.

Tell me, heavenly bow,

If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,

Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot

The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,

Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company

I have forsworn.

IRIS.

Of her society

Be not afraid. I met her deity

Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son

Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done

Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,

Whose vows are, that no bed-rite shall be paid

Till Hymen's torch be lighted; but in vain.

Mars's hot minion is return'd again;

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,

Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows,

And be a boy right out.

CERES.

Highest Queen of State,

Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait.

[Enter JUNO.]

JUNO.

How does my bounteous sister? Go with me

To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,

And honour'd in their issue.

SONG

JUNO.

Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,

Long continuance, and increasing,

Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings on you.

CERES.

Earth's increase, foison plenty,

Barns and gamers never empty;

Vines with clust'ring bunches growing;

Plants with goodly burden bowing;

Spring come to you at the farthest,

In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you;

Ceres' blessing so is on you.

FERDINAND.

This is a most majestic vision, and

Harmonious charmingly; may I be bold

To think these spirits?

PROSPERO.

Spirits, which by mine art

I have from their confines call'd to enact

My present fancies.

FERDINAND.

Let me live here ever:

So rare a wonder'd father and a wise,

Makes this place Paradise.

[JUNO and CERES whisper, and send IRIS on employment.]

PROSPERO.

Sweet now, silence!

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously,

There's something else to do: hush, and be mute,

Or else our spell is marr'd.

IRIS.

You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks,

With your sedg'd crowns and ever-harmless looks,

Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land

Answer your summons: Juno does command.

Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate

A contract of true love: be not too late.

[Enter certain NYMPHS]

You sun-burn'd sicklemen, of August weary,

Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:

Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on,

And these fresh nymphs encounter every one

In country footing.

[Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join] with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish.]

PROSPERO.

[Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy

Of the beast Caliban and his confederates

Against my life: the minute of their plot

Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done! avoid; no more!

FERDINAND.

This is strange: your father's in some passion

That works him strongly.

MIRANDA.

Never till this day

Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.

PROSPERO.

You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort,

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

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

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

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

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

Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled.

Be not disturb'd with my infirmity.

If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell

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

To still my beating mind.

FERDINAND, MIRANDA.

We wish your peace.

[Exeunt.]

PROSPERO.

Come, with a thought.—[To them.] I thank thee: Ariel, come!

[Enter ARIEL.]

ARIEL.

Thy thoughts I cleave to. What's thy pleasure?

PROSPERO.

Spirit,

We must prepare to meet with Caliban.

ARIEL.

Ay, my commander; when I presented Ceres,

I thought to have told thee of it: but I fear'd

Lest I might anger thee.

PROSPERO.

Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?

ARIEL.

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;

So full of valour that they smote the air

For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

For kissing of their feet; yet always bending

Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor;

At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears,

Advanc'd their eyelids, lifted up their noses

As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears,

That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through

Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns,

Which enter'd their frail shins: at last I left them

I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,

There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake

O'erstunk their feet.

PROSPERO.

This was well done, my bird.

Thy shape invisible retain thou still:

The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither

For stale to catch these thieves.

ARIEL.

I go, I go.

[Exit]

PROSPERO.

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature

Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,

Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;

And as with age his body uglier grows,

So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,

Even to roaring.

[Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c.]

Come, hang them on this line.

[PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet]

CALIBAN.

Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not

Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.

STEPHANO.

Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us.

TRINCULO.

Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation.

STEPHANO.

So is mine.—Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,—

TRINCULO.

Thou wert but a lost monster.

CALIBAN.

Good my lord, give me thy favour still:

Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to

Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly;

All's hush'd as midnight yet.

TRINCULO.

Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool!—

STEPHANO.

There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss.

TRINCULO.

That's more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster.

STEPHANO.

I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er

ears for my labour.

CALIBAN.

Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,

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

Do that good mischief which may make this island

Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,

For aye thy foot-licker.

STEPHANO.

Give me thy hand: I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

TRINCULO.

O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe here is for thee!

CALIBAN.

Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

TRINCULO.

O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.—O King Stephano!

STEPHANO.

Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I'll have that gown.

TRINCULO.

Thy Grace shall have it.

CALIBAN.

The dropsy drown this fool! What do you mean

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

And do the murder first. If he awake,

From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches;

Make us strange stuff.

STEPHANO.

Be you quiet, monster.—Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.

TRINCULO.

Do, do: we steal by line and level, an't like your Grace.

STEPHANO.

I thank thee for that jest: here's a garment for't: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country: 'Steal by line and level,' is an excellent pass of pate: there's another garmet for't.

TRINCULO.

Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.

CALIBAN.

I will have none on't. We shall lose our time,

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

With foreheads villainous low.

STEPHANO.

Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to; carry this.

TRINCULO.

And this.

STEPHANO.

Ay, and this.

[A noise of hunters beard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of hounds, and hunt them about; PROSPERO and ARIEL setting them on]

PROSPERO.

Hey, Mountain, hey!

ARIEL.

Silver! there it goes, Silver!

PROSPERO.

Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! hark, hark!

[CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO are driven out.]

Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints

With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews

With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them

Than pard, or cat o' mountain.

ARIEL.

Hark, they roar.

PROSPERO.

Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour

Lies at my mercy all mine enemies;

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou

Shalt have the air at freedom;for a little

Follow, and do me service.

[Exeunt]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Before the cell of PROSPERO.

[Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes; and ARIEL.]

PROSPERO.

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?

ARIEL.

On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,

You said our work should cease.

PROSPERO.

I did say so,

When first I rais'd the tempest. Say, my spirit,

How fares the King and 's followers?

ARIEL.

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 cannot budge till your release. The king,

His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted,

And the remainder mourning over them,

Brim full of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly

Him 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.

PROSPERO.

Dost thou think so, spirit?

ARIEL.

Mine would, sir, were I human.

PROSPERO.

And mine shall.

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

Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,

One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,

Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art?

Though with their high wrongs I am struck 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'll break, their senses I'll restore,

And they shall be themselves.

ARIEL.

I'll fetch them, sir.

[Exit.]

PROSPERO.

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'll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I'll drown my book.

[Solem music]

[Re-enter ARIEL: after him, ALONSO, with frantic gesture, attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner, attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO: they all enter the circle which PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed: which PROSPERO observing, speaks.]

A solemn air, and the best comforter

To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,

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

For you are spell-stopp'd.

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,

Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;

And as the morning steals upon the night,

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason.—O good Gonzalo!

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

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

Home, both in word and deed.—Most cruelly

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act;—

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

You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,

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

Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,—

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

Unnatural though thou art! Their understanding

Begins to swell, and the approaching tide

Will shortly fill the reasonable 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:—

[Exit ARIEL]

I will discase 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 PROSPERO.]

ARIEL

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.

PROSPERO.

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.

ARIEL.

I drink the air before me, and return

Or ere your pulse twice beat.

[Exit]

GONZALO.

All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement

Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us

Out of this fearful country!

PROSPERO.

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.

ALONSO.

Whe'er thou be'st he or no,

Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,

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

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

Th' 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?

PROSPERO.

First, noble friend,

Let me embrace thine age; whose honour cannot

Be measur'd or confin'd.

GONZALO.

Whether this be

Or be not, I'll not swear.

PROSPERO.

You do yet taste

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

Believe things certain.—Welcome, my friends all:—

[Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]

But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,

I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you,

And justify you traitors: at this time

I will tell no tales.

SEBASTIAN.

[Aside] The devil speaks in him.

PROSPERO.

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.

ALONSO.

If thou beest Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation;

How thou hast met us here, whom 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.

PROSPERO.

I am woe for't, sir.

ALONSO.

Irreparable is the loss, and patience

Says it is past her cure.

PROSPERO.

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.

ALONSO.

You the like loss!

PROSPERO.

As great to me, as late; and, supportable

To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker

Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter.

ALONSO.

A daughter?

O 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?

PROSPERO.

In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords

At this encounter do so much admire

That they devour their reason, and scarce think

Their eyes do offices of truth, their words

Are natural breath; but, howsoe'er you have

Been justled from your senses, know for certain

That I am Prospero, and that very duke

Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely

Upon this shore, where you were wrack'd, was landed

To be the lord on't. No more yet of this;

For 'tis a chronicle of day by day,

Not a relation for a breakfast nor

Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir:

This cell's my court: here have I few attendants

And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.

My dukedom since you have given me again,

I 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 playing at chess.]

MIRANDA.

Sweet lord, you play me false.

FERDINAND.

No, my dearest love,

I would not for the world.

MIRANDA.

Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,

And I would call it fair play.

ALONSO.

If this prove

A vision of the island, one dear son

Shall I twice lose.

SEBASTIAN.

A most high miracle!

FERDINAND.

Though the seas threaten, they are merciful:

I have curs'd them without cause.

[Kneels to ALONSO.]

ALONSO.

Now all the blessings

Of a glad father compass thee about!

Arise, and say how thou cam'st here.

MIRANDA.

O, wonder!

How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world

That has such people in't!

PROSPERO.

'Tis new to thee.

ALONSO.

What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play?

Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:

Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,

And brought us thus together?

FERDINAND.

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 Milan,

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.

ALONSO.

I am hers:

But, O! how oddly will it sound that I

Must ask my child forgiveness!

PROSPERO.

There, sir, stop:

Let us not burden our remembrances with

A heaviness that's gone.

GONZALO.

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.

ALONSO.

I say, Amen, Gonzalo!

GONZALO.

Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue

Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice

Beyond a common joy, and set it down

With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage

Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,

And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife

Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom

In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves,

When no man was his own.

ALONSO.

[To FERDINAND and MIRANDA]

Give me your hands:

Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart

That doth not wish you joy!

GONZALO.

Be it so. Amen!

[Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following.]

O look, sir! look, sir! Here are more of us.

I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,

This fellow could not drown.—Now, blasphemy,

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

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

BOATSWAIN.

The best news is that we have safely found

Our king and company: the next, our ship,—

Which but three glasses since we gave out split,—

Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg'd as when

We first put out to sea.

ARIEL.

[Aside to PROSPERO]

Sir, all this service

Have I done since I went.

PROSPERO.

[Aside to ARIEL]

My tricksy spirit!

ALONSO.

These are not natural events; they strengthen

From strange to stranger—Say, how came you hither?

BOATSWAIN.

If I did think, sir, I were well awake,

I'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,

And,—how, we know not,—all clapp'd under hatches,

Where, but even now, with strange and several noises

Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,

And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible,

We were awak'd; straightway, at liberty:

Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld

Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master

Cap'ring to eye her: on a trice, so please you,

Even in a dream, were we divided from them,

And were brought moping hither.

ARIEL.

[Aside to PROSPERO]

Was't well done?

PROSPERO.

[Aside to ARIEL]

Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.

ALONSO.

This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod;

And there is in this business more than nature

Was ever conduct of: some oracle

Must rectify our knowledge.

PROSPERO.

Sir, my liege,

Do not infest your mind with beating on

The strangeness of this business: at pick'd leisure,

Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,—

Which to you shall seem probable—of every

These happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerful

And think of each thing well.—

[Aside to ARIEL] Come hither, spirit;

Set Caliban and his companions free;

Untie the spell. [Exit ARIEL] How fares my gracious sir?

There are yet missing of your company

Some few odd lads that you remember not.

[Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel.]

STEPHANO.

Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio! bully-monster, Coragio!

TRINCULO.

If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here's a goodly sight.

CALIBAN.

O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed.

How fine my master is! I am afraid

He will chastise me.

SEBASTIAN.

Ha, ha!

What things are these, my lord Antonio?

Will money buy them?

ANTONIO.

Very like; one of them

Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

PROSPERO.

Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,

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

His mother was a witch; and one so strong

That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,

And deal in her command without her power.

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

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

To take my life: two of these fellows you

Must know and own; this thing of darkness I

Acknowledge mine.

CALIBAN.

I shall be pinch'd to death.

ALONSO.

Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

SEBASTIAN.

He is drunk now: where had he wine?

ALONSO.

And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they

Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them?

How cam'st thou in this pickle?

TRINCULO.

I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones. I shall not fear fly-blowing.

SEBASTIAN.

Why, how now, Stephano!

STEPHANO.

O! touch me not: I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

PROSPERO.

You'd be king o' the isle, sirrah?

STEPHANO.

I should have been a sore one, then.

ALONSO.

This is as strange a thing as e'er I look'd on.

[Pointing to CALIBAN]

PROSPERO.

He is as disproportioned in his manners

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

Take with you your companions: as you look

To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CALIBAN.

Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafter,

And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass

Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,

And worship this dull fool!

PROSPERO.

Go to; away!

ALONSO.

Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

SEBASTIAN.

Or stole it, rather.

[Exeunt CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO.]

PROSPERO.

Sir, I invite your Highness and your train

To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest

For this one night; which—part of it—I'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

Since I came to this isle: and in the morn

I'll 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, where

Every third thought shall be my grave.

ALONSO.

I long

To hear the story of your life, which must

Take the ear strangely.

PROSPERO.

I'll deliver all;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,

And sail so expeditious that shall catch

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

That is thy charge: then to the elements

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

[Exeunt]

EPILOGUE.

[Spoken by PROSPERO]

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,

And what strength I have's mine own;

Which is most faint; now 'tis true,

I must be here confin'd by you,

Or sent to Naples. Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island by your spell:

But release me from my bands

With the help of your good hands.

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be reliev'd by prayer,

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself, and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be,

Let your indulgence set me free.

THE END

TWELFTH NIGHT

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act I, Scene V

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act V, Scene I

List of Characters

ORSINO: Duke of Illyria.

SEBASTIAN: a young Gentleman, brother to Viola.

ANTONIO: a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian.

A SEA CAPTAIN: friend to Viola

VALENTINE: Gentleman attending on the Duke

CURIO: Gentleman attending on the Duke

SIR TOBY BELCH: Uncle of Olivia.

SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

MALVOLIO: Steward to Olivia.

FABIAN: Servant to Olivia.

CLOWN: Servant to Olivia.

OLIVIA: a rich Countess.

VIOLA: in love with the Duke.

MARIA: Olivia's Woman.

Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants.

SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.

ACT I. SCENE I.

An Apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.]

DUKE.

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken and so die.—

That strain again;—it had a dying fall;

O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour.—Enough; no more;

'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!

That, notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soever,

But falls into abatement and low price

Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high-fantastical.

CURIO.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

DUKE.

What, Curio?

CURIO.

The hart.

DUKE.

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;

That instant was I turn'd into a hart;

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E'er since pursue me.—How now! what news from her?

[Enter VALENTINE.]

VALENTINE.

So please my lord, I might not be admitted,

But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, till seven years' heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,

And water once a-day her chamber round

With eye-offending brine: all this to season

A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance.

DUKE.

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else

That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,—

Her sweet perfections,—with one self king!—

Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The sea-coast.

[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]

VIOLA.

What country, friends, is this?

CAPTAIN.

This is Illyria, lady.

VIOLA.

And what should I do in Illyria?

My brother he is in Elysium.

Perchance he is not drown'd—What think you, sailors?

CAPTAIN.

It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.

VIOLA.

O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

CAPTAIN.

True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,

Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

Most provident in peril, bind himself,—

Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,—

To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;

Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,

I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

So long as I could see.

VIOLA.

For saying so, there's gold!

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

CAPTAIN.

Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born

Not three hours' travel from this very place.

VIOLA.

Who governs here?

CAPTAIN.

A noble duke, in nature

As in name.

VIOLA.

What is his name?

CAPTAIN.

Orsino.

VIOLA.

Orsino! I have heard my father name him.

He was a bachelor then.

CAPTAIN.

And so is now,

Or was so very late; for but a month

Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh

In murmur,—as, you know, what great ones do,

The less will prattle of,—that he did seek

The love of fair Olivia.

VIOLA.

What's she?

CAPTAIN.

A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her

In the protection of his son, her brother,

Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,

They say, she hath abjured the company

And sight of men.

VIOLA.

O that I served that lady!

And might not be delivered to the world,

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

What my estate is.

CAPTAIN.

That were hard to compass:

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the duke's.

VIOLA.

There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;

And though that nature with a beauteous wall

Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

I will believe thou hast a mind that suits

With this thy fair and outward character.

I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,

Conceal me what I am; and be my aid

For such disguise as, haply, shall become

The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;

Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;

It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,

And speak to him in many sorts of music,

That will allow me very worth his service.

What else may hap to time I will commit;

Only shape thou silence to my wit.

CAPTAIN.

Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

VIOLA.

I thank thee. Lead me on.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

MARIA.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TOBY.

Why, let her except, before excepted.

MARIA.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

SIR TOBY.

Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

MARIA.

That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

SIR TOBY.

Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

MARIA.

Ay, he.

SIR TOBY.

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

MARIA.

What's that to the purpose?

SIR TOBY.

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

MARIA.

Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal.

SIR TOBY.

Fye that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

MARIA.

He hath indeed,—almost natural: for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

SIR TOBY.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him. Who are they?

MARIA.

They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

SIR TOBY.

With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria. He's a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano-vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

SIR TOBY.

Sweet Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.

Bless you, fair shrew.

MARIA.

And you too, sir.

SIR TOBY.

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

SIR ANDREW.

What's that?

SIR TOBY.

My niece's chamber-maid.

SIR ANDREW.

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MARIA.

My name is Mary, sir.

SIR ANDREW.

Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

SIR TOBY.

You mistake, knight: accost is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

SIR ANDREW.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

MARIA.

Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TOBY.

An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.

SIR ANDREW.

An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA.

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

SIR ANDREW.

Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

MARIA.

Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW.

Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your metaphor?

MARIA.

It's dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW.

Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

MARIA.

A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW.

Are you full of them?

MARIA.

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand I am barren.

[Exit MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.

O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?

SIR ANDREW.

Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.

SIR TOBY.

No question.

SIR ANDREW.

An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.

What is pourquoi? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. Oh, had I but followed the arts!

SIR TOBY.

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR ANDREW.

Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TOBY.

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

SIR ANDREW.

But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TOBY.

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a houswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.

SIR ANDREW.

Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me; the count himself here hard by woos her.

SIR TOBY.

She'll none o' the Count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.

SIR ANDREW.

I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

SIR TOBY.

Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?

SIR ANDREW.

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TOBY.

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW.

Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY.

And I can cut the mutton to't.

SIR ANDREW.

And, I think, I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

SIR TOBY.

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

SIR ANDREW.

Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TOBY.

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

SIR ANDREW.

Taurus? that's sides and heart.

SIR TOBY.

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha, higher: ha, ha!—excellent!

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]

VALENTINE.

If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

VALENTINE.

No, believe me.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]

VIOLA.

I thank you. Here comes the count.

DUKE.

Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA.

On your attendance, my lord; here.

DUKE.

Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,

Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd

To thee the book even of my secret soul:

Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;

Be not denied access, stand at her doors,

And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow

Till thou have audience.

VIOLA.

Sure, my noble lord,

If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow

As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

DUKE.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,

Rather than make unprofited return.

VIOLA.

Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then?

DUKE.

O, then unfold the passion of my love,

Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:

It shall become thee well to act my woes;

She will attend it better in thy youth

Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.

VIOLA.

I think not so, my lord.

DUKE.

Dear lad, believe it,

For they shall yet belie thy happy years

That say thou art a man: Diana's lip

Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe

Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,

And all is semblative a woman's part.

I know thy constellation is right apt

For this affair:—some four or five attend him:

All, if you will; for I myself am best

When least in company:—prosper well in this,

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,

To call his fortunes thine.

VIOLA.

I'll do my best

To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!

Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

ACT I. SCENE V.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.

Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

CLOWN.

Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.

MARIA.

Make that good.

CLOWN.

He shall see none to fear.

MARIA.

A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.

CLOWN.

Where, good Mistress Mary?

MARIA.

In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

CLOWN.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

MARIA.

Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent: or to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?

CLOWN.

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out.

MARIA.

You are resolute, then?

CLOWN.

Not so, neither: but I am resolved on two points.

MARIA.

That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall.

CLOWN.

Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

MARIA.

Peace, you rogue; no more o' that; here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely; you were best.

[Exit.]

[Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.]

CLOWN.

Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.—God bless thee, lady!

OLIVIA.

Take the fool away.

CLOWN.

Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

OLIVIA.

Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

CLOWN.

Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself: if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything that's mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower:—the lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

OLIVIA.

Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLOWN.

Misprision in the highest degree!—Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

OLIVIA.

Can you do it?

CLOWN.

Dexteriously, good madonna.

OLIVIA.

Make your proof.

CLOWN.

I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLIVIA.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.

CLOWN.

Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

OLIVIA.

Good fool, for my brother's death.

CLOWN.

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

OLIVIA.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

CLOWN.

The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.—Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLIVIA.

What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

MALVOLIO.

Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLOWN.

God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.

OLIVIA.

How say you to that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.

OLIVIA.

O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

CLOWN.

Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!

[Re-enter MARIA.]

MARIA.

Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

OLIVIA.

From the Count Orsino, is it?

MARIA.

I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

OLIVIA.

Who of my people hold him in delay?

MARIA.

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

OLIVIA.

Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! [Exit MARIA] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will to dismiss it.

[Exit MALVOLIO.]

Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.

CLOWN.

Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes— one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH.]

OLIVIA.

By mine honour, half drunk!—What is he at the gate, cousin?

SIR TOBY.

A gentleman.

OLIVIA.

A gentleman? What gentleman?

SIR TOBY.

'Tis a gentleman here.—A plague o' these pickle-herrings!—How now, sot?

CLOWN.

Good Sir Toby,—

OLIVIA.

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

SIR TOBY.

Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

OLIVIA.

Ay, marry; what is he?

SIR TOBY.

Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

What's a drunken man like, fool?

CLOWN.

Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

OLIVIA.

Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drowned: go, look after him.

CLOWN.

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

[Exit CLOWN.]

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you; I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.

OLIVIA.

Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

MALVOLIO.

Has been told so; and he says he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you.

OLIVIA.

What kind of man is he?

MALVOLIO.

Why, of mankind.

OLIVIA.

What manner of man?

MALVOLIO.

Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

OLIVIA.

Of what personage and years is he?

MALVOLIO.

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling, when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

OLIVIA.

Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

MALVOLIO.

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter MARIA.]

OLIVIA.

Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face; We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

[Enter VIOLA.]

VIOLA.

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA.

Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA.

Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA.

Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA.

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

OLIVIA.

Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.

No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA.

If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA.

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA.

Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA.

Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

OLIVIA.

It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

VIOLA.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.—Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

OLIVIA.

Tell me your mind.

VIOLA.

I am a messenger.

OLIVIA.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA.

It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

VIOLA.

The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

OLIVIA.

Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

[Exit MARIA.]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA.

Most sweet lady,—

OLIVIA.

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

VIOLA.

In Orsino's bosom.

OLIVIA.

In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA.

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA.

O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA.

Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is't not well done?

[Unveiling.]

VIOLA.

Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA.

'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA.

'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,

If you will lead these graces to the grave,

And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA.

O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried; and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIOLA.

I see you what you are: you are too proud;

But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you. O, such love

Could be but recompens'd though you were crown'd

The nonpareil of beauty!

OLIVIA.

How does he love me?

VIOLA.

With adorations, fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;

In voices well divulged, free, learn'd, and valiant,

And, in dimension and the shape of nature,

A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;

He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA.

If I did love you in my master's flame,

With such a suffering, such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense,

I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.

Why, what would you?

VIOLA.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love,

And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;

Holla your name to the reverberate hills,

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me.

OLIVIA.

You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA.

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA.

Get you to your lord;

I cannot love him: let him send no more;

Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

VIOLA.

I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

And let your fervour, like my master's, be

Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

What is your parentage?

'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.'—I'll be sworn thou art;

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast:—soft, soft!

Unless the master were the man.—How now?

Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

Methinks I feel this youth's perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.—

What, ho, Malvolio!—

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.

Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA.

Run after that same peevish messenger,

The county's man: he left this ring behind him,

Would I or not; tell him I'll none of it.

Desire him not to flatter with his lord,

Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

I do I know not what: and fear to find

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe:

What is decreed must be; and be this so!

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

The sea-coast.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

ANTONIO.

Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN.

By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.

ANTONIO.

Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN.

No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

ANTONIO.

Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN.

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her,—she bore mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN.

O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO.

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN.

If you will not undo what you have done—that is, kill him whom you have recovered—desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

[Exit.]

ANTONIO.

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many cnemies in Orsino's court,

Else would I very shortly see thee there:

But come what may, I do adore thee so

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

A street.

[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]

MALVOLIO.

Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA.

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

MALVOLIO.

She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.

VIOLA.

She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

MALVOLIO.

Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.

I left no ring with her; what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much,

That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger.

None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.

I am the man; —if it be so,—as 'tis,—

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master's love;

As I am woman, now alas the day!

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time, thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.

Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.

SIR ANDREW.

Nay; by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late.

SIR TOBY.

A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements?

SIR ANDREW.

Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY.

Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.—Marian, I say!—a stoup of wine.

[Enter CLOWN.]

SIR ANDREW.

Here comes the fool, i' faith.

CLOWN.

How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?

SIR TOBY.

Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

SIR ANDREW.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

CLOWN.

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

SIR ANDREW.

Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

SIR TOBY.

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

SIR ANDREW.

There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a—

CLOWN.

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY.

A love-song, a love-song.

SIR ANDREW.

Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

CLOWN.

SONG

O, mistress mine, where are you roaming?

O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,

That can sing both high and low:

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

SIR ANDREW.

Excellent good, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.

Good, good.

CLOWN.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SIR ANDREW.

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY.

A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW.

Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.

To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

SIR ANDREW.

An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN.

By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW.

Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

CLOWN.

'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW.

'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

CLOWN.

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW.

Good, i' faith! Come, begin.

[They sing a catch.]

[Enter MARIA.]

MARIA.

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

SIR TOBY.

My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [Singing.] 'Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady. 'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'

CLOWN.

Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW.

Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

SIR TOBY.

[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December,—

MARIA.

For the love o' God, peace!

[Enter MALVOLIO]

MALVOLIO.

My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

SIR TOBY.

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO.

Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

SIR TOBY.

'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

MARIA.

Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN.

'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

MALVOLIO.

Is't even so?

SIR TOBY.

'But I will never die.'

CLOWN.

Sir Toby, there you lie.

MALVOLIO.

This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY.

[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'

CLOWN.

'What an if you do?'

SIR TOBY.

'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

CLOWN.

'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

SIR TOBY.

Out o' tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

CLOWN.

Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.

SIR TOBY.

Thou'art i' the right.—Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs: A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO.

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit.]

MARIA.

Go shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW.

'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY.

Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA.

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it.

SIR TOBY.

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

MARIA.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

SIR ANDREW.

O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY.

What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.

I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

MARIA.

The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser: an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

SIR TOBY.

What wilt thou do?

MARIA.

I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY.

Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW.

I have't in my nose too.

SIR TOBY.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

MARIA.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

SIR ANDREW.

And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA.

Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW.

O 'twill be admirable!

MARIA.

Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.

Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR ANDREW.

Before me, she's a good wench.

SIR TOBY.

She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?

SIR ANDREW.

I was adored once too.

SIR TOBY.

Let's to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR ANDREW.

If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY.

Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,

call me Cut.

SIR ANDREW.

If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.

SIR TOBY.

Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]

DUKE.

Give me some music:—Now, good morrow, friends:—

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

That old and antique song we heard last night;

Methought it did relieve my passion much;

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:—

Come, but one verse.

CURIO.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE.

Who was it?

CURIO.

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house.

DUKE.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit CURIO. Music.]

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me:

For, such as I am, all true lovers are;

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is belov'd.—How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA.

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

DUKE.

Thou dost speak masterly:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA.

A little, by your favour.

DUKE.

What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA.

Of your complexion.

DUKE.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA.

About your years, my lord.

DUKE.

Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband's heart.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,

Than women's are.

VIOLA.

I think it well, my lord.

DUKE.

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as roses, whose fair flower,

Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA.

And so they are: alas, that they are so;

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]

DUKE.

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night:—

Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love

Like the old age.

CLOWN.

Are you ready, sir?

DUKE.

Ay; pr'ythee, sing. [Music]

CLOWN.

SONG

Come away, come away, death.

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it!

My part of death no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there!

DUKE.

There's for thy pains.

CLOWN.

No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE.

I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN.

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN.

Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!—I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing.—Farewell.

[Exit CLOWN.]

DUKE.

Let all the rest give place.—

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]

Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

Tell her my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems

That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

VIOLA.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE.

I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA.

'Sooth, but you must.

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd?

DUKE.

There is no woman's sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart

So big to hold so much; they lack retention.

Alas, their love may be called appetite,—

No motion of the liver, but the palate,—

That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much: make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA.

Ay, but I know,—

DUKE.

What dost thou know?

VIOLA.

Too well what love women to men may owe.

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.

DUKE.

And what's her history?

VIOLA.

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;

And with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?

We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,

Our shows are more than will; for still we prove

Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA.

I am all the daughters of my father's house,

And all the brothers too;—and yet I know not.—

Sir, shall I to this lady?

DUKE.

Ay, that's the theme.

To her in haste: give her this jewel; say

My love can give no place, bide no denay.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN.

Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN.

I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY.

To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:—shall we not, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.

Here comes the little villain:—How now, my nettle of India?

MARIA.

Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit Maria.]

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.

'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?

SIR TOBY.

Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN.

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW.

'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:—

SIR TOBY.

Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO.

To be Count Malvolio;—

SIR TOBY.

Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW.

Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY.

Peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.

There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN.

O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO.

Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—

SIR TOBY.

O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO.

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

SIR TOBY.

Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN.

O, peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.

And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,—telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs,—to ask for my kinsman Toby.

SIR TOBY.

Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN.

O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO.

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while, and perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me:

SIR TOBY.

Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN.

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO.

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control:

SIR TOBY.

And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

MALVOLIO.

Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech':—

SIR TOBY.

What, what?

MALVOLIO.

'You must amend your drunkenness.'

SIR TOBY.

Out, scab!

FABIAN.

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO.

'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight';

SIR ANDREW.

That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO.

'One Sir Andrew':

SIR ANDREW.

I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO.

What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter.]

FABIAN.

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY.

O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

MALVOLIO.

By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It is in contempt of question, her hand.

SIR ANDREW.

Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?

MALVOLIO.

[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes.'

Her very phrases!—By your leave, wax.—Soft!—and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?

FABIAN.

This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO.

[Reads]

'Jove knows I love,

But who?

Lips, do not move,

No man must know.'

'No man must know.'—What follows? the numbers alter'd!—'No man must know':—If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY.

Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO.

'I may command where I adore:

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;

M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'

FABIAN.

A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY.

Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO.

'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'—Nay, but first let me see,—let me see,—let me see.

FABIAN.

What dish of poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY.

And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!

MALVOLIO.

'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity; there is no obstruction in this;—And the end,—What should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me.—Softly!—M, O, A, I.—

SIR TOBY.

O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN.

Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

MALVOLIO.

M,—Malvolio; M,—why, that begins my name.

FABIAN.

Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO.

M,—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.

FABIAN.

And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY.

Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO.

And then I comes behind.

FABIAN.

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO.

M, O, A, I;—This simulation is not as the former:—and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.—

'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee,

'The fortunate-unhappy.'

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.]

FABIAN.

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY.

I could marry this wench for this device:

SIR ANDREW.

So could I too.

SIR TOBY.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR ANDREW.

Nor I neither.

FABIAN.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY.

Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW.

Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY.

Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW.

I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY.

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

MARIA.

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY.

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA.

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt; if you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW.

I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor.]

VIOLA.

Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

CLOWN.

No, sir, I live by the church.

VIOLA.

Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN.

No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

VIOLA.

So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church.

CLOWN.

You have said, sir.—To see this age!—A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!

VIOLA.

Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN.

I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

VIOLA.

Why, man?

CLOWN.

Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them.

VIOLA.

Thy reason, man?

CLOWN.

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.

VIOLA.

I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.

CLOWN.

Not so, sir, I do care for something: but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you; if that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

VIOLA.

Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

CLOWN.

No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

VIOLA.

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

CLOWN.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.

VIOLA.

Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expenses for thee.

CLOWN.

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

VIOLA.

By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

CLOWN.

Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA.

Yes, being kept together and put to use.

CLOWN.

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA.

I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

CLOWN.

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin: I might say element; but the word is overworn.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.

This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;

And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time;

And, like the haggard, check at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practice

As full of labour as a wise man's art:

For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;

But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.

Save you, gentleman.

VIOLA.

And you, sir.

SIR ANDREW.

Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

VIOLA.

Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

SIR ANDREW.

I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

SIR TOBY.

Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA.

I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

SIR TOBY.

Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

VIOLA.

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY.

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA.

I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

SIR ANDREW.

That youth's a rare courtier— 'Rain odours'! well.

VIOLA.

My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed car.

SIR ANDREW.

'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed':—I'll get 'em all three ready.

OLIVIA.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA.]

Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA.

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA.

What is your name?

VIOLA.

Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

OLIVIA.

My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world,

Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:

You are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA.

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;

Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA.

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,

Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!

VIOLA.

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

On his behalf:—

OLIVIA.

O, by your leave, I pray you:

I bade you never speak again of him:

But, would you undertake another suit,

I had rather hear you to solicit that

Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA.

Dear lady,—

OLIVIA.

Give me leave, beseech you: I did send,

After the last enchantment you did here,

A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you:

Under your hard construction must I sit;

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,

Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all the unmuzzl'd thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving

Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,

Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

VIOLA.

I Pity you.

OLIVIA.

That's a degree to love.

VIOLA.

No, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof

That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA.

Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again:

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

If one should be a prey, how much the better

To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes.]

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.—

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,

Your wife is like to reap a proper man.

There lies your way, due-west.

VIOLA.

Then westward-ho:

Grace and good disposition 'tend your ladyship!

You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA.

Stay:

I pr'ythee tell me what thou think'st of me.

VIOLA.

That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA.

If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA.

Then think you right; I am not what I am.

OLIVIA.

I would you were as I would have you be!

VIOLA.

Would it be better, madam, than I am,

I wish it might; for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA.

O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip!

A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon

Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,

I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,

Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

For, that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause:

But rather reason thus with reason fetter:

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth,

I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam; never more

Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA.

Yet come again: for thou, perhaps, mayst move

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.

No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY.

Thy reason, dear venom: give thy reason.

FABIAN.

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw't i' the orchard.

SIR TOBY.

Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

SIR ANDREW.

As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN.

This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

SIR ANDREW.

'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?

FABIAN.

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.

SIR TOBY.

And they have been grand jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

FABIAN.

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was baulked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

SIR ANDREW.

And't be any way, it must be with valour: for policy I hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY.

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN.

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

SIR TOBY.

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention; taunt him with the licence of ink; if thou 'thou'st' him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em down; go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it.

SIR ANDREW.

Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY.

We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[Exit SIR ANDREW.]

FABIAN.

This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.

I have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so.

FABIAN.

We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it.

SIR TOBY.

Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy.

FABIAN.

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.

Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

MARIA.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me: yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY.

And cross-gartered?

MARIA.

Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the church.—I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him; if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

SIR TOBY.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

A street.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.

I would not by my will have troubled you;

But since you make your pleasure of your pains,

I will no further chide you.

ANTONIO.

I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;

And not all love to see you,—though so much,

As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,—

But jealousy what might befall your travel,

Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,

Unguided and unfriended, often prove

Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,

The rather by these arguments of fear,

Set forth in your pursuit.

SEBASTIAN.

My kind Antonio,

I can no other answer make but thanks,

And thanks, and ever thanks. Often good turns

Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;

But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,

You should find better dealing. What's to do?

Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

ANTONIO.

To-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging.

SEBASTIAN.

I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes

With the memorials and the things of fame

That do renown this city.

ANTONIO.

Would you'd pardon me;

I do not without danger walk these streets:

Once in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count, his galleys,

I did some service; of such note, indeed,

That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.

SEBASTIAN.

Belike you slew great number of his people.

ANTONIO.

The offence is not of such a bloody nature;

Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel

Might well have given us bloody argument.

It might have since been answered in repaying

What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,

Most of our city did: only myself stood out;

For which, if I be lapsed in this place,

I shall pay dear.

SEBASTIAN.

Do not then walk too open.

ANTONIO.

It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse;

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,

Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet

Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge

With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.

SEBASTIAN.

Why I your purse?

ANTONIO.

Haply your eye shall light upon some toy

You have desire to purchase; and your store,

I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

SEBASTIAN.

I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.

ANTONIO.

To the Elephant.—

SEBASTIAN.

I do remember.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

OLIVIA.

I have sent after him. He says he'll come;

How shall I feast him? what bestow on him?

For youth is bought more oft than begged or borrowed.

I speak too loud.—

Where's Malvolio?—He is sad and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes;—

Where is Malvolio?

MARIA.

He's coming, madam: But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed.

OLIVIA.

Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

MARIA.

No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come; For, sure, the man is tainted in his wits.

OLIVIA.

Go call him hither.—I'm as mad as he,

If sad and merry madness equal be.—

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

How now, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

Sweet lady, ho, ho.

[Smiles fantastically.]

OLIVIA.

Smil'st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

MALVOLIO.

Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: 'Please one and please all.'

OLIVIA.

Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

MALVOLIO.

Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

OLIVIA.

Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

To bed? ay, sweetheart; and I'll come to thee.

OLIVIA.

God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft?

MARIA.

How do you, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

At your request? Yes; nightingales answer daws.

MARIA.

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

MALVOLIO.

'Be not afraid of greatness':—'twas well writ.

OLIVIA.

What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

'Some are born great,'—

OLIVIA.

Ha?

MALVOLIO.

'Some achieve greatness,'—

OLIVIA.

What say'st thou?

MALVOLIO.

'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'

OLIVIA.

Heaven restore thee!

MALVOLIO.

'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings;'—

OLIVIA.

Thy yellow stockings?

MALVOLIO.

'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'

OLIVIA.

Cross-gartered?

MALVOLIO.

'Go to: thou an made, if thou desirest to be so:'—

OLIVIA.

Am I made?

MALVOLIO.

'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'

OLIVIA.

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

[Enter Servant.]

SERVANT.

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is returned; I could hardly entreat him back; he attends your ladyship's pleasure.

OLIVIA.

I'll come to him. [Exit Servant.] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry.

[Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA.]

MALVOLIO.

O, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she;—'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants,—let thy tongue tang with arguments of state,—put thyself into the trick of singularity;—and consequently, sets down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And, when she went away now, 'Let this fellow be looked to;' Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. Why, everything adheres together; that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance,—What can be said? Nothing, that can be, can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked.

[Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY BELCH and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.

Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him.

FABIAN.

Here he is, here he is:—How is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man?

MALVOLIO.

Go off; I discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off.

MARIA.

Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?—Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.

MALVOLIO.

Ah, ha! does she so?

SIR TOBY.

Go to, go to; peace, peace, we must deal gently with him; let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is't with you? What, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind.

MALVOLIO.

Do you know what you say?

MARIA.

La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not bewitched.

FABIAN.

Carry his water to the wise woman.

MARIA.

Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.

MALVOLIO.

How now, mistress!

MARIA.

O lord!

SIR TOBY.

Pr'ythee hold thy peace; this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? let me alone with him.

FABIAN.

No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.

SIR TOBY.

Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck.

MALVOLIO.

Sir?

SIR TOBY.

Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!

MARIA.

Get him to say his prayers; good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

MALVOLIO.

My prayers, minx?

MARIA.

No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

MALVOLIO.

Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: I am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.

Is't possible?

FABIAN.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

SIR TOBY.

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

MARIA.

Nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air and taint.

FABIAN.

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

MARIA.

The house will be the quieter.

SIR TOBY.

Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he's mad; we may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him: at which time we will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

FABIAN.

More matter for a May morning.

SIR ANDREW.

Here's the challenge, read it; I warrant there's vinegar and pepper in't.

FABIAN.

Is't so saucy?

SIR ANDREW.

Ay, is't, I warrant him; do but read.

SIR TOBY.

Give me. [Reads.] 'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.'

FABIAN.

Good and valiant.

SIR TOBY.

'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'

FABIAN.

A good note: that keeps you from the blow of the law.

SIR TOBY.

'Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.'

FABIAN.

Very brief, and to exceeding good senseless.

SIR TOBY.

'I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me,'—

FABIAN.

Good.

SIR TOBY.

'Thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain.'

FABIAN.

Still you keep o' the windy side of the law. Good.

SIR TOBY.

'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,

Andrew Ague-Cheek.'

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give't him.

MARIA.

You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

SIR TOBY.

Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and as thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away.

SIR ANDREW.

Nay, let me alone for swearing.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.

Now will not I deliver his letter; for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, set upon Ague-cheek notable report of valour, and drive the gentleman,—as I know his youth will aptly receive it,—into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.

[Enter OLIVIA and VIOLA.]

FABIAN.

Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.

SIR TOBY.

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA.]

OLIVIA.

I have said too much unto a heart of stone,

And laid mine honour too unchary on it:

There's something in me that reproves my fault;

But such a headstrong potent fault it is

That it but mocks reproof.

VIOLA.

With the same 'haviour that your passion bears

Goes on my master's griefs.

OLIVIA.

Here, wear this jewel for me; 'tis my picture;

Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you:

And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.

What shall you ask of me that I'll deny,

That, honour saved, may upon asking give?

VIOLA.

Nothing but this, your true love for my master.

OLIVIA.

How with mine honour may I give him that

Which I have given to you?

VIOLA.

I will acquit you.

OLIVIA.

Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well;

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.

Gentleman, God save thee.

VIOLA.

And you, sir.

SIR TOBY.

That defence thou hast, betake thee to't. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.

VIOLA.

You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.

SIR TOBY.

You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal.

VIOLA.

I pray you, sir, what is he?

SIR TOBY.

He is knight, dubbed with unhacked rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl; souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob is his word; give't or take't.

VIOLA.

I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk.

SIR TOBY.

Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore on, or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

VIOLA.

This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

SIR TOBY.

I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.

[Exit SIR TOBY.]

VIOLA.

Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

FABIAN.

I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.

VIOLA.

I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

FABIAN.

Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.

VIOLA.

I shall be much bound to you for't. I am one that would rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle.

[Exeunt.]

[Re-enter SIR TOBY With SIR ANDREW.]

SIR TOBY.

Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

SIR ANDREW.

Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.

SIR TOBY.

Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.

SIR ANDREW.

Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damned ere I'd have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.

SIR TOBY.

I'll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on't; this shall end without the perdition of souls. [Aside.] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

[Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA.]

I have his horse [To FABIAN.] to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him the youth's a devil.

FABIAN.

He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.

SIR TOBY.

There's no remedy, sir: he will fight with you for's oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore, draw for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

VIOLA.

[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

FABIAN.

Give ground if you see him furious.

SIR TOBY.

Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on: to't.

SIR ANDREW.

Pray God he keep his oath!

[Draws.]

[Enter ANTONIO.]

VIOLA.

I do assure you 'tis against my will.

[Draws.]

ANTONIO.

Put up your sword:—if this young gentleman

Have done offence, I take the fault on me;

If you offend him, I for him defy you.

[Drawing.]

SIR TOBY.

You, sir! why, what are you?

ANTONIO.

One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more

Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

SIR TOBY.

Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

[Draws.]

[Enter two Officers.]

FABIAN.

O good Sir Toby, hold; here come the officers.

SIR TOBY.

[To ANTONIO] I'll be with you anon.

VIOLA.

[To Sir Andrew.] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

SIR ANDREW.

Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promised you, I'll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.

FIRST OFFICER.

This is the man; do thy office.

SECOND OFFICER.

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit

Of Count Orsino.

ANTONIO.

You do mistake me, sir.

FIRST OFFICER.

No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.—

Take him away; he knows I know him well.

ANTONIO.

I must obey.—This comes with seeking you;

But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.

What will you do? Now my necessity

Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me

Much more for what I cannot do for you

Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;

But be of comfort.

SECOND OFFICER.

Come, sir, away.

ANTONIO.

I must entreat of you some of that money.

VIOLA.

What money, sir?

For the fair kindness you have showed me here,

And part being prompted by your present trouble,

Out of my lean and low ability

I'll lend you something; my having is not much;

I'll make division of my present with you:

Hold, there is half my coffer.

ANTONIO.

Will you deny me now?

Is't possible that my deserts to you

Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,

Lest that it make me so unsound a man

As to upbraid you with those kindnesses

That I have done for you.

VIOLA.

I know of none,

Nor know I you by voice or any feature:

I hate ingratitude more in a man

Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,

Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption

Inhabits our frail blood.

ANTONIO.

O heavens themselves!

SECOND OFFICER.

Come, sir, I pray you go.

ANTONIO.

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

I snatched one half out of the jaws of death,

Relieved him with such sanctity of love,—

And to his image, which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

FIRST OFFICER.

What's that to us? The time goes by; away.

ANTONIO.

But O how vile an idol proves this god!

Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind;

None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind:

Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil

Are empty trunks, o'erflourished by the devil.

FIRST OFFICER.

The man grows mad; away with him. Come, come, sir.

ANTONIO.

Lead me on.

[Exeunt Officers with ANTONIO.]

VIOLA.

Methinks his words do from such passion fly

That he believes himself; so do not I.

Prove true, imagination; O prove true,

That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!

SIR TOBY.

Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we'll whisper o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

VIOLA.

He named Sebastian; I my brother know

Yet living in my glass; even such and so

In favour was my brother; and he went

Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

For him I imitate. O, if it prove,

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.

A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.

FABIAN.

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

SIR ANDREW.

'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.

SIR TOBY.

Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

SIR ANDREW.

And I do not,—

[Exit.]

FABIAN.

Come, let's see the event.

SIR TOBY.

I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Street before OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

SEBASTIAN.

Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow;

Let me be clear of thee.

CLOWN.

Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.—Nothing that is so is so.

SEBASTIAN.

I pr'ythee vent thy folly somewhere else.

Thou know'st not me.

CLOWN.

Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney.—I pr'ythee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

SEBASTIAN.

I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me;

There's money for thee; if you tarry longer

I shall give worse payment.

CLOWN.

By my troth, thou hast an open hand:—These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase.

[Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.

Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.

[Striking SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.

Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.

Are all the people mad?

[Beating SIR ANDREW.]

SIR TOBY.

Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.

CLOWN.

This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence.

[Exit CLOWN.]

SIR TOBY.

Come on, sir; hold.

[Holding SEBASTIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.

Nay, let him alone; I'll go another way to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.

SEBASTIAN.

Let go thy hand.

SIR TOBY.

Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.

SEBASTIAN.

I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?

If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

[Draws.]

SIR TOBY.

What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

[Draws.]

[Enter OLIVIA.]

OLIVIA.

Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.

SIR TOBY.

Madam?

OLIVIA.

Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,

Where manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!

Be not offended, dear Cesario!—

Rudesby, be gone!—I pr'ythee, gentle friend,

[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]

Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway

In this uncivil and unjust extent

Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,

And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks

This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby

Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;

Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,

He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

SEBASTIAN.

What relish is in this? how runs the stream?

Or I am mad/ or else this is a dream:—

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

OLIVIA.

Nay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be ruled by me!

SEBASTIAN.

Madam, I will.

OLIVIA.

O, say so, and so be!

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.

Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly: I'll call Sir Toby the whilst.

[Exit MARIA.]

CLOWN.

Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well: nor lean enough to be thought a good student: but to be said, an honest man and a good housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.

Jove bless thee, Master Parson.

CLOWN.

Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That that is, is'; so I, being master parson, am master parson: for what is that but that? and is but is?

SIR TOBY.

To him, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.

What, hoa, I say,—Peace in this prison!

SIR TOBY.

The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

MALVOLIO.

[In an inner chamber.] Who calls there?

CLOWN.

Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.

MALVOLIO.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

CLOWN.

Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

SIR TOBY.

Well said, master parson.

MALVOLIO.

Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.

CLOWN.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?

MALVOLIO.

As hell, Sir Topas.

CLOWN.

Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clear storeys toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

MALVOLIO.

I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you this house is dark.

CLOWN.

Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.

MALVOLIO.

I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question.

CLOWN.

What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild-fowl?

MALVOLIO.

That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

CLOWN.

What thinkest thou of his opinion?

MALVOLIO.

I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

CLOWN.

Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

MALVOLIO.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

SIR TOBY.

My most exquisite Sir Topas!

CLOWN.

Nay, I am for all waters.

MARIA.

Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he

sees thee not.

SIR TOBY.

To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou findest him; I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

[Exeunt SIR TOBY and MARIA.]

CLOWN.

[Singing.]

'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,

Tell me how thy lady does.'

MALVOLIO.

Fool,—

CLOWN.

'My lady is unkind, perdy.'

MALVOLIO.

Fool,—

CLOWN.

'Alas, why is she so?'

MALVOLIO.

Fool, I say;—

CLOWN.

'She loves another'—Who calls, ha?

MALVOLIO.

Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.

CLOWN.

Master Malvolio!

MALVOLIO.

Ay, good fool.

CLOWN.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

MALVOLIO.

Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused; I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.

CLOWN.

But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool.

MALVOLIO.

They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.

CLOWN.

Advise you what you say: the minister is here.—Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.

MALVOLIO.

Sir Topas,—

CLOWN.

Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, good Sir Topas.—Marry, amen.—I will sir, I will.

MALVOLIO.

Fool, fool, fool, I say,—

CLOWN.

Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you.

MALVOLIO.

Good fool, help me to some light and some paper; I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

CLOWN.

Well-a-day,—that you were, sir!

MALVOLIO.

By this hand, I am: Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.

CLOWN.

I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

MALVOLIO.

Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.

CLOWN.

Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.

MALVOLIO.

Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I pr'ythee be gone.

CLOWN.

[Singing.]

'I am gone, sir, and anon, sir,

I'll be with you again,

In a trice, like to the old vice,

Your need to sustain;

Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath,

Cries 'ah, ha!' to the devil:

Like a mad lad, '.Pare thy nails, dad.

Adieu, goodman devi1'l

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

OLIVIA'S Garden.

[Enter SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.

This is the air; that is the glorious sun;

This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't:

And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,

Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?

I could not find him at the Elephant;

Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,

That he did range the town to seek me out.

His counsel now might do me golden service;

For though my soul disputes well with my sense,

That this may be some error, but no madness,

Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune

So far exceed all instance, all discourse,

That I am ready to distrust mine eyes

And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me

To any other trust but that I am mad,

Or else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so,

She could not sway her house, command her followers,

Take and give back affairs and their despatch

With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,

As I perceive she does: there's something in't

That is deceivable. But here comes the lady.

[Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.]

OLIVIA.

Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,

Now go with me and with this holy man

Into the chantry by: there, before him

And underneath that consecrated roof,

Plight me the full assurance of your faith,

That my most jealous and too doubtful soul

May live at peace. He shall conceal it

Whiles you are willing it shall come to note;

What time we will our celebration keep

According to my birth.—What do you say?

SEBASTIAN.

I'll follow this good man, and go with you;

And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

OLIVIA.

Then lead the way, good father;—And heavens so shine

That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

The Street before OLIVIA's House.

[Enter CLOWN and FABIAN.]

FABIAN.

Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

CLOWN.

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

FABIAN.

Anything.

CLOWN.

Do not desire to see this letter.

FABIAN.

This is to give a dog; and in recompense desire my dog again.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, and Attendants.]

DUKE.

Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

CLOWN.

Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

DUKE.

I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?

CLOWN.

Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.

DUKE.

Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

CLOWN.

No, sir, the worse.

DUKE.

How can that be?

CLOWN.

Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.

DUKE.

Why, this is excellent.

CLOWN.

By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

DUKE.

Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there's gold.

CLOWN.

But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.

DUKE.

O, you give me ill counsel.

CLOWN.

Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.

DUKE.

Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there's another.

CLOWN.

Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.

DUKE.

You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.

CLOWN.

Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap; I will awake it anon.

[Exit CLOWN.]

[Enter ANTONIO and Officers.]

VIOLA.

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

DUKE.

That face of his I do remember well:

Yet when I saw it last it was besmeared

As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war:

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,

For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;

With which such scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet

That very envy and the tongue of los

Cried fame and honour on him.—What's the matter?

FIRST OFFICER.

Orsino, this is that Antonio

That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy:

And this is he that did the Tiger board

When your young nephew Titus lost his leg:

Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,

In private brabble did we apprehend him.

VIOLA.

He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;

But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me.

I know not what 'twas, but distraction.

DUKE.

Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!

What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

Hast made thine enemies?

ANTONIO.

Orsino, noble sir,

Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me:

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,

Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,

Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:

That most ingrateful boy there, by your side

From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:

His life I gave him, and did thereto add

My love, without retention or restraint,

All his in dedication: for his sake,

Did I expose myself, pure for his love,

Into the danger of this adverse town;

Drew to defend him when he was beset:

Where being apprehended, his false cunning,—

Not meaning to partake with me in danger,—

Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,

And grew a twenty-years-removed thing

While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,

Which I had recommended to his use

Not half an hour before.

VIOLA.

How can this be?

DUKE.

When came he to this town?

ANTONIO.

To-day, my lord; and for three months before,—

No interim, not a minute's vacancy,—

Both day and night did we keep company.

[Enter OLIVIA and Attendants.]

DUKE.

Here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.—

But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness:

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

But more of that anon.—Take him aside.

OLIVIA.

What would my lord, but that he may not have,

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable!—

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

VIOLA.

Madam?

DUKE.

Gracious Olivia,—

OLIVIA.

What do you say, Cesario?—Good my lord,—

VIOLA.

My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.

OLIVIA.

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear

As howling after music.

DUKE.

Still so cruel?

OLIVIA.

Still so constant, lord.

DUKE.

What! to perverseness? you uncivil lady,

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out

That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?

OLIVIA.

Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.

DUKE.

Why should I not, had I the heart to do it.

Like to the Egyptian thief, at point of death,

Kill what I love; a savage jealousy

That sometime savours nobly.—But hear me this:

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

And that I partly know the instrument

That screws me from my true place in your favour,

Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still;

But this your minion, whom I know you love,

And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,

Him will I tear out of that cruel eye

Where he sits crowned in his master's sprite.—

Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:

I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,

To spite a raven's heart within a dove.

[Going.]

VIOLA.

And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,

To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.

OLIVIA.

Where goes Cesario?

VIOLA.

After him I love

More than I love these eyes, more than my life,

More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife;

If I do feign, you witnesses above

Punish my life for tainting of my love!

OLIVIA.

Ah me, detested! how am I beguil'd!

VIOLA.

Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?

OLIVIA.

Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?—

Call forth the holy father.

[Exit an ATTENDANT.]

DUKE.

[To Viola.] Come, away!

OLIVIA.

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

DUKE.

Husband?

OLIVIA.

Ay, husband, can he that deny?

DUKE.

Her husband, sirrah?

VIOLA.

No, my lord, not I.

OLIVIA.

Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear

That makes thee strangle thy propriety:

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;

Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art

As great as that thou fear'st—O, welcome, father!

[Re-enter Attendant and Priest.]

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,

Here to unfold,—though lately we intended

To keep in darkness what occasion now

Reveals before 'tis ripe,—what thou dost know

Hath newly passed between this youth and me.

PRIEST.

A contract of eternal bond of love,

Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,

Attested by the holy close of lips,

Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;

And all the ceremony of this compact

Sealed in my function, by my testimony:

Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,

I have travelled but two hours.

DUKE.

O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be,

When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case?

Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow

That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?

Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet

Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

VIOLA.

My lord, I do protest,—

OLIVIA.

O, do not swear;

Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, with his head broke.]

SIR ANDREW.

For the love of God, a surgeon; send one presently to Sir Toby.

OLIVIA.

What's the matter?

SIR ANDREW.

He has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God, your help: I had rather than forty pound I were at home.

OLIVIA.

Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.

The Count's gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incardinate.

DUKE.

My gentleman, Cesario?

SIR ANDREW.

Od's lifelings, here he is:—You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do't by Sir Toby.

VIOLA.

Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:

You drew your sword upon me without cause;

But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, drunk, led by the CLOWN.]

SIR ANDREW.

If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me; I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink he would have tickled you othergates than he did.

DUKE.

How now, gentleman? how is't with you?

SIR TOBY.

That's all one; he has hurt me, and there's the end on't.—Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?

CLOWN.

O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i' the morning.

SIR TOBY.

Then he's a rogue. After a passy-measure, or a pavin, I hate a drunken rogue.

OLIVIA.

Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?

SIR ANDREW.

I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll be dressed together.

SIR TOBY.

Will you help an ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a gull?

OLIVIA.

Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to.

[Exeunt CLOWN, SIR TOBY, and SIR ANDREW.]

[Enter SEBASTIAN.]

SEBASTIAN.

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;

But, had it been the brother of my blood,

I must have done no less, with wit and safety.

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that

I do perceive it hath offended you;

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows

We made each other but so late ago.

DUKE.

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;

A natural perspective, that is, and is not.

SEBASTIAN.

Antonio, O my dear Antonio!

How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me

Since I have lost thee.

ANTONIO.

Sebastian are you?

SEBASTIAN.

Fear'st thou that, Antonio?

ANTONIO.

How have you made division of yourself?—

An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin

Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

OLIVIA.

Most wonderful!

SEBASTIAN.

Do I stand there? I never had a brother:

Nor can there be that deity in my nature

Of here and everywhere. I had a sister

Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured:—

[To Viola.] Of charity, what kin are you to me?

What countryman, what name, what parentage?

VIOLA.

Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;

Such a Sebastian was my brother too:

So went he suited to his watery tomb:

If spirits can assume both form and suit,

You come to fright us.

SEBASTIAN.

A spirit I am indeed:

But am in that dimension grossly clad,

Which from the womb I did participate.

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say—Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!

VIOLA.

My father had a mole upon his brow.

SEBASTIAN.

And so had mine.

VIOLA.

And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had numbered thirteen years.

SEBASTIAN.

O, that record is lively in my soul!

He finished, indeed, his mortal act

That day that made my sister thirteen years.

VIOLA.

If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp'd attire,

Do not embrace me till each circumstance

Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump

That I am Viola: which to confirm,

I'll bring you to a captain in this town,

Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help

I was preserv'd to serve this noble count;

All the occurrence of my fortune since

Hath been between this lady and this lord.

SEBASTIAN.

[To OLIVIA] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:

But nature to her bias drew in that.

You would have been contracted to a maid;

Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived;

You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.

DUKE.

Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.—

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,

I shall have share in this most happy wreck:

[To VIOLA] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times,

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

VIOLA.

And all those sayings will I over-swear;

And all those swearings keep as true in soul

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

DUKE.

Give me thy hand;

And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.

VIOLA.

The captain that did bring me first on shore

Hath my maid's garments: he, upon some action,

Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit;

A gentleman and follower of my lady's.

OLIVIA.

He shall enlarge him:—Fetch Malvolio hither:—

And yet, alas, now I remember me,

They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract.

[Re-enter CLOWN, with a letter.]

A most extracting frenzy of mine own

From my remembrance clearly banished his.—

How does he, sirrah?

CLOWN.

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave's end as well as a man in his case may do: he has here writ a letter to you; I should have given it you to-day morning, but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

OLIVIA.

Open it, and read it.

CLOWN.

Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the madman:—'By the Lord, madam,—'

OLIVIA.

How now! art thou mad?

CLOWN.

No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow vox.

OLIVIA.

Pr'ythee, read i' thy right wits.

CLOWN.

So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

OLIVIA.

[To FABIAN] Read it you, sirrah.

FABIAN.

[Reads] 'By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury.

The madly-used Malvolio'

OLIVIA.

Did he write this?

CLOWN.

Ay, madam.

DUKE.

This savours not much of distraction.

OLIVIA.

See him delivered, Fabian: bring him hither.

[Exit FABIAN.]

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,

To think me as well a sister as a wife,

One day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you,

Here at my house, and at my proper cost.

DUKE.

Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.—

[To VIOLA]

Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,

So much against the mettle of your sex,

So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,

And since you called me master for so long,

Here is my hand; you shall from this time be

You master's mistress.

OLIVIA.

A sister?—you are she.

[Re-enter FABIAN with MALVOLIO.]

DUKE.

Is this the madman?

OLIVIA.

Ay, my lord, this same;

How now, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.

Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

OLIVIA.

Have I, Malvolio? no.

MALVOLIO.

Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter:

You must not now deny it is your hand,

Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase;

Or say 'tis not your seal, not your invention:

You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,

And tell me, in the modesty of honour,

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour;

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you;

To put on yellow stockings, and to frown

Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people:

And, acting this in an obedient hope,

Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd,

Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,

And made the most notorious geck and gull

That e'er invention played on? tell me why.

OLIVIA.

Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,

Though, I confess, much like the character:

But out of question, 'tis Maria's hand.

And now I do bethink me, it was she

First told me thou wast mad; then cam'st in smiling,

And in such forms which here were presuppos'd

Upon thee in the letter. Pr'ythee, be content:

This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee:

But, when we know the grounds and authors of it,

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

FABIAN.

Good madam, hear me speak;

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come,

Taint the condition of this present hour,

Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not,

Most freely I confess, myself and Toby

Set this device against Malvolio here,

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts

We had conceiv'd against him. Maria writ

The letter, at Sir Toby's great importance;

In recompense whereof he hath married her.

How with a sportful malice it was follow'd

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh'd

That have on both sides past.

OLIVIA.

Alas, poor fool! how have they baffled thee!

CLOWN.

Why, 'some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.' I was one, sir, in this interlude;:—one Sir Topas, sir; but that's all one:—'By the Lord, fool, I am not mad;'—But do you remember? 'Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? An you smile not, he's gagged'? And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

MALVOLIO.

I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

He hath been most notoriously abus'd.

DUKE.

Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace:—

He hath not told us of the captain yet;

When that is known, and golden time convents,

A solemn combination shall be made

Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister,

We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come:

For so you shall be while you are a man;

But, when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.

[Exeunt.]

CLOWN.

[Sings.]

When that I was and a little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

A foolish thing was but a toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

'Gainst knave and thief men shut their gate,

For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

By swaggering could I never thrive,

For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my bed,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

With toss-pots still had drunken head,

For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

But that's all one, our play is done,

And we'll strive to please you every day.

[Exit.]

THE END

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act II, Scene VI

Act II, Scene VII

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

List of Characters

DUKE OF MILAN: father to Silvia

VALENTINE: one of the two gentlemen

PROTEUS: one of the two gentlemen

ANTONIO: father to Proteus

THURIO: a foolish rival to Valentine

EGLAMOUR: agent for Silvia in her escape

SPEED: a clownish servant to Valentine

LAUNCE: the like to Proteus

PANTHINO: servant to Antonio

HOST: where Julia lodges in Milan

OUTLAWS: with Valentine

JULIA: a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus

SILVIA: beloved of Valentine

LUCETTA: waiting-woman to Julia

SERVANTS, MUSICIANS

SCENE: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua

ACT I. SCENE I.

Verona. An open place

[Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS.]

VALENTINE.

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.

Were't not affection chains thy tender days

To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,

I rather would entreat thy company

To see the wonders of the world abroad,

Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home,

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

But since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein,

Even as I would, when I to love begin.

PROTEUS.

Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!

Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest

Some rare noteworthy 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 headsman, Valentine.

VALENTINE.

And on a love-book pray for my success?

PROTEUS.

Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.

VALENTINE.

That's on some shallow story of deep love,

How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.

PROTEUS.

That's a deep story of a deeper love;

For he was more than over shoes in love.

VALENTINE.

'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

PROTEUS.

Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots.

VALENTINE.

No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

PROTEUS.

What?

VALENTINE.

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

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

With twenty 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.

PROTEUS.

So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

VALENTINE.

So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.

PROTEUS.

'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.

VALENTINE.

Love is your master, for he masters you;

And he that is so yoked by a fool,

Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

PROTEUS.

Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

VALENTINE.

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 turned 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 the

That art a votary to fond desire?

Once more adieu! my father at the road

Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.

PROTEUS.

And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

VALENTINE.

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.

PROTEUS.

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

VALENTINE.

As much to you at home! and so farewell!

[Exit.]

PROTEUS.

He after honour hunts, I after love;

He leaves his friends to dignify them more:

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

Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me;—

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,

War with good counsel, set the world at nought;

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

[Enter SPEED.]

SPEED.

Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?

PROTEUS.

But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.

SPEED.

Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already,

And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.

PROTEUS.

Indeed a sheep doth very often stray,

An if the shepherd be a while away.

SPEED.

You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep?

PROTEUS.

I do.

SPEED.

Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep.

PROTEUS.

A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.

SPEED.

This proves me still a sheep.

PROTEUS.

True; and thy master a shepherd.

SPEED.

Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.

PROTEUS.

It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another.

SPEED.

The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me; therefore, I am no sheep.

PROTEUS.

The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore, thou art a sheep.

SPEED.

Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.'

PROTEUS.

But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia?

SPEED.

Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton; and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour.

PROTEUS.

Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.

SPEED.

If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her.

PROTEUS.

Nay, in that you are astray: 'twere best pound you.

SPEED.

Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter.

PROTEUS.

You mistake; I mean the pound,—a pinfold.

SPEED.

From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over,

'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.

PROTEUS.

But what said she? [SPEED nods.] Did she nod?

SPEED.

Ay.

PROTEUS.

Nod, ay? Why, that's noddy.

SPEED.

You mistook, sir; I say she did nod; and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, Ay.

PROTEUS.

And that set together is—noddy.

SPEED.

Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains.

PROTEUS.

No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

SPEED.

Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.

PROTEUS.

Why, sir, how do you bear with me?

SPEED.

Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word 'noddy' for my pains.

PROTEUS.

Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

SPEED.

And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

PROTEUS.

Come, come; open the matter; in brief: what said she?

SPEED.

Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered.

PROTEUS.

Well, sir, here is for your pains [giving him money]. What said she?

SPEED.

Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.

PROTEUS.

Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?

SPEED.

Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her;

No, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter.

And being so hard to me that brought your mind,

I fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind.

Give her no token but stones, for she's as hard as steel.

PROTEUS.

What! said she nothing?

SPEED.

No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself; and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master.

PROTEUS.

Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wrack;

Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,

Being destin'd to a drier death on shore.—

[Exit SPEED.]

I must go send some better messenger.

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,

Receiving them from such a worthless post.

[Exit.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. The garden Of JULIA'S house.

[Enter JULIA and LUCETTA.]

JULIA.

But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,

Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

LUCETTA.

Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully.

JULIA.

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen

That every day with parle encounter me,

In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

LUCETTA.

Please you, repeat their names; I'll show my mind

According to my shallow simple skill.

JULIA.

What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

LUCETTA.

As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine;

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

JULIA.

What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?

LUCETTA.

Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.

JULIA.

What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?

LUCETTA.

Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!

JULIA.

How now! what means this passion at his name?

LUCETTA.

Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing shame

That I, unworthy body as I am,

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

JULIA.

Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

LUCETTA.

Then thus,—of many good I think him best.

JULIA.

Your reason?

LUCETTA.

I have no other but a woman's reason:

I think him so, because I think him so.

JULIA.

And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?

LUCETTA.

Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.

JULIA.

Why, he, of all the rest, hath never moved me.

LUCETTA.

Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.

JULIA.

His little speaking shows his love but small.

LUCETTA.

Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.

JULIA.

They do not love that do not show their love.

LUCETTA.

O! they love least that let men know their love.

JULIA.

I would I knew his mind.

LUCETTA.

Peruse this paper, madam. [Gives a letter.]

JULIA.

'To Julia'—Say, from whom?

LUCETTA.

That the contents will show.

JULIA.

Say, say, who gave it thee?

LUCETTA.

Sir Valentine's page, and sent, I think, from Proteus.

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

Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.

JULIA.

Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?

To whisper and conspire against my youth?

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

And you an officer fit for the place.

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

Or else return no more into my sight.

LUCETTA.

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

JULIA.

Will ye be gone?

LUCETTA.

That you may ruminate.

[Exit.]

JULIA.

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

It were a shame to call her back again,

And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.

What fool is she, that knows I am a maid

And would not force the letter to my view!

Since maids, in modesty, say 'No' to that

Which they would have the profferer construe 'Ay.'

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love,

That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse,

And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!

How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here:

How angerly I taught my brow to frown,

When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile.

My penance is, to call Lucetta back

And ask remission for my folly past.

What ho! Lucetta!

[Re-enter LUCETTA.]

LUCETTA.

What would your ladyship?

JULIA.

Is it near dinner time?

LUCETTA.

I would it were;

That you might kill your stomach on your meat

And not upon your maid.

JULIA.

What is't that you took up so gingerly?

LUCETTA.

Nothing.

JULIA.

Why didst thou stoop, then?

LUCETTA.

To take a paper up that I let fall.

JULIA.

And is that paper nothing?

LUCETTA.

Nothing concerning me.

JULIA.

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

LUCETTA.

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,

Unless it have a false interpreter.

JULIA.

Some love of yours hath writ to you in rime.

LUCETTA.

That I might sing it, madam, to a tune:

Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

JULIA.

As little by such toys as may be possible;

Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' Love.'

LUCETTA.

It is too heavy for so light a tune.

JULIA.

Heavy! belike it hath some burden then?

LUCETTA.

Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.

JULIA.

And why not you?

LUCETTA.

I cannot reach so high.

JULIA.

Let's see your song. [Taking the letter.]

How now, minion!

LUCETTA.

Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:

And yet methinks, I do not like this tune.

JULIA.

You do not?

LUCETTA.

No, madam; it is too sharp.

JULIA.

You, minion, are too saucy.

LUCETTA.

Nay, now you are too flat

And mar the concord with too harsh a descant;

There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

JULIA.

The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.

LUCETTA.

Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

JULIA.

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

Here is a coil with protestation!—[Tears the letter.]

Go, get you gone; and let the papers lie:

You would be fingering them, to anger me.

LUCETTA.

She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd

To be so anger'd with another letter.

[Exit.]

JULIA.

Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same!

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!

Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!

I'll kiss each several paper for amends.

Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!

As in revenge of thy ingratitude,

I throw thy name against the bruising stones,

Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.

And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus':

Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed,

Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly heal'd;

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.

But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down:

Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away

Till I have found each letter in the letter

Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear

Unto a ragged, fearful-hanging rock,

And throw it thence into the raging sea!

Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ:

'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,

To the sweet Julia':—that I'll tear away;

And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names:

Thus will I fold them one upon another:

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

[Re-enter LUCETTA.]

LUCETTA.

Madam, dinner is ready, and your father stays.

JULIA.

Well, let us go.

LUCETTA.

What! shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?

JULIA.

If you respect them, best to take them up.

LUCETTA.

Nay, I was taken up for laying them down;

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

JULIA.

I see you have a month's mind to them.

LUCETTA.

Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;

I see things too, although you judge I wink.

JULIA.

Come, come; will't please you go?

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

The same. A room in ANTONIO'S house.

[Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO.]

ANTONIO.

Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

PANTHINO.

'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

ANTONIO.

Why, what of him?

PANTHINO.

He wonder'd that your lordship

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,

While other men, of slender reputation,

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:

Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;

Some to discover islands far away;

Some to the studious universities.

For any, or for all these exercises,

He said that Proteus, your son, was meet;

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,

Which would be great impeachment to his age,

In having known no travel in his youth.

ANTONIO.

Nor need'st thou much importune me to that

Whereon this month I have been hammering.

I have consider'd well his loss of time,

And how he cannot be a perfect man,

Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:

Experience is by industry achiev'd,

And perfected by the swift course of time.

Then tell me whither were I best to send him?

PANTHINO.

I think your lordship is not ignorant

How his companion, youthful Valentine,

Attends the emperor in his royal court.

ANTONIO.

I know it well.

PANTHINO.

'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:

There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,

Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,

And be in eye of every exercise

Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

ANTONIO.

I like thy counsel; well hast thou advis'd;

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,

The execution of it shall make known:

Even with the speediest expedition

I will dispatch him to the emperor's court.

PANTHINO.

To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso

With other gentlemen of good esteem

Are journeying to salute the emperor

And to commend their service to his will.

ANTONIO.

Good company; with them shall Proteus go.

And in good time:—now will we break with him.

[Enter PROTEUS.]

PROTEUS.

Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!

Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;

Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.

O! that our fathers would applaud our loves,

To seal our happiness with their consents!

O heavenly Julia!

ANTONIO.

How now! What letter are you reading there?

PROTEUS.

May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two

Of commendations sent from Valentine,

Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.

ANTONIO.

Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

PROTEUS.

There is no news, my lord; but that he writes

How happily he lives, how well belov'd

And daily graced by the emperor;

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.

ANTONIO.

And how stand you affected to his wish?

PROTEUS.

As one relying on your lordship's will,

And not depending on his friendly wish.

ANTONIO.

My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

I am resolv'd that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the Emperor's court:

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.

To-morrow be in readiness to go:

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

PROTEUS.

My lord, I cannot be so soon provided;

Please you, deliberate a day or two.

ANTONIO.

Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee:

No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.

Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd

To hasten on his expedition.

[Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO.]

PROTEUS.

Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,

And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.

I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,

Lest he should take exceptions to my love;

And with the vantage of mine own excuse

Hath he excepted most against my love.

O! how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by an by a cloud takes all away!

[Re-enter PANTHINO.]

PANTHINO.

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you;

He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go.

PROTEUS.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,

And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.'

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Milan. A room in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter VALENTINE and SPEED.]

SPEED.

Sir, your glove. [Offering a glove.]

VALENTINE.

Not mine; my gloves are on.

SPEED.

Why, then, this may be yours; for this is but one.

VALENTINE.

Ha! let me see; ay, give it me, it's mine;

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!

Ah, Silvia! Silvia!

SPEED.

[Calling.] Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!

VALENTINE.

How now, sirrah?

SPEED.

She is not within hearing, sir.

VALENTINE.

Why, sir, who bade you call her?

SPEED.

Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.

VALENTINE.

Well, you'll still be too forward.

SPEED.

And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

VALENTINE.

Go to, sir. tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?

SPEED.

She that your worship loves?

VALENTINE.

Why, how know you that I am in love?

SPEED.

Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.

VALENTINE.

Are all these things perceived in me?

SPEED.

They are all perceived without ye.

VALENTINE.

Without me? They cannot.

SPEED.

Without you? Nay, that's certain; for, without you were so simple, none else would; but you are so without these follies that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady.

VALENTINE.

But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

SPEED.

She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?

VALENTINE.

Hast thou observed that? Even she, I mean.

SPEED.

Why, sir, I know her not.

VALENTINE.

Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know'st her not?

SPEED.

Is she not hard-favoured, sir?

VALENTINE.

Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.

SPEED.

Sir, I know that well enough.

VALENTINE.

What dost thou know?

SPEED.

That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured.

VALENTINE.

I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite.

SPEED.

That's because the one is painted, and the other out of all count.

VALENTINE.

How painted? and how out of count?

SPEED.

Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty.

VALENTINE.

How esteem'st thou me? I account of her beauty.

SPEED.

You never saw her since she was deformed.

VALENTINE.

How long hath she been deformed?

SPEED.

Ever since you loved her.

VALENTINE.

I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful.

SPEED.

If you love her, you cannot see her.

VALENTINE.

Why?

SPEED.

Because Love is blind. O! that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered!

VALENTINE.

What should I see then?

SPEED.

Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.

VALENTINE.

Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

SPEED.

True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.

VALENTINE.

In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

SPEED.

I would you were set, so your affection would cease.

VALENTINE.

Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves.

SPEED.

And have you?

VALENTINE.

I have.

SPEED.

Are they not lamely writ?

VALENTINE.

No, boy, but as well as I can do them.

Peace! here she comes.

[Enter SILVIA.]

SPEED.

[Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!

Now will he interpret to her.

VALENTINE.

Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows.

SPEED.

[Aside] O, give ye good even: here's a million of manners.

SILVIA.

Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.

SPEED. [Aside] He should give her interest, and she gives it him.

VALENTINE.

As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter

Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;

Which I was much unwilling to proceed in,

But for my duty to your ladyship.

[Gives a letter.]

SILVIA.

I thank you, gentle servant. 'Tis very clerkly done.

VALENTINE.

Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;

For, being ignorant to whom it goes,

I writ at random, very doubtfully.

SILVIA.

Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

VALENTINE.

No, madam; so it stead you, I will write,

Please you command, a thousand times as much;

And yet—

SILVIA.

A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;

And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not.

And yet take this again; and yet I thank you,

Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.

SPEED.

[Aside] And yet you will; and yet another yet.

VALENTINE.

What means your ladyship? Do you not like it?

SILVIA.

Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;

But, since unwillingly, take them again:

Nay, take them.

[Gives back the letter.]

VALENTINE.

Madam, they are for you.

SILVIA.

Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request;

But I will none of them; they are for you.

I would have had them writ more movingly.

VALENTINE.

Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.

SILVIA.

And when it's writ, for my sake read it over;

And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

VALENTINE.

If it please me, madam, what then?

SILVIA.

Why, if it please you, take it for your labour.

And so good morrow, servant.

[Exit.]

SPEED.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,

As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!

My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor,

He being her pupil, to become her tutor.

O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better,

That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?

VALENTINE.

How now, sir! What are you reasoning with yourself?

SPEED.

Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason.

VALENTINE.

To do what?

SPEED.

To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia.

VALENTINE.

To whom?

SPEED.

To yourself; why, she woos you by a figure.

VALENTINE.

What figure?

SPEED.

By a letter, I should say.

VALENTINE.

Why, she hath not writ to me?

SPEED.

What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

VALENTINE.

No, believe me.

SPEED.

No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest?

VALENTINE.

She gave me none except an angry word.

SPEED.

Why, she hath given you a letter.

VALENTINE.

That's the letter I writ to her friend.

SPEED.

And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.

VALENTINE.

I would it were no worse.

SPEED.

I'll warrant you 'tis as well.

'For often have you writ to her; and she, in modesty,

Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;

Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,

Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.'

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.

Why muse you, sir? 'Tis dinner time.

VALENTINE.

I have dined.

SPEED.

Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O! be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

Verona. A room in JULIA'S house.

[Enter PROTEUS and JULIA.]

PROTEUS.

Have patience, gentle Julia.

JULIA.

I must, where is no remedy.

PROTEUS.

When possibly I can, I will return.

JULIA.

If you turn not, you will return the sooner.

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.

[Gives him a ring.]

PROTEUS.

Why, then, we'll make exchange. Here, take you this.

[Gives her another.]

JULIA.

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

PROTEUS.

Here is my hand for my true constancy;

And when that hour o'erslips me in the day

Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!

My father stays my coming; answer not;

The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears:

That tide will stay me longer than I should.

Julia, farewell!

[Exit JULIA.]

What, gone without a word?

Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

[Enter PANTHINO.]

PANTHINO.

Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.

PROTEUS.

Go; I come, I come.

Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The same. A street

[Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog.]

LAUNCE.

Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have 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'll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoe is my father; no, no, left shoe is my mother; nay, that cannot be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so, it hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on 't! There 'tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand; this hat is Nan our maid; I am the dog; no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog—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.

[Enter PANTHINO.]

PANTHINO.

Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter? Why weep'st thou, man? Away, ass! You'll lose the tide if you tarry any longer.

LAUNCE.

It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

PANTHINO.

What's the unkindest tide?

LAUNCE.

Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.

PANTHINO.

Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy service,—Why dost thou stop my mouth?

LAUNCE.

For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

PANTHINO.

Where should I lose my tongue?

LAUNCE.

In thy tale.

PANTHINO.

In thy tail!

LAUNCE.

Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

PANTHINO.

Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.

LAUNCE.

Sir, call me what thou darest.

PANTHINO.

Will thou go?

LAUNCE.

Well, I will go.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

Milan. A room in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED.]

SILVIA.

Servant!

VALENTINE.

Mistress?

SPEED.

Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

VALENTINE.

Ay, boy, it's for love.

SPEED.

Not of you.

VALENTINE.

Of my mistress, then.

SPEED.

'Twere good you knock'd him.

SILVIA.

Servant, you are sad.

VALENTINE.

Indeed, madam, I seem so.

THURIO.

Seem you that you are not?

VALENTINE.

Haply I do.

THURIO.

So do counterfeits.

VALENTINE.

So do you.

THURIO.

What seem I that I am not?

VALENTINE.

Wise.

THURIO.

What instance of the contrary?

VALENTINE.

Your folly.

THURIO.

And how quote you my folly?

VALENTINE.

I quote it in your jerkin.

THURIO.

My jerkin is a doublet.

VALENTINE.

Well, then, I'll double your folly.

THURIO.

How?

SILVIA.

What, angry, Sir Thurio! Do you change colour?

VALENTINE.

Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

THURIO.

That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air.

VALENTINE.

You have said, sir.

THURIO.

Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

VALENTINE.

I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.

SILVIA.

A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

VALENTINE.

'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

SILVIA.

Who is that, servant?

VALENTINE.

Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

THURIO.

Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

VALENTINE.

I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words.

[Enter DUKE]

SILVIA.

No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.

[Enter DUKE.]

DUKE.

Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.

Sir Valentine, your father is in good health.

What say you to a letter from your friends

Of much good news?

VALENTINE.

My lord, I will be thankful

To any happy messenger from thence.

DUKE.

Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

VALENTINE.

Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman

To be of worth and worthy estimation,

And not without desert so well reputed.

DUKE.

Hath he not a son?

VALENTINE.

Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves

The honour and regard of such a father.

DUKE.

You know him well?

VALENTINE.

I knew him as myself; for from our infancy

We have convers'd and spent our hours together;

And though myself have been an idle truant,

Omitting the sweet benefit of time

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

Yet hath Sir Proteus,—for that's his name,—

Made use and fair advantage of his days:

His years but young, but his experience old;

His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe;

And, in a word,—for far behind his worth

Comes all the praises that I now bestow,—

He is complete in feature and in mind,

With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

DUKE.

Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,

He is as worthy for an empress' love

As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me

With commendation from great potentates,

And here he means to spend his time awhile.

I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

VALENTINE.

Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.

DUKE.

Welcome him, then, according to his worth.

Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio:—

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.

I will send him hither to you presently.

[Exit.]

VALENTINE.

This is the gentleman I told your ladyship

Had come along with me but that his mistresss

Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.

SILVIA.

Belike that now she hath enfranchis'd them

Upon some other pawn for fealty.

VALENTINE.

Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

SILVIA.

Nay, then, he should be blind; and, being blind,

How could he see his way to seek out you?

VALENTINE.

Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.

THURIO.

They say that Love hath not an eye at all.

VALENTINE.

To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:

Upon a homely object Love can wink.

SILVIA.

Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman.

[Enter PROTEUS]

VALENTINE.

Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you

Confirm his welcome with some special favour.

SILVIA.

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,

If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.

VALENTINE.

Mistress, it is; sweet lady, entertain him

To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

SILVIA.

Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

PROTEUS.

Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant

To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

VALENTINE.

Leave off discourse of disability;

Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

PROTEUS.

My duty will I boast of, nothing else.

SILVIA.

And duty never yet did want his meed.

Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

PROTEUS.

I'll die on him that says so but yourself.

SILVIA.

That you are welcome?

PROTEUS.

That you are worthless.

[Enter a servant.]

SERVANT.

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

SILVIA.

I wait upon his pleasure. [Exit Servant.] Come, Sir Thurio,

Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome.

I'll leave you to confer of home affairs;

When you have done we look to hear from you.

PROTEUS.

We'll both attend upon your ladyship.

[Exeunt SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED.]

VALENTINE.

Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?

PROTEUS.

Your friends are well, and have them much commended.

VALENTINE.

And how do yours?

PROTEUS.

I left them all in health.

VALENTINE.

How does your lady, and how thrives your love?

PROTEUS.

My tales of love were wont to weary you;

I know you joy not in a love-discourse.

VALENTINE.

Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now;

I have done penance for contemning Love;

Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me

With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,

With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs;

For, in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chas'd sleep from my enthralled eyes

And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.

O, gentle Proteus! Love's a mighty lord,

And hath so humbled me as I confess,

There is no woe to his correction,

Nor to his service no such joy on earth.

Now no discourse, except it be of love;

Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,

Upon the very naked name of love.

PROTEUS.

Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.

Was this the idol that you worship so?

VALENTINE.

Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?

PROTEUS.

No; but she is an earthly paragon.

VALENTINE.

Call her divine.

PROTEUS.

I will not flatter her.

VALENTINE.

O! flatter me; for love delights in praises.

PROTEUS.

When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

VALENTINE.

Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,

Yet let her be a principality,

Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

PROTEUS.

Except my mistress.

VALENTINE.

Sweet, except not any,

Except thou wilt except against my love.

PROTEUS.

Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

VALENTINE.

And I will help thee to prefer her too:

She shall be dignified with this high honour,—

To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth

Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,

And, of so great a favour growing proud,

Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower

And make rough winter everlastingly.

PROTEUS.

Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

VALENTINE.

Pardon me, Proteus; all I can is nothing

To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing;

She is alone.

PROTEUS.

Then, let her alone.

VALENTINE.

Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own;

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,

Because thou see'st me dote upon my love.

My foolish rival, that her father likes

Only for his possessions are so huge,

Is gone with her along; and I must after,

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.

PROTEUS.

But she loves you?

VALENTINE.

Ay, and we are betroth'd; nay more, our marriage-hour,

With all the cunning manner of our flight,

Determin'd of: how I must climb her window,

The ladder made of cords, and all the means

Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

PROTEUS.

Go on before; I shall enquire you forth:

I must unto the road to disembark

Some necessaries that I needs must use;

And then I'll presently attend you.

VALENTINE.

Will you make haste?

PROTEUS.

I will.

[Exit VALENTINE.]

Even as one heat another heat expels

Or as one nail by strength drives out another,

So the remembrance of my former love

Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

Is it my mind, or Valentinus' praise,

Her true perfection, or my false transgression,

That makes me reasonless to reason thus?

She is fair; and so is Julia that I love,—

That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;

Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire

Bears no impression of the thing it was.

Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,

And that I love him not as I was wont.

O! but I love his lady too-too much,

And that's the reason I love him so little.

How shall I dote on her with more advice

That thus without advice begin to love her?

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason's light;

But when I look on her perfections,

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can check my erring love, I will;

If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

The same. A street

[Enter SPEED and LAUNCE.]

SPEED.

Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan!

LAUNCE.

Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say 'Welcome!'

SPEED.

Come on, you madcap; I'll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia?

LAUNCE.

Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest.

SPEED.

But shall she marry him?

LAUNCE.

No.

SPEED.

How then? Shall he marry her?

LAUNCE.

No, neither.

SPEED.

What, are they broken?

LAUNCE.

No, they are both as whole as a fish.

SPEED.

Why then, how stands the matter with them?

LAUNCE.

Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her.

SPEED.

What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

LAUNCE.

What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me.

SPEED.

What thou sayest?

LAUNCE.

Ay, and what I do too; look thee, I'll but lean, and my staff understands me.

SPEED.

It stands under thee, indeed.

LAUNCE.

Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.

SPEED.

But tell me true, will't be a match?

LAUNCE.

Ask my dog. If he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

SPEED.

The conclusion is, then, that it will.

LAUNCE.

Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

SPEED.

'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest thou that my master is become a notable lover?

LAUNCE.

I never knew him otherwise.

SPEED.

Than how?

LAUNCE.

A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

SPEED.

Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me.

LAUNCE.

Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master.

SPEED.

I tell thee my master is become a hot lover.

LAUNCE.

Why, I tell thee I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.

SPEED.

Why?

LAUNCE.

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

SPEED.

At thy service.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE VI.

The same. The DUKE's palace.

[Enter PROTEUS.]

PROTEUS.

To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;

To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;

To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;

And even that power which gave me first my oath

Provokes me to this threefold perjury:

Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.

O sweet-suggesting Love! if thou hast sinn'd,

Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it.

At first I did adore a twinkling star,

But now I worship a celestial sun.

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;

And he wants wit that wants resolved will

To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better.

Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad,

Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd

With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.

I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;

But there I leave to love where I should love.

Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose;

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;

If I lose them, thus find I by their loss,

For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.

I to myself am dearer than a friend,

For love is still most precious in itself;

And Silvia—witness heaven, that made her fair!—

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.

I will forget that Julia is alive,

Remembering that my love to her is dead;

And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,

Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.

I cannot now prove constant to myself

Without some treachery us'd to Valentine.

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder

To climb celestial Silvia's chamber window,

Myself in counsel, his competitor.

Now presently I'll give her father notice

Of their disguising and pretended flight;

Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine;

For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;

But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross,

By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,

As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE VII.

Verona. A room in JULIA'S house.

[Enter JULIA and LUCETTA.]

JULIA.

Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me:

And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee,

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts

Are visibly character'd and engrav'd,

To lesson me and tell me some good mean

How, with my honour, I may undertake

A journey to my loving Proteus.

LUCETTA.

Alas, the way is wearisome and long.

JULIA.

A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary

To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;

Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,

And when the flight is made to one so dear,

Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.

LUCETTA.

Better forbear till Proteus make return.

JULIA.

O! know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?

Pity the dearth that I have pined in

By longing for that food so long a time.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love.

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

LUCETTA.

I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,

But qualify the fire's extreme rage,

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

JULIA.

The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns.

The current that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;

And so by many winding nooks he strays,

With willing sport, to the wild ocean.

Then let me go, and hinder not my course.

I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,

And make a pastime of each weary step,

Till the last step have brought me to my love;

And there I'll rest as, after much turmoil,

A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

LUCETTA.

But in what habit will you go along?

JULIA.

Not like a woman, for I would prevent

The loose encounters of lascivious men.

Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds

As may beseem some well-reputed page.

LUCETTA.

Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair.

JULIA.

No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings

With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots:

To be fantastic may become a youth

Of greater time than I shall show to be.

LUCETTA.

What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?

JULIA.

That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,

What compass will you wear your farthingale?'

Why even what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.

LUCETTA.

You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

JULIA.

Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favour'd.

LUCETTA.

A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,

Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

JULIA.

Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have

What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly.

But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me

For undertaking so unstaid a journey?

I fear me it will make me scandaliz'd.

LUCETTA.

If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

JULIA.

Nay, that I will not.

LUCETTA.

Then never dream on infamy, but go.

If Proteus like your journey when you come,

No matter who's displeas'd when you are gone.

I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal.

JULIA.

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,

And instances of infinite of love,

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

LUCETTA.

All these are servants to deceitful men.

JULIA.

Base men that use them to so base effect!

But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth;

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,

His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

LUCETTA.

Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.

JULIA.

Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong

To bear a hard opinion of his truth;

Only deserve my love by loving him.

And presently go with me to my chamber,

To take a note of what I stand in need of

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation;

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.

Come, answer not, but to it presently!

I am impatient of my tarriance.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Milan. An anteroom in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS.]

DUKE.

Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;

We have some secrets to confer about.

[Exit THURIO.]

Now tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?

PROTEUS.

My gracious lord, that which I would discover

The law of friendship bids me to conceal;

But, when I call to mind your gracious favours

Done to me, undeserving as I am,

My duty pricks me on to utter that

Which else no worldly good should draw from me.

Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,

This night intends to steal away your daughter;

Myself am one made privy to the plot.

I know you have determin'd to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;

And should she thus be stol'n away from you,

It would be much vexation to your age.

Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose

To cross my friend in his intended drift

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head

A pack of sorrows which would press you down,

Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.

DUKE.

Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,

Which to requite, command me while I live.

This love of theirs myself have often seen,

Haply when they have judg'd me fast asleep,

And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid

Sir Valentine her company and my court;

But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err

And so, unworthily, disgrace the man,—

A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,—

I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find

That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me.

And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,

Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,

The key whereof myself have ever kept;

And thence she cannot be convey'd away.

PROTEUS.

Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean

How he her chamber window will ascend

And with a corded ladder fetch her down;

For which the youthful lover now is gone,

And this way comes he with it presently;

Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.

But, good my lord, do it so cunningly

That my discovery be not aimed at;

For love of you, not hate unto my friend,

Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

DUKE.

Upon mine honour, he shall never know

That I had any light from thee of this.

PROTEUS.

Adieu, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming.

[Exit.]

[Enter VALENTINE]

DUKE.

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

VALENTINE.

Please it your Grace, there is a messenger

That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And I am going to deliver them.

DUKE.

Be they of much import?

VALENTINE.

The tenour of them doth but signify

My health and happy being at your court.

DUKE.

Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;

I am to break with thee of some affairs

That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.

'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought

To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

VALENTINE.

I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the match

Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman

Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities

Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.

Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?

DUKE.

No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;

Neither regarding that she is my child

Nor fearing me as if I were her father;

And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;

And, where I thought the remnant of mine age

Should have been cherish'd by her childlike duty,

I now am full resolv'd to take a wife

And turn her out to who will take her in.

Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;

For me and my possessions she esteems not.

VALENTINE.

What would your Grace have me to do in this?

DUKE.

There is a lady of Verona here,

Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy,

And nought esteems my aged eloquence.

Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,

For long agone I have forgot to court;

Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd,

How and which way I may bestow myself

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

VALENTINE.

Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:

Dumb jewels often in their silent kind

More than quick words do move a woman's mind.

DUKE.

But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

VALENTINE.

A woman sometime scorns what best contents her.

Send her another; never give her o'er,

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.

If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,

But rather to beget more love in you;

If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;

For why, the fools are mad if left alone.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;

For 'Get you gone' she doth not mean 'Away!'

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;

Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,

If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

DUKE.

But she I mean is promis'd by her friends

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth;

And kept severely from resort of men,

That no man hath access by day to her.

VALENTINE.

Why then I would resort to her by night.

DUKE.

Ay, but the doors be lock'd and keys kept safe,

That no man hath recourse to her by night.

VALENTINE.

What lets but one may enter at her window?

DUKE.

Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,

And built so shelving that one cannot climb it

Without apparent hazard of his life.

VALENTINE.

Why then a ladder, quaintly made of cords,

To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r,

So bold Leander would adventure it.

DUKE.

Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,

Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

VALENTINE.

When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that.

DUKE.

This very night; for Love is like a child,

That longs for everything that he can come by.

VALENTINE.

By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.

DUKE.

But, hark thee; I will go to her alone;

How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

VALENTINE.

It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it

Under a cloak that is of any length.

DUKE.

A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

VALENTINE.

Ay, my good lord.

DUKE.

Then let me see thy cloak.

I'll get me one of such another length.

VALENTINE.

Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

DUKE.

How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.

[Pulls open VALENTINE'S cloak.]

What letter is this same? What's here?—'To Silvia'!

And here an engine fit for my proceeding!

I'll be so bold to break the seal for once.

'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,

And slaves they are to me, that send them flying.

O! could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying!

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them,

While I, their king, that thither them importune,

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blest them,

Because myself do want my servants' fortune.

I curse myself, for they are sent by me,

That they should harbour where their lord should be.'

What's here?

'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.'

'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.

Why, Phaethon—for thou art Merops' son—

Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,

And with thy daring folly burn the world?

Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee?

Go, base intruder! over-weening slave!

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence.

Thank me for this more than for all the favours

Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee.

But if thou linger in my territories

Longer than swiftest expedition

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever bore my daughter or thyself.

Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;

But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence.

[Exit.]

VALENTINE.

And why not death rather than living torment?

To die is to be banish'd from myself,

And Silvia is myself; banish'd from her

Is self from self,—a deadly banishment!

What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?

What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?

Unless it be to think that she is by,

And feed upon the shadow of perfection.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,

There is no music in the nightingale;

Unless I look on Silvia in the day,

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence, and I leave to be

If I be not by her fair influence

Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:

Tarry I here, I but attend on death;

But fly I hence, I fly away from life.

[Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE.]

PROTEUS.

Run, boy; run, run, seek him out.

LAUNCE.

Soho! soho!

PROTEUS.

What seest thou?

LAUNCE.

Him we go to find: there's not a hair on 's head but 'tis a Valentine.

PROTEUS.

Valentine?

VALENTINE.

No.

PROTEUS.

Who then? his spirit?

VALENTINE.

Neither.

PROTEUS.

What then?

VALENTINE.

Nothing.

LAUNCE.

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

PROTEUS.

Who wouldst thou strike?

LAUNCE.

Nothing.

PROTEUS.

Villain, forbear.

LAUNCE.

Why, sir, I'll strike nothing. I pray you,—

PROTEUS.

Sirrah, I say, forbear.—Friend Valentine, a word.

VALENTINE.

My ears are stopp'd and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possess'd them.

PROTEUS.

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.

VALENTINE.

Is Silvia dead?

PROTEUS.

No, Valentine.

VALENTINE.

No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

PROTEUS.

No, Valentine.

VALENTINE.

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.

What is your news?

LAUNCE.

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

PROTEUS.

That thou art banished, O, that's the news,

From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

VALENTINE.

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

PROTEUS.

Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom—

Which, unrevers'd, stands in effectual force—

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears;

Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd;

With them, upon her knees, her humble self,

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them

As if but now they waxed pale for woe:

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;

But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her,

With many bitter threats of biding there.

VALENTINE.

No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st

Have some malignant power upon my life:

If so, I pray thee breathe it in mine ear,

As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

PROTEUS.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament'st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

Here if thou stay thou canst not see thy love;

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,

Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate:

Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate;

And, ere I part with thee, confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.

As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself,

Regard thy danger, and along with me!

VALENTINE.

I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

PROTEUS.

Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.

VALENTINE.

O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!

[Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS.]

LAUNCE.

I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave; but that's all one if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who 'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel—which is much in a bare Christian. [Pulling out a paper.] Here is the catelog of her condition. 'Inprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item: She can milk.' Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

[Enter SPEED.]

SPEED.

How now, Signior Launce! What news with your mastership?

LAUNCE.

With my master's ship? Why, it is at sea.

SPEED.

Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news,

then, in your paper?

LAUNCE.

The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

SPEED.

Why, man? how black?

LAUNCE.

Why, as black as ink.

SPEED.

Let me read them.

LAUNCE.

Fie on thee, jolthead! thou canst not read.

SPEED.

Thou liest; I can.

LAUNCE.

I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

SPEED.

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

LAUNCE.

O, illiterate loiterer! It was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read.

SPEED.

Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.

LAUNCE.

There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed!

SPEED.

'Inprimis, She can milk.'

LAUNCE.

Ay, that she can.

SPEED.

'Item, She brews good ale.'

LAUNCE.

And thereof comes the proverb, 'Blessing of your heart, you

brew good ale.'

SPEED.

'Item, She can sew.'

LAUNCE.

That's as much as to say 'Can she so?'

SPEED.

'Item, She can knit.'

LAUNCE.

What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock?

SPEED.

'Item, She can wash and scour.'

LAUNCE.

A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured.

SPEED.

'Item, She can spin.'

LAUNCE.

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

SPEED.

'Item, She hath many nameless virtues.'

LAUNCE.

That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; that indeed know not their fathers, and therefore have no names.

SPEED.

'Here follow her vices.'

LAUNCE.

Close at the heels of her virtues.

SPEED.

'Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath.'

LAUNCE.

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.

SPEED.

'Item, She hath a sweet mouth.'

LAUNCE.

That makes amends for her sour breath.

SPEED.

'Item, She doth talk in her sleep.'

LAUNCE.

It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

SPEED.

'Item, She is slow in words.'

LAUNCE.

O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray thee, out with't; and place it for her chief virtue.

SPEED.

'Item, She is proud.'

LAUNCE.

Out with that too: it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her.

SPEED.

'Item, She hath no teeth.'

LAUNCE.

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

SPEED.

'Item, She is curst.'

LAUNCE.

Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

SPEED.

'Item, She will often praise her liquor.'

LAUNCE.

If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised.

SPEED.

'Item, She is too liberal.'

LAUNCE.

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll keep shut. Now of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

SPEED.

'Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE.

Stop there; I'll have her; she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.

SPEED.

'Item, She hath more hair than wit'—

LAUNCE.

More hair than wit it may be; I'll prove it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What's next?

SPEED.

'And more faults than hairs.'—

LAUNCE.

That's monstrous! O, that that were out!

SPEED.

'And more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE.

Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I'll have her; an if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,—

SPEED.

What then?

LAUNCE.

Why, then will I tell thee,—that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate.

SPEED.

For me?

LAUNCE.

For thee! ay, who art thou? He hath stay'd for a better man than thee.

SPEED.

And must I go to him?

LAUNCE.

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.

SPEED.

Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters!

[Exit.]

LAUNCE.

Now will he be swing'd for reading my letter. An unmannerly slave that will thrust himself into secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same. A room in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter DUKE and THURIO.]

DUKE.

Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you

Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight.

THURIO.

Since his exile she hath despis'd me most,

Forsworn my company and rail'd at me,

That I am desperate of obtaining her.

DUKE.

This weak impress of love is as a figure

Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat

Dissolves to water and doth lose his form.

A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,

And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

[Enter PROTEUS.]

How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman,

According to our proclamation, gone?

PROTEUS.

Gone, my good lord.

DUKE.

My daughter takes his going grievously.

PROTEUS.

A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.

DUKE.

So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.

Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee,—

For thou hast shown some sign of good desert,—

Makes me the better to confer with thee.

PROTEUS.

Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace

Let me not live to look upon your Grace.

DUKE.

Thou know'st how willingly I would effect

The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.

PROTEUS.

I do, my lord.

DUKE.

And also, I think, thou art not ignorant

How she opposes her against my will.

PROTEUS.

She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.

DUKE.

Ay, and perversely she persevers so.

What might we do to make the girl forget

The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio?

PROTEUS.

The best way is to slander Valentine

With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent,

Three things that women highly hold in hate.

DUKE.

Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate.

PROTEUS.

Ay, if his enemy deliver it;

Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken

By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.

DUKE.

Then you must undertake to slander him.

PROTEUS.

And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:

'Tis an ill office for a gentleman,

Especially against his very friend.

DUKE.

Where your good word cannot advantage him,

Your slander never can endamage him;

Therefore the office is indifferent,

Being entreated to it by your friend.

PROTEUS.

You have prevail'd, my lord; if I can do it

By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,

She shall not long continue love to him.

But say this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

THURIO.

Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,

Lest it should ravel and be good to none,

You must provide to bottom it on me;

Which must be done by praising me as much

As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.

DUKE.

And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind,

Because we know, on Valentine's report,

You are already Love's firm votary

And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.

Upon this warrant shall you have access

Where you with Silvia may confer at large;

For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,

And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you;

Where you may temper her by your persuasion

To hate young Valentine and love my friend.

PROTEUS.

As much as I can do I will effect.

But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;

You must lay lime to tangle her desires

By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes

Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

DUKE.

Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

PROTEUS.

Say that upon the altar of her beauty

You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears

Moist it again, and frame some feeling line

That may discover such integrity:

For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,

Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,

Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.

After your dire-lamenting elegies,

Visit by night your lady's chamber-window

With some sweet consort: to their instruments

Tune a deploring dump; the night's dead silence

Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.

This, or else nothing, will inherit her.

DUKE.

This discipline shows thou hast been in love.

THURIO.

And thy advice this night I'll put in practice.

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,

Let us into the city presently

To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.

I have a sonnet that will serve the turn

To give the onset to thy good advice.

DUKE.

About it, gentlemen!

PROTEUS.

We'll wait upon your Grace till after-supper,

And afterward determine our proceedings.

DUKE.

Even now about it! I will pardon you.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

A forest between Milan and Verona.

[Enter certain OUTLAWS.]

FIRST OUTLAW.

Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

SECOND OUTLAW.

If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.

[Enter VALENTINE and SPEED.]

THIRD OUTLAW.

Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;

If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.

SPEED.

Sir, we are undone: these are the villains

That all the travellers do fear so much.

VALENTINE.

My friends,—

FIRST OUTLAW.

That's not so, sir; we are your enemies.

SECOND OUTLAW.

Peace! we'll hear him.

THIRD OUTLAW.

Ay, by my beard, will we, for he is a proper man.

VALENTINE.

Then know that I have little wealth to lose;

A man I am cross'd with adversity;

My riches are these poor habiliments,

Of which if you should here disfurnish me,

You take the sum and substance that I have.

SECOND OUTLAW.

Whither travel you?

VALENTINE.

To Verona.

FIRST OUTLAW.

Whence came you?

VALENTINE.

From Milan.

THIRD OUTLAW.

Have you long sojourn'd there?

VALENTINE.

Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

FIRST OUTLAW.

What! were you banish'd thence?

VALENTINE.

I was.

SECOND OUTLAW.

For what offence?

VALENTINE.

For that which now torments me to rehearse:

I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;

But yet I slew him manfully in fight,

Without false vantage or base treachery.

FIRST OUTLAW.

Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so.

But were you banish'd for so small a fault?

VALENTINE.

I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

SECOND OUTLAW.

Have you the tongues?

VALENTINE.

My youthful travel therein made me happy,

Or else I often had been miserable.

THIRD OUTLAW.

By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,

This fellow were a king for our wild faction!

FIRST OUTLAW.

We'll have him: Sirs, a word.

SPEED.

Master, be one of them.

It's an honourable kind of thievery.

VALENTINE.

Peace, villain!

SECOND OUTLAW.

Tell us this: have you anything to take to?

VALENTINE.

Nothing but my fortune.

THIRD OUTLAW.

Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,

Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth

Thrust from the company of awful men:

Myself was from Verona banished

For practising to steal away a lady,

An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

SECOND OUTLAW.

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman

Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.

FIRST OUTLAW.

And I for such-like petty crimes as these.

But to the purpose; for we cite our faults,

That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;

And, partly, seeing you are beautified

With goodly shape, and by your own report

A linguist, and a man of such perfection

As we do in our quality much want—

SECOND OUTLAW.

Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.

Are you content to be our general?

To make a virtue of necessity

And live as we do in this wilderness?

THIRD OUTLAW.

What say'st thou? Wilt thou be of our consort?

Say 'ay' and be the captain of us all:

We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee,

Love thee as our commander and our king.

FIRST OUTLAW.

But if thou scorn our courtesy thou diest.

SECOND OUTLAW.

Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd.

VALENTINE.

I take your offer, and will live with you,

Provided that you do no outrages

On silly women or poor passengers.

THIRD OUTLAW.

No, we detest such vile base practices.

Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews,

And show thee all the treasure we have got;

Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Milan. The sourt of the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter PROTEUS.]

PROTEUS.

Already have I been false to Valentine,

And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.

Under the colour of commending him,

I have access my own love to prefer:

But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

When I protest true loyalty to her,

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;

When to her beauty I commend my vows,

She bids me think how I have been forsworn

In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd;

And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,

The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,

Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love

The more it grows and fawneth on her still.

But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window,

And give some evening music to her ear.

[Enter THURIO and Musicians.]

THURIO.

How now, Sir Proteus! are you crept before us?

PROTEUS.

Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love

Will creep in service where it cannot go.

THURIO.

Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.

PROTEUS.

Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.

THURIO.

Who? Silvia?

PROTEUS.

Ay, Silvia, for your sake.

THURIO.

I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,

Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.

[Enter Host, and JULIA in boy's clothes.]

HOST.

Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray you, why is it?

JULIA.

Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

HOST.

Come, we'll have you merry; I'll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked for.

JULIA.

But shall I hear him speak?

HOST.

Ay, that you shall.

JULIA.

That will be music. [Music plays.]

HOST.

Hark! hark!

JULIA.

Is he among these?

HOST.

Ay; but peace! let's hear 'em.

[SONG]

Who is Silvia? What is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness;

And, being help'd, inhabits there.

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.

JULIA.

You mistake; the musician likes me not.

HOST.

Why, my pretty youth?

JULIA.

He plays false, father.

HOST.

How? out of tune on the strings?

JULIA.

Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings.

HOST.

You have a quick ear.

JULIA.

Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.

HOST.

I perceive you delight not in music.

JULIA.

Not a whit,—when it jars so.

HOST.

Hark! what fine change is in the music!

JULIA.

Ay, that change is the spite.

HOST.

You would have them always play but one thing?

JULIA.

I would always have one play but one thing.

But, Host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,

Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

HOST.

I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov'd her out of all nick.

JULIA.

Where is Launce?

HOST.

Gone to seek his dog, which to-morrow, by his master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady.

JULIA.

Peace! stand aside: the company parts.

PROTEUS.

Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead

That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

THURIO.

Where meet we?

PROTEUS.

At Saint Gregory's well.

THURIO.

Farewell.

[Exeunt THURIO and Musicians.]

[Enter SILVIA above, at her window.]

PROTEUS.

Madam, good even to your ladyship.

SILVIA.

I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spake?

PROTEUS.

One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,

You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

SILVIA.

Sir Proteus, as I take it.

PROTEUS.

Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.

SILVIA.

What's your will?

PROTEUS.

That I may compass yours.

SILVIA.

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?

Return, return, and make thy love amends.

For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,

I am so far from granting thy request

That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,

And by and by intend to chide myself

Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

PROTEUS.

I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;

But she is dead.

JULIA.

[Aside] 'Twere false, if I should speak it;

For I am sure she is not buried.

SILVIA.

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 importunacy?

PROTEUS.

I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

SILVIA.

And so suppose am I; for in his grave,

Assure thyself my love is buried.

PROTEUS.

Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

SILVIA.

Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence;

Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.

JULIA.

[Aside] He heard not that.

PROTEUS.

Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,

Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,

The picture that is hanging in your chamber;

To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep;

For, since the substance of your perfect self

Is else devoted, I am but a shadow;

And to your shadow will I make true love.

JULIA.

[Aside]

If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it

And make it but a shadow, as I am.

SILVIA.

I am very loath to be your idol, sir;

But since your falsehood shall become you well

To worship shadows and adore false shapes,

Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it;

And so, good rest.

PROTEUS.

As wretches have o'ernight

That wait for execution in the morn.

[Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA, above.]

JULIA.

Host, will you go?

HOST.

By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

JULIA.

Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

HOST.

Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost day.

JULIA.

Not so; but it hath been the longest night

That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The same.

[Enter EGLAMOUR.]

EGLAMOUR.

This is the hour that Madam Silvia

Entreated me to call and know her mind:

There's some great matter she'd employ me in.

Madam, madam!

[Enter SILVIA above, at her window.]

SILVIA.

Who calls?

EGLAMOUR.

Your servant and your friend;

One that attends your ladyship's command.

SILVIA.

Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.

EGLAMOUR.

As many, worthy lady, to yourself.

According to your ladyship's impose,

I am thus early come to know what service

It is your pleasure to command me in.

SILVIA.

O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman—

Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not—

Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd.

Thou art not ignorant what dear good will

I bear unto the banish'd Valentine;

Nor how my father would enforce me marry

Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.

Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say

No grief did ever come so near thy heart

As when thy lady and thy true love died,

Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.

Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,

To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;

And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,

I do desire thy worthy company,

Upon whose faith and honour I repose.

Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,

But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,

And on the justice of my flying hence,

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company and go with me;

If not, to hide what I have said to thee,

That I may venture to depart alone.

EGLAMOUR.

Madam, I pity much your grievances;

Which since I know they virtuously are plac'd,

I give consent to go along with you,

Recking as little what betideth me

As much I wish all good befortune you.

When will you go?

SILVIA.

This evening coming.

EGLAMOUR.

Where shall I meet you?

SILVIA.

At Friar Patrick's cell,

Where I intend holy confession.

EGLAMOUR.

I will not fail your ladyship.

Good morrow, gentle lady.

SILVIA.

Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The same.

[Enter LAUNCE with his dog.]

LAUNCE.

When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard; one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely 'Thus I would teach a dog.' I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon's leg. O! 'tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hang'd for't; sure as I live, he had suffer'd for't; you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke's table; he had not been there—bless the mark, a pissing—while, but all the chamber smelt him. 'Out with the dog!' says one; 'What cur is that?' says another; 'Whip him out' says the third; 'Hang him up' says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: 'Friend,' quoth I 'you mean to whip the dog?' 'Ay, marry do I,' quoth he. 'You do him the more wrong,' quoth I; "twas I did the thing you wot of.' He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for't. Thou think'st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you serv'd me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick?

[Enter PROTEUS, and JULIA in boy's clothes.]

PROTEUS.

Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well,

And will employ thee in some service presently.

JULIA.

In what you please; I'll do what I can.

PROTEUS.

I hope thou wilt.

[To LAUNCE] How now, you whoreson peasant!

Where have you been these two days loitering?

LAUNCE.

Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

PROTEUS.

And what says she to my little jewel?

LAUNCE.

Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present.

PROTEUS.

But she received my dog?

LAUNCE.

No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again.

PROTEUS.

What! didst thou offer her this from me?

LAUNCE.

Ay, sir; the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the market-place; and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater.

PROTEUS.

Go, get thee hence and find my dog again,

Or ne'er return again into my sight.

Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here?

A slave that still an end turns me to shame!

[Exit LAUNCE.]

Sebastian, I have entertained thee

Partly that I have need of such a youth

That can with some discretion do my business,

For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout;

But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour,

Which, if my augury deceive me not,

Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth:

Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee.

Go presently, and take this ring with thee,

Deliver it to Madam Silvia:

She lov'd me well deliver'd it to me.

JULIA.

It seems you lov'd not her, to leave her token.

She's dead, belike?

PROTEUS.

Not so: I think she lives.

JULIA.

Alas!

PROTEUS.

Why dost thou cry 'Alas'?

JULIA.

I cannot choose

But pity her.

PROTEUS.

Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?

JULIA.

Because methinks that she lov'd you as well

As you do love your lady Silvia.

She dreams on him that has forgot her love:

You dote on her that cares not for your love.

'Tis pity love should be so contrary;

And thinking on it makes me cry 'alas!'

PROTEUS.

Well, give her that ring, and therewithal

This letter: that's her chamber. Tell my lady

I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.

Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,

Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary.

[Exit.]

JULIA.

How many women would do such a message?

Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain'd

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him

That with his very heart despiseth me?

Because he loves her, he despiseth me;

Because I love him, I must pity him.

This ring I gave him, when he parted from me,

To bind him to remember my good will;

And now am I—unhappy messenger—

To plead for that which I would not obtain,

To carry that which I would have refus'd,

To praise his faith, which I would have disprais'd.

I am my master's true-confirmed love,

But cannot be true servant to my master

Unless I prove false traitor to myself.

Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly

As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

[Enter SILVIA, attended.]

Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you be my mean

To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.

SILVIA.

What would you with her, if that I be she?

JULIA.

If you be she, I do entreat your patience

To hear me speak the message I am sent on.

SILVIA.

From whom?

JULIA.

From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

SILVIA.

O! he sends you for a picture?

JULIA.

Ay, madam.

SILVIA.

Ursula, bring my picture there.

[A picture brought.]

Go, give your master this. Tell him from me,

One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,

Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

JULIA.

Madam, please you peruse this letter.—

Pardon me, madam; I have unadvis'd

Deliver'd you a paper that I should not:

This is the letter to your ladyship.

SILVIA.

I pray thee, let me look on that again.

JULIA.

It may not be: good madam, pardon me.

SILVIA.

There, hold.

I will not look upon your master's lines:

I know they are stuff'd with protestations

And full of new-found oaths, which he will break

As easily as I do tear his paper.

JULIA.

Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.

SILVIA.

The more shame for him that he sends it me;

For I have heard him say a thousand times

His Julia gave it him at his departure.

Though his false finger have profan'd the ring,

Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.

JULIA.

She thanks you.

SILVIA.

What say'st thou?

JULIA.

I thank you, madam, that you tender her.

Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much.

SILVIA.

Dost thou know her?

JULIA.

Almost as well as I do know myself:

To think upon her woes, I do protest

That I have wept a hundred several times.

SILVIA.

Belike she thinks, that Proteus hath forsook her.

JULIA.

I think she doth, and that's her cause of sorrow.

SILVIA.

Is she not passing fair?

JULIA.

She hath been fairer, madam, than she is.

When she did think my master lov'd her well,

She, in my judgment, was as fair as you;

But since she did neglect her looking-glass

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks

And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.

SILVIA.

How tall was she?

JULIA.

About my stature; for at Pentecost,

When all our pageants of delight were play'd,

Our youth got me to play the woman's part,

And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown,

Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments,

As if the garment had been made for me:

Therefore I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood;

For I did play a lamentable part.

Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning

For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight;

Which I so lively acted with my tears

That my poor mistress, mov'd therewithal,

Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead

If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!

SILVIA.

She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.—

Alas, poor lady, desolate and left!

I weep myself, to think upon thy words.

Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this

For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her.

Farewell.

JULIA.

And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her.—

[Exit SILVIA with ATTENDANTS]

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful!

I hope my master's suit will be but cold,

Since she respects my mistress' love so much.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Here is her picture; let me see. I think,

If I had such a tire, this face of mine

Were full as lovely as is this of hers;

And yet the painter flatter'd her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:

If that be all the difference in his love,

I'll get me such a colour'd periwig.

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine;

Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.

What should it be that he respects in her

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?

Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,

For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form!

Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, lov'd, and ador'd,

And, were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead.

I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake,

That us'd me so; or else, by Jove I vow,

I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes,

To make my master out of love with thee.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Milan. An abbey

[Enter EGLAMOUR.]

EGLAMOUR.

The sun begins to gild the western sky,

And now it is about the very hour

That Silvia at Friar Patrick's cell should meet me.

She will not fail; for lovers break not hours

Unless it be to come before their time,

So much they spur their expedition.

See, where she comes.

[Enter SILVIA.]

Lady, a happy evening!

SILVIA.

Amen, amen! Go on, good Eglamour,

Out at the postern by the abbey wall.

I fear I am attended by some spies.

EGLAMOUR.

Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;

If we recover that, we are sure enough.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

The same. A room in the DUKE'S palace.

[Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA.]

THURIO.

Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?

PROTEUS.

O, sir, I find her milder than she was;

And yet she takes exceptions at your person.

THURIO.

What! that my leg is too long?

PROTEUS.

No; that it is too little.

THURIO.

I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.

JULIA.

[Aside]

But love will not be spurr'd to what it loathes.

THURIO.

What says she to my face?

PROTEUS.

She says it is a fair one.

THURIO.

Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black.

PROTEUS.

But pearls are fair; and the old saying is:

'Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.'

JULIA.

[Aside]

'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes;

For I had rather wink than look on them.

THURIO.

How likes she my discourse?

PROTEUS.

Ill, when you talk of war.

THURIO.

But well when I discourse of love and peace?

JULIA.

[Aside]

But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.

THURIO.

What says she to my valour?

PROTEUS.

O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.

JULIA.

[Aside]

She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.

THURIO.

What says she to my birth?

PROTEUS.

That you are well deriv'd.

JULIA.

[Aside]

True; from a gentleman to a fool.

THURIO.

Considers she my possessions?

PROTEUS.

O, ay; and pities them.

THURIO.

Wherefore?

JULIA.

[Aside]

That such an ass should owe them.

PROTEUS.

That they are out by lease.

JULIA.

Here comes the duke.

[Enter DUKE.]

DUKE.

How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!

Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?

THURIO.

Not I.

PROTEUS.

Nor I.

DUKE.

Saw you my daughter?

PROTEUS.

Neither.

DUKE.

Why then, she's fled unto that peasant Valentine;

And Eglamour is in her company.

'Tis true; for Friar Lawrence met them both

As he in penance wander'd through the forest;

Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,

But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it;

Besides, she did intend confession

At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not.

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,

But mount you presently, and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot

That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled.

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.

[Exit.]

THURIO.

Why, this it is to be a peevish girl

That flies her fortune when it follows her.

I'll after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour

Than for the love of reckless Silvia.

[Exit.]

PROTEUS.

And I will follow, more for Silvia's love

Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her.

[Exit.]

JULIA.

And I will follow, more to cross that love

Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

Frontiers of Mantua. The forest.

[Enter OUTLAWS with SILVA.]

FIRST OUTLAW.

Come, come.

Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

SILVIA.

A thousand more mischances than this one

Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently.

SECOND OUTLAW.

Come, bring her away.

FIRST OUTLAW.

Where is the gentleman that was with her?

SECOND OUTLAW.

Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us;

But Moyses and Valerius follow him.

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;

There is our captain; we'll follow him that's fled.

The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.

[Exeunt all except the First Outlaw and SYLVIA.]

FIRST OUTLAW.

Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave.

Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,

And will not use a woman lawlessly.

SILVIA.

O Valentine, this I endure for thee!

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

Another part of the forest.

[Enter VALENTINE.]

VALENTINE.

How use doth breed a habit in a man!

This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,

And to the nightingale's complaining notes

Tune my distresses and record my woes.

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall

And leave no memory of what it was!

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia!

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain.

[Noise within.]

What halloing and what stir is this to-day?

These are my mates, that make their wills their law,

Have some unhappy passenger in chase.

They love me well; yet I have much to do

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?

[Steps aside.]

[Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA.]

PROTEUS.

Madam, this service I have done for you—

Though you respect not aught your servant doth—

To hazard life, and rescue you from him

That would have forc'd your honour and your love.

Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,

And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give.

VALENTINE.

[Aside]

How like a dream is this I see and hear!

Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.

SILVIA.

O miserable, unhappy that I am!

PROTEUS.

Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;

But by my coming I have made you happy.

SILVIA.

By thy approach thou mak'st me most unhappy.

JULIA.

[Aside]

And me, when he approacheth to your presence.

SILVIA.

Had I been seized by a hungry lion,

I would have been a breakfast to the beast,

Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.

O! heaven be judge how I love Valentine,

Whose life's as tender to me as my soul,

And full as much—for more there cannot be—

I do detest false, perjur'd Proteus.

Therefore be gone; solicit me no more.

PROTEUS.

What dangerous action, stood it next to death,

Would I not undergo for one calm look!

O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approv'd,

When women cannot love where they're belov'd!

SILVIA.

When Proteus cannot love where he's belov'd!

Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love,

For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith

Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths

Descended into perjury, to love me.

Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou'dst two,

And that's far worse than none: better have none

Than plural faith, which is too much by one.

Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!

PROTEUS.

In love,

Who respects friend?

SILVIA.

All men but Proteus.

PROTEUS.

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words

Can no way change you to a milder form,

I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,

And love you 'gainst the nature of love,—force ye.

SILVIA.

O heaven!

PROTEUS.

I'll force thee yield to my desire.

VALENTINE.

[Coming forward.]

Ruffian! let go that rude uncivil touch;

Thou friend of an ill fashion!

PROTEUS.

Valentine!

VALENTINE.

Thou common friend, 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,

But count the world a stranger for thy sake.

The private wound is deep'st. O time most curst!

'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

PROTEUS.

My shame and guilt confounds me.

Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offence,

I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer

As e'er I did commit.

VALENTINE.

Then I am paid;

And once again I do receive thee honest.

Who by repentance is not satisfied

Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are 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.

JULIA.

O me unhappy! [Swoons]

PROTEUS.

Look to the boy.

VALENTINE.

Why, boy! why, wag! how now!

What's the matter? Look up; speak.

JULIA.

O good sir, my master charg'd me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which, out of my neglect, was never done.

PROTEUS.

Where is that ring, boy?

JULIA.

Here 'tis; this is it. [Gives a ring.]

PROTEUS.

How! let me see. Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.

JULIA.

O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook;

This is the ring you sent to Silvia.

[Shows another ring.]

PROTEUS.

But how cam'st thou by this ring?

At my depart I gave this unto Julia.

JULIA.

And Julia herself did give it me;

And Julia herself have brought it hither.

PROTEUS.

How! Julia!

JULIA.

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!

O Proteus! let this habit make thee blush.

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.

PROTEUS.

Than men their minds! 'tis true. O heaven! were man

But constant, he were perfect: that one error

Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins:

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.

What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy

More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye?

VALENTINE.

Come, come, a hand from either.

Let me be blest to make this happy close;

'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

PROTEUS.

Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish for ever.

JULIA.

And I mine.

[Enter OUTLAWS, with DUKE and THURIO.]

OUTLAW.

A prize, a prize, a prize!

VALENTINE.

Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the duke.

Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd,

Banished Valentine.

DUKE.

Sir Valentine!

THURIO.

Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine.

VALENTINE.

Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;

Come not within the measure of my wrath;

Do not name Silvia thine; if once again,

Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands

Take but possession of her with a touch;

I dare thee but to breathe upon my love.

THURIO.

Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I;

I hold him but a fool that will endanger

His body for a girl that loves him not:

I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.

DUKE.

The more degenerate and base art thou

To make such means for her as thou hast done,

And leave her on such slight conditions.

Now, by the honour of my ancestry,

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,

And think thee worthy of an empress' love.

Know then, I here forget all former griefs,

Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,

Plead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit,

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,

Thou art a gentleman, and well deriv'd;

Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her.

VALENTINE.

I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy.

I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,

To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

DUKE.

I grant it for thine own, whate'er it be.

VALENTINE.

These banish'd men, that I have kept withal,

Are men endu'd 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 solemnity.

VALENTINE.

And, as we walk along, I dare be bold

With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.

What think you of this page, my lord?

DUKE.

I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes.

VALENTINE.

I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

DUKE.

What mean you by that saying?

VALENTINE.

Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,

That you will wonder what hath fortuned.

Come, Proteus; 'tis 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.]

THE END

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN

List of Characters

Prologue

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act I, Scene III

Act I, Scene IV

Act I, Scene V

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act II, Scene IV

Act II, Scene V

Act II, Scene VI

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act III, Scene IV

Act III, Scene V

Act III, Scene VI

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

Act V, Scene IV

Epilogue

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN

Presented at the Blackfriers

by the Kings Maiesties servants,

with great applause:

Written by the memorable Worthies of their time;

Mr. John Fletcher, Gent., and

Mr. William Shakspeare, Gent.

Printed at London by Tho. Cotes, for John Waterson:

and are to be sold at the signe of the Crowne

in Pauls Church-yard. 1634.

List of Characters

Hymen,

Theseus,

Hippolita: Bride to Theseus

Emelia: Sister to Theseus

[Emelia's Woman],

Nymphs,

Three Queens,

Three valiant Knights,

Palamon, and Arcite, The two Noble Kinsmen, in love with fair Emelia

[Valerius],

Perithous,

[A Herald],

[A Gentleman],

[A Messenger],

[A Servant],

[Wooer],

[Keeper],

Jaylor,

His Daughter, in love with Palamon

[His brother],

[A Doctor],

[4] Countreymen,

[2 Friends of the Jaylor],

[3 Knights],

[Nel, and other]

Wenches,

A Taborer,

Gerrold: A Schoolmaster.

PROLOGUE.

[Florish.]

New Playes, and Maydenheads, are neare a kin,

Much follow'd both, for both much mony g'yn,

If they stand sound, and well: And a good Play

(Whose modest Sceanes blush on his marriage day,

And shake to loose his honour) is like hir

That after holy Tye and first nights stir

Yet still is Modestie, and still retaines

More of the maid to sight, than Husbands paines;

We pray our Play may be so; For I am sure

It has a noble Breeder, and a pure,

A learned, and a Poet never went

More famous yet twixt Po and silver Trent:

Chaucer (of all admir'd) the Story gives,

There constant to Eternity it lives.

If we let fall the Noblenesse of this,

And the first sound this child heare, be a hisse,

How will it shake the bones of that good man,

And make him cry from under ground, 'O fan

From me the witles chaffe of such a wrighter

That blastes my Bayes, and my fam'd workes makes lighter

Then Robin Hood!' This is the feare we bring;

For to say Truth, it were an endlesse thing,

And too ambitious, to aspire to him,

Weake as we are, and almost breathlesse swim

In this deepe water. Do but you hold out

Your helping hands, and we shall take about,

And something doe to save us: You shall heare

Sceanes, though below his Art, may yet appeare

Worth two houres travell. To his bones sweet sleepe:

Content to you. If this play doe not keepe

A little dull time from us, we perceave

Our losses fall so thicke, we must needs leave. [Florish.]

ACT I. SCENE I.

Athens. Before a temple.

[Enter Hymen with a Torch burning: a Boy, in a white Robe before singing, and strewing Flowres: After Hymen, a Nimph, encompast in her Tresses, bearing a wheaten Garland. Then Theseus betweene two other Nimphs with wheaten Chaplets on their heades. Then Hipolita the Bride, lead by Pirithous, and another holding a Garland over her head (her Tresses likewise hanging.) After her Emilia holding up her Traine. (Artesius and Attendants.)]

The Song, [Musike.]

Roses their sharpe spines being gon,

Not royall in their smels alone,

But in their hew.

Maiden Pinckes, of odour faint,

Dazies smel-lesse, yet most quaint

And sweet Time true.

Prim-rose first borne child of Ver,

Merry Spring times Herbinger,

With her bels dimme.

Oxlips, in their Cradles growing,

Mary-golds, on death beds blowing,

Larkes-heeles trymme.

All deere natures children sweete,

Ly fore Bride and Bridegroomes feete, [Strew Flowers.]

Blessing their sence.

Not an angle of the aire,

Bird melodious, or bird faire,

Is absent hence.

The Crow, the slaundrous Cuckoe, nor

The boding Raven, nor Chough hore

Nor chattring Pie,

May on our Bridehouse pearch or sing,

Or with them any discord bring,

But from it fly.

[Enter 3. Queenes in Blacke, with vailes staind, with imperiall Crownes. The 1. Queene fals downe at the foote of Theseus; The 2. fals downe at the foote of Hypolita. The 3. before Emilia.]

1. QUEEN.

For pitties sake and true gentilities,

Heare, and respect me.

2. QUEEN.

For your Mothers sake,

And as you wish your womb may thrive with faire ones,

Heare and respect me.

3. QUEEN

Now for the love of him whom Iove hath markd

The honour of your Bed, and for the sake

Of cleere virginity, be Advocate

For us, and our distresses. This good deede

Shall raze you out o'th Booke of Trespasses

All you are set downe there.

THESEUS.

Sad Lady, rise.

HIPPOLITA.

Stand up.

EMILIA.

No knees to me.

What woman I may steed that is distrest,

Does bind me to her.

THESEUS.

What's your request? Deliver you for all.

1. QUEEN.

We are 3. Queenes, whose Soveraignes fel before

The wrath of cruell Creon; who endured

The Beakes of Ravens, Tallents of the Kights,

And pecks of Crowes, in the fowle feilds of Thebs.

He will not suffer us to burne their bones,

To urne their ashes, nor to take th' offence

Of mortall loathsomenes from the blest eye

Of holy Phoebus, but infects the windes

With stench of our slaine Lords. O pitty, Duke:

Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feard Sword

That does good turnes to'th world; give us the Bones

Of our dead Kings, that we may Chappell them;

And of thy boundles goodnes take some note

That for our crowned heades we have no roofe,

Save this which is the Lyons, and the Beares,

And vault to every thing.

THESEUS.

Pray you, kneele not:

I was transported with your Speech, and suffer'd

Your knees to wrong themselves; I have heard the fortunes

Of your dead Lords, which gives me such lamenting

As wakes my vengeance, and revenge for'em,

King Capaneus was your Lord: the day

That he should marry you, at such a season,

As now it is with me, I met your Groome,

By Marsis Altar; you were that time faire,

Not Iunos Mantle fairer then your Tresses,

Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreathe

Was then nor threashd, nor blasted; Fortune at you

Dimpled her Cheeke with smiles: Hercules our kinesman

(Then weaker than your eies) laide by his Club,

He tumbled downe upon his Nemean hide

And swore his sinews thawd: O greife, and time,

Fearefull consumers, you will all devoure.

1. QUEEN.

O, I hope some God,

Some God hath put his mercy in your manhood

Whereto heel infuse powre, and presse you forth

Our undertaker.

THESEUS.

O no knees, none, Widdow,

Vnto the Helmeted Belona use them,

And pray for me your Souldier.

Troubled I am. [turnes away.]

2. QUEEN.

Honoured Hypolita,

Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slaine

The Sith-tuskd Bore; that with thy Arme as strong

As it is white, wast neere to make the male

To thy Sex captive, but that this thy Lord,

Borne to uphold Creation in that honour

First nature stilde it in, shrunke thee into

The bownd thou wast ore-flowing, at once subduing

Thy force, and thy affection: Soldiresse

That equally canst poize sternenes with pitty,

Whom now I know hast much more power on him

Then ever he had on thee, who ow'st his strength

And his Love too, who is a Servant for

The Tenour of thy Speech: Deere Glasse of Ladies,

Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scortch,

Vnder the shaddow of his Sword may coole us:

Require him he advance it ore our heades;

Speak't in a womans key: like such a woman

As any of us three; weepe ere you faile;

Lend us a knee;

But touch the ground for us no longer time

Then a Doves motion, when the head's pluckt off:

Tell him if he i'th blood cizd field lay swolne,

Showing the Sun his Teeth, grinning at the Moone,

What you would doe.

HIPPOLITA.

Poore Lady, say no more:

I had as leife trace this good action with you

As that whereto I am going, and never yet

Went I so willing way. My Lord is taken

Hart deepe with your distresse: Let him consider:

Ile speake anon.

3. QUEEN.

O my petition was [kneele to Emilia.]

Set downe in yce, which by hot greefe uncandied

Melts into drops, so sorrow, wanting forme,

Is prest with deeper matter.

EMILIA.

Pray stand up,

Your greefe is written in your cheeke.

3. QUEEN.

O woe,

You cannot reade it there, there through my teares—

Like wrinckled peobles in a glassie streame

You may behold 'em. Lady, Lady, alacke,

He that will all the Treasure know o'th earth

Must know the Center too; he that will fish

For my least minnow, let him lead his line

To catch one at my heart. O pardon me:

Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,

Makes me a Foole.

EMILIA.

Pray you say nothing, pray you:

Who cannot feele nor see the raine, being in't,

Knowes neither wet nor dry: if that you were

The ground-peece of some Painter, I would buy you

T'instruct me gainst a Capitall greefe indeed—

Such heart peirc'd demonstration; but, alas,

Being a naturall Sifter of our Sex

Your sorrow beates so ardently upon me,

That it shall make a counter reflect gainst

My Brothers heart, and warme it to some pitty,

Though it were made of stone: pray, have good comfort.

THESEUS.

Forward to'th Temple, leave not out a Iot

O'th sacred Ceremony.

1. QUEEN.

O, This Celebration

Will long last, and be more costly then

Your Suppliants war: Remember that your Fame

Knowles in the eare o'th world: what you doe quickly

Is not done rashly; your first thought is more

Then others laboured meditance: your premeditating

More then their actions: But, oh Iove! your actions,

Soone as they mooves, as Asprayes doe the fish,

Subdue before they touch: thinke, deere Duke, thinke

What beds our slaine Kings have.

2. QUEEN.

What greifes our beds,

That our deere Lords have none.

3. QUEEN.

None fit for 'th dead:

Those that with Cordes, Knives, drams precipitance,

Weary of this worlds light, have to themselves

Beene deathes most horrid Agents, humaine grace

Affords them dust and shaddow.

1. QUEEN.

But our Lords

Ly blistring fore the visitating Sunne,

And were good Kings, when living.

THESEUS.

It is true, and I will give you comfort,

To give your dead Lords graves: the which to doe,

Must make some worke with Creon.

1. QUEEN.

And that worke presents it selfe to'th doing:

Now twill take forme, the heates are gone to morrow.

Then, booteles toyle must recompence it selfe

With it's owne sweat; Now he's secure,

Not dreames we stand before your puissance

Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes

To make petition cleere.

2. QUEEN.

Now you may take him, drunke with his victory.

3. QUEEN.

And his Army full of Bread, and sloth.

THESEUS.

Artesius, that best knowest

How to draw out fit to this enterprise

The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number

To carry such a businesse, forth and levy

Our worthiest Instruments, whilst we despatch

This grand act of our life, this daring deede

Of Fate in wedlocke.

1. QUEEN.

Dowagers, take hands;

Let us be Widdowes to our woes: delay

Commends us to a famishing hope.

ALL.

Farewell.

2. QUEEN.

We come unseasonably: But when could greefe

Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fit'st time

For best solicitation.

THESEUS.

Why, good Ladies,

This is a service, whereto I am going,

Greater then any was; it more imports me

Then all the actions that I have foregone,

Or futurely can cope.

1. QUEEN.

The more proclaiming

Our suit shall be neglected: when her Armes

Able to locke Iove from a Synod, shall

By warranting Moone-light corslet thee, oh, when

Her twyning Cherries shall their sweetnes fall

Vpon thy tastefull lips, what wilt thou thinke

Of rotten Kings or blubberd Queenes, what care

For what thou feelst not? what thou feelst being able

To make Mars spurne his Drom. O, if thou couch

But one night with her, every howre in't will

Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and

Thou shalt remember nothing more then what

That Banket bids thee too.

HIPPOLITA.

Though much unlike [Kneeling.]

You should be so transported, as much sorry

I should be such a Suitour; yet I thinke,

Did I not by th'abstayning of my joy,

Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit

That craves a present medcine, I should plucke

All Ladies scandall on me. Therefore, Sir,

As I shall here make tryall of my prayres,

Either presuming them to have some force,

Or sentencing for ay their vigour dombe:

Prorogue this busines we are going about, and hang

Your Sheild afore your Heart, about that necke

Which is my ffee, and which I freely lend

To doe these poore Queenes service.

ALL QUEENS.

Oh helpe now,

Our Cause cries for your knee.

EMILIA.

If you grant not [Kneeling.]

My Sister her petition in that force,

With that Celerity and nature, which

Shee makes it in, from henceforth ile not dare

To aske you any thing, nor be so hardy

Ever to take a Husband.

THESEUS.

Pray stand up.

I am entreating of my selfe to doe

That which you kneele to have me. Pyrithous,

Leade on the Bride; get you and pray the Gods

For successe, and returne; omit not any thing

In the pretended Celebration. Queenes,

Follow your Soldier. As before, hence you [to Artesius]

And at the banckes of Aulis meete us with

The forces you can raise, where we shall finde

The moytie of a number, for a busines

More bigger look't. Since that our Theame is haste,

I stamp this kisse upon thy currant lippe;

Sweete, keepe it as my Token. Set you forward,

For I will see you gone. [Exeunt towards the Temple.]

Farewell, my beauteous Sister: Pyrithous,

Keepe the feast full, bate not an howre on't.

PERITHOUS.

Sir,

Ile follow you at heeles; The Feasts solempnity

Shall want till your returne.

THESEUS.

Cosen, I charge you

Boudge not from Athens; We shall be returning

Ere you can end this Feast, of which, I pray you,

Make no abatement; once more, farewell all.

1. QUEEN.

Thus do'st thou still make good the tongue o'th world.

2. QUEEN.

And earnst a Deity equal with Mars.

3. QUEEN.

If not above him, for

Thou being but mortall makest affections bend

To Godlike honours; they themselves, some say,

Grone under such a Mastry.

THESEUS.

As we are men,

Thus should we doe; being sensually subdude,

We loose our humane tytle. Good cheere, Ladies. [Florish.]

Now turne we towards your Comforts. [Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

Thebs.

[Enter Palamon, and Arcite.]

ARCITE.

Deere Palamon, deerer in love then Blood

And our prime Cosen, yet unhardned in

The Crimes of nature; Let us leave the Citty

Thebs, and the temptings in't, before we further

Sully our glosse of youth:

And here to keepe in abstinence we shame

As in Incontinence; for not to swim

I'th aide o'th Current were almost to sincke,

At least to frustrate striving, and to follow

The common Streame, twold bring us to an Edy

Where we should turne or drowne; if labour through,

Our gaine but life, and weakenes.

PALAMON.

Your advice

Is cride up with example: what strange ruins

Since first we went to Schoole, may we perceive

Walking in Thebs? Skars, and bare weedes

The gaine o'th Martialist, who did propound

To his bold ends honour, and golden Ingots,

Which though he won, he had not, and now flurted

By peace for whom he fought: who then shall offer

To Marsis so scornd Altar? I doe bleede

When such I meete, and wish great Iuno would

Resume her ancient fit of Ielouzie

To get the Soldier worke, that peace might purge

For her repletion, and retaine anew

Her charitable heart now hard, and harsher

Then strife or war could be.

ARCITE.

Are you not out?

Meete you no ruine but the Soldier in

The Cranckes and turnes of Thebs? you did begin

As if you met decaies of many kindes:

Perceive you none, that doe arowse your pitty

But th'un-considerd Soldier?

PALAMON.

Yes, I pitty

Decaies where ere I finde them, but such most

That, sweating in an honourable Toyle,

Are paide with yce to coole 'em.

ARCITE.

Tis not this

I did begin to speake of: This is vertue

Of no respect in Thebs; I spake of Thebs

How dangerous if we will keepe our Honours,

It is for our resyding, where every evill

Hath a good cullor; where eve'ry seeming good's

A certaine evill, where not to be ev'n Iumpe

As they are, here were to be strangers, and

Such things to be, meere Monsters.

PALAMON.

Tis in our power,

(Vnlesse we feare that Apes can Tutor's) to

Be Masters of our manners: what neede I

Affect anothers gate, which is not catching

Where there is faith, or to be fond upon

Anothers way of speech, when by mine owne

I may be reasonably conceiv'd; sav'd too,

Speaking it truly? why am I bound

By any generous bond to follow him

Followes his Taylor, haply so long untill

The follow'd make pursuit? or let me know,

Why mine owne Barber is unblest, with him

My poore Chinne too, for tis not Cizard iust

To such a Favorites glasse: What Cannon is there

That does command my Rapier from my hip

To dangle't in my hand, or to go tip toe

Before the streete be foule? Either I am

The fore-horse in the Teame, or I am none

That draw i'th sequent trace: these poore sleight sores

Neede not a plantin; That which rips my bosome

Almost to'th heart's—

ARCITE.

Our Vncle Creon.

PALAMON.

He,

A most unbounded Tyrant, whose successes

Makes heaven unfeard, and villany assured

Beyond its power there's nothing, almost puts

Faith in a feavour, and deifies alone

Voluble chance; who onely attributes

The faculties of other Instruments

To his owne Nerves and act; Commands men service,

And what they winne in't, boot and glory; on(e)

That feares not to do harm; good, dares not; Let

The blood of mine that's sibbe to him be suckt

From me with Leeches; Let them breake and fall

Off me with that corruption.

ARCITE.

Cleere spirited Cozen,

Lets leave his Court, that we may nothing share

Of his lowd infamy: for our milke

Will relish of the pasture, and we must

Be vile or disobedient, not his kinesmen

In blood, unlesse in quality.

PALAMON.

Nothing truer:

I thinke the Ecchoes of his shames have dea'ft

The eares of heav'nly Iustice: widdows cryes

Descend againe into their throates, and have not

[enter Valerius.]

Due audience of the Gods.—Valerius!

VALERIUS.

The King cals for you; yet be leaden footed,

Till his great rage be off him. Phebus, when

He broke his whipstocke and exclaimd against

The Horses of the Sun, but whisperd too

The lowdenesse of his Fury.

PALAMON.

Small windes shake him:

But whats the matter?

VALERIUS.

Theseus (who where he threates appals,) hath sent

Deadly defyance to him, and pronounces

Ruine to Thebs; who is at hand to seale

The promise of his wrath.

ARCITE.

Let him approach;

But that we feare the Gods in him, he brings not

A jot of terrour to us; Yet what man

Thirds his owne worth (the case is each of ours)

When that his actions dregd with minde assurd

Tis bad he goes about?

PALAMON.

Leave that unreasond.

Our services stand now for Thebs, not Creon,

Yet to be neutrall to him were dishonour;

Rebellious to oppose: therefore we must

With him stand to the mercy of our Fate,

Who hath bounded our last minute.

ARCITE.

So we must.

Ist sed this warres a foote? or it shall be,

On faile of some condition?

VALERIUS.

Tis in motion

The intelligence of state came in the instant

With the defier.

PALAMON.

Lets to the king, who, were he

A quarter carrier of that honour which

His Enemy come in, the blood we venture

Should be as for our health, which were not spent,

Rather laide out for purchase: but, alas,

Our hands advanc'd before our hearts, what will

The fall o'th stroke doe damage?

ARCITE.

Let th'event,

That never erring Arbitratour, tell us

When we know all our selves, and let us follow

The becking of our chance. [Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE III.

Before the gates of Athens.

[Enter Pirithous, Hipolita, Emilia.]

PERITHOUS.

No further.

HIPPOLITA.

Sir, farewell; repeat my wishes

To our great Lord, of whose succes I dare not

Make any timerous question; yet I wish him

Exces and overflow of power, and't might be,

To dure ill-dealing fortune: speede to him,

Store never hurtes good Gouernours.

PERITHOUS.

Though I know

His Ocean needes not my poore drops, yet they

Must yeild their tribute there. My precious Maide,

Those best affections, that the heavens infuse

In their best temperd peices, keepe enthroand

In your deare heart.

EMILIA.

Thanckes, Sir. Remember me

To our all royall Brother, for whose speede

The great Bellona ile sollicite; and

Since in our terrene State petitions are not

Without giftes understood, Ile offer to her

What I shall be advised she likes: our hearts

Are in his Army, in his Tent.

HIPPOLITA.

In's bosome:

We have bin Soldiers, and wee cannot weepe

When our Friends don their helmes, or put to sea,

Or tell of Babes broachd on the Launce, or women

That have sod their Infants in (and after eate them)

The brine, they wept at killing 'em; Then if

You stay to see of us such Spincsters, we

Should hold you here for ever.

PERITHOUS.

Peace be to you,

As I pursue this war, which shall be then

Beyond further requiring. [Exit Pir.]

EMILIA.

How his longing

Followes his Friend! since his depart, his sportes

Though craving seriousnes, and skill, past slightly

His careles execution, where nor gaine

Made him regard, or losse consider; but

Playing one busines in his hand, another

Directing in his head, his minde, nurse equall

To these so diffring Twyns—have you observ'd him,

Since our great Lord departed?

HIPPOLITA.

With much labour,

And I did love him fort: they two have Cabind

In many as dangerous, as poore a Corner,

Perill and want contending; they have skift

Torrents whose roring tyranny and power

I'th least of these was dreadfull, and they have

Fought out together, where Deaths-selfe was lodgd,

Yet fate hath brought them off: Their knot of love,

Tide, weau'd, intangled, with so true, so long,

And with a finger of so deepe a cunning,

May be outworne, never undone. I thinke

Theseus cannot be umpire to himselfe,

Cleaving his conscience into twaine and doing

Each side like Iustice, which he loves best.

EMILIA.

Doubtlesse

There is a best, and reason has no manners

To say it is not you: I was acquainted

Once with a time, when I enjoyd a Play-fellow;

You were at wars, when she the grave enrichd,

Who made too proud the Bed, tooke leave o th Moone

(Which then lookt pale at parting) when our count

Was each eleven.

HIPPOLITA.

Twas Flaui(n)a.

EMILIA.

Yes.

You talke of Pirithous and Theseus love;

Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasond,

More buckled with strong Iudgement and their needes

The one of th'other may be said to water

[2. Hearses ready with Palamon: and Arcite: the 3. Queenes. Theseus: and his Lordes ready.]

Their intertangled rootes of love; but I

And shee I sigh and spoke of were things innocent,

Lou'd for we did, and like the Elements

That know not what, nor why, yet doe effect

Rare issues by their operance, our soules

Did so to one another; what she lik'd,

Was then of me approov'd, what not, condemd,

No more arraignment; the flowre that I would plucke

And put betweene my breasts (then but beginning

To swell about the blossome) oh, she would long

Till shee had such another, and commit it

To the like innocent Cradle, where Phenix like

They dide in perfume: on my head no toy

But was her patterne; her affections (pretty,

Though, happely, her careles were) I followed

For my most serious decking; had mine eare

Stolne some new aire, or at adventure humd on

From musicall Coynadge, why it was a note

Whereon her spirits would sojourne (rather dwell on)

And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsall

(Which ev'ry innocent wots well comes in

Like old importments bastard) has this end,

That the true love tweene Mayde, and mayde, may be

More then in sex idividuall.

HIPPOLITA.

Y'are out of breath

And this high speeded pace, is but to say

That you shall never like the Maide Flavina

Love any that's calld Man.

EMILIA.

I am sure I shall not.

HIPPOLITA.

Now, alacke, weake Sister,

I must no more beleeve thee in this point

(Though in't I know thou dost beleeve thy selfe,)

Then I will trust a sickely appetite,

That loathes even as it longs; but, sure, my Sister,

If I were ripe for your perswasion, you

Have saide enough to shake me from the Arme

Of the all noble Theseus, for whose fortunes

I will now in, and kneele with great assurance,

That we, more then his Pirothous, possesse

The high throne in his heart.

EMILIA.

I am not

Against your faith; yet I continew mine.

[Exeunt. Cornets.]

ACT I. SCENE IV.

A field before Thebes. Dead bodies lying on the ground.

[A Battaile strooke within: Then a Retrait: Florish. Then Enter Theseus (victor), (Herald and Attendants:) the three Queenes meete him, and fall on their faces before him.]

1. QUEEN.

To thee no starre be darke.

2. QUEEN.

Both heaven and earth

Friend thee for ever.

3. QUEEN.

All the good that may

Be wishd upon thy head, I cry Amen too't.

THESEUS.

Th'imparciall Gods, who from the mounted heavens

View us their mortall Heard, behold who erre,

And in their time chastice: goe and finde out

The bones of your dead Lords, and honour them

With treble Ceremonie; rather then a gap

Should be in their deere rights, we would supply't.

But those we will depute, which shall invest

You in your dignities, and even each thing

Our hast does leave imperfect: So, adiew,

And heavens good eyes looke on you. What are those?

[Exeunt Queenes.]

HERALD.

Men of great quality, as may be judgd

By their appointment; Sone of Thebs have told's

They are Sisters children, Nephewes to the King.

THESEUS.

By'th Helme of Mars, I saw them in the war,

Like to a paire of Lions, smeard with prey,

Make lanes in troopes agast. I fixt my note

Constantly on them; for they were a marke

Worth a god's view: what prisoner was't that told me

When I enquired their names?

HERALD.

Wi'leave, they'r called Arcite and Palamon.

THESEUS.

Tis right: those, those. They are not dead?

HERALD.

Nor in a state of life: had they bin taken,

When their last hurts were given, twas possible

[3. Hearses ready.]

They might have bin recovered; Yet they breathe

And haue the name of men.

THESEUS.

Then like men use 'em.

The very lees of such (millions of rates)

Exceede the wine of others: all our Surgions

Convent in their behoofe; our richest balmes

Rather then niggard, waft: their lives concerne us

Much more then Thebs is worth: rather then have 'em

Freed of this plight, and in their morning state

(Sound and at liberty) I would 'em dead;

But forty thousand fold we had rather have 'em

Prisoners to us then death. Beare 'em speedily

From our kinde aire, to them unkinde, and minister

What man to man may doe—for our sake more,

Since I have knowne frights, fury, friends beheastes,

Loves provocations, zeale, a mistris Taske,

Desire of liberty, a feavour, madnes,

Hath set a marke which nature could not reach too

Without some imposition: sicknes in will

Or wrastling strength in reason. For our Love

And great Appollos mercy, all our best

Their best skill tender. Leade into the Citty,

Where having bound things scatterd, we will post

[Florish.]

To Athens for(e) our Army

[Exeunt. Musicke.]

ACT I. SCENE V.

Another part of the same.

[Enter the Queenes with the Hearses of their Knightes, in a Funerall Solempnity, &c.]

Vrnes and odours bring away,

Vapours, sighes, darken the day;

Our dole more deadly lookes than dying;

Balmes, and Gummes, and heavy cheeres,

Sacred vials fill'd with teares,

And clamors through the wild ayre flying.

Come all sad and solempne Showes,

That are quick-eyd pleasures foes;

We convent nought else but woes.

We convent, &c.

3. QUEEN.

This funeral path brings to your housholds grave:

Ioy ceaze on you againe: peace sleepe with him.

2. QUEEN.

And this to yours.

1. QUEEN.

Yours this way: Heavens lend

A thousand differing waies to one sure end.

3. QUEEN.

This world's a Citty full of straying Streetes,

And Death's the market place, where each one meetes.

[Exeunt severally.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

Athens. A garden, with a prison in the background.

[Enter Iailor, and Wooer.]

IAILOR.

I may depart with little, while I live; some thing I may cast to you, not much: Alas, the Prison I keepe, though it be for great ones, yet they seldome come; Before one Salmon, you shall take a number of Minnowes. I am given out to be better lyn'd then it can appeare to me report is a true Speaker: I would I were really that I am deliverd to be. Marry, what I have (be it what it will) I will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death.

WOOER.

Sir, I demaund no more then your owne offer, and I will estate your Daughter in what I have promised.

IAILOR.

Wel, we will talke more of this, when the solemnity is past. But have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seene, I tender my consent.

[Enter Daughter.]

WOOER.

I have Sir; here shee comes.

IAILOR.

Your Friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old busines: But no more of that now; so soone as the Court hurry is over, we will have an end of it: I'th meane time looke tenderly to the two Prisoners. I can tell you they are princes.

DAUGHTER.

These strewings are for their Chamber; tis pitty they are in prison, and twer pitty they should be out: I doe thinke they have patience to make any adversity asham'd; the prison it selfe is proud of 'em; and they have all the world in their Chamber.

IAILOR.

They are fam'd to be a paire of absolute men.

DAUGHTER.

By my troth, I think Fame but stammers 'em; they stand a greise above the reach of report.

IAILOR.

I heard them reported in the Battaile to be the only doers.

DAUGHTER.

Nay, most likely, for they are noble suffrers; I mervaile how they would have lookd had they beene Victors, that with such a constant Nobility enforce a freedome out of Bondage, making misery their Mirth, and affliction a toy to jest at.

IAILOR.

Doe they so?

DAUGHTER.

It seemes to me they have no more sence of their Captivity, then I of ruling Athens: they eate well, looke merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their owne restraint, and disasters: yet sometime a devided sigh, martyrd as 'twer i'th deliverance, will breake from one of them; when the other presently gives it so sweete a rebuke, that I could wish my selfe a Sigh to be so chid, or at least a Sigher to be comforted.

WOOER.

I never saw 'em.

IAILOR.

The Duke himselfe came privately in the night,

[Enter Palamon, and Arcite, above.]

and so did they: what the reason of it is, I know not: Looke, yonder they are! that's Arcite lookes out.

DAUGHTER.

No, Sir, no, that's Palamon: Arcite is the lower of the twaine; you may perceive a part of him.

IAILOR.

Goe too, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object; out of their sight.

DAUGHTER.

It is a holliday to looke on them: Lord, the diffrence of men!

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The prison.

[Enter Palamon, and Arcite in prison.]

PALAMON.

How doe you, Noble Cosen?

ARCITE.

How doe you, Sir?

PALAMON.

Why strong inough to laugh at misery,

And beare the chance of warre, yet we are prisoners,

I feare, for ever, Cosen.

ARCITE.

I beleeve it,

And to that destiny have patiently

Laide up my houre to come.

PALAMON.

O Cosen Arcite,

Where is Thebs now? where is our noble Country?

Where are our friends, and kindreds? never more

Must we behold those comforts, never see

The hardy youthes strive for the Games of honour

(Hung with the painted favours of their Ladies,

Like tall Ships under saile) then start among'st 'em

And as an Eastwind leave 'en all behinde us,

Like lazy Clowdes, whilst Palamon and Arcite,

Even in the wagging of a wanton leg

Out-stript the peoples praises, won the Garlands,

Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. O never

Shall we two exercise, like Twyns of honour,

Our Armes againe, and feele our fyry horses

Like proud Seas under us: our good Swords now

(Better the red-eyd god of war nev'r wore)

Ravishd our sides, like age must run to rust,

And decke the Temples of those gods that hate us:

These hands shall never draw'em out like lightning,

To blast whole Armies more.

ARCITE.

No, Palamon,

Those hopes are Prisoners with us; here we are

And here the graces of our youthes must wither

Like a too-timely Spring; here age must finde us,

And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried;

The sweete embraces of a loving wife,

Loden with kisses, armd with thousand Cupids

Shall never claspe our neckes, no issue know us,

No figures of our selves shall we ev'r see,

To glad our age, and like young Eagles teach 'em

Boldly to gaze against bright armes, and say:

'Remember what your fathers were, and conquer.'

The faire-eyd Maides, shall weepe our Banishments,

And in their Songs, curse ever-blinded fortune,

Till shee for shame see what a wrong she has done

To youth and nature. This is all our world;

We shall know nothing here but one another,

Heare nothing but the Clocke that tels our woes.

The Vine shall grow, but we shall never see it:

Sommer shall come, and with her all delights;

But dead-cold winter must inhabite here still.

PALAMON.

Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban houndes,

That shooke the aged Forrest with their ecchoes,

No more now must we halloa, no more shake

Our pointed Iavelyns, whilst the angry Swine

Flyes like a parthian quiver from our rages,

Strucke with our well-steeld Darts: All valiant uses

(The foode, and nourishment of noble mindes,)

In us two here shall perish; we shall die

(Which is the curse of honour) lastly

Children of greife, and Ignorance.

ARCITE.

Yet, Cosen,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,

From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rysing, two meere blessings,

If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience,

And the enjoying of our greefes together.

Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish

If I thinke this our prison.

PALAMON.

Certeinly,

Tis a maine goodnes, Cosen, that our fortunes

Were twyn'd together; tis most true, two soules

Put in two noble Bodies—let 'em suffer

The gaule of hazard, so they grow together—

Will never sincke; they must not, say they could:

A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.

ARCITE.

Shall we make worthy uses of this place

That all men hate so much?

PALAMON.

How, gentle Cosen?

ARCITE.

Let's thinke this prison holy sanctuary,

To keepe us from corruption of worse men.

We are young and yet desire the waies of honour,

That liberty and common Conversation,

The poyson of pure spirits, might like women

Wooe us to wander from. What worthy blessing

Can be but our Imaginations

May make it ours? And heere being thus together,

We are an endles mine to one another;

We are one anothers wife, ever begetting

New birthes of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance;

We are, in one another, Families,

I am your heire, and you are mine: This place

Is our Inheritance, no hard Oppressour

Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience,

We shall live long, and loving: No surfeits seeke us:

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the Seas

Swallow their youth: were we at liberty,

A wife might part us lawfully, or busines;

Quarrels consume us, Envy of ill men

Grave our acquaintance; I might sicken, Cosen,

Where you should never know it, and so perish

Without your noble hand to close mine eies,

Or praiers to the gods: a thousand chaunces,

Were we from hence, would seaver us.

PALAMON.

You have made me

(I thanke you, Cosen Arcite) almost wanton

With my Captivity: what a misery

It is to live abroade, and every where!

Tis like a Beast, me thinkes: I finde the Court here—

I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures

That wooe the wils of men to vanity,

I see through now, and am sufficient

To tell the world, tis but a gaudy shaddow,

That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.

What had we bin, old in the Court of Creon,

Where sin is Iustice, lust and ignorance

The vertues of the great ones! Cosen Arcite,

Had not the loving gods found this place for us,

We had died as they doe, ill old men, unwept,

And had their Epitaphes, the peoples Curses:

Shall I say more?

ARCITE.

I would heare you still.

PALAMON.

Ye shall.

Is there record of any two that lov'd

Better then we doe, Arcite?

ARCITE.

Sure, there cannot.

PALAMON.

I doe not thinke it possible our friendship

Should ever leave us.

ARCITE.

Till our deathes it cannot;

[Enter Emilia and her woman (below).]

And after death our spirits shall be led

To those that love eternally. Speake on, Sir.

EMILIA.

This garden has a world of pleasures in't.

What Flowre is this?

WOMAN.

Tis calld Narcissus, Madam.

EMILIA.

That was a faire Boy, certaine, but a foole,

To love himselfe; were there not maides enough?

ARCITE.

Pray forward.

PALAMON.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Or were they all hard hearted?

WOMAN.

They could not be to one so faire.

EMILIA.

Thou wouldst not.

WOMAN.

I thinke I should not, Madam.

EMILIA.

That's a good wench:

But take heede to your kindnes though.

WOMAN.

Why, Madam?

EMILIA.

Men are mad things.

ARCITE.

Will ye goe forward, Cosen?

EMILIA.

Canst not thou worke such flowers in silke, wench?

WOMAN.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Ile have a gowne full of 'em, and of these;

This is a pretty colour, wilt not doe

Rarely upon a Skirt, wench?

WOMAN.

Deinty, Madam.

ARCITE.

Cosen, Cosen, how doe you, Sir? Why, Palamon?

PALAMON.

Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.

ARCITE.

Why whats the matter, Man?

PALAMON.

Behold, and wonder.

By heaven, shee is a Goddesse.

ARCITE.

Ha.

PALAMON.

Doe reverence. She is a Goddesse, Arcite.

EMILIA.

Of all Flowres, me thinkes a Rose is best.

WOMAN.

Why, gentle Madam?

EMILIA.

It is the very Embleme of a Maide.

For when the west wind courts her gently,

How modestly she blowes, and paints the Sun,

With her chaste blushes! When the North comes neere her,

Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity,

Shee lockes her beauties in her bud againe,

And leaves him to base briers.

WOMAN.

Yet, good Madam,

Sometimes her modesty will blow so far

She fals for't: a Mayde,

If shee have any honour, would be loth

To take example by her.

EMILIA.

Thou art wanton.

ARCITE.

She is wondrous faire.

PALAMON.

She is beauty extant.

EMILIA.

The Sun grows high, lets walk in: keep these flowers;

Weele see how neere Art can come neere their colours.

I am wondrous merry hearted, I could laugh now.

WOMAN.

I could lie downe, I am sure.

EMILIA.

And take one with you?

WOMAN.

That's as we bargaine, Madam.

EMILIA.

Well, agree then.

[Exeunt Emilia and woman.]

PALAMON.

What thinke you of this beauty?

ARCITE.

Tis a rare one.

PALAMON.

Is't but a rare one?

ARCITE.

Yes, a matchles beauty.

PALAMON.

Might not a man well lose himselfe and love her?

ARCITE.

I cannot tell what you have done, I have;

Beshrew mine eyes for't: now I feele my Shackles.

PALAMON.

You love her, then?

ARCITE.

Who would not?

PALAMON.

And desire her?

ARCITE.

Before my liberty.

PALAMON.

I saw her first.

ARCITE.

That's nothing.

PALAMON.

But it shall be.

ARCITE.

I saw her too.

PALAMON.

Yes, but you must not love her.

ARCITE.

I will not as you doe, to worship her,

As she is heavenly, and a blessed Goddes;

I love her as a woman, to enjoy her:

So both may love.

PALAMON.

You shall not love at all.

ARCITE.

Not love at all!

Who shall deny me?

PALAMON.

I, that first saw her; I, that tooke possession

First with mine eyes of all those beauties

In her reveald to mankinde: if thou lou'st her,

Or entertain'st a hope to blast my wishes,

Thou art a Traytour, Arcite, and a fellow

False as thy Title to her: friendship, blood,

And all the tyes betweene us I disclaime,

If thou once thinke upon her.

ARCITE.

Yes, I love her,

And if the lives of all my name lay on it,

I must doe so; I love her with my soule:

If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon;

I say againe, I love, and in loving her maintaine

I am as worthy and as free a lover,

And have as just a title to her beauty

As any Palamon or any living

That is a mans Sonne.

PALAMON.

Have I cald thee friend?

ARCITE.

Yes, and have found me so; why are you mov'd thus?

Let me deale coldly with you: am not I

Part of your blood, part of your soule? you have told me

That I was Palamon, and you were Arcite.

PALAMON.

Yes.

ARCITE.

Am not I liable to those affections,

Those joyes, greifes, angers, feares, my friend shall suffer?

PALAMON.

Ye may be.

ARCITE.

Why, then, would you deale so cunningly,

So strangely, so vnlike a noble kinesman,

To love alone? speake truely: doe you thinke me

Vnworthy of her sight?

PALAMON.

No; but unjust,

If thou pursue that sight.

ARCITE.

Because an other

First sees the Enemy, shall I stand still

And let mine honour downe, and never charge?

PALAMON.

Yes, if he be but one.

ARCITE.

But say that one

Had rather combat me?

PALAMON.

Let that one say so,

And use thy freedome; els if thou pursuest her,

Be as that cursed man that hates his Country,

A branded villaine.

ARCITE.

You are mad.

PALAMON.

I must be,

Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concernes me,

And in this madnes, if I hazard thee

And take thy life, I deale but truely.

ARCITE.

Fie, Sir,

You play the Childe extreamely: I will love her,

I must, I ought to doe so, and I dare;

And all this justly.

PALAMON.

O that now, that now

Thy false-selfe and thy friend had but this fortune,

To be one howre at liberty, and graspe

Our good Swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee

What 'twer to filch affection from another:

Thou art baser in it then a Cutpurse;

Put but thy head out of this window more,

And as I have a soule, Ile naile thy life too't.

ARCITE.

Thou dar'st not, foole, thou canst not, thou art feeble.

Put my head out? Ile throw my Body out,

And leape the garden, when I see her next

[Enter Keeper.]

And pitch between her armes to anger thee.

PALAMON.

No more; the keeper's comming; I shall live

To knocke thy braines out with my Shackles.

ARCITE.

Doe.

KEEPER.

By your leave, Gentlemen—

PALAMON.

Now, honest keeper?

KEEPER.

Lord Arcite, you must presently to'th Duke;

The cause I know not yet.

ARCITE.

I am ready, keeper.

KEEPER.

Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you

Of your faire Cosens Company.

[Exeunt Arcite, and Keeper.]

PALAMON.

And me too,

Even when you please, of life. Why is he sent for?

It may be he shall marry her; he's goodly,

And like enough the Duke hath taken notice

Both of his blood and body: But his falsehood!

Why should a friend be treacherous? If that

Get him a wife so noble, and so faire,

Let honest men ne're love againe. Once more

I would but see this faire One. Blessed Garden,

And fruite, and flowers more blessed, that still blossom

As her bright eies shine on ye! would I were,

For all the fortune of my life hereafter,

Yon little Tree, yon blooming Apricocke;

How I would spread, and fling my wanton armes

In at her window; I would bring her fruite

Fit for the Gods to feed on: youth and pleasure

Still as she tasted should be doubled on her,

And if she be not heavenly, I would make her

So neere the Gods in nature, they should feare her,

[Enter Keeper.]

And then I am sure she would love me. How now, keeper.

Wher's Arcite?

KEEPER.

Banishd: Prince Pirithous

Obtained his liberty; but never more

Vpon his oth and life must he set foote

Vpon this Kingdome.

PALAMON.

Hees a blessed man!

He shall see Thebs againe, and call to Armes

The bold yong men, that, when he bids 'em charge,

Fall on like fire: Arcite shall have a Fortune,

If he dare make himselfe a worthy Lover,

Yet in the Feild to strike a battle for her;

And if he lose her then, he's a cold Coward;

How bravely may he beare himselfe to win her

If he be noble Arcite—thousand waies.

Were I at liberty, I would doe things

Of such a vertuous greatnes, that this Lady,

This blushing virgine, should take manhood to her

And seeke to ravish me.

KEEPER.

My Lord for you

I have this charge too—

PALAMON.

To discharge my life?

KEEPER.

No, but from this place to remoove your Lordship:

The windowes are too open.

PALAMON.

Devils take 'em,

That are so envious to me! pre'thee kill me.

KEEPER.

And hang for't afterward.

PALAMON.

By this good light,

Had I a sword I would kill thee.

KEEPER.

Why, my Lord?

PALAMON.

Thou bringst such pelting scuruy news continually

Thou art not worthy life. I will not goe.

KEEPER.

Indeede, you must, my Lord.

PALAMON.

May I see the garden?

KEEPER.

Noe.

PALAMON.

Then I am resolud, I will not goe.

KEEPER.

I must constraine you then: and for you are dangerous,

Ile clap more yrons on you.

PALAMON.

Doe, good keeper.

Ile shake 'em so, ye shall not sleepe;

Ile make ye a new Morrisse: must I goe?

KEEPER.

There is no remedy.

PALAMON.

Farewell, kinde window.

May rude winde never hurt thee. O, my Lady,

If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was,

Dreame how I suffer. Come; now bury me.

[Exeunt Palamon, and Keeper.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The country near Athens.

[Enter Arcite.]

ARCITE.

Banishd the kingdome? tis a benefit,

A mercy I must thanke 'em for, but banishd

The free enjoying of that face I die for,

Oh twas a studdied punishment, a death

Beyond Imagination: Such a vengeance

That, were I old and wicked, all my sins

Could never plucke upon me. Palamon,

Thou ha'st the Start now, thou shalt stay and see

Her bright eyes breake each morning gainst thy window,

And let in life into thee; thou shalt feede

Vpon the sweetenes of a noble beauty,

That nature nev'r exceeded, nor nev'r shall:

Good gods! what happines has Palamon!

Twenty to one, hee'le come to speake to her,

And if she be as gentle as she's faire,

I know she's his; he has a Tongue will tame

Tempests, and make the wild Rockes wanton.

Come what can come,

The worst is death; I will not leave the Kingdome.

I know mine owne is but a heape of ruins,

And no redresse there; if I goe, he has her.

I am resolu'd an other shape shall make me,

Or end my fortunes. Either way, I am happy:

Ile see her, and be neere her, or no more.

[Enter 4. Country people, & one with a garlond before them.]

1. COUNTREYMAN

My Masters, ile be there, that's certaine

2. COUNTREYMAN

And Ile be there.

3. COUNTREYMAN

And I.

4. COUNTREYMAN

Why, then, have with ye, Boyes; Tis but a chiding.

Let the plough play to day, ile tick'lt out

Of the Iades tailes to morrow.

1. COUNTREYMAN

I am sure

To have my wife as jealous as a Turkey:

But that's all one; ile goe through, let her mumble.

2. COUNTREYMAN

Clap her aboard to morrow night, and stoa her,

And all's made up againe.

3. COUNTREYMAN

I, doe but put a feskue in her fist, and you shall see her

Take a new lesson out, and be a good wench.

Doe we all hold against the Maying?

4. COUNTREYMAN

Hold? what should aile us?

3. COUNTREYMAN

Arcas will be there.

2. COUNTREYMAN

And Sennois.

And Rycas, and 3. better lads nev'r dancd

Under green Tree. And yee know what wenches: ha?

But will the dainty Domine, the Schoolemaster,

Keep touch, doe you thinke? for he do's all, ye know.

3. COUNTREYMAN

Hee'l eate a hornebooke ere he faile: goe too, the matter's too farre driven betweene him and the Tanners daughter, to let slip now, and she must see the Duke, and she must daunce too.

4. COUNTREYMAN

Shall we be lusty?

2. COUNTREYMAN

All the Boyes in Athens blow wind i'th breech on's, and heere ile be and there ile be, for our Towne, and here againe, and there againe: ha, Boyes, heigh for the weavers.

1. COUNTREYMAN

This must be done i'th woods.

4. COUNTREYMAN

O, pardon me.

2. COUNTREYMAN

By any meanes, our thing of learning saies so:

Where he himselfe will edifie the Duke

Most parlously in our behalfes: hees excellent i'th woods;

Bring him to'th plaines, his learning makes no cry.

3. COUNTREYMAN

Weele see the sports, then; every man to's Tackle:

And, Sweete Companions, lets rehearse by any meanes,

Before the Ladies see us, and doe sweetly,

And God knows what May come on't.

4. COUNTREYMAN

Content; the sports once ended, wee'l performe.

Away, Boyes and hold.

ARCITE.

By your leaves, honest friends: pray you, whither goe you?

4. COUNTREYMAN

Whither? why, what a question's that?

ARCITE.

Yes, tis a question, to me that know not.

3. COUNTREYMAN

To the Games, my Friend.

2. COUNTREYMAN

Where were you bred, you know it not?

ARCITE.

Not farre, Sir,

Are there such Games to day?

1. COUNTREYMAN

Yes, marry, are there:

And such as you neuer saw; The Duke himselfe

Will be in person there.

ARCITE.

What pastimes are they?

2. COUNTREYMAN

Wrastling, and Running.—Tis a pretty Fellow.

3. COUNTREYMAN

Thou wilt not goe along?

ARCITE.

Not yet, Sir.

4. COUNTREYMAN

Well, Sir,

Take your owne time: come, Boyes.

1. COUNTREYMAN

My minde misgives me;

This fellow has a veng'ance tricke o'th hip:

Marke how his Bodi's made for't

2. COUNTREYMAN

Ile be hangd, though,

If he dare venture; hang him, plumb porredge,

He wrastle? he rost eggs! Come, lets be gon, Lads.

[Exeunt.]

ARCITE.

This is an offerd oportunity

I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled,

The best men calld it excellent, and run—

Swifter the winde upon a feild of Corne

(Curling the wealthy eares) never flew: Ile venture,

And in some poore disguize be there; who knowes

Whether my browes may not be girt with garlands?

And happines preferre me to a place,

Where I may ever dwell in sight of her.

[Exit Arcite.]

ACT II. SCENE IV.

Athens. A room in the prison.

[Enter Iailors Daughter alone.]

DAUGHTER.

Why should I love this Gentleman? Tis odds

He never will affect me; I am base,

My Father the meane Keeper of his Prison,

And he a prince: To marry him is hopelesse;

To be his whore is witles. Out upon't,

What pushes are we wenches driven to,

When fifteene once has found us! First, I saw him;

I (seeing) thought he was a goodly man;

He has as much to please a woman in him,

(If he please to bestow it so) as ever

These eyes yet lookt on. Next, I pittied him,

And so would any young wench, o' my Conscience,

That ever dream'd, or vow'd her Maydenhead

To a yong hansom Man; Then I lov'd him,

Extreamely lov'd him, infinitely lov'd him;

And yet he had a Cosen, faire as he too.

But in my heart was Palamon, and there,

Lord, what a coyle he keepes! To heare him

Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is!

And yet his Songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken

Was never Gentleman. When I come in

To bring him water in a morning, first

He bowes his noble body, then salutes me, thus:

'Faire, gentle Mayde, good morrow; may thy goodnes

Get thee a happy husband.' Once he kist me.

I lov'd my lips the better ten daies after.

Would he would doe so ev'ry day! He greives much,

And me as much to see his misery.

What should I doe, to make him know I love him?

For I would faine enjoy him. Say I ventur'd

To set him free? what saies the law then? Thus much

For Law, or kindred! I will doe it,

And this night, or to morrow, he shall love me.

[Exit.]

ACT II. SCENE V.

An open place in Athens.

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Pirithous, Emilia: Arcite with a Garland, &c.]

[This short florish of Cornets and Showtes within.]

THESEUS.

You have done worthily; I have not seene,

Since Hercules, a man of tougher synewes;

What ere you are, you run the best, and wrastle,

That these times can allow.

ARCITE.

I am proud to please you.

THESEUS.

What Countrie bred you?

ARCITE.

This; but far off, Prince.

THESEUS.

Are you a Gentleman?

ARCITE.

My father said so;

And to those gentle uses gave me life.

THESEUS.

Are you his heire?

ARCITE.

His yongest, Sir.

THESEUS.

Your Father

Sure is a happy Sire then: what prooves you?

ARCITE.

A little of all noble Quallities:

I could have kept a Hawke, and well have holloa'd

To a deepe crie of Dogges; I dare not praise

My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me

Would say it was my best peece: last, and greatest,

I would be thought a Souldier.

THESEUS.

You are perfect.

PERITHOUS.

Vpon my soule, a proper man.

EMILIA.

He is so.

PERITHOUS.

How doe you like him, Ladie?

HIPPOLITA.

I admire him;

I have not seene so yong a man so noble

(If he say true,) of his sort.

EMILIA.

Beleeve,

His mother was a wondrous handsome woman;

His face, me thinkes, goes that way.

HIPPOLITA.

But his Body

And firie minde illustrate a brave Father.

PERITHOUS.

Marke how his vertue, like a hidden Sun,

Breakes through his baser garments.

HIPPOLITA.

Hee's well got, sure.

THESEUS.

What made you seeke this place, Sir?

ARCITE.

Noble Theseus,

To purchase name, and doe my ablest service

To such a well-found wonder as thy worth,

For onely in thy Court, of all the world,

Dwells faire-eyd honor.

PERITHOUS.

All his words are worthy.

THESEUS.

Sir, we are much endebted to your travell,

Nor shall you loose your wish: Perithous,

Dispose of this faire Gentleman.

PERITHOUS.

Thankes, Theseus.

What ere you are y'ar mine, and I shall give you

To a most noble service, to this Lady,

This bright yong Virgin; pray, observe her goodnesse;

You have honourd hir faire birth-day with your vertues,

And as your due y'ar hirs: kisse her faire hand, Sir.

ARCITE.

Sir, y'ar a noble Giver: dearest Bewtie,

Thus let me seale my vowd faith: when your Servant

(Your most unworthie Creature) but offends you,

Command him die, he shall.

EMILIA.

That were too cruell.

If you deserve well, Sir, I shall soone see't:

Y'ar mine, and somewhat better than your rancke

Ile use you.

PERITHOUS.

Ile see you furnish'd, and because you say

You are a horseman, I must needs intreat you

This after noone to ride, but tis a rough one.

ARCITE.

I like him better, Prince, I shall not then

Freeze in my Saddle.

THESEUS.

Sweet, you must be readie,

And you, Emilia, and you, Friend, and all,

To morrow by the Sun, to doe observance

To flowry May, in Dians wood: waite well, Sir,

Vpon your Mistris. Emely, I hope

He shall not goe a foote.

EMILIA.

That were a shame, Sir,

While I have horses: take your choice, and what

You want at any time, let me but know it;

If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you

You'l finde a loving Mistris.

ARCITE.

If I doe not,

Let me finde that my Father ever hated,

Disgrace and blowes.

THESEUS.

Go, leade the way; you have won it:

It shall be so; you shall receave all dues

Fit for the honour you have won; Twer wrong else.

Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a Servant,

That, if I were a woman, would be Master,

But you are wise. [Florish.]

EMILIA.

I hope too wise for that, Sir.

[Exeunt omnes.]

ACT II. SCENE VI.

Before the prison.

[Enter Iaylors Daughter alone.]

DAUGHTER.

Let all the Dukes, and all the divells rore,

He is at liberty: I have venturd for him,

And out I have brought him to a little wood

A mile hence. I have sent him, where a Cedar,

Higher than all the rest, spreads like a plane

Fast by a Brooke, and there he shall keepe close,

Till I provide him Fyles and foode, for yet

His yron bracelets are not off. O Love,

What a stout hearted child thou art! My Father

Durst better have indur'd cold yron, than done it:

I love him beyond love and beyond reason,

Or wit, or safetie: I have made him know it.

I care not, I am desperate; If the law

Finde me, and then condemne me for't, some wenches,

Some honest harted Maides, will sing my Dirge,

And tell to memory my death was noble,

Dying almost a Martyr: That way he takes,

I purpose is my way too: Sure he cannot

Be so unmanly, as to leave me here;

If he doe, Maides will not so easily

Trust men againe: And yet he has not thank'd me

For what I have done: no not so much as kist me,

And that (me thinkes) is not so well; nor scarcely

Could I perswade him to become a Freeman,

He made such scruples of the wrong he did

To me, and to my Father. Yet I hope,

When he considers more, this love of mine

Will take more root within him: Let him doe

What he will with me, so he use me kindly;

For use me so he shall, or ile proclaime him,

And to his face, no man. Ile presently

Provide him necessaries, and packe my cloathes up,

And where there is a patch of ground Ile venture,

So hee be with me; By him, like a shadow,

Ile ever dwell; within this houre the whoobub

Will be all ore the prison: I am then

Kissing the man they looke for: farewell, Father;

Get many more such prisoners and such daughters,

And shortly you may keepe your selfe. Now to him!

ACT III. SCENE I.

A forest near Athens.

[Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a Maying.]

[Enter Arcite alone.]

ARCITE.

The Duke has lost Hypolita; each tooke

A severall land. This is a solemne Right

They owe bloomd May, and the Athenians pay it

To'th heart of Ceremony. O Queene Emilia,

Fresher then May, sweeter

Then hir gold Buttons on the bowes, or all

Th'enamelld knackes o'th Meade or garden: yea,

We challenge too the bancke of any Nymph

That makes the streame seeme flowers; thou, o Iewell

O'th wood, o'th world, hast likewise blest a place

With thy sole presence: in thy rumination

That I, poore man, might eftsoones come betweene

And chop on some cold thought! thrice blessed chance,

To drop on such a Mistris, expectation

Most giltlesse on't! tell me, O Lady Fortune,

(Next after Emely my Soveraigne) how far

I may be prowd. She takes strong note of me,

Hath made me neere her; and this beuteous Morne

(The prim'st of all the yeare) presents me with

A brace of horses: two such Steeds might well

Be by a paire of Kings backt, in a Field

That their crownes titles tride. Alas, alas,

Poore Cosen Palamon, poore prisoner, thou

So little dream'st upon my fortune, that

Thou thinkst thy selfe the happier thing, to be

So neare Emilia; me thou deem'st at Thebs,

And therein wretched, although free. But if

Thou knew'st my Mistris breathd on me, and that

I ear'd her language, livde in her eye, O Coz,

What passion would enclose thee!

[Enter Palamon as out of a Bush, with his Shackles: bends his fist at Arcite.]

PALAMON.

Traytor kinesman,

Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signes

Of prisonment were off me, and this hand

But owner of a Sword: By all othes in one,

I and the iustice of my love would make thee

A confest Traytor. O thou most perfidious

That ever gently lookd; the voydest of honour,

That eu'r bore gentle Token; falsest Cosen

That ever blood made kin, call'st thou hir thine?

Ile prove it in my Shackles, with these hands,

Void of appointment, that thou ly'st, and art

A very theefe in love, a Chaffy Lord,

Nor worth the name of villaine: had I a Sword

And these house clogges away—

ARCITE.

Deere Cosin Palamon—

PALAMON.

Cosoner Arcite, give me language such

As thou hast shewd me feate.

ARCITE.

Not finding in

The circuit of my breast any grosse stuffe

To forme me like your blazon, holds me to

This gentlenesse of answer; tis your passion

That thus mistakes, the which to you being enemy,

Cannot to me be kind: honor, and honestie

I cherish, and depend on, how so ev'r

You skip them in me, and with them, faire Coz,

Ile maintaine my proceedings; pray, be pleas'd

To shew in generous termes your griefes, since that

Your question's with your equall, who professes

To cleare his owne way with the minde and Sword

Of a true Gentleman.

PALAMON.

That thou durst, Arcite!

ARCITE.

My Coz, my Coz, you have beene well advertis'd

How much I dare, y'ave seene me use my Sword

Against th'advice of feare: sure, of another

You would not heare me doubted, but your silence

Should breake out, though i'th Sanctuary.

PALAMON.

Sir,

I have seene you move in such a place, which well

Might justifie your manhood; you were calld

A good knight and a bold; But the whole weeke's not faire,

If any day it rayne: Their valiant temper

Men loose when they encline to trecherie,

And then they fight like coupelld Beares, would fly

Were they not tyde.

ARCITE.

Kinsman, you might as well

Speake this and act it in your Glasse, as to

His eare which now disdaines you.

PALAMON.

Come up to me,

Quit me of these cold Gyves, give me a Sword,

Though it be rustie, and the charity

Of one meale lend me; Come before me then,

A good Sword in thy hand, and doe but say

That Emily is thine: I will forgive

The trespasse thou hast done me, yea, my life,

If then thou carry't, and brave soules in shades

That have dyde manly, which will seeke of me

Some newes from earth, they shall get none but this,

That thou art brave and noble.

ARCITE.

Be content:

Againe betake you to your hawthorne house;

With counsaile of the night, I will be here

With wholesome viands; these impediments

Will I file off; you shall have garments and

Perfumes to kill the smell o'th prison; after,

When you shall stretch your selfe and say but, 'Arcite,

I am in plight,' there shall be at your choyce

Both Sword and Armour.

PALAMON.

Oh you heavens, dares any

So noble beare a guilty busines! none

But onely Arcite, therefore none but Arcite

In this kinde is so bold.

ARCITE.

Sweete Palamon.

PALAMON.

I doe embrace you and your offer,—for

Your offer doo't I onely, Sir; your person,

Without hipocrisy I may not wish

[Winde hornes of Cornets.]

More then my Swords edge ont.

ARCITE.

You heare the Hornes;

Enter your Musite least this match between's

Be crost, er met: give me your hand; farewell.

Ile bring you every needfull thing: I pray you,

Take comfort and be strong.

PALAMON.

Pray hold your promise;

And doe the deede with a bent brow: most certaine

You love me not, be rough with me, and powre

This oile out of your language; by this ayre,

I could for each word give a Cuffe, my stomach

Not reconcild by reason.

ARCITE.

Plainely spoken,

Yet pardon me hard language: when I spur

[Winde hornes.]

My horse, I chide him not; content and anger

In me have but one face. Harke, Sir, they call

The scatterd to the Banket; you must guesse

I have an office there.

PALAMON.

Sir, your attendance

Cannot please heaven, and I know your office

Vnjustly is atcheev'd.

ARCITE.

If a good title,

I am perswaded this question sicke between's

By bleeding must be cur'd. I am a Suitour,

That to your Sword you will bequeath this plea

And talke of it no more.

PALAMON.

But this one word:

You are going now to gaze upon my Mistris,

For note you, mine she is—

ARCITE.

Nay, then.

PALAMON.

Nay, pray you,

You talke of feeding me to breed me strength:

You are going now to looke upon a Sun

That strengthens what it lookes on; there

You have a vantage ore me, but enjoy't till

I may enforce my remedy. Farewell.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

Another Part of the forest.

[Enter Iaylors daughter alone.]

DAUGHTER.

He has mistooke the Brake I meant, is gone

After his fancy. Tis now welnigh morning;

No matter, would it were perpetuall night,

And darkenes Lord o'th world. Harke, tis a woolfe:

In me hath greife slaine feare, and but for one thing

I care for nothing, and that's Palamon.

I wreake not if the wolves would jaw me, so

He had this File: what if I hallowd for him?

I cannot hallow: if I whoop'd, what then?

If he not answeard, I should call a wolfe,

And doe him but that service. I have heard

Strange howles this live-long night, why may't not be

They have made prey of him? he has no weapons,

He cannot run, the Iengling of his Gives

Might call fell things to listen, who have in them

A sence to know a man unarmd, and can

Smell where resistance is. Ile set it downe

He's torne to peeces; they howld many together

And then they fed on him: So much for that,

Be bold to ring the Bell; how stand I then?

All's char'd when he is gone. No, no, I lye,

My Father's to be hang'd for his escape;

My selfe to beg, if I prizd life so much

As to deny my act, but that I would not,

Should I try death by dussons.—I am mop't,

Food tooke I none these two daies,

Sipt some water. I have not closd mine eyes

Save when my lids scowrd off their brine; alas,

Dissolue my life, Let not my sence unsettle,

Least I should drowne, or stab or hang my selfe.

O state of Nature, faile together in me,

Since thy best props are warpt! So, which way now?

The best way is the next way to a grave:

Each errant step beside is torment. Loe,

The Moone is down, the Cryckets chirpe, the Schreichowle

Calls in the dawne; all offices are done

Save what I faile in: But the point is this,

An end, and that is all.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Same as Scene I.

[Enter Arcite, with Meate, Wine, and Files.]

ARCITE.

I should be neere the place: hoa, Cosen Palamon.

[Enter Palamon.]

PALAMON.

Arcite?

ARCITE.

The same: I have brought you foode and files.

Come forth and feare not, here's no Theseus.

PALAMON.

Nor none so honest, Arcite.

ARCITE.

That's no matter,

Wee'l argue that hereafter: Come, take courage;

You shall not dye thus beastly: here, Sir, drinke;

I know you are faint: then ile talke further with you.

PALAMON.

Arcite, thou mightst now poyson me.

ARCITE.

I might,

But I must feare you first: Sit downe, and, good, now

No more of these vaine parlies; let us not,

Having our ancient reputation with us,

Make talke for Fooles and Cowards. To your health, &c.

PALAMON.

Doe.

ARCITE.

Pray, sit downe then; and let me entreate you,

By all the honesty and honour in you,

No mention of this woman: t'will disturbe us;

We shall have time enough.

PALAMON.

Well, Sir, Ile pledge you.

ARCITE.

Drinke a good hearty draught; it breeds good blood, man.

Doe not you feele it thaw you?

PALAMON.

Stay, Ile tell you after a draught or two more.

ARCITE.

Spare it not, the Duke has more, Cuz: Eate now.

PALAMON.

Yes.

ARCITE.

I am glad you have so good a stomach.

PALAMON.

I am gladder I have so good meate too't.

ARCITE.

Is't not mad lodging here in the wild woods, Cosen?

PALAMON.

Yes, for them that have wilde Consciences.

ARCITE.

How tasts your vittails? your hunger needs no sawce, I see.

PALAMON.

Not much;

But if it did, yours is too tart, sweete Cosen: what is this?

ARCITE.

Venison.

PALAMON.

Tis a lusty meate:

Giue me more wine; here, Arcite, to the wenches

We have known in our daies. The Lord Stewards daughter,

Doe you remember her?

ARCITE.

After you, Cuz.

PALAMON.

She lov'd a black-haird man.

ARCITE.

She did so; well, Sir.

PALAMON.

And I have heard some call him Arcite, and—

ARCITE.

Out with't, faith.

PALAMON.

She met him in an Arbour:

What did she there, Cuz? play o'th virginals?

ARCITE.

Something she did, Sir.

PALAMON.

Made her groane a moneth for't, or 2. or 3. or 10.

ARCITE.

The Marshals Sister

Had her share too, as I remember, Cosen,

Else there be tales abroade; you'l pledge her?

PALAMON.

Yes.

ARCITE.

A pretty broune wench t'is. There was a time

When yong men went a hunting, and a wood,

And a broade Beech: and thereby hangs a tale:—heigh ho!

PALAMON.

For Emily, upon my life! Foole,

Away with this straind mirth; I say againe,

That sigh was breathd for Emily; base Cosen,

Dar'st thou breake first?

ARCITE.

You are wide.

PALAMON.

By heaven and earth, ther's nothing in thee honest.

ARCITE.

Then Ile leave you: you are a Beast now.

PALAMON.

As thou makst me, Traytour.

ARCITE.

Ther's all things needfull, files and shirts, and perfumes:

Ile come againe some two howres hence, and bring

That that shall quiet all,

PALAMON.

A Sword and Armour?

ARCITE.

Feare me not; you are now too fowle; farewell.

Get off your Trinkets; you shall want nought.

PALAMON.

Sir, ha—

ARCITE.

Ile heare no more.

[Exit.]

PALAMON.

If he keepe touch, he dies for't.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE IV.

Another part of the forest.

[Enter Iaylors daughter.]

DAUGHTER.

I am very cold, and all the Stars are out too,

The little Stars, and all, that looke like aglets:

The Sun has seene my Folly. Palamon!

Alas no; hees in heaven. Where am I now?

Yonder's the sea, and ther's a Ship; how't tumbles!

And ther's a Rocke lies watching under water;

Now, now, it beates upon it; now, now, now,

Ther's a leak sprung, a sound one, how they cry!

Spoon her before the winde, you'l loose all els:

Vp with a course or two, and take about, Boyes.

Good night, good night, y'ar gone.—I am very hungry.

Would I could finde a fine Frog; he would tell me

Newes from all parts o'th world, then would I make

A Carecke of a Cockle shell, and sayle

By east and North East to the King of Pigmes,

For he tels fortunes rarely. Now my Father,

Twenty to one, is trust up in a trice

To morrow morning; Ile say never a word.

[Sing.]

For ile cut my greene coat a foote above my knee,

And ile clip my yellow lockes an inch below mine eie.

Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny,

He's buy me a white Cut, forth for to ride

And ile goe seeke him, throw the world that is so wide

Hey nonny, nonny, nonny.

O for a pricke now like a Nightingale,

To put my breast against. I shall sleepe like a Top else.

[Exit.]

ACT III. SCENE V.

Another part of the forest.

[Enter a Schoole master, 4. Countrymen, and Bavian. 2. or 3. wenches, with a Taborer.]

SCHOOLMASTER.

Fy, fy,

What tediosity, & disensanity

Is here among ye? have my Rudiments

Bin labourd so long with ye? milkd unto ye,

And by a figure even the very plumbroth

And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye,

And do you still cry: where, and how, & wherfore?

You most course freeze capacities, ye jane Iudgements,

Have I saide: thus let be, and there let be,

And then let be, and no man understand mee?

Proh deum, medius fidius, ye are all dunces!

For why?

Here stand I, Here the Duke comes, there are you,

Close in the Thicket; the Duke appeares, I meete him

And unto him I utter learned things

And many figures; he heares, and nods, and hums,

And then cries: rare, and I goe forward; at length

I fling my Cap up; marke there; then do you,

As once did Meleager and the Bore,

Break comly out before him: like true lovers,

Cast your selves in a Body decently,

And sweetly, by a figure trace and turne, Boyes.

1. COUNTREYMAN.

And sweetly we will doe it Master Gerrold.

2. COUNTREYMAN.

Draw up the Company. Where's the Taborour?

3. COUNTREYMAN.

Why, Timothy!

TABORER.

Here, my mad boyes, have at ye.

SCHOOLMASTER.

But I say, where's their women?

4. COUNTREYMAN.

Here's Friz and Maudline.

2. COUNTREYMAN.

And little Luce with the white legs, and bouncing Barbery.

1. COUNTREYMAN.

And freckeled Nel, that never faild her Master.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Wher be your Ribands, maids? swym with your Bodies

And carry it sweetly, and deliverly

And now and then a fauour, and a friske.

NEL.

Let us alone, Sir.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Wher's the rest o'th Musicke?

3. COUNTREYMAN.

Dispersd as you commanded.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Couple, then,

And see what's wanting; wher's the Bavian?

My friend, carry your taile without offence

Or scandall to the Ladies; and be sure

You tumble with audacity and manhood;

And when you barke, doe it with judgement.

BAVIAN.

Yes, Sir.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Quo usque tandem? Here is a woman wanting.

4. COUNTREYMAN.

We may goe whistle: all the fat's i'th fire.

SCHOOLMASTER.

We have,

As learned Authours utter, washd a Tile,

We have beene fatuus, and laboured vainely.

2. COUNTREYMAN.

This is that scornefull peece, that scurvy hilding,

That gave her promise faithfully, she would be here,

Cicely the Sempsters daughter:

The next gloves that I give her shall be dog skin;

Nay and she faile me once—you can tell, Arcas,

She swore by wine and bread, she would not breake.

SCHOOLMASTER.

An Eele and woman,

A learned Poet sayes, unles by'th taile

And with thy teeth thou hold, will either faile.

In manners this was false position

1. COUNTREYMAN.

A fire ill take her; do's she flinch now?

3. COUNTREYMAN.

What

Shall we determine, Sir?

SCHOOLMASTER.

Nothing.

Our busines is become a nullity;

Yea, and a woefull, and a pittious nullity.

4. COUNTREYMAN.

Now when the credite of our Towne lay on it,

Now to be frampall, now to pisse o'th nettle!

Goe thy waies; ile remember thee, ile fit thee.

[Enter Iaylors daughter.]

DAUGHTER.

[Sings.]

The George alow came from the South,

From the coast of Barbary a.

And there he met with brave gallants of war

By one, by two, by three, a.

Well haild, well haild, you jolly gallants,

And whither now are you bound a?

O let me have your company

[Chaire and stooles out.]

Till (I) come to the sound a.

There was three fooles, fell out about an howlet:

The one sed it was an owle,

The other he sed nay,

The third he sed it was a hawke,

And her bels wer cut away.

3. COUNTREYMAN.

Ther's a dainty mad woman M(aiste)r

Comes i'th Nick, as mad as a march hare:

If wee can get her daunce, wee are made againe:

I warrant her, shee'l doe the rarest gambols.

1. COUNTREYMAN.

A mad woman? we are made, Boyes.

SCHOOLMASTER.

And are you mad, good woman?

DAUGHTER.

I would be sorry else;

Give me your hand.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Why?

DAUGHTER.

I can tell your fortune.

You are a foole: tell ten. I have pozd him: Buz!

Friend you must eate no whitebread; if you doe,

Your teeth will bleede extreamely. Shall we dance, ho?

I know you, y'ar a Tinker: Sirha Tinker,

Stop no more holes, but what you should.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Dij boni. A Tinker, Damzell?

DAUGHTER.

Or a Conjurer:

Raise me a devill now, and let him play

Quipassa o'th bels and bones.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Goe, take her,

And fluently perswade her to a peace:

Et opus exegi, quod nec Iouis ira, nec ignis.

Strike up, and leade her in.

2. COUNTREYMAN.

Come, Lasse, lets trip it.

DAUGHTER.

Ile leade. [Winde Hornes.]

3. COUNTREYMAN.

Doe, doe.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Perswasively, and cunningly: away, boyes,

[Ex. all but Schoolemaster.]

I heare the hornes: give me some meditation,

And marke your Cue.—Pallas inspire me.

[Enter Thes. Pir. Hip. Emil. Arcite, and traine.]

THESEUS.

This way the Stag tooke.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Stay, and edifie.

THESEUS.

What have we here?

PERITHOUS.

Some Countrey sport, upon my life, Sir.

THESEUS.

Well, Sir, goe forward, we will edifie.

Ladies, sit downe, wee'l stay it.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Thou, doughtie Duke, all haile: all haile, sweet Ladies.

THESEUS.

This is a cold beginning.

SCHOOLMASTER.

If you but favour, our Country pastime made is.

We are a few of those collected here,

That ruder Tongues distinguish villager;

And to say veritie, and not to fable,

We are a merry rout, or else a rable,

Or company, or, by a figure, Choris,

That fore thy dignitie will dance a Morris.

And I, that am the rectifier of all,

By title Pedagogus, that let fall

The Birch upon the breeches of the small ones,

And humble with a Ferula the tall ones,

Doe here present this Machine, or this frame:

And daintie Duke, whose doughtie dismall fame

From Dis to Dedalus, from post to pillar,

Is blowne abroad, helpe me thy poore well willer,

And with thy twinckling eyes looke right and straight

Vpon this mighty MORR—of mickle waight;

IS now comes in, which being glewd together,

Makes MORRIS, and the cause that we came hether.

The body of our sport, of no small study,

I first appeare, though rude, and raw, and muddy,

To speake before thy noble grace this tenner:

At whose great feete I offer up my penner.

The next the Lord of May and Lady bright,

The Chambermaid and Servingman by night

That seeke out silent hanging: Then mine Host

And his fat Spowse, that welcomes to their cost

The gauled Traveller, and with a beckning

Informes the Tapster to inflame the reckning:

Then the beast eating Clowne, and next the foole,

The Bavian, with long tayle and eke long toole,

Cum multis alijs that make a dance:

Say 'I,' and all shall presently advance.

THESEUS.

I, I, by any meanes, deere Domine.

PERITHOUS.

Produce.

SCHOOLMASTER.

Intrate, filij; Come forth, and foot it.—

[Musicke, Dance. Knocke for Schoole.]

[Enter the Dance.]

Ladies, if we have beene merry,

And have pleasd yee with a derry,

And a derry, and a downe,

Say the Schoolemaster's no Clowne:

Duke, if we have pleasd thee too,

And have done as good Boyes should doe,

Give us but a tree or twaine

For a Maypole, and againe,

Ere another yeare run out,

Wee'l make thee laugh and all this rout.

THESEUS.

Take 20., Domine; how does my sweet heart?

HIPPOLITA.

Never so pleasd, Sir.

EMILIA.

Twas an excellent dance, and for a preface

I never heard a better.

THESEUS.

Schoolemaster, I thanke you.—One see'em all rewarded.

PERITHOUS.

And heer's something to paint your Pole withall.

THESEUS.

Now to our sports againe.

SCHOOLMASTER.

May the Stag thou huntst stand long,

And thy dogs be swift and strong:

May they kill him without lets,

And the Ladies eate his dowsets!

Come, we are all made. [Winde Hornes.]

Dij Deoeq(ue) omnes, ye have danc'd rarely, wenches.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE VI.

Same as Scene III.

[Enter Palamon from the Bush.]

PALAMON.

About this houre my Cosen gave his faith

To visit me againe, and with him bring

Two Swords, and two good Armors; if he faile,

He's neither man nor Souldier. When he left me,

I did not thinke a weeke could have restord

My lost strength to me, I was growne so low,

And Crest-falne with my wants: I thanke thee, Arcite,

Thou art yet a faire Foe; and I feele my selfe

With this refreshing, able once againe

To out dure danger: To delay it longer

Would make the world think, when it comes to hearing,

That I lay fatting like a Swine to fight,

And not a Souldier: Therefore, this blest morning

Shall be the last; and that Sword he refuses,

If it but hold, I kill him with; tis Iustice:

So love, and Fortune for me!—O, good morrow.

[Enter Arcite with Armors and Swords.]

ARCITE.

Good morrow, noble kinesman.

PALAMON.

I have put you to too much paines, Sir.

ARCITE.

That too much, faire Cosen,

Is but a debt to honour, and my duty.

PALAMON.

Would you were so in all, Sir; I could wish ye

As kinde a kinsman, as you force me finde

A beneficiall foe, that my embraces

Might thanke ye, not my blowes.

ARCITE.

I shall thinke either, well done,

A noble recompence.

PALAMON.

Then I shall quit you.

ARCITE.

Defy me in these faire termes, and you show

More then a Mistris to me, no more anger

As you love any thing that's honourable:

We were not bred to talke, man; when we are arm'd

And both upon our guards, then let our fury,

Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us,

And then to whom the birthright of this Beauty

Truely pertaines (without obbraidings, scornes,

Dispisings of our persons, and such powtings,

Fitter for Girles and Schooleboyes) will be seene

And quickly, yours, or mine: wilt please you arme, Sir,

Or if you feele your selfe not fitting yet

And furnishd with your old strength, ile stay, Cosen,

And ev'ry day discourse you into health,

As I am spard: your person I am friends with,

And I could wish I had not saide I lov'd her,

Though I had dide; But loving such a Lady

And justifying my Love, I must not fly from't.

PALAMON.

Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy,

That no man but thy Cosen's fit to kill thee:

I am well and lusty, choose your Armes.

ARCITE.

Choose you, Sir.

PALAMON.

Wilt thou exceede in all, or do'st thou doe it

To make me spare thee?

ARCITE.

If you thinke so, Cosen,

You are deceived, for as I am a Soldier,

I will not spare you.

PALAMON.

That's well said.

ARCITE.

You'l finde it.

PALAMON.

Then, as I am an honest man and love

With all the justice of affection,

Ile pay thee soundly. This ile take.

ARCITE.

That's mine, then;

Ile arme you first.

PALAMON.

Do: pray thee, tell me, Cosen,

Where gotst thou this good Armour?

ARCITE.

Tis the Dukes,

And to say true, I stole it; doe I pinch you?

PALAMON.

Noe.

ARCITE.

Is't not too heavie?

PALAMON.

I have worne a lighter,

But I shall make it serve.

ARCITE.

Ile buckl't close.

PALAMON.

By any meanes.

ARCITE.

You care not for a Grand guard?

PALAMON.

No, no; wee'l use no horses: I perceave

You would faine be at that Fight.

ARCITE.

I am indifferent.

PALAMON.

Faith, so am I: good Cosen, thrust the buckle

Through far enough.

ARCITE.

I warrant you.

PALAMON.

My Caske now.

ARCITE.

Will you fight bare-armd?

PALAMON.

We shall be the nimbler.

ARCITE.

But use your Gauntlets though; those are o'th least,

Prethee take mine, good Cosen.

PALAMON.

Thanke you, Arcite.

How doe I looke? am I falne much away?

ARCITE.

Faith, very little; love has usd you kindly.

PALAMON.

Ile warrant thee, Ile strike home.

ARCITE.

Doe, and spare not;

Ile give you cause, sweet Cosen.

PALAMON.

Now to you, Sir:

Me thinkes this Armor's very like that, Arcite,

Thou wor'st the day the 3. Kings fell, but lighter.

ARCITE.

That was a very good one; and that day,

I well remember, you outdid me, Cosen.

I never saw such valour: when you chargd

Vpon the left wing of the Enemie,

I spurd hard to come up, and under me

I had a right good horse.

PALAMON.

You had indeede; a bright Bay, I remember.

ARCITE.

Yes, but all

Was vainely labour'd in me; you outwent me,

Nor could my wishes reach you; yet a little

I did by imitation.

PALAMON.

More by vertue;

You are modest, Cosen.

ARCITE.

When I saw you charge first,

Me thought I heard a dreadfull clap of Thunder

Breake from the Troope.

PALAMON.

But still before that flew

The lightning of your valour. Stay a little,

Is not this peece too streight?

ARCITE.

No, no, tis well.

PALAMON.

I would have nothing hurt thee but my Sword,

A bruise would be dishonour.

ARCITE.

Now I am perfect.

PALAMON.

Stand off, then.

ARCITE.

Take my Sword, I hold it better.

PALAMON.

I thanke ye: No, keepe it; your life lyes on it.

Here's one; if it but hold, I aske no more

For all my hopes: My Cause and honour guard me!

[They bow severall wayes: then advance and stand.]

ARCITE.

And me my love! Is there ought else to say?

PALAMON.

This onely, and no more: Thou art mine Aunts Son,

And that blood we desire to shed is mutuall;

In me, thine, and in thee, mine. My Sword

Is in my hand, and if thou killst me,

The gods and I forgive thee; If there be

A place prepar'd for those that sleepe in honour,

I wish his wearie soule that falls may win it:

Fight bravely, Cosen; give me thy noble hand.

ARCITE.

Here, Palamon: This hand shall never more

Come neare thee with such friendship.

PALAMON.

I commend thee.

ARCITE.

If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward,

For none but such dare die in these just Tryalls.

Once more farewell, my Cosen.

PALAMON.

Farewell, Arcite. [Fight.]

[Hornes within: they stand.]

ARCITE.

Loe, Cosen, loe, our Folly has undon us.

PALAMON.

Why?

ARCITE.

This is the Duke, a hunting as I told you.

If we be found, we are wretched. O retire

For honours sake, and safety presently

Into your Bush agen; Sir, we shall finde

Too many howres to dye in: gentle Cosen,

If you be seene you perish instantly

For breaking prison, and I, if you reveale me,

For my contempt. Then all the world will scorne us,

And say we had a noble difference,

But base disposers of it.

PALAMON.

No, no, Cosen,

I will no more be hidden, nor put off

This great adventure to a second Tryall:

I know your cunning, and I know your cause;

He that faints now, shame take him: put thy selfe

Vpon thy present guard—

ARCITE.

You are not mad?

PALAMON.

Or I will make th'advantage of this howre

Mine owne, and what to come shall threaten me,

I feare lesse then my fortune: know, weake Cosen,

I love Emilia, and in that ile bury

Thee, and all crosses else.

ARCITE.

Then, come what can come,

Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well

Die, as discourse, or sleepe: Onely this feares me,

The law will have the honour of our ends.

Have at thy life.

PALAMON.

Looke to thine owne well, Arcite.

[Fight againe. Hornes.]

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Emilia, Perithous and traine.]

THESEUS.

What ignorant and mad malicious Traitors,

Are you, That gainst the tenor of my Lawes

Are making Battaile, thus like Knights appointed,

Without my leave, and Officers of Armes?

By Castor, both shall dye.

PALAMON.

Hold thy word, Theseus.

We are certainly both Traitors, both despisers

Of thee and of thy goodnesse: I am Palamon,

That cannot love thee, he that broke thy Prison;

Thinke well what that deserves: and this is Arcite,

A bolder Traytor never trod thy ground,

A Falser neu'r seem'd friend: This is the man

Was begd and banish'd; this is he contemnes thee

And what thou dar'st doe, and in this disguise

Against thy owne Edict followes thy Sister,

That fortunate bright Star, the faire Emilia,

Whose servant, (if there be a right in seeing,

And first bequeathing of the soule to) justly

I am, and, which is more, dares thinke her his.

This treacherie, like a most trusty Lover,

I call'd him now to answer; if thou bee'st,

As thou art spoken, great and vertuous,

The true descider of all injuries,

Say, 'Fight againe,' and thou shalt see me, Theseus,

Doe such a Iustice, thou thy selfe wilt envie.

Then take my life; Ile wooe thee too't.

PERITHOUS.

O heaven,

What more then man is this!

THESEUS.

I have sworne.

ARCITE.

We seeke not

Thy breath of mercy, Theseus. Tis to me

A thing as soone to dye, as thee to say it,

And no more mov'd: where this man calls me Traitor,

Let me say thus much: if in love be Treason,

In service of so excellent a Beutie,

As I love most, and in that faith will perish,

As I have brought my life here to confirme it,

As I have serv'd her truest, worthiest,

As I dare kill this Cosen, that denies it,

So let me be most Traitor, and ye please me.

For scorning thy Edict, Duke, aske that Lady

Why she is faire, and why her eyes command me

Stay here to love her; and if she say 'Traytor,'

I am a villaine fit to lye unburied.

PALAMON.

Thou shalt have pitty of us both, o Theseus,

If unto neither thou shew mercy; stop

(As thou art just) thy noble eare against us.

As thou art valiant, for thy Cosens soule

Whose 12. strong labours crowne his memory,

Lets die together, at one instant, Duke,

Onely a little let him fall before me,

That I may tell my Soule he shall not have her.

THESEUS.

I grant your wish, for, to say true, your Cosen

Has ten times more offended; for I gave him

More mercy then you found, Sir, your offenses

Being no more then his. None here speake for 'em,

For, ere the Sun set, both shall sleepe for ever.

HIPPOLITA.

Alas the pitty! now or never, Sister,

Speake, not to be denide; That face of yours

Will beare the curses else of after ages

For these lost Cosens.

EMILIA.

In my face, deare Sister,

I finde no anger to 'em, nor no ruyn;

The misadventure of their owne eyes kill 'em;

Yet that I will be woman, and have pitty,

My knees shall grow to'th ground but Ile get mercie.

Helpe me, deare Sister; in a deede so vertuous

The powers of all women will be with us.

Most royall Brother—

HIPPOLITA.

Sir, by our tye of Marriage—

EMILIA.

By your owne spotlesse honour—

HIPPOLITA.

By that faith,

That faire hand, and that honest heart you gave me.

EMILIA.

By that you would have pitty in another,

By your owne vertues infinite.

HIPPOLITA.

By valour,

By all the chaste nights I have ever pleasd you.

THESEUS.

These are strange Conjurings.

PERITHOUS.

Nay, then, Ile in too:

By all our friendship, Sir, by all our dangers,

By all you love most: warres and this sweet Lady.

EMILIA.

By that you would have trembled to deny,

A blushing Maide.

HIPPOLITA.

By your owne eyes: By strength,

In which you swore I went beyond all women,

Almost all men, and yet I yeelded, Theseus.

PERITHOUS.

To crowne all this: By your most noble soule,

Which cannot want due mercie, I beg first.

HIPPOLITA.

Next, heare my prayers.

EMILIA.

Last, let me intreate, Sir.

PERITHOUS.

For mercy.

HIPPOLITA.

Mercy.

EMILIA.

Mercy on these Princes.

THESEUS.

Ye make my faith reele: Say I felt

Compassion to'em both, how would you place it?

EMILIA.

Vpon their lives: But with their banishments.

THESEUS.

You are a right woman, Sister; you have pitty,

But want the vnderstanding where to use it.

If you desire their lives, invent a way

Safer then banishment: Can these two live

And have the agony of love about 'em,

And not kill one another? Every day

They'ld fight about you; howrely bring your honour

In publique question with their Swords. Be wise, then,

And here forget 'em; it concernes your credit

And my oth equally: I have said they die;

Better they fall by'th law, then one another.

Bow not my honor.

EMILIA.

O my noble Brother,

That oth was rashly made, and in your anger,

Your reason will not hold it; if such vowes

Stand for expresse will, all the world must perish.

Beside, I have another oth gainst yours,

Of more authority, I am sure more love,

Not made in passion neither, but good heede.

THESEUS.

What is it, Sister?

PERITHOUS.

Vrge it home, brave Lady.

EMILIA.

That you would nev'r deny me any thing

Fit for my modest suit, and your free granting:

I tye you to your word now; if ye fall in't,

Thinke how you maime your honour,

(For now I am set a begging, Sir, I am deafe

To all but your compassion.) How, their lives

Might breed the ruine of my name, Opinion!

Shall any thing that loves me perish for me?

That were a cruell wisedome; doe men proyne

The straight yong Bowes that blush with thousand Blossoms,

Because they may be rotten? O Duke Theseus,

The goodly Mothers that have groand for these,

And all the longing Maides that ever lov'd,

If your vow stand, shall curse me and my Beauty,

And in their funerall songs for these two Cosens

Despise my crueltie, and cry woe worth me,

Till I am nothing but the scorne of women;

For heavens sake save their lives, and banish 'em.

THESEUS.

On what conditions?

EMILIA.

Sweare'em never more

To make me their Contention, or to know me,

To tread upon thy Dukedome; and to be,

Where ever they shall travel, ever strangers

To one another.

PALAMON.

Ile be cut a peeces

Before I take this oth: forget I love her?

O all ye gods dispise me, then! Thy Banishment

I not mislike, so we may fairely carry

Our Swords and cause along: else, never trifle,

But take our lives, Duke: I must love and will,

And for that love must and dare kill this Cosen

On any peece the earth has.

THESEUS.

Will you, Arcite,

Take these conditions?

PALAMON.

He's a villaine, then.

PERITHOUS.

These are men.

ARCITE.

No, never, Duke: Tis worse to me than begging

To take my life so basely; though I thinke

I never shall enjoy her, yet ile preserve

The honour of affection, and dye for her,

Make death a Devill.

THESEUS.

What may be done? for now I feele compassion.

PERITHOUS.

Let it not fall agen, Sir.

THESEUS.

Say, Emilia,

If one of them were dead, as one must, are you

Content to take th'other to your husband?

They cannot both enjoy you; They are Princes

As goodly as your owne eyes, and as noble

As ever fame yet spoke of; looke upon 'em,

And if you can love, end this difference.

I give consent; are you content too, Princes?

BOTH.

With all our soules.

THESEUS.

He that she refuses

Must dye, then.

BOTH.

Any death thou canst invent, Duke.

PALAMON.

If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour,

And Lovers yet unborne shall blesse my ashes.

ARCITE.

If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me,

And Souldiers sing my Epitaph.

THESEUS.

Make choice, then.

EMILIA.

I cannot, Sir, they are both too excellent:

For me, a hayre shall never fall of these men.

HIPPOLITA.

What will become of 'em?

THESEUS.

Thus I ordaine it;

And by mine honor, once againe, it stands,

Or both shall dye:—You shall both to your Countrey,

And each within this moneth, accompanied

With three faire Knights, appeare againe in this place,

In which Ile plant a Pyramid; and whether,

Before us that are here, can force his Cosen

By fayre and knightly strength to touch the Pillar,

He shall enjoy her: the other loose his head,

And all his friends; Nor shall he grudge to fall,

Nor thinke he dies with interest in this Lady:

Will this content yee?

PALAMON.

Yes: here, Cosen Arcite,

I am friends againe, till that howre.

ARCITE.

I embrace ye.

THESEUS.

Are you content, Sister?

EMILIA.

Yes, I must, Sir,

Els both miscarry.

THESEUS.

Come, shake hands againe, then;

And take heede, as you are Gentlemen, this Quarrell

Sleepe till the howre prefixt; and hold your course.

PALAMON.

We dare not faile thee, Theseus.

THESEUS.

Come, Ile give ye

Now usage like to Princes, and to Friends:

When ye returne, who wins, Ile settle heere;

Who looses, yet Ile weepe upon his Beere.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Athens. A room in the prison.

[Enter Iailor and his friend.]

IAILOR.

Heare you no more? was nothing saide of me

Concerning the escape of Palamon?

Good Sir, remember.

1. FRIEND.

Nothing that I heard,

For I came home before the busines

Was fully ended: Yet I might perceive,

Ere I departed, a great likelihood

Of both their pardons: For Hipolita,

And faire-eyd Emilie, upon their knees

Begd with such hansom pitty, that the Duke

Me thought stood staggering, whether he should follow

His rash oth, or the sweet compassion

Of those two Ladies; and to second them,

That truely noble Prince Perithous,

Halfe his owne heart, set in too, that I hope

All shall be well: Neither heard I one question

Of your name or his scape.

[Enter 2. Friend.]

IAILOR.

Pray heaven it hold so.

2. FRIEND.

Be of good comfort, man; I bring you newes,

Good newes.

IAILOR.

They are welcome,

2. FRIEND.

Palamon has cleerd you,

And got your pardon, and discoverd how

And by whose meanes he escapt, which was your Daughters,

Whose pardon is procurd too; and the Prisoner,

Not to be held ungratefull to her goodnes,

Has given a summe of money to her Marriage,

A large one, ile assure you.

IAILOR.

Ye are a good man

And ever bring good newes.

1. FRIEND.

How was it ended?

2. FRIEND.

Why, as it should be; they that nev'r begd

But they prevaild, had their suites fairely granted,

The prisoners have their lives.

1. FRIEND.

I knew t'would be so.

2. FRIEND.

But there be new conditions, which you'l heare of

At better time.

IAILOR.

I hope they are good.

2. FRIEND.

They are honourable,

How good they'l prove, I know not.

[Enter Wooer.]

1. FRIEND.

T'will be knowne.

WOOER.

Alas, Sir, wher's your Daughter?

IAILOR.

Why doe you aske?

WOOER.

O, Sir, when did you see her?

2. FRIEND.

How he lookes?

IAILOR.

This morning.

WOOER.

Was she well? was she in health, Sir?

When did she sleepe?

1. FRIEND.

These are strange Questions.

IAILOR.

I doe not thinke she was very well, for now

You make me minde her, but this very day

I ask'd her questions, and she answered me

So farre from what she was, so childishly,

So sillily, as if she were a foole,

An Inocent, and I was very angry.

But what of her, Sir?

WOOER.

Nothing but my pitty;

But you must know it, and as good by me

As by an other that lesse loves her—

IAILOR.

Well, Sir.

1. FRIEND.

Not right?

2. FRIEND.

Not well?

WOOER.

No, Sir, not well.

Tis too true, she is mad.

1. FRIEND.

It cannot be.

WOOER.

Beleeve, you'l finde it so.

IAILOR.

I halfe suspected

What you (have) told me: the gods comfort her:

Either this was her love to Palamon,

Or feare of my miscarrying on his scape,

Or both.

WOOER.

Tis likely.

IAILOR.

But why all this haste, Sir?

WOOER.

Ile tell you quickly. As I late was angling

In the great Lake that lies behind the Pallace,

From the far shore, thicke set with reedes and Sedges,

As patiently I was attending sport,

I heard a voyce, a shrill one, and attentive

I gave my eare, when I might well perceive

T'was one that sung, and by the smallnesse of it

A boy or woman. I then left my angle

To his owne skill, came neere, but yet perceivd not

Who made the sound, the rushes and the Reeds

Had so encompast it: I laide me downe

And listned to the words she sung, for then,

Through a small glade cut by the Fisher men,

I saw it was your Daughter.

IAILOR.

Pray, goe on, Sir?

WOOER.

She sung much, but no sence; onely I heard her

Repeat this often: 'Palamon is gone,

Is gone to'th wood to gather Mulberies;

Ile finde him out to morrow.'

1. FRIEND.

Pretty soule.

WOOER.

'His shackles will betray him, hee'l be taken,

And what shall I doe then? Ile bring a beavy,

A hundred blacke eyd Maides, that love as I doe,

With Chaplets on their heads of Daffadillies,

With cherry-lips, and cheekes of Damaske Roses,

And all wee'l daunce an Antique fore the Duke,

And beg his pardon.' Then she talk'd of you, Sir;

That you must loose your head to morrow morning,

And she must gather flowers to bury you,

And see the house made handsome: then she sung

Nothing but 'Willow, willow, willow,' and betweene

Ever was, 'Palamon, faire Palamon,'

And 'Palamon was a tall yong man.' The place

Was knee deepe where she sat; her careles Tresses

A wreathe of bull-rush rounded; about her stucke

Thousand fresh water flowers of severall cullors,

That me thought she appeard like the faire Nimph

That feedes the lake with waters, or as Iris

Newly dropt downe from heaven; Rings she made

Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke

The prettiest posies: 'Thus our true love's tide,'

'This you may loose, not me,' and many a one:

And then she wept, and sung againe, and sigh'd,

And with the same breath smil'd, and kist her hand.

2. FRIEND.

Alas, what pitty it is!

WOOER.

I made in to her.

She saw me, and straight sought the flood; I sav'd her,

And set her safe to land: when presently

She slipt away, and to the Citty made,

With such a cry and swiftnes, that, beleeve me,

Shee left me farre behinde her; three or foure

I saw from farre off crosse her, one of 'em

I knew to be your brother; where she staid,

And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her, [Enter

Brother, Daughter, and others.]

And hether came to tell you. Here they are.

DAUGHTER. [sings.]

May you never more enjoy the light, &c.

Is not this a fine Song?

BROTHER.

O, a very fine one.

DAUGHTER.

I can sing twenty more.

BROTHER.

I thinke you can.

DAUGHTER.

Yes, truely, can I; I can sing the Broome,

And Bony Robin. Are not you a tailour?

BROTHER.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

Wher's my wedding Gowne?

BROTHER.

Ile bring it to morrow.

DAUGHTER.

Doe, very rarely; I must be abroad else

To call the Maides, and pay the Minstrels,

For I must loose my Maydenhead by cock-light;

Twill never thrive else.

[Singes.]

O faire, oh sweete, &c.

BROTHER.

You must ev'n take it patiently.

IAILOR.

Tis true.

DAUGHTER.

Good ev'n, good men; pray, did you ever heare

Of one yong Palamon?

IAILOR.

Yes, wench, we know him.

DAUGHTER.

Is't not a fine yong Gentleman?

IAILOR.

Tis Love.

BROTHER.

By no meane crosse her; she is then distemperd

Far worse then now she showes.

1. FRIEND.

Yes, he's a fine man.

DAUGHTER.

O, is he so? you have a Sister?

1. FRIEND.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

But she shall never have him, tell her so,

For a tricke that I know; y'had best looke to her,

For if she see him once, she's gone, she's done,

And undon in an howre. All the young Maydes

Of our Towne are in love with him, but I laugh at 'em

And let 'em all alone; Is't not a wise course?

1. FRIEND.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

There is at least two hundred now with child by him—

There must be fowre; yet I keepe close for all this,

Close as a Cockle; and all these must be Boyes,

He has the tricke on't, and at ten yeares old

They must be all gelt for Musitians,

And sing the wars of Theseus.

2. FRIEND.

This is strange.

DAUGHTER.

As ever you heard, but say nothing.

1. FRIEND.

No.

DAUGHTER.

They come from all parts of the Dukedome to him;

Ile warrant ye, he had not so few last night

As twenty to dispatch: hee'l tickl't up

In two howres, if his hand be in.

IAILOR.

She's lost

Past all cure.

BROTHER.

Heaven forbid, man.

DAUGHTER.

Come hither, you are a wise man.

1. FRIEND.

Do's she know him?

2. FRIEND.

No, would she did.

DAUGHTER.

You are master of a Ship?

IAILOR.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

Wher's your Compasse?

IAILOR.

Heere.

DAUGHTER.

Set it too'th North.

And now direct your course to'th wood, wher Palamon

Lyes longing for me; For the Tackling

Let me alone; Come, waygh, my hearts, cheerely!

ALL.

Owgh, owgh, owgh, tis up, the wind's faire,

Top the Bowling, out with the maine saile;

Wher's your Whistle, Master?

BROTHER.

Lets get her in.

IAILOR.

Vp to the top, Boy.

BROTHER.

Wher's the Pilot?

1. FRIEND.

Heere.

DAUGHTER.

What ken'st thou?

2. FRIEND.

A faire wood.

DAUGHTER.

Beare for it, master: take about!

[Singes.]

When Cinthia with her borrowed light, &c.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

(A Room in the Palace.)

[Enter Emilia alone, with 2. Pictures.]

EMILIA.

Yet I may binde those wounds up, that must open

And bleed to death for my sake else; Ile choose,

And end their strife: Two such yong hansom men

Shall never fall for me, their weeping Mothers,

Following the dead cold ashes of their Sonnes,

Shall never curse my cruelty. Good heaven,

What a sweet face has Arcite! if wise nature,

With all her best endowments, all those beuties

She sowes into the birthes of noble bodies,

Were here a mortall woman, and had in her

The coy denialls of yong Maydes, yet doubtles,

She would run mad for this man: what an eye,

Of what a fyry sparkle, and quick sweetnes,

Has this yong Prince! Here Love himselfe sits smyling,

Iust such another wanton Ganimead

Set Jove a fire with, and enforcd the god

Snatch up the goodly Boy, and set him by him

A shining constellation: What a brow,

Of what a spacious Majesty, he carries!

Arch'd like the great eyd Iuno's, but far sweeter,

Smoother then Pelops Shoulder! Fame and honour,

Me thinks, from hence, as from a Promontory

Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings, and sing

To all the under world the Loves and Fights

Of gods, and such men neere 'em. Palamon

Is but his foyle, to him a meere dull shadow:

Hee's swarth and meagre, of an eye as heavy

As if he had lost his mother; a still temper,

No stirring in him, no alacrity,

Of all this sprightly sharpenes not a smile;

Yet these that we count errours may become him:

Narcissus was a sad Boy, but a heavenly:—

Oh who can finde the bent of womans fancy?

I am a Foole, my reason is lost in me;

I have no choice, and I have ly'd so lewdly

That women ought to beate me. On my knees

I aske thy pardon, Palamon; thou art alone,

And only beutifull, and these the eyes,

These the bright lamps of beauty, that command

And threaten Love, and what yong Mayd dare crosse 'em?

What a bold gravity, and yet inviting,

Has this browne manly face! O Love, this only

From this howre is Complexion: Lye there, Arcite,

Thou art a changling to him, a meere Gipsey,

And this the noble Bodie. I am sotted,

Vtterly lost: My Virgins faith has fled me;

For if my brother but even now had ask'd me

Whether I lov'd, I had run mad for Arcite;

Now, if my Sister, More for Palamon.

Stand both together: Now, come aske me, Brother.—

Alas, I know not! Aske me now, sweet Sister;—

I may goe looke. What a meere child is Fancie,

That, having two faire gawdes of equall sweetnesse,

Cannot distinguish, but must crie for both.

[Enter (a) Gent(leman.)]

EMILIA.

How now, Sir?

GENTLEMAN.

From the Noble Duke your Brother,

Madam, I bring you newes: The Knights are come.

EMILIA.

To end the quarrell?

GENTLEMAN.

Yes.

EMILIA.

Would I might end first:

What sinnes have I committed, chast Diana,

That my unspotted youth must now be soyld

With blood of Princes? and my Chastitie

Be made the Altar, where the lives of Lovers

(Two greater and two better never yet

Made mothers joy) must be the sacrifice

To my unhappy Beautie?

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Perithous and attendants.]

THESEUS.

Bring 'em in

Quickly, By any meanes; I long to see 'em.—

Your two contending Lovers are return'd,

And with them their faire Knights: Now, my faire Sister,

You must love one of them.

EMILIA.

I had rather both,

So neither for my sake should fall untimely.

[Enter Messenger. (Curtis.)]

THESEUS.

Who saw 'em?

PERITHOUS.

I, a while.

GENTLEMAN.

And I.

THESEUS.

From whence come you, Sir?

MESSENGER.

From the Knights.

THESEUS.

Pray, speake,

You that have seene them, what they are.

MESSENGER.

I will, Sir,

And truly what I thinke: Six braver spirits

Then these they have brought, (if we judge by the outside)

I never saw, nor read of. He that stands

In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming,

Should be a stout man, by his face a Prince,

(His very lookes so say him) his complexion,

Nearer a browne, than blacke, sterne, and yet noble,

Which shewes him hardy, fearelesse, proud of dangers:

The circles of his eyes show fire within him,

And as a heated Lyon, so he lookes;

His haire hangs long behind him, blacke and shining

Like Ravens wings: his shoulders broad and strong,

Armd long and round, and on his Thigh a Sword

Hung by a curious Bauldricke, when he frownes

To seale his will with: better, o'my conscience

Was never Souldiers friend.

THESEUS.

Thou ha'st well describde him.

PERITHOUS.

Yet a great deale short,

Me thinkes, of him that's first with Palamon.

THESEUS.

Pray, speake him, friend.

PERITHOUS.

I ghesse he is a Prince too,

And, if it may be, greater; for his show

Has all the ornament of honour in't:

Hee's somewhat bigger, then the Knight he spoke of,

But of a face far sweeter; His complexion

Is (as a ripe grape) ruddy: he has felt,

Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter

To make this cause his owne: In's face appeares

All the faire hopes of what he undertakes,

And when he's angry, then a setled valour

(Not tainted with extreames) runs through his body,

And guides his arme to brave things: Feare he cannot,

He shewes no such soft temper; his head's yellow,

Hard hayr'd, and curld, thicke twind like Ivy tods,

Not to undoe with thunder; In his face

The liverie of the warlike Maide appeares,

Pure red, and white, for yet no beard has blest him.

And in his rowling eyes sits victory,

As if she ever ment to court his valour:

His Nose stands high, a Character of honour.

His red lips, after fights, are fit for Ladies.

EMILIA.

Must these men die too?

PERITHOUS.

When he speakes, his tongue

Sounds like a Trumpet; All his lyneaments

Are as a man would wish 'em, strong and cleane,

He weares a well-steeld Axe, the staffe of gold;

His age some five and twenty.

MESSENGER.

Ther's another,

A little man, but of a tough soule, seeming

As great as any: fairer promises

In such a Body yet I never look'd on.

PERITHOUS.

O, he that's freckle fac'd?

MESSENGER.

The same, my Lord;

Are they not sweet ones?

PERITHOUS.

Yes, they are well.

MESSENGER.

Me thinkes,

Being so few, and well disposd, they show

Great, and fine art in nature: he's white hair'd,

Not wanton white, but such a manly colour

Next to an aborne; tough, and nimble set,

Which showes an active soule; his armes are brawny,

Linde with strong sinewes: To the shoulder peece

Gently they swell, like women new conceav'd,

Which speakes him prone to labour, never fainting

Vnder the waight of Armes; stout harted, still,

But when he stirs, a Tiger; he's gray eyd,

Which yeelds compassion where he conquers: sharpe

To spy advantages, and where he finds 'em,

He's swift to make 'em his: He do's no wrongs,

Nor takes none; he's round fac'd, and when he smiles

He showes a Lover, when he frownes, a Souldier:

About his head he weares the winners oke,

And in it stucke the favour of his Lady:

His age, some six and thirtie. In his hand

He beares a charging Staffe, embost with silver.

THESEUS.

Are they all thus?

PERITHOUS.

They are all the sonnes of honour.

THESEUS.

Now, as I have a soule, I long to see'em.

Lady, you shall see men fight now.

HIPPOLITA.

I wish it,

But not the cause, my Lord; They would show

Bravely about the Titles of two Kingdomes;

Tis pitty Love should be so tyrannous:

O my soft harted Sister, what thinke you?

Weepe not, till they weepe blood, Wench; it must be.

THESEUS.

You have steel'd 'em with your Beautie.—Honord Friend,

To you I give the Feild; pray, order it

Fitting the persons that must use it.

PERITHOUS.

Yes, Sir.

THESEUS.

Come, Ile goe visit 'em: I cannot stay,

Their fame has fir'd me so; Till they appeare.

Good Friend, be royall.

PERITHOUS.

There shall want no bravery.

EMILIA.

Poore wench, goe weepe, for whosoever wins,

Looses a noble Cosen for thy sins.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

A room in the prison.

[Enter Iailor, Wooer, Doctor.]

DOCTOR.

Her distraction is more at some time of the Moone, then at other some, is it not?

IAILOR.

She is continually in a harmelesse distemper, sleepes little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking, dreaming of another world, and a better; and what broken peece of matter so'ere she's about, the name Palamon lardes it, that she farces ev'ry busines withall, fyts it to every question.—

[Enter Daughter.]

Looke where shee comes, you shall perceive her behaviour.

DAUGHTER.

I have forgot it quite; The burden on't, was downe a, downe a, and pend by no worse man, then Giraldo, Emilias Schoolemaster; he's as Fantasticall too, as ever he may goe upon's legs,—for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with Eneas.

DOCTOR.

What stuff's here? pore soule!

IAILOR.

Ev'n thus all day long.

DAUGHTER.

Now for this Charme, that I told you of: you must bring a peece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry: then, if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits, as ther's a sight now—we maids that have our Lyvers perish'd, crakt to peeces with Love, we shall come there, and doe nothing all day long but picke flowers with Proserpine; then will I make Palamon a Nosegay; then let him marke me,—then—

DOCTOR.

How prettily she's amisse? note her a little further.

DAUGHTER.

Faith, ile tell you, sometime we goe to Barly breake, we of the blessed; alas, tis a sore life they have i'th other place, such burning, frying, boyling, hissing, howling, chattring, cursing, oh they have shrowd measure! take heede; if one be mad, or hang or drowne themselves, thither they goe, Iupiter blesse vs, and there shall we be put in a Caldron of lead, and Vsurers grease, amongst a whole million of cutpurses, and there boyle like a Gamon of Bacon that will never be enough. [Exit.]

DOCTOR.

How her braine coynes!

DAUGHTER.

Lords and Courtiers, that have got maids with Child, they are in this place: they shall stand in fire up to the Nav'le, and in yce up to'th hart, and there th'offending part burnes, and the deceaving part freezes; in troth, a very greevous punishment, as one would thinke, for such a Trifle; beleve me, one would marry a leaprous witch, to be rid on't, Ile assure you.

DOCTOR.

How she continues this fancie! Tis not an engraffed Madnesse, but a most thicke, and profound mellencholly.

DAUGHTER.

To heare there a proud Lady, and a proud Citty wiffe, howle together! I were a beast and il'd call it good sport: one cries, 'O this smoake!' another, 'this fire!' One cries, 'O, that ever I did it behind the arras!' and then howles; th'other curses a suing fellow and her garden house.

[Sings] I will be true, my stars, my fate, &c.

[Exit Daugh.]

IAILOR.

What thinke you of her, Sir?

DOCTOR.

I thinke she has a perturbed minde, which I cannot minister to.

IAILOR.

Alas, what then?

DOCTOR.

Vnderstand you, she ever affected any man, ere she beheld Palamon?

IAILOR.

I was once, Sir, in great hope she had fixd her liking on this gentleman, my friend.

WOOER.

I did thinke so too, and would account I had a great pen-worth on't, to give halfe my state, that both she and I at this present stood unfainedly on the same tearmes.

DOCTOR.

That intemprat surfeit of her eye hath distemperd the other sences: they may returne and settle againe to execute their preordaind faculties, but they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must doe: Confine her to a place, where the light may rather seeme to steale in, then be permitted; take vpon you (yong Sir, her friend) the name of Palamon; say you come to eate with her, and to commune of Love; this will catch her attention, for this her minde beates upon; other objects that are inserted tweene her minde and eye become the prankes and friskins of her madnes; Sing to her such greene songs of Love, as she sayes Palamon hath sung in prison; Come to her, stucke in as sweet flowers as the season is mistres of, and thereto make an addition of som other compounded odours, which are grateful to the sence: all this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet, and ev'ry good thing: desire to eate with her, carve her, drinke to her, and still among, intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance into her favour: Learne what Maides have beene her companions and play-pheeres, and let them repaire to her with Palamon in their mouthes, and appeare with tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehood to be combated. This may bring her to eate, to sleepe, and reduce what's now out of square in her, into their former law, and regiment; I have seene it approved, how many times I know not, but to make the number more, I have great hope in this. I will, betweene the passages of this project, come in with my applyance: Let us put it in execution, and hasten the successe, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort.

[Florish. Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana.

[Enter Thesius, Perithous, Hipolita, attendants.]

THESEUS.

Now let'em enter, and before the gods

Tender their holy prayers: Let the Temples

Burne bright with sacred fires, and the Altars

In hallowed clouds commend their swelling Incense

To those above us: Let no due be wanting;

[Florish of Cornets.]

They have a noble worke in hand, will honour

The very powers that love 'em.

[Enter Palamon and Arcite, and their Knights.]

PERITHOUS.

Sir, they enter.

THESEUS.

You valiant and strong harted Enemies,

You royall German foes, that this day come

To blow that furnesse out that flames betweene ye:

Lay by your anger for an houre, and dove-like,

Before the holy Altars of your helpers,

(The all feard gods) bow downe your stubborne bodies.

Your ire is more than mortall; So your helpe be,

And as the gods regard ye, fight with Iustice;

Ile leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye

I part my wishes.

PERITHOUS.

Honour crowne the worthiest.

[Exit Theseus, and his traine.]

PALAMON.

The glasse is running now that cannot finish

Till one of us expire: Thinke you but thus,

That were there ought in me which strove to show

Mine enemy in this businesse, wer't one eye

Against another, Arme opprest by Arme,

I would destroy th'offender, Coz, I would,

Though parcell of my selfe: Then from this gather

How I should tender you.

ARCITE.

I am in labour

To push your name, your auncient love, our kindred

Out of my memory; and i'th selfe same place

To seate something I would confound: So hoyst we

The sayles, that must these vessells port even where

The heavenly Lymiter pleases.

PALAMON.

You speake well;

Before I turne, Let me embrace thee, Cosen:

This I shall never doe agen.

ARCITE.

One farewell.

PALAMON.

Why, let it be so: Farewell, Coz.

[Exeunt Palamon and his Knights.]

ARCITE.

Farewell, Sir.—

Knights, Kinsemen, Lovers, yea, my Sacrifices,

True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you

Expells the seedes of feare, and th'apprehension

Which still is farther off it, Goe with me

Before the god of our profession: There

Require of him the hearts of Lyons, and

The breath of Tigers, yea, the fearcenesse too,

Yea, the speed also,—to goe on, I meane,

Else wish we to be Snayles: you know my prize

Must be drag'd out of blood; force and great feate

Must put my Garland on, where she stickes

The Queene of Flowers: our intercession then

Must be to him that makes the Campe a Cestron

Brymd with the blood of men: give me your aide

And bend your spirits towards him. [They kneele.]

Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turnd

Greene Neptune into purple, (whose Approach)

Comets prewarne, whose havocke in vaste Feild

Vnearthed skulls proclaime, whose breath blowes downe,

The teeming Ceres foyzon, who doth plucke

With hand armypotent from forth blew clowdes

The masond Turrets, that both mak'st and break'st

The stony girthes of Citties: me thy puple,

Yongest follower of thy Drom, instruct this day

With military skill, that to thy lawde

I may advance my Streamer, and by thee,

Be stil'd the Lord o'th day: give me, great Mars,

Some token of thy pleasure.

[Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of Armor, with a short Thunder as the burst of a Battaile, whereupon they all rise and bow to the Altar.]

O Great Corrector of enormous times,

Shaker of ore-rank States, thou grand decider

Of dustie and old tytles, that healst with blood

The earth when it is sicke, and curst the world

O'th pluresie of people; I doe take

Thy signes auspiciously, and in thy name

To my designe march boldly. Let us goe. [Exeunt.]

[Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance.]

PALAMON.

Our stars must glister with new fire, or be

To daie extinct; our argument is love,

Which if the goddesse of it grant, she gives

Victory too: then blend your spirits with mine,

You, whose free noblenesse doe make my cause

Your personall hazard; to the goddesse Venus

Commend we our proceeding, and implore

Her power unto our partie.

[Here they kneele as formerly.]

Haile, Soveraigne Queene of secrets, who hast power

To call the feircest Tyrant from his rage,

And weepe unto a Girle; that ha'st the might,

Even with an ey-glance, to choke Marsis Drom

And turne th'allarme to whispers; that canst make

A Criple florish with his Crutch, and cure him

Before Apollo; that may'st force the King

To be his subjects vassaile, and induce

Stale gravitie to daunce; the pould Bachelour—

Whose youth, like wonton Boyes through Bonfyres,

Have skipt thy flame—at seaventy thou canst catch

And make him, to the scorne of his hoarse throate,

Abuse yong laies of love: what godlike power

Hast thou not power upon? To Phoebus thou

Add'st flames hotter then his; the heavenly fyres

Did scortch his mortall Son, thine him; the huntresse

All moyst and cold, some say, began to throw

Her Bow away, and sigh. Take to thy grace

Me, thy vowd Souldier, who doe beare thy yoke

As t'wer a wreath of Roses, yet is heavier

Then Lead it selfe, stings more than Nettles.

I have never beene foule mouthd against thy law,

Nev'r reveald secret, for I knew none—would not,

Had I kend all that were; I never practised

Vpon mans wife, nor would the Libells reade

Of liberall wits; I never at great feastes

Sought to betray a Beautie, but have blush'd

At simpring Sirs that did; I have beene harsh

To large Confessors, and have hotly ask'd them

If they had Mothers: I had one, a woman,

And women t'wer they wrong'd. I knew a man

Of eightie winters, this I told them, who

A Lasse of foureteene brided; twas thy power

To put life into dust; the aged Crampe

Had screw'd his square foote round,

The Gout had knit his fingers into knots,

Torturing Convulsions from his globie eyes,

Had almost drawne their spheeres, that what was life

In him seem'd torture: this Anatomie

Had by his yong faire pheare a Boy, and I

Beleev'd it was him, for she swore it was,

And who would not beleeve her? briefe, I am

To those that prate and have done no Companion;

To those that boast and have not a defyer;

To those that would and cannot a Rejoycer.

Yea, him I doe not love, that tells close offices

The fowlest way, nor names concealements in

The boldest language: such a one I am,

And vow that lover never yet made sigh

Truer then I. O, then, most soft, sweet goddesse,

Give me the victory of this question, which

Is true loves merit, and blesse me with a signe

Of thy great pleasure.

[Here Musicke is heard, Doves are seene to flutter; they fall againe upon their faces, then on their knees.]

PALAMON.

O thou, that from eleven to ninetie raign'st

In mortall bosomes, whose chase is this world,

And we in heards thy game: I give thee thankes

For this faire Token, which, being layd unto

Mine innocent true heart, armes in assurance [They bow.]

My body to this businesse. Let us rise

And bow before the goddesse: Time comes on. [Exeunt.]

[Still Musicke of Records.]

[Enter Emilia in white, her haire about her shoulders, (wearing) a wheaten wreath: One in white holding up her traine, her haire stucke with flowers: One before her carrying a silver Hynde, in which is conveyd Incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the Altar (of Diana) her maides standing a loofe, she sets fire to it; then they curtsey and kneele.]

EMILIA.

O sacred, shadowie, cold and constant Queene,

Abandoner of Revells, mute, contemplative,

Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure

As windefand Snow, who to thy femall knights

Alow'st no more blood than will make a blush,

Which is their orders robe: I heere, thy Priest,

Am humbled fore thine Altar; O vouchsafe,

With that thy rare greene eye, which never yet

Beheld thing maculate, looke on thy virgin;

And, sacred silver Mistris, lend thine eare

(Which nev'r heard scurrill terme, into whose port

Ne're entred wanton found,) to my petition

Seasond with holy feare: This is my last

Of vestall office; I am bride habited,

But mayden harted, a husband I have pointed,

But doe not know him; out of two I should

Choose one and pray for his successe, but I

Am guiltlesse of election: of mine eyes,

Were I to loose one, they are equall precious,

I could doombe neither, that which perish'd should

Goe too't unsentenc'd: Therefore, most modest Queene,

He of the two Pretenders, that best loves me

And has the truest title in't, Let him

Take off my wheaten Gerland, or else grant

The fyle and qualitie I hold, I may

Continue in thy Band.

[Here the Hynde vanishes under the Altar: and in the place ascends a Rose Tree, having one Rose upon it.]

See what our Generall of Ebbs and Flowes

Out from the bowells of her holy Altar

With sacred act advances! But one Rose:

If well inspird, this Battaile shal confound

Both these brave Knights, and I, a virgin flowre

Must grow alone unpluck'd.

[Here is heard a sodaine twang of Instruments, and the Rose fals from the Tree (which vanishes under the altar.)]

The flowre is falne, the Tree descends: O, Mistris,

Thou here dischargest me; I shall be gather'd:

I thinke so, but I know not thine owne will;

Vnclaspe thy Misterie.—I hope she's pleas'd,

Her Signes were gratious.

[They curtsey and Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

A darkened Room in the Prison.

[Enter Doctor, Iaylor and Wooer, in habite of Palamon.]

DOCTOR.

Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her?

WOOER.

O very much; The maids that kept her company

Have halfe perswaded her that I am Palamon;

Within this halfe houre she came smiling to me,

And asked me what I would eate, and when I would kisse her:

I told her presently, and kist her twice.

DOCTOR.

Twas well done; twentie times had bin far better,

For there the cure lies mainely.

WOOER.

Then she told me

She would watch with me to night, for well she knew

What houre my fit would take me.

DOCTOR.

Let her doe so,

And when your fit comes, fit her home,

And presently.

WOOER.

She would have me sing.

DOCTOR.

You did so?

WOOER.

No.

DOCTOR.

Twas very ill done, then;

You should observe her ev'ry way.

WOOER.

Alas,

I have no voice, Sir, to confirme her that way.

DOCTOR.

That's all one, if yee make a noyse;

If she intreate againe, doe any thing,—

Lye with her, if she aske you.

IAILOR.

Hoa, there, Doctor!

DOCTOR.

Yes, in the waie of cure.

IAILOR.

But first, by your leave,

I'th way of honestie.

DOCTOR.

That's but a nicenesse,

Nev'r cast your child away for honestie;

Cure her first this way, then if shee will be honest,

She has the path before her.

IAILOR.

Thanke yee, Doctor.

DOCTOR.

Pray, bring her in,

And let's see how shee is.

IAILOR.

I will, and tell her

Her Palamon staies for her: But, Doctor,

Me thinkes you are i'th wrong still. [Exit Iaylor.]

DOCTOR.

Goe, goe:

You Fathers are fine Fooles: her honesty?

And we should give her physicke till we finde that—

WOOER.

Why, doe you thinke she is not honest, Sir?

DOCTOR.

How old is she?

WOOER.

She's eighteene.

DOCTOR.

She may be,

But that's all one; tis nothing to our purpose.

What ere her Father saies, if you perceave

Her moode inclining that way that I spoke of,

Videlicet, the way of flesh—you have me?

WOOER.

Yet, very well, Sir.

DOCTOR.

Please her appetite,

And doe it home; it cures her, ipso facto,

The mellencholly humour that infects her.

WOOER.

I am of your minde, Doctor.

[Enter Iaylor, Daughter, Maide.]

DOCTOR.

You'l finde it so; she comes, pray humour her.

IAILOR.

Come, your Love Palamon staies for you, childe,

And has done this long houre, to visite you.

DAUGHTER.

I thanke him for his gentle patience;

He's a kind Gentleman, and I am much bound to him.

Did you nev'r see the horse he gave me?

IAILOR.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

How doe you like him?

IAILOR.

He's a very faire one.

DAUGHTER.

You never saw him dance?

IAILOR.

No.

DAUGHTER.

I have often.

He daunces very finely, very comely,

And for a Iigge, come cut and long taile to him,

He turnes ye like a Top.

IAILOR.

That's fine, indeede.

DAUGHTER.

Hee'l dance the Morris twenty mile an houre,

And that will founder the best hobby-horse

(If I have any skill) in all the parish,

And gallops to the turne of Light a' Love:

What thinke you of this horse?

IAILOR.

Having these vertues,

I thinke he might be broght to play at Tennis.

DAUGHTER.

Alas, that's nothing.

IAILOR.

Can he write and reade too?

DAUGHTER.

A very faire hand, and casts himselfe th'accounts

Of all his hay and provender: That Hostler

Must rise betime that cozens him. You know

The Chestnut Mare the Duke has?

IAILOR.

Very well.

DAUGHTER.

She is horribly in love with him, poore beast,

But he is like his master, coy and scornefull.

IAILOR.

What dowry has she?

DAUGHTER.

Some two hundred Bottles,

And twenty strike of Oates; but hee'l ne're have her;

He lispes in's neighing, able to entice

A Millars Mare: Hee'l be the death of her.

DOCTOR.

What stuffe she utters!

IAILOR.

Make curtsie; here your love comes.

WOOER.

Pretty soule,

How doe ye? that's a fine maide, ther's a curtsie!

DAUGHTER.

Yours to command ith way of honestie.

How far is't now to'th end o'th world, my Masters?

DOCTOR.

Why, a daies Iorney, wench.

DAUGHTER.

Will you goe with me?

WOOER.

What shall we doe there, wench?

DAUGHTER.

Why, play at stoole ball:

What is there else to doe?

WOOER.

I am content,

If we shall keepe our wedding there.

DAUGHTER.

Tis true:

For there, I will assure you, we shall finde

Some blind Priest for the purpose, that will venture

To marry us, for here they are nice, and foolish;

Besides, my father must be hang'd to morrow

And that would be a blot i'th businesse.

Are not you Palamon?

WOOER.

Doe not you know me?

DAUGHTER.

Yes, but you care not for me; I have nothing

But this pore petticoate, and too corse Smockes.

WOOER.

That's all one; I will have you.

DAUGHTER.

Will you surely?

WOOER.

Yes, by this faire hand, will I.

DAUGHTER.

Wee'l to bed, then.

WOOER.

Ev'n when you will. [Kisses her.]

DAUGHTER.

O Sir, you would faine be nibling.

WOOER.

Why doe you rub my kisse off?

DAUGHTER.

Tis a sweet one,

And will perfume me finely against the wedding.

Is not this your Cosen Arcite?

DOCTOR.

Yes, sweet heart,

And I am glad my Cosen Palamon

Has made so faire a choice.

DAUGHTER.

Doe you thinke hee'l have me?

DOCTOR.

Yes, without doubt.

DAUGHTER.

Doe you thinke so too?

IAILOR.

Yes.

DAUGHTER.

We shall have many children:—Lord, how y'ar growne!

My Palamon, I hope, will grow, too, finely,

Now he's at liberty: Alas, poore Chicken,

He was kept downe with hard meate and ill lodging,

But ile kisse him up againe.

[Emter a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

What doe you here? you'l loose the noblest sight

That ev'r was seene.

IAILOR.

Are they i'th Field?

MESSENGER.

They are.

You beare a charge there too.

IAILOR.

Ile away straight.

I must ev'n leave you here.

DOCTOR.

Nay, wee'l goe with you;

I will not loose the Fight.

IAILOR.

How did you like her?

DOCTOR.

Ile warrant you, within these 3. or 4. daies

Ile make her right againe. You must not from her,

But still preserve her in this way.

WOOER.

I will.

DOCTOR.

Lets get her in.

WOOER.

Come, sweete, wee'l goe to dinner;

And then weele play at Cardes.

DAUGHTER.

And shall we kisse too?

WOOER.

A hundred times.

DAUGHTER.

And twenty.

WOOER.

I, and twenty.

DAUGHTER.

And then wee'l sleepe together.

DOCTOR.

Take her offer.

WOOER.

Yes, marry, will we.

DAUGHTER.

But you shall not hurt me.

WOOER.

I will not, sweete.

DAUGHTER.

If you doe, Love, ile cry.

[Florish. Exeunt]

ACT V. SCENE III.

A Place near the Lists.

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Emilia, Perithous: and some Attendants, (T. Tucke: Curtis.)]

EMILIA.

Ile no step further.

PERITHOUS.

Will you loose this sight?

EMILIA.

I had rather see a wren hawke at a fly

Then this decision; ev'ry blow that falls

Threats a brave life, each stroake laments

The place whereon it fals, and sounds more like

A Bell then blade: I will stay here;

It is enough my hearing shall be punishd

With what shall happen—gainst the which there is

No deaffing, but to heare—not taint mine eye

With dread sights, it may shun.

PERITHOUS.

Sir, my good Lord,

Your Sister will no further.

THESEUS.

Oh, she must.

She shall see deeds of honour in their kinde,

Which sometime show well, pencild. Nature now

Shall make and act the Story, the beleife

Both seald with eye and eare; you must be present,

You are the victours meede, the price, and garlond

To crowne the Questions title.

EMILIA.

Pardon me;

If I were there, I'ld winke.

THESEUS.

You must be there;

This Tryall is as t'wer i'th night, and you

The onely star to shine.

EMILIA.

I am extinct;

There is but envy in that light, which showes

The one the other: darkenes, which ever was

The dam of horrour, who do's stand accurst

Of many mortall Millions, may even now,

By casting her blacke mantle over both,

That neither coulde finde other, get her selfe

Some part of a good name, and many a murther

Set off wherto she's guilty.

HIPPOLITA.

You must goe.

EMILIA.

In faith, I will not.

THESEUS.

Why, the knights must kindle

Their valour at your eye: know, of this war

You are the Treasure, and must needes be by

To give the Service pay.

EMILIA.

Sir, pardon me;

The tytle of a kingdome may be tride

Out of it selfe.

THESEUS.

Well, well, then, at your pleasure;

Those that remaine with you could wish their office

To any of their Enemies.

HIPPOLITA.

Farewell, Sister;

I am like to know your husband fore your selfe

By some small start of time: he whom the gods

Doe of the two know best, I pray them he

Be made your Lot.

[Exeunt Theseus, Hipolita, Perithous, &c.]

EMILIA.

Arcite is gently visagd; yet his eye

Is like an Engyn bent, or a sharpe weapon

In a soft sheath; mercy and manly courage

Are bedfellowes in his visage. Palamon

Has a most menacing aspect: his brow

Is grav'd, and seemes to bury what it frownes on;

Yet sometime tis not so, but alters to

The quallity of his thoughts; long time his eye

Will dwell upon his object. Mellencholly

Becomes him nobly; So do's Arcites mirth,

But Palamons sadnes is a kinde of mirth,

So mingled, as if mirth did make him sad,

And sadnes, merry; those darker humours that

Sticke misbecomingly on others, on them

Live in faire dwelling.

[Cornets. Trompets sound as to a charge.]

Harke, how yon spurs to spirit doe incite

The Princes to their proofe! Arcite may win me,

And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to

The spoyling of his figure. O, what pitty

Enough for such a chance; if I were by,

I might doe hurt, for they would glance their eies

Toward my Seat, and in that motion might

Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence

Which crav'd that very time: it is much better

I am not there; oh better never borne

Then minister to such harme.

[Cornets. A great cry and noice within, crying 'a Palamon'.]

What is the chance?

[Enter Servant.]

SERVANT.

The Crie's 'a Palamon'.

EMILIA.

Then he has won! Twas ever likely;

He lookd all grace and successe, and he is

Doubtlesse the prim'st of men: I pre'thee, run

And tell me how it goes.

[Showt, and Cornets: Crying, 'a Palamon.']

SERVANT.

Still Palamon.

EMILIA.

Run and enquire. Poore Servant, thou hast lost;

Vpon my right side still I wore thy picture,

Palamons on the left: why so, I know not;

I had no end in't else, chance would have it so.

On the sinister side the heart lyes; Palamon

Had the best boding chance.

[Another cry, and showt within, and Cornets.]

This burst of clamour

Is sure th'end o'th Combat.

[Enter Servant.]

SERVANT.

They saide that Palamon had Arcites body

Within an inch o'th Pyramid, that the cry

Was generall 'a Palamon': But, anon,

Th'Assistants made a brave redemption, and

The two bold Tytlers, at this instant are

Hand to hand at it.

EMILIA.

Were they metamorphisd

Both into one! oh why? there were no woman

Worth so composd a Man: their single share,

Their noblenes peculier to them, gives

The prejudice of disparity, values shortnes,

[Cornets. Cry within, Arcite, Arcite.]

To any Lady breathing—More exulting?

Palamon still?

SERVANT.

Nay, now the sound is Arcite.

EMILIA.

I pre'thee, lay attention to the Cry,

[Cornets. A great showt and cry, 'Arcite, victory!']

Set both thine eares to'th busines.

SERVANT.

The cry is

'Arcite', and 'victory', harke: 'Arcite, victory!'

The Combats consummation is proclaim'd

By the wind Instruments.

EMILIA.

Halfe sights saw

That Arcite was no babe; god's lyd, his richnes

And costlines of spirit look't through him, it could

No more be hid in him then fire in flax,

Then humble banckes can goe to law with waters,

That drift windes force to raging: I did thinke

Good Palamon would miscarry; yet I knew not

Why I did thinke so; Our reasons are not prophets,

When oft our fancies are. They are comming off:

Alas, poore Palamon! [Cornets.]

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Pirithous, Arcite as victor, and attendants, &c.]

THESEUS.

Lo, where our Sister is in expectation,

Yet quaking, and unsetled.—Fairest Emily,

The gods by their divine arbitrament

Have given you this Knight; he is a good one

As ever strooke at head. Give me your hands;

Receive you her, you him; be plighted with

A love that growes, as you decay.

ARCITE.

Emily,

To buy you, I have lost what's deerest to me,

Save what is bought, and yet I purchase cheapely,

As I doe rate your value.

THESEUS.

O loved Sister,

He speakes now of as brave a Knight as ere

Did spur a noble Steed: Surely, the gods

Would have him die a Batchelour, least his race

Should shew i'th world too godlike: His behaviour

So charmed me, that me thought Alcides was

To him a sow of lead: if I could praise

Each part of him to'th all I have spoke, your Arcite

Did not loose by't; For he that was thus good

Encountred yet his Better. I have heard

Two emulous Philomels beate the eare o'th night

With their contentious throates, now one the higher,

Anon the other, then againe the first,

And by and by out breasted, that the sence

Could not be judge betweene 'em: So it far'd

Good space betweene these kinesmen; till heavens did

Make hardly one the winner. Weare the Girlond

With joy that you have won: For the subdude,

Give them our present Iustice, since I know

Their lives but pinch 'em; Let it here be done.

The Sceane's not for our seeing, goe we hence,

Right joyfull, with some sorrow.—Arme your prize,

I know you will not loose her.—Hipolita,

I see one eye of yours conceives a teare

The which it will deliver. [Florish.]

EMILIA.

Is this wynning?

Oh all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy?

But that your wils have saide it must be so,

And charge me live to comfort this unfriended,

This miserable Prince, that cuts away

A life more worthy from him then all women,

I should, and would, die too.

HIPPOLITA.

Infinite pitty,

That fowre such eies should be so fixd on one

That two must needes be blinde fort.

THESEUS.

So it is.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.

The same; a Block prepared.

[Enter Palamon and his Knightes pyniond: Iaylor, Executioner, &c. Gard.]

PALAMON.

Ther's many a man alive that hath out liv'd

The love o'th people; yea, i'th selfesame state

Stands many a Father with his childe; some comfort

We have by so considering: we expire

And not without mens pitty. To live still,

Have their good wishes; we prevent

The loathsome misery of age, beguile

The Gowt and Rheume, that in lag howres attend

For grey approachers; we come towards the gods

Yong and unwapper'd, not halting under Crymes

Many and stale: that sure shall please the gods,

Sooner than such, to give us Nectar with 'em,

For we are more cleare Spirits. My deare kinesmen,

Whose lives (for this poore comfort) are laid downe,

You have sould 'em too too cheape.

1. KNIGHT.

What ending could be

Of more content? ore us the victors have

Fortune, whose title is as momentary,

As to us death is certaine: A graine of honour

They not ore'-weigh us.

2. KNIGHT.

Let us bid farewell;

And with our patience anger tottring Fortune,

Who at her certain'st reeles.

3. KNIGHT.

Come; who begins?

PALAMON.

Ev'n he that led you to this Banket shall

Taste to you all.—Ah ha, my Friend, my Friend,

Your gentle daughter gave me freedome once;

You'l see't done now for ever: pray, how do'es she?

I heard she was not well; her kind of ill

Gave me some sorrow.

IAILOR.

Sir, she's well restor'd,

And to be marryed shortly.

PALAMON.

By my short life,

I am most glad on't; Tis the latest thing

I shall be glad of; pre'thee tell her so:

Commend me to her, and to peece her portion,

Tender her this. [Gives purse.]

1. KNIGHT.

Nay lets be offerers all.

2. KNIGHT.

Is it a maide?

PALAMON.

Verily, I thinke so,

A right good creature, more to me deserving

Then I can quight or speake of.

ALL KNIGHTS.

Commend us to her. [They give their purses.]

IAILOR.

The gods requight you all,

And make her thankefull.

PALAMON.

Adiew; and let my life be now as short,

As my leave taking.

[Lies on the Blocke.]

1. KNIGHT.

Leade, couragious Cosin.

2. KNIGHT.

Wee'l follow cheerefully.

[A great noise within crying, 'run, save, hold!']

[Enter in hast a Messenger.]

MESSENGER.

Hold, hold! O hold, hold, hold!

[Enter Pirithous in haste.]

PERITHOUS.

Hold! hoa! It is a cursed hast you made,

If you have done so quickly. Noble Palamon,

The gods will shew their glory in a life,

That thou art yet to leade.

PALAMON.

Can that be,

When Venus, I have said, is false? How doe things fare?

PERITHOUS.

Arise, great Sir, and give the tydings eare

That are most dearly sweet and bitter.

PALAMON.

What

Hath wakt us from our dreame?

PERITHOUS.

List then: your Cosen,

Mounted upon a Steed that Emily

Did first bestow on him, a blacke one, owing

Not a hayre worth of white—which some will say

Weakens his price, and many will not buy

His goodnesse with this note: Which superstition

Heere findes allowance—On this horse is Arcite

Trotting the stones of Athens, which the Calkins

Did rather tell then trample; for the horse

Would make his length a mile, if't pleas'd his Rider

To put pride in him: as he thus went counting

The flinty pavement, dancing, as t'wer, to'th Musicke

His owne hoofes made; (for as they say from iron

Came Musickes origen) what envious Flint,

Cold as old Saturne, and like him possest

With fire malevolent, darted a Sparke,

Or what feirce sulphur else, to this end made,

I comment not;—the hot horse, hot as fire,

Tooke Toy at this, and fell to what disorder

His power could give his will; bounds, comes on end,

Forgets schoole dooing, being therein traind,

And of kind mannadge; pig-like he whines

At the sharpe Rowell, which he freats at rather

Then any jot obaies; seekes all foule meanes

Of boystrous and rough Iadrie, to dis-seate

His Lord, that kept it bravely: when nought serv'd,

When neither Curb would cracke, girth breake nor diffring plunges

Dis-roote his Rider whence he grew, but that

He kept him tweene his legges, on his hind hoofes on end he stands,

That Arcites leggs, being higher then his head,

Seem'd with strange art to hand: His victors wreath

Even then fell off his head: and presently

Backeward the Iade comes ore, and his full poyze

Becomes the Riders loade: yet is he living,

But such a vessell tis, that floates but for

The surge that next approaches: he much desires

To have some speech with you: Loe he appeares.

[Enter Theseus, Hipolita, Emilia, Arcite in a chaire.]

PALAMON.

O miserable end of our alliance!

The gods are mightie, Arcite: if thy heart,

Thy worthie, manly heart, be yet unbroken,

Give me thy last words; I am Palamon,

One that yet loves thee dying.

ARCITE.

Take Emilia

And with her all the worlds joy: Reach thy hand:

Farewell: I have told my last houre. I was false,

Yet never treacherous: Forgive me, Cosen:—

One kisse from faire Emilia: Tis done:

Take her: I die.

PALAMON.

Thy brave soule seeke Elizium.

EMILIA.

Ile close thine eyes, Prince; blessed soules be with thee!

Thou art a right good man, and while I live,

This day I give to teares.

PALAMON.

And I to honour.

THESEUS.

In this place first you fought: ev'n very here

I sundred you: acknowledge to the gods

Our thankes that you are living.

His part is playd, and though it were too short,

He did it well: your day is lengthned, and

The blissefull dew of heaven do's arowze you.

The powerfull Venus well hath grac'd her Altar,

And given you your love: Our Master Mars

Hath vouch'd his Oracle, and to Arcite gave

The grace of the Contention: So the Deities

Have shewd due justice: Beare this hence.

PALAMON.

O Cosen,

That we should things desire, which doe cost us

The losse of our desire! That nought could buy

Deare love, but losse of deare love!

THESEUS.

Never Fortune

Did play a subtler Game: The conquerd triumphes,

The victor has the Losse: yet in the passage

The gods have beene most equall: Palamon,

Your kinseman hath confest the right o'th Lady

Did lye in you, for you first saw her, and

Even then proclaimd your fancie: He restord her

As your stolne Iewell, and desir'd your spirit

To send him hence forgiven; The gods my justice

Take from my hand, and they themselves become

The Executioners: Leade your Lady off;

And call your Lovers from the stage of death,

Whom I adopt my Frinds. A day or two

Let us looke sadly, and give grace unto

The Funerall of Arcite; in whose end

The visages of Bridegroomes weele put on

And smile with Palamon; for whom an houre,

But one houre, since, I was as dearely sorry,

As glad of Arcite: and am now as glad,

As for him sorry. O you heavenly Charmers,

What things you make of us! For what we lacke

We laugh, for what we have, are sorry: still

Are children in some kind. Let us be thankefull

For that which is, and with you leave dispute

That are above our question. Let's goe off,

And beare us like the time.

[Florish. Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE.

I would now aske ye how ye like the Play,

But, as it is with Schoole Boyes, cannot say,

I am cruell fearefull: pray, yet stay a while,

And let me looke upon ye: No man smile?

Then it goes hard, I see; He that has

Lov'd a yong hansome wench, then, show his face—

Tis strange if none be heere—and if he will

Against his Conscience, let him hisse, and kill

Our Market: Tis in vaine, I see, to stay yee;

Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye?

And yet mistake me not: I am not bold;

We have no such cause. If the tale we have told

(For tis no other) any way content ye

(For to that honest purpose it was ment ye)

We have our end; and ye shall have ere long,

I dare say, many a better, to prolong

Your old loves to us: we, and all our might

Rest at your service. Gentlemen, good night.

[Florish.]

FINIS

THE WINTER'S TALE

List of Characters

Act I, Scene I

Act I, Scene II

Act II, Scene I

Act II, Scene II

Act II, Scene III

Act III, Scene I

Act III, Scene II

Act III, Scene III

Act IV, Scene I

Act IV, Scene II

Act IV, Scene III

Act IV, Scene IV

Act V, Scene I

Act V, Scene II

Act V, Scene III

List of Characters

LEONTES: King of Sicilia

MAMILLIUS: his son

CAMILLO: Sicilian Lord

ANTIGONUS: Sicilian Lord

CLEOMENES: Sicilian Lord

DION: Sicilian Lord

POLIXENES: King of Bohemia

FLORIZEL: his son

ARCHIDAMUS: a Bohemian Lord

An Old Shepherd: reputed father of Perdita

CLOWN: his son

AUTOLYCUS: a rogue

A Mariner

Gaoler

Servant to the Old Shepherd

Other Sicilian Lords

Sicilian Gentlemen

Officers of a Court of Judicature

HERMIONE: Queen to Leontes

PERDITA: daughter to Leontes and Hermione

PAULINA: wife to Antigonus

EMILIA: a lady attending on the Queen

MOPSA: shepherdess

DORCAS: shepherdess

Other Ladies, attending on the Queen

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Satyrs for a Dance; Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Guards, &c.

TIME: as Chorus

SCENE: Sometimes in Sicilia; sometimes in Bohemia.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Sicilia. An Antechamber in LEONTES' Palace.

[Enter CAMILLO and ARCHIDAMUS]

ARCHIDAMUS.

If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.

CAMILLO.

I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.

ARCHIDAMUS.

Wherein our entertainment shall shame us we will be justified in our loves; for indeed,—

CAMILLO.

Beseech you,—

ARCHIDAMUS.

Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge: we cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say.—We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.

CAMILLO.

You pay a great deal too dear for what's given freely.

ARCHIDAMUS.

Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.

CAMILLO.

Sicilia cannot show himself overkind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies; that they have seemed to be together, though absent; shook hands, as over a vast; and embraced as it were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves!

ARCHIDAMUS.

I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young Prince Mamillius: it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note.

CAMILLO.

I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man.

ARCHIDAMUS.

Would they else be content to die?

CAMILLO.

Yes, if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.

ARCHIDAMUS.

If the king had no son, they would desire to live on crutches till he had one.

[Exeunt.]

ACT I. SCENE II.

The same. A Room of State in the Palace.

[Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, CAMILLO, and Attendants.]

POLIXENES.

Nine changes of the watery star hath been

The shepherd's note since we have left our throne

Without a burden: time as long again

Would be fill'd up, my brother, with our thanks;

And yet we should, for perpetuity,

Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,

Yet standing in rich place, I multiply

With one we-thank-you many thousands more

That go before it.

LEONTES.

Stay your thanks a while,

And pay them when you part.

POLIXENES.

Sir, that's to-morrow.

I am question'd by my fears, of what may chance

Or breed upon our absence; that may blow

No sneaping winds at home, to make us say,

'This is put forth too truly.' Besides, I have stay'd

To tire your royalty.

LEONTES.

We are tougher, brother,

Than you can put us to't.

POLIXENES.

No longer stay.

LEONTES.

One seven-night longer.

POLIXENES.

Very sooth, to-morrow.

LEONTES.

We'll part the time between 's then: and in that

I'll no gainsaying.

POLIXENES.

Press me not, beseech you, so,

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world,

So soon as yours, could win me: so it should now,

Were there necessity in your request, although

'Twere needful I denied it. My affairs

Do even drag me homeward: which to hinder,

Were, in your love a whip to me; my stay

To you a charge and trouble: to save both,

Farewell, our brother.

LEONTES.

Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you.

HERMIONE.

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until

You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir,

Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure

All in Bohemia's well: this satisfaction

The by-gone day proclaimed: say this to him,

He's beat from his best ward.

LEONTES.

Well said, Hermione.

HERMIONE.

To tell he longs to see his son were strong:

But let him say so then, and let him go;

But let him swear so, and he shall not stay,

We'll thwack him hence with distaffs.—

[To POLIXENES]

Yet of your royal presence I'll adventure

The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia

You take my lord, I'll give him my commission

To let him there a month behind the gest

Prefix'd for's parting:—yet, good deed, Leontes,

I love thee not a jar of the clock behind

What lady she her lord.—You'll stay?

POLIXENES.

No, madam.

HERMIONE.

Nay, but you will?

POLIXENES.

I may not, verily.

HERMIONE.

Verily!

You put me off with limber vows; but I,

Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths,

Should yet say 'Sir, no going.' Verily,

You shall not go; a lady's verily is

As potent as a lord's. Will go yet?

Force me to keep you as a prisoner,

Not like a guest: so you shall pay your fees

When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?

My prisoner or my guest? by your dread 'verily,'

One of them you shall be.

POLIXENES.

Your guest, then, madam:

To be your prisoner should import offending;

Which is for me less easy to commit

Than you to punish.

HERMIONE.

Not your gaoler then,

But your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you

Of my lord's tricks and yours when you were boys.

You were pretty lordings then.

POLIXENES.

We were, fair queen,

Two lads that thought there was no more behind

But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

And to be boy eternal.

HERMIONE.

Was not my lord the verier wag o' the two?

POLIXENES.

We were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' the sun

And bleat the one at th' other. What we chang'd

Was innocence for innocence; we knew not

The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd

That any did. Had we pursu'd that life,

And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd

With stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven

Boldly 'Not guilty,' the imposition clear'd

Hereditary ours.

HERMIONE.

By this we gather

You have tripp'd since.

POLIXENES.

O my most sacred lady,

Temptations have since then been born to 's! for

In those unfledg'd days was my wife a girl;

Your precious self had then not cross'd the eyes

Of my young play-fellow.

HERMIONE.

Grace to boot!

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say

Your queen and I are devils: yet, go on;

The offences we have made you do we'll answer;

If you first sinn'd with us, and that with us

You did continue fault, and that you slipp'd not

With any but with us.

LEONTES.

Is he won yet?

HERMIONE.

He'll stay, my lord.

LEONTES.

At my request he would not.

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st

To better purpose.

HERMIONE.

Never?

LEONTES.

Never but once.

HERMIONE.

What! have I twice said well? when was't before?

I pr'ythee tell me; cram 's with praise, and make 's

As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless

Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.

Our praises are our wages; you may ride 's

With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere

With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal:—

My last good deed was to entreat his stay;

What was my first? it has an elder sister,

Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace!

But once before I spoke to the purpose—when?

Nay, let me have't; I long.

LEONTES.

Why, that was when

Three crabbèd months had sour'd themselves to death,

Ere I could make thee open thy white hand

And clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter

'I am yours for ever.'

HERMIONE.

It is Grace indeed.

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice;

The one for ever earn'd a royal husband;

Th' other for some while a friend.

[Giving her hand to POLIXENES.]

LEONTES.

[Aside.]

Too hot, too hot!

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

I have tremor cordis on me;—my heart dances;

But not for joy,—not joy.—This entertainment

May a free face put on; derive a liberty

From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,

And well become the agent:'t may, I grant:

But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,

As now they are; and making practis'd smiles

As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as 'twere

The mort o' the deer: O, that is entertainment

My bosom likes not, nor my brows,—Mamillius,

Art thou my boy?

MAMILLIUS.

Ay, my good lord.

LEONTES.

I' fecks!

Why, that's my bawcock. What! hast smutch'd thy nose?—

They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,

We must be neat;—not neat, but cleanly, captain:

And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf,

Are all call'd neat.—

[Observing POLIXENES and HERMIONE]

Still virginalling

Upon his palm?—How now, you wanton calf!

Art thou my calf?

MAMILLIUS.

Yes, if you will, my lord.

LEONTES.

Thou want'st a rough pash, and the shoots that I have,

To be full like me:—yet they say we are

Almost as like as eggs; women say so,

That will say anything: but were they false

As o'er-dy'd blacks, as wind, as waters,—false

As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes

No bourn 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true

To say this boy were like me.—Come, sir page,

Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!

Most dear'st! my collop!—Can thy dam?—may't be?

Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:

Thou dost make possible things not so held,

Communicat'st with dreams;—how can this be?—

With what's unreal thou co-active art,

And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent

Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,—

And that beyond commission; and I find it,—

And that to the infection of my brains

And hardening of my brows.

POLIXENES.

What means Sicilia?

HERMIONE.

He something seems unsettled.

POLIXENES.

How! my lord!

What cheer? How is't with you, best brother?

HERMIONE.

You look

As if you held a brow of much distraction:

Are you mov'd, my lord?

LEONTES.

No, in good earnest.—

How sometimes nature will betray its folly,

Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime

To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines

Of my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil

Twenty-three years; and saw myself unbreech'd,

In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled,

Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,

As ornaments oft do, too dangerous.

How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,

This squash, this gentleman.—Mine honest friend,

Will you take eggs for money?

MAMILLIUS.

No, my lord, I'll fight.

LEONTES.

You will? Why, happy man be 's dole!—My brother,

Are you so fond of your young prince as we

Do seem to be of ours?

POLIXENES.

If at home, sir,

He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter:

Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy;

My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:

He makes a July's day short as December;

And with his varying childness cures in me

Thoughts that would thick my blood.

LEONTES.

So stands this squire

Offic'd with me. We two will walk, my lord,

And leave you to your graver steps.—Hermione,

How thou lov'st us show in our brother's welcome;

Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap:

Next to thyself and my young rover, he's

Apparent to my heart.

HERMIONE.

If you would seek us,

We are yours i' the garden. Shall 's attend you there?

LEONTES.

To your own bents dispose you: you'll be found,

Be you beneath the sky. [Aside] I am angling now.

Though you perceive me not how I give line.

Go to, go to!

[Observing POLIXENES and HERMIONE]

How she holds up the neb, the bill to him!

And arms her with the boldness of a wife

To her allowing husband!

[Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and Attendants.]

Gone already!

Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd one!—

Go, play, boy, play:—thy mother plays, and I

Play too; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue

Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour

Will be my knell.—Go, play, boy, play.—There have been,

Or I am much deceiv'd, cuckolds ere now;

And many a man there is, even at this present,

Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm

That little thinks she has been sluic'd in his absence,

And his pond fish'd by his next neighbour, by

Sir Smile, his neighbour; nay, there's comfort in't,

Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open'd,

As mine, against their will: should all despair

That hath revolted wives, the tenth of mankind

Would hang themselves. Physic for't there's none;

It is a bawdy planet, that will strike

Where 'tis predominant; and 'tis powerful, think it,

From east, west, north, and south: be it concluded,

No barricado for a belly: know't;

It will let in and out the enemy

With bag and baggage. Many thousand of us

Have the disease, and feel't not.—How now, boy!

MAMILLIUS.

I am like you, they say.

LEONTES.

Why, that's some comfort.—

What! Camillo there?

CAMILLO.

Ay, my good lord.

LEONTES.

Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an honest man.—

[Exit MAMILLIUS.]

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.

CAMILLO.

You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.

LEONTES.

Didst note it?

CAMILLO.

He would not stay at your petitions; made

His business more material.

LEONTES.

Didst perceive it?—

[Aside.]

They're here with me already; whispering, rounding,

'Sicilia is a so-forth.' 'Tis far gone

When I shall gust it last.—How came't, Camillo,

That he did stay?

CAMILLO.

At the good queen's entreaty.

LEONTES.

At the queen's be't: 'good' should be pertinent;

But so it is, it is not. Was this taken

By any understanding pate but thine?

For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in

More than the common blocks:—not noted, is't,

But of the finer natures? by some severals

Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes

Perchance are to this business purblind? say.

CAMILLO.

Business, my lord! I think most understand

Bohemia stays here longer.

LEONTES.

Ha!

CAMILLO.

Stays here longer.

LEONTES.

Ay, but why?

CAMILLO.

To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties

Of our most gracious mistress.

LEONTES.

Satisfy

Th' entreaties of your mistress!—satisfy!—

Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,

With all the nearest things to my heart, as well

My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou

Hast cleans'd my bosom; I from thee departed

Thy penitent reform'd: but we have been

Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd

In that which seems so.

CAMILLO.

Be it forbid, my lord!

LEONTES.

To bide upon't,—thou art not honest; or,

If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward,

Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

From course requir'd; or else thou must be counted

A servant grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool

That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,

And tak'st it all for jest.

CAMILLO.

My gracious lord,

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;

In every one of these no man is free,

But that his negligence, his folly, fear,

Among the infinite doings of the world,

Sometime puts forth: in your affairs, my lord,

If ever I were wilful-negligent,

It was my folly; if industriously

I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,

Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful

To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,

Whereof the execution did cry out

Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear

Which oft affects the wisest: these, my lord,

Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty

Is never free of. But, beseech your grace,

Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass

By its own visage: if I then deny it,

'Tis none of mine.

LEONTES.

Have not you seen, Camillo,—

But that's past doubt: you have, or your eye-glass

Is thicker than a cuckold's horn,—or heard,—

For, to a vision so apparent, rumour

Cannot be mute,—or thought,—for cogitation

Resides not in that man that does not think it,—

My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,—

Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought,—then say

My wife's a hobby-horse; deserves a name

As rank as any flax-wench that puts to

Before her troth-plight: say't and justify't.

CAMILLO.

I would not be a stander-by to hear

My sovereign mistress clouded so, without

My present vengeance taken: 'shrew my heart,

You never spoke what did become you less

Than this; which to reiterate were sin

As deep as that, though true.

LEONTES.

Is whispering nothing?

Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?

Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career

Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible

Of breaking honesty;—horsing foot on foot?

Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift;

Hours, minutes; noon, midnight? and all eyes

Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,

That would unseen be wicked?—is this nothing?

Why, then the world and all that's in't is nothing;

The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;

My is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,

If this be nothing.

CAMILLO.

Good my lord, be cur'd

Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes;

For 'tis most dangerous.

LEONTES.

Say it be, 'tis true.

CAMILLO.

No, no, my lord.

LEONTES.

It is; you lie, you lie:

I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee;

Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave;

Or else a hovering temporizer, that

Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,

Inclining to them both.—Were my wife's liver

Infected as her life, she would not live

The running of one glass.

CAMILLO.

Who does infect her?

LEONTES.

Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging

About his neck, Bohemia: who—if I

Had servants true about me, that bare eyes

To see alike mine honour as their profits,

Their own particular thrifts,—they would do that

Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou,

His cupbearer,—whom I from meaner form

Have bench'd and rear'd to worship; who mayst see,

Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,

How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup,

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial.

CAMILLO.

Sir, my lord,

I could do this; and that with no rash potion,

But with a ling'ring dram, that should not work

Maliciously like poison: but I cannot

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,

So sovereignly being honourable.

I have lov'd thee,—

LEONTES.

Make that thy question, and go rot!

Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,

To appoint myself in this vexation; sully

The purity and whiteness of my sheets,—

Which to preserve is sleep; which being spotted

Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps;

Give scandal to the blood o' the prince, my son,—

Who I do think is mine, and love as mine,—

Without ripe moving to't?—Would I do this?

Could man so blench?

CAMILLO.

I must believe you, sir:

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't;

Provided that, when he's remov'd, your highness

Will take again your queen as yours at first,

Even for your son's sake; and thereby for sealing

The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms

Known and allied to yours.

LEONTES.

Thou dost advise me

Even so as I mine own course have set down:

I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.

CAMILLO.

My lord,

Go then; and with a countenance as clear

As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia

And with your queen: I am his cupbearer.

If from me he have wholesome beverage,

Account me not your servant.

LEONTES.

This is all:

Do't, and thou hast the one-half of my heart;

Do't not, thou splitt'st thine own.

CAMILLO.

I'll do't, my lord.

LEONTES.

I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me.

[Exit.]

CAMILLO.

O miserable lady!—But, for me,

What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner

Of good Polixenes: and my ground to do't

Is the obedience to a master; one

Who, in rebellion with himself, will have

All that are his so too.—To do this deed,

Promotion follows: if I could find example

Of thousands that had struck anointed kings

And flourish'd after, I'd not do't; but since

Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one,

Let villainy itself forswear't. I must

Forsake the court: to do't, or no, is certain

To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now!

Here comes Bohemia.

[Enter POLIXENES.]

POLIXENES.

This is strange! methinks

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?—

Good-day, Camillo.

CAMILLO.

Hail, most royal sir!

POLIXENES.

What is the news i' the court?

CAMILLO.

None rare, my lord.

POLIXENES.

The king hath on him such a countenance

As he had lost some province, and a region

Lov'd as he loves himself; even now I met him

With customary compliment; when he,

Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling

A lip of much contempt, speeds from me;

So leaves me to consider what is breeding

That changes thus his manners.

CAMILLO.

I dare not know, my lord.

POLIXENES.

How! dare not! do not. Do you know, and dare not

Be intelligent to me? 'Tis thereabouts;

For, to yourself, what you do know, you must,

And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,

Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine chang'd too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter'd with't.

CAMILLO.

There is a sickness

Which puts some of us in distemper; but

I cannot name the disease; and it is caught

Of you that yet are well.

POLIXENES.

How! caught of me!

Make me not sighted like the basilisk:

I have look'd on thousands who have sped the better

By my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo,—

As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto

Clerk-like, experienc'd, which no less adorns

Our gentry than our parents' noble names,

In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you,

If you know aught which does behove my knowledge

Thereof to be inform'd, imprison't not

In ignorant concealment.

CAMILLO.

I may not answer.

POLIXENES.

A sickness caught of me, and yet I well!

I must be answer'd.—Dost thou hear, Camillo,

I conjure thee, by all the parts of man

Which honour does acknowledge,—whereof the least

Is not this suit of mine,—that thou declare

What incidency thou dost guess of harm

Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near;

Which way to be prevented, if to be;

If not, how best to bear it.

CAMILLO.

Sir, I will tell you;

Since I am charg'd in honour, and by him

That I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel,

Which must be ev'n as swiftly follow'd as

I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

Cry lost, and so goodnight!

POLIXENES.

On, good Camillo.

CAMILLO.

I am appointed him to murder you.

POLIXENES.

By whom, Camillo?

CAMILLO.

By the king.

POLIXENES.

For what?

CAMILLO.

He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,

As he had seen't or been an instrument

To vice you to't, that you have touch'd his queen

Forbiddenly.

POLIXENES.

O, then my best blood turn

To an infected jelly, and my name

Be yok'd with his that did betray the best!

Turn then my freshest reputation to

A savour that may strike the dullest nostril

Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn'd,

Nay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection

That e'er was heard or read!

CAMILLO.

Swear his thought over

By each particular star in heaven and

By all their influences, you may as well

Forbid the sea for to obey the moon

As, or by oath remove, or counsel shake

The fabric of his folly, whose foundation

Is pil'd upon his faith, and will continue

The standing of his body.

POLIXENES.

How should this grow?

CAMILLO.

I know not: but I am sure 'tis safer to

Avoid what's grown than question how 'tis born.

If, therefore you dare trust my honesty,—

That lies enclosèd in this trunk, which you

Shall bear along impawn'd,—away to-night.

Your followers I will whisper to the business;

And will, by twos and threes, at several posterns,

Clear them o' the city: for myself, I'll put

My fortunes to your service, which are here

By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain;

For, by the honour of my parents, I

Have utter'd truth: which if you seek to prove,

I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer

Than one condemn'd by the king's own mouth, thereon

His execution sworn.

POLIXENES.

I do believe thee;

I saw his heart in his face. Give me thy hand;

Be pilot to me, and thy places shall

Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and

My people did expect my hence departure

Two days ago.—This jealousy

Is for a precious creature: as she's rare,

Must it be great; and, as his person's mighty,

Must it be violent; and as he does conceive

He is dishonour'd by a man which ever

Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must

In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me;

Good expedition be my friend, and comfort

The gracious queen, part of this theme, but nothing

Of his ill-ta'en suspicion! Come, Camillo;

I will respect thee as a father, if

Thou bear'st my life off hence: let us avoid.

CAMILLO.

It is in mine authority to command

The keys of all the posterns: please your highness

To take the urgent hour: come, sir, away.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace.

[Enter HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, and Ladies.]

HERMIONE.

Take the boy to you: he so troubles me,

'Tis past enduring.

FIRST LADY.

Come, my gracious lord,

Shall I be your playfellow?

MAMILLIUS.

No, I'll none of you.

FIRST LADY.

Why, my sweet lord?

MAMILLIUS.

You'll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if

I were a baby still.—[To Second Lady.] I love you better.

SECOND LADY.

And why so, my lord?

MAMILLIUS.

Not for because

Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say,

Become some women best; so that there be not

Too much hair there, but in a semicircle

Or a half-moon made with a pen.

SECOND LADY.

Who taught you this?

MAMILLIUS.

I learn'd it out of women's faces.—Pray now,

What colour are your eyebrows?

FIRST LADY.

Blue, my lord.

MAMILLIUS.

Nay, that's a mock: I have seen a lady's nose

That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

FIRST LADY.

Hark ye:

The queen your mother rounds apace. We shall

Present our services to a fine new prince

One of these days; and then you'd wanton with us,

If we would have you.

SECOND LADY.

She is spread of late

Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her!

HERMIONE.

What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now

I am for you again: pray you sit by us,

And tell 's a tale.

MAMILLIUS.

Merry or sad shall't be?

HERMIONE.

As merry as you will.

MAMILLIUS.

A sad tale's best for winter. I have one

Of sprites and goblins.

HERMIONE.

Let's have that, good sir.

Come on, sit down;—come on, and do your best

To fright me with your sprites: you're powerful at it.

MAMILLIUS.

There was a man,—

HERMIONE.

Nay, come, sit down: then on.

MAMILLIUS.

Dwelt by a churchyard:—I will tell it softly;

Yond crickets shall not hear it.

HERMIONE.

Come on then,

And give't me in mine ear.

[Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, Lords, and Guards.]

LEONTES.

Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him?

FIRST LORD.

Behind the tuft of pines I met them; never

Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey'd them

Even to their ships.

LEONTES.

How bles'd am I

In my just censure, in my true opinion!—

Alack, for lesser knowledge!—How accurs'd

In being so blest!—There may be in the cup

A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart,

And yet partake no venom; for his knowledge

Is not infected; but if one present

The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known

How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,

With violent hefts;—I have drunk, and seen the spider.

Camillo was his help in this, his pander:—

There is a plot against my life, my crown;

All's true that is mistrusted:—that false villain

Whom I employ'd, was pre-employ'd by him:

He has discover'd my design, and I

Remain a pinch'd thing; yea, a very trick

For them to play at will.—How came the posterns

So easily open?

FIRST LORD.

By his great authority;

Which often hath no less prevail'd than so,

On your command.

LEONTES.

I know't too well.—

Give me the boy:—I am glad you did not nurse him:

Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you

Have too much blood in him.

HERMIONE.

What is this? sport?

LEONTES.

Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;

Away with him!—and let her sport herself

With that she's big with;—for 'tis Polixenes

Has made thee swell thus.

[Exit MAMILLIUS, with some of the Guards.]

HERMIONE.

But I'd say he had not,

And I'll be sworn you would believe my saying,

Howe'er you learn the nayward.

LEONTES.

You, my lords,

Look on her, mark her well; be but about

To say, 'she is a goodly lady' and

The justice of your hearts will thereto add,

''Tis pity she's not honest, honourable':

Praise her but for this her without-door form,—

Which, on my faith, deserves high speech,—and straight

The shrug, the hum or ha,—these petty brands

That calumny doth use:—O, I am out,

That mercy does; for calumny will sear

Virtue itself:—these shrugs, these hum's, and ha's,

When you have said 'she's goodly,' come between,

Ere you can say 'she's honest': but be it known,

From him that has most cause to grieve it should be,

She's an adultress!

HERMIONE.

Should a villain say so,

The most replenish'd villain in the world,

He were as much more villain: you, my lord,

Do but mistake.

LEONTES.

You have mistook, my lady,

Polixenes for Leontes: O thou thing,

Which I'll not call a creature of thy place,

Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,

Should a like language use to all degrees,

And mannerly distinguishment leave out

Betwixt the prince and beggar!—I have said,

She's an adultress; I have said with whom:

More, she's a traitor; and Camillo is

A federary with her; and one that knows

What she should shame to know herself

But with her most vile principal, that she's

A bed-swerver, even as bad as those

That vulgars give boldest titles; ay, and privy

To this their late escape.

HERMIONE.

No, by my life,

Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you,

When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that

You thus have publish'd me! Gentle my lord,

You scarce can right me throughly then, to say

You did mistake.

LEONTES.

No; if I mistake

In those foundations which I build upon,

The centre is not big enough to bear

A school-boy's top.—Away with her to prison!

He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty

But that he speaks.

HERMIONE.

There's some ill planet reigns:

I must be patient till the heavens look

With an aspéct more favourable.—Good my lords,

I am not prone to weeping, as our sex

Commonly are; the want of which vain dew

Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have

That honourable grief lodg'd here, which burns

Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,

With thoughts so qualified as your charities

Shall best instruct you, measure me;—and so

The king's will be perform'd!

LEONTES.

[To the GUARD.] Shall I be heard?

HERMIONE.

Who is't that goes with me?—Beseech your highness

My women may be with me; for, you see,

My plight requires it.—Do not weep, good fools;

There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress

Has deserv'd prison, then abound in tears

As I come out: this action I now go on

Is for my better grace.—Adieu, my lord:

I never wish'd to see you sorry; now

I trust I shall.—My women, come; you have leave.

LEONTES.

Go, do our bidding; hence!

[Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies, with Guards.]

FIRST LORD.

Beseech your highness, call the queen again.

ANTIGONUS.

Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice

Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer,

Yourself, your queen, your son.

FIRST LORD.

For her, my lord,—

I dare my life lay down,—and will do't, sir,

Please you to accept it,—that the queen is spotless

I' the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean

In this which you accuse her.

ANTIGONUS.

If it prove

She's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where

I lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her;

Than when I feel and see her no further trust her;

For every inch of woman in the world,

Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false,

If she be.

LEONTES.

Hold your peaces.

FIRST LORD.

Good my lord,—

ANTIGONUS.

It is for you we speak, not for ourselves:

You are abus'd, and by some putter-on

That will be damn'd for't: would I knew the villain,

I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd,—

I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven;

The second and the third, nine and some five;

If this prove true, they'll pay for't. By mine honour,

I'll geld 'em all: fourteen they shall not see,

To bring false generations: they are co-heirs;

And I had rather glib myself than they

Should not produce fair issue.

LEONTES.

Cease; no more.

You smell this business with a sense as cold

As is a dead man's nose: but I do see't and feel't

As you feel doing thus; and see withal

The instruments that feel.

ANTIGONUS.

If it be so,

We need no grave to bury honesty;

There's not a grain of it the face to sweeten

Of the whole dungy earth.

LEONTES.

What! Lack I credit?

FIRST LORD.

I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,

Upon this ground: and more it would content me

To have her honour true than your suspicion;

Be blam'd for't how you might.

LEONTES.

Why, what need we

Commune with you of this, but rather follow

Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative

Calls not your counsels; but our natural goodness

Imparts this; which, if you,—or stupified

Or seeming so in skill,—cannot or will not

Relish a truth, like us, inform yourselves

We need no more of your advice: the matter,

The loss, the gain, the ord'ring on't, is all

Properly ours.

ANTIGONUS.

And I wish, my liege,

You had only in your silent judgment tried it,

Without more overture.

LEONTES.

How could that be?

Either thou art most ignorant by age,

Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight,

Added to their familiarity,—

Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture,

That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation,

But only seeing, all other circumstances

Made up to th' deed,—doth push on this proceeding.

Yet, for a greater confirmation,—

For, in an act of this importance, 'twere

Most piteous to be wild,—I have despatch'd in post

To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple,

Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know

Of stuff'd sufficiency: now, from the oracle

They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had,

Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?

FIRST LORD.

Well done, my lord,—

LEONTES.

Though I am satisfied, and need no more

Than what I know, yet shall the oracle

Give rest to the minds of others such as he

Whose ignorant credulity will not

Come up to th' truth: so have we thought it good

From our free person she should be confin'd;

Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence

Be left her to perform. Come, follow us;

We are to speak in public; for this business

Will raise us all.

ANTIGONUS.

[Aside.] To laughter, as I take it,

If the good truth were known.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE II.

The same. The outer Room of a Prison.

[Enter PAULINA and Attendants.]

PAULINA.

The keeper of the prison,—call to him;

Let him have knowledge who I am.

[Exit an Attendant.]

Good lady!

No court in Europe is too good for thee;

What dost thou then in prison?

[Re-enter Attendant, with the Keeper.]

Now, good sir,

You know me, do you not?

KEEPER.

For a worthy lady,

And one who much I honour.

PAULINA.

Pray you, then,

Conduct me to the queen.

KEEPER.

I may not, madam;

To the contrary I have express commandment.

PAULINA.

Here's ado, to lock up honesty and honour from

The access of gentle visitors!—Is't lawful,

Pray you, to see her women? any of them?

Emilia?

KEEPER.

So please you, madam, to put

Apart these your attendants, I

Shall bring Emilia forth.

PAULINA.

I pray now, call her.

Withdraw yourselves.

[Exeunt ATTENDANTS.]

KEEPER.

And, madam,

I must be present at your conference.

PAULINA.

Well, be't so, pr'ythee.

[Exit KEEPER.]

Here's such ado to make no stain a stain

As passes colouring.

[Re-enter KEEPER, with EMILIA.]

Dear gentlewoman, how fares our gracious lady?

EMILIA.

As well as one so great and so forlorn

May hold together: on her frights and griefs,—

Which never tender lady hath borne greater,—

She is, something before her time, deliver'd.

PAULINA.

A boy?

EMILIA.

A daughter; and a goodly babe,

Lusty, and like to live: the queen receives

Much comfort in't; says 'My poor prisoner,

I am as innocent as you.'

PAULINA.

I dare be sworn;—

These dangerous unsafe lunes i' the king, beshrew them!

He must be told on't, and he shall: the office

Becomes a woman best; I'll take't upon me;

If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister;

And never to my red-look'd anger be

The trumpet any more.—Pray you, Emilia,

Commend my best obedience to the queen;

If she dares trust me with her little babe,

I'll show't the king, and undertake to be

Her advocate to th' loud'st. We do not know

How he may soften at the sight o' the child:

The silence often of pure innocence

Persuades, when speaking fails.

EMILIA.

Most worthy madam,

Your honour and your goodness is so evident,

That your free undertaking cannot miss

A thriving issue: there is no lady living

So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship

To visit the next room, I'll presently

Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer;

Who but to-day hammer'd of this design,

But durst not tempt a minister of honour,

Lest she should be denied.

PAULINA.

Tell her, Emilia,

I'll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from it

As boldness from my bosom, let't not be doubted

I shall do good.

EMILIA.

Now be you bless'd for it!

I'll to the queen: please you come something nearer.

KEEPER.

Madam, if't please the queen to send the babe,

I know not what I shall incur to pass it,

Having no warrant.

PAULINA.

You need not fear it, sir:

This child was prisoner to the womb, and is,

By law and process of great nature thence

Freed and enfranchis'd: not a party to

The anger of the king, nor guilty of,

If any be, the trespass of the queen.

KEEPER.

I do believe it.

PAULINA.

Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I

Will stand betwixt you and danger.

[Exeunt.]

ACT II. SCENE III.

The same. A Room in the Palace.

[Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, Lords, and other Attendants.]

LEONTES.

Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness

To bear the matter thus,—mere weakness. If

The cause were not in being,—part o' the cause,

She the adultress; for the harlot king

Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank

And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she

I can hook to me:—say that she were gone,

Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest

Might come to me again.—Who's there?

FIRST ATTENDANT.

My lord?

LEONTES.

How does the boy?

FIRST ATTENDANT.

He took good rest to-night;

'Tis hop'd his sickness is discharg'd.

LEONTES.

To see his nobleness!

Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,

He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it deeply,

Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on't in himself,

Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,

And downright languish'd.—Leave me solely:—go,

See how he fares.—

[Exit FIRST ATTENDANT.]

Fie, fie! no thought of him;

The very thought of my revenges that way

Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty,

And in his parties, his alliance,—let him be,

Until a time may serve: for present vengeance,

Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes

Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow:

They should not laugh if I could reach them; nor

Shall she within my power.

[Enter PAULINA, with a Child.]

FIRST LORD.

You must not enter.

PAULINA.

Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:

Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,

Than the queen's life? a gracious innocent soul,

More free than he is jealous.

ANTIGONUS.

That's enough.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

Madam, he hath not slept to-night; commanded

None should come at him.

PAULINA.

Not so hot, good sir;

I come to bring him sleep. 'Tis such as you,—

That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh

At each his needless heavings,—such as you

Nourish the cause of his awaking: I

Do come, with words as med'cinal as true,

Honest as either, to purge him of that humour

That presses him from sleep.

LEONTES.

What noise there, ho?

PAULINA.

No noise, my lord; but needful conference

About some gossips for your highness.

LEONTES.

How!—

Away with that audacious lady!—Antigonus,

I charg'd thee that she should not come about me:

I knew she would.

ANTIGONUS.

I told her so, my lord,

On your displeasure's peril, and on mine,

She should not visit you.

LEONTES.

What, canst not rule her?

PAULINA.

From all dishonesty he can: in this,—

Unless he take the course that you have done,

Commit me for committing honour,—trust it,

He shall not rule me.

ANTIGONUS.

La you now, you hear

When she will take the rein, I let her run;

But she'll not stumble.

PAULINA.

Good my liege, I come,—

And, I beseech you, hear me, who professes

Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

Your most obedient counsellor: yet that dares

Less appear so, in comforting your evils,

Than such as most seem yours:—I say I come

From your good queen.

LEONTES.

Good queen!

PAULINA.

Good queen, my lord,

Good queen: I say, good queen;

And would by combat make her good, so were I

A man, the worst about you.

LEONTES.

Force her hence!

PAULINA.

Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes

First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;

But first I'll do my errand—The good queen,

For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter;

Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.

[Laying down the child.]

LEONTES.

Out!

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o' door:

A most intelligencing bawd!

PAULINA.

Not so:

I am as ignorant in that as you

In so entitling me; and no less honest

Than you are mad; which is enough, I'll warrant,

As this world goes, to pass for honest.

LEONTES.

Traitors!

Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard:—

Thou dotard!

[To ANTIGONUS] Thou art woman-tir'd, unroosted

By thy Dame Partlet here:—take up the bastard;

Take't up, I say; give't to thy crone.

PAULINA.

For ever

Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou

Tak'st up the princess by that forced baseness

Which he has put upon't!

LEONTES.

He dreads his wife.

PAULINA.

So I would you did; then 'twere past all doubt

You'd call your children yours.

LEONTES.

A nest of traitors?

ANTIGONUS.

I am none, by this good light.

PAULINA.

Nor I; nor any,

But one that's here; and that's himself: for he

The sacred honour of himself, his queen's,

His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander,

Whose sting is sharper than the sword's; and will not,—

For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

He cannot be compell'd to't,—once remove

The root of his opinion, which is rotten

As ever oak or stone was sound.

LEONTES.

A callat

Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband,

And now baits me!—This brat is none of mine;

It is the issue of Polixenes:

Hence with it! and together with the dam,

Commit them to the fire.

PAULINA.

It is yours!

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,

So like you 'tis the worse.—Behold, my lords,

Although the print be little, the whole matter

And copy of the father,—eye, nose, lip,

The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, the valley,

The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles;

The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:—

And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it

So like to him that got it, if thou hast

The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours

No yellow in't, lest she suspect, as he does,

Her children not her husband's!

LEONTES.

A gross hag!

And, losel, thou art worthy to be hang'd

That wilt not stay her tongue.

ANTIGONUS.

Hang all the husbands

That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself

Hardly one subject.

LEONTES.

Once more, take her hence.

PAULINA.

A most unworthy and unnatural lord

Can do no more.

LEONTES.

I'll have thee burn'd.

PAULINA.

I care not.

It is an heretic that makes the fire,

Not she which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant

But this most cruel usage of your queen,—

Not able to produce more accusation

Than your own weak-hing'd fancy,—something savours

Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,

Yea, scandalous to the world.

LEONTES.

On your allegiance,

Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,

Where were her life? She durst not call me so,

If she did know me one. Away with her!

PAULINA.

I pray you, do not push me; I'll be gone.—

Look to your babe, my lord; 'tis yours: Jove send her

A better guiding spirit!—What needs these hands?

You that are thus so tender o'er his follies,

Will never do him good, not one of you.

So, so:—farewell; we are gone.

[Exit.]

LEONTES.

Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.

My child?—away with't.—even thou, that hast

A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence,

And see it instantly consum'd with fire;

Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight:

Within this hour bring me word 'tis done,—

And by good testimony,—or I'll seize thy life,

With that thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse,

And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;

The bastard-brains with these my proper hands

Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire;

For thou set'st on thy wife.

ANTIGONUS.

I did not, sir:

These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

Can clear me in't.

LORDS.

We can:—my royal liege,

He is not guilty of her coming hither.

LEONTES.

You're liars all.

FIRST LORD.

Beseech your highness, give us better credit:

We have always truly serv'd you; and beseech

So to esteem of us: and on our knees we beg,—

As recompense of our dear services,

Past and to come,—that you do change this purpose,

Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must

Lead on to some foul issue: we all kneel.

LEONTES.

I am a feather for each wind that blows:—

Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel

And call me father? better burn it now,

Than curse it then. But, be it; let it live:—

It shall not neither.—

[To ANTIGONUS.] You, sir, come you hither:

You that have been so tenderly officious

With Lady Margery, your midwife, there,

To save this bastard's life,—for 'tis a bastard,

So sure as this beard's grey,—what will you adventure

To save this brat's life?

ANTIGONUS.

Anything, my lord,

That my ability may undergo,

And nobleness impose: at least, thus much;

I'll pawn the little blood which I have left

To save the innocent:—anything possible.

LEONTES.

It shall be possible. Swear by this sword

Thou wilt perform my bidding.

ANTIGONUS.

I will, my lord.

LEONTES.

Mark, and perform it,—seest thou? for the fail

Of any point in't shall not only be

Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu'd wife,

Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,

As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry

This female bastard hence; and that thou bear it

To some remote and desert place, quite out

Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,

Without more mercy, to it own protection

And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune

It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,

On thy soul's peril and thy body's torture,

That thou commend it strangely to some place

Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.

ANTIGONUS.

I swear to do this, though a present death

Had been more merciful.—Come on, poor babe:

Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens

To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say,

Casting their savageness aside, have done

Like offices of pity.—Sir, be prosperous

In more than this deed does require!—and blessing,

Against this cruelty, fight on thy side,

Poor thing, condemn'd to loss!

[Exit with the child.]

LEONTES.

No, I'll not rear

Another's issue.

SECOND ATTENDANT.

Please your highness, posts

From those you sent to the oracle are come

An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,

Being well arriv'd from Delphos, are both landed,

Hasting to the court.

FIRST LORD.

So please you, sir, their speed

Hath been beyond account.

LEONTES.

Twenty-three days

They have been absent: 'tis good speed; foretells

The great Apollo suddenly will have

The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;

Summon a session, that we may arraign

Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath

Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have

A just and open trial. While she lives,

My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me;

And think upon my bidding.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE I.

Sicilia. A Street in some Town.

[Enter CLEOMENES and DION.]

CLEOMENES.

The climate's delicate; the air most sweet;

Fertile the isle; the temple much surpassing

The common praise it bears.

DION.

I shall report,

For most it caught me, the celestial habits,—

Methinks I so should term them,—and the reverence

Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!

How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly,

It was i' the offering!

CLEOMENES.

But of all, the burst

And the ear-deaf'ning voice o' the oracle,

Kin to Jove's thunder, so surprised my sense

That I was nothing.

DION.

If the event o' the journey

Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be't so!—

As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,

The time is worth the use on't.

CLEOMENES.

Great Apollo

Turn all to th' best! These proclamations,

So forcing faults upon Hermione,

I little like.

DION.

The violent carriage of it

Will clear or end the business: when the oracle,—

Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up,—

Shall the contents discover, something rare

Even then will rush to knowledge.—Go,—fresh horses;—

And gracious be the issue!

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE II.

The same. A Court of Justice

[Enter LEONTES, Lords, and Officers appear, properly seated.]

LEONTES.

This sessions,—to our great grief we pronounce,—

Even pushes 'gainst our heart;—the party tried,

The daughter of a king, our wife; and one

Of us too much belov'd. Let us be clear'd

Of being tyrannous, since we so openly

Proceed in justice; which shall have due course,

Even to the guilt or the purgation.—

Produce the prisoner.

OFFICER.

It is his highness' pleasure that the queen

Appear in person here in court.—

CRIER.

Silence!

[HERMIONE, is brought in guarded; PAULINA, and Ladies attending.]

LEONTES.

Read the indictment.

OFFICER.

[Reads.] 'Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia; and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.'

HERMIONE.

Since what I am to say must be but that

Which contradicts my accusation, and

The testimony on my part no other

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me

To say 'Not guilty': mine integrity,

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,

Be so receiv'd. But thus,—if powers divine

Behold our human actions,—as they do,—

I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make

False accusation blush, and tyranny

Tremble at patience.—You, my lord, best know,—

Who least will seem to do so,—my past life

Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,

As I am now unhappy: which is more

Than history can pattern, though devis'd

And play'd to take spectators; for behold me,—

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter,

The mother to a hopeful prince,—here standing

To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore

Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it

As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,

'Tis a derivative from me to mine,

And only that I stand for. I appeal

To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes

Came to your court, how I was in your grace,

How merited to be so; since he came,

With what encounter so uncurrent I

Have strain'd t' appear thus: if one jot beyond

The bound of honour, or in act or will

That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts

Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin

Cry fie upon my grave!

LEONTES.

I ne'er heard yet

That any of these bolder vices wanted

Less impudence to gainsay what they did

Than to perform it first.

HERMIONE.

That's true enough;

Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

LEONTES.

You will not own it.

HERMIONE.

More than mistress of

Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not

At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,—

With whom I am accus'd,—I do confess

I lov'd him, as in honour he requir'd;

With such a kind of love as might become

A lady like me; with a love even such,

So and no other, as yourself commanded:

Which not to have done, I think had been in me

Both disobedience and ingratitude

To you and toward your friend; whose love had spoke,

Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely,

That it was yours. Now for conspiracy,

I know not how it tastes; though it be dish'd

For me to try how: all I know of it

Is that Camillo was an honest man;

And why he left your court, the gods themselves,

Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.

LEONTES.

You knew of his departure, as you know

What you have underta'en to do in 's absence.

HERMIONE.

Sir,

You speak a language that I understand not:

My life stands in the level of your dreams,

Which I'll lay down.

LEONTES.

Your actions are my dreams;

You had a bastard by Polixenes,

And I but dream'd it:—as you were past all shame,—

Those of your fact are so,—so past all truth:

Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as

Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,

No father owning it,—which is, indeed,

More criminal in thee than it,—so thou

Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage

Look for no less than death.

HERMIONE.

Sir, spare your threats:

The bug which you would fright me with, I seek.

To me can life be no commodity:

The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,

I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,

But know not how it went: my second joy,

And first-fruits of my body, from his presence

I am barr'd, like one infectious: my third comfort,

Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast,—

The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,—

Hal'd out to murder: myself on every post

Proclaim'd a strumpet; with immodest hatred

The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs

To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried

Here to this place, i' the open air, before

I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,

Tell me what blessings I have here alive,

That I should fear to die. Therefore proceed.

But yet hear this; mistake me not;—no life,—

I prize it not a straw,—but for mine honour

(Which I would free), if I shall be condemn'd

Upon surmises—all proofs sleeping else,

But what your jealousies awake—I tell you

'Tis rigour, and not law.—Your honours all,

I do refer me to the oracle:

Apollo be my judge!

FIRST LORD.

This your request

Is altogether just: therefore, bring forth,

And in Apollo's name, his oracle:

[Exeunt certain Officers.]

HERMIONE.

The Emperor of Russia was my father;

O that he were alive, and here beholding

His daughter's trial! that he did but see

The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes

Of pity, not revenge!

[Re-enter OFFICERS, with CLEOMENES and DION.]

OFFICER.

You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,

That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have

Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought

This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd

Of great Apollo's priest; and that since then,

You have not dar'd to break the holy seal,

Nor read the secrets in't.

CLEOMENES, DION.

All this we swear.

LEONTES.

Break up the seals and read.

OFFICER.

[Reads.] 'Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found.'

LORDS.

Now blessed be the great Apollo!

HERMIONE.

Praised!

LEONTES.

Hast thou read truth?

OFFICER.

Ay, my lord; even so

As it is here set down.

LEONTES.

There is no truth at all i' the oracle:

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood!

[Enter a Servant hastily.]

SERVANT.

My lord the king, the king!

LEONTES.

What is the business?

SERVANT.

O sir, I shall be hated to report it:

The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear

Of the queen's speed, is gone.

LEONTES.

How! gone?

SERVANT.

Is dead.

LEONTES.

Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves

Do strike at my injustice.

[HERMIONE faints.]

How now there!

PAULINA.

This news is mortal to the queen:—Look down

And see what death is doing.

LEONTES.

Take her hence:

Her heart is but o'ercharg'd; she will recover.—

I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion:—

Beseech you tenderly apply to her

Some remedies for life.—

[Exeunt PAULINA and Ladies with HERMIONE.]

Apollo, pardon

My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle!—

I'll reconcile me to Polixenes;

New woo my queen; recall the good Camillo—

Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;

For, being transported by my jealousies

To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose

Camillo for the minister to poison

My friend Polixenes: which had been done,

But that the good mind of Camillo tardied

My swift command, though I with death and with

Reward did threaten and encourage him,

Not doing it and being done: he, most humane,

And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest

Unclasp'd my practice; quit his fortunes here,

Which you knew great; and to the certain hazard

Of all incertainties himself commended,

No richer than his honour:—how he glisters

Thorough my rust! And how his piety

Does my deeds make the blacker!

[Re-enter PAULINA.]

PAULINA.

Woe the while!

O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,

Break too!

FIRST LORD.

What fit is this, good lady?

PAULINA.

What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?

What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling

In leads or oils? what old or newer torture

Must I receive, whose every word deserves

To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny

Together working with thy jealousies,—

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle

For girls of nine,—O, think what they have done,

And then run mad indeed,—stark mad! for all

Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.

That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing;

That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,

And damnable ingrateful; nor was't much

Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour,

To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,—

More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon

The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter,

To be or none or little, though a devil

Would have shed water out of fire ere done't;

Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death

Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,—

Thoughts high for one so tender,—cleft the heart

That could conceive a gross and foolish sire

Blemish'd his gracious dam: this is not,—no,

Laid to thy answer: but the last,—O lords,

When I have said, cry Woe!—the queen, the queen,

The sweetest, dearest creature's dead; and vengeance for't

Not dropp'd down yet.

FIRST LORD.

The higher powers forbid!

PAULINA.

I say she's dead: I'll swear't. If word nor oath

Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring

Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye,

Heat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you

As I would do the gods.—But, O thou tyrant!

Do not repent these things; for they are heavier

Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee

To nothing but despair. A thousand knees

Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,

Upon a barren mountain, and still winter

In storm perpetual, could not move the gods

To look that way thou wert.

LEONTES.

Go on, go on:

Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv'd

All tongues to talk their bitterest!

FIRST LORD.

Say no more:

Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault

I' the boldness of your speech.

PAULINA.

I am sorry for't:

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them,

I do repent. Alas, I have show'd too much

The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd

To th' noble heart—What's gone and what's past help,

Should be past grief: do not receive affliction

At my petition; I beseech you, rather

Let me be punish'd, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,

Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:

The love I bore your queen,—lo, fool again!—

I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;

I'll not remember you of my own lord,

Who is lost too: take your patience to you,

And I'll say nothing.

LEONTES.

Thou didst speak but well,

When most the truth; which I receive much better

Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, bring me

To the dead bodies of my queen and son:

One grave shall be for both; upon them shall

The causes of their death appear, unto

Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit

The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there

Shall be my recreation: so long as nature

Will bear up with this exercise, so long

I daily vow to use it.—Come, and lead me

To these sorrows.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III. SCENE III.

Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea.

[Enter ANTIGONUS with the Child, and a Mariner.]

ANTIGONUS.

Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch'd upon

The deserts of Bohemia?

MARINER.

Ay, my lord; and fear

We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly,

And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,

The heavens with that we have in hand are angry,

And frown upon 's.

ANTIGONUS.

Their sacred wills be done!—Go, get aboard;

Look to thy bark: I'll not be long before

I call upon thee.

MARINER.

Make your best haste; and go not

Too far i' the land: 'tis like to be loud weather;

Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

Of prey that keep upon't.

ANTIGONUS.

Go thou away:

I'll follow instantly.

MARINER.

I am glad at heart

To be so rid o' th' business.

[Exit.]

ANTIGONUS.

Come, poor babe:—

I have heard (but not believ'd) the spirits of the dead

May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother

Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream

So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

Sometimes her head on one side, some another:

I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

So fill'd and so becoming: in pure white robes,

Like very sanctity, she did approach

My cabin where I lay: thrice bow'd before me;

And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes

Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon

Did this break from her: 'Good Antigonus,

Since fate, against thy better disposition,

Hath made thy person for the thrower-out

Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,—

Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita

I pr'ythee call't. For this ungentle business,

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see

Thy wife Paulina more': so, with shrieks,

She melted into air. Affrighted much,

I did in time collect myself; and thought

This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys;

Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously,

I will be squar'd by this. I do believe

Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that

Apollo would, this being indeed the issue

Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,

Either for life or death, upon the earth

Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!

[Laying down the child.]

There lie; and there thy character: there these;

[Laying down a bundle.]

Which may if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,

And still rest thine.—The storm begins:—poor wretch,

That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd

To loss and what may follow!—Weep I cannot,

But my heart bleeds: and most accurs'd am I

To be by oath enjoin'd to this.—Farewell!

The day frowns more and more:—thou'rt like to have

A lullaby too rough:—I never saw

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!—

Well may I get aboard!—This is the chase:

I am gone for ever.

[Exit, pursued by a bear.]

[Enter an old SHEPHERD.]

SHEPHERD.

I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting.—Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if anywhere I have them, 'tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy.—Good luck, an't be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the child.] Mercy on's, a bairn: A very pretty bairn! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one: sure, some scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work; they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for pity: yet I'll tarry till my son comes; he hallaed but even now.—Whoa, ho hoa!

CLOWN.

[Within.] Hilloa, loa!

SHEPHERD.

What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither.

[Enter CLOWN.]

What ail'st thou, man?

CLOWN.

I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land!—but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it, you cannot thrust a bodkin's point.

SHEPHERD.

Why, boy, how is it?

CLOWN.

I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! But that's not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em; now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service,—to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help, and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman.—But to make an end of the ship,—to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it:—but first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them;—and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him,—both roaring louder than the sea or weather.

SHEPHERD.

Name of mercy! when was this, boy?

CLOWN.

Now, now; I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman; he's at it now.

SHEPHERD.

Would I had been by to have helped the old man!

CLOWN.

I would you had been by the ship-side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.

SHEPHERD.

[Aside.] Heavy matters, heavy matters! But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I with things new-born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open't. So, let's see:—it was told me I should be rich by the fairies: this is some changeling:—open't. What's within, boy?

CLOWN.

You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!

SHEPHERD.

This is fairy-gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way! We are lucky, boy: and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy—Let my sheep go:—come, good boy, the next way home.

CLOWN.

Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I'll bury it.

SHEPHERD.

That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the sight of him.

CLOWN.

Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' the ground.

SHEPHERD.

'Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good deeds on't.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE I.

[Enter Time, as Chorus.]

TIME.

I,—that please some, try all; both joy and terror

Of good and bad; that make and unfold error,—

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

To use my wings. Impute it not a crime

To me or my swift passage, that I slide

O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried

Of that wide gap, since it is in my power

To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour

To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass

The same I am, ere ancient'st order was

Or what is now received: I witness to

The times that brought them in; so shall I do

To the freshest things now reigning, and make stale

The glistering of this present, as my tale

Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,

I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing

As you had slept between. Leontes leaving

The effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving

That he shuts up himself; imagine me,

Gentle spectators, that I now may be

In fair Bohemia; and remember well,

I mention'd a son o' the king's, which Florizel

I now name to you; and with speed so pace

To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues,

I list not prophesy; but let Time's news

Be known when 'tis brought forth:—a shepherd's daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

If ever you have spent time worse ere now;

If never, yet that Time himself doth say

He wishes earnestly you never may.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE II.

Bohemia. A Room in the palace of POLIXENES.

[Enter POLIXENES and CAMILLO.]

POLIXENES.

I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: 'tis a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this.

CAMILLO.

It is fifteen years since I saw my country; though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to think so,—which is another spur to my departure.

POLIXENES.

As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now: the need I have of thee, thine own goodness hath made; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee; thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself, or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered,—as too much I cannot,—to be more thankful to thee shall be my study; and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, pr'ythee, speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call'st him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.

CAMILLO.

Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.

POLIXENES.

I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care; so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence,—that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd,—a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.

CAMILLO.

I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.

POLIXENES.

That's likewise part of my intelligence: but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither. Pr'ythee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.

CAMILLO.

I willingly obey your command.

POLIXENES.

My best Camillo!—We must disguise ourselves.

[Exeunt.]

ACT IV. SCENE III.

The same. A Road near the Shepherd's cottage.

[Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.]

AUTOLYCUS.

When daffodils begin to peer,—

With, hey! the doxy over the dale,—

Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year:

For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,—

With, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!—

Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,—

With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay,—

Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

While we lie tumbling in the hay.

I have serv'd Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

The pale moon shines by night:

And when I wander here and there,

I then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin budget,

Then my account I well may give

And in the stocks avouch it.

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, I as am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison; and my revenue is the silly-cheat: gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway; beating and hanging are terrors to me; for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it.—A prize! a prize!

[Enter CLOWN.]

CLOWN.

Let me see:—every 'leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock's mine.

CLOWN.

I cannot do't without counters.—Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? 'Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants; rice'—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the shearers,—three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; 'mace—dates',—none, that's out of my note; 'nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger',—but that I may beg; 'four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun.'

AUTOLYCUS.

[Grovelling on the ground.] O that ever I was born!

CLOWN.

I' the name of me,—

AUTOLYCUS.

O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death!

CLOWN.

Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

AUTOLYCUS.

O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.

CLOWN.

Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.

AUTOLYCUS.

I am robb'd, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.

CLOWN.

What, by a horseman or a footman?

AUTOLYCUS.

A footman, sweet sir, a footman.

CLOWN.

Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with thee: if this be a horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.

[Helping him up.]

AUTOLYCUS.

O, good sir, tenderly, O!

CLOWN.

Alas, poor soul!

AUTOLYCUS.

O, good sir, softly, good sir: I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.

CLOWN.

How now! canst stand?

AUTOLYCUS.

Softly, dear sir! [Picks his pocket.] good sir, softly; you ha' done me a charitable office.

CLOWN.

Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.

AUTOLYCUS.

No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I shall there have money or anything I want: offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.

CLOWN.

What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?

AUTOLYCUS.

A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.

CLOWN.

His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish it, to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.

AUTOLYCUS.

Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus.

CLOWN.

Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

AUTOLYCUS.

Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into this apparel.

CLOWN.

Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia; if you had but looked big and spit at him, he'd have run.

AUTOLYCUS.

I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.

CLOWN.

How do you now?

AUTOLYCUS.

Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman's.

CLOWN.

Shall I bring thee on the way?

AUTOLYCUS.

No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.

CLOWN.

Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

AUTOLYCUS.

Prosper you, sweet sir! [Exit CLOWN.] Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in the book of virtue!

[Sings.]

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile-a.

[Exit.]

ACT IV. SCENE IV.

The same. A Shepherd's Cottage.

[Enter FLORIZEL and PERDITA.]

FLORIZEL.

These your unusual weeds to each part of you

Do give a life,—no shepherdess, but Flora

Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing

Is as a meeting of the petty gods,

And you the queen on't.

PERDITA.

Sir, my gracious lord,

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me,—

O, pardon that I name them!—your high self,

The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd

With a swain's wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,

Most goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feasts

In every mess have folly, and the feeders

Digest it with a custom, I should blush

To see you so attir'd; swoon, I think,

To show myself a glass.

FLORIZEL.

I bless the time

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father's ground.

PERDITA.

Now Jove afford you cause!

To me the difference forges dread: your greatness

Hath not been us'd to fear. Even now I tremble

To think your father, by some accident,

Should pass this way, as you did. O, the fates!

How would he look to see his work, so noble,

Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how

Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold

The sternness of his presence?

FLORIZEL.

Apprehend

Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,

Humbling their deities to love, have taken

The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter

Became a bull and bellow'd; the green Neptune

A ram and bleated; and the fire-rob'd god,

Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,

As I seem now:—their transformations

Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,—

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires

Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts

Burn hotter than my faith.

PERDITA.

O, but, sir,

Your resolution cannot hold when 'tis

Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power of the king:

One of these two must be necessities,

Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.

FLORIZEL.

Thou dearest Perdita,

With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not

The mirth o' the feast: or I'll 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 any thing

That you behold the while. Your guests are coming:

Lift up your countenance, as it were the day

Of celebration of that nuptial which

We two have sworn shall come.

PERDITA.

O lady Fortune,

Stand you auspicious!

FLORIZEL.

See, your guests approach:

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let's be red with mirth.

[Enter Shepherd, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO, disguised; CLOWN, MOPSA, DORCAS, with others.]

SHEPHERD.

Fie, daughter! 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, now i' the middle;

On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire

With labour, and the thing she took to quench it

She would to each one sip. You are retir'd,

As if you were a feasted one, and not

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.

PERDITA.

[To POLIXENES.] Sir, welcome!

It is my father's will I should take on me

The hostess-ship o' the day:—

[To CAMILLO.] You're welcome, sir!

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—Reverend sirs,

For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep

Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be to you both!

And welcome to our shearing!

POLIXENES.

Shepherdess—

A fair one are you!—well you fit our ages

With flowers of winter.

PERDITA.

Sir, the year growing ancient,—

Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth

Of trembling winter,—the fairest flowers o' the season

Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors,

Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not

To get slips of them.

POLIXENES.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

PERDITA.

For I have heard it said

There is an art which, in their piedness, shares

With great creating nature.

POLIXENES.

Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean; so, o'er that art

Which you say adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry

A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend nature,—change it rather; but

The art itself is nature.

PERDITA.

So it is.

POLIXENES.

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

PERDITA.

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, 'twere well, and only therefore

Desire to breed by me.—Here's flowers for you;

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed 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're very welcome!

CAMILLO.

I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

PERDITA.

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 maidenheads growing.—O Proserpina,

From 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!

FLORIZEL.

What, like a corse?

PERDITA.

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.

FLORIZEL.

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,

I'd have you do it ever; when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own

No other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,

That all your acts are queens.

PERDITA.

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

And the true blood which peeps fairly through it,

Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd,

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

FLORIZEL.

I think you have

As little skill to fear as I have purpose

To put you to't. But, come; our dance, I pray:

Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair

That never mean to part.

PERDITA.

I'll swear for 'em.

POLIXENES.

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems

But smacks of something greater than herself,

Too noble for this place.

CAMILLO.

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.

CLOWN.

Come on, strike up.

DORCAS.

Mopsa must be your mistress; marry, garlic,

To mend her kissing with!

MOPSA.

Now, in good time!

CLOWN.

Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.—

Come, strike up.

[Music. Here a dance Of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.]

POLIXENES.

Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this

Which dances with your daughter?

SHEPHERD.

They call him Doricles; and boasts himself

To have a worthy feeding; but I have it

Upon his own report, and I believe it:

He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:

I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon

Upon the water as he'll stand, and read,

As 'twere, my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain,

I think there is not half a kiss to choose

Who loves another best.

POLIXENES.

She dances featly.

SHEPHERD.

So she does anything; though I report it,

That should be silent; if young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

Which he not dreams of.

[Enter a SERVANT.]

SERVANT.

O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he sings several tunes faster than you'll tell money: he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew to his tunes.

CLOWN.

He could never come better: he shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

SERVANT.

He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burdens of 'dildos' and 'fadings', 'jump her and thump her'; and where some stretch-mouth'd rascal would, as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man',—puts him off, slights him, with 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.'

POLIXENES.

This is a brave fellow.

CLOWN.

Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

SERVANT.

He hath ribbons of all the colours i' the rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns; why he sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.

CLOWN.

Pr'ythee bring him in; and let him approach singing.

PERDITA.

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in his tunes.

[Exit SERVANT.]

CLOWN.

You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you'd think, sister.

PERDITA.

Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

[Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Lawn as white as driven snow;

Cypress black as e'er was crow;

Gloves as sweet as damask-roses;

Masks for faces and for noses;

Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber,

Perfume for a lady's chamber;

Golden quoifs and stomachers,

For my lads to give their dears;

Pins and poking-sticks of steel,

What maids lack from head to heel.

Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:

Come, buy.

CLOWN.

If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.

MOPSA.

I was promis'd them against the feast; but they come not too late now.

DORCAS.

He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.

MOPSA.

He hath paid you all he promised you: may be he has paid you more,—which will shame you to give him again.

CLOWN.

Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? 'tis well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

MOPSA.

I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace, and a pair of sweet gloves.

CLOWN.

Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?

AUTOLYCUS.

And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary.

CLOWN.

Fear not thou, man; thou shalt lose nothing here.

AUTOLYCUS.

I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.

CLOWN.

What hast here? ballads?

MOPSA.

Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print a-life; for then we are sure they are true.

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's one to a very doleful tune. How a usurer's wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she long'd to eat adders' heads and toads carbonadoed.

MOPSA.

Is it true, think you?

AUTOLYCUS.

Very true; and but a month old.

DORCAS.

Bless me from marrying a usurer!

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's the midwife's name to' t, one Mistress Taleporter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?

MOPSA.

Pray you now, buy it.

CLOWN.

Come on, lay it by; and let's first see more ballads; we'll buy the other things anon.

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.

DORCAS.

Is it true too, think you?

AUTOLYCUS.

Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack will hold.

CLOWN.

Lay it by too: another.

AUTOLYCUS.

This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.

MOPSA.

Let's have some merry ones.

AUTOLYCUS.

Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of 'Two maids wooing a man.' There's scarce a maid westward but she sings it: 'tis in request, I can tell you.

MOPSA.

We can both sing it: if thou'lt bear a part, thou shalt hear; 'tis in three parts.

DORCAS.

We had the tune on't a month ago.

AUTOLYCUS.

I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my occupation: have at it with you.

[SONG.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Get you hence, for I must go

Where it fits not you to know.

DORCAS.

Whither?

MOPSA.

O, whither?

DORCAS.

Whither?

MOPSA.

It becomes thy oath full well

Thou to me thy secrets tell.

DORCAS.

Me too! Let me go thither.

MOPSA.

Or thou goest to the grange or mill:

DORCAS.

If to either, thou dost ill.

AUTOLYCUS.

Neither.

DORCAS.

What, neither?

AUTOLYCUS.

Neither.

DORCAS.

Thou hast sworn my love to be;

MOPSA.

Thou hast sworn it more to me;

Then whither goest?—say, whither?

CLOWN.

We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them.—Come, bring away thy pack after me.—Wenches, I'll buy for you both:—Pedlar, let's have the first choice.—Follow me, girls.

[Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA.]

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] And you shall pay well for 'em.

Will you buy any tape,

Or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?

Any silk, any thread,

Any toys for your head,

Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?

Come to the pedlar;

Money's a meddler

That doth utter all men's ware-a.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter Servant.]

SERVANT.

Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair; they call themselves saltiers: and they have dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind (if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling) it will please plentifully.

SHEPHERD.

Away! we'll none on't; here has been too much homely foolery already.—I know, sir, we weary you.

POLIXENES.

You weary those that refresh us: pray, let's see these four threes of herdsmen.

SERVANT.

One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squire.

SHEPHERD.

Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now.

SERVANT.

Why, they stay at door, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter Twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.]

POLIXENES.

O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.—

[To CAMILLO.] Is it not too far gone?—'Tis time to part them.—

He's simple and tells much. [To FLORIZEL.] How now, fair shepherd!

Your heart is full of something that does take

Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young

And handed love as you do, I was wont

To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack'd

The pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it

To her acceptance; you have let him go,

And nothing marted with him. If your lass

Interpretation should abuse, and call this

Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited

For a reply, at least if you make a care

Of happy holding her.

FLORIZEL.

Old sir, I know

She prizes not such trifles as these are:

The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd

Up in my heart; which I have given already,

But not deliver'd.—O, hear me breathe my life

Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem,

Hath sometime lov'd,—I take thy hand! this hand,

As soft as dove's down, and as white as it,

Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow that's bolted

By the northern blasts twice o'er.

POLIXENES.

What follows this?—

How prettily the young swain seems to wash

The hand was fair before!—I have put you out:

But to your protestation; let me hear

What you profess.

FLORIZEL.

Do, and be witness to't.

POLIXENES.

And this my neighbour, too?

FLORIZEL.

And he, and more

Than he, and men,—the earth, the heavens, and all:—

That,—were I crown'd the most imperial monarch,

Thereof most worthy; were I the fairest youth

That ever made eye swerve; had force and knowledge

More than was ever man's,—I would not prize them

Without her love: for her employ them all;

Commend them, and condemn them to her service,

Or to their own perdition.

POLIXENES.

Fairly offer'd.

CAMILLO.

This shows a sound affection.

SHEPHERD.

But, my daughter,

Say you the like to him?

PERDITA.

I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:

By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out

The purity of his.

SHEPHERD.

Take hands, a bargain!—

And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't:

I give my daughter to him, and will make

Her portion equal his.

FLORIZEL.

O, that must be

I' the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,

I shall have more than you can dream of yet;

Enough then for your wonder: but come on,

Contract us 'fore these witnesses.

SHEPHERD.

Come, your hand;—

And, daughter, yours.

POLIXENES.

Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;

Have you a father?

FLORIZEL.

I have; but what of him?

POLIXENES.

Knows he of this?

FLORIZEL.

He neither does nor shall.

POLIXENES.

Methinks a father

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest

That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more;

Is not your father grown incapable

Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid

With age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear?

Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing

But what he did being childish?

FLORIZEL.

No, good sir;

He has his health, and ampler strength indeed

Than most have of his age.

POLIXENES.

By my white beard,

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial: reason my son

Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason

The father,—all whose joy is nothing else

But fair posterity,—should hold some counsel

In such a business.

FLORIZEL.

I yield all this;

But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,

Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

My father of this business.

POLIXENES.

Let him know't.

FLORIZEL.

He shall not.

POLIXENES.

Pr'ythee let him.

FLORIZEL.

No, he must not.

SHEPHERD.

Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve

At knowing of thy choice.

FLORIZEL.

Come, come, he must not.—

Mark our contract.

POLIXENES.

[Discovering himself.]

Mark your divorce, young sir,

Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base

To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre's heir,

That thus affects a sheep-hook!—Thou, old traitor,

I am sorry that, by hanging thee, I can but

Shorten thy life one week.—And thou, fresh piece

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know

The royal fool thou cop'st with,—

SHEPHERD.

O, my heart!

POLIXENES.

I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers, and made

More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,—

If I may ever know thou dost but sigh

That thou no more shalt see this knack,—as never

I mean thou shalt,—we'll bar thee from succession;

Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,

Far than Deucalion off:—mark thou my words:

Follow us to the court.—Thou churl, for this time,

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee

From the dead blow of it.—And you, enchantment,—

Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too

That makes himself, but for our honour therein,

Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou

These rural latches to his entrance open,

Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,

I will devise a death as cruel for thee

As thou art tender to't.

[Exit.]

PERDITA.

Even here undone!

I was not much afeard: for once or twice

I was about to speak, and tell him plainly

The self-same sun that shines upon his court

Hides not his visage from our cottage, but

Looks on alike.—[To FLORIZEL.] Will't please you, sir, be gone?

I told you what would come of this! Beseech you,

Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,

Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further,

But milk my ewes, and weep.

CAMILLO.

Why, how now, father!

Speak ere thou diest.

SHEPHERD.

I cannot speak, nor think,

Nor dare to know that which I know.—[To FLORIZEL.] O, sir,

You have undone a man of fourscore-three,

That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,

To die upon the bed my father died,

To lie close by his honest bones! but now

Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me

Where no priest shovels in dust.—[To PERDITA.] O cursèd wretch,

That knew'st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure

To mingle faith with him!—Undone, undone!

If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd

To die when I desire.

[Exit.]

FLORIZEL.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,

But nothing alt'red: what I was, I am:

More straining on for plucking back; not following

My leash unwillingly.

CAMILLO.

Gracious, my lord,

You know your father's temper: at this time

He will allow no speech,—which I do guess

You do not purpose to him,—and as hardly

Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear:

Then, till the fury of his highness settle,

Come not before him.

FLORIZEL.

I not purpose it.

I think Camillo?

CAMILLO.

Even he, my lord.

PERDITA.

How often have I told you 'twould be thus!

How often said my dignity would last

But till 'twere known!

FLORIZEL.

It cannot fail but by

The violation of my faith; and then

Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together

And mar the seeds within!—Lift up thy looks.—

From my succession wipe me, father; I

Am heir to my affection.

CAMILLO.

Be advis'd.

FLORIZEL.

I am,—and by my fancy; if my reason

Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;

If not, my senses, better pleas'd with madness,

Do bid it welcome.

CAMILLO.

This is desperate, sir.

FLORIZEL.

So call it: but it does fulfil my vow:

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may

Be thereat glean'd; for all the sun sees or

The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide

In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath

To this my fair belov'd: therefore, I pray you,

As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend

When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not

To see him any more,—cast your good counsels

Upon his passion: let myself and fortune

Tug for the time to come. This you may know,

And so deliver,—I am put to sea

With her, whom here I cannot hold on shore;

And, most oppórtune to her need, I have

A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd

For this design. What course I mean to hold

Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor

Concern me the reporting.

CAMILLO.

O, my lord,

I would your spirit were easier for advice,

Or stronger for your need.

FLORIZEL.

Hark, Perdita.—[Takes her aside.]

[To CAMILLO.]I'll hear you by and by.

CAMILLO.

He's irremovable,

Resolv'd for flight. Now were I happy if

His going I could frame to serve my turn;

Save him from danger, do him love and honour;

Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia

And that unhappy king, my master, whom

I so much thirst to see.

FLORIZEL.

Now, good Camillo,

I am so fraught with curious business that

I leave out ceremony.

CAMILLO.

Sir, I think

You have heard of my poor services, i' the love

That I have borne your father?

FLORIZEL.

Very nobly

Have you deserv'd: it is my father's music

To speak your deeds; not little of his care

To have them recompens'd as thought on.

CAMILLO.

Well, my lord,

If you may please to think I love the king,

And, through him, what's nearest to him, which is

Your gracious self, embrace but my direction,—

If your more ponderous and settled project

May suffer alteration,—on mine honour,

I'll point you where you shall have such receiving

As shall become your highness; where you may

Enjoy your mistress,—from the whom, I see,

There's no disjunction to be made, but by,

As heavens forfend! your ruin,—marry her;

And,—with my best endeavours in your absence—

Your discontenting father strive to qualify,

And bring him up to liking.

FLORIZEL.

How, Camillo,

May this, almost a miracle, be done?

That I may call thee something more than man,

And, after that, trust to thee.

CAMILLO.

Have you thought on

A place whereto you'll go?

FLORIZEL.

Not any yet;

But as the unthought-on accident is guilty

To what we wildly do; so we profess

Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies

Of every wind that blows.

CAMILLO.

Then list to me:

This follows,—if you will not change your purpose,

But undergo this flight,—make for Sicilia;

And there present yourself and your fair princess,—

For so, I see, she must be,—'fore Leontes:

She shall be habited as it becomes

The partner of your bed. Methinks I see

Leontes opening his free arms, and weeping

His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness,

As 'twere i' the father's person; kisses the hands

Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him

'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness,—the one

He chides to hell, and bids the other grow

Faster than thought or time.

FLORIZEL.

Worthy Camillo,

What colour for my visitation shall I

Hold up before him?

CAMILLO.

Sent by the king your father

To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,

The manner of your bearing towards him, with

What you as from your father, shall deliver,

Things known betwixt us three, I'll write you down;

The which shall point you forth at every sitting,

What you must say; that he shall not perceive

But that you have your father's bosom there,

And speak his very heart.

FLORIZEL.

I am bound to you:

There is some sap in this.

CAMILLO.

A course more promising

Than a wild dedication of yourselves

To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores, most certain

To miseries enough: no hope to help you;

But as you shake off one to take another:

Nothing so certain as your anchors; who

Do their best office if they can but stay you

Where you'll be loath to be: besides, you know

Prosperity's the very bond of love,

Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together

Affliction alters.

PERDITA.

One of these is true:

I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind.

CAMILLO.

Yea, say you so?

There shall not at your father's house, these seven years

Be born another such.

FLORIZEL.

My good Camillo,

She is as forward of her breeding as

She is i' the rear our birth.

CAMILLO.

I cannot say 'tis pity

She lacks instruction; for she seems a mistress

To most that teach.

PERDITA.

Your pardon, sir; for this:

I'll blush you thanks.

FLORIZEL.

My prettiest Perdita!—

But, O, the thorns we stand upon!—Camillo,—

Preserver of my father, now of me;

The medicine of our house!—how shall we do?

We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son;

Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

CAMILLO.

My lord,

Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes

Do all lie there: it shall be so my care

To have you royally appointed as if

The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,

That you may know you shall not want,—one word.

[They talk aside.]

[Re-enter AUTOLYCUS.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting;—they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches' song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket,—it was senseless; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that, in this time of lethargy, I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with whoobub against his daughter and the king's son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army.

[CAMILLO, FLORIZEL, and PERDITA come forward.]

CAMILLO.

Nay, but my letters, by this means being there

So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.

FLORIZEL.

And those that you'll procure from king Leontes,—

CAMILLO.

Shall satisfy your father.

PERDITA.

Happy be you!

All that you speak shows fair.

CAMILLO.

[Seeing AUTOLYCUS.] Who have we here?

We'll make an instrument of this; omit

Nothing may give us aid.

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] If they have overheard me now,—why, hanging.

CAMILLO.

How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here's no harm intended to thee.

AUTOLYCUS.

I am a poor fellow, sir.

CAMILLO.

Why, be so still; here's nobody will steal that from thee: yet, for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,—thou must think there's a necessity in't,—and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there's some boot. [Giving money.]

AUTOLYCUS.

I am a poor fellow, sir:—[Aside.] I know ye well enough.

CAMILLO.

Nay, pr'ythee dispatch: the gentleman is half flay'd already.

AUTOLYCUS.

Are you in earnest, sir?—[Aside.] I smell the trick on't.

FLORIZEL.

Dispatch, I pr'ythee.

AUTOLYCUS.

Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it.

CAMILLO.

Unbuckle, unbuckle.

[FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments.]

Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy

Come home to you!—you must retire yourself

Into some covert; take your sweetheart's hat

And pluck it o'er your brows, muffle your face,

Dismantle you; and, as you can, disliken

The truth of your own seeming; that you may,—

For I do fear eyes over,—to shipboard

Get undescried.

PERDITA.

I see the play so lies

That I must bear a part.

CAMILLO.

No remedy.—

Have you done there?

FLORIZEL.

Should I now meet my father,

He would not call me son.

CAMILLO.

Nay, you shall have no hat.—[Giving it to PERDITA.]

Come, lady, come.—Farewell, my friend.

AUTOLYCUS.

Adieu, sir.

FLORIZEL.

O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

Pray you a word.

[They converse apart.]

CAMILLO.

[Aside.] What I do next, shall be to tell the king

Of this escape, and whither they are bound;

Wherein, my hope is, I shall so prevail

To force him after: in whose company

I shall re-view Sicilia; for whose sight

I have a woman's longing.

FLORIZEL.

Fortune speed us!—

Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.

CAMILLO.

The swifter speed the better.

[Exeunt FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and CAMILLO.]

AUTOLYCUS.

I understand the business, I hear it:—to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot? what a boot is here with this exchange? Sure, the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity,—stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do't: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession.

[Re-enter CLOWN and SHEPHERD.]

Aside, aside;—here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane's end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.

CLOWN.

See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she's a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood.

SHEPHERD.

Nay, but hear me.

CLOWN.

Nay, but hear me.

SHEPHERD.

Go to, then.

CLOWN.

She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her; those secret things,—all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle; I warrant you.

SHEPHERD.

I will tell the king all, every word,—yea, and his son's pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king's brother-in-law.

CLOWN.

Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him; and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce.

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] Very wisely, puppies!

SHEPHERD.

Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard!

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.

CLOWN.

Pray heartily he be at palace.

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar's excrement. [Takes off his false beard.]—How now, rustics! whither are you bound?

SHEPHERD.

To the palace, an it like your worship.

AUTOLYCUS.

Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known? discover.

CLOWN.

We are but plain fellows, sir.

AUTOLYCUS.

A lie: you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie.

CLOWN.

Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner.

SHEPHERD.

Are you a courtier, an't like you, sir?

AUTOLYCUS.

Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think'st thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-à-pie, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.

SHEPHERD.

My business, sir, is to the king.

AUTOLYCUS.

What advocate hast thou to him?

SHEPHERD.

I know not, an't like you.

CLOWN.

Advocate's the court-word for a pheasant; say you have none.

SHEPHERD.

None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.

AUTOLYCUS.

How bless'd are we that are not simple men!

Yet nature might have made me as these are,

Therefore I will not disdain.

CLOWN.

This cannot be but a great courtier.

SHEPHERD.

His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.

CLOWN.

He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I'll warrant; I know by the picking on's teeth.

AUTOLYCUS.

The fardel there? what's i' the fardel? Wherefore that box?

SHEPHERD.

Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him.

AUTOLYCUS.

Age, thou hast lost thy labour.

SHEPHERD.

Why, sir?

AUTOLYCUS.

The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.

SHEPHERD.

So 'tis said, sir,—about his son, that should have married a shepherd's daughter.

AUTOLYCUS.

If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.

CLOWN.

Think you so, sir?

AUTOLYCUS.

Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which, though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a sheep-cote!—all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.

CLOWN.

Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, an't like you, sir?

AUTOLYCUS.

He has a son,—who shall be flayed alive; then 'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp's nest; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitæ or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him,—where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me,—for you seem to be honest plain men,—what you have to the king: being something gently considered, I'll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.

CLOWN.

He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember,—ston'd and flayed alive.

SHEPHERD.

An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have: I'll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.

AUTOLYCUS.

After I have done what I promised?

SHEPHERD.

Ay, sir.

AUTOLYCUS.

Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business?

CLOWN.

In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.

AUTOLYCUS.

O, that's the case of the shepherd's son. Hang him, he'll be made an example.

CLOWN.

Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange sights. He must know 'tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does, when the business is performed; and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.

AUTOLYCUS.

I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right-hand; I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.

CLOWN.

We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.

SHEPHERD.

Let's before, as he bids us: he was provided to do us good.

[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.]

AUTOLYCUS.

If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion,—gold, and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title, and what shame else belongs to't. To him will I present them: there may be matter in it.

[Exit.]

ACT V. SCENE I.

Sicilia. A Room in the palace of LEONTES.

[Enter LEONTES, CLEOMENES, DION, PAULINA, and others.]

CLEOMENES.

Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd

A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make

Which you have not redeem'd; indeed, paid down

More penitence than done trespass: at the last,

Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil;

With them, forgive yourself.

LEONTES.

Whilst I remember

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget

My blemishes in them; and so still think of

The wrong I did myself: which was so much

That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and

Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man

Bred his hopes out of.

PAULINA.

True, too true, my lord;

If, one by one, you wedded all the world,

Or from the all that are took something good,

To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd

Would be unparallel'd.

LEONTES.

I think so.—Kill'd!

She I kill'd! I did so: but thou strik'st me

Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter

Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now,

Say so but seldom.

CLEOMENES.

Not at all, good lady;

You might have spoken a thousand things that would

Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd

Your kindness better.

PAULINA.

You are one of those

Would have him wed again.

DION.

If you would not so,

You pity not the state, nor the remembrance

Of his most sovereign name; consider little

What dangers, by his highness' fail of issue,

May drop upon his kingdom, and devour

Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy

Than to rejoice the former queen is well?

What holier than,—for royalty's repair,

For present comfort, and for future good,—

To bless the bed of majesty again

With a sweet fellow to't?

PAULINA.

There is none worthy,

Respecting her that's gone. Besides, the gods

Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes;

For has not the divine Apollo said,

Is't not the tenour of his oracle,

That king Leontes shall not have an heir

Till his lost child be found? which that it shall,

Is all as monstrous to our human reason

As my Antigonus to break his grave

And come again to me; who, on my life,

Did perish with the infant. 'Tis your counsel

My lord should to the heavens be contrary,

Oppose against their wills.—[To LEONTES.] Care not for issue;

The crown will find an heir: great Alexander

Left his to the worthiest; so his successor

Was like to be the best.

LEONTES.

Good Paulina,—

Who hast the memory of Hermione,

I know, in honour,—O that ever I

Had squar'd me to thy counsel!—then, even now,

I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,

Have taken treasure from her lips,—

PAULINA.

And left them

More rich for what they yielded.

LEONTES.

Thou speak'st truth.

No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,

And better us'd, would make her sainted spirit

Again possess her corpse; and on this stage,—

Where we offend her now,—appear soul-vexed,

And begin 'Why to me?'

PAULINA.

Had she such power,

She had just cause.

LEONTES.

She had; and would incense me

To murder her I married.

PAULINA.

I should so.

Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'd bid you mark

Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in't

You chose her: then I'd shriek, that even your ears

Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow'd

Should be 'Remember mine!'

LEONTES.

Stars, stars,

And all eyes else dead coals!—fear thou no wife;

I'll have no wife, Paulina.

PAULINA.

Will you swear

Never to marry but by my free leave?

LEONTES.

Never, Paulina; so be bless'd my spirit!

PAULINA.

Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.

CLEOMENES.

You tempt him over-much.

PAULINA.

Unless another,

As like Hermione as is her picture,

Affront his eye.

CLEOMENES.

Good madam,—

PAULINA.

I have done.

Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir,

No remedy but you will,—give me the office

To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young

As was your former; but she shall be such

As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it should take joy

To see her in your arms.

LEONTES.

My true Paulina,

We shall not marry till thou bidd'st us.

PAULINA.

That

Shall be when your first queen's again in breath;

Never till then.

[Enter a GENTLEMAN.]

GENTLEMAN.

One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,

Son of Polixenes, with his princess,—she

The fairest I have yet beheld,—desires access

To your high presence.

LEONTES.

What with him? he comes not

Like to his father's greatness: his approach,

So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us

'Tis not a visitation fram'd, but forc'd

By need and accident. What train?

GENTLEMAN.

But few,

And those but mean.

LEONTES.

His princess, say you, with him?

GENTLEMAN.

Ay; the most peerless piece of earth, I think,

That e'er the sun shone bright on.

PAULINA.

O Hermione,

As every present time doth boast itself

Above a better gone, so must thy grave

Give way to what's seen now! Sir, you yourself

Have said and writ so,—but your writing now

Is colder than that theme,—'She had not been,

Nor was not to be equall'd'; thus your verse

Flow'd with her beauty once; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd,

To say you have seen a better.

GENTLEMAN.

Pardon, madam:

The one I have almost forgot,—your pardon;—

The other, when she has obtain'd your eye,

Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,

Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal

Of all professors else; make proselytes

Of who she but bid follow.

PAULINA.

How! not women?

GENTLEMAN.

Women will love her that she is a woman

More worth than any man; men, that she is

The rarest of all women.

LEONTES.

Go, Cleomenes;

Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends,

Bring them to our embracement.—

[Exeunt CLEOMENES, Lords, and Gent.]

Still, 'tis strange

He thus should steal upon us.

PAULINA.

Had our prince,—

Jewel of children,—seen this hour, he had pair'd

Well with this lord: there was not full a month

Between their births.

LEONTES.

Pr'ythee no more; cease; Thou know'st

He dies to me again when talk'd of: sure,

When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches

Will bring me to consider that which may

Unfurnish me of reason.—They are come.—

[Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and Attendants.]

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off,

Conceiving you: were I but twenty-one,

Your father's image is so hit in you,

His very air, that I should call you brother,

As I did him, and speak of something wildly

By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome!

And your fair princess,—goddess! O, alas!

I lost a couple that 'twixt heaven and earth

Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as

You, gracious couple, do! And then I lost,—

All mine own folly,—the society,

Amity too, of your brave father, whom,

Though bearing misery, I desire my life

Once more to look on him.

FLORIZEL.

By his command

Have I here touch'd Sicilia, and from him

Give you all greetings that a king, at friend,

Can send his brother: and, but infirmity,—

Which waits upon worn times,—hath something seiz'd

His wish'd ability, he had himself

The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his

Measur'd, to look upon you; whom he loves,

He bade me say so,—more than all the sceptres

And those that bear them, living.

LEONTES.

O my brother,—

Good gentleman!—the wrongs I have done thee stir

Afresh within me; and these thy offices,

So rarely kind, are as interpreters

Of my behind-hand slackness!—Welcome hither,

As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too

Expos'd this paragon to the fearful usage,—

At least ungentle,—of the dreadful Neptune,

To greet a man not worth her pains, much less

The adventure of her person?

FLORIZEL.

Good, my lord,

She came from Libya.

LEONTES.

Where the warlike Smalus,

That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd?

FLORIZEL.

Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter

His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her: thence,—

A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross'd,

To execute the charge my father gave me,

For visiting your highness: my best train

I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd;

Who for Bohemia bend, to signify

Not only my success in Libya, sir,

But my arrival, and my wife's, in safety

Here, where we are.

LEONTES.

The blessèd gods

Purge all infection from our air whilst you

Do climate here! You have a holy father,

A graceful gentleman; against whose person,

So sacred as it is, I have done sin:

For which the heavens, taking angry note,

Have left me issueless; and your father's bless'd,—

As he from heaven merits it,—with you

Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,

Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on,

Such goodly things as you!

[Enter a Lord.]

LORD.

Most noble sir,

That which I shall report will bear no credit,

Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir,

Bohemia greets you from himself by me;

Desires you to attach his son, who has,—

His dignity and duty both cast off,—

Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with

A shepherd's daughter.

LEONTES.

Where's Bohemia? speak.

LORD.

Here in your city; I now came from him:

I speak amazedly; and it becomes

My marvel and my message. To your court

Whiles he was hast'ning,—in the chase, it seems,

Of this fair couple,—meets he on the way

The father of this seeming lady and

Her brother, having both their country quitted

With this young prince.

FLORIZEL.

Camillo has betray'd me;

Whose honour and whose honesty, till now,

Endur'd all weathers.

LORD.

Lay't so to his charge;

He's with the king your father.

LEONTES.

Who? Camillo?

LORD.

Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now

Has these poor men in question. Never saw I

Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth;

Forswear themselves as often as they speak:

Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them

With divers deaths in death.

PERDITA.

O my poor father!—

The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have

Our contract celebrated.

LEONTES.

You are married?

FLORIZEL.

We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;

The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:—

The odds for high and low's alike.

LEONTES.

My lord,

Is this the daughter of a king?

FLORIZEL.

She is,

When once she is my wife.

LEONTES.

That once, I see by your good father's speed,

Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,

Most sorry, you have broken from his liking,

Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry

Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,

That you might well enjoy her.

FLORIZEL.

Dear, look up:

Though Fortune, visible an enemy,

Should chase us with my father, power no jot

Hath she to change our loves.—Beseech you, sir,

Remember since you ow'd no more to time

Than I do now: with thought of such affections,

Step forth mine advocate; at your request

My father will grant precious things as trifles.

LEONTES.

Would he do so, I'd beg your precious mistress,

Which he counts but a trifle.

PAULINA.

Sir, my liege,

Your eye hath too much youth in't: not a month

'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes

Than what you look on now.

LEONTES.

I thought of her

Even in these looks I made.—[To FLORIZEL.] But your petition

Is yet unanswer'd. I will to your father.

Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires,

I am friend to them and you: upon which errand

I now go toward him; therefore, follow me,

And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE II.

The same. Before the Palace.

[Enter AUTOLYCUS and a Gentleman.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.

AUTOLYCUS.

I would most gladly know the issue of it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seem'd almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow;—but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more.

[Enter a Gentleman.]

The news, Rogero?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king's daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward: he can deliver you more.

[Enter a third Gentleman.]

How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you'll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione; her jewel about the neck of it; the letters of Antigonus, found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother; the affection of nobleness, which nature shows above her breeding; and many other evidences,—proclaim her with all certainty to be the king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

No.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them; for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries 'O, thy mother, thy mother!' then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings' reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd's son, who has not only his innocence,—which seems much,—to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina knows.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

What became of his bark and his followers?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

Wrecked the same instant of their master's death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But, O, the noble combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes,—caught the water, though not the fish,—was, when at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to it,—bravely confessed and lamented by the king,—how attentivenes wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did with an 'Alas!'—I would fain say, bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal.

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Are they returned to the court?

THIRD GENTLEMAN.

No: the princess hearing of her mother's statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer:—thither with all greediness of affection are they gone; and there they intend to sup.

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?

FIRST GENTLEMAN.

Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wink of an eye some new grace will be born: our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let's along.

[Exeunt GENTLEMEN.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what; but he at that time over-fond of the shepherd's daughter,—so he then took her to be,—who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscover'd. But 'tis all one to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relish'd among my other discredits. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.

[Enter Shepherd and Clown.]

SHEPHERD.

Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.

CLOWN.

You are well met, sir: you denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.

AUTOLYCUS.

I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.

CLOWN.

Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

SHEPHERD.

And so have I, boy!

CLOWN.

So you have:—but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king's son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.

SHEPHERD.

We may live, son, to shed many more.

CLOWN.

Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.

AUTOLYCUS.

I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master.

SHEPHERD.

Pr'ythee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.

CLOWN.

Thou wilt amend thy life?

AUTOLYCUS.

Ay, an it like your good worship.

CLOWN.

Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.

SHEPHERD.

You may say it, but not swear it.

CLOWN.

Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I'll swear it.

SHEPHERD.

How if it be false, son?

CLOWN.

If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend.—And I'll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I'll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.

AUTOLYCUS.

I will prove so, sir, to my power.

CLOWN.

Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not.—Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen's picture. Come, follow us: we'll be thy good masters.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III.

The same. A Room in PAULINA's house.

[Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, FLORIZEL, PERDITA, CAMILLO, PAULINA, Lords and Attendants.]

LEONTES.

O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort

That I have had of thee!

PAULINA.

What, sovereign sir,

I did not well, I meant well. All my services

You have paid home: but that you have vouchsaf'd,

With your crown'd brother and these your contracted

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,

It is a surplus of your grace which never

My life may last to answer.

LEONTES.

O Paulina,

We honour you with trouble:—but we came

To see the statue of our queen: your gallery

Have we pass'd through, not without much content

In many singularities; but we saw not

That which my daughter came to look upon,

The statue of her mother.

PAULINA.

As she liv'd peerless,

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

Excels whatever yet you look'd upon

Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it

Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare

To see the life as lively mock'd as ever

Still sleep mock'd death: behold; and say 'tis well.

[PAULINA undraws a curtain, and discovers HERMIONE, standing as a statue.]

I like your silence,—it the more shows off

Your wonder: but yet speak;—first, you, my liege.

Comes it not something near?

LEONTES.

Her natural posture!—

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed

Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she

In thy not chiding; for she was as tender

As infancy and grace.—But yet, Paulina,

Hermione was not so much wrinkled; nothing

So agèd, as this seems.

POLIXENES.

O, not by much!

PAULINA.

So much the more our carver's excellence;

Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her

As she liv'd now.

LEONTES.

As now she might have done,

So much to my good comfort, as it is

Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood,

Even with such life of majesty,—warm life,

As now it coldly stands,—when first I woo'd her!

I am asham'd: does not the stone rebuke me

For being more stone than it?—O royal piece,

There's magic in thy majesty; which has

My evils conjur'd to remembrance; and

From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,

Standing like stone with thee!

PERDITA.

And give me leave;

And do not say 'tis superstition, that

I kneel, and then implore her blessing.—Lady,

Dear queen, that ended when I but began,

Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

PAULINA.

O, patience!

The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's

Not dry.

CAMILLO.

My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,

Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,

So many summers dry; scarce any joy

Did ever so long live; no sorrow

But kill'd itself much sooner.

POLIXENES.

Dear my brother,

Let him that was the cause of this have power

To take off so much grief from you as he

Will piece up in himself.

PAULINA.

Indeed, my lord,

If I had thought the sight of my poor image

Would thus have wrought you,—for the stone is mine,—

I'd not have show'd it.

LEONTES.

Do not draw the curtain.

PAULINA.

No longer shall you gaze on't; lest your fancy

May think anon it moves.

LEONTES.

Let be, let be.—

Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already—

What was he that did make it? See, my lord,

Would you not deem it breath'd, and that those veins

Did verily bear blood?

POLIXENES.

Masterly done:

The very life seems warm upon her lip.

LEONTES.

The fixture of her eye has motion in't,

As we are mock'd with art.

PAULINA.

I'll draw the curtain:

My lord's almost so far transported that

He'll think anon it lives.

LEONTES.

O sweet Paulina,

Make me to think so twenty years together!

No settled senses of the world can match

The pleasure of that madness. Let't alone.

PAULINA.

I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you: but

I could afflict you further.

LEONTES.

Do, Paulina;

For this affliction has a taste as sweet

As any cordial comfort.—Still, methinks,

There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel

Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,

For I will kiss her!

PAULINA.

Good my lord, forbear:

The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;

You'll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own

With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

LEONTES.

No, not these twenty years.

PERDITA.

So long could I

Stand by, a looker on.

PAULINA.

Either forbear,

Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you

For more amazement. If you can behold it,

I'll make the statue move indeed, descend,

And take you by the hand, but then you'll think,—

Which I protest against,—I am assisted

By wicked powers.

LEONTES.

What you can make her do

I am content to look on: what to speak,

I am content to hear; for 'tis as easy

To make her speak as move.

PAULINA.

It is requir'd

You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;

Or those that think it is unlawful business

I am about, let them depart.

LEONTES.

Proceed:

No foot shall stir.

PAULINA.

Music, awake her: strike.—[Music.]

'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;

I'll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;

Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

Dear life redeems you.—You perceive she stirs.

[HERMIONE comes down from the pedestal.]

Start not; her actions shall be holy as

You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her

Until you see her die again; for then

You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:

When she was young you woo'd her; now in age

Is she become the suitor?

LEONTES.

[Embracing her.] O, she's warm!

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

POLIXENES.

She embraces him.

CAMILLO.

She hangs about his neck:

If she pertain to life, let her speak too.

POLIXENES.

Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv'd,

Or how stol'n from the dead.

PAULINA.

That she is living,

Were it but told you, should be hooted at

Like an old tale; but it appears she lives,

Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.—

Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel,

And pray your mother's blessing.—Turn, good lady;

Our Perdita is found.

[Presenting PERDITA, who kneels to HERMIONE.]

HERMIONE.

You gods, look down,

And from your sacred vials pour your graces

Upon my daughter's head!—Tell me, mine own,

Where hast thou been preserv'd? where liv'd? how found

Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I,—

Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

Gave hope thou wast in being,—have preserv'd

Myself to see the issue.

PAULINA.

There's time enough for that;

Lest they desire upon this push to trouble

Your joys with like relation.—Go together,

You precious winners all; your exultation

Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,

Will wing me to some wither'd bough, and there

My mate, that's never to be found again,

Lament till I am lost.

LEONTES.

O peace, Paulina!

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,

As I by thine a wife: this is a match,

And made between's by vows. Thou hast found mine;

But how, is to be question'd: for I saw her,

As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said many

A prayer upon her grave. I'll not seek far,—

For him, I partly know his mind,—to find thee

An honourable husband.—Come, Camillo,

And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty

Is richly noted, and here justified

By us, a pair of kings.—Let's from this place.—

What! look upon my brother:—both your pardons,

That e'er I put between your holy looks

My ill suspicion.—This your son-in-law,

And son unto the king, whom heavens directing,

Is troth-plight to your daughter.—Good Paulina,

Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely

Each one demand, and answer to his part

Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first

We were dissever'd: hastily lead away!

[Exeunt.]

THE END